This story is set after Scandal in Belgravia but before Reichenbach.
Dedicated to my dear friend Chloe.
John's phone buzzed stubbornly in his pocket. With a sigh, he withdrew it, already expecting it to be his flatmate.
GOING TO BE LATE HOME. MORIARTY IS TRYING TO BE CLEVER. SH.
John rubbed his brow worriedly, and, for all the help it would give, texted back.
BE CAREFUL. JW.
It perplexed John how Sherlock Holmes could be texting as well as fending off his nemesis, but then again; he was Sherlock Holmes. John was surprised when his phone buzzed again, not long after he sent his own.
ALWAYS AM. I'LL BE 15 MINUTES. PUT THE KETTLE ON, WOULD YOU? SH.
He sighed again, slipped the phone back into his pocket and heaved himself from his favourite armchair. Sometimes John swore that the only reason Sherlock ever wanted a flatmate was to be able to have a servant. He walked into the kitchen, and filled the kettle reluctantly. When he turned to place it back on its platform, John noticed a shadow sitting in the arm chair that faced the kitchen. He almost dropped the kettle in shock, but managed to quickly place it on the counter.
At first, John believed it to be Sherlock, even though his fifteen minutes wasn't up yet; he was odd like that. But when John heard the figure speak, he realised with a stab of fear who was sitting in the living room.
"You know, John, I've never really got to know you all that well." Moriarty drawled, his Irish accent prominent as he spoke quietly. John froze as he examined Moriarty sitting in that armchair like he owns the place, fingers steepled under his chin, which reminded John of Sherlock. John's voice locked in his throat for a moment, before he finally managed to pick a question out of the whirlwind in his head.
"What do you want?" John was starting to regret putting the kettle down. It would've made a good blunt object. If it came to that. The doctor swallowed hard and watched Moriarty smirk even more. John swore that a smirking picture was just stapled to his actual face 24/7. Moriarty had picked up Sherlock's violin, and was examining it in his hands.
"What? Don't you believe me when I tell you that I came here to get to know you better?" John just looked at him and folded his arms, doing his best to hide the lingering fear in his mind. "
No." John realised then that he was trapped. The living room held the only exit, and in order to get to it, he'd need to pass Moriarty. And he doubted he'd let him do that.
"Hm. You're not as dumb as I first thought. You're right. I didn't come here to make small talk. You see, I've learnt how fond Sherlock is of you," at which John had to fight with himself not to smile, "and so it came to my attention how distraught Sherlock would be if he happened to lose you." John's smugness quickly faded, and he felt as if he was choking on the words themselves.
"What?" the doctor inquired, but had a dreadful feeling he knew what he meant already. Moriarty just continued to smile wickedly at him. In his hand, he held a gun, which John didn't remember him taking out from his pocket. Then, John noticed with horror, that it was pointed at him.
It wasn't like John hadn't had a gun pointed at him before, but the last time is just as scary as the first. The doctor shakily put up his hands, for all the good it would do, and attempted to casually slide over to the side counter. Moriarty didn't seem to notice.
"John, I hope you know why I'm doing this. I have nothing personal against you; in fact, my hatred is only aimed at Sherlock. But without his little pet," at which point John shot daggers Moriarty's way. "Sherlock would surely grieve that loss for the rest of his life, evident to others or not. Meaning I win, no matter what he tries to do for revenge." John thought about whether his flatmate would miss him or not, and came to the realisation that he might. Then something else struck him.
"This is all just a game to you, then? You don't care who gets hurt in the process, you just want to beat Sherlock. That's… that's crazy!" Moriarty just sneered and cocked the pistol. "I'm the most famous psychopath in England, what do you expect?" He readjusted the firearm in his hands, and the weapon was now pointed at John's head. John swallowed his breath, and told himself to keep calm. He had a plan, but there was only a small percent chance it would work.
John focused on Moriarty's finger wound around the trigger, his heart pounding inside his ribs, and waited for the psychopath's hand to flex, which was a dead giveaway to when someone was about to shoot, and gave a split second gap between the two. As soon as Moriarty's hand did so, John grabbed the teapot from the side and held it in front of his head. Instantly, it smashed in his hands and a sharp piece cut him as it clattered to the floor in hundreds of pieces, along with a bullet. Sherlock wouldn't be too happy about that. John gritted his teeth as the pain flew up his arm, but ignored it. It turned out army training did come in handy.
Moriarty seemed to find this amusing, but John could see the annoyance glint in his eyes. "Very well done, John. I'm impressed. I didn't think you had it in you." John licked his lips, trying to get his breathing to calm down. He remained silent. "However, all I need to do is, this," Moriarty said, and cocked the pistol again. John knew a new bullet was in place in the barrel and he had nothing to defend himself with this time.
Moirarty slowly raised the gun and aimed at John's head, and John saw the psychotic, malicious smirk before closing his eyes, praying for it to be quick. But instead of hearing a pistol being fired, he heard the sound of the door flinging open. John opened his eyes again in surprise, and he saw Moriarty's gaze snap from him to the figure in the doorway. John knew instantly who it was, even though the wall was blocking his view of the man. He was exactly on time. "Get out." Sherlock's voice sliced through the tension sharply.
Moriarty, still holding Sherlock's violin in his other hand, pocketed the gun and stood up with a thin smile. "Sherlock, how nice to see you again. I was just talking about you with your pet." Silence. John didn't dare to move from the kitchen, but could tell Sherlock was glaring at him.
"He's not my pet. And since you were pointing a gun at him, I seriously doubt you were just talking. Now, get out." He said calmly, and Moriarty headed for the door obediently.
"Stop. Give me my violin." John heard.
"You just asked me to leave-"
When John heard the door slam, rather than shut, he finally dared to take a breath, and stepped out of the kitchen. Sherlock was already sitting on the far couch, in his Thinking Position, as John liked to call it. The detective's head was tilted a bit, fingers steepled under his chin, and he was staring straight ahead. Then he spoke again.
"Is my tea ready, John?" John flashbacked to the smashed tea pot that still lay scattered on the kitchen floor. The doctor must of looked guilty, because when Sherlock looked at him, he said; "Yes, I know the teapot is broken, I heard it smash from outside, but need's must and all. You don't require a teapot to make tea, it's just very handy. Now, off you go." John only had a moment to feel the relief of not being ranted at before he realised he was being bossed around again. He sighed, and went back into the kitchen, carefully avoiding the sharp pieces on the floor.
When John came back with the tea, Sherlock was still thinking, and the army doctor wondered (like always) what was going through his mind. When didn't he? John handed the tea to Sherlock, and at first thought he wasn't going to take it, but he slowly lifted his hand to it and took it from him. John had sat down in his own armchair and sipped his tea before the detective finally said, "Thanks."
After a while of awkward tea-drinking, Sherlock finished his tea, and got up suddenly. "We need to see Mycroft." John almost spat out the tea in his mouth, but he managed to swallow it instead. "What, why?" He hastily put down his own tea, despite not finishing it, and got up too. "He's been helping Moriarty." And that's all John got before Sherlock ran out of the apartment. The slightly confused doctor was left no choice but to run after him, grabbing his coat on the way out. "Sherlock!"