When James had first met Sherlock he knew immediately that he could fall in love with him. Moving away from family for the first time was a nerve-wracking experience, regardless of how he acted. He didn't like his family and friends to know how scared he could get. He was always an anxious child, but he had always hid it well, ignoring fears and pain and persevering like everything was okay. But things rarely were okay. But the running away that often caused him to flee from Sherlock's comforting grasp, is the very thing that led him straight into his arms in the first place.
He could see right through Sherlock from the moment he met him. They were the same, the way they acted overly arrogant to cover up for their deep unmoving insecurities. And it was with James that Sherlock finally faltered. They moved quickly from feared friends, reticent to make the first move, to home grown lovers, hanging onto each other like ivy overgrown on the side of a house, their vines wrapping into each other, intertwining and pulling each other apart at the foundation. But it felt like home, and that was the most important thing to both of them. James, who missed his own home, and Sherlock, who never felt he had one, drawn together like magnets from across the room, and could never pull themselves apart, no matter how hard they tried.
But when James saw Sherlock sitting on the window ledge, a little piece of him tumbled, like the brown leaves of autumn, falling gently to the ground, and so did James. Crumpling to the floor with Sherlock, no life or hope in his eyes. But unlike the seasons, James felt like the leaves he once had never did regrow. And he felt, in their relationship, that he was always waiting for the woodcutter to come, with an axe to his back, and send him toppling down. And would Sherlock be there to see him fall? Would Sherlock be the woodcutter? Would Sherlock be the axe? He didn't know. But he felt he was walking a tightrope, until one day, it broke, and now, he was sat opposite Sherlock, armed guards around him, and chains around his beloved's wrists.
"How did this happen Sherlock?" James had tears in his eyes as he spoke. Sherlock struggled to make eye contact.
"Things...happen." Sherlock said, rolling his neck. "I can't explain it."
"Can't you try?" Sherlock just looked at him.
"You would know."
"Well. I thought I would. I knew you. More than anyone in the world, more than anything in the world. I have entire encyclopedias of knowledge in my mind, I know so so much, but there was nothing I knew better than you. I knew you were a broken soul in an arrogant dress, I knew you were excited to watch the sunrise, I knew you enjoyed nothing more than proving your intelligence, I knew you hid from everyone you knew, I knew you struggled to toe the line of society, I knew you loved me. But now I know nothing, Sherlock. Nothing at all."
"Yes, well, I thought I knew you too, but, turns out you're somebody else."
Sherlock had spent the whole night fighting with Moriarty. His mind a blaze, he felt he couldn't see past his own memories. They flashed against the back of his eyes, like an old movie projector, reminding him of all the good, all the bad, all the unforgivable. How could anyone sleep with a movie like that, screaming in their mind. And Moriarty just kept reminding him of things, or convincing him of things that weren't true, or were they? Sherlock felt a shock of uncertainty at every hour. The time clicked on and he wondered if he'd been here before, in this ward on this day at 3am, wondering if the blood on his hands was real, wondering if the ambulance was coming for the nurse, wondering if he'd wake up from this nightmare and realise it was the just the side effect of having watched a horror movie too late as a child, after his sister had tormented him for being too afraid. Sister? He thought. What sister?
"See you got it wrong there Moriarty, I don't have a sister, I have a brother. Just one brother." Sherlock said.
"Oh, guess you got me there." Moriarty replied, his form hidden in the shadows of the corner of the room. " But isn't it just so much more fun to play pretend. You used to do it all the time, remember. Remember Redbeard."
"No. That's child's play. I don't keep that kind of thing in my mind palace. More important things to keep."
"Like the floorplan for this hospital?"
"Exactly."
"You'll have to kill her first, of course." Moriarty, feigning a sympathetic smile he motioned to the door, where the night nurse was checking on him through the small window in his door.
"Oh wait… you already did." Sherlock looked back to the door and realised the nurse was not a nurse at all, but Mary Watson. He blinked, and suddenly she was stood right in front of him, her eyes filled with pain and fear, and worst of all, betrayal. "Sherlock….Why?" She whimpered.
"Go on Sherlock, tell her why. Pleeaaaaaaaseeee. For me." Moriarty stood to Sherlock's right, leaning on his shoulder. "Tell her why you did it Sherlock."
"I...I don't know."
"Oh come on, you can do better than that."
"I don't know, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Mary. " Sherlock felt his breath stutter.
"No you're not." Moriarty sighed, his voice monotone and walked to Sherlock's left side. "Well, I'll tell her then shall I. Since you're not playing." He pouted. "He killed you because he loves John." Moriarty held his heart, mocking Sherlock. "How sweeeeeet. He loved him more than he ever loved me. He never killed for me. Never. No matter how many times I asked. Well...maybe once or twice. But that was never as good as when he killed you Mary. That was just so…..sexy." Sherlock was crying now, Mary had vanished.
"How do you do it?" Sherlock asked.
"Do what? " Moriarty smiled.
"Not feel pain. You kill so much and you never feel it. You never feel their pain, you never feel your own pain. How does it not affect you?"
"Ohhh I feel it Sherlock." He replied, patting Sherlock on the shoulder. "You always feel it. You just don't have to fear it." He was so close to Sherlock's face, he could feel his breath on his neck. But as close as he was, Sherlock felt he couldn't see him, couldn't truly see him. He saw James, the man he loved, the kindest man he'd ever loved, and he saw Moriarty, the worst of the worst, the most evil. But then, he saw himself. And then he saw black, and the next thing he knew he was being walked to the visitors room to greet James like an old friend, and pretend he hadn't been in his head all night.