Chapter 5

A Practice in Normalcy Subverted

Sherlock wouldn't let him be alone. By the time he overcame his shock of enduring the last several hours, he'd been bathed, old wounds cleaned, and was laid in his bed. The man barely bothered to take care of his own needs, so it was startling when he realized all Sherlock had done to make him comfortable. He wasn't finished either. When he thought he would finally be left to himself, he turned on his side to sleep and felt the bed dip, arms curling around him from behind. His first instinct was to protest, but honestly, the heat at his back was nice. It wasn't long before he drifted into a deep and restful sleep.

When his eyes opened again, memories of his sister's poor condition, Moriarty's latest crime, and Sherlock's miraculous return from the dead came flooding back. Familiar sharp blue eyes were locked on his face. During the night he turned over to his other side and was facing the man with arms wrapped about him. Experience told him the man staring had not slept the previous night. He wondered why he remained with him in the bed. Didn't he have an investigation into Moriarty to begin? Wasn't this return to the living all about Moriarty still being alive?

He waited for the other man to say something. When it appeared that wasn't going to happen, he started to draw away from the arms still wrapped around him. The hold tightened, not enough to hurt, insistent he remain where he was. A sigh passed through his lips and he settled into the bed, comfortable aside from the piercing eyes on him. So they were going to have this conversation now.

"You're alive." Stating the obvious seemed the thing to do.

"Yes."

"Half a year. That's how long you made me believe you were dead."

"I will explain. I had no choice."

"Yeah, I know. You had to jump off the roof, kill yourself, or three different hired guns would kill Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and..me."

Sherlock's eyes expanded, impressed. "You know already. How?"

"How do you think? The bastard sure does love to talk. Especially when it's about himself."

The detective shifted on the bed at the mention of the man he was referring to, discomfort evident. It felt a bit satisfying to see him that way. Maybe he was sore about Moriarty's temporary victory, forcing him to leave his life and go into hiding. That wasn't John's problem. Even after learning the truth about why Sherlock killed himself, or well, pretended to kill himself, witnessing his friend jump continued to haunt him. Knowing it had all been pretend, he couldn't shake the question from his mind.

"Why did you make me watch?"

The question caught him off guard. He was making Sherlock uncomfortable and uncertain. Good. His false suicide had made him feel guilty, lonely, and at this point, furious. He wouldn't let it show. As angry as he was Sherlock pretended to be dead for so long, there was still a part of him happy to see him alive and well.

"What?"

"You. Jump. Why did I have to see it? You had to know what that'd do to me. Unless..unless you're really that emotionally dense."

The frown creasing Sherlock's forehead vanished, blue eyes seemingly fading into a gray color, a distant and cold look replacing it. John recognized he hurt the man's feelings but he couldn't bring himself to care. He stared into the eyes staring at his cheekbones now, waiting for a response.

"Moriarty promised me a fall, after the trial. I knew there was a chance I would not win against him and planned accordingly. I couldn't plan for everything, of course. Your arrival was my timer. I had to kill myself before you reached me or you would all die. So I stopped you from coming closer..and..made certain I was convincing to anyone who may have been watching or listening." His eyes roved over his face, studying John's reaction carefully. "They had to believe I was dead. Your believing it was the best way to convince them."

"Well, good job. You fooled everybody except Moriarty."

John watched Sherlock's shifting gaze move to the sole bruise visible with his undershirt on. The other man's expression darkened, not because of him this time.

"I fooled him for a time or you would not be here today. Do you still hurt?"

This time he did pull away from Sherlock's hold, opting to sit up in his bed. He would avoid talking about his fall from the roof in favor of talking about John. Wonderful. Sherlock mimicked his movements, albeit reluctantly. Almost subconsciously, John drew his knees up to his chest, unaware it made him look small and vulnerable.

"I'm fine."

"I don't believe you."

"I believed you killed yourself. Things change."

Sherlock was frowning again, probably trying to figure out what to make of John's words. Maybe he was thrilled at getting another puzzle to solve. He really didn't feel like thrilling Sherlock right now. He didn't want to be this close to him either. The proximity made him want to hit him again. Not good.

"John..."

Apparently he couldn't string words together to get out more than that, and John wasn't about to help him. The least he could do was notice he put John and the rest of them through hell by pretending to be dead. The least he could do was act human enough to see he'd been cruel by staying dead for over six months and not letting anyone else in on his plan. Time away from John seemed not to have done him much good in the ways of understanding typical human emotions and socially appropriate norms.

"I'm fine. Moriarty did what he did because he's a bad man. I did what I did because I wanted revenge for your suicide. It was selfish, it was an evil concept, and I deserved everything done to me by that bad man."

"No! You did not deserve any of it!"

John flinched and Sherlock flinched when he realized he shouted rather harshly at his friend.

"I won't discuss it. I'm going to get breakfast. Hungry?"

"John..."

"I'll go put the tea on."

He walked out of the bedroom figuring he'd be left alone. He was wrong. Funny how he still wasn't used to being wrong. Sherlock was trailing behind him, keeping space between them but ensuring he was near enough to be known. That set the tone for the entire day.

/

John had off from the hospital, Sherlock was laying low in the flat while the news of his return from the dead spread through the city like a wildfire, and he was always there. John sat in the sitting room watching the news story on Sherlock Holmes and how evidence recently came to light about the actual existence of criminal mastermind James Moriarty. The report included the criminal's direct involvement in the hospital parking lot bombing. Sherlock sat alongside him.

A stroll to the kitchen and he would find Sherlock right behind him, watching. He went to the toilet, and disturbingly, Sherlock would be waiting just outside the door. John's phone rang at one point, and Sherlock gave him such a look that he decided it best to let the answering machine pick up. After a long, painstakingly slow day of this, the hour grew late and John headed for bed.

He had a call to make before going to sleep, but that didn't happen because Sherlock followed him into his bedroom. Getting ready for bed, he pretended he wasn't observed the entire time. Inevitably, he snapped. Why should he have to pretend?

"What? What do you want?"

Sherlock's reply was simple. "Nothing."

"Okay... I'm going to sleep now. Good night then."

He climbed under the covers and shut off the bedside lamp, waiting to hear retreating footsteps before closing his eyes. He was very close to drifting off when the footsteps returned and the bed dipped. Arms wrapped around him and there was a familiar heat at his back. Well, this was strange. There was a man sharing his bed, basically hugging him while he went to sleep, and he found he didn't mind it so much. He supposed it was something to do with how the man's presence kept the nightmares at bay. The undercover job was getting to be risky. A constant reminder Sherlock was truly alive and safe wasn't so bad.

Tonight he would let it go, but really, he was going to have to explain to Sherlock it wasn't proper for two platonic friends to share a bed every night. It wasn't okay to follow your friend around the house everywhere and ridicule the few police who bothered to visit to apologize for doubting him either. At this moment though, his eyes were heavy and he was very comfortable. He fell asleep content to have Sherlock with him.

/

The following day, mid-morning, Sherlock got a call from Lestrade. They had a case for him. He said no and hung up, then sat to stare at John some more. Rolling his eyes, he told Sherlock to take the case. He only shook his head and spent an hour staring up at the ceiling, contemplating aloud how long it would take before the vultures stopped swarming outside their door to get an exclusive interview with the proven innocent and alive detective consultant.

In the next hour, Donovan and Anderson showed up at their doorstep. It was clear Anderson had been dragged along, but Donovan seemed sincere in her apology to Sherlock about turning the police against him without any real evidence. Sherlock's response was to deduce they hadn't slept together for the better part of a month because of tension between Anderson and his wife, and he shut the door in their gaping faces. To be fair, Sherlock might have been a tad provoked into rudeness since his flatmate put his foot down and declared there were two separate bedrooms for a reason, and the bathroom had a door for a reason.

"Space, Sherlock, I need my space to breathe."

Sherlock only huffed indignantly and went to stare out the window for a while. He didn't understand what was so upsetting. John was sick of being treated like he was made of glass by the newly revived detective consultant. He got that maybe Sherlock thought his presence would help as John had been very lonely after losing his best friend, but he was fine. He could stand being by himself sometimes, no big deal. Sherlock acted like he was the one who didn't want to be alone. How strange.

/

For two days he remained grumpy. On the third day, he reluctantly accepted a case from Lestrade when the man showed up and practically begged for his help. John refused to come along. He was tired and cranky and just plain angry. Sherlock was acting as if everything was all fine and it was not all fine.

He waited up for Sherlock that night and when the man came striding through the doorway, he exploded his rage instead of keeping quiet like he planned. Somehow during the time it took for Sherlock to stride up the stairs, he decided not telling Sherlock wouldn't work for long. He needed to push his incredibly intelligent flatmate away if he had any hope of keeping his personal undercover case private.

"I don't know if I can do this, Sherlock! Pretend everything is fine when it clearly is not. You faking your death and staying dead for half a year..."

He mustered every acting fiber in his being to appear utterly indignant and angry as he forced his eyes to meet Sherlock's widening ones.

"There has to be a line. There has to be. I'm done with you, Sherlock. My therapist was right. You're destructive. Death and grief surround you. In this world, you are one of the worst things in it."

He almost gave in at that moment. Saying his good friend was one of the worst things in the world was too horrible. He had to do it. He had to finish this off and convince Sherlock he meant every word, even if it really just made him want to throw up.

"Looks like Moriarty wins after all. I'm done with you, with the way you make me feel so worthless and miserable. Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes. London can keep you but God knows I won't."

Starting for his room, he decided he was going to move out. This would make working his other job much easier. No Sherlock around to be nosing about. His nightmares were worse, his fear of getting caught getting to him, and all the things he witnessed being done also terrible. If he accidentally spoke something damning in his sleep, he could be discovered by his friend. The last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to be in danger because of something he had decided to do.

It might also be easier to go because it was tiresome to live with a Sherlock who thought things would magically go back to the way they once were. He acted as though nothing changed when so much had. Did Sherlock not care? Or was the temporary emotional displays followed by a relative return to normalcy, an attempt at saying sorry for making John mourn for a dear friend he'd believed lost?

Sherlock didn't let him get to his bedroom before he blocked the doorway.

"Don't leave. You're tired. Sleep. I'm late because Mrs. Hudson spotted me and wouldn't let me go until she hugged me to near numbness. Please, sleep. I know you're mad because I pretended to be dead and because you think I forget about you. I don't. John, sleep?"

His mission to keep Sherlock at arms length and storm out was temporarily forgotten. He stared hard into Sherlock's eyes. Was he honest? The man was a damn good actor himself. He could be saying what John wanted to hear to get him to stay. But then, why would he bother if he didn't care? He turned his gaze away from Sherlock, realizing the man could be trying to read him at the same time, and gave a mute nod and a forced smile.

"Alright. It's fine. It's late. I'm going to bed. Do try to sleep some yourself, okay?"

Sherlock didn't answer, watching John give up on him and retreat to his bedroom. He closed the door in his face without looking back. Did his friend believe his performance?

/

Another week passed by where the two of them barely said a word to each other. During the second week, Sherlock went off to work a case with Lestrade while John paid a visit to a helpful friend of his throughout the past months. Tom, or Professor Kingston, had become an advisor and almost therapist of sorts for him. Initially he came to visit for a small bit of knowledge, and then he visited again and again. The man was astonishingly intelligent, reminding him of Sherlock somewhat, and any company with him had been welcome.

His visit with Professor Kingston in Cardiff ended up cut short when Mary called and he headed to meet her for lunch. He really liked Mary, and she liked him, too. She kept him grounded, made him happy and almost smiling a genuine smile. He hadn't been able to smile a real smile since he thought he lost Sherlock. Mary knew all about that and she was so understanding.

John met her by chance, recovering her pet dog when he noticed a pretty woman putting up missing pet signs one afternoon following a visit with the professor. He liked Mary because she made him smile, even if it was fake. It stopped him from walking around like the world was crushing down on his shoulders.

Lunch was nice. Seeing Mary always cheered him up. Naturally, his happiness wasn't to last. On the cab ride back to Baker Street, he got a call from Lestrade asking him to come down to an embankment near the Thames. He went and found Sherlock already there..with Moriarty.

"What the hell is he doing here?"

He addressed his question to Lestrade despite the man speaking into his mobile to another party. He was still trying to keep Sherlock at a distance, and he most definitely wouldn't be talking to Moriarty if it wasn't required. His initial anger seeing his flatmate with the criminal mastermind faded to the background of his mind. Moriarty was leaning in close with a grin while the other was leaning away, frowning. Sherlock must not have been the one to call him there and certainly didn't want him around either.

When Sherlock saw him, he stepped back from the man in his personal space and rounded on him.

"What have you been doing while I've been away, John? What's going on?"

"What? What are you on about?"

Lestrade hung up his phone. "Alright. Donovan managed to track down the man Moriarty directed us to." His eyes narrowed on the mentioned man. "This had better be on the level."

The man shrugged and shifted his attention from Sherlock to John. "Johnny boy! So pleased to see you. How's the sister? Doing better I hear."

"Her life span's been shortened thanks to the maniac who did that to her, but other than that, yeah, she's just marvelous."

"Ah, well, probably better that way. I mean, really, how much is she doing for this world by staying alive?"

John would like to hit Moriarty. Instead, he breathed in through his mouth and exhaled through his nose. He tried to figure out why the man was here. What could he possibly want? Did he wish to resume his stupid intelligence measuring games with Sherlock?

He pointedly ignored the man seeking false idle chit-chat with him and turned to Sherlock. "What's wrong? Has something happened?"

Sherlock swallowed before answering. "There's been a hit put out through the criminal network. Moriarty showed up at the flat having traced it to the origins. What have you been doing, John?"

"Nothing."

"John."

"Nothing, Sherlock! I took a few cold cases from Lestrade after I thought you'd died. That's it."

"It's true, Sherlock. But he hasn't taken a case for some time, none of them likely to result in someone wanting him dead. This doesn't make sense."

Moriarty sauntered around John for a moment, meandering back over to the consulting detective.

"See, Sherlock. I can do for him what you can't. Interesting."

"Oh shut it. You're only here because the concept of anyone else wanting John dead intrigues your insane mind."

"Oh?"

"You want to know why."

"So do you!" Moriarty sang.

"Oi! What's keeping you? Let's go!"

Donovan had arrived standing between two brick buildings a fair distance from their group. John felt Sherlock's lingering gaze on him before the consultant turned and jogged after Donovan, who disappeared into the alleyway.

/

Sherlock wanted to know what was going on with his friend and he was determined to deduce precisely what was hidden. John was lying. He'd been lying with so many things and John never had done that before he'd gone away for half a year. A lying John disturbed him so he settled on finding the man behind the hit. He would get answers out of him.

The lieutenant had the man they were seeking cornered. He was gruff in appearance, eyes rimmed red, hands shaking. A hallucinogen was no doubt the cause of his behavior. He was trembling, yet his eyes were miles away. Donovan towering over him the way she was may have caused him to see a sort of monster in her place.

"Useless," he muttered.

"What's useless?"

Lestrade had caught up, Moriarty strolling casual-like just behind. Sherlock ignored them and crouched in front of the high man who held the information he required. He slapped the man across the face twice and tried to talk to him.

"Focus. What's your name? Why did you put out a contract on a man's life?"

No response except for unintelligible muttering. That would not do.

"Your name? How do you know John Watson?"

The eyes focused for a second, staring at the wall behind Sherlock. His muttering ceased. He breathed in deep and spoke clearly.

"Watson. John Watson. I'm sorry, John. You're going to have to run now. They made me. You're going to have to run now, John. Ruuuun!"

The man slumped and started whimpering. Donovan kicked him and stepped away. "He won't be any help."

"I got rid of the hit," Moriarty shared. "So don't worry your pretty little head over it, Sherlock. Of course, if they need him dead, there's always that whole doing it yourself to get things done saying..."

Sherlock was occupied, his mind racing with thoughts. John was acting strange. He had been acting distinctly not like John since Sherlock returned from his boring life hiding away so the world thought him dead. Was John lying when he said he didn't know why there would be a hit out on him? He didn't think so. John wasn't the greatest at pretending, especially to him, and he appeared confused and surprised about a hit.

Cold cases. Lestrade gave John cold cases to work on. He'd have to get a look at those if he was to properly deduce whether or not any of them could be the reason John was required to stop breathing.

What if there was nothing there? Then it would have to be something else. Why would anyone want John dead? It didn't make sense. And why was Moriarty here supposedly helping? What did he care? Why pretend to care? It gained him nothing. What was he missing?

"Ah, damn it. You've gone and got lost in your own head again."

He broke from his thoughts upon hearing Lestrade's words, shaking his head once and glancing the man's way.

Lestrade stared back looking exasperated. "Where's John?"

Sherlock turned around to seek out John. He usually stood behind him and off to the side to allow him to work, observing all the while. He wasn't there. John was always there. A frown creased his forehead and then he was running back to the river.

"Sherlock!"

He heard Lestrade calling out behind him, followed by Donovan's cursing, and he blocked them out. His focus was on one thing. John, John, John.

The river came into view, he spotted John, and he breathed out relief. John was fine. He was pacing along the edge of the river in a frustrated manner. He'd opted not to follow after them and was instead mulling over why there was someone trying to kill him. Sherlock deduced this with a single scan.

Moriarty was brushing up against his right elbow and shoulder with a slight smirk. "Sherly, trouble in paradise? Your faithful lapdog not so willing to follow after you anymore? Maybe you shouldn't have pretended to be dead. A big lie like that can change partners forever."

"I get it. You want me dead."

"Mmm, not anymore. I still do so love to see you dance."

He lowered his eyes to Moriarty with disgust. "You faked your death too, so I don't know where this holier than thou crap is coming from."

"The rules didn't say I couldn't."

"And the rules merely said I had to jump. I jumped. Time to move on."

"How did you do it?"

Sherlock knew he was asking how he faked his death. His insatiable curiosity was frankly rather annoying. Didn't he have better things to do than irritate him? A brief glint of metal in the sunlight caught his eye. Vaguely he heard Donovan and Lestrade catching up, dragging a handcuffed and intoxicated man between them. His gaze moved toward the metallic shine and he saw a man standing a good distance away on his left. He was wearing jeans and a gray hoodie, and there was a gun in his hand. The gun was lifting to point at John.

"John!"

His shout of warning was in vain. It grabbed John's attention immediately, but only gave his friend time to see the terror in his eyes. He was shot. The bullet hit him in the stomach, causing him to gape when he traced his eyes to the shooter. That was when the second bullet blew through his stomach, slightly higher and to the left of the first one. Sherlock watched John lower his gaze to the two bleeding holes and knew he was going into shock.

For a moment, John's head leveled and their eyes met. The impossibly long moment in time was broken when Sherlock observed the blood leaking from his lips. His friend fell backward into the river.

"John!" he screamed.

He ran for where his friend slipped into the water, shouting to Lestrade and Donovan to go after the shooter and call for medical help. Sherlock threw off his heavy coat and dived into the water. Currents were moving them along, dragging him under. It was hard to see, to find him.

It took him precious seconds to locate his friend motionless and submerged. He struggled to bring them above the surface. Shifting John's weight in his arms, he managed to swim to the edge. He was surprised when a second pair of hands grabbed hold of John's shoulders and pulled him the rest of the way out. Moriarty. He forgot he was here.

Sherlock followed John out of the cold water after a brief fight against the sweeping currents. Together, he and Moriarty positioned the limp man onto his back. Straightening his head and slightly tilting it backward, he began chest compressions, periodically breathing into his mouth. After the third round of chest compressions, John began to cough up water mixed with blood. His eyes twitched and opened into slits, peering at Sherlock, who leaned in close.

"John. John hang in there."

John's eyes started to close and not knowing what else to do, Sherlock slapped him. The eyes startled open, a little gasp escaping. He couldn't die on him. Not John. He began to ramble, wondering how long the damn bus was going to take.

"He's dying. He's dying and I can't stop it. What can I do? What do I do? I need you to tell me what to do, John."

"Two gunshot wounds to the upper and lower left quadrants of the stomach. I'm dying, Sherlock. It's okay... Not your fault. It's okay..."

"Sherlock."

He dragged his eyes from John's face to Moriarty.

"He's a doctor. He will know what to do to best prolong his life. Do it."

His eyes returned to John's face even as Moriarty lowered his lips to John's right ear. "Don't listen to what your body is telling you. Listen to me."

Surprisingly, John responded to him, face inclining toward the man speaking. Sherlock took charge from there. He tore open the bloody and soaked shirt, exposing the pair of identical holes in his belly. It was bad. There was so much blood.

"John, you need to tell me what to do. What would you do if you had a patient like this?"

"Pressure. Slow the bleeding. Need to keep..patient awake and responsive, or it's already too late."

Sherlock did as he said, ripping the scarf from his neck to place against the bleeding wounds. A hand fixed around his elbow. His medical knowledge was coming back to him now that the initial shock was receding. Still, what he had to do would be painful for John.

"Pressure, Sherlock."

He was going to do it regardless because it needed to be done, but he asked anyway, "Are you sure?"

A curt nod was the only response he received. He applied pressure to the cloth placed on the wounds and a sharp intake of breath followed by a groan of pain emerged. Sherlock felt something tighten in his chest.

"Staying awake, Johnny. That's what we're doing," Moriarty was saying.

A black car pulled up. "That's our ride."

"What?" Sherlock asked, looking at him in confusion.

"To hospital. Now. Your police friends are taking far too long. Shall we?"

He didn't hesitate. If John stayed here he was as good as dead. "John, I'm picking you up now. This will hurt but you have to stay with me, okay?"

Lifting him up, he cradled his friend in his arms and followed Moriarty to the car. As the blood seeped from the wounds, he could feel the life seeping out of the body along with it. There wasn't time and he couldn't let John die. It had been a hard decision to leave John alone when he pretended to be dead and they'd been apart for too long, that much he could tell. Now John was leaving him and he couldn't let that happen. He tightened his hold on John.

/

John woke to the beeping of machines and a man beside his bed he did not expect. James Moriarty was reclined as comfortably as one could be in the hard chair next to the hospital bed in the darkened room. His fingers were tapping out a beat on the armrest and he realized there were earpieces in his ears. He was listening to his iPod which stopped when he noticed John was awake. It was probably a break in his rhythmic breathing while he was asleep or some other ridiculous detail he would never notice.

He casually put the iPod away. He contemplated John's expression, fingers tapping along the side of the bed. His fingers began to trace over the small, ragged scar on John's arm, the one mark left behind from his time in Moriarty's..care.

"Three days. That's how long before the elder Holmes forced junior Holmes away from your bedside to do that pesky sustenance business. I don't know why he loathes eating so much. A good indulgence now and again is fairly pleasurable. Ah well, it's why I didn't come to see you earlier. Though it appears," Moriarty was flipping through his medical chart. "You haven't regained consciousness until this very moment. Oooh, lucky me."

"Thank..." He paused when his voice came out raspy and dry.

Moriarty responded by standing and moving to a table with cups and a water pitcher. He poured him water and returned to the bed, pressing a button shifting the bed into a position allowing John to sit slightly upright. The cup was handed to him. John was able to move with relative ease, although he was stiff, sore, and well aware of the recent holes in his stomach. This was good. No permanent damage or paralysis.

"Thank you. I mean, for helping save me. I... I owe you my life."

He wondered if he should have said that much when the other man leaned in, silk tie from his expensive suit rubbing against his neck. He was close to speak low in his ear.

"I'll remember that, Johnny."

Was the man incapable of saying anything without being creepy? Oh it got worse, too, and John had to restrain himself from hitting the button to call for the nurse. He could handle Moriarty, even if the man terrified him.

"I decide when you're going to die, Johnny boy. You're still breathing because this wasn't on my terms. I own your life. Remember that."

John cleared his throat and fought to remain calm on the outside. "Right, yes, well that was suitably disturbing."

Moriarty laughed and he shrank a little. He drank the second cup of water handed to him. John wasn't ready to be conscious and alert quite yet. His head rested on the pillow and his eyes grew tired and heavy nearly as fast.

"Sherlock?"

His eyes were closed now but Moriarty's voice drifted down to him. "Oh, he'll be around again in exactly three minutes so I'd best be going. You know how possessive he can get over his things."

"Not his."

"Correct. You're mine."

Deeply unsettling, but his mind barely grasped the concept before slipping into the darkness of a restful sleep.