Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The security footage was silent, but one could easily imagine the screams as the young orderly's face twisted and he tugged, terrified, at his cuffed wrist. In the centre of the projected screen that spanned nearly from floor to ceiling, a tall white-clad figure straddled another orderly's dazed body. His pale hands reached behind his head to unbuckle the mask that muzzled his mouth, movements slowed by a sense of anticipation, a desire to draw out the pleasure of what came next.

Mycroft turned away from the screen. "Is there a plane waiting for him?" he demanded of the room at large, his cold, impassive face lit by the flickering footage as his brother tossed the mask aside and descended, tearing into the throat of the orderly with his teeth.

"Yes sir," one of his workers replied, as unmoved by the violent video as his employer. "At Strand airfield."

Mycroft nodded. "Good."

In the second, deeper basement of a publishing house in St Petersburg lay the heart of a criminal empire whose influence spanned the globe. It was an empire that saw everything. To the outside world, the elder Holmes was Ambrose Fell, head of Diogenes Press, publisher of literary works and translations.

Mycroft did indeed dedicate part of his business to books, and he could talk about the subject at length if anyone cared to listen. In truth, Mycroft's speciality was omniscience. In his world, knowledge was power, and he was the most powerful in it.

He and Sherlock hadn't been close in years, although he'd followed with interest his brother's life and career. His friends. His more… intimate relationships.

With that knowledge, Mycroft had reason to suspect that Moriarty, a young career criminal with an ever expanding sphere of influence, was heavily involved in Sherlock's escape. He'd discovered evidence that the irksome 'spider' had hacked into the hospital's security cameras, leaving them suspiciously out of sync. Sherlock had been granted the time to act, and whether he'd known it or not, he'd taken it.

It had been very irritating, after years of Sherlock's refusal to work for Mycroft's organisation, to see his growing involvement with Moriarty's mob. Luckily, that infatuation hadn't lasted long. Sherlock had always reacted disagreeably to relationships where he was offered everything on a platter, instead placing value on things that were difficult to obtain.

Perhaps that was the reasoning behind his fascination for the ex-detective.

None of that mattered anymore. Sherlock was free for the first time in five years, and he'd be looking for an out. Mycroft, ever gracious and forgiving, would provide one. Finally, he could start making his life's work a family business.

* * *

The streetlights lining the road had abruptly extinguished as if the rain had doused them, but the ride in the back of the van had left Colonel Moran's eyes long adjusted to the darkness-- unlike the plain-clothed police officers that had been patrolling the streets. Struck blind, they were helpless to resist attack.

One by one, Moran's men took them out. Moran moved forward in the cold shadows, out of the torrential rain that hammered his clothes and into the dry space under a bus shelter, where he caught sight of a hunched figure. He snuck forward, hearing the whisper of static from the officer's hacked earpiece and the man's panicked breathing.

"D-does anybody read me?"

Moran reacted like any predator.

He sprung forward and hooked his arm around the man's neck, squeezed. His muscles strained, iron-strong from a rigorous exercise routine. Possessing a lethal body was part of his job.

It was a silent kill. Moran hefted the body back into the rain, dragging it out of easy sight between two houses. The officials would find it later, but that didn't matter. After this job was done, their presence would hardly go unnoticed.

"I think that's everyone," came Sun's voice through Moran's own earpiece.

"By my count, yeah," replied Bern. "Moran?"

Moran pressed gloved fingers to his earpiece. "We're moving in."

The safe house was an apartment building several stories high, conspicuously ordinary. No-one was home apart from the targets on the third floor, who were no doubt already panicking. John Watson would have a personal bodyguard in there with him, but there was little one man could do against many.

Moriarty recruited his agents mainly from gangs, disgraced ex-military types, and men just out of prison. Whether they were too violent for normal jobs, or were just out of other options, Moriarty took them in with a smile and a salary. His organisation was the only place for men like Moran.

The driver was currently circling the block, waiting for the signal to pick them up once they'd secured John. While Bern sprinted to the front door to drill open the lock, Moran crossed the street with Sun and Holt. They approached the back of the safe house, where a fire escape stretched up into the sky, black and slick with rain.

Moran took point, hooking the ladder of the fire escape down and easily hoisting himself up. Sun kept up, but Holt struggled at the rear, his face crumpled up against the rain. He was young, clumsy, one of Moriarty's latest acquisitions. Moran grimaced when Holt swore loudly, his foot slipping off the slick metal. He’d been a street thug, eager to join the organisation, but Moriarty had really thrown him in the deep end with this mission. The boss always claimed to have a good eye for talent, and reckoned he could make something out of the kid. He'd been unceremoniously shoved into Moran's team, and it looked like Moran was going to have to pick up the slack.

At the third floor, they swung onto the balcony and waited by the curtained window while Bern drilled the lock. Rain battered at them mercilessly, leaking down the back of Moran's neck, a line of icy chill. He didn't rub at it. Physically, he stayed perfectly still, but in his mind he was racing through the floor-plan of the safe house. Once Bern had the front door, they would jump through these windows into the living room, facing the kitchen.

Young Holt beside him wasn't shivering from the cold, but he was jittery with nerves, his hand squeezing around his gun (he was a good shot, despite his other weaknesses), one of his legs shaking against the ground. Sun elbowed him sharply to make him stop.

"The door's unlocked," came Bern's voice. "I'm in."

Moran raised his hand and swivelled it forwards. "Go."

They kicked through the windows and jumped in. Glass shattered and crunched under Moran's feet, and he pushed the curtains aside to duck into the living room, gun raised. He let his eyes adjust to the darkness indoors, the heat of the flat tickling at his skin. With little sight, he heard his own breathing and the hammering rain outside, but soon his ears picked up static, then quiet cursing from the bodyguard trying and failing to contact his team.

John would have been told to hide. Moran crouched low in the shadows and watched for any sign of him. Sun had also blended in, but Holt's restless fidgeting kept him from disappearing. Moran could see the glint of his gun in the darkness.

The bodyguard spotted Holt too, and he'd clearly given up hope on getting any back-up. "Police!" he called out desperately, pointing his gun in Holt's general direction. He couldn't see properly. "Stand down!"

Despite his shortcomings, Holt knew how to pick out a spot with good line of sight. As soon as he'd been spotted, he raised his gun and took swift aim, when suddenly a loud gunshot cracked from the left, the muzzle flash illuminating John Watson for a split second in the darkness.

Holt fell to the ground with a shout, his arm flying up as he attempted to aim, shooting blindly through his pain at the bodyguard. Despite the suppressor, the shots echoed loudly throughout the room.

"John! Run!" yelled the bodyguard in an agonised voice as he stumbled, fell.

Moran could see John now, a slightly paler shape against the blackness of the room, his outline stiffening as he was momentarily torn between staying to help the bodyguard, or running. He caught the moment of John's decision, a quick intake of breath, before John steeled himself and vanished down the corridor.

Moran pressed his earpiece. "Target's heading for the exit," he muttered. Then, to avoid potential trouble with Moriarty later: "Sun, help Holt."

Silently, he shadowed John down the carpeted corridor, footstep matching with footstep. With his longer stride, he quickly made up the ground between them.

John's panicked breathing echoed in the hall, controlled, but their winded quality betrayed his fear. As Moran drew closer, he caught sight John in the darkness. John's movements were quick and careful, his shoulders turned partly to the wall and his gun up and ready, but despite these signs of training he moved like he was prey. He was so nervous and highly-strung, Moran knew that if he made a sound, John would spin around and kill him before he realised what he was doing.

An armed John was interesting. Moran hadn't expected that gunshot in the dark.

John picked his way to the flight of stairs leading down to the ground floor, then froze at something Moran couldn't see. His gun swung down.

"Move out of the way, or I'll shoot."

Then Moran saw it - Bern paused awkwardly mid-step, halfway up the stairs with a jerry can in one hand, his gun in the other, hanging uselessly by his side. Moran would have words, but for now he let himself feel impressed by John's excellent night vision.

"Move out the fucking way!" John hissed, voice raw.

Time to put Bern out of his misery.

Moran simply leant forward, pressing his gun to the back of John's head, hard. He relished John's shuddery intake of breath. "I think you've done enough shooting for tonight, Watson," he drawled. He saw Bern sag with relief from the corner of his eye, but Moran was focused instead on John's tense body. "Why don't you put the gun down? I get much more money if I bring you in alive than dead."

John's fingers around the gun flexed nervously on the grip.

"Just there," said Moran, his voice softening dangerously as he spoke, "on the top of the stairs."

John very slowly knelt, and lay the gun down. Moran dragged him close with an arm around his chest as Bern pocketed the weapon, so that John's back pressed tight against his front. He was quite small; Moran could rest his chin on the crown of John's head if he wanted. He felt John twitch as the water from Moran's jacket soaked through his clothes, then go incredibly still as Moran rested the muzzle of his gun right against his temple.

"I wasn't expecting you to be armed," Moran mused.

"I was expecting you," John replied quietly through gritted teeth, his voice heavy with fear and anger.

"Quite right." Moran shifted his grip to catch John's neck in the crook of his elbow. If he tilted his head, he could see the sheen on John's forehead as he perspired. John had a nice face. "There's no such thing as a house that's safe from the spider." He glanced up at Bern. "Signal the van, then start pouring. We'll only be a little while."

"Yes, sir," said Bern, with a crisp obedience that was quite unlike him. Perhaps trying to butter Moran up, after being held at gunpoint by the very person they'd come here to capture. Moran didn't bother reacting. He'd let the man sweat it for a while.

John didn't struggle as Moran steered him back down the corridor. He was an easy warm weight against Moran's body, almost relaxed as he let himself be walked along, but Moran could feel his tension, could feel the rabbit pulse against his arm where it beat solidly in John's neck. When Moran indulged himself, pressed his nose into John's soft hair and sniffed, he felt the pulse jump.

"You should have shot him," Moran advised, and he was only half joking. "You might even have gotten away."

John stayed silent. Moran could feel his every inhale, exhale.

The sounds of Holt's wretched choking reached them before they entered the living room. Sun had a torch that he carefully kept aimed downwards, focused on Holt, but he glanced up for a quick second as Moran walked John in. Behind them, Bern strolled in, trailing petrol from the jerry can, splashing it liberally around the room. The rain hammered on, the curtains blowing inwards in gusts of icy wind, letting in dim light that winked over the shattered glass trampled into the carpet. John shivered.

"Still alive, Holt?" Moran asked pleasantly, cinching John closer to stop him bristling from the cold. Holt whined and wriggled on the floor as Sun looked him over. The kid's eyes were clenched shut in pain. His black uniform was torn in the midsection, smeared with blood. There was a small but widening circle of red around his body.

"Hit him in the stomach, sir," explained Sun as he pressurised the wound.

Moran squeezed his arm approvingly around John's throat, making him stutter. "That's a nice shot, Watson, in the pitch black," he murmured, before jerking his head towards the corridor. "Get him out of here, Sun. The van will be coming soon."

Sun nodded, got to his feet, and dragged the groaning Holt away with a firm grip under his armpits. He left a line of blood trailed behind him, a smeared comma that gleamed dark purple in the low light. The torch lay forgotten on the floor, pointed towards the kitchen.

"Oh god," John whispered.

Moran followed his line of vision.

The beam of torchlight was narrow, arcing into the small kitchen and glinting over the frosted glass of the sliding doors. A crumpled figure lay by the cabinets, drawing in horrible wet breaths, his head downcast. It was the bodyguard, broken.

The man's eyes swung up to meet them, and when he caught sight of John he spluttered in shock, blood dribbling from his nose and clinging to his upper lip. Holt had made at least one shot, hitting him in the lungs. A grasping hand, slippery with gore, stretched across the tiles to a gun far out of reach. His eyes didn't leave John's, and his breathing worsened as Moran moved closer.

"Ah ah ahhh…" Moran chided, kicking the useless weapon even further away. Firming his hold on John, he aimed his gun at the fallen bodyguard, his finger tightening.

"No, don't," John begged suddenly, his voice hoarse. "Please."

The bodyguard looked terrible by torchlight, his face drawn and pale, mouth leaking blood. He was staring up at John with pleading eyes. Whether it was pleading for John to escape, or pleading for his own life, Moran couldn't help but be irritated by the weakness of a man who had run out of time. He glanced down at John, who clutched desperately at the arm around his neck, a wordless appeal for a favour.

"Would you rather I leave him to burn?" Moran tilted his head toward Bern soaking evidence with petrol. "This is a mercy, John."

"You can't…" John's voice faltered as Moran rapidly aimed and fired. With a penetrating crack, the bodyguard's face split wide open and blood hit them both. "No!"

John struggled well, almost ripping himself out of Moran's grip towards his fallen protector, but Moran was stronger and much too well-trained. "It's alright, John, shh," he murmured, pressing the gun hard against John's temple to still him. "Shhh."

* * *

Hugh's blood had started to cool on John's cardigan.

John made his way down the stairs with difficulty; every time he stumbled in that painful grasp, his captor pressed him with the gun to remind him of its presence, right against his slowly bruising temple. He would have paid more attention, but John was finding it hard to concentrate on walking.

Every time he blinked he saw Hugh's face splinter into blood and bone. When his eyes were open, right in front of him was the young man he'd shot being hefted down the stairs, spluttering and coughing in the arms of two others.

One of the men pushed the front door open, and the rain flew in. There was a van running outside, its headlamps off. The young man was rushed to the back of the van and lifted inside. John hesitated at the doorway at the sight of the unmarked vehicle, but his captor shoved him out. He was immediately soaked, freezing rainwater plastering his hair to his scalp. He shivered and blinked up at the other houses; their occupants were either asleep or unseeing. He'd make a noise to attract attention, but these men had already shown their willingness to kill.

He’d thought, when they first broke in, that one of them had been the spider. But none matched the evidence. These men just worked for him, which was a terrifying thought in of itself.

"We're done in here," growled his captor. "Bern, light this place up. We'll be waiting for you at the base."

"I'll see you there," nodded Bern, flicking a lighter open and shut. "Good luck."

John sloshed through puddles towards the van, and let himself be pushed inside. He landed hard on his hands and knees and scrabbled to the far corner of the empty interior, pressing his back to it. His captor leapt gracefully in behind him and pulled the doors shut, and they raced off with a squeal of tires against wet tarmac. The motion pulled John's torso forward for a moment. Fear consumed him, and he wanted to throw up, firmly swallowing down his acidic saliva.

He was drenched. Water soaked his clothes, and trickled down his back, like someone had slipped ice down the back of his shirt. Breath skittered haphazardly out of his mouth in faint clouds as he shivered miserably, and he had to force himself to breathe evenly, fearful of the eyes that watched his every movement.

The man he shot was struggling to breathe and helplessly weak, staring up at the ceiling with wet eyes as another man put pressure on the bullet wound. He cried out whenever the van veered sharply or hit a pothole. John's hands ached with guilt. He’d shot to kill, and although he’d failed, the fact that he’d been willing to kill and couldn’t find it in himself to regret it weighed on him heavily. He would have killed to escape, like how he would have killed to save Rachael too, if he hadn’t been so slow, so conflicted…

"Admiring your work?" came a low, rough voice.

John's stare snapped away from where the young man lay dying.

His captor was crouching by him, swaying with the movements of the van. In the confusion of the safe house, John hadn't gotten a chance to really see him, but the voice was unmistakable. He was tall, with greying ash brown hair that hung in wet strands over his forehead and heavy-lidded dark eyes that had no shine. He closely observed John, his hands resting casually over his legs. His trigger finger curled naturally towards his palm. "That's not the first time you've shot someone."

The dead eyes were sharper than they looked. John wanted to look away from that far too interested gaze, but he didn't. He needed to survive, and he knew he couldn't show any more weakness in front of this man.

"I recognise it," the man continued. "I was in the army for twelve years. I know what a killing man looks like." He reached forward and snatched John's left hand. John angrily gritted his teeth, trying to yank it away, but the grip was strong. The man contemplated his palms, gloved fingers intimately tracing the powder burns etched in John's skin. "You're a lot more dangerous than you pretend to be," he said, and his mouth split into a gently amused smirk.

He snapped a cuff around the wrist he held. John didn't flinch, even as the cold metal hit him. There was a pause while the man searched his face, although John had no idea what he was looking for. He just stared firmly back, and that seemed to be some sort of answer. Was the man deliberately testing John for a reaction?

"Turn around."

John grimaced and shuffled on his knees, immediately feeling more vulnerable. His captor tugged his other arm around and cuffed his wrists tight behind his back. He tugged sharply at the chain and the metal bit into John's wrists. It stung, but John wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing him wince.

"I have a piece of advice for you," began his captor. Suspicious, John twisted back to rest against the wall of the van so he could meet the man's dead eyes. He filled up John's vision, far too close in the cramped quarters. "Don't hide your emotions from the spider. He sees stoicism as a challenge, and he's incredibly inventive when it comes to breaking people down."

As a man who emoted about as well as a brick wall, he spoke like he'd had some experience. John arched his eyebrows. "What's he going to do to me?" he asked, trying to shift his back so that he didn't put pressure on his shoulders and to put some space between him and his captor, but the movement of the van kept shoving him forward.

His captor noticed, but didn't help. "You got his message."

Photo after black-blood photo, torturous heart surgery spilling out onto the floor of the police station.

John remembered the spider's bloody promise, written in Hopkins's blood over the walls.

His captor's eyes narrowed. "I'm sure you know by now that he wants your heart like Holmes did," he said matter-of-factly. "You probably won't live to see the sunrise. But there are easy ways to die, and painful ones." He pulled out his handgun, the gun he'd so coldly executed Hugh with, and pressed the chilled metal to the centre of John's forehead. "Do you see what I'm offering you?"

John swallowed thickly and resisted going cross-eyed, focus drifting past the muzzle of the gun. It would be a mercy killing, like what he'd done to Hugh. It was difficult to take his eyes off his captor's gaze, the pressure of his attention as heavy as the gun, but John glanced to the side. The other men were ignoring what their leader was doing, perhaps purposefully. Had he offered this before?

John took a steady breath, clenched his trapped fists, and stared back up. "The spider won't be happy with you."

The man shrugged, his gun nudging John's forehead. "Sure, I'd take a pay-cut for delivering you dead," he admitted, mouth curving slightly, "… but to be perfectly honest, money isn't an issue for me. Plus, torture isn't really my thing. I'd be sparing myself a terrible evening too." His voice dropped low, and he almost caressed the gun across John's forehead, pressing down right between his eyes. "I could end it so easily…"

John wrenched his head firmly to the side and determinedly directed his eyes to the floor, the cold metal resting just in front of his ear. His captor seemed almost disappointed. He lowered his gun, brushing it past John's cheek, his jaw, his neck, soaking up John's every fearful breath, and leant in.

He was so close. John felt colder just by being near him. He couldn't wrap his head around this man's almost considerate behaviour, and his cruelty, asking permission to do damage. Those weren’t the thought processes of a normal person, and John struggled to understand him. Whether he was invading John's sense of space to unnerve him, or for other reasons, John's already overstretched restraint snapped. He pulled his knees up to his chest and met those dark eyes angrily.

The man's mouth widened into an interested smile. "Perhaps it might even be a relief," he suggested. "A release from the life of the walking corpse you have been since Sherlock Holmes sliced you open like so much meat."

If the man had said this a month ago, John would have believed it. But if working on the case had done anything, it had reminded John what it was like to have a purpose. "I am alive," John spat defiantly, "and I'd like to stay that way."

"You've been barely existing." The man dropped the gun to his lap and shook his head. "You aren't meant to be here, John. You should have died five years ago, bleeding out on Dr Holmes's carpet."

John's scar twinged in remembered pain and his hands flexed in their bonds, reflexively reaching to cover it.

The injured man broke into a spasm of coughing, and the captor spared him a glance before turning back to John. There wasn't a shred of care in his eyes. "You may be alive now," he said, "but your time is quickly running out. I'm just giving you the option between peace, and humiliation."

"I don't need your options," John said firmly, although, deep down, he felt dread swell at the suggestion of what was in store for him.

"Why?" the man asked, tilting his head. "Are you holding out on someone?"

John swallowed nervously, and raised his chin.

"You'd have heard the news that Sherlock has escaped, of course," the man said coldly. "It was only ever a matter of time. Do you seriously think he'd risk his newfound freedom to come running to your rescue?"

The scratches over the back of John's neck itched, where Sherlock had seized hold of him. "I don't know," he said reluctantly.

"You don't know," said the man shortly. "Deliberate ignorance is becoming a running theme with you, isn't it. Shall I tell you what will actually happen?"

John stared up at him, guarded.

"Sherlock won't find you," the man said, "or he won't bother to try. The spider will entertain himself with you until he gets bored, and then he will cut out your heart so he can finish his project. You will go down in history, a sorry postscript at the end of the stories of the men who wanted to kill you. The world goes on spinning without you in it."

His gloved hand came down, almost gently, over John's cheek, and it definitely wasn't the touch of a contact killer. John shrank back in shock, his breath coming in short gasps, and the man's eyes seemed to soften at the expression on his face.

"But that's not so bad," he said quietly. "It's not like you have anyone to leave behind."

John's eyes blurred, and - "You needn't worry," Sherlock had whispered, his hands stroking possessively through John's hair. "I'd never let him hurt you."

Did he mean it? Sherlock had escaped. He'd broken out the day after John had told him about the threat on his life, after five years of imprisonment. What did it mean, that John was willing to trust in Sherlock's promise? Because he did, as agonising as that thought was. He mourned for the dead orderly, pitied Dr Smith, but the attacks, if nothing else, had shown that Sherlock was determined to find him. That Sherlock believed he could find him.

Between certain death, and the chance of escape, the choice was obvious. John wasn't quite ready to give up all hope yet. But the choice between one psychopath and another…

John sighed. Better the evil you know, and all that. "Thank you for the offer," he said steadily, "but no."

The man's hand dropped back to his side, and he shrugged lightly. "Alright."

Rain hammered on the roof of the van like a drumroll. The young man John shot was no longer crying out, but he was still breathing.

"Hang in there, kid," said the captor, slipping his gun back into its holster. "Maybe the boss will let you take your revenge."

* * *

Greg was back in his office, sat at his desk with his head in his hands, case files spread across the surface with their lurid contents spilling out. His clothes were crumpled and his eyes were red-rimmed, strained from too many long nights at the computer. The hour was late, but there was no-one waiting for him back home, not anymore. The only thing he had going for him was work, and that thought held little comfort.

Alone in his office, it struck Greg how empty his life had become. Years ago, Sherlock had predicted that Greg was due a depressive spiral. Is that what this was? Or was this, as Toby liked to monologue about, just the job getting to him after so many years of watching friends get hurt and criminals elude justice?

Sometimes, the job was just a job, but every so often there would be a case so all-consuming that it drained Greg's spirit just to work through it. The Holmes case was one, close to the bone and personal, a bitter memory for all involved. The copycat case had turned the same way, once John had signed up. Personal.

Exhaustion overcame him, and he buried his head in his hands.

It was shocking how much John's departure had affected him, and Greg still struggled to process his own thoughts about it. One minute John had been there, discussing the case with the other officers at the station, drinking a quiet cup of tea while huddled in Greg's kitchen, shuffling around upstairs while Greg watched the telly, and then, he was gone. Greg missed him. He missed John's presence, his company, and he feared for his friend's life.

Sherlock bloody Holmes had vanished into the ether, leaving behind a trail of injured and dead casualties He was nowhere to be found, and had apparently made no attempt to leave the country. It felt mad to say it, but Greg knew Sherlock well enough to guess where the bastard was headed, well enough to worry that Witness Protection might not be enough to keep John safe from both a serial murderer and his deranged copycat. Not that Toby appreciated his input anymore, when it came to John.

Greg groaned, and scrubbed at his face, leaning back and scanning his eyes briefly over the case files. The words blurred together. He couldn't see anything new.

His torment was interrupted by a rap on the glass door. He jerked upright, staring up as Sally rushed in, eyes wide. She'd refused to let Greg keep vigil alone, so she was looking a bit less crisp than usual, but it'd take more than a few sleepless nights to shake Sally Donovan like this.  Greg felt his stomach sink at the sight of her.

"There's been a power-cut at the safe house," she announced, in a rush. "None of the officers are answering their radios."

The sinking feeling twisted into a frozen stab of dread. "Shit!" Greg scrabbled for his mobile, jabbing a finger at Sally. "Call in armed response. I'll get Gregson. He's the only one around here that knows what's going on."

Sally nodded and disappeared in a whirl of curly hair.

Greg felt dizzy. He hit the speed dial, muttering under his breath as the call connected. "'Stay safe', what the hell was I thinking. He should have stayed. He should have fucking stayed…"

His memory caught on an image of a resigned John in Toby's office, his small hand outstretched in farewell, his shoulders squared, eyes sad. Greg's throat tightened. He did not want that to be the last time they ever saw each other.

Toby's phone rang once, twice, and then there was a clunk and a huff of breath. "This better be bloody important," growled Toby. Greg could almost see his irritated expression.

"There's been a power-cut on the street of John's safe house," Greg reported, pausing to clear his rough throat, "and none of the officers are responding. We need you here now."

There was a moment of silence. Toby inhaled to speak, only to be interrupted by a gentle muted voice in the background. "What is it?"

Greg paused, wondered whether or not to hold the phone away from his ear.

"It's work, darling," said Toby, voice muffled like he had his hand over the speaker. "I'm sorry." Then he was snapping down the phone at Greg again. "I'll be there in five minutes, Lestrade. I'll text you the address of the safe house. Get the local force over there now, and armed response. Bloody hell. Bloody hell…"

* * *

John could see nothing. He lay curled up in the corner of the van with a bag over his head and a gag stuffed tightly enough against his tongue that it had him drooling. The cuffs dug into his wrists, pulled cruelly at his shoulders, and there was sweat in his eyes. He kept repositioning himself on the rough carpet to avoid discomfort, moving his weight off his shoulder and torquing his waist, and then when the strain became too much to bear, shifting back onto his shoulder. But he felt vulnerable, moving when blinded. He had no idea how many eyes were on him.

His captor had searched him once he was incapacitated, but now John was thankfully left alone, although still clammy, and damp and shivering. He stayed on his guard, his pulse rushing past his ears. In the dark and with no sense of direction, every noise, every brush of movement past him in the cramped van, was a potential threat. He heard man he shot gasping every so often, spilling out tortured noises as, John could only guess, he was being patched up.

The van rattled over uneven stretches of road, lolling John helplessly along with it. He heard pained moans whenever the van jolted over a pothole, although the man had been falling steadily quieter, like someone was turning the volume down. He needed more than first aid, and he needed it soon.

John hoped the odd power-cut had alerted the police. Maybe someone had been watching from their window, seen the van and called them. Maybe the van was being discreetly followed by the police at that very moment, just waiting for the right time to take out the wheels and corner them.

Maybe.

Unlikely.

In the blackness of his immediate surroundings, John had the delirious image of Sherlock catching up to them, crashing the van and ripping everyone inside to pieces so it was just him, and John, in a space that smelt of blood and body fluids.

The van pulled to a stop and John thudded painfully against the wall, shaken from his reverie. He groaned into his gag.

"Switch!" a voice called out.

The van's vibrations reverberated through him as the doors slid open, and the hammering rain amplified along with a gust of outside air that seeped through his wet clothes. The dying man yelped and was apparently dragged out into the rain, his cries fading to the white noise of the storm outside. John lay there, terrified, unsure if he was alone or if there was someone watching him. He shifted against the floor, cautiously, as if testing the waters, then froze as he heard the sound of crunching gravel.

Hands grabbed him under the arms, and John was hoisted like a dead body, hauled out into rain that soaked him anew. He twisted and thrashed as his feet kicked gravel, wrestled against his captor's arms eeling around him, wet and slippery as they struggled. It was futile. He missed the use of too many limbs and senses to fight against the grappling strength that gripped him so powerfully he could feel his bones grind.

Water had begun to seep into the bag, sticking it to his skin and making it hard for John to draw breath. He could hear rain on asphalt, water hitting mud, but he couldn't pick up the sound of any nearby traffic. Wherever they were, it was deserted. He heard feet crunch and splash through gravel as a man dashed back passed them, then there was a sloshing sound. Liquid being splashed into the van. He smelt petrol.

They were burning evidence, John realised, and with a rush of distress and adrenaline-spiked strength, his struggles turned savage, bucking and thrashing in his captor's slippery grip.

For one startling moment he was left unhanded, but with no bearings, he fell in his attempt to run. His knees smashed into sharp gravel, and without his hands, momentum pitched him face-forward.

"Idiot," grunted a familiar low voice, and he was pulled to his feet by strong hands, shoved forward, feet sinking in puddles. He blindly attempted to run again, but his captor snatched him up around the midsection, forearms hitting John hard, like a punch that forced the breath out of his lungs. Head spinning and queasy, John's feet left the ground as he was scooped up and carried to what must be a different van.

"What the fuck is going on, Moran?" demanded a new voice. The driver? "What happened to Holt?"

"He was being an idiot," growled his captor, pushing John inside. John fell hard on the metal floor, landing close enough to Holt that he could hear his stuttered breathing.

"You didn't…" the driver started. Moran interrupted.

"I didn't shoot him," he helpfully clarified. "Now drive the fucking van."

An explosion of noise and heat blasted out just as the doors slammed shut, and John swayed as they accelerated into the night. No one had to mention their relief; John could feel the tension draining from the air as the men around him eased up. Someone let out a sigh, slumped against the wall of the van, unwinding from an unspoken tension. How much did they have riding on his successful delivery?

The spider, it seemed, was an expert at eliciting fear.

Quivering with adrenaline, his body still wound up after his unsuccessful escape attempt, John steeled himself and thought of tactics. All he could do to protect himself was be calm, collected, and give away nothing as he… as he waited for help to arrive. The police would be looking for him, and he had to give them time.

Or more likely, and John cringed to think of it, Sherlock would find him. If he was looking.

John knew that once Sherlock had set his mind on a problem, he would solve it. He'd seen him storm through enough cases and track down hidden suspects in record time to know that. The idea of Sherlock escaping from prison and finding him had been nightmare material for years, but now John's head was filled with a messy mix of hope and dread at the thought of it.

The floor under John's head vibrated as boots trod by, then he heard a man sit close to him. He knew it was Moran, and he could feel the man's eyes on him. John didn't want to attract undue attention, so he stayed very still on the floor where he had landed, his body aching. Damp clothes stuck to his skin. Water dripped down the back of his neck, like ice, and his cuffed wrists stung raw from being tugged together for so long.

Just as that thought coalesced, he heard shifting, then felt Moran's presence lean over him. A finger gently traced the outline of his wrists, checking for damage, and it felt like a pressed blister. John gritted his teeth and hoped that Moran would be satisfied with just looking over his wrists.

"Boss wanted you to call once you got here," called out the driver, and John was grateful for the distraction.

Moran sighed, his hand leaving John's. He shuffled in his pocket, and John heard buttons click, a dial tone. "Hey Boss, it's me."

The van fell into an unnatural silence, and John waited with them, caught up in the suspense. He could hear whispers of the spider's voice through the speaker, although not loudly enough to discern any words. The copycat, this spectre who'd been lurking over the case and leaving horrific threats for John, he sounded quite… normal. But then again, what had he been expecting?

 Yeah, we got him." Moran's voice got louder as he turned to look at John. A hand dropped down over his bagged head, thumb dragging the fabric over John's cheek. John curled inwards protectively as the hand started to stroke. "Alive."

John's self-control cracked. The fear he'd been forcing down all this time came gibbering up as he heard the soft voice that spilled out Moran's phone, fogging up his thoughts. He clenched his hands into fists and focused on the bite of the handcuffs, trying to ground himself, stay present.

Moran thankfully pulled away. "Shot one of my guys in the gut," he was saying in an alarmingly cold voice, considering that the man was bleeding out right beside him. "Yes Boss. Yeah. See you in ten."

Ten minutes. John tried to steel himself, but he was so exhausted.

There was a quiet beep. Apart from the swaying of the van, everything seemed frozen.

"Well," muttered Moran, after a long exhale. "Seems he's in a good mood now."

The tension dropped, and John slumped along with everyone else, although not out relief. Nausea rose up his throat. He felt sick and tired with fear, and he couldn't stop shivering. His heart raced in his chest, and the stuffy, humid darkness under his hood seemed to shrink around him. The bag was soaked through, and he was finding it hard to draw enough breath. He needed to calm down, or he'd wind himself.

John stretched his memory back, thinking over the case. None of the evidence they'd collected even hinted towards a team of people trying to kill one person. Expecting a lone madman, they'd been completely unprepared for this organised attack.

It might have been part of the spider's plan all along. Had they been misled from the beginning? Had John's involvement in the case, and subsequently Sherlock's, already been predicted? Sherlock had said, right at the start, that the copycat's murders were a message. Perhaps, John thought wretchedly, they had been a countdown.

* * *

Sherlock had driven past the dark streets of the safe house to see sirens blazing in the night sky. He didn't risk stopping - instead he parked his newly stolen car a few minutes from the scene, and dashed through the rain to watch, hood up, Culverton's coat flapping around his knees. The rain hit his face as he ran, a sensation almost foreign after five years confined indoors. Just the feeling of his body traversing wide open space was exhilarating.

The fire was the brightest light in the sky. It was smothered in smoke that whorled over the scene in billowing clouds of black and grey as fire engines battled to stop the blaze. Police cars encircled the streets in a semblance of order, too-bright blue and white lights lancing through the scene.  Neighbours still watched from their windows and lawns, frozen, like trapped animals transfixed by the noise of shouts and sirens, hypnotised by the flashing colours.

Panting slightly from his run, Sherlock stayed hidden and partially protected from the heavy rain in an alleyway, pulling the hood of the coat tighter around his head. He glanced around, assessing the busy scene, but saw every sign that his quarry was no longer here.

Moriarty's threat hadn't been idle. He'd snatched John right from the supposed 'safe house', right under everyone's noses. Sherlock felt a flicker of amusement at the expense of the useless police force who'd been pitted against the skill of Moriarty's game, but it was quickly tempered by irritation. If John wasn't here, where could he have been taken?

Armed officers awaited orders by their vehicles, wrapped up in body armour and already soaking wet. Two police detectives stood sheltered by their umbrellas, figures silhouetted by the burning house. Sherlock recognised them easily - his old colleagues, DCI Toby Gregson and DI Greg Lestrade, caught in the middle of an argument as their twin masks of professionalism started, inexorably, to slip.

"We should never have gotten John involved in the first place," snapped Lestrade, his eyes glimmering with poorly repressed fury. There was frustration there too, although whether it was directed towards their situation, or towards himself, Sherlock couldn't tell. Frustration involving John, certainly. Sherlock had suspected as much from the beginning. John had displayed copious evidence of Lestrade bending over backwards to keep him close.

Gregson had a familiar expression plastered over his face, furrows of anger deepening defensively over his brow. Lestrade was tempting fate, here. "He wanted to help."

"No he didn't," Lestrade retorted. "He wanted to go home."

Lestrade was broken with worry. That was to be expected, given the danger John was now in. But his defensive body language betrayed the guilt that had been long gnawing at him. The short-sighted idiot couldn't have predicted this when he'd persuaded John to help them out, convinced of his ability to look after his men. He'd always fancied himself as a protector, and John certainly would have awoken those instincts in him. Despite John's strength and tenacity, all people saw when they looked at him was a victim.

Seeing without observing… had Sherlock's time with Lestrade taught him nothing?

"You said something to him, didn't you?" Lestrade pointed accusingly at his superior, his voice rising. "After he visited Holmes the first time? He was all ready to go home, and you said something to him that made him stay."

Gregson turned to face the fire, trying the play the bigger man by giving Lestrade the opportunity to end the argument before it turned ugly. "I just offered him a job with good benefits. I didn't push him."

But Lestrade kept hounding him, any shred of professionalism long since shrivelled up as he took out his stress and years of resentment on his DCI. "You implied that if he didn't help, more people would die, didn't you?"

"Don't point fingers, Lestrade," Gregson growled, a warning for Lestrade to stop. "You went to his house. It was your idea to bring him on-board."

"Only so he could stay on as long as he was comfortable. I didn't blackmail him."

Gregson's tense patience snapped, and he spun back around with an expression so furious, so tormented, that Lestrade flinched back. "It was not blackmail!" he roared, as wracked with guilt as Lestrade, and Sherlock got to see it all. He enjoyed the bristle of schadenfreude down his skin, and smiled.

"This is your fucking fault, Toby!" Lestrade yelled, loudly enough to attract attention from the other officers. Definitely guilt, thought Sherlock, his mouth twitching into a smirk. And well-deserved guilt too.

He'd seen the signs of this happening years ago, in a holding cell at Scotland Yard when he wound up the DI like a toy with a few well-placed predictions. Just five years later and here he was, proving Sherlock right by crumbling right in front of him.

Greg was still ranting. "You got him far too involved in the case, and when he became more dangerous to have around than useful, you chuck him out into a so-called safe house." Lestrade waved his hand towards the blazing fire. "Now look what's happened!"

Sherlock's mind swept through old memories, catching on the image of a pleasantly drunk John by the bar at the end of a successful case, laughing off something Lestrade had said, the man's hand on his shoulder. Sherlock knew they were old acquaintances, but he'd always sensed a wishful yearning for more, on Lestrade's part, that John was either oblivious to or studiously chose to ignore. That didn't discourage Lestrade's poorly hidden glances, or the way he lit up whenever John was around. It was one of the many things Sherlock disliked about Lestrade. Unrequited desire bored him so.

And how quickly he'd leapt on John once he was made vulnerable by death threats and invasive media following him around: inviting John to live with him, lying to him about his wife, chaining John to the case with his reliably stubborn sense of duty so as to have him close by. Lestrade was a self-styled 'good man' with no qualms about taking advantage of what had been done to John and using it to further his own needs. It was selfish, cowardly; the whole mess had blown right up in Lestrade's face and the sight of him desperately trying to twist the story so he wasn't the villain in his own head was immensely gratifying.

Gregson's disgruntled anger seemed almost dignified next to Lestrade's bluster. Perhaps that comparison sank in for Lestrade, as his face suddenly dropped, embarrassed. Sherlock could see his inner turmoil as if he was screaming it out. He savoured it as Lestrade's red-rimmed gaze lowered to his feet with a grimace, as if he were in physical pain. "He said… he trusted me."

Sherlock scowled immediately at John's misplaced confidence.

"Well, more fool him," growled Gregson, and he turned his back on Lestrade and the fire, dismissively, as if wiping his hands of it all.

Lestrade's mouth dropped open in shock, the retort hitting him like a verbal blow. His usually soft eyes were bright with flame, shining with guilty rage, and for a moment, Sherlock thought the argument would turn physical.

He hoped it would. He wanted to watch Lestrade ruin his career with one uncontrolled swing. Lestrade was overwrought and brittle, ready to snap. He'd always been an easy target, but his abject failure to protect the man who had unwisely put his trust in him had damaged his self-image, and it could very easily push him over the edge, fists flying at his DCI.

Unfortunately, Lestrade had enough self-preservation to restrain himself. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, a self-defensive gesture Sherlock remembered well, and paced off through the puddles towards the gathered police cars.

Alone, Gregson took a deep breath, and released a slow exhale, breath clouding around his mouth. He ducked his head, squeezing his hand over his forehead as if to physically massage away a headache. Sherlock recognised Gregson like this, with his barriers down. He'd seen it in the more desperate moments of the Holmes case, still a DI, watching the body count rise. The man felt a lot guiltier than he'd let on.

A slim figure in a tan coat dashed over from the ambulances. It was Sally Donovan, who'd never trusted Sherlock, and Sherlock felt a heated rush of irritation up the back of his neck just from looking at her.

"You okay, sir?" she asked. The skin under her eyes was puffy. She'd been staying up late, like Lestrade had.

Gregson squeezed his forehead, then he stood up straight and let his hands fall to his sides. "Fine. Just tired," he said quietly, peering down at her shrewdly. "What is it?"

Donovan nodded, let her curiosity go. "The fire fighters found a body on the third floor," she reported. Her voice dropped. "There's not much evidence left…"

"Show me," demanded Toby.

"They're bringing the body down…" Donovan began, launching into an explanation as she marched off. Toby fell in beside her, and together they walked out of Sherlock's hearing range.

Clearly, Moriarty had set the fire to cover his tracks. Sherlock had always doubted that Moriarty would carry out such a significant murder in a run-down police safe house. He'd have taken John -- no, he'd have had his 'employees' take John to him, so he could do what he wanted at his own pace…

Sherlock sank back against the brick wall, bile rising in his throat at the imagery of Moriarty's hands ripping into John's guts. He inhaled the chilled night air deeply, let it sting his lungs, and then turned on his heel and sprinted back to his car.

* * *

"We've found him!"

Mycroft swivelled on his heel to face the projection, which had turned to live CCTV footage of a slim figure running through raining streets.

"Little brother," murmured Mycroft, as his workers scrambled to find the exact address. Sherlock had already spotted the security camera and moved out of view. "Set this current camera feed to loop. I want to be able to move it."

"Right away, sir."

The screen split into two; the real footage, and the loop that would show on the security cameras. The real camera swivelled to point further onto the pavement. They all saw the phone box.

"I need that phone number," said Mycroft. A smaller monitor showed one of his programs scrolling through numbers and addresses, before pinpointing one. "Call it," ordered Mycroft, slipping on his headset.

* * *

Not only had the weather, with its puddles and evidence-washing rains, obliterated any useful evidence Sherlock might have gathered from the crime scene, but the congregation of emergency services and officers blundering about had muddled everything else. Besides, whatever getaway vehicle Moriarty's men had transported John in, they would have almost certainly switched it at some point.

Perhaps Sherlock could tune into some police radios, find out if any blown-out vans had been reported…

He'd reached his car when, over the sounds of heavy rain, he heard a ringing sound.

* * *

Mycroft held the headset close to his ear. He heard the low dial tone, and then the ringing. "Where's Sherlock?"

The camera spun, quickly catching sight of Sherlock and reframing. His brother was already moving towards the phone box, initially hesitant, then in fast strides. The picture zoomed in, catching Sherlock's furtive glance around, noticing the camera, before opening the door and picking up the phone.

"Mycroft, I'm busy." His deep voice crackled through the team's headphones, and Mycroft smiled indulgently. Of course, Sherlock had known who he was straight away.

"Hello, Sherlock. It's been a long time."

"What is it?" Sherlock demanded brusquely, ever the insolent child.

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at his team, and then turned back to the footage. "I'm here to save your skin," he said smoothly. "You must head to Strand Airfield immediately. I have a plane waiting to extract you."

Sherlock glanced coolly at the camera. "I appreciate the sentiment, but I have something to collect first."

It was understandable. Sherlock had been locked up for over five years with nothing of his own; of course he'd want to get his hands on as much of his old property as he could. He was a magpie-like collector, and had long been frittering away his savings during his stay in prison to make sure no-one would be able to get their hands on his books, his recipes, his violin. Luckily, Mycroft had excellent contacts in the UK. "I can retrieve your possessions at a later date," Mycroft assured him. "Now's not the time. You do realise that the entire country is looking for you?"

Through the poor quality of the camera footage, it was difficult to see the minutiae of Sherlock's changing expressions, but Mycroft still recognised an indignant pout when he saw one. "It hasn't escaped my notice," Sherlock drawled.

"Then head to the airfield." Mycroft's patience was wearing thin. "You need to leave."

"And I will," said Sherlock, turning his back to the camera. "But not yet. You're wasting my time." He moved to pluck the phone from his ear.

Madness. "Don't you dare hang up," Mycroft warned.

Sherlock froze, perhaps instinctively, from hearing the authoritative voice from his youth. It gave Mycroft a split second advantage, and he pressed it.

"What are you collecting?"

Sherlock stilled. He was calculating his reply, and he clearly didn't want to tell Mycroft. Unfortunately for him, his hesitation was all the evidence Mycroft needed to fit that final puzzle piece in place. He knew what Sherlock is going to say before he said it and -- "John Watson," Sherlock said simply, proving him right.

Mycroft didn't groan, but his hand tightened somewhat over the headset.

Everyone in the room knew about John Watson.

Mycroft had kept good records on Sherlock's life. Every single article or journal that mentioned Sherlock was carefully collated in Mycroft's office for his own perusal, and he'd read all about the much sensationalised friendship, about Sherlock's growing fixation after the failed murder. But Mycroft didn't need first-hand evidence; he could recognise an obsession of Sherlock's when he saw one, and he disliked it. Sherlock had never obsessed over a person before, let alone one as plebeian as John Watson, but that didn't make his desires any less distracting. Or dangerous.

It seemed the rumours were true. Sherlock finally had the freedom he had so longed for, and in an act of uncharacteristic irrationality he was risking it all just to save an ungrateful ex-cop.

"Moriarty has him," Sherlock said.

Mycroft rolled his eyes in annoyance. "All the more reason not to go after him." Moriarty was a growing pain in Mycroft's side, nowhere near his level, but he'd heard enough stories about Moriarty's vengefulness to fear for Sherlock's safety. Though they hadn't spoken in years, Sherlock was still his little brother; the last of the Holmes line. "Go to the airfield, Sherlock."

"No," Sherlock snapped stubbornly. "I'm going to get John."

Tension rippled up Mycroft's neck. "This obsession of yours is childish. John isn't special." On the poor resolution camera, Sherlock visibly recoiled in anger. "You've just had five years alone to go mad over him, that's all this is."

"It's more than that," contended Sherlock, and Mycroft was only too conscious that he meant it.  "I made him a promise." Sherlock sucked in a breath, leant against the glass of the phone box. His voice dropped, quieter. "He came to me because he was scared, and I promised him that I wouldn't let Moriarty hurt him."

The sudden confession caught Mycroft's attention.

Sherlock had always been a master manipulator, with careful use of 'promises' just being another tool in his arsenal. No doubt his relentless search for John wasn't entirely selfless, but the fact that he was intent on keeping his word was notable.

"Well, you were in no position to make that sort of guarantee," Mycroft said coldly. "You've noticed that the spider has already moved him from the safe house. You're too late. And thank goodness, because if you'd arrived in time, you would have been shot."

Sherlock didn't answer. The camera captured his very still figure through the glass, eyes darting as his mind whirled in thought. Had he run out of counter-arguments?

"How are you supposed to even find him?" Mycroft continued, keeping his tone reasonable. "Do you even know where John might be taken?"

Sherlock stayed silent. Only the noise of the rain came through, like static.

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock--"

"I don't know where John is," said Sherlock suddenly.

Mycroft rolled his eyes at his assistants, gesturing for them to start organising Sherlock's plane home. "Well, then --"

"But you can find out."

When Sherlock turned to fully face the camera, his expression was fierce. All youth and vulnerability was gone. He stared up at Mycroft, through the lens, as though meeting the gaze of an equal. Mycroft had never seen that expression on his face before, and he frowned, trying to reconcile this Sherlock with the one he'd help raise.

"You want me working with you for your little crime ring, I understand that." The note of condescension in Sherlock's voice irritated Mycroft immensely. "I, however, cannot and will not leave this country without securing John Watson's safety." His voice softened. "I want to take him with me, Mycroft."

Mycroft grimaced. "Sherlock, I'm sorry, but that's quite impossible."

"You tracked me down quickly enough," Sherlock countered. "I'm sure you can do the same for John."

"That's beside the point…" Mycroft covered the microphone and sucked an exasperated breath through his teeth. How was it so difficult to persuade his obstinate brother to do the smart thing? Yet again, Mycroft found himself missing the days when Sherlock would follow his advice without question. "I want you to start a new life once you get here. You'll have little time for companions."

Sherlock was immovable. "I'm willing to make time, in this case."

"John doesn't care for you, Sherlock," Mycroft said tightly, carefully containing his pent-up frustration from his voice, although his hands squeezed white over the headset. "You've overanalysed the relationship to the point where you can no longer be objective."

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't bother trying to work out what's going on in his head, Mycroft. You don't know him like I do."

"I was talking more about what's going on in your head, Sherlock," said Mycroft pointedly.

"If you want me to come with you, which you do," Sherlock said, voice sharp, "you're going to have to help me."

Mycroft sighed.

* * *

The glass door of the phone box crashed shut behind Sherlock. He sprinted back to his car and slid in, yanking off the soaking coat and throwing it in the backseat. When he reached out to start the ignition, he realised with some shock that his hands were shaking.

Concerned, he sat back, holding his hands up to his face and staring intently. His fingers trembled before his eyes, twitching, and he had to focus to still them. Shock, perhaps, from his estranged brother's sudden phone call. Fear, for the potential loss of his friend. Anger at Moriarty. Or maybe his medications were wearing off, and he was going through the withdrawal symptoms. If that was the case, it was truly unfortunate timing. Sherlock needed his head for what was going to come next.

At least now he had a firm escape path out of the country, one that didn't involve threats or murder. Not that Sherlock had any problem with using violence to get his own way, but if he was going to be bringing John with him, he needed to be careful with who John saw him kill.

He twisted the key, and the car's lights glowed brighter, the engine starting and swelling to a low rumble. As he flipped on the windshield wipers, the GPS blinked on, displaying the useless welcome message and an over-designed logo. Sherlock was going to turn the thing off when the screen suddenly went black.

White text scrolled on.

If you want him so badly, go and get him.

The text vanished, and Sherlock watched as the GPS input an address on its own, and searched for it. The map popped up with the directions.

"Of course, you knew where he was the entire time…" Sherlock muttered. As he looked ahead to his endgame, he felt a tightening of dread around his chest, sickening in its familiarity. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. Mycroft was going to want his soul for this…

There was no point in dwelling on things he couldn't do anything about. He turned his mind turned to John. John, who was being taken to an inner-city apartment building an estimated half-an-hour away.

* * *

Gravity shifted, and John shifted onto his side as the van rolled slowly down a short, steep ramp, hitting the bottom with a bounce of suspension. The sound of traffic was a dim background noise, so John could only imagine that they'd pulled into an underground car-park. The van came to a neat stop, then the engines died. Heavy footsteps picked their way passed John's ear, and the doors squeaked as they swung open.

"Get Holt to the doctor," ordered Moran from where he stood, somewhere over John's head. The rasping breaths that John had been doing his best not to listen to turned to gasps as Holt was carried out. Footsteps echoed over hard ground, stamping out of the van, over concrete.

Then, there was silence.

Was he alone?

John twisted his hands experimentally in the cuffs, and then yelped into the gag when he was abruptly grabbed under the shoulders. He was pulled upright into a sitting position, resting against a hard body. He could feel Moran's breath through the material of the bag.

"Last chance, John," he said quietly. "Just nod, and I will put an end to this."

John's mind reeled and he forced himself to stay very still, fearing Moran would mistake a twitch for a nod and send a bullet through his brain.

He felt Moran's chest swell, then deflate as he sighed. "Very well."

* * *

John attempted to map where he was being walked by the textures under his shoes, and the ambient temperature, but he quickly lost track. From the freezing concrete garage, Moran pushed and shoved him into some sort of corridor that was no warmer, down various twists and turns, then forced him to clumsily climb up a flight of stairs. He passed through a set of push doors. Despite his blindness he could feel the space around him open up. The air was warmer against his aching body, and lessened the shivering somewhat.

"Move it," prompted Moran, as John stood awkwardly still at the sudden lack of confinement. The hand at his shoulder herded him forward, and there was a slide of doors. When John stepped in to what felt like a limited space, the door slid shut behind him, and then his stomach plummeted as the floor beneath his feet shot upwards. An elevator. Moran's hand shifted across, damp glove settling over the back of his neck and tightening slightly.

A warning?

The doors opened with a ping, and John was steered forward. The warm air rolled over him like a caress, and his feet sank into thick, luxurious carpet that felt good on his stiff joints. Despite the seemingly welcome surroundings, John's fear only grew, prickling his skin with sweat. No one had been expecting a murderer who had control over a team of hit-men. Was the homage to Sherlock's crime spree just a hobby, a diversion from whatever it is the spider usually did? What did that make John?

Moran walked silently beside him, his hand on the nape of John's neck, guiding him through the quiet hallway. Their footsteps were silenced by the carpet, the sound of rustling clothes smothered by the surroundings, heavy curtains, wallpaper, to soothing shuffles.

After a few turns, he was pulled to a stop. Moran reached around him, arm grazing John's shoulder. There was a muted clunk, and then a door was swung open for him.

John was barely ushered in before Moran's hand over his neck gripped and he was pushed down without warning. Landing solidly on his knees, he crumpled over, the shock reverberating sharply up his body. He grunted and bowed forward in pain, his arms twisted behind him. Every movement chafed his wrists, digging the metal into his scrapes. He let out a muffled cry as Moran wrenched him back to his knees, as if for presentation, his breath puffing around his ears under the bag. He could hear, very faintly, as if from another room, gentle sounds of classical music that clashed entirely with the blood-rush of fear pumping through his body. He found it hard to draw breath.

"Weren't there… more of you?" came a voice eventually. It was an odd accent, soft, but unnervingly changeable. From the way John was being displayed, he could guess that this was the spider.

"Your new guy got shot," Moran answered flatly, his hand twitching around John's neck. "I had the others take him to the doc for medical treatment."

"So… alive then?" There was a shift, the spider getting to his feet. "Johnny-boy's not the marksman I heard he was."

"It was pitch black, sir," said Moran, a little testily. "A pretty fine shot, considering."

Even on the soft carpet, John could hear the approaching footsteps.

"Or he's damn lucky."

Moran let go, and John was blinded by light as the bag was yanked from his head. Everything blurred. He squinted in pain, his eyes watering, and ducked down, but a skinny hand slid under his jaw and forced his head up.

"Or very unlucky," mused the spider. "Depends on how you look at it."

John's eyes refocused, and his stomach lurched. The spider's pale face loomed over him, he tilted John's head this way and that in a contemplative manner, like he was examining something. His thin frame was dressed exquisitely in a dark blue suit, black hair slicked back over his skull. John's gaze flicked erratically over him, but he kept returning to the huge dark eyes.

The spider pouted in confusion. "He's very… ordinary. How dull." He dropped his harsh grip on John's jaw with visible distaste. "I'm surprised at Sherlock. I've always thought of him as a man with good taste."

Had Sherlock known the spider personally? John's eyebrows knitted together as he considered it, but before he could get his thoughts together, the spider's expression suddenly turned furious. His hand blurred, and John's head pitched to the side as he was abruptly backhanded across the face, stinging heat spreading up his cheek. Startled, he groaned into the gag, blinking frantically. Moran grabbed him and pulled him back onto his knees.

There was an unsettling gleam in the spider's eyes as he considered the man crouching in front of him. "I suppose there's something stoic about him that's charming, in a way," he mused. "If you were desperate." He glanced up at Moran. "Get him ready, will you, dear?"

John's heart beat helplessly in his chest, head spinning with nausea as heavy hands seized him yet again. Despite his resistance, he was wrested to his feet and half-dragged to the centre of the room, where a heavy wooden chair was already positioned. He struggled as Moran released the handcuffs, eliciting a few giggles from the spider, but John already knew it was pointless. Moran was too strong.

When he was finally forced into the chair, his hands were secured around the curved backrest tightly enough that his wrists burnt. Moran expertly bound his legs and torso, glancing up at him every so often with those impassive hooded eyes. John could read nothing from him. He tried to breathe in deeply and tense his muscles, so the ropes would be loose, but when Moran was done, John could do little but wriggle.

He tested his bonds when Moran stood and felt another spike of panic as he discovered the complete lack of give. Huffing around the gag, he wrenched his arms furiously, but all he achieved was slicing the metal cuffs at his already tender wrists. Moran waited for his thrashing to stop, and when John finally slumped against the chair, his chest heaving, Moran stared at him meaningfully before loping back to the door and leaning by it, awaiting orders.

While the spider hummed along to his music with his back to John, he took the moment to catch his breath and ready himself for whatever was coming next. With no chance of fighting them off, all John could do was buy time.

He glanced around his lush surroundings. The room, a lounge of some sort, judging by the furniture, was large and warm and decorated in mostly reddish hues, with soft golden lighting. He could hear the music more clearly without the bag over his head, some Russian composer whose name he’d long forgotten.

John sat facing what seemed to be the centrepiece of the room: the window. Spanning an entire wall, from floor to ceiling, it was framed at the edges by long red curtains that the spider hadn’t closed, despite the late hour. The rain streamed down it like a waterfall, inky black, with yellow blurs of light shining as if through frosted glass. John found it discordantly beautiful. He’d been expecting a dungeon, nothing like this.

The spider whispered to himself under his breath, and there was a clink as he chose something from the coffee table.

"But, mm, it's not like Sherlock is desperate," he muttered. "He could have had anyone." He turned to stare at John, trying to gauge him, and tilted his head. "Yet he obsesses over a useless little ex-detective who's the very epitome of dull.”

John's breath stilled.

The spider was holding a long steel kitchen knife that winked in the lamplight. It was similar to -- no, John corrected himself, identical to the knife Sherlock had attacked him with, all those years ago. Memory rushed back, the agonising pain, strength bleeding out, and the shock of betrayal sinking into realisation as Sherlock looked down at him with apologetic grey eyes. The images super-imposed themselves, the knife gleaming in the spider’s hand, and the knife in his gut, red blossoming over his stomach. Past ran alongside present, and John was overcome with fear.

As he threw himself against his ropes in blind panic, the spider paced forward with the knife swinging by his side, a predator who had found injured prey and was savouring his approach, waiting for him to wear himself out. John's struggles must have finally ripped the skin of his wrists, because he winced in pain and felt blood trickle down his right palm. He curled his fingers around the warm liquid and twisted as far as possible from the spider, who rested his free hand on the back of the chair and leant right into John’s space.

John could smell his expensive smooth cologne.

The spider's mad black eyes flicked disdainfully over John's panting face, weighing him up. "You know," he said lightly, his eyelids lowering. "I feel almost let down."

The flat length of the cold blade pressed hard over John's cheek, like a promise.

"I went to visit him, did you know that? After I killed the copper."

John's eyes widened.

"We talked about you at great length." His face split into a grin that showed too many teeth. "Do you want to know what he said?"

The blade pressed very slightly, and John quivered, blinking hurriedly. He chewed weakly at his gag, not wanting to know, but unable to stop listening.

"He said he finds you entertaining," the spider whispered, stroking the blade gently back and forth as if spreading butter over John's skin, "When you suffer."

There was a flash of metal as the spider made as if to stab John right through the cheek, and he laughed lightly at John's terrified moan. No pain came. When John, humiliated and angry, forced himself to meet that black gaze again, the spider laughed even harder.

"Yeah," he said, with a loose-lipped smile. "I can see it. I can see it…" He tapped the knife distractedly against his palm, shifting his body slightly towards Moran while his eyes stayed fixed on John. "What do you think about him?" he demanded of his henchman.

"I've no opinion, sir," said Moran flatly, staring straight ahead. He’d been steadily ignoring what his boss was doing the entire time. Maybe, John thought, he’d been telling the truth when he said he didn’t like torture.

The spider's face pinched, and he swivelled to glare. "But if I told you that you had to have an opinion."

Moran shrugged easily, his blank eyes sweeping disinterestedly over John's bound figure. "I think he's as mad as Holmes is, in his own way."

The spider chuckled. "There's something odd about him, I'll give you that." He turned back to John and puts his hands on his hips, peering down with a raised eyebrow. "You're quite broken, aren't you?" he mused in a soft voice, play-acting at sympathy, but John could see the glee just behind the surface. "Ill-used by your old friends… they were so desperate to catch me that they let you fall right into my hands. Do you hate them?" The spider’s mouth twitched, a hint of a vicious smile. "You should. I would."

John just glared at him. He knew exactly what the spider was referring to; John’s reluctant involvement in the case had been readily ruminated on in the press. He’d come to terms with being ‘used’, and he’d make the same choice again for the chance to cut a killing spree short.

The spider pursed his lips. "It's days like this I miss having an on-call psychiatrist," he muttered to himself, and then jerked his head at Moran. "Are the cameras running?"

"Yeah, I switched them on," replied Moran.

The spider waved a skinny hand dismissively. "Go … patrol, or whatever it is I pay you to do."

Moran immediately pulled himself upright. He spared John one last unfathomable look before leaving the room and shutting the door behind him with a neat clip.

Alone, the spider's oppressive aura seemed to swell and drive the air from the room. John jerked abortively at the ropes, but stayed solidly tied down. The spider's mouth widened at his struggles. He propped his clammy hand companionably on John's shoulder for balance and ducked down to eye level, gesturing patiently with the knife till John's eyes followed it to see the cameras.  There were five installed around the room, capturing them from various angles, and the spider wore a sixth on his tie clip.

"My little present for Sherlock when all this is over," he explained sweetly. The hand on John's shoulder then slid up from his clothes to the bare skin of his neck, his parallel scratches, the knot of the gag, squeezing upwards to card into his damp hair in an intimate caress. John shuddered as the spider scritched thoughtfully over John's ear. "Did Sherlock tell you my name?"

John shook his head in answer, and the fingers in his hair tightened painfully.

"I'm Moriarty," the spider hissed, "and I own England."

That explained the personal army, John thought, throat bitter with realisation. Schooling his features into inoffensive blankness, he stared past Moriarty's waist to the waterfall window and tried to think. He wanted to disassociate himself from what was happening, but Moriarty was unpredictable and impossible to ignore. He demanded attention with every twitch of his fingers, which he clenched around John’s hair whenever he felt John’s attention drifting.

"I used to own Sherlock's time too, until he met you." There was a hint of resentment in Moriarty's voice that hinted at some unspoken history, but then he turned contemplative. "I think he loves you, you know." He tilted his head ruefully. "As much as a sociopath can love anyone, anyway."

If that was the case, John really didn’t want to know Moriarty’s definition of love.

Moriarty’s hand dipped to lightly trace the still healing scratches that marred the nape of John's neck, where Sherlock's nails had ripped into his skin as they were pulled apart by hospital orderlies. John's neck stung as the probing hand lingered, but in an attempt to maintain some form of control he remained stony-faced.

Moriarty saw it, and his expression turned ugly.

The hand at his neck stopped caressing and grabbed John harshly around the throat.

John felt his throat seal up. He choked in panic as he tried to breathe, but succeeded in doing nothing but gape like a fish around the gag. He thrashed, eyesight blurring, knowing that he was being played with again, but he couldn’t overcome that instinctual fear of suffocation as the air was throttled out of him. The fuzzy lines of Moriarty leant forward with a wide grin, delighting in his pain. John felt the heat of him, and shuddered to feel him rest his cheek on John's, very gently.

"I told him what I was going to do to you," Moriarty whispered, stubble rasping against John’s cheek, "and he broke out of prison that very day. If that's not love, I don't know what is."

He said it with a reedy sort of laugh, but John could tell he didn’t find it funny at all.

As soon as Moriarty released him, John gasped in a breath. The air was like sandpaper in his throat, and he couldn't help but cough wretchedly into the gag. His body tried to fold forward, but Moriarty's skinny hands pushed his shoulders firmly against the chair, his huge black eyes running covetously over the evidence of John's distress. Hot tears threatened at the edges of John's eyes, and he flushed with shame and impotent fury that Moriarty noticed.

If John had been steeling himself for anything in the back of the van, it had been physical torture, extreme pain, nothing like this-- but that train of thought fizzed to static as Moriarty reached forward and started to undo his cardigan.

"Although, you have to be careful, don't you?" the madman mused, flipping John's cardigan open to expose his damp shirt. He trailed his fingers idly down the buttons. "Or perhaps you don't know, being the ordinary person that you are. See, I mix with these sorts of people every day, John. They're my life. Let me let you in on a little secret, huh?"

He swept forward, teeth bared, and John inhaled in shock as Moriarty pressed them right over John's ear to whisper.

"A stalker who loves you is far more dangerous than one who merely wants to kill you."

John shook and tried to twist away, but Moriarty just laughed softly in his ear, breath hot.

"As you've probably guessed, I'm the latter." Moriarty sneered, and he splayed his fingers over John's sternum, before grabbing John's cardigan and easing it off his shoulders. "So, really," he chirped with a bright grin, "you're safer with me than you are with Sherlock."

John kept his gaze focused to the side, breathing shallowly through his nose, the hands over his body grating at his nerves. He hadn't had true privacy in days, he was exhausted by it. He still felt filthy from the kidnapping; not just the rainwater and dirt, but the grabbing and shoving, like he was just a piece of furniture being moved, an object with no agency. He was a raw nerve now, could do nothing to suppress his shudders at Moriarty's violations. Perhaps that was why Moriarty was taking so much pleasure invading John's personal space, prodding at his psyche.

Making him play for the cameras.

"I wonder what dark, horrible things that maniac has in mind for you," Moriarty crooned. "Do you think Sherlock wants you? Sexually, I mean? You must have noticed his interest; you know, before the stabbing."

His voice darkened, and his nostrils flared.

"I could practically smell it on him."

He inhaled by John's temple, and when John tried to pull away, tutted at him as if John was a misbehaving child. John flinched as cold steel pressed again to his cheek, guided him back so Moriarty could watch his face unobstructed. The man's hand gripped eagerly around the handle of the knife, and there was a sheen of sweat over his forehead from excitement.

"When he was all alone in his cell, do you think he fantasized about you?" Moriarty wondered aloud, pressing the knife against John's cheek and breaking into a smile as John grimaced at the threat of steel. "Lying back on that squeaky little cot and taking himself in hand… He had five years to obsess over you."

John wished he could turn away. His face must have betrayed his loathing, because Moriarty's eyes widened in pleasure, his smile sharpening.

"I heard that Dr Smith let him keep pictures of you, and he would lie there to look at them and just zone out for hours. What else would be going in his head? He'd be making up dirty situations, or replaying scenarios that happened just as they did in real life, except this time, he got to fuck you."

The images flashed grotesquely through John's mind, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

He still remembered Sherlock's predatory expression upon catching sight of him for the first time in years. He'd dragged his eyes over John with undisguised hunger, and the uncensored want had sent John right back to Sherlock’s living room, forced up against the bookshelves as Sherlock whispered into his ear. John had gone home after that first visit and quietly obsessed over his old memories, yet again scraping for signs he might have missed, clues that he had ignored. He’d never really known Sherlock. Not until the man had tried to kill him.

"Oh, the things he must have dreamt of doing to you," whispered Moriarty, breathlessly, and John’s eyes fluttered back open. "Can you imagine it, letting him hold your life in his hands? Can your little mind even comprehend what it might be like to be entirely at the mercy of a man like Sherlock?"

There was scorn in Moriarty's voice, and it twisted John's gut. Who knew better than he did about being at Sherlock's mercy?

Moriarty let go of John and stood up straight. "I've always found him irritatingly asexual. You've brought something new out of him, I suppose, although how someone like you can inspire such a reaction escapes me."

He scowled, then in a sudden show of violence, backhanded John across the face. Pain again flared up his cheek, and John's head was flung to the side. He inhaled sharply through his nose.

"Useless," Moriarty sneered. Despite his words, his cheeks flushed red with enjoyment. He stared down at John with his teeth bared and reached forward, grabbing John's shirt and ripping it open with relish. John protested as noisily as he could from behind his gag, but Moriarty just hit him again. "Shut up."

John felt obscenely vulnerable, his torso exposed to Moriarty. He tried to even his heaving breaths, calm himself, but his chest still rose and fell rapidly, and he trembled even though the air was warm.

Moriarty's eyes drank him in, feasting on the scar, and it felt obscene, like Moriarty was looking inside of him. John was acutely conscious of his disfigurement. The twisted pale flesh had faded somewhat, but he still cringed in front of Moriarty's greedy eyes.

He jolted in his chair when Moriarty reached forward to smooth a hand down John's skin. Moriarty chuckled and gave John a disturbing smile, his hand trailing down John's panting chest, his bare stomach. When his fingers brushed the scar, the touch seemed to crawl right through John’s guts.

Moriarty's grin widened nastily.

He gripped the wound and John convulsed in white-hot pain that seared and sizzled through his abdomen, nerve-endings firing as if a knife had been plunged into his gut. John let out a muffled sob, reflexively bending forward and wrenching at his bloody wrists. Moriarty licked his lips in delight, dug his fingernails in and squeezed the damaged flesh until John was moaning loudly into the gag. With a sick laugh he twisted at the scar, nails piercing skin, and when John screamed he let go and slapped him, hard.

John's cheeks burned with pain and humiliated fury.

Moriarty cast a quick grin at a camera over his shoulder, teasing his invisible audience. Then he raised his knife again and slowly, deliberately, pressed the flat of it against John's bruising cheek. John inhaled tremulously, his eyes half-closed, trying to still his shaking but his body was far past obeying his attempts to hold still. He felt the metal drag across his jawline, taunting, and clenched his eyes shut.

Suddenly, the knife pressed harder against his skin. John held his breath, anticipating the bite and splitting of skin, but the knife just slid between his cheek and the fabric of the gag, and cut the sodden rag off.

The gag had been tight and chafing, so it was an instant release of pressure. John pushed it out with his sore tongue, shaking his head. The wet fabric thumped to the carpet and John gasped in relief, his mouth wet and raw, staring up in confusion at Moriarty. "Why are you -" he began, but flinched back as Moriarty raised the knife.

"Now, now, Johnny," drawled Moriarty. "Didn't your owners teach you any manners? Don't speak unless I'm asking you a question."

He pushed his finger across John's lip, and John jerked away, leaving a trail of saliva over his chapped mouth. Moriarty chuckled, wiping his finger on John's torn shirt.

"My sources tell me that Sherlock rarely corresponded with anyone while he was in prison, even though he got plenty of letters. But he did keep in regular touch with someone. Annual reminders." Moriarty tilted his head, then slid his fingers through John's hair. "Ring any bells in that stupid head of yours?"

John stayed resolutely silent, tensing as Moriarty's fingers curled through his scalp.

"I suggest you answer the question, sweetie," said Moriarty idly.

It was one thing to be tortured, but John refused to be forced into playing along. "Why should I?" he retorted.

Moriarty let out a little giggle. "Because every second you take to answer is an extra second tacked onto your little life," Moriarty replied sing-a-song, twisting his fingers tighter around John's hair until John hissed in pain, and then pushed him away with a sneer. "You know I'm going to kill you after you stop being interesting, don't you? You've been buying time since the beginning, and I know whyyyy…"

His dark eyes gleamed.

"You're waiting for him to come and save you."

"No," John said, too quickly. "I'm not…"

Guilt rose in his throat, and he forced his face impassive, stony. Moran had been right: Sherlock's promise had been in the back of his mind since watching the footage of his escape on the news. Horrified as he'd been at Sherlock's brutality, he'd wondered if his visit had motivated it. After all, Sherlock had only taken the case on once he realised John might be in danger. And when that danger had realised itself, he'd done the impossible and escaped from the top-security hospital that had imprisoned him for so long…

John tried to compose himself when he caught sight of Moriarty's gleeful expression.

"You are," Moriarty said teasingly. "I bet that thought twists at you, hoping for a serial killer to come rescue you. I still have links to that security footage, you know. I watched him rip out an orderly's throat with his teeth. Do you think that was for your sake?"

 John jerked against his bonds. "Stop it," he said shortly.

Moriarty's mouth stretched wide in satisfaction. "Having a morality crisis? How adorable."

"I'm not…" John paused, flexed his aching jaw. "I'm not the reason he killed that man."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Moriarty drawled. "Not that you'll be doing much sleeping anymore. Tell me about what he sent you."

John shook his head. "It was nothing. They were just birthday cards."

"Oh?" Moriarty pulled a face. "And what did he write in them?"

John's stomach crawled at the memory of those identical shell-blue cards, the way his world momentarily froze each year when that plain envelope with its neatly printed address block dropped through his letter box.

"He wrote different things," John said eventually. He didn't know why Moriarty was so interested. "That he was sorry he had hurt me, but he'd been forced to by circumstance. That he hadn't stopped thinking about me." John broke off, clenched and released his fists. "He never wrote much. Just a sentence."

Moriarty’s smile seemed frozen on his face. "Did you tell anyone he was trying to keep in contact with you?"

"No." At first, he hadn't wanted to cause any panic. As the years went by, there were fewer people he could tell anyway.

"Did you like getting his cards?"

"Of course not!" John retorted, defensive.

"You little liar," Moriarty leered. "You're a zombie, John. I looked into you before all this, and I have to say it was a fucking boring read after you retired. No friends, no family, nothing. I bet Sherlock's cards were something of a treat for you. An adrenaline rush.” He paused, considering John with his invasive scrutiny. John met his eyes, breathless and exposed, and Jim grinned. “He took your life, back then, and all you’ve been doing is waiting for him to finish the job. He’s the only reason you even let that stupid detective into your house. You want to get close to Sherlock.”

John shook his head, tensing against that familiar sense of being peeled open by someone’s gaze. Moriarty's eyelids dipped half-shut in satisfaction as he observed John's obvious discomfort.

"Nothing really gets to you anymore, does it John?” he goaded, drinking in John’s distress. “Nothing apart from him, and his threats, and his promises."

He was right, it hurt that he knew, without asking, thoughts so private and disturbing that John had never dared confess to anyone. He opened his mouth to refute Moriarty's poisonous words, but his jaw snapped shut with a click. He couldn't even bring himself to say such an obvious lie, not even in his own defence.

Moriarty interrupted his stuttered thoughts, placing his hands on either side of John's neck and leaning in. His breath was hot, and John pulled back, disgusted. Moriarty just sniggered. "Were you happy to see Inspector Lestrade on your doorstep, eager to pick your brain like in the good old days?" he asked, voice sweet. "He pretended he was your friend, didn't he? They all did."

John scowled and turned away.

"Now, don't give me that look, pet," Moriarty tutted. He cupped John's face, thumbs digging painfully into his cheeks and forced his head back around.

John reluctantly met Moriarty's eyes and repressed a shiver. Moriarty was intensely focused on him, his black eyes staring unblinking, his mouth slightly open as he took shallow breaths.

"They know you," Moriarty said softly, his hands squeezing again around John’s neck, "and they knew all your hot buttons. They knew just how to manipulate you so you would volunteer to dangle yourself like some exciting little treat for a serial killer who'd tried to kill you. 'Go and speak to Sherlock Holmes,' they said, 'or more girls will die'. And you couldn't have that, could you? Not after all your other failures. Not after Rachael."

John stared, stricken, into Moriarty's leer. He had planned this? He’d known what they’d do, what everyone was thinking, he must have done, or how else had John ended up here?

Moriarty saw John sink in realisation, and dug into him deeper. "They selfishly hung that guilt on your shoulders,” he sneered. “I'm surprised you weren't flattened to the ground under the weight of it all."

Anger swelled, and John tried to jerk his head out of Moriarty's grip, but that just made the fingers clutch tighter. "I wasn't used," he snarled.

Moriarty just laughed in his face. "Johnny, sweetie, you were their whore."

John felt steel against his neck, but that was all the warning he got. Moriarty lunged in so fast that John could only gasp before thin cold lips sealed over his. The knife pressed in warning against John's throat to keep him in place as Moriarty's tongue wormed into his mouth, utterly unerotic, just a biting, slimy kiss that was nothing to do with desire and all to do with power. John wanted to vomit. He drew hard breaths in against Moriarty's cheek, back flattened against the chair, and felt Moriarty laugh into his mouth.

Then Moriarty pulled back with a sucking sound, lips wet with saliva. He raised his hand in a flash of steel and slashed John across the face.

John cried out in shock, a horizontal line of pain blooming over his cheekbone as blood spilled warm down his cheek. Moriarty let out a little moan at the sight of his handiwork. He grabbed John around the throat, forcing him to still, and lasciviously lapped at the wound. At the sting of the greedy tongue, John felt his endurance snap. He head-butted Moriarty, and the madman stumbled back.

"Oh dear heart," muttered Moriarty, straightening himself. His sharp face was ugly with hatred. "You really shouldn't have done that…"

He stalked forward like an animal, past John's line of sight, his hands sliding over the back of the chair as he circled John's struggling form, and then he pushed.

John yelped as gravity tilted and the walls whirled past him. He landed crashing on his back, head hitting the carpet hard and his vision momentarily blurring. The ceiling spiralled above him, and he heard his breaths coming in rushed gasps as if from someone else. The dark shape of Moriarty loomed over him, knife glinting in his hand like a threat.

Overwhelmed and dizzy, John turned his head to the side. "You're pathetic," he said through gritted teeth, as calmly as possible.

Moriarty's fingers clenched harder around his jaw. "Like I've never heard that before," he sneered, petting John's cheek and then pulling himself upright. He brushed a fussy hand over his suit, smoothing the fabric out. "If I'm pathetic, what does that make you?"

John found it difficult to meet those mad black eyes, but he forced himself to none-the-less. Moriarty scowled.

"Moran!" he yelled over his shoulder. There was a pause, then the sound of the door swinging open.

"Yes Boss?"

"I don't care if Holt is dying," Moriarty spat. "Get the doctor and the gurney up here now."

* * *

The rain poured from the sky as Sherlock arrived at the apartment complex. He didn't stop, careful not to draw attention to himself by acting out of the ordinary. Moriarty had no doubt hacked into all security cameras surrounding his fortress, and he'd have people watching the roads. It was just a question of where to move, letting the rain and darkness camouflage his approach.

Mycroft had sent him the plans of the building and surrounding streets, so Sherlock knew exactly where to go whilst staying invisible. But it was still dangerous. The apartment complex was Moriarty's base of operations. Most of the rooms were there for his agents to live in while they were working, and they'd be armed. So was Sherlock, but he'd do better not to raise any alarms.

It didn't matter. He could move quickly, kill silently.

John was in there somewhere. Sherlock scanned over the multi-storied building, eyes flitting over the windows, the yellow glow of lamplights. Right at the top, the light shone brightest. The penthouse, with its curtains flung wide open. No neighbour lived high enough to stare in.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, running through the blueprints that were seared into his mind…

* * *

As the symphony pouring from the speakers reached its crescendo, they dragged John, kicking and fighting, into the dining room.

In the exquisitely furnished room, with soft dark carpet, discreetly patterned walls, and mahogany furniture, John was forcibly held still by several men for Moriarty to force the gag back into his mouth. Grinning to himself, Moriarty pushed the gag hard. The fabric scratched up John's soft palate, making him cough and gag, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes as Moriarty assaulted his gag reflex. They wound the fabric tight, and John could barely breathe.

"I'm going to do such a good job on you," murmured Moriarty, skimming his thumb over John's bleeding cheek, and licking it clean with a conspicuous relish that made John feel like prey. “Suffer well for him, Johnny. You know how much he likes that.”

Sliding glass doors led to the kitchen, where an older man cowered in an ill-fitting chef whites. Moriarty snapped an order for him to get back to cooking, and he ducked out of view, bug-eyed.

"He's making the starter," Moriarty said to John, with a wink. “For our meal. You’ll be the main course, and I’m sure you’ll be delicious, pet.” He petted John’s hip. “Might save some for Sherlock, if he’s lucky. Anything you want me to make sure he gets his teeth around?”

A heavy door swung open, and one of Moriarty’s thugs wheeled a metal gurney with heavy-duty straps into the room, where it glinted menacingly in the low lighting. John moaned in fear as he was half-carried towards it, shaking his head from side to side, throwing himself against the grip of Moriarty's men. They spun him like a ragdoll, forced him thrashing and heaving down onto the cold metal.

His wrists stung as they were released from the handcuffs, but he only had a second of freedom before Moran leant over him and, calmly, like he'd done it enough times to have the movements engrained into muscle memory, pinned them down and bound them by his hips. His inscrutable gaze skimmed over John, their eyes meeting for a split second, but John could read no pity, nothing in his stern features.

Moriarty still babbled to himself. "I know Sherlock will be fuming that I've stolen his last victim, but I think even he will appreciate the… artistry, of my vision, once he sees the result."

Indeed, he was very particular about how he wanted John positioned for the cameras, and spent quite a while ordering his henchmen about and having them drag the gurney just so.

In the end, John was stretched flat on his back on the cold metal table, strapped down tightly enough that he could do little but wriggle. His shirt and cardigan had been pushed aside, exposing him, his belly and panting chest. A doctor, anonymous in a green coverall and facemask, wheeled a halogen light into position over the table and flicked it on. John squeezed his eyes shut and dragged his head to the side, the white ring of light smearing across his vision

He recoiled when a hand slid down his side, fingers skimming under the edge of his shirt. "You look tasty," Moriarty said, voice startlingly close, and chuckled when John tried to squirm away.

The lamp was too bright, but John could eventually squint his eyes open. The blur of Moriarty was standing at his shoulder, one hand resting on the table, the other absently petting his chest, his stomach, in sickening little circles.

"Do you know why they call me the spider, Johnny?"

His hand came to a rest, very pointedly, over John's still tender scar.

"I'm the perfect predator. I sit at the centre of a web of crime that spans most of Europe, and I know every thread, every connection. A little tug here, a little quiver there, and I come-a-runnin'…"

Moriarty bent over him, leaning forward so his lips hovered by John's ear.

"You’ve no idea what you’ve gotten yourself involved in, do you." he whispered teasingly, as John fought to even his scattered breathing. "But that’s okay. You’ll find out soon enough."

The hand petting John's scar smoothed upwards with fingers spread wide, relishing the texture of John's skin, damp with sweat. He pressed his palm right over John's sternum, where he could no doubt feel the rabbit heartbeat that John had no way of controlling, and flashed his teeth as John tried to shrink away.

"The irony is," Moriarty murmured, "I was terrified of spiders. But Sherlock fixed me. He tied me down, much like I've just tied you down, and he helped me see."

Moriarty abruptly pulled away, leaving John a shaking mess on the table. John sniffed. He didn’t want to cry, but his eyes were stinging, threatening to spill.

"I loved him, John, but he broke me," Moriarty said darkly. "If he hadn't, I wouldn't be here now, wanting to do this to you."

When John turned his head and squinted, he could see Moriarty pondering over a tray of instruments that looked positively medieval. His heart jumped in his chest as Moriarty plucked out a surgical saw that was partially rusted. Or, and fear clotted John’s throat he realised, still covered with dried blood.

He should have let Moran shoot him. Moran, who stood ready for orders near the side of the room with his dead eyes flicking between his master and John - he'd seen this coming.

"It's Sherlock's fault," Moriarty declared, spinning around to point accusingly at him with the saw. "Just remember, John. Sherlock is the reason I'm doing this to you."

They're going to cut my chest open.

Some part of John's consciousness clipped shut, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

He woke to the sound of Moriarty's insane laughter. He was coughing, choking into the gag, an ammonia tang stinging sharply in his nose and the back of his throat. To John's embarrassment, his tears finally spilt as he realised there was no escaping this. He slumped back against the cold metal as the doctor sealed the smelling salts, his ears ringing with the noise of conversation.

He couldn't pick out what anyone was saying. Moriarty was gloating, but he couldn't make sense of the words. All he could do was lie there numbly, body aching and hurting, unable to speak and barely able to see.

He squinted past the horribly bright ring of light to see the shrouded doctor reach into the instrument tray and pick up the rib spreader, ratcheting the thing wide open with a loud grind of metal.

Suddenly, the music cut out and they were dropped into silent darkness. The power in the building had died.

John blinked uncertainly, trying to think past his vivid sense of déjà vu. There was a low hum, emergency generators thrumming to a start, and a second set of lights blinked on. They were close to the ground, dimmer and harsher, and cast the room in alien shades of cyan and blue.

No, John thought to himself, holding himself very still on the table. It… it couldn't be…

"Sherlock…" said Moriarty, in a low tone that approached reverence. His eyes were wide, shining black in the sharp lighting.

Confusion and bewilderment gave way to an overwhelming rush of gratitude.  Not even the familiar sick fear that accompanied his thoughts of Sherlock could wipe out that crush of relief: He's here, he's going to save me, everything will be alright.

Sherlock had done the impossible; escaped prison and tracked down a super-villain. Whether he was doing this for his own benefit, or for John's, he still had no way of knowing, but it didn't matter-- John could survive. If Sherlock could pull this off, John wouldn't die here. He'd bought John his time.

Moriarty took a deep breath and seemed to swell at his seams. "What are you waiting for?" he yelled, spittle flying from his lips. "Bring him to me!"

The room emptied in a stampede of feet.

Moriarty paused by John instead of following, an agitated look in his eyes as he neatened his suit cuffs. “Looks like we’re going to have to delay this,” he said, giving John’s bonds a critical once-over. “You rest here, pet. Don’t do anything exciting until the cameras come back on.”

He swept out, and John was left alone in the dining room.

No, John thought, casting his eyes towards the closed off kitchen. Not alone.

Through the frosted glass, he could see a large white shape huddled on the floor, partially lit by the emergency lighting. The chef was obviously an unwilling servant in this house, but Moriarty's absence didn't stir him to move. He just sat there, breathing in and out, as if in a trance.

John grasped that glimmer of hope. Instead of waiting for a serial killer to rescue him, a saner alternative had presented itself.

He thrashed until the gurney rattled, trying to attract the chef’s attention. It worked, because he heard the slide of the kitchen door, and John saw the chef peeking through the gap. His eyes were red-rimmed and baggy, and his skin was littered with cuts and bruises.

Keeping his eyes fixed on the chef, John pleaded through his gag, straining at his bonds. The fabric stuffed in his mouth reduced his pleas to incoherent mumbling, but the chef immediately understood.

"I'm sorry, I can't," he whispered. "I'm sorry…"

The chef's voice broke, and he turned away, weeping, shoulders shaking.

"He'll kill me," the chef sobbed. John believed it. "He'll kill my family..."

John struggled violently, pleaded into the gag until he captured the chef's attention again. The chef seemed conflicted. It took a long time, too long, for John to coax him over, but eventually the man crossed the room and removed John's gag.

"I'm sorry," he kept whispering as he hovered over John, in deep fear of being overheard, despite the power cut blocking all surveillance. "He'll kill me if I let you go."

John worked his sore jaw, and tilted his head so he could look the chef in the eye. "I'm John," he said quietly. "What's your name?"

"Angelo…" said the chef.

"What do you think he's going to do when this is all over, Angelo?" John kept his voice low, in case the frightened man tried to gag him again to keep him quiet. "I'm the last victim. He won't need a chef after he's done with me."

"I don't know," Angelo whispered, wringing his hands, clearly distressed. How many people had he cooked for Moriarty? "I don't know what to do…"

John forced aside his urge to panic and schooled his features into his best authoritative look. "I used to be a cop," he said calmly. "Untie me, Angelo, and I'll get us both out of here."

The man's face crumpled. "He's got my family," he whispered, voice threatening to break again.

"I'll help your family," John promised. "Angelo, please."

John held back his own anxiety and didn’t hurry him, giving the man time to think. "Okay," Angelo said eventually. He cast his eyes around nervously. "I'm going to have a look first and see if there are any guards around."

John nodded, and then froze as Angelo picked up the gag again.

Angelo seemed to recognise the horror in John's expression, because he softened in sympathy. "I'm sorry," he mouthed. "Just in case he comes back."

"It's okay," John said weakly, and he opened his mouth to accept the gag. Angelo tied it carefully, loosely enough that he could push it out with his tongue if he wanted to, and then he snuck past John and out the door.

He was gone for quite a while.

Staring up at the ceiling, John lay there in maddening silence as the seconds ticked by, growing fear gnawing at his stomach. Had his one possible ally run off, leaving him gagged and strapped to the gurney for Moriarty’s return? Had he gotten shot by one of Moriarty’s over-eager employees?

But no, just as John’s desperation reached nauseating levels, the chef bustled back into the room and unknotted John's gag.

"Thank you," said John, the moment his mouth was free. Angelo nodded at him and started to work at the straps around John's body, tugging them open one by one. He was shaking terribly, still wearing the chef's hat askew on his head. It wobbled as he stared wildly around the room, apparently unnerved by the shadows cast by the odd blue lighting. John wondered if Moriarty had kept him on any sort of drug, to control him.

"I couldn't see anyone," Angelo said in a hushed voice, unclasping the last of the straps, "but I didn't want to go too far."

John carefully sat up on the metal table, his abused body struggling to hold him upright. He’d be alright soon enough "That's okay," he replied, pulling his ripped shirt closed and buttoning his cardigan over it. "Let's look around."

Angelo helped him down from the table, catching him when John's legs momentarily gave out. He looked to John for guidance, as if expecting him to have some sort of plan. John did his best to appear calm, for his sake.

They left the dining room, so John could get a grip on his bearings. Blue lights lined the skirting boards, casting their shaking shadows across the ceiling in swooping lines. The effect was dizzying, and terrifying. The low lights cast deep shadows at weird angles, cloaking areas in darkness where anyone could be hiding.

John squeezed his fist, wishing for his gun.

Their journey was slow and cautious. Upon reaching a corner, John peeked his head around, slowly, and his heart jumped to his throat when he saw the back of one of Moriarty's men, casually leaning his shoulder against the wall with a handgun strapped to his belt. John flung out an arm to stop Angelo from coming any further forward, and tilted his head back the way they came. This wasn't the way out.

They snuck into the lounge next. The heavy wooden chair still lay on its back, where Moriarty had shoved him down like he was some sort of toy. John felt bile rise in his throat, and hurried down another corridor. They both started when distant gunshots echoed through the halls, and Angelo let out a terrified exhale.

"Come on," John urged him. The chef shrank back against the wall in gibbering panic. "We need to keep looking --"

He was cut off by the sound of a gunshot, far too close. The man who'd been guarding the hallway? Had he shot Sherlock, or had Sherlock…

 "Oh god!" cried Angelo, leaping to his feet.

"Angelo, no!" John hissed, grabbing for a flailing arm, but Angelo pushed him out of the way, blinded by fear, and tore off down the corridor, shouting his pleas for forgiveness over and over.

John fought his panic down. He needed to hide, Angelo might tell them where he’d run off to, or they’d come looking in the direction he came from. The nearest room was a bare place filled with dead computers, no space to hide in, so John scrambled across the hall and slipped into a dark, carpeted room.

It was lit by one emergency light right at the door so most of the large room was shrouded in darkness. John's eyes adjusted quickly, the blue light picking out the luxurious king-sized bed with thick quilts and masses of pillows, expensive furnishings, the hard edge of a laptop on the bedside table.

John was startled when Angelo's voice carried sharply down the corridor. "I'm sorry!" he pleaded. "I didn't mean to leave --"

A gunshot split through the quiet air, followed by dead silence.

John rushed noiselessly forward on the thick carpet, slipping into a tall wooden wardrobe at the side of the room and letting the door clip shut behind him. The darkness was claustrophobic. Heavy fabric, coats and suits, hung around him, some in plastic casing from the drycleaners, and he had to remain very still on his knees so they didn't crackle.

He heard muted footsteps across carpeted floors, a slow, observant pace, and raised his hand to his mouth to snuff out his noisy breaths. If he stretched, slightly, he could peer through the keyhole into the dimly lit room.

The footsteps passed steadily down the corridor, and paused outside the bedroom. John heard a creak, and the door slowly swung open.

Sherlock Holmes swept in, and John forgot to breathe.

He was dressed in all black, the expensive suit from his trial that was a marked contrast from his prison uniform, slightly damp from the rain outside. The emergency lighting caught the edges of a handgun that Sherlock held as he swiftly scanned the room in that machine-like way of his, lips slightly parted in anticipation, his eyes sharp. His pale stare passed right over the closet without pausing, sparking in the blue light.

John's heart raced, but he kept himself still, his limbs aching and his skin itchy with sweat. Through the keyhole, he watched Sherlock pace across the room, sifting through items on top of the dresser, flipping through the drawers of the bedside table, his body thrumming with energy. He snatched something small in his palm, and snapped up straight, apparently having found what he had come for.

But instead of leaving, he headed straight towards the closet.

John clutched his hand tighter around his mouth and froze, like a hunted animal, but Sherlock didn't fling the door open. He slammed his hand onto it, keeping the door shut, before John’s only light source was cut out. There was a clunk.

The slide of a bolt…

He's locked the door.

John’s mind whirled in confusion, hardly sure what to think, when the light came back. Sherlock's searching eye abruptly appeared at the keyhole and latched onto him. John stuttered a gasp and fell against the back wall of the closet, hands clambering at the floor so he wouldn’t tip over.

Sherlock just watched him with bated breath, like if he blinked, John would vanish. John heard his hands come up to rest against the wood, and the light dimmed dramatically as Sherlock leant in closer, the eye flicking over his body, then narrowing.

“He hurt you,” Sherlock breathed, before hissing in an angry exhale through gritted teeth.

"Sherlock," John blurted out instinctively, the name spilling hopefully from his lips without him meaning to. He covered his mouth, shocked at himself.

Sherlock's eye crinkled slightly at the edges. He was smiling. "You stay there," he whispered through the keyhole. "I'll be right back."