That case was the first of many. He wasn't called as often as Sherlock—a good thing considering his lecture schedule—but his help was needed often enough to make him feel like he'd finally accomplished something. He always took the time to explain what he'd seen and why he'd looked in the first place. He would describe what kind of mental state the perpetrator was likely in based on the physical evidence, and would clarify what made an enraged killer act differently, cut differently, than a cool one.
He started to form his own little clique at crime scenes (which he could tell just galled Donovan and Anderson to no end). Everybody still did their jobs, but certain interested faces made a point of being nearby while he was examining the scene.
He began writing up cases on his blog again, but this time, he focused on the forensic side rather than the anecdotal. He carefully never used real names or places, and he always waited until after any relevant court cases had ended before posting the stories, but—it was useful, being able to describe the investigative aspects of the cases from the very beginning.
He was beginning to understand why his early posts had irritated Sherlock so much. He had skimmed over so much analytical detail in his desire to tell a good story … but then, he was a much better writer now than he had been then. At the beginning, he was mostly just interpreting Sherlock for normal humans, and using the cases as examples for his irritating genius. Now, though, he was writing about the cases. He still tried to make them good stories, but he concentrated on the physical details—and backed them up with posts that delved into the forensics, so as not to bog down the stories with too much science.
He just wondered if Sherlock would be any happier with the result.
He tried not to compare himself to Sherlock in his blog posts. He knew that, compared to his friend, he was still appallingly slow, and he would never have quite the store of data in his own head that Sherlock had had in his own. (These days, Google was John's best friend.) He liked to think, though, that even if Sherlock would have been frustrated at his slowness, he would at least have appreciated his results. John was more than happy to play tortoise to Sherlock's hare … it was reaching the finish line that mattered.
As they were approaching the second anniversary of Sherlock's death, though, John started to think about Moriarty.
He had resolutely avoided discussing any details from any of the cases he knew the madman had been involved in. He had never mentioned proper astronomy detail in an art forgery, or the dangers of botox injections by a person with a grudge. He didn't talk about pools or bomb vests or fairy tales. He particularly never mentioned Hansel and Gretel or sugar traces in soil analysis. And he never discussed the difficulties of breaking into the Tower of London.
But … he had reached a point where this was starting to feel like an omission rather than something he hadn't gotten to yet.
There were still countless subjects he could write blog posts about. The possibilities of murder by bee sting or insulin overdose, the paw prints left by different domestic animals … if there was one thing he'd learned since following Sherlock Holmes, it was that any detail could be useful. Allinformation was potentially useful (even if he'd continued to insist that a heliocentric solar system was irrelevant to daily life.)
The point was that John could keep on with his general-knowledge classes-by-blog indefinitely. There would always be more to write about. Except—easy as it was to get distracted by his newfound popularity—he had started this crusade in the first place to restore Sherlock's reputation.
To a degree, he already had. By laying the proof of Sherlock's deductive science in front of his readers, he had proven that Sherlock had been legitimate—without ever saying "here's the proof," or "he was real," or "you idiots were wrong" on his blog. He had proven it by demonstration—both in blog posts but also in his own detective work.
These days, almost nobody mocked Sherlock to his face.
It had been long enough, though, that not addressing the Moriarty fiasco was starting to look suspicious—as if Sherlock had had something to hide.
Part of John understood this. Even at the height of the hysteria, very few people believed Sherlock could have faked every case. There had been too many people coming out with stories about private cases, too many police cases that he had solved. But the Moriarty thing … that had been the sticking point.
Too many people were willing to believe that, out of boredom with "normal" cases, Sherlock had created an archenemy. They wanted to believe that Sherlock had somehow created the myth of Moriarty. The fact that his identity had been whispered for so long, with the man never seen … it made a better story if Sherlock had somehow been behind all of it.
The more time John spent on esoteric details of investigation at this point, the more it looked like he was deliberately circling around the entire Moriarty topic. That would mean either (1) he had known/suspected the masquerade all along or (2) that he was afraid to look too closely because of what he might find.
Which meant, he had to look.
#
His first post on the topic was subtle. He took a case that few people knew Moriarty was involved in—his first with Sherlock, the Pink Lady case with the serial-murder cabbie.
He talked about the string of suicides, all with the same poison. He discussed how each person had been found in places they would never have gone. How invisible cab-drivers were, that nobody gave any thought to the fact that all the victims had gotten a cab the day they died.
And then he talked about how their deaths were made to look like suicides. No signs of coercion. No visible threat. Just the bodies and self-administered poison.
But, he asked, why had no-one considered the ways a person could be forced to suicide? The cabbie's game with two separate pills was bizarre, he admitted, but he had also held a gun on his victims. He had forcibly driven them to isolated locations. He could have blackmailed them. He could have threatened their loved ones. He could even have promised to help their families if the victim did as they were told.
Just because the victims took the pills themselves—just because they did technically kill themselves—didn't mean they hadn't been forced to do it.
The police, he said, should have wondered at the coincidence of a string of seemingly happy people who suddenly decided to kill themselves with the same poison. They should have wondered that there were no notes from any of them. They should have studied CCTV footage to see that they all had hailed a cab in their last moments, and wouldn't at least one of the cameras have seen the cab number? What else had been on surveillance footage? Had there truly been no other forensic data from any of the scenes? No stray hairs or footprints from the killer? No physical evidence of any kind that a second person had been in the room, had forced the suicide?
The lesson to be learned, here, he wrote, was that you can never assume that what appears to be a suicide was not forced. In the absence of other, clear signs like depression, terminal illness, or suicide notes, a good investigator should look deeper when faced by an otherwise unexplained deaths—even if they look like a straight-forward suicide. Sometimes suicides did happen unexpectedly, it was true, but sometimes they were the sign of more sinister forces at work.
#
Within minutes of posting, he received a text message.
"We need to talk."
He looked out the window to see a familiar black car pulling up on Baker Street and, with a nod, John headed down the stairs. Fifteen minutes later, they were at the Diogenes Club. It still was not one of John's favourite places, but there was a sense of symmetry here that he couldn't argue with.
"John, please have a seat," Mycroft greeted him, waving him into the same chair he'd used during that last confrontation the night Sherlock jumped. "May I get you anything? A scotch? Perhaps some drinkable tea?"
John gave a tight smile at the reminder of the night he'd resurrected his blog. "No tea, thank you, but a drink would be welcome."
Mycroft waited until he had his glass in his hand before saying, "You've decided to address James Moriarty on your blog."
John simply nodded. "I've gotten to a point where it's starting to feel like a topic I'm avoiding for more ominous reasons than just not wanting to poke a sleeping bear."
He sat calmly while Mycroft studied him, unshaken by the steady regard. He couldn't tell what elements and factors Mycroft was judging and measuring, but he was weighing something, and John was content to sip his drink while he waited.
Finally, Mycroft said, "You continue to surprise me, John."
John lifted his eyebrows. He did? "I didn't think that was possible."
"It's not at all usual, no, but you are one of the few men who has succeeded—and more than once, which is exceedingly rare."
"What can I say, I'm a man of mystery," John said, going for a touch of humour, if only because he knew how little Mycroft appreciated being teased. Twisting the man's tail was too entrenched a habit from Sherlock to entirely forego.
"The thing is, you really shouldn't be. You come across as calm and steady, but not complex, and yet you have this capacity to do and see things most people do not."
"Hidden depths," John said easily, "What are you getting at?"
"I am just absorbing the fact that it's all too easy to underestimate you, even when evidence of your capability is right in front of me. Your work on your blog has been exemplary, you know. I've wanted to tell you how impressed I've been that you've been able to make such strides toward restoring Sherlock's good name without ever specifically defending him." He held up his hand. "Don't take that the wrong way. It is a compliment of the highest order. By defending the work and not the man, you've in effect defended both of them, but in such a way that cannot be protested. It was a masterful stroke."
John ducked his head a bit at the unexpected praise. "Coming from the British Government, that's quite a compliment. Thank you. People do seem to think army training means you attack all your problems head on with a gun, but there's a lot to be said for an oblique approach—in medicine as well as war—so why not on a blog?
He sipped at his drink, and when Mycroft remained quiet, said, "I can't imagine you've called me here to object to my clearing Sherlock's name, so I'm wondering if there's something you want me to say or not say for reasons you probably can't explain?"
"And the surprises continue," murmured Mycroft. "That is actually why I wanted to see you, yes. Even two years later, the topic of Moriarty is a sensitive one."
"His wasn't exactly a one-man operation, either," John said carefully.
"No," agreed Mycroft. "And in many ways, we are fortunate that they have not … protested … the man's sudden absence from the scene."
"You've never really mentioned that," John said. "Moriarty's whereabouts after forcing Sherlock's hand."
Mycroft's poker face didn't slip at all as he gazed at John, measuring only he knew what. John just swirled his own drink in his glass, unbothered by the Holmes scrutiny. He, at least, had nothing to hide. "James Moriarty is dead, John."
Which would be exactly what he expected to hear from Mycroft, thought John. But that didn't mean it was true.
"Hmm." He looked up at the thoughtful noise Mycroft made. "There is perhaps something you should know. I can tell you the real reason Sherlock jumped that day, why the matter of Moriarty is still more serious than you might realize."
John's head rose of its own accord, he was certain, because at Mycroft's words, he froze in place, unable to do anything other than stare. After a moment he managed, "He … why?"
Mycroft reached under the papers on the table next to him and pulled out a tablet. "I hope you won't hold it against me, that I've kept this footage from you, John. I thought that … knowing … would make things harder for you, but like you, I believe we've reached a critical point and the time is right. I'll warn you, though, that this is difficult to watch."
John couldn't even summon the words for what he was feeling. Mycroft had footage? Of Sherlock's jump? He knew why? Had always known? Good God, what was he about to see?
Numbly he held out his hand to take the tablet, then tapped Play. The sounds of the BeeGees' 'Staying Alive' began to play and … there was Sherlock, standing tall and resolute as he crossed the rooftop to where Moriarty was sitting.
He barely breathed as he watched the film—Moriarty circling Sherlock like a shark scenting blood in the water. Talking about fairy tales and villains. Pushing Sherlock until his friend grabbed his coat and forced him over the edge of the building … and then. Oh, God. That was how he did it.
He hadn't threatened Sherlock.
He had threatened John. And Mrs Hudson. And Greg.
What little control John had over his hands failed him now as he felt the blood draining from his face, leaving a tingling, unreal chill. No. Please, no, he thought as he continued to watch his friend, looking beaten, step up on the ledge.
Even knowing how this would end, he couldn't help the surge of hope when Sherlock laughed and hopped back down to the roof, confident once again, sure he'd found a loophole. He watched as Moriarty actually looked impressed, shaking Sherlock's hand, and then … God, no. Secure in his chair, John reeled along with Sherlock as he watched the realization cross his friend's face. He would have to jump anyway.
With a shaking finger, he paused the video as Sherlock pulled out his phone, not quite able to bear reliving that conversation just now.
He sat, unable to move, unable to think, for a long moment, uncaring that Mycroft's laser gaze was studying him. Good bloody Christ, he thought, the image of Sherlock at the top of that roof playing over and over in his mind, only this time, he could almost see Moriarty right behind him, hands spread out to push.
Finally, he reached over to his glass and downed its contents in one swallow. "You've known the whole time?" he asked.
"Most of it, yes," Mycroft said quietly. "The audio was recorded by Sherlock on his phone—which he tossed to the roof just before … well, before. The video was from a webcam that he planted earlier. It streamed its signal directly to my office. We combined the two later."
John nodded, staring back down at the tablet screen, frozen with Sherlock standing on the edge, phone to his ear, about to lie to his best friend.
"And this wasn't released right away because … it was too sensitive?"
"People weren't ready to listen. They could have chosen to interpret this as an argument between co-conspirators, or an attempt for the underling to triumph over his boss. People can wilfully misbelieve anything."
John's brain felt numb, thinking was like trudging through ankle-deep treacle. He could understand that, he thought. It was the same reason he hadn't started his blog by shouting Sherlock's innocence to the world. Laying groundwork was just as important as the final push.
But at the same time, part of him was screaming. How could Mycroft have kept this to himself? Or at least not told him? Two years of doubt and anguish that could have been prevented. Sherlock's name would have been cleared long ago, and people would have known that he'd died for…
For him.
Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, too, but mostly for him, he thought, remembering the way Sherlock's voice had cracked as he'd said John's name.
Unsure what expression was even on his face, he looked over at Mycroft and saw sympathy there, and concern … and a hint of something else. "He didn't mention you," he said, realizing.
"No, but then, I was never one of my brother's main concerns. It was always the other way around."
Then, somehow, the shock actually started working for him. Stunned and battered though he felt at this moment, the (small) part of his brain that was working was working very, very well—undistracted by emotions or anything other than what he had just seen. "There was never an argument between you after Baskerville, was there? It was never a betrayal. You were distancing yourself, so Moriarty would underestimate what you would do for Sherlock."
A flash of approval in Mycroft's eyes. "Well done, John. You're correct. Sherlock and I were working together to bring him down, but … he out-maneuvered us in the end. We knew—you knew—about the assassins, but we hadn't expected them to be deployed against you and the others. It was a masterstroke, but one which there was no time to stop."
Deep inside, John could feel his heart breaking, knowing that his best friend had sacrificed himself for him, when John would have done anything to keep that from happening. "I …"
He couldn't even finish the sentence, or figure out what he wanted to say, what he was feeling. All he knew was that it was all so very unfair.
He stared down at the screen again, and thought about Sherlock's brilliance, how he had been unstoppable, unmatchable … and then been brought down by a snake with lies. He remembered Moriarty's words at the pool. ("I'll burn the heart out of you.") He thought about the way he'd been tricked into leaving the hospital that night, lured away by a phone call that he was sure was due to Sherlock trying to protect him.
He thought about the desperate look on Sherlock's face in the video, when Moriarty shot himself.
With eyes burning, he looked up at Mycroft, considering the man before him who he was sure would have done anything in his power to save his little brother. "What can I do?"
#
