Sherlock, I hope you're waiting for me in Hell. I'll be there in a few minutes. –JW
He's not going to reply, John. You know that. John flinched at the voice. He hated the voice. It was Moriarty's voice. So soft and seducing, it made his skin crawl and his heart race. Moriarty, the man who dragged his best friend through the mud and ended his life, the man who inadvertently ended John's, was forever imprinted in his brain. Tears pricked his eyes and he looked out at the Thames River, clutching the phone to his chest. "Shut up, Moriarty. I don't care if he responds. I don't care anymore," he whispered, closing his eyes before more tears could slip out.
Three years, three long years, and every day getting progressively harder until this morning. It had started with taking a walk around the streets. His limp had come back a few weeks after the funeral and he couldn't be sure if it was psychosomatic or real this time. He suspected it was the former. As he was strolling through a crowd of people, he caught a familiar face. It was scruffier, thinner, and ragged. The man made eye contact with John for a second and when John blinked, he was gone. After that, he swore that he'd seen the same man on three separate occasions. After the third time, he returned home. Being outside right now wasn't a good idea if he was seeing hallucinations of a dead man.
It had been ages since he'd had the hallucinations of seeing Sherlock. For the first few months, John would see the detective in his chair or sulking at the window, but John had just shoved it to the back of his mind. After all, the man was dead. Dead and buried and he saw it all. Little Johnny-Boy misses his friend. Oh it's so touching. So attached to him while all he did was insult you and use you. He didn't need you, Johnny. No one needs you. I should have detonated that bomb when it was strapped to your chest. Sherlock would have thanked me for it, you know. John let a choked gasp escape him and shook his head, his hand digging in his pocket for the bottle of sleeping pills. He had taken four before coming and he could feel the relaxing of the meds easing its way into his system. He would be able to throw himself over the railing in just a few minutes.
Oh you are going to do it! Oh Sherlock's going to love this when he sees it. Poor ol John Watson. Wish you could see yourself, Johnny. So torn up about your poor detective. Don't worry, you'll be with him soon. John tightened his grip on the rail and rocked against it slowly. Almost time. Pills were almost done soaking into him. If he timed it right, he'd fall just as he began to be lulled to sleep. It'd be peaceful, just like taking a nap. His eyelids already felt a bit heavy. Just as he was willing his arms to pull him up onto the railing, a hand grabbed at his collar and yanked him back. "John Hamish Watson what do you think you are doing," snapped a voice, dragging him backwards. As the owner of the hand and voice dragged John, John slowly slipped into unconsciousness. Oh so close, Johnny-Boy. Such a failure. Can't even off yourself properly, can you?
"Sherlock Holmes would you stop behaving like a child and realize that he is hurting and it is your fault." "He'll be fine. You're just not keeping a good enough eye on him!" "Three years, Sherlock. Three years I've kept an eye on him. I've made sure his rent stays on top, that he eats, that Greg doesn't take him on too many pub crawls. Anthea's pushed John's status up to level five, heavily watched and guarded. There is almost always one of my men watching him." Someone slammed a fist down onto a table. "If you stopped thinking like a child and grow up for once, you'll realize that your attempt to save everyone you love – yes love, you admitted it yourself the second you faked your death, Sherlock – caused more harm than good." Silence after this, just the sound of the two brothers breathing. John let one eye slowly open. Part of him was sure he was dreaming. Sherlock was dead. He couldn't be here. But everything else was so vivid and life-like it was impossible to deny he was awake. John groaned and sat up, rubbing his head. As he was rubbing his head, he heard a slight intake of breath. "Good morning, John," came Mycroft's disinterested voice, as if the man hadn't attempted suicide last night. John looked at the man. He was studying him over the rim of a cup of tea, his eyes hard.
"You gave plenty of my men a scare last night, John. No one was around the Thames at the time. Everyone thought you were at your flat. If it weren't for my reckless brother, we might be arranging your funeral at the moment," Mycroft said with a roll of his eyes. John swallowed hard and shook his head. "Sherlock's dead, Mycroft. You reminded me of that for the first six months, remember. When…When I kept seeing him around our – my flat," John managed to get out. Mycroft offered a pity smile to the army doctor and sighed. "Oh John, do you really think dying would ever be that simple with my brother?" He motioned with his arm to look in the corner where John knew Sherlock would be standing, but he didn't look. "No, no, no, NO. He's dead, Mycroft. He jumped, he jumped off Bart's and smashed into the pavement and I felt his pulse! HE was DEAD!" John found his voice rising to a panicked scream, knotting one hand in his hair. Mycroft, thankfully, didn't at all look alarmed and just stared at John with that infuriatingly bored look.
"John, if I were dead, would I be standing here, wondering what my idiot of a flat mate was doing jumping off the bridge last night?" drawled that low and deep voice. John couldn't help the instant reaction of whipping his head to look at the corner of the room where Sherlock stood, thinner than he used to be, disheveled, and tired looking. He had just a hint of a beard starting and his hair was untamed but still managed to pull off a sexy look. His usual coat hung around him, looking two sizes too big for the thin man, and his suit he wore was heavily wrinkled, he'd probably been sleeping in it for a few days. "If it weren't for your sodding text, Lestrade would have had an unscheduled fishing trip for your body this morning. Honestly, John. When did you become one for melodramatics? And what did you expect Mycroft to tell me when I came back to you? To find you dead? That you committed suicide? John Watson, you truly are an idiot," scowled Sherlock, slamming his fist onto the wall. With that, he strode through the door and slammed it shut.
Mycroft sighed and rubbed his forehead, searching for something to say. "My brother, the five year old grown man," he said tiredly, sipping his tea. "Give him a few hours, John. All the work you managed on him, John, all those emotions he was beginning to understand and feel, has been completely deleted. Naturally, he is very scared and angry, thus he's acting like a child," Mycroft said, fixing John with a hard stare. "But he is not the issue at hand, John. Why were you going to kill yourself?" John flinched at the question and looked down at his hands. Coward won't talk. Sherlock's mad at his pet and pet won't talk. You two are just adorable. John clenched his eyes shut and bit his lip. "Moriarty," he said in a small whisper. Mycroft's frown deepened and he leaned back, much like Sherlock did when he was interested in something, motioning for John to continue.
"I know that Moriarty is dead. I know that. But his voice is…I hear it, Mycroft. I hear it and it whispers and taunts and drives me mad. And I was so lonely, Mycroft, so lonely. I wanted to see Sherlock again and he whispered and it sounded like a good idea. I had the pills but I didn't want to overdose, I didn't want to risk waking up. Drowning seemed like a good idea. And yesterday, I thought I was finally losing it because I saw Sherlock three times and of course now I know that I was but I just thought it was a sign that it was my…my time," John said in a rush, fighting back tears that were threatening to fall. With a shuddering gasp, the tears did fall and he hunched his shoulders. "I sent Sherlock a text because I just needed to leave someone a note. When they pulled my records up of the last messages I'd sent, at least it would show the message to Sherlock. I was his note, he was mine."
Mycroft looked over at the door and sighed. "Sherlock, I know you are hiding behind there. It didn't work when you were seven and it doesn't work now," Mycroft drawled, pursing his lips. There was a small pause and then the door opened and Sherlock stepped back into the room. He still looked angry but his shoulders were squared and he wasn't making eye contact with either John or Mycroft. The only noise for minutes was John's low sobs, which eventually subsided. When they did, John looked up at Sherlock, his eyes puffy and red. "I believe you owe him an explanation, brother," murmured Mycroft, who pulled himself up from his seat. "I shall leave you two to it. I do have a government position to uphold and that does not include monitoring my brother's relationships. A good day to you, John, and to you, Sherlock," Mycroft said and, with that, he strolled off, shutting the door with a click behind him.
Sherlock eyed the spot that had until recently been taken by Mycroft before sitting down in it. "John, I know that if it weren't for the fact that the sleeping pills you ingested last night are still swimming around your blood stream, you'd have punched me by now and I can't blame you because I am positive I deserve it," Sherlock started, keeping his eyes away from John. "You have every right to be mad at me, I will not tell you that you can't be mad at me like I normally would. I, however, will not apologize for faking my death because there is no reason I should have to. It may seem selfish to you, and no doubt am I a selfish man, but I assure you it was not a selfish move. If I had chosen the selfish route, it could have been your funeral rather than mine. By that logic, it could have also been Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, or Molly's funeral as well, though. Even mine, I suppose, but Moriarty wouldn't think like that. He'd want to see my hurt and then kill me. The chance of it being my funeral first is very slim," Sherlock continued, steepling his fingers like he used to. "I left because I had to, John. I am sure you heard Mycroft and I arguing just after you woke, I do not care to repeat any of that. I will say that I did fake my death because it was needed. If you want to be ungrateful, just be glad you are alive and so is everyone else. I don't know why you couldn't just go on living. Everyone else seemed to have no trouble. Although, Mycroft and Molly knew so they don't count, and Mrs. Hudson had some inkling of what was going on, enough to know that I wasn't returning, so she doesn't either. But Lestrade took it well enough and Donovan and Anderson, bless the idiots, were only gleeful and I heard the celebrated." Sherlock's voice had dropped to his slow and thoughtful pace; his eyes closed giving him a rather peaceful and serene look. "I can only say that I am very lucky you texted me when you did. Mycroft's been busy yelling at me, I haven't had a chance to tell him, I pulled down the last of Moriarty's men shortly before you texted me. His last man was particularly stubborn and ended up taking Moriarty's way out. Some man by the name of Sebastian Moran. He reminded me of you. I guess Moriarty did get a live-in one. Just before he shot himself, said something about how Moriarty had ruined him forever and that he couldn't work for anyone else anymore. Then…gone. Blew his head off with his gun," Sherlock said, his tone slightly airy, already reliving it. Of course, he wouldn't reveal that the blonde haired sniper man was drunk, the autopsy would show that, or that he had been crying hours before his suicide. "Anyway, yes you were very lucky. I had been on my way to tell Mycroft and I was just a few blocks away from you when you texted me. A quick text to Mycroft to tell him to send a car for you and I, and then I ran to find you. I pulled you off the railing just as you climbed up on it." John swallowed hard and stared at Sherlock.
"How did you-" John began, but Sherlock interrupted. "Know where to find you? Mm, I can tell you that later. For now, go back to sleep. You're still exhausted; if I were to tell you anything else, you'd forget it," Sherlock said, waving a hand that told John to lay back down. When John complied and fell back into the cushions, Sherlock leaned over the back of the chair and flicked the room light off, sending the room into complete darkness. After Sherlock fixed himself so he was sitting in his thinking position, the only sound John could hear was their breathing. "Sherlock, where are we?" John murmured, already lulling back into sleep. "Diogenes Club. Mycroft and I founded it. You and I are the only ones in here right now. Mycroft closed it, so to speak, for the day," Sherlock said softly, his voice filling the small room. John was silent for a moment before speaking again. "Tell me what you did for three years, Sherlock. I need to know you are here. Please, indulge me just this once," John said wearily, his tone pleading. With a heavy sigh, Sherlock indulged his friend. Even when the man's breathing evened out and a light snore followed his breaths, Sherlock wove the tale of taking down the leftover men of Moriarty.
Bottles everywhere, all alcohol products. He's drunk. Cigarette smoke in the air, cigarette butts on the ground, and gun powder. He's been chain smoking and firing a gun blindly. Sherlock's eyes scanned the room of the flat. This was the final man. Everyone else was either dead or on death row. The last loyal man to Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal. Sebastian Moran was said to be the most loyal to Jim, rising in the ranks to become his lap dog and most trusted friend, for lack of a better word to describe Jim and Sebastian's relationship. The sliding door of the porch was open and, sitting on the railing, was the sniper man. In one hand was a beer bottle, in the other a small revolver. The blonde head turned to look at Sherlock. His eyes were bloodshot, his arms shaking uncontrollably. "I knew you'd be coming for me. 'Specting me to go quietly, eh? Like all the other ones you got," his voice wavered. The man had been crying recently. "No, you wouldn't expect that. Jim's loyal sniper wouldn't do that, would he? You already know how this is going to end. You already know I'm not walking out of here alive," Sebastian said with a wild look in his eyes. He swung his legs back over the rail and hopped off onto the deck. The hand holding the beer bottle relaxed and the bottle shattered when it hit the floor. The now empty hand grasped at the wall and, using it as a guide, he pulled himself back into the flat. "He told me that I was the most loyal man he'd ever met. That I was special. I have to be pretty special, if I got a compliment from Jim fucking Moriarty." As if he'd forgotten he'd dropped the bottle (and which hand he'd been holding it in), Sebastian raised the gun to his mouth before pausing and smiling wickedly. "Oops. That'd be messy, wouldn't it? Bit cliché, Jim would say, taking the way he took out. He'd say something about how ordinary that would be, two lovers taking their lives nearly just the same. Course, he wouldn't use lovers. Have to feel love in order to be called lovers, right? I'm just his fuck toy, that's all," Sebastian continued, turning the gun in his hand distractedly. "I loved him, y'know. Or, as much as I could love a man with no fear for my safety. Surprisingly quite easy, once you realize it'll never be returned, your love."
Sherlock watched the drunk with an almost pitiful look on his face. It was the alcohol talking, for the most part. Something else was probably running through the man's system, but there were no needles laying visibly around or anything that could pinpoint what drug it was. Not like it mattered, though. Sebastian let out a wild laugh and stared at Sherlock. "Y'know, I watch your Johnny Boy sometimes. He's not looking so good. Eyes the Thames whenever he walks past it. He's probably thinking of doing a jump too," laughed Sebastian, flopping onto the sofa. "Jim was right. You and him, me and Johnny, we're the same," he murmured. With that, Sebastian lifted the revolver to his mouth and tightened his lips around the barrel. If it weren't for the fact that his lips were tightly gripping the gun, Sherlock would swear he was grinning. With a flick of his finger, there was a bang and blood. Sebastian Moran was no more. Sherlock didn't even flinch. Similar scenes had already been played out, although most had gone with hanging or slitting their veins and bleeding out. It figured Sebastian would have gone with shooting himself.