Author's Notes: Hi, sorry for the hiatus- my new year's resolution is to write quicker! As always, review/favourite/follow if you liked it. Love you all. JT XX.
John didn't tell Richard any more of the cases for a few weeks. In truth, he was prolonging it. He supposed he was scared of letting something slip, perhaps accidentally saying 'You' instead of 'Moriarty'. This was what he told himself. It was only when he was being brutally honest with himself that he admitted, he didn't want to tell Richard because as long as Moriarty remained a dead reference that didn't take up much of John's time, he could pretend that Richard, the man he dined and laughed with, was an ordinary man, far removed from the consulting criminal and his tricks.
He looked forward to coming home after another tedious day at the clinic, come home to Richard. To kick off his shoes and shed his coat, maybe put on a DVD on and order take-away. And talk to Richard. About everything, food, films, books and sport. There wasn't any talk of Sherlock or Moriarty, or Richard finding a job. It was uneventful, but peaceful.
He never had to nag Richard about the mess, Richard was naturally tidy. And the way Richard looked at him with wide eyes, listening to everything he said with such interest, was very pleasing.
There were times when John was seized with stabbing anger at the man who'd led his friend to his death. The first night John woke and Richard was snuggled up next to him, John flung him from his bed, swearing and shouting blue murder like the soldier he was. Richard was stubborn though. He came into bed every night, after John had gone to sleep. John let this happen because he had to confess, having a body to lie next to improved his sleeping. And waking up next Richard was better than nightmares.
Finally, John couldn't put it off anymore- he knew he had to tell Richard about the bombings. He had managed to stall for a while, with tales of The Blind Banker, even telling him a few of the tricks Sherlock used to deduce things. But finally, one night, enough was enough and John announced he would tell Richard about the case he'd dubbed 'The Great Game'.
"It started with a mysterious package. It'd arrived at Scotland Yard, addressed to Sherlock Holmes so naturally the police were suspicious. Sherlock immediately deduced the writing was a woman's hand. It could have been anything, in that envelope, a confession, a threat, goodness knows what else. But it was just a phone, a pink smartphone. A phone made to look exactly like the one Sherlock had used to find Jeff Hope, the phone that belonged to his last victim."
John had Richard spellbound. This story was the case of The Great Game, the one where John and Sherlock had finally faced Moriarty. John had apparently found him a bit underwhelming but what was real-life to him was the very best of enthralling stories to Richard and he was dying to know how the thrilling encounter had progressed. When John told these tales, his eyes shone with a light and he seemed in his element, in command. More like himself, in a way. More like the man Richard supposed he had been before Sherlock's death.
As the story unravelled, Richard was attentive, the perfect audience, jumping in shock at hearing of each death, wincing in sympathy when hearing of John and Sherlock's attempts to disarm the Golem, and almost panic-stricken when it came to John being kidnapped.
"He didn't kidnap me personally, of course. He was far too busy for that," while saying this John wore a sneer that didn't really suit him, but adequately conveyed the hatred he felt for the evil criminal. "But he had his goons place the bomb on me, it was in this big, heavy parka they made me wear. The intention was to make it look like I was there for a different reason. He wanted Sherlock to think, just for a few crucial seconds, that I was Moriarty. It sounds ridiculous now, doesn't it? John Watson as the guy who was causing this- this random destruction. The man who was killing London. But Sherlock was lonely, and frightened. That broke my heart, you know, the way he looked at me when I stepped out there to meet him. He looked like an atheist who's died and woken up in hell. Like he could never trust anything or anyone again, and his life was going to worsen because of it."
"I'm sorry, John."
"Yeah, thanks. I just- I always think if I'd known he was going to die, I just, I would have been nicer to him…"
"I'm sure you were very nice to him, if you showed him a fraction of the kindness you've shown me…"
"It, um, it means a lot to hear you say that. But we used to argue so much. If I'd known that he was going to die, I wouldn't have gone on about the head in the fridge, or him playing his violin at three in the morning. I would never have snapped at him, I wouldn't have called him a machine, I would have thanked him. He saved my life, and I'm not just talking about when he saved me from The Black Lotus. He saved me from myself, from the lifestyle I was having. If I could just speak to him one more time," John stopped talking, and then nodded as if he'd decided something. "I'm going to take you to see his grave."
"What -why? I mean, you don't have to…if it's too painful for you."
"I want you to see his final resting place. In fact... I want to take you to Scotland Yard, I want you to meet the only man besides myself who was a friend to Sherlock Holmes."
John looked so determined, Richard didn't say no.
The next day John took Richard to Scotland Yard. They took a cab there, the taxi driver was a friendly man but John answered his questions in clipped, one-word answers, all the while glancing nervously at Richard, until the driver took the hint and shut up. When they arrived there, John asked for a Greg Lestrade, who turned out to be a man in his early fifties, with silver hair, brown eyes and a tired, serious face. Richard immediately liked him and smiled awkwardly when the man met his gaze. To his surprise, Mr Lestrade looked away, to John and said "I got your text, I wasn't sure whether you were serious."
"It wasn't an easy thing to convey by text. And I don't know whether Sherlock ever told you but I'm notoriously slow at texting." John's voice sounded horribly forced, and both men looked incredibly uncomfortable. Lestrade's face was a blooming pink and John was fidgeting with his cane. Richard was surprised he had brought it; he didn't take it out much.
"I'm glad you came, I know it's been a while but-" Lestrade threw himself at John in a clumsy bear hug. John returned the hug, his cane swinging wildly as he patted Lestrade on the back. Richard remembered (although he couldn't remember where he'd heard it) that patting somebody on the back when hugging them meant you wanted the hug to stop. He wondered if that was the case here.
"Anyway," John said when the two separated, his face pink as he awkwardly stepped back. "Greg, I'd like to introduce you to Richard Brook. Richard, meet Greg Lestrade."
Richard solemnly shook hands with the man, trying not to show how uncomfortable he was. Lestrade's handshake was limp and clammy, and he barely held Richard's hand for a second before he withdrew his fingers.
"Greg has to visit somebody for a case; he's going in the same direction as us, so…I thought he could join us."
"That's nice," Richard said blandly, but in truth, he was feeling irritated. He wasn't so sure he liked 'Greg' anymore, with his nervousness and shifty eyes. He couldn't shake the feeling that Lestrade was looking at him, but when he turned, Lestrade was looking at the ceiling, or the carpet, or John. The man was so jumpy and bothersome, Richard almost had a mind to yell "Boo!" at him and see if fainted.
"I also thought it would be good for you to meet him." John added, his eyes searching Richard's face for a few seconds. Richard inwardly shrugged, and followed the two men down the winding corridor.
"Are you sure this is a good idea? This can't end well, can it?" Lestrade had a hand raised to his mouth as he said this, so to a bystander it would appear that he was yawning, not holding a hushed conversation. John wasn't giving in to the pretence at all, he spoke in the same low tone as Lestrade, but he didn't bother covering his mouth.
"I don't really know, Greg, I've never done anything like this before." John glanced at Richard, but the man was too far away to hear them, he was carefully picking his way through the cemetery, examining each gravestone. It was good for John and Greg to be able to speak freely without Richard hovering over them.
"You haven't even thought that you might be putting yourself in danger? You could wake up one night and he's standing over you, with a knife in his hand."
"He doesn't do things like that. He climbs into bed with me at night."
Lestrade stared at John. "You let him do that?"
"He does it when I'm asleep, what am I supposed to do? I yell at him and he just stands there, looking all guilty, but the next morning I wake up and he's huddled against me. I think he wants to be around someone."
"It's not right," Lestrade was shaking his head. "He could do anything; he's around you all the time. Poison your tea, put marbles on the stairs. His brain might have taken a beating but he's still the same twisted bastard he always was."
"He's not, not really," John was tiring of saying this. "Listen, Lestrade, you know that I would be the last person to defend him and the first person to be suspicious of him. But there's nothing to be suspicious of. He's changed-"
"And you get to fuss around with him, making him eat his meals and washing his clothes the way you used to with Sherlock, yeah, I get that- you must love it-"
John calmly ignored the jibe. "-and yes, that transformation he's undergone fascinates me, as a doctor. I- I want to probe his mind and find out how far the damage goes, and I'm completely aware of the danger. Greg, Mycroft Holmes was the one to tell me about Rich- about Moriarty's condition. He practically demanded that I study Moriarty and find out how much he remembers. But I don't think we have anything to worry about- I mean, look at him!" John gestured, a wide sweep of his hand, and Greg looked. Really looked.
Richard was standing with his arms raised, held up to the sun. His eyes were closed and a smile was on his lips. He brought his arms higher, and stood on his tiptoes as he tilted his body sideways. And to Gregory Lestrade's surprise, James Moriarty did a cartwheel, his panting laughter reaching them, even with the distance.
"He's different. He laughs and watches television, he sings in the shower. Katy Perry. This morning, he asked me if I belong to any library. When I said yes, he asked if I can check out a book on how aeroplanes stay in the sky. He doesn't like Cluedo but he loves strategy games. He's not Moriarty."
"Strategy games? Like Chess? Strategy games like how he played us all for fools and got Sherlock to take a long walk off the roof of St. Bart's?"
"Greg. He's unburdened with the knowledge of what he once was. Don't you wish you forget sometimes, scale back to a certain point in your life and press Delete? I know I do. He's not interested in destroying things now, he wants to take them apart and study them. You know how much I defended Sherlock, I'd always fight for his corner. But I can honestly say that for a good long while, he solved crimes for fun, for the satisfaction. He didn't care about the victims, the families they left behind. It was only towards the end that he started caring."
"If you're somehow saying that Moriarty is more emotionally developed, or- or caring or whatever than Sherlock-"
"I'm not. I'm just saying that Jim, this Jim, doesn't want death and murder, he wants puzzles and fun, the same as Sherlock."
"I'm not having him coming down to the station and solving crimes-"
"I'd never even suggest that," John reassured him. "I'm just trying to explain to you, about him."
Greg changed the subject. "I see you've got your cane again? Leg giving you trouble?"
"Occasionally. It's safer to have it with me, just in case." John shifted his weight to the other foot. "Are you going to come with us, and, um, say hi to Sherlock?"
"Er, no, I should be going. You two will order a taxi after?"
"Yeah."
"Ok," Lestrade turned to face John, and his face held regret. "I'm sorry, John."
"For what?"
"I don't know, getting on my high horse just now. I know you loved Sherlock, you were the best thing to ever happen to him, and he knew it."
To John's dismay, tears pricked in his eyes. He ignored them, hoping Lestrade would too. Greg did.
"Bye, John." A pat on his shoulder and then Greg was behind him, striding away to his car. John raised his hands to his face, not to pretend-yawn but to press the heels of his hands against his lips, as if the pressure could push his feelings deep, deep down. When he felt composed enough, he joined Richard. Richard had found the grave.
"It's pretty," Richard had said, and really, it was. It hadn't been, on previous visits, Sherlock's gravestone had seemed so smooth and clean and sterile for such a colourful, complicated man. And the weather was always wrong. Sunny or clear, a perfect blue sky and cotton-wool clouds. There should have been thunder and stormy clouds as dark as Sherlock's curls, with jagged slashes of lightning splitting the sky. The sort of weather that would have made Sherlock take to his violin, new unnamed melodies pouring out of the instrument, inspired by the dancing lightning and hurried rain.
But now it looked different. It was later than he thought and the sun was setting, the orange and amber looking so strong and vibrant it was like this was where the world ended. Like an oil painting, a flat horizon you could touch. John craned his neck to see the sky, pink tinging the dark blue. He looked at Richard, whose tremulous smile widened a fraction at John's awe.
"It's nice, isn't it? You're so busy rushing about, doctor, sometimes you can't see when there's something special right in front of you. Beautiful, right?"
"Yeah," John agreed, but he wasn't talking about the weather.
"I didn't call you right away, when I saw his grave here. You and Mr Lestrade were talking and I didn't want to interrupt you. I came here and I wasn't sure what to do. I didn't have any flowers to put down, and I couldn't sit and think about him because I don't know him, well, only through your stories. So…I talked."
"What did you say?" John asked.
"Not a lot. I said hello, I talked about you, all you've done for me. I, um, I said…it's silly."
"Please, tell me. I promise I won't think it's silly."
"Ok, well don't laugh, but…I told him he wouldn't have to worry about you not having anyone to talk to and watch telly with, 'cause I'd- I'm here. It's silly, isn't it?"
"It's not, it isn't, Richard." John walked closer, feeling blinded by the sun in front of him. And by Richard. Sweet, silly, cowardly Richard. Richard who liked sun sets and beans on toast and thought he and John should apply to go on Pointless- Richard thought the trophy would look nice on the mantelpiece, next to the skull.Sweet, funny, murderous but oblivious Richard. John stepped closer until the hem of his shirt touched Richard's and then wondered if he'd come too close.
"I cried," Richard said with a wince. "Earlier. A bit, just a little bit. I didn't intend to, I don't want you thinking I'm soppy or anything, but I couldn't help it. I was thinking about it, he was so young, he could have done more. And when he died, I think he took a bit of- you with him. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that."
John had always had a big heart, he couldn't help it, just like Richard couldn't help crying. He rather thought there was something grand about this, here he was with Richard, and it was here that he had received the call from Mycroft in the first place, telling him about the coma and the amnesia. He tried to blank it out of his memory, those images of Richard lying pale and wan in a hospital bed. That was a million miles and a century away.
"Richard, just- let me-" John's voice was a whisper, unnecessary in the still air, but he couldn't speak any louder, surrounded by stones and wreaths. Even with death all around them, and beneath them, Richard looked so bright and sparky, so warm and alive in a charity shop denim jacket, his face bathed in fading sunlight, strands of dark hair illuminated, turned golden by the rays. It was a kind light, as kind as the light in the hospital had been cruel, and Richard looked clean and young and full of potential. So John leant forward and kissed him.
He wasn't surprised that Richard kissed back. What surprised him was how right it felt, and he held on tighter, his cane dropping to the ground, his arms slipping from Richard's shoulders to his waist, rubbing his hands along the rough fabric clothing Richard's back.
Perhaps this wasn't happening. Maybe Greg's car had crashed earlier and this was heaven, although how a soldier could end up in heaven, John didn't know. Maybe he was dreaming then. That seemed more likely because nothing real could feel this good. He wasn't thinking of Sherlock, or Sarah or film stars. He wasn't thinking at all, just feeling and appreciating the way Richard kissed so deeply, moaning softly into John's lips, swaying a little in his arms as if he too thought he was dreaming.
He gently laid Richard down on the grass, kissing his lips, his cheeks, his forehead, anywhere his mouth could reach. Richard's hands never left John's body for long, he was afraid that if they stopped now, they'd never reach this point again.
John kissed Richard's smooth forehead, brushing his hair out of the way to do so. He'd have to remember to take Richard for a haircut sometime. The hair felt soft under his fingers so he kissed that too.
"John, are you sure about this?" Richard whispered, a line creasing his brow John shushed him, smiling slightly, nosing the roots at Richard's temple.
"As sure as I can be." John told him, and for Richard, that was enough.
They kissed blissfully, rolling over on the grass, and John let Richard lie on top of him, he was lighter and there was something wonderfully comforting about having that warm weight on top of him, covering the length of his body. They were in no hurry to move.
They could have done more. John knew Richard would have let him, would have kept on staring at him with those huge doe eyes and lain back, letting John do what he wanted. And although his hands roved over Richard's body and his tongue danced with Richard's, there was a blockade, a barrier stopping him from taking things further. When they finally dragged themselves up, it was with a wonderful drunkenness, a temporary silliness and lack of thought, brought on not by alcohol but by the intimacy between them. What they'd done felt deeper than sex. In fact, John thought he felt closer to Richard because there hadn't been sex. They hadn't been distracted with physical mechanics and orgasm, so they had been free to explore each other's' bodies, and do what felt good.
"It's getting late," John said. He couldn't help running a finger over his lips, they didn't feel swollen but he somehow thought it might be obvious to anyone that he had been kissing Richard. The mouth would be a neon sign declaring RECENTLY KISSED. How long had it been since someone had kissed John like this, with that much enthusiasm and affection? The answer was unknown and most likely, depressing.
"We shouldn't have kissed in a graveyard," Richard said, with genuine regret in his voice as they brushed grass from their clothes.
"It's not so bad. Sherlock made me laugh at a crime scene once. I told him 'We can't giggle at a crime scene!'- I felt really guilty!" As Richard chuckled, John said "No, but I did!"
Richard smiled, and glanced up at the sky. "It's getting late. We should head home."
"Yeah. We'll have to get a cab, I don't fancy walking home at this time. I'm covered in grass stains, how about you?"
Richard linked arms with him, and they started to walk away. "I'm pretty sure my coat's ruined! Do grass stains come out? We're probably carrying a few insects too…"
As Richard chattered on, John happened to glance behind them, at Sherlock's grave. The grass was flattened from their bodies. He saw something and stopped with a gasp.
"John, what's up? You…is everything-?"
"Did you see that?"
"See what? I don't-"
"Never mind, it was probably a squirrel or something. Come on, it's late," And they walked away. On the way home, John kept Richard's arm curled around his own, although he wouldn't, normally. Maybe it was the emotional upheaval of today, he must be hallucinating…he could have sworn he'd seen a person hiding behind a tree, not far from Sherlock's grave…and he must be mad because that figure looked a lot like Sherlock…
