It was quite messy, pulling the axe from his wife's head.
Bits of her brain splattered on his shoes, looking like old, grey crumbly bits of a rubber eraser. He'd expected pink. He'd wanted pink. Pink was good, pink was pink. Pink was pretty, like the dress she wore when he first met her. The blood was dark. She was pale. Some dripped on her face, smearing over her cheek. Still not pink. Goddammit. He'd wanted pink.
"Danny! Danny Boy! Do you hear the pipes, Danny? The pipes! They're calling you home!"
Out of the corner of his eye he sees something scurry behind him, across the hall.
"Danny!"
There was the bang of impact, the clattering of silver dishes on tile.
He has the little runt in his hands, a squirming foot in his feet. The damn brat is squealing like a pig. A pig, a pink pig. Just like his mother.
He brings the axe down.
Finally.
Finally, he is alone.
The phone rings.
Sherlock's eyes snap open. Seeing as John was in the room, it was safe to assume it was Lestrade.
Case.
He springs up from the sofa, ignoring John's muttered comment about Pavlov before he turns the page of the newspaper, and answers.
"What happened?"
The flight to Colorado was spectacularly boring, as was the layover in New York City, despite John's excitement over finally being able to say he had been there. Crossly, Sherlock reminded him that they just technically stood in the geographical area known as New York. John frowned and shoved his carry-on bag at him and said it counted.
Sherlock likes the cold air and hates it. It reminds him of London, but it's too damn clean. Not a trace of smog or dirt or fag smoke or anything. He clutches at John and says he might faint from the high altitude. John scoffs and tells him he'd better drop the case then so they can go to New York.
Oh no. Sherlock would never drop this case. A man kills his wife and son and says he is not to blame; Sherlock would be an Anderson to give up this opportunity. To look this man in the eyes and see if he's lying.
Lestrade gave him a basic overview. The man had been watching over the hotel for the winter months after the staff left and brought his wife and son along. He'd been working on a manuscript and it had driven him crazy, or the hotel had, rather, at least according to him. Lestrade offered to send pictures and a video interview, but Sherlock had declined. This had to be more personal.
He'd watched a number of grainy video clips of the man being interviewed. He had a nervous twitch that indicated the rolling delirium tremens typical of alcoholics. His heavy brow bespoke of a disposition towards deeper thinking, the kind that grew irritated often when interrupted; there was more than genetics in it.
In these videos, Sherlock had seen himself. His curiosity had been piqued.
But what really convinced him to travel to America, what convinced him to tell John to pack his bags, was one word, one single word this man had uttered that had sent his mind reeling and his stomach dropping.
The detective interviewing the man had been lacklustre in his career, middle-aged and bored and no longer as curious of crime as he once had been.
The man said he heard voices.
"Whose voice?" The detective had asked.
The man's eyes had darted around before he licked his lips.
"Moriarty's."
Sherlock had been so careful. He had been so sure to draw the eraser deep enough over the lines of Moriarty's criminal blueprints.
Moriarty had shot himself. He'd watched. No one survives that. Then of course, no one survives a leap from a tall building either. But he had seen the burst of blood, the fragmented bits of bone that had once been vertebrae and splatter of grey brain matter. That had been real. It had been real. No one could have faked that, not even Moriarty.
But.
But what if? What if he was still out there? Sherlock had not sacrificed three years of his life, three years of John's life and the fact that it didn't include him in it, for Moriarty to have lived.
He had to know.
John snuffled softly into his neck, his fingers tightening around Sherlock's as he slept. Sherlock rested his head against John's and ran his free hand over his hair.
For John's sake. For his sanity.
He had to know.
CLOSING DAY
The manager of the hotel looked as nice in a suit as a rat did.
His hair had been slicked back in a ridiculous bouffant, and his clothes screamed of a latent desire to look more sophisticated than he deserved.
He leads them into a high vaulted room covered with rustic furniture meant to look hand carved and large rugs printed with Native American designs. A large stone fireplace gapes out at them, big enough to fit a queen sized bed in.
"This is the Colorado Lounge. This is where…well, where it happened."
"The murders?" Sherlock asks, if only to make the manager more uncomfortable.
"Yes. Right over there." The manager says hesitantly, indicating the end of the hall to the space right in front of a red elevator. "One of our cooks, Dick Hallorann, he—uh—he came the next day. Said he felt in his bones that something was wrong and wanted to investigate. Came all the way from Florida, too." The manager sighed heavily. "He was right. He just didn't get here soon enough."
"Is he here?"
"No, no, he's at the hospital in Aspen. The father, he played possum and attacked when Dick tried to help him. Dick's fine, nothing too serious, but shaken, for obvious reasons. I don't think he'd be up to questioning."
"Of course." Sherlock says with a flash of a smile meant to be understanding. It falls off his face the moment the manager looks away.
"I must say, I'm surprised you'd want to do your research here. How long are the two of you intending to stay? I need to let the new caretaker know when to report for duty."
"Oh, I don't think it should be more than a week or two. Just enough to gather and catalogue evidence."
"Wonderful. Well, welcome home, then."
As soon as they are alone, Sherlock groans.
"Yes, love, I know these things exhaust you." John says gently, running a hand over Sherlock's hair before shrugging off his jumper. The room has become comfortably warm since they lit a fire in that maw of a fireplace. Moonlight trickles into the room through the flurry of snow outside and mingles with the light above.
They push all the tables in the lounge to the walls and move in the big round bed from the master suite to minimise their living space, or rather John moves it and Sherlock watches. John makes a joke about onlookers getting a show, but Sherlock doesn't understand because how could there be someone outside in this weather? John shrugs it off and asks him if he wants tea.
As John sets the kettle, Sherlock wanders. The halls are pregnant with silence, heavy with the emptiness of it all. It's as if no one had been here for a hundred years, let alone an hour ago when the staff had left. He strolls the halls with vague interest, if only to categorise his surroundings, when something catches his eye. The diamond shaped door plate for room 237 is in pink. The rest are red. Why pink?
He has his hand on the doorknob when he hears John call out that the tea is ready.
He'll look into this later. When he has more time.
A WEEK LATER
The wheels of the cart click on the floor as John wheels it through the halls. Sherlock's still asleep, or was when he left. John had felt his chest tighten as he looked down at him, swathed in cream sheets, his pale skin peeking out. He'd decided to make him breakfast in bed. Sherlock would scoff about the sentiment of it all, but hey, at least he didn't have to get up. And sex always made him more pliant than usual. God knows they'd been doing it enough. Sherlock had poured his initial frustration—"no logs, no journals, a handful of cameras, all evidence wiped, who runs this place, Anderson?"—into biting anger directed towards John, so John had responded by shutting Sherlock's laptop and giving him, what was in John's opinion, spectacular head. After that, Sherlock had taken to using sex, as they usually did, to alleviate boredom or stress or frustration. John had lost count of how many times they'd fucked since they arrived, to be perfectly honest, and he doubted they'd left any surface that hadn't been christened. The bed in the lounge, the table, the elevator (when Sherlock had been spectacularly lazy and took it to the third floor to the archive room before making John carry the stack of papers down and rewarding him with a slow fuck against the wall), the kitchen counter after they'd attempted to make pie one night, three separate showers, five different beds (whichever room was closest when the mood struck), and, on one memorable occasion, the grand staircase. John would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the fact that they were unutterably alone in all this, that he could be as loud as he wanted or as slow or hard and it didn't matter because they had no one's feelings to take into account but each other's.
John had made eggy bread, something he hadn't done since Sherlock's birthday months ago. It tended to be a special occasion thing, but what he was celebrating today, he didn't know.
The cart grew quieter as wooden floor turned to carpet.
"Pink and gold are my favourite colours."
John whips around, but there is nothing behind him. His eyes dart around the room. He didn't imagine that; a woman had spoken just now, her voice high and airy. Perhaps Sherlock had the TV on and it had come through the vents. That happened in quiet places. Sound carries, after all.
When he gets back, he and Sherlock eat on one of the sofas, legs stretched out beside each other as they sit on opposite ends.
"Any traces of Moriarty?" He asks before taking a sip of his tea. He didn't think an American hotel would have such a good stock of tea, but he'd been pleasantly surprised.
"Not one." Sherlock answers, staring down at another camera feed. "I've narrowed it down to three months where he could have possibly visited and still influenced this man to kill his family. I'm almost through with the video archive and there's still nothing. No sign of Moriarty or Richard Brook or even one of his little insects he employed."
"I thought you took care of them?"
"I did, but that doesn't mean one cockroach hasn't slipped through the cracks."
Dull. This is all so...dull. He knew what this trip entailed, that it might be a stupid dead end, a trail of breadcrumbs that had been eaten away before he could get to the end. But he'd had to know, he'd had to be absolutely sure. By the look of things, the best thing to come from this trip had been the fact that he and John were having sex in a foreign location.
Sound billows into the high ceiling of the lounge as if its full of the customers Sherlock is watching on the screen. His feet are propped up on the large table where an intricate floral arrangement once rested—he can see it in the video—and he is surrounded by ghosts, the proof that people once swarmed in this room with their little unimportant lives and problems. He feels like an impotent God, seeing all and being unable to touch, to control any of those he looks down upon. The voices get louder, like rising water over his ears and he hates them, hates their voices and loud stupidity and wishes it would stop. Someone laughs obnoxiously and a woman in pink walks past his table and then it is quiet, resoundingly silent. The end of the file.
He closes the latest video feed and hesitates before he opens the next one. There are only so many more to go before he edges out of the time period where Moriarty could have been here. This activity is fast becoming an annoying waste of his time.
Sherlock's eye catches on something dark in the corner of the feed. Hours of mundane searching have paid off. His mind blurs with a flurry of questions.
His eyes widen.
"JOHN!"
John drops the stack of books he'd been carrying from the library and bolts to the lounge, where he heard Sherlock yell.
"Sherlock? Sherlock!"
He rounds the corner and heads to the long table at the end of the hall that Sherlock sits at, staring at his laptop with wide eyes.
He looks fine, unhurt, but John knows he's good at hiding what he's feeling.
"Sherlock," He huffs. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"
"Look." Sherlock says, turning the screen to John.
He's paused the image, a security feed from nearly two months ago that shows the lobby and front desk, empty. The timestamp reads 3:34 a.m.
"Sorry, what am I looking at?"
"There." Sherlock points to something and John squints. "Moriarty."
"Sherlock, I…there's nothing there."
"What? Yes there is. You must need glasses."
"No, Sherlock, really, there's nothing there."
Sherlock stares at the screen and John wonders if he's cracked.
"Are you sure?" He asks lowly.
"Yes. I wouldn't lie to you, Sherlock. Unless Moriarty's resurrected himself and gotten his hands on the Invisibility Cloak, there's nothing there. I swear. Maybe you're just, I don't know...seeing what you want to see?"
Sherlock shuts his eyes. "Pink." He mutters.
"What?"
"Nothing. Nothing. You're right, there's nothing there. Apologies."
"It's okay. Just…give me some warning before it sounds like you're being hacked to pieces, yeah?"
Sherlock's begun to work through the video files to find any trace of Moriarty. John doubts that he will, especially after today, but keeps his opinion to himself. He'd rather not have a row before bed.
"John, look at this." Sherlock says, leaning over to show him the laptop, but John is facedown on the duvet. He'd been chopping wood all day, out in the snow, and trying to clear a path to the shed with the Snowcat, their only means of escape if they needed one. He knows he has to be back out there in a few days, to clear it again; the thought alone makes him exhausted. He doesn't think he even has the energy to raise his head.
"Can't." He groans. "Too tired to move."
"Have you been influenced by my wicked, lazy ways? I must be such a poor role model."
"Right," John yawns, turning his head to the side. "And I suppose next you'll have me giving you head in a dog costume."
"I'd never be so depraved." Sherlock teases, kissing at John's hairline.
"Well the answer's still going to be no."
"No to head or no to the dog costume or no to head in a dog costume?"
"No to two out of three, how about that?"
"Do I get to pick which two?"
John smiles as he reaches over to turn off the light.
"Nope."
Snow swirls outside, fast and quick, piling onto its brethren, sticking to the streets and windows and trees, their branches bowing from the weight of it.
The halls of the hotel are silent and cold. The wind shrieks at the windows, battering in an endless barrage against the sturdy glass. A fine dust has settled in the peace of the quiet.
There's a muffled cry.
In the closest suite they could find, a fire has been lit in the fireplace, sparkling over the room in a muted glow. Papers lie over the floor, scattered over books and an open laptop.
John takes his fist away from his mouth because he has realised that there's no need to stifle the noise.
They're making love because they can call it that now, a name it deserves, but it is angry; John can tell from the strain in Sherlock's arm where he clutches the headboard. He doesn't know why, but he's too involved to care, too suspended in the heavy warmth of it all. He grasps at Sherlock's sides, nails biting into soft skin, and Sherlock turns hard above him, muscles going rigid as he comes, glaring at the wall above John's head.
After, John gets up to clean off and he feels Sherlock's stare. He doesn't know whether to feel flattered or uncomfortable. He wants to ask him what's wrong, and spends his shower contemplating what it could possibly be that made Sherlock so distant. After towelling his hair, he decides that he doesn't know and resolves to ask Sherlock as he walks back into the room but he is asleep, curled in on himself with the basking glow of the fire tickling his pale skin.
John rakes the fire and joins him on the bed, curling around his lover's pale bare body.
He'll ask him later.
Sherlock has John in his arms, and he is angry.
John thinks Moriarty's dead. John doesn't believe in him, not like he once said he did when he thought Sherlock was dead. Doesn't believe, not really; he think this is a wild goose chase. He thinks Sherlock is a fool for coming here. But he's too kind, too fucking good to say it. He'd rather keep it to himself like a dirty secret, keep it hidden away where Sherlock can't be sure of what he really thinks. He'd rather play coy, the sweet little virgin, like he's a little angel. A saint. Sherlock would show him. Show him how depraved John really was.
He bucks harder into John, who groans and brings him closer. Sherlock bites down his smirk. Look at him. Look at the slag. Already being fucked like the whore he was and begging for more. Who was the saint now? All bathed in pink light.
Pink made them even. It made them equals.
TUESDAY
30 October
John finds Sherlock bent over his hand-drawn map of Moriarty's syndicate, half awake and babbling. A pen has been stabbed through Moriarty's throat. He sets aside the sandwich he'd made for him and lays a hand on his back.
"Sherlock?"
"Mhmm."
"Are you alright?"
"Tired."
"Go to sleep."
"Can't. Too busy."
"Bollocks. You look like you're about to faint. Here, come on."
John manoeuvres him to the bed and pulls the sheets over him, tucking him in, but when he turns to leave, Sherlock grasps his arm.
"Stay." He says quietly and John doesn't have it in him to argue. What else does he have to do? What else would he rather do?
He lays beside him and Sherlock curls into his side.
"Do you like this place?" He asks.
"Yes. I love it." Sherlock slurs. "Don't you?"
"I guess so."
"Good. I want you to like it. Wish we could stay here forever."
Sherlock nuzzles into John's neck. His cold feet curl at the warmth of John's socks.
"I'd never hurt you John." He says quietly, his pale fingers playing with John's hair, his lips brushing John's jugular. "No matter what anyone says. I care for you, John, more than anything else in this whole world. I'll never hurt you. You know that, right?"
He must be feeling bad about the roughness of the sex earlier.
"Yes, I do."
"More than anything."
"I know Sherlock. Go to sleep."
"I...John."
"I love you too, you mad bastard." John smiles against Sherlock's temple.
"Stay here forever."
John doesn't answer. He's not sure he wants to. Or whether Sherlock means the bed or the hotel or his life. He'd rather it be two of the three. He doesn't much like the hotel, it feelsoff—
"Where everything is pink." Sherlock mutters.
Pink? Where'd that come from?
"Pink? What do you mean?" He asks, looking down.
Sherlock is asleep.
He'll ask later.
WEDNESDAY
31 October
Boh.
The ball hits the wall.
Boh.
He catches it. Tosses it again. The sound echoes, like cannonfire.
Boh.
He closes his hand around the ball before dropping it to pitter against the floor as it rolls away.
Something's wrong.
It's too quiet.
Silence billows through the lobby, hanging like fine, heavy dust over everything. The feeling of muddled sleepiness before you trudge up to bed, wondering how you'll ever get there because it feels so far away.
"Sherlock?" John calls as he wanders the halls. "Sherlock, are you here?"
The halls are empty and hollow, like bones devoid of marrow. It feels off. Sherlock has a presence about him and John should be able to sense it, to know inherently that they are in the same building, sharing the same space.
He feels disconnected. Is that what it is? Like he is on the wrong frequency.
The snow howls outside the windows. Looking outside, it's as if he's been surrounded by nothing, by white noise. He can only see white, shades of white, fast and quick and cold.
He's not disconnected.
He's alone.
"Sherlock?" He calls again, breaking out into a trot, glancing into every open door on either side of him as he runs down the hall. Look right. Empty. Look left. Empty. Right. Empty. Left. Empty.
It's only when he gets to the end that he realises he had shut all of them this morning.
The hairs on the back of his neck crawl. His blood slows.
He turns, slowly.
Sherlock stands at the end of the hall, like he's been there the whole time.
"Sherlock?" He asks, his voice heavy in the quiet. "Sherlock, are you alright?"
He doesn't answer. John takes a step forward.
"Pink." The detective says suddenly.
"What?" John's brow scrunches in confusion.
"It wants pink."
"Who?" John says, coming up to him. "Sherlock, what are you on about? Have you eaten today?"
Sherlock's hands fly up to grasp John's shoulders and it is wrong. John feels it in his gut, like when he stepped into the Humvee and it felt wrong and so he went to the one behind it and watched as dust and sand flew by as they followed the first and watched as it hit a UED and exploded and watched as it burned and it could have been him in there and it was allwrong.
"Pink, John, pink!"
Sherlock's hands are tight around his shoulders, as if he wishes to imprint his fingertips on John's bones.
John is trapped in a corner, between the wall and the hands of a man he has no desire to hurt and the need to be safe.
"Sherlock—"
"Pink! Pink like your blood and your brains and your heart. Pink like roses and party dresses and bowties! Pink, John, don't you get it? You have to get it! You have to understand, John, please!"
John wrenches himself away from Sherlock's grasp, feeling the bruises begin to form under sore skin, as he pushes him away. Sherlock bangs against the opposite wall and John stands there, breathing heavily.
Sherlock takes in a rasping gulp of air like a drowning man; he stares down at his shaking hands. He looks up at John with wild eyes.
"John."
"What the actual fuck, Sherlock?"
"John, please, I—"
He reaches for him and John, hesitant to enter any situation similar to the one they were just in, steps away. He almost hurt Sherlock. He cannot risk that again.
"What," John starts, but he has no idea on how to continue. "What was that?"
"I don't know. I don't know I—" Sherlock stops, swallowing harshly. "I—I saw everything, I saw, and I couldn't do anything. It was like…like I'd been driving only to have someone shove me into the passenger seat. I hurt you. I hurt you, John." Sherlock's shaking hands come to frame John's face. "John, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"It's okay, Sherlock. I—it wasn't you. Or at least…I hope it wasn't you."
"I'd never hurt you. I'd never hurt you." Sherlock mutters into John's neck, and John is reminded of yesterday, when Sherlock had been exhausted and apologetic and uncensored.
"I know." John says, bringing his arms around him. "I know."
They head back to the lobby so John can dress the small cut on the side of Sherlock's neck where he hit the wall. Sherlock sits on their bed, looking so lost in that great space, and doesn't move as John presses the plaster to his skin. John kisses it afterwards, like his mum used to. Sherlock grasps the back of his head and turns to him so he can kiss him and John complies easily. He's glad this Sherlock is back.
Sherlock makes love to him then. John had been wrong to call it lovemaking before; that had just been sex, something to take up their time and pour their feelings into. This is making love. This is caring for someone, for showing them you love them, for showing John that they are now inexplicably bound in the way Sherlock looks at him as he twines their hands together in the space above John's head. Sherlock's gaze widens in a sweet look of amazement, as if he is astounded that John has agreed to this, to being his, and he releases himself, everything that he is, into him. He shudders and feels John wrap warm arms around his shoulders, grazing at his neck and face the way women do in Renaissance paintings, light and heavy all at once, a caress and a blessing, as John's body arches into him. Sherlock dips his head, grazes his lips over the salty hollow of John's throat before kissing him. John replies lazily, pliant from orgasm, and Sherlock tastes fulfilment on his tongue.
He tries to say a lot, then, in the warm softness as he clutches John to him. He feels the overwhelming panic that he must tell John everything, everything, about the blankness and the pink and 237 and how much John means to him and how sorry he is that he's touching mottled bruises on John's shoulders instead of clear skin. He kisses the blooming blues and greens shaped like his fingers and he exhales heavily into the damp skin. John touches the back of his neck and he knows that he's been forgiven.
That's not enough. He hasn't done anything to earn it.
He grabs John's hand and threads their fingers together, clutching it to his chest.
He has to end this.
He places a kiss to John's temple and gets out of bed.
He's done it. He's done it.
He stands in the middle of 237.
Moriarty stands across from him.
He's always been here. Hands in pockets, feet sown into the floor. Always been here. Waiting.
"Long time, no…see." Moriarty says slowly and laughs. "Did you miss me, Sherlock?"
"Like a dog misses mange."
"Poor mutt." Moriarty croons. "Found an owner, have you? Watson feeding you? Fucking you daily? I want you to go to a good home."
"John stays out of this."
"If a dog bites a stranger, the owner gets in trouble."
"He doesn't own me."
"False." Moriarty hums, leaning closer to Sherlock. "He is your heart. He makes you bleed and burn and love. And run. You'd better run, Sherly. Who knows what will happen to him, left all alone? Unattended?"
"What did you do to him?"
"Not me. You."
"I would never hurt him. You would."
That was you today, making me hurt him. Sherlock felt bile churn in his gut at the memory, at the feeling of being a passenger in his own body.
"Mmm, not exactly. You've been going mad here, Sherlock. Driven mad by the memory of me. How romantic. What would John say?"
"I haven't been going mad."
"You're talking to air, love. I think you're just as mad as I am. Was. Think of it. Hasn't everything been so…pink, lately? Pink like bits of brain in cartoons and pink like the tip of his tongue on the head of your cock—they're the same shade; that's a bit odd, isn't it?—and pink like his smile and your brain's been boiling alive, because you don't want that grin to fade—you'd do anything, wouldn't you?"
Sherlock turns and flees the room, banging the door shut to a laughing Moriarty.
"JOHN!"
John lies awake, after they make love. He usually does. He likes to think afterwards.
Sherlock. What was that, earlier? He'd looked like he was facing Richard Brook again, all those years ago in that journalist's flat. He looked like he'd wanted to kill.
Pink. What was it he said about pink? And what did John have to understand about it? Because he most certainly didn't.
Pink and gold are my favourite colours.
John freezes. No, it...it's just a coincidence, surely. That's all. Something Sherlock had picked up on the telly that day.
But still it nagged at him. Something deep inside tells him the TV hadn't been on when he'd returned with breakfast.
The cold air nips at his feet and he draws them back under, grazing Sherlock's leg.
He should ask. He's most likely still awake. He should ask Sherlock what the hell he was on about today.
But he hadn't been sleeping lately, or when he had, not well. Dreams of gleaming axes, he'd said.
That must have been what it was today. Exhaustion. He'd let Sherlock sleep.
He'd ask him later.
Sherlock runs down the hall, back to the lounge, where John is still sleeping, the light from the fire glowing on the sheets he lays in.
"John, wake up! Wake up, John—"
"Hn…Sherlock?"
"John, we have to go, come on—"
"Easy, Sherlock—"
He sees red. No, pink. His anger grates against him. John doesn't understand and Sherlock hates him then, doesn't he see, why doesn't he see, he's moving so slowly, can't he go faster, there's no time for this, he's doing it on purpose—
"John, come on!" He growls, reaching for John's arm, just to drag him out of bed, just to get him away from here.
He feels it before he's realised what's happened. A faint pop!, like when he pulled the arm off Mycroft's Action Man when he was three. John was no doll, he was a man, it couldn't have been that easy, that irreparable, it sounded like lightning cracking in the sky—
With a cry of pain, John pitches forward, onto the floor, and lands harshly. Sherlock yanks his hand back as if John is made of fire and he's been burned. Like he's the victim.
John's wide awake now, gasping in pain, and his arm hangs away from him. A dislocation.
"John—" Sherlock reaches for him but he shrink away, against the bed.
"Don't fucking touch me!" John grinds out.
"John, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it was an accident. It was an accident, John, please, Moriarty is here, we have to go, we have to go—"
"What? Sherlock, he's dead. He's not here. You're going mad."
"You're talking to air, love. I think you're just as mad as I am."
"Shut up!" He yells at Moriarty, who stands just in the corner of his eyes. "Shut up! I haven't been going mad! He's here, John, he's right here, beside you!"
John looks at him then, with eyes half dazed from pain and half full of pity. Sherlock wants to smash them, they're fake eyes, they're not John's eyes, his are trapped underneath and he wants John to see, look at all the pink—
With a low growl, he launches himself at John, crouching over him with a knee on either side. He claws at John's eyes—damn them—and John cries out, trying to throw him off with the arm that's not plastic and straight like the Action Man, with the arm the arm that's pink and he lands an elbow in Sherlock's stomach, knocking the wind from him.
John scrambles away, tripping over the tangled sheets they had laid in together just an hour ago and lands badly on his injured shoulder. He stifles a cry of pain and struggles to his feet, clutching his dangling arm to his body as he runs from the room, into the darkness.
Snow and wind beat against the windows.
"Pity." Moriarty says lowly. "You scared him off. Don't bite the hand that feeds, Sherlock. Looks like you'll have to be put down."
I hurt him I hurt him John come back you have to come back
With an inhuman yell that tears from his throat he launches himself at Morarity, grabbing him by the lapels and slamming him against the floor.
"You did this! You hurt him!"
"I didn't touch him."
"I will burn you!" Sherlock snarls harshly, hauling Moriarty up. With a shout, he shoves him at the fireplace. He wants him to burn to dust. He wants him to disappear. He wants him gone.
As the Westwood touches the fire, Moriarty vanishes. Sherlock closes his eyes. His anger dissolves like a light turning off. The pink in the edges of his eyes fades. Everything fades.
John.
Sherlock's eyes snap open.
He has to find John. He has to fix this.
He finds John collapsed near the back door in the kitchen. Passed out from pain, pain that Sherlock caused. Wordlessly, he sits beside him.
He's already called Mycroft.
Sherlock sniffs and curls around John in a cage of limbs, careful of his arm. It'll be a long night. He'll keep him warm. He will.
It will all be okay.