Chapter Text
John understood now. The memories that had escaped him all day now drilled themselves into his skull with no remorse. His recollection gathered itself into the screaming truth of his demise. Flashes of previous day passed before his eyes. It had been like any other day. He had been at the flat with Sherlock, they had been working tirelessly to find out the meaning of Moriarty’s last message.
Sherlock was plucking at his violin thoughtfully, when Lestrade appeared at their door, worry painted on his face. “Why did neither of you answer your phones?”
“Wasn’t in the mood to make chitchat” replied Sherlock, long fingers still pulling at the vibrating strings.
“Sherlock, where is my phone?” John couldn’t remember misplacing it as he patted down his pockets. He could hear Lestrade muttering something about “chitchat” behind him.
“The fridge.”
He went to the kitchen giving Lestrade a sympathetic look. Where he opened the fridge to find both of their phones sitting next to the almost empty milk. His thoughts flashed to his very pregnant wife as he checked his messages and missed calls. He sighed, thankful none were from Mary. Returning back to the sitting room with both phones, he look uncertainly between the two. Sherlock hadn’t said a word since they returned to the flat. He quickly thumbed through a file Mycroft had given him before tossing it aside and becoming lost in thought strumming his violin.
“Stop worrying, it’s giving me a headache.” said Sherlock finally turning to look at Lestrade.
“Worrying Sherlock? Have you turned on your TV? Do you even know what’s going on? Jim Moriarty-”
“Is dead.”
“Than who the hell, do you think hacked the nation’s airwaves?” asked Lestrade, who was sounding more and more annoyed. “I requested to have his body to be exhumed to re-confirm his identity, as turns out the bastard was cremated. He could have faked his death.” He ended giving Sherlock a pointed look.
“I have no doubt in my mind, he is dead.” replied Sherlock, now standing he moved to carefully put his violin away. “Whoever did this had another motive.”
“Who other than Moriarty would go through the trouble?” asked John.
Sherlock gave John a piercing look, which John returned. After a moment of Sherlock in quiet thought, he replied. “No one else. You’re right, no one else would be adept enough to carry it out.”
“What?” asked John confused at Sherlock’s swift change of thought.
“You said it John, not me. Moriarty!” said Sherlock abruptly reaching for his coat.
“And you just said you were sure he was dead.” said Lestrade exasperated.
“Hmm you’re right. Maybe it was his ghost!” Lestrade gave John a tired look before Sherlock added, “Let’s go John”
John quickly grabbed his coat, ready to follow Sherlock out the door when he heard Lestrade call, “Where do you think you two are going?”
“We have a train to catch. In a bit of a hurry.” Sherlock replied, tapping his wrist and imaginary watch.
John stopped in tracts, “Sherlock seriously where-”
Sherlock leaned over and said “Sussex” with a bit of a grin.
Outside Sherlock had caught a cab and had left Lestrade fuming on their steps. Inside the cab Sherlock was vibrating with his usual excited energy, which always seemed to rub off on himself, and fill him with the same pulsing anticipation. “Why are we going to Sussex?”
“Janine.”
“You’re ex?” exclaimed John even more confused and worrying, not for the first time, for Sherlock’s sanity.
“Yes, she was Moriarty’s sister.”
John’s mouth made a perfect O. For a moment he was at loss at what to say. “You were getting off... with Moriarty's sister?” beginning to laugh. Feeling a little more at ease now that he had a better idea what was happening.
“Well she was in your wedding.” said Sherlock also laughing, “and we didn’t- never mind.”
John was still in disbelief. “So she- oh my god.” The cogs were slowing spinning in his head. How did she-? Why did she-? He didn’t yet understand.
Sherlock however read his questions as he always does and replied, “Working as Magnusson's PA she would have been more than capable of broadcasting her brother’s last message to the entire country.”
“But why?”
Sherlock paused before responding, now there was a question that was worth looking into. “She didn’t want me to go. Probably wanted me indebted to her.” Sherlock then turned to look out the window they had pulled up to the station. He reached into his wallet to pay the cabbie before exiting onto the crowded street.
After purchasing their tickets they made it onto the train without a second to spare. John sat next to the window with Sherlock beside him. Watching the country pass them by it became apparent to John how exhausted Sherlock had become. His eyes continued to flutter closed only to open when his head started to fall. Sherlock had hidden before his absolute dread for leaving. It had only become apparent to John after he saw his relief that he was going to stay. John heard a bit of it in his voice when he said goodbye and felt it in the way he held him close for a hug when he was able to say hello again. John knew he hadn’t been sleeping well the previous nights. His eyes had been so tired before, were finally giving in, even after the new energy found in the case. When Sherlock’s head fell onto John’s shoulder, he let him rest. It felt good to be so close after a day of feeling so far apart.
John woke from his recollection still sitting on the cold, hard floor, he and Sherlock were worlds apart now. He was once again surround by his own decay. He looked down to his translucent skin and felt like sobbing, but no tears came. Why had this happened to him? Why did he have to die? He thought of all the men he had killed. Had they ended up like him too? The poor bastards. As his mind continued to wander in that dark room, he thought of the baby girl he would never hold, and of his wife. Did she know yet, that he had died? Would Mary miss him or be glad he was gone so she wouldn’t have to feel the shame of her lies? He thought she would miss him.
John looked up to where his body lay. Ever so slowly he stood up to look upon his former shell. It felt like a dream or maybe more like a nightmare. Though try as he might he couldn’t will himself to wake up. However many bodies had he look upon before, John had never imagined one day he would see his own. Reaching out his hand he tried to touch the fatal wound on his chest. He felt nauseous when his hand passed right through. He shivered. He couldn’t stay here. If he had to be there any longer he was sure to go insane. Could ghosts go insane? He now realized that's what he was, something like a lost soul. He would always be lost without Sherlock, he felt a pull in his chest, a need to find him and do everything he could to keep him from sharing his fate.