John Pov
My name is John Watson and I just found out my best friend and the worlds only consulting detective, Sherlock Homes, faked his suicide. And now he's leaving me all over again. After three years of having drunken conversations with a gun, after all those one night stands to tell myself I was still in control of my life; not Sherlock, after three years of self pity, he comes back out of the blue and then says he has to leave again. Like Hell I'll let him leave. "No, Sherlock. I've lost you once; I'm not losing you again." I turn on my heel and head for the kitchen. He follows. "John, you must understand, I am doing this because I love you." I slam down the pot I was washing and look him in the eye from the sink. He's at the table, gripping onto a chair tightly. "See, that's it. That's fucking it, Sherlock! If you love me, you won't make me hurt anymore.. Please.. W-we can go somewhere else. Somewhere where there's no Moriarty or Mycroft or anyone. America! Europe! Asia! Hell, I don't care. As long as I never have to give you up ever again.. Please, Sherlock.. Just one more miracle.." By now, I'm shaking slightly and I feel something moist on my cheeks. I figure it's just tears from my current emotional state, but as soon as I see Sherlock's face, I know it's not. I gingerly touch my cheek, my left hand shaking violently. I take a glance at my fingers, coated with fresh blood. I gasp and hold down a gag. Sherlock gets to me in two swift strides. He looks up at the ceiling, then down at me. He examines my face, deducing everything about me. "John.." But I already know the answer. We both turn slowly and see Mrs. Hudson's small frame, face down in the doorway to our quaint kitchen. Her head is blown open and her hand is resting in a pool of her own blood. I puke then. Sherlock rushes over to Mrs. Hudson, examining her corpse. "John, he's back." His voice is low and hoarse, as though it took all his might to say those words without breaking down in a fit of cries. I finish puking, my throat raw. "No.. He.. He shot himself.. The mouth.. He couldn't have.." Sherlock gets up and stands next to me, never taking his eyes off Mrs. Hudson's corpse. A strong scent of ammonia and feces fills the air but neither one of us moves, blinks. "If I can fake my suicide.." I nod grimly. "He's a consulting criminal.. He's me.. And I'm him.." I feel a rush of exhaustion and adrenaline course thru me and I feel instantly dizzy. Bad combo, I think to myself as I lean into Sherlock for support, but also comfort. He wraps his arm around my waist, breathing shallow. We stand there for another 15 minutes in silence. Remembering Mrs. Hudson and her giddy little voice. Well, I am anyways. By the look on Sherlock's face and his hollow eyes, I could tell he was thinking of how to catch Moriarty. I grab his hand and intertwine our fingers. "He'll pay. He'll pay.." I hear Sherlock whisper more to himself than to I. I nod into his embrace, feeling his grip on my waist and hand tighten. Jim Moriarty has fucked with us for the last time, I think angrily, the last fucking time.
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John POV
"Sherlock, tea?" It's been three weeks since Sherlock's return and still no Moriarty. No reply. I start to panic. "Sherlock?" I say a little louder this time. Still no reply. I walk into the sitting room. "Sherlock, are you alri-" I stop mid-sentence. Moriarty is seated very seductively on Sherlock's arm chair. "John," his syrupy voice too pleasant for my liking. "What a heavenly surprise!" He stands very smoothly and walks over to me, a swagger in his walk. He smiles a toothy grin and suddenly I feel like Little Red Riding Hood being confronted with the Big Bad Wolf. His eyes sweep over me, slowly. As though I'm the prey to his predator. I grit my teeth. Damn this man. "What have you done to Sherlock?" I demand, surprised my voice isn't shaking with anger. His smile wavers for a moment, but he recovers quickly. "Don't worry about silly old Sherlock. He's irrelevant." The way he said Sherlock's name made me want to slaughter him. "Fuck that you know where he is!" I seethe. My hands clench into tight fists at my sides. This makes him smirk widely. He touches my jumper softly. He leans in so our noses are inches apart. "Dr. Watson, you seem so stressed. That silly old Sherlock Holmes is nothing but a burden." He is so close I can smell his cologne. It's sour, as though he's had it since his birth. It makes my nose crinkle in disgust. "Shut the Hell up. Cut the bull shit, Moriarty. I want to know where he is." I grab his collar and push him against a wall. A few frames fall. Oh well. He seems unfazed at this change in dominance. He seemed to be /enjoying/ it, actually. If I wasn't pissed off before than that did it. That God damned smirk. I bared my teeth and a low growl escaped the back of my throat. "Where. Is. Sherlock." That smirk only grew. We locked gazes and I couldn't look away. "Somewhere you will never, ever, /ever/ find him." He whispered. I threw him down. "You bastard tell me or I'll kill you!!" I spat. I am so angry now. He only gave me a false amused look. He stood and dusted himself off. His expensive grey suit barely disturbed. He turned his dark, psychotic eyes on mine and I couldn't move. "Threats? Oh tsk tsk, Dr. Watson. Shame on you! I thought your mummy would have showed you threats only lead to violence and violence never solves anything. Oh well. C'iest la vie, as the French say." He hummed with a flick of his wrist. He strolled over to the door humming a god damned show tune. He rubbed the door handle, his lips slightly parted. He turned to me with a sly look. He licked his lips, a smirk playing on them like a carousel song. "I'll see you soon, Doctor." And with that, he whistled out the door. It was then, and only then, that I could move. My cheeks flared red with anger and I could've puked. Moriarty had Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson was dead. Lestrade was rarely ever help and Molly was on a holiday. I went to the only place I could think of and the thought made me so drousy I couldnt see straight- Mycroft Holmes is my only hope.
