Well aren't you lucky! I've gotten some time to myself the past couple of days due to spending a very large amount of time working on my physics folder (which at about 30 pages in is somewhere around 2 thirds complete.) I received an A grade on my Chemistry practical examination, and my Biology paper was today. I hope you enjoy this chapter; we're getting into the johnlock moments now, so let's hope it's been worth the wait – there aren't as many of them in this chapter as I'd first intended, but the next chapter is very fluffy and might just give you diabeetus.
Thank you as always for reading and reviewing and for all of the author alerts, story alerts and favourites that you've given me, I am extremely flattered and I shall do my best not to disappoint!
Warning! Some hints of Seb/Moriarty, because I'm an angsty teenager.

The Return of Sherlock Holmes 6; To Fall

Why would John do something like that? Sherlock wondered crossly as he paced back and forth in the Melbourne Street apartment. Of course he knew how curious the brunette was, and that he couldn't keep himself from sneaking a peek at anything, especially not when it came to a certain ex-army doctor. They were to move back into 221B soon, as soon as Moran had been dealt with and he'd gotten the press release over with so that his name would be cleared. No, the detective couldn't keep his hands away, and now he was trying desperately to keep his mind occupied until Doctor Watson returned from work and he could focus on their plans for Moriarty's right-hand man.

Tentatively he reached into his pocket and took out the letter once more, he'd opened it before he was supposed to of course, and now he found himself aching, literally craving the next. The influx of hormones and foreign sensations had only caused him more distress and anger. How dare John make him feel like this? How dare John make him feel at all; that was something he would have to bring up with his friend – or would he? If he made a big deal out of it maybe he'd never see the other letters, and there were definitely more. Sherlock wasn't sure he could do without them. Slumping onto the hard sofa, he sighed and rubbed his temples, the envelope sat on his knees. He missed his dressing gown, and the old comfortable sofa in 221B. Slowly, as though he were handling a fragile, ancient artefact, he prised the contents away and took it out to read once more.

Sherlock,

You'd laugh if you could see me now, you know. I'm practically celibate. Yeah, I know! After Rebecca stopped calling, I managed to go on a couple of dates with a girl called Jenny, but she was an air head, a real air head. I miss your satisfying conversations. There was Amanda, too, but she got tired of me mentioning you, told me that the death of my 'partner' didn't warrant a rethink of my 'sexuality', she thought I was gay I guess. It's funny, bitterly funny, because the death of my best friend did warrant a rethink of my sexuality – but hey you don't want to hear about that.

The detective paused here for a moment, John had always defended his heterosexuality as though it were the one redeeming quality he had. Of course Sherlock knew that wasn't the case, he was brave, loyal, smart, interesting, even endearing in many ways. The detective didn't have fantasies about sex, he didn't think about it very often at all, even when he did it was because someone else had brought it up – he was fairly certain that he didn't have a gender preference. It didn't matter to him what someone had in their pants, only if they could hold a stimulating enough conversation, if they presented some kind of challenge to him, and obviously they needed to be relatively easy on the eyes.

Even a man like Sherlock who identified as asexual, simply because he really never was interested, knew that without some form of physical attraction a relationship simply could not become intimate – it was one of those grounding scientific facts that he was proud of. There had only been two people the brunette had ever desired, one of them being Irene Adler, the second being... It wasn't wrong to admit that you desired your best friend was it? Of course not, he wasn't talking feelings here, that lovey-dovey 'oh you're my soul mate' crap; just desire. He definitely had that in surplus, and it quite revolted him, the kind of thoughts that could creep in just to ruin his flow mid-deduction – as for John thinking that Sherlock wasn't interested in his sexuality – he couldn't possibly be more wrong. With a shaky breath he continued;

I can't seem to find anyone to fill the gap with, you know? I'd thought that maybe now that I had a 'normal' (and by normal I mean boring) job, I could find a 'normal' (the same definition applies here) girlfriend and settle down; someone to take the edge off of the loneliness. It never works, instead I just find myself missing you more and more. I don't know how much more of this I can take before I tell everyone that I... You know, all those people who think I'm overreacting Sherlock, if only they knew. If only you knew.

John

As with the other letters there was a clue in this one, it seemed that the next note would be somewhere in the hands of a member of the homeless network. Obviously Dr Watson didn't care too much if someone else were to read it – not that they would, the network was very reliable and they didn't ask questions unless it were for a specific reason. Sherlock had always treated them well – as had John in his absence. They were indeed, trustworthy, but why would he leave it with them? It must be another sentiment thing that the detective could not understand. In a final attempt to do something productive with his time he picked up the landline and dialled Lestrade's number – though no sooner had he done so than there was a knock at the door, and a quick glance out of the window, with caution, showed that it was exactly the man he had been hoping to see.

Taking the stairs two at a time the brunette opened the door wide.

"Lestrade!" he noted with a somewhat too cheery tone to his voice. "Excellent timing, I am so bored you have no idea."

"Nice to see you too." Grumbled the officer, who followed by Anderson and Donovan, ascended the steps behind the detective.

Click.

The modified silencer made a wonderful noise as it slotted into place on the end of the barrel of an AWM. The gun was UK made, and had been with its owner on many journeys; not least its tours in Afghanistan and Iraq. Dirty-blonde crew-cut hair sat dishevelled atop a heavily creased brow and eyes raw and tired from days without sleep peeked out from under heavy lids. Sebastian Moran hadn't shaved in days now, though his stubble had not yet become a beard. It looked as though he had become some kind of deranged gun-man, hell-bent on revenge; which was probably quite accurate. The cartridges were placed into the suitcase next to the tripod, .338 Lapua Magnum – they were specialized for damage at long range.

A photograph of one James Moriarty sat on the desk next to him, and he sighed heavily, shuddering as he removed the silencer once more and packed the rest of his belongings. He was lost, alone, afraid, but a man like Moran was more deadly than imaginable at times like this. Revenge was on his agenda, cold blooded, spiteful, passionate revenge. Sherlock Holmes had taken from him something that could never be replaced, and that was the companionship he found in Jim Moriarty. The consulting criminal had been his only friend since he returned from the war, he'd been broken, and violence and the gun seemed to be his only 'normal' way of life – but instead of turning him away the dark-haired man had seen his potential, seen his talent and had let him into his ring. So close that the ex-soldier even knew what he looked like, what he talked like, what he smelled like.

Balling his hands into fists, with a roar Seb punched the desk, shattering the wood and splintering his arm severely. He slumped onto the floor, sobbing in both rage and loss, the photo frame fell to the floor and the glass cracked. No matter what anyone said, he wanted to believe that he was right, that whatever he and Moriarty had shared had been mutual, and it had been what kept the boredom of being alive from killing his master until the very end, when Sherlock Holmes took even that from him.

"Sebastian~" called that familiar, happy voice to him from the doorway, and Moran turned around to face his master, a smile beaming on his tired features, aqua eyes sparkling. Only Moriarty could make him feel so wanted by simply saying his name. "I've done it, I've done it!" began the consulting criminal with glee. "I've got him, he's done for!"

Some kind of realisation seemed to dawn on Moriarty's face at that moment, and he stopped his dancing, stood static and still and he turned to his companion with fear in his eyes. "I've got Sherlock Holmes. I have to go see him. Beat him."

Moran stood quickly, dropping everything he was holding on the floor. No. They had talked about this, they'd gone over it so many times, and James had sworn that without Sherlock to defeat he could never continue his existence, that it would become so unbearably boring. He'd even shouted at Sebastian, asking him why he couldn't have been his enemy instead of his friend, so that he could bear living into his old age as long as someone like that were there to entertain him, someone unattainable.

The ex-soldier was much taller than his master, and well-built, even though Moriarty was in good enough shape, he was slight, and somewhat willowy in comparison. Moran took care not to hold him too tightly when he hugged him, but not this time, this time he held his master with all of the devotion he could feel in his body. It might have crushed him, but the taller man didn't care, as long as he could feel it.

"Don't." He choked out. "Jim, you'll find something, I promise, I'll make something, I'll keep you happy. Promise me?"

The shorter man looked up at his companion, worming his arm free from the hug so that he could put a hand on the side of Sebastian's face – it was the first and last time the henchman would be exposed to something like this from the consulting criminal. There was genuine affection in his expression, and he smiled forlornly.

"I can't promise you that."

"Please."

"You know I can't. Life is... Is it worth living, really? Is it!" Moriarty was always so angry at the world, why couldn't he be stupid, have a simple mind, live a simple life without this constant feeling of discontent. "You can promise me though, my most loyal, most faithful partner."

"Anything, James, anything."

"Bury me, properly, and when you are as bored as I am of this... Hell. Come with me."

"I promise."

Sebastian relinquished his grip, and he knew this was their final goodbye, he couldn't let his master go like this, they had always talked about how they felt, but nothing had ever come of it, until now, as Moriarty pressed his lips to the ex-soldier's, it was bitter, it was heartfelt, and the hit-man was sure he felt a delicate 'sorry' whispered against his cheek, before they met again, in an explosion of heat, and no sooner had it begun than it was over, and James had gone.

He would keep his promise. Moran would take Sherlock down, and he would finally be free to follow his lover into the unknown, to take the jump, to fall.

"So let me get this straight," began Lestrade, pointing to the device on the table in front of him. "This thing is going to make you a free man?"

Sherlock nodded, the three other people in the room stared at him in disbelief, he smirked to himself, oh how he loved the simple people.

"It's a storage disk, for digital information." He elaborated, taking a USB lead out of his pocket and placing it next to it. "500 gigabytes of illegal bank accounts, falsified identifications, records of deals Moriarty struck with his many clients, personal logs of conversations, and even a recording from the security camera on top of St Barts on the night I 'died'."

Anderson, Lestrade and Donovan all seemed to try and back themselves as far away from the disk drive as possible for fear of damaging or unleashing whatever secrets it contained.

"I'm not even going to ask how you got this."

"I won it in a bet."

Lestrade brought a hand to his own face with quite an audible 'slap' sound.

"I didn't mean the di-

He was prematurely interrupted by the detective.

"Yes I know you meant the security camera footage, it was supposedly 'inaccessible'. This being because Moriarty had the footage recorded for his own amusement at a later date – and of course no-one could see it and expose him for who he really was, or else his plans to burn me would never come to fruition. Vanity is a terribly destructive thing, and in the end it was James' greatest downfall."

It was suddenly very silent in the room; neither Anderson nor Donovan made a move to say anything against Sherlock's favour, who simply sat with a bored expression, quite pleased with himself. After some thought which seemed to be taking up a lot of his brain power, Lestrade leant forward in his seat and pointed at the small black device.

"I take it you want me to process all this for the papers?" he asked with a sigh, more work, great. Holmes allowed himself a smirk and nodded.

"You know me too well, Greg; so, donate a copy of the information to any reporter of your choosing by the end of the night so that it will make tomorrow morning's edition. If they ask about me, send them to 221B," he took a piece of paper out of his pocket and wrote something on it before passing it to the officer. "This is my IM, I imagine the press will want to talk with the police, send me a text if there is some form of conference, I will attend via webcam as I am far too busy to attend, and I am loathe to do so."

There wasn't much more to be said, so pocketing the disk drive, Lestrade stood and motioned for Donovan and Anderson to leave, they obliged but not before Sally could throw a scathing look at the detective.

"Have you spoken to John?" asked Greg once the other two had been ushered out, he lingered in the doorway for a moment looking back at the brunette man who still sat.

"Of course." The reply was stoic and cold.

"No, Sherlock, have you spoken to John?"

The silence that reigned once more was deafening, and the two men simply looked at each other for a long time, one with a knowing expression, the other blank but still somewhat guilty.

"No, if you mean in regards to his feelings on the matter of my departure I have not. I have gone over the details of it with him, but neither of us has elected to bring up the emotional area of that affair. I do not wish to approach the subject, if John wants to, that is his action to take."

Shaking his head Lestrade tucked his hands into his pockets in order to rest one over the precious disk drive. A muffled 'pretentious idiot' could be heard coming from his general direction as the door closed behind him.

It was evening as John returned from the clinic, with some treats from a stop at a small patisserie along the way. Sherlock was waiting in the armchair, he was pensive and clearly in deep internal conflict, the ex-soldier put the paper bag down on the table and took out two tea-cakes before putting the kettle on.

The sound of it flicking off after it had boiled startled the doctor as he awoke from a daydream he didn't realise he'd been having. He wondered if the detective was okay, though he usually said he was even when he wasn't; that was just the way he worked. Setting a small plate in front of Sherlock on the coffee table with one of the tea cakes atop it, and a cup of tea, seemed to bring the brunette out of his stupor.

"Oh," he mumbled absently. "Thank you John." It was more of a robotic, timed response than a genuine expression of gratitude – but Doctor Watson appreciated it anyway. They ate in silence, not that something small like that would take very long to eat, and the taller man seemed to relax more and more since the shorter had brought his company. It was as they sat sipping their tea that an alarm went off, one that Sherlock had set on his phone. Standing abruptly he grabbed his coat.

"Come on John." He made no motion for the other man to follow him, but there was an unspoken rule that wherever the detective went, the doctor would follow. They were both on their way in a matter of seconds, and the brunette made a bee-line for Baker Street. It was then that John knew what was happening, and instinctively he lowered his head.

"Yes, we are going to meet our good friend Moran tonight."

Doctor Watson felt as though his lungs had been crushed, here they were, it was entirely possible that he could lose Sherlock all over again, but this was an obstacle they had to get over in order to continue their lives without the detective being under armed guard 24/7. Even then the ex-soldier doubted he would be safe from Sebastian.

There was an old house across from 221B, which was empty now, one of the foreign assassins had lived there, but had been killed by Moran himself. Miles had lost a great deal of information to Sherlock in a bet, and so Moran had taken him down too as punishment – but now he was angry, and he was panicking, and he would be more dangerous, but far more likely to slip up and far easier to outwit. His usually keen instincts would not be as reliable as they usually were, and they were counting on this to defeat him.

As they reached the window of the room facing 221B, the detective pointed at the window of their old flat. There, as if it were the man himself, was a silhouette – that of the younger Holmes brother. John gaped, and the figure moved. He looked back and forth between the man stood next to him, and the image in the window.

"How...?" he began to ask, before he broke out into a grin and clapped his friend on the shoulder. "That's bloody brilliant."

Sherlock smiled genuinely, it was nice to be appreciated. They were content like this for a while, until both of them spotted movement, a figure crouched in a doorway across the street. They both ducked down and found a hiding spot for themselves in the shadows. Pressing a button on his phone – speed dial John assumed – the brunette listened intently. He mouthed the word 'police' at his companion, who realised he would have set up some kind of agreement with Lestrade or Mycroft whereby they would be waiting for Moran to make an appearance. What they had not counted on, was the sight of the one figure they were trying to avoid appearing in the doorway of the room they were in.

They held their breath, it was dark and they could barely see the man in front of them, but the gun in his hands and his ragged breath told them that this was he; Sebastian Moran. He reached the window, and set himself up, not taking what one imagined was his usual care when putting up the tripod – no he was enraged and wanted this over with. If he had not been so distracted – were those tears in his eyes? – then perhaps he would have noticed his company.

Without thinking, John leapt at the man when his bullet pierced the windowpane and found its mark across from them in 221B. He was quickly knocked back and a solid punch landed against his jaw. Sherlock jumped out from the shadows, and knocked the gun and its stand to the other end of the room. They both watched the mercenary in front of them intently, waiting for him to move. Instead he yelled at John.

"It's not fair!"

Taken aback, the blonde blinked, momentarily he forgot entirely about the situation they were in and about his bloodied nose and mouth.

"You still have Holmes! No-one took him from you – you bastard." He spat in the doctor's face, and was greeted with a brick being smashed over the back of his head, the poor wretched man faded into unconsciousness, continually mumbling about how unfair the world was and the name 'James'. Finally, Moran had fallen - at least as far as the law could hold him. The detective made preparations to toss him out of the window – he said it would be the 'quickest way down'. However, John protested.

"He was just like me, but he found Moriarty first. You can't blame him for devoting his life to a man like that. If it had been the other way around, it would have worked out the same."

Sherlock would argue that Sebastian and John were not the same in any way, but for once he found the doctor's pity amiable and conceded. Lestrade and several other officers made their way in and set about arresting the man on the floor.

"Slow response as usual." Noted the brunette.

"Shut up, we expected him to stay on the street like you said." Came the response, but the two men smiled at each other as only old friends can.

"Thank you." It was a sincere appreciation that Sherlock offered, and it was accepted with great pride by the Chief Inspector. "I trust you can take it from here." The detective made to leave, John following behind him as always.

"I gave the information to The Times." Called Lestrade after them, and the brunette smirked as the two men made their way down the stairs as though nothing had ever changed.

In 221B, it felt like coming home after an extended holiday. Sherlock had already moved everything that John had taken back into the flat, and here they sat, in their old seats, with a skull and a body whose head had a brand new hole for company. A perfect shot – if it had really been the intended target, the bullet would have ripped straight through his brain and out the other side.

Another cup of tea was in order, and Doctor Watson instinctively got up to make it. His walking-stick remained behind, and his limp was lessening by the day he spent in his old friend's company. A sudden pang of an emotion the detective did not recognise surged through him, and he found himself getting up to help.

"Here," he began, passing the milk from the fridge to the blonde. "I remembered this time."

The shorter man simply looked up at him wide eyed, it was as though Sherlock had been abducted and replaced with an alien – a very polite alien. There was no specific moment when it happened; at least not that either man would recall. They just ended up in an embrace, tight, heartfelt, and so longing as though this moment could never be as much as they wanted it to.

"I missed you." Mumbled the shorter man.

"And I you." Replied the taller, with a waver in his tone that John had never heard before. "And I you."