"John?"
Sherlock's voice was practically silent, the sound echoed through the near quiet flat. Lately the only sounds that came from 221B were the sounds of a violin and Sherlock asking John to eat. It was almost funny, if it weren't so pathetic.
Ever since Mary's death, John had holed up in Baker street almost the same way he did after Sherlock's fake suicide.
The army doctor did not handle death very well.
"Go away, Sherlock." John was laying on his side, back to the door. He hadn't moved all day, and after research and asking Molly, apparently that wasn't good.
Molly had told him it would be normal for John to grieve, but that didn't mean Sherlock could just ignore him. Sherlock would need to be there for whatever John would need.
That was what a best friend was supposed to do.
"Ms. Hudson brought up some pasta for you. If you don't want that, I can go get that dish you like from the Chinese place down the street."
The consulting detective wasn't use to comforting anyone. He could help people with problems, physical problems. Things like murder or blackmail.
But this? Sherlock was at a total loss.
After the funeral, Sherlock hadn't expected John to come home with him.
When he did however, Sherlock began doing research on grief counseling. He had attempted a few of the techniques on John. When he didn't realize what Sherlock was doing, or didn't care enough they tended to work.
"'m not hungry."
Sherlock went to go sit on the edge of bed, back straight like a school boy sent to the principle.
"John, you've lost 5 pounds since the funeral. You need to eat."
"Says the man who goes days without eating when on a case."
"Until you make me." The detective responded with a small smile. This remark finally made John turn over and sit up. He looked like a haggard mess. Obvious signs of crying and little sleep. John's hair, although short, was pushed up in odd angels.
John looked absolutely dreadful. At least the moustache was gone.
"Fine."
Sherlock nodded, walking out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. The pasta was still hot, small tendrils of steam building off it. Pushing off random stacks of books and vials onto the counter- or the floor. Taking out a beer from the fridge, he turned to see a almost surprised John.
"How old is that?"
"A week, maybe two. I bought it at some point before I brought the feet in."
Pulling off the lid, he handed it over to John. Taking a tentative sip before nodding that it was still good.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, with John eating and Sherlock watching him.
"You know you can leave the flat." John noted, breaking the silence before taking another bite.
"What? Sorry, was…thinking."
"You can leave the flat. I know it has to be killing you, staying in here day after day. You can take a case without me."
"What?! No!" Sherlock almost sounded insulted.
"John, what I said before was true. I would be lost without my blogger."
The ex-army doctor was about to respond when a sound rang through the flat. Too short to be a client, and everyone else would usually knock.
When John didn't appear to move, Sherlock practically skipped down the steps. Excited by the potential of who /what could be at the door.
Standing at the doorway of 221B Baker Street was a man Sherlock hoped to never see again.
Sebastian Moran.
Also known as Moriarty's right hand man. He held a familiar military stance to Sherlock's own ex-army doctor. The few times Sherlock had seen him before, the man had a sniper either in his hands pointed at Sherlock or on his back.
The sniper was surprisingly absent, though the guitar case at his side spoke volumes. In his hands was a small box, about a foot in each dimension wrapped in black paper with a scarlet red bow.
The box was too neatly done to be the work of a military man, too creative.
"Holmes."
"Moran."
Both men watched one another for a moment, attempting to decide if the other would strike up a fight.
Neither did.
"The package is for Dr. Watson, see that he gets it." Moran's voice was cold, like his eyes. It was the voice of a man from war who had lost too much to care for anyone else.
'Sentiment' Sherlock thought with distaste.
"Why?"
"Because it is a wedding gift."
Sherlock frowned, disgusted at this low move by the spider.
"It's a little late for that isn't it? I've been told wedding gifts are usually given at the wedding and not after the funeral."
"He apologizes for the lateness but nonetheless He did it with the doctor in mind."
Moran handed over the box, which Sherlock took after a moment.
"Be careful, it'll probably smell by now."
Cocking an eyebrow at the man, but not saying another word Sherlock closed the door and took the box upstairs to where John was still eating.
He tried not to think about how Moran was going to sit at the café next to their Flat for the next few hours to either gauge John's reaction or something Sherlock hoped was over.
"Who was it?" John asked, sitting back in his chair, turning to look Sherlock straight on.
"Sebastian Moran."
If john felt at shock at the news, he didn't show it.
It was definitely possible he was just too tired to express it which was Sherlock's main theory at the moment.
"And he brought that?"
"Yes. He said it was for you a-"Sherlock almost cut himself off, not wanting to stir any form of sentiment in John that would only be detrimental to his healing.
Facing the pain of past emotional disturbances is the only way one can heal from them. Do not ignore the fact someone has died, talk about it, and reminisce about better times. It is the only way to heal.
One of the articles Sherlock had read suddenly came to mind, so he continued.
"Wedding Present. I do not believe this is standard conduct though."
John was silent as he took the box from Sherlock, placing it on the table after pushing away the half empty plate and empty bottle of beer.
Taking the small cream colored card attached, he read "To Johnny, Love Jim XXX"
"Sherlock, you told me he shot himself."
"That is what I saw, yes."
John glanced up at Sherlock who was looking at the package, no doubt trying to deduce some sort of hint.
"Are you sure it's from him?"
"Moran wouldn't work for anyone else."
John took the box into his lap, accepting a nod from Sherlock as approval to continue.
"Do you think it's rigged?"
"John, we both know Moriarty cares for you too much to risk hurting you. Especially not when you are in such a sensitive position."
With that, John pulled off the bow then the paper. Under the paper was a regular white box, as well as an incredibly vile stench. It was like a mixture of rotten food and what John would find in the fridge sometimes.
John coughed upon inhaling the scent while Sherlock appeared just uncomfortable.
"What the fuck did he put in here?" He muttered, opening the box.
If John hadn't served in the British armed forces, he would have screamed.
If John didn't live with Sherlock Holmes and was used to seeing body parts, he would have thrown up.
If John Watson wasn't the past lover of the world's only consulting criminal he would have been disgusted and shocked.
If John Watson wasn't John Watson, he would have displayed a variety of actions displaying the normal reaction one would display after seeing the decapitated head of his Dead Wife's murderer.
But John Watson was John Watson-Moriarty so instead he sucked in his breathe, placed the box back on the table and stood up.
The doctor walked to the other side of the kitchen where he stored a bottle of whiskey, the strong stuff.
Taking a swig of the bottle, he tried to ignore the sounds of Sherlock's muttering while he inspected the head.
"He didn't just send the head, John"
"What?!" The doctor exclaimed, anger finally breaking the depressed surface. The hand holding the whiskey bottle shattered upon his harsh grip.
"Are his fingers in there too? Or… or his genitals or something? What the fuck kind of game is going on and the fuck is he involving me?" John practically screamed, shaking from the sudden pain coming from his leg.
"No, it's a heart." The detective, responded calmly. He had seen John blow up before, plus it was supposed to be a normal reaction according to various grief articles.
"And a note. Shall I read it?"
John's shoulders rolled, showed his annoyance and compliance.
"Dear Johnny,
So sorry to hear about all that dreadful business with Ms. Morstan. She was lovely and had my 99% approval. The 1 percent comes from our past, love. Here is the head of your lovely lady's assassin and the heart of the man who put the hit on her. His name was Charles August Magnussen. If only I could give you my heart, Johnny-boy but this will have to make due. Until I see you again, which I promise to be very very soon.
Jim Moriarty."