In any other circumstance, John may have been angry. He may have been furious, in fact. Betrayed, even, was not a very far stretch. Now, though, he simply felt drained. Empty. Exhausted. Alone. It was as if all the color had gone from his world; everything blended together into a dull gray as he sat in his armchair, tea cold beside him, thinking of what he'd lost.
A bullet. A fucking bullet. Not even so much as a goodbye.
And no, no goodbye had been said. John had gotten to Bart's as quickly as he could, finding the man he loved missing from their rather nice east side home. There was no note, nothing, just a blog post from Sherlock Bleeding Holmes open to an article about the hospital.
"No, no, jesus, Jim, you promised. You promised you'd let it go."
He couldn't, of course. That was who Jim Moriarty was. He was a man who saw things through to the end, no matter how bitter.
No matter how much it'd hurt.
Something about the detective drew him in, captivated him in a way John never could, and it broke the old soldier's heart to dwell to deeply on. It was always Sherlock, his mind whispered. Never you that he loved. Never.
From the street he could see them both, the gorgeous geniuses on opposite ends of the spectrum. Both mad, but one had an outlet.
At least, John had thought he had.
"Do you remember the night we met, John?"
"Yeah, yeah, I do. The lab at Bart's, you… dressed down. You looked incredible. Flirted with my best mate." He smiles, and it's genuine. "Never thought you'd end up with me, not after the pool incident."
"You rather showed your hand there, Dr. Watson. I had to have you. So touchingly loyal… and beautiful. You're so brave. And kind. I love that about you. Pulled me back from the brink of darkness. Thank you, John. Thank you for loving this poor sinner."
"Shut up and kiss me, you utter git."
He didn't want to think he'd been tricked, that Jim had played him, but he couldn't know, could he? His best friend and the man he loved, circling each other like vultures.
Like dancers.
They drew close, and for a moment he thought they were going to kiss. Rage bristled inside of him as he started to march across the street, preparing some choice words for one Jim Moriarty, but then he heard it.
He saw it.
The gunshot, his body collapsing as Sherlock jerked back.
"No, no, god, no… Jim! JIM!"
He ran, quickly, ignoring the sound of sirens in the distance, ignoring the flood of traffic. Nothing mattered, only Jim. Through the fron door, up the elevator, onto the roof…
Blood. Blood everywhere, pooling from his skull. Not grinning, though. Not proud. Defeated. He looks defeated.
"John."
He looked to Sherlock, blue eyes brimming with tears. "You. You did this."
"John. He did it himself."
Couldn't even stay for you, could he? The great John Watson, the man who tamed Jim Moriarty. A lie, a lie, this is what he always wanted. Hurt Sherlock, hurt you. He never meant it.
"Is this what I am to you people?! A bloody chess piece, to be used and captured and fucking shoved aside?!"
He fell to his knees beside the body, taking his cooling hand in his own fevered palms.
"Jim, darling, baby, please. Please. PLEASE! DON'T DO THIS TO ME!"
His lover would not, could not answer.
"Why? Why? James, god dammit, ANSWER ME!"
John was gripping the body by its lapels, shaking it, screaming demands and questions as though it would make a difference.
It wouldn't. He knew it wouldn't.
Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder, a light touch meant to reassure, but John didn't want his false comfort. He wanted to co home and curl up with Jim Moriarty, like they had the day before. He wanted to wake up to the Irishman making pancakes and singing to the Bee Gees. He wanted to sit back to back with him while they each read a different book. He didn't want this.
He never wanted this.
You should have let him go, John. You should have let them wage this war alone.
"…why…?"
"He did love you, John."
"This is a funny way of proving it, Sherlock."
John refused to speak until the paramedics drug him away from Jim's body, when he began to shout curses and threats as he thrashed against them. Sherlock had them issue a sedative, which did wonders for his disposition. He fell asleep in the ambulance, and woke in the familiar confines of 221B. I don't want to be here. This isn't home. It isn't. Not… not since… but I can't go back there, can I?
"This was delivered for you, John."
Sherlock offered him a black mobile, which he recognized instantly. Jim's. There was a small icon flashing red on the screen, and when the doctor looked up questioningly Sherlock only shrugged and walked away. Nervously, he tapped the icon.
"My darling Doctor Watson,
If you're watching this, it means I'm- so cliche, isn't it? Let's skip that part, then. There are things I cannot tell you; not because I don't trust you, love, but because I want to protect you. This goes beyond whatever petty childhood squabbles Sherlock and I have, and yes, that means you're not allowed to hate him; this is something that would destroy you if they found out our relationship. So listen to Daddy, Johnny. I love you. I love you more than anything in this black, twisted world. You're everything good that exists, and I can't let them hurt you. So, though you think you're alone, you're not. Sherlock promised to keep those icy blues on you while I'm away. I don't believe in a heaven or a hell, John, but whatever comes after, I'll be watching over you. That's a promise, and darling, you know I keep my promises. Don't cry for me, John, but if you simply can't help yourself, just remember. Dear Jim will fix it for for you."
And now two months later, in his favorite armchair, tea cold beside him, John played the video over and over, watching those dark eyes light up when the man said his name, listening to the intoxicating Irish lilt to his words, wishing for all the world he'd been able to stay away from James Moriarty.
That man was a heartbreaker.