A/N: I wrote this a few months ago after seeing this wonderful drawing [ post/22455774387/so-i-have-this-thing-where-i-really-really-want] by teabeforewar. I went back and added a few things, tried to make things clearer and this is how it turned out.
This is technically my first attempt at a Sherlock fic and I'm not so sure if I'll manage to write anything else hahah.
Characters belong to Sir ACD. Set in the world of Moffat and Gattis' adaptation.
It was rather inconvenient to be reduced to this, but Mycroft has been insufferable as of late and of course Sherlock is capable of walking up the seventeen steps up to his flat despite being under the influence of cocaine without much trouble. He'd usually take for a syringe, but he needs this right now and now called for it being breathed in through his left nostril while sitting in the back seat of the cab that was currently driving him home. He hasn't done it like this since Uni and the damage it has and will cause to his sinuses is of no importance.
He wasn't planning on coming back until he had eliminated Moran, but Mycroft, caring as he is, paid a visit to him while Sherlock was out in Scotland. Canna to be precise. All the clues pointed to this location; a desolate place in a rather beautiful island, a prefect place for Moran to hide and pull the remaining strings of Moriarty's web without having to worry about being recognized. And it was here, in a small cafe where he learned about John's engagement.
"You must understand, little brother, that Doctor Watson would have met his doom if this," he pauses to look at the manilla folder in his hands, "Mary would have come into his life a second too late."
"John is strong. He wouldn't succumb to such- -"
"You haven't been there, Sherlock." Mycroft's tone was stern. "Surely you were aware of how much he cared for you?"
Of course he knew. That much was evident the day John visited his grave and in the many days before that, but his knowing how John feels is irrelevant.
"She loves him. And he loves her." Mycroft didn't say much after that. A few minutes later, he produced a box from underneath his seat and set it on the table. Inside it was John's gun. The one he had shot the cabbie with all those months ago.
John left his gun the day he moved out. Of course, by then Mary had convinced him that he didn't need it anymore. That all that had plagued him had jumped along side Sherlock and perhaps she was right. To have those things become a part of Sherlock's life is surely a small price to pay. The gun was always within arm's reach since Mycroft handed it to him. Sherlock had known after months, years, of tracking down Moriarty's minions that at any given time they could very well catch up to him, so he always kept it with him, always.
He snaps out of his flashback, fully aware that the drugs were beginning to settle in and asks the cabbie to drop him off at the corner. Sherlock practically throws the money at the cabbie and makes his way to the front door. Mrs. Hudson is away on holiday, so he doesn't bother to be quiet and trudges up the steps up to his flat. Once inside, he makes no attempt to look about the flat. He hasn't been here in months and if anything's been moved he'll deal with it when the high wears off.
He settles in his chair, opposite John's and leans his head back. There was a soft wisp of air that came in through the half-open window facing Baker Street and with it came the drawled out whisper of Sherlock's name. The voice was rough but confident and Sherlock knew as soon as he heard it to who it belonged to. No, no, no, no. It can't be. He's dead. There was a gun, a shot, and blood curling around the spider's head. Of course he's dead! And as soon as he convinced himself of just that, he heard the voice sing out his name.
Sherlock quickly sat up and frantically looked about the flat for the man that called out to him. He stayed like this until it became clear that the drugs were sending him into a state of paranoia when he caught a mist forming at the corner of his eyes.
Said mist swiveled round and round, the shape of a body forming from the torso upwards then later cascading towards to floor to reveal the rest of the body that appeared to be encased in a business suit (Westwood if you're wondering). Slowly, facial features began to protrude and soon Jim Moriarty was standing before him. He still bore the wound he inflicted on himself that evening at St. Bart's, his clothes impeccable despite it's being tinted a scarlet red. As soon as the manifestation was complete, the man cocked his head left, then right, and let out an exasperated sigh. His mouth curved upwards and his eyes slowly began to open.
Sherlock knows better than to believe in something as preposterous as ghosts, but this…this could certainly make a skeptic a believer. And Sherlock Holmes is... was a skeptic.
"Look at you," said Moriarty as he stretched. "A great mind like yours should know better than to give into those dreadful vices."
Had Sherlock not been transfixed by what he had just seen, he would've been able to hear what Moriarty— Moriarty's ghosthad said. Instead, he gaped at the figure and said nothing. He pulls John's gun from his waistband as slowly as he can and holds it in his palm, hiding it from the intruder.
"Miss me?" At that, Sherlock chuckled and eased into his seat. "Hardly," he retorts.
"No need to be rude, Sherly. I've certainly missed you, hence this little visit."
"Should I be flattered?"
"Well, you should considering you've got no one else to miss you. How is our brave Doctor Watson doing?"
The low chuckle that escaped Sherlock's lips was meant to be sarcastic, but even Moriarty could feel the hurt behind it. "He's—" gone, in love with someone else, someone that was there for him when he needed them the most, happy, getting married in a few days, unaware that I'm still alive? "He's fine."
At this, Moriarty stepped forward, shoving both hands in his trouser pockets and stopping a few feet across from Sherlock. "Oh, but you're not!"
He was about to explain the many side effects of cocaine, how it can cause paranoia and anxiety, but before he could begin his explanation, Moriarty continued with his speech. "I wonder, Sherlock, what would happen if our little soldier found out that you're here, very much alive, and doing absolutely nothing to keep him and his wife-to-be safe."
Don't panic. He can't do anything. He's not even real. "And what could a ghost do to him that could cause him any harm?"
Moriarty laughs. "Didn't even bother mentioning the girl, did you? Now, what doesthat say about-"
"Spare me your psychological rubbish, Moriarty."
"Jealousy doesn't suit you, darling."
"Hmph." He shouldn't be sulking at a time like this, but really, Sherlock passing up the opportunity to do so? Please.
"Do you want to know what I have in store for your little pet?" As if on cue, Sherlock begins to wonder. "Can't imagine your deducing powers to be any good right now." Wrong, well slightly. There was just too much to take in, coherent thinking was slowly slipping away.
"You seem to have forgotten that I'm only a man away from ending all this."
"True, but you're still not sure where to find him and I'm afraid time is running out."
Sherlock can't remember telling his arm to pull the gun from it's hiding place, but it's there, out and pointing straight at Moriarty. "Tell me, right now, what you're playing at."
"Only if you catch me, detective." Moriarty turned on his heel and descended down the steps. Playing a game at this moment was the last thing Sherlock wanted to do, but there was no way, absolutely no way he was going to let this threat in one ear and out the other. He raced after the apparition and out to the streets. "Tell me! NOW!"
"I still owe you that fall." Fall from what? Grace? No. Think, Sherlock, THINK. Fall, fall, fall…
"But…you're DEAD." His voice is shaking, and it doesn't sound like Sherlock, but it is and there's nothing he can do to make it stop.
"I may be dead, Sherlock, but a verygood friend of mine is still out there, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to lay down the final puzzle pieces."
"If Moran so much as steps within 100 yards from him, I swear I'll—"
"Too LATE!" Sherlock growls at that, raises his arm, and pulls the trigger, once, twice, three times. The shots reverberate along the empty street and his body collapses before he could see if he did any damage to Jim Moriarty. Sherlock begins to feel very cold. He tucks himself into the fetal position and lets his eyes roll back.
It turns out that Sherlock never made it out into the street. Neither did he notice the abrupt appearance of his brother in his vicinity when his team of spies informed him of Sherlock being sprawled on the floor, convulsing violently and foaming at the mouth. He was still clutching the gun however, and it was the three single shots that he had lodged into Moriarty's transparent body and into the chair in front of him -John's chair- that finally drove the dead man away and Sherlock into the brink of insanity.
Thanks a bunch for reading! ^.^
P.S. If anyone knows how I can properly link the drawing/artist on here, please, let me know.