Waking up was like suddenly being teleported to a place that he'd never been before. There were empty bottles everywhere and a fucking pounding in his head, the likes of he hadn't had since he got out of medical school after a crazy farewell party. For a moment, he thought someone Harry was sleeping with was inside the house, talking to her, but the graininess and proximity of the voice led him to the radio, that was still on, talking about "Five Delicious Meals to Make With Non-Rationed Items."

Thin stripes of light were blazing through either sides of the blackout curtains, cutting across John's eyelids with vicious intensity. John squinted, propping himself up on the sweaty-smelling vermilion sofa and slowly easing into an upright position.

John thought about lifting up the curtains because he could hardly see, but decided against it after cringing in pain when he turned on the nearby lamp. He turned it off, groaning, pushing his head into his hands.

John was reluctant to leave the couch. It was cold outside, and he didn't especially want to go to that undisclosed location without knowing what was going to happen there. There was something threatening about the ace of spades he found in the envelope - it was sharp looking, and it felt more like metal than paper.

Then again - if it was a threat, which John was convinced it was - he would have to go. Or else.

Huffing, he stumbled off of the couch and found a pen, writing a note on the closest thing to him - a dirty phonebook.

Hey sorry I have to go to a meeting with a colleague

I'll try to visit you soon

John

He dug his hand underneath the sofa cushion and removed his gun, tucking it neatly under his waistband. The gun was hard and cool against the skin of his bare hip.

Now, it was off to Moriarty. Off to death row.

***

Everything was dark. Hot bodies pressed together without a shred of moral decency; decadence filled the hazy, loud, pounding room. Everyone was dancing to live jazz music. Girls were dressed in as little as possible, men kissing them in the dark, their fingers like serpents; everywhere. Their shirts were unbuttoned down to the midriff, a man accidentally pressing his naked stomach into John's hand and taking it as a sign of some sort. John tried to step back into the wall to get some sort of leverage, but the man was closing in on him, palming his body, his angles.

"Wait," John murmured, the realization hitting him. Why would Moriarty send me to a club?

"Wanna dance, love?" he heard, the man's hand curling around John's arse. Instinctively, John shoved him away, looking around, bewildered. "Where am I?" John wildly said, looking in any direction to try to pinpoint an exit. He didn't like this heat, and the noise, and the dark, and he didn't like this man, pressing into him-

He heard a scoff as the man got closer and closer. "You didn't find this place on accident," he purred. "Perhaps you'd like to take this somewhere else."

John finally had the presence of mind to situate, saying, "I'm not a homosexual," and taking a step away from the man. Their eyes locked as John looked up, and they were glassy and bloodshot, unfocused. Through the pounding music, he could hear his heartbeat rising and his adrenaline response kicking in.

"Does it matter?" the man asked in a hum, stepping closer, a hand on John's chest. He started to lean down, although John was still scrambling for purchase on something behind him, trying to push off and away. God, this man was getting so close, he could taste the alcohol on his breath.

Is he going to...?

The man cupped John's cheek with hot, thick fingers, and John's pulse picked up as he stared into the man's marginally hooded eyes. The music was starting to beat against his temple, and he didn't know how to say no, or say yes. He felt an arm sling around his shoulder, and his shoulder blades grind up against a wall that had materialized behind him.

He's going to kiss me. Holy hell, holy hell, this bloke's gonna fucking-

"Should I come back later, boys?"

John looked over to identify the familiar voice desperately, fighting away from the stranger's touch. The man also turned, seemingly rather annoyed that someone had interrupted his sexual harassment. When he saw who it was, though, he sobered up immediately.

Moriarty was standing before them both, dressed in the most immaculate attire John had seen since fashion had fallen out of fashion. His suit was tailored to a science, stuck to his frame impossibly well, and his gaze was as cold and piercing as it was when they previously met.

"John," he greeted with an overly saccharine inflection. "Not having too much fun, I hope?"

"No fun at all," John assured him.

Moriarty blankly looked over to the man who John had been pinned under. "Samuel, do I have to tell you again?"

"No, sir," the man said. Moriarty looked after him with pursed lips until he disappeared into the crowd, and then he exhaled with a lethargy that John could've confused with annoyance if he weren't looking for it.

"Anyway," Moriarty said, slinging his arm around John's shoulders and pressing his body close, as if to shelter him from the loud noise and concentration of dancing bodies. "How are you enjoying my little get together?"

John looked around, now that he was finally able to get some breathing room. It was so dark; all he could make out were moving shapes, the red glow of cigarettes, genderless people fathoming each other in the murk. Moriarty was milling them along, through the crowd, past the music. "It's dark," he stated, because he had nothing else to say.

At that, Moriarty grinned. "It keeps the electric bill low."

"I suppose. Uh - do you own this place?"

"Oh, no," Moriarty laughed. "No, no, no. I'm friends with the owner, though." His gaze went from benevolent to intense within a second. "Would you like to be friends?"

They were approaching a hole in the wall; a long, smoky corridor, with inebriated people lazing silently, soliciting one another. John couldn't listen. Two men were kissing each other behind a pillar, barely wearing anything except t-shirts and slacks. His eyes were fixated on them longer than he'd like to admit. "Uh," John stammered. "Sure."

"I suppose you're wondering why you're here, John." Groups of two or three were milling around, smoking things that John had a strong feeling weren't legal. John said nothing as he breathed in acrid scent of fumes and stale body odor and sweat. He was becoming dizzy from it. His suit felt too tight. Everything about this place seemed wrong, like it was out of alignment with the rest of the city. "I have to discuss something with you," Moriarty went on, coming up to a door.

It was very unlike the rest of the corridor; clean, rich with color, and carved elegantly. No one was in a ten foot radius of it, as if the subtle refinement put them off. Moriarty unlocked the room with a small key, and pushed his way inside.

As soon as John walked in, he was hit with a burst of cool, dry air. It was a small room, but exquisite, with a carved oak desk and shelves full of psychological case studies behind it. It was dimly lit, with no windows - only a mirror by John's immediate left. He affixed to it.

The sight of his own body - so incongruous to his surroundings, so antonymous with the room he was standing in - repulsed him.

He swallowed. He forced his gaze away.

On the desk in front of him, there was a bottle of unopened wine, two glasses, and one cigar.

Moriarty immediately took to it, sitting at the desk. "Cigar?" he offered.

John put up a placatory hand. "I don't smoke. Thank you, though."

"Take a seat," Moriarty said. His voice was beginning to assume this coolness, like a boat taking on water. It was the voice he used to threaten those two twins at the poker game.

Moriarty began to pour two glasses of wine as John seated himself silently. He didn't want to leave the mark of his presence in this room when he left. He didn't want anyone after him to have known he'd been here, and he didn't want to remember anything that happened in this room, whether or not it would benefit him. He spoke as little as possible. Pressed his breath close to his lungs, so no one would hear him inhale.

Something a bit more dark-spirited than disinterest was settling onto Moriarty's face as he pushed the glass of Sauvignon across the desk. He lifted the cigar to his lips and clamped it in between his teeth, tinted slightly: from tea, maybe. "I don't smoke all that often," he admitted, cigar wiggling around. It looked playful. John could see Moriarty's tongue. "Today's a very special day, though, John." He reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a very handsome lighter, silver and engraved. The cigar burst awake, a cough of smoke escaping Moriarty's mouth. "Do you know what day it is?" he asked mildly, removing the cigar from his mouth.

"Sunday," John suggested insincerely.

"Funny one, you are," Moriarty said, although he was showing not an inkling of amusement. His eyes seemed more sunken in, and his skin more pallid. In a sing-song: "It's the day that I finally get what I want."

John shifted. "I suppose I'm involved."

"Indirectly," Moriarty relinquished.

John eyed the man sitting across from him. He had no idea what this man could possibly want with him, even if he did know inexplicably about he and Sherlock's affair. John was a no one, a quiet man, an innocent. The space between who he wanted to be and who he was was vast, boundless, and John was getting no nearer to closing the gap.

Sherlock was filling it. There was a point that John redefined so he could allow radiation to diffuse into his life, permeating his cells mercilessly. And Moriarty maybe knew, because he was irradiated, too - he could sense things, frequencies. Maybe Moriarty knowing would be John's demise - the Fall of Rome, you could say - but maybe Moriarty could inspire something else. Catalyze a spark into a wildfire. Provoke cancer from a single cell.

"How's your fiancée doing?" Moriarty hummed. He pushed smoke from his mouth in a thin, long line, and John watched as it ruptured on a sharp corner of the desk.

"Claire is doing well," John said. He was starting to feel stiff in his suit, his skin and muscle starting to petrify.

Then: "How are you and Sherlock getting along?"

Something in his stomach seemed to implode, condensing into a small mass of nausea. "...Excuse me?"

"He seems very..." Moriarty paused, speculative. "Very fond."

The sick churning in his gut worsened, beginning to expand outward, tightening his entire abdomen. He felt as if he spoke, he would choke on the words.

Very tentatively, he sounded out his next sentence, enunciating each syllable to maintain an air of certainty. "I... don't know what you're talking about."

Moriarty sipped at his wine, puffed at his cigar. Sip, puff, sip, puff. "Don't lie to me, John," he murmured. "I can always tell when people are lying to me."

Sip.

Puff.

"I've got an offer for you, Dr. Watson."

John's jaw set. "What kind of offer?"

"Money. Goods you couldn't normally get under ration."

"Like what?"

"Do you remember the last time you had chocolate, Doctor?"

John's lip twitched unwillingly into an arrogant smirk. "I was seven years old. I never really liked the stuff."

"Fine!" Moriarty suddenly yelled, his voice becoming agitated. "I'll give you anything you bloody want. You want petrol? I'll get you petrol. You want more sugar, so you can make a wedding cake for your beeeeeaauuuu-tiful fiancée" - his voice went high and mocking - "I'll get you sugar, I'll get you flour, butter, yeast, I'll hire a baker from Florence and have them prepare you a banquet. If you want jewelry - if you want the Crown Jewels! - I will get them for you."

Puff.

"If you don't want Claire anymore," Moriarty said, smoke whispering from his mouth, "I'll get rid of Claire."

"Is that a threat?" John asked, squinting. His glass was still untouched.

"It's a promise. I'll get you anything your little heart desires, John. My men can make you the King of England." He sipped leisurely at his wine. "Or the Queen," he added, "if that's what you're into."

John knew that if he asked the next question, he'd be committing to this - a pre-agreement. Something deep in his mind fought against him, but curiosity was always so potent a toxin. "In exchange for...?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty answered promptly and coldly.

John's jaw clenched and unclenched a couple of times as he ran over that name in his head. "Sherlock Holmes has been causing a lot of trouble for me recently," John bit. "No, thank you. I appreciate it, though." The hostility in the space was starting to pressurize. John imagined that if someone opened the carved wood door to this room, they'd be sucked in. "Are we done?"

"No," Moriarty said, something that was a smile but not really a smile curling against his lip. "If you get me Sherlock Holmes, I will make you rich."

John's nostrils flared. "And if I don't?"

"If you don't," he whispered, his intonation eerie, "I'll make you into shoes."

John stared relentlessly at Moriarty as he poured himself another glass of wine, and smushed out his cigar on the desk, leaving a dark blemish on the immaculate surface.

Moriarty was average, dark eyed, pale. No one in the real world knew who he was except the choice few that lived at night, in blackout shadows. There was nothing about him that warranted fear - except his attitude, and those eyes. And eyes were just eyes, no matter how capable the person behind them was.

"No," John said. "No, I don't think so."

Moriarty exhaled slowly, faking disappointment. He sobered up in an instant. "I was honestly hoping you would say that," he said. "Makes the game a bit more fun. So, John, let me rephrase this in a way you'll understand: if you don't give me Sherlock Holmes, I tell everyone about your little secret."

"I beg your pardon?" John replied smoothly, giving Moriarty a caustic smile.

"You think I don't know about your first boyfriend? Or your second? John" - Moriarty tsked patronizingly - "it's my job to know things."

"And what exactly is your job, Moriarty?" John hissed. He was losing patience very quickly.

"That's for me to know," he responded, pressing his glass of wine to his lips, "and for you to never find out." He gulped the rest down in a purposefully exaggerated display of inelegance. "So. Let me explain what's going to happen, now. You're going to go home to your fiancée, and she's going to ask where you've been, and you're going to say you were staying at Harry's to clear your head. You're going to get close to Sherlock, and find out everything about him. At the end of the month, if you've gathered sufficient intel, you get anything you want. Anything at all."

John was seething with anger. He leaned forward, crossing his arms, his voice a threatening, intense grit through clenched teeth. "How about this," John suggested coldly. "I won't spy on Sherlock Holmes for you. I go home and kiss my wife on the cheek and tell her that it's okay that she slapped me around the face. We have sex. I have a bit of fun on the side, but it's without your help. I never see you again." John finally took the wine from the desk, and drank it all down in three defiant gulps, slamming it back down.

"That's a vintage," Moriarty whined-

"You have no proof that Sherlock and I are having an affair. I don't know what your game is, but-"

"The game is this," Moriarty nearly shouted. "I have a manila file filled with incriminating photos with your name on it. We know what you do at the art academy. Funnily enough, you don't paint."

"How do I know you're not bluffing?"

Moriarty tilted his head, and it was almost reptilian. "Do you really want to take that chance?"

"What if I do?" John bit.

"Then your pretty fiancée," Moriarty sing-songed in a chilling whisper, "won't be pretty by mooor-ning."