There were plenty of reasons for John to hate James Moriarty. Including, but in no way limited to, explosive vests, conceited arrogance, general psychopathy, violent threats, pure evil genius, so on and so forth. John had never hated anybody before. He hadn't thought he was capable of it. Sure, there had been ex-partners, one of whom had broken his heart (or so he thought at the time), but that dislike was always tainted by guilt, or even love, and so had never quite developed into hate.

But he hated Moriarty. To the point his stomach clenched along with his fists every time the man's name was spoken. To the point he daydreamed of ending the pathetic excuse of a life. He wanted Moriarty to look into his eyes as he squeezed the life from his lungs and for him to know that, this time, he could not win.

The main reason for his hate was that Moriarty thought he knew Sherlock. Better than anyone else. The arrogant prick. He was mistaken, very much so.

John won that award, and took great pleasure in doing so (most of the time). Mycroft may know more about Sherlock, his childhood, his cases, his doings on a day to day basis. But only John knew him. Through and through.

Only John had seen him in despair and comforted him. Had witnessed his fear and reassured him. Had experienced his contagious joy and revelled in it. Only John had tucked him in bed when he was worse for wear. Only John had been there to pull the needle from his arm and bring him down from an uncontrollable painful high. Only John had made him laugh and cry at the same time. Only John.

John understood why Sherlock retreated into drugs, why he played his violin at ridiculous o'clock in the morning. John had seen him high, and low, and running round in circles. He knew of, yet never taunted, the lisp that only slipped through when he drank too much, the screaming nightmares in the dead of night, the secret longing looks and the extended meaningful silences.

Sherlock paused his contemplation as John turned a page in his newspaper, checking he hadn't been caught . He was actually unsure if he wished to avoid detection or actually longed for the awkward eye contact.

"Stop staring," John mumbled, without even glancing up.

Sherlock's lips quirked at the corner. No one else would ever take John's place, Sherlock knew without a doubt, no matter how hard they tried.

ooooo000O000ooooo

I do like a good ol' review... Please review if you liked or hated and let me know where I'm going right or wrong.