This is for "Expecto-Prongs," thank you for the support and for encouraging me to continue. As you can see, I got a bit carried away. UuU;;

John woke quickly thanks to old reflexes, remnants of his difficult war tour, and took the room in with a glance. He couldn't hold back the low groaning in his chest when he saw what awaited him. He was laying atop the coverlet of a queen bed in a fairly seedy looking hotel room. Grimmer even then that his shirt was plastered to his chest with blood from the still oozing body lying next to him.

John stood and searched the room, ignoring the prone figure on the bed for as long as he possibly could. The bathroom had a stack of towels, a tub of hot water, a sink full of cold water and a full med kit. All of the supplies he could possibly need to treat someone heavily wounded. Someone like Jim Moriarty. Someone who no doubt had the hotel room guarded. John darted a glance out of the bathroom and glared at Jim's unconscious body. He turned back to the medical supplies, eventually finding the note he'd known Jim wouldn't be able to resist leaving.

"My Dearest Dreadful Doctor John,

I seem to be ailing quite dreadfully and when on death's door, I'd rather die than accept treatment from anyone other than London's finest doctor! He turned me down, unfortunately, so with the last of my strength, I dictated this note and sent for you. You don't have to save me. My boys won't kill you if you don't but you probably don't believe that, do you? Think of how many lives my death will spare- Just tell him that I'm coughing! These bloody bullet holes are really really big. Look, doc, up to you, let me live or die. I don't really care. Well, a bit. But not too much, don't worry.

All My Love,


p.s. Not to worry! We're twins!"

John swore loudly and repeatedly. A decision, always the bloody dualities with Jim, even unconscious he'd want everyone around him squirming.

He couldn't save him. It was unthinkable, to help this monster would be putting so many people in jeopardy. So many would die. John walked past Jim's prone form, resolutely avoiding looking directly at it. He simply would not help this man. He sat in the chair by the window and waited, knowing he would not be allowed to leave until Moriarty was well and truly dead. Judging from the shallow breaths that laboriously bubbled from a blood filled throat, it would only be minutes before his over worked body finally gave.

Moriarty dead. So many who would die would be saved. Years of mourning prevented. Several wet coughs drew his eyes to Jim. The doctor in him could not be turned away and he couldn't help dissecting every squelch and sigh from the dying man.

Deciding there would be no harm in looking, he cautiously approached the bed and began to survey Moriarty's wounds. He appeared to have been shot twice, close range by the looks of it so they'd likely gone right through him. It seemed to merely be blood loss and internal hemorrhaging killing him. No major organ failure any where.

This was something that could have been treated by just about any moderately competent doctor which begged the question of why Moriarty was risking his life by leaving the wounds untreated this long.

John looked closely at Moriarty's face, seeing the same wrinkles of thought and concentration carved there that he saw at his flat every day. As much as he hated to admit it, Jim and Sherlock were similar, two sides of the same coin almost. How often did Sherlock allow his physical state to deteriorate in the face of all logic? Anytime he'd been distracted. John's own chuckle startled him out of his smile. This was the not the time to be comparing the two men.

It was more than likely true, though. Jim had been wounded and then forgotten about it in a flurry of hasty activity and by the time he thought to be treated, he was already near death. Oh lord, how disgustingly sick of him. Near death he'd thought of John, not only a surgeon and a blood match, as his post script indicated, but a good candidate for moral torture. His hatred of a man pitted against his instinctual need to save lives with his training and his weakness for emotionally tortured sociopaths, apparently.

Looking down at his pale face, so young but pitted with signs of a heavy mind, John couldn't help but think of Jim Moriarty, criminal extraordinaire, as quite the brat. This entire scenario had been on a whim simply for optimal amusement which, being unconscious, Jim could not even observe. John laughed aloud at the thought. The man was an absolute prat.


When Moriarty awoke, his first action was to take a breath of the sweetest air he had ever tasted, savoring every second of stolen life he now had at his disposal. Looking around the room, he smiled at the dirty medical equipment strewn about. Yes, this new life definitely came at a cost and a heavy one at that for the dear doctor. Jim began laughing, the exertion of it straining the bindings on his chest but the pain only made him laugh harder.

To be alive and to feel pain. John Watson. The devoted soldier. Burdening the weight of all of Jim's future mischief and gaining what in return? Lost in thought, he tossed the lamp at the wall and wordlessly caught the phone that was tossed to him through the door by one of his guards in response. Sending a slew of orders to various people through rapid fire texts, he reclined and considered the man who had saved his life.

This had definitely confirmed it, it was time he began looking for a house pet to adopt. He didn't want John, he was fun enough for the interim but Jim wanted someone a little more suited to his taste. He'd always liked tall men. Oooh, maybe an American, they tended to be so violent. He rested his fingers lightly against his still swollen lips, mentally noting he needed a manicure, and smiled. Such a fun a night and so much fun ahead.

It was time to go shopping.


Sherlock hadn't stopped staring at John all evening. He looked accusingly at him from various sulking positions throughout the flat, always pouting through a fringe of brown curls. John had long disposed of the flowers Mrs. Hudson had benignly delivered and arranged on their kitchen table. The tag had simply read:

"To, John W

I O U ;D"

She'd smiled and happily informed them they'd likely been from a fan of the website when they'd walked in to find her placing them in a vase. Sherlock had read the tag and immediately handed it to John and stared at him. John had simply tossed it onto the counter and rubbed his hand against his neck, anger pooling in his stomach. It had been only 12 hours since he'd sewn up Moriarty and donated a generous portion of his own blood to the man. He'd gone to a bar afterwards and after eating a bit and a few drinks, he'd managed to only look very drunk instead of incredibly ill.

Sherlock had seemed willing to at least pretend he believed it, clearly giving John the benefit of the doubt for his odd actions, until now. John refused to talk about it and Sherlock refused to be made to actually ask him. They fought silently, no one making any ground, until John began wearing thin an hour into one of Sherlock's impromptu violin sessions. Tonight, he seemed content to merely saw away, mindlessly shredding the ear drums of any in the vicinity and driving Mrs. Hudson into a near panic.

It was somewhere between her second fit of crying and Sherlock beginning to hammer repeated high notes that set John's hairs on end that he finally snapped. He stood with such force that his chair, heavy old thing that it was, skidded back a good foot and and a half. Mrs. Hudson immediately retreated from the room, each of her footsteps ringing in violent clarity in the resounding silence as Sherlock had ceased to play.

After hearing the gentle click of Mrs. Hudson's closing door, John crossed the space between him and the detective in short angry strides coming up mere inches away from him.

"Sherlock, look at me." The detective's eyes slid petulantly to the left, barely grazing the side of John's face. "Sherlock, look at me and tell me you aren't being a child."

"Look at me and tell me you aren't hiding things." Sherlock's eyes were suddenly locked to his, anger making them glint. John was halfway through pointing out the obvious hypocrisy of the accusation when Sherlock cut him off. "Everyone knows I lie, don't pretend to be surprised now. You don't though, John. That begs the question, what is so bad that you can't tell me? Or won't tell me, perhaps?"

"Remember the talk we had after the pool incident?" John rushed to keep talking, to keep Sherlock from interrupting him. He grabbed the taller man's hand and squeezed it hard in his own, running the rough pad of his thumb against Sherlock's palm. The contact startled the detective, allowing John the time to finish. "You said you would trust me, always. I'm asking you to trust me now Sherlock. I will tell you. Just not now."

"Am I allowed to guess?" Sherlock wasn't looking at him but instead studying their clasped hands. John chuckled at the question, giving the hand in his a light squeeze before gently letting go.

"I will give you absolutely no information though and if it impedes our daily lives, I'll go on a speaking strike." He shook his hand menacingly at Sherlock as he walked away into the kitchen to make tea. "And we both know from experience how much you need positive reinforcement."

Sherlock huffed but they resumed their usual pattern of smatterings of small talk as Sherlock amused himself in some way or another and John wrote in his blog or watched telly. It was after several minutes of comfortable silence that John heard Sherlock shift in a way that said a question was coming.

"You will tell me, of course? Eventually, I mean." He said it nonchalantly but there was an eagerness there that only months of living together had trained John to hear.

"I promise. I'll tell you a little more tomorrow. Just." John sighed, swallowing his dread. "Please trust me."

Sherlock looked up from his microscope and locked eyes with John, giving him a solemn nod that would have looked ridiculous coming from anyone else but held terrifying gravity coming from Sherlock Holmes.