Trees became barren and gray; a constant blend of unchanging uniformity. The sun set in the daytime. Colors became darker.

And yesterday had been the first snow of the season.

John couldn't go home anymore. When Sherlock wasn't looking, he'd grabbed the key to the music room and Sherlock's private office, and when Sherlock went home that night, John snuck inside and turned on the tiny fireplace in the corner of the room, woefully inadequate. Then he wrapped up on the couch, using the blankets that Sherlock left in case he needed to spend the night there.

It was strange sleeping on this couch. It smelled like him; like cigarettes and mint. If he didn't think too much, he felt safe.

But he wasn't safe. He was freezing, and he didn't know how long he could sleep here, at the academy, without Sherlock finding out.

Or James. Or Mark, or Claire.

He'd come into work yesterday to see he'd been wiped from all the shifts. He knew he was fired; he didn't even bother to check with Mr. Morgen. The receptionist didn't even say goodbye to him; in fact, no one said goodbye to him. The entire lobby was dead silent as everyone watched John Watson, previous Doctor of the Year, leave with two boxes' worth of his belongings. It was almost surreal. His coworkers, who were previously so attached to him, watched him leave with the emotional capacity of a dead carp fish.

He realized when he was outside that he didn't have a place to stay, or a job, or money. No fiancée.

John still remembered where Sherlock had kissed him for the first time. It was in this room, right over by the desk Sherlock sat in when he was signing paperwork. Four months ago, Sherlock had whipped into his life with a key to a lock and John stole it. And before that, John was a better person. Before Sherlock Holmes, John knew how to lie in concept; he saved dishonesty for poker games and Mr. Tabbot.

Maybe he wasn't a good man. He didn't think he was. He'd stolen and lied too much to pass it off as circumstantial; the guilt was swamping him over but that didn't mean he didn't earn that guilt. It was his to have and to hold. He didn't have much else, these days.

John bought a pack of cigarettes today, with the only cash he had left in his wallet. When the sun set, he held one to the fireplace, and put it to his lips as smoke began to fill the darkness. John was able to make out abstract shapes, lit up by the flame, and he fixated his eyes upon some of Sherlock's possessions that were floating around the room. Of course, there were piles upon piles of song books, stacked up sloppily on bookshelves, and trinkets and toys and skulls of varying nomenclature. The wall that John painted was still covered in even musical notation.

Among all the things in this room, John was overtaken with curiosity by his desk, which Sherlock had never let him touch without the promise of sex. The one time John had attempted to sit down there, Sherlock had chastised him heavily, and then promptly insulted him.

John slid from the couch. Maybe this desk contained something about the "sensitive plans" Mycroft was speaking of. Maybe it was a clue.

As he sat, delicately running his fingers across the desk, a siren began to swell behind him, signalling a potential air raid. John ignored it, as he always did, and gently opened up one of the drawers. He turned on the desk lamp with a lit cigarette still in hand.

Papers. John ruffled through, not exactly methodical but not overly random, either. Pens, paperclips - a pair of handcuffs...?

John gave up on that drawer and tried the next one. And when that wasn't hiding anything, he tried the next, and the next. It was when he was getting to the second last one where he found some evidence of a secret.

Hidden beneath index cards and envelopes and stationery was a small, wooden frame, plain as day. John picked it up, gently. Weighed it in his fingers before finally allowing himself to look.

Inside, there was a picture - withered and no bigger than three inches wide.

It was... Sherlock.

Young. Maybe fourteen. And an older teenager with reddish brown hair and small, cynical eyes, looking deeply displeased. They had their arms around what looked to be their parents. His father was tall, hair just as dark as Sherlock's, with gray brushing at his temples.

John's eyes finally settled on Sherlock's mother.

John didn't know how to articulate how beautiful she was. Everything in her, he saw in Sherlock, amplified. Her eyes were warmer, brown and creamy, and she was the only person in the picture who was grinning. And the kindness he could see - the motherly fierceness - it was right at the surface. Sherlock could tell that he loved her from the way he was holding her against him.

Sherlock said he didn't care about anything or anyone. John now knew that was true - the person he cared about most was dead. And Sherlock had never looked at him like that - with that intensity.

John was surprised when he felt jealousy towards a dead person, but that didn't stop him from feeling it. He knew what it felt like to be loved like that - his mother was just as fierce, just as motherly. She didn't have that smile, though. Nothing in her eyes was as full. Sometimes, John would look at her, and he could see the anger that she tried to suppress, bubbling at the surface like carbonated water. She was better at hiding her frustrations, her doubts. John had never seen her snap like he could. Like he had.

No one could tell she was angry except for him. (Takes one to know one.)

Sherlock's mother was something else. Her smile made the picture brighter. She was a blemish of light, an anomaly of color - John could see Sherlock in her, and her in Sherlock.

He ran his thumbs over the glass, and turned the frame around so he could look inside. John popped the back open.

And there it was. A playing card, tipped with red.

An ace of spades; identical to the one John had found in the letter he'd received from his anonymous attacker. He couldn't fathom why Sherlock would have it, or why it was stained with dried blood.

He turned it over a couple times, looking for signs of scratching, but it was completely untouched besides the blemishes of ruddy brown. If there'd been something else - signs of a struggle, anything - maybe he'd be able to use it as evidence. It could have been from a regular playing deck.

But why was it hidden?

And why was it hidden here? Behind a family photo?

John gently slipped the card inside, and clipped the frame shut. His gaze lingered for a few moments at the family picture, jealousy bubbling at his skin - but he eventually put the picture back exactly where he found it, then halfheartedly rummaged through the rest of the drawers. There was nothing. He turned off the lamp, dragging his way across the room, and finally collapsed into bed. Trying not to think about everything that was going wrong was harder than he would've thought. And there was a lot going wrong.

This crusade was resulting in nothing but guilt. He was playing Claire so he could play with Sherlock, but playing Sherlock so he could play with Moriarty. How long would it be until it was done?

Until everything was done?

Part of him knew how this would end, but was unwilling to face the reality. Stubbornly, stupidly unwilling. It wasn't as if he was going to be able to carry this façade on for the rest of his life. The only way he could truly end this was by hurting someone.

By midnight, an hour later, he was still stark awake, smoking, and listening to the clock tick evenly and persistently. His mind was alight, in turmoil. He couldn't figure out how Sherlock was able to sleep here; everything was foreign. The shadows were worse because they took up room, and John's cigarette was starting to taste bitter. He groaned, slowly pulling himself into a stand to squash the cigarette butt into an ashtray.

As he moved, John caught the noise of a strange creak in the next room, and froze.

That was the only warning he received before the door was kicked in.

John's first impulse was to grab the lamp by the couch. There were three men, all significantly taller and sturdier than him. They were dressed head to toe in black, their shadows flickering spasmodically against the flame. One laughed at the sight of him, holding the rod of the lamp like a sword.

"Look at this poor sod," John heard as the men advanced forward. "Thinks a lamp is gonna save 'im."

You're not going to think at all when I bash your fucking skull in.

John braced himself.

When they got too close, John hit the leader across the head with a sick, satisfying crunch of glass against metal and bone, and watched as he crumpled to the floor like a rag doll.

"Shit-!" one of them shouted. "You little...!"

The smaller man grabbed the lamp from his hand and flung it against the wall with a rage and adrenaline that was palpable. John watched as it shattered a glass frame, slivers of reflected moonlight splintering against the ground, his concentration momentarily broken, and then felt a heat explode against his chin as a fist glanced him. John's body snapped back from the force, and he stumbled right into the couch, the echoes of pain screaming in his head. Soon enough, the largest man had grabbed him firmly by the shoulders, and all the air expelled from John's lungs as he kneed him heartily in the stomach. "Could have made this easy for us," John heard as his vision went spotty, "coulda just stayed quiet, Dr. Watson."

John rasped a protest through the lack of air, even though he knew there was no one there to hear him, even though he knew that Sherlock wasn't here to hear him. Reason flew away as panic ripped its way through, as pain blossomed in his temple, as he felt everything dim.

"Little fucking prat," John heard. A burlap bag swallowed all light as it went over his head, scraping his cheek. He couldn't breathe.

"Our boss will not like this," one of the men said.

"Tie this bugger up."

John shrieked in protest, but another knee to the stomach shut him up as he doubled over soundlessly. He felt a cord cut into his wrists and ankles as he fell over. More pain, and more pain - the shards of glass from Sherlock's picture frame cleanly sliced into John's upper arm. There was a piece pressed against the fleshiness of his palm, teasing his escape. He needed to know he'd be okay. He needed to know-

Suddenly, a bag unzipped, and then there was the sound of someone tapping a syringe. John was exhausted, but he knew that if there was a chance that syringe was going to make him fall asleep - permanently - he'd fight it. With one more surge of energy, he fingered the glass into his palm, and cut into the ropes holding his feet together. The heavy clud of boots coming towards him filled his senses; John scrambled up, only to be kicked back down again. Grunting, he swung his arms where he thought the man's foot was, lodging the glass firmly in his calf. Someone howled: "Fuck! Get him!"

"Get him!" he kept screaming. "For God's sake!"

With the remaining adrenaline, John blindly stumbled to his feet and climbed over his captor's body, only to be met with another pair of hands. He could feel the smooth glass of the needle against his shoulder, so he grabbed the hand in an attempt to tear it away. To his surprise and horror - John succeeded in grabbing the syringe - but needle up.

A scream bubbled hot and thick in his throat. "Fuck!" John managed, spit flecking his lips, "Fucking fuck!" It went through my hand, was all John could think. It went through my hand.

And the man who was attacking him was still attacking - and he had no time to contemplate the severity of his situation - of the needle sticking out between two of his metacarpal bones. He gritted his teeth - and pulled.

As soon as the syringe was out of his hand, he stabbed it into the man's neck. A body dropped to the ground half a second later.

And then it was silent, except for the slow, soft slide of fabric, dragging across the floor (probably a henchman), and John's breathing, ragged, like torn clothes. He began walking in the direction furthest from the heat of the fireplace, shuffling. Weak in all his bones, the air sucking him dry.

He bumped into something hard, and then something else - a limp, fleshy mass. John would have vomited if there wasn't a bag around his head. As he tried to maneuver around the unconscious body, there was a stirring. John's stomach dropped.

The next second, John had been yanked to the floor by his hands, and the next, the henchman had straddled him down by the waist.

It seemed like the pain would never stop; John's entire body was singing with agony without the man laying a finger on him. There was a stabbing sensation in his neck. The captor must have grabbed another syringe while John was incapacitated.

His felt his senses flooding with fear, pain, naked aggression-

And then he stopped feeling at all.

***

He came to what seemed like hours later. His limbs felt like they'd been dipped in lead - his eyelids glued to each other. The only reason he knew he was awake was because of the sound of a soft, soft voice.

"It's raining, it's pouring..." John could make out the sound through the burlap sack over his head. It was a man, quietly singing to himself.

He tried to move his arms, but he couldn't. Only his fingers. He was tied to a chair, it felt like. He couldn't even move his feet.

"He's up, sir," John heard.

"Take it off."

"You sure?"

The silence was answer enough. The burlap sack was up and off his head within seconds; light flooded in, overwhelming his eyes. He couldn't see who he was talking to - but he knew, anyway.

"Hello, John!"

John didn't answer. He set his jaw and filled his lungs with air, just in case.

"A little respect," John heard someone bite behind him.

"Mr. Kenneth," Moriarty tsked. "Please. John is our honored guest." He got up out of his seat, and walked up to John. Chills erupted down John's spine. If he could, he'd squirm back, away from Moriarty as he leaned forward to inspect John's face. "Let me see," he murmured, hand outstretched.

John reacted impulsively, jerking his head back to avoid Moriarty's touch.

Moriarty paused to click his tongue, giving John a chastising look. John's gaze shifted upwards very slowly, to Moriarty's meeting cold, black eyes. He felt tempted to spit on his shoes.

Tenderly, Moriarty slid a hand onto his chin, where it still throbbed from the punch John received earlier. "Hm," he almost mused. "You have a gorgeous face, Dr. Watson. It's almost disappointing someone hit it."

His thumb grazed the sore spot, and John winced from the nausea. When Moriarty squatted, looking up at John with his hand still nurturing John's chin, he didn't know whether to be repulsed or reassured. Moriarty's palm was surprisingly soft, which revolted John. He didn't understand this man. How far he'd go to get what he wanted. All John knew was that he wanted to kill him.

John squirmed out of Moriarty's grip, although he knew it was useless. Moriarty seemed indifferent; he stood up and sat back against his desk and looked John over, absorbing him like a sponge. He was sitting at the mahogany desk he'd been sitting at during their first meeting, except the blemish from the cigar was completely gone. They must have been in the sex club, after hours, because John couldn't hear the throb of jazz music.

"So, John. How are you?"

"I'm well," John bit sarcastically, "for someone who was beaten and kidnapped."

"No hard feelings?" Moriarty squeaked optimistically. "I'd love to commission a painting from you. It's hard to do that if you feel we aren't on good terms."

John gave him his best deadpan.

"Is that really how you feel? I thought we were connecting," Moriarty whined.

John pretended to muse over this, tasting the words in his mouth. Then, "No, I think just you were connecting."

A sadistically amused grin flickered onto Moriarty's lips, his eyes meeting someone behind John. "You hit him with a lamp; gave him a nasty concussion. One of my boys is still out from the dosing you gave him. The last has a leg that will be in a cast for two months."

John turned around as much as he could, given his constraints. The man standing behind him was burly and pissed looking, sporting an abrasion across his face.

John turned back around. Moriarty didn't look angry - just extremely amused. "And all blindfolded!" Moriarty said, his voice syrupy. "I'm impressed."

"Save the flattery."

"You know what they say. Every good boy deserves fudge," Moriarty countered. "Did you know that that's a music thing? Suppose it's rather obsolete, nowadays, now that there's no fudge." Moriarty smirked. "Or good boys."

John fixed his glare on Moriarty's face, furious.

"But you're a good boy, John. Did you do what I asked?"

John was quiet.

"Come on, John. Be a sport."

If John had ever been less of a "sport," it was in this moment.

Moriarty met John's gaze, and when he saw the pure loathing hidden there, his demeanor changed entirely. The coddling attitude was gone in a split second, replaced with a scathing disconnect. "Kenneth," Moriarty snapped.

John closed his eyes as soon as he saw Moriarty trace his henchman across the room with his eyes, as soon as he knew what was coming. Kenneth stood directly in front of him, cracked his knuckles, and John tried his best not to yell out in pain when the punch finally arrived. And it arrived hard.

He was unable to shield his body from the inhumane force of the abdominal blow. It was the third time someone had hit him there that day, and because of it, John was beginning to feel violently nauseous. John grunted and doubled over, panting from a lack of air.

"John," Moriarty repeated evenly. "Did you do it?"

John pinched his eyes shut, swallowing down bitter, acidic bile.

Moriarty leaned forward a couple of inches and lifted John's head up with his hand, trying to get John to meet his eyes. John sunk into him as acid churned in his esophagus, gasping for breath and ignoring the increasing dread as he spoke in a drunken rush of words. "There's something he's not telling anyone," John said hoarsely. "His brother - his brother knows about something big, some - some big plan."

Moriarty shared a look with Kenneth. Stickily, "Nothing else?"

"He had a boyfriend," John said, feeling all his insides churn with self-hatred and shame. "In Oxford."

Moriarty paused, his eyes searching John's face for a lie. The nausea in John's stomach became more intense as malice took over Moriarty's features, the smile playing on his lips thinly veiling anger. "That's all?"

John swallowed. He shook his head in Moriarty's palm, quick. "I'll find out what the plans are," John said with a conviction, although still unraveled from the constant beating of nausea. "I'm efficient," he gasped, "You need me, because Sherlock doesn't trust anyone else."

Moriarty roughly let go of John's chin. "True." He paused. "S'pose you want payment."

John shook his head, his body giving out as he leaned completely forward. "I don't want your bleeding money."

"Really?" Moriarty laughed, sounding completely unsurprised. "Because a little birdie told me that your fiancée kicked you out!"

John hesitated. He didn't know how to avoid this, because he did need money, and he did need a place to stay. How could he honestly reject the offer if it was going to keep he and Claire alive? And more urgently - how could he accept it?

"How do you know that?" John snapped standoffishly.

Moriarty shrugged, and smiled, like a girl who was being a flirt. He even batted his lashes. "People here, people there," he hummed, "people everywhere." Very gracefully, he stood up, walking from the desk to the door. He opened it, offering it to John as if he could get up and walk out.

"Anyway, John. I'll take care of all that for you."

"Hey," John warned. "I don't-"

Moriarty stopped listening, turning to his henchman. "Get him out of here," he hissed.

"I don't want your fucking-"

"Drug him if you want," Moriarty snapped impatiently.

"No!" John shouted. He could see Kenneth taking a syringe out of a briefcase and filling it with a clear liquid - propofol, most likely - and John wiggled in vain. "Don't you... don't you dare..."

Kenneth was already at his thigh.

"Don't you...!"

And there it was. The sharp poke, and a yelp of pain.

"Fuck you," John said. His vision was already starting to cloud. "Fuck... you."

"Goodnight, you piece of shit," Kenneth spat, getting up with the syringe still glistening in his hand. "Hope someone bashes your head in with a lamp."

John would have responded if he'd heard anything. By the time John was ready to yell something inflammatory and indignant at Moriarty, the world went black and he was unconscious.

***

In his dreams, he was always so scared. Not angry; anger and sadness had melted away into the inky, lightless night. It was the residue of fear; of black, of gray - the murkiness of empty emotion and silence that struck him cold.

There was nothing keeping him from falling back into the void. No safety nets. No way to avoid the pure, brutal honesty of gravitational force. No one was going to catch him when they realized the truth.

Husband, John H. Watson. Son, John H. Watson. Doctor, John H. Watson.

When those words hit gravity, they changed. They reacted. When they hit the dark, they became something else.

Liar, John H. Watson.

Queer. John H. Watson.