Author's note: This will be dark. Or at the very least darker than I usually write. Warnings for torture.
I don't own anything, please review.
Until it happens, he doesn't know how far he has come.
At first, it's not more than an idea in the back of his head; he isn't even aware it's there because all he can think of is Sherlock, the thud his body made when he hit the ground all he can hear, the lifeless eyes all he can see, his blood pounding through him and screaming He's gone, He's gone, He's gone.
He simply can't think about anything else, not for a long time. Sherlock's death is so enormous, so all-compassing that he is surprised that people still live their lives and go to work and meet their friends and have fun while the consulting detective lies in his grave.
Once the grief has passed – no, not passed, it will never truly pass, but once it has become bearable enough to consider other things (or maybe John has simply grown used to it) – after the funeral and after John has moved out of 221B, the idea makes itself known.
Maybe it's less an idea and more a desire, a want, a burning need, something that keeps reminding him that his life isn't over yet, that there's still something he can do.
After all –
They never found Moriarty's body.
He knows because Mycroft told him. As soon as he had given his statement and was free to leave – before the grief crushed him, before he'd realized what had happened – he went to the Diogenes Club.
Mycroft hadn't appeared at the scene, hadn't shown up to claim that the Secret Service would take over the investigation, and that gave John hope.
Mycroft Holmes would not stand by and watch while other people investigated his brother's suicide.
Therefore, Sherlock must still be alive.
Mycroft only confirmed (once he had recovered from the punch and asked the footmen to release John) that the consulting detective was dead, and to this day, John can't say whether he hates him more for betraying his brother or for telling him that he hoped in vain.
Mycroft gave him one thing, though, even if he's only now beginning to realize it.
Mycroft told him that they couldn't find Moriarty – or, rather, that they were looking for Moriarty.
And, as far as John can tell (because he believes Mycroft will tell him that they have Moriarty as soon as it happens; now and then he gets texts from an unknown number that say "No Progress") they still are.
Ever since Sherlock d – ever since Sherlock has been gone, no one has heard or seen the consulting criminal.
John finds that out soon enough, using Sherlock's homeless network, whose members seem to feel that they owe the consulting detective to help his best friend.
The reason he tries to find Moriarty on his own is simple.
The idea makes itself known, and he realizes what he wants.
He wants revenge.
Moriarty isn't dead – otherwise there would have been a body, proof, something – but he soon will be.
Because this is all John has now.
If he didn't, chances are he would put a bullet through his brain.
But he has this, he can still kill, and he holds on to the desire for revenge until it's all he can think about.
It's better to concentrate on the fire coursing through his veins than to remember a skull on a fireplace, or a violin that no one plays anymore; it's safer to wake up and feel the longing for someone else's blood than the pain in his leg that grows stronger every day.
Sometimes, he wonders if Mycroft knows what he is doing and if he plans to stop him, should he find Moriarty before the British Government does. And he will.
He doesn't know how he can be so sure, but he is.
He is equally sure that he won't allow anyone to stop him. Moriarty will die, and it won't be quick. It won't be easy.
He made Sherlock commit suicide. John knows he did. He doesn't know how, but Sherlock hadn't jumped if he hadn't been forced to. Sherlock would never commit suicide.
Sherlock would never leave John alone.
Therefore, Moriarty must have forced him somehow, and John will make him pay for it.
He is aware how bad he looks. He has long stopped caring about his appearance; he is eating less and less, barely sleeps (it is far more satisfying to imagine Moriarty's end than to dream about Sherlock falling), he only shaves every few days.
Ironically, Harry is the first one to try to get him to seek help.
He almost laughs in her face, before he remembers that this wouldn't be polite, and shakes his head. She leaves soon afterwards, and he find that he can't even recall most of their conversation. It doesn't matter.
Finding Moriarty, letting the fire consume the consulting criminal, matters.
After Harry, there's Greg. They have stayed friends; he tried to warn Sherlock. He isn't to blame for what happened.
"John" he says, one evening over a pint, carefully, as if he's afraid John will break down if he pushes to hard or talks too loudly (and maybe he would, if he didn't have a goal), "I am – We are – worried about you."
"Oh?" he asks, wondering if tonight, when he returns to the small flat that will never be his home, Sherlock's homeless network will finally have news for him.
Suddenly, there's a hand grasping his arm and he looks up from his pint to find Greg staring at him.
"John, you look like hell. When was the last time you slept? Really slept? Or ate?"
He can't answer these questions, and perhaps this should bother him, but it doesn't.
"I know it hasn't been easy – It hasn't been easy for all of us".
John idly wonders who "we" might be. He guesses Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Molly and perhaps Mike. Apparently his friends plan some kind of intervention.
He doesn't need an intervention. All he needs is to find Moriarty.
"Sherlock wouldn't want – "
"We don't know what Sherlock would want" John says, and the fire is burning brightly in him, his voice hard, "We can't. He's gone".
Greg flinches.
"Not acknowledging that he's dead doesn't make a difference".
There was a time John couldn't bear to even think the word "dead" in combination with Sherlock's name, but ever since he has found a purpose, it's become easier and easier. Just like being invalided home became much easier to deal with once he met the consulting detective.
"John –" and the doctor recognizes the tone in his voice, the DI is pleading, but it won't work, because it only reminds him there was a hint of that tone in Greg's voice when he called and warned them Sherlock was about to be arrested too, a silent plea for them to be gone, and that makes the fire in his veins simply burn brighter, so he shakes his head, stands up and leaves without another word. The DI doesn't follow him.
Mike and Molly try to talk to him as well; that is, Molly comes knocking on his door several times when he won't answer her calls, but finally she gets the hint and stays away.
Mike and John meet up for coffee and he immediately tells his old friend that he is fine, and that he will not answer any questions about how he's doing or talk about seeing anyone.
Mike thankfully realizes he won't win and instead offers him silent companionship, which would probably mean something to John if anything but the fire could still mean anything to him.
For months and months, he waits. For months and months, he calls in every favour, speaks to old informants, old clients of Sherlock's, sends the homeless network all over town again and again, and then –
And then it happens and a young woman gives him a slip of paper on which the address of (as it later turns out) an abandoned warehouse is written.
And the flames burn higher than ever before.
John carefully packs the bag he chose long ago would be the one he'd carry tonight; his gun, knives, a syringe.
Finally. Finally he can do what he has to do.
He can avenge Sherlock.
He makes his way to the warehouse. He knows where most of Mycroft's cameras in the vicinity of his flat are, and he stays out of their reach. He can't risk anyone stopping him, not now when he has finally got a lead.
He is aware that this could be a trap. He doesn't care. Because, no matter if trap or not, his purpose will keep him alive.
As it turns out, it is not a trap; rather, Moriarty is in a meeting with a man John has never seen, but who he shoots without a second thought.
The fire shoots through his veins again, and he isn't felt this alive since Sherlock jumped.
For the first time, he sees Moriarty surprised.
He can't help but remember the Pool.
Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face.
But John won't kill him. Not yet. Not for a long time.
When Moriarty's expression turns from surprise to delight, he understands that he was only shocked John killed a man in cold blood. He doesn't think John capable of what follows next.
"Johnny! How nice of you to drop by. It's a pity about Seb though, he was a most useful pet – "
It is then that John tackles and almost strangles him, for the simple reason that he doesn't want Moriarty to use the word "pet" ever again.
Once the consulting criminal is unconscious, John ties him up. He doesn't put a gag in his mouth, though. The risk of witnesses is small, and he wants to hear him scream.
It's while he waits for Moriarty to wake up that he realizes the fire has left him. Instead, his blood grows colder and colder the longer he looks at him.
Revenge isn't the hot, burning need he's felt for months. Revenge is cold like ice, freezing everything, burying compassion and regrets like snow.
It's the only truth. Revenge is all he has left.
When Moriarty wakes up, he looks into John's face and, just like that, he is no longer cheerful.
It begins.
John doesn't feel tired or hungry as he slowly does what he's set out to do; he doesn't know how much time has passed until the consulting criminal's heart finally stops. Then, and only then, does he realize it's been almost three days since he walked into the warehouse.
But until then –
He doesn't use the gun. Guns, as he learned in the war, are quick. Even if you don't hit a major artery, the victim can bleed out any minute, and that won't do.
He uses the knives.
He starts with Moriarty's right arm, slowly peeling of the skin, the hot blood flowing over his cool hand, and at first the other man doesn't scream.
The consulting criminal might not smile cheerfully anymore, but he is not yet broken. And that is what John wants to see.
It takes time.
At first, he taunts him.
"Oh, Doctor Watson, what do you think Sherlock would say? His blogger torturing a man to death..."
"It's certainly interesting that our armed forces recruit psychopaths".
"I would have thought you would come up with something more creative..."
He doesn't say much after that, because John remembers the acid Sherlock left in the fridge the week before Kitty Riley's first article appeared, and he throws it into the consulting criminal's face and watches his skin melt of.
His blood is still cool, and when Moriarty finally begins to scream, it delights him. He continues carving and ripping and now and then putting salt on the wounds because it feels right, for the first time in a long time, he feels like he is doing something, something he should have done long ago, because if he had, Sherlock would still be alive –
When it is finally over and the blood flows no longer and he can slowly feel the ice in his veins start to break, can feel his own heartbeat again, someone closes a door behind him.
He turns around.
Greg stands there, staring first at the barely recognizable corpse and then the already decomposing body of Seb that John carried into a corner before starting with the consulting criminal; his face is white, his breathing shallow, and John can't read his thoughts.
It doesn't matter what Greg thinks. It doesn't matter what he will do. John will gladly go to prison.
Greg raises his eyes to look at him, and his stare tells John that he thinks him as a monster.
He doesn't care.
Greg swallows, looks from John to Moriarty's body and back to John.
The doctor realizes he's thinking about Sherlock.
Greg swallows then looks away, and before he does, John sees something like guilt and regret in his eyes.
"Get out".
John returns to his flat.
He reads about the murders in the papers, but no one is ever arrested. There doesn't seem to be any evidence, even though John is sure he must have left many traces behind.
Greg never speaks to him again.
He doesn't mind. He is glad he did what he did; he is sure it was what everyone would have done, under the same circumstances.
He continues to believe so until one day, one and a half years later, there is a knock on his door and he opens it and looks upon the face of Sherlock Holmes and all he can read in his eyes is guilt and disappointment.
Author's note: This just came out of nowhere.
Please review.