John isn't entirely sure why he's there, walking up to a church in the middle of June. Over two months since the Moriarty incident and he's headed off to church, hands stuck nonchalantly in his pant pockets when he feels anything but. He suspects the cathedral will be empty. It's a Thursday, and the church he's going in to has never been a busy one.

As he opens the door John stiffens, if only slightly. He hasn't been in a church, an honest-to-God church, in almost four years when Harry got married. It feels so odd, entering this place. He knows, partially, it's because it isn't nearly as silent as he would have expected. No, not even close. The door is barely cracked open and he can hear someone. The voice is familiar, but too muffled by the hitching of breath to really make out. It's heavily accented Irish, that's all he can tell.

Carefully, he walks in fully. There's someone kneeling up by the podium in front. Dark hair is mused, and even from a distance John can see blood dripping from an open wound on his arm. The person's shoulders are shaking, like they can't stop. "F-forgive me Father, for I have sinned," comes from trembling lips, it rings through the heavy air like a crack of thunder, and more quiet prayers come tumbling out. As soon as he hears those clear words, John knows who it is.

"Moriarty?" He says, shocked. They (being the police and Mycroft) had been after the consulting criminal since the pool, and they hadn't found a single thing. It was as if the man had disappeared off the face of the earth. And now here he was, in a church, praying as though his life depended of it.

The words stopped flowing, and Moriarty just sits there, like he's waiting for something to happen. Maybe he is. Maybe he's waiting for a shout, or a hit. Something to signify that John is upset at seeing the mastermind behind what was nearly his death.

John does none of those things, instead taking a careful step forward and crouching down on his haunches. He's prepared to get up and run if he has to, but he doesn't want to. He places a hand under the wound, examining it with a trained eye. Now that he was closer he could see the dark bruise covering the whole of Moriarty's left cheek, and there were fading marks of strangulation on his neck. John was sure there was more covered by the torn black hoodie, but he didn't worry about it at that moment.

The younger man stiffens under his touch before relaxing slightly. He glanced up, taking note of the man before him.

"Never took you for the religious type," said the ex-army doctor, wiping away some of the blood with his hand. "The wound doesn't look that deep, though you should probably get something on it."

Suddenly the epitome of control and power, Moriarty gave a sarcastic smile. "Nor I you, Doctor Watson." He winced slightly when the other man kept prodding, but gave no other sign of discomfort. "And I'll do that."

Nodding slightly hazel eyes glanced over to brown. "I'm not, usually. Are you?" He shrugged, pulling up the hoodies sleeves and taking careful note of the marks on the wrist. Moriarty had been tired up at some point. "What happened, exactly?"

"I'm not," Jim replied slowly, avoiding the second question. "My mother was. Tried to make me a nice little alter boy." He laughed mirthlessly. "Didn't exactly work now did it?" He was silent for a moment, and John looked at him expectantly. "Business went under. People do tend to get picky when things don't turn out. Entire mutiny by my… staff." He smirked, but there was the smallest glimmer of hurt in his eyes. Must have been involved with one of them, John thought.

"Yes, well, I imagine you didn't get a terrible amount of business," He said, fingers brushing back dark hair to get a better look at the neck. "Can't put "consulting criminal" on your card, can you?" He gave a small smile, trying to lighten the heavy mood of the church. Moriarty returned it, and it almost looked… genuine. If John didn't know better he would have said it was, but he knew people. He could see the slight wrinkle around the eyes, how the lips turned a bit too much. Just that slight amount of force to it, not as true as it could have been. At that moment it was good enough.

Jim stayed silent as the doctor continued to examine his right arm, though when John started reaching for the left he flinched back. His eyes widened slightly, and he brought his wrist up to his chest protectively. "Don't," he said quietly, though the faux-authority still shone through the word.

"I'm a doctor," John replied, voice low and soothing. "I won't hurt you." Which, as much as he wanted it to be a lie, it was true. For everything the man before him had done he couldn't quite bring himself to "kick the puppy", so to speak. It wasn't in his nature.

"You're an army doctor." Jim hissed back. His eyes lowered, looking more towards John's nose than his eyes. It was a small change, but incredibly obvious for one focusing on body language. "So why don't you just call your precious detective or, better yet, why don't you kill me yourself?" There was no venom in the words, just a simple compliance. Like he expected revenge. This may have been true for just about everyone else, but John Watson was not everyone else.

Instead of lashing out or anything of the sort John reached out, taking Jim's arm and pulling him up. "I'm still a doctor first and foremost, Mr. Moriarty." He chuckled, leading the other man towards the door. "You are one of the first people who actually forgets that. Though I suppose I don't look much like a soldier, do I? Rugby player more like. At least that's what Harry tells me." He continued with this inane chatter all the way to the street before stripping his jacket and handing it to the other man.

Cocking his head to one side Jim took the offered clothing, brows furrowed in confusion. John laughed again.

"I doubt there's any cabbie in London who won't get suspicious over a man in a ragged hoodie with a bleeding arm." He grinned good naturedly, trying in vain to hail a passing cab. "I never liked that ratty old jacket anyway. A blood stain gives me an excuse to get rid of it." Nodding slowly Jim placed the jacket on over the pull over. If John had anything planned he certainly was hiding it well. (Not everyone has an ulterior motive. Some people just want to help, some small part of his mind whispered, but Jim ignored it. What reason did he have not to? It had always been wrong before.)

Finally, John flagged down a cab, slipping in smoothly. Jim slowly followed, resting his hands on his lap as John gave the address.

{][][}

A/N: Well... I'm certainly getting into Moriarty as of late, aren't I? Hm.

Funny thing - this has 1,221 words to it. Just take off the one and we get our favorite address... XD

I suppose this is where I bribe you with jumpers and such to review? *raises eyebrow*

~Piki :B