A/N – This part borrows elements from ACD's "The Adventure of the Empty House".

Part 3: The House

The Personal Blog of John H. Watson

Three Years

Three years ago today I've lost the best friend I've ever had. It's hard to believe he's been gone for three whole years. Sometimes it feels like it was only yesterday. I still have his number saved on my mobile. I can't quite bring myself to delete it.

He would have probably called it sentiment and rolled his eyes, the idiot.

Over the years so many of you have come forward with your support. The people who knew him, the people he helped, even the people he condemned. All of you who knew he was real and raised your voices to say so. I can't say it enough, how much I appreciate all of your efforts. Some days were truly frustrating (that rubbish interview over the BBC comes to mind) but I'm sure if we continue to push, we'll be able to make NSY reopen the inquiry and bring him justice. If nothing else, the public needs to know that James Moriarty is real and dangerous.

I've stopped by the old flat this morning; just to catch up with Mrs. Hudson over a cup of tea. Sherlock's brother still pays the rent on the flat, practically keeps the place as a shrine, the git. It's eerie. Like Sherlock's about to come through the door any moment now.

Anyway, Mrs. Hudson told me there was a break in a few nights ago. Nothing of value was stolen as far as she and I could tell, but then again, one can never know. Sherlock had so much stuff. I'm sure Moriarty is behind this, somehow. Sherlock is dead and he still won't leave him alone.

There are so many open questions yet.

Here's to you, Sherlock Holmes, you were the best man I've ever known and I am, and always will be, proud to call you my friend. May you find peace, wherever you are.

John H. Watson

XXX

Jim sat on the sofa with his legs propped up on the coffee table, Sherlock's head in his lap. Sherlock stared blankly at the ceiling while Jim ran his fingers through his dark hair.

A red, heart shaped box of chocolates lay half open on the table before them, hardly touched. A fresh flowers bouquet sat beside it. It was their three years anniversary. Jim was surprisingly uninspired with his gifts that year. Perhaps the routine was finally getting to him.

The year before that he brought Sherlock a human heart, red bow placed inconspicuously on its cooling container. At least that had been useful, although Sherlock hardly thought the poor bastard the heart belonged had agreed to donate his organs to science.

Jim held a sleek tablet in his one hand. He had been reading out loud from John's latest blog entry.

"Isn't that sweet?" Jim cooed. Sherlock didn't reply and the hand in his hair tightened momentarily before relaxing, "Amazing the length people will go to cover up their guilt."

Sherlock pulled himself up from Jim's hold, he was on his feet in an instant but his arm was grabbed before he could walk away. He allowed himself to be pulled into the man's lap.

Jim cupped his cheeks in his hands, and kissed Sherlock slowly, with tenderness. Sherlock tasted his breath. Jim's hands slide down to Sherlock's neck to rest there, not applying any pressure. He kissed and nibbled on Sherlock's earlobe.

"He's glad you're gone," Jim breathed in his ear. "He's happy. He's got a sweet little fiancée and a mortgage," Jim said, shuddering at the thought. "Deep down, he does think you're a fraud."

"You obviously don't know John Watson," Sherlock murmured, unperturbed by Jim's accusations.

Jim pulls back abruptly with a glare. "Don't pretend like you're unhappy here," He said, changing the subject.

"I don't have to pretend," Sherlock replied with some difficulty when Jim applied the slightest pressure to his neck.

"Liar," Jim snarled, and graced him with a violent mockery of a kiss. Sherlock's lips were swollen by the time they disentangled. "You're never bored now. I make your life interesting, my love."

"I fail to see what that changes," Sherlock said, not bothering to deny the statement.

"Everything," Jim said with completely sincerity. He caressed Sherlock's cheek, "Remember that first night, when you cried?"

Sherlock did not answer, but Jim hardly expected him to. Admitting weakness was never something either of them excelled at.

"You don't cry anymore. Do it now, for me."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, and tears began to form in his eyes. They slid down his cheeks in perfect large droplets. Sherlock's expression never altered, the tears looking strange and alien on his unmoved face.

Jim grabbed Sherlock by the chin and brought his face closer. He licked the tears away.

"Perfect," Jim all but purred before violently shoving Sherlock off. Sherlock stumbled but managed to catch himself before he sprawled on the floor.

"Take off your clothes," Jim ordered, before returning to his iPad. Sherlock saw he was typing an anonymous comment on John's blog. ('Behind you 110%, Johnny-Boy! xx').

Sherlock obeyed, practiced and nonchalant. When he stood naked in the room, Jim finally turned his attention back to Sherlock. Jim's expression was leering and Sherlock knew tonight will be a power display. He sighed mentally and braced himself.

Jim rose from the sofa, setting the gadget carelessly aside. He looked at Sherlock up and down.

"Good boy. Now kneel."

XXX

Three months had passed since the conclusion of the Russian case.

Their lives went back to normal straight away after the incident, as normal as it came for the two of them. If Jim was affected by the ordeal, Sherlock couldn't say. He hardly expected the man to grieve, not for his brother's death, in any case, but perhaps for the loss of one of his closest human connections.

As unloving and strange as their relationship was, Jim's brother was his only remaining link to his past. Sherlock could not predict the man's behaviour under the best of circumstances; he could hardly make a guess as to what was going on in Jim's mind now.

So he waited, he waited for three months, hoping that if any delayed reaction was about to occur, it would happen during that time frame. A small part of him also wanted to allow Jim to come to terms with his loss, as ridiculous as that notion was, before dropping any more anvils on him. Sherlock told himself that it was only a logical course of action, but he didn't quite trust himself these days.

He had hardly been idle, though. His plan was already set in motion; there was no way to reverse the proceedings now. The game was on. The first step was to take the three people closest to Moriarty out of the equation.

The first was the brother, and that had played out marvellously. He had hoped for Jim to simply disown the man, but his expectations were more realistic. Disownment wasn't Jim's style, after all. Either way the result was the same.

The second person was Jim's second in command, "The Colonel", Sebastian Moran. And the man was playing into Sherlock's hands beautifully. As luck would have it, the proceedings in the cellar three months prior only served to strengthen Sherlock's hand.

He did not think the third person will pose much of a problem.

To think, Jim has been working all these years to remake Sherlock in his own image. He didn't know yet how well he accomplished that goal.

XXX

Less than two days after they celebrated their anniversary, Jim and Sherlock arrived in Dubai to meet with one of Jim's "business associates". The man was part of Jim's inner circle, brought to his position not because of his money or connections but because of his intellectual prowess and ambition. Those qualities made dealing with him all the more fun for Jim. They were not particularly loyal to one another, and Jim knew the man would probably attempt to get rid of him after the job was done. Very ambitious, indeed.

The job itself was boring in comparison to the implied danger they'd be facing afterwards. Jim brought Sebastian along for backup, but that was for later. He had no use of him for the time being.

Jim went to observe the proceedings personally, disguised as one of his own underlings. Sherlock stayed behind in the hotel, citing boredom as an excuse. Perhaps to rub it in Jim's face. Jim grumbled but didn't push the point. He left him with Sebastian instead. Jim didn't trust Sherlock to be left alone, not after last time. That suited Sherlock's needs perfectly.

"Fancy a game?" Sherlock offered.

"A game?"

Sherlock smiled and pulled out a sturdy case from the hotel's entertainment compartment.

"Didn't take you for a Poker player, Sherlock," Sebastian murmured, watching as Sherlock nimbly sets the chips on the table.

"I don't take you as a man for chess, Sebastian."

Sebastian smiled, and sat behind the table. "What are we playing for, exactly?" he asked.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "Money, of course. Do keep up."

"Fine. I'll deal."

They played in near silence for some time, their usual bickering absent for once. A good sign, Sherlock decided.

"This reminds me of the night we met. Do you remember?" Sherlock asked offhandedly.

Moran's reply arrived a beat too late. His poker face never dropped but Sherlock caught on to the slight tremor in his hands, "Of course."

Sherlock studied his cards, face expressionless, and drew another one.

"Not in person, of course. But you've made a very good impression. What was that boy's name…?" Sherlock shrugged. "You've always had a bit of a temper."

"Ron Adair," Sebastian said, not breaking eye contact.

Sherlock was not actually involved in it, of course, but he studied the details of the case perfectly years ago, one could never know when information would come handy. The fact that the case involved Sebastian was just an educated guess. But Sherlock's guesses usually were.

Jim wasn't the only one who could do a background check. Sherlock had been digging up all that he could find about James Moriarty ever since that fateful night in the pool. He'd come across a peculiar story about a none-descript young man, barely out of his teens. The young man still lived at home with his mother, their flat six floors up.

He was found dead in front of his computer with a bullet hole in his head. He'd been playing online poker, a very illegal game by the looks of it. Shame, he he'd been winning.

Neither did the killer nor the murder weapon were ever found. Police were baffled (aren't they always?) for ballistics report showed that the bullet could not have been fired from a long range rifle, yet the shot was clearly fired through the open window. The door to the room was locked from the inside.

However, No building overlooked the window, not for a fair distance anyway. There was no way for the killer to have climbed in, not without being spotted by the CCTV camera in the street below.

A shot with the kind of weapon who would produce that sort of a bullet would have to be near impossible. It would have taken the skills of a particularly talented marksman to pull it off.

No wonder Jim's interest was piqued.

Adair's gambling was directly connected to Moriarty's network. According to Sherlock's sources, he was a prodigy in online gambling, earning millions every week. That was all Sherlock knew as a fact. However, no sniper working for Moriarty would ever use a sub-level weapon. But a desperate, recently discharged ex-soldier with a penchant for gambling?

The police could not have found the killer. But Jim knew where to look. And after that night Sebastian Moran had very little to worry about when it came to debt, at least of the monetary kind.

Sherlock raised the stakes.

"How long have you known?" Sherlock asked, "Not that it really matters at this point, but I'd like to know."

"I'm not sure," Sebastian told him honestly, and Sherlock was not surprised. He'd been very subtle in his hints, letting Jim do most of the work without him really knowing.

But Sherlock never needed to be explicit. That was the beauty of a doubt, planted inside someone's mind. You can't stop an idea once it's made its home. Jim taught him that, and Sherlock was always a quick study.

"Maybe after your brother died?" Sebastian suggested.

Sherlock hummed, "He was always a bit useless."

"I still don't understand." Sebastian continued, and matched his claim, "You had me tailing Watson. You pretended to be your own enemy. You jumped off a roof. What was it all for?"

"Why does anyone do anything, Sebastian?" Sherlock said, echoing words uttered long ago, "Because I'm bored," He graced the sniper with the shadow of a smile, "And it's been fun, wasn't it? Still, the public persona was becoming too famous, thanks to John Watson; it was time to die out," He smirked, "So to speak."

"Watson was never in any real danger."

"No. I'm not finished with him yet."

"What do I even call you?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Really."

"I'm not sure what you mean, Sebastian," He said sternly, looking Sebastian straight in the eyes.

He trusted Sebastian to understand the silent order. The temporary moment of grace was over, and it was time to resume character. Sebastian was clever enough to make it work, but not clever enough that he couldn't be fooled. Was anyone, really?

Sebastian places his cards on the table. Sherlock smirked, and laid his own.

"Full House," He said simply, and won.