No going back. (Sheriarty)

Chapter one

Sherlock Holmes didn't know what it was with Moriarty. James Moriarty. His name rolled gracefully on the tongue, and it tasted bitter and sweet at the same time. It confused the detective. Not how Moriarty's name rolled on his tongue, but how the criminal seemed to be... more different than he showed. He was like a book, a closed book, and he only showed the cover and the little review on the back that made Sherlock itch to open the damn thing and read until his eyes started to bleed.

Sherlock didn't know exactly why Moriarty did what he did. You wouldn't kill yourself out of boredom. You wouldn't, because you all know how death is more boring than real life.

Sherlock concluded as he destroyed Moriarty's network, that Jim was not dead. He couldn't be dead, because his network was more alive than ever. Sherlock was determined to figure James Moriarty completely out, and he knew, Moriarty knew, that Sherlock was curious, so he had let the man scratch the surface of his life, and he was now ready to reveal himself completely to the detective.

--

It was an early Saturday morning, and the famous detective Sherlock Holmes was sat on a chair by the table, head resting in his right hand as he traced marks on the table with his left hand.

John Watson, the famous blogger, was stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a copy of today's newspaper in his hands.

"I'm bored John." Sherlock muttered, tapping his fingers at the table impatiently, like he was waiting for something. Well, he kind of was. He was waiting for something to happen. Anything.

"You're always bored, Sherlock." Replied Watson, flipping a page in the newspaper, the sound loud and annoying to the brunette by the table.

"I need a case." Sherlock continued, standing up with extreme speed. "You're already working on one." John said, not looking up from his paper.

Inside Sherlock's head, everything was a complete mess. 

It was true: He was on a case. He was on a case that didn't make sense. James Moriarty was back, just like that. Sherlock had tried figuring out ways the man could've survived the obvious shot to the head, but all his theories simply hadn't worked out. Of course he knew the criminal was alive; it was just obvious. The call from Mycroft on the plane hadn't surprised him at all. He knew that some day, Moriarty would be back.

But how in the bloody hell did he survive?

Sherlock flopped down on the couch instead now, closing his eyes and throwing his feet on the messy table, papers flying to the ground. 

He entered his mind palace, two fingers against each temple as he looked through his memories, managing to find the roof scene. He replayed it in his mind, replayed every action and every word Moriarty said, every little glint in his eyes.

It was just now Sherlock noticed how Moriarty had almost hugged him before he shot himself. Something ached in the detective's chest as he watched the spider shoot himself again, breaking away from the memory before Jim had fell to the ground.

There's no way that was fake. That was not a fake shot, there was definitely no blood bags involved because Sherlock would've seen it, and it was all real. 

"I need to go out." Sherlock said firmly, standing up and grabbing his coat before throwing it over his shoulders, stuffing his phone in his inner pockets. "Why? Where are you going?" John asked, newspaper on the kitchen table now, and the blonde in front of Sherlock, blocking his path to the outside world. "Why? Because I want to. Where? Out. The street. Speedy's. Wherever you think I'm going." Sherlock replied, a faint tone of despair and anger in his voice, which John managed to notice. "Sherlock?" he questioned, Sherlock groaning in annoyance, "Sherlock, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

Sherlock didn't want to talk to John right now, like usual. The blonde could be extremely annoying at times, so Sherlock didn't answer and pushed him gently out of the way, jogging down the stairs and out of the apartment, continuing his jogging down the street, destination unknown.

Once he had gotten far away from 221B and annoyance, he sat down at a random wooden bench, which made a creaking sound whenever he shifted his position, and pulled up his phone,

Moriarty was back, and Sherlock had his number. Should he call? Text him? Both? Sherlock was unsure, almost nervous, which was a completely new thing to him. 

Well, since he had never actually called the criminal before, he decided to text.

"Hello. -SH"

The few moments Sherlock waited for an answer, his heart was beating rapidly, a kick drum against his rib cage, his palms becoming sweaty and his phone almost slipping out of his palms. He stared at the screen until it finally beeped, eyes lighting up as he opened the text.

"Hello, darling. -JM"

Why did he use "darling"? Why did Moriarty actually use his time to type that unnecessary word? 

Why did Sherlock care about that, and not the fact that Moriarty actually was alive?

"How's the head? -SH" 

Be a smartass Sherlock, like always...

"Oh you know, better. I've had the time to heal. -JM"

"Good to hear. Are you busy? -SH"

"Why do you ask? Did you miss me maybe??? ;) <3 -JM"

The smiley face and heart-thingy confused Sherlock, but he decided to ignore it and just answer truthfully.

"I did. -SH"

"Aw that's so sweet!! I'm so flattered! We could meet up if you'd like... -JM"

Jim's change in behaviour is so clear, even from just his texts: 

He went from professional to playful in a matter of minutes, and Sherlock absolutely loves that for some unexplainable reason.

"Of course I'd like that. Any place you want to meet? -SH"

"Lantana!! 13 Charlotte Place, W1T 1SN. Come immediately! -JM x"

"See you there soon. -SH"

Sherlock didn't care if this was a trap to his death. Sherlock did simply not care. He wanted to see Moriarty again, and that's all. He had missed his dumb games and compliments, missed his stupid Westwood suits and impressive classical music interests. 

Plus, maybe he'll explain how he faked his death.

Sherlock stood up, brushed his pants and pushed a hand through his hair before he got a cab, and soon he was on his way to Lantana Cafe. 

Once he was there, he paid the cabbie and hurried inside, eyes scanning every person in the place, before they landed on a man, a familiar man with a familiar face, who was sat by the window in a nice Westwood suit, hair slicked back gracefully and small, smug smirk tugging at his thin lips, deep brown eyes glued to Sherlock's blue ones. 

Sherlock couldn't breathe. 

His heart stopped beating, but still he silently walked over to the table and sat down across from Jim Moriarty, folding his hands on the table in front of him.

"Long time no see, my dear." Jim drawled, each word soft like cotton and Irish lilt thick. Sherlock's heart leaped into his throat when he tried to speak, but managed to swallow it and get it beating, and his body finally co-operated. 

"I'm not your dear, Jim."