A/N: So! I was going to have a friend Beta this story. I think I might still do it eventually. For the moment, this is a quick (crudely edited) few chapters so I don't leave you guys on empty any longer. Maybe when things cool down and the ice thickens to a point that stress won't shatter it, I will actually get this beta'd! That would be nice. Maybe it would actually be a decent fic, right? Haha. If only.

Anyways, this is the last chapter for a while since I honestly haven't written any more chapters past this point, yet. I might do it after a cup of coffee since I dreadfully need one.

I warn you, I couldn't quite get Sherlock right in this chapter. I don't know why. Usually, I'm okay at grasping his mentality, but it was like grabbing at straws. So, I'm warning you that he may not be good. Especially the end.

Disclaimer: Don't own this.

Paint It Black

Ch. 24 – Stained

Sherlock POV

The noise was nonexistent. Barely a breeze could be heard whistling in the alley. It was prey territory, truly.

No bodyguard was present, so either the man was hiding somewhere in the shadows (though the crevices are far too small for his bulk to hide successfully) or along the rooftop. The latter was more likely, but I had a feeling that he wasn't going to be used today. Not right now. There was something else planned.

The smile on Moriarty's face – one that resembled a snake playing with a mouse – didn't falter in the slightest.

"John," I spoke, but the doctor made no movement to acknowledge my voice. He was still and ramrod straight. It was almost as if he never heard me say a word. As if he had suddenly gone deaf, or perhaps drifted through amnesia and no longer knew me and whether to trust the said stranger's voice.

Either way, it was a disturbing image. Something meant to be a ploy in whatever Moriarty aimed to pursue.

A slow, trickling cold feeling simmered into my thoughts, causing my teeth to clench and my hands to fidget restlessly at my side. This wasn't right. The aura of this Vicinity man was out of sorts. Not smug. Not calm. In fact, one could say there was a certain unstable malice in his eyes. Something akin to restless carnage.

Moriarty hadn't ceased his grinning montage since I had appeared. Well, correction, that wasn't quite true. It wasn't until John had been unfathomably cut off that the smile grew to its maximum potential. The inexplicable moment when he chose to say a few words - choice words in fact - that involved superiority among a soldier – as John once was. There had to be a connection between him and John's actions, but I couldn't quite fathom what it could possibly be besides involuntary control.

And if that was the case, I hadn't the slightest idea as to what could break this control.

The irritation at this fact had to be closely monitored lest I act recklessly. Irrational actions were exactly what the criminal wanted, and I wasn't going to give him the blatant satisfaction that this seemed to be trailing under my skin. A cool head and level resolution had to be maintained. I had to seem unbothered, detached from any sense of possessiveness that may have distinguished itself when John didn't react to my words.

"What's the matter, Sherlock? Cat got your tongue? I don't think I have heard you say a single thing besides the pleasant doctor's name, isn't that right, soldier?" John jerked at the final word, and a small noise escaped his throat. Every fiber of my being wanted to get rid of the threat that caused such a disturbance or unpleasantness. It yearned to take John away from here so I could figure out exactly what happened or was happening at the time.

I forced my lips into a snarky grin. His own faltered just slightly.

Good, I thought. Feel insecure. Release information. Let's see how much your emotions control you.

"No. I was just waiting for you to get your monologue right in your thoughts," I spoke evenly, sarcasm dripping on every term as I took a step closer. A part of this rang danger, but I promptly ignored it. The danger was nothing. Avoiding danger was no safer in the long run than outright exposure. "Villains tend to like those things, and you're no different than what is considered common."

Moriarty's grin vanished so fast that I could feel a satisfied grin spreading across my face – partially genuine.

"I've dealt with worse. I've fought worse. You know, you're not quite as difficult as I thought you might be. Polar opposite perhaps actually." The criminals jaw clicked and twitched ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing and glinting a metallic silver his kind was known for.

Good. Get him angry. Anger often exploits information one is prone hesitant to give. I just have to prod a little more.

"I've been well-educated in singlestick playing, boxing, and swordsmanship. I don't have to think about my actions and have been renowned as a proclaimed expert in these crafts. If it's a fight you want, of power and strength, perhaps this isn't your best opponent. If it's a test of will, intellect, and wit, then this still is out of your depth. I advise you to back down for the moment before I deal with you on my own grounds and give you to the yard and their dogs." Each sentence I took another step, my hands splayed at my sides and my breathing deep. I knew there was something coming. Something different and off and potentially dangerous. I could feel it. I just wish I knew what it was.

"John," I said this as commanding as I could, gaining the curved voice of Moriarty's, but all John did was nothing. He never flinched and never gave any sign that he heard me.

In the back of my mind, the serum trailed into my thoughts. I don't know why I didn't consider it before.

No, I knew exactly why I didn't consider it before. I was too focused on John's wellbeing and not the reason for this out of characterization. I wasn't thinking of strategy and rationality but of feeling. The serum would have been forefront if I hadn't been blinded by emotion. I probably wasted precious minutes feeling instead of thinking. What the consequence of said action was yet to be seen.

Scoffing at my lapse in judgment, I sifted through the microscope images of John's normal blood and how it didn't seem off in the slightest. Like it was planned that way as a fail-safe.

The dormancy of the serum could have been triggered by Moriarty's words. A certain set of words to place him under paralysis. But what would be the point in that? Nothing. Paralysis wouldn't aid the criminal. He needed an active distraction or asset on his side, not a potential element. He needed a pet, not a pup pampered to look lovely in the eyes of others.

Almost as if reading my thoughts – impossible, really – Moriarty let his face relax into impassiveness. "John. Turn."

And he did. Loyally. Swiftly. Robotically. My jaw clicked at the forced actions.

But when John turned around, it wasn't him.

I knew John. I knew him to a tee if the phrase were to be applied. He was expressive, or to me he was, and tended to vocalize his thoughts rather than keep them entirely to himself.

He was the epitome of emotion. He lived it, expressed it, was controlled by it with his very toned being. He was my opposite and it was that important title that made him endearing. It was interesting to see how people should react to certain things through his expressions. It was like a new experiment every time it occurred.

This, however, wasn't John. This was Captain Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers (reformed and named for infamous sake) who didn't disregard what he was told. This was the soldier that went after mission to suicidal mission just to get the adrenaline hit he undeniably craved while barking orders and holding loyalty and honor over his own namesake. His face was shut off. There was no emotion to be seen.

This man, who certainly wasn't the pleasant doctor, was a ruthless man keen on finishing the order given to him. Ruthless, cruel, and efficient for the moment and stripped of his morals – the parts that made him him.

His hands rested at his side though they certainly were far from relaxed. The muscles were taut – something I've been akin to realizing quickly even through the vagueness of his jumpers – and his hands rested as if unsure whether to fist up or to relax. Feet were spread shoulder width and every part of him screamed that he was ready for a fight he knew little about.

I found the next part extremely ridiculous. A man shouldn't be so interwoven as to affect me this much. It was ludicrous and idiotic.

Yet, when I gazed at John's face, his mouth was set in a thin, tight grimace. Every part of him appeared chiseled and carved from obsidian and granite, something cold and stoic. Lastly, his eyes remained trained on my form.

Prey. My mind whispered to me this thought adamantly, almost hysterically. I'm prey to him. A target. Nothing short of a barricade to what he wants, if he even knows that much in this state.

A dog. That's what he is. A dog trained to fall under a higher order. My lips twitched into a grimace, thoughts easily turning bitter. The Queen's little lap dog.

"What's the matter, Sherlock? You seem at a loss for words. Oh. It's John, isn't it?" He didn't seem too surprised. Why should he be? "Johnny boy is a little indisposed currently. Don't worry. He's still there. I wouldn't want him to miss the show." A sharkish grin shined out despite the poor lighting of the alley.

"Let him go" was on the tip of my tongue, but it was predictable to say that. That was what Moriarty wanted. He wanted me to beg and to plead for John's salvation. While the man may be important to me (a thought I will have to diagnose at a later date), I refused to allow Moriarty the small vulnerability. It was tasteless. Lacked any sort of interest or class.

Instead, I offered a smile. Something off-kilter. Something entirely unpredictable.

"Ah," I said slowly. "So, you want me to suffer, to burn, by fighting…him." I made my mouth curl in disgust on the final word. It wasn't hard by this point. Throughout the entire encounter, my mind had been slowly, subconsciously preparing itself for emotional dissociation. Now it was automatic and the dissociation quickly washed over me as I watched the criminal.

It was a method of coping for what could and would soon be necessary.

"Exactly," he responded on cue. "Just one final word from me and he'll be at your throat. Perhaps figuratively. Perhaps literally. Who is to tell really? I suppose this will truly test those bragging rights of yours, wouldn't it?"

I opened my mouth to speak but he was ahead of me.

"Sadly," he started again. "I cannot stay here while you two go at it. Have my own business to attend to. No rest for the wicked, as they say. But, I can leave you two a party favor." His 'party favor' turned out to be a Glock that he slid into John's poised hands, curling their fingers around the handle and trigger securely.

Backing away slowly, Moriarty offered a cheeky grin. "Ta, boys. Oh, and John?" The soldier's head turned minutely to the side, listening. "Fas."

Attack.

Then he was gone.

John tilted his head in my direction, observing me. I knew that look. He was discerning fighting tactics. Which would be best? Which would be efficient?

I waited. A million fighting tactics had appeared and they all depended on his first move.

When John finally walked up and delivered the first punch, needless to say, I wasn't surprised by the force of it. The asphalt came quickly, my hands reaching out to catch my fall. Glass and shards of hardened plastic scraped against the skin but it was easily ignored.

Quick in the attempt to get up, I managed only a crouched stance before a blow was delivered to my stomach. Old stitches detested the action as I felt the breath knocked out of me. This time, the floor wasn't there to catch me, and I crumpled into the brick of the building next door.

My thoughts were hazy but the intent was there. I needed him to believe I was an easy target. That I was nothing. This wouldn't work otherwise.

Loafers crunched slowly over to me until John stood overhead, hooded eyes looking down upon me. The gun still present in his right hand – dominant or ambidextrous I thought absently – was raised and I heard the click like the final ten seconds of a bomb.

His face never changed, but it didn't matter.

Hands roughly clutching my sore abdomen, I grabbed a stray bottle (luckily quite abundant in areas like these) and swung my arms up. The glass shattered immediately against the predictable block from the Glock. Taking my chance, I grabbed the artillery and pushed the aim away.

A left hook immediately rebounded the distraction, one I barely processed and only had enough time to tilt my head forward before it glanced on my temporal lobe. Blinking away the distortion, I took advantage of his momentum to swing at his face. The hit was solid and John stumbled back for a moment, blinking and shaking his head. He seemed confused but it didn't last long before the same apathy drifted back.

Not enough.

Rushing at him, I attempted to grab the gun again but both of his hands were rested on the weapon now. If he hadn't been military-trained, releasing the weapon would have been easy, but this clearly wasn't the case. His hands were cemented to the weapon, unwilling to let go, and I found myself using any force I could apply to find a chip in his restraint.

I didn't notice him swinging his arms up until the side of the Glock pounded into the side of my head. Once, twice, three times this occurred but my grip didn't falter much to his irritation.

A burning sensation brewed just over my brow and along my jaw. Must have been cut. No matter. I could deal with it later.

When the fourth swing came up to once again make its impact, I side-stepped and watched John's arm follow through with empty results. When his grip seemed to falter at the unexpected result, I twisted his wrist harshly. Reluctantly, his fingers seem to loosen significantly.

My left fist went flying and made contact with John's cheek on target. Before he recovered, I placed my forearm against his neck, restricting his airways as I forced him against the brick walls I previously hugged. The Glock fell out of his hand, and I kicked it away.

John was breathing harshly and with scattered rhythm as he stared at me with deep rooted hatred. His teeth were clenched and his hands reached up to punch my vulnerable sides but my free hand expertly grabbed both of his hands with one quick hold. I mentally thanked genetics for having larger hands than the man in front of me.

"John," I hissed, coughing at the harsh intake of breath to even mutter the name. A speckle of red hit the brick behind John, barely lit in the dull lighting of the alley. "Snap to your senses. You are not a bloody soldier. You were released. Discharged." But all I was met with was nothing short of apathy. He wasn't listening to me.

What did Moriarty tell him? Fas?

Where had I heard that term?

It was Russian. The thick accent Moriarty gave as well as the vowels and their pronunciation proved that to be true. If I could just remember.

In the lapse of attention, I should have expected John to be ever the opportunist.

A sharp jab of pain met my entire abdomen as John kicked his knee up. Huffing for breath, I barely had time to process John pressing his entire body weight in force against me until I was up against the opposite wall, the damp moisture of the bricks being soaked into my jacket. It hurt to breathe.

It hurt a hell of a lot to breathe actually.

Shock and mental diagnoses returned with a broken rib or two, possibly the same ribs that were on the mend. No punctured lung but that could quickly change if one more blow was delivered to that area, or if I was too strenuous with my actions.

Luckily, or perhaps unluckily (I wasn't quite sure), John was becoming as fatigued and out of breath as I felt. His aim was shoddy at best. He never hit the same area twice, giving each part of me equal attention in terms of his relentless punches and kicks.

I was so focused on steeling my torso that I didn't see the stray fist that came up and clocked me upside the head, knocking me once again to the ground.

Really not favoring the outcome so far I thought bitterly, spitting out sputum and turning my attention to the soldier that limped ever so slightly in my direction. Reaching out, he picked up the gun easily, adjusting his hold for a split second. Before I had time to process it, I heard a gunshot – silencer actually. And there was suddenly a burning pain in my abdomen.

A part of me wished to laugh hysterically. First bruises, a few broken ribs, and now a gunshot? Lovely work he was putting an effort in.

My hands were on autopilot as a gasp stifled its way up my throat, remaining over the wound to stem the flow of blood. Oddly enough, most of it seemed to be going to my head as there was a steady beating vibrating in my ears. Thick and exhausting.

If I wasn't already limited before, I certainly was now. There was only a certain amount of blood I could lose before consciousness followed. John needed to be either brought back or completely knocked out by then.

It would be easy to do if thinking wasn't becoming harder to do.

Fuck.

While John worked on the gun and walked up for the kill, my mind went on hyper-drive, going back to that term from earlier. I had heard it before. I know I have.

Then it came to me. On a trip when I was younger we went to Russia to glance at some military prospect of sorts and their training organizations. There were orders and commands. Trained soldiers. Trained dogs.

A word slipped through suddenly and I laughed drily because of course, it would come now of all times. Wonderful this little head of mine.

Focus I scolded. You need to say it correctly. Say it softly. It won't stop him but it should affect him, seeing as it appears to be the sole of his commands.

"Ryadom," I whispered lowly. Soft enough that the soldier would have to get closer, and loud enough for his senses to be piqued.

He didn't say anything, merely getting closer and closer. Each utterance of the word seemed to make him flinch just barely, provoking him to come even closer until he was just in front of me, crouching.

He was waiting. Like a good dog.

Turning my head, a sluggish act at best, I met his eyes clearly. "Ryadom. Heel." His head tilted to the side, confused. He didn't seem to notice my hand reach up and grab the Glock from his hand. The same weapon that I used to whack against the side of the soldier's head. His eyes rolled back and he fell solidly to the ground.

For an instant, my heart froze. A hit that hard could severely harm him, not that I was thinking this a minute ago before I performed it.

However, small breaths told me John was still alive and I sighed in long-held relief.

It hurt to move. I wasn't quite sure if the bullet went all the way through, but there was significantly more blood anteriorly so it must not have. I didn't know at the moment if that was good at this point, my judgment wavering as I coughed again, hissing at the follow-up pain from the gunshot.

Fluttering my fingers to my pockets, I pulled out John's phone (I doubted he minded by this point that I had it) and proceeded to dial the first number that seemed useful in this situation.

"Hello?"

"Mary," I said, grimacing at the breathlessness that came with her name. "Just the person necessary. What are you doing right now?"

"John?"

"Wrong." I would have chuckled but it hurt terribly so to do so. It wasn't worth the effort. "I repeat the question: What are you doing right now? It is of the utmost importance that I know."

"Sherlock," she said slowly and with more concern – something I found personally amusing for some reason. "I am about to leave the hospital. My shift has ended and I am planning on turning in for the night. Nothing uneventful. John should be meeting me in a tad to take over but I haven't seen him."

You're not going to anytime soon I wanted to say but that would have triggered emotions. "Ah, yes. Well. I don't think he's going to be able to make it there. Had a bit of a scuffle if you would believe it." At this I did chuckle, immediately regretting it as a ripple of skin-crawling pain simmered against my stomach.

I must have made a noise. Something to have alerted Mary. "Sherlock? Are you okay? Is John okay? You sound a little peakish."

"No. No, I'm just fine. Perfectly fine. It's a rather lovely night for a man to be bleeding out from an abdominal wound in a sketchy alley. Peaceful might I add. And the only help being unconscious considering he was the cause of it all, sadly." I hummed softly to no tune in specifics. "Do you perchance know any medics in the immediate proximity?"

"Are you mental right now?" She demanded but her voice faltered. "You're not. Oh God, you're not. Fuck. Don't you dare end the call, Sherlock." In the background, I could hear the frantic tone of a terrified and determined woman, demanding for an ambulance. "Sherlock, what are your coordinates? Location? Anything."

"A sparse little alley branching off of Wood Street, though I fail to see the purpose currently. If my mind is correct, and currently it is terribly off-kilter and annoying, I have been bleeding out for a total of five minutes and 23 seconds. By the time your crew gets here, I fear I will not be salvageable. John will, though he is going to feel rather guilty about all of this. He didn't do it of his own conscious I must tell you. He's under influence. Moriarty's serum. I would suggest in finding Mycroft to tell him all of this. I was supposed to finish an experiment back at the flat. Perhaps someone should inform Mrs. Hudson to steer clear of the bathroom for the current moment. Oh, and maybe Lestrade should be informed of any information John can remember. We were in the middle of a case, something of my own personal indulgence. Hm, Mary, I must say this is an inconvenient moment for me to be dying."

"Keep talking," Mary said sternly, muttering something with the background noise sounding suspiciously like the engine of a car roaring to life.

"I'll attempt it." Though even as I said it I could feel like I was fading out more than a little. "I'm rather surprised Mycroft hasn't sent any of his men after me considering he is terribly doting and unforgivable in his "brother" role generally given to him. If that were the case I might actually stand a chance against time and odds, wouldn't you agree?"

"Sure, Sherlock. Keep talking please."

"I'd rather not. It's exhausting. I'm sure Lestrade will damn me into some fantasy afterlife. This truly is an inconvenient day for me to die. Truly. Stupid body and its mortal needs."

Ah, poor John. He wasn't ever going to forgive himself for this. He was already odd ever since the last kidnapping. This, in addition, might push him over the edge. But he had Mary and Molly and . And Lestrade too, I suppose. Still, this act may drive him back to his therapist for entirely new reasons that I never sought to cause. Again, stupid body.

The scene around my leaning body seemed to be tilted one angle too much, rotated even more in the wrong direction. The axis just wasn't right. I felt light and heavy, dull and sharpened, and even as my hands retained their position over my wound, I could feel it pulse steadily under my palms which was ridiculous. I shouldn't be able to feel it that avidly. Must be the imagination taking over. Much like it was with making the edges of my vision fuzzy and indistinctly blurry. It was similar to a high without the euphoria of it. This was wrong. It screamed wrong.

"That can't be good," muttered Mary and I blinked.

"Ah. Must have said it out loud, did I?"

"Yes."

"Hm. Definitely not in my right mental state." My words began to slur together and my hand, slick with blood, couldn't seem to grip the phone any longer. My limbs were exhausted and if I were, to be honest, I haven't been able to feel anything below my torso in the past five minutes and 12 seconds except a numbing coldness.

Sweaty fingers attempted to keep hold of the phone but their function was lacking, unsurprisingly. The main job was to keep the heart and brain full of blood. Pesky little fingers were not part of the equation. Balancing it precariously on my shoulder, I leaned my head so I could still hear Mary's curses and swears as avidly as I had before. She truly had a colorful vocabulary under pressure.

I tried to ignore the tremendous pain emanating from my stomach and for a while it was simple. Compartmentalizing. Nothing more than that. Simple as said before.

At least until I attempted to move my legs to get into a more comfortable position – if there ever was one possible. For a split, terrifying moment, the pain directed at my abdomen intensified.

"Sherlock?" Mary shouted and I winced. My teeth clenched. I must have cried out on accident. I couldn't remember it for the life of me, though.

"I'm two minutes away, Sherlock. Just keep talking."

I laughed and it choked off into a chortle of pain as everything seemed to hurt at once. "Impossible… The drive… The drive from the hospital to here is at least a… Fifteen-minute drive."

"I've sped through at least five red lights and you're in the middle of dying from blood loss, Sherlock. I think the police will understand if I'm a tad reckless at the moment."

A soft snicker, a sound that hurt significantly less but still hurt nonetheless, forced itself out of my lips. "Ha… thought you… though' you… decent. Per- perfect.. wouldn't com..commit a crime ever…" My thoughts attempted to catch themselves but just like my consciousness they were falling fast. "Fuck. Bad... influence."

Mary laughed like the sound was strangled out of her.

I heard Mary repeat "Keep talking" once more. She repeated it over and over, each one more desperate than the last, but talking hurt and breathing hurt and being awake was rather bothersome. Perhaps I should take part in sleep for once. See if it was worth it. Not like I had much left to lose at this point, save for my life, I suppose.

At the sound of a car screeching at the foot of the alley, I fell deafly into unconsciousness.

Oh! Oh! Also. First attempt at an actual action-like chapter! That never happens. I can't understand how to write fighting scenes. I kind of made this up in my head and that's a mess in its own right so I apologize for the confusion.

By the way, thinking about bringing Harry into this mess. Not as a major character, but as some sort of difference from John getting hurt and Sherlock getting hurt and everyone getting hurt and then Mary wanted to strangle the both of them while sipping a much needed cup of tea. If I have played my cards right, the next case should be the beginning of their last cases in this fic. What that means is that there might be one more context/plot case to bring them together, and then there will be the big case that ties it all up. This may be a 30 chapter story though I hope to tie it up in less. We'll see what happens.