Sherlock wakes slowly, to a splitting headache and a mouth that feels like the entire contents of the Sahara have been emptied into it. The first thing he notices is that there are sounds.
Blood rushing through his own veins, muted traffic outside, even the quiet of the room has a sound that's quite distinct from utter silence, and there's breathing too, human breathing beside him, loud as a waterfall in his ear...
Sherlock remembers. His eyes fly open and the brightness of even the very dim upstairs room is dazzling, almost painful. He can see again, in normal colors, everything around him. The ugly plaster ceiling is nothing short of an artistic revelation. It worked.
He's sprawled on his back on the wood floor of the bedroom-cum-lab, and he turns his head painfully to see John beside him, a few feet away. John is face down, unconscious but breathing deeply, pulsing with a soft anaemic glow around his prone form. There is a three inch needle sticking out of the back of his head and an accompanying dried trickle of blood down his neck that makes Sherlock shudder involuntarily and reach behind his head to feel the deep bruise in the same spot.
Sherlock sits up slowly, a little at a time, drunk on the vastness of sensory input flooding his brain. He leans over to check John's vitals, just to be sure. He's fine.
John had saved them, saved them both, of course he had, it's what John's for, Sherlock should never had doubted, never will again, can't believe they came through such a horrific ordeal mostly unscathed, physically if not psychologically, Sherlock wonders what the damage will be there, but it doesn't matter because they have each other and that will get them through as it always does...
He leans over and carefully removes the needle from John's neck, staunching the fresh flow of blood with his shirt cuff. John flinches just the barest bit in his sleep but doesn't wake. He looks like he will sleep for a long time now.
Now that the immediate danger is over, Sherlock's thoughts instantly turn to the cause of all this. He hadn't had time or means to think about it before, when just surviving took all of his mind and energy, but now it's all he can think of. He closes his eyes, creating a blank slate on which to project the data and sense memories of the past week. There has to be something there, something he can use.
Sneezes, perfume, sensations in the crowd, on the Tube, people walking by, jarring him, touching him, very specifically not touching him, the sense of being watched, being analysed, being alone in the hospital but not alone, an unseen presence, just out of reach, out of smell, out of taste, floating in the back of his mind, so small as to be unnoticed, unnoticeable, except in concentrated memory, except for one time, one small moment that had sealed his fate...
Sherlock's eyes fly open and he inhales in one startled breath, "The man in the train station!"
His eyes scan, trying to remember everything. There wasn't much to go on, it was only for an instant that the stranger had hands on his coat, pointing him in the right direction, saving him. But the instant was enough. There was a scent, a distinct odor, almost a taste, under the cologne and detergent and aftershave, a scent that is forever seared into his nostrils.
Sherlock sets his jaw grimly and clambers to his feet. Gently, he hoists John in his arms and carries him, a little unsteadily, down the stairs, depositing him on the sofa.
He feels surprisingly reluctant to leave John, something in him stubbornly protective of him even though the danger has passed. At least for now. Without meaning to, Sherlock brushes John's hair off his forehead and plants a lingering kiss there even though John will never know. Then he dons his coat like a suit of armour and leaves the flat, forcing himself not to look back at the sleeping form on the sofa.
John will be safe for now, for a given value of safe, it's not John that's wanted, it was only to get his attention, it makes it almost worse, the endangering of John, to get to him, it keeps happening, it will always happen, and John bears it but Sherlock's not sure if he can much longer...
Reversing the route that mere hours ago had left him feeling as lost as a man in a jungle is now so simple as to require almost no thought at all. He rides the Tube the requisite five stops, hops off, enters Bart's, and hits the elevator button for the roof without even having to consider a single step of it. It's a luxury, he knows now.
Once at the top he settles himself on a electrical box and lights a cigarette. He doesn't have long to wait.
"Took you long enough," drawls a familiar treble.
Sherlock doesn't look at the man. Instead, he contemplates the city sky line in the slanted afternoon light. "2.7 minutes after I regained my faculties. Disappointed?"
"In so many things." Moriarty slithers over and takes a seat beside him. Too close, but Sherlock refuses to give him the satisfaction of moving away. He hand rolls a cigarette with studied leisure and Sherlock holds out his own for Moriarty to light it off. The master criminal takes a deep drag and lets out an almost obscene sigh of pleasure. "You don't seems surprised to see me."
He's not, as soon as he put it together it was clear it could only ever have been Moriarty, it was practically a love letter, deconstructing him like that, watching him struggle, allowing him to be saved at the last minute instead of doing him in, so carefully orchestrated to bring him here...
"Mycroft keeps me informed. I'm impressed you managed to orchestrate something so elaborate so quickly after regaining your freedom."
"Ah, Mycroft Holmes. Now he is absolutely no fun at all, no wonder you can't stand each other. Still, he gave me quite a lot of useful information during my interrogation. Almost worth the terrible housing conditions and light torture."
Sherlock can't stand to be so close to him any more. He jumps to his feet and spins to face Moriarty. "All right, so tell me why? What was the plan?"
Moriarty laughs and finishes his cigarette, throwing it to the ground and not bothering to stomp it out. "Plan? My dear Sherlock, I just wanted to see what would happen. The events at Dartmoor were relayed to me in vivid detail. I wanted to see for myself. I had hoped to reproduce the effects of the drug, make them permanent, or at least as permanent as I wanted them to be, see what you would do then. Alas, I couldn't procure a sample of my own in that time and my chemists are...well, they're no you."
"You could only hope to activate what was left in my system through the adjuvant," Sherlock mutters, half to himself.
It's brilliant and awful and wonderful, something Sherlock would do, only not on someone else, even without John he's got some scruples, but dear god wouldn't it be nice not to have sometimes, to be able to do anything in the world just to see what would happen, maybe then things wouldn't be quite so boring...
Moriarty nods knowingly, as if he can see what's going on behind Sherlock's eyes. "It didn't work as I'd expected, but may I say the results were far more entertaining. Loss of senses. Loss of self. I had hoped under a strong psychosis you might kill John Watson. I never dared to hope you might try to kill yourself. Of course I would never have let that happen. You're not to die until I say so. John, on the other hand... the sooner the better, really."
Quickly than a flash Sherlock is on him, has Moriarty's lapels fisted in large hands and his feet nearly off the ground. "Why?" he growls, shaking the smaller man.
Morarity is unfazed. He practically laughs in Sherlock's face. "Because you think you belong to him, but you don't. You belong to me."
Sherlock releases him, pushing him away in revulsion. Moriarty stumbles, laughing for real this time. "You're delusional," Sherlock spits, turning away.
Is he delusional, Sherlock's not so sure, obviously he belongs to John, but Moriarty is in his head too, chained and locked up tight, but why the need for so many locks if what he's saying doesn't have a a bit of truth to it, what reason to be afraid if Moriarty isn't, at least a little bit, right...
"Am I?" Moriarty echoes his thoughts uncannily. "You can't tell me you haven't felt it, ever since the first time, since dear departed Carl. He was my first gift to you, when I realised I wasn't alone in this world. We've been connected intimately, spiraling ever closer to each other in this courtship dance of ours. We're the same, two sides of a two-headed coin. We belong to each other. We're the only ones who ever could. But you, you think you belong to John Watson, to a common tart, a lap dog who barely deserves the title. I can't have that, Sherlock. It makes me look bad."
Sherlock spins back to look at him incredulously. "You actually believe all this, don't you. That we have some kind of... what? Destiny?"
Destiny, there's no such thing, but it would be so easy, to let go finally, to stop resisting the dark, to stop resisting who he is, being good is so hard and he's so bad at it sometimes he wonders what the point is, he'd promised John not to listen to the darkness again, but this is different, this feels like part of his soul, the part he's always told himself he can't accept, the man he must never become, but he can't pretend it's not alluring, all that power before him, all the things he could do if he simply stopped caring...
Moriarty grins and approaches him with a predatory air, confident. "Tell me you don't feel it at all, Sherlock. We were made for each other, and this world was made for us. Think what we could do together. How exciting it could be. We could take this world and dismantle it brick by brick." He's standing very close to Sherlock now. Too close. Sherlock can feel the heat pouring off his body. "We could take this world and burn it into ashes just for something pretty to look at."
"That's not me," Sherlock says, but his voice lacks conviction. Moriarty's lithe little body is pressed up against him, and he's pure sex looking feverishly up into Sherlock's face, and just for a moment, Sherlock feels it like a thunderclap.
His body is responding and he doesn't want it to, but part of him does, part him feels the connection, the sameness, and it's terrifying and exciting and alluring, they could be gods together, they could do anything, rule anything, have anything, have each other, and it would be thrilling like nothing else has ever thrilled before, like nothing else could, like John never could, they could fuck and fight and kill and take until they burned the whole world out and finally burned each other out and it would be mad and glorious and spectacular and wrong and he wouldn't even have to care...
Moriarty sees him waver, smiles wolfishly, and goes up on his toes. "We can even let Doctor Watson live, if you like. He does make such a good pet." He presses his lips to Sherlock's, running his tongue enticingly along the crease of Sherlock's mouth. But he's too late. He's made a mistake.
Part of him wants, he can't deny, the power, the excitement, the passionate hate, the wrongness that could be so right, Moriarty is seductive and a part of him was born seduced, but John, John is good and John is his and nothing in the wide universe that threatens that, that threatens John can ever, ever have him, and John's name in Moriarty's foul mouth turns his stomach, John makes him good, John keeps him here, and even his most base urges, his darkest desires crumble in the light of that fact, breaking the spell...
Sherlock give a tiny, distant smile when Moriarty pulls away, visibly surprised at the lack of response. He straightens and steps back from his foe.
"Do you want to know how I knew, for certain, that it was you?" Sherlock asks mildly, as if inquiring about the weather. "The train station. Did you give yourself away on purpose?"
Moriarty cocks his head in genuine confusion. "You couldn't have known. I changed everything. You were deaf and blind."
"Oh yes, you changed everything. Clothes, manner, cadence of walk, all the scents of life, your cosmetics, everything. But I still smelled you under it. There's a smell to you James, that you can't hide. You smell of rot. You smell of decay. And no matter what you promise me, I am not going to rot with you."
For just a moment Moriarty looks nonplussed. Then he smiles as if he's just been told a joke only he understands. "What if I promise you that John Watson will suffer. Will die. Will know you for a thousand times betrayer before he dies. Will you rot with me then?"
Sherlock scoffs. "You don't have that power."
"Don't I?" Moriarty lets it hang there.
He does, or at least he might, Moriarty has more power than Sherlock cares imagine, and Sherlock has just turned down the chance to share in it, to increase it, and he's never felt more certain of anything, but still, he doubts, this is why good can't triumph, good has the right but evil has the power and there's no one more evil than James Moriarty, Sherlock knows better than anyone because it's inside of him too...
"You can make what choices you like. You can choose your own warped version of good over my vision of greatness. You can stay in your safe flat with your single minded little soldier. You can make each other all the promises you like. But I promise you, John Watson will not have you. I'll make you break his heart. Or I'll break him. Your choice, Sherlock. Isn't it nice to have choices? Make yours carefully, you won't have a chance to take it back."
Without even the smallest of tells beforehand, Sherlock launches himself at Moriarty only to pull up short at the flash of a laser sight in the corner of his vision. Sherlock freezes.
"Uh uh," Moriarty scolds. "Not yet. But it won't be long. Go home, Sherlock. Hold your Doctor. Make your choices. And don't say I never gave you anything."
Sherlock barely has time to blink before Moriarty is gone. He straightens and walks to the edge of the roof, as sunset just begins. He smokes three more cigarettes in silence and then goes home.
John is still asleep when he gets there. Thankfully. He could never explain where's he's been. John must never know.
He can stop it, he has to, Moriarty isn't playing this time, he means what he said, but Sherlock has an advantage, he has that evil in him, he knows how Moriarty thinks, what he wants, but there's no goodness in Moriarty, no Sherlock in his mind, Sherlock never believed in his goodness before John and still doesn't some days, but it's the only hope to save them both, to keep what he has, so he has to believe it now...
Suddenly exhausted, he carefully crawls up on the sofa alongside John, slipping an arm underneath him, encircling his rib cage and holding him tightly. It's not long before John stirs, then starts awake.
"Wha- where-? Oh. Sherlock." He flickers from high intensity sparking to low, mellow warmth when he identifies Sherlock beside him. His voice is pure relief. "It worked. Thank God. How did we get down here? Are you okay? Why are you holding me so tight? It hurts. Jesus, everything hurts."
Sherlock releases some of the pressure he didn't realise he was applying and feigns grogginess. "Sorry. Don't know. Don't remember," he lies. "I can see and hear again though. Everything appears normal."
John lets out a long breath and digs his fingers into Sherlock's hair, reaching across to rub Sherlock's upper arm as well. Sherlock arches into the caresses like a cat starved for attention. "It's over then. I thought... never scare me like that again, all right?"
"Never," Sherlock agrees somberly. Another lie.
Whatever happens in future, even in the best case, it's likely to scare them both more than anything ever has, even this, but pretending is the only way they can live...
John gives a wry smile and together they sit up, settling on the sofa with sides pressed into each other. John feels strangely happy, content, glowing warm light at Sherlock. the light of a candle when the power has gone out. Despite the pall over him, some of it infects Sherlock, and he smiles and lets his hand drift to John's thigh.
"So, who do you think did this to us? You're not going to let it go, I hope!"
Damn, he hadn't thought of that, of course John would want to know and he can hardly tell him it's Moriarty, John might do something foolish, and it's usually lovely when he's foolish, but it's not lovely if he gets himself killed...
Sherlock pauses. "Of course not. We'll track him down. My guess is someone from Baskerville, one of the scientists we pissed off."
"You pissed off. Not Doctor Stapleton, surely?"
"No," Sherlock says a little too quickly, but John doesn't seem to notice. "But plenty of people there would have had a grudge against us, and the means. Perhaps a descendant of the original H.O.U.N.D. crew. I'm sure it will become clear once we've recovered."
That seems to be enough to get John to let it go and after long moments of companionable silent Sherlock speaks. "You know, you mentioned that the antidote needed to get directly to the brain to work..."
"Yeah. Couldn't just swallow it or inject it normally. Blood-brain barrier and all that. Sorry about the massive needle to the brain. I realise it was a bit alarming. Still, only option."
Sherlock nods thoughtfully. "Don't get me wrong, I'm very grateful for your... ingenuity. And your impressive aim, especially given that you were very nearly in a complete psychotic state. The fact that you managed not to kill or paralyse either one of us is very impressive. But...considering all that and the original delivery method of the toxin, instead of risking both our lives, healths, and sanities in a dubious display of medical machismo while under the influence of hallucinatory drugs... could you not have just sprayed up our noses?"
John gapes at him. "I... I mean, we needed to be sure that... it could have... the dilution..."
Sherlock raises an eyebrow.
John sputters for a moment and then sighs. "You royal pillock, you're right. Insufferable git."
They look at each other and burst out laughing. Peals of hysterical uncontrollable laughter until tears run down John's warm, crinkly face and his aura looks like the northern lights over Iceland during an electrical storm.
"Still, I think I did rather well considering I was pretty well sure the Taliban were about to break down our door and also there might have been vampire birds after us," John points out, wiping his eyes. "I'd like to see you do better!"
He could never do better, not in a million years, there's nothing better in the world than John Watson in the darkest night of the soul risking both their lives to save him...
Sherlock has no words to express what he's thinking at the moment, so he settles for bumping John's head gently with his own. "Don't ever go out," he says.
John gives him a funny look. "I won't if you won't," he says. He leans over and takes Sherlock's mouth in his own, as tender as anything Sherlock's ever felt. It goes all all golden in Sherlock's head and he lets himself forget, just for a moment everything that's happened today or might happen in the future, and surrenders to the bright galaxy that lives inside John Watson's skin.
