Sherlock peered over the top of his book to regard John's once-more sleeping figure on the sofa. Though his face was expressionless, his thoughts were in turmoil. John Watson was normal in many ways. For example, he got along with people fairly well, he was nice most of the time, he observed social customs by dating and going to the pub, he had a pretty traditional view of morality, and he wore jumpers a lot. Even in light of this normalcy, there were parts of his personality that were extraordinary. Sherlock believed this to be why, when they first met, John stuck around when no one else—indeed, most normal people—would have left. Sherlock knew he was frustrating, even intolerable at times. He knew people didn't like him, and they certainly did not choose to spend time with him. But John, John saw something in Sherlock that was worth befriending him for, though Sherlock was not sure exactly what that might be. Everyone was aware of his abilities. John seemed to admire him for something other than that, but Sherlock worried that John had been profoundly mistaken in doing so. He had not expected his friendship with John to worry him so much, but he found that it was troubling him greatly tonight. He was anxious, and he tapped his fingers on the cover of his book as he remained lost in thought, staring at the warmly glowing embers of the dwindling fire.
Part of him could not help but be ecstatic to be sitting in the living room of his old flat. He had yearned for this moment for three harrowing, chaotic, dangerous, and lonely years. Sitting in the same room as John did indeed take some of the edge off. John had agreed to help him, just as Mycroft had said. This sat uneasily with Sherlock. He was not all that John thought he was, and if John only knew . . . he supposed he should just be grateful for John's assistance, but something was gnawing relentlessly at his mind, casting a cloud over the complete joy that should fill him at the thought of reclaiming his life. He was shocked to realize that it was not Sebastian Moran, or tomorrow's task that was causing his apprehension. It had to do with John, and how he had agreed to help him.
Wishing to temporarily ignore the unpleasant feeling, Sherlock padded into the kitchen intending to obtain some much-needed alcohol. He wanted to sleep at least a little before embarking on tomorrow's adventures. He was surprised to find his favourite scotch sitting in the cupboard, exactly where John used to keep it. It was a new bottle. His stomach seemed to contract painfully at this, but he disregarded it and poured himself a glass.
Curled up in the armchair three glasses later, Sherlock noted dimly that between the alcohol and his meagre diet, he was almost drunk and extremely exhausted. He turned his head, which was resting lazily on the arm of the chair, to look at John. His friend had not moved, but continued to sleep soundly. The soft light cast by the dying fire illuminated his forehead, as he was sleeping on his side, facing the room. Sherlock observed, not for the first time that day, the large bruise on his head and cut on his eyebrow, earned during his fall from the explosion in the abandoned building. He closed his eyes and tucked his arms around his torso, succumbing to the demands of his fatigued body. As he was drifting off to sleep, it struck him that the feeling he had been plaguing him all night was nothing other than guilt.
Though he was not cold, Sherlock knew instinctively that the gusting wind was gelid, tossing tufts of white, powdery snow up into the air from their icy resting places. The sky was blindingly blue and the sun was shining brightly on the ground, completely covered with glistening snow. As he looked around, he could see nothing but white, nothing but looming, icy plateaus and blue-white ice formations. He glanced down, studying his shoes. He thought that he probably should have worn something more practical. The snow might ruin them.
He began to walk cautiously forward, tightening his coat around his body. He spotted some marks in the snow, and he knelt down to inspect them. There was a set of footprints underneath a larger scuffled mark, and they appeared to be from a small man wearing an expensive pair of shoes. They were facing backward, but the shallowness of the heel impression in the snow indicated the man had been walking backwards. It suddenly occurred to him that the other marks which partially obscured the footprints were those of a body being dragged through the snow. Pulling his magnifying glass from his coat, Sherlock threw himself on the ground, interrogating the marks. On one side he found a few small lines of blood, next to the marks. Satisfied he could gain nothing more from the marks he raised himself from the ground and followed them.
It seemed as if he had suddenly travelled a very great distance, and Sherlock again lowered himself to inspect the marks. The weight of the blood had grown, and it was visible from a standing position, a large, morbid stain on the white ground. He ran his fingers through the blood, and they came away with the substance: this had been done recently. He jumped up from the ground and raced after the marks. The injured person was possibly still alive.
The wind had picked up, but Sherlock continued running, and soon he spotted the dark form lying in the snow. He sprinted towards it, and crashed down on his knees next to the body, turning it over. He inadvertently cried out in shock, because the face had been shot and was an unrecognizable and gory mess. He recognized the clothes as belonging to the man he had killed in India. He got up and staggered backward, in shock.
He bumped into something, and whirled around. It was Mycroft, who was regarding a smoking gun curiously in his hands. He raised his eyebrows when he saw Sherlock's uncustomary loss of composure. "Well," Mycroft said, "You are almost acting as if you're appalled."
Sherlock whirled around, searching for the tracks, which continued forward. "These aren't yours. Where are your footprints?" He demanded.
Mycroft only smiled knowingly, as if it were perfectly natural for him to walk and leave no trace of it. Sherlock pressed him further, "Who has been here? Who dragged the body?"
Mycroft tutted at him, shaking his head slightly, "Sherlock, do you really not see the other footprints?"
Sherlock furrowed his brow, and searched the snow futilely. One track led away from the brothers. He shook his head. "There's only one set!"
Mycroft smiled sadly, and handed Sherlock the gun, which he accepted, puzzled. Mycroft spoke calmly, "You missed something. Caring is not an advantage, dear brother."
Sherlock stared at his older sibling for a long moment, his eyes wide and alarmed. He dropped the gun in the snow, and stifled the panic rising in his chest. Turning away from Mycroft, he dashed after the tracks. He ran for a long time through the snow. He ran and felt no pain. He came eventually to the edge of a massive, snowy cliff. He walked slowly to the precipice, and peered over. Several hundred feet below was dark, icy water, dotted with deceitful icebergs poking their tops above the choppy surface, lapped at the edge. All he could see ahead was more water and sky, and all he could see behind him was white, snowy land—an abyss in all directions. As he turned to his left, he was taken aback to see two figures standing not twenty metres from him, near the edge of the cliff. He had not noticed them before. He was also startled to find tracks had formed in front of him, leading to the two men, though he could only see one set. This made him incredibly uneasy, and he squinted to see through the whirling snow, the wind teasing his hair out of place. The sunlight reflected brightly off of the snow in the air, and he could only make out two blurry forms. They were completely still. He moved toward the two silhouettes.
"Oh, I thought you'd never make it!" A soft, peculiar voice travelled across the short remaining distance, freezing Sherlock in place.
"How can this be?" Sherlock whispered to himself, advancing forward. He froze again. "John!" The panic returned more forcefully. Jim Moriarty stood in a posh suit and tie, elbows linked with John as if they were friends on a stroll. Moriarty was smiling absurdly and John looked to Sherlock, fear in his eyes but with steady hands.
"Tell me, Sherlock," Moriarty started, his big eyes searching the detective's face, "How's it been for you, staying alive?" Sherlock said nothing at first, his eyes locked on John. Moriarty shrugged at the non-response, and continued, "What I'm really dying to know, though, is whether you really believe you are like me." He smiled at Sherlock, and patted John lightly on the arm. John stiffened and his eyes shot to Sherlock's. Sherlock was no longer looking at John, however. He was focused entirely on Moriarty.
"There are a few glaring differences," Sherlock observed dryly.
Moriarty beamed at Sherlock, nodding, "Yes, of course. But we both know that's not interesting." His face suddenly hardened, and for the first time in the conversation he looked like someone capable of all that he had done. "What would you do, if you knew that no matter what, John Watson would die today?" John inhaled sharply at this, and he looked to Sherlock, whose face was suddenly devoid of emotion. A wall had come down. As soon as it had appeared, Moriarty's seriousness vanished. He smiled gleefully. "You see," he continued, releasing John and walking to stand in front of Sherlock, their faces centimetres apart. "You see, I think you have a weakness where I have none. And what I'm going to do is I'm going to burn a hole right through you," he punctuated this with a delicate tap to Sherlock's heart, "And then I'm going stomp on the wound until you are nothing. I am going to destroy you, Sherlock. And then you'll thank me."
"Because you'll be doing me a favour," Sherlock spat out. Moriarty nodded in agreement. At this John started toward Moriarty and Sherlock felt a horrible, cold, terror crash over him. "John, no! Stay where you are!" He yelled, holding his hands up to stop him. John halted, but his face clearly reflected the internal anguish he was experiencing. Moriarty resumed his seriousness, and lent near Sherlock's ear, and spoke softly.
"He's going to die because of you, because of his loyalty to you." He leaned back, grinning. He said louder, so John could hear, "Is he really so naïve to think that you would save him? Oh, it's so adorable, isn't it, how gullible they are. Maybe you even believed it yourself. It's just a passing fancy, Sherlock. I'm helping you, because Sherlock Holmes is not one of the angels. He's like me. He's not even human." He spat out the last word, and turned to John to gauge his reaction. John's face had fallen, and Sherlock's heart slammed into his chest. He blinked rapidly, trying to formulate a plan. He could think of nothing. Moriarty addressed him again, "You're me, except I'm better. I have no John Watson." Sherlock raised his chin almost defiantly, but his insides were frozen. "And now," Moriarty raised his eyebrows, meeting Sherlock's eyes, "Neither do you."
A shot rang through the air and John cried out in pain, crumpling to the ground, holding his chest. Sherlock was frozen in place. Moriarty turned to him, grasping his shoulders, and in an upbeat, sincere voice, exclaimed, "You're welcome!" With wild, panicked eyes, Sherlock shoved Moriarty out of the way and ran to John, falling to his knees next to his friend.
John's blood was flowing from his chest and he moaned in agony. Sherlock threw open his coat and covered the wound with both of his hands, and warm blood flowed in between his fingers, seeping from John's chest, cruelly being pumped away. "John, John, look at me," he ordered, his voice raw but strong. John's eyes opened, and he looked up at Sherlock, breathing heavily. He watched as Sherlock tore off his scarf, and stuffed it over the wound, holding it with one hand. With the other, he grabbed John's hand, and looked around desperately.
Moriarty had disappeared, and there was no help to be found. Sherlock gasped in panic, and he turned to John again, and his wide, terrified eyes found those of his friend. John grinned lamely up at him through the pain, squeezing Sherlock's blood-soaked hand. "S'alright, Sherlock. S'ok." He mumbled, closing his eyes.
"No, no, no, John!" Sherlock exclaimed in horror, "Please," he said softly, his voice breaking. He inhaled shakily and removed his hand from John's to search for a pulse. His fingers fumbled around on John's neck, leaving smears of blood, finding nothing. He grasped John's hand again, and cupped his face with the other hand, resting his forehead on John's. "I'm sorry," he choked out, tears falling to John's lifeless face below him. "I'm so sorry." A sob escaped, but he stifled it, leaning back and wiping his tears off of John's face, smudging blood there instead. He swallowed and leaned forward again. He grasped both sides of John's face, and studied it for a heartbroken moment. He then closed his eyes and lightly pressed his lips to John's forehead. Breathing heavily, he released his hands and slowly stood up, fresh tears tracking down his face. He turned and walked away.
"Wake up!" A voice yelled at him, "Jesus fucking Christ, wake up!" Sherlock jumped in shock, and looked around, gasping for air and sweating profusely. His face was flushed a little, and his hair was sticking up in all directions. John had a firm hold of his thin shoulders, and was searching his face, worried. "Are you alright?" Sherlock managed to focus on John for a second, and then he immediately jumped out of the chair, pushing John roughly aside, and ran to the bathroom, slamming the door. He dove for the toilet and promptly threw up noisily.
John grimaced as he heard the noise outside the bathroom, having followed his friend after fetching a glass of water. He knocked tentatively. "Sherlock?" More retching answered him. John tried to bury his worry, but he couldn't. Sherlock was scaring him. He had only just returned, and everything was definitely not the same. He turned the knob and peered inside, wincing sympathetically at his friend, who was sitting on the ground against the bathtub, his face red, his eyes watery and his long legs stretched in front of him. His hair was sticking straight up, having been pushed repeatedly from his forehead.
John walked over to Sherlock and handed him the water, asking, "What's wrong?" Sherlock accepted the water and gulped it down to John's disapproving glare.
"Drank too much," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, peering at John over the rim of the glass.
Crossing his arms, John narrowed his eyes and nodded. "Alright, fine. Feeling better, then?"
Sherlock grinned weirdly, and with wide eyes exclaimed, "Fantastic!"
Taking the empty glass from Sherlock, John pursed his lips and glanced at his watch. "Good, that's good. It is five thirty," he said, sighing deeply and rubbing his head, exhausted. "Why don't I just make us some tea, then?"
Exhaling heavily, Sherlock leaned his head back. "Yes, please." As John turned to leave, Sherlock lifted his head and with his brow creased in worry, watched John go.
Alright, so I do apologize for the dream bit. I don't think Moriarty survives in the show, so as much as I want him to be alive because his character is so fabulous and portrayed so well, I just couldn't do it. Dreams, if done correctly, can give valuable glimpses into what characters actually, deeply fear and what they wish for. I recently read some Freud, and his method of dream-interpretation strikes me as valid, and it makes a lot of sense. So the dreams are supposed to mean something. I'm not just teasing about Moriarty. But maybe a little. Also, I really hope someone got the reference in the title of the last chapter, and how it reflects on the reunion of John and Sherlock.
As always, I welcome any and all feedback! I am guilty of not reviewing a lot of stories myself, but I'm trying to change. I know it's all too easy not to, but comments really are great. They are nice because when people who don't know me read and review, I am getting an impartial assessment of my work. I make a lot of references in my stories, and I like to draw parallels between characters and overall, try to make it more of a literary experience. Reviews help me know if something is working, or if it's not, and then I can fix it.
I would love to improve my writing, and I don't get hurt by criticism. I welcome it wholeheartedly!
I hope you all enjoyed the chapter. x Cheers.