John had had a very long day. Full of irritating patients wasting his time with non-existent illnesses and over-reactions, all except for his last appointment of the day who had thrown up all over his second-favourite jumper. Unfortunately, days like this seemed to have made up most of his life for the last year and a half.

His date with Mary had gone better than work, at least (even if he still kind of smelt like vomit after three showers), but he still hadn't quite managed to connect with her. He wondered if he ever would with anyone again after Sherlock.

He sighed out loud and opened the door to his new flat, limping in.

He was taking his jacket off when he realised it.

He wasn't alone.

The doctor tried not to panic. It could be anything; he might have left a window open and one of those stray cats had wandered in again. It might just be a regular burglar, even if most people didn't view that as a bright side.

He knew it wasn't, the air felt thicker somehow, more ominous, but he could still cling onto that hope. He was in no state to fight, his limp had come back with a vengeance after that day at St Bart's, no matter how many times he told himself it wasn't real.

John padded almost silently in, not turning the lights on in case it provoked whoever was here.

When John finally saw his intruder he nearly had a heart attack.

He was sat in John's armchair, alone in the darkness aside from the meagre glow of the streetlight across the road outside. He was wearing one of those familiarly expensive suits, one leg crossed over the other in a way that was meant to seem casual but something was different. There was no smirk on his face, no look of victory, just a plain, serious expression. He hadn't looked up from staring at the wall when John had walked in, hadn't even blinked.

"Did you know?" he said very quietly, voice low but not filled with same menace as it had been before, more… empty. It made him seem all the more terrifying; there was nothing more dangerous than a man with nothing left to lose.

John pulled his gun from the waistband of his jeans. He'd been berating himself about keeping it with him even though he hadn't been getting into 'dangerous' situations since… since that day, but now he was thankful of his paranoia.

"Oh, put it away Johnny-boy, you're not impressing anybody." he said dismissively, still not looking up. "Just answer my question."

John walked around slowly, gun still raised and pointed at the intruder, not quite believing his eyes. "You're dead."

"Not yet." the consulting criminal said slowly as he closed his eyes and let his head fall back with a tired, humourless laugh. "First, I need an answer. Now."

"Answer to what?"

Moriarty looked up quickly, a spark of anger and impatience in his otherwise deadened eyes, and hissed "Did. You. Know?"

"Know what?"

The impatience was replaced by something else. What was that? Confusion? Surprise? A look that John had definitely never seen before on a face normally so sure of itself.

"He really didn't tell you, did he?"

"Didn't tell me what?" John's curiosity took over for a second and he lowered his gun slightly. He didn't bother asking who the 'he' was. It was Moriarty talking, he could only mean one person: Sherlock.

Moriarty stood up and John's guard went back up instantly. The criminal rolled his eyes.

"Come on, if I wanted you dead, I would have done it when you were on that ridiculously awkward date with your new receptionist and spared the poor woman some embarrassment."

John briefly wondered if could clean up a crime scene well enough to fool the police. Sherlock could have. a small voice at the back of his head reminded unhelpfully.

The consulting criminal slipped a hand into his jacket to remove a disc in a plastic wallet then skimmed it across the floor to John's feet.

"Do yourself a favour and watch this. It might get you out of the pit of self despair you're stuck in." There was the barest hint of a bitter smirk on his lips but it didn't reach his eyes. This was the most serious he'd ever seen Moriarty and he was shocked. Before he hadn't been able to even imagine him without a psychopathic giggle or an inappropriate grin.

John stared at him, unsure of how to react.

"By the way, tell your girlfriend… what's she going by these days? Mary? Tell her that if she's still looking for a more permanent job then I need a new sniper. She can't be your assistant forever."

"A sniper-?"

"You should get a better lock for your front door. Anyone could get in," he interrupted, ignoring the question and letting that ghost of a smirk cross his face again before pulling his jacket straight and walking out of the room without another word.

John heard the door open and shut again a second later and knew he was alone. He stared at the doorway the criminal had just left through, trying to process the conversation he'd just had. Eventually he put his gun on the coffee table and picked up the disc from the floor, carefully, like it could explode at any second. Knowing Moriarty, it probably could.

He turned on his laptop and slid the disc in, wondering what the hell it could be, what Sherlock hadn't told him.

The footage that started playing was grainy and in black and white. A french street name and a date and time, earlier that day, probably when he'd been out with Mary, were stamped in the corner.

It was obviously dark, wherever it was, but even with the shadows and low resolution picture he could make out the vague silhouette of a reasonably tall, male figure. Another man stepped around a corner into the shot, one hand holding a phone to his ear. The sound kicked in as his hand moved away from his ear slowly.

"I'd love to say I'm surprised but I'd be lying," a slightly distorted voice said. It seemed to be coming from the new-comer. "What did you expect me to do? Give myself up instantly muttering 'you cunning, cunning fiend!'?"

Even with such poor quality audio, John recognised the sound of a gunshot.

"No. I expect you to die."

John leant back quickly in shock. He took a deep breath and rewound it a few seconds back. He wasn't going insane, it was definitely what he thought it was.

That… that was Sherlock's voice. Was this some kind of sick joke? It seemed to take a few seconds for the other man to realise what was happening, collapsing heavily into his knees. The figure in the shadows, John refused to believe it was Sherlock yet, stepped out into the pool of light around a streetlight, kicking the other man back.

"You're dying but there's still time to hurt you. Who are you working for?"

The man on the floor laughed, albeit painfully. "What makes you think I'm not the boss now?"

"You're not clever enough to run anything alone."

What the fuck?

John kept watching, millions of thought rushing through his mind? It had to be fake or from before Sherlock had died. No-one could have survived a fall like that. But then again no-one should have been able to survive putting a bullet in their mouth and Jim Moriarty had definitely been sat in his living room.

What if it was real?

John didn't know which would be worse, the scraps of hope being ripped away on a hoax or Sherlock having been alive for the last year and a half without telling him.

"If you insist." the Sherlock in the video said calmly and coldly and John heard two more shots. The other man sagged, dead.

Sherlock had shot that man in cold blood. John had no idea what he had done or if he had still been doing it but Sherlock had just murdered him.

"What the fuck?" he said, quietly but out loud this time, hoping it would make what he'd just seen make sense.

It didn't.

This was wrong. So wrong. John didn't understand. He needed answers.

John limped to the window, half expecting Moriarty to still be stood out there in the street but he was already gone.

And so was John's car.

Fantastic.