Lighting Fires

Thanks, as always, to you lovely reviewers and also to those who have followed or favourited this story. You guys are brilliant!

Oh man, it's taken me ages to write this chapter! It's a big confrontation, and I really wanted to get it right. I'm sorry if a certain character in it comes across as a bit OTT - I've tried to keep a balance between homicidal maniac and fairly rational man in his characterisation, and it wasn't that easy! Oh well...

A couple of notes about this chapter: I'm not a big expert on military life or on knots (although the grief knot does exist, I don't know how realistic it would be in this context). If anyone wants to correct me on any particular point, please feel free - I welcome constructive criticism.

Inspired by the song Fires by Ronan Keating

Disclaimer : not mine, no money


At first, he's only aware of a thumping sound. A dull thud, thud, thud. And with each thud comes pain. In pulses. Spikes. With each dull thud.

Pain. Waves of it, pulsing through his head, his body, radiating to his limbs. Impossible to detect the source. He groans and squeezes his eyelids together, trying to retreat from it. But then he becomes aware of a more specific pain coming from his arms – from his wrists and shoulders. He tries to shift his shoulders to ease the ache – and realises that he can't move at all.

He risks opening his eyes, and winces as the lights stab at his vision. Surely it wasn't this light before…

The bright light disappears suddenly, leaving him dazed, and he realises that someone has been shining a torch in his eyes, checking his responses. A finger takes the pulse in his neck and then he feels a hand at the back of his head, carefully assessing. It's a competent, compassionate hand and, for a moment, he feels relief at having made it to hospital after all.

But in that case, why does he feel so uncomfortable?

His vision clears and he realises, with a sinking heart, that he's still in the dim shabby room, lit only by the light of a dim bare lightbulb. He's positioned in a dining chair with his arms pulled back and tied behind him to the frame with what feels like rough rope.

Oh, for crying out loud. Why does he keep ending up in this position? It never happened in Afghanistan, where he might have reasonably anticipated being knocked out and tied up by homicidal maniacs. Shoulder wound notwithstanding, it's bloody ironic that he's been in more personal danger since he left the army.

And now, here we go again. His usual survival instincts kick in and he forces himself to calm down and breathe deeply, as he goes about moving his wrists and assessing his range of movement. There's some give in the rope, at least. However, the restrictive position is excruciating for his scarred shoulder, and he shifts again, trying to ease it.

"Shh." The voice comes from behind him. The hand on his head pauses in its investigation and he feels the tickle of someone's breath near his ear. "Don't say anything. Pretend to be unconscious."

The words are a mere murmur, hardly above an expiration, but he recognises that voice – would recognise it anywhere. "Bill?"

Bill's hand falls down onto his good shoulder and squeezes it tightly as he moves in front of the chair. John opens his eyes again, looking up in disbelief at his old friend's face.

Bill looks terrible – haggard, white, eyes dark-ringed with horror. "God, John, I'm so sorry… You have no idea. If I'd known it was going to be you…"

"What are you talking about? For fuck's sake, Bill, what's going on – what is this?" He rotates his hands in their bindings, trying to find a weakness.

Bill turns suddenly, looking over his shoulder. He turns back towards John and leans down, putting his hands on his shoulders.

"No time to explain. He's coming back. Look, John, mate, I wish I could explain, but it's – it's just impossible. You've got to understand… he had something on me. Something from back then – he knew about something I did, after you left… and he threatened to tell the authorities. I would've lost everything – my pension, Elaine, our boy… If they knew, if anyone knew what I did back then…"

"Bill," John hisses his name, trying to get his friend to focus. "You've got to untie me. C'mon, nothing can be as bad as all that. Just get me out of here and we can sort it out –."

"No time, John." Bill's face is agonised. "He'll find me, I know it – wherever I go, he'll find me and he'll kill them, Elaine and my son, and make me watch it, and then he'll go ahead and kill me anyway. He's dangerous, John, so dangerous, you wouldn't understand. He – he's – don't you see? I was in his team, and once you're one of his men, you stay one of his men. Forever. No way out. Do you understand?"

"Who are you talking about? Who do you mean?" John has his suspicions, but he's still trying to ground Bill; trying to get him to calm down.

Bill puts his face very close to John, and the doctor flinches at the pure terror in his old friend's eyes. "Moran."

John swallows. "What's he got on you, Bill? Whatever it is, we can sort it out - I know we can."

"Oh, I very much doubt that, Captain Watson."

Bill stiffens, and his face pales even more, if that's possible. He leans close to John's ear and whispers a word: "Grief."

With that single, rather odd, word, he straightens and steps away from John, turning to face Sebastian Moran, who has walked into the room, his hands behind his back, rather as if he's inspecting his troops.

His eyes flicker to John and he nods politely – the perfect officer, as always. Then he turns back to Bill. "I see our friend has regained consciousness."

Bill swallows visibly. "He's awake now, but I can't guarantee for how long. He has another head injury – there may be concussion."

"Ah, yes – the fight with Jovanovic. You were lucky there, weren't you, Watson?"

Sebastian smiles at them both. It's his usual, wide, friendly smile, but John cannot imagine how he ever found it pleasant.

How can Bill be so beholden to this man? What can be so bad that he would turn on his old friend – the same person whose life he saved amidst the hot sands of Afghanistan?

And what about that comment – once you're one of his men, you stay one of his men? John recalls that Sebastian was always loyal to his men, to the point of fanaticism. An attack on one of them was an attack on them all – and on their colonel. How far did that loyalty extend? Did – would – Bill Murray, former nurse, sturdy comrade, kill for his colonel?

Sebastian is regarding him with interest, almost as if he's following John's thoughts. That would be just his bloody luck – bad enough to have lived with a mad flatmate who could anticipate his every response. John reacts just as he used to with Sherlock - he tries to empty his mind; keep his face neutral.

Sebastian smiles again, giving a John of nod of… approval?

Abruptly, his attention turns back to Murray. "OK, Murray, you're done here. Best get back to that lovely wife of yours. I don't imagine she'll be very happy about you leaving her party, mm? Perhaps some flowers might be in order. What do you think, Watson – you're the expert on pacifying women, aren't you?"

Bill flashes John a guilty look. "Don't you need me to, uh – keep an eye on him?"

"That won't be necessary." The words are clipped, military. Sebastian hasn't lost his natural authority and, when Bill still lingers, he raises an eyebrow and moves his right hand into view. There's a pistol in it, which puts an end to Murray's hesitation.

"OK, I'll – I'll be off then," he mutters, backing away.

He may have glanced in John's direction again before he left, but John didn't see. He'd turned his head away, unable to bear the sight of Captain William Murray – his Bill Murray – behaving like a whipped dog.

John and Sebastian Moran gaze at each other as the front door closes.

It's Moran who breaks the silence first. "No doubt you're wondering what is going on… what has been going on." It's a statement, not a question, and he leans against the wall, arms folded, his gun turned away from his prisoner. Completely relaxed – and John realises that he's been in this position of authority over a prisoner before, many times perhaps.

"I think I can guess." John's voice is surprisingly steady. He's gone into war mode once more: appease the hostage-taker, keep him talking, look for escape options… "Or, at least, I now know that you were the one who paid Jovanovic to kill those men."

"Well, how clever of you to work that out, Watson," Moran sneers. "Although you had no idea, did you? Right up to this evening, you thought I might be a friend. Typical military mindset – he's an old comrade, so he must be on my side. Same with Murray. Tell me, why did you follow me? Without telling your friends where you were going? What did you want from me?"

John's mind is working furiously. What advantages does he have? None, unless, by some wonderful chance, one of Mycroft's minions has been following him. And then there's the binding – it's definitely got some give. He might be able to free his hands for a second time tonight… if he can find a sharp edge, or work out what type of knot it is. What type of knot would someone like Murray use… or was he tied up by Moran?

"I wanted to know why you were following me five nights ago." It's a gamble, but John knows he's right. He remembers that slender shadow darting away with cat-like grace, unseen by Lestrade in the dark street.

"You mean after you wrote your little message?"

"You knew about my messages, then?"

Moran laughs. "Oh, John. I was responsible for them. Who do you think painted those little reminders at the scenes? Ratko? The moron could hardly write in his own language. He only wrote that last one because I couldn't be there. My intention was to entice you in the direction of the crime scene. You see, I know you too well, John. I knew you would sense that you were being followed – and that you would respond like any ex-soldier. You would try to draw me out in a dark location. What luck that the murder scene just happened to be right on your route, eh?"

"And the phone messages to the police, the warnings – that was you too, I suppose?" John asks.

Moran looks blank. "Messages? No, although they were certainly useful. I have no idea who sent them, presumably some well-meaning individual, but they were always just too late, weren't they?"

"Lucky for you," he mutters, wriggling around, trying to find a sharp edge to the rickety chair that he might be able to rub the rope against.

"Oh, and by the way, just in case you were wondering, Ratko is dead."

John smiles wryly. "He didn't make it to hospital then."

"Oh, he made it there… but not beyond the ambulance bay." Sebastian looks off into the distance with a private smile. "It's always useful to have a friend or two working for the emergency services. You never know when you might need a helping hand… I had rather hoped that Ellis would finish him off at the scene, which would have been neater, but there you go. I suppose we can't have everything."

"You have friends everywhere, it would seem." John continues to look steadily into Moran's face as he shifts his hands, trying to find a weakness. What was it Bill said, just before he left? Grief… What did he mean? That he was grieving? What else?

Moran shrugs. "The main challenge for any country with an armed force is that you tend to end up with a large number of discharged men and women who have been trained to kill from a young age…and often have no idea what to do with their skills once they've left the services. Some of them are skilled drivers – where better to find work than within the ambulance services? And I've found … niches for others too. IT experts, security, bodyguards. Many of them come to me for advice."

"I see," John murmurs. "And you've found a niche too, I suppose."

Moran gives him a sharp look, then turns abruptly, striding across the room and back. "They trust me. The top brass couldn't give a fuck what happens to the average, ordinary squaddie. All they want are young, impressionable kids who can be trained to kill without question. Years ago, we were brave enough to call them what they are – cannon fodder. When their value has diminished, the army's quite happy to kick them out on their arses. Why should they care if the bloke can't find a job?"

His tone is strangely bitter. He stops pacing, glancing at John. "Do you have any idea how many discharged service men try to kill themselves? How many succeed? And that's just those with no traumatic injuries – nothing visible, anyway. Look at you – years working part-time and in locum roles, hardly able to meet your rent – and you're a professional man. How difficult can it be for a kid who went into the services straight from school, at the age of sixteen, with limited or no qualifications? Oh, I know, the army tries. Training, careers advice, what have you. But there are always those who slip through the net. And then there are those who received a dishonourable discharge…"

He gives John a meaningful look.

"Ah," John responds softly, keeping his face trained on Moran even as he thinks furiously. Grief… grief… grief… grief knot? Aha - that's what Bill was trying to tell him. "I was wondering when that would come up in the conversation. This is about Rob Marshall, isn't it?"

Moran's expression is wry. "You think I disagreed with you about his discharge?"

"The thought had occurred," John admits. Grief knot. He racks his brain trying to remember what he learned about knots in basic training. The grief knot looks impressive, but can be slipped, if the rope ends are moved in the right direction. But it's got to be right – if he twists them the wrong way, he'll inadvertently make the knot tighter. And he can't recall exactly how to move them.

Moran shakes his head. "You're quite wrong. Rob Marshall was wrong to do what he did – no matter how objectionable that individual was. There have to be rules in warfare. Prisoners have a right to be treated in accordance with the Geneva Convention. Rob failed to comply with that, and deserved to be punished. At any time, did I appear to disagree with your decision to achieve justice for the prisoner?"

John thinks back. "You didn't, that's true. But you clearly disagree now with the way I approached the situation – isn't that so?"

Moran doesn't answer for a moment – he just stands, watching John with interest. Then, much to John's surprise, he turns away and fetches another rather rickety chair from the corner of the room. He places this in front of his prisoner and sits down.

"You know, I was planning to kill you immediately," he continues, "- but what the hell, why not? We may as well talk about this. You might agree with me… when you know all the facts. And you're going to die anyway – let me point that out now, so you can prepare yourself."

This is all delivered in a light, conversational manner that sends a chill down John's spine and makes his shift his hands even more. Moran seems unaware of his struggles or, if he is, perhaps he doesn't much care. He perhaps knows that John's attempts to release himself are futile.

"Well," he prompts. "I'm listening. I have no choice really, do I? Is this how you normally get people to listen to your views, because I can tell you now, it's pretty effective."

Moran continues to observe him without smiling at John's poor attempt at a joke. "You are right, John – I did disagree. I wouldn't have reported Rob immediately. I would have approached his commanding officer first to ascertain the full facts."

"In other words, I should have spoken to you first."

"Yes, me. I know what you're thinking. That I'd have covered it up out of some misguided loyalty to one of my best snipers. And yes, I might have, but he wouldn't have gone unpunished. Tell me, where do you think he is now?"

"I, well, I have no idea -."

Moran raises a hand. "Let me save you the trouble. You have no idea because you have never bothered to find out. Rob Marshall is dead. He shot himself in the head six weeks after his discharge. The day before his twentieth birthday."

John swallows uncomfortably. "I'm sorry to hear that, but it makes no difference to my decision."

"Doesn't it? No, I suppose not. Would it have made a difference if you'd known him the way I did? If you'd known that he was an orphan, brought up in care, who joined the army at the age of sixteen because he had no other options? That he joined up the same day as Callum Jones? That he and Callum were inseparable; that Callum became the family he'd never had? Did you also know that Callum wasn't a particularly strong member of my team? Rob was – he was a brilliant marksman - and the two of them did everything together, they came as a unit. I accepted that because Rob worked better when he was with Callum, and they were an excellent team. Callum was good at anticipating what Rob wanted him to do without words – very useful in a noisy combat situation."

His eyes are fixed on John's as he continues, very quietly. "There's a type of relationship that our military superiors disapprove of very strongly. Particularly in combat situations. I think you know what I mean, John. At some point, in Afghanistan, their relationship went from being something platonic to something more intimate. It happens, of course, you and I have both seen it. You put young healthy men in a stressful situation for weeks or months on end, with very few women around them, and they sometimes turn to each other for mutual relief. The men involved don't necessarily identify as homosexual in civilian life, but it's an outlet, and when you get two men as trusting of each other as these two were – well it happens. Usually, we try to turn a blind eye, as long as they're discrete and don't resort to sexually harassing men who are not interested."

John fears he knows where this is going. He shifts, slightly awkwardly – and not because he has a problem with the topic. He does know what Sebastian is talking about – he saw it enough at Bastion, and had had enough sense and compassion to avert his eyes and keep his mouth shut. No, his awkwardness now is because he was never quite sure whether or not Moran was himself gay. It wouldn't have bothered John if the colonel had been openly gay – it wouldn't have made him any less of a soldier in John's opinion. But, if he is, this can't be an easy topic for him to discuss, and John fears that some repressed anger may make the man more trigger-happy.

Moran continues, leaning forward intently, his gun rested loosely on his thighs.

"Callum wasn't gay – for him, it was a bit of fun, and he'd played around with girls at home. But it was different for Rob. He fell in love – or at least he believed that he had - and he grew just a little too intense. He scared Callum, who tried to back off. They fought – and the teamwork they'd established was fatally damaged."

He sighs. "I had concerns. I was still debating whether I should split them up, perhaps move Callum to a role better suited to his skills, when the incident happened. You know that Callum was fatally wounded and was evacuated home to die in the presence of his family. And you know how badly Rob took it. I'm not going to go over things you already know. But what you did not know – did not fully appreciate – was the degree to which Rob blamed himself for Callum's death. Every blow he landed on that prisoner was aimed at himself. He wanted to die, wanted to suffer for what he'd done. I knew that. The guards who didn't try to stop him also knew that – or at least they recognised the signs of a man in a downward spiral. But you – you didn't know that. All you knew were the facts."

John winces. "I didn't want to hurt him – I liked Rob."

Moran smiles at him without humour. "Of course you did. You liked everyone, and everyone liked you. Good old John Watson. Excellent surgeon, calm under pressure, kind, self-deprecating, a strong moral centre. Have you any idea how fucking annoying you were?"

This last comment is a shout that echoes around the quiet house, shocking after the quiet tone, and John jumps, almost knocking his chair over.

Moran laughs, harshly. "Oh, I'm sorry, did I startle you? I keep forgetting – you're just a civilian now." The contempt drips from his voice at the word.

"So are you," John points out.

"Ah, well, officially, yes. In some ways – in the ways that really matter – I never left." Moran gestures towards the door. "As you saw from Murray's behaviour, my men are still my men. They still follow orders."

"What do you have on Bill?"

"Do you expect me to reveal that? Do you really want to know?" Moran shrugs. "I suppose you think it doesn't really matter, as you're not going to walk out of here. But he wouldn't want you, of all people, to know… and I respect that."

"So, what's all this about?" John is beginning to lose his patience. It's increasingly clear to him that he can't work out how to untie his hands, and he's sure as hell not going to sit and indulge the ramblings of a madman. "You're going to kill me because you think I'm responsible for the death of one of your men?"

"Is that what you think?" Moran demands, looking oddly disappointed in his prisoner. "Haven't you been listening to a word I've been saying?"

"Well, why else am I here?"

"Because you never learn!"

John is prepared for the manic scream this time and doesn't flinch.

Moran jumps up as if he cannot bear to keep still any more – and that's frighteningly familiar to John. He's beginning to realise that Moran isn't actually mad, not in the way Moriarty was, anyway. Sebastian Moran shares Sherlock's restless, almost manic, energy, the same unfocused frustration of a mind distracted by small, unimportant matters … but that alone doesn't make him mad. What is it that compels geniuses to jump over that moral chasm – to make the decision that killing with intention is acceptable? How is it that Sherlock can cling, however precariously, to the right moral choices, when others with equally brilliant minds are unable to?

"I accepted the decision. It's not the choice I would have made – I would've covered up for him but got him transferred to a more menial position as a punishment. But I did accept what you did – it was the moral decision, the right decision... if you didn't know the circumstances. I made allowances, because I knew you didn't know him as I knew him. And I thought you'd learn from your mistakes when you were ostracised by your colleagues. I know you suffered for a while, being ignored, being avoided by the people you thought were your friends. I took steps to put an end to it when I thought you'd had enough of a chance to realise what you'd done. You remember that, no doubt."

John remembers the day that Moran had deliberately walked over to him, to shake his hand and engage him in friendly conversation… and how the hostility had melted away after that public meeting.

He paces in front of John. "You see, I do give people chances. I give them an opportunity to learn from their mistakes. And if they don't learn the lesson – well," he shrugs. "I can't be responsible for what happens to them."

He points at John. "You could have learnt, but you didn't. I could tell. You just carried on, as smugly assured of your own worth as you ever were. Not even a moment's remorse. You could have asked me how he was; you could've told me that you were sorry that you caused trouble for me – but you didn't."

"I wasn't aware that you had any trouble," John ventures, cautiously. "You seemed to carry on as before."

Moran gives an incredulous laugh. "Of course, I did. What else did you expect Colonel Sebastian Moran to do? Have you any idea how much your action fucked with my team? Of course you don't – your type never does. It's all about the individual, isn't it? Individual needs, individual sensibilities. People like you should never be allowed to enter the military. You have no notion of team dynamics – of how small things can affect the efficiency of the entire group. I had to contend with low morale, fear, bitterness – not just towards you, but directed at all officers. You think the average squaddie gave two fucks about what happened to that nasty little shit? As far as they were concerned, he had it coming. Rob was their hero. I had to rebuild my entire team and get them working together once more – not easy when I couldn't be seen to be against the bringing of serious allegations by a fellow officer."

"I never knew any of that. You never said."

"I shouldn't have had to. If you were ever a real soldier, you'd have known it without being told. Look at you," Moran sneered. "Softened by civilian life now, yes, but you were never a real soldier. Not in my book. You were just playing at it. It was a way of escaping your background – and oh, how you wanted to escape that, didn't you, John? An absentee father, a mother who might as well have been absent for all the good she did you, a difficult, demanding sister with substance abuse issues. You just had to escape your environment. An impoverished childhood, with no money to pay for a medical degree – but then, the army helped you out there, didn't it? And you wanted so badly to be somebody, didn't you? A doctor and an officer – well, what a social climber you are. What a hero."

Moran smiles. "You know the biggest irony? Your friend, the great Mr Sherlock Holmes? He really was somebody. Socially, I mean – I'm not referring to his undoubted abilities as a detective. How much did you ever learn about his background? Not much, I suspect. Holmes came from a rich, privileged background – and he didn't even care. He turned his back on it. Do you think Holmes was impressed by your impressive education, your professional background, your officer status? He didn't care less about that kind of thing – in fact, he scorned it. Your pathetic little attempts to prove that you were better than anyone else – morally superior? He would have despised them. He would have despised you for believing that your profession and education made a difference - that it raised you above your upbringing."

John feels a prickle of cold perspiration going down his spine. "That's not true. He wasn't interested in what I was – just in me as a person. We were friends. We cared for one another." Even as he speaks, he knows it sounds lame. After all, how would he know what Sherlock thought? He only has that one incident in Dartmoor to cling to as proof that Sherlock even saw him as a friend.

Moran gives him a pitying look. "You see? That's what I mean. People like you – you never learn from your mistakes. Your problem, John, is that you never learned how to read people. You didn't understand Sherlock Holmes. Oh, you thought you did – you thought you were his best friend – his only friend. Holmes had no friends – he wasn't capable of friendship. He was a sociopath. I know that to be the case, because I understand the psychology of emotions. You don't. You didn't understand Rob's motivations back then – if you had, you'd have been more lenient with him."

Moran paces again – he seems to be getting more agitated, which doesn't bode well for John. His sole hope is Mycroft now – please God he hasn't reduced his surveillance

"I could see you hadn't learnt your lesson, but before I could do anything about it, you got yourself shot. Your mistake again, of course. You didn't stay with the medical team – you disobeyed orders just to see if you could save one more man. You exposed yourself to enemy fire with very little gain – yes, you saved the kid initially, but he died later anyway. And you almost joined him because of your own stupidity. And then you exposed another of my men to danger - Bill Murray naturally broke ranks and ran to help you instead of staying on his allocated target."

He waves his hand, dismissively. "Oh, I didn't punish him for that, in case you're wondering. I can understand comradely loyalty - even appreciate it, to some extent. And, anyway, you were disabled by your injury – discharged with post-traumatic stress disorder, sent home, back to a dreary existence. As far as I could tell, you were suffering for your mistakes – which was only right. I wanted you to know what it's really like – to know how Rob felt. To experience the despair, the sense of worthlessness he must have felt that night, just before he took out the army pistol he'd managed to get hold of and blew his own brains out."

He sinks back into his chair, his voice dropping to a whisper. "As long as you were suffering, as long as you were learning, I didn't care what happened to you. But you didn't suffer for long, did you? You took up with the famous Sherlock Holmes – and suddenly, there you were, by his side." Moran's voice takes on a mocking, sing-song quality. "The great Dr John Watson, the faithful sidekick, the famous blogger, helping the consulting detective in his mission to keep London safe from the criminal element. Separating right from wrong. Oh, how grateful the nation must have been for the skills of the genius detective and his military doctor."

"And you resented me for that?" John can't keep the incredulity out of his voice. It seems such a ridiculous notion.

"Oh, you thought you were so important," Moran sneers. "If you'd had any conscience at all, you'd have kept out of the public eye. But no, you had to write your blog about the exciting adventures, the mysteries, the precious objects restored to their rightful owners, the people returned to their grateful families … all in that self-satisfied, moralistic tone. By your own account, Holmes was the wayward genius with the moral maturity of a twelve year old. You saw yourself as the man who taught him right from wrong, the man who taught him to care about others – the man with the power to turn a great man into a good man. Oh, yes, you were the genius behind the genius. Your writing reeked of self-importance. You deserved to be punished for your arrogance."

"So – what?" John counters. "You suddenly decided to come after me – after all this time? Why now? Why wait until Sherlock died?" He doesn't bother to point out that Moran has got him totally wrong. Why argue? The man has a massive chip on his shoulder, and it's quite clear that there's nothing John can say now to challenge Moran's rock-solid belief that he is accountable for Rob Marshall's death.

Moran shakes his head in mock-dismay. "Oh, poor John. Do you really think I've been waiting all this time to renew our acquaintance?"

John closes his eyes briefly. "Moriarty, of course."

His captor nods. "Yes, James Moriarty. He approached me. He knew all about you – your military service and what happened to Rob Marshall. He contacted me while I was still in the army but back from Bastion – I was based in training at that time. He wanted certain information, which I was happy to provide. And he required certain skills too."

John thinks back, remembering that night at the pool. "You were the sniper?"

Moran nods. "It was a shock to see how civilian life had diminished you. You always made a mediocre soldier, but that night you were utterly pathetic, clutching at Moriarty in some ridiculous attempt to save Holmes' life. As if it would have made any difference at all. Moriarty was always going to kill Holmes. It was only a matter of when. Yes, I was the sniper. You know what? Moriarty knew I wanted to kill you – he would have known just how much my finger was twitching on that trigger. And he predicted what you'd do. He told me I'd get my chance to kill you…and I would have. But then it was called off by Ms Adler's phone call."

"And you never tried again? You surprise me, Sebastian," John replies, lightly. "Or did Moriarty have something on you?"

Moran shrugs. "He gave me my orders. He told me to stand down, so I did, however tempting it was to finish you off. He told me there'd be another opportunity – and he was right."

John tries his luck. "But there wasn't, was there? You do know he's dead, don't you?"

Moran stares at him for a moment. John assumes it is shock at hearing about Moriarty's death – perhaps he didn't actually know? But he's proved wrong a minute later when his captor roars with laughter, shaking his head in disbelief.

"You really don't know, do you? Why would you? I suppose he never had a chance to tell you. Tell me, do you know why Holmes jumped from that building?"

"Something to do with Moriarty, I suppose." John tries to keep his voice steady. He has to assume that Moran doesn't know that Sherlock is still alive.

Moran stands up, walking slowly towards him, making John crane his neck to look up at him. He counts on his fingers. "Three snipers. Three targets. You. Detective Inspector Lestrade. Mrs Martha Hudson. I was your sniper."

"What do you mean?" John is struggling to keep calm, even as ice-cold realisation begins to descend on him.

"When your friend was on the roof, he knew that if he didn't jump, you would die. You and the other two. While you were standing there, looking up at him, trying to convince him to stop, to come down, you had no idea that I was standing in the building right behind you, with my gun pointing at your head."

"You – you – I don't believe you." John feels something tightening in his chest. It can't be – it can't be…

"That bothers you, doesn't it?" Moran is watching him with an air of detached interest. "It really bothers you that Holmes had to die for you. Oh, and two others of course, but I think we both know who he really sacrificed his life for."

John can't speak, can hardly breathe. Oh, God, Sherlock…

"Hmm, yes." Moran is enjoying his discomfort. "Yes, it certainly does bother you. As it should, of course," he adds, almost gently. "After all, who is John Watson that an important man like Sherlock Holmes should lay down his life for him? Why do you deserve to live when he is dead? A great man – gone, finished – for you." Moran shakes his head, regretfully.

"I was ordered to kill you unless Holmes jumped or we received a message from Moriarty. No message was received, and I expected to be able to kill you… but once again, I was thwarted."

Moran's voice takes on an air of surprised outrage. "Moriarty assured me that I would get my opportunity this time around. He told me that Holmes would never jump. It was almost guaranteed that he would try to get out of it – and I'd finally get what I wanted. But then he did jump… and again, I had to stand down."

"I'm surprised you bothered," John croaks. Oh, Sherlock, if only I'd known. "If you wanted to kill me so much, why didn't you just take your chance?"

Moran glares at him. "Don't tar me with your brush, Watson. You might not be able to follow orders, but I'm a soldier. If I'm given an instruction, I follow it, no matter how hard it might be."

He smiles coldly. "But then there were advantages after all. For the first time, I got a chance to see you suffer. I saw you diminish in stature even more. You were just a pathetic, miserable, lonely, maimed man who no one knew how to speak to anymore. They either despised you or pitied you for your perceived deception at the hands of the great fraudster."

John's head shoots up at this, familiar outrage going through him. "He was real."

"Yes, of course he was," Sebastian agrees. "I knew he was, which is why I wrote those messages. You see, no one really knows who they've lost – apart from you and me, and one or two others. All those stupid, stupid people out there – that great mass of humanity - only interested in the latest scandal, the latest celebrity gossip. I bet they loved Ms Riley's expose; I bet they revelled in it. They still have no idea that they actively helped James Moriarty to manipulate one of the world's greatest minds into an early grave. Even the police." Moran shakes his head in disbelief. "Didn't they know what they lost? My little contributions were a constant reminder to them that they could no longer rely on Holmes to solve the 'unsolvable'."

"Little contributions?" John can't restrain himself. "You arranged the murders of thirteen – no, fourteen - men! And Jovanovic himself."

Moran smirks at him. "You shouldn't mind all that much. They were all low-life scum anyway. This world's too good for the likes of them. Why should you care? You do realise that, if Jovanovic hadn't arrived when he did tonight, you'd have probably had that rusty knife shoved into your lung instead? Ellis has knifed before and he'll do it again. He doesn't care who he hurts. Just because he happened to save your life tonight, don't assume he's got any hope of redemption."

"So you decided to get rid of some scummy elements – and present the police with a mystery they couldn't solve? Just to taunt them? That's what the message meant, wasn't it? I believe in Sherlock Holmes. A constant reminder that Sherlock Holmes really was real, and that the one person who could have interpreted the message was no longer around to do so."

"Indeed." Moran nods approvingly at him. "Except… the message wasn't aimed at them. Oh, they needed to see it, of course, if only so they could drag in the individual that the message was actually aimed at - you. For that to happen, Greg Lestrade had to be involved. Only he would think to involve you – none of the others would have dared. That's why there had to be so many killings. It took a while, but it was inevitable that Lestrade would get involved… and once he did, he naturally turned to you.

"You see, John, my ultimate goal was to give you a challenge. A game, if you like. The type of crime that Holmes would probably have solved after the first death. I wanted to see how far you would go – whether you had the guts and the skill to win the game. There were two possible outcomes. Either you wouldn't be able to work it out – and you would have been haunted by your inability to solve a mystery that your dead friend would have taken in his stride. Or you would have solved it – and by doing so, you would have proved that your continuing existence, secured by your friend's sacrifice, was worth something. That Sherlock Holmes didn't die in vain."

"So all this has just been a game, then – aimed at me? All the deaths, all the evidence? Just to prove that I can never be as good as Sherlock Holmes? For what purpose? To make me suffer?"

"No, John." Again, Moran's voice is almost gentle. "To destroy you."

"What about Bex? Why her?" John asks, bitterly. "Wasn't she one of society's victims, like Rob – one of those who suffer?"

"Her?" Moran sniffs, dismissively. "Oh, she was always going to be targeted. She would have been one of Moriarty's victims earlier on, when he set those challenges for Holmes to solve. He just wasn't able to get hold of her when he needed to. But she was on his list, make no mistake. He wanted Holmes to experience the loss of someone he knew. But then he kidnapped you instead – you were intended to be the victim that would remind Holmes that he had a heart after all. As things turned out, the girl proved useful to me – she gave me the chance to send you a very specific message. You'd ignored the first one, after all – which was a risk, of course, but the paving slab wasn't intended to actually kill you."

"What message?"

Moran shakes his head, reprovingly. "Oh, John. Don't you get it? You broke the rules of the game. You involved Mycroft Holmes instead of working it out by yourself. That's no way to win the game. And then you contacted Greg Lestrade, so he had to be taken out of the equation too."

"That was also you? The hit-and-run? He could have died."

Moran laughs. "To quote my ex-employer… that's what people do." He doesn't seem remotely bothered by Moriarty's death – but then John supposes that the consulting criminal was just a means to an end for Moran.

John leans back in his chair. "So, what now? You're still going to kill me? Even though I 'won' your game?"

"Ah, but you didn't, did you? Not without cheating. Do you think Holmes would have asked his older brother for help? Or Lestrade?" Moran shakes his head. "He would rather have died than resort to receiving help. Holmes had his own code of behaviour. He would have understood the game."

He smiles at John. "And that's the difference between you and him, I'm afraid. Holmes was a great man. He didn't allow the purity of his mind to become tainted by unnecessary emotion… until he met you."

The expression on his face turns cold – there's not a trace of good humour in it now. "Holmes was undermined by you. You were his one weakness. You slowed him down. You tried to make him care about the victims. You corrupted that pure, shining, perfect mind. He started to modify his behaviour - his reactions even started to match yours. He may not have been aware of it at first, but the instinct was there. I could see how impressed he was by your behaviour at the pool – weak and pathetic and illogical as you were, he actually liked the fact that you tried to sacrifice yourself for him.

"That's when the rot started to set in. If he hadn't been trying to impress Ms Adler, he would never have been caught out by Moriarty... and he wouldn't have even tried to impress her if you hadn't made him aware of his own loneliness in the first place. Holmes had no interest in human relationships before you came into his life, and – for him – that was an advantage. Men like Holmes can't cope with emotions very well – they lose their focus. They're not designed to live a 'normal' life – to have friends…or lovers.

"If he'd never met you, he wouldn't have developed the fatal weakness of caring for someone else – and Moriarty wouldn't have been able to exploit that. If it hadn't been for you, Holmes would have defeated Moriarty eventually…and would have lived to tell the tale. You do realise that – don't you?"

It's on the tip of John's tongue to point out that Sherlock has defeated Moriarty in his own way, even if no one knows it, but he doesn't dare say anything. Even if it's the last thing he will ever do, he has to protect Sherlock from this madman. Moran is fixated on the fact of Sherlock's death to the point of obsession – almost as if he reveres him as a hero for going to his death while still untouched by corrupting emotions. God knows what he'd do if he found out that Sherlock has been alive all this time…

"I pity you, John, I really do," Sebastian continues, casually. He's sitting in the chair again, turned slightly away and fiddling with his pistol in a way that John doesn't like. "You made the mistake of thinking that you were important to Sherlock Holmes. As if someone like him would give the likes of you more than a cursory glance. He only kept you around so he could have a little puppy dog following after him, ready to praise him, to follow his instructions, to run after him and protect his back."

"I did matter to him - you admitted it yourself," John mutters.

Moran throws him a dismissive look before returning his attention to his gun. "Yes, you mattered, but not in the way you think. You were his weakness. You were the reason he couldn't go on. That's why he jumped. Not because he wanted to save you, but because he had realised that he cared about you. Moriarty made him realise it and the knowledge horrified him. He couldn't live knowing that his mind - his life work - had been fatally weakened by emotion."

The really frightening thing, John reflects, is that it makes a kind of twisted sense. The point is he really doesn't know what was going on Sherlock's mind before he jumped. What was it he said in the laboratory, just before John rushed off to Mrs Hudson? Alone protects me. And John had countered that, had told him that friends protect friends… but did Sherlock really believe that? Was he right to believe that caring was a disadvantage – that it weakened him?

His shoulders slump. He's just so… tired. He wants it to be over – the three years of constant worry, the endless deception of the few friends he still has, the need to watch his every word… and for what? For a man who probably considers him a liability? A man who couldn't trust John to keep his survival a secret?

He'd wanted to be of use. He'd stood in Baker Street, armed with his new knowledge, and vowed that he wouldn't let Sherlock down. Since then, he's tried to make a difference – but, really, what good has he actually done? Thanks to him, thirteen minor criminals and, more importantly, a girl who deserved something better from life have died. His good friend is in hospital, seriously injured.

What's the point anymore? Maybe Moran should have killed him three years ago…

"Well, John, this has all been very interesting." Moran stands up, facing John. He loads his pistol with steady, efficient hands. "However, it's time to finish this. You should be glad, really. After all, you'll finally be joining your friend. And I think we both know that you've really only lived a half-life since his death." He cocks his pistol and takes aim at John's head.

John stares into the mouth of the gun and can't think of a single thing to say. This is it. He wishes – well, there's no point in making wishes anymore. But if only he could have seen Sherlock one last time, before…

"Goodbye, Captain Watson. I'm sorry you didn't learn the lesson. I wish I could say that it's been a pleasure knowing you… but that would be a lie. And, as you know, I'm renowned for my honesty."

"Indeed you are, Colonel Moran."

Sebastian Moran freezes at the new voice. A deep, cultured baritone that John thought he would never get to hear again…

The door opens, and Sherlock Holmes is standing there, his eyes on Sebastian Moran.


Ooer! Well, Sherlock is finally back...