Don't Leave Me

It was strange, adjusting to ordinary civilian life. Very strange indeed. Not only that, but it was boring. The adrenaline ceased to pump through my veins, intoxicating my very mind and body. I had nobody to obey, no orders to follow, and more importantly; not a soul to kill. It was all very doom and gloom, now. I missed the excitement of holding a gun, how empowering it was to feel the weight in my hands. I missed the expression of complete and utter ignorance worn by my victim, soon to be replaced with shock and dread the moment my bullet ripped through them. It had always been a joyous moment for me, watching them fall to the ground, crimson blood spewing from their wound. It was sick, I know, but I thrived on it. The money never even mattered all that much to me.

Not when I worked for Moriarty. Not at all.

My ruthlessness was part of the reason why he hired me. I had no gun experience beforehand, but my blood lust was admirable. The other reason being that I was without a home or a family. It was nothing like him to take in some filthy scumbag off the street, but I was different. At first, his interest had peaked because I was a member of Sherlock Holmes's so-called 'homeless network', and he was adamant on finding out what the famous detective was up to. He was obsessed with him, obsessed with his mind and ability to think the way he did. My complete willingness to rat Holmes out for money was what sealed the deal for him. I remember him telling me if I betrayed him, he'd personally cut my tongue off. But he never had to worry, because I never did. I was loyal, and after being trained by his finest sniper, Moran, I just climbed up the criminal ladder from there. I was responsible for the assassinations of important men and women, and damn I was good. Untouchable. Eventually though, Holmes got on my case and everything began to crumble around me.

Moriarty was dead.

The spider was gone, and so followed his criminal web after him.

We no longer danced around the great detective.

God, I lost count of all the times I lay in bed thinking about how nice it would be to sneak into that detective's flat and put a bullet in his brain. But I couldn't. It wasn't that I'd be blowing my cover, not at all. Scotland Yard was full of mindless apes, so easy to fool. It was Sherlock himself who prevented me from killing him. It was odd and infuriating to me, but the thought of wiping out such a genius would be a waste. He was entertaining. I liked hearing about his cases. Not only that, but he was annoyingly attractive.

It was late at night, and I was lying in bed, wide awake because of the storm brewing outside. The wind was fierce and the rain pelted against my window so hard I feared it would shatter. I remembered all the nights I had spent crying myself to sleep, all because of that fucking Sherlock Holmes. He'd taken the light out of my life, the day of his fall. He somehow managed to fake his death, and resurface two years later after untangling Moriarty's web of criminal activity. I'd heard all about it. Sebastian told me.

Then, the familiar smell of cigarette smoke drifted under my door, slapping me in the face. My heartbeat immediately picked up and my breathing became labored. I swallowed nervously and pulled back my covers cautiously, creeping over to my bedroom door before dropping to my knees. I peered through the tiny gap at the bottom of the doorway and squinted. I could feel a draft, telling me that the balcony doors were wide open. My apartment was very small, consisting of a joint living room and kitchen, with the balcony directly ahead at the far side of the living room. If I opened my door, there was no doubt in my mind that the intruder would hear me. I was trained in hand-to-hand combat, but after a couple of years I was going to be a little rusty. Just in case, I grabbed my sleek hand-gun from under my pillow and proceeded to edge the door open, bit by bit. When I'd made a big enough gap, I squeezed through it, my heart beating a mile per minute. I could make out the slim figure of a man, no more than 5"8, leaning casually against the balcony.

I began stalking forward slowly, raising my gun.

I could have cut the tension with a knife.

"Did you miss me?" A light Irish accent asked playfully.

I nearly dropped my gun when I came to my senses. I couldn't believe my ears. A light was suddenly flicked on, and there he stood; Jim Moriarty. I blinked a few times, wondering if I really had gone fucking crazy. In all fairness, it wouldn't have surprised me at all.

"...M-Moriarty?" I stuttered. I didn't even register the sound of my gun hitting the floor as I clapped my hands over my mouth. I could already feel the warm tears beginning to burn and form around the rims of my widened eyes.

"Hi." He replied in a sing-song voice, a slight smirk forming. He was wearing a fancy black tux accompanied with a white shirt and he was looking more attractive than I had ever seen him. He had put out his cigarette by now, and had his hands stuck in his pockets. Seeing him standing before me now just broke down whatever mental barrier I had managed to construct around all the thoughts of him.

"You...you..." I breathed heavily, "You bastard!" I screamed, allowing the tears to flow freely down my cheeks, dripping onto the carpet. Red hot fury was surging through my veins, taking over completely. He certainly didn't expect that reaction, and took a step back in shock. "I can't believe you, Jim! You let me believe you were dead. I grieved every single fucking day, and you just think it's completely fine to waltz back into my life?"

He came towards me, but I shoved him back furiously. "No! Don't you dare. Do you want to know the pain I felt? Do you? Do you want to know how often I considered taking my own fucking life because of you? You selfish fuck face!" I was bawling my eyes out by now, but carried on to rip off the hoodie I was wearing, showing him the length of deep, long scars across my arms in every direction, not a part of my skin left untouched by a blade. "This is all you, Moriarty! All because of you!" I fell to my knees, ugly sobs racking my small frame.

When he saw I was in no position to beat the shit out of him, he pulled me up and held me tightly to his chest, stroking my hair. I just continued to wail, beating my fists against his chest in a weak attempt to hurt him as much as he hurt me.

"...I'm sorry, I'm sorry...God, I'm sorry." He whispered over and over with a gentle Irish lilt. I could feel his own tears soaking into my hair and for a moment I was amazed. Amazed that such a monster could feel anything except rage.

"Please," I cried desperately, "Please don't leave me again."

He didn't answer, but instead grabbed a fistful of my dark hair and brought his lips to mine with a force that nearly sent me to the floor again. My legs buckled beneath me, so he lifted me and allowed my legs to wrap around his torso. This wasn't a gentle kiss shared by lovers. It was a rough kiss full of pure need for the other person, and it made me forgetful of everything around me. I was still crying, gripping onto the fabric of his suit jacket as if my life depended on it, which I felt it did. I could taste the cigarette on his lips, and I loved it. It was a sharp reminder that this wasn't just a figment of my imagination, that he was truly alive and here with me. I didn't want it to end, but we were both starved of oxygen. He was the one to break it off, and both of our chests heaved.

He pressed his forehead to mine, brown eyes meeting my tearful gaze.

"Never."

Ah, holy shit. After nearly a year of not being active, I finally did it. I know this is a crappy piece of writing, definitely not my best. But I did this late on at night to at least get the ball rolling again. Reviews are appreciated, so yeah please do that. But don't be too harsh, I'm only getting started again.

I hope you enjoyed this incredibly short, angsty Moriarty drabble. Sorry but I'm completely obsessed with Sherlock right now, and there's a disappointing lack of Moriarty fics so I decided to contribute a little.

Anyway, thank you for reading!