This is a good part of the story. Well, more like a great part of the story. You can throw whatever adjective in that sentence you’d like, once you finish reading the tale.

But you can be assured, this particular part of the story – this one – you will like.

The biggest flaw with Sherlock in his thinking, primarily when it is in regards to one he cares about (John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and to an extent, a few others) is that he focuses more on the why of a situation versus on the how. He has thought of nothing but whyin the last few months that he has not begun to piece together how to get back home. It’s complicated, of course, and that’s a valid excuse. But Sherlock doesn’t like excuses. He likes answers and reasons and results. He’s thought about, almost constantly, why Moran has taken a role into John’s life as pseudo-new best friend. He’s thought to why the man, once given that role, has done nothing but act it out. Actors are allowed to act of course, but there must be some point in which the curtain is drawn and the lights are shown so the audience gets to see what happens in the end.

It’s the audiences turn now.

When you’re a consulting detective, you always want to know two things: whyandhow.

Of course, going back to the idea of whyandhow - it’s as easy as that. Sherlock’s needed to devise a way to send him back home. For the last six months he’s wanted to avoid risking John’s life with Moran such close at hand. Regardless of Sherlock’s intense desire to return home - he wasn’t going to risk John. John, despite every back and forth thought that plagued Sherlock’s head, was (and even now, is) defined as home. When Sherlock would enter 221B and John wasn’t there, it was simply another dwelling for him to lounge around that had decent access to the internet. But, oh, when John was there - he was allowed into a world that he once thought would be dull and boring and trite, and god, just like the sugar, he got that wrong too. There was nothing like having John with him in the flat - well, anywhere for that matter.

John helped make him feel like someone else was there listening - maybe even cared about what Sherlock was saying. Yes, they’d become intricate parts of the other’s lives. It’s hard not to when you watch your flatmate-turn-best friend covered in semtex and even more to so when you see the opposite party (Sherlock) drop from a four story building to his ultimate death. If you ignore the heightened parts of their friendship, you would still see two men who had, unknowingly, become the center of the other’s world. Solar system - the sun - the rock - whatever romantic title you’d like to give it. Of course, being said before - and here again, now - this wasn’t a romantic story (not yet, at least), but a love one. Sherlock and John were a love story - you just have to look at it from all the right angles to have a firm understanding of how their relationship worked.

John helped Sherlock feel as if he wasn’t invisible.

And so all this reasoning alone - saving each other’s lives, sticking up for the opposite, petty arguments over the simplest things in the sitting area, arguments over who buys the milk this week, arguments over who forgot to buy the milk this week when they were firmly told it was their turn, glasses of wine and terrible telly and passing out on the sofa,  helping a man find his heart and reminding a man that he was still brilliant under all those layers of military uniform, trust, care, compassion, love - and for all the reasons just listed, it was easy enough to see why John was (and still is) home. And Sherlock wants to go back. He’s been ready since he survived his fall and for every month, week, day, hour, and second in between - he’s been ready. But that friendship - that one he has with John that he  not risk has been the solid reasoning as to why he’s been safe with his choices. He’s always been a man to act out recklessly and without the consideration of others but he can’t do that with John. And he hasn’t.

Instead, if you’ve read, he’s done it with himself in a sense. The drugs, of course. Mycroft told him he could have cigarettes when the patches stopped working (four days after his fall) and then he had his first taste of cocaine in over six months a month later. He knows that it is silly - giving into cocaine - that the high is only fifteen minutes tops and sometimes he sees monsters and aliens and guns and blackness, but gods, sometimes, a lot of the times actually, he sees John and you may understand Sherlock’s feelings on John now. There is a quote he likes to use to explain it, but it comes with a story. Just a small one before the last one and the curtain is drawn on this part of the play.

Sherlock’s never put much time into literature except when it came to scientific readings or material used for cases or experiments. But from time to time, when the boredom hit high levels and John would nag at him for doing utterly nothing for almost three weeks straight - he would read. And so, being the man who avoids all sexual interest and romantic intentions at his earnest, of course he goes for the titles that have to do with sexuality. He doesn’t remember the title nor the author, and to be frank, he nit-picked it to the best of his ability - peeling apart the plot using the method of reading every other line and skipping parts in between that bored him.

But there was something said that reminded him of John. Of the relationship between John and him.

“But I think we both knew, even then, that what we had was something even more rare, and even more meaningful. I was going to be his friend, and was going to show him possibilities. And he, in turn, would become someone I could trust more than myself.”

Gods, the book was boring. All this romance between two men and their love and everything in between. It’d been just as dull as some of John’s blog entries really, but, Sherlock had read that quote and it stuck. It stayed. And that, in a sense, defined how Sherlock felt in regards to John. At least at the time. Now? Of course there was more. Eighteen months did a lot to a man - including his heart (which he had recently learned actually existed). He missed John, and that missing turned into the acknowledgement of care and love and want.

Maybe it was Mycroft, or maybe just himself, but he had realistic hopes that upon his return they (John and him) could make this work. That they could actually make this work. It needn’t be said again that John is straight and Sherlock just doesn’t do these things but it’s always been different with them. You could tack on a larger explanation regarding their history and friendship and romantic tension if you’d like, but that sums up their odds of actually entertaining the possibility of engaging in a relationship together.

The line had always existed - the one just about friendship - and now that Sherlock’s had his chance to look at it, he knew that he wanted to. He wanted to try. He might not have ever been good at it and clearly he would need a lot of practice because he didn’t have a lot of background (two kisses, one round of sex) in the whole relationship sort - but he would try and he thinks he might even like it because gods, really, what’s there not to like about John? So through this all - eighteen months of death he has learned what he has been missing in his life and how he wants to rectify it with one single person - not just because he is allowed as a human being but because somehow, someone gave him an invalided medical doctor from Afghanistan and Sherlock’s never loved anyone more.

But, as you have read earlier in these stories, John’s happy. He’s bloody happy with this girl who takes his hands and kisses his palms and tucks stray hairs behind his ear (he really does need a trimming). He smiles and laughs and grins and carries a blue box in his pocket waiting for the right moment because it might not have been Sherlock - and though he misses the consulting detective every day - he knows he needs to move on from the dead and here at the end of some unhidden rainbow is a lovely girl that he thinks he’s going to take a chance on. He still loves Sherlock, of course, but he thinks his heart is big enough to have more than one love of his life in it and that’s something he’s just fine with.

It really is all fine.

And so the consulting detective who has missed, cared, and come to realization of his romantic interest in the opposite holds a lot of cards in his hand. But now it’s time to throw all the cards away and just go home. He ignores the fact that even though he is going home - he may even be going to a different one, where there is a different John. Sherlock’s not the only one who has changed over the last eighteen months. He ignores the fact that he’s just a little bit heartbroken over the fact that John’s moved on and is happy and he can’t have what he hoped for - even if they were just small hopes. He ignores the fact of why Moran is doing all of this because he’s worked the last six months to investigate any and all leftover strings holding Moriarty’s web together. He ignores the fact he wants to know why Moran came in and took John as his best friend and treats him to dinners and shares beers and talks and doesn’t shoot him.

He ignores it all - ignores all the questions of why, and he is left with how.

Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to answer how.

*

It’s Christmas Eve. Most of the streets are dead - best they were, anyways, at around eight o'clock on the night before Christmas. There are a few cars traveling here and there to make it in time (or rather, be late for) their Christmas Eve dinners. A bar or two are open, of course, to welcome with open arms the gentlemen and ladies out there who have nowhere to go. A good pint is almost the same as a hug from a niece of nephew - especially when the child reaches for a four second hug and pulls away to return to their new electronics or mobile phones or whatever kids get these days at the age of six, seven, and eight.

So the bar it is.

Sherlock and Mycroft sit in the back of one of Mycroft’s black vehicles. He keeps the heat on because he’s getting a little too old and his bones freeze right to their core this time of year. Sherlock, on the other hand, is more focused on the environment outside versus the set temperature inside of the vehicle. They’re set side by side and there is a silver mobile phone in Sherlock’s hand. It’s nothing special - capable of nothing more than making phone calls, sending and receiving text messages, and maybe sending a picture of terrible quality. But it will do. It has been programmed, for the time being, to be John Watson’s number - sending and receiving. And the only number loaded to the phones is Moran’s.

Sherlock clicks the screen on and his tongue darts out between his lips before his fingers dexterously begin to type out a message. He’s worked on what to say for the last three weeks - he knows it word for word for perfection.

Hey mate. Want to grab a pint? Something I want to ask you before I.. you know. Well. Right.
JW

There is a small ding when it is sent and Sherlock swallows hard before glancing back at Mycroft. Mycroft faintly smiles, gripping the end of his umbrella a little too tightly. They’re both nervous and anxious and they know that there is only one outcome they will allow: Sherlock getting to go home.

Maybe thirty seconds pass before there is another ding, indicating a text has been received. Sherlock glances at the screen and reads it once, twice, and responds before even showing Mycroft.

Sure. Not getting nervous are you? It’s not that big of a deal, but then again, you are just a soldier. ;) The Abbey? Give me twenty?

Just a soldier my arse. You owe me a pint for that one, Seb. Already here. See you then.
JW

Mycroft reviews the exchange of text messages in his seat. He only nods, keeping a grip on his umbrella steady. “Ten minutes and then send him the text. You’ll need to be in the alley then.”

And so they wait - the only sound roaming through the entire vehicle was their patient breathing and the echo of the car running. They’d all but forgotten that it was Christmas Eve. Nothing else mattered besides the minutes dwindling down and the time left between now and the moment that Sherlock returned to 221B. The moment he returned to John.

Two minutes before, Sherlock shifts uncomfortably and Mycroft grasps his wrist firmly. “You’ll be fine, Sherlock,” Mycroft speaks, though his eyes are directed to his own tinted window to the left. “We will get you home tonight.”

He’s not exactly sure what is going through his brother’s mind, despite how smart either of them are. Sure, Mycroft understands love and to an extent, has it with Greg Lestrade. But there is something more fine-tuned and mutually-defined between Sherlock and John and he dare thinks that no one will ever be able to comprehend it. He does understand the fact that there is nothing more that Sherlock wants in the entire world is to have his friendship with John back, and Mycroft is going to do everything in his power to give it to him.

One minute till.

“Are you ready, Sherlock?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. Instead he looks down at the silver mobile phone and keys in another message quickly before sending it off. He glances up at Mycroft and folds one center of his jacket over the other, tighten it up before he opens the car door to the world outside - to London and snow and winter and Christmas Eve and home.

“Are you ready, Sherlock?”

Sherlock turns his head once to his brother, letting only a small smile tilt at the corner of his lips before he murmurs, “John.” With that, he’s out of the car and moving swiftly to the alleyway besides the bar. The mobile phone is left in his seat, which Mycroft reaches for and reads over the latest message sent.

Actually, outside the bar in the alley. Beer. Nerves. Retching. Bring me a towel or I’ll use your shirt when you get here. And hurry. Usually Colonels aren’t this slow.
JW

Mycroft can’t help but smile a bit. Sherlock is Sherlock, but he knows John all too well. He slides over to Sherlock’s side and peeks through the darkened window at his brother. Sherlock has taken a position about fifteen feet deep into the alleyway, hunched over in the darkness where only a spare silhouette of him can be seen. No questions, Mycroft thinks, ask no questions, Sherlock, and just get it over with. Get it over with and go home.

The phone dings again and Mycroft looks down.

Soldier, don’t make me kick your arse. I’m not cleaning up your puke you prat. But I did bring you a towel. I already told you, giving her the key to your flat isn’t the same as bloody marrying her or something. Calm the fuck down, John. I’ll be there in two or three minutes. Try not to die on me, soldier.

Mycroft smiles - he can’t help it. There is some hope left. So it was just a key in the little blue box, and not a ring. There’s still a chance - there’s still hope.

Sherlock.

Mycroft watches again, from the interior and containment of the car. Sherlock knows how to act - bend over and lean against the wall and create the illusion he is John Watson, retching his brains out. The clear image of Sherlock doing so triggers thoughts in Mycroft’s mind - of what he has done to his brother, what he has seen. He sees Sherlock, stuck with a needle in the arm, claiming there are monsters here and he only wants John. He’s seen the empty eyes of the opposite as weeks turned into months and months hit a year and it was just so much on one single man. He knows the crimes he has committed and he also knows that Sherlock, in a sense, has forgiven him. But still it lingers on like a pot of water rolling on the boil. It never goes over the edges but is always heated - always there in the back of his mind.

His mind is pulled from one topic to the next as he hears the rev of an engine just a short distance away. Moran has parked to the side opposite of his vehicle and he takes time to give his motorcycle a quick glance over before walking across the street, towel in hand. It is time, Mycroft thinks, and he knows that either way - one of the two men will die tonight. He just hopes Sherlock pulls the trigger fast enough. He really wishes he didn’t have to hope, but when it comes to men like Sebastian Moran, you have room for just a little.

Moran passes Mycroft’s vehicle and moves inside of the empty corridor. Mycroft is too curious - he cannot help it. He presses the trigger button to the window, just so it goes down less than several centimeters. He wants to hear - he needs to know - he’s the British Government.

“What did I tell you, John,” Moran starts before he’s even ten feet away from Sherlock, “I told you that if you sat down and thought too much about a bloody fucking gift, you’re going to get yourself sick. And where am I now? On bloody Christmas Eve? Not getting pissed with my best mate but, instead, cleaning the retch off my best..”

He stops.

Everything stops.

Everything has to stop.

Sherlock stands tall, no longer bending over and Moran knows.

In a car crash, the time before impact is something that someone, usually, can always remember. Sometimes you remember the realization that no matter how hard you (or the driver) presses the brake, you are going to collide. It is a realization that is swallowed and nulled to your chest as you reactively think to pull any and all body parts up to protect two places: your head and your chest. It could be said that your heart and brain matter most, but in such a quick decision, it is always curious as to why you instinctively go for those two areas. Sometimes people remember the sounds. One person may have hit realization a half a second earlier and bellowed out a scream or a yell, and in reaction, you remember that sound - then the sound of tires burning across pavement, and of course, the collide.

This is not a car crash. This is, however, a hide speed impact.

Eighteen months, eight days, eight hours, thirty-six minutes.

Sherlock never really collided with the ground at St. Bart’s. Now he does.

Eighteen months, eight days, eight hours, thirty-six minutes.

John.

“Took you long enough, Holmes,” Moran smiles brightly against the darkness of the night. Snow is falling lightly, painting them with a cascade of white and gray flecks. It is almost like a scene from a movie, if only an orchestra was playing in the background. “Took you far too long for being the world’s only consulting detective.”

This is the part of the story where Sherlock needs to act quick - needs to reach in (one hand), pull out (twice as fast), and aim for Moran’s head (releasing the trigger and one bullet). This is how in the factor of why and how. This is how it is to be done.

Instead:

“Have I surprised you, Mr. Moran?”

“Surprised?” Moran laughs and takes a step closer. He is hardly shaven and due for one, yet he does not reek of alcohol. This man has been John’s best mate for the last few months. This man has, in a sense, replaced Sherlock. “Hardly surprised. I just didn’t think it would take you this long to make a move. Have you figured it out yet then, Holmes? Why I sit next to Doctor Watson on the school bus and play with him all day like in primary school?”

Sherlock swallows. The gun is in his pocket. He knows this - Moran knows this. Moran’s probably armed too - he has to be. He’s a sniper and he never comes unprepared. They have bullets and there can be wounds but for now there are only words.

“Was it for revenge, Moran?” Sherlock asks. His voice is sharp and the air around his lips puffs out in smoke with each word offered. “Were you really shagging Jim and now your poor, broken heart needed revenge?” It’s been eighteen months but Sherlock still knows how to pick his battles. “Really, I don’t know who would want to bed a man like Moriarty, really, the man hardly ever shut up.” He stops again, eyes glittering, “Or are you like us? Get bored a lot? Needed a new distraction?”

Moran snorts.

And that’s it.

Sherlock falls to his knees at the sound, almost waiting for his own car crash to happen where a bullet impacts him. But it never does.

It takes a second - two - three - and his eyes focus on Moran just feet away, first falling to his knees and then falling face first in the snow - blood pouring from his head and melting into the snow. Sherlock gasps, takes another second, still with his hands covering his head and finally shifts a bit, looking around.

“It’s time to go home, Sherlock,” Mycroft says. Sherlock blinks and finally regains reality as he sees Mycroft standing several feet behind him, wiping the end of his gun with a handkerchief. He watches the scene for a moment, first Mycroft and then back to Moran, lying motionless on the snow in front of him.

“Mycroft.”

“It’s time to go home, Sherlock,” Mycroft repeats. Sherlock moves, albeit unsteadily, and stands completely to his feet from his knelt position. He’s shaky around the edges and alters his vision from the dead body to his brother as reality is beginning to sink in. “You’ve had enough blood on your hands. Go home.”

“Mycroft.”

Sherlock moves closer to the body, which is in between him and the older sibling. Moran is still motionless, not breathing and very clearly, dead.

Mycroft closes the gap and looks down at the body and then back up to Sherlock. “Greg will be on his way after I message him. I’ll handle this. You need to go home. It’s time.”

Sherlock nods, completely deadpanned still by what happened yet simply trying to focus on what needs to be done now. “Mycroft, you,” he belts out, stepping around the body and clenching his eyes shut. Reality is starting to seep into his veins and blood and realization (car crash, moment before impact, or even, just after) is taking its toll on the younger brother. “Lestrade - he, are you going to tell him?”

“I’ll handle this, Sherlock, but yes, I will tell him you’re alive. And I will tell him that I have known.”

Sherlock stops him short. “I could lie to him. I can tell him that you never knew until now.”

“No,” Mycroft replies, pushing the gun into his pocket. He’s surprised that no one has come by the scene of the crime just yet, but then again it is Christmas Eve. “I’ve already lied to him enough. I’ll deal with how he reacts for what I have done in the past and now. That’s my situation and mine alone.”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock sucks in air, “He’s going to be hurt.”

“My situation, Sherlock,” Mycroft responds and lifts his right hand to squeeze Sherlock’s shoulder. “Go home, Sherlock.”

It’s a scene to take in, really it is. Mycroft looks like a glass figurine against the white snow fall - body of sniper, Sebastian Moran, casually lying in the snow, blood pouring from the gunshot wound. It should be more climatic than this, but this is what was expected. This is what the ending required. Sherlock takes one more look - a glance to the sniper’s head and then back to his brother whose facial expression is nothing but neutral and calm. He probably defined both terms. Sherlock opens his mouth but nothing comes out because beyond this - beyond Sebastian Moran there is only one thing:

John.

And so he goes.

He goes back home.

Its two days before Christmas. The snow’s finally come and the night sky is nearly the darkest hues of black imaginable. Flecks of white fall overhead and tidings of Christmas joy are just around the corner. Lights stay on for this joyous occasion as Christmas Eve tomorrow is just as important as Christmas Day just beyond. The streets are empty with just a passing car or two - tomorrow there will be signs of activity and life as people do their last minute shopping and traveling, and then for once in the year, the world will turn to be very quiet. There will be the calm before the storm of children rushing down to unwrap presents and wives making coffee for their husbands and smiles and laughter all contained inside of their houses and flats. There may be lunches and dinners and visits to the church. There may be photographs and joy and thrills of new toys and presents and smiles laced around the family like the lights tangled in treetops. But for once during the year, it’s all just quiet on Christmas Day.

It’s two days before Christmas, but Christmas Eve matters too. It’s the day that Sherlock Holmes is going to kill Sebastian Moran and go home.

It’s what everyone has been waiting for.

The night is dark and Sherlock’s abandoned Mycroft’s residence, persisting in the fact that he needed time to think. It’s actually more than just that. He needs time to breathe and readjust and come to terms with the fact that he will be going home in less than twenty-four hours. Mycroft told him that it wouldn’t be easy to come back to life and Sherlock snapped back that it was much worse dying. Come now, months after that argument, Sherlock is renegotiating with his mind in regards to those terms. Going back to the world that he’s created shouldn’t be that hard really. He knows Lestrade will give him the work and he knows that he’s got enough evidence to erase the public’s thoughts on him and at least give him the green light to bealive again. He knows it won’t be easy, of course, and more or less, it will be gradual - the world acknowledging that he exists again. But that’s not the only thing on his mind tonight. No, of course not.

It’s been a year and a half. Eighteen months that have changed a lot of things. Well, to be exact, it’s been eighteen months, seven days and roughly ten hours (thirty-three minutes and ten seconds) since he’s died. That’s quite a bit of time.

Sure, he’s still Sherlock Holmes. But he’s also human. God forbid the idea would once terrify him; it now lies as fact because evidence is evidence and a scientific man such as himself is not one to meddle in petty arguments with science. Instead he has learned to accept these terms and live with them. However, with this knowledge, small things have changed. Small things that have turned into bigger things. Of course, it would be criminal to think that eighteen months would do nothing to the mind and body. You could probably add heart in there, too, if you are one of the few that think Sherlock Holmes is capable of having that particular organ. He does, but he’s not one to admit it lightly.

And so those small things that have turned into large things have become apparent. You need only flick back through his travels over the last eighteen months - all well documented, it is to be assured - and you can see the transition of a machine into a man. You can see how the robot lost its metal and learned of things such as veins and blood and of organs such as the brain and heart and how they can co-exist in the same body. You can see acceptance and submission and hope.

He’s missed John, of course. John had become, during their friendship and time together, an integral piece that kept Sherlock Holmes the man he was, and more so, John helped make him to be the man he was now. John wasn’t just the man who bought the milk and carried a gun and wrote down notes. He was the man who would look Sherlock in the eyes and tell him the god’s honest truth. He was the man who’d kill another man for Sherlock. He’s a man who’d probably kill himself to ensure that Sherlock lived. That’s what Sherlock did for John anyways. No, he wasn’t just a flatmate or friend or some sort of label that they could never find the proper word for. He was more. He had always been more. Stubborn as Sherlock was, John stayed. And Sherlock needed that all of his life - someone to stay and never let go and just to be there. And so in these last eighteen months (and seven days and ten hours), Sherlock accepted the fact he missed John.

But that small fact turned into something larger because as the machine slowly started to assemble itself into a human, it soon learned that it was also capable of lovingJohn Watson. To many, the friendship they shared while together was apparent as ever. Perhaps it could have been labeled as love, even the domestic and brotherly sort, months and months ago. It was more apparent now to anyone who had been graced by the presence of one John Watson after the loss of his best friend. The love and care he held towards the consulting detective radiated off of his body like the North Star guiding Sherlock home. Everyone knew this, months after Sherlock’s death, and John slowly accepted it. He began, even, to submit himself to this idea.

But that was John, and sadly, only two people knew about Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t talk to Molly much, but she knew of that small fact that had now grown into a larger one. She had known it for a long time, even before Sherlock’s fall. She stayed quiet though, because she always thought her opinion never mattered. Still, eighteen months after helping save Sherlock’s life, she still thinks it doesn’t. But she has spoken up - she has told Sherlock, through texts and quiet nights when he’s made home to her sofa, what she thinks on the matter. He mostly batted her away, but he was never one to understand how to be social in the first place. He did listen though, because, well, Molly was his friend. And she counted.

However, more apparent of this transition of care to love was one Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock stayed with Mycroft for countless days and weeks and months and they pieced together the last bit of Moriarty’s web that, well, really wasn’t much of a web at all. Mycroft, though, had seen this all firsthand as Sherlock began to not only accept, but feel the pressure in his heart as he began to come to terms with his affection, emotion, and care for the good doctor. He also saw as his brother began to understand that he was in love. It wasn’t easy, no, and it didn’t come quietly. But it came and it sat there and slowly but surely, Sherlock began to see that it was present and it existed and he needed to allow it in. And so he did.

And so this is the point in the story where one must say to their selves, isn’t this the part where the great kill happens and Sherlock returns to 221B, crawls into John’s arms and apologizes and it ends with one great big happily ever after?

Well, it is only the night before Christmas Eve (well, one hour to Christmas Eve to be exact), so we can’t make assumptions or go that far yet. But it can be said that Sherlock’s plan is thorough and Sebastian Moran will die tomorrow. Sherlock, too, will go home. That’s been his plan all along. But it must be mentioned there is nothing sure after that point in time.

John’s been happy, as mentioned before. And Sherlock doesn’t know what that means. Well, he does - it’s good that John is happy. He needed that; he needed it more than anyone Sherlock knows. But he also doesn’t want to mess with that. The woman - the pediatrician who has somehow managed to put bandages around John’s wounds is someone, quite frankly, that may be there to stay. For good. Sure, Sherlock knew that it was a sound possibility that one day his doctor and best friend would get married and go off onto the great new adventure. But that was before - that was before all of this. Before Sherlock jumped and before Sherlock learned that he was human and that he, despite his previous deductions, was allowed to act out on being a human. All of which included caring and loving and having aspirations for the future.

It seemed inane at the time, for a man like Sherlock Holmes to willingly accept and submit to such notions but really, eighteen months is a long time. And John Watson wasn’t just a flatmate or friend. It had always been more. It had always been there. That line just above friendship that always existed and was allowed but never looked at for more than a second. And Sherlock looked, god, he looked at it every minute of every day since he has been away.

And he wanted it.

He let himself believe he could have it.

But, really, John is just so happy. He smiles and laughs and lives and Sherlock cannot deny him that. Sherlock cannot deny him anything.

And so, an hour before Christmas Eve dawns, Sherlock rests against the brick wall of a tunnel. He’s in a park tonight, where the dull yellow of the streetlights above barely line out his silhouette from his hiding spot in the tunnel. The tunnel isn’t very large by far, maybe fifteen feet high and ten feet across, but it’s enough room for him to rest against and he knows the dealer here.

He needed time to think - needed spaced to breathe - needed the cocaine just one more time. He’s been high for the last ten minutes, leant back against the brick wall with his legs thrown out in front of him as he slides to sit down against the cold stone below. His highs don’t last long anymore, but that’s to be expected when you use the drug as frequently as he has in the past six months. He tried his best with just the cigarettes, but everything has been getting to him more than he had ever thought possible. And so now he soaks in the last few minutes of his high before reaching into his pocket, manhandling his mobile phone out with the lack of any grace whatsoever.

Need you to get me.
SH

Hyde park. Now.
SH

Are you alright?
MH

Now, Mycroft.
SH

It is all that Sherlock can send in his state and he can’t think to check his mobile again to see if Mycroft has sent any other messages after his last response. Instead he rests his head back against the brick wall and tries to clear his thoughts. He doesn’t remember much of what went through his head during his high, but he knows that there was no monsters this time and only John and that was just good enough for him. He’s hot now, itchy around the edges and his pulse is elevated. But that’s all too common with the initial states of the high falling and as always, Sherlock falls just a bit too fast.

He’s also unaware of how much time has passed when Mycroft arrives. He’s sure there’s not much time in between because Mycroft’s the type of brother who will rush out at a moment’s notice in efforts to save the younger. Mycroft is not part of the British Government in these moments. Instead, he is just an older brother who is paying for his sins and trying to help the person he gave a death sentence to, as best as he can. He is only human, too, and there is only so much he can do in these moments. He does not carry his umbrella tonight, nor does he call out Sherlock’s name in desperation. Instead he jogs through the park, eyes flicking to each and every general direction in hopes to spotting the younger brother. It’s not easy, and really, he’s not a man who handles legwork well, but he does it because it’s Sherlock and the man needs someone. The man needs someone that he cannot be, but god help him, he’ll do whatever he can.

Sherlock may not know how long it has taken for Mycroft to get here, but Mycroft has calculated to be exactly twenty-four minutes and some odd seconds. He kneels down and places a hand on Sherlock’s cheek. “Sherlock,” Mycroft says. Sherlock looks up and his eyes are wide and innocent. He looks so frail here - young even, and raw around the edges. Mycroft knows what Sherlock has gone through, watched it from afar without being allowed to touch, and he knows that this is the part of the story where Sherlock goes home, but not to the home he has created in his head. “Sherlock. I’m here.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says back. He places both of his hands on the stone below and tries to push himself up. He’s still dazed - coming off of his high. He would have taken pills to make this all last much longer, but he needed that rush - he needed to see John in the way he wantedto see John. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” Mycroft says, letting his fingers drift down to Sherlock’s neck to check his pulse.

There is a long pause and Mycroft speaks again, voice shaking. “What have I done to you?”

It’s been said many times, how much Mycroft dwindles in the thoughts of what he has done and how much his brother has taken on. No, it’s not easy dying or coming back to life, but it’s also not easy falling in love and accepting it and being away from the person you need most. It’s not easy for Mycroft to watch from a distance and he knows it’s not easy for Sherlock to handle on a first hand basis. He wants, more than anything, to fight these demons and take the damage but the damage is already done and now he must learn to simply stand aside and hope with all of the hope he can muster that Sherlock will be alright.

“What have I done to you, dear brother?”

Sherlock answers softly, still dazed, “It’s time to go home.”

Mycroft traces Sherlock’s jaw with his index and pointer finger of his right hand and guides Sherlock’s vision upwards, at him. “Tomorrow, Sherlock.”

He fights all of humanity and the entirety of his heart not to breakdown the moment he sees slick tears trace down Sherlock’s cheeks. He’s just so tired and worn out and ready.

Even men like Sherlock Holmes get tired.

Tomorrow, Christmas Eve, will come, and at some point, in less than twenty-four hours, Sebastian Moran will die. Sherlock may not be going back to the home he imagined for himself, the one where he has John in his arms for the rest of his life, despite the romantic idealism behind it, but he will be going home. He will go home and tell John he is sorry and why he did it and what he did and he will not lie. He will answer anything John asks of him and he will go home, and if there is a god out there - someone who is looking out for the greater interest of the consulting detective - if there is someone out there who can give him just a little - he, in the very least, will have his friend back.

And he could make do with that.

On the way back to Mycroft’s residence, Sherlock lies on his side with his head in the older’s lap. Mycroft has his own jacket on top of Sherlock, keeping him warm, while his fingers thread through the younger’s hair. He has to keep Sherlock safe right now - keep the withdraw effects of cocaine at bay and help him hold on for just one more day.

Music plays quiet over the radio in the car.

It’s almost Christmas Eve and it’s time for Sherlock to go home.

And Sherlock’s still lucid enough to think of what home is.

221B, cases, experiments, John, John, John.

*

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,
Jack Frost nipping at your nose,
Yuletide carols being sung by a choir
And folks dressed up like eskimos.
Everybody knows a turkey and some mistletoe
Help to make the season bright.
Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow
Will find it hard to sleep tonight.
They know that Santa’s on his way -
He’s loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh
And every mother’s child is gonna spy
To see if reindeer really know how to fly.
and so I’m offering this simple phrase
To kids from one to ninety-two
Although it’s been said many times,
Many ways: “Merry Christmas to you”
Nat King Cole - Christmas Song 

Its four weeks until Christmas. It’s that time of the year where shops start to litter their stores with countdowns for the holidays and lights glitter across buildings and treetops. The snow has yet to fall in London for the year, but it’s just around the bend. It’s the time of the year where London fog matches up with your own breath of air and you cannot tell the difference between the two. It’s the time of year where families, friends, alcohol and happiness collide all into one mass of chaotic madness. It’s the time of year that Sherlock generally looks down upon, but right now, he likes the cold weather. It’s been a long time.

It’s been a month since Sherlock’s been in Peru, hunting down ties to terror cells that, quite frankly, really no longer exist. He’s been patient in his motives - carefully formulating a plot that will essentially bring him back home. Mycroft, truth be told, has been somewhat shocked in the fact that Sherlock hasn’t just pulled the bloody trigger and skipped off back to his flat - back to his world - back to his John, but then again, he never expected his younger brother to really fall in love. Sure, he thought his sibling had the capacity and heart to hold friendship in his arms and while he mocked the ideas of love in front of the younger’s face, he never truly thought that this would happen.

And again, it should be said, Sherlock really should have run off home by now - but there is something in the way that Sherlock is challenged with. Something he has yet to comprehend his own feelings with.

John is happy. He’s really, really happy.

She’s a pediatrician. Of course she’s a pediatrician. She’s got brown hair down to her mid back and for god’s sake, she has a smile that blinds out the sun itself. She works a lot but seems to always make time for John. And not that Sherlock’s counting, they’ve gone on approximately sixteen dates before they agreed to a relationship - which was just over a month ago. Apparently John needed to take things slow and she understood. Pediatricians are always that way it seems. But John smiles - and he laughs. Mycroft still has the feed set up in Sherlock’s room at his residence, so the younger sibling can watch to his heart’s content with how John is and what he does and everything in between. Mycroft almost wonders if this is just as worse as cocaine. It probably is. Sherlock’s destroying himself and his ideas and his hopesframe by frame as John lives on.

They go out to dinners and to the cinema and she seems to make John forget the pain and the past and maybe even forget Sherlock. It’s not that Sherlock is being dramatic in that deduction, it’s simply the truth. She holds his hand and smiles at him and he smiles back and he would be lying if he didn’t feel that pang of jealousy twirl inside the pit of his stomach. Still, he watches.

He watches him take her coat and set it to the side. He watches her find the wine glasses and pour them both a glass of red before sitting back on the sofa with him. He watches them smile and laugh and then he watches them kiss. He watches them kiss and kiss and kiss and he watches John take her up to his bedroom. There is a feed there but Sherlock really don’t want to watch that so he turns off the monitors. But just because he’s turn off the view doesn’t mean he thinks of it any less. He tries not to imagine them but its hard not to. He does not know how John makes love to another but he remembers his time with Irene and he carefully decides that, while Irene may be far more experienced, John probably has the ability to grace the act with much more intimacy and love than Irene could ever comprehend.

This time - this time he’s turned off the monitor - he is unsure if it’s their first time. He assumes it isn’t as they’ve been dating for a while and a lot has happened in between his travels before his return to London. He could ask Mycroft if he wanted to, as he is sure to know the answer, but he doesn’t want to have that conversation right now. Maybe not ever. He’s glad that John’s happy, though. He looked that way anyways - eyes sparkling and lips turned into a permanent smile. It’s good, Sherlock thinks, he needs this and deserves this and she’s giving it to him.

He doesn’t even know her name nor does he want to.

But, logically, he’s not mad at himself for how he feels. He knows what he was getting himself into when he came to terms with his thoughts and emotions towards the good doctor. Of course he knew most of it was chemical, but he wasn’t one to deny the emotional connection and attachment he had to his best friend. He even deemed that the idea of them going forth in some sort of relationship would seem possible. They could have made it work even though Sherlock was completely inexperienced and to be truthful, a complete prick. They could have made it worked because they have made everything work thus far and bent on hell and it all, Sherlock really loves John. It was a good enough reason to try.

But now he doesn’t know. He sees John too happy - surrounded by love and affection and adoration and he doesn’t want to take that away. Not after everything he’s been through. Not with what’s coming his way - the return of his best friend and the emotional turmoil that will lay itself out like baggage. He knows his return will not be pretty and consequently, it will probably lead to an argument and fist fight versus a romantic kiss upon Sherlock’s arrival. He knows all of this and this is the exact reason why, for the last three weeks and four days, Sherlock has decided to wait to put his plan in motion on killing Moran. He’s had a solid excuse, though.

I want to monitor all of Moran’s communications for at least a month, Sherlock had said upon his return to London. I want to make sure he’s been in contact with no one for a follow up job, he added as he stepped inside of the residence, I want to make sure John’s safe.

It was enough to keep Mycroft from questioning the situation. But, of course, no less than twenty-four hours later did the older begin to question Sherlock’s choices. He watched from the background, monitoring how Sherlock watched the feeds in his bedroom. He knew seeing things like this - like John kissing his new girlfriend in their kitchen - would slowly make Sherlock crack around the edges. But what terrified him more - what made him question everything was how none of it seemed to affect Sherlock at all. The younger sibling kept off the drugs and smoked, at most, two cigarettes a day. He focused his mind on the details of call logs and e-mail transmissions and while at tea, it was the only thing they’d discuss. Everything else, apparently, was not subject for discussion.

If Mycroft hadn’t been the man to kill his brother, he would have said something by now.

Mycroft does not decorate his flat for Christmas, but he’s put up a tree and stockings just because Greg mentioned it. It shouldn’t be said, but the man who holds the keys to the British Government can, at times, be a romantic. Greg seems to like it and Mycroft doesn’t mind it. There are only two stockings, of course. Mycroft still has to lie to Greg about Sherlock - mourn when asked and turn his face when mentioned. He knows he’ll have to handle the repercussions when the truth is let out, and maybe that’s a reason why he’s not too angry with Sherlock in his delay of killing Moran. He simply wants to live in his fairytale world a little while longer. It could be taken away, British Government or not. It probably will.

“Moran and John went out shopping today,” Mycroft explains, crossing one leg over the other and balancing a cup of tea in his right hand. He knows he really shouldn’t mention John, but he has to for this conversation, “John’s back home, as you should know, as is Moran. They exchanged a few text messages earlier on this evening but nothing more.”

The fireplace is lit in the sitting room and Sherlock has his eyes on the growing flames flickering in shades of red and orange and yellow. He’s never been much of a pyromaniac, but much like the weather and stars and John, he can appreciate it.

He swallows thickly and his question hangs in the air, awkwardly yet firmly asked. “Do you think Moran’s the only one?”

Mycroft considers the question. He’s thought on it deeply and researched it just the same. Records and transmissions prove that, while right after Moriarty’s death Moran had been in contact with others on several occasions, during the last nine to ten months, there has been absolutely nothing. Sherlock had come to Mycroft, explaining the henchman from Peru’s story and despite the sentiment behind his testimony, Mycroft felt the need to trust his words. It made sense. No man was going to kill without payment, unless for personal reasons. Obviously this meant that Moran’s own reasons for keeping up with this game were personal. It had to be personal. Moran was Moriarty’s favorite sniper - maybe more, he wasn’t sure and couldn’t be bothered to deduce it all out. There was a reason that Moran had wormed his way in John’s life.

“Truthfully, Sherlock,” Mycroft replies quietly, setting his tea to the side, “Yes. I believe he is the only one. The only two things that matter though are, what you believe and when do you plan to make this all stop. That, my death brother, is entirely up to you.”

A silence settles between the pair but that much is normal. Sherlock is tired. He’s really tired actually. He’s handled cases and lack of sleep and minimal food for ages but this is different. For the last year and a half he has done nothing but fly from country to country, sit in his thoughts and learn that he loves someone more than he’s ever loved another in his entire life. It may not seem like a lot in a year and a half, but for him, if you calculated everything and added it all together - it would be more than enough. It would be everything. It’s taken a lot out of him. He’s more than ready to go home. And not just to cases or experiments or any of that mess. No, he simply wants to go home and look at John and say he’s sorry and close his eyes and rest.

Even consulting detectives get tired from time to time.

“How soon, Sherlock?” Mycroft asks.

Sherlock does not waste time in his reply, “Before Christmas. I have a plan and I know what I need to do,” he stops and tilts his head back, looking up at the ceiling. If he were any more emotional he would be crying right now, “Before Christmas, Mycroft.”

“And if things change by then?”

Sherlock does not look at Mycroft but he replies, knowing full well what Mycroft speaks of despite his question, “With John or with Moran?”

“With John, of course.”

“This is not about him.” Sherlock responds, still with his eyes focused on the ceiling. They never looked so tall.

“It has always been about him, Sherlock,” Mycroft responds and before Sherlock can even respond, the older sibling carries on. Apparently he has something he needs to say. “It has always been about him, Sherlock and you cannot deny it. You’re going back home because of him. You died because of him, Sherlock. You would have not done this for anyone else - everythingyou have done, Sherlock, and my dear brother, you have done a lot,” Mycroft stops and swallows, standing right after, “You can sit here and wallow in your thoughts about John or you can finish this mess and go home and tell him why you’ve done this all. There are words for it, despite you acknowledging their existence, and even men like us are allowed to use them. There are words and you need to use them. Waiting for the right moment is over, Sherlock.”

Sherlock would say something but he knows where he stands on this situation and he also knows the truth of it all. Mycroft knows it all too and that’s clearly enough to avoid a chaotic battle between the siblings. Instead Sherlock stands and looks at his older sibling with only three words offered, “Before Christmas, Mycroft.”

He goes back to his guest room and picks up the violin before bellowing out a tune. It’s the song he’s composed for John ages ago, and the one he’s tuned over time to near perfection. The notes carry across the residence and Mycroft stays in the sitting room, listening to the faint music that his brother plays.

It was mentioned earlier that Sherlock’s tired. It stays the same now. He’s done a lot - been through a lot. Dying isn’t so easy, nor is the prospect of coming back to life. It can be said that the ideas that once lived in his head - John, John, John - being pushed away isn’t exactly the easiest thing he’s had to do either.

And he decides, playing several more notes, he simply wants to go home.

Home being, 221B, cases, and experiments.

You can see what’s missing from there.

He’s chasing sunrises and only finding sunsets. There is a beginning he seeks yet all that is illuminated is the end. Mycroft told him, three and a half weeks ago, he needed to get the London fog from his lungs and sent him away. He’s been to Paris all over again - to Rome and Italy and Peru and Poland. He ventured to the States but only stayed half a day before catching a flight to Eastern Europe. Mycroft pays for everything, of course, but at least it keeps the consulting detectives mind going instead of focused on pressing sharp ends of needles into his pale flesh. It’s all about finding decent substitutions, Mycroft thinks. And if you really thought about it - connected the dots and crossed the lines - you could see he was pretty much right. Substitutions replaced distractions and distractions replaced John.

It’s the twenty-sixth day from being away from London when Sherlock finds himself in Peru all over again. He’s lived in boutique hotel rooms where the sheets were too white and the walls were too thin. He smokes despite the warning and tries his best to avoid the drugs. Mycroft sends what he can - names and locations, all of which Sherlock dresses to the nines for and scopes out. He wants to go home and he knows that sooner or later he’s going to need to put that bullet through Moran’s head and as the sunset fades in Peru, he’s starting to believe that it will be sooner rather than later. The year is coming to a close - just two months till Christmas and he’s ready. It’s been long enough and truth be told, for a man with a limited level of patience, he can’t wait much longer.

He’s been without John for too long.

He’s been watching an older man, mid-forties, who goes by the name of Liam Williams. He was, per Mycroft, one of Moriarty’s aides. He did the dirty work that Moriarty preferred not to, and for the last three days and six hours, Sherlock’s been nonetheless stalking him through the streets of Peru. But he’s not getting the answers that he needs. The man seems to be nothing short of a family man - quaint house in the city with a wife and child. Hell, the man even has a dog. It’s almost picturesque, really, and all the while Sherlock sits with his thoughts of what are this man’s motives? Moriarty wrote the checks, obviously - probably even ones to buy their house and furniture and everything that they have surrounded their selves with. But now - now it seems as if the man, Liam Williams, is doing nothing more. Sherlock invades his privacy on busy street corners and sees no indication of a weapon - no showcase of harm. There are no signs of blood around his fingers or dark circles underneath his eyes. There is only a man who goes to the market with his family, selects what to cook for dinner, and plays in the yard with his child and dog, while the wife stands by, wearing a proud smile.

It should be more complicated than this, Sherlock thinks. There should be men out there trying to kill him - trying to kill John - and yet, he’s stuck here with the thought that there may only be one man - Moran - doing that job.

He doesn’t understand it.

He still doesn’t, a day later when he is in a small cafe purchasing a coffee (not made by John).

“So you’re the great Sherlock Holmes,” a voice comes from the corner. Quiet yet obvious to Sherlock. He tenses slightly and turns his head back to the voice that has caught his attention and, apparently, knows of his identity. “I’m really not surprised you’re the one who made it out alive.”

It’s Liam. He has eyes that are icy blue but when his face tilts against the morning light of Peru, you can see shades of deep navy that hint around the edges. He stands shorter than Sherlock but he has the stock and build of John. He holds his own cup of coffee and takes a step closer to Sherlock. The consulting detective has been perched against the railing inside of the cafe, faced out towards the open window. Their words are quiet and sparse, but carry great depth with each syllable offered.

“Now much faith in your boss then, Mr. Williams?” Sherlock asks and takes a sip of his own coffee. He flickers over his shoulder to seek out anyone nearby, but the cafe is quiet with the two employees doing their own work behind the counter. Still, he keeps his voice low and guard high.

“No longer my boss, Mr. Holmes,” Liam replies. He takes his own sip of coffee, “The checks stopped coming after he died.”

“And you’re here because?” Sherlock draws out his sentence almost as if he’s bored because in all reality, he hasn’t had this much fun in ages.

“I could ask you the same question,” Liam responds and turns to face the taller man. He has a few scars on his face but he looks nothing less than a normal bloke with the wife, kid and house. It’s actually exactly what he has. “But we already know the answer to that. We should take a walk.”

Sherlock would be frank and ask questions such as, so you can kill me?orseveral shooters out at the bay waiting for my arrival? but he doesn’t bother as Liam is already out there door and he has answers Sherlock needs to find before asking his own.

The sun is still rising in Peru and the clouds are at a low level with the morning light pouring in through the breaks. The ground is cobblestone and they take a turn for a corner behind the cafe. It’s not that they fear what others hear - it’s just that they do, by nature. No man wanders around and speaks of murder and killing and life and death as if it’s nothing. Well, unless of course you’ve got John at your side or you’re Moriarty. There are exceptions toeveryrule.

“Have you killed any of the others, Mr. Holmes?” Liam asks. He’s leaning against the brick wall on the side of the cafe. His leg is crossed at the heel and his right hand holds his plastic cup of coffee. “I don’t keep up with the lot anymore, but I worked close with several of them.”

Sherlock stands in front of the opposite, tall and strong and doing what he does best - figuring things out. “Two.” Sherlock responds, “The snipers. I’ll assume by your choice of words that there are more.”

Liam laughs and nods, almost as if he found amusement in their conversation. “Of course there are more, Mr. Holmes,” he answers, chugging down the rest of his coffee in one go before tossing the plastic cup to the side. He may be a homebody now but that doesn’t make him any less of an ex-murderer; nonetheless, a person who doesn’t mind littering. “But much like myself, they’re not interested.”

“And why is that, Mr. Williams?”

“I already told you the answer, Mr. Holmes,” Liam laughs again, caught off guard by how easy Sherlock is easy to read. “The checks stopped coming. The day Moriarty died, I got my last check, went home to my wife and settled down. More or less everyone else has done the same.”

“More or less?” Sherlock asks. He finishes off his own coffee and repeats the action of disposing the cup to the side. Both hands fold behind his back, knitted in their leather gloves. “That is an open-ended answer, Mr. Williams.”

“Obviously you know of Moran, yes?” Liam remarks. There is no more laughter in his voice, nor is there a tone of amusement. Instead it is the straight forward answer that Sherlock has been seeking. The older man waits for no response before he continues on with the conversation as he already knows Sherlock’s answer to the question he has offered. “Everyone else - well, Mr. Holmes, like I said of myself, well, is just not interested. I’m not going to dirty my hands if there is no a pay cut for me. Neither are any of the other men - and, well, if you’ve killed two of them, outside of Moran, there are roughly eleven more,” he stops and licks his lips. There are signs of tar on the outskirts of his chapped lips and Sherlock almost has the nerve to ask him for a smoke. This is turning out to be far too casual for his liking but he needs to know everything that can be offered. “None of which will do anything, really. I’m surprised you haven’t figured that part out yet, though I am, again, surprised you did survive your fall. Moriarty is probably turning himself over in Hell on that one.”

Sherlock stays quiet and adopts all of the words that have been exchanged into his mental mindset. There is some truth and logic behind this all - no man would murder without a reward. There is no one signing the checks nor patting them on the head for a job well done. “Then why does Moran continue to seek me out?”

Liam shrugs and pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his front pocket. He pops one in his mouth before giving it a light. Sherlock does not ask for one and Liam does not offer. They are not friends and that is not allowed. “Moran, well, he’s always been different, you know? He was always Moriarty’s favorite,” Liam chuckles and takes a long drag of his cigarette. “Everyone always thought they were pounding each other into the wall - all that repressed anger, but it wasn’t really like that, no. They were just both fucked up enough in the head to enjoy what they did - money or not. Boss liked that about Moran. Plus Moran kept the boss in order,” he stops and taps some of the ash from the tip of his cigarette against the brick wall, “We’d go in for a meeting if we had a job and half the time you’d hear Moran yelling halfway down the house at Moriarty for not eating his sandwich or some shit. Motherfuckers were cynical sometimes, really. One moment Moran’s taking out boss’s suits to be cleaned and the next he’s putting a bullet through some blokes head on a moment’s notice. Boss would just giggle when his favorite sniper came walking through the door covered in blood. They were fucking different.”

Sherlock tries to imagine this word for word as Liam speaks. It’s almost unnerving to imagine but he must. It’s a place, even though Moriarty is good and dead, he must revisit to analyze and piece together a solution. To figure a dead man out.

We’re just alike, you and I, Moriarty had said. In some ways it reminded him of his own relationship with John. The doctor rambling about his lack of desire for eating, or rather, more or less, doing anything that didn’t involve cases or work or composing. He had, too, walked into the flat more than once time drenched in blood. It was almost unfitting of how the pair paralleled the story that Liam was telling. Maybe they really weren’t all that different - just opposite sides - angels and devils.

“Still doesn’t explain why Moran is still after me.”

“Like I said, Holmes,” Liam replies, finishing off the last bit of his smoke, “Moran was different. Still is, probably, if he’s still after your arse. At the end of the mission, while we were all waiting for our checks, Moran was awaiting the next assignment. He didn’t care for the money and still doesn’t. He’ll probably be after you until the day you die. And then he’ll go after that doctor of yours, if he hasn’t already.” Liam shrugs his shoulders and stretches out his arms in front of him, “I can’t really tell you why the fucker’s still on your arse, but just because the boss died doesn’t mean he’s going to stop. It’s just who he is and it’s why he was boss’s favorite. Moran would force a Xanax down Moriarty’s throat to get him to calm the fuck down and Moriarty, believe it or not, would let him. They were just different, and well, fuck, it may be revenge. I don’t know. Maybe they were pounding each other into the walls, but Moran’s not going to stop. Not until he’s done whatever he has his mind set to.”

“And why are you telling me this?” Sherlock asks, “All of this information you’re giving me, willingly, why do so?”

“Because, Holmes,” Liam replies, pulling out another cigarette and stuffing it into his mouth. He probably doesn’t get to smoke at home, Sherlock thinks, and the older carries on, “I’ve got a family and I’d like to keep it that way. You told me you killed two of the others and I don’t want to be any of the next. Moriarty wanted you dead for a reason. The little twat may have never admitted it, but he did fear you at times. He knew what you were capable of. I mean, for all I know, you could pull a gun out on me and shoot me dead center in the head. It’s a risk I took coming up on to you, but I figured giving you the facts would straighten things out.”

Sherlock stays quiet. He’s tapping his fingers against the palm of his right hand behind his back as he continues to organize all the information he’s been provided. Of course it’s logical, but logic and science do not come into play when John is involved. He knows he really should just kill the man, and kill all the other men out there too. But, again, it’s been far too long since he’s seen John. It’s been far too long since he’s been home (221B, cases, experiments, John, John,John).

“You’re going to have to kill Moran if you want your old life back,” Liam speaks, though this time much more soft, “but the others, well, they’re not going to do shit unless they’re paid. I know I’m not, even if I was. I’ve got a kid now, you know? I have enough to hold me over for a few years until I find a decent job - but I got my hands dirty enough and I don’t want my kid to see that.” He stops and finally pushes himself from his leaning position on the brick wall, “You’re going to spend years and years tracking down all the other men. Your hands will get dirtier than mine. It’s not fun playing the devil’s advocate, Mr. Holmes, and I suggest you don’t.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about Moran?” Sherlock asks. The older man is already steps away from the open sidewalk, up and ready to disappear from the scene forever.

Liam turns his head over his shoulder and offers a small smile, “He was boss’s favorite for a reason. Best sniper you could buy and he knows how to use his fists, too. He’s smart, could control the boss - and like I said, boss let him. He’s done some crazy things, Moran, and he’s not scared of anything. Boss would tell him to do something inane like the bloody laundry and Moran would tell him to fuck off. Boss put a gun dead center at his sniper’s head and Moran just laughed. Sat there and laughed in front of everyone before walking off. They really were a pair – they probablywere shagging the fuck out of each other. But outside of that,” Liam shrugs, stepping one step further away, “I really don’t know much. He does like whiskey though. Drank in between assignments. Smoked in Moriarty’s flat - pissed the little twat off but Moran just grinned.”

Sherlock parted his lips to ask another question but the henchman was off and on his way. Sherlock, for the most part, in any other ideal situation, would have run after the man and demanded more answers to at least two dozen more questions but he had enough for now and he had the answer to what he was going to do from here on out.

When he retired back to the hotel he had been staying at for the last six days, four hours and thirty-six minutes, he lay back on the bed and took a long drag from his own cigarette.

Sometime later, three and a half hours maybe, he sends a four text messages to his older brother. Mycroft replies with one.

Coming back to London.
SH

I have a plan.
SH

Book a flight out tomorrow morning.
SH

Need nicotine patches.
SH

Alright.
MH

(I call it a summary, but it’s so detailed that it’s more than 6,700 words lol oops.)

This is the first short story in A Study in Scarlet, the first official novel of Yuukoku no Moriarty. If anyone’s interested in translating the full story and needs the raw text, please message @kumoriyami-xiuzhen​!

Story description: Moran asks William for some monetary help. William decides to invite himself to Moran’s high-stakes poker game the next night “just for fun”. He also gives a short masterclass on how to cheat at poker.

Sebastian disturbs William in his study in the middle of the night, apologetically asking if he could borrow £100 (Around ¥2,400,000 by today’s standards). He claims that a girl named Marie at the bar he frequents plans to get married, but needs a large amount of money for the dowry. She came crying to him about it, and he wanted to help her out.

William mulls over his words for a few seconds before asking, “When your sleight of hand was discovered, did the opponent already reveal his cards?” To which he replied negatively since he was called out right after he revealed his hand. Then he realizes that William saw right through his lies, and can’t help asking how William figured it out.

William says it’s obvious since even though it seemed to be urgent business as Moran asked about it in the middle of the night, it looked like he didn’t want Louis to hear about it. The £100 part seemed sincere enough, and there’s only one place Moran would get into trouble in at night– the pub downtown. Additionally, Moran smells like cheap alcohol.

Based on Moran’s personality, there are only 2 ways he could get into trouble at the pub– either because of women or gambling on card games. It can’t be the former since it’s hard to imagine Moran arranging a ton of money for a woman based on what William knows of his association with girls. If it was only to help shoulder the cost of marriage, they would be no need for Moran to come to him late at night. Moran’s lies were a little too far-fetched for William.

That would mean Moran encountered a problem while playing cards. Normally, losing a normal card game wouldn’t have cost £100. Therefore, something must have happened to force him into shelling out that much money. William can only conclude that Moran’s frequent cheating has finally been found out.

Hearing William accurately reason out what had happened, Moran finally gives up, admits that William got it right, and apologizes for lying so badly. William doesn’t mind but is frankly a little surprised that Moran simply agreed to prepare that much money. Moran says he’s just paying for how much he’s swindled up until now and asks William to at least give him credit for not pummeling the other guy to the ground when Moran got exposed. He then talks about figuring out how to collect that much money somehow and walks back to the door, resigned.

William, however, stops him and asks Moran to talk about it in more detail. Moran totally misunderstands what William means by this, and thinks William wants to know more about how he decided to be mature this time around and pay up instead of just solving the answer with his fists like he usually does. He rambles on about how mature he has become and how he’s not barbaric all the time until William finally ruefully clarifies that what he wanted to know more about was about the cheating incident.

It’s a well-known fact among their group that Moran’s sleight of hand is top-notch. It’s surprising that he got found out, so William wanted to know how exactly Moran ended up in that situation.

It is then that Moran realizes how embarrassing he was for insisting on how mature he has become and tries to cover it up by pretending he was just testing to see if William would come to that conclusion. What matters isn’t that he didn’t lay a hand on the other person, but how his swindling was found out! Moran claims this makes him proud to be on William’s side.

William awkwardly agrees and thanks Moran for his words. It was clear to see that William was just forcing himself to go along with Moran’s words. As much as it pains Moran to see William be so considerate, he keeps up his facade and asks William to forget the way he acted like he was all grown up now.

William reluctantly reassures him and finally gets Moran to talk about everything that happened that night.

Four players were playing Texas Hold'em and Moran had just revealed that he had a Full House when someone asked him to wait. It was the final round and everyone had bet most of what they have. Two of the players were regulars of the pub. They looked visibly hopeless even before they revealed their cards and were easy prey for Moran.

However, the thug sitting in front of Moran was different. His name is Johnson and had a round bearded face with shrewd eyes.

Moran had just laid down his cards, on the cusp of gloating about his Full House, and was thrown off by his interruption. Johnson accused him of cheating and Moran was slow to react, especially upon seeing how sure Johnson seemed to be of his accusation.

Seeing him forget to object to this, everyone in the pub started staring at him in suspicion. Then Moran finally came to his senses and protested vehemently as he attempted to slam his fist on the table, but he drank a little too much that night and only skimmed the edge of the table.

Johnson scoffed at his pathetic state and looked at him with assessing eyes. Then he reached out and raised Moran’s gloved hand. Several cards started falling to the floor from inside Moran’s glove, and Johnson turned smug. Everyone watched as he picked up the cards and observed how Moran wore out his cards so it would look no different from the pub’s own deck.

The other players of the game felt indignant and one of them grabbed Moran by the collar. While these guys were no match for Moran, violence would just make things worse so he tried convincing them with words instead. He weakly tried to placate them by telling them he was just joking around, but that just made everyone’s tempers rise even higher.

While two of the players surrounded Moran, Johnson inquired triumphantly how he plans to settle this. Several options popped up in Moran’s head, but before he could speak, the guy holding Moran insisted he give back all his winnings today.

Moran was absolutely fine by this and the other two seemed to have decided the matter was settled, but then Johnson once again jumped in and pointed out how Moran must have been cheating them for some time now judging by how smooth Moran executed it. This made two of the players rear up again in anger, insisting that Moran pay £100 for all the other days he cheated.

Moran countered that there wasn’t even any proof that he cheated on those times, but no one believed him. At this rate, Moran could either pay the price or flee the pub. However, he doesn’t really have the patience to go through the effort of collecting that much money for some small-fry so the former was out. The latter option would be the easiest way to handle this. He could beat these guys up and leave. However…

This guy Johnson was clearly enjoying seeing Moran get cornered by these small-fry after stoking their anger. It was obvious that Johnson was going to ask the other players to give him a little reward for seeing through Moran’s cheating. While he didn’t particularly care about that, Moran really didn’t appreciate how this guy kept looking down on him.

Sure, he could just beat Johnson up right now, but Moran personally wouldn’t be satisfied until this guy suffered a more humiliating defeat.

So Moran came up with a third option and carefully pretended to be a guy driven against the wall with no way out. He first got them to see reason and convinced them that this was his first time trying to cheat. That’s why they shouldn’t insist that just because he seems used to it doesn’t mean he cheated all those other times.

Johnson saw the momentum fizzling and tried to interrupt, but Moran spoke again before he could. He told them that they should prove he’s weak when he didn’t cheat and proposed to play another round. If he won, then that proved that he truly was that strong all those other times he played cards with them. However, if he lost, it would be solid proof that he has just been winning through cheating all this time.

His reasoning was pretty absurd, but the two men he played against were easily manipulated by Moran since they were easy prey who were already worked up from his cheating. They agreed to another game and Moran added that he’d play £100 if he lost. However, as much as he wanted to play against them immediately, he had to prepare that amount first so he asks that they delay the game to another night. He would play against one of these two men, deliberately leaving out Johnson.

As expected, Johnson of course protested being left out of the game. Inwardly smiling at successfully baiting his target, Moran visibly glared at him. He pretended to be faintly uneasy as he opposed Johnson’s inclusion since he wasn’t even present the other nights he played with the two regulars.

Johnson took this to mean that Moran is planning to cheat again, and Moran weakly denies it. Seeing Moran’s unconvincing protests, he designated himself as the one to play against Moran in the next game. The two regulars of course objected at this, but Johnson gave them a fierce glare as he reasoned that they would have never realized that Moran was cheating them out of their money if it weren’t for him. He’s just going to get a small portion of the prize money, so they should just shut up and let him. The two regulars were dejected by this.

Johnson looked like a violent man and it was clear that he was used to intimidating people. Moran speculates that Johnson must have done a lot of dirty work before.

Seeing that no one else was protesting, Johnson wrapped up the matter and declared he’ll be the one to go against this cheater. He usually didn’t play against the same people twice, but he would make an exemption for him. They will play again tomorrow night and the game will be poker. The winner gets £100. Hearing this, Moran bitterly complained that he wouldn’t get any prize for winning. Johnson naturally shut him down by saying Moran should be glad this game could clear the suspicions on him.

Moran looked unhappy at this, but things actually went just as he planned. His goal was to see Johnson in tears tomorrow. Although he was trembling like some prey that about to get shot down on the outside, he was like a hunter who has set aim on his target on the inside.

Moran finishes talking all about the incident. He and William have moved to the living room and Louis, Fred and Albert were also there listening.

Louis and Fred are the first to react, talking about how he shouldn’t be so smug when it was only natural he would get caught cheating and in the end, Moran clearly just wanted revenge on the guy for seeing through his tricks.

Meanwhile, Moran just insists that they should praise him for his maturity and skill in manipulation, but Louis drags him further by pointing out that Moran didn’t even have that amount of money so he had to ask William for it.

Moran then changes targets and angrily scolds Albert for drinking wine elegantly while Moran told his story, as if it was just something to listen to as he drank wine. Albert neatly sidesteps his accusations and calmly claims that he’s actually agonizing over the fact that Moran’s sleight of hand was discovered since this might mean Will can’t depend on Moran to carry through tasks successfully. They might just assign menial work for Moran from now on.

Unfortunately, as much as Moran wanted to talk back to Albert, Moran only has himself to blame for getting caught, so all he can do is clench his fist in bitterness. Seeing him vexed like this cheers Albert even further.

Meanwhile, Louis is exasperated at Moran’s sulking. He uses Moran as an example for Fred, telling the latter not to gamble lightly like Moran does. Fred agrees with Louis and treats Moran’s story as a cautionary tale, making Moran even more annoyed.

Compared to the other three, William is sitting somberly on the sofa in deep thought, until he suddenly straightens up and inquires Moran if it was his first time meeting Johnson.

Moran confirms it, saying that he only thought Johnson was a guy who was oddly good at playing cards, but apparently, there have been rumors about this guy for a while now downtown.

When asked why he thinks he lost, Moran answers that it was a combination of a lot of things– he had too much to drink that night, got carried away since there were women around, and became too complacent at doing sleights of hands.

However, William once again emphasizes that Moran is a master at sleights of hands so ordinary people should not have caught on to it.

But Johnson did, which can only mean either of two things– that Johnson is extraordinarily observant, or that he was also cheating like Moran was. It can’t be the former, otherwise, he would’ve pointed out Moran’s sleight of hand right when he did it instead of after he revealed his cards. Which means it can only mean the latter. Something in Johnson’s own cards must have alerted him that Moran was cheating and so he called him out with certainty.

Unfortunately, Moran wasn’t able to check Johnson’s cards since he was being interrogated by everyone else at the time.

Moran is impressed at William’s ability to deduce everything that happened, and William gives credit to Moran’s detailed retelling of the event, saying that his memory is perfect even though he was drunk at the time.

Moran looks like he’s enjoying his banter with William even though it didn’t completely sound like William was complimenting him, so Louis spoils his fun by pointing out that William wasn’t really complimenting him. The fact of the matter is, Moran did get outwitted by Johnson.

William cheerfully watches them bicker, before asking Moran if for his game tomorrow night, William is correct in thinking that you either win in poker by going all-in or getting more chips than your opponent. Moran confirms it, but in his opinion, Johnson might make it an unconventional game.

William then says they should get ready for the game, and Albert jokingly offers MI6’s assistance. This makes William smile, answering that it isn’t necessary but he does enlist Fred for help.

Louis and Moran try to convince William not to meddle since this is Moran’s personal matter and has no contribution to their plans for Britain, but William just grins broadly in response and explains that he is just using this matter to cut loose and relieve his boredom.

Moran feels both amused and chilled at William is playing a high-stakes game just a way to relieve his boredom, while Louis smiles in resignation. The latter tells him to have fun and not to drink too much.

William thanks him, assuring Louis that he is worried for nothing. William is just doing this for his enjoyment.

The next night, a lot of people are in the pub waiting for Moran to arrive. Johnson is one of them and he is sitting arrogantly with his feet up. When Moran enters the pub, boos come from the people inside, along with thrilled screams from the ladies.

As Johnson tries to rile Moran up when he appears, Moran announces that he wants to introduce Johnson to someone, and two people come forward. He calls one of them “Willy” and says that the other person is just some boy they bumped into outside.

William formally introduces himself as “Willy”, claiming that he is an old friend of Moran’s who loves gambling, and apologizes for the mess his friend has caused.

As everyone else has figured out from William’s looks and clothing, Johnson points out that William is a noble. He definitely sticks out in the pub that has mainly working-class people as its customers.

Moran explains that he could only ask William to borrow money that large. Additionally, William was way too interested in the kind of poker people downtown play so he insisted on coming along.

William backs this up and politely asks if he could also join their game.

Johnson outwardly glares at him while thinking of how to scam more money out of this easygoing fellow. He finally agrees, but then starts talking about how he is at a disadvantage because he is not like William is. William must be able to calculate the odds of which cards would appear better than Johnson.

To even the odds between them, Johnson proposes they play only a single round of poker instead. Moran is opposed to this, as there is no point even betting with poker chips if that was the case. It takes all the fun out of playing poker.

Johnson pretends to be disappointed by this too but insists this is a necessary measure to even the odds between them. He then goes on to insist that they won’t be playing Hold'em anymore but something akin to Draw Poker instead.

They’ll each draw 5 cards instead of 2. Each player has one chance to throw away up to three cards to draw some more from the deck to replace them. Compared to Hold'em where there are community cards (cards shared by all players in the center of the table), it is much harder in Draw Poker to predict your opponent’s cards since all cards in the opponent’s hand won’t be revealed until the end of the game.

William is intrigued by his proposal. True enough, this type of game does rely more on luck and the probability of certain cards appearing is harder to predict.

Although William denied being able to calculate the probabilities of cards appearing earlier, the truth is back when he was a child, William had been able to do exactly that the moment he saw the cards on the table.

Whether it was truly just because of William’s appearance that he proposed to do this, it does prove to William and Moran that Johnson’s a little different from the average player. However, that doesn’t exactly mean that he is an extraordinary player.

They have already expected Johnson to prepare some sort of plan like this beforehand, but for appearance’s sake, Moran to protest for William, claiming it’s unfair that he’s suddenly changing the rules when the rest of them are all here to play their usual game.

Johnson just tries to provoke William in response, asking if the esteemed noble will be backing out now since he would become a laughingstock if he were to lose that much money to a punk like Johnson.

At this, William just shows a faint smile and takes a seat in front of Johnson. He politely thanks Johnson for letting him play and adjusting the rules for him at short notice, while also adding another £100 to the table aside from the one Moran borrowed for him as an entry fee to his own participation. He agrees to the rules and offers Johnson to choose another person to join in since William and Moran being friends gives them an unfair advantage, and Johnson does just that.

William then proposes that they have the young man he and Moran bumped into the way here as their dealer, but Johnson is opposed to it, saying only an idiot would believe that William and the boy aren’t acquainted. So Johnson looks around the pub a few times for someone who didn’t look invested in their game, then chooses a young man located outside the pub whose face cannot be seen because his hat was pulled down too low. William and Moran evaluate the young man for a bit before agreeing.

The young man was called into the pub and was just asked to be the dealer without any explanation. He seemed uncomfortable with the unsettling atmosphere within the pub and turned his gaze downwards, making his expression harder to make out.

Right as they were about to start the game, William speaks up again, saying that he heard that the £100 was supposed to be his friend’s payment for his suspected cheating on the other days he played with them. Johnson confirms it and calls this high-stakes game an occasion for the cheater to be sanctioned. He then claims that criminals are doomed to be put on trial like this. Small fries like Moran cannot win without cheating and are sure to meet an ugly end in his opinion.

Clenching his fist at Johnson’s cheap remarks, Moran is glad he set up this game to get revenge. He’s very much looking forward to the moment the lowlife Johnson goes from looking triumphant to dismayed.

Meanwhile, William tries to urge Johnson to be more lenient in giving sanctions on Moran. After all, the Bible clearly states that one must not judge others. There’s no need to make large bets when they could all just play for fun.

The crowd jeers at this, and naturally Johnson does not agree with him either. He insists that destiny will be the one to decide the winner of this game. In other words, the fate of this game is in God’s hands.

At this, William asks if whatever the result of this game will be considered divine providence and Johnson confirms it, saying that evil people will receive divine punishment. The cards are going to show this to them and he likens it to an amusing tragicomedy.

Then William asks if Johnson is prepared to acknowledge the results, Johnson finally gets annoyed at all the questions William keeps throwing him, and angrily answers that yes, he is obligated to accept whatever outcome there is.

William smiles ominously at this, claims he’s relieved to hear it, and talks about looking forward to this divine punishment.

Satisfied that “Willy” is finally amiable to the game, Johnson acts all devout, preaching about God in the Old Testament would even burn whole cities to death if its people would do wicked things.

William knows they too will be judged for their actions someday. However, he’s going to prove who is more sinful among the two of them. He keeps silent as he tries to push down his dark side that almost showed on his face.

The game begins and the young man deals the cards among the four of them. The panicked way he distributes 5 cards to each player makes the onlookers jeer at him.

First up is Johnson, who looks at his cards expressionlessly. Meanwhile, the person he picked to play with them grimaced as soon as he saw his own cards. It is clear that he doesn’t have the deceptive skills to win the game.

On the other hand, Moran doesn’t show any reaction to his own cards like Johnson. He starts observing his opponents right after checking his cards.

However, Johnson isn’t looking at his own cards, but rather staring stupidly at someone with his mouth agape instead. And this someone is William.

William did not look at his cards, let alone touch them. He doesn’t seem to sense everyone else’s bewildered reactions and just kept grinning calmly.

Johnson asks him why he isn’t checking his own cards and William keeps his smile pasted on his face as he replies that since Johnson said God has already decided on the winner, then William would rather just wait and see what the outcome was.

Betting a large number of chips without even checking one’s own cards is actually a technique some poker players use to make their opponents falter. However, it’s pointless to use this technique to make their opponent back down on a one-round game like this one.

Johnson then informs William that those words are just a metaphor and wonders if William is giving up his right to change some of his cards.

Williams confirms that he will do exactly that and will simply accept God’s will.

Johnson is utterly flabbergasted by this indulgent noble. He doesn’t know if “Willy” is just an incredibly easygoing character, so if £100 is nothing but small change to him. Either way, it’s easy money for him.

He then goes on to put down 2 of his cards to exchange for new ones. Afterwards, his friend also asks the dealer to change 4 of his own cards. He goes pale as soon as he sees his new cards. His reactions are so plain to see that it makes Moran suspicious of him.

Meanwhile, Moran only changes one of his cards. William of course doesn’t move to change his own cards. It’s as if he’s already thrown the game.

This game should be relying only on luck, making it a fair game for everyone regardless of their social status… if he weren’t involved.

Johnson glances at the young man chosen to be their dealer. His victory had been set the moment he was chosen, that is why he can say this is an occasion to punish Moran.

First up to reveal his cards is the player Johnson picked, who had a High Card. In other words, none of the suits or even numbers match. Moran is relieved to know that this man wasn’t just putting up a weak act.

Next up is Moran’s hand– 4 of Hearts, 4 of Spades, 4 of Clubs, 2 of Spades, and 2 of Diamonds. A Full House.

Seeing him miraculously pull of the same thing as yesterday, the two other players he went up against yesterday stand up and want to accuse him of cheating again. However, they were monitoring Moran’s hands the whole time and did not see any suspicious movements. So they could only dejectedly sit down.

Since Johnson claimed the results are all set by God, Moran declares that God must love him then for him to get these cards.

If this were truly just a game based on luck, it should be next to impossible to get anything better than Moran’s hand. However, Johnson is unshaken by this. He proceeds to say that winning against all odds is the real miracle and reveals his own hand– 2 of Diamonds*, 6 of Hearts, 6 of Clubs, and 6 of Diamonds. It’s a Four of a kind, which is considered one rank above Full House.

*T.N.: This seems to be an error by the author, since 2 of diamonds already appeared in Moran’s hand…

Moran grinds his teeth at this. Johnson gleefully talks about how cruel God is to give Moran hope to think he’s won only to bring him down like this. He then gives his cohorts behind him a thumbs up. This dramatic development is something Johnson and that person cooked up.

This trick has a big weakness so he has to pick his opponents carefully when carrying it out. However, when they do execute it successfully, the rewards are rich.

At first, he only tried doing this trick once as an experiment and got his friend to pretend to do “it” on coincidence. He was a little worried about pulling it off again here, but it looks like no one caught on to their trick.

While inwardly mocking all the intelligence of the crowd hyped by the turn of events, he starts glaring at the sole calm noble in the pub and loudly prompts him to reveal his hand. As he does this, Johnson was already making plans to drinks with his cahoots somewhere else, assured of his victory.

William calmly declares that the judgment which Johnson beckoned has arrived and turns over his cards for everyone to see.

At that moment the whole pub went speechless. “Willy” has 7 of Hearts, 8 of Hearts, 9 of Hearts, 10 of Hearts, and J of Hearts. It’s a Straight Flush.

It’s turnaround after turnaround. If we’re talking about winning against all odds, William has achieved just that. The crowd in the pub was going wild, while William and Moran are staring at Johnson.

Stunned by William’s Straight Flush, he then grabs the dealer by the collar, accusing him of fixing the match. Everyone was bewildered into silence by his reaction.

William stands, asks him to unhand the young man, and reveals that he is a good friend of his. Johnson is shocked by this, and the dealer uses that opportunity to take Johnson’s hand off him and beckons someone else to come into a pub– someone who has the same face as him and looks ashamed of himself.

Johnson and his cohorts went pale as soon as the man went in.

William then explains that the newcomer is someone who should have been the dealer, while the dealer they had used in the game (Fred) was William’s friend who dressed up to look like the newcomer.

He reveals that they were aware of what Johnson was going to do right from the start. That’s why he lost in such a spectacular fashion. He knew right from the moment Johnson pointed out that his friend (Moran) cheated that Johnson was tricking everyone. He heard that only his friend had revealed his cards and no one else, so William suspected Johnson had the same cards.

Johnson argues that it doesn’t prove that Johnson was cheating, but William quickly shoots him down by saying Johnson should have questioned his friend why they had the same cards if that were the case. Instead, Johnson groped around Moran’s hand. He obviously knew he would also be expected of cheating if he revealed that he also had the same cards.

To clear himself out of suspicion, Johnson didn’t reveal his own cards and instead searched at the place Moran would most likely hide the cards.

Johnson steps back and groans upon hearing “Willy” accurately deduce his actions. Willy then goes on to explain that he figured out how Johnson cheated when Johnson uttered that he never plays against the same people twice.

On one hand, you can just interpret this as some rule Johnson personally set for himself, but you could also take it to mean that his method is more likely to be seen through if he did it twice. William only needed to think of which methods can’t be used multiple times.

Taking the deck of cards from Fred, he starts smoothly demonstrating different kinds of tricks, such as Second Dealing (dealing the second card in the deck, instead of the top card) and Bottom Dealing (dealing the bottom card instead of the top), while making it look like he’s dealing normally.

Then he demonstrates another method by putting the deck on the table and then flipping his hand, only to reveal another card still in his hand. This method is called Palming.

The crowd is very impressed with his smooth execution and explanation of these tricks and claps for him, much to Moran’s strained amusement.

True enough, William certainly was doing this for his own enjoyment. Day by day, William has been orchestrating crimes and death in London, but now he was just having fun by entertaining these people in the pub.

William thanks the crowd for the applause, and then continues on to say that this would only be effective if he himself was the dealer. There are other factors to take into consideration such as the atmosphere of the betting place, and if he could even get the opportunity to be the dealer.

However, if he could somehow manage to get an accomplice pretending to be a stranger to be the dealer, claiming it was to make sure it was fair for everyone, then he could get that accomplice to fix the game for him.

This makes the two easy prey he played against yesterday remember that Johnson did choose someone outside the pub to be their dealer. This newcomer looks remarkably like that youngster, now that they looked more closely at him.

The newcomer gave a big reaction after being found out, which just further proved it. This also explains why his method could not be used twice.

Moreover, if Johnson truly wanted to play a game purely based on luck, it would have been much simpler to just draw the cards in order and bet on who has the bigger card, but he seems to be insistent that it has to be poker. Even the day before he made sure that cards would need to be dealt.

William then thanks the crowd for listening with a bow. The crowd starts staring at Johnson with the same loathing and scorn he had for them earlier for not being able to detect his trick.

Johnson then asks about the boy William and Moran brought with them from the start, and William reveals that this boy really was just some stranger he met on the street. If Johnson chose him to be the dealer, then it would have become a game truly based on luck.

Will tells him that God saves those who have faith. Johnson lost because he doubted someone else’s kindness.

When Johnson claims that his mistake was in misjudging Willy, William corrects him, saying it was his friend (Moran) he misjudged. He then compliments Johnson for seeing through his friend’s cheating and his unerring skill of observation that helped him get away with his trickery up until now. It must have been tough to choose his opponents so he could change the dealer without protest from them.

Johnson made some fatal errors last night– he dismissed Moran as some weakling, got greedy and volunteered himself as the rematch representative, and used the same method again.

Then William asks if he hasn’t realized how Moran purposely pretended to be driven to a corner last night so he can lure Johnson into playing a match with him again, aiming to reveal Johnson’s own trickery.

Johnson stares, stunned at Moran, while Moran tells Johnson off for getting overconfident after pulling it off successfully too many times and his habit of looking down on his opponents. His cheap pride made it easy to pull the rug from underneath him.

Moran then ends his speech by calling him a damn rat that had just a bit of cunning. This sentence coming from someone he viewed to be lower than him hurts Johnson’s pride and makes him see red.

He signals at his subordinates behind him with his eyes, and they all stand up menacingly in unison. The crowd backs up in fear while William, Moran, and Fred stay calm in the center of the ring the crowd ended up forming.

William comments on how appalling it is that Johnson is resorting to violence now that he’s lost in an argument, and Johnson replies that he did not grow in luxury like William so he does dirty work on an everyday occurrence, which taught him that physical threats are useful at negotiations.

Then they pull out knives from their pockets and break the bottles in the pub to use as weapons to attack William’s group.

William is disappointed at their response and starts preparing for a fight, but Moran interrupts and asks him to leave the fighting to him. This was his mistake to begin with and he wouldn’t be satisfied until he beats them up himself.

Upon seeing the fierce smile on Moran’s face, William and Fred stand back to let him do as he wants.

Their unfazed demeanor gets on Johnson’s nerves. At his signal, Johnson’s subordinates rush to attack Moran. The numbers are against him but Moran is not bothered by this at all. He showed the kind of ferocity that would scare even tigers into fleeing.

The four of them are in a carriage on the way back home and Moran feels all happy and refreshed after the fight. Judging by his good mood, you can tell that he had no trouble fighting all of them alone.

Johnson and his subordinates were beaten up so badly that they could only trudge away from the pub in silence. Johnson’s dealer seemed to have sensed their defeat coming a mile away and ran right before the fight even started.

The pub became a mess because of the fight, but the onlookers were satisfied with the exciting turn of events and cheered on happily for Moran. Only the pub owner seemed to be in despair.

Moran is in high spirits after venting his anger as he got on the carriage with William and Fred. The latter looks exasperated at Moran’s satisfaction from beating up his target. After all, Moran boasted about he was all mature now yesterday but still ended up acting like a brute today.

William looked a little worried because, in the end, Moran’s matter wasn’t really wrapped up properly so he can’t go back to that pub again anytime soon.

However, Moran is not bothered by this since there are many other bars in London. He does think it is a bit of a shame though since he considered the ladies in the bar top-notch.

William is amused at Moran’s obstinate personality. Meanwhile, Fred and Moran comment on how William seemed to have a lot of fun tonight. Moran talks about how William usually operates in the background, so it’s rare to see William enthusiastically giving a speech as he shows off his skills.

Their comments make William reflect on his actions and admit that he was a little too flashy earlier, but it should be okay to do it for just one night. He sounded rather riveted as he said this though, perhaps from being able to cut loose for the first time in a long while.

Moran mischievously asks if William actually wanted to join in on the fight earlier, but William denies it, saying he was invigorated by just watching Moran go wild. Playing cards just to have fun was satisfying enough for William.

William and Fred believed Moran would succeed so they just watched the fight go on from the sidelines, but those who don’t know him would definitely find it odd to see a noble calmly watching a fight closeup.

Although this all started because of a mistake he made, Moran feels accomplished that he got to provide a way for William to relieve his boredom.

However, he then noticed that they left empty-handed. Apparently, William gave all the money to the pub owner to compensate for the mess they made. Moran then regrets going all out in the fight earlier since was the one who caused all that mess that had to be paid for.

Placing a hand on Moran’s shoulder, William asks him to be Louis’ assistant if he wants to compensate for it. Shuddering in fear at this, he says he’d rather be suspended than do such a thing.

Then William proposes doing the chores while he’s in suspension, and of course Moran is also opposed to this, saying that’s practically the same thing as being Louis’ assistant. He then reminded William about how he earlier preached about not judging others earlier. Moran felt as though William seems to have ill intentions as he proposed these things, and asks if he has done something to warrant it.

William denies it, saying he’s actually thankful to Moran for the opportunity to have fun tonight. He proves this by declaring that he’s having so much fun right now.

Hearing William say those words sincerely made Moran realize exactly what he means. He grows pale at the thought of being the target of William’s teasing for the rest of the night.

William then brings Fred into the conversation, informing him of how Moran gave a passionate speech about how mature he’s grown last night and cheerfully asks if he wants to hear all about it later, much to Moran’s protest.

It’s rare that Moran gets teased to death like this, so Fred takes him up on the opportunity.

Moran is disappointed at Fred’s betrayal (and William’s, for telling Fred about it when William promised him yesterday that he’d keep it a secret), but he sensed that resistance is futile once he sees William direct a gentle smile at him.

And that’s how the Lord of Crime had fun the whole night.

Note: It wasn’t very clear here in the summary since I wasn’t translating their lines word per word, but Moran and Fred’s names were never revealed to anyone in the pub. Johnson just kept referring to Moran as the “damn cheater” while Fred was always just a “young man” for everyone else. William just kept referring to Fred and Moran as his “friends” (or whatever term you prefer for the word nakama). William was the only one who used an alias (Willy).

Also, for a demonstration of Second Dealing and Bottom Dealing, check out 2:45 onwards of this video:

This anime is so underrated >3<

I recommend this minna if you love action, psychological, crime, mystery anime.

// Moriarty the Patriot

consultingcriminal:

Fuck I’m sad. Mormor is about a soldier who has no purpose and serves no cause, who never wanted to be part of a war in the first place. A young boy that never had the approval of his parents, whatever he did. Eventually he quit on that and set out to find his own meaning of everything. And he didn’t until Jim. Jim on the other hand had never seen the caring side of a human and had learned to be ruthless and merciless for his own good. And then they meet and complete each other. Two broken halves made into an amalgam of something that has deeper meaning to them both than anything ever before. Sebastian finally has a purpose and Jim can experience affection. Neither is alone anymore. To describe it just as love would be a downgrade of what they actually have. They don’t just empower each other, they’re each other’s most important weaknesses, and that will eventually get at them. And then one day they just stop being. Each could feel the end approaching but that was never enough to make them pull away, they’d be there for every single last second. One day Jim just stopped being there. Sebastian lost all purpose again, but this time it was worse than before because now he knew how it felt and what he had lost. Meanwhile Jim died with the regret of hurting Sebastian, of never gifting back compassion. God forbid that either of them speak of their feelings, that would be the same as asking for a death sentence. If mormor begins loud and harsh and careless, it ends silent, a corpse on a rooftop, and a walking purposeless dead man.

thenewonee:

I’m willing to give anything for a Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran mini-series.

SAME

whumpwillow:

Moriarty The Patriot Playlists

Hi Everyone,

I started watching Moriarty the Patriot/Yūkoku no Moriartyi and just instantly fell in love so had to have a go at some playlists for my favourite lil crime boys.

As always just click the names for the link x

William James Moriarty

Louis James Moriarty

Albert James Moriarty

Sebastian Moran

Masterlist

Should I make a series about Wilhelmina’s life as William’s daughter? It does seem like my stories about her are rather … bunch of sequels after the one shot of William returning home…

What do you think?

MTP (Genshin AU)

I’m fucking bored so have another series of MTP characters in Genshin world.

Click here for similar posts:MLQC// Haikyuu! (Karasuno//Nekoma) // Idolish7 (I7 & TRIGGER//Re:Vale & Zool//Other characters)

~~~~~

~William James Moriarty~
Vision: Pyro
Weapon: Sword/Polearm
Affiliation: Inazuma

~Louis James Moriarty~
Vision: Anemo
Weapon: Sword
Affiliation: Inazuma

~Albert James Moriarty~
Vision: Electro
Weapon: Sword/Bow
Affiliation: Tenryou Commission, Inazuma

~Sebastian Moran~
Vision: Pyro
Weapon: Claymore/Bow
Affiliation: Knights of Favonius (former), Mondstadt

~Fred Porlock~
Vision: Anemo
Weapon: Bow/Polearm
Affiliation: Mondstadt

~Irene Adler/James Bonde~
Vision: Cryo
Weapon: Bow/Sword
Affiliation: Fontaine (former)

~Jack Renfield~
Vision: Hydro
Weapon: Sword/Claymore
Affiliation: Tenryou Commission, Inazuma

~Sherlock Holmes~
Vision: Hydro/Cryo
Weapon: Polearm/Claymore
Affiliation: Liyue

~John Watson~
Vision: Geo
Weapon: Sword
Affiliation: Mondstadt

~~~~~~
I’m sorry, I was bored during lectures. But if you have other suggestions of what their visions would be if they have one, do share!

marvelzupp:

I can’t pick which cover I like better for my new #mormor fic on Wattpad!

Which one do you like best?

The current cover is the marble statue.

Check out an RP style Mormor fic! It is partially AU within the canon universe. Follow Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty meeting for the first time with their extraabilities.

Sebastian Moran wields great strength, his military generals reference him as a super soldier.

Jim Moriarty and his Silver Tongue is absolute in its persuasiveness but the toll it takes on his body leaves him defenseless. He should hire a body guard as well as a man to do his dirty work… hmm, who should that be?

Much love x

Zeno

✨PART 5 OUT NOW!✨

I can’t pick which cover I like better for my new #mormor fic on Wattpad!

Which one do you like best?

The current cover is the marble statue.

Check out an RP style Mormor fic! It is partially AU within the canon universe. Follow Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty meeting for the first time with their extraabilities.

Sebastian Moran wields great strength, his military generals reference him as a super soldier.

Jim Moriarty and his Silver Tongue is absolute in its persuasiveness but the toll it takes on his body leaves him defenseless. He should hire a body guard as well as a man to do his dirty work… hmm, who should that be?

Much love x

Zeno

9:42 PM

- John Watson’s Bad Days - 

John held the weapon securely in his hand. It was a familiar feeling as his body recalled the many times he wielded the pistol.  His hand curved unto the contours of the pistol quite easily. His index finger slid into place gently on top of the trigger. He extended his arms in front of him, holding the pistol away from his body. His arms tensed for a moment before relaxing into a position that was both comfortable and ideal for shooting. He exhaled, allowing his nerves to calm. The target came into focus in front of him, about 50 meters away. He concentrated, aware of everything: the pace at which his own breathing has equalized to, the throbbing in his temple as blood rushed to his brain, the crease of his own brow as he concentrated on the target in front of him, the trickle of sweat that fell down the side of his head. There was this millisecond, before he pulled the trigger wherein the earth itself seemed to wait in baited breath, that one small time frame where everything stopped and the target and John seemed to be the only things in existence. 

That was a soldier’s focus.

That was a soldier’s resolve.

John fired at the target, pulling the trigger at regular intervals, firing with the finesse only an experienced marksman could. There was no hesitation as John pulled the trigger time and time again, for he knew that split hesitation in the battlefield meant the different between life and death. It was a monotonous rhythm that allowed him to drown out everything else. He fired until the magazine was empty, with all thirteen bullets hitting their mark. With the rhythm broken he took a sharp intake of breath. In those few short moments where he had to reload his magazine, memories best left in the dark resurfaced from the back of his head.

Sherlock dead and broken on the ground.

Sherlock’s coffin being lowered into the ground and swallowed by the earth.

John. Broken and Alone.

On that road to recovery and moving on there were good days and bad days and today was one of those bad days.

He reloaded the new magazine into the pistol and tried to focus again. He shot, trying to lose himself in something he was familiar with. During bad days he needed something to push the memories away until they could become more bearable to handle. Nothing took hold of his attention like shooting a gun did. It was nowhere near the rush that the battlefield brought. Firing at a stationary target was nothing like taking aim at a real person, posed to take a life. He got lost in the rhythm again. The whole process was almost therapeutic, allowing John to grasp the emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him and tip the equilibrium he struggled to keep.  Despite its own drawbacks, it was an effective form of escape. Better than the previous alternative he had considered, at least that was what he told Lestrade when he had asked for his pistol back.

Lestrade had looked at him skeptically, thinking he was about to do something incredibly stupid like try to take his life again. But with a bit of prodding and explaining Lestrade finally conceded to giving back the weapon.

John was jostled from his wandering thoughts, when a bullet strayed far from its intended target. His focus was slipping. John removed the earmuffs he was wearing and retrieved the canvas that was used as a target. Almost all of the bullet marks grazed the inner circles of the bull’s eye. He heard a whistle of appreciation behind him and saw Sebastian Moran watching him with keen interest.

“Good shooting there, doctor” Moran was leaning casually against the wall, with his arms crossed in front of him. John didn’t know how long the man had been there, but got over his initial shock quite easily as the other gave him a lopsided smile.

“That pass your standards then, Colonel Moran?” John said teasingly as he handed the former colonel the target to look over.

“Eighteen months in retirement, yet you still shoot like this? Good job on keeping your skills up to par, soldier.” Moran said, in a commanding voice that he often employed when talking to his subordinates back in the army. The two men laughed at the shared joke between them.

“Well, with all the running around London chasing criminals and masterminds I couldn’t slack off, now could I?” John asked, adopting a tone of seriousness.

“No I expect not.”

“How about a demonstration of those legendary skills, Colonel?” John asked offhandedly, waving towards the new target that had been set in place.

Moran smirked at him. “Is that a challenge, Captain?”. There was a twinkle in his eye.

John raised his hands up feigning surrender. “Hell no, Sebastian. I know you’d beat me hands down.”

Moran made his way towards the target with his own pistol in hand. The ex colonel held the weapon in his hand confidently, treating it as an extension of his own arm. He adjusted his stance and raised the weapon slowly and deliberately. Unlike John, there was no tensing in anticipation of the shot to be fired. Moran was completely relaxed as he found center and took aim at the target set in front of him. Moran slipped into a different character in that split second before he pulled the trigger. It reminded John of their times back in the army. John wasn’t looking at retired soldier now, he was looking at Colonel Moran. There was something akin to murder in the other’s eyes. It was a steely determination that was unrivaled. He wondered just how many men had fallen to the hands of Moran during the war. Without battling an eyelash, Moran finished the magazine. John’s eyes travelled from the pistol in the other’s hands to the target and was unsurprised to see that all of the shots were dead center.  He didn’t expect anything less.

Moran lowered the pistol and gave John a small smile.

“So what’s bothering you, John? What’s on your mind? You didn’t come here just to shoot a few rounds.”

There was a pause as John debated on whether to answer the question or not.

“Sherlock.” John supplied before looking away.

Moran nodded in understanding.

“What kind of bloke was this Sherlock?” Moran asked tentatively, waiting for John to answer if he so chose to.

John raised his head to look at Moran properly and see if the other was simply humoring him. He considered Moran for a moment and saw sincerity there and as well as genuine curiosity.  

“Let me show you.” John said quietly. Moran simply raised an eyebrow before following John out of the shooting range. 

…

Both Sebastian Moran and John Watson stood in the cold chilly air of the London night. They made their way through the sea of tombstones with John in the lead and Moran following. Moran looked curiously around Highgate Cemetery. They stopped in front of a black marble tombstone. The moon was reflected by the smooth black stone and the name shone clearly in the night.

John stepped forward and placed a tender hand on the cool marble.

“Sebastian.” John said softly. He traced the curves of the tombstone with his fingers before looking back to Moran.  “Meet Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock” John knelt down in front of the tombstone and addressed his best friend, who was six feet under the ground right below his feet. “I’ve been getting better. I got my job back at the surgery. They’ve been pretty good to me on my first day back. I guess Sarah told everyone to just cut me some slack. I even saw a close friend of Mike and mine back when we were all training at St. Bart’s. There was an opening for a pediatrician. She was how I remembered her. Sweet and kind. I’m sure she was told about the suicide attempt but she was pretty decent about everything. It’s nice being at the surgery again. It’s better than spending all day at the flat because that makes me miss you more.”

Telling Sherlock about his days was a routine that John had fallen into, thought it wasn’t healthy to be talking to the dead he reveled that he had something substantial he could hold on to. A routine that he and Sherlock could share despite the absence of the latter. John was used to Sherlock not responding or paying attention back when he was alive and so this really wasn’t a stretch.

“I’ve got someone to introduce to you. Remember I was telling you that I met this bloke from the army? His name’s Colonel Moran and he was asking about you. So I thought I should introduce you.”

John stood up and patted the tombstone affectionately. “Sherlock, meet Sebastian.”

John half expected the former Colonel to give him a look of disgust or shock for talking to a dead man in such a way but the only thing that John saw was a look of curiosity. Moran’s eyes flickered from John and to the black tombstone. John saw as Moran read the words engraved there mentally in his head. Finally, Moran’s eyes fell upon the fresh roses that were placed beside the tombstone.

John smiled sadly. “I visit him as often as I could. I miss him.”

John looked back at the tombstone. The memories that he tried to push away earlier that day came rushing back all at once. John swayed on the spot for a bit, as the world lost focus. John leaned on the tombstone for support. The name displayed on the tombstone was like a double edged sword. It was the source of his sorrows  yet the source of his strength. He clutched at the place above his heart where he had placed Sherlock’s letter in the inner folds of his jacket. He heard the crumpling of paper as his hand clamped unto his chest. The letter had become a constant reminder for John that Sherlock believed in him, that Sherlock believed he could be happy. John had always reasoned that if his best friend thought that John could live a happy life without Sherlock by his side then perhaps it was truly possible. Sherlock was a man of science. He didn’t believe in things without hard facts. Perhaps he had already found a formula of sorts and John only had to discover it for himself. Maybe, his life needn’t have Sherlock Holmes in the equation. He took a deep breath until he had sufficiently calmed down and gotten ahold of his overflowing emotions.

“He sacrificed his life for me, Sebastian.” John said, wanting Moran to understand what Sherlock Holmes meant to him and what kind of man the consulting detective was. John was used to many individuals viewing Sherlock as a fraud and a liar and he had long ago giving up on changing public opinion but if he could convince even just one good person of the truth and what Sherlock Holmes had truly done, then it eased the pain just a bit. Knowing others believed in Sherlock was a comforting thought.

“Running around London with him. Those were the best moments of my life. He may have been the world’s biggest git but there was more to Sherlock Holmes than what the world was allowed to see.” John allowed the memories to come forth now, retelling tales that seemed like a lifetime ago. It was a life that belonged to a different John Watson. A John Watson who was broken yes, but a John Watson who found a Sherlock Holmes to fix him. Moran graciously listened to John as he retold his adventures with Sherlock. John talked until his own voice was hoarse from use. Despite the cool night, a warmth seemed to have descended over them as John described his life with his best friend.

“I was broken, Sebastian. The war broke me.” John admitted somberly. Moran nodded in understanding at that. Men and women that go into the army never return as the same person. They are tainted by the war and violence that they see. What was left was simply a shell of their former selves. It was a long road to recovering what was once theirs. In time, soldiers would begin to readjust to a civilian life but innocence was something that would never come back with time.

There was this sense of loss all soldiers are familiar with. The loss of a life was something that soldiers had to face each and everyday. It was unlike any other. John had thought he was used to the concept of death, being a doctor exposed to such things back when he was still training, but the battlefield was not like that at all. War was a cruel mistress. Life could be taken away so easily, with the pull of a trigger. The battlefield was full of men playing God, men deciding who should live and who should die. The first lesson that all soldiers learned on the field was nothing was ever fair. The best one could do was accept and work with the odds. Some were favored more than others. It was all some sick game and at the end of it, no one emerged as the true winner.  

“But he..” He looked at Sherlock again, a soft expression glossing over his features. “He saved me.” The hardest story to tell were the events that led to that faithful day in St. Bart’s. But once John had began telling his story he couldn’t stop. It was all John could do to hold on to his own sanity.

There was an even greater sense of loss that few get to experience, for few were lucky enough to find true love.  Something great was gained when true love was found but the losses were even greater. A part of John was lost the day his true love was taken away and it was a loss that not many could even comprehend.

Moran stood quietly, taking all that in. “I understand, John.” Moran said, and somehow John believed him. John knew Moran understood what it meant to lose someone in such a way. “Sherlock was a good man and brave man. He understood the risks. He fought for the good of everyone.. for you..” Moran placed a comforting hand on John’s shoulder.

John nodded, stifling a sob.

The former colonel turned away and gazed at the moon high above them. “I had a similar friend.” Moran admitted quietly. The moon reflected Moran’s eyes, showing a vast emptiness there. An emptiness that John himself felt and struggled with each and everyday. John had to strain his ears to listen. “In many ways he saved me. I owed him a lot but… he was taken away from me.” The latter half of the statement came out as a growl. John stepped back, getting caught off guard at the sudden change in the other’s demeanor. He sensed the anger and hurt rolling of the older man. But just like a switch had been triggered, the man reverted to his old self, or to the man that John had come to know as Sebastian Moran. Moran took hold of his emotions and schooled his face into a mask of indifference.  John knew Moran wasn’t about to elaborate further so both of them just stood there in companionable silence.

John realized something that night. They were two men retired from the army trying to find their way. Both of them were two broken men who were simply looking for someone to fix them. John had Sherlock and Moran had his friend but the world had unjustly taken them away. And now, they were left even more broken and alone. It was a cruel joke that the world had played on them.

Despite its cruelty, the world was still kind enough to let John Watson meet Sherlock Holmes. And sometimes that was enough for John to think that his life was worth living.

11:00 PM Boulevard Cafe, Westminster London 

- Veterans from the British Army: Sebastian Moran and John Watson. - 

Save for his therapist, John Watson rarely talked about his time in the army with anyone. It wasn’t because there were a lack of stories,  there were plenty of those. John had learned to classify his days in the army as good days and bad days. Towards the end of his service, there were more bad days than good.

It wasn’t due to lack of people who asking either for there were quite plenty of those too. These were curious individuals who deemed being in the army as a rather curious occurrence so different from their ordinary day to day lives. John detested the way in which their eyes lit up when it was mentioned he served in the army. They looked at him with a look of reverence that felt oddly out of place. No one outside of the army could fully understand the life of a solider.  No one who has not seen war could fathom the reality that was chaos. To an outsider, they were heroes coming home; brave soldiers who fought for the queen. But John didn’t see it that way at all, not anymore. For John Watson was no hero, in his own mind at least.

Upon entering the army, he had the same romanticized view about serving in the army. Attribute it to his youthful ignorance and his belief that he, one single person, could be an instrument to changing the world. At that time he thought about it as heroic, steadfast and brave but there was a thin line between bravery and stupidity, between reason and unreason and John Watson had tread that line quite often. He’d come to let go of  this childish notion, in favor of a more practical ideology: survival. What mattered in the battlefield was living and saving the lives of those around him. Thoughts of heroics and honor took a back side to one single thought: living.

He saw the spark in the eyes of his fellow soldiers, the spark that he himself possessed when he joined the army. But the reality of war eroded one’s will and one’s soul. Often, the spark was lost, giving way to a sort of hallow and hardness that was characteristic of all seasoned solders. Surrounded with so much death and despair, the battlefield took its toll on good men. John learned to harden his heart and detach himself from his duties. He still cared of course, but by caring too much, he realized he could lose his own sanity. The first death was always the hardest but contrary to what others said it didn’t get any easier, one simply learned to numb the pain and dull the senses enough so that functioning became possible.

John encountered many men and women while he served in Afghanistan. Some he easily forgot, their presence not really leaving an image in John’s mind; but there were others who made quite an impression on him.  One such person was Sebastian Moran for this person wasn’t a man one could easily forget.

During his early days in the army, he served in an onsite medical headquarters in Afghanistan to receive his training. Despite having months of experience in his previous practice he was still not used to the conditions in which doctors in the army had to work. It was far from the comforts the surgery offered back in London.

It was common practice for British facilities to be inspected by higher ups. John Watson stood at attention, along with the rest of the medical staff. Just starting his out at his duty station, he was still unfamiliar with the higher ranking officers. One particular officer stood out from the rest. He was a serious looking man, taller than the rest, at least six feet in height. His rigorous training was evident in his broad shoulders and muscled build. had a weathered look on him, like he was a man had seen many battles. The way he held himself told John that he was quite a confident man. A man who didn’t doubt his own abilities and capabilities. For a moment, John’s and the man’s eyes met. The man’s eyes told an even deeper story. It was filled with a coldness of a man who was used to death yet it was also filled with a calmness of a man who was used to killing. Looking the dark brown haired man with eyes as black as night brought chills down John’s spine.

“That’s Major Sebastian Moran.” The nurse beside him whispered carefully in his ear.

John Watson was never on to jump to conclusions about people. He preferred to get to know individuals before classifying them into some sort of category for it was in his nature. John would soon forget the man’s name but there was one thought that stuck.

This was a man John Watson didn’t want to cross. 

The second time John Watson and Sebastian Moran met, it was a bit more eventful. A few years would pass before their paths crossed once again. John Watson had got himself recently promoted to the rank of captain.

“Lieutenant John Watson” The private had said, saluting the senior medical officer as he escorted a fellow soldier into the examination tent. They were in a middle of a battlefield. John had lost count how many days this particular struggle had been going on.  

“Lieutenant Colonel Sebastian Moran, sir! Reporting to the medical unit for treatment for a gunshot wound to the side, sir!” The private bid a salute to the aforementioned Sebastian Moran before taking his leave.

John looked at the patient file he held in his hands, before properly regarding the man who sat on the examination table before him.  Something tugged at the back of his mind as he gazed into the blackness of Moran’s eyes. An old memory resurfaced: a memory of a brief meeting. From the get go this man had intrigued John.

Moran had a gun wound to the side yet John knew immediately it was nothing deadly. Despite this fact, John knew the would must have hurt yet Moran did not show any indication of experiencing any pain whatsoever. He held himself like John had seen him all those years ago, confident and cocky like a bullet wound was nothing to worry about. 

John flipped through Moran’s medical file. John saw that this man was used to much worse injuries. Once Moran had maneuvered himself on the examination table, John proceeded to cut open the older’s army fatigue shirt in order to have access to the wound. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw various scars covered the man’s body, some appearing more recent than others. Sebastian Moran was a man used to the hardship of war. John put the stethoscope in place in order to listen to Moran’s vitals. 

 “Breath in and out please.”

Moran did as he was told but there was a bored look on his face. John Watson finished his initial examination before looking at the wound more closely. 

“Can you tell me what happened?” John asked, as he gathered the materials he needed in order to extract the bullet and suture the wound shut.

“My team and I were on a reconnaissance mission. We got intel that one of the Al Qaeda hideouts was close by.” Moran’s voice was low and rough.

John began cleaning up the wound and applying some anesthetic to it. Moran didn’t even flinch. The only indication he was in pain was the slight tightening of the jaw and a clenching of the fist.

“We spotted a few Al Qaedas over in the ravine. Decided it was best to follow them from a safe distance.” Moran continued with his tale as John injected some localized anesthetic in the wounded area.  

“It will take a few minutes for the anesthesia to take affect.” John said, more from routine rather than necessity. He was quite sure that Moran knew how all this worked by now, if his records were any indication. “Then I’ll get the bullet out and close the wound up. It’s only a flesh wound so I’ll be able to extract it cleanly.”

Moran nodded absentmindedly and continued with his story.

“We followed them, but they knew the area better than we did. We got careless for a moment and dropped our guard down. Next thing we knew, they had doubled back and ambushed us from behind. But these were inexperienced rebels. Most likely new recruits from the looks of them. There were young. Couldn’t even hold a gun right. It was a mistake for them to take my team head on like that.” A cold look descended over Moran’s face as he recounted the events after.

“Shot every one of them down, just on the knees so we could incapacitate them. One of them got a lucky shot in though.” Moran said, indicating his wounded side. Wanted to kill the bastard that did it too.” There was no remorse there as he said it, simply anger. A murderous look crossed Moran’s features for a second before smoothening to that calm collected look once again.

“My team got out of there alright. Got some valuable information too, so everything’s fine, doctor.” Sebastian gave him a soft and lopsided smile that was far from the coldness that John had come to associate with the man. This confused John, and made him think that perhaps he had read Sebastian Moran wrong.

“You ready with that?”  Moran pointed at the forceps in John’s hand.

John was holding the forceps just above the wound, but for a moment he was lost in his own thoughts.

“Ah, yes. I’ll just extract the bullet from the wound.” John busied himself with the wound, pushing thoughts of Moran’s character from his mind. He instructed the Lieutenant Colonel to lie down in the table so John could extract the bullet. Moran laid down on the table, with his wounded side to John. John concentrated and was able to extracted the bullet easily enough. Bullet wounds were common in the army and it was part of day to day operations, with some being worse than others. John started sewing back the skin after he cleaned up the wound again. Moran looked curiously as he was sewn back together.

After finishing the last stich, John wiped the wound of any blood and proceeded to cleaning himself up, wiping his own bloodied hands with a wet towel. “The bullet didn’t hit any vital organs. You’ll be in top shape after a few days of taking it easy.” John said, despite the fact that John knew Moran was not the type of man to take it easy. He handed Moran some pills along with instructions on when to clean the medicine and how to clean the wound.

“Thanks.” Moran said.

John got up and motioned to help Moran from the table, but Moran waved him off.

“It’s fine Doctor Watson.“

John saluted as Moran exited the tent. Despite his injury, Moran still held himself quite assuredly. John remembered thinking this was superior he’d be more than willing to follow to war.

Their third meeting happened a few more years after,  during greater turmoil. John’s regiment, the fifth Northumberland Fusiliers,had been in bad shape. They radioed for back up and Moran’s regiment came in to help.

Moran rode in with his team, with such steely determination. The war had not been favorable to Moran, in fact it seemed hardened him. If that was even possible. By this time John had heard a few stories about this Colonel Moran. His prowess as a marksman was well known in the British Army. John heard whispers that his skill with the sniper was perhaps second to none.

“Captain John Watson? What’s the situation?” Moran had addressed him. John saluted and immediately told Moran about the Al Qaeda s that had holed themselves in a the warehouse across from where they were.

“We’ve been at a stand off for hours. They retreated to the warehouse after dealing quite some damage to our regiment.” John waved towards his own team. He did his best to patch everyone up but he needed to get them proper help soon enough.

“Very well.” Moran had said before barking several orders to his own subordinates. The Moran in the battlefield was quite different from the Moran John had previously encountered. This man was a “no nonsense” kind of man. The confident way in which he held himself obviously came from the years of experience he held under his belt. Moran’s men didn’t miss a beat and followed  orders without question. It was beyond a superior subordinate relationship. There was the utmost respect there. Moran’s subordinates were quite sure of their superior’s skills and for the first time, John saw firsthand the fabled skills of Moran.

Moran held the sniper confidently in his hand, surveying his targets through the scope.  In what seemed like well practiced motions, he took a target out from an impossible distance. Wide eyed, John had looked around, his surprise mirrored in his own team’s faces. Moran’s team didn’t seem surprised at all. Like amazing feats like that were a regular thing, and perhaps they were.

With Moran’s help they were able to take the rebels down with little casualties on their own side. John Watson looked back to his and Moran’s first meeting all those years ago. He was right to think that Sebastian Moran wasn’t a man he would like to cross. He was glad that Moran was on their side, he didn’t favor the bloke on the other end of Sebastian’s scope.

Their last meeting was perhaps the most memorable to John. It was after the time John was forced to kill one of his own regiment, an army member turned spy for the Al Qaeda.

“John Watson.” John turned around to face none other than Sebastian Moran. John had been surveying the destruction through the window of the building that served as one of the medical headquarters.

“Colonel Moran, sir!” John had stood on attention, as was demanded of a subordinate to his superior.

“At ease, soldier.”

“I heard about what happened.”  Moran added.

John noticed that Moran’s arm was in a sling. It was most probable he had received treatment and heard about what happened from one of the nurses.

John nodded, looking away. He looked at his own hands. Hands which have both saved and taken lives, be it in the operating table or on the field. Now he had the blood of another countryman in his hands, one he had shot in cold blood.

“Sometimes you can do nothing but kill.” Moran said, looking John squarely in the eyes. He stared into those black eyes once again; eyes that held a depth to it that only those who have seen death could even comprehend. 

Something about the way it was said bothered John. It wasn’t in the same hushed and empathetic tones that most used around him when they talked of the incident. It was spoken as if killing was a part of everyday life. And in fact, it was a reality that surround them already, a reality that John couldn’t disregard. Killing had been part of their lives, their lives were tainted by blood, very much how the land around them was littered by the corpses of friends and foes alike.

John heaved a heavy sigh, his years in the army catching up with him now. 

It was then that John looked in the mirror and realized the spark that had once been present in his eyes was now lost to the horrors of the war. 

“You’re right.” John said quietly.  

That was the last time he had seen Sebastian Moran in the army. He heard that Moran retired soon after and John did not hear of the man again until a few days ago when he quite literally stumbled into Moran. Two years had passed since he last saw Moran. That meeting at Bart’s was the reason why he now found himself with his former senior officer in a quaint café near Baker Street. Moran had said he rarely saw anyone from the old days and would have wanted to have a cuppa, at least, just to catch up. At first John didn’t know what to feel about a fellow soldier suddenly showing up while he was trying to reintegrate himself to civilian society. There was a reason John avoided veteran reunions and anything of the like. He feared that the appearance of Moran would trigger even worse nightmares and tremors for this was a physical manifestation of his former life as a soldier, a life he was trying to push to the back of his mind. Then, he realized if there was someone who could truly understand the difficulties of adjusting and moving on with one’s life it would be Moran.

“Colonel Moran.” John had said earlier, when Moran had approached his table. A salute accompanied his stance. Moran gave him a lopsided smile.

“At ease solder.” Moran replied, giving the customary reply before sitting down across John.

“Colonel Moran, haven’t heard that title in awhile.” Moran’s eyes glazed over a moment as he recalled past events that had come with the title of Colonel. Shaking his head, he surveyed John very much like how superiors looked at subordinates when it was uniform inspection day.

“Retirement has been kind to you, John Watson.“ 

John smiled at the comment. He may not have been training like he did in the army, but running around London with Sherlock allowed John to maintain a physically fit body. Thoughts of Sherlock flooded his mind. John closed his eyes and willed the images to retreat to the back of his mind where he had decidedly stored them away.

Moran looked at John curiously, perhaps noticing the internal struggle going on in the soldier’s mind. 

“Yeah. I could say the same to you.” John remarked, seeing that Moran’s muscular physique was still in good shape, very much how he had looked during his days as a colonel. “What have you been up to all these years? Last I heard you had retired.”

“Just wanted a change of scenery and all. You know how draining life in the army can get.” Moran said, not really elaborating on the context of his retirement. “I found a few odd jobs here and there. Eventually I found an employer in need of a body guard. Did that for a year or so till a few months ago.” There was a slight pause, before Moran continued. Perhaps it was John’s imagination but there was a flash of anger there. John figured his relationship with his former employer may not have ended well. “Traveled around for awhile after, and now I’m back in London. Heard you we around here. didn’t know where though. I was on my way to my veteran’s check up at Bart’s, didn’t realize I would bump into you there.”

“You’ve been busy.” John said.

“Yeah, I’ve been around places.” Moran replied, giving another of his crooked smiles.  John smiled back.

“How about you? I heard you were shot. What happened?”

John couldn’t keep track how many times he heard to question ‘What happened?’. He had never told this story before in detail, not to Lestrade or Sherlock. But he felt Moran would understand, as only fellow solders would. And so for the first time, he told his story. 

“That was eighteen months ago now.” John said, absently rubbing his shoulder. Some days, like on cold days, his shoulder would bother him severely and John would recall the events of this day most vividly.

“I was separated from my regiment. I fell behind because I was treating an injured comrade.” His voice seemed detached from himself somehow, like he was hearing it through a long and narrow tunnel. The café swam before his eyes and before he knew it he was transported the events of eighteen months ago.  

It was a hot afternoon like any other in Afghanistan. John was in one of the neighboring towns. He asked his regiment to leave him behind so that he could nurse a fellow soldier. The solder had sustained a life threatening would to the side and John suspected there was internal bleeding too. Transporting him through the jeep would jog the would to much and cause him to bleed out, so John had radioed for a airlift instead. He was doing everything he could to stop the bleeding and to stabilize his condition.

The town had been deemed safe and outside of rebel influence so John had no qualms about being left behind but suddenly the town was assaulted by rebels. Civilians were being taken hostage, John tried to fight them off but he was severely outnumbered. He tried to take out as many as he could and protect the civilians but there was only so much one man could do. The next thing he knew a gun was pointed at him and his comrade.

“Leave him alone!” John had screamed. Painfully aware of the barrel of the gun pointed in his direction. “He’s already injured.” War was merciless even to the injured. A shot was fired and the next thing he knew his patient was dead. He was restrained by two burly men as the man who appeared to be the head rebel pointed a rifle at him.

Please Got Let me Live. John thought feverishly. His throat dried up and his breath hitched is his chest. The man with the gun was asking him for information about the locations and numbers of the army.  John was of course privy to this information, but his sense of duty outweighed his own safety. He knew more people would die if he gave this information. John remained stubbornly silent.

Another shot rang through the air, this time John felt a burning sensation on his shoulder. For the first time in his life, John Watson was shot. No mater how many bullet wounds he had treated or books he had read about it and the pains the patient experienced, nothing could have prepared him for the pain that came. The bullet had gone straight through the bone and embedded itself there, fracturing the bone in the process. A blood curdling scream reached John’s ears, it took a moment for John to realize that he was the one making that noise. His vision swam, again the rifle was pointed at him, this time directly at his head. Once again he was asked for information. It was at that moment John knew he was facing death. He was going to die in this god forsaken place, his body broken and bloodied like his fallen comrade’s.

Coming to terms with death wasn’t an easy thing to do. But in that one moment where John had inhaled, thinking that it was his last breath, he had faced the fact that he would not live to see tomorrow. He closed his eyes. It was a second that seemed to extend to minutes and hours even, a moment where the sounds of the world seemed to ebb away. What remained was the slow beating of his heart.

One Beat.

Two Beats.

Three Beats.

He heard the gunshot, the shot that supposedly should have ended his life. But he realized something was wrong. He realized his own heart was still beating in his chest and there was no additional pain. His heart returned to it’s normal place, he opened his eyes and everything seemed to go in fast forward. The rebel who had a rifle to his head moments before was now sprawled on the ground, bloodied and dead. British forces started pouring into the town and restraining the rebels.  John felt his knees buckle underneath him as he savored each breath he took.

I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive.

John looked over his fallen comrade. The blank stare he saw there haunted his dreams ever since.

John sighed as he finished telling his story, a weight seemed to be lifted from his shoulders as he recounted what he thought were his last moments. He knew Sebastian Moran understood what those moments felt like. Moran would also understand the guilt that had been plaguing John for moths, nevertheless he still had to ask.

“Do they haunt your dreams too? The people you’ve killed.” John asked softly. John knew the answer he desperately wanted to hear.  He wanted to know that it wasn’t just him that got haunted with images of the past, that he wasn’t the only one broken by the war.

“Yes. Every night.” Moran said quietly. John looked into Moran’s black eyes and saw nothing but the truth there. Perhaps for the first time in months, John was able to breath a bit easier. John thought he finally found someone who he could talk to.

“Been having a rough time, ever since I got discharged. Then I met Sherlock Holmes. H-he…” John bit his lip, not quite sure if Moran had heard of the consulting detective and the stories about him being a fraud. But Moran only gave him a blank stare. His and Sherlock’s first meeting came to mind and again. It was when he met Sherlock that he began again began to believe that one person could change the world. That belief remained until the moment Sherlock Holmes died. A familiar pain erupted in John’s chest. John placed a hand on his chest, right above his heart and right where Sherlock’s letter was tucked in his coat pocket. John tried to claw at his chest and ease the pain. But it was pointless. He wasn’t ready to talk about Sherlock.

“He was a good man.” John said quietly. Not able to elaborate any further.

“Sounds like you cared about this bloke a lot.” Moran said sincerely.

“I’ll be around London for awhile, if you want a cuppa. Seems like you have quite a story to tell me.” Moran extended a hand to John.

John took the hand in his own and shook it firmly. “It was nice seeing you again Colonel Moran.”

“Call me Sebastian, John.” Moran said, with a small smile tugging at his lips. He did a small salute before walking away. John lowered the hand he had raised in responding salute and watched Moran’s retreating figure.

It seemed John Watson had found a friend in Sebastian Moran. 

12 Charing Cross Road, Westminster London

- Foolish Dreams and Unfulfilled Wishes -

It was a time the whole world had waited for in bated breath. It was a time when time seemed to stop and everything looked upon the two men who stood on the landing of 221B Baker street. All eyes were on them. Two friends, torn apart by violence, brought together by one final act of killing.

“May I come inside?”

Sherlock stood there waiting for John to answer, waiting for the resolution of the story. Waiting for the happy ending that most humans sought after. The whole world seemed to hold its breath. Nothing stirred and nothing existed except these two individuals right here. John reached towards Sherlock’s own face, wanting to feel the warmth of the other for himself. In those few moments when the face of Sherlock swam in his vision as tears glistened in his brown eyes, John felt relief wash over him. Months of waiting had come to a close and finally Sherlock had come home. He placed a gentle had on Sherlock’s cheeks, his fingertips tingling at the unfamiliar and sought after sensation. Looking into Sherlock’s blue eyes, something snapped within him at that moment.

The spell that had descended upon them shattered as the calm was broken. Months of pent up emotions and hardships surfaced in John’s mind. Before he realized what was happening John’s left fist had swung towards Sherlock. The other didn’t even move and accepted the blow as it came. Sherlock staggered backward, nursing the now forming bruise.

“You git!”

John Watson rushed at Sherlock, but rather than another punch, the older wrap his arms around the younger. The tears streaked down his face, and the sobs came forth from him. It was like a dam that had broken. A dam that had been constructed through months of grieving and mourning now gave way for the emotions and sentiments to finally spill over.

John Watson beat at Sherlock’s chest, his clenched fists slamming into the other, not all that forcefully. The will to fight had gone out of John Watson.

“Sherlock. You were dead! I saw you jump. I mourned you.. I called your name again and again. I begged you to come back.”

Tremors shook through his body as he collapsed unto the consulting detective. Sherlock slowly wrapped his arms around the doctor and said the three words that managed to reach John’s heart.

“I’m here now.” Sherlock said quietly.

John looked up at black haired man who had haunted his dreams so often. Whose face and whose voice had always consumed his thoughts. Long ago, Sherlock became the reason for John’s everyday and perhaps it could be like that again. Finally they would be able to go back to the routine that was theirs and theirs alone. Things would go back to the way they once were.

Following what should have been, John Watson would have said the very thing that Sherlock had been waiting for all this time:

“Welcome Home.” John said softly, for only Sherlock to hear.

But that wasn’t what happened. Not at all. In a world of fantasy and fiction, perhaps that could have transpired but this isn’t fantasy or some game of pretend. This was reality. A reality that John Watson could not escape. You see, things could not easily go back to the way they once were. After everything that had transpired, the road that lead towards their past life was now barred by a wall. A brick was carefully placed there each day that passed after Sherlock’s death, sealing the past most effectively. Not even Sherlock himself was able to tear down that wall. What’s more, John Watson had already found himself on a completely different path. This was the road towards the future he, at one point, was resigned to having. What started out as John’s way of complying to Sherlock’s wish of him to be happy turned out to be something he truly wanted for himself as well. John wanted a future, John wanted a family and so he found himself walking down that path with a woman who taught him it was okay to love again. This woman named Helen tore down the walls around his heart and became a constant presence in his life. And so, instead of the heartfelt reunion that the whole world had been waiting for, another parting of the ways was witnessed, perhaps even more terrible than the last.

Snow fell heavily from the night sky, a cold had descended all over London but the coldness that John Watson now felt inside him had nothing to do with that. The still and calm London night was a complete contrast to the storm that raged within the retired army doctor. John turned away from the window, putting the sea of whiteness that was London behind him. He gazed around the familiar flat. It wasn’t 221B. For one, it had a more feminine touch to it. There were lace trimmed placemats and delicate pottery. There were one of a kind paintings decorating the walls of the flat. His favorite one hung over the fireplace. It was a depiction of the exact scenery John had been viewing moments before. Instead of the snowy expanse, the whole city could be seen in all its glory. But through the lens of a painter, the city came forth in a different perspective and light. There was hope that beauty could lie in even a harsh city like London. John tore his eyes away from the painting and looked around. It had a couch, but it John’s opinion it wasn’t as comfortable as the one in 221B. There were no armchairs that sat beside the fire. There was no skull on the mantelpiece. Perhaps, the only thing in common with 221B was the vast array of medical books that the shelves housed. The air was tinged with the small of lilacs. All was empty and quiet in the flat too, which John found very unsettling. The disquiet put him further on edge and his mind could do nothing but go back to the what followed after his parting of the ways with the now resurrected Sherlock Holmes.

*

John had run until he couldn’t ignore the pain in his chest anymore. The cold air shot through his system like a thousand tiny pinpricks assaulting his senses. On and on he went until his legs felt like lead and sweat glistened on his forehead despite the low temperature that came with the winter. John finally stopped, doubling over and placing his hands on his knees. He tried to get his breath back, yet he relished the pain that came with the fatigue. Finally his breathes came much slower and he was able to look up and take in his surroundings. He found himself in the park, more specifically the playground. He had spent a lot of lonely afternoons wandering around this part of London, and was therefore not surprised that his legs had subconsciously carried him here.

The snow was pristine and undisturbed. That was to be expected for the kids were with their families now, spending their Christmases around the dinner table, or sitting excitedly by the tree waiting for the clock to strike twelve. John crossed the playground towards the pair of swings that stood at the center. The swing creaked under his weight as he sat down. He swayed back and forth, using his legs to propel the motion. John didn’t know how long he sat there, staring at the night sky. The adrenalin slowly receded from his system. In its place was the anger that bubbled to the surface once again. Images of Sherlock Holmes framed in the doorway entered his mind, try as he might he couldn’t push it away. Sherlock coming back had been his most fervent wish for so long. Until John decided to move on that is.

John huffed in annoyance, muttering obscenities under his breath. It was as if his whole world had been turned upside down once again. It was all one big elaborate lie. Consequently, a play on his very emotions. John now didn’t know what to believe in and couldn’t even fathom the flurry of emotions that raged inside him. Were his feelings about Sherlock true, or was it just induced by the shock of supposedly losing him? When Sherlock didn’t even die in the first place, how could he know if what he felt was genuine at all?

John didn’t even look up when he heard footsteps behind him, disturbing the gravel and snow on the ground. He felt the newcomer pause in his advancements. John’s neck prickled under the penetrating gaze of the stranger.

“Did you know?” The question came out more harsher then he intended. Yet, John Watson was beyond manners now. He was like a wounded animal, cornered and desperate.

“No.” The gruff response of Greg Lestrade came back. The response was simple yet it told tomes about the other’s situation. John turned his head to see Lestrade walk towards him and take the swing beside him. He was pale and his eyes were haunted by a pain that John knew quite well. It was obvious something was plaguing his mind. The detective inspector sighed and pulled out a box of cigarettes from his pocket with an accompanying lighter. He shook the box against his palm until a stick fell out. With well practiced motions he placed it on his lips and lit it with a flick of his lighter. The tension on his face eased a bit as the nicotine wove its way into his system. He extended the box to John, silently asking him if he wanted one. For the first time in years John helped himself to a stick. The roll between his forefinger and middle finger felt like he was welcoming an old friend back home. He placed it in his mouth and leaned forward for Lestrade to light it. After a sharp intake of breath and exhale later, John felt a bit better. The tremors that shook his body lessened to a certain degree.

“I left Mycroft.” Lestrade said. There was sadness and anger there. Two emotions that John was very familiar with and could easily distinguish.

“He knew.” John replied. It wasn’t a question. John already had a deeply rooted anger against the older of the Holmes brothers. He had never forgiven Mycroft for killing Sherlock Holmes, and now to find out that the man was involved in this elaborate hoax. It did nothing to improve his standing in John’s eyes.

Lestrade nodded as his brows furrowed in frustration. It wasn’t everyday you see the detective inspector in such an emotional state. But one could hardly fault him. He had just left the man he once loved, very much like what John did too.

“I received a call about a gunshot near The Abbey pub. We were already shorthanded at the Yard so I decided to go alone and investigate. When I got there, Mycroft was there…”

“Mycroft?”

Lestrade nodded, pausing for a moment before continuing. He looked at John and there eyes locked on each other’s. “He was holding a gun. Standing over a body in the alley. I asked him what the hell he was doing there but he wouldn’t answer me at first. I rushed at the body to see who it was Mycroft had shot. It was…” Lestrade faltered at this moment. John urged him to continue.

“Sebastian Moran.” Lestrade finished, turning away from John.

“S-sebastian? Sebastian’s dead?! Mycroft shot Sebastian? Why?!” The hysteria in John’s voice was very much evident now. This night was continuing to spiral downward as the world that he once knew slowly became an unholy land where nothing made any sense.

“Imagine my confusion at finding Mycroft at a crime scene like that.” Lestrade was having trouble hiding his own anger at the situation they were in. “At first I thought it was some secret operation by the government of some sort. Maybe Sebastian got into some spot of trouble. The truth, though, was further from anything I ever expected it to be.”

Lestrade paused. “Did Sherlock tell you anything?”

John shook his head. “I didn’t give him the chance to explain. I don’t know. I was just….”

“Angry?” Lestrade supplied.

John nodded.

Lestrade fished an envelope from his coat and handed it to John. He opened the envelope and numerous files spilled on his lap. On top of the pile was Sebastian Moran’s file. The picture placed there wasn’t the Sebastian he knew. The image before him was of a cold hearted killer. Bottomless black eyes that reflected nothing but death. He scanned the file and his eyes halted on one line:

Assassin. Employed under Consulting Criminal Jim Moriarty.

John’s breath caught in his chest. He closed his eyes, willing to wake up from this hellish nightmare. The man who had, in many ways, rescued him from the pain was nothing more than an illusion. The man he considered a best friend was all but a trick of the mind. In many ways he had given a lot of trust in the Sebastian Moran he knew. John didn’t easily trust people, nor did he share his problems with anyone. With Moran it was different. It was so much easier. Life became a lot better. To find out all of that were simply lies was devastating to say the least.

“He wanted to kill me?” John’s voice was soft and scared.

Lestrade nodded.

“I guess this would make more sense when I start from the beginning. Sherlock faked his death. With the help of Molly.” Lestrade spat the name. John’s eyes widened when he heard it. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He felt his sanity slowly being chipped away with each revelation he heard.

“Molly knew…” First there was disbelief. Then came the anger. He remembered all those times when Molly had comforted him and then those times when she had wanted to say something but thought better of it. This was the big secret.

“So did Mycroft. The both of them were in on it all this time. While the rest of us made a fool of ourselves mourning his loss. They played the both of us as idiots.”  Lestrade said. The words were harsh but it was the truth. The phrase the truth hurts didn’t even begin the describe the situation.

“According to Mycroft, after he faked his death, Sherlock hunted down Moriarty’s men. The last of Moriarty’s men was – “

“Sebastian.” John finished for him. Knowing the man could have killed him at any moment was not a welcoming notion, but he couldn’t help think he had lost a friend. Or perhaps, his friend never existed in the first place. John shuddered as he was able to fully comprehend the situation. He had thought Moriarty to be gone, but even from beyond the grave he was still able to destroy their lives.

“You’re taking this better than I expected.” Lestrade said. There was no cocky smile or twinkle of the eye here. It was a statement of fact.

John scoffed. “I punched the damn git and left him standing there in the damn cold.” He couldn’t even bear saying the name Sherlock now. The name only brought him pain.

John stood up, the files spilling on the snow topped ground but he paid them no mind. He started to pace around, leaving crisscrossing footprints in the snow. He threw his cigarette in the thicket, not even bothering to stomp it out.

“Lies! All Lies…” John’s breath hitched in his chest. There was a lot of anger inside John Watson. Anger at Moriarty for tearing their lives apart, anger at Mycroft for playing this idiotic game, anger at Molly for making him a fool, anger at Sherlock Holmes for leaving and playing with his heart.

John’s breathing was heavy as he shouted frustratingly into the heavens. He sat unceremoniously into the ground covered snow and placed his head in his hands. He carded his hands through his hair, wishing that everything was just a bad dream.

Lestrade gazed at the same stars John was looking at moments before. They twinkled sadly above them. “I thought I knew Mycroft. I thought he had allowed me to see a side of himself that no one had the privilege of seeing. Behind the titles and behind the power, Mycroft Holmes was just a man. A man who just needed someone to understand who he was and stand by him. I thought I was that man. I don’t even know anymore if that was the real Mycroft Holmes or if it was just part of this game he played with the rest of us.” It was tinged with bitterness but sadness as well. John wasn’t the only one who lost something tonight.

John listened, for the first time his mind wandering from his own predicament and thinking about something else: the relationship of Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade. As far as John knew, Mycroft didn’t have girlfriends or anything of the sort. Mycroft had colleagues and connections, not friends. Lestrade, it seemed, was the exception. When John found out about Lestrade and Mycroft, he had doubted the older Holmes was capable of emotions such as love but he reasoned it was his own personal biases speaking. Lestrade obviously saw something in the man and that was good enough for John. It looked as if they complimented each other in many ways. He may not be privy to their interactions but he knew Lestrade was happy. In very much the same way that lies had torn apart Mycroft and Lestrade, the lies were destroying what John and Sherlock had.

Lestrade got up and dropped his cigarette, before stomping it out with the sole of his trainer. He walked to where John was and placed a hand on his shoulders.

“Let’s get you home.”

“I don’t know where home is.” John replied sadly.

Home was once 221B, where he and his best friend spent their days together and lived the routine that was their own. Home was once 221B, where the memories he held dear made themselves present in John’s everydays. Home was once 221B, where he would wait for the day when Sherlock would finally come back to him. Home was once 221B, the place where he confined himself and willed the pains of the world to go away. Home was once 221B, his own respite. Home was once 221B, where he thought he could live his happily ever after with the woman he had given his heart to.

John shook his head. “I won’t go back there. I don’t want to see him. He never died so it’s still his flat.” John stared at the white snow underneath him. “I was going to ask her to move in with me Greg. I was going to ask her tonight. I prepared his old room and everything. I fixed up the flat. I was finally able to put all his things in the attic. I was finally able to move on without looking back. And then this happens.” Tears silently rolled down his face. John was past pretending to be strong. He was now nothing but a broken man. Broken not by Moriarty or by Mycroft but by Sherlock Holmes.

After all the anger had been spent what was left was an emptiness that could only be described as being lost. He looked up at Greg Lestrade and the expression on his face was quite clear. ‘I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t know what to do.’

Lestrade bowed his head. “I don’t know too, John. I don’t know.” For the first time, Lestrade didn’t have all the answers. He didn’t have any advice to offer to John Watson for he himself was as lost and equally alone. The only thing he could give was a helping hand.

“Let’s go to my flat for now. Helen’s still at her shift now right? I’ll call her and tell her to pick you up there.”

John could only nod, as what he felt was beyond words now. He allowed the detective inspector to carry half his weight as they made their way towards the street. Lestrade hailed a cab and helped John inside. John watched as the city passed by him in a blur of lights. He placed his forehead on the cool window and stared unseeingly outside.

They arrived at flat. The exhaustion caused by the night’s events had finally taken its toll on John’s body. He collapsed on the couch, burying himself in the cushions. Lestrade made as if to leave but before he could he felt a tug on his coat. John’s had had shot up and taken ahold of him.

“Please.” John said quietly.

Lestrade sat beside John and held him close. It was nothing romantic of course. They were brothers after all, brothers whom the world has wronged in very much the same way. Lestrade held John, like he had done all those months ago. He felt the subtle tremors that shook through the other’s body as the walls John had put up all those months had finally broken down.  The presence of another human being was a comfort to the both of them. The world has suddenly become a hostile place and this familiar feeling of comfort would help them tide through the night.

From somewhere in the flat a clock chimed, twelve rings to signify the coming of Christmas morning. A Christmas miracle had occurred but it brought nothing but pain to all.

 “Happy Christmas, John.” Lestrade whispered.

John couldn’t even bring himself to reply, so he simply nodded. The festiveness of the holidays had drained out of him. All that was left was a dull aching.

When the clock had chimed one, a knock came on the door. Lestrade stood up and made his way towards the door. Unsurprisingly, Helen was on the other side, holding a bag of presents in her hand. She smiled sadly at Lestrade before looking at the sleeping figure of John Watson.

“He just fell asleep. Should I wake him for you?” Lestrade massaged the crick that had formed on his neck.

Helen shook her head, stepping inside. The tiredness from her face faded as she touched John’s face. It was replaced by a look that could only be described as love. She gently traced the contours of John’s face with her delicate hands. John stirred. She stopped and leaned closer to hear what he was whispering.

“Sh-sherlock … ”

Helen stepped back, the sad look crossing her features once again.

“I’ve been to see him.”

Lestrade looked up at that. “You saw Sherlock?”

Helen nodded stiffly. “He had a bruise on his face. Probably, John had punched him. Sherlock was waiting there on the porch of 221B.” She glanced at John. “Waiting for him to come back I think.”

Helen sighed and sat cross-legged on the floor as she stroked John’s hand. “And he was doing so well too. Now that Sherlock’s back. I don’t know what the state of his mind would be.”

Both of them knew fully well what John had gone through. Insanity was but a step away for John. John’s suicide attempt was still fresh in their minds.

…

John woke up on Christmas morning to find Helen asleep on the living room floor still holding his hand. Despite having a few hours of sleep, he still felt the fatigue of last night.  It took a moment for him to recall what had happened transpired only a few hours before. It felt like a rather awful nightmare.

Dream?

No.

Real.

The confusion that initially filled his mind was replaced with anger and discontentment. John sighed and tried to will the pains away. He looked at Helen, sleeping soundly with her head resting near his own. In her other hand was the blue box that contained the key to 221B that he was supposed to give her. This wasn’t how he wanted the both of them to spend Christmas. He had planned a romantic evening for the both of them. It was nothing too extravagant, just dinner and a quite night together, ending with him asking her to move in. His dinner preparations had gone to waste. He had finally finished his preparations in Sherlock’s room. He had wanted to give her a room of her own. He wanted that future with her. The key symbolized that future, that happiness he had always tried to chase after.

The woman stirred as John sat up and let go of her hand. She followed his gaze and saw he was staring at the box.

Helen smiled sadly at him and opened the box.

“You wanted me to move in with you.”

“I still want-“ She cut him off as she placed a tender finger on his lips. “Are you sure John?”

Asking her to move in with him was one of the surest decisions that John had ever made in his life, but after last night’s events he found himself thrust into doubt once again. What he thought of as truth was nothing more than illusions. The dilemma must have been evident on his face for Helen leaned in closer and placed a chaste kiss on John’s forehead. It was a comforting gesture.

“I don’t want to go back there.” John admitted. John had never felt so vulnerable in his life than he did now. She held him close and again, the tears fell and his body shook. His world had shattered and she knew it.  John’s world once revolved around Sherlock Holmes, a shining sun in the darkness and loneliness of the place called life. When the sun disappeared, John was thrown back into the darkness with nothing to gravitate towards. Nothing could compare to the sun that once was. Helen was but a moon, a mere reflection of the sun.

Now, the sun had returned but it was too late. John had been lost in the darkness, tethered to the moon, by the merest of threads. 

“I’m here, John.” John nodded at that. John now doubted a lot of things, but there was one thing he was sure of, and it was the woman that now stood in front of him. He looked into her green eyes and found the solace he had always sought. He caressed her face and tucked a stray lock behind her ear. Helen slid into the sofa with John. And silently, they watched as London life unfolded before them through the window of Gregory Lestrade’s flat. It was something very simple, yet to John it meant the world. Her presence was a foothold in the ever changing world.

John thoughts wandered to Sherlock, thinking of the tall black haired man framed in the doorway of 221B Baker Street. He wasn’t the Sherlock he remembered, yet he knew it was his Sherlock. Not some hoax nor some trick. The real consulting detective had truly come back from the dead. He remembered the way in which Sherlock had said his name. He never thought he would hear his name being called in such a way again.

“John.”Sherlock’s deep voice had always haunted his dreams and now he could hear his real voice again. He didn’t have to settle for recordings or vague memories.

“John.”

John looked up at Helen, who was watching him with concern in her deep green eyes.

“I saw Sherlock last night.” John nodded. He had assumed as much, seeing she had the key with her. “He wanted me to give you these.”  

She fished out two objects from her coat pocket. The first was one he recognized immediately. It was his phone, his coping mechanism for eighteen long months. It was his last connection to Sherlock Holmes. Despite knowing, that his text message would remain unanswered he continued to send them anyway. The other object was a phone he wasn’t familiar with.

Confusion crossed John’s features as he took both objects in his hands. He pocketed his own phone and examined the other. It didn’t take too long to realize whose phone it was.

It was Sherlock’s.

John stared unblinkingly at the phone. Sherlock didn’t do anything for absolutely no reason so it was safe to assume there was something inside the phone that was meant for his eyes but after last night’s events he wasn’t sure he could handle another revelation of sorts. He took a deep breath. There was nothing else he could find out that could tear his world apart in the same way that Sherlock’s return had.

He was wrong.

He saw the hundreds of text messages he had been sending Sherlock, sitting there inside the phone. Eighteen long months of suffering and of pain outlined for all too see. John’s heart ached as he looked through his own messages. Sending text messages to Sherlock became a part of his new routine. At the time, he believed Sherlock would never see the messages nor reply to them but he continued to send them anyway. It was a coping mechanism that was his own. The texts made it easier to pretend that Sherlock would come back home, that was why he held unto that hope. He saw his own descent into depression as the texts became more desperate. Some texts he remembered more than others. Many of them were pleas to come home, pleas that remained unanswered until now. Yet even more of them were confessions about his own emotions that he would have never been able to tell Sherlock face to face. He bore out his heart and soul into those text messages. Finding out that Sherlock had been privy to these inner thoughts from the start wasn’t something he could easily digest nor accept. The anger did not come. Simply confusion. John had gotten another of his heart’s desires: for Sherlock to see the messages that John had sent him. Yet with the realization came the question: why didn’t he answer me? He knew yet he didn’t do anything. John Watson felt betrayed. There was nothing else that could describe the well of emotions inside him at this moment. To him, it seemed as if the whole world was in on the joke. A joke at the expense of himself. He had spent the better half of the past eighteen months mourning a man who wasn’t quite so dead.

The phone held even more secrets. He saw the text exchanges between Mycroft and Sherlock. It was evident that Mycoft was deeply involved and aware of all of Sherlock’s activities. The grieving brother act was nothing but that: an act. John also saw the short exchanges between Sebastian and Sherlock. John paled as he read those particular messages. It had all been a game. John felt like a pawn in the grander scheme of things, being tossed around and played with. It only served to fuel the anger that continued to burn within him.

Yet, the most terrible secret of all came in the form of Sherlock’s unsent text messages to John. These were texts never sent to him. They were simply kept there, like a tethered lifeline. Eighteen months worth of messages stared back at him in all its glory. His heart clenched as he saw his own name again and again. John couldn’t believe it. The emotion in the texts wasn’t something he could easily identify with Sherlock. Sherlock was a man who dismissed sentiment and anything of the sort as trivial and not worthy of his time, yet here were messages that bore Sherlock’s heart and soul; similar to what John Watson himself had done. Perhaps death, or in Sherlock’s case, faking his death had afforded Sherlock a change in perspective.  In the same way that John coped with his own text messages, Sherlock had done the same thing. He felt tears fall roll down his face as he read through the messages and took the journey of the last eighteen months from Sherlock’s own eyes. He spent the whole of Christmas day going through Sherlock’s text messages. It was like a drug to John. He wasn’t foreign to addiction. He became so engrossed in the messages and the stories they told him. It can be likened to reading a good book. John couldn’t bring himself to stop reading until he came to the resolution of the story. It wasn’t a fanciful romantic novel though, to John, the story that unfolded before his eyes could be compared to only one thing:  a tragedy. A sort of hunger had come over him as he read through the texts. He saw that Sherlock had gone through his own suffering as well. It was a grotesque parallelism to John’s own torment. He expected to feel a sense of victory in finding out that Sherlock had suffered as he did but instead of victory, he felt defeat. It was a hollowness coupled with regret. The moon had shone through the window by the time John had set down Sherlock’s phone. He kept thinking about how the consulting detective’s slender hands had once held the phone, texting one message after another. John’s heart wasn’t filled with hopefulness or anything of that sort.  The best and perhaps most hurtful revelation that came with his journey back in time was the fact that Sherlock Holmes had loved him and that he had wanted to come home. Back to 221B, back to his experiments but most especially back to John Watson. To Sherlock, home was all these things. These thoughts filled John’s mind as exhaustion took hold of him and he was thrust into the darkness of sleep. John fell asleep on Lestrade’s couch with a phone clutched tightly to his chest. It was a very familiar position yet the only difference was that instead of his own phone he held Sherlock’s.

The days after Christmas was a blur to John. Helen had offered for John to stay at her flat at 12 Charing Cross Road for the time being and he had graciously accepted. He wanted to give Lestrade his space as well. The man was heart broken, that was evident for all to see. Trust became the failing of Lestrade’s relationship with his ex- wife and now, history seemed to be repeating itself. Sherlock’s return brought about more hardships for all involved.

John had stopped by 221B to get some of his things. He knew, from Lestrade, that Sherlock was staying at Mycroft’s but John still did not want to return to 221B. It held too much pain for him to bare it any longer. The flat was just as he had left it yet stepping inside felt like cutting a fresh wound open. The flat was the perfect embodiment of the cross roads he now faced. It was a mixture of the past melded with the future he thought he had wanted with Helen.

Molly Hooper had come over to Charing Cross Road at some point but John couldn’t bring himself to look at her let alone talk to her. Molly brought apologies along with her Christmas presents yet John accepted neither, simply telling her he needed time and wanted to be left alone. Trust did not come easily to John Watson and to have his trust betrayed in such a way had hurt him terribly. Molly wasn’t the only visitor at Charing Cross Road. A few days before the new year a young boy with black hair and blue eyes had knocked at their door. He couldn’t be older than nine. When he saw the boy, he first thought it was one of Helen’s patients but it turned out it was Sherlock who had sent the boy. Sherlock had asked the boy to tell John that he was sorry and wanted to speak. John of course couldn’t spill his anger unto the poor boy who was simply following orders. He didn’t want to think where Sherlock had gotten the boy. He sent the child home, with some treats for his trouble.

John’s phone buzzed at random intervals each day, signaling that a new message had been received. Each time, John didn’t bother looking at who or what the message was, for he knew it would only come from one person: Sherlock. Despite the revelation brought about by the unsent text messages, John couldn’t bring himself to let go of the anger that still burned fiercely within him. But with each day that passed, confusion blossomed further in his heart. Now he was faced with a decision: to continue down the new path he had set for himself or go back and tear down the wall of his past. Now that the what- ifs that he so desperately wished for could become reality he was at a standstill.

*

John sighed and looked at the clock on the wall. It was two hours before the New Year. In the distance, the sound of fireworks could be heard. London was celebrating but there wasn’t an ounce of excitement inside his body. John looked up as the knob of the flat turned and the door opened, revealing Helen with grocery bags in her hands. She removed her coat and scarf and hung them beside John’s.

“They still had some Turkey at the store.” She smiled jovially at John. Despite the obvious air of sorrow that hung in the flat because of John’s brooding, her demeanor was neither forced nor faked. John couldn’t help but smile at her. He stood up and crossed the room to where she was unpacking the groceries unto the kitchen counter. She had been nothing but caring and understanding about the situation.

“Helen.”

The tone in his voice made her pause, she regarded John with a questioning look.

“Yes, John?”

“I’m sorry. About Christmas, and about the past few days. I couldn’t even prepare tonight’s dinner, like I should have.” John stared at the abysmal remains of his attempt at making New Year’s dinner. “You allowed me stay here for a bit yet I’m not even pulling my own weight. I’m sorry, I just-“

Helen had stepped closer and brought John into a tender hug. It took the wind out of John. He buried his face into her hair that smelled faintly of lilacs. She just held him there, by sheer will she managed to calm John’s fluttering heart. John relaxed but he couldn’t hug her back. His heart was torn between the woman before him who had saved him and the man halfway across London who had also saved him. His two saviors. His two loves. He couldn’t bring himself to make that choice. Helen drew away. She cradled John’s hands in hers, his calloused fingers quite the contrast to her own soft hands. It was moments like this they cherished the most, when without speaking they understood each other perfectly well. Helen knew about the conflict that now raged in John’s aching heart.  

“I’m here.” Two words that were so simple yet it struck through John’s heart like an arrow.

“I know.” John said, his voice cracking.

“I love you.”

There was a pause before John replied. “I love you too.”

John drew her closer and kissed her gently, a kiss that become more passionate with each passing moment. Helen drew back, her breaths coming heavily and quickly.

“John.” She exhaled, her eyes wide.

John pushed his worries at the back of his mind and focused on what was in front of him. He was here after all, not halfway across London. This was his life now. Without letting go of Helen’s hands, he led her to her room.

…

Helen’s warm hands were wrapped around him. Her head was resting on his bare chest. He watched the rhythm of her chest, seeing the slow inhale and exhale as her lungs expanded and contracted. He had an arm around her, his fingers absentmindedly playing at the stray locks of hair. Helen Rose was a wonderful woman, there was no doubt about that. She allowed him to feel alive and feel like everything would be okay. He continued to stare at her, taking in the features he knew so well: her soft lips, her long lashes, her flowing dark brown hair. There was a small smile on her lips, as if her mind was filled with happy dreams.

“Happy New Years, Helen.” John whispered softly into her ear.

His phone buzzed, without thinking he picked it up and saw the message there. John stared at phone his breath catching in his chest and his hands trembling involuntarily. Without even realizing it, he had typed a reply message. 

John couldn’t bring himself to hit send. He discarded his phone and turned away from the bedside table and wrapped another arm around Helen. He closed his eyes and willed to be whisked away to wherever dream land Helen was.

For once, despite Helen’s presence, sleep did not come for his thoughts were elsewhere. His mind was at the other side of London, with the man he once considered the only one who held his heart.

Sherlock Holmes.