Title: Dear John

Author: porpoise-song
Characters: Mainly just Moriarty and his conscious!Molly; then mentions of Sherlock and John.
Rating: PG, I think
Disclaimer: Unless I want Weeping Angels and the Crack to follow me (Steven Moffat), umbrella shaped bruises on me (Mark Gatiss), red coats storming my place (BBC), and a Victorian Age dressed zombie chasing me (Sir Author Conan Doyle), I need to say that I own absolutely nothing.
Summary: After the bomb goes off, John somehow manages to save Moriarty's life, ignoring Sherlock's insistence that he save himself. Afterwards, a newly imprisoned (though probably not for long) Moriarty has shifted his obsession from Sherlock to John, trying to understand his actions.

Warnings: Just Moriarty writing a message to John...IN BLOOD!

A/N: Prompt from, I think, anonymous, which, turned out to be, pogozebra, at sherlockbbc_fic's Prompting XIV. But, don't take my word for it.


Bang.

Boom.

Sherlock Holmes, going exactly to Moriarty's plan, shot the vest of bombs with his Browning L-9A1. However, what Moriarty didn't expect was Sherlock's pet, Dr. John Watson, to tackle him and, hence, take most of the bomb's damage. Nor did he expect himself to come out of the altercation unscathed, minus the complete annihilation and ruin of his precious Westwood.

Shortly after being pulled from the rubble and debris infested pool, Moriarty was quickly arrested by the police, and, after they saw that he received no injuries—save from a few cuts andbruises—he was taken to New Scotland Yard to be processed and questioned. He was alone in a barely illuminated cell (as the officers didn't think it would be the smartest move to place him in a cell with other prisoners, for his and their safety) sitting against the wall, his fingers drumming on his knee, thinking about nothing in particular when his thoughts suddenly turned to Dr. John Watson—Sherlock's pet.

He had saved him...had tackled him into the pool. When John could have been saving himself (as Sherlock had been yelling at him to do), he had, instead, put himself in harm's way and knocked Moriarty out of the blast radius.

Why?

Why would he do that?

Moriarty hastily stood up and started to pace about his cell, in a corybantic manner, as if he was an agitated lion trapped in a cage. What was John's motive for something stupid like that? Perhaps he wanted Moriarty alive to stand trial for killing all those innocent people...no, no, Moriarty immediately waved that thought off. They would never really be able to prove that Moriarty killed those people. He didn't like to get his hands dirty, anyhow.

Perhaps for money? 'No', a quiet voice in his head instantly said. Protection? 'No', it said again in the same manner. Then, what the hell was this guy's angle? Moriarty slid back down onto the floor. Waves of nerves cruised over his body, raising the little hairs and making ridges of icy burn as they went.

The same voice spoke softly to him, 'Easy now. Quiet down. Don't let it affect you. Just don't think for a while and everything will be fine.'

Maybe...just perhaps...maybe John was—in love with him? No that was stupid—completely and utterly stupid. Now, when he really thought about that idea, he was, metaphorically, just throwing rocks into the dark, but he was going over everything, covering all of the possibilities. Besides, even if John was in love with him, Moriarty was no expert at limerance and, thus, wouldn't really know if John was or not.

Moriarty started to hum and drum his fingers against his knee again. 'Think, Jim, really think. You can do it', the voice said, encouragingly. He continued humming and drumming. 'Fine, then, got an idea...think about me.'

"You're Molly", Moriarty said quietly. Oh, god...spending all the time as "Jim From IT" with Molly Hooper had seriously damaged him for life.

'Hey! I heard that...and I'm not actually Molly Hooper. I'm just what your subconscious decided what would be the best substitute for the multifarious nature that is your conscious. Or, to put it in your terms, I'm the help and support program.'

"Oh, alright, I suppose this will have to do if it will solve this bloody conundrum."

'Very well, then. What's the first thing that pops in this funny little head of yours when you think of me?'

Moriarty thought for a moment before stating out, curtly, "Mouse."

'Besides that.'

"Timid."

'Try again.'

"Plain."

'If I had a physical body, I would slap you silly for that!'

"Okay, well, I take back timid now."

'Sweet Molly Hooper. Sweet, kind, dear Molly Hooper. Always ready to see the good in people...such a mungo', the voice cooed at him.

"Oh", Jim's face fell in realization, but then, quickly, turned into disgust, and spat out, "he's one of those people. An optimist, a 'there's good in everyone!' type of person."

'But, there is!'

"No, Molly darling, that's being naïve."

'Okay, fine, whatever. This isn't about me, it's about John—, and he's not one of us poor saps. He's more of a follower of timshel. 'Thou mayest, thou mayest not', and all that. A complex teaching for a complex person. I say, he could be an analogy for St. John the Baptist!'

"So, he tried to rescue me—from myself? By tackling me into the pool and, metaphorically, rinsing my past sins away, he tried to redeem me?" Moriarty asked, confused.

'I don't know if that's what he exactly was going for, but, yes, that's what all the evidence seems to be pointing towards.'

"Well, that's rubbish. It's complete and utter rubbish. And dull!"

"I said it was complex, I didn't say it was interesting.'

"Alright", Moriarty said, lightly slapping his knees before standing up, "now this is the part when I prove to him how wrong he is. I always love to do that." Moriarty gave a gleeful smirk as he placed his hands on the cool, metal door.

'Yeah, well, try not to make too much of a mess, dear. A girl can have too much fun with the dead.'

"Can't make any promises, but, oh, I might swing by your place later tonight."

'I eagerly await your arrival', the voice said sarcastically as Moriarty sneered at that and placed his weight against the door.

Thirty-nine minutes. Thirty-nine minutes is the length of time that the London Metropolitan Police had the criminal mastermind, Jim Moriarty, before he escaped. From 9:23 PM until 10:02, Metro had one of the most dangerous men locked up in their cells. The Consulting Criminal. A man that had caused the great Sherlock Holmes's blood to run cold and had, skillfully andeasily, outsmarted the cleverest man walking the streets of London.

And Moriarty was right. John shouldn't have saved him because, what followed, was a reign of terror and destruction unseen in London since the Whitechapel murders of 1888-1891 and it didn't end until Sherlock and he fell off Reichenbach Falls two years later.

Written on his cell's floor, in blood, was:

Dear John,

Nobody can trap me.

Love,

Moriarty.