John Watson. John Watson. John Watson. John Watson. N. j o h nn y bO Y. JOHN WATSON. JOHN. JOHN. JOHN. JOHN. JOHN. JOHNNY.

john.

Mycroft Holmes stood in the cell, sighing at the deep gouges in the stone and glass. The name rang no bells in his rather impressive memory- he needed to send someone out for information as quickly as possible. If he knew more about this 'John Watson', he might be able to get something from Moriarty. After all, the man clearly harbored an obsession with him.

John Watson. The poor, poor bastard who'd caught Moriarty's attention so thoroughly. Mycroft thumbed through the files his informants collected, memorizing his life and history. This captain, this soldier, was no one of note. However, he mattered to Jim Moriarty, and Jim Moriarty mattered to the entirety of the British government. The man was a danger, a barely-contained threat, and his silence was only stalling their efforts to derail whatever plot he had in motion.

In other words, Mycroft was left with no other option.

"John Watson," he said, taking a seat across from Jim. Moriarty was handcuffed to the chair and secured around the middle for good measure. Black hair loose and hanging in his eyes, sweating and bruised, somehow he managed to look anything but weak. Seething hate filled his gaze as he stared up at Mycroft, utterly unresponsive.

"Captain, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. High marks in university… a medical student."

Mycroft watched as Jim shifted slightly in his chair. His spine straightened almost imperceptibly, but nothing escaped Mycroft's notice.

"Veteran of Kandahar. And Helmand. Currently serving in Iraq."

"Afghanistan," Moriarty sang, neck swaying from side to side as his correction echoed in the small chamber. It was the first word he'd spoken in weeks.

Pleased, Mycroft gave a small nod to mask it. "My apologies. Yes, Afghanistan. He's quite the soldier it would seem… though he's headed back to London. Indefinitely."

There… there, a reaction. Jim's eyes widened at the news of John's return to England. It seemed too soon; only a few years of service? The war was still on - what reason did he have for returning? Rather than ask, however, Jim shut his eyes and began to hum under his breath.

Mycroft recognized it as 'Wait', by The Beatles. Odd, given Jim's history, but fitting for the situation. For his history with John Watson.

"If you're good, Mr. Moriarty, perhaps I can arrange a phone call for you. When he's recovered."

. His dark eyes flashed at Mycroft's words, and his muscles tightened in their bonds. John was hurt, John needed him, and the disgusting little Holmes had him trapped away where he couldn't fix it.

"Visit," Jim hissed, enunciating the word so hard it clicked in his mouth. Speaking felt worth it to him, especially when Mycroft reeled back as if he'd been struck. Such a strong response for so little a speech…

"I'll do one better, Mr. Moriarty. If you talk to me, I'll let you out to see him.

Ah… now there was an offer Jim was actually interested in. He could use it to his advantage.

"Why Mr. Holmes… What do you want to know?"

Stepping off the train, John shouldered his bag and tightened his grip on the cane. London, temporarily - he needed to pick up his pension and attend his first session with the therapist. There was no way he could afford London, not until he had a job. Still, it felt good to be home, even under the circumstances of his discharge.

As he limped down the pavement, he ignored the people that passed. He seemed lost in his mission, in his travel, and in a way John was. He didn't notice the black eyes tracking him from ahead, nor the man in the tan jacket who bumped his shoulder and muttered 'sorry, love', in an Irish brogue. To John, all that mattered was getting his bloody chores out of the way. First, he needed to meet with his therapist and see about housing.

God, John looked so ragged. Thin, weathered, with lines etched deep into his face, and that limp! Jim felt horrible, bumping into him like that, but he needed the contact. He needed the touch. John was so far gone he hadn't even commented on the slang - from a 'stranger', it should have made him angry or uncomfortable. Instead, all Jim'd gotten was a grunt from the man he so loved.

He'd have to fix his sweet doctor as soon as possible.

The next time Jim saw John, he was scowling down at a medal in a quaint little London cafe. After ordering a coffee, Jim took a seat at a small table about six down from John's and peered at him now and again from over the edge of his laptop. Again, John didn't notice him. Somehow that hurt more than he expected it to. He should feel the burn of his eyes, he should feel how empty Jim was… But no, of course not. John didn't remember. How could he, after all these years?

Day after day, Jim followed John Watson around London. To Ella's, on the Tube, into restaurants and coffee shops and clinics where he placed applications… Each day his frustration grew, boiling in his veins as he fought not to grab John by the throat and slam him against the wall. How?! After all they'd been through together, how could John not notice him? Did he even recall Jim's name?

1988. Jim's worn, ragged clothing was far too large for his frame. Brown eyes big as saucers glowed with warmth as the blond boy from down the street jogged toward him. Though they were the same height, John was older by a handful of years - and to Jim, far more handsome than he could ever hope to be. Sandy hair, blue eyes, a slight tan from playing rugby… John was his only friend in the whole world.

"James!" John called, waving happily. "C'mon, I managed to make a few pounds doing chores for Harry! Want to get some ice cream?"

"You know I don't have any money, John…"

John knelt in front of him and gave him a big smile. "You never have to worry about that, James. I'll buy yours for you, and some candy for you to sneak home." Winking, John rose once more and offered James his hand.

"Come on!"

With their ice creams in hand, John and Jim sat on the grass and laughed with each bite. Sticky and messy from the treat, they sat shoulder to shoulder trading stories of strange worlds and happy, safe heavens. Places where both would be free from the cruel touch of their families. Places they could make homes.

There, smiling up at John, Jim knew for sure he loved him.

There, laying on the summer grass, Jim pulled John down into a messy, desperate first kiss.

Funny how a chance meeting can change everything. Mike Stamford, a man he once thought he loved, led a limping John into the St. Bart's laboratory. A tall, slender man sat studying a microscope when they entered, curls falling into his face. Beautiful, in a classical way - an unobtainable statue. Looking for a flatmate, like John, and he couldn't believe his luck. They arranged a meeting for the next day, at the flat the stranger already owned. As unusual as it was to go diving into a rental contract with someone he'd never met, John knew he had no other options.

Jim watched, seething, as Sherlock Holmes secured the friendship of John Watson with a wink and a smile. Something had to change - something needed to bring John back to him. No matter how long it took, Jim would win him back. Leaving St. Bartholomew's, he followed the lanky Holmes back to his flat. After all, he'd be visiting again soon. As soon as John moved in, in fact. It wasn't hard to deduce which room he'd choose - from studying the windows, Jim could see it was a two-floor, two-bedroom flat. One bathroom, possibly, but certainly spacious. Oh, he could bring Johnny to a better home... In time. In due time. He slinked back into the alley, pulling his phone from his pocket. Plans needed to be made, and set in motion. John needed to be his.