Not Afraid

Chapter Four - Miss Me?

The stench was overpowering, hitting John all at once, engulfing him in a vomit worthy, god awful stink which made him gag and cover his mouth and nose with his hand. His eyes watering, John stared about him. There was blood, lots of blood, covering the tiles and this wasn't all dry. He could see that just from a cursory glance. The shower curtain was drawn and John, gritting his teeth, stepped around the pool of slippery blood and whipped it aside.

"Jesus," he couldn't contain his voice and it echoed around the bathroom, obvious and giving him away. But he couldn't help it. Crumpled in the bathtub was Mr and Mrs Hall, throats slashed and bodies limp. "Jesus Christ."

John staggered back. Even after Afghanistan, even after all the thousands of cases with Sherlock, death made him reel. Hit him right in the stomach and heart. He inhaled and exhaled deeply, calming his thundering heart. Someone had just murdered the old couple. Which meant...John's eyes widened in alarm; the murder was still here.

"Damn, damn, damn!" John wheezed, frantic with panic now. He whipped around, feet skidding in the blood and-

-damn near had a heart failure. Standing in the doorway to the bathroom was a man, dressed in a completely black suit with a black balaclava and a rather large and bloodied knife in his left hand. John stumbled backwards, back colliding with the basin.

"Hello John," the man said in a heavy Irish accent. "Having a nice day so far?"

"What?" John gasped out, trying desperately to rein in his fear.

"Good day so far, John?" the man asked. His accent was off putting. It sounded familiar and John knew why. It had the same sort of sadistic and Irish tone as Jim Moriarty.

"Could have been better," John managed to keep his voice somewhat steady, wishing beyond anything that he had his gun.

"I bet you're surprised to see me here, John," the man said gleefully.

"And why is that?" John asked. Keep control of the situation, he told himself. Try and gain the upper hand. Someone will come soon. Greg will alert the police for backup.

"I'm supposed to be dead," the man said. He sounded a little disappointed. "Don't you remember me? Did you miss me?"

John narrowed his eyes. He understood the game now. "I get it," he said. "You're Jim Moriarty."

The man clapped his hands together in delight which wasn't an altogether easy thing to pull off, given the rather enormous knife he also held. "I knew you'd get there in the end, John," he said happily.

"Except you're not Jim Moriarty," John said quietly. "So who the hell are you really?"

"What do you mean, I'm not him?" the man brandished the knife in front of him, kind of like a small child beginning to throw a tantrum after they've been told that they have to go to bed.

"First of all," John took a deep breath, controlling the shaking in his bones. "Jim Moriarty would have no qualms about showing his face. Second of all, he wasn't one to do the dirty work himself. God forbid he ruin his Westwood. And thirdly and most finally, Jim Moriarty is dead."

The man was silent, angry. John could tell he was angry by the faint quivering of his body and the way he gripped the knife. Finally, he spoke, still trying to maintain his Irish accent which has begun to slip a little in his fury. "But am I really?"

"Game's up," John said firmly. "I know you're not Moriarty. So who are you? And why did you need to murder Mr and Mrs Hall?"

The man said nothing. John waited, heart still thudding. The man also seemed to be waiting, clutching his knife. And then, all of a sudden, he exploded into movement, lunging forwards at John with a yell that was definitely not Irish. Instinctively, John raised his hands to ward off any offence but the man had both size and a bloody sharp knife on his side. He came hurtling down onto John, slicing John's palms and sending him collapsing to the bloodied floor. John yelled for help, a vain attempt, and something smashed into his temple, sending a blinding flash of pain through him. And the world swirled into darkness.