Who:John and Moriarty What:Reuniting and it doesn't feel so good? When:Backdated to yesterday Where:Cemetery Warnings:TBA STATUS:COMPLETE!
John was finally starting to feel more like himself then he had in weeks since Sherlock’s death. Florence had stayed by his side since it happened, Rose and Jacen too. He wasn’t as alone as he had been before Kansas, before Sherlock and he owed them a great deal. He was starting to realize that maybe it was time he let his friend go. The more he held on, the unhappier Sherlock would be. He was a man of science, if he could have seen the way John was behaving he probably would have been disappointed. Maybe even angry. John couldn’t help it. Sherlock had been his best friend for so long, the man knew him more than anyone. Nobody had ever bothered to know him like that. The war had caused him to live a solitary life. He didn’t have friends outside of the family, just acquaintances until Sherlock came along. Sherlock gave him meaning. A reason to get up in the morning post war.
John didn’t know what his meaning was anymore. So he visited his friends grave. His hand resting on the dark headstone, his eyes reading the simple engravement for the millionth time. Still it felt like a nightmare. Kansas was supposed to be their second story, another shot at a happy and long life. Well, as happy as a manic man like Sherlock could have been. He’d been so hopeful they were going to get another chance, and then it was stolen away from him once again. How was he supposed to recover from that? Replace him with this new man that called himself Sherlock Holmes? The idea was outlandish at best. A new Sherlock. Even if he squinted he couldn’t pretend. He was angry. Beyond anger really. It was almost like the seal was laughing at him and there was nothing he could do.
It wasn’t as if the new Sherlock asked to show up, it wasn’t his fault but John was still so angry. He could barely stand to be around the boards with him lurking about. That new Sherlock could just appear out of anywhere, and John was not ready. He refused. “You’re the one I believe in.” He spoke softly as he lowered his hand and replaced the dying flowers with new ones. It was a silly thing, flowers at a gravestone. It wasn’t as if the dead could see it, but John supposed it was more of a way for the living to feel better then anything else. A way to stay connected, and right now that was all he wanted. Something to stay connected to.
It was a rush of power, a coming back to life an awful lot sooner than Jim could have expected and he knew. He knew it was fleeting. And not for the fairytale gone bad. No no no, it was for Johnny Boy that he was here. And look how cute! The man was moping at the grave of his friend and bromance and oh Jim knew, another Sherlock, the old one, the one from long ago, and he had plans for him, for him, for Watson, for Emma and for little Aurora. Time was such a funny little thing when humanity went away.
“So touchingly loyal”
It was all he really needed to say. He could almost see the man’s mind snap. And oh he’d been doing so well. Finally coming out of his little slump, the grieving. Was this a healthy little expression of grief as opposed to one found at the bottom of a bottle? Well whoops. “Do you actually think he can hear you where he is darling? Because he can’t, because its cold and alone where he is and no one, not you, not any of your lovely little friends, not even the new one can bring him back from there. You failed him, didn’t you? And they tell you that you didn’t but you did. You let me wiiin!!
John had finally begun to cope with the fact that Sherlock was gone. He was finally starting to realize he couldn’t hold on forever without hurting him and those he called his friends. What he hadn’t dealt with yet was the fact that once again it was Moriarty that had done it. Once again he’d been helpless to save his friend and was left alone twice now. Given hope and had it torn away a second time. It’d caused him more anger at the new Sherlock then he meant, caused him more stress then he could handle. When the ghost had shown to the others and he was ghostless, it was nearly a relief.
He didn’t know if he could have honestly dealt with Sherlock’s ghost yet. It’d taken him long enough just to cope with visiting the grave ghostlessly. Nearly a month passed before he was able to visit him. He was not ready to deal with a physical representation of his best friend. He certainly wasn’t ready for the other option either. Moriarty’s voice in his head caused him to reach for his gun automatically despite his tremor acting up. He fought through the discomfort and gripped at the weapon, pointing it in the direction of the voice. It occured to him that if it was a ghost it wouldn’t do much good, but he felt better.
“You don’t belong here. You aren’t welcome.” John responded coldly.
The gun, of course the gun, really very typical Watson and Jim laughed, breaking through the coldness and stillness of the graveside and in fact stepping over to perch himself on the grave of his enemy. A little overkill perhaps but he was here for a reason and Johnny Boy really did need something to hate. Fuel that last little push into full on sad wallowing grief that his friends were trying so hard to steer him from. Adorable as that was and all.
“No I don’t and no I’m not but here I am all the same and did you really not think I’d come back if given the chance. Torture the man that killed me. It seemed only fair really. You shot me.” he said all mock offended and sighed over dramatically. “Between my woman and Sherlock’s I really never stood a chance now did I? But look at you. You’ve not lived a day since you shot me have you? You’ve done nothing but drink and mope and wallow. God its like you lost the love of your sad little life and even your own friends are starting to get tired of it, Its like Romeo and Juliet if Romeo was a sociopath with a hero complex and Juliet was an embittered war vet with a gun and a bottle.”
A ghostly hand traced the gravestone. The name. Oh and he’d put him there. It was beautiful. “Be honest Johnny boy. You missed me, just a little bit.”
John didn’t want to listen to it. He didn’t want to hear Moriarty’s voice. Especially not in that place. Not near Sherlock again, even now he couldn’t keep him away. Then Moriarty was talking about being shot and John could only smirk hatefully. A cold malice in his eyes, one very few ever got to see. “You say that like I’m supposed to regret it.” That wasn’t the part John regretted at all honestly, the part he regretted was not doing it sooner. By following Moriarty’s little trail the first time, he’d brought out the emotion in Sherlock, he’d caused his friends death and he firmly believed it. His friends tried to tell him there wasn’t anything he could have done, but if he hadn’t tried to ‘help’ the first time it might have gone differently. He might not have died, Sherlock wouldn’t have been so reckless as to go without him. Things would have been different. Instead he was in a graveyard alone, chatting up Moriarty and finally understanding what it was like to have a arch enemy.
“That’s not the part I regret at all.” He said cooly. Wanting so badly to tell him not to touch the grave, to shoot him. Moriarty was already dead. Shooting him would do nothing except possibly end another life of an innocent bystander. He clenched his jaw and stared at him venomously. “I wish you’d stayed in hell where you belonged.”
“I’m sure you do. Would have been easier, but d’you really think life was ever going to be that easy? No no, I was pulled back, don’t you get it, and alll for yooou. Oh you poor boy. You needed someone to hate. Because you’re going to make a fool of yourself. You’re going to let this new Sherlock in aren’t you? Because no, no no he’s not the same but he’s still him right? WRONG? Don’t be a fool, kill him now before he gets a chance to hurt you?”
Save him the trouble when he got back he supposed. But that new Sherlock would die one way or the other. It was just offensive that he was there, from the past. It would be a service to that man’s Moriarty to kill him for him and so, he’d do it.
But not yet. Oh no, he was here for John.
“Where to now? Surely you have plans for the day because darling I am in. Not going anywhere for a while yet and don’t we have soooo much catching up to do. You can tell me about what happened after we died, tell me about your breakdown, about what my fairytale did. Do you still blame her by the way? I hope you do! Hate is so much fun!”
Moriarty was right about one thing, life had never been easy for him. Why should it start now? He had to watch his best friend die twice, and now the bastard responsible was his metaphorical demon. It was almost as though the seal was picking on him. What had he done to deserve this? Why did he have to suffer? Maybe he was supposed to be alone. Maybe that’s what all this meant. “I’m not a murderer.” He’d killed in the war, it was different. He killed for self defense it was..
Was it really so different? This Sherlock was just going to die like the others did and leave him alone. One way or another he was going to go away and John would once again be left heart broken. He couldn’t do it again, that was why he’d pushed so hard to keep that man away at first. He was afraid, deathly so of being hurt like this again. He should have been asking why Moriarty was infact in, but the only thing he could think of was how badly he needed a drink or twelve. He swallowed thickly and turned away from the grave. He couldn’t just stay there anymore. He couldn’t linger as long as Moriarty was there, that man didn’t deserve to be within yards of Sherlock’s grave much less inches. “A bar.” He spoke disdainfully. He must have looked insane to passersby talking to himself, but sometimes if he was honest he felt it. Might as well look the part as well.
“It’s four o clock somewhere.” He said distractedly as he looked at his watch and then over at Moriarty, pure hatred written on his face. “Don’t get too comfortable, this isn’t permanent. It can’t be.” John ignored Moriarty’s questions, though it was true. He did hate Emma, he even hated Molly and it really wasn’t her fault. She’d been a pawn in the grand scheme of things just like him.
Moriarty couldn’t help but laugh at that. No, it wasn’t permanent but it was going to be messy. He’d be there every second of every day until he had to leave. He’d hound him, torment him with how he’d failed Sherlock, how he’d won because of John’s failures. All of it, and it would be so much fun. John Watson wouldn’t have a moments rest save for. Oh. OH of course the end of a bottle.
“You’re right it is. You should go to a bar, forget everything you once were, give in to the bottle completely and maybe then it won’t be your fault anymore. Do you think my dear? Do you think that will make it all okay again? Lets go find out will we?”
He walked beside John blowing a kiss back at the grave. “Catch. You. Later.” he intoned just as Sherlock once had but oh so mockingly as they walked off. He was hilarious sometimes. Call this the warm up before the real storm hit. He’d break John. And then he’d go back, serve his time in hell and then he’d be called back up to make the world burn. And oh the plans he had to do that. Buuut that was for later. For now it was time to go get John Watson ratarse drunk which he whined about Sherlock.
And the new one. Oh the new one.
“Does he whisper sweet insults into your ear the way my Sherlock did? Does he tell you you’re just not that bright, do you swoon, hm? Dish Johnny boy, I’m here all week!”
John touched a shaking hand to his face and released a breath he was unaware he was holding in. A bar with Jim Moriarty. The man responsible for all of his pain and suffering. He knew Rose and Florence were going to be disappointed, but he couldn’t do this sober. He couldn’t fight a ghost. He couldn’t kill it it was already dead. He couldn’t even make it stop talking and that was the worst part.
Moriarty’s ghost talking, telling him everything he didn’t want to hear like a broken record. His eyes were a little more tired these days since Sherlock died, his eyes a little sadder. The last thing he needed was Moriarty weighing on that. He swallowed thickly and ran a hand through his hair as he ignored the ghost the best he could for a moment while he tried to get his bearings back.
“He’s not yours and he never has been.” John snapped. “You have no right to even say his name.” Gripping his cane a bit, he wished suddenly it was made of iron. The rumor was iron was a way to keep the ghosts at bay, he would have thrown it into Moriarty’s unsuspecting annoying face. Sadly it was not, nor did he carry salt on him.
He was stuck with a yammering ghost and a large headache. “Are you really going to talk the entire time? I’m investing in earplugs.” He rolled his eyes as he strode into a bar and sat at one of the stools ordering a scotch and drinking down the problem.