A/N:
Hi Guys. I am really unsure about this. I have another chapter complete. I will post that later in the week. Please let me know if you want me to carry on with this.
Thanks
Private Practice
John glanced at the clock on the wall of his room at the surgery. It read 5:40pm. He just had one patient left before he could go home. Home where Sherlock was. He couldn't believe that it had only been six weeks since his friend came back after a three year absence in, which time John had believed him to be dead.
After the initial shock and anger (in which John had given Sherlock a black eye and then snogged him thoroughly before concluding that he really wasn't that way inclined and had been overcome by emotion – much to Sherlock's amusement), Sherlock had explained everything – Moriarty's plan to kill his friends and Sherlock's subsequent mission to take down his network. John was still surprised that they had settled back into old routines so easily.
Sighing he pulled up the notes for his last patient – James Brooke, a new patient interview. John was glad that it was something that should be relatively simple. It had been a bitch of a day and he had the mother of all headaches threatening. He buzzed the intercom to call his patient.
He looked up as the door opened. "Please, take a seat, Mr …" The invitation died on his lips as he recognised the man before him. He scrunched up his face, taking a moment to compose himself. This was the second time in less than two months that he had been faced with the living dead. "Hmmm, you're dead." He finally managed.
Jim Moriarty laughed as he sat opposite John. It was a childish, almost free sound that at the same time was chilling, dark and manic. "I'm not sure that those years in medical school were all that beneficial if that's your conclusion, Dr. Watson."
"No, you blew your brains out! Sherlock watched you do it!"
Moriarty's demeanour darkened. "And my men watched Sherlock plummet to his death from the roof of St. Bart's!" Lightening up again in the way that those acquainted with Jim Moriarty were accustomed, he continued. "It would appear that we're both a bit rubbish at killing ourselves – too narcissistic, I guess!" Moriarty shrugged.
"OK, so you're alive, Sherlock's alive – back to the status quo. Why are you here? I'm assuming that you haven't changed your name to James Brooke and are looking for a GP on the NHS!"
"As always, Johnny boy, straight to the point! Did Sherlock tell you what he was doing for those three long years you spent pining for him?"
John smirked. "Taking apart your organisation, your web."
Moriarty chuckled, "Err no. I let him think that he was doing that. Sherlock actually tidied up some lose ends for me; got rid of some liabilities." Jim smiled, licking his lips, then just as suddenly as it had appeared, the smile vanishes. "That was until three months ago. He managed to get close to some important contacts. So now, Johnny boy, it's revenge time. Does the name Sebastian Moran mean anything to you?"
Sherlock had, of course, told him of the three snipers tracking him, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Colonel Sebastian Moran was the sniper assigned to him. Sherlock had taken him out barely a week before his 'resurrection'.
"I know who Colonel Moran was." John said coldly.
Something akin to distress flashed momentarily across Moriarty's features. "He was my best man. The crux of it is Dr. Watson, I need a good sniper and you are going to be that man."
John huffed out a disbelieving laugh. "And what exactly makes you think that I would agree to that?"
Jim pushed his iPhone across the desk to John. On the screen he saw Sherlock playing his violin; stood by the window in the living room of 221b. John recognised that the flat was exactly as he had left it that morning. Seeing his expression, Jim grinned. "If you don't agree to work for me, your friend will discover that I am alive and well – but he won't get to cherish that knowledge for long before I personally put a bullet between his eyes. This time, I won't be using blanks."
John blanched. "What if I tell him?"
"You both die." Jim slid a second iPhone across to John. "This phone will be my method of contact with you. I will contact you with details of each job. Go to the police; Sherlock and the old lady die; tell Sherlock, you and Sherlock die; disobey me and all three of you die. I'll be in touch John. I have enjoyed catching up with you." With that Moriarty stood and left.
John let out a shuddering breath. What the hell just happened? Moriarty had left him with no choice. He had only just got Sherlock back; he would not lose him again. He had done unmentionable things in the past three years to keep John alive; now it was time to return the favour. He had killed in the army, he had killed for Sherlock, he would be able to do it again.
