The Hours Before Midnight

Author: Lady Sam Mallory

Disclaimers: Boys not mine; I just borrow them from time to time when the muse moves me.

Special Thanks to my Beta Queen, Zoe, without whom I'd be doomed to a life of grammatical inaccuracy. For my beautiful friend, Heather, whose incredible command of the English language allows her to provide me with individually needed words at a moment's notice.

Warnings: H/C, Angst, Smarm, Some violence, and usually a bit of colorful language.

Spoilers: The Great Game

Author's Comments: This story exists for two reasons. First, my beta loves her h/c John stories and I love her so it's a no brainer. Second, the scene from Reichenbach Fall in Kitty Riley's flat really bothered me. Both Sherlock and John seem enraged beyond what the situation seems to call for. It bothered me, so I fixed it.

10:00 PM ish

John screams again.

Oh God, make it stop! Why is this happening? What did I do? Make it stop! Make it stop!

"You know, I don't like to get my hands dirty, Johnny, but this one is personal. Sherlock Holmes will be stopped one way or another," he spits angrily into John's face. "I…will…put…him down…Oh, and you're gonna help me do it!"

John heaves in a breath, shaking his head negatively. "I will not help you, Moriarty. Sherlock…will…beat…you," John gasps with what little air he can pull into his lungs.

Moriarty breathes smoke into John's face and presses the lit cigarette firmly into his chest again. "Come on, Johnny. Join the fun. You know how I love to play. At least you do now," he drones on maniacally, pressing the cigarette into John's chest again and again as John's screams reverberate off the walls.

"Almost done with my lovely artwork," Moriarty sings in lyrical falsetto. "There, it's purrrrfect. Don't you think, John?"

John groans as he fights the intense desire to pass out. His head drops backward uncontrollably as the drugs in his system have dissipated, and he begins to crash. It's so hot in here, and he attempts to gulp in huge swallows of air, which he cannot seem to get with his arms stretched above his head and hanging from the ceiling.

"It's almost over, Johnny boy," Moriarty hisses in his ear as he caresses the hanging man's face. John pulls his face away as his eyes roll up into his head, and he loses consciousness.

5:18 PM

Sherlock is yelling at the telly from his chair while John sits at the desk behind him attempting to complete his blog about their latest case.

"You know I'm still waiting," John says patiently as he continues to peck out his blog.

Sherlock's eyes shift slightly toward John. "Hmmm?" He replies being deliberately obtuse.

"For you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system and you'd have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker," he finishes, pressing his lips together as he still struggles to type.

Sherlock tips his head back and to the side to answer John's intractable challenge. "Didn't do you any good, did it?" He asks a bit snidely, drawing his mouth down into a frown.

John smiles at the back of his head and retorts, "Yeah, but I'm not the world's only consulting detective."

Sherlock smiles broadly before replying, "True." He continues to be engrossed in his program as John shuts down his laptop and closes it.

John scoots his chair back and reminds Sherlock that he will not be in for tea that night. "I'm going to Sarah's," he says as Sherlock opens his mouth to yell at the telly once again only to clamp it shut in consternation.

"There's still some of that risotto left in the fridge," John informs his best friend as Sherlock does not look once in his direction but appears to be consummately engaged in his program.

John makes for the door, and then snaps his fingers as he realizes he's forgotten something. "Milk. We need milk," he remembers and is absolutely flabbergasted when Sherlock responds that he'll get some. John teases him a bit, knowing that Sherlock's not paying attention, so he adds beans to the list.

He then jogs down the stairs and out the front door of the flat at 221B Baker St.

Sherlock's blue eyes shift to the side as he waits for the door to bang before pulling the laptop into his lap and typing in the message, Found. The Bruce-Partington Plans. Please collect. He thinks for a minute then smiles wickedly before finishing the message. The Pool. Midnight.

Then he sits back smugly to wait for the game to continue.

6:00 PM ish

John flinches as he comes back to consciousness. Where is he? He's obviously been kidnapped again, but for what purpose?

He realizes that he is hanging suspended by his arms and that he is cold, which leads to the cognizant thought that his clothes are gone as well. Bloody Marvelous! He thinks, rolling his eyes and nodding his head at how buggered he is- again!

"Why are you doing this?" John demands of the stranger as his arms are yanked nearly from their sockets when he tries to pull forward. He groans loudly.

"Glad that you could join us, Dr. Watson. Hmmm…why am I doing this?" the man repeats before laughing outright. "Well, because I can…boring!" The disembodied voice calls out from behind his suspended body causing John to shiver. That is exactly how Sherlock says it. Oh God!

John stretches and twists to see who walks behind him but to no avail. He has absolutely no idea who is there.

There is one man in front of him wearing all black with a mask pulled down to obscure his features. He towers over John with his immense size, and John decides he will call him Tiny. There's something important to notice here. What is it? A mask. This is good, John. Maybe they intend to keep you alive.

He starts to question those thoughts when Tiny pulls out a syringe from the tools set out upon the small table there.

"No thanks," John spouts flippantly. "I've already had all my shots, and I'm pretty sure that you are not qualified to be wielding that thing."

Tiny nods, fills the syringe with a clear liquid, and storms towards John purposefully.

John recoils as much as he is able while dangling like a piece of meat in a trap, but Tiny manages to get to him and inject whatever that is into the veins in the crook of his right arm.

Damn his medical mind! He thinks quickly as he begins to run through all the possibilities of what is in that syringe. There are too many things it can be.

"Whoa!" John moans his head swimming as it lolls back, his eyes blinking rapidly. "What the hell was that?" He asks sluggishly as he looks at the blurring figure in front of him.

John starts running through a mental checklist. "Patient suffers from injection of unknown substance in the right upper extremity causing tinnitis and audio distortion upon onset," he rambles off quickly becoming a bit more agitated as time passes. "Diagnosis? Patient is screwed!" He mumbles concerned by his overall feeling of euphoria.

"Some kind…of…stimulant…based…acts…like…topcal…an…sthetic…" John continues nearly unintelligibly.

Moriarty's face scrunches with divine pleasure at having such a learned pet. "It's cocaine, Johnny. I believe this is Sherlock's drug of choice. Isn't it lovely? Ooooh, you are good, aren't you, Doctor?"

John tries to focus for one instant as Moriarty's face swims before him. "Very…good," he corrects the pompous prat before him.

Moriarty laughs maniacally. "Hmmm. Well, then I guess there's only one thing to say. Welcome to the party, Doctor."

John pulls his head up slightly trying hopelessly to focus on anything and still the tremors running through him. His head falls forward yet again, but he manages to choke out before the room starts spinning uncontrollably.

"Not…sure…who…you…are…but…know…you…suck!"

7:00 PM ish

He tries to open his eyes, but then remembers that he doesn't really want to see the walls melting again, so he closes them. His bare chest is streaked with blood that has run down from his raw wrists. The angry pink scar at his left shoulder is a bleak reminder that he is strong enough to endure whatever these monsters can dish out, whether he wants to survive it or not.

"Aw, good. You're still with us, Dr. Watson. How are you feeling?" The voice asks absurdly over the harsh music playing in the background.

John barks out a harsh laugh. "Really? Well, let's see. The accommodations are atrocious, you bloody wanker. The restaurant is woefully understaffed. I've been waiting here an hour for my bloody table."

"Well, well, Johnny boy. Let's see what we can do about the service," the man steps around his tired body and looks him in the eye. "We haven't had the pleasure," he sighs magnanimously. "Oh wait, yes we have!" He prances about, circling John and making him dizzy.

Moriarty pops out from behind him landing in front of him, his arms spread to the sides creating a big fanfare moment. "Hello. It's Jim!"

John lifts his head and studies the blurry face before him. "Jim…Molly's boyfriend?" He comprehends, just barely.

"Look at you, Johnny. I'm sooooo flattered. You remembered," he sobs dramatically, simultaneously wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.

John blows out a breath, trying to focus on the shape before him. "What d'ya want from me?" He asks the obviously psychotic man strutting about in front of him.

"Actually, nothing. I'm good. Thanks for asking," Jim mocks, his eyes going wide.

Moriarty makes a show of placing earplugs into his ears as he cranks up the volume to a deafening level, turns on the strobe and dances out of the room with a showy wave and a "Ta ta."

John understands the true meaning of this torture as he realizes that he cannot lift his head to place it between his arms and block out the noise. He is simply too exhausted.

8:00 PM ish

"Thank God," John whispers as the cacophony of irritable sound stops suddenly. The heavy door opens and in walks that insufferable prat with Tiny.

Tiny has brought a toolbox.

"That's a bit not good," John observes, not realizing that he has spoken the words aloud.

Moriarty raises his eyebrows in excitement and fascination. "Are you ready for some real fun?" He asks John, his demented eyes radiating with the lunacy of a madman.

John declines to answer watching as Tiny pulls out the Taser X26, which he would not even know the bloody name of if Sherlock had not been running experiments with that exact model for the past three days.

Tiny deploys the Taser, sending the probes into John's chest causing him to convulse heightening the pain in his already battered body.

"Why are you doing this?" John tries again, futilely he knows, but he cannot help himself.

Jim Moriarty looks at him with a huge smile on his face and fanaticism dancing in his eyes. He shrugs his eyebrows at him and sits down in the only chair that has been in the room since the beginning. John would give nearly anything to sit down in that chair.

Tiny pulls the probes from his chest and shocks him again, electrical current arcs rampaging through John's brutalized nervous system. His jaw and teeth clench and he prays that he will not scream. He does not want to give Moriarty the satisfaction, but fate denies him this as well.

9:00 PM ish

John startles awake his feet scrabbling for purchase on the slick lino. Why is the floor so slick?

His head falls forward, and he glances at the floor. "Oh," he groans, realization dawning as he takes in the visage before him. The floor is slick because his blood and sweat have pooled on it.

John chokes a bit and drops his head back yet again. His shoulders are screaming. Why is that again? Right, keep up John. You're dangling off a meat hook.

Moriarty flicks the knife and makes another very shallow cut on John's right ankle watching the blood leak slowly from the wound and the others he has made there. "I could do this all day," he sings as he makes yet another shallow cut. "Don't worry, Johnny. I know exactly what I'm doing."

11:00 PM ish

The door opens and in walks the man that John could not hate any more if he tried.

John lifts his head silently and just looks at the man's evil visage. If he had the energy or the saliva, he would spit on the man.

John's spine stiffens, as he is unsure of what further tortures wait for him.

Moriarty smiles amiably, making John's stomach roll with nausea. "Sooooo, how ya been?" He asks politely as if they have not seen each other for ages.

John drops his head backwards with a heavy sigh. "Please, tell me that the latest torture doesn't involve me having to listen to you," he begs sarcastically, his eyes set in fiery stone and brimming with an anger he hasn't felt since returning from Afghanistan.

"Sherlock didn't come for you," Moriarty sings with ridicule. "You are all alone and do you know what he's been doing this entire time?" He asks the weakened man before him.

John just stares maliciously at him with half opened eyes.

"He's waiting to meet me. Just before I grabbed you, Johnny boy, he sent me a text to come out and play. We'll be meeting him very soon, but daddy needs to talk to you first," Moriarty oozes audaciously.

"There are rules, and they are quite simple. Rule number one: If you say…. one word…that I have not placed directly into your mouth, I will kill Sherlock where he stands. Are we very clear, John?" He asks sincerely waiting for a reply from John, who nods.

Moriarty gestures towards the door as it swings open. "I have one more little present for you, but it's taking awhile to put together, so you must be patient," he finishes excitedly.

Tiny steps into the room carrying a vest and to John's complete and utter surprise his clothes.

"You will get cleaned up and dressed so that we can meet Sherlock. We wouldn't want to be late now, would we? Oh, this is sooooo exciting," Moriarty rattles obnoxiously.

Tiny steps forward, sets down the clothes on the small table, and makes his way to John to loosen his bonds and allow for his compliance.

John steps over to the clothes and using the wipes provided he cleans up as best as he is able. He pulls on his clothes slowly, careful of the damage that has been inflicted upon him.

He picks up a pair of heavy gloves questioningly, "What are these for?"

Moriarty sighs and replies, "Now think, Johnny. We wouldn't want Sherlock to notice the torn up knuckles from fighting, now would we? That would not be part of the plan."

Jim Moriarty steps forward anxiously. "Rule number two, John: If you try to escape or lift one tiny finger in opposition against me, I will not wait for Sherlock's clever game to end. I will end it for him, permanently. 'Kay?"

"You will being fitted with a delightful semtex and polyester vest combination and, John, I must say I'm sure you will wear it well," Moriarty confides conspiratorially, as John rolls his eyes.

Tiny shoves John down into the chair that Moriarty has just vacated.

"There is a bit of a drive. Oh," Moriarty feigns concern. "I hope you don't get carsick."

Then Tiny drags an exhausted, but not yet beaten John, to the car and pushes him into the backseat for the long drive to the Pool.

1:17 AM

Sherlock eyes his friend thoughtfully.

"Stop it!" John demands immediately. "Keep your analytical eyeballs to yourself, Sherlock. I'm not in the mood. It's been a shitty night. Let's just get back to the flat!"

Sherlock tilts his head further studying John, his eyes unreadable as he catalogs his friend's rough appearance.

"I mean it, Sherlock. I'm buggered and I have absolutely no patience left. Let me make myself perfectly clear. Stop evaluating me or I'm gonna pop you one," John warns him his fist raised.

Sherlock quickly looks away avoiding any further visual contact with John. "You're in a bit of a snit," he mutters under his breath.

Lestrade strolls up to finish questioning them both. "You said the man's name was Jim Moriarty. Is that correct?" He verifies the information in his notebook yet again.

"Numerous times," Sherlock tells him. "We have given you our statements and all but solved five cases for you. We'll be at the flat should you determine that you require our services further."

He turns quickly and heads off to call a cab. "Come, John. There is much to be done," Sherlock prods his exhausted friend.

1:45 AM ish

They arrive at the flat quickly. Sherlock bolts up the stairs his coattails flaring behind him as John trudges up the stairs at a much slower pace.

"I'm going to sack out," John informs the man who stands stoically at the window, playing his violin. As usual, Sherlock just ignores him as he files the information he's garnered today in his mind palace.

John climbs up the stairs, grabs his dressing gown and takes a quick bath. He retrieves the first aid kit and cleans himself up with soap and water as best as he is able. Sherlock will smell any disinfectant that he might choose to use.

John takes a deep breath and steps in the front of the mirror. "Time to survey the damage," he whispers, bringing his professional persona to the foreground to deal with the trauma.

He checks on the dozen or so small thin cuts that criss-cross the backs of his legs. They are shallow and have been cleaned, he notices. He will just have to keep an eye on them.

Next, he examines the needle mark in his right arm. Good. Looks like the big lout knew a bit about injections after all. There are minimal contusions over the injection site.

John makes a mental note to see a doctor to check out his hearing and his heart then proceeds to check out the range of mobility he has in his shoulders.

He rotates both arms through full range of motion, only wincing a few times when the left one gets caught up part way through. Fortunately, that's actually pretty normal for that shoulder since it took a bullet. He pulls out the paracetamol and pops four pills in his mouth with cold water from the tap.

Leaning over the sink with his head down, he mentally prepares for what he knows he must evaluate next. His chest. He slowly raises his eyes to the mirror and actually gasps at the damage he sees there.

The probes have left quarter sized bruises on his chest from the Taser and as far as he can tell, he retains fine motor movements although he still has slight tremors most assuredly from the stress.

The cigarette burns are in a pattern. He remembers Moriarty going on about his artwork, and this must be what he was on about. He sees the shape right away, and there's a word above it. John studies it for a bit until the full picture comes clear within his head. He flips up the lid on the toilet and drops to the floor in preparation of what's to come.

John rests his head on the seat of the toilet for several minutes before deciding it is safe to proceed. He has cleaned the wounds as best as he can for the night. It's better to go on to bed before Sherlock becomes suspicious of the time he's been in here. He can always take another look tomorrow at the safety of the surgery and out from under Sherlock's watchful gaze.

He throws on his dressing gown and hurries to his room where he climbs under the duvet and tries to relax enough to sleep. He startles as his mobile alerts him to a text.

John debates for several seconds if he should bother to look. Mycroft and Sherlock are really the only people who text him. He finally decides to take a gander and really wishes that he hadn't been so curious.

"Serves me right," he mumbles as he reads the text there.

JW

Had fun last night

Let's do it again

Miss you

JM

He snatches the bin from beside the bed and retches into it quietly. He has not eaten in over twelve hours, so there is nothing to come up.

Tossing the phone across the small room, he opens his med bag on the table next to his bed and takes out the bottle of sleeping pills that Ella had prescribed for him when he returned from Afghanistan.

John shakes out a pill into the palm of his hand, looking at it with disgust. He pitches the bottle back into his bag, picks up his water and swallows the bloody pill.

"Here's to no nightmares," he whispers, draws up the covers and pushes off to sleep.

6:22 AM

Sherlock bounds through the sitting room straightaway into the kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee.

He looks around the room critically:

Coffee on the warmer

John's cup in the drainer

No other dishes

John's coat missing from the back of his chair

John's laptop missing from the desk

Conclusion: John left for work approximately twenty minutes before based on the fact that his cup is still a bit damp, but not dripping. He did not have breakfast (unusual), but he did have coffee.

Deduction: John went to work today after being strapped to a bomb less than…(he checks his watch) six hours before.

Odd.

He crosses to the sitting room with his cup and sets it down on the table next to his chair. Wrapping his dressing gown around him snuggly, he turns on the telly for the crap TV that John somehow found to occupy his brain.

"No, no. My God. It's obvious to anyone with half a brain. She's clearly lying. Look at that atrocious broach…" Sherlock screams at the telly, his concern for John's odd behaviour deleted.

10:37 AM

Sherlock's phone beeps letting him know he's received a text. His eyes shift over to it, but he doesn't move yet. He debates whether he wishes to be disturbed, his brows draw together and scowling slightly he snatches the mobile off the arm of his chair.

SH

Sorry about last night

Rain check

Say hi to John for me

JM

I need to think through the problem. Nicotine. I need nicotine. Definitely a three patch problem.

He races to the kitchen pulling open drawers searching for where John has hidden them.

"Ah, success," he cries out triumphantly, pulls the patches out and affixes them to his arm firmly before he balls up in his chair to think.

"Moriarty," he hisses, turning his thoughts inward to his mind palace remembering the phone call that Moriarty took at the pool last night.

Phone rings

"What was the name of that song? John said it last night…Ah! There it is.

"Staying Alive" ring tone

Sherlock enters the search parameters on his phone to learn what he can about the song and anything connected to it.

Bee Gees disco song

Movie 1977

John Travolta

His disgust showing plainly on his face, he sweeps all that information into the room marked Jim Moriarty in his mind palace.

John looking at the water

Shoes

Make you into shoes

A Woman

He opens his eyes suddenly. "It was a woman on the phone, but who?" Sherlock questions the empty room.

2:00 PM ish

John sits at his desk virtually buried in paperwork. He sighs contentedly as the work has been able to keep his darker thoughts from surfacing.

He pulls the next file from the pile and begins to check over his notes from the appointment.

"Surprised you came in today," Lestrade observes from the door causing John to jump slightly and spill the coffee on his desk.

He leaps up from the chair angrily. "Sod it! Not on my files. What do you want, Lestrade?" He snaps at the Detective Inspector standing in his doorway.

Lestrade's face draws up in confusion. "I told you last night that I'd be stopping by today to get the rest of your statement. Imagine my surprise when Sherlock told me you were here."

"Yes, well…the paperwork is always endless. What more did you need?" John asks impatiently cleaning up the files with a towel he found on the filing cabinet.

Lestrade pulls out his notebook and flips to the appropriate page, "You said last night that Moriarty wasn't alone, that he had an accomplice with him. You were taken last night and strapped into that flipping bomb. How many men did he have with him? You never did say."

John inhales deeply and closes his eyes to think it through more clearly. "I remember Moriarty and there was another guy there named Tiny," he reports then shakes his head negatively. "Sorry, not named Tiny. That's what I called him. He was probably about 195 cm tall and about 132 kilograms."

Lestrade jots the information down in his notebook. "Good, what else?" He looks at John trying to compel more information from him while conveying his sympathy for what the doctor had been through the night before.

John closes his eyes again and tries to remember everything he can, but there is no more. "I only saw the one other man, and he was masked the entire time," he relates to Lestrade as he shuffles the files round on his desk.

There is a tentative knock on his office door. "Come in," he calls. A nurse steps into the office.

"Sorry, Doctor Watson, but I prepared the booster jab for the tot in room five," she reports, holding up the syringe of clear liquid.

His eyes fix wide on the syringe, and his heart rate elevates slightly.

"Doctor?" his nurse questions again, shaking the syringe to bring his attention back to why she's here.

John shakes himself a bit and tightens his right hand into a fist under his desk, which seems to bring him back from the flashback. "Yes, please. Give it to him," he answers fairly calmly and nearly smiles at the façade he managed to project.

Lestrade glances at him oddly before asking, "You all right, mate?"

John nods his head mutely, his respiration approaching normal once again. "Look, Greg. I'm way behind and I don't have time to bugger about. I've really told you all I can," he finishes, coming around the desk and showing Lestrade the door.

"Alright, I get it. We'll talk some more later if you think of anything," Lestrade comments before closing his notebook and heading out the door. "You may want to sack the paperwork and have a kip. Might do you some good."

John shuts the door and leans against it. "Bloody hell. I gotta get the hang of this or I'm buggered. Sherlock will know for sure," he gasps, his shaking hand over his heart.

2:39 PM

Sherlock rolls his eyes as his phone alerts him to yet another text. "What is it?" He yells, standing up from the sofa and stepping up onto the coffee table to cross the room for his phone.

He snatches the phone from the mantle and looks at the messages.

SH

Working late

JW

He scowls at the phone. The flat is always more entertaining when John is here. Flipping through to the next message he reads:

SH

Have you looked at the file?

MH

"Why no, dear brother, I have not. Why, you ask? I don't want to. I'm not that bored, yet," he squawks at his phone disdainfully and moves along to the next message.

SH

Require your services. My husband…

"Boring…" he shouts bringing Mrs. Hudson up from her flat.

She enters the flat tsking at him. "Really, Sherlock. You need to settle. All this yelling…" she reprimands, her hands on her hips.

He deletes the next few messages without even bothering to read them.

"I swear, Mrs. Hudson. How do the rest of you do it?" He scorns shaking his head.

Mrs. Hudson narrows her eyes. "Now you be nice, Sherlock. People need your help," she reminds him again.

He scrolls down to the last message received nearly 17 minutes ago.

"Hmmmm," he offers when he doesn't recognize the number. He nearly deletes it as well, but something about it catches his eye.

Moriarty.

His eyes gleam with excitement and he smiles in response.

SH

Do you know where John is?

Ta Ta

JM

All at once he feels as though the bottom has dropped out. He plucks his coat and scarf off the chair and dashes out the door saying, "Gotta go, Mrs. Hudson. Very important business."

He bangs out the front door and pounds down Baker Street not even stopping to flag a cabbie.

3:09 PM

The doors to the surgery explode as Sherlock hits them with the full weight of his running body.

"John," he calls out, pushing past crying babies and the lot. "John," he screams again banging into rooms trying to find his best friend.

A nurse approaches him carefully, "What can we do for you, sir? Are you hurt?"

Sherlock dismisses her as he continues to search for John. "John Watson? NOW! Be a good little nurse and help me find him," he orders condescendingly.

John comes out of one of the treatment rooms. "Sherlock? You can't be carrying on in here. Come on." He frowns at the taller man's frantic look of panic and pushes him into an empty treatment room.

"Sherlock, calm down," he orders as he shoves up the man's sleeve and gets pissed at what he sees. "Another three patch problem, Sherlock? No wonder you're a bloody mess. Sit down before you fall down."

John leads him to sit as the world's only consulting detective tries to catch his breath. "I suppose you ran all the way here? We've talked about this I don't know how many times. You cannot run with three nicotine patches on your arm. You're an idiot!"

Sherlock begins to look confused at having found John safe and sound.

"Bugger me! Sherlock can you hear me?" He grasps one of the patches and yanks it off.

"Fuck. You better not have nicotine poisoning you jack off," he mumbles as he pulls off another one.

3:39 PM

Sherlock strides through the door of 221B Baker Street clearly irritated at the riddle that is Jim Moriarty. Why send that message only to have John be perfectly fine?

Mrs. Hudson greets him at the foot of the stairs. "This came by messenger while you were out," she tells Sherlock handing him a plain white envelope. He turns it around in his hands giving it a cursory glance for clues.

Sherlock bounds up the stairs two at a time and settles in his chair with his laptop.

He studies the envelope in greater detail.

Plain

White

127 mm tall

178 mm wide

90-gsm weight

slight circular depression

Conclusion: CD or DVD

"Interesting," Sherlock comments opening the envelope.

He places the disc into his laptop and runs a virus check before deciding to watch it.

The black screen causes Sherlock to frown in consternation until he hears John's scream rent the air from the playback.

What is this? He thinks briefly before he suddenly comprehends what he is seeing and mentally refers to his internal clock.

"It's 5:00 PM ish and we're out and about on the town. Oh, lookie loo. It's an old friend. We should really say hello," Moriarty's voice purrs from the laptop as the camera picks up John leaving the flat and heading down Baker Street.

"What are you doing right now, Sherlock?" Moriarty questions.

Moriarty's phone alerts him to a new message, and Sherlock hears Moriarty say laughingly, "Never mind."

The picture cuts away to John fighting a rather enormous masked man two alleys over. John punches him in the solar plexus, but the man keeps coming. He manages to evade being hit twice but is not so lucky the third time.

John writhes as two probes from an X26 Taser hit him in the chest. His body is suspended like a grotesque statue for a moment then collapses to the damp pavement.

"It's 6:00 PM ish and do you know where John is? What are you up to, Sherlock? Are you pacing the flat irritated that you are so bored and the time we meet is still so far away?"

Sherlock will not give Moriarty the satisfaction of his emotions. He straightens up taller in his chair and vows he will watch every second so that he can be with John.

Moriarty will not win this game!

The screen flashes to John, naked and hanging from a meat hook in the ceiling.

Sherlock's eyes close automatically, but he forces them open. I will not leave you, John!

He catches every word, every nuance, every moment of the hell that John is put through in this hour.

Sherlock smiles as John tells the behemoth that he is not qualified to wield a syringe. He grinds his teeth as he watches John reason out what has been given to him and feels genuine pride at how John holds up under the scrutiny.

He remembers his own experiences with cocaine and the overdoses that caused Mycroft to initially abandon him, then seek his little brother out and save his life this very last time.

He shrugs frowning slightly. He should be dead with the number of times a 7% or more solution has been introduced into his body. Odd that he cannot summon emotion with regards to himself, but Moriarty tainting John the same way has him completely livid.

He bounds up from his chair and over to the mantle after pausing the playback. Sherlock glances down at his right hand as it reaches for the cigarettes he knows John has hidden in the skull. His hand is shaking.

Odd.

He takes a cigarette out of the pack and lights it, inhaling it deep into his lungs and blowing it out between trembling lips. He finds it interesting that he trembles, not from fear, but with murderous rage.

Moriarty will pay.

Sherlock resumes the playback.

"It's 7:00 PM ish and what fun we are having without you Sherlock!" Moriarty taunts.

He returns to his chair, draws his legs up close to his chest and places the cigs within easy reach.

Sherlock remembers exactly what he was doing in that hour.

At 7:09 PM, he had a cuppa.

At 7:22 PM, he harassed Mrs. Hudson into making him some biscuits.

At 7:39 PM, he used two of those biscuit in an experiment involving lye and human fingernails.

At 7:58 PM, he glanced at the slides created from the human fingernail specimens.

John's strength amazes him. How has he underestimated him all of this time? He now understands how John can manage to live with him. He knows that he is an insufferable prat, but he would not torture John outright.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at the extreme increase in sound blaring from the laptop.

John thrashes on the meat hook in an effort to avoid the sound. He tries to hold up his head to use his arms to buffer the sound but is unable to manage it.

He estimates that John spends nearly a full hour being bombarded by the discordant sounds.

Upon further appraisal, he realizes that he should have shot Moriarty last night, even if it meant his own death. His eyes pop open in surprise at this…sentiment. He is not prone to sentiment. Sentiment stems from emotion. Emotion conflicts with logic. Logic is the foundation for all that he considers important, therefore he divorced himself from emotion quite some time ago.

Interesting…

"Sherlock…Sherlock…Sherlock…" John's voice calls for him through the recording. He tips his head to the side evaluating the speech pattern John uses, knowing that this one word has been taken out of context and altered to maximize the effect.

It is meant to disturb him. Lights and numbers flash on the screen informing him that the following segment occurs in the 8:00 hour. Moriarty edited this recording together very carefully so as to provide Sherlock with minimum time clues and keep John completely in the dark.

Sherlock grips the arms of his chair as he realizes that the X26 Taser reappears. It is not the Taser that disquiets him as much as the knowledge that at 8:19 in his infinite boredom, he had hooked up electrodes to the pig heart that he acquired quite recently.

His tests confirmed that the pig heart, which closely resembles the human heart, has a limited tolerance for electrical current. The average adult human heart can take no more than approximately 1 watt/second of 110 volts at 60 Hertz for only one half of a second before stopping.

He suppresses the anger that arises when his brain begins to calculate the amount of energy that John's heart must have absorbed. He shakes his head trying to delete the information completely before it takes hold in his mind palace and can never be forgotten.

John will have to see a doctor. He files that bit away as he reaches for another cigarette.

Sherlock lights up another cig as the recording continues.

He survives the cutting portion of the playback by sheer force of will.

How was John even able to stand at the pool? How did he not notice that his best friend had been through so much? Thinking about it now, he realizes that John was listing to the side for most of the time. He had considered that the vest may be too heavy, but given new evidence, he reforms his opinion.

John screams again through his laptop. The screen flashes 10:07 in bright neon colours. It is obvious to Sherlock that Moriarty has put some effort into this little display.

Sherlock adds one to the subconscious count in his head and gets thirteen. Moriarty has made John scream or attempt to scream on thirteen separate occasions. This number is unacceptable. One is unacceptable. The only number that he will tolerate is zero.

He hopes that he will never hear John scream again. He knows that this is too much to ask.

"Sherlock…will…beat…you," John gasps causing Sherlock to smile at his friend's belief in his abilities. His blue eyes turn murderous as he realizes that even if he wins, he has lost. John has been victimized.

Moriarty blocks Sherlock's view of John, which he finds disturbs him more than he thought it would. The soundtrack chants repeatedly, "Sherlock didn't come for you!"

"Almost done with my lovely masterpiece," he sings out and a moment later spins out of the way and presents his artwork with pride.

John hangs unconscious, dangling lifelessly before Sherlock's eyes, breaking the heart he didn't believe that he had. The camera pushes in close to display Moriarty's pride and joy.

There are cigarette burns all over John's chest. The burns spell a message to him.

The word Sherlock's is written out near the top margin of John's chest just inferior to his collarbones. There is a heart underneath it and the initials JM signed with flair at the bottom right edge. The burns are round approximately 1 cm each, and there are 154 of them. Sherlock reaches forward with a shaking hand and pauses the magnified image.

Looking at the lit cigarette in his right hand makes him suddenly ill. In a fit of uncontrollable rage, he smashes it down in his own palm.

"Sod it, Sherlock. What the hell are you doing?" John exclaims angrily from the door as he storms across the sitting room and flings the now burned out cig to the floor.

Sherlock shudders, his fingers claw-like on the armrests of his prized chair.

John grips Sherlock's hands firmly and attempts to pry them away. "Damn it, Sherlock! Let me see it!" He yells, pulling Sherlock from the chair and dragging him into the kitchen, letting the laptop slide gently to the floor.

John throws on the tap and thrusts Sherlock's burned hand into the cold water.

"I was smoking," Sherlock admits guiltily finally answering John's question.

John sighs shaking his head. His worry for Sherlock supercedes the panic that had flared up when he stepped into the doorway and saw the cig in his friend's hand. "I can see that! And the reason you extinguished it in your hand was…"

John stares at Sherlock waiting for an answer as he holds the man's hand under the cold tap.

"Rage," Sherlock replies coldly distant. "Pure unadulterated rage," he repeats again, his dark blue eyes flashing in the dimness of the flat.

John looks at his best friend and flatmate, "Okay, is it a case that came in while I was at the surgery?"

"No," Sherlock answers abruptly still staring at the hand John holds under the water.

He turns to face John, his eyes gleaming dangerously.

"He's a dead man, John. I will find him…and I will kill him," Sherlock promises his friend.

John barely recognizes the Sherlock Holmes in front of him. "Kill who? Bugger me, Sherlock. What are you going on about?"

"Let me see it," Sherlock whispers quietly in reply.

"See what?" John asks quizzically. He has yet to put it all together.

Sherlock tilts his head slightly, and his expression shuts down even further.

John steps back involuntarily unsure of what to expect from this stranger in front of him, but knowing with all that he is that Sherlock would never hurt him, self proclaimed high functioning sociopath, or not.

This is the first time John has seen him this way. John shakes his friend slightly, "Alright now, enough of this nonsense."

"Nonsense?" Sherlock asks him uncomprehendingly.

Sherlock's expression softens suddenly. His mouth tight, he forces these words past his lips.

"He was right, you know that, don't you?" Sherlock asks John.

John studies his friend realizing that something's off, "Who's right, Sherlock?"

"Moriarty. He was right," Sherlock tries again.

John flinches as if he's just been slapped and begins to administer first aid to Sherlock's hand, not at all liking where this conversation is going.

Moriarty must die! Sherlock thinks angrily.

"I received a present from Moriarty today," Sherlock informs John matter of factly.

John glances around the room before allowing his eyes to come to rest on his best friend.

"Really, what did he send you?" John asks curiously, his gaze continuing to search the room.

Sherlock turns his gaze towards the best friend he has ever had, "A message."

John balks at the rawness in Sherlock's voice and tries to read the man before him.

"Right, so what was the message?" John finally asks when he can find his breath.

"Moriarty wanted to make sure that I completely understood that he had already burnt the heart out of me. I just didn't know it yet," Sherlock tells his friend.

John closes his eyes. "You know," he guesses quietly.

Sherlock nods. "He recorded it, John, and sent it to me by messenger today. Let me see it?" He repeats his earlier request.

John pushes Sherlock away with such force that he nearly knocks the larger man over.

"Sod off, Sherlock. I've taken care of it and that's all you need worry about," John curses angrily. He looks up at Sherlock with pain filled eyes.

"I didn't know, John, or I would have come. Nothing could have stopped me," Sherlock tells John meeting his eyes clearly for the first time since the doctor has returned to the flat.

John stops and looks out across the flat. "You know what the hardest part was?" He asks Sherlock in low measured tones.

Sherlock considers for a bit before supplying his answer then closes his eyes to deliver it. For the first time since he was a child, he feels ashamed, "Yes. Not only did I not come to you, John, but I was bored the entire time that I waited to meet Moriarty at the pool."

John gasps with the knowledge that Sherlock understands him so completely and, although still angry, wants to help his friend deal with this.

"Look," John begins tentatively. "It's should be easy for you. Just delete it!"

Sherlock pauses looking at his friend whilst shaking his head negatively, "I don't think I can."

John gets pissed and curses at him, "Why the hell not? You delete nearly everything else."

Sherlock pauses to really look at his friend and reaches forward placing a supportive hand on his good shoulder. It is crucial that John understands his next words.

"I don't delete anything when it comes to you."

The End