The sky is a dark indigo, scattered with stars as tiny and numerous as those that grace John's pale skin. Moriarty stands at the edge of the roof, phone held aloft, a wedding march floating through the cool night air.
"Here comes the bride!" his insane cackle rips through the night.
Sherlock stops about five feet away and watches him, blue eyes burning with fury, fingers clenching, itching to wrap themselves around his throat.
Moriarty smiles. "How is John? I have missed reading that little blog of his."
"Leave John out of this," Sherlock says. "This is between me and you."
"Ah, no. The two have become one! Marriage does that, you know."
Sherlock takes a menacing step forward. "I should kill you right now."
"Ah, ah, ah!" Moriarty makes a signal with his hand and the drapes of his bedroom window are thrown open. He watches in horror as the police officer that had been stationed outside their home takes aim at John's sleeping form. Moriarty smiles. "You hooooooonestly didn't believe I wouldn't be watching you, did you? I had eyes and ears in your flat and you didn't even know it. Even that pretty little nurse was on my payroll."
"I will rip you limb from limb," the words come out in a snarl.
His enemy saunters forward. "I wouldn't, if I were you. Not just yet. Why don't we have a chat? I have a proposition for you."
Sherlock keeps his eyes trained on the window.
Moriarty waves a dismissive hand. "Moran won't act without my say so. He's very loyal that way. Though, I do have to thank you for that. I never considered getting a pet until I saw you and John."
Pulling his gaze from the window he turns to Moriarty. "You said you had a proposition."
"Indeed I do. One I think you'll appreciate."
The Devil smiles.
John wakes from a nightmare.
His dream had been a strange beast. A love child made of bullets and semtex, veins running with Farsi and the light rolling brogue of a mad Scotsman, it jerks him awake roughly.
He feels groggy, the morphine still coursing through him, and he moves a shaky hand to Sherlock's side of the bed. It's empty but he assumes Sherlock is somewhere in the flat. Probably experimenting on something.
He rolls over in bed and the glare of the street lights stings his eyes. Bloody arse forgot to close the drapes. He shields his eyes and smiles at the silhouette standing in the shadows by the window.
"Come back to bed," he says.
He doesn't move.
John tries to sit up in bed. He still doesn't move and something niggles in the back of his mind. Sherlock would usually be by his side already. Maybe he was in one of his moods? It wasn't unheard of for the man to go near deaf when he was rolling a problem around in his head.
"Sherlock? Love?" he tries again. "Sherlock!"
He hears the distinct sound of a gun cocking. "Lovely to see you again, Captain."
Moriarty is practically skipping.
It's annoying.
"Do tell," Sherlock says, his voice soft.
Moriarty steps close, so close Sherlock can smell his hair gel, and grins his manic grin. "I will give John a heart," he says.
This is not what he's been expecting. This is…unprecedented. This is...a trap. It has to be. "What?"
"I," Moriarty says "will give John a heart. In exchange I get you."
"Aaaah. I knew there'd be a catch."
"Of course! You can't get something for nothing, you know."
The wind whips around them, combing itself through his hair the way John is wont to do when they're lying in bed and he's feeling nostalgic.
John.
John would get a heart, he would get health, a chance at a new life. The idea was…enticing and not entirely without merit. "Explain."
Moriarty's dark eyes shine like coals.
"Christ in heaven!" his heart leaps painfully in his chest. He scuttles back against the headboard, searching the face of the intruder.
"Nighmares? I got 'em too. Terrible, awful nightmares," he tilts his head to the side. "Surprised to see me?"
Somewhat, yeah.
He glances at the door and Moran points the gun at him. "I wouldn't," he says.
"What are you doing here?"
Moran smiles. "Helping out a friend."
John's mind is whirling. Where is Sherlock? How did Moran get past him and all the way to the bedroom? Why was Moran here? Helping out a friend? Not likely. Moran was a mean son of a bitch back in the day. No friends to speak of. At least not ones you'd speak of in pleasant company.
"What friend?"
Moran brushes the tip of the gun against his lips and smiles. "Don't try to chat me up, Cap. I'm not one of you bar girls."
John swallows. "Moriarty then? Right. So. What's your part in this? Why you?"
"You're not as dumb as I remember," Moran says. "Holmes is rubbing off on you. Why not try to figure it out?"
He feels dizzy, but he doesn't know if it's the situation he's in or his heart acting up or his lungs giving out or a combination of the three. But even with all that he knows there can be only one reason Moran would volunteer to be someone else's gunman. "Here to settle a score?"
"I'm impressed."
"Don't be. It's pretty obvious." Ok, so Sherlock is rubbing off on him. What did everyone expect?
Moran points the gun at him again. "You ruined my life."
"You killed innocent civilians."
"If, or shall I say when? You're rather attached to your little pet. You'd do anything for him. Anything. When it is then! When I give John a heart, you come with me. My point man. My assistant. We'll travel the world together!"
Sherlock's eyes narrow. "For how long?"
"As long as I want," his head oscillates from side to side. "But as long as that heart still beats, you have no contact with him. No phone calls. No emails. Nothing. You never see him again. You never return to London."
Sherlock feels his breath fly out of him in a rush. Life without John, trapped by Moriarty's side for God knows how long, never to breath the London smog again? But…John will live.
And all the Devil ever asks for is a soul.
"You sent me to Military Prison," Moran says.
"You sent yourself to MP," he's getting more and more out of breath. "I just testified."
"I'm do wish he'd just let me kill you."
Ah, he thinks. So he can't kill me. Not yet. Why?
"What do you mean?"
Moran laughs out right. "He's planning on making a deal."
"A deal?"
"You for Holmes. I don't know the details, but I'm sure Moriarty will come out on top anyway. He usually does."
John places the flat of his hand against the mattress and tries to push himself off the bed. Moran growls at him, "Don't fucking move," and it startles him so that his hand slips on the smoothness of the sheets and slides under Sherlock's pillow.
"Deal," he says, and he reaches out to shake Moriarty's hand.
Shots ring out and his bedroom window shatters, the glass falling through the darkness to the earth like so many falling stars.
It startles him, but then again it startles Moriarty too, so he doesn't feel too bad.
He peers down into the street and sees the broken body of Moriarty's gunman lying on the pavement. He does the only thing he can think of.
He attacks.
Tackling Moriarty to the ground they scuffle and roll on the ground. Grabbing, punching, scratching, his whole mind screaming Kill, kill, kill. Protect John.
Moriarty digs his thumbs into his eyes, his nails biting into the tear ducts. Sherlock roars in pain and Moriarty flips him, using his knees to pin him to the ground. He clasps his hands around Sherlock's face. "You know, I think I'll kill John. Slowly. Painfully. And I'll make you watch."
He brings his knee up between Moriarty's legs and jams it painfully into his balls. However grand he may think himself, Moriarty is still a man, and he lets out a pained shout.
It's all he needs.
He rolls them across the ground, fingers wrapped around Moriarty's neck, he squeezes until he feels a satisfying snap and his enemy's eyes go blank.
He stands, body shaking with adrenaline, and stares at the corpse. It was over. Moriarty was dead. They were free. He and John were free. John.
"John!"
He moves faster than he thought possible, tripping over his own feet as he runs across the street and flings open the door to the flat. He takes the stairs two at a time, using the rail to haul himself up, until he reaches the landing.
John is lying in the middle of the living room covered in blood.
"John! John!" he rushes over and kneels down. Please no. God no. Not now. "John, open your eyes. Don't die on me. Not now. Not tonight."
John's eyes flutter open. He smiles. "You look a fright," he says. "I shot a man. Push knocked him out the window."
"I put the gun under my pillow," he says. "Weeks ago. For protection.
"Good plan," his eyes flutter. "Brilliant plan. Christ I'm tired."
Sherlock kisses him. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."
Molly Hooper calls him the next day.
He goes down to St. Bart's, leaving John in Mrs. Hudson's care, to hear what she has to say.
"I know it's not exactly orthodox but the test results came back and I know you might not like the idea but I thought it was worth a try and I mean you'd do anything –
"Do get to the point, Molly. I need to get back."
"He's a match."
"I'm sorry?"
She places a stack of papers in front of him. "Moriarty. He's a perfect match. For John."
He sifts through the papers, taking in the information in front of him. "His heart? It would be John's?" He doesn't know how he feels about that.
Molly nods. "You'd have to get through some red tape but…you're Sherlock Holmes. You can get through anything."
If he had his way every inch of Jim Moriarty would be burnt and the ashes poured into the Thames, but he's smart enough to recognize a miracle when it comes his way.
Sherlock closes the file. "Do it," he says.
He has to promise a lot of things to a lot of people, Mycroft in particular, but everything the paperwork gets done. John doesn't know where his heart is coming from and Sherlock has no intention of telling him.
They're gathered in the hospital room, Sherlock, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, all wishing him luck and preparing for the long road to recovery.
"I need to talk to Mycroft," John says. "Alone."
Sherlock frowns.
"Please? Indulge me. Just this once," he says. "I'll be healed and you'll be back to bossing me around in no time. Just do this for me."
Sherlock looks at Lestrade who shrugs and Mrs. Hudson who shakes her head. Finally, he glares at Mycroft. "What did you do?" he asks.
"Nothing at all," his brother says.
"Sherlock. Please." John pouts at him. He hates it when John pouts at him. He files out of the room with the others, but loiters outside the door.
Mycroft exits a few minutes later.
"What did he say?" Sherlock asks.
"He had a request," Mycroft answers, elusive as ever.
"What sort of request?"
"A personal one," he fiddles with his umbrella. "Good day, brother. Do text me when he's out of surgery. I have some…things that need to be taken care of."
"They have creams for that."
It's Christmas, some months later, and John smiles as Mrs. Hudson toddles around with a tray of cookies. Mycroft and Lestrade are there, talking discretely in the corner. According to Sherlock they were together, but he couldn't see that. But then again, he could seldom see what Sherlock saw.
Sherlock places a hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright?"
"Fine," he says. "All fine. Just tuckered."
Sherlock kisses his temple in a rare display of public affection. "They'll be gone soon. Then to bed."
He's right, they do leave, and he dozes in his chair as Sherlock cleans up.
"John. Let's go to bed."
He opens one blue eye and smirks. "Can't. There's one gift left."
Sherlock looks under the tree and frowns. "There isn't any," he says.
John shakes his head. "Under the sink. Behind the cleaning supplies."
Sherlock walks to the kitchen and pulls the gift out, turning it over in his hands, admiring the red wrapping paper and frowning in confusion. He didn't like feeling confused.
"Why under the sink?"
"Because it's the one place you'd never look," he says as Sherlock sits across from him. "Open it."
He does, ripping the paper away with childlike enthusiasm. He opens the plain brown box and stops short. His gaze flickers to John and then back to the box as he slowly pulls out a large jar.
"John…"
"It's yours," he says, gesturing to the jar. "It's always been yours. I see no reason why you shouldn't have it."
Sherlock holds the jar up to the light and admires the way it filters through the formaldehyde, bending and refracting around the heart hovering inside. "How…?"
"Mycroft," he says simply. He stands and takes a few well measured steps towards Sherlock. He stops in front of him and drops his hand on top of the jar, fingers brushing Sherlock's. "We never had a wedding. We never even got to go to a courthouse and say our vows. Well, this is mine."
Sherlock is still confused. "John…"
"Shush," he keeps one hand on top of the jar, takes Sherlock's hand with the other, drops to his knees. "Sherlock Holmes, with this heart, I thee wed."
Sherlock kisses him soundly. "I love you," he says.
"I know."
A/N: It's been a long, crazy ride! To those of you who've stuck with this story, thank you! It means more to me than you can imagine! For everyone who's reviewed: I LOVE YOUR FACES. Thank you, and goodnight!
