Chapter Text
Outside the initial set-to, supper had been delightful. John forgot that Moriarty was sitting beside him and let himself have the most fun he'd had in quite a while. Everyone at the table, including Ben, laughed and joked and conversed late into the evening. They rehashed the men's earlier conversation about what they'd see the next day. That transitioned into an extended lecture from Brandon about the entire tour and all the villages and sights they'd see while walking. Even Veronica seemed upbeat about it at one point.
The group slowly meandered out of the restaurant and back to their rooms, individuals leaning on their partners as they chatted quietly with each other. John and Moriarty brought up the rear, walking behind Lucy and a giggling Sandra. John had been cognizant enough of group dynamics to realize it might be best to keep distance between Moriarty and Ben, so he had waited until Ben left the table before moving. The consulting criminal followed, amusement licking at his lips, and kept quiet until they received sleepy 'good nights' and the two were on their way to the stairs. John felt his good mood begin to sour as they ascended to the next floor, heading towards their room situated on the opposite end of the group's wing below.
"Is Johnny-boy nervous?" Moriarty asked playfully, challengingly. Then, finally, they cleared the stairwell, and the criminal cut John off, turning to walk backward in front of the doctor.
John scowled before turning his attention to the hallway they were making their way down. "No."
"That because you know you're in good hands?" Moriarty grinned. He waggled his eyebrows in a flirtatious manner. John thought it made the man appear ridiculous rather than the rakish the criminal was surely trying for. "Because, let me assure you, Johhny, my hands are very good."
"One," John said as they finally reached their door, "no. Just, no. And two?"
Feeling suddenly and somewhat unexplainably devilish, John stepped forward and carefully crowded the genius back against the doorframe, giving the other male ample time to pull away. Instead of protesting the manhandling, Moriarty's expression blanked as their bodies pressed together the slightest bit, and John reached up to place a hand on the wall beside the brunette's head. The surgeon leaned forward until their noses softly brushed each other's, vivid blue eyes locked onto black. His free hand pressed down on Jim's hip and nudged the consultant harder into the wood behind, the doorjamb's sharp corner digging into buttocks and scarred back.
"Two, Jim," John murmured, "your hands would have to be a lot better than just 'good' to make me nervous."
There was a heavily pregnant pause where the only sound was a quiet, sharp inhale before John smoothly inserted his key card into the reader without looking. Then, as the lock disengaged, he slid past the consultant into their room, and the captain's arm trailed teasingly across Moriarty's chest before he abandoned the man in the hallway.
As he reached the window and his rucksack, John felt the bravery leave him and was horrified at his actions. It was one thing to play along for the group's sake, but what he had just done was far past acceptable. John gathered his things and practically fled into the bathroom to escape the unstable criminal he had just openly taunted.
Before he closed the bathroom door, he caught a glimpse of Moriarty rounding the entryway corner, a whirlwind of charging body. The man's sharp stare found his own effortlessly in the brief moment before the barrier between them shut and locked, and John let out a shaky breath at the intensity he had seen in those black eyes. After a minute or so of waiting for something to happen, for Moriarty to challenge John's cowardice, John turned away to start the water.
It was clear from the bathroom alone that the suite was expensive, the glass stall having both body jets and an overhead rainshower that John was immensely envious of. He turned the taps on and laid his things out on the white quartz counter, ignoring his reflection in the quickly fogging mirror. When the water was scalding, he stripped and stepped into the shower.
The temperature almost burned; it was so hot against his back, but John clenched his teeth and breathed deeply. Heat permeated his muscles and loosened the tension in them, and it sank into his flesh with a gentleness that made him eventually sigh in pleasure. All this was a rare luxury, and he understood that he needed to savor it.
John's life was a snapshot of moving from one crappy place to another. Growing up just barely on the wrong side of poverty meant one rundown house or apartment after another. Old and uncared for was all they could afford, and John never enjoyed the chipped tubs with crappy water pressure and cracked mirrors. Unfortunately, Uni wasn't much better.
The Army, understandably, had been a whole other matter altogether.
Still, after that was over with, and when he was finally back in the country, John never really put much effort into finding somewhere with better plumbing. He had the money and could have chosen something farther away that was a bit more updated, but just... didn't. Creature comforts weren't essential and certainly never trumped location and price. He was kicking himself a little for that just then.
Loud knocking jarred the army doctor out of his thoughts, and he was startled from where he leaned forward against the shower wall. His heart leaped as he stared at the door, horrified at the possibility of Moriarty walking in on him at any moment. Panic grew until he remembered that he locked the door, and the unhinged genius couldn't see him starkers.
"Stop hogging the shower!" Moriarty shouted, the pout evident in his voice. He had obviously tried the doorknob first. "It's been ages."
"Go away," John called back, watching the door warily.
"Oh, come on, Watson," the criminal whined. "You're taking all the hot water."
John huffed before forcing himself to turn away and return to soaking in the shower spray. "Then you should have gotten here first."
There was a drawn-out pause before Moriarty responded, his tone low and prodding. "We could always share. Save the planet and all that."
"No," John said firmly and without hesitation. He ignored the slight blush that rose in his cheeks.
"Pretty please? I promise to be good."
"Go away, Moriarty."
Moriarty jiggled the door handle, loud enough to hear over the water, and slapped the wooden surface in frustration when it wouldn't give. "Fine, be a tease! See if I care. I hope you get all pruney, you prude."
John waited a full minute before sighing in relief and quickly finished his shower, not wanting to risk another interruption. There was no telling if the younger man would leave him be or resort to picking the lock just because he could.
After he had dried off and slipped on his pajamas, John took a moment to breathe and unlocked the door. He stepped into the room properly and glanced around when he couldn't readily see Moriarty. His heartbeat evened out before it could genuinely speed up when he spotted the genius sitting at the desk, hidden by the bathroom door, typing away at his laptop.
"Bathroom's all yours," John said, unsure what else to say.
Moriarty ignored him, attention locked onto the screen in front of him. His fingers scurried over the keys, long digits graceful in their movements. Black eyes were sharp and filled with a life typically void from them. Everything about the man at that moment spoke of distraction and interest. It reminded John of the many evenings Sherlock whirled around their flat with beakers and mugs, happily bubbling away with various experiments.
John left Moriarty to it. Just like with Sherlock, he was safer not knowing as long as nothing blew up. So instead, the physician moved to the far side of the bed, where he had laid down earlier that afternoon, and sat facing the far wall. With his back to Moriarty, John held the mobile he had taken into the bathroom. He stared at the blank screen as clicking filled the room behind him and contemplated.
There were so many things he could do just then, should do. The very least was to notify Mycroft of his situation. But a part of him, the very same bit that drove him to outmaneuver the elder Holmes purely out of spite, had him pausing. It whispered to him, a dark murmur tainted by bitter resentment, and halted his thumb before it hit dial.
John's thumb flexed over the glass screen as he thought things over. Moriarty was a genuine threat, unhinged and cruel. A man who was quaintly familiar with violence and murder and whose life-blood was shoring up criminal empires worldwide with nary hesitation. Didn't the man strangle John just a few hours before where the doctor was sitting? There was jagged madness lurking under those muddy waters.
But Mycroft was just as cruel. He sat back and watched John suffer the loss of Sherlock for almost a year. Mycroft knew how ill-suited John was for ordinary life, how boredom - ever the same greyness - withered him away until he was a shaky suicidal husk. Arguably, the elder Holmes knew that even better than the younger. It was all there in backroom-black-and-white; photocopied twelve-point font reports and commendations and hacked psychiatry notes. John wasn't meant for civilian life.
He wasn't meant to be left behind to do the grieving, even if he did it with a tragically beautiful flare.
John turned his head to the right, pulling his absent gaze from his phone's black screen to stare out the darkened window. The room's lights threw a glare across the glass and transformed it into a mirror, reflecting the room at him. He met his stare and forced himself to keep it, not to look away from the hollow understanding seeping through to the surface like weeds between sidewalk cracks.
What was worse? Violence or well-intentioned abandonment?
After long seconds of staring, John glanced down, away from his image, and then over his shoulder to the other room's occupant. Moriarty was still typing away, his back curved as he leaned over the laptop. The suit jacket, discarded during John's shower, draped over the chair back, and the dress shirt rippled slightly whenever its owner shifted his arms.
The doctor turned back to stare at the wall, running his finger pads over the back of his phone as he thought.
There was a decision to be made, John knew. Did he put aside all the hurt, anger, and resentment to do what was right? Or did he give in to his darker instincts?
How badly did John want to hurt the Holmes brothers? How deeply did he want to drive the same knife they had buried in his heart into their backs?
"Who knows?" John asked, a withdrawn sense of calm apathy filling him. It wasn't asked out of curiosity, just a detached need for information.
The clicking stopped at the question, and John heard the criminal consultant turn in his chair and felt the younger man's gaze settle on his back. Both men stayed as they were, silent in the room and weighing the air between them for several long moments. There was something heavy, something piercing, in Moriarty's attention. John thought it was similar to how Sherlock would tear John's mental privacy to pieces in their early days, before the detective started to care about being friends.
"If I said no one?" Moriarty asked at length.
"Then I'd wonder what you get out of lying when the truth hurts more."
The other male hummed once, weighing his options before deciding on the truth. "Miss Hooper."
"Ah."
"What, that's it? 'Ah'?"
"Yeah, that makes sense." John looked down at his phone and caught his reflection there. Blank eyes stared back. "They'd need someone reputable to verify the corpse. Who better than a pathologist who knows him personally?"
John clenched his jaw, still staring at himself, before looking up slightly. He thought about his options briefly before deliberately placing his phone face down on the nightstand. His hand rested on it, middle and pointer fingers tapping softly on the back. Eventually, he pulled away and turned to face the genius still observing him.
Moriarty's black eyes, heavy and assessing, were locked onto him. The attention was intense, cat-like, and John thought the genius was trying to fit pieces Moriarty hadn't realized were missing into a puzzle the man felt he'd completed years ago.
Keep Moriarty interested, John thought, and he might come out of this relatively unscathed.
When the scrutiny became too much, John tilted his head, placid in his silent questioning, ' Well, what now? '
Moriarty's lips quirked. While not warming exactly, his expression softened around the edges, and the predator stare abated. The younger man turned back to his computer and began typing away again, filling the quiet in the room. John leaned back, laying down on the comforter and pillows. He entangled his fingers over his breastbone and allowed himself to rest, the sound of keystrokes lulling him into a shallow sleep.
Eventually, too quietly to disturb John, Moriarty put away his laptop and took his turn in the bathroom. The doctor vaguely noted the sound of water pounding down onto the tile but ignored it to keep his eyes closed and breathing even.
John was tired.
For three years, he'd been loyal to Sherlock. He'd bound himself up in the detective, carved a place for the man in John's affection and empathy. Sherlock had needed a buffer from the world, and the doctor had been devoted enough to provide that.
But he felt used now, taken advantage of.
It wasn't wholly logical, John knew. Sherlock was trying to protect him, sheltering the doctor from the world and Moriarty's retribution. Sherlock wouldn't have left him behind if it wasn't necessary. But John also knew that Sherlock's definition of necessary was far crueler than most others. John was a liability; he couldn't assist the detective in whatever he was doing, so he'd cut John out. He had buried John alive, believing that the stale air that flowed into John's gilded cage would be enough to keep him functioning in the interim.
It wasn't. It wasn't ever going to be enough.
John's mouth twisted unpleasantly. Then, with his eyes still closed, he rolled onto his side, facing the desk and bathroom door. Hands tucked up against his chest, the captain sighed, settled into the soft surface beneath him, and allowed himself to drift off.
_______
"Oh, Johnny-boy."
John sighed and rolled his head slightly, trying to ignore the voice interrupting his sleep.
"Johnny," the voice sang offkey. "John, John, John, Johnny! Wakey-by for all the good little army doctors of the world."
Fingers prodded at the surgeon, poking unerringly at his shoulder wound. It didn't hurt per se, but the sensation caused the muscles to twinge. John snorted awake, groggily opening his eyes to stare at the looming figure.
It took a second to register, but Moriarty, kneeling next to John's prone form, startled the older man the rest of the way out of slumber. His breath caught, and he jolted upright and rolled out of bed, hitting the floor and scrambling awkwardly into a standing position. John quickly gathered himself, forced his breathing to slow, and shoved a hand through his hair roughly. Then, when he collected himself, he focused on the criminal genius.
The younger male was still where he had been a few seconds ago, in the center of the bed, watching him with dark, amused eyes. Moriarty was in grey pajama bottoms, soft and comfortable looking, torso bare, and his hair was damp from the shower. There was a smirk on the other's lips, a smug little expression that John wanted to smack off his face.
Moriarty must have picked up on the thought because his smirk widened into a vaguely manic grin. "You're so adorable, Johnny-boy!"
"Shut up, Moriarty," John groused. He scratched his scalp and yawned, blinking tiredly after his mouth closed.
"Oh, don't be like that," the madman complained. "I was doing you a favor."
"A favor?" John asked skeptically.
"Yep!" Moriarty popped the last letter. "Daddy thought you'd appreciate sleeping under the covers. So much more comfortable for the both of us."
The reminder of their shared sleeping arrangements made the army captain grimace and examine the room. While there was ample space, John didn't want to sleep on the floor. The bathroom and its lock also ran through his mind, but cold tile was not comfortable to spend hours lying on.
Moriarty rolled his eyes and huffed, collapsing backward to sprawl sideways on the mattress like an octopus. He lifted his head from where it fell off the edge of the bed and wiggled his eyebrows. "Oh, come on, Johhny. Daddy won't bite."
"You do, and I'll knock your teeth out," John bit back.
"Ohh, kinky!" Moriarty grinned and rolled onto his stomach, looking at John over his shoulder and batting his eyelashes playfully. "Wanna roleplay? I'll be the naughty criminal that needs to be punished. You can be the stern doctor. "
"Oh, my god." John scowled at him. "Why are you like this?"
The younger man burst out laughing and turned onto his back again, covering his face with both hands. "Your face! Oh, your face!"
Moriarty's laughter died down into helpless snickers as he ran his hands through his hair. His agile fingers pulled black strands into random spikes before running down his neck sensually. Then, they rotated so the pads caressed his bare sternum before dipping lower to his belly and lower still to his groin. The criminal cupped his throat with one hand while he palmed his crotch with the other, softly whining as he turned his head to stare at John teasingly.
"Sure you don't want to play, John?" He rolled his hips slightly up into his hand and bit his lip. "Not even a little?"
Arousal stirred softly in John's stomach at the sight, which ignited irritation at the other male, both in general and at his blatant attempts at manipulation in specific. Yes, John was ordinary compared to him, but he wasn't so common as to let a bit of moaning and groping overrule his common sense.
Moriarty strapped a bomb to him for chrissake! He had threatened to blow John up, shoot him, torture him, and ruin his career. If Sherlock weren't as stupidly brilliant as he was, the criminal consultant would have also killed John's best friend. Did John honestly come across as so simple that he would ignore all that history for a bit of empty sex? Apparently so.
John felt his spine straighten of its own accord as he marched over to his side of the bed, standing in the space between Moriarty's feet. Whatever Moriarty's reasoning for this show of his, it seemed half-hearted at best. He noticed those dark eyes watching him through lashes, empty of any genuine desire for the doctor looking down on him, which supported that theory.
John slowly leaned forward, careful to broadcast his movements to the mercurial man who had gone unnervingly silent. He listened to his instincts and slipped his hands beneath Moriaty's thighs. Then, gently, he pulled Moriarty towards him until the man's legs dangled off the side of the bed. The sound of the criminal sliding across the soft comforter made something in John's belly twitch.
The new position brought Moriarty's torso into touching range, something the other man used to further the battle he was trying to wage. The slighter male had been pliant to the easy manhandling, but now he restarted his short hip rolls and hand movements. Moriarty tipped his head to the side and back, trailing his free hand down his chest to his nipples and provocatively nibbling at his lower lip. All the while, he stared at John with poorly veiled indifference.
John caught the leg that began to wrap around his hips and gently pushed it away with a shake of his head. Then, he leaned forward again and grasped both the genius's hands in his, the backs of his fingers accidentally gliding against the younger man's groin as they did so. After a hesitation, Moriarty followed John's unspoken command and sat up. Confusion flitted in Moriarty's eyes. Fully upright on the very edge of the bed, he was nearly pressed against John's chest, his thighs on either side of the doctor's knees. His head tilted back awkwardly to scrutinize John; expression closed off and knife-like.
"Stop baiting me," John said, stepping back to put space between them. "I'm not going to fall for it; frankly, I find it insulting."
"Oh, Johhny. You're hopeless if you're insulted by someone wanting to sleep with you," Moriarty quipped, voice inflected with humor that didn't reach his eyes.
"No, I'm insulted that you think I'm stupid enough to believe you're interested." John took another step back and crossed his arms.
The other's gaze seemed to snap to attention, leaving John realizing he'd never truly been the complete focus of this madman before. It was apparent now that he had it. It was also terrifying how flayed and exposed it made John feel.
"Well, aren't you sure of yourself, Doctor Watson," the other said eventually, not breaking his uncomfortable stare. "Think you know me?"
"I know sex." John swallowed at how that sounded and clarified. "I know what interest looks like and what it doesn't. You're just trying to get a rise out of me."
Moriarty continued his observation momentarily before shedding his seriousness in an unseen shudder. He fell backward and bounced as his back hit the bed. "You're a stick in the mud," he accused.
"No," John denied. "I just don't like sleeping with people who don't want me."
"Hm," Moriarty purred, a sleazy smile stealing across his lips. He clasped his hands over his stomach. "Three Continents Watson."
The soldier narrowed his eyes. "Sebastian should be careful I don't knock his teeth out."
A genuine laugh escaped the man on the bed, and the insane criminal consultant disappeared briefly. In his place, a stranger appeared behind the mirth. The good humor made the other man's eyes light up in a way John hadn't seen before, startling the blonde out of his irritation.
Moriarty waved a hand. "Don't be cross at Sebby. I asked, and he answered."
John crossed his arms and glared half-heartedly, glad Moriarty had seemingly moved on from his seduction attempt. "That's an invasion of my privacy."
The other snorted. "It's not very private if you've made a name for yourself."
The doctor blushed. "It's an exaggeration," he argued.
"But by how much?" Moriarty wheedled, expression still filled with good humor. "Most of the time, you seem like a goody-goody prude, but then there are glimpses that have me wanting to reevaluate my people in charge of background checks."
The flush deepened. "Drop it."
The consultant chuckled slightly before sitting up. He bounced on the edge of the bed a few times and patted the mattress on either side of him. "Shouldn't I already know this about you, Johnny-boy? We are dating, after all. It would seem odd if I didn't know things like this about my boyfriend."
John scowled. "And who's fault is that?" he asked, referring to everyone believing the two men were a couple.
"Weeeellll..." Moriarty drawled, his expression falling back into something more plastic and familiar. "I'm trying to get to know you now, Johhny. That's the entire point of our holiday."
"No," the doctor refuted. "The entire point of this is for you to prove a point to Sherlock and Mycroft. I just don't know what that point is."
"Funnily enough, Doctor Watson, I could say Pot and Kettle here," the brunette said with a small, biting smile.
"I don't know what you're talking about," John immediately denied.
"I'm sure," Moriarty acquiesced a little too readily. "After all, ordinary John Watson couldn't possibly entertain the notion of revenge. The idea of one-upping someone would never cross his mind."
There was a moment of weightlessness in the army surgeon's stomach before it dropped. He opened his mouth, but nothing escaped, and John slowly closed it. Black eyes gleamed with knowledge, resembling polished chips of slate in the room's dim light. Moriarty's thin lips stretched the longer the silence between the two men dragged out.
"You're not denying it."
John remained quiet, unable to refute the accusation but unwilling to verbally confirm the other man's observation. His mouth felt dry suddenly, and he swallowed roughly.
Moriarty decided to show mercy and, with a small, dangerous grin, he reclined backward, hands sinking into the comforter. The light from John's bedside lamp licked across the other's chest, illuminating pale skin in an almost ethereal glow. John focused on Moriarty's face, refusing to trigger another seduction attempt.
"I think this is going to be fun," Moriarty said finally.
His tone was different. There was a lack of the habitual theatrics the criminal loved to throw in. Instead of the creepy sing-song quality or undercurrent of mania, there was just... nothing. It wasn't a void, not like earlier that day on the train, but simply a lack of artifice. The doctor would say it sounded like an average person was speaking if it were anyone else. It threw John off and unsettled him.
The genius had to have picked up on the unease. After a moment, his smile returned, a slow seeping of dark amusement across pink lips until a hint of teeth flashed through. Moriarty broke the moment by rolling his head and cracking his neck, exhaling in pleasure at the sensation. He eyed John before closing his lids and slumping backward onto the mattress. The consultant twisted sideways until he lay in the right direction on the bed and enterlaced his hands over his stomach.
"Come to bed, Johnny-boy. We've got a busy day tomorrow, after all."
John hesitated, gathering his composure, before stepping up to the side of the mattress. He stood there, staring down at the slighter male until Moriarty opened one eye slightly and looked up at him.
"Move," John ordered.
The other eye opened at that, and Moriarty stared up at John with a raised eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," the doctor said. "You’re in my spot. Shove over."
"How is this your spot? I paid for the room. Arguably, every spot is mine."
"I'll sleep better on this side of the bed."
It was the soldier in him, John knew. He'd been trained to be cognizant of a space. Entry points, such as doors and windows, were the primary methods of egress and, therefore, the spots that needed the most guarding against. Part of that training was also a subconscious categorizing of threats and noncombatants. And while John would never consider Moriarty helpless, he was technically a civilian, much to the soldier's chagrin. So, he knew he wouldn't sleep as well if Moriarty were between him and the door.
"Move, Moriarty. You're right. I am tired, and I'd rather like to go to sleep."
The other man huffed petulantly before rolling over to his side of the mattress with a grumble. John ignored him in favor of padding over to his rucksack and withdrawing his phone charger and pistol. The charger, he plugged into the wall and then connected to his phone. He placed his gun on the nightstand beside the mobile, within easy reach. That way, if he needed to, he could grab it quickly.
"Ooh," Moriarty hummed. "Naughty, naughty, Johnny-boy. You planning on playing with your toy before bed?"
John shot the criminal a look of irritation. "Do you ever stop?" he asked.
"Nope!" Moriarty grinned at him. "Or very rarely. I'm the energizer bunny."
"You're something all right," the doctor grumbled before carefully sliding under the sheets, trying to keep as much space between him and the other man as possible.
Moriarty chuckled and hopped up briefly to flip the covers back and jump into bed. Instead of settling down on his side, he curled over until he was on his stomach. From there, he wiggled closer until he could drop his crossed arms onto John's chest and rest his chin on them. Black eyes stared intently at him, and John felt a headache forming.
"What are you doing?" John asked, pleaded really.
"I'm not tired. I usually fall asleep in the early morning, and even then, only for a few hours."
The blonde stared at the brunette silently for several seconds as the words processed. Once they did, John groaned and let his head drop back in despair.
"Why?" he questioned the room as a whole. "What did I do to deserve this?"
"Well-" Moriarty started to speak, but John cut him off with an annoyed glare.
"Don't answer that. Get off," he ordered as he tried to push the younger man away.
"But I just got comfy!"
The whining irritated the doctor, and John eventually succeeded in shrugging the other off his perch. Instead of remaining where he was on the chance the leech tried to reattach itself, the surgeon climbed out of bed and grabbed his wallet and key card. As he went to the door, he heard Moriarty shift and sit up.
"Where are you going?"
The question was both a complaint and a thinly veiled threat. It had John halting for a moment before continuing to the door. Before turning the corner to the entryway, he stopped and looked back at the consultant.
"I'll be back. I need to get something."
"What could you possibly need to get at 11:30 at night that you don't have packed in your rucksack?" Again, a question with a displeased undertone to it.
John chose to ignore it. "Something that will hopefully keep me from committing murder." With that, he turned and exited their room.
From there, he made his way down the stairs to the ground floor and concierge desk. The employee there perked up and eyed his attire as he approached. Thankfully, he didn't mention it. If he had, John would have said something unpleasant right back.
After a brief conversation, the staff member confirmed they had what he wanted. John had them bill the room and waited in the lobby until a kitchen member brought a tray. On it was a pitcher, two glasses, and several bowls. He collected his haul with thanks to both employees and went back to the room.
Moriarty was leaning against the headboard, covers pooled in his lap as he fiddled with his phone. He looked up when John cleared the corner, and black eyes widened slightly at the loaded tray the physician was carrying. That stare continued as John dropped his wallet onto his nightstand and then rounded the bed to carefully place his burden on the other nightstand.
"What's your thing?" he asked nonsensically as he glanced at Moriarty.
The other male started. "What?"
"Your thing," John repeated, this time with a hand wave. "Sherlock was chemistry. What's your thing?"
There was a heavy silence then, black eyes cutting as they examined the doctor. However, John was too tired and frustrated for nervousness, so he stared the genius down apathetically while mentally counting from one hundred. His answer came eventually, slowly and with significant consideration.
"Maths."
There was a minute delay while John adjusted things in his head, but eventually, he nodded to himself and reached for the pitcher.
"This," he said conversationally as he poured, "is cherry juice. Tart."
John took a sip to show the criminal consultant it wasn't poisoned and handed it to the man. Moriarty stared at the glass in bemusement before carefully taking it and looking back up at the doctor. He stayed silent, and John took that as permission to continue. John pointed to the three bowls. "Bananas with almond butter, walnuts, and kiwis."
He turned his gaze back to Moriarty and stared until the younger man raised an eyebrow in genuine confusion. "Drink your juice."
There was a long, drawn-out moment where all Moriarty did was blink. But eventually, the consultant did as ordered and sipped at the beverage. John saw the brief flash of surprise at the taste and speculated that the other had never had cherry juice before. When Moriarty had swallowed some of it, John indicated to the food again.
"I don't know your preference, so I got a mix. Now, either Pi or calculations. For every 25 or 50 digits of Pi, depending on how quickly you blow through it, you eat a piece of something. If it's formulas, it's after every 5 or 10. Again, depending on how quickly you finish them. If you lose your place or get something wrong, you start over and increase it by 5.
"Now," he said with a clap of hands, "I'm going to bed. You're going to humor me and try this. If it works, great. If not, let me sleep anyway."
"And what," Moriarty drawled, reaching for a walnut even as his eyes followed John back around to the doctor's side of the bed, "is this supposed to accomplish?"
John flopped down with a gusty sigh and reached for the covers. He pulled them over himself before he turned to shut his lamp off. The room plunged into mostly darkness, Moriarty's lamp now the only light source. The doctor yawned, eyes squeezing shut as he did so, and then worked his head down into his pillow.
With his eyes closed, he answered. "It helps focus your mind on one thing. The drink and food are things that help promote sleep. Together, they may get you to fall asleep for a few hours. It doesn't always work, not if you're too keyed up, but it may help some."
"Trying to manage me, Johnny-boy?"
John hummed and took a deep breath before exhaling, letting as much tension go with it as possible. "I need to sleep, and you need to at least try because I'm not putting up with you staring at me all night."
There was a hum from his right and then several minutes of silence interspersed with crunches and sounds of chewing. John paid half a mind to the food Moriarty seemed to prefer but didn't say anything. Instead, he slowly let himself drift off, exhaustion pulling him under with a gentle grasp. Right before he went under completely, he dredged up enough energy to mumble at the criminal consultant.
"Kill me, and I'll shoot you."
If there was a response, it came too late. John let the last of his attention go and quietly faded into dreamland.