Jim Moriarty did his best to look worried, loosening his tie, mussing his hair lightly as if he'd been running. Then, with a fake look of concern he strolled into the hospital, wringing his hands together as an extra touch.
"Hello, I'm uh, looking for my friend John. He-Oh God he fell off some cliffs when we were site seeing so I've been checking all the hospitals." He rattled off, pleased when the nurse at the desk gave him a comforting smile and slashed him a picture of John sporting some stitches and bruises.
"Yes! That's him!" He grinned, "Where is he?"
He allowed the nurse to lead him through the hospital toward the room where John was staying, tuning out all the information she was relaying about his condition and memory loss. He'd already read the file and besides, her voice was just an octave too high and was beginning to annoy the consulting criminal.
Finally she left him alone, good thing too, any longer and he'd start planning an unfortunate accident for her just to spare his ears of that terrible squawking. Trying to hide his eagerness he closed his hand around the door knob and stepped inside. John was sitting on the bed which took up most of the room, flicking through some terrible magazine looking bored. However he instantly put it down at the site of another person in his room, one who was obviously not a doctor.
"Hello, Johnny!" Moriarty grinned.
-oOo-
"Hello." John replied to the man warily. He didn't know why but he had tensed at the site of this man.
He had dark hair like in his memory but it was straight and short, something told him that wasn't right. And while the suit was clearly expensive, it wasn't the grey one from his memory. And yet, he did feel some form of familiarity.
"You don't remember me do you?" The man sighed, he looked sad but ever so slightly amused.
"No." John admitted, "I'm guessing I should."
"I'm James Moriarty, but you call me Jim." Moriarty grinned, "You work for me but more importantly, you're my friend."
"I am?" John blinked, that didn't feel right but then again nothing did at the moment and this man did feel familiar. Maybe the dark curls in his mind had once belonged to him and he simply got his hair cut and surely he had more than one suit.
"You're John Watson." Jim continued walking over to sit by John on the bed, "We met a few years ago when you got invalided back from Afghanistan. If you don't believe me check your shoulder, there is a scar where the bullet hit you."
John gasped, he had of course discovered the scar himself when he'd showered to get the sand and salt off his body. He'd been wondering where it came from, his natural medical knowledge had told him it was a bullet wound but he knew nothing else. Jim must really know him, how else could he know?
Wait, Jim was a short name, maybe his was the name that had smudged beyond recognition in the little leather book. Carefully he grabbed the small treasure from his night stand and handed it over.
"Did you give me this?" He asked, "It looks pretty new, except for the water damage I mean."
Jim took the book and opened it, looking at it with an expression John couldn't quite decipher. Then he smiled, John couldn't help noticing the gleam in his eyes that didn't seem entirely friendly.
"Yeah, a few days ago actually." Jim grinned, "It was your birthday gift."
"My birthday." John breathed.
"I'd love to stay here and relive your memories Johnny but we really need to leave." Jim spoke up, suddenly very serious, "It's lucky I found you before he did, we need to get somewhere safe."
"Safe? From who?" John paled, somebody was after him?
"Do you think you did this to yourself?" Jim scoffed tapping the stitching at his temple, "You were shot Johnny, by a man who meant to kill you, would have if I hadn't knocked him over at the last second and when the bullet didn't finish you off he threw you from the cliff into the ocean!"
John then felt a flash of memory bubble to the surface, a stinging sensation stemming from his head, then wind in his ears as he fell and black waters...
"I remember falling..." John muttered, Jim nodded enthusiastically.
"See? We need to leave before he discovers you're still alive and comes after us again."
"Why does this guy want to hurt us?" John asked, feeling a headache forming, "Who is he?"
Moriarty made a face that screamed pity.
"The man we've been fighting since we met John, Sherlock Holmes!"
-oOo-
Sherlock wouldn't be able to recount his journey back to England were anybody to ask him, not because his perfect memory was failing but because he had cared so little that he hadn't observed a single thing. At first he had tried to argue with Lestrade, he'd wanted to stay in Germany, find John himself, or at least a body, anything really. Finally he'd given up and had barely spoken since. However the inspector insisted he go home to Baker Street, "to rest" he'd said, like that was possible.
How could he rest? He'd been awake for days, unable to sleep due to the churning of his stomach and a strange pain in his chest. He'd seen people die, their lives snuffed out in less than a second, but some how for it to happen to John seemed so wrong.
John was good and kind and likable. He was warm and he was always smiling, why would somebody like that die? How? The universe made no sense. He felt empty and directionless, Lestrade had to accompany him back to Baker street simply because he stayed still and silent unless somebody pushed him forwards.
He sat down in his chair and stared at John's empty one while he listened to the sound of Lestrade making tea. It didn't sound right, it sounded different to when John made tea. A cup was thrust under his nose but he turned away, he didn't want it, it wouldn't taste right no matter how many times Lestrade tried.
"Sherlock, I'm going to stay here tonight, okay?" Lestrade spoke up gently, "I don't think you should be on your own."
Sherlock sneered, he disliked the idea of Lestrade watching his every move, whats more he would probably want to sleep in John's bed. It was only logical of course but Sherlock didn't want him in John's bed, or even John's room. They belonged to him!
"I'll sleep on the couch." Lestrade continued.
"Fine." Sherlock replied tersely.
There was no point in arguing, Sherlock didn't have the energy to anyway.
Soon Lestrade's gaze began to bother him. His breathing was too loud, his suit was too stiff, he kept fidgeting and his thoughts were too loud. Lacking any better ideas Sherlock picked up his violin and began to torture the strings in the hopes that lestrade would at least leave the room and grant him a moments privacy.
He did not, Sherlock playing anyway, his thoughts began to drift to all the things that annoyed him about Lestrade, making the music come out even rougher and tuneless. Eventually though, his thoughts inevitably drifted back to John, his face as he'd stepped over the cliffs edge, his smile when he'd opened his gift, how they'd laughed together at dinner that night as they continued their usual banter.
How he'd been so brave and shot the cabby, saving Sherlock's life for the first but certainly not the last time. He remembered, only a few months ago when he'd come down with a terrible flu after falling in the Thames at Christmas. John had been patient as he complained and demanded things at all hours, looking after him all the while. He'd made soup and stayed with him all night while the fever made him delirious and weak, he'd even read him case files Lestrade had bought over.
John's voice was soothing and now he'd never hear it again.
Suddenly the detective realized that the music hard stopped being terrible scratchings and turned into a very slow, sad melody without him even meaning to. He quickly stopped and clamped his eyes shut to stop any tears from escaping. He would NOT cry in front of Lestrade!
-oOo-
Sherlock was standing on a large flat topped pillar made of dark grey stone. Thousands of feet below him dark waters swirled and above thunder and lightning flashed through the thick cloud. He pulled his coat tighter around himself to keep off the cold wind.
"How nice of you to show up."
Sherlock spun around to see John standing a few feet from him on the other side of the pillar. His clothes were soaked to the point of dripping, forming puddles at his feet, his skin was bone white and his eyes were sunken, grey and so very dead. The worst part though, was the blood, it was plastered across his face and neck, dripping down from the large gash on his head and there was so much of it...
"Do you think it's fun, Sherlock?" John hissed, "Being abandoned at the bottom of the ocean? No light, no sounds, no air. Nobody for company except the fish that are eating the flesh off your bones!"
Sherlock flinched.
"They tried-"
"Not you though." John crossed his arms, "Not the great Sherlock Holmes, you left me! Left me to freeze in the ocean! I died because of you! Because of you are your oh so brilliant mind! I was following you and you lead me to my death!"
"John..."
"Don't even start Sherlock, you don't deserve forgiveness after all you've put me through over the years!" John growled as he stalked closer, "You cut me off from the rest of the world, I couldn't date, I couldn't have other friends because of you, you scared everybody away! You freak!"
It pained Sherlock more than he could ever say to hear that word come out of John's mouth. He'd felt like a freak for so long and then John had come along and made him feel, human, like he wasn't a monster.
"I was never happy and it's all your fault." John continued bitterly, dead eyes boring into Sherlock's own, "You should be the one alone at the bottom of the ocean, you should be the one to suffer!"
And with that John pushed Sherlock off the long black pillar and down into the waters which began to freeze over, leaving Sherlock trapped under the icy water with the breath knocked out of him.
"I hope you suffer. Freak."
Sherlock screamed as he woke, bolting upright in bed and panting, trying to convince himself it was all just a dream. His breath was coming in irregular gasps and he couldn't seem to control it. It took him a few embarrassingly long seconds to realize that he was sobbing. Now once he'd started he found it hard to stop, curling up in the smallest ball possible again the head board with the sheets still grasped between his fingers.
"Sherlock?"
Lestrade was at his door, probably looking at him and Sherlock was too distraught to be embarrassed.
"Sher-"
"Leave!" Sherlock demanded, still not uncurling himself.
"But-"
"I said LEAVE!" Sherlock screamed the last part, glaring at Lestrade with all his might.
With that Lestrade left the room looking very worried and Sherlock curled up under his sheets. But he didn't dare go back to sleep, lest John came back to haunt him again.
I'm trying to write Sherlock's point of view in a way that shows he's still sort of in shock about the whole thing. I hope it's coming across.
Also I'm going away for three days camping so no updates for a while sorry.
