Title: Remnant
Rating: PG-iiiish
Warnings: profanity, spoilers for Sherlock 2x03; relatively platonic with a couple little slashy, playful jabs toward the end
Summary: BBC Sherlock. Jim's alive and kicking and in a bar and reluctantly drinking a froufrou drink with his best bud, Sebastian Moran.
A/N: Please excuse any spelling/grammatical/canon errors. This was something I wanted to do just to see if I could. Initially, I didn't think "reviving" Jim would be the best venue for the criminal mastermind, but Hell, this is fanfiction. If any of this makes no ounce of sense, good! butts and all. Anyway. This is dedicated to my kismesis, Kate, who encouraged me to write it (and also to use magic as the healing plot device, which is perhaps the superior idea) as well as Sum, for just encouragement in general.
Disclaimer: I own none of these chucklefucks.

The press gobbled up the death of Sherlock Holmes like starved dogs on a fresh carcass. Vultures picking apart carrion until nothing was left but bones and bad memories. Sherlock's face - blood soaked and empty-eyed - flashed all over the telly and newspapers, he was the flavor of the week. Scandals and lies blurred with truth and justice; most were quick to point the finger of blame at the consulting detective, believe every bit of bad news shoved down their throats. The man was not only a con artist, but a murderer, a thief and a sinner of the most abominable crimes. John Watson felt strangely alone in this world now.

After Kitty published her story on Richard Brook, people assumed the man was murdered on the rooftop where Sherlock had jumped. However, police and the press believed he was killed prior to Sherlock's suicide. The body was dumped elsewhere, as there was nothing but a large puddle of blood left behind. It would be a week later before some punks spraying graffiti inside a burned down, empty house decaying outside town stumbled upon the few remains of human teeth. Analysis showed they belonged to Richard Brook. The house had only just been burned down shortly after Sherlock fell to his death. It was then believed his body, whether the man was alive or not at the time, was destroyed in the explosion (cause of fire; it took out most of the abandoned structure), and only his dental records were left to identify him.

The general opinion of Richard Brook was pity. Some were disgusted he would allow himself to pose as king of these crimes, but many felt he had no choice. Given his position and the power Sherlock held, what could a man do? So Richard was mourned and some called him a "brave soul" who was "pressured into following the harsh rules of society; working under a criminal mastermind just to make ends meet", as it became apparent after his death that his series of childrens' books and short lived TV show had been rather unsuccessful. The man was painted with some respect also given the fact that his history apparently revealed he suffered from Borderline Personality Disorder, which many jumped to justifying his inability to truly fight back, as he accepted no treatment and chose rather to bear the weight of the disorder's emotional and mental lashings, and Sherlock Holmes was a master manipulator.

Over time, however, as with any hot news story, it died down. Give or take a month. Soon, Sherlock, and consequently, Jim Moriarty's deaths became stale and uninteresting - to the public, though police were still baffled and digging for more clues as to how they could be bamboozled for so long. Here and there in every other newspaper of every other week, there'd be a small article, some pages in, taking up a tiny corner. Then all together, it faded, and the world would move on.

"How you are fallen from heaven, O Day Star, son of Dawn! How you are cut down to the ground, you who laid the nations low! You said in your heart, 'I will ascend to heaven; I will raise my throne above the stars of God; I will sit on the mount of assembly on the heights of Zaphon; I will ascend to the tops of the clouds, I will make myself like the Most High.' But you are brought down to Sheol, to the depths of the Pit."

An elderly man turned from the ceiling-mounted TV. He looked back, squinted wrinkled, tired eyes. Through the smoke and chatter, barely noticeable, a man in a thick black coat, scarf and brightly colored ski hat with fedora on top raised his glass to the TV. The fedora and raised collar hid most of his taunting sneer. The old man glanced back to the TV, currently wrapping up a story on Sherlock Holmes. He just shook his head and went back to drinking his beer.

The man continued, quietly now: "All the kings of the nations lie in glory, each in his own tomb; but you are cast out, away from your grave, like loathsome carrion," he paused to take a quick swig of his drink, continued around a sigh, "clothed with the dead, those pierced by the sword, who go down to the stones of the Pit, like a corpse trampled underfoot. You will not be joined with them in buri - "

Dark eyes clouded by smoke watched as Jim Moriarty suddenly stopped his rambling, sat forward. He shoved the heel of his palm against his temple, kneaded, his face in a grimace.

Calloused fingers removed the cigar from his lips. Tapped the ashes into a small tray. Voice like gravel finished for his friend: "Because you have destroyed your land, you have killed your people." A second later, Sebastian Moran sat forward, gesturing at Jim with his cigar. "Not too hard. Don't want to rupture anything."

"Bloody migraines," Jim hissed. He continued massaging at his throbbing head. "Like a pick axe to the skull." He snapped his fingers at Sebastian. "Give me two."

"No can do, boss," Sebastian replied. He stuck his cigar back between his teeth. "Doctor's orders. You get two more in two hours."

"Your loyalty has shifted, I see."

"Oh, I don't know about that."

Jim sucked in a gulp of polluted air. "Arsehole," he growled harshly. He chugged down his drink.

Sebastian arched a brow. "You're lucky I even brought you here, allowed you booze. Especially with the shit you're on." He chortled. "I've used elephant tranqs weak compared to your meds."

"This isn't even a real drink. This is fruit juice dressed up as an adult."

"You get that or nothing at all. Be more grateful."

"Well, thank you, daddy, Jim is very appreciative," Jim sneered over the rim of his glass. Took another drink. His face twisted and he groaned, taking a moment to swallow. "In any case, the doctor wouldn't release me if I wasn't capable of standing on my own two feet."

"You're not. And he was reluctant to release you. Said he wanted you around for another week," Sebastian corrected. "But you just had to pull a gun on him." He squinted and took a long drag on his cigar. "I underestimated you, even when we thought you were drugged up and helpless as a lamb. So easily picked that gun from off the guard."

Jim snorted. "The only reason that doctor is still practicing is because of my charities." He traced a line along the glass, disrupting the condensation. "So, he can go to the authorities, but he knows if he does, it is more than his career on the line."

Sebastian bobbed his head in a nod. "He honestly wanted to give up on you. Said while your aim had been bloody perfect and you only wounded that part of the hemisphere, your blood loss was near fatal, and he doubted he could stop the swelling from getting out of control."

Jim smiled sweetly, all saccharine. "But lucky for me you were there to hold a figurative and literal gun to his head."

Sebastian shrugged, returning a mock-shy grin. "Aw, well, it was nothing." He blew a line of smoke, watched as it faded. "I'd call your survival, as well as your magnificent recovery, sheer dumb luck. A miracle even. Though it's not entirely unheard of, cases like yours, but in the end, luck and miracles had nothing to do with it." He sucked on his cigar, brows knit. "How disappointing for those blissful in ignorance."

Jim snickered. "I calculated all the possible outcomes of the situation, how Sherlock would counter, what he'd say and do, as I'm sure he miiiight have done the same," he explained, spread hands. "So I practiced, you could say. Researched."

"Too damn smart."

"Oh, but love," Jim cooed. He reached out and placed a hand over Sebastian's. Sebastian looked at it, confused. "I would have died without you. Not only did you convince that quack to preform surgery on me and make sure I lived to see another beautiful day," Jim said with the voice and expression of a grateful angel, "I would have bled out if you weren't nearby to quickly whisk me away." Squeezed his comrade's hand. "My knight in shining armor and steel with your M16 lance and mighty getaway Ford Focus steed."

Sebastian drew back his hand. "You going to get off that fairytale kick anytime soon? It was annoying then, it's annoying now."

"But they make such perfect allegories," Jim whined. He sat back, tucking his hands into his large pockets. "In any case... Like all good fairytales, ours reached an end."

Sebastian puffed. "You certainly didn't." Paused. "Where does that leave you?"

"With a new story. A new once upon a time," Jim answered. "Only the king is now dead and the prince must assume the throne."

"Not good with this metaphorical bullshit. I take it, you're the king?"

Jim preened. "Naturally." He sighed heavily. "But now that I've essentially offed myself, Jim Moriarty is no more, and I cannot return to the scene of crime. My face is that of a pitiful, miserable little prat tortured and burned to a fine crisp and mourned by the simple and weak minded."

"So, you're retiring?"

"Not entirely. As with most government officials and country helmsmen, I'll be the one playing the puppet strings." Jim lifted his eyes, met Sebastian's. So stern and locking him into place, the older man felt slightly nervous and suddenly tense. "You're the king now, Moran." He leered. "How do you feel?"

Sebastian took a moment to smoke, inhale, exhale. "Figurehead, not king, you mean. I prefer the shadows, but I suppose I can afford to play a more leading role," he said. Smeared ashes into the tray. "Not like you'd give me much of a choice, anyway."

"Oh, it won't be so hard! You'll have me to look out for you." Jim winked. "I make the orders, you execute them. Very simple and just like before. Except now you've actually got to make appearances, dress better and talk more diplomatically."

"Bollocks to that."

Jim laughed, only for it to break into a low groan. He massaged his head again, tipping back the fedora. Showing just a sliver of scalp where hair had been shaved for an operation; it was growing back steadily, hiding the puckered scar tissue beneath. Sebastian stared at it. "Okay," Jim growled a second later, held out his hand, "how about one of the bloody pills?"

"No can do." He pushed his friend's drink forward. "This is the only medication you'll get for the next two hours."

"Oh, come off it. Spare me some mercy, pretty please?"

"I am." Sebastian nodded at the glass.

"As if your smoking does my health any improvement."

"Well, it's a risk I'm willing to take."

Jim dragged a hand down his pale face. "You can be such a horrible henchman," he grumbled and sat back again. Sebastian just shrugged and smoked. "Ironically, by being the most horrible, you are being the most efficient and thoughtful. Perhaps the most loyal of all lackeys." Jim chortled. "You. Yooou." He looked back up at Moran with devious eyes and wagged a finger. "You keep reminding me why I keep you around. Good show, old sport."

"You know," Sebastian said, and his voice was solemn, "I almost believed you." Stared Jim right in the eye. "What you said on the rooftop. You almost had me convinced you were suicidal..."

Jim took a moment to drink more of his fruity daiquiri. "To say I wasn't depressed would be a lie. Indeed, I was. But I knew, if I survived this mess, things might get interesting again. Sherlock came to his senses; I saw myself in him, and yet..." He tapped fingers to his moist lips. "I felt we were countries apart." His face settled into a neutral expression. "I suppose he's trumped me by leaving me with one last riddle: was he indeed like me, or was he just disgustingly boring?"

"He was going to torture you for answers. You would - and have - done the same," Sebastian added. "But he would have done it for all the, ah... wrong reasons. To save his loved ones." He watched as Jim's face disappeared behind the thick smoke. "You would not care who was sacrificed if you were in his place. If he was truly like you, he wouldn't either."

Jim's frown was comical. "Implying I wouldn't do anything to save a friend's life. Fah, Sebastian, you wound me so!" He slapped a hand to his chest for emphasis.

"That's a fun little thought," Sebastian sneered. "If the tables were turned and the gun was on me, what would you do?"

Jim didn't even miss a beat: "Kill the man who stood in my way. Threatened me. You would probably die in the process, but as I told our dearly departed friend: no one gets in my way. And despite what web I wove on that rooftop, my business is not nearly over." He pressed his hands together and watched as Moran's mind processed what he had said. His smile was soft, barely there. "Does it disappoint you, Sebastian? Does it hurt? That I would not risk my life to save yours?"

Sebastian didn't answer. Not right away. He took one final drag. "No," he said around a loud exhale. Crushed and snubbed out the life of the cigar into the tray. "Not really. I think I'd rather die than survive knowing I was someone's pawn. Well, in that situation." He smirked. "Besides, on a professional level, saving you was imperative. Why would I give up such an exciting job as the one you've given me? I haven't had my fill yet, either. I need you around to keep the fun coming."

Jim laughed and so did Sebastian. The pain suddenly returned and Jim nearly knocked over his drink at the sheer intensity. Enough to send him into small tremors. He heaved forward, holding his head and cursing in what sounded like Gaelic. Sebastian knew it was time to go.

"Up with you," Sebastian said. He stood, pulling on his coat. He gently took hold of Jim's arm, helped the groaning, hunching man upright. Jim fell against him for balance, his mind swimming. Sebastian didn't seem to mind, kept one arm hooked around the smaller man's waist, other guiding him with a hand to an arm. No one gave them strange looks; lots of people left the dingy little pub wasted, needing the aide of a buddy or two.

"I want a hot bath draw me a hot bath I want a hot bath I want those little - little damn the little crystals that sooth ah alleviate pressure I want those in the bath the lavender no rose scented bloody Hell my senses buggered up do we have any of those crystals left?"

"Okay. Yes. They do. Rose, indeed. They'll patch up in time. And we do," Sebastian humored. They stepped out into the chill of night, and Jim bundled closer. Moran helped pull his hat down over his face, keeping passersby from getting a good look at him. Though a few were staring at how intimately close they were.

"We should just get married," Jim muttered, words punctuated by misty clouds. He carefully looped one arm around his friend's. "We can flash our rings and be done with it."

Sebastian fished a cigarette from his coat pocket. "Do I get to choose the rings?" he mused. As he went for his lighter, he heard a soft flick then felt the small heat of fire. Looked down to see Jim offering the lighter. Sebastian lowered his head, the edge of the cigarette catching flame before standing upright and taking one long drag. Jim snapped the lighter shut and shoved it back in Sebastian's pocket.

"As long as the stones match my eyes," Jim finally answered, "then sure, why not." He snickered and tugged at his comrade's arm. "Imagining you wondering into a Tiffany's for wedding bands. How glori..."

Sebastian blinked. It took him a moment to realize Jim had suddenly stopped. He halted, turned and regarded his friend with a curious look. Jim had turned, holding loosely to his arm. A man had walked past them, rather tall, decked from head to toe in black. Jim was watching him and, as Sebastian looked up, the man was looking back. He too had stopped some feet away, and the two stared at one another. Something unreadable in their eyes, something Sebastian's level of intelligence could not entirely grasp, he supposed.

Though, if anything, Sebastian would describe a soft force. Something that would have grown had Sebastian not suddenly pulled Jim off and away. As if, had the men continued their staring contest, the impact it would create would be similar to an unstoppable force colliding with an immovable object.

END

A/N: The title of this fic is based around the definition of a supernova remnant.

Jim is quoting from Isaiah 14:12-20 (excluding a few lines), which regards the fall of the King of Babylon, and the origin of the term Lucifer.

I did a little research on head wounds caused by gun shots, and the factors to how one can survive them, but all together, tried to keep the details relatively vague. Suffice to say, the recovery rate took some time.

Re: Borderline Personality Disorder tidbit. I'm not trying to say people with this disorder are weak or anything; it was just added into Richard's fake history to garner attention and play on people's ignorance/pity. (I, myself, have Borderline, so yeaaaah. :P) I'm adding this here before anyone makes a comment accusing me of associating mental illnesses with weakness. I've got three of them and I can bench press you Negative Nancys HHHNNYEAUHHHHH /FLEX/.