Chapter 34: Milkshakes and Mirrors.

"I think you might do something better with the time," she said, "than wasting it on asking riddles that have no answers."

-Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

John opened his eyes reluctantly, once the wind in his hair had faded to a faint natural breeze. They were parked on the street in front of a Ben&Jerry's.

"Milkshakes!" Sammy cheered. "Daddy, can I have a milkshake with my dinner? Please?"

"Ice cream and ice cream? This is sounding better and better," Jim said enthusiastically, rubbing his hands together.

"Well, if we're going to skip dinner for ice cream, we might as well go crazy," John said, and shared a smile with Jim for his wording. The three of them made their way inside. It was only five, and there was no one else at the tables.

"Hullo, welcome to Ben&Jerry's, how may I help you?" the girl said cheerfully, tucking away the paperback that had been occupying her attention.

"I'll have a double chocolate double scoop on a sugar cone, with a mint chocolate milkshake, and then Sammy here will have a rainbow single scoop on a waffle cone and a Smarties milkshake. And Johnny, what do you want?"

"Um, I'll just eat with the rest of the kids."

"Naw, you've got to have something."

"Seriously, I'll eat later."

"Come on, daddy's right, you should eat," Sammy interjected. "It'll be yummy!"

"No, I-"

"Okay, you're sharing my milkshake. There. That'll be it." Seeing the girl's blank expression, Jim realized that he had probably listed the order too fast. John could see his gaze flicker as he considered killing her, and waited as the thought passed. "Johnny, I'll leave you to sort this out. Sammy and I will wait at the table."

"Okay," John said, and gave Sammy a kiss on the hand before she left. Then he turned back to the woman behind the counter. "Sorry about that. He can be a little, well, overwhelming." He repeated the order slowly, and chatted with the waitress while she got the milkshakes and cones ready.

"Your daughter is simply precious," she said at one point. "Did you adopt her, or is she from a past marriage?"

"Adopted," John answered quietly.

"Oh, that's so sweet. That's your husband, then?" She nodded towards the seat, where Jim and Sammy were playing some sort of clapping game.

"Ah," John hesitated on the edge of saying 'no,' realizing that the woman had heard Sammy calling Jim 'daddy' as well. Co-parent, partner, husband, oh God. "Yes, he is," he said, wincing inwardly and wondering what Jim would think of this.

"How'd you two meet?" she asked, as she blended a milkshake.

"Through a mutual acquaintance," John said, grinning slightly. "At work."

"Well, I think that's it's great that the government finally allowed you to get married. It's ridiculous that it didn't happen sooner. Anyone could see how in love you two are."

"Thanks," John said with an extremely awkward smile.

"Alright, that'll be 12.50£."

"Oops, hang on," John said, and turned his head. "Jim, I don't have my credit card!" He didn't actually have a credit card, of course, using Jim's on the rare occasion that he got out of Brewers to do some sort of shopping.

"You're so absent-minded sometimes," Jim called back with a smile. "Here, catch!" He flicked one of his own cards like a Frisbee, and John caught it.

"Thanks!" He turned back to the woman. "Sorry." He slid it in and punched in the PIN without thinking about it. Whenever he borrowed one of Jim's cards, the number was always 8347. Whether there was any significance to it, John didn't know, but it was convenient.

"Thank you very much. Enjoy your ice cream!" the girl chirped. John gave her a genuine smile, picked up all the sweets as best he could, and made his way over to Jim and Sammy.

"Alright, this is for you, this is for you, here are your drinks, and I'll get straws for these." John backed away, and then snatched up three straws. "The woman behind the counter thinks we're a couple, by the way," he said to Jim as he sat down, unable to help himself.

"I know, I could tell by the way she looked at us."

"So that's sort of… funny," John said with an awkward laugh.

"You're sort of a couple," Sammy said, and then took a slurp of her milkshake. John looked over at her, wincing, having a faint flashback to Irene. Girls who saw too much and had the ill grace to point it out. "You live together, fight together, love each other, are both my daddies, cook together, work together?" Her voice tilted up, making it into a question, which made it so much worse, so much more awkward.

"Yeah, but we aren't a couple, we're just… Um." John looked to Jim for help.

"So, darling, what was that you were saying?" Jim said lasciviously, trailing a hand up John's arm, fingers cold from being wrapped around the milkshake.

"Nope, uh-uh, not happening," John said, knocking Jim's hand away. "Still straight."

"No, you're not," Jim laughed, but didn't say anything else on the subject, instead leaning his head down to slurp the milkshake. "That's a good milkshake," he said dreamily. John peeled his own straw and took a taste. It was, well, a milkshake. Good, yeah, sure, but not spectacular or anything.

"I found the answer to your question," John said suddenly. "The one that you asked me, the first time, the first lunch." He had planned on a dramatic reveal, at a key moment, but it was on this mundane day, over this mundane milkshake, that the words slipped out, immediately irrevocable.

"Did you?" Jim asked, taking another drink of his milkshake, expression suddenly closed. "And what answer did you find?" John hesitated, realizing that Jim wouldn't meet his eyes. It wasn't the response he'd been expecting. Teasing, joy, laughter, not… whatever darkness had suddenly made its way into Jim's tensed shoulders.

"You were the first person who told me something that meant anything," John said, the words sounding almost mechanical after tumbling around in his head for so long. "The first person in the world who made sense, in some sort of twisted way."

Jim looked at him for a long moment, and then started to laugh.

"Of course it's now. Of course it's now. It's almost enough to make me believe in karma." The word wasn't emphasized, but was pronounced carefully, like a swear word that was being used for the first time.

"I don't understand," John said, taken aback by this sudden wildness in Jim's eyes.

"Of course you don't," Jim said quickly, the words almost blurring together. "You will once I tell you, though. You'll understand and then you'll hate me again. And that's the funny thing. Just when things start to go right, here comes an old promise, and it comes up today, the first day I've… Well. Johnny boy, you infuriate me." The last words were almost fond.

"I don't-" John started to repeat. Then suddenly, Jim leaned in close, and his lips were right beside John's ear. The doctor stopped in surprise, and waited.

"He jumped for you," came the words. "He jumped because you'd die if he didn't. And yes, he loved you too. And yes, you could have had what you wanted, if you'd only had the courage to ask."

John almost tripped over his seat as he stood and backed away several steps. Jim's eyes were large and hard, closed off from him.

"And now you understand, everything, what you really wanted to know, how it all happened. You were the king of the game, John, and that's what I didn't understand at first. I thought it was a checkmate, up on that roof, but there was someone more fascinating, more important, and even the queen must be sacrificed for her most important piece. It was you. All along, it was always you."

"I-" John started, and had nothing left to say. What could he say? What could he think? His brain was swimming, and the images from that day were back, with the blood on the pavement and dulled quicksilver eyes. The hopelessness, the déjà vu, the desperation and disbelief and fear… he had to get away from the dark eyes that were so cold right now. He had to… had to think, he had to be by himself.

He turned blindly, dashed down the hallway to the bathroom, let the door close behind him, and then slumped to the ground with his back against the door. His breathing hitched, tears threatened, and he leaned back his head until it collided with plastic-coated wood. So there was the answer; the answer he had always wanted.

It was his fault, then. Sherlock had jumped
for him.

He had died
for him.

And the other words, they were even worse, they were much worse.

You could have had what you wanted.

Sherlock.

God, what had he done? Forgotten him? Forgotten what he was, and what he had meant? How much John had loved him, and the future he had wanted?

(Dark sky, stars above them, mist curling, alone, just them)

He'd let Jim take Sherlock's place, and fill the holes in his life. He had fit so perfectly where John needed someone. It had all been so perfect… was it all a lie? Was it even possible, that two men could mirror each other so beautifully? Who was James Moriarty, that he could take John's life like this?

a)Jim
b)Moriarty
c)Richard Brooks
d) All of the above
e) None of the above

Whoever he wanted to be? Did people even work like that? Could you truly be so many things, or were they just
masks?

Masks all the way down; no one allowed to reach the bottom. (The first day I- Well.)

No one allowed to see the truth. (Just when things started to go right.)

Everything hidden behind stories and personas. (No one gets to me, and no one ever will.)

Nothing that couldn't be changed, nothing to care for. (Don't give me those lies. I know there's a reason!)

Words, screamed, whenever he tried to convince Jim that there was anything to like about him. (You're trying to get information out of me.)

The way John had started to see people as weaknesses, in a time when Jim would use anything and anyone to get to him. (Dangerous thing, to see from my perspective.)

It made him wonder what it must be like in that mind, that brilliant dangerous mind. (It would save me a lot of trouble. Protecting you.)

Every person that you cared about was a chink in your armour. (You don't have any power over me.)

All along, was that what this had been about? (You can't save me, you can't change me, so why?)

Seeing the scars and somehow seeing past them? (It's stupid of you, John.)

Trying to understand a man who was all masks? (You're an idiot for caring. For seeing anything good in me.)

Putting the stories together, piece by piece, until you found something that was real? (Little James lived in a pretty little town)

Learning to care about the man who didn't care (that's the difference between you and me.)

Who didn't care about himself (Why don't you shoot me? Don't you want to?)

The man who was not a spider (It's how you play the game.)

Who wasn't insane. (Everyone's their own special brand of insane.)

Who wasn't a villain, not always. (Sammy, you okay? That was a pretty nasty tumble.)

John felt more centred now, as he considered someone else, instead of himself. But when he started thinking about his own path, everything became twisted and wrong. It was always about other people, that was how he lived, he thought about what other people needed, and he followed them, he couldn't accept what he thought he needed.

And what, then, was that?

John sucked in a breath as he considered that thought. No, he hadn't let himself even consider it, so caught up in Jim and Sherlock and right. What did he want?

He had wanted to go to that lunch. He had remembered those words that Moriarty had whispered to him, and he wanted more of those, those delicious moments of life and truth that even Sherlock couldn't give him. Purpose, that was the consulting detective, but meaning was new, and it snuck into his life through black eyes and high pitched laughter. All along, even when he was with Sherlock, there had been that nagging sensation, an unrecognized need, for memories pushed away, fingers on his forehead and a low voice in his ear.

There, all along, letting go of everything and everyone, that was what John wanted. This. This life, full of danger and sun and blood and Moriarty. Jim. Unpredictable, maniacal, funny, sadistic, enthusiastic, the realest person that John had ever met in a world full of people who seemed to be missing something. And being around that person made him real, and alive.

There were screams… Screams from the restaurant. John pushed himself up, swiping a hand across his eyes, and then ran out and down the hallway. He looked around for Sammy, but didn't see her. There seemed to be no one in the main part. There was another scream, hoarse with pain, John could almost feel the blood coating his throat in sympathy. He ran around the counter and stopped, unsurprised by the sight.

The kind woman who had served them was on the floor, mouth open in a gasp of agony. Her stomach sported three cuts, and Jim was just finishing a fourth with a flourish, flicking the blade out of her so sharply that blood hit the machines.

"Jim!" John shouted over the woman's screams. "Stop!" The dark-haired criminal genius turned, grinning.

"I was wondering when you'd be back. Come to save her?" John looked at the cuts, and then pulled his gun out of its holster and levelled it at Moriarty. The smile didn't falter. "Oh, you've come to kill me. Well, go on, then," Jim said, and spread his arms. John pulled the trigger, and the woman stopped screaming. Jim looked from the corpse to John. "Why'd you do that?"

"Because she was dying," John answered. "Where's Sammy? Please tell me that she wasn't watching this."

"Sent her out to the car first. Being a responsible dad and all that." His voice was calm, but his breathing was ragged, and his eyes were still shining with sadism. John knelt down in front of him, close enough to reach out and touch.

"Next time, hurt who you're really angry at. Not a random person nearby. If you're mad at me, then cut me. If you hate me, kill me." John dropped his gun on the floor. Jim was coiled with his feet beneath him, John kneeling, and they were eye to eye. "Come on, Jim, I'm still here for you to hurt. If you want to hear me scream, then do it."

Moriarty stared at him for a long moment, one hand clenching around his knife. Then he brought it down on his own arm. Both of them hissed, one with genuine pain, the other with sympathy. Blood stained Westwood and dripped to the floor to mingle with the woman's. The two men knelt there, one in a jumper and the other in a suit, and stared each other down.

"You're still here," Jim said, and pulled out the knife, letting it fall. "Why?"

"Because I want to be," John said. "Because I need you. Because we haven't solved each other yet."

"Oh, so now we're both puzzles?"

"All people are puzzles," John said, and started unbuttoning Jim's coat. "Some are more interesting than others. Some are unsolvable. Some keep changing. But they're all puzzles." He pulled off the jacket and unbuttoned Jim's cuff, gently rolling it up until he could get to the cut. "You said I was textbook, the first time we met. And I thought the same about you, until I realized that it was just a game you were playing."

"How long did that take you?"

"Too long," John answered, and reached into the near-by cupboard to pull out the store's First Aid kit. He took out the roll of gauze, keeping his eyes on Jim's. "You think that you're all masks, don't you? That you have no identity."

"I feel solved," Jim commented dryly.

"So did I, the first time we met. Now shush and let me finish this." He started wrapping the cut gently, knowing that it would be stinging more than really hurting right now. And he talked on, keeping Moriarty's eyes on him instead of the red slash across his skin, which was slowly being hidden by white bandage.

"You're wrong, you're more than who you've made yourself. I'm going to tell you who you are, and you're going to listen. You're funny. No matter who you're pretending to be, you've always got a wicked streak of humour. You can't suppress it. You're mischievous. Whether you're being innocent or wicked, you've always got this little smirk that tells everyone you know more than them, even when you were Richard Brook."

"Tell me more, tell me more," Jim sing-songed, the smirk gracing his lips even now.

"You're smart. You're impulsive. And no matter what part you're playing, you always think of yourself as Jim, even though that isn't the name you were born with."

"A deduction!" Jim gasped, wiggling his eyebrows as though it were an innuendo.

"I am capable of them once in a while, you know," John replied. "You're always self-destructive."

"This should be an interesting explanation."

"Oh, come on. You always take the role of the villain or the victim, never comfortable as the hero. You can't let yourself do good things, you make up selfish reasons for everything you do."

"I don't do good things," Jim muttered.

"You're proving my point. You take the role of villain, because it's one that everyone hates, and being hated makes you feel comfortable." The way that Jim's eyes flickered towards the abandoned knife told John that he was too close for comfort. "You take the role of victim because you find weakness despicable, and then at least you can hate yourself." Moriarty's eyes flickered back to him, full of anger, telling him that he was right. "But you never take the hero, because you think that you don't… I don't know. Deserve it?"

"And you're always the hero, because it's what everyone wants you to be," Moriarty said, eyes on fire with knowing and speaking. "You hate being the victim, because it means you have to depend on someone, you have to trust them. You see the best in the world, but the worst in people, and you try to blame it on the war, but it's probably because your school friends betrayed you when you were younger. Told your mother about you kissing another boy, am I right? Oh yes, I can see that I am. And the villain. Oh, you never wanted to be the villain because you felt too comfortable there. The power to give life and take life away, it's intoxicating, it scared you, you wanted it so badly and so you ran. You couldn't trust anyone, not even yourself, but you needed something, and you found Sherlock."

John's heart was beating fast, Moriarty was catching his breath, and they hadn't looked away from each other, not once.

"Sherlock's not here anymore, and you thought that you were losing yourself, that I was pulling you in. But that's not true, is it? You're only finding yourself again."

"And you hate yourself, all the time. What you were, how weak you were, and you hate what you are now. You hate yourself for caring and you hate yourself because you care. About me and the Misfits, and you hurt when they die, and you hate yourself even more for that."

There was a sudden, absolute silence. The two men looked at each other, and they understood each other, and they found solace in each other.

"There's your secret, Jim. You care much more than you want to."

"And yours. You care so much less than anybody knows."

And the blonde-haired man and the dark-haired man stood up, and they weren't quite sure who was helping who to their feet. And the two men with scars on their arms made their way out to the black car, where their daughter was waiting.

A/N: Surprise, another chapter! This afternoon is really boring, so I am gracing you with two doses of Jim and John. So... they're almost as close as they're ever going to get. I'd say that it's about time that we add in a new element, wouldn't you? Only a few chapters to go now, until Merging... Hold onto your hats, people.

And review! This was a very artsy chapter, I was playing around with the formatting and thought process a bit. Did it fail terribly? Did it work? I can't tell, so please please please let me know what you thought!

I love you all. Have an interesting day!