Mrs Hudson was in the kitchen when the two men entered. On seeing Sherlock flop down onto the worn sofa, she hurried through with two teas and a tray of fresh biscuits.
"Oh Sherlock," she fussed, fighting back the tears, "We were so desperately worried about you."
Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Much as he hated being fussed over, he had to expect it under the circumstances. What he'd done... well, it was serious. It could have been so much more; so much... worse.
"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." he smiled, leaning into the arm she had wrapped around his shoulder. As he reached across and took a biscuit, she stood and flashed a genuinely relieved smile at John. "It's good to have you boys back. If you need anything, just give me a shout." she offered, exiting the room and heading back downstairs.
John shifted his tea from the side table, placing it on the coffee table alongside Sherlock's own. Sliding onto the sofa next to his flatmate, he turned to study Sherlock's expression.
"It's OK." he reassured, hoping that if he said it enough, Sherlock might start really believing it.
The detective nodded. He believed John. He did. It's just... it wasn't entirely OK. Not yet.
"John," he began, returning his cup to the table and leaning back with a long sigh, "It's not all OK."
"Jim?" John asked, sitting back alongside his flatmate. They were having this discussion now then. Better sooner than later, he supposed. He steeled himself for whatever Sherlock had to share.
"Jim." Sherlock stated, leaning his head sideways against the firm support of John's shoulder. "He threatened me. Well, actually, he threatened both of us."
John sighed. Why couldn't life just give them both a break? Mycroft had said he would leave it to Sherlock to fill John in about Jim Moriarty, but really, how bad could it be?
"OK," he responded after a moment, "and do you really think his threats will come to anything? I mean, I've been threatened plenty of times in my life, Sherlock. What makes this any different?"
Sherlock raised his chin on John's shoulder so he could see his friend's face before lowering it again.
Then he took a deep breath and proceeded to tell him everything about his time at university. His drugs, his relationship with Jim Moriarty, and about Suzette.
"You're absolutely certain?" Mycroft barked at the employee. He wouldn't stand for uncertainty. This was important information. It was absolutely crucial that he get nothing wrong and leave no stone unturned.
The young man stood firm and tall. "Mr Holmes, sir. I double-checked the information myself. Mr Sebastian Moran appears to have been in the employ of Jim Moriarty for some considerable time. We have traced their affiliation back as far as their university days. They appear to have been frequenting several places locally in recent days." The man hesitated as he handed Mycroft a print-out before continuing, unsure of the reaction to the following news. "I did also find some reference to Mr Sherlock Holmes naming Mr Moran as a person of interest in the death of a Suzette Walker however it does seem that this line of enquiry was dismissed by investigators at the time."
"Thank you, Mr Stanley" Mycroft replied absently, with a flick of the hand to dismiss the man.
As the door closed behind his employee, Mycroft sank back into his chair. Sebastian Moran. There's a name he hadn't expected to come across again. After he had pulled his brother from that life all those years ago, he truly believed that the Holmes family was done with Jim Moriarty. And to find out now that Sebastian Moran was in the area and still working with Moriarty.
This wasn't good.
Both Mycroft and Sherlock had strong suspicions that Sebastian Moran had been responsible for Suzette's death but neither man had any way to prove it.
Now that Jim was making threats against John and Sherlock, Moran's presence was truly worrying.
He re-opened his laptop and began typing instructions to various employees. He needed to get tabs of both Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran as quickly as possible.
Before it was too late
John was exhausted. He had listened calmly to Sherlock's stories about university and Jim and the sheer volume of information; the emotions that the information drew out of him exhausted him.
"Police never investigated Moriarty's link to Suzette's death?" he questioned. He couldn't get his head around it.
Sherlock shrugged. "It seems that Jim had influential contacts." he responded blankly. "Mycroft tried. But he was still quite junior at the time. It was all he could do to eventually get me out..." Sherlock trailed off. He was tired. Emotionally drained. He yawned widely and John smiled.
"I think you need to sleep, Sherlock." he brushed his hand along the detective's arm, squeezing gently.
Sherlock nodded wearily and started to stand. John leapt up ahead of him, grasping his flatmate's forearm and allowing him to lean on him slightly as they headed through to Sherlock's room.
Sherlock's stomach flipped as he got close, unsure of what kind of state the room would be in, but he let out an audible sigh when they entered the tidy bedroom.
"I cleaned up for you." John said easily, not making an issue out of it. "Will you be OK?"
Sherlock slid down on to the bed and looked at John.
"Thank you, John." he whispered. He felt drained. Much as he didn't want John to leave, he really needed to sleep. He just hoped sleep would come easily and peacefully to him.
"I'll be outside in the kitchen for a few hours if you need me." John offered, heading towards the hall and standing momentarily in the doorway.
"We'll discuss more in the morning. Meantime, just get some rest." The doctor exited the room and pulled the door close behind him.
Sherlock looked around his room. John had removed all traces of the events that had happened in there. Sherlock was grateful for that and wondered just how much more he would need to ask John to do for him.
He changed into his pyjamas and pulled back the covers. As he did so, he noticed something drop onto the floor at the end of the bed. His phone. He had forgotten. He hadn't needed it in the past few days and he only had a vague recollection of it before waking in hospital.
He leaned across the bed and picked it up. The battery was very low but it was still working. 6 new messages.
He felt the bile rise in his throat as he debated whether to read them. He knew it wouldn't be Mycroft, John or Greg because he'd seen them. That only left one person they could be from.
Sherlock sat on his bed, back against the wall, and began to scroll down the messages, newest first.
He hadn't scrolled past the first message before he was running to the bathroom, retching into the toilet and anxiously whispering, "John..."