Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this fic, I have simply borrowed them for my own amusement. I make no profit.

A/N:Originally written as part of the johniarty secret santa on tumblr

"His name is John Watson." Moran said, throwing the folder down on the desk in front of Jim. "Doctor John Watson to be precise, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Honest to God war hero."

Jim picked up the folder, quietly impressed by the speed with which Sebastian had managed to gather the information, and gave the first few pages a quick once over.

"A war hero? Well well."

"Tell me again why we're interested in him."

Jim sighed, just a little frustrated.

"We're interested because Sherlock is interested."

"How do you know he's interested? They've only just met."

"Yes, and already they're looking at a flat together. What does that tell you?"

"I don't know. That Holmes has questionable taste in men?"

Jim swallowed the insult that sat, semi formed, on his tongue. Now wasn't the time.

"No. It tells us that Doctor Watson isn't nearly as ordinary as he looks. Sherlock sees something in him that we don't. Something that isn't obvious at first glance. I want to know what that something is."

"Why?"

Jim took a deep, calming breath. It wouldn't do to lose his composure in front of the hired help, at least not over this.

"Because, doofus, we can use him to get to Sherlock."

"Right." Moran nodded his understanding. "I get it now."

"Good. Now, off you toddle. I want you to find the good doctor and bring him to me."

As always, Sebastian carried out his orders with clean, quick efficiency and little more than two hours later Jim was presented with a bound, gagged, struggling and red faced with anger, John Watson. Jim gave him a quick once over and wrinkled his nose, seeing nothing apart from the fire in his eyes to set him apart from the rest of the ordinary people.

"Dr Watson, please, take a seat." John just glared at him, mumbling through his gag something Jim could only assume was really quite rude. Moran pulled a gun from the waistband of his trousers and pointed it directly at John's head. "I said sit." John rolled his eyes, sighed and did as he was told. "Thank you Sebby. You can wait outside now."

The moment they were alone, Jim crossed the carpet and came to stand directly in front of John.

"I'm going to remove the gag now. There's no point in shouting for help, nobody but myself and my men will hear you but you're welcome to try" He said leaning forward and reaching behind him. Their knees were almost touching, his chest was just inches from John's face and his fingertips brushed the warm skin on the back of his neck as he unfastened the clasp that held the gag in place. Such close physical proximity to their kidnapper would have made most people nervous, would have made them tremble and hyperventilate and squirm but John didn't even flinch. Jim was impressed.

He slipped the gag into his pocket and took a step back, eyeing the doctor more intently this time.

"Who the fuck are you?" John demanded to know.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi." He trilled.

"Why am I here?"

"Ahhh, the one million pound question. You're here Dr Watson, because you're special."

If John was unsettled by the fact that his kidnapper knew his name he didn't show it. He simply snorted and shook his head.

"I'm not special."

Hello. There it was, or rather there it wasn't. The first hint that the good doctor wasn't like other people. No false modesty. John genuinely believed his claim that he wasn't special and that was unusual. Jim's interest was beginning to pique. What else was unusual about John Watson?

"Oh but you are." He argued. "Sherlock sees it."

"Sherlock?" John squared his shoulders and sat up a little straighter in his chair. "What does he have to with anything. I only just met the man."

"He's quite taken with you you know."

"That's ridiculous."

"But nonetheless true. And I intend to use that to my advantage you see, Sherlock and I have this little game we're playing. He doesn't know it yet but he will soon enough. And you, Doctor Watson, are going to help me win it. You're going to be my inside man."

"You're insane. You bloody kidnapped me, what the Hell makes you think I'm going to do a thing you say once I get out of here?"

Jim chuckled.

"Let's just say I can be very persuasive."

"So, you're going to torture me until I agree to do anything you want as long as the pain stops. Is that it?"

And there was something else that set John apart from the ordinary people. A complete an utter lack of fear or concern for his own safety. More than that his eyes, which upon closer inspection Jim saw to be a quite startlingly sharp blue, seemed to be offering him a challenge, an invitation. They seemed to be saying … Go on then. Give it your best shot. That was beyond interesting, it was downright exciting. He doubted the ex army man would crack under conventional torture methods but conventionality was overrated in Jim's opinion and a whole new world of possibilities now poured into his mind. One possibility in particular stood out from all the others making his skin prickle and his pulse race. He was definitely going to torture the doctor but not in any of the ways he would be expecting. He was going to torture him with tenderness and affection, he was going to seduce him, make him question not just his sexuality but his sanity and his morality.

"Torture you? You mean pulling out your fingernails with pliers, holding your head under water and shocking you with electricity, that kind of thing?" He grinned widely, flashing his teeth and waggling his eyebrows theatrically like the villain in a Victorian melodrama. "Oh no Doctor Watson. I've got something much more interesting planned for you."

John was shown to his room and locked in, for the time being, with an armed guard outside just in case. Later, when all the days business had been concluded, Jim stopped by to see him. And so the seduction began, slowly at first, after all it wouldn't do for the doctor to see it coming.

Doctor Watson was standing by the window when Jim walked in.

"No bars?" He nodded towards it.

"No need. Toughened safety glass. But I'm sure you already know that." His gaze settled upon the desk in the corner of the room and upon it the heavy brass paperweight, around which the thin layer of dust had been disturbed. In his mind he pictured John hurling it at the window and the image caused the corners of his mouth to curl up into a smile. John's gaze followed his own.

"Of course I bloody know. Did you think I wasn't going to at least try to escape?"

"I'm sorry. About the locks and the guard." He gestured to the guard then to leave them. "Truly sorry." And he was, if only because it meant he hadn't been able to immediately move on with his plan. "A necessary precaution you understand, just until I was able to explain your situation."

"And by situation you mean being held hostage by a mad man?"
Jim chuckled softly.

"I can see why you might think that, but I'm not currently in need of a hostage."

John snorted.

"Really? Then what's this all about? Why am I here?"

"Let's just say you're under my protection."

"Protection? You kidnapped me. As far as I know the only person who's posing any kind of a threat right now is you. So come on, tell me, other than you, what is it you think I need protecting from?"

Jim folded his arms across his chest and fixed John with a firm stare. John folded his arms and stared back, unflinching. Jim liked it.

"Sherlock Holmes of course." He said, like it should have been obvious. "He's a dangerous man John, far more dangerous than anyone around him realises and if he finds out that I'm interested in you he won't hesitate to use you to get to me."

John frowned hard at him.

"But you're only interested in me because he…" Exasperated, he threw his hands up in the air and stalked towards the centre of the room . "This is insane. You're insane." He said, jabbing Jim in the chest with his index finger.

"You got that then?" Jim's eyes glittered cheerily. John just shook his head and let out a sigh that spoke of long suffering despite having only made Jim's acquaintance just a few hours ago. "Sanity is overrated." The Irishman continued. "Sanity is ordinary, it's boring. Insanity is so much more fun don't you think?"

Doctor Watson let out another exasperated sigh and plopped himself down on the edge of the bed muttering under his breath.

"Relax Johnny. Like I said, you're not a prisoner. You're a guest, and to prove it…" He pulled a key from his jacket pocket and twirled it around between his fingers a couple of times before holding it out. John looked at it curiously. "It's the key to your room. You can lock the door from the inside when you're here if it makes you feel safer and the rest of the time you're free to explore. No harm will come to you, I promise. This place is very secure, no one will be able to get in."

John snorted again.

"Yeah, and nobody can get out either." Jim raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "Thanks, I suppose." John reached for the key and plucked it from Jims hand, fingertips brushing lightly against the other mans, lingering for a fraction of a second longer than was necessary.

Jim made a small sound in the back of throat and pulled his hand back.

"Well, it's been a long day." He said looking first at his hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb across the tips of his fingers, and then at John. "I'll let you get some rest." He turned his back and headed towards the door but before he left he glanced back over his shoulder and said… "Sleep well Doctor Watson."

John didn't bother to use the key. He didn't see the point. It was only a symbolic gesture anyway and he had no doubt that this Moriarty bloke had a master key for every lock in the house. If he wanted to get in, John couldn't stop him. He did fully intend to explore his surroundings though, despite his captors claims that no one could get in or out. He wasn't about to take the man's word for it, he had to at least look. But that could wait until tomorrow. The lunatic was right, it had been a long day and he was knackered.

Tired as he was though, John wasn't surprised to find himself unable to sleep. Sleep didn't come easy to him anymore, it hadn't done since… well, it hadn't for a while, and when it did it was far from restful. Instead, he lay on top of the bed, fully clothed as he replayed the days events in his mind.

He still couldn't quite fathom how he managed to let himself be kidnapped in the first place. He should have been more alert, he should have been able to sense the danger, he was a soldier for Christ's sake. That said, this was a whole other sort of danger than he was used to. It wasn't every day you were kidnapped off the street by a madman to be used as a pawn in some sort of game with another apparent madman.

Sherlock Holmes. Potential flatmate. There was definitely something odd about the bloke even without the eerily accurate deductions about his time in Afghanistan but was he really as dangerous as Moriarty had said? Maybe he was. Maybe it took a madman to recognise a madman. Grudgingly, John had to admit that there was a good possibility that he was.

Shit. Why did this have to happen to him?

For the next three days, true to his captor's word, John had been allowed to roam freely. Other than the bedrooms and Moriarty's office there was no part of the property that was off limits. And although there were goons around almost every other corner it seemed, not one of them attempted to stop him going anywhere or doing anything, even when it was surely obvious he was looking for a way out. In fact most of them barely gave him a second glance and John found their lack of concern over his activities to be slightly galling, partly due to his wounded pride but mostly because they'd obviously known from the start that which he was finally coming to accept. All potential escape routes had been nothing but dead ends. Moriarty had been right. There was no way in, or out.

For the next three nights, Moriarty showed up at his door and they'd talk for an hour or so before going to bed. Each night Moriarty would ask if he was okay, if he was comfortable, if there was anything else he wanted or needed that hadn't been provided. He never asked what John had been doing with his days, and John never volunteered the information, just as John never inquired further about the man's plans for him.

John began to relax and even on some level look forward to the evening chat's. Moriarty was surprisingly good company. He was easily the cleverest man John had ever met, except maybe Sherlock Holmes but unlike Holmes he didn't show off about it. Admittedly, John hadn't really had time to get to know him but his first impression of Sherlock Holmes had been that the man was brilliant, but arrogant and entitled and genuinely believed himself superior to everyone else.

Jim was also funny for a lunatic, kidnapper and obvious criminal of some notoriety. He was loathe to admit that the man was also really quite charming and John found himself wondering from time to time if, under different circumstances they could have been friends and deciding that the answer was probably yes. He didn't care to wonder what that might say about him.

On the fourth day one of Jim's men, the one who'd abducted him in the first place, found him in the lounge watching television and declared flatly and firmly that…

"Mr Moriarty wants you in his office. Now."

John didn't hesitate for a second, a fact that would niggle at his conscience later on when he had a moment to think about it, before tossing aside the remote control and following Moran.

As they approached the office door John could clearly hear one side of an angry telephone conversation. In the time he'd been here he'd never once heard Jim raise his voice let alone scream and rage like he was doing now and John couldn't help but wonder what on earth could have happened to make the man so angry.

Drawing even closer to the door, the shouting seemed to die down. Moran opened it for him and as he stepped through he caught the tail end of the conversation and Moriarty's voice which had now taken on an altogether more menacing tone, one that sent a shiver down John's spine.

"If you're lying to me, I will make you into shoes." Jim shut off his phone, placed it calmly on the desk in front of him and looked up. "Ah, Doctor."

John immediately noticed the shards of bloody edged glass at Jim's feet and the gash in the palm of his other hand that was bleeding profusely and dripping on the carpet.

"What happened?" He asked, going into medic mode.

"I'm afraid I let my temper get the better of me." Jim explained almost apologetically. "There's a first aid kit in the bottom draw of that cabinet." John retrieved the box and knelt down in front of the injured man. Carefully he took the bloody hand in his and inspected the wound. It was nasty, but it could've been worse. The glass had broken in large pieces and had sliced right through the palm but it wasn't as deep as it had first appeared, the cut was clean, John couldn't see any remaining slivers of glass and he didn't think it would need stitches. Pulling a pair of gloves from the first aid kit, he snapped them on and set about cleaning and dressing the wound.

Every now and then he would glance up to see how his patient was doing only to find the Irishman gazing down at him with rapt attention, bottom lip caught between his teeth and an intensity that made the ex army doctor blush.

"There." He said once he was finished. "All done."

"Thank you doctor." Jims voice had softened now, back to the lilting Irish brogue that John was beginning to grow used to.

"You're welcome." He answered, struggling to his feet with a wince and a groan and a dull throbbing ache in his knee. "Come and see me later and I'll change the dressing for you."

"I will, I will." Jim held out his uninjured hand and John took it without thinking. "Thank you again Doctor Watson. Lucky for me you were here."

"What else was I going to do?" John muttered to himself as he paced up and down in his room. Let the mad Irish bastard bleed to death?"

He'd been chastising himself all day for jumping so quickly to the aid of the man who'd kidnapped, and despite his assertions otherwise, imprisoned him. Now he mentally chastised himself again for being overly dramatic. Jim had never been in any danger of bleeding to death, the wound was nowhere near severe enough. An infection almost certainly if it hadn't been treated properly, and maybe sepsis but that would have taken a considerably longer time to present.

Why then had he done it? It was simple really. He was a doctor. It was his job to take care of the sick and injured and a patient was a patient no matter who they were or how insane they might be. That's what he told himself and it was true, in part but it was also true that he'd felt a small rush of excitement. It had felt good to put his skills to use again, even on such a relatively minor thing. It had felt good to be needed again, to feel useful and he hadn't felt useful in a long time, not since… since Afghanistan. He supposed on some level, much as he loathed to admit it, he was grateful to Moriarty for giving him that.

He snorted in disgust at himself. Feeling grateful for being kidnapped indeed. He must be as mad as Moriarty.

John was snapped out of his moment of self analysis by a knock at the door.

"Come in." The door swung open and Jim walked in, carrying the first aid box, which he presented to John with a small smile. "Sit here." John told him, sitting on the edge of the bed and placing the box beside him. Jim took a seat on the other side of the box and held out his hand.

John worked silently to change the dressing, all the while studiously avoiding looking up in case he should find the other man staring at him the same way he had done earlier. He had enough on his mind as it was without worrying about what that look could mean and why it had made him blush.

Jim didn't thank him this time but he did gift him with a warm smile when he was done and fuck, why did he have to be so bloody charming? John smiled back.

"You know Doctor…"

"John. Just John."

"John." Jim smiled again. "It's occurred to me that you're more than just an ordinary GP. You're an army doctor."

"Yes."

"You're used to dealing with traumatic injuries."

"Yes."

"That's what I thought. My men…" He paused briefly. "Sometimes they return from a job with gunshot wounds and such and although I do have connections in the hospitals getting them the proper care can still be problematic, not to mention time consuming. I was wondering, if you're…"

"You want to know if I'll treat them too while I'm here." Jim looked at him hopefully. "I'm a doctor. Of course I bloody will." He said, forcing down the swell of excitement he felt at the prospect.

"Excellent. I'll arrange for one of the spare rooms to be turned into an infirmary. Make a list of all the supplies you might need and I'll make sure you get them. Thank you again, John. Really, I'm beginning to wonder how I've managed to get along without you until now."

Once Moriarty was gone, John laid back on the bed, threw his arm across his eyes and tried to figure out what exactly had just happened. What had he just agreed to and more importantly, why? The only answer he could come up with was that Jim Moriarty was a difficult man to say no to, and not for any of the reasons he would've expected.

Two days after Jim's little temper tantrum, John found himself outside the man's office with a pretty comprehensive list of medical equipment and pharmaceuticals. He raised his hand to knock on the door but stopped when he heard voices. Curious, for all sorts of reasons, he leaned a little closer and listened to what sounded like another angry conversation.

"I didn't think he'd actually agree to play." A voice John had never heard before said. "He's supposed to be clever ain't he? I thought he'd have figured out straight away which was the bad pill and that would be that."

"You were given a very specific set of instructions and nowhere in those instructions were you told to think. He could've died." That was Jim, his accent was unmistakable even through his snarl.

"What bloody difference does it make? You're going to kill him anyway."

"Not until I'm ready. It's too soon. He wasn't even supposed to know my name yet."

John frowned. Where they talking about Sherlock. Jim had said that first day they were playing a game but Sherlock didn't know it yet. He leaned in, closer still, figuring since Jim had expressed an intention to involve him in the game that he had a vested interest in what was going on. The other man's voice had changed now, instead of answering back, he became apologetic.

"Look, Mr Moriarty, I'm sorry. My… my kids. They'll still get the money you promised right? For the ones I've already done?"

"I'm a man of my word. They'll still get it. Providing you don't make any more mistakes." There was a moment of silence. "I'm going to give you one more chance because you haven't completely ruined my good mood. Sebby, be a dear and show him out."

"Yes boss."

The conversation seemed to be over and John decided it was probably okay to knock now. He brought his fist up, ready to do just that as the door swung open.

"Ah, John. Come in. I'll just be a few seconds." Jim flashed him a grin completely at odds with the glare he sent the other man a split second later. The man was old, sixty plus scruffy and unshaved, with a shock of white hair and a ratty old cardigan. "But know this." Jim continued. "If you disappoint me again, in any way at all, I will find you, I will skin you, and then I will skin your children.

The atmosphere in the room changed all of a sudden. John felt a chill and he shivered slightly in response. The old man must have felt the chill too because the colour drained from his face and his eyes took on a look that John knew only too well. He'd seen it many times during the war on the faces of men who'd realised belatedly they were wounded and probably wouldn't survive, and on the faces of enemy soldiers when they were outnumbered and about to be captured, men with nothing left to lose and who wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. It was a mix of blind panic and desperation followed by acceptance and then relief. Nothing good, John knew from experience, ever came from that look.

Moran stepped forward. John instinctively did the same. Moran grabbed the old man's arm and John followed his eyes as they darted around the room, finally settling on the gun that was tucked into Moran's waistband.

Both men were trained, John knew an ex military man when he saw one, but Moran had spotted the look just a fraction too late and maybe John's heightened awareness and ultra quick reflexes were circumstantial or maybe he'd just been trained better to begin with, he wasn't sure but as the old man reached for the gun so did John. In a split second, before anyone else had the chance to react, he had snatched the gun from Moran and aimed it at the old man's head.

Another split second later and without a second thought, John pulled the trigger.

John couldn't sleep.

He'd shot a man, a man he didn't know, a father, to protect his kidnapper and he hadn't thought twice about it. Even now, now that he had thought about it he felt strangely calm, confused yes but calm. No regrets and no remorse. John wasn't sure how he felt about that and the fact that he didn't know bothered him greatly.

Enjoying Moriarty's company was one thing., he'd come to accept that fairly easily, reasoning that it was just his minds way of making his confinement more bearable. Similarly, agreeing to become what was essentially the man's private physician was just a way to not only pass the time but also to give him something other than his captivity to think about.

Saving the mans life however was an altogether different matter. With Moriarty dead and Moran's gun in his hand he might have stood a fighting chance of getting out of this. He should have seized the opportunity with both hands but he hadn't. He hadn't even considered it until now. Why was that?

Moriarty was clever and charming and good company and his laugh was infectious, but he was also criminally insane. He'd threatened to skin a mans children for fucks sake and that man, who had know him much longer than John had obviously not doubted the sincerity of the threat. God only knew what else he might be capable of. He was dangerous, it was that simple. But as a soldier, John had grown accustomed to living dangerously, so much so that it had become a normal state of being to him and without it, without that element of danger, his life seemed wrong somehow. In fact, it had seemed wrong ever since he'd returned to London. Disengaged from the war he hadn't felt like himself, he hadn't felt like anything really. He was a zombie, not a man, an utter waste of flesh and bone, shuffling through his days in some weird sort of trance, existing but not living.

But here, in a madman's home, he'd started to feel again. Anger and frustration to begin with, then a grudging sort of respect and now, excitement, anticipation, hope. Moriarty had given him a sense of purpose. He'd given him back his life. A deranged, murderous psychopath had done more for him in just a few days than all the doctors and therapists he been made to endure had in months.

How fucked up was that?

The answer was, very.

And yet, he didn't care. Finally he understood. If freedom meant giving up his new found enthusiasm for life then he no longer wanted it and needed Jim to know that.

Mind made up, he climbed out of bed, threw on his dressing gown and marched out into the hall and along the landing until he came to Jim's room.

A small smile tweaked at the corners of Jim's mouth when he heard the knock, solid, even, resolute and unmistakably John Watson. He'd been waiting.

"Come in." He called. The door swung open and John stepped inside, letting it swing shut behind him. "I knew you'd come." He said, closing his book and setting it down on the bedside table.

"I did kill a man for you today." John answered.

"Yes. You did." He patted a spot on the edge of the bed and gestured for John to sit. John hesitated for a moment before stepping forward but he remained standing. "But he wasn't a very nice man."

"No, but then neither are you."

"True." Jim's eyes crinkled up at the corners as his smile spread across his face and he laughed softly. "A lot of people are dead because of me."

John nodded.

"A lot of people are dead because of me too."

"That's different. You were a soldier."

"Doesn't make them any less dead."

"Also true."

Jim patted the bed again and this time John did sit.

"I don't feel guilty."

"About them?"

"About him. He was going to kill you."

"And you stopped him. You saved my life."

"I must be as mad as you are."

"Perhaps, but if there's anything I can do to thank you…" Jim shifted slightly where he sat, using his hands for balance and also as an excuse to touch his fingertips to John's. John made a small sound of surprise and glanced down but Jim was pleased to note that he didn't pull his hand away.

"Let's just call it even okay?" John said, clearing his throat.

"Okay. But I'd still like to…"

Jim's fingers edged forward, little by little until they were brushing against John's knuckles and still John didn't move his hand. Victory. Sure now that John, even if he hadn't quite realised it yet, was completely under his spell he tilted his head to one and leaned in to press his lips gently against John's, not kissing him yet, just resting there, letting him grow used to the sensation.

John was in knots. He was trembling, his pulse was racing, his skin was flushed and his chest heaved. Another man's lips were pressed against his and damn it felt good. What was happening to him? He'd never been interested in other men before, ever. But Jim wasn't like any other man, he was… what was it about Jim Moriarty that made him feel like maybe he…

Slowly, Jim's lips began to move, coaxing John's to do the same. His lips parted, just a little and Jim's tongue slipped between them, moving sensuously against his own. A low moan rumbled in his throat quickly followed by a moment of panic. His free hand flew to Jims chest pushing him firmly away.

"What's wrong?" Jim asked, his own free hand coming up to cover John's threading their fingers together and thumbing a spot inside John's wrist.

"I'm not gay." He whispered hoarsely.

"Does it matter?"

John frowned.

"I…"

"Skin flushed, temperature and pulse elevated, pupils dilated, lips slightly parted. All obvious signs of arousal. You want me. And I want you. Why not just go with it? Doesn't it seem silly to deny yourself pleasure because of a meaningless, self imposed label?"

"I…" Jim watched him intently for what seemed like forever until finally he broke. The look in his eyes told him that John Watson was his. There was no doubt about it now, he'd finally realised what Jim had known and planned for from the start. "Fuck."

This time, John allowed himself to be kissed, thoroughly, hotly, hungrily. This time he kissed back, nervous and apprehensive, but just as hungry. Jim's hands were everywhere, tangled in his hair, stroking his jaw, sliding down his back, cupping his arse. He shrugged off the dressing gown as Jim kicked away the duvet that covered him and pushed him down into the mattress without once breaking the kiss, his hands fisting in the pillows either side of Jim's head for support and leverage..

Moaning and panting, John rolled his hips. His clothed cock was painfully hard but the thin silk of their pyjama bottoms eased the slide against Jim's equally hard length. Jim fingers roamed his body still, as if he couldn't get enough and when he sunk his fingers into the fleshy cheeks of John's arse and squeezed, John couldn't help but press harder against him

Jim arched his back and tipped his head back to hiss and gasp in pleasure. He thrust upwards with even more urgency, wordlessly urging him to move faster and harder. Now was not the time for finesse. Later he would take his time, drive John out of his mind with desire, make him scream and cry and beg, but not now. Now all that mattered was getting him off, getting them both off before John could change his mind and bolt.

They moved together in matching rhythm, driving one another closer and closer to the edge with each thrust and each lust filled moan.

"Yes." Jim keened, catching John's gaze and holding it, just for a moment before both their eyes slipped shut. "John. Yes. Just like that." He came first, shuddering and moaning, John's face buried in the curve of his neck, clinging to him tightly and murmuring breathlessly.

"My hero, my soldier."

John came just seconds later with a guttural, and rather less eloquent, string of swear words, his hips jerking erratically as his cock pulsed and spurted and soaked through his pyjamas.

As the high began to fade, John's shoulder began to protest it's workout. With a slight wince he shuffled to the side and lowered himself onto the bed before it gave way on him, then he rolled onto his back. Jim rolled onto his side, threw an arm over John's chest and watched the play of emotion across his face.

"That..." John muttered after a while, his voice still raspy, his breathing still uneven. "That was… I never… You…" He turned his head to one side and looked right at the other man. "You planned this didn't you?" He said, like it all suddenly made sense, all those heated looks and lingering touches that had been making him blush for days. "Right from the start. This is what you meant when you said you had something interesting planned for me. You seduced me."

"Well. Maybe. Just a little. Are you angry?"

"I should be. But I'm not. You know, when you first brought me here all I could think was I had to get away or die trying. Now, I can't imagine ever wanting to be anywhere else." He lifted a hand to smooth down a lock of Jim's hair that was standing out in a different direction than all the other and sighed. "I was so alone, and I owe you so much."

Jim smiled and leant forward, capturing John's lips with his own, kissing him languidly until they were both breathless.

"I do want you you know." He said, absolutely meaning it and surprising himself with the depth of his own honesty. "That wasn't part of my plan."

John stared at him for the longest time, a light frown creasing his brow. Jim bit his lip and held his breath, waiting for a response, wanting desperately for John to believe him. At last the frown smoothed out and John smiled.

"Good." He said. Jim let out the breath he'd been holding and laid his head on Johns chest, drawing lazy lines up and down with his fingertips. John kissed the top of his head. "So. About this Sherlock bloke. What exactly is it you want me to do?"

THE END

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