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When John finds out that James Moriarty- or Richard Brooke as the world knows him- is still alive it's like losing Sherlock all over again.
The papers call it a tragedy; poor Rich Brooke, the helpless puppet of a psychopath, left in a coma after an attempted suicide. They have video tributes and flowers are left outside Bart's and they even do a little piece on the BBC on Rich's 'tragically short life'. No one seems concerned with the fact that actor or not, Richard Brooke, had he lived, would have been imprisoned for accessory to murder at the least.
John can't see how they believe all that but he supposes it's easier for people to believe that Sherlock was making it all up rather than believing he was a genius. He finds it rather sickening though how quickly they've turned. Not all of them believe in Richard Brooke though, there are whole websites dedicated to the 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes movement'. Mrs Hudson believes it for a time but John's sure that if Sherlock walked back through their front door today she wouldn't think any less of him. Lestrade is different, he's angry, hurt, betrayed; he almost loses his job over it. They meet up sometimes for a drink and sit silently side by side but eventually Greg drifts away.
John's grateful for the silence. He doesn't want to talk about Sherlock; every time he does it's like a kick in the teeth.
In the days after the fall he throws the television out and averts his eyes every time he passes a newspaper stand. He can't pretend Sherlock's alive when everybody keeps screaming he's dead. He can't pretend that Sherlock will walk back in to his life one day when the story is everywhere. He deletes his blog and avoids the internet at all times.
Eyes front soldier.
He gets letters of condolence from people he's never met, people who assure him they believe in Sherlock but they didn't know Sherlock. They just knew the man in deerstalker hat and the articles. So John burns their letters and after a while Mrs Hudson stops bringing them to him.
He closes his eyes, soldier on John.
One week after the fall he gets a call from Harry.
"Are you okay, John?" she asks after three minutes of silence. "I saw what happened on the news."
John wants to scream at her. No, he is not okay. Sherlock, his best friend, his flatmate, his purpose, is dead. Dead and gone. But he doesn't say that because saying it out loud makes it true. "I'll be okay, Harry." He says in a strained voice.
There's a pause and he can picture her fidgeting nervously, Harry's never been good with emotion. She sighs, "Look, John, I know I suck at this but I'm trying, okay? And Clara...We're back together...And Clara's family have a small cottage in Devon. I just thought, you know, if you wanted to get away from it all for a while?"
She says it all in such a rush that John has to think a few minutes before replying. "That'd be lovely, thank you Harriet."
He can almost feel her relief as she says, "Great, well call me when you want to go down, okay?" He says he will and then she awkwardly says she loves him but hangs up before he can reply.
-
He goes to Devon for a week and pretends nothing's wrong, he pretends the nightmares don't happen, he pretends people don't stare when he goes into the towns, he pretends when he gets back to Baker Street Sherlock will be waiting.
One week after he gets back to London he goes to St Bart's. He tells himself it's to visit Molly, to see how she's holding up and he does and she does her best to smile even though her eyes betray her true feelings, but even she knows John isn't there to visit her. "Are you going to see him?" she asks softly.
"See who, Molly?"
She looks away, "Jim." She looks back up at him and he nods.
He's not sure why he wants to. Maybe it's just to confirm that Moriarty did exist. Maybe it's so he can smother the man with a pillow and be done with it all. Molly takes him up to Jim's room and John realises that he had expected more from the Napoleon of Crime because in that hospital room he's just a man. Moriarty looks very, very small surrounded by all the machines that are keeping him alive. He's pale, so pale that he looks almost translucent and there are thick white bandages covering his head. He looks any other patient. He's not a monster. He's just a man.
"I come to see him sometimes," Molly says quickly as though confessing to a sin. "I don't know why but...Anyway, I better get back to work..." she hovers for a few more minutes, nervously before leaving the room.
John looks at Moriarty, the big bad wolf cut down by the huntsman and says, "You took everything from me, you know."
"And all for a stupid game," he mutters.
He can imagine Moriarty laughing at him. I won Johnny boy. I beat Sherlock, I won.
-
He goes back the next week and the week after that. He's not sure why but it helps. He sits by Moriarty's bed and talks about Sherlock and imagines Jim's responses. He tells Jim about what people are saying about Sherlock because of him. He tells Jim about all the imaginative forms of revenge he's come up with for Sherlock's death. He tells Jim about the war and his childhood and everything. And maybe it's just because he knows Jim can't hear, can't judge, can't tell anyone what he's said. Or maybe John's just losing it (John's pretty sure it's the latter). But it works and John feels a little bit better.
The world moves on and Sherlock Holmes isn't in the news anymore and John goes back to being just another face in the crowded city of London.
John packs all of Sherlock's things up and leaves them in Sherlock's room and life moves on.
Then one day Jim wakes up.
He blinks into existence, eyes wide and brown and confused and John feels a little like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He's expecting Moriarty's slow grin to appear and him to say something ridiculously evil but that doesn't happen. Instead Moriarty looks at him and opens and closes his mouth a few times before rasping, "I know you from somewhere, don't I?"
And John laughs. Laughs because Moriarty died to.
Moriarty blinks at him, "What's-What's so funny?" he asks in his lilting Irish voice.
John should feel bad for laughing. This man isn't James Moriarty. He's just a broken, lost, ordinary human. He can almost imagine the disgust Moriarty would feel at his new self, the disgust Sherlock would feel. He leaves still laughing and the next day Mrs Hudson shoves a paper under his door that has a small article on Richard Brooke's miraculous recovery. He tears the article out and thinks about burning it.
The next week he tries not to go back to Bart's but he finds himself there all the same.
Jim is standing unsteadily in front of the window he turns when John walks in. "You're John Watson." He says voice still slightly rough from disuse.
John nods and he turns back to the window, "They said my name was Richard," he says glumly. "It doesn't sound right though."
"That's because it isn't your name," John finds himself saying. He shouldn't, he knows he shouldn't.
"They said I shot myself. But why would I do that?" Jim says quietly.
John's half tempted to tell Jim who he really was.
Jim turns to him, "What's my name Dr Watson?" he asks and John's slightly taken aback by Jim's eyes. They're wide and brown and desperate. There's no trace of Moriarty in them.
"I-" John stammers, "its James."
"James," Jim repeats with a small smile. "James."
There's a part of John that wants Moriarty back. He can't explain it, he knows it's wrong but there's a part of him that knows that Sherlock was just as important to Moriarty. So every time he visits James in the hospital he finds himself talking about Jim's crimes and searching James' face for any flicker of recognition. He never sees any.
"I'm getting out this week," James says one day when John turns up for lunch.
John looks up. It's been a month since James woke up (a month since he became James rather than Moriarty) he's recovered remarkably well, apart from his memories that is. This means no more visits. John's not sure what to say, should he ask where James is going? Should they exchange phone numbers? James is watching him with an unreadable expression on his face.
"Oh," John says.
They don't speak for the rest of the visit.
-
When John gets back to 221b he finds Mycroft Holmes waiting for him.
He hasn't seen the elder Holmes since Sherlock died. At the time he was glad, he really didn't think he could see Mycroft's smug face again without smashing it in, after all he had betrayed his brother, caused his death. But then John thinks about the amount of time he's been spending with James and he swallows guiltily. "What do you want Mycroft?"he asks as the older man studies him.
"It has come to my attention that you have been spending a rather inordinate amount of time with James Moriarty," Mycroft says in a soft, stern voice.
John looks at him, "Yes and what business of yours is it?" he asks, rather more bitterly then he had intended.
Mycroft cocks his head at John and John's forcefully reminded of how like Sherlock he can be. "I'm just wondering whether it's healthy given that mans past deeds." He says carefully.
John scoffs, "That man's 'past deeds' were enabled by you, Mycroft Holmes, and don't you forget that."
Mycroft stands up swiftly and his expression is one of pure anger, "Don't ever presume that Sherlock meant any less to me then he did to you, Dr Watson." He says in a voice that could cut through steel.
John's taken aback, he's never seen Mycroft lose his composure like that before, he hadn't thought it possible. The anger vanishes as quickly as it manifested and Mycroft straightens his suit. "I will not prevent you from seeing that man, John but I highly recommend that you end your association with him." he says briskly as he strides out of the door, twirling his umbrella.
John slams the door behind Mycroft and spends the rest of the evening glaring at the skull on the mantelpiece.
He's jolted out of his brooding by a hesitant knock at the front door. For a few moments he thinks it could be Sherlock, but Sherlock wouldn't knock. He's fairly surprised when he opens the door to find James Moriarty standing on the doorstep shuffling his feet awkwardly.
"John," he mumbles to his shoes.
"James, what are you doing here?" John asks.
James looks up at him. "I didn't have anywhere else to go," he says in a voice barely louder than a whisper.
John sighs and pulls him into the house, "Come on then. You can stay here until you get sorted."
They get up to the flat and while John busies himself making tea James walks around, touching everything and murmuring to himself. John takes his eyes off him for a second and he's vanished, "James?" he calls nervously.
"I'm in here John..." the reply comes from Sherlock's room.
He finds James holding Sherlock's coat and swallows his anger. He doesn't know, he doesn't know.
"Whose room was this?" James asks a faraway look in his eyes.
"My best friend's," John says softly, watching James carefully.
"I've lost someone, John," James says in a voice that tears at John's heart. "I don't know who it is, I don't remember...but there was someone, not me. Someone else and I-" his voice breaks slightly. "I don't what to do."
John touches his shoulder. "I know how you feel, James."
-
Two months later James is still living with him and John doesn't want that to ever change because no matter how hard he tries not to he can't help comparing James to Sherlock. James does the same bizarre experiments as Sherlock, he doesn't sleep, he hardly eats, he corrects the TV, he writes sad music (although he prefers the piano to the violin) and sometimes if John closes his eyes he can imagine it's not James rambling on about some obscure detail but Sherlock. There are differences, of course. Like when they read about a case James won't talk about how to solve it, he'll talk about how the crime could have been improved. James likes to read fantasy novels, the kind of novels Sherlock wouldn't spare a second glance to. James seems to have a thing for cats as well because one day he brings home a small ginger kitten and names it Sebastian. He chases the cat around the flat and treats it like a baby which John has to admit is pretty adorable even if it is a little disturbing. He chuckles to himself every time he tries to picture Sherlock with the kitten.
And then there's that other big thing.
The one that involved John coming home drunk late one night and kissing James as though his life depended on it.
James kisses like John thinks Moriarty would. All teeth and harshness and desperation. And it's wrong, he knows it's wrong but he can't seem to stop feeling a little bit disappointed when he opens his eyes and realises who he's kissing. He's not sure whether he's disappointed he's kissing Moriarty or disappointed he's not kissing Sherlock.
No one approves. Lestrade and Mrs Hudson stay silent but he knows they see it as a betrayal. Mycroft kidnaps him once or twice and gives him a stern talking to but John's past caring by that point and when Mycroft says, "What would Sherlock say?" in a voice full of anger and hate John surprises himself by screaming, "He wouldn't say anything because he's dead."
And he realises he's never said it out loud and it feels like a great weight has been lifted. Mycroft looks at him disappointedly and walks away and John doesn't see him again.
When he goes home that night James is sitting on the couch watching a documentary called Sherlock Holmes: Fake or Framed? John supposes he knew this had to happen sometime.
"I did this," James says quietly. "I took him from you. I wasn't really Rich Brooke, was I?"
John shakes his head and James mutters, "Jim Moriarty." As though trying it out then he looks up at John and says, "When you look at me you don't see me, do you?"
John shuffles uncomfortably because what are you meant to say to that? James pauses the screen, "You see him, don't you?"
John looks. James has paused the program on a picture of Sherlock wearing that stupid deer stalker hat, death Frisbee, it's an ear hat, John. He sits down next to James and pulls him close, ignoring the way his whole body stiffens.
"I love you, James." He says softly.
And James looks at him and says, "No you don't." But he kisses him anyway.
"I will love you then." John whispers against his lips.
-
In the end John supposes this isn't that strange of an outcome. James and he were both broken, lonely men without a purpose, without Sherlock. And it might not be the healthiest of relationships but it's a start, it'll get better.
It's been exactly three years since the fall and John wakes up with an armful of James and thinks that maybe this day should be different. It never is though, it's always ordinary, no big memoriam, no annual special, life just carries on.
There's a knock at the door and James mumbles sleepily as John disentangles himself to go and answer it. Sebastian glares at him as he passes. He thinks it might be Harry, since Sherlock died she's made a habit of dropping by unannounced with a few bottles of wine. She's never come this early though.
He opens the door.
Sherlock smiles.
And John's world explodes.
-
Sherlock's hair is shorter and straighter and lighter and he's dressed in a three piece suit. His hand is trembling slightly and it's the only way John can tell Sherlock is actually nervous about this.
"Hello, John." Sherlock smiles.
John doesn't think twice. He steps forwards and punches the detective squarely in the jaw before pulling him into a rough hug. "You idiot," he mumbles into Sherlock's chest. "You bloody idiot."
When he finally pulls away the relief vanishes and is replaced by anger. How could he do this? How could he? "Three years, Sherlock." He growls, "Three years."
Sherlock scoffs. "What? And you think they were easy for me, do you?"
They stare at each other for a long time, blue on blue and to John's surprise it's Sherlock who cracks first. His mouth twitches slightly. "You're right. I should have told you..." he mumbles. "But Mycroft..."
"Mycroft knew?" John asks before he can stop himself because obviously Mycroft knew and Sherlock gives him that look and John giggles despite himself. Sherlock smiles and for a minute there hasn't been three years between them. There's just Sherlock and John, the Consulting Detective and his Doctor, colleagues, housemates, friends.
But the moment is shattered as Sebastian comes trotting down the stairs to wind himself around John's legs and yowl for his breakfast. "Oh," John says.
Sherlock regards the cat for a few minutes before saying, "Don't worry, John. I have been informed of your situation." He says blandly and John thinks that only Sherlock Holmes could respond so calmly to the news that his best friend is shacked up with his greatest enemy.
They go back up to the flat and Sherlock sits down in his old chair like nothing's changed and says, "Just tea, please John."
John smiles as he clicks on the kettle and feds Sebastian and watches Sherlock's eyes dart around the room. Most of Sherlock's stuff is still where it was, the room is much the same but for James' things slung untidily about the place and grand piano in the corner. Sherlock stands and moves towards the instrument, stroking the ivory keys thoughtfully.
Is this it? John thinks. Do you just walk back into my life like nothing's happened?
He leaves the kettle boiling and Sherlock staring out of the window and goes into his bedroom. James is still asleep, sprawled out on the bed; his t shirt has ridden up. John lies down beside him for a moment and traces the scars on James' back.
James doesn't remember where most of them came from, his memory is like patchwork. He once told John he remembered things in flashes of colour and sound and John's glad. He loves James. And James isn't Moriarty. James is just a geeky genius with a sweet tooth. He wonders if that's what Molly saw.
He hears the kettle click and kisses James gently on the forehead before leaving the room and hoping James would sleep for a little longer.
When he gets back to the main room Sherlock's already made the tea and is sipping it quietly back in his chair. John takes his cup and says, "The rest of your stuff is in your room."
Sherlock glances in the direction of the room and nods.
"Mrs Hudson...She kept it clean," John adds. Sherlock smiles at the mention of Mrs Hudson's name. John sits down in the chair opposite Sherlock's and leans forwards. "So what are we doing, Sherlock?" he asks.
Sherlock looks at him, "What do you mean, John?"
"You can't just come back from dead, Sherlock," John says quietly.
Sherlock smirks, "Why ever not?"
John laughs quietly, "Only you, Sherlock Holmes."
He grins and John's heart skips a beat. "Well, no time to sit around sipping tea," Sherlock announces, leaping up and managing to knock the tea cup flying. "I've got a reputation to rebuild!"
He disappears in to his room and James chooses that moment to emerge, yawning and bleary eyed from their bedroom. "Mornin', John." He says, smiling sleepily.
My flat mate is back from the dead, John thinks he should say. The man you made jump off a building. But then James scoops Sebastian up and cuddles the cat close to him and John corrects himself. The man Moriarty made jump off a building.
"Morning love," he says as James' dark eyes roam around the room.
"Someone's here," he says looking at John accusingly. James doesn't like it when John doesn't tell him things. James puts the cat down and says, "Someone important. Someone you used to love..."
John wants to deny it but James is just as good at observation as Sherlock and he knows it'll be pointless. He curses himself for only falling in love with hopelessly clever geniuses and says, "James, it'll be okay." Before he can say more Sherlock emerges from his bedroom with an armful of his chemistry kit.
James' eyes go wide and his face goes pale. "You're-You're -," he splutters as Sherlock watches him impassively. "You're dead," James squeaks.
Sherlock smiles slowly, "Clearly not, James."
James looks at John who smiles reassuringly before he looks back at Sherlock. "You faked it," he says carefully. "You needed to disappear."
Sherlock is watching him cautiously and James walks over to him. John holds his breath. James is studying Sherlock intently and Sherlock is doing the same back to James. It's like watching two tigers eyeing each other up, neither willing to back down.
It feels like hours have passed when James finally smirks and says, "Your hair looked better black."
Sherlock looks momentarily stumped and John laughs.
-
Living with Sherlock and James is like living with two extraordinarily bratty, competitive children, John thinks. The amount of times he's had to say, "Leave it you two!" or "Now, now, children!" It always ends in one or both of them slamming bedroom doors and refusing to come out for hours and John wonders how Lestrade copes with five kids.
Then there's the way they both seem to compete for his attention, his approval, daddy loves me best! It was rather amusing for the first few weeks to watch Sherlock eye James jealously or James sulkily throw things at Sherlock from across the room. But after a while it got dull.
It culminates one night when John got home late from the surgery.
He finds the flat destroyed and James and Sherlock sitting opposite each other, breathing heavily. Sherlock has a bloody lip and rather magnificent black eye and James' nose is bleeding.
"John," Sherlock greets without looking up. "You'll be pleased to know that James and I have settled our differences."
"We've agreed to work together," James adds smiling devilishly at Sherlock.
John's relief is short lived.
Sherlock is back solving cases and James helps him. They solve all their cases in less than a day. John should be happy but sometimes he thinks living with the James and Sherlock who hated each other was less irritating.
They stay up all night doing strange experiments or playing music or talking in that annoying way they have where they seem to say nothing and everything all at once.
"But maybe..." James will say.
And Sherlock will cut him off, "No, can't be...Perhaps..."
James will interrupt him with a giggle, "Of course not, silly!"
Then they'll share a moment of inspiration and they'll both grin and say, "Oh, that is brilliant!"
It's kind of cute the first few times but it makes John's head hurt trying to follow their conversations.
They still have their fallings out, of course and now they're rather more explosive and John's found that James can be really, really vindictive. Not that Sherlock's perfect, in fact whenever they do fall out Sherlock kidnaps Sebastian and James screams and throws things until his beloved cat is returned. And John supposes that if you're living with the two greatest minds of the modern day there's bound to be a bit of friction.
But they work so well together. They can give each other what John never could; an equal, a distraction, understanding. The comfort of knowing that they aren't alone. And John keeps them human.
Sometimes John catches Sherlock staring at James as though the man were a puzzle to be solved. Sometimes John thinks Sherlock misses Moriarty.
"He's fascinating, John." He says one evening while James lies asleep on John's shoulder. "He really doesn't remember a thing."
John hums and runs a hand through James' hair. "That's a good thing, Sherlock."
"It's his whole life, John. He can't remember his whole life."
John thinks about the scars on James' body, the amount of pain in the words that's what people do, Moriarty's dead eyes. His desperation for a connection with anyone. He wonders what would happen if Moriarty came back now. Would he leave? Could he leave?
James mumbles and shifts in his sleep, his hand fisting in John's shirt like a child clutching a teddy bear.
"I don't think he wants to." He says softly.
Sherlock doesn't look like he understands but he leaves it at that.
And so it goes.
John Watson, M.D, former army doctor lives with Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty, consulting detectives.
The only ones in the world.