When Moriarty finally goes to bed the first time after the fall, he falls asleep quickly. He's tired, and has been awake far too long. He dreams of guns and old scars, and he curls up small in his sleep. When he wakes up sixteen hours later, he tries to forget his dreams and keep going, rebuilding.
Moran has already fallen asleep several times before Moriarty did, and he sprawls out over the empty bed, crumpling up his face in his sleep. He doesn't cry out, of course, he never does anymore, but he whimpers from time to time. He hasn't changed his clothes since it happened, and he only feeds himself when he really needs to.
Moriarty keeps going, for months and months. He chases Sherlock over mountains and across oceans, but over and over he finds himself empty-handed. It hurts a little more each time, and soon he's almost ready to give up.
Moran doesn't do anything anymore, not for ages. He used to clean the apartment, instinctively, but now he just lets the dishes and dirt pile up. Sometimes his sister will call, and he talks to her – briefly, but he talks – and she makes sure he hasn't taken a gun and blown his brains out over this "Jim" he keeps talking about.
After Mexico, Moriarty feels tired and miserable, and he misses his sniper. He wants to be home and fucking Sebastian, and more than anything he wants to be held. And there's no one to hold him here. Just stupid people who ignore him when he walks past and will live and die never knowing who he is.
Soon, Moran feels dead. He isn't, of course – he lives and breathes and sometimes eats – but he might as well be six feet under. He's empty inside. He can't even remember how good it felt last time he fired a gun and heard the fleshy bang as it ripped through someone's heart.
Word gets to Berlin, finally, that Sherlock's beaten him. The gunmen are dead, all of them. John and Sherlock are safe. Moriarty asks about Sebastian, his voice flat and resigned, and he's told that he hasn't been found. Moriarty's long since forgotten how to smile, but if he could, he would.
On a Tuesday night, technically Wednesday, Moran's been drinking. His mind dulled, thankfully, he's on the sofa, pouring bottle after bottle down his throat. It's about four in the morning when he takes out his gun – his favorite, given to him by Moriarty for his birthday – and puts the barrel in his mouth, as he imagines Jim did.
Moriarty sleeps deeply that night, for the first time in three years. When he wakes up, he's curled up into a ball, and he's hugging his pillow tightly. He wants to cry and laugh both at once, and he feels like he should be dead. But he isn't – and he sure as hell isn't going to kill himself, not again – so he hugs the pillow tighter and pulls at the dog tags around his neck that read Sebastian Moran.
Moran closes his eyes and locks his mouth around the barrel of the gun, his finger pressing slightly on the trigger. All he can think is that this is funny, in a sick way, them going the same way. For the first time in his life, he can't bring himself to squeeze the trigger. Finally, he pulls the gun out of his mouth and lies back down on the sofa, shaking.
Moriarty gets up the next morning feeling sick and groggy, and he's got the dog tag chain tangled around his fingers. When he gets up, he gets on his laptop and makes arrangements to go back to London, his foot tapping nervously. He's having a hard time adjusting to the idea that he can finally go back.
When Moran wakes up again, he throws up, over and over into the toilet. When he's finished vomiting, he goes into the living room and throws away the bottles, his head screaming at the sound of them clinking together as he tosses them out. When he's done, he drinks some coffee and tries to forget about what he almost did.
Moriarty steps off the airplane a week later, his face calm. With one hand, he pulls absentmindedly at the dog tags as he walks through the airport. He half-expects Sebastian to be there to pick him up, wonderfully nondescript in jeans and a white t-shirt. But he's not there; it's just a wall of tourists and Moriarty walks through Customs with his fake passports by himself, feeling alone.
Moran spends that day doing what he's always done since Jim died, rotting his brain with cheap television that makes him want to scream. But it helps him forget the hurt and lonely he's been suppressing, and he's not willing to deal with those feelings anymore. So he lets himself trickle away into the television.
Moriarty takes a breath before knocking on the door to the apartment, and he straightens his suit nervously. He has no idea what's going to happen, he supposes. And he can't tell if it would be worse if Seb shot him or just didn't care anymore. A thousand scenes run through his head – Moran kills him, fucks him, and shuts the door in his face in the time it takes to open the door.
Moran turns off the television and walks to the door when he hears the knock, and wonders whom it is. No one visits him anymore, and even his sister barely speaks to him. He doesn't bother to look through the peephole. He doesn't care who comes in anymore, after all.
Moriarty keeps his eyes open as the locks click back and the door swings inward, his face calm. He doesn't want to seem overeager or fearful, but he takes a deep breath right before Moran's face comes into view. It's changed, he notices. It's gotten lined and old, and his eyes are bloodshot. His breath smells of booze and tobacco.
Moran freezes when he sees Moriarty, and he can't tell if he wants to scream or cry or kiss him. He stands there, not breathing. Finally, numb, he steps back slightly to let Moriarty pass, not speaking.
Moriarty steps through, flinching at the heavy smell of mold and alcohol. He almost makes a joke, but sees Moran's face and decides not to. He doesn't know if he should speak first or wait for Moran to talk, so he stays silent.
Moran finally speaks, his voice strange and out-of-place in the room. He asks where Moriarty was, and Moriarty answers, softly. Finally, Moran steps forward and hits Moriarty – solidly, directly across the face. Moriarty staggers back slightly and smiles, and they start to talk. The air is far from clear, and they both know it, but it's time to play let's pretend. And they can go along with that for now.
The sex that night is fast, and angry, a blur of teeth and nails and passion. Sebastian fucks like a starved man – hard and furiously. He drives into Jim, over and over, faster and faster, and Jim loves it. That night, when they finally collapse with exhaustion, covered in sweat, Jim holds tight to Sebastian and whispers to his sniper as they fall asleep.
They both sleep together, for the first time in years. Their limbs entwined, faces pressed close, breathing in unison, they sleep. Not well, but they remain curled around each other, Sebastian's dream a red blur, Jim's quieter than they've been in ages. Because they're together. And, while they won't always be, they're going to make the most of the time they have.