A/N: Happy New Year's Eve, everyone! a small gift for all my fabulous, loyal, readers. Hopes that things go much better for you than they currently are for Sherlock's friends in this story, heh! :)

"Really, Sherlock? Really? You had to cut her to pieces like that?"

John Watson was furious, absolutely, positively furious with his flatmate, and he wasn't about to let him off the hook, not this time. Not after that absolute disaster of a lunch. The only reason he hadn't already punched him was because he'd been too busy trying to calm a seething Mary to be bothered with giving Sherlock the beating he truly deserved for being such an arse.

It was as if he'd reverted to behaviors John thought the fall from the roof of St. Bart's had burned out of him. He'd been different since his return, less of a prat to the people whose lives had hung, all unknowingly, in the balance due to Moriarty's last act as a living man. It was a good thing that bastard was dead, or John would have happily killed him himself.

Just as, at the moment, he felt perfectly capable of murdering his so-called best friend. He slammed the door to the flat shut as he stormed in and confronted Sherlock, who had sprawled out in his chair with a self-satisfied smirk on his face that only served to fuel John's ever-growing ire.

Sherlock finally looked up at him, having the gall to roll his eyes and huff in that impatient way he had. "Really, John," he drawled, "what did you expect? For me to just lie down and let your latest conquest try and wrap me around her little finger the way she's clearly done to you?" The corner of his upper lip lifted in a sneer. "But then, it's not her little finger she's using to control you, is it? No, it's her sweet little pus…"

"Sherlock!" John half-shouted as he took a menacing step forward, fists clenched at his sides. He was shaking with rage, barely holding onto his control as he snapped: "Don't you even go there, Sherlock. I love Mary, you know that…"

Sherlock jumped to his feet and got right in his face with those words, breathing nearly as hard as John was, eyes narrowed, hands loose at his sides as he hissed out: "Bullshit. You don't love her, you love getting your cock sucked every night without having to take her out to dinner and a movie first."

John didn't even realize he'd punched Sherlock until suddenly he was standing over the other man's prone body, watching him try to staunch the flow of blood from his nose as he…laughed?

John's eyes narrowed. Something wasn't right here, not right at all. "Christ, Sherlock, what have you taken?" he demanded, gone from angry boyfriend to concerned friend and doctor in a heartbeat. He crouched down to try and get a clear look at his friend's eyes, but Sherlock waved him away, still laughing, still bleeding, fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief and pressing it to his face.

"Sorry to disappoint you, John, but a piss test won't show any foreign contaminants in my system," he said as his laughter died down. The two men glowered at each other until Sherlock finally sighed and said: "Let me guess. That was crossing the line, that last comment, however accurate?"

John felt the urge to punch him again, fought it down grimly. The man was still on his back on the floor, after all. "Yeah, Sherlock, that crossed a line. The line of good taste, friendship – you name it, you crossed it. Now tell me why." Because there absolutely had to be a reason; even Sherlock wasn't this much of a dick. Especially lately. Moody, unpredictable, easily bored – all that and more, but not this much of a dick.

Sherlock actually looked contrite as he answered. "Sorry, John, it's just…I went to the roof of St. Bart's earlier today. Molly lent me the key."

John's face instantly changed from anger to concern. "Christ, why didn't you tell me? Better still, why didn't you ask me to come up with you? I know how you feel about sentiment, but even you aren't made of iron, Sherlock. You shouldn't have gone by yourself."

"You're right, John, I shouldn't have," Sherlock agreed. John frowned; was that a flash of glee he saw on the other man's face? No, he must have imagined it; he'd been home and 'alive' for two months now and facing that bloody rooftop had been something he hadn't been able to manage until now. Just as it had taken John almost a year to be able to even go near the vicinity of St. Bart's.

Sherlock was speaking again while John's mind wandered. "It was a mistake and I'm afraid it's put me a bit out of temper." A wry grin as he levered himself up to a sitting position, not bothering to rise from the floor as he continued to hold his handkerchief to his bloody nose. "Please tender my apologies to Miss Morstan, and tell her it won't happen again." He paused, head tilted consideringly. "Well. I shall try not to let it happen again. Since I give the relationship less than six months, it shouldn't be too difficult."

John shook his head and folded his arms across his chest. He'd been about to extend a hand and help Sherlock back to his feet, but of course the bloody arse couldn't keep his mouth shut. "You know what, Sherlock? You believe what you want, but when I ask you to be best man at my wedding, you remember what a dick you were the first time you met my future wife, yeah?"

With that, he stormed out of the flat, not bothering to shut the door behind him as he clattered down the stairs. He'd managed to calm Mary down before putting her in a taxi and sending her home, but now he felt the need to see for himself that she was doing all right. And to maybe get a little calming down from her as well, seeing as Sherlock had just undone all the goodwill he'd temporarily regained.

oOo

Moriarty gazed through Sherlock's eyes, watching with a satisfied smirk on his face as John Watson rode off in the back of the cab that had stopped at his hail. "Oh, Johnny boy, the hoops I'm going to make you jump through," he murmured softly as he allowed the curtain to drop back into place. "If you think I made Miss Morstan upset now, just wait until the next time I see the two of you."

It had been well worth the punch, which had been much less of a pummeling than he'd expected to receive at John's hands, to be honest. Still, it would be more than enough to stir Molly's sympathy. Not that the stupid little bint needed much in the way of encouragement to want to put her hands all over Sherlock's body, but every little bit helped when the object of the game wasn't something as simple and boring as mere seduction.

Oh, no, when he was through with Sherlock Holmes' body, the very people he'd gone to such lengths to save would hate him more than they'd ever hated anyone in their lives.

Especially the stupid, pathetic, love-struck little cunt that helped him fake his suicide right under Moriarty's own nose.

Don't like it, do you? Getting a taste of your own medicine. Being outsmarted by someone you dismissed as hopelessly ordinary.

That supercilious, snotty voice ringing through his head…how the hell had Sherlock escaped his spider hole this time? "Naughty, Sherlock! I'm in charge now, remember? So don't even think about having another go at taking back over." You'll be trapped inside you own brain until I decide to let you back out, and not a second sooner, he thought with a mental trill of laughter, enjoying the fact that Sherlock only knew what he wanted him to – and that his prisoner would have no idea that there was a time limit to their little reunion. Remember, I've had two years to get this whole ghost thing down; you didn't really think I spent all that time up on the roof waiting for you, did you?

He sensed the stillness of his adversary's restless mind at that little revelation; wonderful, the man actually did think Moriarty had been – what, just up there, brooding and waiting for his favorite plaything to come back and give him a reason to live again? Oh no; although he'd been trapped by the physical confines of the hospital (and still had no idea why) since the first moment he'd found himself hovering over his own lifeless body, he'd been far from idle.

Well, actually he had been somewhat idle at first, the shock of finding himself still existing even after blowing his own brains out keeping him frozen for several crucial minutes. He'd watched from his incorporeal vantage point a hundred feet above Sherlock's head as the other man jumped, as he pulled off his sleight-of-hand trick, fooled his pet Watson into believing he'd actually died...and Moriarty had howled with frustration at the knowledge that he could do absolutely nothing to change things, to contact his snipers and inform them of the cheat, unaware at the time of the potential in his new form.

No, he'd been little other than an ectoplasmic ball of rage for weeks after that, until he regained control of himself and set to work learning the limits of his abilities as a spirit, eventually discovering how to take over and control a living, breathing body, bend it to his will, keep the original owner locked away and helpless while he did what he liked. It was unfortunate that the bodies could only contain his spirit for a few days at a time, but he got a great deal of enjoyment out of watching the people he'd possessed either scrabble for explanations as to their erratic behavior or curl into unresponsive balls, catatonic, after he'd been forced to leave.

He'd kept it fairly low-key (for him), not killing anyone or doing any serious damage, and not just in order to keep from being found out; he was saving all that for the day he knew would eventually come. The day Sherlock Holmes returned to the roof from which he was meant to have jumped to his death. Because just taking him over in the hospital itself wasn't going to be nearly as much fun, and certainly nowhere near as ironic.

What was more, when the time came for Jim Moriarty to give up this body, Sherlock Holmes was going to go right back up to that rooftop and jump for a second time. Only this time the outcome was going to be the one Jim Moriarty dictated. The one he would watch and gloat over until his adversary was nothing but a bloody patch on the pavement below. And to make it even more glorious, no one would care, because right up until that point Sherlock Holmes was going to be very, very busy destroying all those precious friendships he'd somehow managed to create for himself.

All of them: John Watson (well begun by today's mischief, a mere prelude of things to come), the irritating Martha Hudson, DI Lestrade, all of them. This time no one would be forgotten or overlooked.

Especially not Molly. Fucking. Hooper.

He allowed his prisoner selective access to his memories of those early days and experiments before mentally 'speaking' to him again. I kept an eye on you, you know. Waited for the day to come when you finally decided to confront your new-found fear of heights, the one you think nobody knows about, he taunted. Your emotions, always so controlled, they were right on the surface, so easy for me to slip inside you while you fought down your demons. Another mocking laugh. Too bad you didn't know one of those demons was more of the literal than the metaphorical kind, eh?

No response. He shrugged; oh well. No doubt his prisoner was busy analyzing away at what he'd just been told, but he wasn't worried about Sherlock Holmes breaking free from this trap. No, he'd stay right where he was until the moment his body stepped off the ledge and began the free-fall to his death.

And Jim Moriarty was going to savor every second of that descent.