Hellou everyone. New story. Sequel to I didn't mean to fall from grace. You should kinda read that one first. Now, the plot for this story is ready, so it only needs to be written, so updates should be fairly regular (unless I get a writer's block). My lovely beta has been quite naughty these past days (going partying when she should read my works, can you imagine?), so apart from the prologue nothing's been beta'ed yet. Anyways. Reviews make me happy, so, please, review? I am currently reading a bunch of stories where I am not sure they're going to be updated anymore. You don't want that to happen, now, do you? ;)

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to ACD. Sherlock to the BBC and the amazing Mofftiss. Gods. I own nothing but my OCs. I am not making any profit from this.

Warnings: There will be some nasty stuff coming along your way if you decide to read this. The rating will eventually rise. Jim Whump.

The title of this fic is from Survivor's Eye of the Tiger.

The title of this chapter is taken from P. Diddy's Coming Home.

Prologue: Tell the world I'm coming home

Rain. Rain. Rain. As James Moriarty, or Jim, looked out of the window, he found it very fitting for what he felt inside. Sadness, somehow. Let the rain wash away all the pain of yesterday. (1) He was sad. He shouldn't be here. But he was. On a train. Back to Dublin. Back where I belong. He had left everything behind now. Disappeared. Brighton was behind him. England was behind him. Back in Ireland. Safe? He had nowhere to go, and no real plan of what he would do once he was there. He had only wanted to go back there because the city held so many happy memories to him. When he was a child, with his mam and da, poor, but happy. But then all had changed. His father had been killed, his mother forced to marry a man she didn't love. A man who had abused her and Jim. And who had ultimately killed her. And as if that wasn't bad enough, also at school, Jim had been bullied. It had culminated in a vicious beating that had left him hospitalized.

And then Jim Moriarty had snapped. He had killed them both. The kid from school, Carl Powers. His stepfather, Marlon Brook. He was a murderer. But, in Jim's mind, both had deserved it. And Jim's mind was nothing short of brilliant. Only, he had never had the chance to prove it. Until now. He had made both kills look like accidents. And it had worked, better than Jim could have foreseen. But killing Brook had left him with nothing. Of course he didn't inherit the money. It went to a charity for women in abusive relationships. Bastard. Liar. And then Jim had split. It probably wasn't the best idea to go back to Dublin, because people who knew him would know where he would go. The police was probably just now looking for him, asking his friends. Well, friend. Singular. Sorcha Moran. But she wouldn't tell anybody. She knew the truth. And probably didn't want to get into any further trouble with a boy who she knew had killed two people. (It never once occurred to Jim that Sorcha would keep her mouth about his possible whereabouts shut only to protect him.) So, Jim was relatively safe from prosecution. But that was it. He had no idea what he would do now, with no money, no friends, no nothing. The last of the money that his mother had earned Jim had spent on this train ticket. He had nothing but an empty wallet and the clothes he was wearing. Everything else, he had left behind. To start a new life. And even if he had no idea what he would do in this brand-new life, he knew one thing.

Never again would anyone abuse him. He would survive.

(1) P. Diddy - Coming Home

This was the Prologue. Like?