A/N: Companion piece to Prodigal by doctorxxxmaximus on AO3.
My hand is on my face, fingers on my forehead and thumb on my cheek. I look at the cold steel table as the two chairs are scraped out across from me. The pair sits down and I lick my lips. Sherlock speaks first, breaking my tense silence.
"Why."
"Why, what?" I question, my voice low and gravelly, still thick with pain from my earlier nightmare.
"Why did you kill him? Why did you give yourself up? Why are you taking the Fall? What was your relationship with Moriarty?" He's so arrogant and cold! thinking I'll give him the all answers he wants. And the sad thing is, I will. I'm broken. There is nothing left to hide. I have resigned myself to fate.
Jim's dead. I'm not alive. Might as well explain the game then.
I take a deep breath and shift in my chair. My hand falls to the table, clasping in my other. I face Sherlock dead in the eye, all but ignoring Watson.
"Which one do you want me to answer first?"
"Why kill him?"
"He was diagnosed a while ago. Brain tumor. He would be dead in a month, likely sooner." I nearly sneer at the way Watson's eyebrows shoot up in surprise and Sherlock gives me an appraising look. "He asked me to kill him, after all the loose ends were tied. I follow orders." I stare at the detective, my gaze boring into his, and wait for the next question. While Sherlock absorbs this information, Watson inquires tentatively,
"What was your relationship with Moriarty?"
I look directly ay the doctor and he flinches involuntarily. I have no idea what I look like, but I can guess it's not pretty.
"Do you really want to know? Or is this just the need to pry into a dead man's life?" I ask flatly, my tone harsh and blunt. Watson cringes slightly and his boyfriend answers for him.
"Yes. Tell me." I refocus on the detective.
"I was his employee, bodyguard, sniper, and right hand man. I made sure he ate and slept right, because God knows he didn't before. I got his Westwood dry-cleaned. I was his flatmate. We had sex, but 'lovers' would not describe our relationship." My voice falters at relationship, but I go back to steely almost immediately. "I knew how to handle him. But it doesn't matter. Jim's dead. His ashes," I hiss, leaning across the table, "are in your fucking flat. Let dead men lie." I slam my hands on the table and stand up.
"We're done."