Chapter 8: Morning.
"This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear; she got up in great disgust, and walked off; neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half-hoping that they would call after her."
-Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.
His head hurt. It was an odd sort of pain, a constant background ache. It seemed to pulse with his heartbeat, rising and fading like waves on a shore. Its inexorable rhythm made it difficult to think about anything else. John took a deep breath and then let it out quietly, readying himself to open his eyes. He cracked open his left eyelid, and quickly closed it again. Rays of sunlight had invaded his flat, their stupid brightness sending pain through his skull.
Who had invented hangovers? And why did anyone drink? John thought about Harry for a moment, tried to shake his head, but aborted the movement because it hurt too much. He really couldn't remember what had possessed him to take all those shots. Blame it on Moriarty. Suddenly, the memories came rushing back.
Wait.
Hang on.
That actually happened?
The unreality of the entire evening hit him with a staggering force. It had all seemed so natural last night. Like a dreamer, he hadn't questioned the strange things that were happening around him. But now everything seemed completely far-fetched, and even he was having a hard time believing it, despite the proof all around him. His leg didn't hurt. His head hurt enough for both of them. If he opened his eyes, he'd probably see the clothes that Moriarty had forced him into, laying where he'd thrown them before falling into bed. And the impossible memories were there, blurry with alcohol, but none of them completely gone, which was good.
Moriarty, wearing black jeans and a flame coloured T-shirt, lounging on his couch. Threatening his family and his friends. Forgetting his cane when he followed the madman. The electric green car. The policeman, who had been turned away by a simple series of numbers. The cocktails, the questions, the stories, the shots. The quiet, reasonable drive home, which somehow seemed more insane than the rest of the night.
John slowly pushed himself up to sitting, groaning. This was why he didn't get drunk. A half-remembered night of freedom wasn't worth the full day of headaches and nausea that followed.
Slowly, his eyes opened, and sure enough, there were the jeans and the green shirt he had worn yesterday. In his mind's eye, he could see Moriarty in the matching outfit, and it seemed like a dream. He was so used to the Westwood suits and slicked-back hair that they seemed to be a part of Moriarty, something he couldn't change. Seeing him in different clothes made everything different, it made him seem more human, somehow.
It was like watching him eat. It was unreal because Moriarty was supposed to be unreal, a 2D villain whose only purpose was to burn the heart out of Sherlock. But, as John had said, things like that just don't happen in real life. People don't have arch-enemies, and no one is 2 dimensional. It made him picture other things, like Moriarty sleeping, or reading a book, or brushing his teeth. Jim Moriarty brushing his teeth in the morning, now there was an image that seemed unreal.
But somehow, all of these things were becoming more believable. Two months ago, thinking about any of this would be impossible, but when John had watched him eat a grilled cheese, or lounging on a couch in a T-shirt, everything started to be rather unstable. Anything could happen, anything at all. A sudden image hit John, a jumbled mess of memories and dreams, a collage of what had happened last time life became unstable.
Blood on the sidewalk and streaking pale cheeks, blank eyes and a limp hand. A hand that he had been holding only the day before, as they ran down the street and around the corner. It had been warm then, fingers wrapped around his and not letting go. "Take my hand," that familiar voice, never forgotten and always present in the back of John's mind. But when the morning light had found them on the pavement, the same fingers had been limp and useless, the hand cooling in the wind, and the wrist had no pulse. John had felt for it, he hadn't let go until he was certain that there was nothing there, and Sherlock Holmes was dead.
It was Moriarty's fault. Sherlock hadn't been a fraud, John knew that, he'd been too real for anyone to believe, too real for the world to accept. In some ways it had been Moriarty that was the fraud, playing a perfect villain to lure Sherlock in, and then over the edge of the hospital roof, somehow, somehow. He'd killed Sherlock, John's Sherlock, the man who had saved his life in so many ways, who had swept in the door with his bloody dramatic coat and flipped his life around, and it was true, it didn't matter if the earth went around the sun, because John's life had revolved around Sherlock, and that had taken that away from him.
What was he doing? Going out to lunch, going out clubbing with Moriarty, criminal mastermind and murderer of Sherlock Holmes? Jim, the man with dark eyes, and a fascinating mind, and exaggerated expressions, and a dangerous laugh, he wasn't real. Moriarty, in the suits, with his snipers, the black eyes and the mocking sing-song voice, he was the real one, and he had killed Sherlock. How could John have forgotten that, pushed it aside as he was caught up in the game he was playing?
His phone went off, interrupting his thoughts. He reached out and grabbed it from its place on his bedside table, wincing at the brightness of the screen. Finally, he could read the new text, from an unknown number.
Drink some orange juice and have a shower. Helps the hangover.
JM
John grimaced at the screen. He felt disgusted by himself, by the memories, ashamed of what he'd become. How could he have been so easily taken into Moriarty's games? You can take a horse to water, but you can't make it drink. John had drunk, and this was the consequence.
And yet, there was still the urge to smile at the text. A criminal mastermind, sending him hangover advice. How strange could his life get? His phone vibrated in his hand, a new text popping up on-screen.
Same time tomorrow?
JM
John hesitated, thinking about his options. He could say no, but Moriarty had threatened his sister last time he'd refused anything he'd asked. As little as he liked Harry, she certainly didn't deserve to die, and John hated having death on his hands. But if he said yes, then he would be pulled back into the dream world, back into the deadly game he had just cursed himself for joining. And the more time he spent with Moriarty, the more he started to see him as human, and that was the biggest mistake he could make. "Moriarty is not a man. He is a spider." A spider, a puppeteer, making John dance for him. That's all this was to him, a show to occupy his time.
Would you kill anyone if I said no?
No one that you'd hear about.
JM
The reply came almost immediately, and John stared at it for a moment, trying to figure out what it meant. If someone he knew was killed, he would hear about it, so they were safe. And if there was a big explosion or something, he'd see it on the news. After that, it was an easy decision.
Then no. Leave me alone.
As you wish.
JM
After the unexpected Princess Bride quote, there was nothing. John put the phone aside, and swung his feet over the side of the bed. Was it really over? Would Moriarty really leave him alone? Could it really be that easy? Only time could tell, and John would do his best to be patient. In the meantime, he walked out into the kitchen to get himself a glass of orange juice.
A/N: Hello, everyone! Sorry I took so long to update. I had around 90 pages of this story written, and then it all got deleted in a black-out. It took me a while to build up the courage to start writing it again. Ah, well. I learned my lesson the hard way; if you have a really long story, save it to more than one computer/memory stick!
Also, I figured I'd take this opportunity to answer some common questions I've been getting in the reviews, from PMs, and from friends who are reading this story. Will Sherlock be in this story? Yes, he will, but not for quite a while. Will this be Johniarty? I honestly have no clue. I'm one of those weird authors who has no control over her characters. I know the main plot, but I don't know where their relationship is really going. Will there be Johnlock? I've already answered this one, but someone asked it again, so I'll answer it again! Unfortunately not. There will be echoes of it, and John and Sherlock will end up on good terms, but they won't be getting together. I do have a Johnlock story on my author page, but this is not it.
That's all for now. Thanks for all the reviews, you really have no clue how happy they make me. I apologize for the super long author's note, and I'll be posting the next chapter with this one, so read on and enjoy! See you around.