Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, plot etc.

Spoilers for every episode.


Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat. "John"

John Watson looked gleefully at him. "Well, this is a turn, isn't it?" He stood there, completely at ease, as Sherlock's world shuddered and cracked. Sherlock waited for the catch. For the real Moriarty to come forward, but John just stood there.

"What the fuck is this?" Sherlock managed to get out. John raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.

"You don't know? The great Sherlock Holmes, confounded by little John Watson?" John laughed coldly, cruelly. His eyes narrowed and his voice filled with a fiery hate. "It was so easy to putter around, fawning at you with adoration and praise. Acting stupid. God, you never thought twice about John Watson. You thought you were so amazing, that I was just your little pet, making tea for you, trailing after you. When all this time, I was the brilliant one. The one smarter than you."

John's hatred speared through Sherlock. How could he have missed this? It was so simple. John, the ex-army doctor, was good at killing. He liked the adrenaline rush, liked seeing the blood and death. "Who are you?" Sherlock croaked.

John threw back his head and laughed, it looked so odd, seeing the maniacal gleam in his eyes where there had previously only been warmth and exasperated affection. "Sherlock, reduced to asking questions?" John chuckled. "Can't you deduce that I'm Jim Moriarty? The evidence is right here." He spread his arms.

Sherlock shook his head in part denial. John strode closer to him. "Oh I see. You liked John Watson, liked the fact that someone could put up with. Oh, poor thing. You let John Watson worm his way into your heart, you let him turn the machine into a man." He stared at Sherlock, navy eyes intent on ripping him apart. "The first clue should have been that John Watson put up with you. Like anyone ever could."

Every word, every gesture that wasn't John's tore through him. John (or Jim?) continued, "You needed a John Watson though, someone who cared, who made you feel like you were worth something. That you were someone. But the truth is," John shook his head slowly, almost mournfully. "John Watsons don't exist Sherlock, and even if they did, they wouldn't stay with an ungrateful brat that tries so hard to be someone. Even though he's a nothing."

With that, Sherlock's carefully constructed world came crashing down around him. There was a dull ache in his throat and a burning, a terrible burning in his heart.

John smiled and nodded. "I see you have a gun. But you won't shoot me Sherlock." He tilted his head in that way that John used to, and Sherlock hated how he felt John slipping away with every minute. "Anything to say Sherlock?" When Sherlock remained impassive, John, no Jim now, shrugged and said conversationally, "I expect we'll see more of each other soon. No, don't bother returning my things, I have other accommodations. God, did I ever tell you how much I hate jumpers?" and with that, Jim spun on his heel and walked away.

Sherlock stood there for hours more, staring vacantly at the pool. He was so far away, seeing John giggling with him at the crime scene, reliving that awe he first felt when he realized John killed for him, all while tearing apart the John room in his mind palace.

When Mycroft found him, Sherlock realized that tears were still trickling down his cheeks.


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