Everybody Loves John Watson

"Bravery is being the only one who knows you're afraid" -Franklin Jones.

Part One

John Watson: is Brave

John had no idea where the little piece had come from. However, he'd been unconscious for almost two whole days after his accident and had even been put under when they straightened up his bones during his healing period. It could have been anyone in the hospital and no one would have noticed. John had been so heavily sedated at the time that he very well could have been conscious when the small piece was put in. The small, square piece could have easily worked itself under his skin from where his knee had been cut open to mend the break and with its sharp sides, it was no wonder it had driven him crazy with pain and discomfort.

Who would do that, though? Even if they were trying to get it away from Moriarty, why him? Could it have been Sherlock? Surely Mycroft wouldn't have let him do such a thing while he was under. Unless it was Mycroft. Or both of them. He didn't want to jump to conclusions. The important part was he had it. He didn't know what it was, but he had it.

It was a computer piece, but there was no reason Moriarty would go to such lengths to get it, or anyone would go to such lengths to hide it, if there wasn't something important about it. Information was Moriarty's game so John had to guess that there was information on it that he wanted. What kind of information? Obviously something dangerous, since the mastermind criminal wouldn't want it otherwise. John eyed the piece in the security of the bathroom. A very dangerous piece of information that would cost people their lives if he wasn't very careful with it. He was in a lose-lose situation. If he didn't hand it over, he was just asking for Moriarty to do something terrible to him, his boyfriends, his friends, and even his family. If he did, however, he had no way of knowing how many people would be affected, or even killed, by what was on it. It could be one person, or it could be all of London.

If he was smart, he would hand it straight over to Mycroft and let him deal with this. This was a government problem. Unfortunately, John knew better than to trust the government, Mycroft or not. He would have to handle this himself. This would require skill, cunning, and a whole bunch of fearlessness. Thankfully, John was in possession of all of these things.

o-o-o

All rise for the second meeting of 'What The Fuck Do We Do About John Now'. You may be seated.

"Don't give me that look." Lestrade grumbled as the two Holmes helped themselves into his flat. He had only managed to get into his trousers before he received two very closed ended texts. Alright, so maybe he could have managed into a shirt, but this was his flat and they needed to leave. That wasn't going to happen, though, so he wasn't going to try. He was certain that the Holmes wouldn't start a physical fight, but if any time was the time to start, it was while he smelled of sex and John. Each brother gave him an eyeful and a scowl as they brushed past him and into the flat.

"I didn't start this." He said with a pointed stare to Mycroft. The DI was always a few steps behind, but then again, most people were. Mycroft was already aware of the vicious circle they had unknowingly created. He'd realized about half way through his own relations with John. To be fair, though, he hadn't actually 'started' this. He hadn't been wrong, only slightly misled. He would take responsibility for that, and would admit that his jealously had momentarily caused him to skip things in his deductions.

"If you're insinuating it was me, you're incorrect." He assured his rival as he knocked away the filth from one of the chairs and propped himself in it. Lestrade's eyes wavered to his brother. Sherlock didn't sit, but stood by the window with his arms crossed over his chest. Pale eyes glanced between them with childish disbelief. Surely they weren't trying to pin this on him. This was Lestrade's fault, the heavy handed fool.

"We can hardly blame him." Mycroft sniffed. "He'd never seen love marks before. We can't expect him to tell the difference." Sherlock glared down his older brother. He wasn't saying he was right, but if he was, then where did John get his bruises? He caught up to Mycroft's train of thought instantly, and the reason they were standing in Lestrade's living room. If they hadn't done it, and John hadn't told any of them who had, then there was only one person who would dare to lay a hand on him and only one person who John wouldn't, or rather couldn't, talk about.

"Wait," Greg wasn't nearly as quick on the uptake. "If it wasn't me, and it wasn't," He assured them sharply. "And it wasn't Mycroft, and Sherlock's hands are too slim,"

"Do try to keep up, Lestrade." The younger Holmes sneered. "Moriarty, obviously." He helpfully added in, knowing the man would never make it to the conclusion on his own. Lestrade closed his eyes with a heavy sigh, signifying he had forgotten all about Moriarty. They'd all known that Moriarty had contacted him and hadn't been very gentle about it, but he hadn't been heard from since. Sherlock was glad the DI wasn't responsible for their boyfriend. To think Lestrade thought he could take care of John and juggle his job at the Yard was a laugh and this was the proof.

"We have to find it." He stated out loud, though the Holmes already knew that.

"It's not in the flat."

"It's in his leg. That 'lump' you thought was from the war, is not." Mycroft explained. "John's limp was psychosomatic."

"If he's being threatened, and he is," Sherlock followed up swiftly as if to try to show up his brother. "And if he doesn't know where it is, which I doubt he'd even consider where it actually is, then he's in danger."

"Helpful." The older Holmes stated sarcastically. "However, Sherlock, we don't know the situation. Even if we do get whatever it is out of him, we don't know what it is, what it does, who it's for, or what will happen if we interfere."

"Are you suggesting that John is not the most important thing right now?"

"I'm suggesting that there are complications that we must think of." He spared a glance at his phone. "And he just left the flat."

"Stop him," the younger demanded.

"I can't without risking putting him in danger. If Moriarty sees anyone suspicious around him, we could put him in more danger. Not to mention he's exceedingly good at getting people on the inside." Even so, his fingers worked over the board of his phone. "The best I can do is keep him in sight."

"That's the best the Government can do?"

"If I were acting for the government right now, Sherlock, John would be gone." Mycroft assured him ominously. The room fell quiet as they each attempted to find a solution as quickly as they possibly could.

"Which way is he headed? If we can get their first, we could minimize the danger at least." Sherlock summed up his thoughts into the simplest form he could.

"London's huge. It would be a wild guess at best and we don't have time to guess wrong." The older shook his head dismissively. If they weren't sure, they might as well have done nothing at all. Both were terrible ideas, but they still had time. It had been proven that the Holmes, alone, could solve any problem given enough time. To be fair, if they honestly and whole heartedly worked together, they could solve things twice as quickly, but their natures were incompatible even when pressure was applied. However, as usual, Lestrade was assumed to be incompetent when, in actuality, he was not.

"I know where he's going." Greg announced with twice as much confidence than the Holmes could ever show. Both brothers looked unconvinced.

"For all your smarts, you guys are just plain stupid sometimes."

o-o-o

John had expected to be snatched off the street again, and was thankful when he wasn't. He was already sore and the lug of a 'Seb' could pop bowling balls. Instead, he was phoned. He was beyond asking how Moriarty got his number, and instead focused on getting away with his life and his sanity.

"Do you have it?" John would never get use to hearing the man's voice. He didn't lie.

"Yes." He could practically hear Moriarty smirk on the other side and it nearly gave him the shivers.

"I knew you did. Give it to me, Watson."

He took the chance to name his location for 'pick up'. That was all it should be, but he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he handed Moriarty anything he needed to kill any amount of people without fighting for it. He was a doctor and a soldier and he saw the kinds of things Moriarty cause; the chaos and death and destruction and John wouldn't stand for it.

"I'll bring it to the Westen Theater." John knew Moriarty couldn't refuse a show.

He walked there. When it came to cabs and Moriarty, John didn't trust them. The last thing he needed was another killer cabbie. He brought his gun, but he wasn't planning on using it. It would be easy, he knew, if he could surprise him. Unlikely Sherlock, John knew how to weigh his options. If he shot Moriarty, fatal or otherwise, he would be shot. That was a given. He had no problem giving his life it meant that the psychopath was out of this world, as well, but he wouldn't do that unless he had a clear, uninterrupted chance. It would have to be fast and completely unpredicted otherwise it would be for nothing. He had to handle this with the utter most delicacy. He could only hope that his connection to Sherlock gave him the buffer he needed.

From outside, he could hear music in the theater. He knew it was empty, though. The place hadn't been used in years. According to Mycroft, who seemed to be very fond of taking him to empty, sometimes creepy places around London on their dates, it had been run by a man who used it to perform assassinations. In theory, it was the worse place to be alone with a psychopath, considering how many places he could hide his people, and Moriarty always had his people. John turned that into an advantage. He knew Moriarty would have hidden company and John could strategize. If he couldn't get away unwounded, then he could at least get away alive.

He quietly entered the building, even though he knew it was fruitless to sneak in. Moriarty would be able to see him in the dark and hear him under the music. The mastermind always seemed to know in the same way the Holmes did. He watched Moriarty from where he bobbed about on the stage as he made his way down the rows of seats. He joined the consulting criminal on the stage and the music died down just enough to hear each other speak. Moriarty's smirk spoke mountains alone.

"The sound in this place is fantastic! I should torture people here." John watched the other man approach him.

"I'm so glad you found my chip." He purred. They were roughly the same height, but that didn't make him any less intimidating. His grubby little fingers attached to his thigh and heartlessly yanked at the stitches hidden under John's jeans. The medic only flinched even as the blood began to soak through his trousers and down his leg.

"Sneaky, sneaky man he was hiding it in you." It sounded like a compliment, but it wasn't.

"Who was he?"

"Don't worry about him. He's dead now. Such a lovely skull, he had, though." Moriarty assured him. This was a stupid idea. He was way in over his head. The man practically pranced away from him, making a little turn on the wooden deck and making his way back. John kept him out of distance this time, however, and Moriarty stopped.

"Give it to me." He demanded rather politely.

"What is it?" Thankfully, John knew how to contain his emotions. It wasn't the first time he'd faced danger. In fact, he knew things far more dangerous than Moriarty. He was cruel, unpredictable, and bat shit insane, but he was still just a man.

"I hardly think that's any use to you, little doctor." His tone alerted John that things were starting to take a turn for the worse. He fetched the glass tube from his pocket and held it out to his side, careful to keep it far away from Moriarty. The man eyed it sharply.

"What did you do?" He demanded sharply, the thin lips swiftly curving down.

"Sherlock is very good at chemistry, but you know that." John started, loosening his grip around the glass. "Upon contact with air, it will burn fast and it will burn hot and the chip will be destroyed." Moriarty took a step toward him and he let the glass slide through his fingers just a little bit. Not a perfect plan by any means, but he wasn't going to walk into a death trap without a shield. If Moriarty was going to win no matter what, then so would John. There was a moment where neither of them spoke, but the music prevent any silence from happening.

"Very clever." The criminal laughed.

"Sherlock is a good influence."

"How do I know it's undamaged? In fact, what exactly is you're plan here? You see, regardless, you're not going to walk out of here alive, no matter what I tell you is on it. In fact, it could be nothing at all. I could have lured you here to kill you." He teased. He was right, of course, but that was why this plan wasn't perfect.

"You don't play with pets." John reminded him. Moriarty laughed at him.

"But you see, you're not a pet anymore, John Watson. You're the prize. My chances of getting a Holmes are two out of three. The probability of them actually coming is even higher, depending on how much they actually care for you." Now he had to trudge carefully. He had to call his bluff. John dropped the vial a little more and Moriarty closed his eyes momentarily. Thank god.

"If that's the case, I'll just toss this and give them a call." He suggested. The man bobbed his head like a snake preparing for the kill. This information must have been worth even more than he thought. John wasn't sure if he should be pleased or not. Moriarty was too erratic.

"Give it to me."

"That tone won't work on me, Moriarty." That was it, then. He'd taken a walk to his death. Not only had he pissed off the bi-polar man, but he had no intentions of handing the item over. The more important it was, the more people that would suffer. Perhaps he could hold out until someone came to help him, but it was unlikely. John glanced into the dark at any and all places for people to hide. There were too many of them. If he reached for his gun, he'd be spotted. He could throw it at the man and hope for the best, but letting go of his winning token was the worst thing he could do in this situation. They were in a deadlock, but he could already tell Moriarty was thinking and unfortunately, the criminal thought twice as fast and jumped to conclusions far easier than he did. John knew when to flee.

"You can still walk away." He informed. Moriarty looked amused.

"Me?"

"Even if I give it to you, there's no guarantee that you will be able to retrieve it without burning it. If I don't leave here, three of your most powerful enemies will come and this time, they will be out for blood." John was scraping at the bottom of the barrel.

"I know you're not afraid of them, but you should be. If you are as smart as you think you are, you would run. You would run and hide and pray that they didn't find you." The shorter male informed proudly.

"Gregory Lestrade," He began pointedly. "Is far braver, far more forceful, and twice the man you'll ever be. You think he's soft, but you obviously hadn't seen him work. If I fall, he will knock your empire out from under your feet. Every one of your workers; gone. How powerful are you when you stand alone? A mad man with mad words." Moriarty began to circle and John was forced to take the opposite path to keep him out of arms distance. If he lunged, he had to have enough time to smash any hope of the criminal getting what he wanted.

"Sherlock Holmes is twice as clever as you. Making puzzles is the easy part. Solving them is a different story. You take away his heart and you'll make a monster of him. He'd be much like you, only worse. Unlike you, he knows what he has lost and that will make him that much more determined to make you suffer. He won't kill you, but then again, he won't have to." It was impossible to tell whether or not he was succeeding or if Moriarty was simply walking him into a trap. There were too many possibilities and he had to hope something slipped.

"But Mycroft Holmes will be the worst of it because he's so much colder and so much deadlier than you. He won't play with you, he won't chase you. He won't bother with your friends, or your family, or your workers. He won't talk to you. He won't warn you. He won't intimidate you. He will find you where you live, where you sleep, and he will cut your throat. But that's not the worst of it. No one will know who you were, or who you hurt, or what you did. The streets won't whisper your name. There won't be stories. There won't be lies. You'll disappear and no one will have even known." He'd bought himself some time, but all he heard was music. Moriarty stopped and John mimicked him. He took two precautionary steps back, just in case the mastermind really was trying to get him to stand on a target. Dark eyes stared at him and John decided that it was probably a good idea to stop poking the bear. Then Moriarty laughed again. The little doctor had no idea whether it was a good or bad laughter.

"I see why they like you." Moriarty purred, showing his teeth in an unsettling smile. "Perhaps I should pin after you, myself. Me. You. My pet." He suggested. "Could always use more pets." Was that a serious suggestion? Did Moriarty really think he would leave a relationship he was perfectly happy with for a psycho fuck? Of course he did. He was a psycho fuck.

"Pass."

"That's too bad, Johnny Boy, because you're counting on a lot of things being in your favor. If I can't have it, then I'll just take you." He snapped loudly over the music. John flinched at the signal, but nothing happened. Moriarty proceeded to throw a fit. He held his hands out, as if he were going to strangle an invisible man.

"Sebastian!" He yelped shrilly. The music cut off suddenly. "Sebastian!"

The large, blonde man was thrown onto the stage from out of the dark and directly onto his face. It didn't hinder him, though, and he instantly attempted to push himself back up despite his arms being bound with cuffs, zip ties, rope, his jacket, and a belt. Lestrade hurriedly shoved him back onto his stomach to hold him down.

"Slippery little bastard you have here." He grunted. He'd fought, by the looks of his split lip and swelling eye. If he'd landed any blows on the sniper, they weren't nearly as bad. His face and neck were soaked, though, where he'd been sprayed with PAVA repeatedly. John doubted Sebastian could see at the moment, but he still had some fight left in him. Given even the smallest amount of lee way, he would undoubtedly lunge. Moriarty 'tsk'ed.

"Oh Sebby." He hummed. "Why didn't you kill him?" The criminal snapped suddenly and delivered a swift kick to his sniper's face. Sebastian rolled his head away.

"No matter." He fixed his tie and collar. "There are others."

"Don't bother bluffing, Jim. There aren't 'others'." Sherlock entered stage right and John had to glance over his shoulder to make sure it really was him. The taller male shoved his hands into his pockets and approached them stiffly. He examined the blood spot growing his boyfriend's leg momentarily, surveying the physical damage.

"You could have helped me with this." Lestrade motioned to the man he pinned down. Despite having been the one to know where John was at, Sherlock seemed to push it all on luck. It was a little bit of luck, but it was more about knowing how John thought. If he was going to be attacked, he would choose somewhere where he could get away and protect himself the easiest. They might have tried to keep their dates secret, but they never were. The theater was the only place where John could feel even the smallest amount safe and it's location meant that if something were to happen, no one else would be hurt. It wasn't luck. It was years of knowing how people worked.

"You had it under control." Sherlock assured him.

"I think he actually broke my face."

"Someone needs to get me out of here right now!" John said loudly. He was sore, bruised, battered, needed a real bath, and would have a headache for days. He wanted to go home and he wanted to do it now.

"Of course, John. That's what we came for." Mycroft assured him as he entered stage left, successfully blocking the last of Moriarty's exits. It was too bad the criminal had never planned on running. It was also too bad that it was never a good idea to corner a wild animal. The short, insane man made a small turn to examine the group that outnumbered him.

"Oh dear. Looks like I got three out of three. It's my lucky day, isn't it?" He reached into his suit pocket and retrieved his phone. "Let's see if I can get four out of six."

Part Two
Three Hearts; One Fire

Mycroft was unfamiliar with his surroundings when he awoke. His entire body tingled and his sight was impaired. A few blinks assured him that there were hospital lights hovering over him. Then he began his self check. He was bandaged up pretty bad, but nothing seemed broken. Mostly burns and a few shrapnel wounds consistent with an explosion. He scrapped his mind for the memory of what had happened. That was right, Moriarty had planted a bomb. He should have thought of that. It was Moriarty's specialty, after all. He forced himself up just enough to examine the room. Beside him, Lestrade lay just as bandaged up as him and still unconscious. Beyond that, his brother was already struggling to get free from the bed, though his condition was no better. The nurses were struggling to hold him down and Mycroft had the suspicion that the only reason he could fight was because he couldn't feel anything yet. He'd have to tell them to take him off the morphine. He'd most likely become addicted and the pain would keep him in the bed. There was no sign of another body, but one of the beds was empty and cleaned. He could only hope that John was in better shape.

"Sherlock," He groaned over the mess. "Stop it." He demanded, laying himself back down. Lestrade grunted, signifying he was awake as well. He listened for several more seconds, but Sherlock showed no signs of even having heard him. He had, definitely, he simply was ignoring him. Why did he always have to be so difficult?

"Sherlock Holmes! You will lie down and let the nurses do their job or so help me, I will come over there and I will smack you!" Mycroft instructed viciously. Sherlock quieted down and the nurses let out a sigh of relief. One of them came to his bedside, murmuring a small thanks and proceeded to ask him a series of questions starting with his name. Some of them were medical questions and others were to make sure he didn't have brain damage. He was slightly unsure which were which, but he was more than happy to go along with it. He could hear the other two doing the same; Lestrade confused and Sherlock unhappy.

"Your assistant has been in and out the last few days. Don't worry, everything's fine. We're keeping everything on the low." She assured him. Mycroft wasn't worried about that. Anthea had that under control. He wasn't even worried about his wounds; mostly burns as he had already deduced.

"Where is John Watson?" He asked once she had finished. She appeared confused and Mycroft attempted not to panic. Maybe he just wasn't awake yet. That was it.

"There was another man. Possibly two others. He's a small thing, short, blonde." He described hurriedly. She frowned at him.

"There was another man." She assured him. "He was short. He was too charred to tell who he was, or if he was blonde. He didn't make it." The heart monitors in the room went off simultaneously, startling the nurses.

"And there was no one else?" Mycroft trudged on for any hope that there had been a mistake. The nurse nodded, but she didn't look too pleased about it.

"He was taken to another hospital this morning. He was relatively uninjured. Something must have shielded him from the blast." It could be John. Maybe they thought he was someone he wasn't and got switched around. He couldn't imagine the hospital would do that with a John Doe, though. Mycroft wanted everything to be possible. He swallowed thickly, staring up at the ceiling blankly.

"What was his name?"

"The man that came for him IDed him as Richard Brook." The name alone started Sherlock up again at twice the fight. He struggled ferociously about the bed, the nurses, and the machines. There was nothing Mycroft could say to stop him now. Lestrade sat in stunned silence. They all knew that name.

"Thank you." Mycroft said politely, but dismissively. He didn't want to believe it, and until they were sure it was his body, he wouldn't. John was strong. Maybe there had been someone else in the building? Maybe it was 'Sebastian' and something happened to make him appear shorter. Maybe he wasn't actually dead and the doctors were just really incompetent. He tried not to think too hard about it right now. The more excuses he made, the more he'd fool himself into not believing the inevitable.

"We failed." Lestrade whispered brokenly. "All we had to do was keep him alive and we failed."

Mycroft's heart ached softly.

Moriarty and his nasty little pet disappeared completely. However, so did John's supposed body, leaving them with the smallest sliver of hope and that was all that was needed. Mycroft knew that it was too much to hope for, and that there was no reasonable answer to John's disappearance. It was surprising the number of body's that went missing from the morgue without anyone having to be involved. They could have gotten him confused, or there paper could have sent him to the wrong place. There wasn't any reason to hope that there was something strange going on, but because Moriarty was involved, they had to assume something was going on.

There were no records of 'Richard Brook' anywhere in the hospital when it was checked. He wasn't on any of the cameras and neither was John. While he'd supposedly been moved to another hospital, that wasn't the case. He'd vanished completely. It was the smart thing to do. He had Anthea check the entire hospital for any sign of the blonde man, including John Does dead or alive. It didn't help their hope when she came up empty handed. People didn't just 'disappear' from the view of the government. Whether he was alive or dead, Moriarty had something to do with it.

Life had to go on. Mycroft went back to work and back to being just as lonely as he had been before. Days turned to weeks turned to months and the sliver of hope began to close. The longer there was no word from him, the more likely he was dead. Still, he kept an ear to the ground. If Moriarty was alive, if he dared to still be alive, Mycroft would know. He would know and he would swiftly change that. There wasn't even the smallest of peeps from anyone. The thought that Moriarty had received the most damage from his own bomb was a nice thought, but highly unlikely.

Lestrade went back to work and back to dealing on his own. The word spread fast that if anyone saw anything of John Watson, they were to let him know immediately. No one saw anything. It was distressing, but he clung to his hope. No body, no death. That was the rule. Naturally, his instinct told him there was no chance, but the circumstances weren't the same as a normal person going missing. However, Lestrade would rather think John was dead than possibly being tortured by a psychopath. To think of Moriarty torturing John for this long made his blood boil. What kind of person did that?

Sherlock knew John, though. He didn't take anymore cases from the public, only sustaining his lifestyle on what Lestrade offered, and put the rest of his ability on locating his boyfriend. He went over every inch of the hospital, and the footage, and was all over London searching for even the smallest clue that he was still alive. The smallest amount of evidence, even if it was only the faint mistaken identity, drove him to continue his search. He wasn't obsessed, but John had rubbed off on him. The least he could do was make sure John was actually dead and if he was, he needed to be buried properly. Then Sherlock could move on with his life. Simple as that. It was one or the other; John was dead or John was alive. Sherlock had proof of neither and he wouldn't believe anything until he did.

And then he did.

A letter was found in his possession with no source of where it had come from. It'd been passed from person to person all over the streets of London trying to get to him. Preserved in a plastic bag a complete stranger handed it to him on the street. The return address was simply 'Jim Moriarty' and the address as 'Sherlock Holmes'. The letter wasn't from Moriarty, though. It was from John. The only reason he didn't keep it to himself was to make sure they kept looking. Lestrade was close to giving up and Mycroft wouldn't actively strive towards anything without good reason. Sherlock could do this on his own, but if Lestrade came to his flat with that stupid solemn expression of his one more time, he was going to do something very illegal.

"Dear Sherlock Holmes,"

For everything it was worth, it was relieving to know that John was okay. It was, without a doubt, his handwriting and it was stress-free and smooth. He wasn't injured, or being tortured, or dead. Still, he was with Moriarty and anything was possible. That was the worst part. If John was alive, and coherent, why was he with Moriarty? Why wasn't he trying to get away? Sherlock had been over the letter a dozen times over. John was happy. He couldn't find even the smallest hint of a S.O.S, or a plea for help, and that was more frustrating than anything else. How could John be happy without him?

"It's been a while, hasn't it? I really do miss you and all of my old friends, really. Well, I say friends. We all know it was more than that. I'm happy now, don't you worry. Perhaps we should get together again one day. Between my new lovers and work, that'd be quite impossible right now. I'd give you my number, but you would probably hunt me down, wouldn't you? You always were brilliant. Not as brilliant as your brother, of course. I still remember how you two would fight over me. You two were so cold compared to that old romantic, though. We all know there was no competition in the end. Take care of yourselves. Or don't. Love, John Watson." Lestrade lowered the letter, though the grim silence of the room wasn't much better than the writing.

He couldn't believe it. None of them wanted to believe it. Sherlock was already pacing, his silhouette distorted against the web he had created against one wall of his flat. Mycroft's frown could have been etched permanently on his face. It was a lot to take in.

"And you're sure this is John's hand?" How long had it been since that day? Almost a year now since they'd waken up to the start of their lives without John. It was still hard to comprehend.

"Of course I'm sure!" The younger Holmes sneered at him.

"Yeah, well what if Moriarty forged his hand?"

"Are you stupid?" Came the swift, unforgiving judgement. Lestrade took it all in stride, as he always did. Sherlock was taking this the hardest. John had been his best friend long before anything else had formed. This was tough for all of them, but if John was living- no, lovers- with Moriarty, then their next move had to be very careful. Lestrade couldn't imagine John doing anything to willingly hurt any of them, especially Sherlock. Things changed.

"If it was forged, there'd be hesitation marks. Spots where the pen rested. John's right handed, there are smudge marks on the right side." Sherlock snatched the paper away from him. "The curves, the slant, the way he dots his 'i's and dashes the 't's. It's his." He pinned it back to the wall where he'd been working on hunting down where the letter had come from. It was an awful game of telephone.

"If it is," Lestrade wasn't completely convinced.

"It is."

"Then what do we do now?" Surely they couldn't let this continue. This didn't instantly make John a criminal, but things weren't looking good. It was also clear that he wasn't interested in being found, but that didn't mean he didn't need to be. They didn't even know when this had began. Lestrade had never thought he'd see the day where the John H. Watson was sweet talked by Moriarty. He hadn't known that was something he had to worry about.

Sherlock didn't have an answer. He even looked torn. He turned away from them with what Lestrade could only read as hurt. The evidence was hard to ignore and all of the evidence was pointing to John betraying him; betraying them all.

"We find him." Mycroft responded in a way that made it sound like they weren't speaking about John at all. Lestrade wouldn't have it. They were wrong. He didn't care what the evidence said; John was not a criminal.

Part Three
Richard Brook: is Fake

One Year Previous

John awoke in an unfamiliar room. To be fair, any room he woke up in would have been foreign to him. His head felt as though it'd been split wide open and he had to check to make sure it hadn't. There was no blood, but his hair was singed and his hand was blackened. He couldn't tell if anything was wrong, though. His other hand was chained to the bed frame and he naturally wondered if that was bad. It seemed bad, but his mind wasn't connecting it.

"Ooh." More things he didn't know. John glanced to the voice, watching the man in the doorway watch him. "You're awake now, are you little doctor?" He hummed.

"Am I a doctor?" John murmured softly. He didn't think he was a doctor. He didn't remember being a doctor. The stranger eyed him curiously and took two steps toward the end of the bed. He didn't answer for a moment and John wondered if it had been something of a tease.

"Yes." He finally answered. "Don't you remember?" The man frowned, but there was something in his eyes that John couldn't place. He was dressed in bandages from his neck down to his chest and most likely even further down, but John couldn't see that far. A large patch covered one side of his face, but it didn't obstruct his facial features. John realized he wasn't in any better condition and he flinched at the pain that lurched through his awakening body. Had they been in an accident of some sort?

The stranger approached the bed a few more steps, though he seemed to think about each step, as though each one were different than the last. John shook his head.

"No. I don't." He admitted.

"Do you remember anything?" The stranger pressed on. John called back as many memories as he could, but they wouldn't come. He couldn't even remember his own name, or how old he was, or any personal information and it scared him. The man touched his hand lovingly, but his skin was cold to the touch.

"It's okay." His voice was so affectionate and soothing that John's brain instantly told him it was false, but he couldn't think of a reason why the stranger would fake it.

"I'm Jim, remember? Jim Moriarty?" The name sounded so familiar to John. There were some very strong connections to it, but he wasn't sure if they were good or bad. He assumed they were good. When he couldn't remember anything, he didn't want them to be bad. Jim gently brought their hands together.

"I don't remember." John murmured apologetically. Jim chuckled. It sounded so dark and the little doctor's skin jumped.

"Don't worry. We were in a bit of an accident. You must have hit your head worse than I thought. Do you know what your name is?"

"No." He squeezed the hand in his own and Jim squeezed back.

"You're name is Richard, remember? Richard Brook." That didn't sound familiar, but neither did being a doctor. John frowned a little. Had he really hit his head that hard?

"You're thirty seven. Your birthday is January fourteenth. You were a doctor in Afghanistan after attending Bart's. I'm your boyfriend." Jim assured him gently and slowly. John was completely willing to believe what he was being told. He didn't know anything else. Besides, why would his boyfriend lie to him?

"Sebastian!" The man yelped suddenly and John flinched. A few seconds passed a much taller man limped into the doorway. His nose was broken, and one of his eyes was swollen, but they seemed to be different from the burns and cuts over the rest of his body. He must have been in the worse part of it.

"And this is Sebastian Moran, Richard," Jim smiled. "Your other boyfriend."

"Other boyfriend?" John murmured. Sebastian's face mimicked the question.

"Oh yeah," The smaller male purred the beginning of his story. "We all love each other very much, don't we Sebby?" He insisted. Sebastian looked unconvinced, and slightly confused, but Jim glared at him and he swiftly answered.

"Yeah. 'Course. Love." He grumbled, approaching the side of the bed. John wasn't entirely sure what to make of his attitude. He didn't seem very pleased about it. John wasn't sure he was very pleased with it, either.

"He's a little upset. You did forget him, Richard." Jim scolded. He sat on the edge of the bed and it tilted slightly under his weight, just enough to send another shot of pain through John's body.

"I guess I'll just have to tell you. I do love a good story." He folded one knee over the other and propped his hands a top it. "You two met in Afghanistan, where, Richard, you were working as a doctor, of course, and Seb was a soldier or something. He kept getting hurt and you were always the one that stitched him back together. Of course, he fell in love with you. Then kept hurting himself just so he could come and see you. Then one day, he brought you something very romantic." Jim cooed.

"He did?"

"He did." The man snapped his fingers repeatedly. "What was it again, Sebby?"

"Flowers." Sebastian grunted.

"Boring." Jim scoffed.

"We were in the desert."

"How the fuck did you get flowers in the desert?"

"Thank you." John murmured softly, smiling pleasantly at the man. That sounded rather impressive. He really wished he could remember.

"Whatever." Jim waved it off. "Anyways, you two fell madly in love, as stupid people do," Sebastian cleared his throat loudly, drowning out part of the other man's words. "And then you got shot so they had to send you home." A sharp finger poked his shoulder and John cringed. He covered the spot with his free hand. That sounded awful. He was a little glad he didn't remember that part.

"But then- why is Sebastian here?"

"Dishonorable discharge." Jim shrugged. John looked over the blonde man with disapproval. "He shot the people that shot you. Some people say he did it just so he could go home with you."

"Did you?" He asked curiously. Sebastian grunted but didn't approve or disapprove.

"So, of course, you two came back here. Then you began to be afraid of going outside." Jim informed him promptly. John was suddenly afraid to go outside.

"I did?"

"Of course! Don't worry, Richard, love, we're working on it." He patted the blonde's cheek rather roughly with the back of his hand. "Agoraphobia. It's just terrible. We had to get you out of the hospital before you woke up or we would never get you home." He laughed, but John was actually terrified of the idea of being out of the house. Horribly, horribly terrified.

"Then you had an affair with me. You could hardly be blamed. I am very handsome." He praised himself with the utter most gratitude. Beige eyes turned back to Sebastian, completely horrified by the idea that he would do such a thing.

"I'm sorry."

"You really were. Then you two had a very long conversation and now here we are." Jim finished up with a flourish of the hands. "Any questions?" John only hesitated a moment.

"Yes. Why am I handcuffed to the bed?" He tugged at his wrist mildly, careful not to aggravate the skin under his bandages. It jingled pointedly against the metal framing.

"You woke up and punched Sebby in the face. We had to do something." Jim shrugged carelessly. "Broke his nose pretty bad, look at that."

"I'm sorry." John murmured again, though his supposed boyfriend didn't seem too bothered by it. "But can you uncuff me now?"

"Go on then. Unlock him Seb."

There was something strange about the way he lived, John realized after a couple days. It didn't seem right at all, but he couldn't find anything out of place. He didn't have any clothes here, or personal items, which seemed strange, but Jim assured him they'd been in the middle of a move when they were injured. John wasn't completely convinced, but his foggy mind returned with foggy memories. He'd definitely had a boyfriend before, he remembered. He was tall and he had been a heavy smoker. That described Sebastian well enough. He never smoked inside, but there was always the air about him as if it were his cologne. He remembered being a doctor, which simply came naturally when Sebastian came home wounded.

Jim claimed to be a professor, but he came and went at such strange hours of the day and night that John was starting to question whether or not he actually was. He couldn't imagine classes in such a way. Sebastian was a freelancer, though he never specified in what. He would come home with open wounds and bruises, but they were never too bad. He was probably just - John couldn't actually think of anything, but he tried not to think about it too much. He was too busy trying to bring his own memories back.

He wasn't sure if he'd been happy with his life before, but it was certainly never boring. It was hard to tell what Jim would do. He lashed out for seemingly no reason. John was smart enough to stay out of the way. Sebastian was usually the target. He attempted to strike John once, after he'd stupidly mentioned that it couldn't have possibly been Sebastian's fault, but his boyfriend had protected him. He had decided that it was an awful idea to interfere between the two. Instead, he opted to patch him up after their fights. His behavior was familiar, though. Not the anger, but there was something else about him. Familiar was good, though. He liked to think it was him remembering, even if he never fully did.

Sebastian was far more mellow, thankfully, and was never gone while Jim was in. John wasn't sure what to do if left alone with Jim. It seemed like something that would end badly and even be dangerous. Why would he trust a man like that? Maybe he really had hit his head a little too hard. John didn't feel like himself and he didn't feel right in his lover's arms. Even when they sat together on the glass patio, it felt wrong. In his own ways, Jim was kind. John could be outside without actually being outside. The thick glass walls gave him a wonderful view of nearly all of London and it was peaceful. However, he didn't feel afraid.

He was. He was deathly afraid of stepping out onto the street and he didn't know why. He supposed that was why it was a phobia. He wished he could remember why he was so afraid to go outside. John watched the people move around on the ground. Ants, Jim called them, and laughed. He was a frightening man.

"Sebastian," John always called him by his full name. "Why do you," He paused momentarily. "We. Why do we put up with Jim? I don't mean to sound ungrateful. He's done a lot for me. Us. I think this room really is helping me get better and the doctor he brought to treat me. All of my wounds are nearly healed," He hadn't been told what had happened, though. Jim was afraid they'd pull back the bad kind of memories.

"But I've seen the way he treats you." John murmured worriedly. "It's awful."

"Respect." Sebastian grumbled. John glanced over his shoulder and looked at him with disbelief. His eyes returned to the glass and the view beyond it. He would remember one day and then he wouldn't stay here so freely.

"I guess he must have done something great to earn your," John closed his eyes with frustration. "Our." He corrected himself again. "Respect."

"Yes." Sebastian knew his simple answers never satisfied the man, but he couldn't lie like Jim did. Not to mention if he accidentally screwed anything up, Jim would do a lot more than break his nose. He could see him remembering, though, and had to be watched carefully. If he remembered what Jim had done to them, he wouldn't be happy. If he did remember, then he would remember that it wasn't smart to play games with Jim. Why Jim thought it was a good idea to show him where they kept the guns, Seb would never know. Sometimes he thought the man misjudged people. If Jim though John wouldn't kill them after what they'd done to him, he was mistaken. The shock of remembering alone could drive him to attack them without warning. Adding in the lies they made him believe, Sebastian wouldn't be surprised if neither of them woke up in the morning.

"You still don't remember?"

"A little bit," John admitted. He walked away from the window and joined Sebastian on the lounge chair. "I remember you." The taller blonde man listened carefully. "I had a dream last night. I think it was a memory, or at least part of one. We were on a date. I think it was in Afghanistan. It was some sort of abandoned building. You were in a suit," John described, though the more he spoke the more disoriented he seemed to become.

"I don't think I've ever seen you in a suit. And I think you had your hair dyed. And there was cake. And then- and then," He backed away from the chair slowly, but suddenly. "And then you threw me on the ground. And hit me." The anger in John's voice practically demanded a good reason. "Because Jim told you to."

"Calm down, Richard." He was remembering and he was remembering with fury. Jim wasn't taking this seriously. John was in their house, sleeping in their beds, cooking in their kitchen. He could remember at any moment. Maybe while Jim is hovering over his shoulder in the kitchen. Maybe while he treated Sebastian's wounds. Jim didn't understand that this wasn't like the games he played at a distance.

"It's just a dream." Sebastian reminded him. John calmed down steadily, nodding to prove the fact to himself.

"Sorry. I don't know what came over me." He approached the chair again, but Sebastian was careful to watch his hands. John kissed him quietly, but as usual, hesitated a little first. This wasn't working. Jim's lies were to big. John wasn't believing them.

"I love you, Richard." The words were always stiff in his mouth, but John only smiled a little.

"I love you too, Sebastian. Thank you for putting up with me. I must be a burden without my memory and the whole outside phobia, but I really need you right now." Good God, Jim was suicidal. He needed to get John out of here and now. As if on cue, Jim returned in his loud way.

"I'm home, my pets!"

"Don't tell Jim, please. I don't want him to think I don't love him." John murmured softly, as if the thought would actually disturb Jim. He'd probably laugh. He'd laugh at the idea of Sebastian not telling him something.

"'Course."

The more time passed, the more anxious John seemed to get. Not outwardly, of course. Sebastian watched him, though. He would flinch whenever Jim looked at him, as any sensible person did, and would always pull away before being touched or touching either of them. He could tell the soldier in him was remembering they were enemies, but the lies Jim had hammered into his brain was telling him that they most certainly were not. Thankfully, he didn't seem to respond to any names offhandedly mentioned in the news. He never paid any particular attention to Lestrade or the few times Holmes was mentioned. Sebastian was sure if he were to focus on any of them for any amount of time, they would have a problem. Jim wasn't helping that problem.

"Richard, I need you to take a note for me." Jim insisted innocently enough. Everything he did started out innocently enough, usually. Sebastian thought it was a way he mentally drew people into his convoluted mind traps. Just because he knew how it worked didn't mean he didn't was any better defended against it. John shifted a little from where he sat comfortably leaned against the taller, much more muscular man. It was obvious he was more at peace with Sebastian. All things considering, Sebastian hadn't tried to choke him yet. It had been an entire month before John even wanted to be in the same room as Moriarty and even then, it was clear he was starting to question anything Jim said or did.

"Sure." John agreed without a fight. He didn't trust Jim, but he wasn't stupid enough to invoke his wrath for a stupid reason, either. Jim gave him a sheet of paper and a pen, both of which were strikingly fancy. He sat the blonde man down at the dinning room table and hovered over his shoulder slightly.

"Is there any reason you're not doing this?" He wasn't expecting an answer, a lot of things Jim did didn't have an answer, but it was worth a try.

"I've been writing all day, Richard," Jim complained, putting his hands out on the table where John could see. "I don't want to come home and write."

"Right. What am I writing?" This was familiar. John remembered doing an assortment of things simply because his boyfriend was too lazy or too 'busy' to do it. The act he remembered, but it didn't belong with Jim, if that was possible. That wasn't surprising, though. Not a lot of things did belong with Jim.

"Dear Sherlock Holmes,"

I don't have friends. I only have one. Of course. I'd be lost without my blogger. That's not what people normally say. People do little else. I'm a high functioning sociopath. This is the only place where you can see everything. John!

"Sherlock Holmes?" John asked curiously. Sebastian turned to watch him with a sudden caution. "I think I heard about him on the news. Do you know him?"

"We use to go to school together. We fell apart when he started his little pretend detective business and I pursued a real dream. We were really good friends." Jim purred. His boyfriend tapped the end of the pen against the table thoughtfully.

"I think you've told me that before. I think I remember a little bit of it, anyways." He mused proudly. The healing process was so painfully slow sometimes. He shrugged it away for the moment, though, returning his pen to the paper to continue. Sebastian stared his disapproval at Jim and was ignored.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" Jim was writing a honest letter. Hell must have frozen over. "I really do miss you and all of my old friends, really. Well, I say friends." The man purred. John wasn't surprised. "We all know if was more than that. I'm happy now, don't you worry. Perhaps we should get together again one day. Between my new lovers and work, that'd be quite impossible right now." Was it a good letter?

"I'd give you my number, but you would probably hunt me down, wouldn't you?"

"Uh. Why would he do that?" That didn't sound like something that was good. Jim pressed bony fingers into John's shoulders and rested his chin on the feathered blonde hair.

"Oh, Sherlock had always been obsessed with me. It was so adorable." That did sound like Sherlock. John wasn't sure why it did, but it did and he had no reason to question it.

"You always were brilliant. Not as brilliant as your brother, of course."

The bravery of a soldier. You have to stay with him. Our traditions define us. I can't see why anyone wouldn't like you. I'm sorry, John.

"I remember how you two would fight over me. You two were so cold compared to that old romantic, though."

You're an attractive man. But we're looking for it- there has to be one. Oh god, it's a kid. Brave, but kind and strong, but polite. I love you, John Watson.

"We all know there was no competition in the end. Take care of yourselves. Or don't. Love, John Watson."

Love John Watson. Love John Hamish Watson, decorated soldier and highly trained doctor. Brother to Harriet Watson. Blogger to the great Sherlock Holmes. Boyfriend of Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, and Gregory Lestrade. Accomplished, self sufficient, brave, crack shot with a strong moral principal and nerves of steal.

"Richard?" Sebastian said sharply, but gently. John shook his head.

John - Watson, - and highly trained doctor. -Harriet Watson. Blogger-Sherlock Holmes. - Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, and Gregory Lestrade. Accomplished, -, brave, crack shot with-moral principal and nerves -.

"Richard?" Jim hissed when he didn't respond. John cupped his forehead with his palm.

John - Watson, - and - doctor. -Watson. Blogger-. - Sherlock Holmes, -, and -Lestrade. -, -, brave, - with-moral - - -.

"Sorry. I thought- I thought I remembered something." John murmured, grasping at the fainting strings of thought. They escaped him despite the fight to keep them. He shook his head again.

"It's gone."

"It's okay, Richard." His boyfriend murmured against the nape of his neck. His name seemed to push the small scraps of his memories back.

"Anyways. John Watson?" John questioned curiously, though it wouldn't be the first time Jim was known by another name.

"Name changes and all that." Jim explained with little interest.

"No wonder it sounds so familiar. You want to sign it, then?"

"Print will be fine. It's a letter, not a cheque." The minutely taller male yawned with an air of boredom. John wasn't sure if it was a good letter or not. It seemed more like a taunt rather than a 'glad you're doing well' letter. In fact, Jim didn't seem to be the type to write letters until he had a good reason to. There were a lot of things he did for no reason, but this wouldn't be one of them. Still, John didn't bother questioning it. He finished off the letter as he was told and Jim snatched it out from under him.

"Perfect! Thank you, Richard, love. You make things so much easier for me." He complimented generously. John smiled softly. This wasn't all that bad, he supposed. He could see why he remained around. Between the two of them, it was a fair living. More like being a pet than anything else, honestly, but that wasn't always a bad thing. It was too bad John wasn't happy here anymore. Maybe he'd never been and he'd never said anything for the same reason he didn't say anything now. He was afraid.