Sherlock BCC fanfic! I an avid Sherlock/Moriarty shipper, just saying. Sherlock/John, though canon and obviously happening, is too...vanilla, to use my friend's terminology. So, yeah, enjoy.

THE HEART OF IT ALL – A SHERLOCK BCC FANFIC

I.

Sherlock reached up, slowly, painfully. He caught hold of Jim's shirt, yanked his chest down to his face, buried his face in the laundered scent, and cried.

"…Your…Your fucking…fault. It's all your fucking fault."

He wrapped his arms around Jim Moriarty's waist, still weeping into the man's shirt.

Jim soothed him, "Shh, it's okay…really." Tenderly, almost – but not quite – lovingly, he stroked Sherlock's matted, curly locks away from his face.

Sherlock was disgusted with himself. He was Sherlock Holmes. He didn't cry, he didn't weep – especially not on his enemy's chest.

He didn't do this.

He didn't lie down and allow Jim Moriarty on top of him; he didn't start weeping like this.

And especially not because of one person's death. He didn't have a heart. He was Sherlock Holmes.

He didn't have a heart.

At least, not anymore.

John Watson had, in however a nonconventional way, been Sherlock's heart. He made him see, made him hear, made him feel.

And now John Watson was gone.

He didn't have a heart anymore.

Jim Moriarty had, quite literally, burned the heart out of him.

II.

He had never believed that crying over death would solve anything. Why should he? He was Sherlock Holmes – his job revolved around people dying. To put it rather plainly, he needed people to die to continue doing what he did every day. Just like doctors needed sick people, psychologists needed mentally challenged people, and undertakers needed dead people, he needed murders.

It was how he lived his life.

So why did this murder cause him this much pain?

Why did this one death make him feel like the world had stopped turning, like the Sun had suddenly disappeared, like everything in his life was meaningless now?

And why in fucking hell was he crying on Jim Moriarty about it?

He was the one who'd killed him, for God's sake.

And yet, he couldn't seem to find it in himself to let go. He couldn't let Jim go.

"There, there, Sherlock," Jim said, petting his hair. Sherlock could imagine a sly smirk on his face.

Somehow they'd switched positions. Sherlock was now on his knees before Moriarty, still crying onto his chest.

He couldn't help it. John was dead.

John was dead.

He was gone.

"You fucking bastard," he sobbed, tasting the smell of Jim's shirt and drenching it with his tears. "You fucking…bastard."

"You killed him," he said, looking up into Jim's cold, calculating – more than Sherlock himself, even – eyes. "You killed him. You took him away from me."

"And yet, you're crying on me," Jim said, with a sort of smugness in his voice.

"Fuck. Don't remind me." Sherlock still couldn't let this man go.

And he didn't know why.

"Shh, Sherlock. It doesn't matter. He didn't matter. It's only us now," Jim whispered, almost fervently.

Sherlock flinched. "Shut it."

"It's only us now, Sherlock. John Watson isn't here anymore."

A pang in Sherlock's chest accentuated this fact. "And that's your…fucking…fault."

Jim pulled Sherlock's face away from his chest and placed a finger in front of his mouth. "Don't say such things, my dear. Not when we're finally together, alone."

"We're not alone, you damn bastard." Sherlock was now seething.

Moriarty forced Sherlock's face back into his chest. "Yes, yes, we are, Sherlock, my dear. It's just us, now. Just me and you."

Sherlock closed his eyes and sagged again Jim's body. The consulting detective was only so strong. He needed someone there; John Watson had been that person. And now that he was gone…

It's just us, now, Sherlock, just me and you…

Yes, Jim, yes it was.

Just me and you.

Just us.

Together.

Yeah, there were parts I didn't like...

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