Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes © Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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Part XI —
Undergang
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"If you think this has a happy ending, you haven't been paying attention."
— Ramsay Snow, A Song of Ice and Fire
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There is a man, tangled in sheets. And memories, flashing across his mind.
This is what he awakens to:
Someone (not John not John not John) has dragged a mobile TV screen in front of him, video looped. He know what it is before he watches. The bloody abattoir room, the meat hooks, the unrecognizable—somehow still screaming—person on the floor. The laughter.
'Tomorrow,' he'd thought while having his brains fucked out, 'Tomorrow we will catch Moran.'
[...wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong...]
FLASH.
John reaching up to his neck, bleeding out on the wet pavement. He'd wanted to strangle Sherlock. And Sherlock had selfishly though it'd been because he loved him.
FLASH.
The way he held his coffee cup.
FLASH.
The way he held himself. Too tense to be natural. As if he needed to be in complete control of his idiosyncrasies, not moving a limb without registration.
FLASH.
The anger, because Sherlock showed up too quickly. "You're not supposed to be here."
FLASH.
The colour of his eyes. Gray, and hatred.
FLASH.
How John said "I love you" like a soldier going off to a war.
FLASH.
He'd removed the bandages right in front of Sherlock. Why didn't Sherlock see who it was? Why didn't his photographic mind compare John to the picture of Sebastian Moran?
(The truth: it didn't because of emotion.)
Hate, love... They both seemed so similar when Sherlock was involved. Was there ever a moment after Sherlock's death that he'd met with John? Sherlock shuts his eyes tightly. His brain is alive again, alive and shrieking, and he cannot delude himself with more lies.
It had been Moran the whole time.
The inside of his thighs are sticky with blood and other fluids and he grimaces, rolls over the bed and pukes.
Sebastian Moran stole John from him. He also stole John's identity, and Sherlock's virginity.
Of all the lies he had created, one is particularly true:
This is all for vengeance.
And then, like always, his cell beeps.
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The park.
John met here with Mike Stamford, long ago. Their meeting ended with the first introduction to Sherlock that'd ensnare him, own him, and ultimately, destroy him.
Darkness consumed the park. Sherlock stepped into it, eyes dry.
The finale.
Sebastian Moran stands there, wearing the skin of his best friend.
Not literally, of course. The face is shrewd and unrecognizable, torn flesh moving and stretching when he speaks. It looks like someone had made a replica of John's face and sewn it on him. Plastic surgery, or rather, surgeries. They must've been taken from a back alley doctor, ending up with a so-and-so result. Half of his face is John like. The other half... grotesque. It is terribly obvious, now.
Mike Stamford upside down hangs from a tree with a cut throat. Red drips to the grass.
The silence is brittle and dry, like it'd snap apart at any moment.
"Hello," the not-John greets.
"Moran."
"Glad you figured it out," Moran says. Sherlock gets the impression of a man of few smiles and words, preferring action to monologues. He is a very loyal soldier. But there is an unhinged madness resting just beneath the surface. It must've taken years to grow it. Moriarty, it seems, cared well for his crops of insanity. "But I'm curious; did you figure it all out?"
"You planted those bombs. You hired those mercenaries. The phone bombs, too. Everyone who had an involvement in... Moriarty's death. Those who escaped you hunted down and shot. Was John ever...?"
Moran tilts his head to the side. "Those videos I sent you... That was live footage."
He's still alive.
He has been there the whole time.
Sherlock bristles. "Where is he? Tell me!" And then he realizes it—no matter what he does to Moran, he won't bulge. Without a master, he's rabid. And Moriarty is dead. "...Please."
"Begging, Holmes? Like a dog? Abandoned, starved, kicked. If I slapped you, would you still lick my hand?"
"Just tell me where he is, I'll give you anything."
"I already took it all."
Moran steps forward and strikes Sherlock to the jaw. The detective stumbles backwards. He gets his gun out, pointing it at Moran.
"Stay away."
"Did you like it when I fucked you, Sherlock? Did it secretly thrill you, knowing it was me? Did John's screams evoke no reaction in you?"
The last mention sends him over the edge. Sherlock moves forward like a mad ghost. He uses the butt of his gun to slam Moran's face in, sending the lunatic (though which one of them is most feral, most insane?) backwards. Moran smiles.
He is completing Moriarty's work.
He will stop at nothing to get his finale.
"I'll stop this," Sherlock says, "I'll call the police."
"You don't trust them. Bullies, right? I know so much about you, Holmes. I'd know you'd do anything to get your hands on your precious Dr. Watson, and I know you'd go crazy if you didn't."
The card hidden in his sleeve.
John.
Before Sherlock can demand his whereabouts, Moran continues.
"I watched you open up to me, spilling, finally allowed to drop your walls."
He speaks in a low rasp, and Sherlock wonders how the hell he could've mistaken him for John. It seems surreal, looking back, as if every memory he has is stained with Moran's dark presence.
"I watched you trust me like an abused animal, following me around. I watched you sacrifice everything just to be with me, including yourself, drugging yourself and hating your brother. You are the most intelligent man I've met yet you cannot control your emotions; a little manipulation and a little cosmetic change," he gestures to his scarred features, "and you allow me to fuck you into oblivion. Too bad John is gone. You are alone, Sherlock." His eyes glitter. "You'll always be alone."
The silencer makes a whisper of the gunshot.
There is a hole between Moran's eyes. He falls backwards. His death is very quiet. There is no evidence of his involvement in the bombings, and using Moriarty's connections, he has no doubt deleted himself from the world.
Sherlock's chest rises and falls. Smoke rises from the barrel. The weight of his words pushes Sherlock down into chaos. He is not completely aware of what he just did.
First when his phone—always the phone, always the goddamn phone—rings he snaps out of it. First, there is a message from a secret number. Numbly, he clicks on it.
One video, the message says, for every day in the rest of your life.
It's followed by a video titled J_1
The first one of many. The count will only go up, up, up.
Never again will John see daylight.
He'll never get married.
He'll never have kids.
He'll never go to America.
He'll never learn to play an instrument.
He'll never write a book.
And he will never accompany Sherlock on another case.
Sherlock knows he will go crazy, silently, because he sees the options laid out in front of him. He will chase through the world in look for John, despite its obvious futility. Each video will be a reminder of how he failed to protect the only person who'd ever cared for him. He had betrayed him through other ways, too; he'd fucked the person who'd set up John's torture in the first place.
Sherlock had been wrong.
About everything.
Mycroft was right. He was a mistake, a problem in the world. He, himself, had become wrong.
But for now —
(clutching black curls, kneeling on the sidewalk, covered in blood)
— he'll be nothing but dust.