Warnings: Angst, Major Character death, Infidelity, Mentions of Sex and Drug Use (both are brief and non-explicit)
Author's Notes: Originally written for a prompt at the Sherlock kinkmeme on LJ. Many, many thanks go to my fantastic betas tehomet and humantales who didn't pull any punches and put up with my indecision to help me whip this baby into posting shape. Also, big kudos to melaszka who did a wonderful job Britpicking this for me.

John Watson is many things. He is a doctor, he was a soldier. He's a son, a brother, a friend, an ear to listen, a hand to hold, a killer, a lover. And he has been, would be, anything and everything to Sherlock Holmes.

Anything but this.

He doesn't know what this is, anymore. He thought he knew once. This was flatmates, then colleagues, then friends, then lovers/boyfriends/partners—the terminology doesn't matter so much. To John, Sherlock was, is, everything. Almost the whole world, in fact. Oh, sure, there were others—friends, relatives, acquaintances, even archenemies. But it all came to John through the filter of Sherlock and he was fine with that, really. It was all fine.

This is not fine.

He stands by the window and he watches Sherlock's tall, lean form walking away—coat whipping about behind him as he strides up the street—and he knows without being told where Sherlock's going. Well, not exactly. He doesn't know where, or for how long, or to whom. He knows why, though, and that's the most devastating knowledge he could have. He'd asked once—well, that wasn't quite true. He'd demanded, begged, to know why and then Sherlock had stared at him, his voice as icy as space.

I am bored.

Three words. Three crushing, heart-wrenching words. He'd tried—desperately—to not let that hurt, to not let it worm its way under his skin and burrow holes through his heart. But he'd ached ever since then, his heart beating itself into pieces everyday. And he can't seem to escape. Oh, he's been desperate to, but it's like trying to escape the gravity well of a black hole. He is, was, inexorably and inescapably pulled back to the centre, towards Sherlock.

Always towards Sherlock.

He can recognise the symptoms, of course. He knows, intellectually, what's happening. He's seen it happen to others, even in his own family. While his father's addiction might have been drink—same as Harry's—his mother's had been his father. He thought he'd escaped that pattern of addiction. Apparently, he'd thought wrong.

His fingers grip at the windowsill and his heart races, trapped in his rib cage and desperate to break out. But there isn't a way out. God knows he's tried, but every method of escape comes with strings attached, strings that will act as neon beacons to either Sherlock or himself, drawing him right back in. The addict unable to escape the addiction, an itch that he can't bear not to scratch.

Except…

His fingers tap lightly, mindlessly, as his mind races. There might be a way. He bites his lip. Perhaps it would be like asking a supermassive black hole to help him escape the orbit of a normal one, but the more he thinks about it, the more he wonders if it isn't his only option. He could disappear, he could cease to exist as John Watson. There'd be no way back…

Before he can second-guess himself, he has his mobile in his hand, scrolling through his contacts until he finds a name. He pauses. If he calls, if he does this…he has to mean it. He has to know what he wants to say, has to be ready for anything, has to be willing to walk away from this life knowing he will never return.

He dials.

It is a brief conversation. And barely five minutes later he's out in front of the flat, getting into a sleek, dark car that has pulled up.

He is driven to an abandoned warehouse—not unlike the first one he'd been taken to—and he gets out, walks right up to Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft Holmes, who is standing in front of him, ever-present umbrella in his hand, watching him with a carefully blank expression.

"John," Mycroft says by way of greeting.

John's throat is dry, his hands sweating slightly, but his hand isn't shaking. "Mycroft," he manages, his voice slightly hoarse.

Mycroft watches him, not saying another word, and John knows the onus is on him to begin, to try and explain. He's not sure he can, because he knows that the words, 'I need your help,' are going to have to leave his mouth. He's wondering if he wants to be indebted like that to Mycroft Holmes.

But then he thinks of the alternative—going back to Baker Street, swallowing down and hiding the pain, the pain that makes him feel like his heart is slowly being squeezed of life. And, he knows deep down inside, it would cost him his life, because he'd never be able to leave on his own. He straightens his back and looks Mycroft in the eye. "I need your help," he says, proud of the fact that his voice doesn't tremble and his hand only shakes a little.

Mycroft doesn't react at all, but if John had to guess, he'd say that Mycroft looks resigned. Possibly even remorseful. John feels vaguely surprised, but he can't really focus on it.

After a long moment, Mycroft nods slowly. "What do you want?"

And John thinks about this—he has, in fact, been thinking about it for some time, how to phrase what he wants, what he needs.

"I need you to tell me what to do."

He thinks he detects a hint of surprise in Mycroft's eyes, as if this answer is completely unexpected, and he allows himself a brief moment of amusement and warmth at the thought of surprising this man.

The moment passes quickly, though, and Mycroft raises an eyebrow, a clear invitation to explain what he means. He does his best. "I can't know," he says simply, looking Mycroft in the eye. "He'll know if I know, he'll be able to tell. And if he knows, if he says anything about it…" he trails off, the end of that sentence, the I'll never leave echoes through the silence like a gunshot. John takes a steadying breath and continues, "I can't know any of the details—when, where, what, anything. I need someone he can't read like a book."

John has always had difficulty reading Mycroft, but he takes his silence as understanding, if not compassion or sympathy. That is one thing he would never, ever expect of either Holmes brother. "So, one day, I need you to tell me that this is the moment. Tell me what to take or not to take, where to go and what to do."

Mycroft studies him intently for minutes. There is utter silence in the warehouse and he is aware that he's holding his breath. It's risky, he knows, coming to Sherlock's brother for help in leaving, but he feels like it's all he's got left. "Why should I do this?" he finally asks, staring hard at John. What's in it for me? is understood, but unsaid.

John inhales slowly, thinking. "Because you know how your brother can be."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, his face as inscrutable as ever and John exhales loudly in frustration, barely stopping himself from running his fingers through his hair roughly. "Because you know how I can be, and how Sherlock and I are together. It's…not good."

There is a very long pause and John does his best to hold steady, to keep a stiff upper lip in the face of Mycroft's scrutiny.

"I'll get the car to take you back."

It's not really an answer, but John nods anyway. He's more surprised that Mycroft even listened to him. As he turns to leave, though, he wonders if he doesn't see something like regret and pain on Mycroft's face. But it's out of the corner of his eye and it's gone so fast that he thinks he must be imagining it. He gets into the car and heads back to Baker Street.

When Sherlock returns the next day and makes a cutting remark about Mycroft, John shrugs and looks at him blandly.

He waits and hopes.

i. Soldier

It's been two weeks since his meeting with Mycroft and he's in the flat on his own, attempting to read a medical journal, but it's like he can't get comfortable in his own skin. He keeps squirming in the chair, twisting this way and that. He keeps reading the same words on the page in front of him and he's just about to give up when he hears the front door open and shut.

At first he thinks Sherlock has returned from the case he's been summoned to, but Sherlock's only been gone for fifteen minutes. He can't be returning yet.

Mrs Hudson is out doing some shopping, so John sighs and tosses his journal aside, descends fifteen stairs, but stops on the second to last.

There is a letter on the end of the banister. A letter with no postage stamp and no address, but his name is clearly typed on the envelope.

His hands shake for a moment, but he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, then reaches for the letter and ascends the stairs, carefully opening it as he goes.

John, it says, Pack your gun and one change of clothes. Leave your keys and the enclosed letter. Burn this one and the envelope it came in. Walk to the tube station. Take the Bakerloo line to Charing Cross. Go to 454, The Strand. You are re-enlisting.

He follows the directions exactly. He burns the letter and the envelope, leaving the enclosed letter on the desk—which he notes is addressed to Sherlock in a damn near perfect imitation of his own handwriting. He hesitates for a moment, wondering if he should read what it says or not, but ultimately decides against it. It won't matter; he's never going to see Sherlock again and, if he does, it will mean that Sherlock knows he didn't write that letter anyway.

He quickly packs his gun and a change of clothes, sets his keys next to the letter, and then quietly exits Baker Street for the last time.

When Mycroft had said he was going to re-enlist, he hadn't expected this: to be re-enlisted under a false name, to be attached to the Special Reconnaissance Regiment as a soldier—promoted to Major, Officer Commanding of his own company—and to go through an intensive year-long course of practical and theoretical training. He learns stealth techniques, intelligence gathering, Farsi and Pashto, even acting. He's in better shape than he's ever been—psychosomatic limp is gone, his hands never shake, and even his shoulder twinges much less—and his life is in constant danger.

He enjoys this new life, the respect of his fellow officers and his men, as well as their camaraderie. He never speaks about his past.

He doesn't think often of London or Baker Street, of a man with curly black hair and silver eyes, dangerous cheekbones and an even more dangerous intellect. But when he does, he idly wonders whatever happened to Sherlock Holmes.

He stops those thoughts before they can consume him, before he can remember the hurt and the heartbreak.

He stops because he's no longer Doctor John Watson and he doesn't feel the things that Doctor John Watson used to feel.

ii. Lover

It's been a month since he asked Mycroft for help and Sherlock's gone out. John doesn't like to think about where he's gone—he never does—because he already knows the answer and the words cut like knives, burn like fire.

He's restless, pacing. He wonders when Mycroft is going to just get on with it, when Mycroft is going to fix it for him. If Mycroft is going to…no, when. He has to tell himself it's going to happen, otherwise he might just…

That's when he gets the text message.

Downstairs. MH

He blinks at it, and then glances out of the window to see a black car waiting near the front door.

When he climbs into the back seat, he's surprised to see Mycroft himself. It's the first time he's ever been present.

"Mycroft," John greets him, cautiously.

Mycroft smiles—really, truly smiles—and John almost stops breathing because the smile does and does not remind him of Sherlock's. It does because they're brothers and they look alike, but John's never seen anything with such warmth on Sherlock's face before.

He coughs and blinks, desperately unnerved by his train of thought. He almost asks where they're going, simply as a means of changing the subject, but there's something in Mycroft's eyes that warns him against it. Instead, John cocks an eyebrow at him.

Mycroft's smile turns slightly more mischievous and he carefully places a hand over John's. He leans forward so that his lips are brushing John's ear and he whispers, "Trust me, John."

And John thinks, in that moment when shivers race down his spine and his breath catches in his throat, that he would trust this man to the ends of the earth.

He can't speak, so he nods, his cheek brushing against Mycroft's and it's intimate in a way he's never been with Sherlock. Sherlock's always been go and now and faster, faster, harder.

This, though, this is something else entirely, like warm treacle in his stomach. John doesn't know what it is, precisely, but he can't stop himself from wanting to find out.

It's a month later and John has long since given up wondering when Sherlock is going to say something, when they're going to have the argument that ends it all. He's been tiptoeing around him, waiting for the other shoe to drop, ready to just get it over with. He's still not exactly sure how he feels about Mycroft, but he finds himself feeling less and less hurt by Sherlock everyday.

He wonders if one day it'll stop hurting altogether. He wonders if that's even possible, because Mycroft is Sherlock's brother-surely he'll never be able to completely get away from those memories. Right?

But today seems to be the day, because the tension in the room is different as he and Sherlock face each other over breakfast. It's quiet, but John thinks that he can tell that Sherlock's finally noticed the chasm that's opened up between them. Sherlock is studying him, really looking at him like he hasn't in a long time, and John feels his stomach twist in lust and guilt and shame and sadness and pain. John just wants to get it over with, clear the air once and for all. He opens his mouth to speak at the same time that Sherlock does, but before they can even more than utter sounds, Sherlock's mobile goes off.

Sherlock glances at it, reads the message and looks at John-really looks. John can read the question in his eyes and he knows it's about more than just going with him to the crime scene.

And that's when his own mobile buzzes. He glances at it.

Come with me. MH

He looks up at Sherlock and they're staring at each other. There's a weight in the air and a stillness, as if the whole world is holding its breath. Then John sharply shakes his head and Sherlock is already bounding to his feet, grabbing his coat and scarf and John watches him, something like numb disbelief settling over his skin.

Sherlock glances back, his face blank and his eyes unreadable, and then he's gone.

John gulps, his hands shaking slightly. And then he carefully gets up from the table. He clears the dishes away. He goes into his room and packs his things. He writes a quick letter to Mrs Hudson. He slips his key inside the envelope, and he slides it under her door. He goes outside and sees the car waiting for him, gets in.

Doctor John Watson looks at Mycroft, who raises an eyebrow at him. John takes his hand and smiles shakily.

The smile he gets in return is brilliant. His hands stop shaking and he takes a deep breath, his smile more assured.

The car drives off and he leaves Baker Street behind.

iii. Doctor

It's been two months since he spoke to Mycroft and John is getting fidgety. All he can think about is when it's going to happen, if it's going to….no. When. And how. He's edgy and he suspects that Sherlock's noticed.

In fact, he's certain Sherlock's noticed and he doesn't know why they haven't talked about it yet.

He needs to get out of the flat because it's oppressive. Sherlock hasn't had a case in three weeks and he's bored and that means trouble. Not only for John himself—because he's learnt all too well what happens when Sherlock's bored this way and a small part of him dies inside each time—but for the walls, for Mrs Hudson, for Lestrade and his team. For everyone.

So he mumbles something to Sherlock about getting some shopping done—they're out of milk again—and he stumbles out onto Baker Street. Autumn has arrived and it's nippy outside, a chill settling over London that seeps through the gaping cracks in John's armour and sinks into his very bones. He's always cold these days, it seems, but he does his best to ignore it and makes the trek to Tesco. He's almost there when he feels like he's being watched. He turns quickly and sees a sleek black car pull up to him, the door opening almost immediately.

He quickly glances in the direction of the supermarket, and then glances back towards the flat. He squares his shoulders and climbs into the car.

The car blends back into traffic and then turns off Baker Street heading towards the west and Heathrow Airport. Everything he owns, save the clothes on his back, is in the flat.

A ticket to Toronto is pressed into his hands, along with a Canadian passport and an overnight case with all the essentials. Once he's in the terminal and waiting for his flight, he inspects the bag and discovers a set of clothes and a wallet full of Canadian dollars and a driver's licence that proclaims him to be John Smith of Calgary, Alberta, Canada. Also in the bag is a folder full of paperwork, which includes a CV, references, another plane ticket—this one to Miami, Florida—and a ticket that will get him to Haiti as a doctor.

He feels a strange swooping sensation in his stomach, both of nerves and the calming assurance of being able to do something productive and helpful. Not long after, he boards the plane to begin an adventure that has the benefit of being both dangerous and useful. He's able to apply his medical knowledge to help the living rather than inspecting the dead.

This new life is difficult, but John doesn't mind. Haiti is gruelling and it's painful to see the destruction, the poverty, the misery—the relief camps with no running water, no electricity. The crimes against women and children. All of it is awful, but it makes him feel alive, and it takes his mind off the life he left behind.

After six months, he arrives in Canada to take up a job at the Alberta Children's Hospital, Pulmonary Clinic, where he's paid well to treat children. It's a nice life, cushy, and—he hates to say it—boring. Memories of London and that other life are constantly, maddeningly, on his mind. He finds himself thinking of running through darkened streets after criminals, of how his blood used to pound and how he and…how they'd end up back at Baker Street, out of breath, kissing, ripping each other's clothes off. Fucking against the wall.

His life in no way resembles that and he misses it desperately. Misses Sh…misses everything about it so much he can feel it in his chest and stomach. He feels broken, as if he's fallen a long way and smashed on the pavement. The tremors in his hand return and his shoulder constantly aches. He needs his crutch again and he walks almost slower than he did when he returned from Afghanistan in that other life that he's now supposed to pretend he never lived.

That's when the addiction starts—gambling. It's small at first, just some friendly bets on the football match with his colleagues. It escalates; sometimes he wins, but mostly he loses. The sums go up, he gets into debt and he's drowning in it, but he can't break free because the thrill of letting it ride…. It makes his heart pound and his palms sweat and it's the only thing that helps the shaking in his hand.

Makes him think of what he used to have and, God help him, he knows it shouldn't. It's not the same—nowhere near—but it's as close as he can get now and he'll grasp at it until it kills him.

He finally understands his father, finally understands his sister, finally understands…just finally understands.

iv. Extended Holiday

It's been four months since he spoke to Mycroft and he's fairly certain he's losing his mind. He can't sleep, can't think about anything other than, it should have happened by now, surely. He's even—in desperation—pondered leaving Sherlock without Mycroft's assistance. But every time he tries to bring it up, something happens. One time it was Lestrade calling them to a crime scene that had Moriarty written all over it; another time Sherlock simply jumped him and they had fantastic sex on the floor. The last time he attempted to bring it up—just last week—Sherlock had been in a fog and John thought he may as well have been talking to the smiley face on the wall for all that he was listened to. Or heard, for that matter.

He'd given up, but that hadn't stopped Sherlock from going out some nights, not to return until the next day or even the day after that. John is beyond grief and anger and pain, he simply feels numb and a dull ache that encompasses his entire body. It's like constantly having the flu, and there are many days when he just wants to curl up on his bed and stay there. The only thing keeping him going is the thought that, one of these days, Mycroft is going to come to his rescue.

He is rapidly losing hope.

On this particular day, Sherlock leaves as the sun sets and John knows better than to expect him back. He makes himself a small dinner, sits himself in front of the telly and pretends to watch it while he pretends to eat. Then he does the washing-up and takes himself off to bed. He doesn't particularly want to sleep—the nightmares are worse than before because they fuse the worst parts of Afghanistan with the worst parts of London—but he has nothing else to do. In the end, he dozes fitfully—waking and drifting back to sleep to wake again half an hour later.

John doesn't know what time it is when he awakens to a soft squeak. He knows the sound—it's one of the floorboards right outside his room. At first he thinks it's Sherlock and he hates the way his heart—or what's left of it—jumps into his throat at this thought. But it's quickly crushed when he remembers that Sherlock always avoids that part of the floor. Sherlock glides from room to room silently. It can't possibly be him.

He has little time to wonder who it could be when the door bursts open and three men in black pounce on him, hold him down and drug him. He completely loses consciousness for the first time in days.

When he comes to, he's on a plane. The plane is not commercial, as he's the only passenger, and he has no idea where he is, except that he's over water. His head is aching, his limbs are aching, and remaining conscious is too much effort.

He awakens for the second time when the plane lands. He looks around groggily, yawning. Beside him, there's a bag. As he rifles through it, he finds a British passport in the name of John Smith, a wallet full of American dollars, and the deed to a flat—or condominium, as his neighbors insist—in Santa Monica, California.

Once he arrives there, he notices that it's much bigger than the Baker Street flat and it has an ocean view to boot. He's never lived so close to the sea and it's a novel experience. At night he can go out onto his veranda and listen to waves crashing against the shore. It replaces the sirens and the sounds of nighttime London that he'd grown accustomed to—not perfectly, by any means, but it's not half bad.

He discovers fairly quickly that he has a Swiss bank account with more money than he's ever had before. He doesn't need to work if he doesn't want to, but he quickly grows bored with the touristy areas and a job will keep him occupied. He decides to find work at a clinic for the underprivileged. He buys himself a car to get around and he gets his fill of danger everyday during his morning commute.

It's not perfect, but it's all right for now. He's afraid he'll get bored without criminals to run after, so he makes an effort to make friends with his neighbors and finds himself a local pub at Third Street Promenade that's not too far from where he lives. He even participates in the Homeowner's Association. It's comfortable, but he can feel the boredom creep in after about a year and a half. He thinks about travelling—he's never been to China or Japan. In fact, there are many places he's never been and he spends months researching the best time to go to Hong Kong and the best place to stay in Tokyo.

He's just on the verge of buying the air tickets when he decides to head down the pub and catch the football match. He's walking along, enjoying the mild autumn weather, when he notices a mop of curly dark hair and a dramatic coat flapping in the breeze in front of him.

He finds himself thinking for a moment how ridiculous such an ensemble looks in Southern California, and then his brain catches up and he stops in his tracks and stares—simply stares. He can't believe what he's seeing, he really can't. Why on earth would Sherlock track him down? Why would he come looking for him?

John feels a curious sensation in his chest, like his stomach is trying to squeeze his heart through his throat. Sherlock is in front of him, his back to him, and he's standing on the corner watching the people pass by. It's so uncharacteristic that John thinks he must be imagining it or that it must not be Sherlock at all, but someone who very closely resembles him. But no, the man turns his head slightly and John can see him in profile and he knows without a doubt that it's Sherlock.

His mind races—what should he do, should he say something or turn around and walk away? And if he does say something, what should he say? Can he go back to London, to Sherlock? And then a thought settles in his brain and he feels it plummet like a lead weight into his stomach: What if he's not really here for me at all? What if it's just coincidence? What if it's for a case?

Indecision keeps his feet rooted to the spot and that's when Sherlock turns around completely—as if he'd been waiting for this moment—and his eyes lock with John's. It's the closest they've physically been in nearly two years, but John still feels a gulf the size of the Grand Canyon between them. He wonders if Sherlock will walk towards him, if he'll say anything, because John himself can't move. He imagines this must be what it's like for a small animal stuck on a country road, watching a lorry bear down on it.

After a few long, agonizing moments, he watches Sherlock move slowly towards him. He gulps and he feels his face flush, though his hands remain perfectly steady. Sherlock moves like a large cat—a panther or a leopard—through the crowd toward him and he's helpless, absolutely bloody helpless.

Then Sherlock is standing in front of him and John's shocked at the look on his face—his mouth is twisted in agony, as though he's swallowed a particularly bitter lemon, and his eyes are dark in the same way they were that night in the swimming pool. And John wonders…he wonders if Sherlock could actually be feeling something, something like nervous, or panicked, or afraid. He never would have thought him capable of it.

"Hello, John," Sherlock finally says, his voice restrained, almost flat. John's not sure what to make of that.

"Sherlock," he answers cautiously.

And then he sees Sherlock's face crumple—ever so slightly, ever so briefly—and his voice cracks when he whispers, "I've missed you."

Before he knows it, John is on a plane bound for London, Sherlock next to him. He's holding Sherlock's hand and John marvels at the fact that it all had to end for it to begin again, better than before.

v. Death

John's lost track of how long ago it was that he spoke to Mycroft, but he thinks it's been about a year. He's completely lost his mind. His chest feels hollow, as if there's no heart left.

It's no use telling himself that Mycroft will save him. He's resigned himself to the fact that it's never going to happen and he's not sure what to do. He can't sleep and he can't rest. Eating is painful and food tastes like ashes in his mouth. The world has gone grey.

He has no purpose anymore.

He catches himself thinking about dying—what it would be like, what it would feel like, how he'd want to go. He rules out suicide, though; it feels too much like cheating.

But he can't seem to make the fog that clouds his mind go away. He moves achingly slowly—so slowly that he knows he can't keep up with Sherlock. Half the time he feels like he's as insubstantial as a ghost, drifting from room to room, unable to be seen or heard by anyone else.

There's nothing there but numbness. Dullness.

One day, though, as Sherlock is sitting on the couch in a daze from the drugs—John really doesn't care anymore, not even enough to stop him—he hears Sherlock's mobile beep. Not his normal mobile, the other mobile. The pink one.

It snaps John out of his haze. The fog lifts for the first time in a very long time. He takes the mobile and glances over at Sherlock—no movement, no acknowledgement at all.

John inspects the message. It's a warehouse. He knows exactly where it is because it's the same one he met Mycroft in so long ago and he knows what the taunting message means. Time to finish it, my dear.

Only Moriarty is going to have to deal with him, not Sherlock. He feels invigorated as he grabs his gun and is on the verge of nudging Sherlock when he stops. Sherlock is in no state to be doing this. He will only get himself killed.

John hesitates for a moment, then grabs the pink mobile and puts it in his pocket. He makes his way into the kitchen and quickly rifles through the cabinets, looking for the sleeping tablets Sarah had prescribed him when she'd fretted over the dark bags under his eyes. He finds them after a moment, fills a glass of water and moves back out into the living room. He sits behind Sherlock, propping him up. "Sherlock," he whispers.

There's a non-committal grunt in response. Sherlock blearily opens his eyes and looks up at him uncomprehendingly. "John?"

"Shhh," John hushes, putting the tablets on Sherlock's tongue and holding the water to Sherlock's lips. He starts to drink and John is not surprised. The drugs make him so willing, so complacent. He finishes the entire glass and then John gently lays him down on the sofa. "Rest," he whispers quietly, but Sherlock is—as always—two steps ahead of him and has drifted back into his own personal twilight zone.

John takes a moment to look down at him, to memorise his features, to remind himself that it'll be better this way. The thought that Sherlock won't even know he's gone flashes through his mind, but he stomps down on that because it burns painfully in his chest. Instead, he leans down and presses his lips to Sherlock's forehead in a tender way, in a way he's never done. It says everything he's never said before-I'm sorry, I forgive you, and I love you.

He slips quietly out of the door without looking back.

Less than half an hour later, John finds himself in the warehouse from the picture message. Before he can do more than get his bearings and inspect the ground floor, he hears a mocking voice that seems to come from all around him, echoing in the cavernous room. "Oh dear. Sherlock sent his pet. I did rather intend that he would come himself."

"How sad for you," John replies, looking around for Moriarty. His heart is thudding in his chest, but he keeps his voice level. "You'll have to deal with me instead of Sherlock."

Moriarty laughs, high-pitched and menacing. Almost unhinged. John thinks it may very well be that Moriarty has lost it since Sherlock has managed to dismantle the most important bits of his criminal empire. When not lost in the haze of drugs or sex with other people, that is.

"Borrr-ing," Moriarty taunts in a sing-song voice.

John feels the weight of his gun at his back and he catches a glimpse in the corner of his eye—finally—of a figure. He turns in Moriarty's direction and takes a good look at him. He certainly looks more bedraggled than he did the last time John saw him. Unsurprisingly, he's got a gun trained on John.

John smirks at him and whips his own gun out, his hands steady as he levels it at Moriarty's face.

Moriarty smirks menacingly at him and cocks the safety catch off. "Tut, tut, Doctor Watson, I don't think you want to do that."

John stares at him. "What makes you think so?"

"Oh, I know you think you have a death wish, but you really don't. You're still operating under the delusion that you'll somehow make it out of this, that you'll kill me and escape with minor injuries and make it back to Baker Street, tired and triumphant, and that it'll magically repair your relationship with Sherlock." John tenses, ever so slightly, but Moriarty sees it and grins coldly. "So why don't you put the gun down like a good pet and we'll start again from the top."

John slowly lowers his arms, lets them fall to his side, his posture defeated. Anguish twists his face and squeezes around his heart. His hands don't shake, though his heart is beating rapidly. He's determinedly not thinking about the moment that's bound to come, the opening he's waiting for.

Moriarty doesn't know what he's thinking, which surprises John in a detached sort of way. Because, despite what Moriarty thinks, he has no such illusions about a happy ever after. He's always been a realist and he's known Sherlock far too long to think that Sherlock would be thrilled by this turn of events. More likely he'd be furious that John took it upon himself to face Moriarty without him.

But what Sherlock doesn't know can't hurt him, John thinks, wryly.

"God, you're pathetic, aren't you?" Moriarty gloats, drawing closer with his weapon still trained on John. "Can't bear to leave a man who doesn't even love you, who thinks nothing of cheating on you whenever he damn well feels like it."

John flinches ever so slightly—an instinctive reaction to words that hit far too close to home—but Moriarty sees it despite his best effort to quell it. Moriarty couldn't have missed it; he's so close now. Close enough that John can feel his breath—rapid, excited puffs of air—against his cheeks and eyes, his hair. "What's that feel like, Johnny boy?" he whispers quietly, mockingly. "What's it feel like to be Sherlock Holmes's bitch? His pet?"

John closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and sets his jaw. He thinks, now! and brings his gun up quickly to point at Moriarty's heart, pulling the trigger.

There's a loud bang, and then another bang that he hears distantly. Feels pain blooming in his chest-hit a lung the doctor part of his brain supplies— and then radiating throughout his body. He ignores it, though, in favour of watching Moriarty fall and seeing the look on his face. It's not at all like what he pretended it would be, all that time ago by the pool. His eyes widen slightly and then a flat, dead look replaces it and Moriarty collapses to the ground, no more than a pile of cooling blood, skin, and bones. Nothing more than a body.

"Like hell," he whispers, and then he collapses to the ground himself, sprawled onto his side, blood seeping onto the ground underneath and around him. He's gasping for breath, coughing up blood, every inhale and exhale like superheated knives that cut and burn his lungs and his chest. Hell, his entire body. He watches his blood pool around him and his thoughts whirl through his head, disjointed by pain. He knows with absolute certainty that he's going to die.

He didn't think dying would be like this, when he thought about it. He thought the world would fade away, that it would resemble the fog he's been living in for longer than he can really recall. But this…

He almost laughs when he realises that the world is in colour again, that the drab greys have fled. He can see the violently bright red of his blood and thinks of being a child, how he loved to use the brightest red available when the class finger painted. He almost runs his fingers through it, thinks about making a little drawing, but his hand is shaking too much and it hurts. God, it hurts.

And yet, he feels, feels in a way that he hasn't in so long. And there are his other senses—dulled for a lifetime—that are so sharp and burn so bright they almost hurt. The smell of copper, of gunpowder. The sounds of his ragged breathing, of his coughing, and how they echo even through the ringing in his ears. But he's losing his grip on the real world, losing focus and turning inward, away from physical pain.

He thinks about Sherlock, about how he can solve puzzles and play games now without the distraction of emotional entanglements. He finds himself hoping that Mycroft will get Sherlock off the drugs, or that maybe Lestrade will manage it. He hopes they'll succeed where he, John Watson, failed.

He coughs more violently than before, can't swallow properly. He hears gurgling. He thinks, not long now and how he finally knew something that a genius didn't, that he outwitted two in one night, and what an accomplishment that is for ordinary, boring John Watson. And then he thinks, finally, that Moriarty lied all those months ago at the pool because he never managed to burn Sherlock Holmes's heart out. What he did manage, though, was to rip John Watson's apart, piece by piece, little by little until there was nothing left.

It's the last thought he has.

+1

It's been one day since John begged Mycroft to help him and he's still not sure he did the right thing. He's staring out of the window, gnawing on his lip, his left hand shaking slightly. There's a ball of lead in his stomach making him feel ill. He keeps wondering, Can I do this? Should I do this?

He spies Sherlock striding his way back towards the flat and ponders making an escape to his bedroom. He's not sure he can face Sherlock at this moment.

And that's when his mobile buzzes. He blinks and flips it open.

Stay. Tell him. Trust him. MH

John takes a deep breath and briefly debates throwing the mobile against the wall to watch it shatter into a million pieces. He thinks it might be quite satisfying, given how utterly misplaced his trust in Mycroft Holmes has been. Stay? Talk to him? Trust him? John wonders if he wasn't clear with Mycroft, or if the man has turned a blind eye to what his brother's been doing. He can't help thinking this has to be the case, because otherwise Mycroft would have done as John asked. He wouldn't have told him to do this.

He's debated with himself too long, though, because he can hear Sherlock's nimble steps up the stairs and he knows it's no use running for it. He sighs, squares his shoulders, faces the door. Holds his breath and waits.

Watches Sherlock burst into the room, already talking about how it only took him one minute and nineteen seconds to work out that the man the police were looking for was six feet tall, about fifty years old, and a butcher by trade and, further, that the police shouldn't be wasting his time with such mundane cases.

John is struck anew by what a whirlwind Sherlock is, how—even at his worst—he's got charisma and energy and draws John to him like a moth to a flame. Even if it burns him—and it is burning him, slowly and irrevocably—he will continue to bask in that light and heat.

John knows he's staring when Sherlock looks at him strangely. "John?"

He blinks and he's teetering on the edge of the cliff: walk away, suffer in silence, let the pattern continue and slowly lose himself. Or, speak up and make a stand. Jump off the cliff.

He clears his throat. "We need to talk, Sherlock."

It's a painful conversation and it degenerates into shouting and insults and John's ready to leave, right on the verge of it, actually. He's grabbed his coat angrily—furiously—and he's got his hand on the door to the flat when Sherlock grabs his elbow. "Wait, stop," Sherlock says, his voice at a lower volume than it has been since the conversation started.

John grits his teeth, flexes his hand to rein in his temper and to keep himself from lashing out and punching Sherlock. "Why?"

There's a long silence, uncomfortable, and John exhales and turns to look at Sherlock who's got a peculiar look on his face. His mouth is working to form words, his eyes narrowed in concentration and something like panic flaring behind the calculating gaze. He's not even looking at John directly, but rather is staring at the door handle where John's hand is resting.

"I…I don't…" Sherlock huffs in frustration, and then closes his eyes and growls, "I don't want you to go."

John turns his body to face Sherlock more fully, hand still resting on the door handle. His left hand is shaking badly, so he tightens it into a fist to make it stop.

"Why should I stay, Sherlock?" he practically spits. "You said it yourself, that I'm not interesting enough for you. That you're bored with me." All the hurt he's been holding tight within him blossoms inside his rib cage when he says these words aloud, pressing between his ribs, tightening around his heart. Squeezing mercilessly.

He's surprised to see Sherlock flinch at the tone of his voice, at his words. Sherlock tightens his jaw, his eyes still resolutely focused on the door handle. "I don't want…I can't…I need…I need you." His face flushes in anger. "There, are you happy? I need you, John."

"No, you don't. You wouldn't treat me this way if you did," John responds right away, but he's losing his grip on his anger in the face of Sherlock's struggles.

Sherlock breathes out sharply. "I lied."

John just raises an eyebrow, feels his anger returning. Sherlock shakes his head stiffly, still not looking John in the eye. "I…you don't bore me. I lied about that." The words fall out of his mouth in fits and starts, his posture stiff. He hasn't let go of John's elbow, and John can feel Sherlock's fingers clench and unclench minutely, erratically. "I need you. Can't live without you. I'm afraid. I can't…I feel things with you. It hurts sometimes. I don't feel things with anyone else and it's…not nice, but it's a break. From you. Because you're so bright, you hurt. Like staring into the sun."

He looks miserable throughout this speech, like the words are being dragged out of him kicking and screaming. It's one of those moments when a light switches on and John finally understands. Sherlock's not used to feeling and John makes him feel. It overwhelms him and he sleeps around to escape it because it's outside of his understanding and control. It scares him.

John doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Or possibly scream. He still hasn't discounted that option.

He feels his breathing come back to nearly normal, and then he takes Sherlock's hand in his. Laces their fingers together. Stares at their joined hands.

"It's not going to get better all at once," John says quietly. "I can't…make it feel like less. Wouldn't want to."

He sees the disturbed look on Sherlock's face and squeezes his hand. "But I want to try to help, Sherlock. You…you're everything to me. I love you."

Sherlock's head snaps up and their eyes finally meet. And John doesn't expect the words in return and he doesn't get them, but he sees a sort of awed, almost wondrous expression in those silver eyes that looks a lot like love. And maybe that's a good beginning, rather than a terrible end.