A/N: We are getting close to the end now...Made some changes to this chapter. It felt rushed and OOC in some parts. And yes, as always, there were typos (but I have no beta and tend to work quickly between uni and work shifts; I proofread but don't always catch it all. Sorry!)
4.
John found that the days moved alarmingly quickly now that he had a purpose, fading into weeks and months, unmarked by anything beyond the usual - a case, a cup of tea, a chat with the Doctor, a conversation with Mycroft, a criminal mastermind breaking into his flat to leave little gifts while he sleeps - and like an ocean wave they ebbed and flowed and disappeared into a foamy haze.
He kept every one of Moriarty's presents. From foreign trinkets to poisoned chocolates to greying copies of Grimms' fairy tales, John cherished them all.
But none so much as the tiny scrap of paper with John's own handwriting - eggs, veg, fruit, milk, butter, bread - and the bloodied thumbprint (too small to be Sherlock's, too delicate to be John's, but oh so delightfully suited for precise Jim's) that accentuated John's other memo for the day like a bullet point in a PowerPoint presentation:
Phone
John didn't even remember writing this; it must be from years ago, and logically could've meant anything. The paper was torn just before John could see what followed - Phone what? Was it a verb or a noun? The combinations assaulted his mind in an onslaught almost reminiscent of gunfire.
Phone him. No, he'd never write that. Not when he could text, and not when the man was already always on John's mind.
Phone Harry. Well, he might've done, just to check in.
Phone. A phone. The phone. That phone.
A study in pink.
Knowing Moriarty, it was rather likely the last one. But in all honesty he didn't care which it was. The important thing was Moriarty knew, somehow, who and what John had become, and just what all these little gestures might mean to him now. For the old John Watson, before the merge and still reeling with grief and the daunting task of living a life without his best friend, would take no interest in overtures such as these. Before, they would have enraged him beyond all reason. John would have forgotten his poor odds of survival - or more likely, would have counted on them - and pursued Moriarty himself, rushing in half-cocked and guns blazing, no plan, just terror and blind rage to guide him.
Idiot.
But now...
Now he wanted to pause and think about just what Moriarty was playing at. John wanted to save Sherlock, yes, but he also trusted the other man to take care of himself. Odd, that. He'd never trusted Sherlock with self-care a day in his life, but somehow, in this instance (and knowing how the younger man thought) he believed he wasn't wrong in doing so. Sherlock would not fail in his overtures with Moriarty, because they were too similar in thought frequency, stimulation, faults, arousal, needs. Sherlock would be successful because he was Moriarty's equal.
They were both something out of a fairy tale.
Moriarty's overtures towards John, conversely, were not invitations to come out and play. Not exactly...not quite. It did smack of Hansel and Gretel, the clever witch luring the damaged children from a dysfunctional homelife one sickly sweet at a time. But in the end, they killed her and felt nothing. John wasn't capable of that degree of detachment unless he was out in the field or saving Sherlock from his own idiocy. And John would not have that as motivation, because he knew somehow that despite both men's flair for the dramatic, Sherlock's battle with Moriarty would be private, all pretense dropped, all masks cast aside.
For their final act, intimacy was required.
For all the merge had given him, John knew he still was hardly a replacement for his best friend. His fascination did not extend to full out sociopathy, and without a reason to kill the man, John would merely freeze. He'd waver under Moriarty's penetrating eye and try to take in as much of him as possible - eyes roving hungrily and fearfully while his brain instructed fervently for him to shut up and focus and then you can forget this ever happened - just as he had done so many times with Sherlock and every other fascinating but dangerous thing he'd stumbled upon since.
This was foreplay, yes, but John could hardly consummate. And Moriarty knew it. They both knew John was no match for him, and that Moriarty would smile predictably and sigh and do what must be done, but he'd take no pleasure in John's destruction. It would be too easy. Where was the challenge? The thrill?
Where was the release?
No. Wait.
Unless -
Ah. Of course.
Things were different, now. Moriarty's hand was heavy, but it wielded deftly and left no marks. His interest in John was, while personal, still nothing to do with the army doctor. The motives and desired ends had not changed, merely the means toward it. Moriarty wasn't sending threats of Sherlock's impending death, or appealing to John's morality; he was...courting him. Which was to say, he was baiting him; which was to more accurately say, he was baiting Sherlock, because for Sherlock the two really were one and the same.
For John, these little tokens were tantamount to a kiss that drew blood. And in that instant he knew what Moriarty was doing.
Moriarty, bless his soul, was reminding John.
As if he could have somehow forgotten - as if he didn't already obsess over the fact Moriarty planned to destroy every last bit of him; as if he didn't already ruminate, daily, about Sherlock's nonexistence and John's own distorted perception of the world and his unintended forged purpose; as if he didn't constantly drown in terror when he shut the light at night, thinking obsessively that time was moving too quickly and too many people knew and there were so many ways it could go wrong - but that maybe, just maybe this time, no one would get killed for real -
...and John felt his heart flutter as he involuntarily laughed, drowning in imagined lilting Irish tones (softened with that wide-eyed helpfulness that made John want to snarl and laugh at the same time): Here, sweetheart, let us give you a hand; it must be awfully trying, for you, wading through all that simplicity -
How...remarkable.
Terrifying, yes, but rather brilliant too. A tangential conquest...and none of it about him. The best part was that Moriarty needed to destroy all of Sherlock, and if some of him remained in John - well. The answer was simple, really. Child's play. Two birds with one stone. And so began another game - but with just a touch of thoughtfulness born of insight rather than emotion, because while Moriarty may lack true understanding of concepts like grief and love, he still could fathom them. He had a touch more connection to the regular world and knew people, even if he didn't feel as they did. He knew what stimulated Sherlock and incensed John, and what impassioned them both.
That was the most fascinating thing of all: how well Moriarty played on both.
Moriarty was...loathsome. And beautiful. And enrapturing, and John couldn't stop thinking that he finally understood why Sherlock hunted him. The man was insane but brilliant and so much more - gloriously, perfectly more -
And John could see that now, because Moriarty kindly, fastidiously ensured he would never forget.
The bloodied paper was framed and hung, lovingly, on the mantle wall.
John sipped his tea and texted Lestrade another winning deduction that would close their current case. He stared at the empty sofa, untouched violin, empty fridge, one mug, clean flat - and he steepled his fingers below his chin. The clock ticked. Outside, London traffic roared.
His pulse thrummed rhythmically.
He read another fairy tale.
-o-
"Everything you said checked out," Lestrade said, coming back into the room. "Forensics confirmed twenty minutes ago." He chuckled darkly. "Shame they took 48 hours to prove what you knew in fifteen seconds. How did you know, anyway?"
John wasn't like Sherlock. He didn't need to show off - in fact, found it tedious. But at odd moments, off moments, when he really took the time to think about how he'd deduced something in lieu of just proclaiming it to be so, he found his justifications to be neither solely instinctual nor observational - they were fascinatingly both.
But the magical part -
The magical part was there was nothing strange about that at all.
People were that way, John knew. He saw them do it, he saw the way the thought and he experienced how the felt. People were a complicated mass of logic and emotion, to varying degrees existing on a spectrum, and they took in information and consciously and subconsciously attempted to force this input to conform to their views based on where they fell on that continuum. When John merged, he didn't become less human. To the contrary: he became more so, because human could mean anything from sociopath to martyr, or both at once. And what Mycroft and the Doctor didn't seem to understand was that this both was not always dangerous - people were both all the time and the world didn't end: the world rather depended on it, in fact.
Or - no.
Maybe they understood perfectly, and they feared something else.
What could be more important than the world?
"The ink-stains on her fingers," he answered distractedly, remembering that thing called conversation. "And her desperation."
Never underestimate the power of desperation, John knew. It masqueraded as many things and came in various shapes, sizes and strengths, but ultimately the punch it packed was always two shades deadlier than anticipated. When one felt they still had a chance, even the slightest hint of one, they clung to hope: hope was softer, even to hold on to it felt like clutching fire - and that pain was better than the alternative. John had seen, more than once, the very second someone gave up, stopped fighting, lost all hope. The fading light from the eyes of a corpse; the final flicker of a candle going out. Nothing but vapour remained; vapour and smoke and charred skin. And that very often led to despair, but sometimes something else rose up: something furious and howling, choking, demonic. Something poised for action. Something much fiercer and uncontrolled, and oh so aware. No longer did the person believe in miracles; they only believed in results. And they would do anything to get those results.
Desperation.
Desperation was hope with a knife, matted hair and a God complex, after four red-eye flights and six bullet trains across five different countries, chasing shots of tequila with a cocktail of methamphetamines and Oxycontin.
Desperation was thirst and gunpowder.
Desperation was hope with nothing left to lose.
When John stared into the mirror every morning, he tried to tell himself he was still seeing hope staring back at him in those familiar brown eyes.
(Every part of him knew he was lying.)
-o-
"Are we ever going to talk about it?" the Doctor asked conversationally, tinkering with something shiny and explosive.
John tapped his foot. "Why do you keep bringing it up? One visit, can't we go one visit without you asking that?"
"Here's the thing, I don't think we can," the Doctor replied, still not giving John his full attention. "With every day you stay like - however you are - the less able we'll be to change you back."
"Shockingly, I'd thought of that," John said, so polite it bordered on derision.
The Doctor rolled his eyes. "So what's the problem, then?"
John stared. For a genius, the Time Lord could be disgustingly dense at times. "So...I don't care to turn back," he said in his kindest you're an idiot voice.
"...Right," the Doctor said, freezing. "Okay. Right."
He stared at John for a tick then stared pointedly not at John.
"Give me about thirty seconds of silence, if you would, John; I need to cogitate. Please and thank you."
John nodded absently, turning back to his own work.
Cogitate.
Really?
Had it honestly not occurred to any of them that he was happier this way?
-o-
They were stood over the pictures, closely examining each one, when Sally noticed the smell.
She wrinkled her nose.
Just a hint, barely there, both acrid and alluring and stirring up many a memory of two many drinks in badly-lit pubs while someone who underestimated her strength and tenacity swung a hairy air round her waist and slurred cockily, "Go on, then, love, just a one-off, I know you're practically gagging for it, if that get-up tells me anything it's that you haven't had a proper shag in weeks - "
She shook off the memories and asked, "How long have you smoked? You're a doctor."
He didn't look up. "Yeah, I know," he said with a teasing note in his voice. "Got the degree and everything."
"No, you know what I mean." Sally gave him a look his didn't see. When he didn't say anything, she added, "Like how bad that is for your health, yeah?"
He got a strange look in his eyes, then smiled. "Huh. Never pegged you to be someone uncomfortable with cigs. You never seemed to mind when Anderson bummed one or two off Lestrade."
She huffed, putting her hands on her hips. "I didn't. I don't have a problem with it," she answered. "It's more like...it's you, though, right? Just doesn't make sense, you being a doctor and all. You're the one always remarking on what's killed someone, or what to watch out for, or - dunno, just seems like you'd be the one going on about how bad it is for your health, too, yeah?"
He shook his head. "Right. Here's the thing, people are incongruous and if you expect them to behave the same way all the time you'll likely be disappointed. Besides, I could make a convincing case about how just about anything can be hazardous to your health."
"Yeah?" Sally said challengingly. "Prove it."
"Well, I need something innocuous first. How about toe nail scissors. As a doctor, I could easily tell you how dangerous toe nail scissors can be for your health, and I don't mean obvious-accidental-stabbing," he said simply, going back to the photographs.
"John." She rolled her eyes, suddenly feeling like she didn't want to get into it with him.
"For starters, unless you sterilise them after every use - "
"Oi! Come on. How long, then?" Sally asked, annoyed.
"Past few months."
"Why?"
"Helps me think."
"Lots of stuff could do. Couldn't you drink more coffee or something?"
"Caffeine is, actually, a more lethal substance than nicotine," he replied. At her suspicious look he laughed. "It's true, look it up!"
"Right," she said slyly, leaning in, "suppose that's so. But it wouldn't be at the doses you're takin' in, would it, judging by the smell of your shirt, or else you'd be dead already."
See? She wasn't as thick as people thought. It was about time they realised that.
But one look at John's face told her he already had. Or at least some part of him had. He was smiling at her - a strange, calculating smile that intrigued her and put her off at the same time, but she supposed she wasn't worried overmuch because it was John - safe, smart, tactful, loveable John - and yes, he was sometimes detached and creepy, and right, okay, he could go off on a suspect with words sharp enough to make any hardened criminal cringe, but it was obvious he still felt something and was affected by what he did; it was obvious he was brilliant, but thank God, he wasn't the Freak.
"Sally, look, nothing's wrong, I'm not going to keel over tomorrow from lung cancer or an aneurism or anything like that. Things are just a little complicated right now so I slipped into an old habit," the man explained. "Luckily I have a few friends watching my back. Everything works out in the end, doesn't it?" He paused. "Well...except for Mr and Mrs Gold, apparently. I expect the brutal stabbing rather threw a spanner in their evening plans."
It wasn't so much the off-hand, highly inappropriate comment as the earnest tone that set Sally snickering - to her abject horror.
She never laughed at a crime scene. Only freaks did that.
Didn't they?
John gave her a sideways glance and grinned, and the tenseness of the moment passed easily.
When Sally had regained her professionalism she glanced back at him: he was back at the photographs as if the slip in decorum - much less the entire conversation - had never happened.
"Right," she said unnecessarily, mostly to herself.
She shook it off and did the same.
-o-
It took the Doctor thirty seconds to cogitate - or, to be more specific, to come up with the very beginnings of a plan. Coming up with the rest of the plan, the proper plan, actually took quite a bit longer, because he did it in sections.
Fixing a loose wire in the console of the TARDIS, he planned.
Sat on the sofa at the Ponds' home, chatting over tea, he planned.
Saving a nice old woman from an infestation of transdimentional photophilic carnivorous cnidarians, 1000 years in the past, he planned.
Two million years in the future, handcuffed to the bed and rather enjoying it as River - well, that bit wasn't important. What mattered was that he planned.
(He was frightfully good at multitasking.)
And finally, when plan became Plan, he made his move.
One year into the future (wibbly wobbly, timey wimey, all a bit jumbled but he'd better get it right this time), he stumbled out of the TARDIS and into a very dark, dank sewer and stared straight into the unnaturally bright eyes of Sherlock Holmes.
"Hello!" the Doctor said brightly, tossing three boxes of nicotine patches at the detective's feet. "I'm the Doctor, and let's just go ahead and dispense with the pleasantries because judging by your lack of satchel and strident housing accommodations I would guess you don't have the luxury of entertaining long chats. Now," he went on, pacing, "if you're half as clever as they say you are, you've already dismissed the impossibility of my spontaneous arrival because it falls outside of your realm of belief, and you know I'm no threat to you for so many obvious reasons it'd be insulting to your intelligence for me to even enumerate them all. Also by now I'd wager you've made precisely 52 deductions about me - sorry, 27 of them are wrong - and have it narrowed down to three probable reasons why I'm here."
He paused, smiling. "And that little voice in your head, the one you hate to listen to because it isn't logical and is so infuriating because sometimes you know it's right and have to ignore it anyway - well, train your ears, detective, because that little voice is telling you which one it is. And it's right."
"John," Sherlock said, face impassive but eyes flickering with something very telling: concern. "He's not in any immediate danger, or you wouldn't be here. It's obvious you've just left our flat - tweed is thick and retains scent, so much so in fact that I'd recognise the combination of orange extract, carpet cleaner, burnt toast, dried blood, lavender dish soap, cheap brandy, formaldehyde and dust anywhere (though the faint traces of cigarette smoke are new; it isn't on your hair or skin, just your clothes, suggesting you picked it up rather than brought it in - I don't suppose John's been at my stash?) - even in this overpowering olfactory storm. It's possible you've killed him and felt a need to flee the scene - doubtful; no traces of blood on your shoes or fingernails, and judging by the motor oil on your fingers you were fixing an engine within the last two hours and haven't been able to wash your hands, so any injury or murder involving spilt blood is thus eliminated. The possibility of poisoning or fatal blunt force trauma remain but your coming to see me negates anything slow-acting (as that would give John time to fetch help) and while your physique suggests you are clearly physically fit, your musculature is more suited for running, not combat, whereas John's form is shorter and bulkier and his combative skills are not to be trifled with. From the narrowing of your eyes when I mentioned permanent incapacitation I deduce you've killed before, but from the slight twitch of your left hand at that proclamation I gather you experienced tremendous guilt afterwards. You didn't come here to gloat over John's condition but to warn me of it, suggesting you believe I can help him or are working off some maudlin notion I feel some sort of affection for him and will cooperate. This tells me you've not only been in our flat but have also been speaking at length with the man, rather than basing your assumptions off newspaper clippings and the rumour mill."
He paced furiously. "I have worked incredibly hard to make myself untraceable and no doubt you know that, based on how long it took you to find me; yet, you did the legwork anyway. That suggests you not only have acquaintance with John - you care about him, or at least feel the inclination (no, the deep compulsion) to help him, even though it will bring great risk to all three of us at a personal level and the mission itself on a larger scale. Were John in immediate danger, you would never have left his side. But it is your belief that he is in chronic danger, to such a degree such that you sought me out even likely knowing, whether by deduction or John's information, precisely why I did not want to be found; you don't like to endanger people, especially not strangers who have not wronged you in any way, but you're a dab hand at it if the stakes are high enough. You hide a lot, Doctor, but your bow tie and your smile give you away: you attempt to appear hapless and unassuming, and to a large degree you are; but to an even larger degree you're nothing like what you attempt to portray. No, you are highly intelligent, manipulative, dangerous and not altogether terrific at making connections and thinking ahead; you will go to nearly any bounds to aid someone in need, but you stay the most grounded when you remain disconnected from any situation you feel is too emotionally oversaturated."
A faint flush had spread across Sherlock's cheeks. The Doctor watched, slightly unnerved.
"And let's just reiterate, so that everyone is clear on one aforementioned fact, Doctor, if nothing else: you knew how precarious the situation was. You knew coming here might destroy everything. And yet you weighed the pros and cons anyway, and you found his life to be worth more than two years' work. Why?"
Sherlock turned sharply to face him, an ugly look on his face.
The Doctor just peered steadily into his eyes. "That's the funny thing about connections, though, isn't it," he said slowly, "because it's not just his life I'm trying to save by coming here. And that voice is screaming in your ear again because it knows you know that too."
Sherlock looked practically murderous.
"Sherlock," the Doctor said quietly. "Forget the greater picture and emotional impracticalities and the fun of a good puzzle just for a second. Who are you doing this for?"
Sherlock gave him a haughty look. "Myself, obviously."
The Doctor rolled his eyes. He knew how to handle this.
"Sherlock, shut up," he said smoothly. "I understand what's going on here, but it's difficult to watch. You credit yourself with genius then disgrace yourself with delusion. It's fine, it's expected, it's human. But it's beneath you. You claim to have an exceptional brain but I suppose you've let it atrophy, because this question - at least in my book - really is not such a toughy. Yes, alright, you have to dig a bit deep, look past the surface and all that. I suppose it feels like a trick, I didn't warn you, alright, it's true - but I shouldn't be expected to, should I? The oversight lies in your hands. I think you'll find the simplest answer is not always the correct one; you've fallen into the habit of underestimating as a coping mechanism, because God forbid there should be something the Great Sherlock Holmes doesn't understand. How suffocating, to know the answer but still find it too...complicated to comprehend."
The Doctor paused, waiting for the reaction -
Ah. Yes.
That's the ticket.
For the briefest of moments, Sherlock looked haunted. His whole face collapsed and it was everything he never felt, or always felt, or - the Doctor didn't know. This unguarded second might have contained an eternity; black holes and supernovas and neon lights and the screech of violin strings and warm skin.
And then it was gone and Sherlock was blinking, as if confused.
"Tell me," the detective commanded, very much in control again.
The Doctor beamed.
-o-
It was embarrassing for someone of his species, yes, but the Doctor had to concede he'd never been terribly...precise about time. He overestimated or underestimated, he forgot, he got distracted, he neglected to pay attention in the first place. But in this instance, he could say with absolute certainty he knew how long the affair took.
20 seconds for Sherlock to deduce, comprehend, deny and delete all the details that made no sense to him (aliens? Honestly).
15 seconds to filter out only the pertinent information.
10 additional seconds to analyse said pertinent information, transforming it into algorithms and combinations he could combine and change to determine how it affected things - personally, globally, universally.
5 more seconds to overcome his overwhelming urge to view this as an experiment and remind himself, grudgingly, one only experimented on friends with their consent.
And finally, 2 seconds to make a few crucial mental edits to the map.
The Doctor smiled. "I see you've done all the deduction we need, so I'd best be getting back. He'll never noticed the difference but - " he shrugged, smile broadening, " - you never know how quickly the times do change, do you?"
Sherlock ignored this, likely preferring to believe the man was mad. "Doctor," he said quietly, face carefully blank. "Tell John - " He broke off. His mouth opened and closed a few times and he finally gave up with a snarl, clenching his jaw tightly. "Tell him he's not a hero," the detective sneered finally, turning away.
The Doctor's smile saddened as he felt a wave of sympathy. "I'll make sure he takes care of himself," he translated softly.
Sherlock nodded sharply. Some of the tension left his stance.
The Doctor would never tell the high-strung detective this, but as he went back to the TARDIS to pop back to 221B-last-year he couldn't shake the thought that Sherlock had looked very much like John, just then.
It was a comfort.
The Doctor didn't know why.