Watson's Final Problem (Sherlock Holmes/John Watson MD, Jim Moriarty)

John wasn't sure what to do.
He wasn't good at this kind of things, because his instincts were working against his mind. If he had to follow his heart, he would go to Sherlock's room and check whether his friend was really okay with what had happened, he would confess his feelings and he would apologize for being an ass.
But then what would happen?
Did Sherlock like him?
Did he want their kiss to mean something?
Would they end up in a relationship?

He shook his head, all sorts of scenarios playing in his head and he really couldn't afford himself to become emotional.
He had to do something, he had to find a way to get out of this situation.
And if he managed, then maybe he could tell Sherlock about his feelings.
Otherwise, it was better to stay silent.

He pushed himself off the counter, grimacing at the pain that throbbed down his back and to his legs.
"Fuck," he mumbled to himself, and slowly limped towards his room.

Sherlock lay on his bed thinking about all the incidents that had occured in the last 24 hours. John's kidnap and torture at the hands of Jim Moriarty, the clumsy kiss they had shared and Sherlock's suspicions that John had some kind of..."feelings" for him, and the confusing argument that followed Sherlock exposing his thoughts. Now he was at a loss what to do and so he just lay there, reflecting sadly on how complicated and frustrating friendships were. Suddenly his phone beeped. A text message. From Jim Moriarty.

Oooh that pet of yours...So delicious. JM

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He wasn't particularly in the mood for this right now, but he resigned himself to texting back. The pair of them were soon involved in a quick exchange of messages, back and forth.

What are you talking about? SH

You disappoint me, my dear Sherlock, can't you deduce it? JM

Well I know that by 'pet' you mean John. But use of the word 'delicious' would suggest you tasted him somehow. And that doesn't make any sense. SH

And what is your conclusion then? Don't be so narrow minded Sherlock, it's just so boring. JM

I have no idea Jim. I don't like riddles. SH

And here I thought you got off on riddles...I, on the other hand, find fear especially arousing...Oops, does that give you a hint? JM

Somehow that doesn't really surprise me. But what does it have to do with John? I know what you did to him. I've seen his injuries. I'll make you suffer for this Jim. SH

Oh honey, you're so cute when you are feisty. Just let me tell you this. John was really scared. JM

John's a soldier. I really doubt he was scared by someone as pathetic as you. SH

He wasn't scared for himself. But he happens to care so much for a certain handsome sociopath. To play with you guys is just so easy. You care soooo much. JM

John and I look out for each other Jim. We are friends. It's a concept I imagine you have difficulty grasping. SH

Oh I grasp it quite alright, honey. I used it to get to him after all. He was calling for you, you know, begging me... JM

Don't. Shut up Jim. Leave me alone. SH

And here I thought you would be curious. Where's your thirst for knowledge now? JM

Just not particularly interested in hearing about you torturing my friend. It will only make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry Jim. SH

Anger can be quite a turn on as well. But again, I am quite easy. So is John. JM

What do you mean? What are you trying to imply? SH

For such a great mind, you sure are naive. But it's expected after all, considering you little pet was a virgin, I can't believe you had him fawning over you for so long and never took advantage of it. JM

Please don't tell me you...I can't even type it. You really are sick. SH

Oh honey you make me blush...Would it make you feel better if I told you he liked it? JM

No, that would make me want to kill you. And I really doubt he enjoyed it somehow. SH

You don't need to be jealous, honey. I can satisfy the both of you. JM

Don't make me ill. As if I would ever want you. SH

You don't want anyone, so it doesn't really matter, does it? John is a twisted little fucker though, I bet he still thinks about me inside him. JM

Fuck you Jim. SH

Oh you are so mean. I gave him back to you, didn't I? Did you make him all better? Oh, I forget you are too cold for that. Poor poor John. JM

I won't let you hurt him again. You'll have to come through me first. SH

You seem to think you are in control, Sherlock. I am playing with you two. When and how I want to. You better take advantage of the break you have now, it won't last. JM

And you'd better take advantage of your freedom. Before I get you incarcerated in a lunatic asylum. SH

I am already honey, I am already. After all I was the one who fucked John Watson, while you didn't. And I am not done. JM

I will not let you get away with this. SH

Oh, I'd like to see you do just that. But considering you hardly manage to take care of your pet, I doubt you can do much. JM

I can take care of him. That's what I am doing. At least I'm not forcing him to do anything he doesn't want. SH

Oh yeah? Are you with him now then? JM

No, I'm in my room. SH

Oh honey, you are so useless as a friend. JM

Oh, and you think you'd make a better one? SH

I am not one of the angels. I do not bother with such trivial things. JM

Do you think I should go and talk to him? SH

Oh honey, you ask me? I'm NOT your bloody friend! I will burn your heart out, Sherlock, and this hesitation is going to fuel your regret further. Your pet is mine, honey, in ways you don't even know. JM

I'm going to talk to him right now Jim. And I'll make you sorry you ever tried to cross me. Your cheap threats do not frighten me one bit. SH

You're dancing for me and you don't even know. You go talk to him now, this might be the last chance you have. JM

Sherlock threw down the phone on the bed angrily, his head swimming with a thousand more thoughts, sickened to the stomach with the fresh knowledge of what had happened to his friend. He really didn't know how to broach the subject, but he knew he had to say something, do something.

He shakily stood up off the bed and walked in a daze up the steps to John's room, knocking softly on the door. "John," he called through. "Are you...are you still awake?"

John jumped to a sitting position when he heard Sherlock's voice coming from the other side of his door, and then groaned at the pain that cursed through his body for the sudden careless movement.
He hadn't been asleep, but he had been so deep in thought that the sudden aound had scared him. He guessed it was probably expected from someone who had just been tortured, but he still berated himself silently.

"Come in," he groaned, wondering what Sherlock wanted now. He had thought the detective was rather cross with him, and usually it took him a few hours of loneliness to get over this kind of things.
Something had changed this time though, and John really hoped his feelings were not going to get questioned again.

Sherlock opened the door and took a cautious step inside. He hovered in the frame, staring silently at his friend, suddenly realising he hadn't thought of what he was going to say. There were so many things he wanted to say, could say, should say, but somehow none of the ideas he thought of seemed right.

And so he stood, with a blank expression, for what seemed like an eternity, before finally stumbling through some kind of sentence. "John I...I've just been...I wanted to say..." He stopped and scratched the side of his nose, thinking. What do people normally say in this kind of situation? He almost laughed. Normal people don't get in these kind of situations.

He was wondering if he should tell John immediately about the text conversation with Jim, that he knew all about it, and that he was so angry and filled with hate that he was going to make Moriarty die a slow and painful death.

Then he remembered the earlier confronation with his friend, how John had kissed him and Sherlock had berated him for his feelings, deducing either accurately or inaccurately that John was in love with him. He still wasn't sure. Either way he was now filled with regret for their argument, knowing now what Jim had done to him made John's strange behaviour a little more understandable.

"John I..." He started talking again, this time determined to make it through a sentence. "I was mean to you before. I...I am sorry." He looked at the ground, frowning slightly.

John looked at Sherlock for a moment as he stood there silent, it felt strange, it felt meaningful, but John had no idea what was going on in his head, his own worries making him even more oblivious of Sherlock's complicated personality quirks. He had no idea why Sherlock was speechless, maybe he was guilty about accusing him of loving him, maybe he was simply regretting arguing in the first place, but one thing was sure, apologies felt out of place on the detective's lips.

"What?" He exclaimed, clearly in disbelief. "You are apologising, Sherlock? That's a first," he commented with a soft laugh, and he tried to stand up, grimacing at the pain that shot up his spine. "Damn-" he exclaimed, but tried to play it down by rolling his shoulders casually.

"I've been in worse conditions, Sherlock, you don't need to be nice to me, I don't need your pity..." He commented bitterly, shaking his head.

Sherlock came into the room fully and closed the door quietly behind him, leaning his back against it as he watched his friend's surprised reaction to his apology.

And he watched again, silently, as John struggled to his feet, he observed the small grimace and noticed the way he tried to cover up his pain.

Sherlock ignored John's mildly hurtful remarks about not needing his pity and instead marched straight over to the bed, gently but firmly taking hold of his friend's arm and guiding him backwards.

"Sit down John," he ordered, and sat down next to him, turning to face him with quite a serious expression.

"John," he began, clearing his throat. "You are my friend and you can tell me anything. You don't have to be...nervous or...scared." Sherlock stared into John's eyes, hoping he'd pick up on what he really meant, what he was hinting at. It would be so much easier for John to just tell him outright about what happened with Moriarty, rather than having to coax it out of him.

John grew even more confused as Sherlock guided him to sit down, his eyes widening when his friend settled beside him. What the hell was going on?
"Sherlock," he warned him, he didn't like this, he couldn't face this now.

He frowned at the words, was he still trying to get a confession out of him?
John's heart flew in his throat rather quickly as their eyes met.
No, he couldn't, it wasn't right.

"There are some things, Sherlock, that are better stay silent," he commented, clenching his jaw. "I know you are my friend, and I trust you, hell, you are the only person I trust... but... that's exactly it, I need to protect you, I cannot-" he trailed off, quite sure he had already said too much.

Sherlock smiled slightly, the corner of his lips twitching. Of course, he had expected this kind of reaction. He'd dealt with rape victims before, talking about what happened was never easy, but John's defensiveness only proved further that something definitely /had/ happened, and Sherlock felt hot, raw anger pooling up in his chest, already imagining the merciless things he could do to Moriarty in revenge.

He frowned however, at the rest of John's words about protecting him and so on. That really didn't make any sense. Unless...ohhh of course. Suddenly he realised what John was thinking.

"You've been talking to Mycroft again haven't you?" Sherlock laughed and rolled his eyes. "Look, no matter what he says and yes alright, I...I am still a virgin," he admitted, blushing slightly. "But I am not scared of sex. You don't have to hide any of the details from me just because you think it might alarm me. I've heard all about sex, I know all about sex, even if I don't have a practical knowledge so please John...it's fine...you don't...you don't have to patronise me." He tapped his friend on the back in what he hhoped was an encouraging manner.

"Mycroft? Sherlock, what-" he gaped at his friend's words, virgin? Sex? "You really are a virgin?" he found himself asking, before he shook his head impatient, was Sherlock propositioning him?

He looked at him for a moment, trying to think about what they had talked about.
Was Sherlock thinking that he couldn't be with him because of sex? Because he wanted to protect his innocence? Would he really think that would be a good enough excuse?

For a moment he could not reply though, images of his best friend naked and bending against him were flooding his brain and he had no idea how to stop them.
He had never thought he'd get the chance, he'd never thought Sherlock would want him, and now... now it was just the wrong time for this.

"Sherlock," he muttered, his voice considerably low, he couldn't help it. "Are you saying you would like to do that with me?"

"No!" Sherlock exclaimed loudly in answer to John's question. Rather too forcefully, he realised immediately after. But he wasn't saying 'no' because he meant 'no', he was saying 'no' because he was so frustrated that John wasn't picking up on what he was saying.

"I mean yes," he quickly corrected himself, then suddenly realising all of the implications of saying 'yes' he again corrected himself, "I mean...no."

Sherlock sighed and ruffled his own hair, realising he sounded ridiculously stupid and probably wasn't making sense in the slightest.

"John, what I mean is...I wasn't saying no to um...to what you said. I mean, that wasn't what I was asking you but I'm not saying no either just because I'm not saying yes it doesn't mean I'm saying no um...err...this makes no sense does it?"

He sighed again, realising he was just going to have to come straight out with it. "Look I'm talking about Moriarty, John," he exclaimed, exasperated. "That's who I'm talking about."

The shouted no hurt more than he wanted to admit, he had been so sure that Sherlock wasn't against the idea of being with him, that they could have something, Jesus, he had kissed him back after all, he couldn't possibly believe Sherlock had been playing with him, he would never do something like that, he was sure.

Sherlock was stumbling on his words now though, he clearly had meant something else, and he clearly didn't want to commit himself to a yes, it only made it clearer that they couldn't be together and John couldn't help frowning, feeling himself grow upset.

The mention of Moriarty made his blood boil and it did not help his already fragile state of mind. "You surely aren't trying to say that you want to have sex with Moriarty!?" He protested, standing up suddenly with a whimper of pain.
"Jesus Christ Sherlock, you either speak clearly or you go, I've had enough of your playing around!"

Sherlock groaned, exasperated. John just wasn't getting it. He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration.

"No John!" he shouted, his right hand involuntarily making a fist and punching the wall, an action he instantly regretted when he heard the crunching of his knuckles and felt the immediate pain that followed. He rubbed the back of his hand against his trousers and tried to hide his discomfort from John, feeling like a bit of an idiot but slightly calmer as a result.

"No," he continued, a lot quieter. "I'm not talking about me having sex, I'm talking about you. I'm talking about you and Jim Moriarty."

Sherlock bit his lip and stared at the blood beginning to flow from his cracked knuckles. "He's been um...he's been texting me. He told me what...what he did. I mean, everything. And all I was trying to tell you was...well...that you didn't have to hide it from me." He looked up at John, hoping he'd made it clear enough this time.

John started when he heard Sherlock punch the wall, he turned around concerned, his anger fading quickly as he realized his friend looked quite aggravated.

"Me and Jim Moriarty?" he exclaimed, his eyes wide, "What on earth are you-?" he stopped, realizing Sherlock was going to explain further.
His eyes travelled on his knuckles, seeing the blood, God, he hated seeing Sherlock hurt.

Now all he could concentrate about were the words spilling out of his lips though, and they made him pale considerably.
"That wouldn't be called sex, Sherlock, that would be rape," he muttered, memories of the day coming back to him, to the moment where he did think Moriarty might go for something like that.

"But he didn't, Moriarty didn't rape me... he tortured me, I am sore and hurt on the back of my legs as well, and he had me naked and strapped to a table, but he did not touch me that way, he did not rape me," he explained, trying to sound as cold as possible, he really didn't want to remember, rape or not, it had been an horrible experience and he was going to suffer the consequences of it.
Especially because it wasn't over.

"He was trying to mess with your head, Sherlock," he whispered, knowing there was a reason why Moriarty had done everything in a particular way, not to mention the pictures. "Did- did he send you the photographs?"

Sherlock leant against the wall, nursing his bleeding hand and watching curiously as the cogs began to work in John's brain. It was an interesting exercise, observing his friend think. He always enjoyed it.

"Rape. Yes. Exactly. That was I'm talking about John!" Sherlock exclaimed, with a relieved sigh, then frowned as John continued speaking, now his turn to get confused.

"You mean...you mean it's not true?" he muttered, almsost to himself, remembering back to the text messages. Of course it wasn't true. It was just Moriarty, playing a sick game with him, trying to rile him.

He sighed and closed his eyes temporarily, cursing himself for having fell for it, then he looked up and took a step towards his friend, wanting to hug him but stopping himself. Instead he tapped him on the shoulder gently. "Thank God...bloody hell John I was really...worried," he admitted with a surprised frown, when he realised just how concerned he had been about his friend. He really needed to work on that whole caring thing...he was starting to slip.

"Photographs?" he repeated, studying John's face. "No. No he didn't. What photographs? He took photographs?"

"No, it's not true, thank God it isn't true," he commented, paling considerably at the idea of something like that happening, he had no idea how he would have coped with that, it was already hard enough as it was. Jim Moriarty was playing with their lives, clearly, and there was no limit to how messed up he was.

He looked at Sherlock sadly, trying not to flinch at the touch on his shoulder, he wanted it, he didn't want to make it stop, but he had been tied up for hours, everything in his body hurt. He felt sorry for his best friend, right there, worrying for him over something that didn't happen and oblivious to what was yet to come.
John was going to protect him though, he was going to make sure that nothing happened to him.

"Thank you, Sherlock... for worrying... I... I am okay, just bruised up and all," he muttered, deciding to slip up just for one last time. He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's thin waist and squeezing him in a hug.

He rested his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder when he was asked about the photograph, unable to look at him in the eye. "He took pictures... of me... tied to the bed, from... all possible angles..." he admitted, embarrassed, ashamed, "I imagine he will use them eventually, either to get to you or to the press... I am quite sure he didn't take them just for his own enjoyment," he commented, squeezing Sherlock a bit more, enjoying the warmth he could feel under his hands.

Sherlock welcomed John's arms around him, standing perfectly still and not touching his friend back in any way for fear of hurting him further. He just stood there and allowed John to take the lead, to hold him, and enjoyed their closeness, John's hair tickling his face.

"That bastard," he muttered under his breath, trying not to let the rage boil up inside him. "I'll protect you John," he promised sincerely. "I won't let this happen again."

Sherlock didn't know why he felt so protective over John but somehow it mattered what happened to him, it hurt when he hurt, and however much he tried Sherlock couldn't stop himself from caring.

"I'll um...I'll leave you to get some sleep," he mumbled, slowly stepping backwards. "Didn't mean to disturb you."

John squeezed Sherlock one last time before letting go, realizing sadly that his friend hadn't returned the hug at all. Maybe he was still upset about their fight before, maybe he simply didn't want to touch him, but it felt bitter on John's tongue, especially now, especially when his lips still tasted like Sherlock.

And at this moment, when his thoughts darkened, he really didn't give much thought about Sherlock's words. It didn't matter what his flatmate thought he could do to protect him, it wasn't going to happen, Moriarty was in control and John had no idea how to stop it all.

"Whatever happens, Sherlock, you make sure you kill him," he said, turning his back on Sherlock, trying to silence his thoughts, his feelings.

He nodded when Sherlock mentioned he was going to leave him, his heart clenching painfully in his chest, but he knew that there was no other option.
He had to let him go.
And maybe it was better this way, at least he knew he wasn't jeopardizing their friendship by doing something stupid.

Sherlock pulled away from John's grasp and moved towards the exit, hovering by the doorway slightly hesitant. He didn't particularly want to leave. There was a part of him that wanted to stay in John's room all night, take care of him, never let him out of his sight again. But the rational section of his mind told him that John needed his sleep, that he probably didn't want him hanging around anyway.

His thoughts kept returning to the small but magical kiss they had shared earlier and wondering again and again whether John had enjoyed it like he thought he had. Certainly Sherlock had enjoyed it. He'd had plenty of time to replay the event in his mind and he'd decided that however brief, it was, indeed, rather wonderful and the type of experience he'd be quite keen to expand upon.

"Good night then," he mumbled awkwardly, half way out the door. "Um...let me know if you need anything during the night. I'm uhh...y'know...I'll be...around."

He frowned, biting at his bottom lip slightly, toying with it, before adding another quick "Night then" and disappearing through the door, closing it gently behind him. He jogged back down the stairs to his own room trying to work out whether that had gone well or not.

John wasn't looking at him any more, seemingly concentrated on finding something to sleep in, he was actually just trying to avoid his flatmate's gaze. He didn't want to be weak, he wanted to be able to face this on his own.
Moriarty had been clear about letting anything slip, he had John in the palm of his hand and he couldn't share anything with Sherlock, he would get everyone killed otherwise.

At least if he did everything Moriarty wanted him to, well, then at least he would be the only one to die.

But what would happen then?
Could he trust the criminal to really leave Sherlock alone?
Would Sherlock be able to avenge him?

"Night," he mumbled, closing his eyes when he felt the door close, and he sat on the bed, burying his face in his hands, ignoring the pain in his back.
He felt so bloody lonely.
He couldn't stand this much responsibility on his own.

Sherlock closed the door to his room behind him with a sigh, hoping John was OK. He saw the phone still lying discarded on the bed and couldn't bare to look at it in case Moriarty had text him again. He felt a flash of anger burning through him as he picked up the phone and placed it on the bedside table, peeling back the sheets to get into bed, still fully dressed.

Sherlock lay in bed thinking for half an hour, his eyes open, unable to close them, unable to switch off. He just kept running through all the events of the past 24 hours. He knew this wasn't over. Moriarty had let them go, but why? He'd been in the perfect position to kill them both. Clearly it meant he wanted to play a game with them, which infered more was to come. But Sherlock refused to let his best friend get hurt again.

He leapt up out of bed and headed through to the living room. He didn't care how late it was, he was going to play the violin. He picked up his beloved instrument and began a slow haunting melody, the concentration required helping to clear his busy thoughts.

Jim looked at his watch with a thoughtful expression and as soon as he realized it was time to strike again, a devious smirk curled on his lips.
"Finally," he exclaimed, moving to his desk and grabbing one of the mobiles.

Just for you, honey. JM

And he sent the first picture, the best one if he had to say.
"Dance for me, Sherlock," he whispered, laughing slightly to himself.


((Imagine this [Only admins are allowed to see this link] without Sherlock, and John not exactly aroused XDD ))

Sherlock had stayed up all night. He'd played the violin for two hours then took to messing around with his chemistry equipment, not doing anything of importance just trying to create distractions for himself. He made four different types of invisible ink then tested them by writing the word 'John' in each of them. He couldn't get his flatmate out of his head.

At around 8am Sherlock headed to his room to change his shirt, having spilt some iodine on his current one. As he picked something out of his wardrobe of identical white, black and purple shirts his eyes fell upon the mobile phone, which had been sat on his bedside all night.

He was torn between wanting to check if he'd had any cases through, but not wanting to check in case Moriarty had sent him anymore messages. In the end his curiosity won out and he picked up the phone, grimacing when he saw a text through from Jim Moriarty.

Sherlock opened up the message. There was a picture attached. It was John. One of those photographs his friend had told him about. The...compromising ones. John was naked. Completely naked. And tied to the bed. Gagged. Sherlock was disgusted. Sickened. He couldn't take his eyes off it.

He stared at the picture for some minutes, zooming in and studying it in careful detail. This was important, he told himself. He was trying to spot clues. He wasn't sure what type of clues exactly, but surely something could be gained by staring at his flatmates crotch on a grainy little photo sent to you by your arch enemy.

Sherlock suddenly snapped out of it, realising what he was doing. He slipped the phone in his pocket and made a move towards the living room, blushing terribly when he noticed the stiffness between his legs making it difficult to walk properly. Bloody hell. He'd got turned on. By seeing his friend tied up naked by a psychopath. What was wrong with him. He lay down on the sofa with a sigh, hoping his erection would go away if he just thought of something else.

John's night had been long and strenuous. He hadn't been able to sleep more than a few consecutive hours, waking up every time panting and gasping, his hands grabbing the sheets under him in fear and pain as his brain tried to crawl out of the clutches of his nightmares.

Every time he closed his eyes in the dark of his empty room, he would feel choked by the loneliness of his heart, he would see Moriarty smirking at him and pointing at an empty grave, no doubt prepared for him.

It was his fate looming over him, making his heart beat fast and anxious, and the physical pain of the torture he had been subjected to, shooting through his body every time he turned, in fact made it impossible for him to think of anything else.

By morning he was exhausted, he probably looked quite horrible too, with deep dark bags under his eyes, walking down the steps to his living room with a zombie-like step, rubbing his eyes and wishing he was dead already, because it was just too painful to move.
He probably had bled through his bandages during the night, he thought, moving too much to run away from those terrifying scenarios, where he couldn't save the only person he cared for.
He would always be only a few steps away... Sherlock.
Looking at him with his piercing blue eyes.
But John never managed to reach him.
He never managed to save him before Moriarty killed him, before he made him fade away.

The last nightmare had been the most shocking, his mind clearly playing tricks with his weary consciousness.
He shivered as he remembered Sherlock looming over him.
The knife in his bloody hand drawing patterns on his skin and reopening every single wound.
There was a smirk on his friend's lips.
There were words.
Words John didn't want to think about any more.
The rejection he felt the day before was nothing in comparison to the sorrow that was soaking his senses.

He froze when he saw Sherlock on the sofa, realizing he was there too late to be able to flee back to his room.
He had no idea why he should even run away.
They were just dreams.

"Good morning," he said simply, making a bee line to the kettle, trying not to look as crestfallen as he felt.

Sherlock hurriedly turned over to face the wall as he heard John's footsteps coming down the stairs, hiding his head and his body into the sofa as much as possible, hoping John wouldn't notice his still obvious bulge in his trousers. He wrapped the dressing gown further round himself for good measure. Of course John wouldn't notice. He never noticed anything.

Sherlock noticed his friend's steps seemed a little slower and heavier than usual, a 2.3 second gap between the left and the right, and he glanced over his shoulder as John finally emerged into the living room, instantly heading straight for the kitchen as he always did in the mornings. He couldn't help but notice the fresh blood on his bandages with a concerned frown.

"Are you um...are you OK John?" he asked cautiously, turning round slightly but still being careful to cover himself. "You're bleeding," he remarked.

John started a bit when he heard Sherlock's voice, the memories of the dreams were still so fresh in his mind that he almost felt like he was still asleep.
"Mm? Oh, yes," he mumbled as he filled the kettle with water, "I guess a few of the wounds reopened during the night," he added with a sigh.

"I am fine though," he lied, he really didn't need Sherlock to worry. The worse part was still to come and he really didn't want to think about what Moriarty's next steps were. He wondered if he would publish the pictures, if he would just send them around to humiliate him with his friends, he had no idea, but he wasn't looking forward to it.
The constant pain on his back didn't help his mood either, and for a long moment he simply felt sorry for himself, there seemed to be no bottom in the pit he was falling in.