Disclaimer: I'm only borrowing the characters for my own reasons. I give them back at the end of the day.

Don't forget to review/favourite/follow if you like this fic! It helps motivate me to write.

Earnestly yours, Joss Teagan.

John received the call when he was at Sherlock's grave, kneeling beside the headstone as rain poured down. It wasn't the first time he had visited his deceased friend's grave, nor would it be the last. If his mobile phone hadn't been on vibrate mode, he wouldn't even have realised Mycroft Holmes, the late Sherlock's older brother, was calling him. The onslaught of relentless rain deafened him, and the tinny chime of a phone wouldn't have reached his ears.

"Hello, Mycroft, guess where I am?"

"John, I'm having trouble hearing you- are you outside?"

"You say that like you don't have CCTV trained on me constantly." John yelled into the mouthpiece, hoping his voice wasn't silenced by the rain.

"John, I need you to come to the Diogenes club-"

"Piss off, Mycroft, too much has happened for us to have cosy chats and I won't be your dogsbody-"

"It's Moriarty. He's woken up."

John ended the call with a click.

He was very conscious of his wet shoes squeaking on the wood as he was led along by a grim-faced silent attendant. When he finally entered the familiar room, he sighed, the oppressive silence of the club no longer suffocating him.

"How long?" he said to Mycroft's tweed-covered back, as the older man placed a book on the bookshelf.

"A few hours. He's disorientated but lucid. I called you not long after I found out myself. Thank you for coming so quickly, John," Mycroft's gaze slipped from John's forehead to the wall behind him. "Thank you for coming at all."

"Had to, didn't I?" John gruffly muttered, glad Mycroft wasn't looking at him. He couldn't handle that penetrating stare right now. "And- where is he?"

"A hospital you're familiar with…"

"Bart's? He's at Bart's?" John's incredulous look of horror was ill-matched against the bland look on Mycroft's face.

Mycroft inclined his head. "Indeed."

"Mycroft, that man is a psychopath, he's a genius and dangerous. Hell, he was smart enough to fool you! And you've just got him lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by innocent people!"

"I assure you, we have armed guards stationed outside the door of his room. He is being monitored constantly and I will be informed of any changes in his recovery. John…he…doesn't remember."

"I, I don't follow you." John stepped closer, his eyes scanning Mycroft's face. he wished he could read a person, deduce them like Sher-

"He has been diagnosed with retrograde amnesia. Before…my brother jumped, Moriarty met with him on the roof of St. Bart's. We'll never know what was said during this encounter, but we know the consequences. Moriarty shot himself in the mouth and…Sherlock jumped. Of course, you and I both know that he had been successful in tarnishing my brother's reputation prior to the meeting, so perhaps he considered his work to be done. Moriarty doesn't reason things out in the way that sane people do, John, and I believe he truly intended to die. But he was lucky. He survived but paid the price with brain damage. In this case, memory loss."

"How badly is he affected?" John wished he could get his hands on the medical file. Mycroft gave him a steely look, leaning against his desk with his arms folded.

"As far as he is concerned, Jim Moriarty never existed. He believes that he is a children's entertainer called Richard Brook because that is all the information he has. That's what the nurses call him. He knows nothing of you, me, or Sherlock. If you said the name Jim Moriarty to him, he'd look at you blankly." Mycroft retrieved a small photograph from his breast pocket and passed it to John.

The Moriarty in the picture was pale and sickly, lying prone in a hospital bed with several wires sticking out of pale skin. His eyes were closed and his mouth slightly open, and his hair was tangled. John's eyes travelled over the woebegone patient for a few minutes, until he became aware of Mycroft staring at him intently. John cleared his throat, thrusting the photo forward like it was burning hot.

"It's like he's a different person," he managed to say. "He looks so small, so frail, so-"

"Diminished?" Mycroft asked. At John's nod, he gave a humourless smile. "The greatest criminal the world has ever encountered and he's currently getting fussed over by nurse, thanking them for fluffing his pillow."

"I appreciate you informing me of this, Mycroft, I really am. I know that things ended badly…and I want you to know that I still haven't forgiven you for betraying Sherlock."

"I understand that. I didn't contact you today to beg for your forgiveness, although I would of course prefer it if you didn't consider me an enemy. I know you think I'm in no position to ask this but- I have a favour to ask of you."

John narrowed his eyes. "I should have seen this. Why would you bother to keep me in the loop? No, of course you want something. Because that's the way you work."

Mycroft's reaction as quick and explosive. "Don't presume to know anything about me, besides the biased opinions of my brother! YOU KNOW NOTHING, NOTHING ABOUT ME, JOHN!"

The anger in Mycroft's voice triggered John's own rage, his voice rose too, matching the fire blasting out with every syllable. "I know that you were so eager to learn about Moriarty that you were stupid enough to compromise you own brother!"

"I LOST SOMEONE TOO, THAT DAY! You forget that, don't you! I lost my brother. Are you oblivious, blind to the guilt that I feel? I have to live every day of my life knowing that I am the reason my brother is no more? Cut down before his time. I will never forget my actions that day, so I don't need to be reminded-" Mycroft broke off suddenly, raking a hand through his hair. Both men were panting, and John felt sick, looking at Mycroft's reddened face, his chest heaving with emotion. With a visible effort, Mycroft gradually composed himself until the earlier ire was all but gone from his countenance, save for his mouth being drawn in a tight line.

"I apologise for my outburst, John. Seeing what is essentially Sherlock's killer alive and well has…released some feelings I would rather stay hidden."

"Yeah, well, me too. I know that you cared about him too. he was your brother, after all."
"Quite. Now, if we could proceed with the matters at hand? You seemed aghast at the thought of Moriarty being under the care of the St. Bart's medical team, but he wasn't originally there. We had him moved when the extent of his cranial injuries were revealed. I thought it would be more convenient."

"Convenient for what?"

"I'm going to ask you to do something, John. You have the right to decline but know that I'm asking you because Sherlock trusted you. And if he trusted you, then that's good enough for me."

"What do you need me to do?"

"The release date for Moriarty, or should we say Richard Brook, is approaching fast. He'll need accommodation. You still live in 221B-"

"You can't be asking what I think you're asking-"

"It would only be for a few months. I need your medical expertise, John, as well as your knowledge of Moriarty's personality, his little ticks and idiosyncrasies. You are in the unique position of being one the few people in existence, with the exception of his employees, who has spent time in his company and lived to tell the tale. Even when I was interrogating him, he was still playing a role, wearing a mask. That's what made it so difficult. But he didn't have to pretend with you and Sherlock- he had all the power. Having a doctor with your military training around him all hours of the day would reassure me greatly. You don't have to like him, just subtly observe him. Contact me if you spot anything that makes you think his memory is returning. He only recently came out of his coma, so there's no telling what he will recall. I'll understand if you refuse but-"

"I'll do it. For Sherlock."

"For Sherlock," Mycroft agreed, his eyes unfocused, and they began to discuss the plan.