Author's Note: Hey guys, I'm so sorry it took me so long to do this chapter! I had AP tests and a bunch of other school work and there was just absolutely no time and then I really had trouble with it. So here it is, and hopefully it doesn't disappoint. Chapter six will be up much more quickly now that I actually have time to work on things. Thanks for all the reviews, favorites, and follows, remember that reviews are love! Also, still looking for people to rp with. I also rp Johnlock and stuff, just let me know if you're interested. And in reference to the title of the chapter, for those of you who don't know, General Adaptation Syndrome is the process the body goes through when reacting to stress and occurs in three distince phases. Enjoy!

Alarm

"I'm hoping, Johnny boy, that I can turn you away from the bor-ing side. The good side," he said, looking at John again. "I can give you what Sherlock won't."

John's eyes were ice and steel. "I don't want that from you."

Jim smiled, sliding close to press his lips to John's cheek and then purr in his ear, "Oh, but you will."

The man was insane. The thought that he would ever, ever want anything like that from Jim Moriarty of all people, that he was that desperate, that needy—

John's heart was beating out of his chest, strong enough in the close proximity that he knew Jim could feel it. This fear was confirmed as Jim pulled back to smirk at him and say, "Oh my, Johnny boy, did I get you THAT startled? I was just having a bit of fuuuuun." The last word was a drawl, slow and emphatic, following Jim's movements as he carefully slung his leg over John to straddle his hips. Panic. John tried to scramble away and Jim easily pushed him down onto the bed with a lascivious smile.

"Dear John," Jim said, imitating an overly polite, feminine tone, "if you fight me, I'll have to kill Sherlock. And we wouldn't want that, would we?"

"You can't," John said. The confidence in his voice matched his unwavering eyes. But there was a tremble underneath, a tremor starting in his soul and working its way up his spine into the base of his skull.

Jim didn't answer immediately, his eyes on his fingers as he began unbuttoning John's shirt again, each movement slow, deliberate. Calculated. Is this how Sherlock would undress him? With every move calculated to attain the maximum response? Like he was an equation to be solved? Add one variable—John—subtract another—clothes—and solve for x. Pleasure. Pain? He wouldn't know if there were any kinks lurking underneath the detective's put-together exterior. "I can. I could've aaaaaaages ago but where's the fun in that?" Jim asked. He was almost finished unbuttoning John's shirt and John thought he wasn't going to be able to breathe if he went much further. His fear in the army had been nothing compared to this. This was pure terror. "But I don't really have to threaten or coerce." He threw 'threaten' and 'coerce' out of his mouth like they were inconsequential words, unimportant concepts. He sounded bored. "I want you, John. Not because you're an enemy, not because I know you hate me, not because you're Sherlock's, but just because you're YOU. I want you in that sinful way that Sherlock can never manage, that you're dying to have with him. So you're going to fuck me—" here he slid closer, the hand not unbuttoning John's shirt sliding up John's thigh as John bristled "—not because I'm forcing you too, but because you need to be wanted. And I so, so want you."

He smiled, and John could have sworn there was venom dripping from his teeth. He could have easily been a dragon, in another life. No, John, back to reality. Jim wasn't a wolf or a dragon, he was just a man, and men could be hurt.

"You don't want me," John insisted. "You're obsessed with Sherlock. You've been after Sherlock, for God's sake you turn each other on with your intelligence, that's not—that's not what you could get from me." There was a thin thread of panic winding itself through his voice and his chest felt tight. Fight or flight response. He couldn't manage either.

Jim laughed and John nearly shivered at the sound. He sounded positively maniacal. Maniacal, maniac, mania—state of abnormally elevated or irritable mood, arousal, and/or energy levels—god his head was spinning around in circles and he could feel the signs of hysteria setting in. Jim could see it too, leaning in close to him with a snakelike smoothness. John wondered for one hysterical moment if he would flick a forked tongue out to lick his lips. Instead, he felt the last buttons of his shirt pop open and Jim said, his voice dropped lower than usual, a hint of a purr present, "Ohhh, Johnny boy. That's where you're wrong. So, so wrong. You can give me sooo much more than Sherlock can." He waved a hand around, revolving it around his wrist loosely as if searching for the right words. "Sherly's a distraction. He's boring, in the end, utterly predictable. Do you know what he's doing right now?" He was grinning again, like a shark, and John shook his head just slightly. "He's worrying about you. About you! You, the or-din-ar-y one," Jim said, punctuating each syllable of ordinary with a kiss against John's jaw. The kisses weren't gentle, or even really kisses; it felt like Jim was attacking him with his lips. John had started shivering violently on the bed, his adrenaline unable to vent itself in either a fight or flight response. His arms, still caught underneath him, were starting to ache. "And why should he do that? You're ordinary, you're boring, you're NOTHING compared to me and him." John almost flinched at the way 'nothing' was flung at him, Jim's face twisting up into that hate—jealousy—that frightened him. "And yet..." John gasped as Jim undid his belt and trousers, hand reaching below the waistband of his pants and touching something vital.

"N-no," he managed to stammer out, but his breath and protests hitched at the same moment his hips did, Jim's hand beginning to move in a sinfully slow manner. "Nonononononono Jim, no!"

"I'm not Jim anymore, Johnny dear, don't you remember? I'm Sher-lock." Lips sliding up his neck, one hand on the bare skin of his chest, the other in his pants and moving, goddamnit he wasn't going to pant for Jim of all people—Jim's voice dropped, straight into an imitation of Sherlock's baritone and John's stomach dropped along with it as Jim said, "'Now, John. From the flush in your cheeks, the elevated heart rate, and how stiff you're going beneath my hand, I may deduce that you're becoming aroused by me.'" The next voice was an imitation of John, although high pitched and feminine enough to make John's skin crawl. "'Oh yes, Sherlock, please, please take me on this bed, I've been wanting you for so long and you're sooo brilliant and handsome and wonderful!'" Jim's voice squeaked on the last word and he started giggling.

"Sod. Off," John said through gritted teeth. His jaw was clenched so tightly he thought he might crack his teeth, a steel trap meant to catch any stray noises that make try to make it through. And so many were trying their hardest right now. Surrender. He shut that thought down immediately even as his brain and body tried to mutiny and wave the white flag. Surrender wasn't possible, not in real war and certainly not in this one. So he'd fight him. He'd fight Jim.

Resistance

"Oh, but whyyy, Johnny dearest? We're having so much fun here," Jim said, his voice lifting on 'fun'. He seemed sincerely pleased with himself, enjoying the situation, and John couldn't fail to notice Jim's tented trousers. God. God, this was really going to happen. Jim Moriarty was really going to have him on this bed. And at the moment, with Jim's hand down his trousers, he really didn't mind that thought.

John tried to heave himself away, the sickly hot lurch of pain in his shoulders and arms nothing compared to the nausea in his stomach at the thought of willingly giving in to Jim. Letting Jim touch him. Giving Jim the satisfaction of winning. He wouldn't. He couldn't. Sherlock would—

"Sherlock's not here, John," Jim murmured as if he'd read his mind, lips against John's collarbone. His tongue was slick and wet and hot as it traced along the bone. He was shivering. John was fucking shivering, and he couldn't blame the adrenaline this time. He closed his eyes. "He'll never know, will he? Because you'll never tell him, and he doesn't want to talk to little old meeeeeeee." The last word was high and lilting, and followed by a giggle. "Although he's dy-ing to know where I'm keeping you. Ooh, and what would he say if he saw you right now? I won-der, Johnny boy, if he's ever thought about you like this, flustered and panting and half-naked on the sheets. Because he's certainly never seen you like this." There was an obvious layer of amusement in Jim's voice, thick and nearly derisive. It was grating to John. Then again, he was having trouble concentrating when Jim was very, very slowly stroking him and every ounce of his willpower was going into making sure he didn't let any noise slip. "The virgin and 'Three Continents Watson'." Jim was giggling wildly now, and John wondered in a somewhat distant haze where he had heard the nickname. Well, he'd admitted to monitoring the flat before, maybe Sherlock had said it sometime, no doubt with scorn in his voice—John's eyes snapped open with a slight gasp. Sherlock. What would Sherlock think? If he saw him panting for Jim, moaning—because that had been a half choked moan that had just come from his lips, he couldn't deny it anymore—what expression would he make, what thoughts would cross his mind, what emotions would he experience? He nearly snorted. Like Sherlock experienced emotions. Wasn't that his problem? The reason John couldn't have him? But still. Even if Sherlock didn't want him, he couldn't give in to Jim.
"No," he croaked, his throat thick and dry. There was a pause in Jim's movements. A breathless silence.

Then, a gentle kiss to the hollow of his throat. "No, Johnny boy?" A voice that sounded as sweet as sugar. John couldn't breathe. "No, what?"

"I don't want this." The words were hard to get out, sticking in his throat which already felt raw from barely restrained hysteria. "I don't want you. Sherlock, yes, but not you. Because you're not him, and you never will be to me."

Silence hung as delicately as dew on a spider's web. Appropriate, since Jim was the most dangerous spider John had ever met. One silken thread from his web for Sherlock, another for John…maybe several for John, at the moment. At least enough to keep him in place for long enough to kill him.

But after a few tense minutes in which John was certain he was going to be murdered in Jim Moriarty's bed, Jim abruptly stood up, smoothing the front of his suit down. John stared up at him, half-hard and slightly dazed. Disturbed, in general.

"Then I'll wait," Jim said, and that predatory shark's smile was back. He put his hands in his pockets as if he wasn't tenting the front of his trousers, as if he hadn't just had his hand down John's trousers and pants, as if he wasn't absolutely furious right now. John realized with a twist of his stomach that he was getting to know Jim's moods. Intimately. Christ, and he missed Jim's hand as soon as it was gone, there really was something wrong with him.

Jim smiled at John's look of absolute confusion, that same pleased smirk he had whenever he managed to surprise him. Which was often. "I want you to come to me willingly, John. I want you to truly BELIEVE that I'm him, and want me for that reason and that alone. So I'll wait." It was one of his more normal tones, the one he hardly ever used. Like he was a regular person, having a regular conversation, and not a crazed psychopathic kidnapper talking to the man he was trying to lead into delusion.

John continued to stare at him, acutely aware that his mouth was slightly open. Also acutely aware that Jim's eyes were occasionally flicking down to his lips. And that Jim was still probably painfully aroused. He shrank back on the bed when Jim strode back over to him but the man simply undid the restraints on his wrists, allowing his arms and shoulders a much needed reprieve. They burned when he moved them, but at least they could move. And Jim was letting him go, right? Off the hook? John would have laughed if he was sure he could stop it from turning into a sob. No, this was temporary. He was still in the personal flat of an absolute monster, still at his mercy and being blamed for a horrible crime. What did it matter if his arms could move?

But he was getting off oh so lightly, he knew that as soon as he looked into Jim's dark eyes and saw the absolute sheer fury barely contained there. Madness. Desperation. Desire. Jesus Christ he'd been close to hate fucking and then murdering him, hadn't he? And still was, actually. Jim smiled, seeming to know John was realizing exactly how much danger he'd been in.

"Stay," he commanded, his confident tone making it obvious that he expected nothing else from John, and then went into the bathroom attached to the bedroom and shut the door behind him.

Exhaustion

John remained frozen on the bed for a minute, the sounds of a shower starting in the bathroom. Then, slowly, he began to move his arms. One shoulder rolled—a wince from him now that Jim was gone—then the other. He started flexing his fingers, trying to regain some feeling in them. After a minute of this, he tried moving his arms and hissed. God that hurt. Centimeter by centimeter, though, he moved them, the pain slowly subsiding to a dull ache. He wanted to go look for ibuprofen or something in the rest of Jim's flat, just to ease the pain, but Jim had told him to stay and he was afraid of the consequences if he disobeyed. He was afraid of Jim, in general.

"Ohhhh, John—!"

John jerked bolt upright on the bed, his spine stiff and straight. His breathing sounded far too loud in the sudden careful silence, his entire body at attention.

"Johnyyyy!"

No, he hadn't hallucinated that. Jim Moriarty was, as near as he could tell, having a wank about him. The floor came up to meet him a lot faster than it should have and John distantly realized that he'd actually fallen off the bed and failed to catch himself in time. He didn't move for a minute, either. Just let himself lie on the carpet and try to ignore the sounds coming from the bathroom. It was entirely possible that Jim was just messing with him, just acting to shake him up, but John knew that wasn't true. He'd seen how aroused Jim was. He'd seen that absolute stark naked lust in the man's eyes when he'd pulled away from him. Jim had even said, quite plainly, that he wanted John badly. So it was entirely possible that he was really having a wank about him right now. He was so damn tired, he didn't even have the energy to care about this right now. How upset would Jim be if he just crawled into bed? Technically he was still obeying the command to stay, he was just letting himself sleep. Sleep. In Jim's bed. After what had just happened. God, when had this become his life?

His arms burned when he pushed himself to his hands and knees, but he was too tired to care. They burned more, anyway, when he crawled back onto the bed and then under the covers, having kicked off his shoes. He snuggled up under the lovely, heavy comforter, and sank down into the soft bed with a bone aching weariness he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. Jim could do what he liked. Hell, Jim might come out of the bathroom and kill him, he didn't care at the moment. He just wanted to sleep.

So he did. And then woke up for a few hazy minutes when Jim came to bed, wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close, and whispered, "Sweet dreams, love" before kissing his cheek. He made a noise of sleepy discontent at being woken and settled back in Jim's arms, hardly remembering who he was with. A warm pair of arms was a warm pair of arms, and although these arms belonged to the most dangerous man he'd ever met, they were still comfortable. Warm. Inviting. Almost safe. And God did it feel good to be wanted.