Chapter 2: Memories.

"And here poor Alice began to cry again, for she felt very lonely and low-spirited. In a little while, however, she again heard a little pattering of footsteps in the distance, and she looked up eagerly, half hoping that the Mouse had changed his mind, and was coming back to finish his story." -Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

John reread what he had written, stretching out his writing cramp, and grimaced. He sounded pathetic. Then again, he felt the same, so maybe that was simply what he was. He'd thrown the list of questions into the garbage about half-way through, the words no longer difficult, simply spilling onto the page. After a moment of hesitation, he took the letter and folded it in thirds, slipping it into the waiting envelope beside him. He sealed it, and took up the black ball-point pen again. He wondered idly if anyone had ever been killed with a pen. Probably. He shook aside the thoughts, and put the pen to the envelope.

Sherlock.

Then he stared at the sealed letter, suddenly at a loss for what to do. Throwing it into the garbage seemed somewhat anti-climactic. Even the thought of burning it made him wince. Should he bury it in the garden, where no one would ever find it? John sighed, frustrated. He hadn't written this letter so that no one could read it. He'd written it for Sherlock. Who was never going to be able to read it. Because he was dead.

Dead; John hated that word. As an army doctor, he was used to saying it, but every time he did, it was heavy with shame. Another person he hadn't been able to save. Another family to inform. Another person gone, because he hadn't been fast enough. He hated to put Sherlock into that group. Sherlock defied all groups, all labels, any categories John could try to fit him in. There were no words for Sherlock Holmes, and why should 'dead' be sufficient to describe him now? It was senseless. All of this was senseless.

He rose, grabbing his cane, and hobbled across to the door. He spent five minutes on the street before he got a cab. He gave the address, and leaned back, trying his best not to think about his first case with Sherlock, the one where he'd killed the cab driver. He tried to feel a vague sense of regret for that, but couldn't manage it. The cabby hadn't really been attacking Sherlock; he hadn't been an immediate danger. A shot into the wall would have taken Sherlock's attention away from the pill for as long as it would take John to run between the buildings. But no; he had been angry, and he'd killed the cab driver instead. John waited, searching inside himself for sorrow, or regret, or anything related to the cab drivers death.

Disturbed by the nothingness he found, John stared out the window at the shops going by, letting his mind empty, until all there was was the world outside, and nothing to distract him inside himself. Then the black fence of the graveyard slid across his vision, and he refocused reluctantly.

"We're here," the cabby said unnecessarily. John paid him, thanked him, and set off into the graveyard. His feet carried him easily along the familiar path he'd been walking so often in the last two months. Every Saturday—Just another piece of his stifling routine. John looked down at the letter in his right hand, and tried to smile. It was Thursday; Even in death, Sherlock managed to shake him out of his schedule.

He came around a turn, eyes fixing on the black grave he'd come to visit. Then he paused. There was someone already there; but who could it be? As he'd mentioned in his letter, he was the only one that visited Sherlock's grave. He came a little closer, eyes fixed on the figure. Not the man he was always hoping to find, but still, familiar, somehow. The man was kneeling before the grave, fingers tracing the letters of Sherlock's name. And then the wind carried his voice towards John, and he froze. He knew that voice. He'd know it anywhere. But it wasn't possible!

"…that I could live without you, but I'm bored. I thought it was the right time to end our game, but now I'm stuck with nothing to do, and I hate you! I thought that… maybe… No. You were only ever human. Weakened by caring. Everyone dies… Everyone dies." The last words were quiet, repeated like the mantras John's therapist had given him for meditation. As the man rose, John watched him, unable to move.

He'd seen this man lying on a gurney beside Sherlock, both men in a pool of their own blood. He'd seen this man's brains spread over the roof, proof that Sherlock had at least died with his last case complete. And now… He was standing by the late genius's grave, dusting dirt off his knees. His eyes drifted up, and locked with John's. A smile spread across the dark-haired man's face.

"Oh, Doctor Watson. Fancy seeing you here." John continued to stare. He'd seen this man's body put in a black bag and taken to the morgue. He'd taken this man's pulse and felt nothing. How…

As if he could read John's thoughts, Moriarty gave a little laugh. "Oh, poor Johnny boy, don't you know that nothing it ever as it seems? Did you really think that I'd be anything less than the last man standing?" He paused, casting a look to the tomb he'd knelt before. "It's a shame, you know. I thought he might be the immovable object to my unstoppable force, but he fell anyways."

John's hand slid into the waistband of his jeans, and met cold metal. He curled his fingers around the gun handle, and pulled it up, fixing his aim on Moriarty's forehead. There was no way to miss this shot; it was too perfect. The man, infuriatingly, smiled.

"Still so loyal. You make such a good pet, John. Sherlock really didn't appreciate you as much as he should have. Did you tell him how brilliant he was? How amazing, how intelligent? How does it feel, to know I was smarter?" The click of a hammer being pulled back was John's only reply. Moriarty turned his back on him, walking towards the road, where a silver car was waiting. John ran after him, unwilling to shoot. This man was too valuable to kill; he was the proof that Sherlock wasn't a fraud. But he wanted to pull the trigger so badly that it scared him. He caught the man by the shoulder, spun him around. John rested the gun against his forehead.

"Can you fake your way out of this?" he asked. "If I shoot you in the head now, would you come back?" Moriarty was still smiling, but he looked surprised as well. Pleasantly so.

"Doctor Watson, I thought you had a psychosomatic limp." John turned slightly, realizing that he'd left his cane behind when he'd run towards Moriarty. The soft click, and the feeling of cold metal against his temple, told him that the tables had turned. He looked back to Moriarty, who was holding a gun in both hands, fixing it on John's head. "How fascinating, Johnny. There may be some sort of game in you yet. Now drop the gun." Seeing that John had no intention of doing so, Moriarty struck it out of his hand, unexpectedly fast. "Thank you. Now get in the car."

"No," John said calmly. "Go ahead and shoot me."

"Would I really be that dull? You don't know me at all, do you?" John held his gaze, refusing to look away. After a moment, Moriarty sighed impatiently. "Fine. Let's be physical about this. Close your eyes." John kept his eyes very open as Moriarty whipped the butt of his pistol around, slamming it into John's temple. The world went dark, and he heard Moriarty singing out "Nighty-night!" And then there was nothing.