When it came to Moriarty, nothing was more maddening. John was about ready to explode (pun not intended thank you very much) with how irritating things came to be. It is one thing to be strapped to a bomb, and another to force your friend to 'kill' himself.
Now, anything in regards to Moriarty John noticeably dismisses the subject altogether for more than just one reason.
The most important one is Sherlock. John thought he was dead for years and it nearly ended John. He sat in the flat without moving for days on end and when he actually left the flat, it was to speak to a grave stone. To say John was broken is an understatement. He couldn't function, couldn't work, couldn't eat or sleep, sometimes he had to consciously remind himself to breathe. Sherlock had become his everything, and John was livid that he let himself grow so attached to the point where his life revolved around the man.
But god, he didn't care. It was Sherlock. The annoying man that played whimsical music in the middle of the night with his violin, the annoying man that shot holes in the wall because he was bored. The annoying man that thought everyone else was beneath him and he was a remarkable genius, which he was. A remarkable genius because of his impossible brain, followed by brilliant deductions falling from that smart mouth.
But that is all beside the point, because none of it matters now. Sherlock is back, and any strange thoughts and feelings John may have had while his friend was away can be justified as mourning. Everyones judgement is impaired once someone dies.
It is clear now that Moriarty went out of his way to make sure John knew that.
Once Sherlock, well, went away, Moriarty was gone as well but he left behind a trail that endlessly tormented John.
Every day he would receive a letter, starting the morning after Sherlock left.
The first letter was simple:
Missing him yet, Johnny boy?
The second letter was a bit more explanatory:
It is a shame, really, that it has come to this… But after all, I did warn him I would burn his heart. I sincerely doubt he took into consideration that by taking him, I would be taking his dear boyfriend as well. Poor soul, thought he was saving you when really he destroyed your very essence. I cannot think of a greater success.
John knew with the first letter who they were coming from. He also knew Moriarty was dead. That left John to wonder what games have been played behind his back, and what game he was involved in with the letters.
Each day he received another, and another.
Day seven:
Awfully dull life isn't it? Laying around, mourning. No one to chase around London, no one to gaze at wondrously, no one to compliment endlessly.
Day thirty:
Did you and Sherlock sleep together? After all the time you've spent flirting at crime scenes, and teasing him by not admitting your love for him, I think that sexual tension would get built-up to some breaking point.
Day thirty-one:
I certainly slept with him
Day thirty-two:
Just kidding
John was a whirlwind of emotions after Sherlocks death, he was not seeing things clearly. The letters from Moriarty only managed to confuse and anger him more, and they never deviated from one centered viewpoint: he and Sherlock were boyfriends.
Well, if not boyfriends then lovers because apparently John couldn't admit it aloud.
It was the most ridiculous thing John has ever read in his life, and if he had to be honest, it quite offended him. How dare Moriarty taint his friendship with Sherlock by making it out as a joke? Certainly he is a smart-enough man to know they were nothing more than friends… right?
Wrong, because of letter fifty-three.
This letter wasn't words typed on paper, this time, they were photos. The first photo was of him and Sherlock smiling together at a crime scene, both of them locked eyes with one another. Which means nothing. John was confused, maybe it was Moriartys way of saying he was watching them from the beginning. A form of power-play to let John know that no matter what he did, he wouldn't beat Moriarty.
The second is of Sherlock, looking down at John who is smiling at something, but there is something in Sherlocks eyes that made John question it. He remembers that day clearly, that very conversation even, and he wondered why Sherlock was giving him that look. The look that someone gives when they think the other isn't looking, the look that every female on the planet dreams of being looked at with. It was the look.
And that is why John went to every trusted resource he knew to get the photos tested for credibility. It took four different technicians before John actually believed them. The photos are real, and have not been tampered with in any way, shape, or form.
The third photo is of John looking up at Sherlock. He is clearly lost in thought, mouth agape like he is in the process of giving a deduction. What really caught Johns eye, though, is himself. Much like photo two, he is giving Sherlock that look, and as John stared at the photo, he felt three very distinct emotions. Pain, because this bastard is not only sending photos of his dead best friend, but also of better times. Anger, because this man is playing their friendship like it is some kind of joke. And sadness, because he has never longed for something so much in his life. He wanted nothing more than to go back in time and relive those moments again.
And despite the sickness of the photos, John kept them. He looked at them every night before he went to sleep, either with tears burning his eyes or a grin spread across his face.
John was in a bad place. There were, brief, times on some nights when he thought Moriarty was right, there was something more. But those nights John had been drinking, and felt his loss the strongest.
Other nights John felt he had a clear head and brushed off Moriartys words, after all, he wasn't the first one to say such ridiculous things to them. John and Sherlock were just really close friends, nothing more.
The last letter came on day one-hundred and three:
Enough games, Johnny. Do not lie to yourself
John never found out why the letters stopped, why that day, and why that message. All he knew was that he was relieved, and he smiled at his and Sherlocks photos the following night.