So I saw this post on tumblr that inspired this fic. Maybe some of you have seen it. I'll put up a link on my page. I hope you enjoy!
Sebastian Moran sat at the dank bar, a scotch in his right hand, the day's paper in his left. The stool he sat on wobbled and squeaked with the slightest movement. There was little light in the bar, something that had drawn Sebastian to it. No one to talk to him. Even the bar tender seemed to realize that no one came here to talk, instead electing to fill drinks at the wave of a hand. That was just fine with Sebastian. This was his fifth scotch of the night and even he, who prided himself on being in excellent physical condition, was starting to feel the alcohol. Every wobble of the stool was a bit harder to bring under control. He didn't care.
He glanced to the newspaper. He'd opened it earlier to one of the inner pages. The headline read "Fake Genius Commits Suicide". That wasn't what drew his eye. He stared at the two small pictures under the headline. One, of course, was the late Sherlock Holmes. Moran laughed harshly, but it came out as more of a grunt. Late. There was no way Sherlock Holmes was really dead. The man always had a trick. And even if he was, it wouldn't change the picture next to Holmes's. It was a familiar face to Sebastian, one that he'd seen laugh with twisted joy and threaten others with exquisite and inventive punishments. Of the two, Moran had to admit he really preferred the second, as long as it was aimed at other people.
There was a single paragraph in the article. Something about legendary criminal James Moriarty who had also allegedly killed himself on the very rooftop that Holmes jumped from. It hadn't said allegedly in the article. Moran had added that word. If he knew James, and he liked to think that he did, then he wouldn't have checked out until his master plan had succeeded. The James Moran would have watched Holmes jump to his death. The papers had it wrong. What was it James had always called them? Oh yea, fairy tales.
But what did it matter. Sherlock Holmes was most likely alive and James Moriarty was dead. This was not the way it was supposed to happen.
"Damn him!" Moran slammed the empty glass down on the cracked wooden bar, startling the only other patron. He, Moran assumed it was a he from his height, was cloaked by shadows and a large hooded coat. The figure turned to look at Moran, his face invisible and asked,
"Who?" Definitely a man's voice.
Moran turned and glared at the visitor, but he was not dissuaded. Maybe it was the alcohol but there was something about this stranger, something that said he could trust him. At least with this information. Maybe it was because it reminded him of how he'd met James, how he'd asked him to work with him. Maybe he was just incredibly drunk. Either way, he still replied, "Sherlock Holmes. I wish the man had never been born!"
The stranger stood and walked towards Sebastian, then sat on the stool beside him. Moran could just make out his features in the shadow of the hood. He could see the stranger's lips move as he said,
"How'd you like me to do you one better?"
"How?"
"You want Sherlock Holmes to never have been born, but that wouldn't solve your problem. Bear with me." The stranger compelled Sebastian to sit back down as he'd tried to leave in disgust. "If he never lived, someone else would have simply taken his place. But what if," The stranger leaned forward and whispered into Moran's ear, "he'd died before he even got the chance to kill James Moriarty?"
Moran jerked back and snarled, "How did you-"
"Know?" The stranger laughed. "Sebastian, I know everything. So don't even worry your pretty shaven head about it." Moran considered the stranger's words. There was no logical way he could have known, except for the newspaper in his hands and the excessive drinking. Still, there was something about this man.
"How?" Moran asked hesitantly.
"Simple. We take away the man who kept Sherlock Holmes alive."
Moran shook his head. "You can't touch his brother. He practically is the British government. And what good would that do now? He's already dead. Holmes has already won."
The stranger smiled a serpent's smile, made all the more disturbing by the fact that the shadows hid the man's face above his lips. "I don't mean now. I mean years ago. And I don't mean Mycroft. To be perfectly plain, what would have happened if Sherlock Holmes had never met his doctor friend?" Moran thought about it, a grin slowly coming to his face. The stranger also grinned and held out his hand. Moran grabbed it firmly and shook. That was when Sebastian Moran passed out, but it wasn't from the alcohol.
The air was cold, as was typical that time of year in London, as John Watson limped through the park. It wasn't that he particularly liked the park, or that he liked walking when every step pained his war wound. It just so happened that he lived on the other side of that park, at least for now. His search for a more permanent home had proved fruitless and at this rate, he'd need all the money he had to get a place, so calling a cab was out of the question. He passed couples on the benches that lined the walkway, families with squabbling children and one that had an old friend seated on it. John hurried on. Perhaps he wouldn't-
"John!" Busted. "John Watson?" Watson turned to looked at Mike Stamford. He'd grown, both up and out, one more so than the other. His hair was going, but it was still Mike.
"Mike! Hi." John limped over and seated himself upon the bench beside Mike. They exchanged pleasantries, talked life. John tried as little as possible to mention the war.
"I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?" Stamford asked.
"Got shot." Watson answered bluntly. Attempting to lighten the conversation, he said, "Are you still at Bart's then?"
"Teaching now, yeah. Bright young things like we used to be." Mike whistled, "God, I hate them. What about you? Just staying in town till you get yourself sorted?
John shook his head. "I can't afford London on an army pension." He said.
"You couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know." Mike said
"Yeah, I'm not the John Watson..." John started bitterly.
"Couldn't Harry help?"
John scoffed. "Yeah, like that's going to happen." John and his sister hadn't spoken since her alcoholism had become even more of an issue.
"I don't know, get a flatshare or something?" Mike suggested innocently enough, but it soured John's mood.
"Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?" John asked sadly. Mike laughed. "What?" John asked.
"Oh nothing. I just thought of a joke." Mike said cheerfully. He looked around, then at his watch, then back towards Watson, shock in his eyes.
"What?" John asked hurriedly. He'd seen that look in too many eyes. The terror.
"Nothing." Mike said, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. "I just thought I saw something on your back." Mike cleared his throat. "Well, I'd best be off. There's someone I'm supposed to meet." Mike stood, took one last look at Watson's back, and then trotted off.
As John walked back to his temporary home, he couldn't help feeling that Mike had intended to say something different, but he couldn't place the feeling, but neither could he shake it. Something had seemed… off about Mike and their entire conversation. Unable to locate the source of his discomfort, Watson instead let himself into his room and methodically washed and sat down on the edge of his bed with the newspaper.
At first he thought it was a joke, something a student had cooked up for April Fool's Day. But there it was. The headline warned of serial suicides. Four of them so far and all identical. The police had no leads, although Detective Inspector Lestrade had offered the gem piece of advice for people to protect themselves by not committing suicide.
Distressed by the lack of competent officers and tired, John folded the paper back up, laid it carefully on his desk and lay down to go to sleep. Something told him he wouldn't fall asleep for a long while. The entire day had just felt off somehow, ever since he'd seen Mike. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep, but not before patting down his back, just in case there had been something there. He didn't find anything.