Notes: I do not own Sherlock, that's BBC's honor. I based the six and a half years between TGG and TAB by guessing one and half years for each Sherlock season, plus the two years Sherlock spent hidden. Sorry this chapter feels a little more choppy than I wanted it to. Just trying to clarify the setting and get the story rolling. Also, important note: I leave for Europe in the next day or so, therefore don't expect a fast update. I promise one will come. Please review! :)
Original Title: Burning the Heart
Dead Is the New Sexy
CHAPTER 1
"Kill you? N… no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special. No no no no no. If you don't stop prying… I will BURN you. I will burn… the HEART out of you."
"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."
"But we know that's not quite true."
Six and a half years later…
"DID YOU MISS ME?! DID YOU MISS ME?! DID YOU MISS ME?!" Jim Moriarty frothed at the mouth, twisting violently in his straight jacket. Sherlock walked around him in a smooth manner, keeping just out of reach. Every pounce Moriarty took towards Sherlock resulted in an echoing, electrifying clank of chains. He continued screaming the question, unrelentless on Sherlock's ears. When Sherlock, stoic and upright, came directly in front of Moriarty, he paused and truly considered the pitiful sight in front of him. Locked up in this circular stone cell, Moriarty had developed bloodshot eyes, dark circles, greying hair, yellowing skin, bony features; all signs of distressed aging. Of someone near death.
Of someone who should be dead.
Barely a whisper, Sherlock's muttered, "How are you alive?"
The screeching ceased. Moriarty smiled evilly, with fire burning in crazed eyes. "I never died, Sherlock. How could I? There's a difference between being locked up in your mind palace and six feet under. Oh how sweet happily ever afters are. It's not the fall that kills you, Sherlock. The fall is rather enjoyable. It's the landing. The happily ever after," Moriarty spat. Then his face softened and he began twirling around. "Too bad you didn't die when Mary shot you. Bad girl, Mary. It was fun to have you here. Death isn't that bad anyways. For now it's just a figment of imagination. DID YOU MISS ME?! DID YOU MISS ME?!"
The raged shouts commenced. Sherlock closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, he was facing the wall of 221B Baker Street. The walls were covered in notes, pictures, maps, and anything else related to cases taking place after A Study in Pink. Even the smiley face was buried under photographs of murders. The floor, also, had not been spared. Documents were littered everywhere. It was here Sherlock Holmes sat, surrounded by it all. The difference between his mind palace and reality had become blurred during endless hours locked up in the lonely London apartment.
As he rose, he stretched out the stiffness in his lanky form. Did you miss me? continued ringing in Sherlock's head as he stepped into the kitchen to make tea. Of course, it was void of food but stocked plentiful of tea. Over the last month, food was neglected and cigarettes exhausted. Placing the pot on the stove, Sherlock grabbed a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. He sighed deeply, inhaling the comforting nicotine. Ever since the overdose-plane-exportation fiasco, both Mycroft and John had been breathing down Sherlock's neck about the usage of drugs. After about a week, they had finally let up, being called to other duties. After all, Mycroft had a country to run. And John now possessed a job just as hard.
His and Mary's baby had been born just three days after Sherlock ODed. They named her Sheryl ("That's the only female version of Sherlock we could come up with!" "I told you John, Sherlock is a woman's name!"), and Sherlock was properly appointed godfather. Nothing had ever made Sherlock feel more special than being at the hospital at the ungodly hour of 3:54 am to watch John Watson become a father. They had wrapped her in a little pink blanket, and after John and Mary had both coddled her, John handed her to Sherlock. Staring into those vibrant blue eyes, Sherlock smiled. He smiled for a very long time. Sheryl Johnna Watson. Never would Sherlock have dreamed of being a best man, a godfather, and a best friend to the most honorable man he had ever met. And now that honorable man had become a father and the head of a beautiful family.
That's why Sherlock had to find Moriarty. If Jim returned to London and somehow harmed John's family, Sherlock would never find it in him to forgive himself. So far, the Watson family was content and safe and he vowed to keep it that way. He would commit real suicide before letting Moriarty even breathe on Sheryl.
The teapot whistled. In almost a mechanical fashion he brewed the tea before taking a cup to stare by the window. Setting it on his laptop, he let it cool as he finished his cigarette. The England sky was smothered in fog, giving a dreary haze on the city. Busy as ever, the streets of London seemed unaffected as people rushed to and fro. It was early, maybe six.
So far, Sherlock's search for Jim Moriarty had proved unsuccessful. The IP address of the video that was broadcasted was a dead end. It lead to one of the more popular coffee shops in London which had hundreds of people milling in it everyday. With Lestrade's help, Sherlock analyzed the security footage. Unfortunately it was a cheap model, only storing 24 hours of tape before refreshing. From what they were able to view, no Moriarty showed. Determined to link the video to something, Sherlock had dug up information on all the cases John and him had ever taken together. He remembers all of them clearly, but he still lay it all out to double check that he didn't miss something. One whole month, and no leads. Sherlock was not happy.
Hidden somewhere in the 8.63 million residents of London, Moriarty was waiting.
/
The Watson home was quiet at 5:45 in the morning. Everyone was sleeping, including the newborn. They had moved into Mary's home, planning to save money and purchase a larger family house in the suburbs of London. Although Mary's apartment was very nice and workable, the rooms were now bursting with gifts from the wedding and baby shower. As new parents, they were still figuring things out. Books on how to raise a child were laying open in disarray on the kitchen table.
Mary slept deeply despite John snoring. She was curled up against his back, grateful for a few hours of shut-eye after dealing with the baby 24/7. John was buried in pillows, sheets kicked away from restless nights.
A small wail suddenly erupted from the bedroom next door. John woke up slowly, his eyelids weighing a hundred tons. To his surprise, Mary hadn't woken up. However, she calmed Sheryl two hours earlier so it was John's turn anyways. Carefully, he shifted away from Mary and ran fingers through disheveled hair as he headed towards his daughter. She was crying in the crib, arms flailing. As he squinted in the darkness, he couldn't locate any formula Mary might have left from earlier. The nightlight flickered, basically useless. "Bloody cheap," John muttered stumbling towards the kitchen. He felt along the counter, guiding himself to the fridge. His eyes protested the brightness of the refrigerator light and he grabbed the first bottle of formula he saw. Because of a tip read in a parenting book, him and Mary kept bottles of formula ready to go at all times. John placed it in the microwave. The whirring sounded thunderous in the silent house, and his eyes continually shifted to the hallway, anxious it might arouse Mary. His phone was on the counter and he checked it while the appliance counted down. There was only one message, from Greg Lestrade.
Hi John. Wondering if you want to go out for drinks soon to escape "married life." Call me in the morning.
The text was received at 12:10 am. Lestrade had probably been working on paperwork overtime, bored and lonely. John smiled. Bring a father proved demanding, and his contact with friends thinned. Even with Sherlock.
His attention returned to the microwave as the final seconds were displayed. 6...5...4...3...2… To avoid the loud beep, John pressed the open button before the microwave reached one. Grabbing the warm bottle of formula, his other hand shoved the phone in his pajamas pocket subconsciously.
While holding Sheryl and letting her suck on the bottle, John decided to send a text to Sherlock. They'd been out of contact the last few days and John winced as he thought about the unfathomable havoc Sherlock might have performed on 221B in that time. And to himself.
With one hand John typed a new message to Sherlock, How are things? Any news? Just then Sheryl gave an adorable, sweet cooing noise and John added, Sheryl sends her love.
Barely 30 seconds after the text was received, John's phone chirped.
ANNOYING. NO. Hi Sheryl. SH
It was only when referring to Sheryl did Sherlock use lowercase in his texts. John replied, Mind if I stop by today for a cup of tea?
This time, Sherlock didn't respond as quickly. After five minutes of no response, John sent a follow up text, Sherlock?
He waited again, placing Sheryl in her crib and watching her drift off into dreams. Right as entering his bedroom, John's phone chirped.
BUSY HIDING CIGARETTES. SH
John took that as his idea of visiting for tea had been accepted.
/
John struggled to knock on the door of 221 Baker Street, his arms full of groceries. Mrs. Hudson's face lit up at the sight of John, and let him in with a delighted voice. She offered him tea, breakfast, anything. "...it's been rather slow around here with Sherlock locked up up there. I haven't seen him in about a week. But please let me help with those bags," she reached out.
John nodded, "No thanks. I'm heading straight up anyways. I'm sure the fridge is empty."
"Except for maybe a severed head," Mrs. Hudson sighed, and John smiled at her matter-of-fact tone. For all the grief Sherlock gave her, she cared about him unconditionally.
"I wouldn't be surprised," John said, starting to make his way up the staircase.
"Dear," Mrs. Hudson placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, "be careful. I've been able to smell constant cigarette smoke even downstairs."
Now that she mentioned it, John noticed it too. Another sigh escaped him. "Of course, Mrs. Hudson."
She gave a weak smile and returned to the kitchen as John made it to the door of Sherlock's flat. Arms growing more and more tired, he shouted, "Sherlock! Door, please!"
No response. "SHERLOCK!"
A muffled voice answered, "It's open."
"I KNOW BUT….argh," John gave up and precariously opened the door himself.
The sight that greeted him was more haphazard than expected. Never before had the apartment looked so much as if a paper tornado had hit it. Disregarding the documents on the floor, he made his way to the kitchen and deposited the bags in his arms to the counter.
Sherlock hadn't moved since he entered. John was surprised to see him sprawled out on the couch, eyes closed and smoke rolling off his lips. What did surprise him was the platter of tea already prepared, resting on the table.
Shaking his head, he began to unload the recently purchased food. He shifted around "experiments" in the fridge to make room. During the process, his gaze shifted towards his former flatmate. The detective seemed skinnier, if possible. Dark circles showed more thinking than sleeping had occurred. His hair was wet, so he must have showered. And he was in fact, fully clothed.
The smoke continued.
John threw an apple at Sherlock, whose eyes shot open as it collided with his stomach. He glared at John, eyebrows furrowed with the expression of What was that for? John was relieved Sherlock didn't drop his cigarette in surprise. Overtaken with papers, 221B was a fire hazard to all of London.
"That's an apple. It's something we call food. You should really try it sometime," John said sarcastically.
Sherlock hmphed, returning to his cigarette.
"When was the last time you ate?"
"Hmm," Sherlock replied.
John knew that was the best answer he was gonna get. "Well I've made plans with Lestrade tonight for dinner and drinks, and I told him you're coming. So if you refuse to eat now, I will force a proper meal down your throat."
"Transport," Sherlock said slowly. John could read the signs. The detective was high. "I thought you wanted to come for tea, not to bitch me out."
"Fine," John said, throwing the last box of cereal on the top of the cupboard. "C'mon over."
John sank down into his familiar old chair, and began pouring tea. Sherlock joined him opposite, extinguishing the butt of the cigarette in a nearby ashtray. Sherlock picked up his cup of tea. The apple lay forgotten on the sofa.
"So what exactly is all this, then?" John motioned to the mess.
"Information regarding every case we've ever taken together."
And sure enough, John recognized pictures of corpses of cases from six years ago. Even printed out pages of his blog was attached to the wall with tacks. "Don't you have this all stored in your mind palace?"
"Some has been deleted. I've re-entered it obviously. There just has to be something. Something I've missed. Something connected to Moriarty," Sherlock took a sip of tea, hiding his face.
"Still no leads?" John asked, failing to hide the surprise in his voice.
Sherlock gave him a John is stupid look. Abruptly rising up, he lit another cigarette at the window. Oh God, thought John, he just finished one. If he's going through them this fast…
"Moriarty has fallen off the grid, just as he has the last couple years. He has fallen into the form of a shark, waiting patiently in the abyss of the sea. Sharks like to play with their prey before they strike. The video that terrorized London, was a playful nudge, and not just for me. I'm not the only Drama Queen in England, I'm afraid. Moriarty will bite soon, and it will be bloody." Sherlock spoke in the same tone he had about Magnussen not that long ago. It sent shivers down John's spine as the mastermind continued. "Through his network, Moriarty has become familiar with pressure points. Undoubtedly he knows mine."
John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Me," he muttered.
"What?" Sherlock's head snapped towards John. "Oh. In a sense."
"But that's, that's what Magnussen used," John stuttered, remembering the instance of the arranged fire.
"That's not the only thing he used," Sherlock continued to smoke.
"The Redbeard thing, right?"
Once again, Sherlock twisted towards him abruptly in a How did you deduce that gaze.
"It's been mentioned," the doctor shrugged.
"Something has to be Moriarty's pressure point. The thing I've missed."
"You think, there's something connected in all the bloody cases we've ever taken, that leads to Moriarty."
"Yes," said Sherlock, matter of fact.
"That's bloody insane!"
"Isn't it?" Sherlock's lip twitched upward.
/
"Well it's about time you two blokes showed up!" Lestrade shouted cheerfully as Sherlock and John entered the bar. Beer was already ready and shoved into John and Sherlock's hands. Happily, John accepted and him and Lestrade yapped away about their lives. Sherlock stayed distant, barely sipping the alcohol and critically analyzing the Friday night crowd. Cheating spouses, homosexuals, drunks, and college kids filled the bar. Thinking of Moriarty, he envisioned the scenerio of this bar being affected by a bombing. First, the windows would explode, sending shards of glass into people's bodies. The shock would hit next, blowing people off their feet and onto the floor. Fire would erupt almost instantaneously. By now, screaming would commence. The hardwood floor already drenched in blood. The roof collapses next. Sherlock would look for John and Lestrade first, underneath rubble and dust. Sirens. Shouting. Screaming. Pandemonium.
And the bar wouldn't be the only place. London Eye. Parliament. Tower Bridge. Buckingham Palace. Museums. And London wouldn't be the only city. Paris. Rome. Berlin. Anything of worldly importance.
Moriarty would laugh.
"Sherlock. Sherlock?" a familiar voice snapped Sherlock out of his haze. His intensely sharp eyes dilated to John Watson's face, not four inches from his. Sherlock pushed him away.
"Sorry just… thinking," Sherlock drawled, ignoring John and Greg's concerned stares. "I'm going home. It's late."
"It's eight o'clock!" Lestrade exclaimed, but a look from John made him add, "Of course. You probably have a, um, case or something."
"Or something," Sherlock replied, placing some money on the bar and walking out, rearranging the collar of his Belstaff so it stood straight up in his usual fashion.
/
It was approaching midnight. Sherlock sat motionless, engaged with his mind palace. Thoughts went back to cases over the years. But specifically the cases where John was harmed for some villainous criminal to get a step closer to the great Sherlock Holmes.
His mind palace was vividly recollecting John almost burning in the firework party's fire when his phone rang.
Mary. Odd.
He answered immediately, "Sherlock Holmes."
"Hi Sherlock," Mary's voice was shaky. Distressed, Sherlock deduced. "It's Mary. I was wondering if John is with you. He hasn't come home yet and Lestrade said he left the bar hours ago."
Sherlock froze. "N...no I haven't been in contac-"
A dull buzz interrupted him. "Hold on Mary I just received a text."
He opened it.
I owe John Watson a fall, Sherlock. JM.
Another vibration.
C'mon angel. Come and play. Bart's Hospital rooftop. For old times' sake. JM
The phone clattered to the ground.