As promised, part B of this chapter. Heartfelt thanks to Thecumberbitch, ITell, Rache-stands-for-revenge (which is an awesome pen name, by the way), 13AkiraKuranXIII, and reflekshun for reviewing even after these many months of no updates.

Warnings for Violence and Language, and also, weird possessiveness. Moriarty's clearly craaaaazy.

Very long, pretty boring, but it has a lot of back story, so it is important.

Part B

Moriarty's POV

It was without a doubt that Sherlock was going to figure out what little Johnny Boy was hiding before the four hours were up. He had seen the way the man's face had crumbled as he cut the feed, the flicker of uncertainty that marred his perfect, blank features. Although he had moved on from this man over three years ago, Jim couldn't help feeling a flash of smugness at kicking his old nemesis in the ass.

Now, there was only silence. After the conference ended, he left John to the devices of his men, who were putting on the electrodes, setting the stage. The final scene of their play. Jim smiled a little, twistedly wistful as he looked back at the years that had brought them here. All of the banter, the losses, the scars. But it was worth it. He had John, and it was over. By the time the assassin left the room, it would be willingly, by his side. Either that, or he would never leave the room again. He idly hoped it wouldn't come to that. How tedious.

He stalked up to the closed door, white washed and devoid of character. What promise lay beyond this shoddy woodwork! It hardly did the man on the other side any justice. He slowly ducked his head and pressed his face up to the grainy wood. He stood still, listening to the barely audible sound of John's stuttering breath. He was nervous. Poor Johnny. He rapped lightly on the door and grinned at his prey's sharp intake of breath.

"Johnny? Are you decent in there?" he called, letting his voice caress the words and swing up and down. His voice did many interesting things when he let it. It was part of the reason why his persona as Richard Brook had been so convincing.

A beat.

"Yeah," the man on the other side said, voice flat. Jim nodded internally in approval. Strong. Very impressive.

Tension laid thick in the air as he opened the door and stepped through. This was a familiar scenario for them. Sometimes, it was John who was strapped to the chair, and other times it was himself. The universal rule was, when dealing with dear, dear Johnny Boy, the one in the chair always got hurt. He sensed apprehension rolling off John in waves, but it was different than other times they had confronted. This seemed more final. Whatever happened here would change the course of their intertwined fates forever.

"Why John, you look lovely tonight," he said, smiling at John's discomfort. His eyes lingered on the scars on the man's skin, scars that he had left there. Across his rib, his arms, his back, and his stomach. Many of them had bitter memories attached, memories of hurt and bitterness, revenge and savageness that Jim had dealt out in wild, untamed moments. That was the second year after the fall. That wasn't a good year for either of them.

John hardly missed a beat before shooting back, "I wish I could say the same about you." Childish. It was weak, but the effort was there. John was clearly trying to smirk, but it looked more like a grimace. Jim pretended to be insulted.

"John, John, John… you really shouldn't insult the man with the remote to those electrodes in his hand." He flicked the remote teasingly, lightly. He saw John's eyes tracking his hands, and then the man tensed. It was the only reaction. Jim drank in John's subtle pain like a man dying of thirst… the clenching muscles, the slight twitch in his left eye. Beautiful. "What a brave pet," he purred, thinking back to that moment that Jim first got alone time with John, at the pool. He had called him a pet then too. But now it meant something different than a simple degradation. It was a promise. He longed to press the button until John was screaming, twitching on the floor, but it was far too early for that. He instead poked at the scars on his back, the large, swirling I.O.U. that he carved in his trademark swooping script.

"What's the game," John growled, bearing his teeth in a clear display of aggressiveness. How cute. Jim leaned forward, tickling John's neck with his breath and causing the man to shift in discomfort.

"Four hours," he whispered, withdrawing smoothly and crossing back to the front so he could see John's face. It was impassive, a wall that was created especially to keep him out. He would enjoy breaking it.

He pressed down on the button, more forcefully this time, and was rewarded by a sharp exhalation. There was a vein ticking in his temple as his body responded to the pain without his consent. It wouldn't be long before he began to sweat, Jim knew. He also knew that John wouldn't last very long under this stress. Under any other circumstance, he could last ages under the torture and not even come close to breaking. He knew from personal experience. But now, everything was catching up with the world weary assassin. The death of his sister. The abduction. His stay at the hospital. He body was craving food, water, and sleep, all of which had been denied. Not to mention his rib was probably still aching. Still, the man was resolutely silent. He gave no vocal signs of his discomfort.

"It's okay Johnny, you don't have to speak. A stable relationship between two parties allows for companionable silences." He hadn't expected a response, but he let his comment hang in the air. He looked down at his fingernails, and noted that they were looking a bit worse for wear. He wasn't used to torturing people himself… he had underlings for that. But for John, he'd do it. He'd do anything to crawl under that man's skin. He was a living contradiction: killer and healer, traitor and friend, cold and compassionate. It was as if John couldn't quite decide which half of himself he wanted to be. It would take some work, but he was determined to mold John, to shove him towards the parts of himself he had long ago buried. The man who took pleasure in the hunt, who was a merciless mercenary who could kill in more ways than strictly necessary.

He made a sociopath care. And now, it seems, he made a psychopath possessive.

He pressed the button again, watching for John's reactions.


Gritted teeth.


Rigid muscles, slight trembling.


A brief shuddering of his limbs, but quickly reined in.

"I'll admit, I'm rather impressed with your perseverance John," he conceded with a pleased hum. It wasn't as if he expected anything less.


"You would make a rather stunning right hand man." He wasn't lying. John would be beautiful, equipped with a rifle, killing in his name. He smiled.

He recognized the glint in John's eyes. It was like his own. Too many variables going through his head without an outlet. Jim could give him one.


This time, a low groan tore itself from John's throat. In the relative silence of the room, it was like a sweet hymn thrumming through a church.

He pressed the button again, holding it down longer than before.

John didn't concede this time. Jim would have liked to hear John's voice again. He'll just have to be patient.

"Join me, Johnny Boy, and we could stop this. I would even consider sparing Sherlock." ...that arrogant twat.

"Fuck you," John grunted, spitting it out from his abused body. His muscles were contracting of their own volition, and his skin was shining with sweat. Jim smiled.

"Glad to hear it," he said, a bubble of a laugh welling up in his throat. "I would have been disappointed if you had given up that easily." And if I didn't get to hear you scream at least once.

John's countenance, the impassive wall, began to crumble before his very eyes. Anger and festering hatred broke through the cracks, and caused Jim to grin back at the twitching man before him.

"You know how easily your man gave?"

Like sand, Jim's grin sifted off his face. He felt his stomach drop. John was like him. He knew how to hurt, even without his hands. John's mouth was twisted into a manic grin, expression cruel.

"Shut up," he said softly. He was, of course, referring to Sebastian, his sniper, the only man he had ever trusted with his life. They lived together, Sebastian in the basement with his ridiculous gun collection and penchant for leaving cigarettes all over the place. He looked at John balefully, and only saw himself. He was struck with a pang of self loathing, but ruthlessly pushed it aside.

"Dear little Sebastian Moran. The man you had pointing a rifle at my head during Sherlock's fall. Sebby, Jimmy's most trusted friend." John sneered, and Jim felt wild hatred, devoid of reason and logic, well up in his shattered soul. He was torn between wanting John and his desire to rip him apart. "He was so easy to find. The killer versus the tiger. Silly Jim, don't you know that the hunter always wins?"

"Don't talk about him," Jim said, posture straightening. The man had saved his life so many times, far outside the realm of pure professionalism. They shared drinks outside of work, just like two ordinary blokes. It was the only time he had liked feeling ordinary, dull. Sebastian, the military reject, who put up with his mood swings and violent tendencies. Even shared his violent tendencies. They had ripped apart many people together, just as friends. He had been there at the pool, when Jim had first confronted Sherlock and John. He had been pointing his gun at the doctor, ready to blast him apart at his command.

He hadn't been all that smart. He wasn't really anything special. Maybe it was that he was just never afraid, not even of Jim. Either way, he was gone now. John had murdered him.

"He screamed as I killed him, you know," John continued, relentless. Jim could feel the stabs of hatred coming from the man. This is for Harry. This is for Sherlock. This is for me, and the life you unburied. "He begged me to finish it. He begged me as I cornered him, as I took out my knife, and carved my name, a calling card, letter by letter…"

Jim remembered that day. The second anniversary of Sherlock's fall. Jim had been in Iran, coordinating affairs. He should have never left Sebastian back there, where a manic John was running around, bloodthirsty and pushed to the brink by his own machinations. He found Sebastian in his flat when he came back, two days dead, with a messy slash across his throat and John Watson's name and a smiley face cut neatly on his chest.

Things had gotten complicated after that. Jim hurt John, and John hurt Jim back. It was no longer a mind game. It was rabid. Jim had gotten John in his grasp that very day, and pinned him down as he carved the I.O.U. into his back. He had never meant the phrase more than he had then.

"I owe you, John Watson," he had snarled, pushing the blade into the taut flesh of the back and dragging harshly. John howled, squirmed, and laughed. For the first time, Jim wondered if he was right in unburying this monster.

"Strike a nerve, did I?"

The memory burned in his eyes, and he snarled, trying to dispel the image. Before he knew it, he was strangling the man in front of him. He knew he could end this man's life if he wanted to. John gazed up at him, defiantly, and Jim felt a surge of twisted affection for him. He reached out and caressed John's face, scratching lightly at his stubble. His emotions were too intense, too much at once, they were all bleeding together in a cacophony of maim, hate, admire, possess, adore.

"Oh John," he breathed, letting his true voice through. His mind was overloaded, too much input at once… but one idea hovered above the maelstrom of his instability. Revenge. "It would be wise for you to hold your tongue. You fascinate me Johnny. You were the one that slipped under my radar, and nobody does that to me. I want you at my side. But if I have to break you, make you scream before hand, I will. I will devour you, John Watson. Don't forget your place." He reluctantly let go of John's throat, and stepped backwards lightly. He vaguely noticed that he was grinning. "After all," he whispered conspiratorially, thumbing the remote in his hand, "I'm the one holding the remote."

He pressed the button, over and over, until John finally relented and screamed. But he couldn't make himself stop. He wondered how much Sebastian had screamed when John rubbed the salt in the gashes his had made on his chest.

Despite protests from the half of his brain that was still shrieking for blood, Jim stopped pressing the button. He observed the man before him, panting, shaking uncontrollably. John was a thing of grace in his agony.

"You didn't even last an hour," he sighed, giving John a look of mock sadness. "What will Sherlock say when he learns that his lion failed so spectacularly? Why don't I send him a little gift?"

"Don't," John gasped. Jim's lip curled over his teeth. "Sherlock doesn't have... t-to do with this. This is… you an' me…"

"Why John," he said with a cracked smile and a knife in his hand, "it almost sounds like you care for the little fucker." Like I cared for Sebastian. "Now, hold still~" He brought the knife down to John's right hand, whistling as he worked.

'Don't cry, darling

I'll be with you

All night, darling

Deep within you

He's a good man in a bad time

He's a good man in a bad time…'

Wow! Dark again! Surprise surprise. So there was a hint of MorMor in there, and also Jim/John, but there's nothing really in it. It's just the musings of a crazy man. So there was a lot of backstory that was alluded to throughout the story… you may not remember, but most of this chapter is completely relevant to a different parts of the story.

Part C (maybe) out tomorrow, but now that I think of it, probably not. I have to work tomorrow, and I have Biology due the next day.

Take time to Review!