Sorry about the wait for this, I was finishing my A-levels up then panicking about starting uni then actually starting uni and... Well, y'know, real life bullshit piles up. No real excuse for leaving this so long without an update. Anyways, here you go. Hope it's worth the wait.

I've done some quick editing and formatting on the first four chapters too, but nothing that effects the plot if you can't be bothered to read it again.

Jim's head was pounding even before he woke up, somehow. It was the first thing he noticed as he slowly came around.

As he became more aware of his surroundings, he realised he'd been asleep on his sofa. That wasn't right. He remembered passing out on the floor in the hallway, much to his embarrassment. That wasn't a particularly dignified thing to do, especially in front of a man who was still his enemy, even if he had spent most of the day drinking.

Oh, god.

The reason he'd been drinking hit Jim like a sledgehammer, knocking the breath from his body and making him wretch against his empty stomach.

He suddenly didn't care that he'd passed out, more wishing that he hadn't had to regain consciousness at all. It didn't seem worth waking up to a world without Seb in it. It didn't really seem like a real world at all, but Sherlock Holmes was still out there. Before he could even consider taking more direct action to join Sebastian, he needed to change that, and make sure it was permanent this time.

Jim opened his eyes slowly, retinas burning at the intrusion of the bright sunlight. John Watson was sat in a chair opposite him that he'd obviously dragged in from the dining room, gun still in hand, steady and ready to fire. Jim easily deduced that he hadn't slept for the whole night. Why he'd stayed was a completely different question.

"Good morning." Jim said softly, attempting to put on one of his old smirks but failing. It was hard for him to find any of his good humour now. The sentiment he'd spent so long trying to distance himself from now hurt all the more every time he tried to dismiss it.

Watson didn't reply and Jim rolled his eyes.

"It's rude to ignore people, Johnny." He said, letting a familiar darkness fill his voice. That was easier than smiling, at least. The rage behind it was all real, rather than just a technique to terrify as it sometimes had been in the past. "Why are you still here?"

"I couldn't just leave you alone, passed out drunk without a front door."

"Didn't know you cared." Jim said quietly, sitting up. He groaned and held his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles in an attempt to stop them throbbing at the light. He hadn't had a hangover this bad in years.

"I don't."

Jim shook his head dismissively and stood up, even stiffer than usual from sleeping on the sofa. He rolled his shoulders and stretched, trying in vain to loosen the thick knot of scar tissue at the back of his neck. "You could have killed me at any time last night, but you didn't."

"What if I wanted to wait until you knew it was happening?"

Jim rolled his eyes again. "Put the gun away."

Watson looked like he was about to argue, but then closed his mouth, nodded and slipped the gun back in his waistband. If he hadn't done so far, it was unlikely he'd find the nerve to shoot now and even an idiot like Watson would know that Jim knew that too. All the same, he got a twinge of amusement out of Johnny obeying his orders without being threatened, although not enough to force a smile onto his face.

"Where are you going?"

"To get dressed. I'm not wearing these for any real business." He gestured at his clothes, especially Seb's old hoodie. It was one of the ones he'd worn to the gym or while doing DIY. Even after last night's drinking it smelt of him, and Jim didn't want to waste that.

Watson didn't try to stop him as he walked past, heading upstairs.

Jim stepped into the bathroom and took a long look at himself in the mirror above the sink. He looked terrible; exhaustion and hangover showing in his bloodshot eyes and the bags around them. He sighed slightly and took a small tube of concealer from the bathroom cupboard and smoothed it onto his blotchy skin. Not much he could do about the eyes.

He glanced down at the pill bottles on the shelf below the mirror; all his. Anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, a cocktail of drugs that had kept his more extreme mood swings and… bad habits… in check for these last few years. He'd finally started to feel like a human, after so many years of being totally apart from that. As much as it pained him to let go of his weak link to a normal life, for what he was going to do he needed to be Moriarty again and that couldn't happen unless he was as unstable as before. He frowned slightly as he turned to leave the bathroom.

No going back now. Closure through vengeance was a cliche he'd never believed in before but when he thought about Sebastian laid on a pavement, dying alone from that bastard's bullets, his fingers clenched into tight fists, nails marking his palms again. He couldn't get any satisfaction, sat in a house so empty now that it felt obscene, still pretending to be an innocent, a teacher of all the things he could have been. That identity had died on a street corner in Paris along with any willing Jim had to be normal.

He stepped into the bedroom, tugging off his clothes violently and leaving them in a heap at the bottom of the bed before almost reverently pulling on the only suit he'd brought with him from London and his past life, the same one he'd worn to threaten Watson the several nights before. It was a few years out of date now but still a gorgeous suit, practically unworn since he'd only bought it a few short weeks before the confrontation on the rooftop. He made a mental note to visit his tailor when he got back to London. He'd need a new wardrobe but maybe this one could be altered to whatever would more closely match the latest styles.

Jim took a deep breath to regain his composure stepped in front of the mirror.

It was like the last two years hadn't happened.

Jim tried a smirk. It didn't reach his eyes. He didn't expect it to. He didn't want it to, not so soon. There wasn't much else he could do about his appearance.

It wasn't like Watson noticed any of the imperfections in his disguise as he started walking back downstairs, reflexively taking a step back when he saw Jim back in his Westwood.

Jim opened the door and turned. "Are you coming?"

"What?"

"You want answers as much as I do, John. I thought we could have a civilised conversation with neither of us ending up with a gun to their head."