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John Watson's steady hands do well to cover up just how much is heart is racing as he navigates his way silently down dimly lit corridors. His gun is gripped tight by his chest, ready to injure (or, if needs must, kill) any idiot who tries to get in his way.
As soon as he'd gotten that text from Sherlock - the one that read, simply, Get Mycroft. Track phone. - the army doctor had been an unstoppable force. Of course, he'd contacted the man immediately, and they'd traced the mad detective's phone to an abandoned paper factory on the edge of the city. Then Mycroft had started blabbering on about 'precautions', and 'dangers' and 'oh, you musn't go, John, Sherlock would murder me if I got you in any danger', but by then John had had enough and was storming out of 221B to catch a taxi to rescue his bloody flatmate.
And now here he is, ignoring Mycroft entirely, and only a little bit enjoying the way his left hand grips the gun just as well as the right, and how he can actually sneak about unknown in this place because his leg is functioning as it should. He's away to turn a corner to search in another part of the building when he hears a sudden high-pitched giggle that sends an icy chill down his spine and makes sweat start to gather on his palms.
Moriarty.
He'd recognise that laugh anywhere. That laugh has haunted his dreams ever since the fateful night at the pool, where John had been drugged, kidnapped, strapped to a bomb and left to listen to Moriarty ramble on and on about how interesting dear Sherly is.
John tries to keep his breaths even as he tip-toes towards the door the sound is emanating from, which is surprisingly hard to do. He creeps closer and closer until he is brushing up against the thick steel door, trying to listen in to see if he can gage where the conversation inside is going. Hearing nothing at all any more, he sucks in a deep breath, says a quick Hail Mary, and then swings open the door.
It hits the wall with a bang to reveal Sherlock tied to a chair, looking fifty shades of annoyed as Moriarty leers over him with a massive grin and a welding torch. They both turn to look at John with equal measures of surprise upon their faces, but where Sherlock's quickly melts into one of relief, Moriarty's darkens into an expression that can only be described as a predator setting sight on its prey.
“Oh, hello, Doctor Watson.”
John gulps.
“Eh...”
Sherlock huffs into the gag, – the only thing shutting him up at the moment – arousing John into awareness, his eyes tearing away from the Moriarty's smirking face.
“Right, yes, sorry. What the hell do you think you're doing, Mr Moriarty?” If anything this just seems to make his lanky flatmate deflate even more. What? Just because the man's a psychopath doesn't mean that John can't use manners. If anything, it's all the more reason to use manners. Said psychopath takes a couple of steps away from his hostage, bringing him closer to the doctor, who fights the urge to take a step back. There's a certain gleam in the Irishman's eyes as he replies.
“Doctor Watson, please, call me Jim.” He's deadly still, seemingly waiting to watch John's reaction.
The shorter man pauses for a moment, where his tongue flicks out to wet his lips - a hint at his nervousness – and Jim's eyes immediately latch on to little pink tip before it disappears.
“Well, in that case, feel free to call me John.”
The tension in the air is thicker than Anderson, and when John's eyes flick to Sherlock's face, he has to hide his amusement at the wide eyes watching the exchange with obvious trepidation. His stare rests once again on Jim as he saunters over to John, dropping the welding torch as he goes with a loud clang that makes only Sherlock flinch, until they are standing nearly toe to toe. Though there can't be more than two inches between them, Jim seems to tower over John, taking up all his vision.
“John.” Thin fingers are suddenly stroking the soft hairs at the nape of John's neck, and he can't help the quiet gasp that escapes the lips Jim seems so fixated on, nor can he stop the way his neck and face immediately redden at the attention. This seems to please Jim.
“My, don't you look gorgeous when you blush, pet. I wonder if you get that red all over? I can think of a few ways we can find out for sure.”
No one, John especially, expects the nervous, flirty giggle that escapes the former army doctor at that moment. John bites his lip as soon as its out, and peers up at Jim, who looks like Christmas has come early. The blonde man doesn't think he's ever seen such glee on someone's face before, as he demands for John to, “Do that again!”
John squirms in his spot and stares at his shuffling feet as he turns redder still, the blush reaching the tips of his ears now. He scrunches up his nose to show his distaste and stubbornly bites his bottom lip.
“Aww, come on, sugar, give us another giggle...” John can almost feel the madman buzzing with anticipation, brown eyes gleaming as they stay transfixed on his smaller form.
“Noooo...” John at least attempts to refuse, though Jim can tell that his heart isn't really in it by the way he's trying to fight the corner of his mouth from twitching up into a smile. Jim's gleeful expression darkens into something a bit less intense, but not any less heated. His thumb strokes up John's cheek and brushes down the shell of his ear making the poor doctor gasp so very sinfully. The consulting criminal does love the fighter in John, but it's becoming a little tedious now.
He leans down so that their lips are almost touching, can feel John's breath on his cheek – it's warm and gentle and smells like tea and Jim hates that everything about John is better than him.
“Do it for daddy, pretty boy,” he coos, and then nips John's bottom lip, “before daddy makes you.” The hand at the back of John's neck suddenly grips on to his hair and tugs his head back so that there is no doubt as to who controls the way this interaction will go. John's breath quickens and his pulse races so enticingly fast as he stares at Moriarty with those round baby blue eyes full of fear and lust, and Jim decides there and then that he's going to take this one home and keep him forever. He'll learn all the beautiful noises John makes; he'll be the reason John makes them
Jim straightens out, bringing John up with him, and takes a small step back before offering his arm like a true gentleman.
“Dinner, love?”
John does smile then, and it's real and kind and full of warmth.
“It's almost one o'clock in the morning.”
“Sex, then? Back at my penthouse.”
And there it is, that fucking giggle. It's quickly becoming one of Jim's favourite sounds – maybe even more so than that of someone begging for their life. And then John's shrugging his shoulders pleasantly and looping his arm through Jim's proffered one, and they stroll out the door, arm in arm, with Jim whispering God-knows-what into John's eager ear that makes him keep giggling so.
********
Sherlock stares in utter disbelief as the pair disappears off into the night. He can hear Jim still flirting away: “Do you know you still have my coat from our last meeting, kitten? Do you smell it when you're feeling lonely, hmm? Well, you won't need the coat any more...”
He tries to let out a muffled cry, but it's barely heard in the room, never mind where they are.
They forgot he was there.
They forgot he was there?
His John forgot he was even there??!
The detective struggles against his bonds and huffs.
Bugger. Mycroft was never going to let him live this one down.