Archive of Our Own

Of the Shadow of Death

Moriarty appeared as suddenly as a thunderstorm on a sunny day. No warning, not so much as a how do you do. One day their life was perfection incarnate, the next Sherlock had stopped eating and sleeping, and John had felt his own skin growing tighter and tighter until he began layering his vest two or three at a time with bulky jumpers to hide his chest from others, but mainly from himself.

The night after the start of the trial, during which Sherlock was accused of being the true mastermind behind everything, (A suggestion that made John laugh, in what world would Sherlock even have time?), they came home, tired from the day's proceedings and the stress that Moriarty’s mere presence evoked. Sherlock sat for hours in his seat, not speaking, not moving. John finally left him to it about two am, laying a kiss upon his lovers’ brow before heading to bed.

A few hours later John awoke to Sherlock crawling into bed behind him. He hummed in contentment and made to move over.

“No,” Sherlock whispered. His voice sounded broken. “Just… stay like this. I have to tell you something…” John was suddenly fully awake.

“What-?”

“Don’t speak,” Sherlock hissed quietly. John silenced himself. “Mycroft, as much as it pains me to admit, was right. He was right the whole time. You are my beginning, but I fear I may be your end.” Sherlock sniffled quietly, holding John tighter. John hesitantly laid his hand over Sherlock's forearm, stroking softly.

“John,” Sherlock croaked, “I know what my mother gave you. I need you to wait, I need you to wait for me, even if that means waiting forever. I need to know I’m your only,” Sherlock sucked in air through his teeth, “and I need you to trust me, I need you to trust that all pain ends, and all the harm I do to you is done in love. I need you to trust me more than you knew it was possible to trust anything and anyone, including yourself. Do that for me, and-“Sherlock stuttered to a pause, before burying his face in the back of John’s neck. “I- I need you to forgive me.”

John turned over, unable to let his lover cry alone. He didn’t understand all that Sherlock was saying, in fact, he understood none of it. All he understood was that Sherlock was in pain and needed his unfailing, unshakable faith and love. He held Sherlock tight, silent as the grave as his lover sobbed into his chest like a child. After another hour Sherlock collapsed from exhaustion. As the light creeping in the window faded to a light pink, harkening a new day, John felt his own eyes grow heavy.

The next day at breakfast Sherlock acted as if nothing had happened until they donned their suits and made their way downstairs. Then Sherlock shoved John against the wall, kissing him until he was breathless and lightheaded before whispering “You’re the sanest person I know” then whisking down the steps. 

Three days later John was too late. Sherlock was on the rooftop, crying. This wasn’t his fake cry either, this wasn’t for show or manipulation. This was real, this was the solid weight of reality crushing John’s chest. John heard himself begging, heard his heart cracking. Then the unthinkable.

Down.

Down..

Down…

Like……

A………

Fallen……

Angel…………

The concrete was unforgiving. John heard himself crying out in physical pain as the crowd pushed in around him. They shouldn’t be touching him, and worse, they wouldn’t let John touch him. He had never felt such pain- never known agony like this…

He couldn’t breathe, that skin, the skin he had kissed and worshiped on lazy mornings in their bed, in their home, that translucent skin and those righteous curls…

And a halo of blood. John couldn’t find the air to scream, he felt himself root to the spot, felt everything human in him turn to stone. As the ambulance wrapped his lover and best friend in a black body bag John felt himself turning off.

The pain froze into icy needles, a trillion tiny pinpricks of agony with every twitch, every pump of his own blood became painful. He hadn’t even the energy to will his own death. So many people, they all wanted something from him. Sometimes he would snap, physically and emotionally, yelling and throwing things about, then nothing for what felt like years. Every breath was torture, every beat of his heart twisting the knife a bit deeper.

When he dressed for the funeral, he pulled his tie a bit too tight. The tightness gave him something to focus on while his world was put in the ground to rot. He took the ring, the Holmes families blessing, with him. When all was said and done and the damned vulture-esque media and hapless fans had dispersed, John crouched there in the mud and fresh dirt. He sat on frozen knees until everything had gone quiet, then he kissed Sherlock’s headstone, laying the ring on his grave.

“Please,” he begged pitifully, the same way he begged an imaginary god to save him his fathers wrath as a child, “please, just… just one more miracle. For me.”

Standing was painful, his aching leg and shoulder nothing compared to the physical agony of Sherlock’s loss. John felt like his chest had been hollowed out. Yet for some reason, he felt a spark of… something as he walked away from the grave.

When he got home, Mycroft was sitting in his armchair, staring deeply into the fire. John didn’t sit in Sherlock’s chair, instead, he turned one of the chairs from their desk to face the man.

“You’ve not eaten in days." Mycroft finally said. John just stared at him with dead eyes. Mycroft sighed, covering his eyes with his hand.

“John… You can’t fall apart like this.”

“Why?” it wasn’t even a question, it was too dead to be anything but a statement, and oh what a statement. Because there was no discernable answer, nothing satisfactory Mycroft could have answered as to why John should even attempt a façade at normality, why John should even fight to draw his next breath.

Mycroft suddenly looked at him sharply, whatever he saw surprised him. His brows raised in shock before he opened his mouth. “Sherlock’s not done this so you can wither away, Dr. Watson.”

John blinked, suddenly, confused. His word choice…. If there was one thing Mycroft was, it was careful. Everything in his life, from his tie pin to his shoelaces were carefully chosen. The way he spoke of Sherlock, it was neither here nor there. Not past or present, not fatal or familial. True neutrality. Suddenly, the darkened conversation that night came back to John. The pain in his limbs receded, not the limp or the sore shoulder, but the bone-deep agony dulled to a throb. His heart still ached as he looked at Mycroft. He didn’t fully understand but…

“Why should I keep going?” he asked breathlessly, not daring to hope.

“For him. For what he’s done, for how he will be seen.” Mycroft leaned forward, his eyes serious, “John, you’ve been there every step of the way. If anyone is capable or worthy of telling my brothers story, it is you.”

“What if I’m mad? What if I was blinded by love and lust? What if-“John licked his lips suddenly before leaning in as if telling a secret. “What if I’m insane?”

Mycroft bowed his head, looking for all the world like a heartbroken brother trying to console someone. But only John saw how his shoulders unwound, how the tension seemed to melt a little. Or rather, John thought he did. Then Mycroft opened his eyes. “You are the sanest person I know, John Watson.”

It sounded like a promise. It sounded, to John’s grief-stricken mind, like a beacon of hope, like maybe… maybe…

“And how long am I meant to tell his story? A week? A month? A year?”

“As long as it takes for the story to be told, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said in all seriousness.

I Shall Fear No Evil

It’s been a month and three days since I buried Sherlock. I foolishly hoped that the media frenzy would die down and I would be allowed to gather the tattered remains of my life in peace. But every day I awake to new emails and a thousand phone calls. I don’t want to do an interview with any of them. With this in mind, I must tell you that this will probably be my final post.

This is the last thing I will write or say on the subject of my best friend, Sherlock Holmes. Before all else, I’m sorry to have to burst bubbles of Sherlock's image  as an unfeeling mechanical man, but that’s simply not the whole story.

He was socially awkward, had no barriers between his brain and mouth, and was exceptionally bright. He could be a right dick sometimes, he said scathing things just to see me laugh at his dry wit, and he was my favorite person. He was always excited by a new puzzle or clever new experiment but at the end of the night he still appreciated coming home and putting on his lounge clothes. He loved playing on his violin, he secretly enjoyed when our landlady came up for a cuppa, he puffed with pride when I complimented him. He destroyed our flat and all he had to do to gain forgiveness for bullet holes in the walls and acids eating at the ceiling, was give me his sweetest look, or drape himself on my shoulders in faux innocence. He was right full of shite, but staying mad at him for long often felt impossible to do. He was a man, he wasn’t a superhero, or a god, or a monster in disguise. He was a man with a unique mind who desperately needed people willing to work out the patchwork of puzzles protecting his heart. Something, it seemed, none in his day to day life had managed until he stumbled onto me. The sad little soldier with a limp and a twitchy hand he transformed into something more, something able and excited by life.

I’m tired of the façade he showed the world, and I won’t leave you pitying the genius who lost his mind. Sherlock was not mad. Brilliant, yes, absolutely, but never mad. It was simply a matter of the fact he was always 12 steps ahead that made him seem so strange. When he respected someone, he expected them to be close behind him, this made him come off as rude to those of us he respected most. Namely D.I. Lestrade and myself. It was a struggle sometimes to make him breathe and slow down for a moment, to explain where his mind had run off to. Sherlock was, perhaps, the only truly unique person on earth. He was a multifaceted man who slowed and changed for no one, he held no prejudice, and spared no patience. This, above all, is why he was hated.

But to those who knew him, Sherlock was like a wild country rose. Made of nearly nothing but brambles and thorns, but there, buried beneath the danger and pain, was something truly lovely and unique. Something beautiful. And just like the country rose, his time in my life was far too brief. If I had spent 100 years with him, it wouldn't have been enough.

I'll not disgrace his memory by even addressing the horrid rumors about him, I'll not tell you how I know Moriarty was a real person, who truly was Sherlock's greatest rival and eventual downfall. I will simply say, I trust in Sherlock Holmes; I trust he did what he did for a good reason. A reason I might never know, but one I trust regardless.

And more than that, I believe in Sherlock Holmes. I believe in the hero, and the detective, and the genius, but above all, I believe in the man.

Thank you, to those of you that believe too. I ask you to remember that those who loved him have lost something irreplaceable and that you please respect us as we grieve.

As for me, I will gather my life together and remain ever faithful to the one I love.

With truest regards,

Dr. John H. Watson

For Thy Heart and Memory

The days passed in blurs. John was always watched, probably Mycroft’s men making sure he didn’t suddenly jump into the Thames, he stopped caring after the first month. It took half a year before the media vultures left him be. The fallout from his final post had been spectacular. Though he didn't outright admit to their relationship, his final line was enough to cause a frenzy. He tried his best to hide from it all.

Comments on his website flooded in by the thousands, John didn’t bother reading them. Most where condolences, some called them freaks. John didn’t care. Talk shows and online podcasts tried for many weeks to book interviews. He told them over and over that he had said his piece and that he’d like to live his life, or what was left of it, in peace. It didn’t stop them, of course.

For all this, John would call Mycroft every few days, or meet him for lunch and ask if he was insane. Most days Mycroft said John was the sanest person he knew. Some days, days when he was tense and concerned, he would say that perhaps John was a bit mad. Those days would leave John shaken, lying in Sherlock’s bed praying to something he didn’t believe in for something he didn’t fully understand.

Eventually, John found full-time work at a local clinic, having left the first one after a few months. One of the nurses there, Mary Morstan, was very pushy and came onto him one too many times. Eventually, he had quit, uncomfortable with any attention these days and quite certain he would never be ready for that kind of attention again. His new clinic was a much better fit, mainly aimed at serving veterans and their families. It was a quiet, friendly environment and it was always a joy to swap stories with the aged veterans he cared for. How strange that his life as a soldier in the 2000’s had little difference from that of a WWII vet. (“’cept for how we blew things up, son.” One elderly man had chuckled, making John snort out a laugh that almost felt real.)

Mycroft had started giving John Sherlock’s monthly stipend, as Sherlock had apparently instructed in his will (which John never saw). John had no need to work now but being out of the house kept him busy. He had a set weekly schedule. The limp never faded away, and the tremor in his hand was a constant companion, but the empty feeling in his chest lessened day by day.

He went to the pub with the newly dubbed Greg H.(Short for Holmes) Lestrade every Tuesday. Greg seemed happier, though a bit heartbroken over the loss of his baby brother in law. John hadn’t realized just how invested Greg had been in Sherlock’s life, though it made sense. Greg had been the first one to see his potential and he was the man that eventually gave Sherlock the initial reason he needed to get sober.

They sat at the same pub, with the same pint, watching the same team play a game every week, and soon enough Molly Hooper joined in. It turned into something of a Sherlock memorial group. They would sit around and laugh about stories of Sherlock’s eccentricities. Greg told tales of Sherlock being arrested and deducing the officers who brought him in so ruthlessly that they had to leave the young man in isolation, least he cause the officers undue mental anguish. (“He made one of my rookies cry! Can you believe it? And not even from sadness, mate, the kid was crying happy tears. The boy went out and proposed to his girl that night! They had a kid within the year. Most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen.”)

It was a sad life, a half-life, an almost life, but it was all John had. He didn’t know if he and Mycroft actually had a code, if Sherlock was actually alive, or if he was just grasping at less than straws. Regardless, nothing in the flat was moved, save Sherlock’s violin. John sat it in his chair, Sherlock’s seat forever reserved.

221B had never been so silent. The loneliness ate at John, he found himself drifting from room to room, whining like a dog. It took a year before he started tidying the book stacks and sealing away Sherlock's chemicals. Very little was disposed of, John couldn’t do that without confirmation, confirmation that should have been found in a bloody halo on the concrete that day, but this was Sherlock Holmes. Such evidence was as weak as a newborn in the face of Sherlock’s genius.

By the time a year and a half had gone by little had changed in the flat but for the paperwork being condensed and stored. It was a tidy, if cluttered, space now. John kept the violin in Sherlock’s chair, carefully dusted, strings and bow stored away. The chemicals in the kitchen found their way to carefully labeled and sealed cupboards, experiments had been discarded, equipment sterilized. The table was spotless and lonely. Just like John.

Shall Protect Me

One day the doctor came home from his job, limping up the stairs. He knew something was wrong the moment he got to the landing though. Call it intuition, call it deduction, but he knew suddenly someone was in his flat. He thought, for a moment, about attempting to arm himself. Then he asked that age-old question that haunted his every moment, “why?” and decided against it.

He took a step in the flat and was unsurprised and strangely relieved to see Mycroft. The elder man was sitting on the couch with a cup of tea, their (no, Johns, just Johns now, not their) tea tray on the coffee table. John just sighed and hanged his bag and coat before sitting at his own armchair.

“Hello, Mycroft.” John smiled tiredly. Mycroft responded in kind.

“Welcome home.”

“If you can call it that.” John snorted, twisting his armchair and pulling it closer in order to make his own tea. Mycroft waited patiently as John made a cup. Both men sat silently for a moment before Mycroft spoke.

“I come bearing… news of a sort.”

“What sort?” John asked.

“I believe…” Mycroft’s mouth twisted in distaste, “I believe you are familiar with a Colonel Moran, yes?” John cringed at the name but nodded grimly.

“Yes, what of him?”

Mycroft sighed deeply, “We’ve lost eyes on him. Ever since Moriarty’s timely death-“

“Not timely enough” John snorted, to which Mycroft nodded in agreement.

“Yes well, Colonel Moran has been following in his master’s footsteps, maintaining the safety of Moriarty’s… operatives.”

“And now he’s taken off?” John asked.

“Exactly. We have reason to believe that his mental health has been declining. We believe he may be suicidal and perhaps…” Mycroft took a sip of tea and looked to John thoughtfully, “perhaps even seeking repentance from his only living victim.”

John sat back in his chair, staring into his teacup. “I see.” He murmured. Mycroft set his own cup down, stood and straightened his suit before clearing his throat.

“Dr. Watson, I won’t pretend to understand the hardships you suffered at his hand, but I would ask you remember that Sebastian Moran has been without autonomy for many years. If-“ Mycroft paused, seemed to collect himself and continued, “if you were to see him again… I would let you know that if he was handed to me of his own free will, no harm would come to him. I would also take care to inform you every man’s final decision ought to be made freely.”

John didn’t answer as Mycroft took a few steps towards the door, nor as the elder man slipped on his coat. As the door opened though, John couldn’t help speaking.

“Mycroft-“ Mycroft turned around, eyebrow raised. “am I insane?” he asked seriously. Mycroft thought for a moment, then gave an answer he’d never given before and one John found wholly unappealing and unsatisfying.

“You’re just as sane as I am.”

With that, the elder Holmes left. The flat suddenly felt ten degrees colder. 

 And I Will Take Comfort

Two months later John, again, came home to a disturbance. This time there was actual proof even he couldn’t miss. Someone had stumbled up their his stairs, splashing what smelt to be heavy liquor upon the ancient wallpaper. The welcome mat on his landing had been disturbed and, most obvious of all, the door was left wide open.

 John used his spare key and stole into Mrs. Hudson’s flat before anything else to assure himself of her safety. The woman was sleeping peacefully in her armchair in front of the blaring telly when he poked his head in. Apparently, she had been undisturbed by the intruder. John slipped out of her flat without waking her and turned his attention back to his own. He entered cautiously. Colonel Moran was sat on his couch, staring at Sherlock's violin with dead eyes, in one hand a gun hung limply, in the other he grasped a bottle of vodka, half drunk.

“Hello, Colonel,” John said hesitantly, stepping fully into the room and shutting the door. Moran took a moment, seemingly to process his presence, then turned to John. This was but a shadow of the man John had previously encountered. He looked smaller, a bit like a child, and his eyes were wet and red. He had obviously been sobbing and drinking heavily.

“Cap’in” Moran slurred, hiccuping and taking another sip from the bottle in his hands. John took a deep breath, steeling himself, and stepped closer. Gently he peeled the bottle from Moran’s hand. Moran didn’t even flinch, just relinquished it with a little sniffle, slumping forward more.

As John poured the rest of the vodka down the sink, he tried to make himself breath. It was hard, though he smelt of liquor and made a pitiful sight, this was the man who had raped John viciously. Leaving him a sobbing, fearful, mess on that dingy little mattress. Though when John turned back to the man, a glass of water in hand, he saw something more than that. Moran was a puppet, a puppet with his strings cut. It was evident in the way he slumped in on himself, shedding silent tears.

Above the wrongs “Sebby” had done, John realized, he and Sebastian Moran were one and the same. They had both loved, obeyed, and lost. They had both dedicated their lives to someone light-years beyond them, with the full knowledge they would never be on their lovers’ levels. They were both weapons for their lovers. The only difference was the tasks they were assigned and the willingness with which they had dedicated themselves.

Suddenly, all his own residual fear was set aside, John pitied this man. He had never blamed Moran for what happened that night, instead seeing him as but an extension of Moriarty. He now saw Moran as his own man, a man who was here in a fit of desperation, looking for guidance. John could do that, he could help this man, he could give him his autonomy back. Even if it was only for a few moments.

John sat next to Moran on the couch, taking the man’s hand and wrapping it around the glass of water. “Drink” he ordered gently. Moran, as expected, obeyed on instinct. Silence followed for a moment as Moran drained the glass of water in one gulp, a drop running down his neck.

There was silence for a long minute before Moran spoke. “You don’t seem afraid.”

“Should I be?” John asked.

“I raped you,” Moran said in a dead voice. John thought for a moment, before finally replying.

“In a sense. A man can die from a gunshot wound, but something must cause the gun to go off.”

“You sayin’ I’m a gun?” John nodded in acknowledgment.

“Fine,” Moran huffed and slurred, “fine, but if I am ‘n so are you.”

“I was.” John said, “rather, we were.” Moran stared into his empty glass.

“How’re you doin’ it?” he asked quietly, “How’re you still go’n without him? How d’ya get up each morning knowing he’s not ‘ere? How do you eat knowing there’s no him to keep your strength up for? How do you breathe, how do you sleep, how do you…” Moran’s voice broke and he sniffled quietly, tiny hiccuping sobs.

“I don’t know,” John admitted, he felt, while he spoke, as if he was outside his own body. None of this felt close to real. Despite Mycroft’s warning, the idea of Sebastian Moran sitting on his couch after all these years felt so outlandish he half expected to wake from a dream any moment.

“I… I don’t think I’ve admitted it yet. I think a part of me still thinks this is all a misunderstanding. If anyone could fake their deaths so brilliantly, it would have been them, wouldn’t it?” John shrugged and looked at the man. His sobs had slowed but he was still sniffling, wiping snot and tears from his face.

“You’ve fallen apart.” John finally said, his voice full of pity.

“What use is a gun with no owner?” Moran snapped. The man stood suddenly, throwing the glass into the fireplace and beginning to pace Johns living room. John didn’t move, didn’t react at all.

“It’s no use! It’s all pointless! He, he left me in charge you know. Of everything. I knew, I knew when he came to me that night and told me I was to take care of things if he- If something where to… I knew he was going to off himself. I knew I had a new mission, but I didn’t…. God, fuck, I didn’t want it! I wanted Jim, I wanted what he promised me the night he found me in that POW camp and bought me off those fuckers. He said he’d own me, forever. I was his till I died. It was terrifying at first. I fought hard, I… I was a fool.” Moran gave out a broken half laugh.

“I couldn’t escape him; do you know how comforting that was after a while? I didn’t have to think or worry anymore. I obeyed and got rewarded, I disobeyed and got punished. We had a routine, we had a protocol, I want that back. I want to know where I’m going and what I’m supposed to be doing. I want Sherlock Fucking Holmes to have never existed. And now, now I can’t… I’m failing him, things have fallen apart, and I don’t even fucking care! What’s any of it matter if he’s fucking dead?” Moran whispered, coming to a stop, collapsing back on the couch.

“I just want to be back with him. I’m tired of hurting people, Watson. I’m tired of him being gone. I just… I just want to be with him again. I never felt more at peace or more terrified than I did in his arms.” Moran wept silently, wiping tears from his eyes.

Johns' heart swelled with pity. He stood, suddenly, and walked into the kitchen. After a bit of rooting around John returned to the living room with two glasses, the good bottle of scotch (a gift from a wealthy client) and three bottles of white powder from Sherlock's dry ingredients cupboard. Clearing his throat John set the tea tray on the coffee table, before sitting back down by Moran.

“You didn’t come here to kill me, did you, Colonel?” John asked, the same out of body calm coloring his voice and movements. Moran was silent for a moment before shaking his head and leaning forward to place his gun on the coffee table.

“No.,” he said quietly. John nodded, he realized he was shaking, suddenly, his hands unsteady as he poured two fingers in each glass.

“What did you come looking for?”

“I… I dunno,” Moran said, looking away from his victim.

“You’re lying,” John said gently. Moran sobbed, burying his head in his hands.

“I… I can’t do this without him. I don’t want to. I- Fuck, Watson, fuck, I just want to be back with him. He- he was my everything. I loved him, even for all the horrors he had me carry out in his name, I loved him!”

“But you don’t want to do that anymore, do you? You’re not him.”

Moran sobbed and shook his head, “What’s the point in obeying a dead man?”

“Colonel…” John swallowed nervously, capping the bottle of scotch, “are you looking for freedom?” John asked softly. Suddenly Moran grabbed the gun, pointing it at Johns' head.

Johns' heart jumped into his throat, he sat up a bit straighter, his whole body taut. To his surprise, it wasn’t just fear or an adrenaline rush he felt. It was also… relief.  Like this was something he needed without even knowing he needed it. He closed his eyes, when he did, he saw Sherlock behind his lids, he leaned just slightly into the barrel of the gun. Moran jerked back, then pressed the gun into Johns' hand.

“You feel it too.” Moran croaked. John, his hands shaking, blinked quickly, nodding. They sat for a few second, Moran pulled taunt, nervously leaning into John. After a moment John carelessly tossed the gun across the room, where it skidded to a halt against Sherlock's bookcase.

“What?” Moran gaped, staring at the gun, “no, what?! Why? Please, you understand, you’re the only one who understands! I hurt you, for god’s sake I fucking raped you! Why won’t you-?!”

John held up a hand, “I never blamed you. I never saw what happened as your fault. In fact, nothing that’s happened for the last decade or so has been your fault. You know Moran, you know you’re ill, you know what he did to you. You know this isn’t you. You can get help. You can be your own man again. But….” John licked his lips, sighing shakily as he leaned forward and began to prepare the glass of scotch. A little of all the powders tipped in and stirred with a silver stirring rod from Sherlock's set before they could settle at the bottom.

“But if this is really what you want, if you really see no happiness, no recovery ever again. If you really see no more options, I refuse to be the one that makes that choice for you.” John sat back, motioning to the glass. Moran eyed the glass suspiciously.

“What is this?” he asked. John let out a shaky breath,

“This…” John licked his lips nervously, unsure yet certain of what he was doing, “this is a free choice. The first, or last, truly free choice of your life.” Moran stayed silent and John continued,

“You can pick up that gun and kill one or both of us. Or you can sit and wait, I can call Mycroft Holmes and he can come pick you up. No harm will come to you, you can help him detangle Moriarty’s web and avenge his little brother, and perhaps, after all is said and done, Mycroft will assure you can start anew. A new name, a new face if need be. You could marry, have a family, a job, you could be a free man. Or…” John trailed off, suddenly unable to continue.

“Or what?” Moran asked, deadly serious, fully engaged with what John was saying.

“Or you can drink that,” John nearly whispered, pointing at the glass, “I won’t bore you with the names but there are three chemicals in there. One will stop your heart as quickly as possible; one will help inhibit your pain receptors, ensuring a painless death, and the last will cause feelings of euphoria. You will die peacefully, painlessly, and you won’t have to die alone.”

John, his hands shaking, sat back, going still and silent. He contemplated the man next to him. Being so close didn’t create the same feelings of violent fury and humiliation John would have anticipated. Indeed, he was reliving that night, but this time all he saw was Moran’s face. How Moran had looked away from John, while fucking him Moran’s eyes had traveled to Moriarty again and again. His face had drawn taunt, silently begging to be allowed to stop. He had whispered “I’m sorry” again and again every few thrusts, especially when John would yelp in pain or grit his teeth. Moran, John decided, had been just as violated as he had. Both of them victims to Moriarty’s genius and sadism. What a tragic pair they were.

Both men sat for a long time. Moran sat with his hands under his chin, staring seriously at the glass. John sat back, looking relaxed, his arms clasped in his lap. The minutes dragged on. Finally, Moran reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone.

“He wasn’t all bad, you know. I mean, yea, at first. Before I stopped fighting, before I calmed down. He said I was like a wild tiger back then. I thought I had self-discipline before, it was nothing compared to after he was done training me.” Moran gave a dark chuckle as he scrolled through pictures, tilting his phone towards John. Some pictures where bloody, some were places and people John had never seen before, but most were Moriarty. John sucked in air through his teeth at the first picture and reigned himself in for the rest. Jim sleeping on red satin sheets, Moriarty eating breakfast, reading the paper and a multitude of other perfectly mundane things, in a few that Moran lingered on he sat in Moran’s lap, one claw-like hand directing the Colonel into a kiss.

“He played the piano when he couldn’t sleep,” Moran said, stopping at a video. He shot a sideways look at John who was stiff, but still, contemplated the other man, and pressed play. It was dark, Moran seemed to be moving through a large mansion before finding his way downstairs. Piano music, eclectic and broken sounds. Moran rounded a corner, and there was Moriarty. Alive, real, playing a baby grand piano. He was dressed down in a brocade dressing gown, when he noticed Moran, he scowled like a parent who had discovered his child out of bed.

“Sebby, what did I tell you about wandering around at night?”

“Couldn’t sleep, boss. Besides, you know I like your playing.” Moriarty gave Moran a strange smile. It was like Moriarty was staring at something pathetic but prized. A pure-bred dog with a pea-sized brain.

Moran paused the video then, slowly stroking his thumb over the screen.

“It wasn’t all bad.” He whispered, it sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Hesitantly, he reached forward, a shaking hand snagging the glass.

Part of John cheered at the imminent destruction of the weapon used to abuse him, part of John wanted to knock the glass from Moran’s hand. But, he told himself as Moran drank, this wasn’t his call. He couldn’t make Moran chose to live. Shaking, Moran pressed the back of his hand to his mouth as he swallowed down the poisoned drink. Slowly he put the glass down and leaned against John, resting his head on the other man’s shoulder.

“How long?” Moran asked, his words already slurring again. John blinked quickly, letting out a sobbing breath.

“N- not long. A minute or two, maybe.”

“Can’t see the screen,” Moran slurred. Then, giggling, (that would be the euphoric high kicking in) he pressed the phone in Johns' hand. “Will you play it? J- jus’ skip a few sec’ns” Moran was blinking slowly, snuggling into his subordinate.

True to his rank, John obeyed the Colonel, playing the video. He skipped forward a few seconds and sure enough, the camera was black, but piano music filled the room. As Moran’s body went slack against John, the music swelled, then began to decrescendo, ending on a soft, almost tiptoeing note.

“Wasn’t all bad.” Moran slurred once more, his whole body going lax.

John sobbed as he sat there, not moving Moran’s cooling corpse. The phone went dark in his hand.

 Hours or days later John stood, arranging Moran’s body on the couch, crossing his arms across his chest, phone tucked close. John stood on weak legs and snagged his own, clean, glass of scotch and drank it greedily as he texted Mycroft.

A free body is not a free mind. This is as much freedom as he could claim for himself. - J

John was closed up in Sherlock's room when Mycroft’s men entered his flat. They took the body and contaminated glasses. When he walked in the living room the next morning, everything was cleared away. Even the scotch bottle had been replaced with an unopened one.

Like Moran had never been there, like the man with a life more tragic than his counterpart had never existed. Like nothing had ever happened.

 Until My Love Is With Me Again

Some months later John came home, once more, to a disturbance. This time it was even more obvious. Mrs. Hudson had left yesterday evening to visit her sister, who had a hip replacement, something Mrs. Hudson was rather envious of.

John expected to come home to an empty, silent building. But that wasn’t the case, the moment he stepped in his breath caught. There were tubs of medical supplies at the foot of the stairs, a familiar Belstaff (now looking far worse for wear) hanging limply over the banister, and the smell of antiseptic in the air. John felt his eyes water as he flung his bag to the ground, taking the stairs three at a time, his shoulder and leg suddenly pain-free for the first time in years. Bursting into the flat the first thing he heard were quiet voices, two doctors sat at the kitchen table, pulling a bag of gauze from a big plastic tub. He turned wildly, still crying, and crossed to Mycroft, who was sitting calmly in Johns’ armchair sipping tea.

“Where?” he choked out.

Mycroft gave him a grave look, “I must warn you, it’s bad.”

“Where, Mycroft?” John demanded.

Mycroft motioned to Sherlock's bedroom. John practically ran into the room, he stopped breathing when he caught sight of the pale back stripped with red. Sherlock weakly turned his head, his curls limp with grim and oil, to the door. His eyes widened and he smiled broadly, crying and laughing in a choked voice as John slid to his knees next to his wounded lover.

“You’re alive.” John choked out.

“Barely.” Sherlock smiled, cupping Johns' cheek, god he had gone so gaunt, Sherlock had lost at least three stone, ribs clearly showing across his wounded back.

“You’re home.” John gently ran his hand through his lover’s hair.

“I told you you weren’t mad, my love.” Sherlock was clearly exhausted, every word a struggle, his eyes opening and closing slowly with massive effort.

“Is it safe for you to sleep?” Sherlock nodded and hummed in acknowledgment.

“I was waiting for you.” He slurred, “They gave me medicine.”

“A sedative?” John asked gently. Sherlock hummed again.

“’s bad, John. I’ll live, but ‘s bad.” Sherlock's hand dropped and with great effort, he presented John with his other hand closed in a fist. The fingers uncurled and in Sherlock's palm lay his grandfather's wedding ring. John sobbed; a sound close to a laugh.

“Thank you for believing in me,” Sherlock said after John took the ring back, going limp against the bed. “I missed you,” Sherlock sighed as he closed his eyes.

John stayed as the doctors worked around them, patching the strips of broken skin back together on his lovers back. At one point a doctor gave John a pitying look before moving the sheet covering Sherlock's backside. John felt his heart break at the implication.

After Sherlock had been sponged down, laid out on his stomach comfortably and had his left leg wrapped in a cast the doctors dispersed. John stayed by Sherlock's side for another hour, making sure the younger man was sleeping deeply before standing to confront his future brother in law.

Sure enough, Mycroft was still sitting in Johns’ armchair, waiting. John fetched Sherlock's violin case and sat in his lover’s chair as he carefully stored away the instrument.

“I knew you were trying to tell me something.” John murmured, more to himself. Mycroft gave him a tight smile.

“And so, Odysseus returns,” Mycroft said wryly.

When the violin had been safely stored and was sitting at Johns' feet Mycroft reached out. He presented John with a manila folder.

“This is all we know of his physical injuries. As I’m sure you can tell, we got him out as fast as we could, but it was a… delicate process. Extraction was difficult.”

“Why did he have to stay dead?” John asked, not yet opening the folder. Mycroft’s jaw ticked.

“Moriarty… Was careful. All of us, or rather all of you, I was too difficult to get to, had a hit out on you. If Sherlock was to remain alive…”

“We died.” John finished. Mycroft nodded grimly. “Where the hell has he been, Mycroft?” John was speaking quietly, nearly whispering. Mycroft looked tired; John realized.

“Disassembling Moriarty’s web. Moran was a major piece Sherlock was having trouble getting to. The information he possessed would have, perhaps, made things go faster for Sherlock, but his death was also a great accomplishment. With Moriarty’s second in command dead, his associates fled, like cockroaches scattering in the light.”

“Who hurt him?” John asked, leaning back, suddenly exhausted.

A dark look came across Mycroft’s face. “No one with hands left to harm.” He hissed.

John lifted a brow, both impressed and intimidated. With the honeyed way Mycroft presented himself it was hard to remember how deadly this man was. It was, John had to admit, satisfying to know the men who harmed Sherlock were probably rotting away as they spoke.

 After Mycroft left John read through the folder.

PRELIMINARY DIAGNOSIS:

• Anal tearing, penetration with wooden and metal objects
• Lashes with a whip-like instrument
• Glass embedded in the skin, wounds flushed
• Malnutrition
• Minor poisoning
• Bruising around face, groin, thighs, ankles and wrists, ligatures from rope and metal cuffs,
• Dehydration
• Broken left leg
• Broken right thumb
• All toenails forcefully removed
• Cracked ribs along the left side
• Two teeth missing along the bottom portion of jaw.

All injuries congruent with long term abuse, torture, and starvation.

TREATMENT

• Antibiotics administered to treat infections
• Pain medication administered despite patients protests, familial override
• Tetanus shot administered
• Tox screen and blood tests in lab
• Sexual assault tests in lab
• Patient attached to IV to provide liquids and needed nutrients.

 Mycroft certainly hadn’t lied, it was bad. For Mycroft to ignore Sherlock's wishes and allow him to be dosed with pain medication, risking another relapse…. This was worse than bad. As John sat next to Sherlock, he took the hand without the broken thumb and kissed it. It was a long road ahead, they needed each other now more than ever. John intended to keep his vows; he’d be here for Sherlock like Sherlock was there for him. They would make it through. And on the other side, John saw a long, happy, life stretched out before them. It was only a matter of blind leading the blind by faith alone through the darkest of nights