John saw a musical once.
He and Sarah had nestled on the couch in contented silence, sipping wine and smiling sweetly at each other. It had been the only time Sherlock hadn't cock blocked him while he was on a date and he'd been pretty fucking chuffed.
He barely remembers the story really, but it was simple enough to recall the basics. The sweet virginal choir girl was seduced by a dark and dangerous stranger. He sang and she followed him blindly. He promised her everything but delivered only pain and suffering.
Sarah had loved it. 'Tragic romance,' she'd called it.
John disagreed.
What kind of a weak, spineless, pathetic human being would follow such a mad man willingly into the darkness? Who would stay with someone knowing they would rip everything you'd ever loved out of your life just to see you beg?
He'd though the entire scenario was stupid beyond belief.
But now, a year later, with Sherlock dead and buried, and Moriarty slipping his body between John's thighs, he wasn't so sure.
And if afterwards, in the darkness, he closed his eyes and pictured dark curls and a too prominent cupid's bow, if he wept just a little, he didn't bother hoping Moriarty was ignorant of it all.
"We must all live with the decisions we make, Johnny-boy."
Tragic romance, indeed.