Chapter 7: Mysteries solved.

"The night is fine," the Walrus said.

"Do you admire the view?

It was so kind of you to come!

And you are very nice!"

-Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

They were two shots in, and John was already starting to feel better. His nerves and doubt were going away, leaving him with a warm, happy feeling. It mixed perfectly with the tension of being with Moriarty, comfort and danger, being on the edge and welcoming the fall. John thought about Sherlock for a couple seconds, then took another shot, pushing away the memories with the brutal taste of vodka. Jim grinned over at him, and knocked back his own third shot.

"Are you comfortable enough to start the questions?" he shouted over the music. John considered for a moment, and then nodded. Jim gestured for him to follow, and headed over to some tables along one of the walls, within shouting distance of the bar, but separated from the dancers by a glass wall. It was quieter there, and the two men sat down across from each other, both holding their drinks with two hands. Jim took a sip of his sidecar, and ran one finger around the glass. "Well, I asked the final question when we left off. Why don't you start? Answer for an answer, same deal as last time, and no cheating. You ask a question, you answer it. Fully." His voice suggested an 'or else,' but John didn't need to ask what it was. He knew Moriarty would come up with something suitably nasty.

"Umm…" John took another drink as he wondered what to ask. He wasn't quite drunk enough to ask about Moriarty's work, or for details about his childhood. What else was there? "When you were younger, what did you want to do with your life? I mean, most six year olds wouldn't answer 'consulting criminal' if you asked them." Jim smirked, and then looked thoughtful.

"It changed from year to year. When I was five, I wanted to be a firefighter, just like everyone else." His voice was full of disgust for his younger reincarnation. "Then I decided I wanted to be a lawyer, followed by policeman, detective, soldier, prime minister, back to detective, and then I realized I didn't want to work inside the law. After that, my job description kept expanding, until there was really no name for it anymore. Thus; consulting criminal." He spread out his arms, then took another drink. "Your turn."

"You wanted to be a policeman? Or a detective?" John asked, his brain attempting to put this together, and failing. He had asked the question because he knew, rationally, that Moriarty couldn't have sprung out of his mother, ready to kill people and bring chaos to the world. But somewhere inside him, that was exactly what he'd thought. Picturing a little Jim Moriarty, determined to be Prime Minister, or a detective, was nearly impossible while looking at the man across from him.

"Yes, that's what I said, come on, Johnny, answer your own question! I don't like waiting." The last word was sung, high and mocking.

"But… what changed your mind?" John wanted to move on, but he felt like a CD stuck in one spot.

"That's a different question, you have to answer this one first," Moriarty answered, so quickly the words seemed to blend into one.

"Ahh…alright. I always wanted to be a doctor, but as I got older, the idea of being a soldier seemed more attractive. Thus; army doctor." He spread out his arms like Moriarty had, then picked up his glass. "You know, until I got shot."

"Right," Jim drawled, then leaned forwards, suddenly intent, like a cat watching its prey. "If you died tomorrow, what would you regret most?"

"That you would still be alive," John answered easily, and then cursed the alcohol. He would have taken longer to answer if the space between his brain and his mouth hadn't suddenly shrunk to nothing. "Your turn."

"Oh, I don't regret things," the other man answered. "Live and never say sorry."

"That's a cheat, you have to pick something," John said.

"But that's the truth," Moriarty protested, and John gave him a narrow look. "Fine, fine. I would regret… dying." He made a general gesture. John sighed, but decided not to push his luck.

"Fine. Then I ask again; what changed your mind? From detective to a criminal mastermind, that's a pretty big leap." The dark-eyed man took another drink, finishing off the glass, then put it down, signaling the bartender for a refill.

"Not as big as you'd think," he said as they waited. "From doctor to soldier, though, that's a story I'm interested in hearing." He fell silent, and it became obvious that he wasn't going to say any more until his drink was refilled. John finished off his, and put his glass beside Jim's. Then they waited. The criminal mastermind's fingers started to tap on the table, a sharp 4/4 time that got faster and faster as the seconds dragged on. Finally, he made a motion to get up, anger clear in the lines of his body.

"Jim," John said, and the dark eyes turned to him. John saw the insanity there and met it easily, his blue eyes shining under the lights. Slowly, Jim relaxed back into his seat, eyes never leaving John's. A smile spread across his face, and he leaned back, all the angry tension falling away from him in a moment.

"That's the first time you called me that. I could tell that the woman was using drugs because of the obvious marks on her arms. I knew what she was using because I had been there for a while, and was able to observe the progression of her withdrawal symptoms. The latest needle mark was a day old, and the symptoms were characteristic of cocaine. The fact that she was feeling such obvious effects so soon meant that she was using a lot. The doses were nearing the stage where she'd overdose soon, and she was smart enough to know it, so instead of using cocaine, she would switch to methamphetamines. It's the logical step, at least, to a drug addict's mind."

When Moriarty had started talking, John had been extremely confused. What woman? Why was he telling him this? And then he'd realized he was referring to last night's dinner, and his deductions about the waitress. He'd asked how he'd known, and Jim had told him that he had to do something 'good' to get one of his secrets. Apparently, using his first name had been enough to get one piece of the puzzle.

"Amazing," John said automatically, then winced. He wasn't with Sherlock, and he shouldn't be encouraging the criminal mastermind. There was silence, as he stared down at his drink. He expected Moriarty to have that Cheshire smile when he looked up again, but he wasn't smiling at all. He was looking at John with something like genuine surprise on his face, his dark eyes fixed on John's lighter ones. "Well, it was," John said finally, breaking the uncomfortable silence

"That's not what people usually say," Jim commented. John fought the urge to laugh, remembering this conversation with Sherlock on their first day together.

"What do they usually say?" he asked, half because that was what he'd said then, and half because he was genuinely curious.

"Nothing, they just stare at me in mute horror, or something like that." Jim's smile was wide and easy, his voice matter-of-fact. John didn't doubt that he was telling the truth. "You're really a breath of fresh air, Johnny boy." He took in a deep breath and blew it out in a giggle, probably illustrating his point in his usual, disturbing way. The refills arrived, the bartender having noticed John's empty glass, and taking it upon himself to replace it.

"Sorry for the wait," the man delivering them said.

"Ah, yes, I'd normally kill you for it, but I'm in a good mood tonight," Jim said, his voice joking. The other man smiled and hurried off, back to the bar. "It's funny how often you can tell the truth and get away with it, simply because no one believes you," the criminal mastermind commented, before taking a drink. John nodded absent-mindedly. "On that note, let's hear a story," Jim said. John picked up his drink and focused, as Moriarty began to talk.

"Once upon a time, there was a little twelve year old named James. And James was not a normal boy. Everyone knew it, and everyone hated it." His voice settled into a singsong fairy-tale cadence, as though he were telling a classic tale to a group of five year olds. "Now, James had always been very interested in crime. He wanted to be a detective, and save the world from big, bad criminals, just like a superhero. People would come to him and say 'Oh, James, people are being killed, and we need your help!' And then he would save them, and they would worship the ground he walked on." He paused to take a drink, and then continued.

"One day, little James decided he'd had enough of reading crime books, and listening to the news. He wanted to start helping. So when he saw a new murder on the telly, he shrugged on his coat and made his way to the crime scene, all on his own. He slipped through the police tape, unnoticed, and went to look at the body. He looked, and he saw things, things he had trained himself to see and use. He knew that it was the brother who'd done it. But… When James tried to pass on the information, no one would listen to him. He was only twelve years old, after all."

John was completely swept into the tale, a picture of the little genius standing over the body caught in his mind. Moriarty's black eyes would have seemed even larger in his young face, and his hair would have been less meticulously groomed. It would have blown about in the wind, stray locks falling into his face.

"Our little hero was very upset about this. He started spreading around the information, hoping someone would listen. He was so proud, because he'd solved a real life crime!" He said the words with all the puffed up importance of a young child. "There was one boy in his class," he continued, voice dropping solemnly, "whose name was Carl. And Carl's father was on the police force, in charge of the same case James had solved. And Carl wasn't happy that this boy, only one year older than him, had figured out the case that his father couldn't."

John suddenly remembered the Carl Powers case, that had set Sherlock on his path. Was it the same Carl? Had he really been the first person that Moriarty killed? Moriarty's first kill, Sherlock's first case? The irony was overwhelmed by a sense of rightness. Their paths overlapped in so many ways that it all seemed perfectly natural, really.

"So Carl called on all his friends, younger and older, and he said to them 'James is too smart, and we need to teach him a lesson.' And all his friends, they descended like vultures, and they made little James's life very bad. James looked up and saw Carl laughing at him, and he decided that if this was what being a detective meant, he didn't want to be one. If people weren't going to respect him because he was saving them, well, then, they could respect him because he would kill them otherwise."

Jim's smile was wide, sharp, and completely insincere. "There were other children that Carl was laughing at, and James watched, and he asked them to help him. They were happy to, happy to rally behind him and each act out their parts. One of them got the paralyzing agent, the other one made sure he was Carl's roommate when they made a trip to London. And the plan was carried out, each child doing one thing, so that none of them felt entirely responsible. Except for Jim, who watched from behind them, and smiled, because he was the one who had told them all what to do, and he was the one that had gathered them together. And that was when he knew that this was what he wanted to do. So… that was the story of 'How James Moriarty became a criminal mastermind.' Now let's hear 'How John Watson became a queen's killer.' Take it away, Johnny."

There was a long silence, during which John simple stared at Moriarty, and the dark-haired man stared back, waiting. John's mind was having a hard time with the story, perhaps because of the alcohol, but it was more than that. The story made sense, too much sense. He could see the little boy with huge black eyes, echoed in the man across from him. He could see the whole story, and it fit with Jim so well that it didn't seem right. Jim simply didn't fit together, he didn't make sense. John could never understand him. So why could he understand him now? Why did it all suddenly fit together? How could anything make sense when Moriarty was involved?

"I…" John started, then stopped, still boggling. Moriarty had been young once. He'd wanted to be a detective. He was really just one step away from Sherlock. John paused, and thought about that again. Were they really that close to each other? Surely not. But he thought about the disgust Sherlock expressed for ordinary people, the complete lack of regard he showed for the emotions of the people around him, and the excitement he showed when there was a new murder. Maybe they were that close. After all, Sherlock hadn't been listened to on the Carl Powers case, either. If he had never found Lestrade, and actually been noticed, where would he have ended up? If things were different, could it be Jim solving the crimes right now, and Sherlock committing them? Where would John be in that universe? If Sherlock were on the other side of the law, would John have stood by him? He didn't know the answer, and that scared him.

"Oh my, was that too much for your brain?" Moriarty asked in a concerned tone. "You'd better have a shot." He signaled for it, and this time, the server responded quickly. Maybe he hadn't been quite so clueless as John had assumed. He slid it across to John, who knocked it back with fierce abandon. The possibilities, memories, thoughts, they were all knocked out of his head by the burning taste of alcohol.

"Thanks," he said to Jim, and that word was probably a sign that he had drunk too much.

"You're welcome," came the reply, which startled John all over again with its normalcy. "Now, how about that story, Johnny? How did you go from saving people to killing them?"

"I never stopped being a doctor," John protested immediately. "I just… expanded my repertoire."

"Yes, yes. And why did you do such a thing?"

"I…" John thought back on his childhood, trying to pinpoint the time when he'd decided to be a soldier. What had prompted his decision, to leave his home for the chaos of war?

"I was in college, studying to be a surgeon," John began. "I had a girlfriend, and a part-time job, and no money whatsoever. Typical medical student. I guess at some point, I started looking around at the adults I knew, and I realized they all had the same life. Worked, came home, ate dinner, interacted with family, watched the telly, went to bed. There were people who were happy living like that, my dad being one of them. And there were people who weren't, who just got trapped in it, like my mom. I knew that I didn't want to end up like her, so I took a path as far away from that as I could. I joined the army."

"You got trapped in it anyways, after you got shot," Moriarty commented.

"I almost did. I almost got dragged into that godawful blankness, but Sherlock saved me. He cured my leg, dragged me along on ridiculous chases, never let me work a full shift at the clinic without some sort of interruption. I was never bored when I was with him."

"Are you bored now?" Jim asked, and John's eyes snapped to him, trying to gauge his expression. Curious, open, slightly too innocent. What sort of question was that? It was hard to think, through the alcohol, and the intoxication of dangerous company.

"Of course not," John answered finally. How could he be? He was sitting across from a criminal mastermind, the most dangerous man in London (perhaps excluding Mycroft). Boredom was about the farthest thing from what he was feeling.

"Neither am I. I was bored all day, even though I was working. It was a mundane job, knocking off an ex-husband, making it look like an accident. I feel uninspired without a counterpart, someone actually on my level. The police don't have a chance of catching me, and without some sort of risk, everything is so dull. And somehow, I don't feel bored now. Why? Why, Johnny, what about your mundane, average brain interests me? What enables you, of all people, Sherlock's little pet, to puzzle me? Why you?" He spat the words, voice rising to a shout, eyes on fire.

John just stared. He couldn't really think right now. His thoughts were like syrup, slow and sticky. Jim tossed back the rest of his drink, and then stood, his movements only slightly affected by the alcohol. To be fair, he'd had one less shot than John. And John had always tried to stay away from actually getting drunk, mindful that alcoholism ran in the family. As such, his tolerance was painfully low, and he wasn't entirely sure that he was thinking straight right now.

"That's it, I'm done this whole deep questioning thing, I'm taking you home. Come on, get up, get back in the car.
"You're not driving like this," John had the presence of mind to say. He remembered the earlier terrifying trip, and pictured a drunk Jim behind the wheel.

"I'll drive nicely this time, okay? I promise," said Moriarty, crossing his heart. "And I don't break my promises, Johnny. Ever." John hesitated, wondering if he should really trust a consulting criminal. Then he remembered that he had left his wallet in his pants at home, which meant he had no money for a cab. So he really had no choice.

"Okay, fine, let's go," he said. Jim ordered two more shots, which they knocked back in silence. Then they made their way back through the dancers, walking close together through the crush of bodies, and out the back door into the alley. John breathed in the fresh air, tilting his face up to look at the stars. They were like little pinpricks in a black blanket, letting the light through. Pretty, and so far away. When his eyes drifted down to earth, Jim was staring at him from his place beside the car. "What?" he asked, half-defensive, half-curious.

"You're drunk," the other man commented. "It's interesting."

"You're drunk too, you're human. Jim." John tacked it onto the end because it felt important to say. He was rewarded with a smile that wasn't a smirk, and wasn't uncomfortably wide. It looked mostly normal, actually. Sort of sincere. Wow, that was a strange word; sincere. Sincere, sincere, sincere…

"I am, but not that badly. Can you even walk over here?" John straightened his shoulders and took a step towards the car, defiant and steady. One foot, one step, other foot, step again. He reached the car, and leaned against the passenger door next to Jim.

"Ha. Take that. You can kill people with one text, but I can walk." They both laughed, John's giggle a perfect counterpart for Jim's low, dark chuckle.

"Get in the car," Jim ordered, and John did what he was told, sliding into the seat and putting on his seat belt. He was still uncertain about letting Jim drive while under the influence of alcohol. But he didn't have much of a choice, and Moriarty had promised to drive nicely…

They pulled out of the alley slowly, and onto the main road. The drive home was quiet. They didn't exceed the speed limit, they stopped at all the red lights, and they didn't cut anyone off. Jim was laughing quietly to himself all the way home, while John stared out the window at the lights going by and hoped he wasn't going to throw up.

A little while later, they pulled into the driveway in front of the building where John lived.

"I'll see you around, John," Moriarty commented.

"I know," John responded, and stumbled out of the car.

"Sweet dreams!" Jim singsonged, and blew a kiss out the window after him. He drove off, the electric green sports car disappearing into traffic in a blur. Apparently, the 'driving nicely' rule was off once John was out of the car.

John turned and started up the stairs, feeling worse and worse as he climbed. His vision was blurry, his leg hurt, his balance was off, and his stomach was rolling. Finally, he reached his door, and had to bend down to get the spare key. It took him several tries to get the key lined up with the lock, because his vision was doing this funny doubled thing, and the key kept changing places.

He got inside after a little bit of trouble, and ran straight to the bathroom to throw up. That seemed to make things better, so he stumbled over to his bedroom, stripping off his jeans and shirt, and fell into bed wearing only his pants. Sleep swept over him almost immediately.

A/N: Hi, I'm back, sorry about the wait. There should be less of a gap between chapters from here on in. I was on vacation... But you probably don't want excuses. Don't forget to review, don't forget to be awesome!