~xXx~


It had been easy enough to hack into St. Bart's old student record files once Sherlock had been able to find a capable computer. He doubted the young woman he'd procured it from would be missing it seeing as she was currently occupied with snogging the man she'd been making odd sexual gestures at for the last half hour. Really, it was beyond revolting. They were in public for God's sake.

The smell of burnt coffee and wasted breath filled Sherlock's nose, and he pulled his scarf up over his prosthetic beard to filter it out. With his other hand he placed two fingers on the trackpad of the laptop, scrolling down through the list of minds that Sylvia had tutored. Admittedly, there was a significant number. Maybe he'd jumped to his conclusion too early. Maybe he'd—and then his fingers froze. The bright screen seemed to glare up at him, harshly illuminating the exact three words he hadn't wanted to see: John Haymish Watson. Sherlock's breath caught in the back of his throat, and he let the scarf fall. He'd never quite understood before why it was that officers and lawyers were not allowed to participate in cases where they had a connection to the victim, but he certainly understood it now. His mind was growing foggy, swelling with unbidden thoughts that had no basis in fact or observation. Sherlock double clicked on John's name, and watched as the file sprang up to fill the screen.

John had been in two residential classes of Sylvia's, both of which he'd done extraordinarily well in. He'd later moved on to become her teaching assistant. That meant they had been close—closer, at least, than she'd probably been with her other students. It wouldn't be unreasonable to conclude that she would've been able to convince him to—NO! Sherlock slammed the laptop shut, throwing it to the side and springing up from the couch.

The snogging couple jumped, both their heads snapping to the side to goggle up at him with flushed cheeks and swollen lips. The woman then noticed the abandoned laptop and began yelling expletives at him, but Sherlock couldn't be bothered to listen. He couldn't breathe in here—he needed to get outside. Sherlock darted for the door, practically slamming his body against it in his hurry to be out on the street. The cool morning air hit him with a wave of clarity, but it didn't last long. The thoughts from the coffee shop seemed to follow right behind, and in his moment of hesitation, they stormed him once more. Sherlock propelled himself down the street, his legs automatically steering him back to his flat.

It was impossible. That letter to Sylvia had been written ten years ago. Ten. Ten years ago, John had been a full time medical student, carving into cadavers and dreaming of a job in a surgery somewhere. Ten years ago, Moriarty hadn't even known who John Watson was! This was a coincidence. It had to be.

He just needed to wait. A few more hours and he'd have another body and another pool of evidence. Just a few more hours.


~xXx~


This time the parcel came when he was in the shower. He couldn't have been in the bathroom for more than ten minutes—just long enough to rinse and shave—but nevertheless, when he exited there it was sitting in his entryway. The package itself was the same thick yellowed envelope, baring no marks other than the smooth elongated handwriting on the front that spelled out Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock opened it without further inspection, and pulled out another leather journal. One quick look over told him that everything about it was the same as the previous—color, make, model, year. Moriarty had been meticulous, as usual.

He pushed the cover back, thumbing quickly past the first couple pages to where his inscription was waiting. Sherlock's eyes widened ever so slightly as they began to scour the words.

My dear, dear, Sherlock,

You've figured out the connection by now, haven't you? I hope so—the letter my loyal messenger left in Ms. Yaskoff's file should've made it painfully obvious. I could've toyed with you a bit more, I know, but this makes it sooooo much better. The game wouldn't be as amusing…if you didn't know. But I won't say it here, just in case grief has spoiled my fun and made you dull.

You see why it would make it more entertaining for me though, don't you? The idea of it? All those testy little emotions twisting in your gut, contorting that pretty face of yours into an expression I could peel away like the skin of an apple. Oh, but wait, I've forgotten…you consider yourself the sociopath in this relationship of ours. Tell me, how's that working out for you, Sherlock? How far have you fallen?

I'm going to go ahead and reassure you now that there is no point in trying to figure out who the next victims will be. They're already dead, so you might as well give yourself the rare pleasure of surprise.

You'll find the next body at 4576 Anlaby Rd at 7pm. If you go early, you're dead. Got it?

Eternally yours,

Jim

Sherlock briefly flicked through the remaining pages, confirming his expectation that they would be blank. He placed the journal down next to the previous one and checked his watch. 7pm—that was more than two hours away. Two hours was ages. Why did Moriarty need him to wait?

The detective threw himself down in his chair, glowering. He arched his body, reaching down and grabbing his violin from the floor and pulling it up into his lap. His fingers plucked at the strings, and Sherlock frowned as the sour C string note wavered and fell flat. He twisted the tuning peg until the note finally slipped into key.

7pm.

Sherlock checked his watch once more. It had been 46 seconds. Teeth clenching together, Sherlock raked his fingers across the violin once more. This was going to be the longest two hours of his life.

Moriarty was taunting him. From the grave, the bloody bastard was still taunting him. Sherlock had half the mind to make a trip to the morgue and introduce Moriarty's body to his riding crop. It was a stupid notion though, he knew. His adversary's corpse—well beaten or not—had nothing to do with the portion of his mind that still lingered in the world. And linger it did. Sherlock had to admit, Moriarty's plan was a web well spun, and the detective had somehow gotten himself entangled in it without even realizing.

How far have you fallen?

Sherlock had recognized the jab immediately—a direct and rather obvious reference to one of their more cryptic meetings.

I want to solve the problem. Our problem. The Final Problem. It's going to start very soon, Sherlock. The Fall. But don't be scared. Falling is just like flying, except with a more permanent destination.

But Sherlock hadn't fallen. And Moriarty would've written to him knowing that, so why the allusion?

I'm saving up for something special. No no no no. If you don't stop prying, I will burn you. I will burn…the heart out of you.

The heart. Sherlock hummed.

This is about him, isn't it?

The detective's heart gave another one of those strange fluttering twinges. John. He really shouldn't be thinking about John right now. He told himself that he wouldn't until he was able to examine the next body. Thoughts of John were too muddled with questions now to give him a clear picture of what he needed to see. But the memories bombarded him, ramming against the doors of his mind and refusing to be turned away. There had been a conversation between them, just before they'd met Irene…

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock bellowed from the doorway of the living room. "Where's John?"

Mrs. Hudson appeared at the foot of the stairwell, wearing one of the dresses Sherlock knew she thought flattered her. She was going to see Mr. Chatterjee down at Speedy's again. Sherlock hadn't met him yet, but he was quite curious as to why Mrs. Hudson always returned smelling like two women instead of just one. "Isn't he up there with you, dear?"

"No! Don't you think I would know if he—"

"For God's sake, Sherlock!" John called from somewhere upstairs. "I'm up here! In my room!"

Sherlock jumped, his feet moving him out of the living room and up the stairs two at a time. He stormed into John's room where he found his flatmate perched on the edge of his bed, changing his socks. Sherlock briefly noted that the cuffs of his jeans were drenched and muddied, and a glance out the window told him that it was currently raining.

"You went out," Sherlock stated flatly.

John looked up at him, his expression annoyingly blank. "Noticed, did you?"

"Of course I did. Why wouldn't I?"

"You usually don't."

"John," Sherlock stepped forward, aware that the action brought him to a position bordering on looming, "was I not abundantly clear earlier when I told you that I don't want us going out separately?"

John finished pulling on his second dry sock and got to his feet with a huff. Sherlock knew that this gesture had been meant to make the detective step back. It didn't. "Sherlock," John said, glaring up at him and stubbornly holding his ground, "all I did was go out to meet Sarah for coffee."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I could've had coffee."

"That's not—" John paused, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "I've told you before that you're not allowed to join in on my dates with Sarah. They're called boundaries, Sherlock." Sighing, John sidestepped and brushed past him, aiming for the door, but Sherlock's hand caught his arm and yanked him back.

"John," Sherlock said sternly, staring intently down at the doctor. He could see every bit of John then—the small droplets of water clinging to the tips of his hair, the shimmering film of mist that coated his skin, the dark sapphire of his irises flecked with bits of green and gold. "I don't care about boundaries."

John didn't bother to struggle against him, though Sherlock knew his grip was painful. Instead, his face went hard, the lines on his forehead growing deep. "This is about him, isn't it?"

They both knew who 'him' was. Moriarty. Their first meeting with the consulting criminal a couple short weeks ago had left them both irreparably unsettled. Sherlock had found this emotion particularly strange, as he wasn't prone to inclinations of discountenance, but something about seeing John standing there, on the upwards of ten pounds of Semtex strapped to his body, had left a bitter taste in Sherlock's mouth. He hadn't liked it. The vulnerability. It hit too close to home. John would've never been abducted if Sherlock had just been there to protect him—he would never have known that danger if Sherlock hadn't been what he was.

When Sherlock didn't answer, John continued, though his voice was much gentler this time. "Sherlock, we can't let him do this to us—we can't let him invade our lives like this. It's what he wants. He wants to get in your head. You can't give that to him."

"None of that matters. Didn't you listen to what he said, John?" Sherlock threw back, his eyes narrowing. "He knows now, John. He knows."

"Knows what?"

"That he can use you to get to me!"

Disbelief coiled itself around John's lips. Scoffing, John shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I know what he said—I know it word for word," Sherlock hissed. "He said he would burn the heart out of me. To which I replied that I had been reliably informed I didn't have one. And since you were obviously paying our conversation such rapt attention, would you care to finish it off with the final line?"

For the first time since Sherlock had entered the room, John seemed to really look at him. His mouth pressed into a thin line and instead of pulling against Sherlock's hold, he leaned into it. It was only then that Sherlock realized how close they were—how he could feel the damp heat of John's skin beneath his jumper, and how it radiated into the thin film of air between them. It gave Sherlock an odd sort of tingling sensation just beneath his ears, but he shook it away as if it was nothing more than a pestering fly.

"What did he say, John?" Sherlock repeated, his voice dropping to a low rumble.

"He said that you both knew that wasn't quite true." An undeniable shudder wracked John's body, though it was quite warm in the room. "But it doesn't matter, Sherlock," he whispered. "You've said yourself that—"

"It doesn't matter what I said, it matters what he thinks. And now, because of you, Moriarty thinks I have a heart. Do you have any idea what that means?"

"Because of me? How does that—"

"It means that our partnership has become a liability! And I can't afford any liabilities in my line of work, John! I can't afford to be compromised!" Sherlock released his hold on the doctor and spun violently on his heel. He couldn't look at the other man anymore—not with his heart pounding this hard and the skin under his ears still tingling.

The following silence stretched on until it seemed to suck all the oxygen from the air. Sherlock drew in a shuddering breath, only to find it stale in his lungs. This was why he'd refused to take this room—the air was so easily dissipated here. Something about the circulation, or the placing of the vents perhaps. Sherlock didn't know. He didn't care. He just didn't want to be in it any more. John had almost died, and he couldn't breathe!

"What're you saying?" John asked, his voice breaking through the quiet like the cool hum of a cello. "Are you saying…are you saying that you want me to leave?"

"I'm saying—" Sherlock broke off, the words flying through his mind faster than his lips could form them. He shook himself once more, clasping his hands behind his back and forcing his body to settle. "I'm saying that I don't want you going out for coffee without me anymore."

"Sherlock—"

"I really don't see how I could be any more clear about it."

Suddenly, John appeared in front of him, his brows pulled tighter than ever. "You know that I can't do that. Sarah and I need—"

"Oh, forget Sarah," Sherlock snarled, gesturing cholerically. "She doesn't even like you."

"Sherlock," John warned. "Don't."

"What kind of a girlfriend makes her boyfriend sleep on the sofa? A lesbian one, that's what kind."

"Oh you've got to be—Sarah is straight!"

"Oh, right, and Mycroft is a magical unicorn that wants to save the world with the power of friendship. Please, John, don't be daft. I know a closeted lesbian when I see one."

"Why d'you…" John gave an acerbic laugh, his gaze dropping to the ground. "Why do you have to ruin everything? My whole life revolves around you, Sherlock. You text, and I come running. Doesn't matter where I am or who I'm with. Do you know how that makes me feel? Do you know how that makes me look?"

Unable to stand it any longer, Sherlock allowed himself to look at the other man. He wrinkled his nose, wanting to ask several questions but trying to sort through them all and settle on one. He finally decided on, "What does it matter?"

Another laugh, harsher and more brittle this time. "That's the sad part. It really doesn't matter to me at all. I know that there's no one else out there like you, and to be able to be a part of what you do…to be a part of your world…" John drifted off, his expression falling into a desperate sort of blankness.

"What?" Sherlock asked, needing to know yet somehow dreading the answer.

John smiled then, softly, with just the barest hint of lift at the edges of his lips. "I would die for you, and it doesn't even matter that I don't think you'd do the same for me. It doesn't even matter that I wouldn't want you to save me if it came down to it, if it was a decision between your life and mine. And every time I think about it—Jesus—I know that other people must think that I'm out of my mind, but I don't care. Do you understand? I don't care."

The detective frowned, taking in John's form and posture and everything it could possibly imply in one sweeping look. "I do understand," Sherlock said slowly. "And I want you to understand…I'm never letting you out of my sight again."

John's eyes snapped back up, his whole body going abruptly still. And Sherlock could feel his body doing the same, and that annoying tingling was beginning to spread down his neck into his chest. Something strange was happening to him—something he'd never experienced before. "Sherlock…" John leaned forward, his stare rooting Sherlock in the reality of the moment. And then John's eyes dropped, just a fraction, his pale lashes fluttering for a lingering second before they rose once more.

"Boys!" Mrs. Hudson called, and the two men sprang apart like the space between them had caught on fire. "You've got another one!"

Sherlock's nails plucked at the strings of his violin as the memory faded. That had been the evening before the boomerang case—the evening before he'd met the woman. The woman. The one who'd brought to the surface things that he'd long kept dormant.

Grimacing, Sherlock checked his watch once more. 6:38. Not a moment later, the detective was on his feet and rushing out the door to hail a cab.