A/N: And then, from the depths of fluffy Hell rises… more Post-TRF angst. Because I'm not getting repetitive at all. Right. Are you excited yet?
Word Count: 708
Ship(s): implied Sherlock/John
Warning(s): Somewhat-dark!soldier!John. Suggests alive!Moriarty. Paparazzi bashing. Grim themes. Hints of PSTD. Weird dialogue fashioning (I think I've reread The Road one too many times). Also, Lestrade feels.

Goodnight, London Dear

Not everything changes when Sherlock falls. John still saw London as a battlefield. It was one of those things that wouldn't go away no matter what, even if somehow John moved on, found a lady, had kids, and went domestic. John would always be a soldier. Always feel eyes on him and wonder if he was about to be sniped. Mentally plot out escape routes everywhere he went. Pat his pocket for the revolver he was no longer allowed to carry (but carried regardless).

John wasn't especially bothered by this or, at least, he wouldn't be, except the war he saw in London was a losing one. Lestrade lost his job at the Yard. Molly quit her job at the morgue after promptly cussing out the chief superintendent and throwing a box of tissues at Sally Donovan. Former supporters now left hate comments on the blog John no longer updated. Mycroft, who was in charge of practically everyone, did nothing. 221 Baker street was frequently vandalized to the point where Mrs. Hudson rented 221C out for free to one of the Homeless Network on the basis that he would gladly beat the shit out of anyone who went through with their threats to break into the house. The supporters remaining were far and few between these days, either forgetting or changing their mind. No amount of Believe graffiti could clear Sherlock's name anyway.

Even now, three years later, reporters would come to John's door, or to his workplace, or sometimes just right up to him in the street and ask him for an interview. Do you feel betrayed, they would ask. Did you know about the lies, they'd pry. Did you help bury the bodies?

During the first year, John would tell them off – Sherlock isn't a fraud, he'd say, I knew him, he was my best friend, and the only body I helped bury was him – but soon John would just keep walking. Reporters were nothing, just blips on the radar. There were too many crimes unsolved, too many mysteries still raveled, too many kidnapped innocents found just a little too late without Sherlock around to find them for John to bother with blips.

No one noticed it. No one made the connection, but criminals were getting cleverer again. Leaving less evidence. Planting false leads. Disappearing without a trace. Looking more and more like Moriarty. Gregory was the one who raise the alarm on the topic, but no one listened to him. Of course they didn't. James Moriarty was Richard Brook and Richard Brook was dead; nobody believed the weathered, broken ex-cop who was once a friend to the fallen consulting detective. No one listened. No one but John Watson.

When Greg told John of his suspicions he'd expected an explosion. Rage. Panic. Despair. Blank shock. Something. Something, but not what he got. Greg told John that Moriarty might be back and John grinned, wide and face-slitting and manic. What is it? Greg asked, and John said, It's ironic. Real ironic. Greg flinched and he asked what they were going to do about this. John chuckled, said, I won't do anything, Greg. I'll say, good riddance, people will get what's coming to them. Maybe you'll do something, but you're a better man than me if you're gonna keep it up for a city that doesn't give a damn about you.

Greg stopped looking at John the same after that, but John didn't take much notice.

John walked through London and he saw a battlefield. He saw people existing just waiting to die. Watched people no better than the dirt under their feet prosper. Bore witness to the good people, the innocent people, a dying race dying all the faster. All of them are blind and bumbling never questioning the news they hear, the reassurances they're offered. Never asking, never acting. They float through life unaware of the web weaved around them. Even John could not see it, not like Sherlock always could, but he could feel it, quivering and creeping ever closer, and he could hear what it whispered. And John knew.

London would fall with Sherlock Holmes, slowly but surely. And as the city burned, John would laugh, and he would say, I told you so.

ALSO: Jeeeesssuuuussss, 300 reviews! 300! 3-freakin-hundred! I'm near rolling around on the floor in a flood of disbelief and joy here, guys. I just. Shit. I actually can't—

I JUST LOVE YOU ALL A LOT OKAY?

Ubububu…

-DC