Moriarty did die on the roof that afternoon with Sherlock. Rick had always been the weaker of the two, always over shadowed and over powered by his 3 minute older brother. He relied on him though, no matter what paths Jim took in life or how far he roamed, Richard had always been looked after. Jim had paid the mortgage on his house when Richard's wife left him, had set him up with a new job when he'd had trouble keeping a job when his wife took the kids away for good.

No matter their distance, no matter that they didn't speak but possibly twice a year, the shadow of Moriarty stained Richard's life in every way. Always lurking in the corners, always giving him that knowing smirk, the snake's grin that had kept predatory children at bay their entire childhood. It only made Richard's pathetic idolization all the more shameful. He'd always told the concerned teachers in school the same thing he told his psychiatrists: I followed because I was scared, his victim.

It had been fervent adoration, blind love, it had been near religious devotion. Though he never spoke of it nor showed it in his actions or words, it lay just under the surface of his skin, a garment of worship worn more closely than any clothing. James was a presence that followed Richard everywhere. He had loved his brother's madness long before anyone else had dreamed it existed and at times had both tempered and encouraged it.

"So Richard had lived his life, as bland and pedestrian as any other since the day Jim had packed one duffel bag and stepped out of their flat, not to be seen for another 4 years. No more unethical experiments at 3 am, no covert surveillance, no complicated black mail schemes, no more going days without sleep just so he wouldn't miss any of James' breakthrough. He married Clara, hopped around various accounting firms and had two children. Ordinary, as Jim would have said.

Richard woke on the morning of his 33rd birthday to the sound of someone in his kitchen. To any other person this would be a cause of worry but the elation that flooded poor Richard was more dangerous than any actual intruder could have been. In his excitement, he even forgot to change from his jams before nearly running to his kitchen. Moriarty leaned nonchalantly against the counter and even through his joy Richard felt a pang of fear at his brother's first words: "Give me your life."

"There's a game afoot, dear brother, and the time has come when I need you by my side." Finally. They had been born together and Richard had known ever since they were 9 and had dissected their first human corpse together-. "The price, though, is your life. I mean everything, your name, your past, your records, your entire person. All of it is forfeit if you come to live with me." -that his death would more than likely come at the hands of his brother. So, without hesitation, "Oh, god yes.""

And so it was that by car, plane, boat and limo, Richard found himself in a flat in San Francisco with no belongings, his brother having mysteriously vanished and a very tall, very well built blonde, sneaking glances at him from across the room. Jim had taken one look at Richard's wardrobe and refused to allow him to pack anything or even dress and had simply asked him his measurements. After sending a flurry of texts he'd assured him he could borrower his own until a shopping trip was possible."

After learning to navigate the labyrinth that Jim called his wardrobe, Richard dressed in simple black slacks and a white button up. He turned in the mirror, imagining being mistaken for Jim, remembering all of the times they'd used their eerie ability to mimic one another to pester others as young boys and then for more manipulative reasons as adults. Cara. That had been their only experiment he'd regretted later. Lost in thought, Richard didn't hear someone enter the room behind him.

"So, you're really real, huh?" Richard whirled only to find himself looking much too far up for his liking at the man who'd been staring at him earlier. He looked to be at least 3 inches over 6 foot and everything about him seemed to insinuate violence. His body was relaxed but a subtle tension through the lines of his limbs bespoke readiness. He gave off the same sharp ozone smell that precipated violent weather. The smell of death to come.

"Yeah, you're just like him. Off in your own head." Moran patted him sympathetically on the shoulder before turning to leave, calling casually over his shoulder, "Though I'd bet you probably aren't enough like him, amirite?"

Richard stood looking out the door long after the man's admittedly spectacular rear had passed from view. Who was he? What did he mean to Moriarty? For that matter, what did he mean to Jim?

And where the bloody hell was Jim, for that matter?