When Jim Moriarty heard a thump outside the door of his flat, his first instinct was to throw down his newspaper and make a run for it. Then he took a breath, composed himself, and decided that he would go down looking as innocent as possible, if only to throw a wrench in Sherlock Holmes' logic.
As he stood up, though, the consulting criminal realized that if he were about to be arrested, the police wouldn't leave it to a single thump. They would have knocked on the door, or broken it down. Perhaps they were trying to trick him into fleeing so they could catch him red handed. Yes- yes, that was almost certainly what they were doing. So, he would open the front door. There was nothing wrong with investigating strange noises outside of your apartment. Nothing wrong at all.
As he walked towards the door, Moriarty glanced at his wristwatch and noticed that it was well after midnight. When had it gotten so late? He had come home at half past nine, eaten leftover takeout, and then sat down with a book. He had read for a bit, then made a cup of tea… and then picked up the newspaper? Oh, but he had been waiting for a call from Sebastian, to confirm that he had finished the job he was working on.
Before opening the door, Jim took a moment to shuck off his suit jacket and hang it up on the coat rack. He loosened his tie just a bit, then untucked his white silk shirt and crumpled it to make it look as though he had fallen asleep in his clothes. As a last-second addition, he put his hands on his head and ruffled his hair, letting it fall artfully into his eyes. Then he reached out and pulled open the door.
Whatever Moriarty was expecting, it certainly wasn't this. Sebastian was leaning against the doorframe, black jacket zipped all the way up to his neck. His hands were tucked into his pockets and his blond hair was tangled and dirty. He lifted his head when Jim opened the door, and the man noticed that his sniper's nose was bleeding sluggishly.
There were no words. Absolutely none. Moriarty grabbed Sebastian by the front of his jacket and dragged him inside, closing the door behind them. "What happened to you?" he snapped, trying to hold the sniper up as he threatened to collapse. If Sebastian was capable of answering, he didn't show it. Jim hustled him into the kitchen and dumped him in a chair, where he immediately slumped over the table. Moriarty wasn't sure if he was conscious or not, but then Sebastian made an effort to sit up, pulling his hands out of his pockets. Even though he was wearing fingerless gloves, Jim could see that his hands were soaked with blood.
"That's disgusting," was the consulting criminal's first reaction. Sebastian made a noise that might have been a chuckle if it hadn't turned into a cough. Blood splattered the front of Moriarty's shirt, and he cringed a bit. "Sebastian," he said, being as patient as he could, "Do you have any idea how hard it is to get bloodstains out of a silk shirt?" The sniper didn't answer, so Jim leaned forwards and grabbed his chin to make sure that he was still conscious. "You've got to stay awake, okay? Sebastian?" The man nodded slowly, then gritted his teeth and forced his eyes open. Moriarty could see a bruise forming around the right side of his face.
"How did you let this happen?" Jim chided, grabbing the zipper of his sniper's jacket and fumbling to pull it down. "I mean, I'm assuming that you didn't have to deal with your target point-blank. You are a gunman, after- oh my god." Moriarty had unzipped Sebastian's coat, and what he saw teetered on the line between worrisome and utterly horrifying. The sniper was wearing a dark green shirt- or, at least, it had been green before blood stained the midsection crimson-black. There was a slash in it, just underneath the ribs on Sebastian's left side.
"You got into a knife fight?" snapped Jim, glaring up into his sniper's face. "Are you kidding me? Sebastian, what happened to keeping your distance?" There was a pause, and then the hitman's head lolled forward. "Sebastian- Sebby, look at me. Come on, my tiger, stay awake." When he got no response, Moriarty had almost no idea what to do. For all his brilliance, giving medical assistance was not one of the things he had ever paid much attention to. Normally he was more intent on killing people than on helping to keep them alive.
The idea of putting pressure on the wound came to mind. He had probably seen it done on a television show or something, but it was the only lead he had right now. Carefully, Moriarty leaned the unconscious sniper against the table. Then the consulting criminal stood up, grabbing a towel off of the counter before throwing open the freezer and fishing around for an ice pack.
Sebastian hadn't moved at all by the time Jim got back, but his right eye was twitching. That was probably bad, probably really bad- no. No, it was fine. Everything was going to be fine. "And of course there's no way we can check you into a hospital," Moriarty muttered as he wrapped the ice pack in the towel. "Not unless I want Holmes on my tail within the hour." Lifting one of Sebastian's arms, Jim supported him as he pressed the ice pack to the sniper's side and held it there firmly.
"I can't believe you," grumbled the consulting criminal. "There's blood on my floor, blood on my silk shirt, and how do you even know where I live?" He wasn't really expecting a response from his tiger, but there was something wrong with the silence. Really wrong. "Sebastian?" asked Moriarty, cautiously. There was a long pause, and then- how long had it been since the sniper stopped breathing?
Jim had no idea what to do. This was bad, of course, but he didn't know how to fix it. The not knowing was awful; the not knowing made him less than the genius he was. There had to be something he could try, something he could do to save his tiger.
An idea came to mind, but he didn't know if it would work. Maybe it would, and if it didn't, Sebastian would die. Maybe he was dead already. No, wait, he wasn't, because Moriarty could feel a pulse through the wound he was putting pressure on. "Okay," he said to himself. "Okay, one chance. One last chance."
Leaning forwards carefully, he pinched Sebastian's nose with his free hand and covered the sniper's mouth with his own, breathing a lungful of air into his tiger. Jim pulled back, took another breath, and did it again. He was finishing a third try when Sebastian gasped and jerked away from his boss with a half-strangled shout of "What the fuck is going on?!"
Moriarty bit back a relieved laugh, choosing instead to let go of his sniper's nose and punch him lightly in the shoulder. Sebastian snarled angrily, but it turned into a painful-sounding cough. When his fit subsided, the tiger asked firmly, "Okay, boss, seriously- what's going on?"
Jim grabbed one of his sniper's hands and laid it on the towel-wrapped ice pack so that he could put pressure on his own wound. "I'm going to patch you up," said the consulting criminal, "And you're going to sleep on my couch tonight. In fact, you're going to sleep on my couch every night until I'm sure that you're not going to die on me when I'm not looking."
Sebastian frowned, but Moriarty waved a hand to stay any protests. "This is non-negotiable. You're the best sniper I have and it'd be a pain in the ass to replace you. Now, do you think you can stay conscious long enough for me to put the kettle on and grab some bandages from the bathroom?"
The tiger sat back in his chair, wiping a hand under his nose to check if it was still bleeding. It only served to smear blood across his face, but he didn't seem to notice. "Sure, boss," he replied. Jim nodded, and as he turned towards the stove he heard Sebastian add a very, very quiet, "Thanks, boss." Moriarty didn't acknowledge his sniper's gratitude, mostly because he suspected that Sebastian hadn't meant for him to hear it, but he was very glad that his tiger hadn't died. Holmes was getting closer every day, and Moriarty knew that he would need someone as loyal as Sebastian on his side when the time came for him to enter his endgame.