No. Jim Moriarty was not back from the dead.
So what happened in Afghanistan, you might ask?
The bullet in his chest did not kill him.
Now Jim was a resourceful man. Quite willing to manipulate if it would save his skin. But he was a good man, inside.
But Jim had seen John shot, and he thought John was dead.
Something snapped inside him that day.
And he has mourned John ever since.
The grief blinded him. You could almost say it drove him to the edge of insanity. Hence the cackling psychopath we all know and detest.
Jim would avenge John, if it cost him his life.
So the enemy offered him a deal.
Nothing big, just a rooky position in the drugs underworld.
Yes, that's where his path to consulting criminal began.
Soon all Jim's rivals were dead, killed in mysterious 'accidents'. He rose in status, and all came to fear him, just as they had all those years ago in the playground.
'The King of the Underworld' he soon became.
But what happened to John?
Well I think you know that story.
Returned home from Afghanistan, he battled everyday to return, to avenge the death of Jim.
But the wound in his shoulder would not allow it, and he hated it.
But he could make a difference in a small way, by helping Sherlock catch the petty criminals of London and beyond.
That John was fighting the very thing Jim had become was the most ironic tragedy the world had ever known.
*J*J*J*J*
As John returned from a visit to the toilet in Barts, he saw Sherlock hovering over his microscope.
The lab door was swinging, as if someone had just left.
"Who was that?"
"Oh, no one. Just Molly's new boyfriend. Jim, I think. Obviously gay."
John's heart fluctuated for a moment as the lilting word 'Jim' filled his heart, but it sank as he came to the realization that there were millions of Jim on the planet, and the only one he had cared for was dead.
So he dismissed the thought and let life drag him onwards.
*J*J*J*J*J*J*
As Jim flicked over the CCTV of Baker Street, he grinned manically as he picked out Sherlock's tall figure darting along the street.
He loved the little game they were playing, it was the most exciting entertainment he'd had in ages.
But Sherlock was starting to get annoying. The man was simply too persistent.
He would just have to dispose of him.
A great shame, really.
But he had to finish the game.
That's why he was delighted when Sherlock arranged to meet him at the pool midnight.
He just needed a fifth pip.
He was about to flick the off switch of the TV when he saw another short, muscled figure step out from 221b.
He couldn't see his face, but for a moment an image of John flashed in his mind.
No. John was dead.
I have the fifth pip.
*J*J*J*J*J*J*J*
John groaned as his heavy eyes opened to a world of darkness. His hot, heavy breath filled the black, itchy bag that had been tied over his head. It itched against his nose, but his hands were tied behind his back in way in which if he tried to move them his arms would break.
The wound in his shoulder was playing up, and the sharp rod of pain seared through his mind.
Kidnapped.
Well what did he expect; he was living with Sherlock, for crying out loud!
The sharp smell of chlorine permeated the air, and the gentle slapping of water filtered through the bag.
Swimming pool.
His mind snapped to attention as a voice filled his head, and the little listening device sat heavy in his ear.
"Now, John, I want you to do everything I say."
The cold voice sent a shiver down his spine, but it stirred something inside him, and a whisper of familiarity made his bones ache.
J*J*J*J*J*J*J*
As a boy, Jim had been quite the little theatrical. Hence the black bag over John's face.
John.
He loved that name so much, if only for the dead man he was still mourning.
Excitement and suspense filled him. He just couldn't wait to see the man's face.
He must be pretty special if he's this close to Sherlock.
"Now John, one of my men is going to lead you out, and then you are going to stand very still. Then you say hello to our dear little Sherlock."
John felt the bag being ripped off his head, and blistering light burned his eyes. Blinking away the whiteness, John had no time to recover as he was dragged along by a rough hand. He almost tripped over one time with no arms to balance him.
The smell of chlorine grew stronger.
Suddenly the hand let go, and he came to a sudden stop.
"Now, John. I want you to take a few steps out until you're by the swimming pool, and then turn around. Remember, not a word unless I tell you to. Now go on!"
John stepped out, and he realised then the heavy weight that had been hanging on his chest. His throat clogged up in fear as he realised he was wearing a jacket. A bomb jacket.
That voice must belong to a person of pure evil or someone really, really sick in the head.
And sure enough, there was Sherlock.
As the cold, silky voice filled his mind, the words slipped out of his mouth. He hardly knew what he was saying. Sherlock just stared at him blankly, grey eyes filled with worry.
He felt a presence behind him. Sherlock's gaze shifted to the mysterious figure in the distance.
John had to know who he was.
If it killed him.
So, slowly he turned around.
And he reeled in shock and disbelief.
"Jim!" He yelled.
*J*J*J*J*J*
As Jim stepped out from behind the corner, he immediately took in the tall figure of Sherlock standing there, and the mysterious John, back facing him.
He had to see his face.
He was about to tell him to do just that, but John appeared to be doing the job for him.
And then his whole world stopped.
It was John. John Watson.
He was alive!
"John!" He yelled.
*J*J*J*J*J*J*
A mixture of disbelief and joy filled John. For a moment he couldn't believe it. The fear must be making him hallucinate.
But there was the Jim Moriarty he had known and loved, standing only a few feet away from him.
He had to be sure.
It hadn't even occurred to him that Jim was the psychopath that Sherlock had been chasing all along.
The only thing that mattered now was that Jim was alive.
Suddenly, he saw Jim walking towards him, a huge, genuine smile on his face. Not caring for the bomb jacket on his chest, he started to walk towards to Jim, and as he become more certain of his identity, he started to jog, then run. Jim did the same.
The slammed together in a fierce hug and John wrapped his arms fiercely around Jim, letting go all of the sorrow, grief and anger that had filled him ever since Jim's 'death'. Jim returned the hug in equal measure, and John felt hot tears prick his eyes.
"Jim." He whispered hoarsely.
"John." John could barely hear the word out of Jim's mouth.
And then Jim started to cry uncontrollably.
John smelt like home.
And Jim hadn't had a home in over two years.
And now he was home. The relief was almost unbearable.
He thought of all the terrible deeds he had done, all in the name of vengeance. He had even kidnapped John.
Would he ever forgive him?
The crack in his persona which had drove to the edge of insanity and back filled in an instant, basking in the glow of John's presence.
John patted his back, whispering soothing nonsense.
"Are you okay?" John asked.
"Yeah, I'm fine." Jim stepped back, and John clasped his shoulders, smiling.
"How are you still alive?"
J*J*J*J*J*J*J*
Well you can imagine what poor Sherlock must be feeling now.
Firstly, there was the shock and worry that filled him when he saw John emerge from the changing rooms, bomb jacket in tow.
Of course, how could he be such an idiot? Of course John was the fifth pip!
Sherlock could have hit himself. He would, in fact, several times afterwards.
And then there was the additional trauma of witnessing John – his John – turning around to Moriarty and hugging him – hugging him, his mind echoed.
Oh god. John had betrayed him.
Stupid, Sherlock! People never made friends with and stayed unless they had an ulterior motive.
Stupid, stupid mistake.
Then his rational mind slowed down.
Think Sherlock, think. There must be a rational explanation for all of this.
Betrayed echoed in his mind.
"John! Would you like explain to me what the hell is going on here!"
John turned around.
