Chapter Nine: Choices

Author's Note: The last chapter had to be re-uploaded because I forgot to copy and paste the beginning! If you didn't read it yet, go back and look at the beginning again! I promise things will make more sense and flow better if you do.

"How did you manage to leave behind your beloved John Watson?" Moriarty asked, sipping his tea.

"It was simple," Sherlock said, steepling his hands in front of his chin as he sat across from Jim.

"Oh, Sherlock," Moriarty cooed. "You can't lie to me. I have the photos. I know what happened. He's more than just a colleague to you."

"Really, you underestimate me. I have no feelings for John. My actions are little more than to just keep him under my thumb."

Moriarty exploded. "Stop lying! I saw the pictures, I saw you initiate the kiss!"

Sherlock pursed his lips together. "What do you want with me?" he said softly.

Moriarty let out a breath of air. "I want you to be honest with me, Sherlock," he whispered. "What's so special about John Watson? Why him?"

"Why not him?"

"Because he's boring. He's ordinary. Think about what we could accomplish."

"I told you, I'm not interested."

Moriarty frowned. "I think you'll come to regret that, Sherlock Holmes. After I've been so good to you too."

"Good to me?" Sherlock scoffed, raising his eyebrows. "You nearly killed me multiple times. That's hardly hospitality."

"If I wanted you dead, you would be dead." There was a gleam in Moriarty's eyes. "With every move I gave you a chance to escape. To prove your brilliance."

"Is that what you tell yourself, to feel better when I foil your plans?"

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," Moriarty chided. "Tell me, what has stopped me from simply putting a bullet through your thick skull? I've had quite a number of opportunities. Honestly, Sherl, a bullet into your brain would have been so simple when you were incapacitated in the warehouse."

Sherlock sat there for a moment, thinking, before asking, "What is your problem with John? Is it really necessary to put him through all these troubles along with me?"

Moriarty wrinkled his nose. "John Watson. I utterly despise him. He makes you seem nearly normal. It's disgusting. Besides, he did hold a gun to my head once. And what can I say, I like holding grudges."

Sherlock sucked in his breath, not replying.

Moriarty simply looked down at his cup of tea and swirled a finger through the liquid. "So I assume you invited me here to barter," he said without looking up. "You want to know the price of keeping John Watson safe."

When John woke to the morning sun, he held Lucy tightly to his chest. A serene look occupied her face as she slept in her father's arms. He kissed her forehead as salty tears dripped onto her skin. "Don't ever grow up and leave me," he whispered. "Stay my baby girl forever."

Mary was gone. Sherlock was gone. It seemed everyone that John Watson loved was bound to leave him heartbroken. Now he clutched his daughter to his heart, willing her to stay forever in his arms. Shudders overtook his body as he gasped for air, feeling suffocated within his own body. His shoulders shook violently.

"John?" Irene appeared at the door. "John, what's wrong?"

"Oh bloody hell!" he shouted. "Like you don't know."

Irene walked over to him, her heels clicking against the floor. "What's happened, John? What is it?"

"He... He's gone," John sobbed, rocking Lucy with unsteady arms. "It's my fault he's gone. It's my fault. I lose everyone."

Irene placed a hand on John's shoulder. "John, calm down. Here. Let me hold the baby."

"Why, so you and Moriarty can take her away from me too?"

"You're shaking John," she said as she reached into his arms and pulled out Lucy with little protest. "I'm right here with her, see? We're right here. Now tell me what happened. Where has he gone?"

"I don't know where he's gone. He just... left. He won't answer my texts. And it's all my fault."

"How is it your fault, John?"

"Well... we were drunk, see, and I think I may have kissed him. I know I shouldn't have. I know he hates contact. I... I think I scared him off. I tried... I tried telling him I didn't remember anything, but I do. I remember the way he tastes. And it's haunting me. I didn't mean anything by it, I swear, it was just a kiss, and I was drunk, and I just must be missing Mary more than ever, and..."

"John, shush. Take a breath. There now. Better?"

"A little," he admitted, looking up at her through blurry eyes. "What do I do?"

"Answer this for me first. All this time after I've gone, and you two still aren't in a relationship? At all?"

John's face slackened. "What?"

"Oh John," Irene chided. "He's clearly in love with you."

"Sherlock? Sherlock's incapable of feeling love. That's why he turned down your advances."

"Is it? I thought it was because he didn't want to upset his mancrush."

"Sherlock doesn't love. At least, not like that. Besides, I'm not gay."

Irene sighed. "Yes, yes, so you insist. The problem with you is that you don't see how he looks at you."

John's face reddened slightly. "We're getting off-topic. Sherlock is gone. What if he's leaving for another two years with no contact? I... I don't want to go through that again. I can't keep worrying about him. I can't."

"Relax, John. I'll figure it out." Irene handed back Lucy, noting the halted shaking of John's hands.

John reached up and pulled his daughter to his chest again. He breathed in her scent. He looked at the little ducks on her outfit. Sherlock had picked it out. "You're not working for Moriarty still, are you? Because if you are, and you dare to hurt anyone I care for, I swear..."

Irene put up a palm to cut him off. "No. I'm done with that bastard. I guess it's coincidental Harry is your sister."

"Sherlock doesn't believe in coincidences."

"Sherlock didn't believe in love either. Things change."

"So the price for John Watson," Moriarty purred, still stirring his tea with a finger. "Since he means so much to you, I'm sure he's worth a heavy price. How much do you value his life, Sherlock?"

Sherlock pursed his lips together, not responding.

"I have some ideas," Moriarty grinned, getting up and circling Sherlock. He looked the taller man up and down, then bit down on his lip. "I'm quite a bit... curious."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably under Moriarty's gaze.

Moriarty stopped, moving to stand no more than an inch away from Sherlock. "I wonder," he breathed, "what John is missing out on?" He leaned even closer, his breath hot on Sherlock's chest. "I wonder if you'd give yourself to me, for John."

Sherlock involuntarily flinched as anxiety crept through his bloodstream.

"Or..." Moriarty said louder, backing up several steps. "You could make a different choice. Instead of you or John, how about John or the baby? Is that an easier decision?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered with hatred. He was slowly losing control of his calm demeanor.

"That's quite mean of me though, isn't it? I guess I should offer a third option. You could always kill yourself. And stay dead this time." He gave a sharp laugh and licked his lips. "I'm sure you've deduced which option I'd like you to pick," he murmured.

7:32 - Sherlock Holmes
Where the fuck are you?

Sherlock sighed. "You win," he whispered.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"You win," he said louder. "What do you want to do to me?"

"Oh Sherlock, you want to know what I'm going to do to you? I'm going to fuck your brains out and leave you begging for mercy. Twice."

"Really, why does everyone want me begging for mercy twice?"

Moriarty glared before stepping up to Sherlock and tugging his head down with his scarf. He quickly bit Sherlock's bottom lip. "Behave," he commanded.

"Do people really do that?" Sherlock asked. "It's weird."

"Yes, people do that," Moriarty said, slightly annoyed. "But I guess you wouldn't know since your virginity status is still momentarily intact."

"Ah, you were away. Haven't you heard? I'm a serial shagger. It was in the papers so it must be true."

"You're madly infuriating," Moriarty complained, pulling Sherlock's lips to his own and fiercely kissing him.

"I know," Sherlock replied with a smirk when they broke apart. "John tells me all the time."

Moriarty reeled back his arm and punched Sherlock's jaw. "Shut up!" he screamed. "Don't you dare say that name again!"

Sherlock shifted his jaw slightly. "What name?" he drawled. "John Watson?"

"Shut up!" Moriarty exploded again. This time when he went to throw a punch, Sherlock caught his fist and quickly leaned in to kiss him. He tightly gripped Moriarty's waste and dragged him slightly in his embrace towards the bedroom. Moriarty released a faint sigh when they broke apart, just before Sherlock threw him onto the bed.

Moriarty gave a crooked grin. "This is better now," he purred.

"Shut up," Sherlock demanded, throwing off his usual coat and unbuttoning his shirt with quick, precise fingers.

"I see. You like being dominant."

Sherlock threw his shirt aside and climbed onto the bed, hovering above Moriarty. He engaged the man in a passionate embrace as he traced the contours of Jim's muscles with light fingertips. Slowly he raised Moriarty's arms above his head.

"Feisty," Jim teased as Sherlock held his arms above his head.

With a swift motion, Sherlock grabbed his scarf from around his neck and quickly tied Moriarty's hands to the bedpost. He tugged hard to tighten the grip before starting to slide away. Moriarty's eyes widened with realization. He thrashed about his lower body and torso, fighting against his hold and nailing a strong kick at Sherlock's face, just below the eye.

"Sherlock!" he screamed. "I will kill you for this! I will kill you and that bloody John Watson and his rotten baby!"

Sherlock lifted his fingers to his cheekbone and pulled them away, looking at the blood that dripped. "No, you won't," he said softly. "You will never hurt my family again." He walked out of the bedroom, leaving Moriarty to his bloodcurdling screams and curses. He pulled out a box of matches from one of the cupboards and headed back to the bedroom, holding the box before his captive.

"I will burn you," Sherlock announced, malice dripping from his voice. He struck a match against the side of the box and headed towards the window, setting the curtains aflame.

Moriarty's screams and convulsions became more panicked, but Sherlock ignored them. He grabbed his coat from the floor and walked out of the house, down the long driveway hidden in the woods towards the main road that he would follow back to London. He refused to look back.

He still trudged along the road as the sun was above the horizon, tired and aching from the fight. His mouth tasted like poison as he constantly spit, trying to get the taste of Jim Moriarty out of his mouth. He could call Mycroft for a ride, but he wanted some peace before having to relay the events to his brother. Plus he wanted to edit out some details that seemed unnecessary to him. He wouldn't dare call John, after he had scrolled through all the messages on his phone. He needed to clean up before he returned home.

A moan rang from his pocket. Irene. He skimmed the message quickly.

7:33
I need a ride. Don't tell John. -SH

He kept walking as he waited for the response, then texted directions to be picked up.

Moriarty watched the flames lap at the curtains, incinerating all in their path. He had always admired fire and the way it burned all in its path. A reckless monster raging with chaos, partial to none. It was always hungry for more destruction. Jim Moriarty was the embodiment of fire. And now it was coming to get him. With begrudging admiration for Sherlock Holmes, he noted the poetic feel of his fate.

But he wasn't leaving without a struggle. It had been a mistake coming alone this one time, but he was selfish. He had wanted Sherlock all to himself, without any observers. A dark secret to carry. He loved dark secrets, as long as they were his own or allowed him to manipulate others. He fought against the scarf, but damn was the knot secure. The flames kept creeping closer. The fire alarm blared overhead.

And then, he heard it. The snap of wood. The sound of the headboard bar breaking. A smile crept across his face, spreading from ear to ear. With a loud cackle he pulled harder, relishing the sharp crack and the give of the bar as his hands were now in front of his face. He could easily work the scarf off by rubbing it against a tree branch. Tedious. But he was going to live another day.

Moriarty swaggered out of the burning building, breathing in the sweet smell of failed murder.