John was suddenly glad for the jacket he'd put on off handedly before leaving the inn now. It meant he'd have at least an extra layer of protection for a short time anyway. Especially the way this was going. If one thing remained the same it was Moriarty's love of words. Well really at least love of his own voice. John wasn't sure at this point if that was good or bad anymore. He was tired, mentally he was nearly tapped on all things related to Moriarty and Sherlock. It'd taken him nearly a year to get where he was, and now he was back to square one.
On top of that, unsure who he could trust anymore. Every time he tried trust it got thrown in his face and ended like this. The knife against his cheek caused only the barest hint of a flinch but he was silent at it. The kind of strength the military had taught him once upon a time. Now he called on it, grateful for his training to withstand pain.
"Nobody could miss someone like you." His jaw set sternly as he glared up at him with defiant dark eyes. Not even a sound, tough he took a breath in as the knife grazed him and drew blood. He gave him a bitter smirk. "Then do it. Give him back. I'm the one you want anyway. And here we are." Sarcasm dripped off his voice. They could get on just fine without him, he knew that. he knew he was only around for the convenience of others. That was nothing new.
"You'll find I'm not easily made helpless. But you want to die, then go on and untie me. I'll kill you again."