As It Should Be

"Hey" James said as he walked in the door. His hair was a mess, and there were bruises beginning to appear on the ends of his knuckles. Sherlock's heart sank as the sound of the breaking news on the TV behind him spoke of another body found in Central London. Sherlock's brain ticked quickly, for the first time in a long time he felt as if it was coming to a conclusion, reaching an end, figuring it all out. And it suddenly came together, unfolded before his eyes, in the small milliseconds since James entered the flat, Sherlock's brain had ran through a thousand different thoughts. Sherlock suddenly remembered seeing something, just a small glance, a tiny fraction of a second many years ago, but it stuck, somehow. He had seen, out of the corner of his eye, James' passport, the first time they'd gone to Ireland together to visit James' family. James had never told Sherlock his middle name, he said he didn't really like it, and Sherlock wasn't bothered enough to try and find out. But that brief second was enough to firmly plant it in Sherlock's brain, ready for him to recall at this exact moment. "James Moriarty Byrne''.
Sherlock looked up, staring at James' face as he read an old copy of Rebecca whilst he drank coffee, a mundane act Sherlock had seen a hundred times before, but he felt as if he was seeing James for the first time. And as he continued to stare, he watched as all the memories of Moriarty merged with his own of James, and the face of Moriarty flickered across James' own face in between sips of coffee, on and off in Sherlock's mind until it rested as one. And Sherlock finally saw James for who he was. And he thought back to all the times James' had insisted on buying the drugs, all the times he had let him inject it into his bloodstream. How long had he been poisoning his mind? Sherlock wondered. How long had James been purposely tampering with Sherlock's memories?
"I'm going out," Sherlock said, determined to remain emotionless as he headed toward the door.
*
Sherlock arrived at Johns, pressing the bell with a great sense of urgency. John's face dropped as he opened the door. "Sherlock, your face." Sherlock silently turned to face John's hallway mirror. It was small and with a blue frame, and was surrounded by family photos. Sherlock had bought it for John and Mary as a present, because John kept leaving the house with some toy of Rosie's in his hair, or a mess of jam across his front. But Sherlock's reflection didn't tell the story of a new father. He had a scar across his cheek, fresh and bleeding, which in turn was beginning to bruise and swell.
"What happened Sherlock?" John asked, after too long a moment of silence. "He could see as Sherlock absentmindedly touched his scar, there were tears forming in his eyes. "I...I think it's James." Sherlock spoke softly, his voice cracking.
"James did this to you!" John's voice rose, his anger turbulent at the thought of it, disregarding his earlier attempt to avoid waking Rosie and Mary.
"No...no....I mean yes but I mean.... I hate it, I don't want to admit it because it means it's all fake, all the love is fake."
"What? Sherlock you aren't making any sense."
I think James is Moriarty... I mean I know he is."
John was silent. They both sat down, Sherlock on the armchair and John on the sofa, just as they always did in 221B.
"I knew he was an asshole, but a serial killer?" John exclaimed. Sherlock put his head in his hand, wincing in pain when he accidentally touched his open wound. "It's just... I don't want it to be true. He - he's the only man who ever loved me, the only love I've ever felt that felt real, and true. I don't want it to be all pretend."
"Sherlock, please, people love you, people will love you, even if it's not James. You can be loved."
"You can't say that. Not you."
"Why...why not me?"
"Because, John, I love you, you know that."
John was silent for a moment. A moment too long, it lingered in the air like an echo of a church bell, ringing out over an empty village after midnight.
John took a deep breath and walked around the coffee table in the centre of the room, to look out the window. "I wish I could love you the way you love me." He said. "But I can't." He turned to face Sherlock, who nodded in quiet acceptance, and left without another word.