They ended up destroying the dress by tossing it into the fireplace. John took the jewelry to a pawn shop and used the money to pay off the rent for the next year.

"What's his game, Sherlock?" John asked as they walked back to the flat. "Why is he doing this?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know. Men like Moriarty like to challenge and be challenged. If he had targeted me, that would be different, but his eyes are on you. You are not smart enough to catch his attention."

John doesn't know if she should be insulted or not.

"He wants something," Sherlock mumured, more to himself. "Something only you can provide."

"Immunity? I did survive the Gendercide."

"No, that's not important to him. Why bother figuring out how you survived? It won't change anything. What he wants is entertainment."

John shivered.

The gifts kept coming. A week after the dress, a pair of Gucci heels wormed its way into their flat. After the shoes came a very expensive brand of lipstick and perfume. After the cosmetics, while Sherlock and John were coming upon a crime scene, a random man ran up and gave John her fourth gift.

"A fucking broom?" John yelled. The man took off at first sight of her anger. "Now this is getting ridiculous!"

"What's going on?" Lestrade asked, eyeing the broom with the large red bow wrapped around the handle. "Why do you have a broom?"

"John has a secret admirer," Sherlock said, flat toned. He ducked under the police tape. "Who has rather lame ideas in gift giving."

"Fuck you, Sherlock," John hissed, throwing down the broom into the street.

"A secret admirer?" Lestrade said with a sly grin. "Do you have an idea who the lucky bloke is?"

"I'm not gay," John snapped at him, feeling a little guilty doing so. He didn't know the whole story, how could he? "The admirer is nothing more than a little creep. I am not flattered."

Lestrade held up his hands. "Whoa, sorry, didn't mean to offend. Do you want me to visit him, show off my badge and scare him a little?"

"Lestrade," Sherlock said boredly. "Stop flirting. There's a dead body here, have some respect."

Lestrade turned to him, unimpressed. "Next time, say that without smiling."

Sherlock only responded with a toothy grin. "I'm only happy because I see Anderson isn't here today."

John took a casual look around. The usual group of forensic personnel she had come to know were not present. Only Lestrade and a few key officers were familiar.

"Yeah, these are new guys. Most of them transffered from different divisions."

Sherlock suddenly paused in his investigation of the corpse. He lifted his head up to Lestrade, his eyes narrowing. "Say that again."

"What? Uh... they're all new guys... most of them transffered-"

"You don't know them. Never worked with any of them before."

His voice was an almost whisper, treading on dangerous. If John didn't know better, she would say he was panicked.

Sherlock cautiously rose up, pocketing his minature magnifying glass. His eyes were darting everywhere, all on the surrounding forensics teams. John tried to see what he saw, and for the life of her could not see the danger.

Lestrade, bless him, didn't need an explanation. He took the cue and rose his arm slowly to his coat, trying to look as casual as he could while reaching for his gun.

John cried out when a sudden sharp pain exploded on her arm. She looked, and a two inch tranqulizer dart was sticking out of her flesh.

She pulled it out, threw it away in disgust. She opened her mouth to warn the others and immediately the world tilted on its axis.

She fell to her knees as a strange ringing muffled her hearing. She couldn't comprehend what just happened to her.

She heard Sherlock cry out her name, saw him reach for her, but he was being pulled back by two others. He struggled, managing to punch one of them but he was quickly overwhlemed when three more jumped into the fray.

Next to him, Lestrade was brought down by the use of a taser. They gave him no relief, keeping the little machine on him until he fell in an unconscious heap.

John was beyond thinking at this point. She quietly laid herself on the ground, and closed her eyes. The last thing she heard before her mind blanked out was Sherlock calling her name.

"Joanna!"

()

When she woke again, she wished she was dead.

The headache that pounded her skull made her want to vomit. She turned over, gripping her head and groaning outloud. She kicked out her feet in frustration. She breathed harshly through her nose, willing the nausea to subside.

Very slowly, she opened her eyes. She swallowed.

At first, she thought she was in somebody's house. Somebody's very rich house, judging by the size of the room. Even the bed she laid on was stupidly big. The sheets were made out of silk and probably costed more than the rent at 221B. It wasn't a house, but one of those overly-priced hotel rooms only celebrities and monarchs stayed in. There was even a water fountain in the middle of the room.

It took a few seconds for her to realize somebody had changed her clothes.

No longer was she wearing her usual jumper or jeans. A long, elegant, white gown had been fitted on her. Like a virgrin sacrifice.

"Fuck," she hissed, struggling to sit up. She needed to get out of here, find Sherlock- oh god, she hoped he was okay.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her limbs were not responding as well as she wanted them to. She tried to put weight to her feet, to stand, but her knees wouldn't have it. She collasped, slamming hard onto her outstretched hands.

"Get up, John," she whispered to herself. "Get the fuck up. Get off the goddamn ground."

Someone began clapping. "Wonderful, Joanna! Love your enthusiasm."

Moriarty.

He watched her in glee as she struggled to sit back up, clutching at the bed like it was her only lifeline. "Like the dress?" he asked. "I'm afraid it doesn't fit as well as I thought it would; you hid your breasts too much to make an accurate measurement. But given the circumstances, I think it looks wonderful on you, Joanna."

He kept emphasizing her name. It made her skin crawl. "What did you do with Sherlock?" She asked.

"Hmmm..." Moriarty crossed the room and sat on the floor next to her. He picked at her dress and she tried her hardest not to flinch away from him. "Sherly's fine. A little sore from the taser."

"Where is he?"

"Right where my men left him, back at the crime scene with your Inspector. By the way, have you been fucked either them yet?"

He pulled his knees to his chest, grinning at her like he was her best mate at a slumber party. "C'mon," he cooed. "You can tell me."

This time, she pulled away from him. "Go screw yourself."

He was on her in a second, grabbing her by the hair and slamming her to the ground. She could barely put up a fight and he overpowered her easily. With one hand around her throat, he climbed on top of her, straddling her.

"The only person in this room who was designed to be fucked," he sneered, ignoring her weak grip on his arm. "is you, dear Joanna."

He then reached back and pressed his fingers against her crotch.

She tried to keep her face straight, not to show the fear that was building inside of her. But as his fingers stroked her, she knew he would just rape her for the fun of it. Despite herself, she begged, "Please stop."

Amazingly, he pulled his hand away. He grinned. "You know, in the beginning, I did have plans of raping you. I can't tell you how many times I fantisized Sherlock coming home to find you tied to your bed, ravished." The hand on her throat moved up to her cheek, cupping her face gently. "But that was such a pedestrian thought, so medieval. Boring. I take pride in my games. Trust me, what I have planned for you is much more interesting."

He patted her cheek. "Much more interesting."