I know this idea's been done before but I really wanted to try it from my own angle, so I hope it isn't considered copying. Also it was really hard not thinking about the Joker each time I wrote something for Moriarty in this chapter.

Enjoy!

The roof. Alone. Now.

-JM

John never though he'd have to try and fool Sherlock Holmes, but it came easily in those last moments. Maybe it was everything ridding on the lie working that made it work, because somehow he convinced Sherlock that Moriarty's assassins had closed in on Mrs. Hudson and that she was fatally hurt.

"John, we...we can't go to her the plan..." Sherlock argued, watching the whole thing unravel before him. John shook his head.

"The plan is over, Sherlock. Just go to her." He was clutching his phone so hard he thought the casing might crack.

"John. You come too." Sherlock insisted, and when John saw the look on his face he started to regret everything. He looked like a child that just learned his mother was dying, which was almost the truth. John bit his lower lip so hard he tasted blood.

"I can't..." John tried to think of something Sherlock would believe. "I...I have to throw them off our trail. I learned a few things in Afghanistan. You go, I'll keep them busy."

Sherlock got a shocked look on his face but then nodded as though it made sense.

"That's logical..." He put a hand on John's shoulder and hesitated for a moment. "Hurry and meet up with us later."

"Mhmm." Was the only confirmation John could give. Anything more would have just been too much of a lie. Finally Sherlock left and John took what he believed to be his final steps up to the roof.

Moriarty sat on the ledge, his phone blaring out the disco classic "Staying Alive".

"Staying alive! It's so...boring isn't it?" He purred, eyeing John with an unsteady gaze like a cat watching a bug it just hadn't decided if it wanted to kill yet.

"Why did you want me?" John growled furiously, squaring his shoulders and clenching his hands into fists. "It's always been you and Sherlock, right? So why did you need me?"

"That's exactly why, Johnny boy." Moriarty leapt up from the ledge and was at John's side in seconds, leering down at him. "Because you're extra baggage that hinders my little detective."

"You're obsessed!" John spat.

"Obsessed, deranged, depraved, thrilling, you can pick the adjectives." Moriarty shrugged. "What you don't have a choice in...is how you leave this rooftop." He peered over to the ledge, and John felt sick to his stomach.

"You want me to jump?"

"Oh! Give the boy a prize!" Moriarty jumped and screamed, his eyes so wide you could see all of the white. "So obvious John! You're so obvious, everyone is so obvious. Just jump already."

"Why would I do that?" John put his face in close proximity with Moriarty's, leaning in close to show he wasn't afraid.

"Because if you don't." Moriarty sighed. "I'll kill them all. Mrs. Hudson, Mike Stamford, Harry Watson, and yes even Sherlock if I have to though I really rather not."

"You're bluffing."

"Fine, then go ahead and believe that, and when they die you can live knowing what it feels like to be wrong." Moriarty cackled a bit. "Which I mean...that must happen to you often."

"I could just convince you to call off your men." John grabbed Moriarty's arm, his fingers like a vice. "I know ways to break a man, I could do it."

"Doubtless." Moriarty shrugged. "However...I bet you didn't see this coming."

BANG

John was reeling away from the corpse, blood pooled around his boots. He knew there was no other way now, he had to do it. He approached the ledge, he was staring down at the street below when he got a text. He opened it up, hoping it wasn't Sherlock. If it was he knew he couldn't go through with it.

No, not Sherlock. The other Holmes brother. Of course.

John smiled bitterly, this text message would save him but it would also damn him. At the very least Mycroft had figured out a way for him to live through this. He was about to toss the phone away when he noticed a dark shape running in the streets below.

Sherlock, of course he'd seen Mrs. Hudson alive and well and known John was in trouble. John felt tears welling up in his eyes and wondered if he had time for one last phone call. He dialed the number and fixed his eyes on the man across the street floors and floors below.

"Sherlock, stay still."

"John whatever he's making you do we can beat him together!"

John looked back at the corpse and chuckled sadly. "No...no I seriously doubt that."

"John. Please."

"Sherlock this is what I want." John tried to think of a lie, something to convince Sherlock this wasn't his fault. "I...I haven't been the same since the war and even you couldn't fix me."

"You're lying to me, John." Sherlock growled. "Stop lying to me." John thought maybe he heard a sob breaking Sherlock's voice.

"Goodbye Sherlock."

3 Years Later

John had always been a soldier, though he considered himself mainly a doctor he had to admit his war born skills had come in handy when Mycroft had sent him out into the field to hunt down the assassins Moriarty had left. Mycroft was the brains of the operation, locating Moriarty's men and telling John what to do. John was just the hired gun, and his fee was his life-the life that the elder Holmes had saved for him.

"You must do what my brother cannot to keep him and all of London safe." Mycroft had told him. "Do what I say, and when you've killed them all you can go home. You must not contact Sherlock, you cannot tell him you are alive."

Those were the words John remembered as he sat in the car that Mycroft had sent to collect him. He was bone tired and caked in mud and blood. He'd finally found the last name on the list, finally taken down Sebastian Moran and now he could finally go back to London.

The car stopped in front of where Mycroft did business, and the driver led him inside. John felt like a troublemaking child being led to the principal's office by a teacher, and his rugged appearance only supported that view. He'd grown a beard, hadn't had much time for shaving. He'd at least kept his hair short, he figured that was neat enough. Still he was itching for a razor, and apparently he didn't have to wait long as Mycroft had scheduled a barber and a hot shower for him before they met to talk about Moran's end.

John left the shower feeling human again, and when he passed by the mirror he was shocked by the gaunt and ferocious man that stared back at him. He shrugged it off, it wasn't the first time he'd looked that way. He hurried to dress in the new clothes Mycroft had left for him (a familiar jumper sat at the top of the pile). Then he followed his silent bodyguard back to Mycroft's personal office.

"Well done, John." Mycroft said, his voice lethargic as though even breathing in the breathe to make words tired him. "It's no wonder my brother enjoys your partnership, you're quite useful...and quite brutal."

"Save it." John barked. "Can I go home or not?"

"You are free to go, John, but can I warn you at least to exercise some caution?" Mycroft smirked. "The world has changed since your three year..."hunting trip"."

"Life is always changing without me." John shrugged passively. "Why should this matter?"

"Because for once...my brother has changed along with it. Or rather returned to old ways."

John felt a surge of concern and fury overtake him. "He's using again? And you didn't stop him?"

"I tried." Mycroft gave a bitter look. "He broke my arm."

"You didn't try hard enough." John accused him. "I'm going to see him."

"There is more, you know." Mycroft attempted to warn him but John was already halfway out the door.

"I found you your assassins." He said. "I've repaid my debt, now I'm going to save your brother."

John paced on the street at least three times before working up the courage to go inside. It felt like his stomach was trying to digest itself, and not just because he hadn't had a good meal in awhile. As he walked up the steps, the old familiar steps, he remembered his first night with Sherlock. They had laughed so much, leaned against the wall panting from their running, and then Sherlock told John to check the door. With that one night Sherlock showed John he didn't need his cane. Of course right now John would have killed for a cane, his leg was staring to ache more than it ever had before.

Finally he reached the door, worked up his nerve and knocked.

There was some sound from inside, then the doorknob turned and the door opened slowly. John braced himself for a view of Sherlock but the person that opened the door was even more of a surprise.

"...The Woman?" John choked. Irene looked just as surprised, in fact when she saw John she dropped the mug of tea she had been holding and it shattered on the floor. Both supposed ghosts stared back at each other, uncertain of each other's existence.

"You're...you're dead. I saw it, you were dead." John gasped.

"Well...that's something we have in common." Irene managed to joke. They stared at each other a moment longer and then Irene began to laugh. John couldn't believe she could laugh at a time like this.

"Let me guess." She said. "Another Holmes brother meddled in your life? They never could let well enough alone and let people die."

"Sherlock saved you." John realized, shaking his head. "Of course he did."

"Of course he did." She agreed. "He loved me."

"That's presumptuous." John scoffed, rolling his eyes. Then he thought about it. Irene, in Sherlock's flat. "Unless..."

"No, I'm just visiting." She yawned. "I check on him sometimes. Actually I've found myself a wonderful pair of lovers. Godfrey and Penelope, such darlings."

"So you're not with Sherlock?" John asked, not sure why it mattered to him so much.

"Not at all." Irene pursed her lips. "You know I once remember you confronting me and telling me to tell Sherlock I was still alive...my "death" apparently affected him so negatively you feared for his health. What do you think, is the proper response now that you're the offending party?" She acted as powerfully as she might have with a whip in her hand, always the dominatrix.

"...It's different this time." John tried to excuse himself. "Besides he...he loved you."

"And you think he didn't love you?" Irene gave a weak laugh. "Wait until you see the state of him. I'll leave you two alone and..." She stepped out past John, over the puddle of tea like it wasn't there. "...be gentle."

She was gone quickly and soon it was just John standing in the doorway, trying to motivate himself to enter the flat. He finally forced himself to walk forward and as he did he admired the old place. It really had gone to hell, he thought maybe Irene had been cleaning a bit but there were still piles and piles of papers all over the place. Red yarn was tied to different murder files and map locations all over the wall, chemical experiments were left abandoned where they had begun.

John ignored the mess that covered his once beloved home and made his way to Sherlock's bedroom where no doubt the detective was hiding. He didn't bother to knock this time, he just made his way in.

Sherlock was laying in his bed, tangled up in sheets and blankets. John winced at the various drug paraphernalia scattered all about the room with no attempt made to hide it. He also noticed Sherlock had been branching out, cocaine sat next to heroin and even more.

Oh god, Sherlock...how are you even still alive?

John approached the bed and looked the detective over, he was thin even more so than usual. His normally prominent cheekbones looked even sharper, in a dangerous starved way. His hair was stringy and unkempt. John had a sudden longing to see Sherlock's eyes, to make sure that they were still as bright as ever and not darkened by his drug use the way the rest of his body was. So he reached out a hand and gently shook his shoulder.

"Sherlock..." He whispered, and the detective moaned. He shifted about and pushed himself up onto his elbows, blinking open his eyes.

"Irene, I told you not to bother me when I'm high..." He groaned. "Go...go play with your victims...whatever you call them..."

"Sherlock." John repeated, and the detective froze.

"...oh god..." He refused to look up at John, he just stared at the pillow in front of him. "I...I finally did it. I finally died. Shouldn't have mixed those last two I suppose." He shrugged as if dying was something that happened any old day.

"You're not dead...you're not dead you insufferable asshat." John growled. "You're high, you're half starved, and you're a little bit tired but you're not dead and neither am I!"

"John?" Sherlock shouted, finally sitting up and looking at the soldier. His eyes filled with tears and he stared at the doctor in disbelief. Then his mouth formed a sneer and he spat out his brother's name bitterly. "Mycroft." He accused.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. We couldn't tell you it was for your ow-" John was suddenly assaulted by a barrage of weak blows as Sherlock attempted to beat his sharp knuckles against John's chest. Luckily for John Sherlock was a little too tired and scrawny to do much damage, and the punches soon gave way into grappling for a hug. Soon they were both wrapped in each other's arms, John supporting Sherlock's weight and Sherlock clinging tightly to John.

"I had no idea you'd be so affected." John sighed.

"Did you honestly not know that I loved you enough to break myself when you were gone?" Sherlock huffed, his breath hot on John's ear.

"I'm not the detective." John laughed and even Sherlock chuckled at that. Then he pulled back, grabbing John by his shirtfront and dragging him into a passionate kiss. It was clumsy but warm and John kissed him back happily.

"Don't ever leave me again." Sherlock whispered against John's lips.

"Promise." John swore.