"Hello, Sherlock," Moriarty says when Sherlock walks through the door shirtless, torn bloodied (useless) remnants of purple fabric clenched tight in his hand. "We should talk," smiles the ex-arch criminal (at least in Britain, for Moriarty no doubt has networks in America and Australia and Asia that Sherlock has neither time nor effort to spend disrupting.)

(Three years to permanently shatter Moriarty's hold in Britain and Western Europe. Three years and a lifetime of possibilities, of happiness – destroyed.)

The first thing Sherlock notes is the clothing: the exact image of Jim-from-I.T's, down to the underwear. There's enough of a stir within him (anger, amusement, weariness) at the sheer audacity of that to register on his face.

Moriarty raises an eyebrow. "Surprised to see me?"

Sherlock, who has been anticipating this visit with a peculiar numbness that is so very different to the lethargic high drugs used to provide, acknowledges his arch-nemesis (former arch-nemesis? Hard to know) with little more than a slight nod of his head before heading to the large box he's using for his clothes. John used to badger him till he capitulated and folded them (or else, would just lose patience and do it himself).

There's no John Watson at Baker Street anymore, though. No one to complain, and just for that Sherlock throws the damaged cloth into the bin.

"You're looking for a shirt?" the man asks with some amusement as Sherlock pulls out the first thing he can find. "I didn't think you were so shy,darling."

He's meant to play, he realises. He can't, though. The last time he saw Moriarty, after all, there was something to fight for. There was John (and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson but John the most).

The game isn't fun anymore, now that there's no point-

"Oh, don't do that," Moriarty says suddenly, with what Sherlock is surprised to hear is real frustration. It shows on his face, too, when Sherlock turns around; genuine and surprisingly painful to see, that raw emotion etching lines into his face. "You used to be so much fun."

Sherlock shrugs as he slips his hands through the arm holes and begins doing up the buttons, slowly and steadily. "Perhaps," he says quietly, averting his eyes from the other man. And then John happened, he thinks but doesn't vocalise. And don't you agree, Jim? "What do you want?"

Even without looking, he can feel Moriarty rolling his eyes before the slight creak of the couch indicates that the criminal has relaxed back into the couch. "To talk about what we're going to do with John."

"Ah."

"Clever move, really," Moriarty continues. "Showing up at my house and knocking on the door, letting him see you. There's no way I could kill you after that."

Sherlock would say something about how it wasn't a move – that there was nothing in it more than the overwhelming desire to see John, to know he was alright, even if he wasn't okay.

He shrugs. "You still could," he says – suggests, almost. "You did before, and he still chose you."

"Don't be like that," the other man retorts. "You know he'd sulk. And Stockholm Syndrome only works once."

Again, there's something on the tip of his tongue – a jibe about Helsinki Syndrome, perhaps. But he swallows it because Moriarty has most likely seen the link, just like Sherlock knows exactly where Moriarty is heading with this vaguely threatening ramble.

Nevertheless, it's still more than somewhat of a surprise when Moriarty sighs. "You get him during the day. He has dinner with me, and his nights are mine. I think that's generous enough."

"…I beg your pardon," Sherlock says slowly, tearing his gaze away from his fingers (still doing up the shirt, fiddling pointlessly with each button before slipping it into place) to stare with as controlled an expression of incredulity as he can manage.

"Oh, fine. You get dinner on weekdays," Moriarty concedes with a roll of his eyes. "But I want him home by 9."

"I don't understand."

That's a lie of course, and they both know it. Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty are, after all, the same man (or mirror opposites and really, what's the difference?) He can't pretend surprise at this solution, for it's one of a million that crossed his mind. The only surprise, and a paltry one, is that Moriarty has been able to supress his ego enough to even consider this idea, let alone settle upon it.

And sure enough – "don't play normal," the criminal tells him. "It's reasonable. You're not happy, he's not happy, and I'm definitely not happy. You can't imagine how frustrating it will be to not have dear Johnny over the kitchen table-"

"Don't talk about him like that."

Damn. Sherlock recognises the mistake as soon as he says those words – too much emotion. Too much caring.

Not that he can bring himself to regret it, of course. John's done that to him, made him human. It's what he dislikes most about what John has done to rewrite his life, and what he holds closest to himself.

"I'll talk about him how I want," Moriarty says, but there's a shadow of what can't be guilt in his eyes.

He's got us both, Sherlock thinks.

"Probably," Moriarty agrees. "But vice versa. And that's what's perfect about this."

"What makes you think that John will even agree to this…arrangement?"

Moriarty snorts. "Of course he will. He needs me, but he wants you. You need him, and I want him. It's a lovely, inconvenient but indispensable triangle."

The worst part is that he's right.

Of course he is. After all, Sherlock is Moriarty and Moriarty is Sherlock.

Together they'll tear John Watson apart as the world turns its gaze.

John knocks on the door the next morning and dumps a neatly folded basket of clothes in the corner of Sherlock's bedroom (as Sherlock surmises after he emerges from the morning paper long enough to triangulate the way they thud to the floor. "Don't touch them," he warns, pointing an accusing finger at Sherlock.

"Don't worry," Sherlock drawls, turning his head to look at the older man as he emerges from Sherlock's room. "They wouldn't fit, anyway."

"Never stopped you before," is John's muttered retort as he goes to flop onto the couch. "Anything interesting in there?"

He makes a show of checking the time, even craning his neck to view the clock. "Oh, I estimate the police will be here in….three, two, one-"

Perfectly on cue, a siren blares out.

"Wonderful. Three men of the same height, colouring and, well, face, have been found in three different alleyways in three different parts of the city. At the same time." Sherlock bounds to his feet and to the door, only turning at the last minute to eye the doctor. "Coming, Doctor Watson?"

John sighs. "Do you even have to ask anymore?"

Sherlock annoys the police, ignores Molly's pitiful attempts at flirting (which he doesn't understand since he's fairly sure she's about to accept the proposal of a fellow mortician), almost gets them arrested (twice), and solves the case by 6pm sharp.

(With a gun to the head and a desperate prayer that John's not lost any semblance of competence over the past three years, but still.)

(It turns out, he hasn't.)

He does so well, John does so well, they're both so perfect at this that when Sherlock suggests they turn on the TV for the late-night game shows they used to watch (Sherlock criticised, John tried not to laugh), John gets halfway through an acceptance before…

"Of co…Sherlock, you know I can't." And just like that Sherlock's smile has faded, all the humour's gone from John's face, and all the glimmeringpotential shows itself for what it is.

Glass shards from the proverbial bottle, with the ship of dreams it used to hold long gone.

(Sherlock hated English in school and loathes metaphors. He's well aware that his need some work.)

"I know."

John shakes his head slightly. "I'm sorry. I'm-"

"If you're not here to make my tea tomorrow morning," Sherlock cuts in, "I'll steal Lestrade's badge again." It's a mix of pitiful and heart-warming, the brief flash of relief in John's eyes.

Sherlock isn't happy.

He isn't satisfied.

The few, brief times he encounters Moriarty (a fight over who gets his birthday, the anniversaries, Christmas, Easter) he sees enough in Moriarty's eyes to be satisfied, if bitterly so, that Moriarty isn't happy either.

He isn't even satisfied.

As for John –

It wasn't going to be any different.

But this is who they are, this is how they are. Sherlock solves crimes. Moriarty causes them, though no longer in England or Europe.

And John –

John dies, slowly and quietly.

Epilogue

Moriarty always said he'd burn the heart out of Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't realise it'd be this slow, this silent.

Moriarty didn't realise that burning the heart out of Sherlock meant burning the heart out of himself.

John didn't realise it was him that would be burning, insidious and far too bittersweet; from too much love, cruel and cold and never faltering.