“No! You are Moriarty!” He looked to Sherlock, to Kitty, “He’s Moriarty! We’ve met! Remember?! You were gonna blow me up!” He would have blown him up - and for a second John considered the possibility that he could have been ‘just’ an actor, that there was no malice behind the eyes of the man that he knew as Jim Moriarty... but then he shook his head and tried to clear the fog of images that were converging in his head.
If he was to believe the cowering man in front of him - and let’s be honest here, there were a million scenarios in which he would believe the man in front of him - then he was supposed to ignore everything his eyes and ears... and his heart had told him and just...
“No. Sherlock, you’d better explain this because I’m not getting it.” He turned to the man beside him and felt his heart stop at the expression on his face. “Sherlock-” He hoped there wouldn’t be a crack in his voice, that his heart wouldn’t be heard throughout the room, but there. Right there, in Sherlock’s eyes was the proof that everything that Moriarty-Brook-Moriarty was saying... was a lie.
The sad little downturn at the corners of every angle, the darkness of the crease in his forehead told him that Sherlock was confused. He wasn’t trying to act; he wasn’t trying to lie to anyone. John could see it, there, in his eyes, how he was trying to understand, how his brain was catching up - because if there was one thing John was well versed at, it was understanding the looks on Sherlock’s face - but there was nothing that said he already knew this. That it would be Moriarty. Of the seven billion people in the world, why would it be him?
It was then that John realised that words had been thrown around the room, that he was staring at a sheet of paper and maybe advancing on Moriarty - Brook... Moriarty, its definitely Moriarty, John you know its him, following him up the stairs and cringing as the door slammed closed behind him.
He’d be gone. He’d have people waiting for him. John’s heart sank and he turned his attention to Kitty-bloody-Riley and her stupid story. Sherlock was sweeping out of the room, but the ice in Riley’s parting words to him was still trying hard to thaw.
“You don’t know him, Ms. Riley. And you don’t know Brook, either.” He stopped, wondering whether keeping the words he wanted to say at the back of his throat was worth it. No, it was too late now, and John wouldn’t pretend, “Funny, really, how people see, but don’t observe.” He leant forward and tilted his head as the front door banged closed, “You are desperate, and lonely, and utterly insane, Ms Riley.” A breath, “Sherlock is no fraud, and you’re deluded if you think he is.”
She watched him, pity in her eyes.
“Oh, Dr. Watson. I wish I lived in the same world as you.”