The drug began to take effect immediately. John felt his stomach loosen and the skin around his head tighten. His eyelids became heavy and his limbs sagged. His attacker made himself known, at last, stepping out from the shadows to where John was tied up.

"Moriarty," the doctor managed to splutter.

"Moriarty," replied Moriarty, his face sliding into an unpleasant grin. John's insides squirmed. The murderer, thief, criminal drew closer, so close that John could feel his breath against his mouth. He wished Sherlock would hurry up and find him. With a sickening lurch, he was suddenly face-down on the ground.

"You were just too cute to resist, weren't you?" Moriarty sighed, his voice sing-song and light. John's skin crawled and nausea washed over him as the criminal's hands started to slide his clothes from his limp body.

"This is sick," he managed to cough out.

"No, no, no," chuckled Moriarty, "What would be sick is if I knocked you out completely so you couldn't experience this with me." At 'ex', he drove into John, who cried out in pain.

He blacked out for a second then came around with another strong hit of nausea. He bit down on his lip and tried to think about something else.


Sherlock Holmes popped into his head. He imagined this was his friend, his detective doing this to him, which made it slightly less disgusting. His stomach settled and he found himself beginning to enjoy the intrusion.

His stomach started to twist itself into knots again. The drug was relaxing him, until Moriarty nipped the back of his naked shoulder with sharp teeth. John tensed, which sent the criminal over the edge. With a sinful, feminine moan, he pulled himself away from the doctor, who rolled onto his back and pulled Moriarty down in a feverish, drug-fuelled kiss.

Moriarty returned the assault on his mouth with passion, digging his fingernails into John's fleshy middle. He only relented when the short man murmured something against his lips.

"Sherlock," he whispered.

Moriarty slapped him in the face. He punched him in the mouth then started to kick him repeatedly in the stomach. By the time John had vomited, Moriarty was leaping out of the warehouse with the grace of a gazelle.

The drug finally grabbed hold of John's consciousness and he was dragged into the dark, dreamless sleep, just as Sherlock Holmes was dashing up the stairs into the warehouse, Moriarty's blood drenching his clothes.

"If he's done anything to you, John …" he snarled, to himself.

When he reached his blogger's motionless, bloody body, his knees almost gave out. His consolation was the blood of his blogger's attacker on his hands.

He checked John's neck for a pulse and exhaled sharply as he found it. He covered him with his blood-soaked overcoat and carried him down to the end of the alley, where he had a taxi waiting.

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies," he told the driver, who floored the pedal.

Not soon enough for Sherlock, they pulled up outside 221B Baker Street. As he rushed up the stairs three at a time with John in his arms, the poor man was babbling away to himself.

"I knew you'd come for me Sherlock. Not in the same way he did, obviously, teeheehee. But a girl can dream." He gave a choked laugh and Sherlock winced.

He placed John as gently as he could onto his bed. Mrs Hudson was sobbing quietly into a handkerchief.

"He'll be fine, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock reassured her, as he checked his blogger for signs of internal bleeding. It seemed like there were none, just the drugs Moriarty had administered causing him to slip in and out of sleep. Holmes slapped him gently on the side of his face that didn't look like it had been kicked.

"Stay awake for me John," he demanded, looking into the doctor's unfocused eyes. The focus slid back into them for a second.

"Am I going to die?" he coughed, a frown marring his tanned brow.

"You chucked most of the drug up back in the warehouse. A couple of broken ribs, but I think you'll be ok."

John slid a hand around Sherlock's neck and pulled him down to his face.

"I do love you, you know," he whispered, almost too softly for the detective to detect.

"You're delusional," Sherlock gently replied. The clarity began to fade from John's eyes and he flopped back against the pillow.

"Just keep him awake," commanded Sherlock at Mrs Hudson.

He slipped into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. For precisely one minute he shook with silent sobs, then washed his face and composed himself.

"Sherlock!" screamed Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock threw himself into the bedroom. John's eyes were shut and he wasn't breathing.

"I'm sorry; I tried to keep him awake, I …"

Sherlock pinched John's nose, blocking Mrs Hudson out of his view with his elbow. He breathed deeply for his blogger, desperately savouring the warm feel of his skin. It might not be warm for much longer.

"Come on John. I need you, I need you," he muttered urgently, feeling for a pulse. There was none.

The next words got stuck in his throat. "Please, I …"

A single tear fell from that pair of piercing blue eyes. Mrs Hudson faded into the background and everything was grey except Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Lifetimes passed between them and still the doctor's chest did not rise.

Sherlock squeezed his companion's limp fingers.

The fingers squeezed back.