Chapter Text
When Jim had first seen John from the porch, he had been a little curious as to how his subordinate had managed to get him into the car. Even with their past connection, John seemed to be in a mental place that wouldn't allow him to trust anyone. Much less someone who he knew worked for Moriarty. His eyes wandered to said person, and he let a smile crawl onto his face.
The tea hadn't exactly been just tea, but that didn't matter. John Watson was reclining against the couch, his head tilted back and his mouth open. It was nice to see this calmer version of Watson; it reminded Jim of the person he had kidnapped all those years ago in the pool. His hand traveled up to the blond hair, and he carded his fingers through it.
"Sir, would you like me to move him to the room set up for him?" Moran asked, standing next to the doorway. The concern barely hidden in his voice made something in Jim itch in annoyance.
"Did I ask that of you?" He coldly replied, sneering.
"No, sir." Moran replied, eyes not wavering from the spot he had been starting at. At least the man knew that he had done something wrong. Jim rolled his eyes and brushed John's hair down one more time.
The clear bags underneath John's eyes were only one part of this new John Watson. He had let his appearance deteriorate and it was very noticeable. Even the clothes he was wearing were crinkled and did not smell like they had been washed recently. Now was that due to the schizophrenia or the depression? Were they connected?
The orange color of the setting sun cast a warm atmosphere to the room, but it fell cold over John. It didn't improve his look at all-- rather it seemed to only highlight the stark contrast of the old and new John. It displeased Jim to see his new foe so weak and pathetic. Even Sherlock, for all his lack of manners and social propriety, knew when to dress up. No, this wouldn't do at all.
A grin filled his face, and Jim laughed, shaking his head. This would be the most perfect game. With his careful hand and direction... his caring attitude, Jim would carefully tear down this broken John, would let him explore the darker urges that would surely leak now that his emotional defenses were so low. He would let John slowly crumble into and out of himself, seeking for any source of comfort, and when he was at his lowest, James Moriarty, his most hated villain, would offer a helping hand, a shoulder to cry on, and he would build up dear old Watson.
Judging from Watson and Holmes' previous friendship, there was no way that John wouldn't become loyal to him. The next part would be the best though.
When he had Watson securely in his grasp, a fluttering bird unknowingly in a caged trap, he would let the little bird, this little yellow canary, out into the real world and let him spread his wings. He would take the sheet off of the cage and let him see all the things that he was blind to before. And John... John would see.
The giggle that climbed up his throat was unbidden but no less deserved. He crouched down next to the couch so that he was eye level with the slumbering John. He let his eyes wander across his face, glee filling him at the idea of finally having someone interesting as his opponent. After Sherlock, there hadn't been anyone worthy to step up to the place.
Jim stood up.
"Moran, take John to the room now. Make sure to make him comfortable and lock the door." Jim nodded to him as he walked past him, leaving the two veterans in the room alone.
Soft. Clean. Soothing. He was surrounded by something that felt all too much like if he was waking up before he had ever met Sherlock. Before he had ever gone to war. John let out a pained noise as he pressed into the pillow, letting his senses get filled with the comfort. It hurt, but it was too nice-- like a dream that he didn't want to wake up from. Maybe it was a dream.
It was this thought that got him to turn back around, face up on the bed, eyes trained on the ceiling above him. Wait.... this wasn't his ceiling?!
Shooting to his feet, John looked around trying to figure out where he was. His shoes were next to the dresser on the far side of the room, but besides that nothing else seemed familiar. There was an open door that led to a small bathroom, and to his left there was a desk. Where was he?
The memories slowly filtered in, and his eyes flickered up to the corners of the room, looking for cameras. It was a surprise to see nothing though. It didn't dispel the paranoia. Mycroft had taught him already that there were cameras the size of ants with incredible resolution.
"John."
The blond swirled around, hands up and ready to throw a punch. Sebastian Moran raised an eyebrow and the other gave him an equally unamused look.
"Where am I?"
"You came with me yesterday." Sebastian said slowly, and John felt affronted at being talked to like if he was a child. He wasn't.
"Are we still in the same place?" John demanded, pushing Sebastian into the wall, his forearm on the other's neck. However, Moran didn't seem to appreciate the gesture and swirled them around so that John was pinned to the wall, a hand on his neck. John glared up at him, his mouth in a snarl.
"Calm down." Moran said. "Yes, we're in the same place. Moriarty promised that he wouldn't hurt you." John stayed quiet, his eyes trained on Moran's. "He's waiting for you downstairs." It was John who broke the eye contact, looking to the open bathroom door, prompting Moran to let him go.
"Why?" John asked, scratching the back of head. "What does he want with me?"
"Breakfast, I think."
John huffed out a laugh before realizing that the other had been serious.
"Breakfast, really?" John's voice was colored with suspicion, and the assassin sighed, nodding. "Okay then. Let's go." He began to go towards the door, but an arm blocked his path. He looked at its owner with an annoyed look.
"You need to take a shower and change clothes." Sebastian cleared his throat, looking embarrassed at having to say it.
"Well, how am I supposed to change if I don't have any clothes?"
"There's clothes in your dresser. It was stocked with all the things you would need."
He opened his mouth to protest against this, but Sherlock's voice from the bed cut him off.
"Bloody hell, John, just take a damn shower." Sherlock groaned from the bed, lifting the sheet above his head. "It's too early for these kinds of squabbles."
John looked back at Sebastian and he nodded, his jaw clenched. Something was suspicious here. Were they planning to kill him? It wouldn't surprise him, but now that he had slept, the idea of being murdered was exactly as appealing as the day before.
"You can go." He said to Moran. "I don't need you to hold my hand, Moran." His tone was scalding.
"I'll be in the hallway."
John sighed, relaxing his shoulders and he turned to Sherlock who laid across the entirety of the bed, snoring. Well, at least, his last moments would be filled with his best friend, no matter how.... fake they seemed.
Shaking his head, John went to the bathroom. It was surprisingly good for a last shower ever. The heat of the water felt good against his skin after... who knows how long the last shower had been. The scents were soothing too, and part of John scolded him for not treating himself better in his last few days.
"So, when are you going to be done?" Sherlock rattled the curtain, and the blond let out a yelp, snapping out of the peaceful mindset he had been in.
"Sherlock, I've told you not to do that." John's head popped out from behind the curtain and Sherlock rolled his eyes as he sat down on the toilet, crossing his arms and looking away from John with a pout.
"Well, John, not all of us want to spend the rest of our lives getting pruney and gross."
"You can't even get pruney. You're a figment of my imagination."
"Then I guess you're talking to yourself." Sherlock replied snippily.
"I guess I am."
It was a few minutes later that John made his way out of the shower, sighing at the lick of cool air that circled him. He gave Sherlock a look as he began to lower his towel and the other sighed, closing his eyes.
Sebastian had been right. There were clothes that fit him perfectly. That wasn't creepy at all, John thought drily. While it wasn't the most ideal situation, John also hadn't felt as good as this for... months.
"Are you done?" Sebastian asked, peeking into the room.
"Yeah." John ran a hand through his hair, slicking it back as he followed Sebastian out of the room and into the hall. If John hadn't known better, he would've said that it looked like a normal everyday house. There were paintings pinned up to the red walls, and there were decorations strategically placed around the halls. They could make good weapons if he ended up needing it.
"Mr. Moriarty will be waiting for you in the dining room." Moran said, opening the door for John and the other looked up with squinted eyes.
"Why are you acting like some kind of butler?"
"I'm the only other person in this house, and I do all of the chores. So, I guess that makes me the butler."
"One hell of a butler." John muttered drily, entering the room to a smiling Jim waiting for him at a long table filled with food.