(A/N: takes place post-Reichenbach, pre-reunion and thus is a prequel of sorts to Private Lives and Public Drama)
The only things keeping Jim alive were the drugs in his system and the music in his head. There was pain, of course, so much pain in his mouth and in his head, but he couldn't do anything about it, couldn't even cry. And he could hear Sherlock's voice—Sherlock, the only person he'd ever felt any sort of connection with.
"It's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note."
Jim hadn't. Who would he write to? Seb? He had his merits, but he was, at best, a tool. Something to use when he wanted to, not something that meant anything.
There were, of course, his parents and brother, but he doubted if they wanted anything to do with him. Not when, at age ten, he'd put his mother in a diabetic coma just to see what would happen. Not when he'd gotten his professor father fired on allegations of sexual misconduct. Not when his brother, a military man, had long since been ashamed of his little brother's unusual behaviours. Jim Moriarty had no one.
"Goodbye, John."
The only thing Jim felt, emotionally, was emptiness as he heard the sound of John calling Sherlock's name. He'd had no one to call his name. But hearing the sharp grating sound of the pavement beneath Sherlock's feet as he fell, Jim knew that Seb was coming, that perhaps there was someone in this world foolish enough to let emotions attach themselves to him.
By the time Seb got there, the rain had started to wash the blood away, crimson life flowing all over the roof, flowing away, erasing evidence. Jim was almost comatose, his eyes staring into oblivion. But the drugs had done their job and he was still alive, even if only just.
"Come on, boss, hospital's ready." Two strong arms lifted Jim, cradling him like a baby, supporting his shattered head. There was a moment of silence before Jim was placed on the ground again and the body bag was unzipped. And then there was musty, rubbery darkness as the bag was closed and Seb lifted him once again.
Jim registered descent as he was brought down the stairs and placed in the back of his own car, felt the shift in inertia as the car pulled away. He had no sense of time as he was driven to his own private hospital—he was rich enough to be able to afford his own medical staff who could keep their mouths shut about any injuries his "guests" received. He noticed the turning, felt the seat belt strain on his arm and leg as Seb had to slam his brakes.
The next time Jim noticed anything, it was the beeping of his heart monitor. He couldn't move and his eyes had been closed, but he strained to take in any detail of his surroundings. He noticed Seb's musky smell and a part of Jim—not his face, but somewhere deep in his inky heart—smiled. Seb didn't have to be there. But he was. Seb was the one who'd gotten himself tangled up.
It took three weeks, but eventually Jim made a sound. Nothing much, just a moan, just a soft sound expressing the pain he was in. His head hurt constantly since the incident, and today was worse than usual.
"Boss?" Seb shifted in his seat, leaning forward probably, and seemed to expect an answer. No matter how hard he tried, Jim couldn't give him one. "I think he's in pain," Seb told the nurse, and she increased his morphine, releasing the pain just a tiny bit, just enough to make it bearable again. Jim took a deep breath and Seb took his hand before realizing that if Jim were conscious, he wouldn't appreciate the gesture in the slightest.
It was another month before Jim opened his eyes. He didn't move them, he couldn't. But he could see, he could process what his eyes were telling his brain. Time was still wrong, speeding up and slowing down at random, but for some strange reason, Seb was always there. No one else was. And Jim was pleased to hear the television going on and on about how Sherlock Holmes fooled everyone, how he was one of the greatest con men of the day, and how it had driven him to suicide. But a tiny little prick kept poking at Jim, a tiny hint of regret that the only person he'd ever seen worthy of his attentions was dead.
People kept pointing flashlights into his eyes. Jim didn't care why, he just wished they would stop. It made his headache worse and kept him from sleeping, which was all he really wanted to do. Maybe permanently. But then Seb—stupid, normal, boring, ordinary Seb crossed his vision and it almost changed Jim's mind.
Three and a half months after Jim shot himself in the face, he laughed. It was more a weak chuckle than anything, but Seb pulled himself off the floor (he'd fallen, which was what made Jim laugh) and come over to the bed.
"Not funny, boss." Seb was irritated at having his half-dead boss, best friend, and sometimes lover laugh at his misfortune, but he was equally glad he had—it showed there was still Jim inside the now-frail shell.
It took a whole year for Jim to be able to fully move again, to show he had significant cognitive function, though his words were muddled and his attitude one of agonized humiliation. Seb took him home, to Jim's mansion, and stayed to look after him, cooking and cleaning and keeping him company. Seb could tell that despite the injury, Jim was still intact, emotionally, psychologically, but that something was always lost in the transition from brain to mouth. It hurt to see Jim fighting to get every sentence in some sort of order, but he was getting better each day.
"Seb, I've lost my distant. I want a different canal on the cathodes." There were times when Seb needed a dictionary or thesaurus to figure out what Jim wanted. But not now. He'd long learned that Jim hated Eastenders, that it was about to come on, and that he referred to the remote as a distant. He wanted to change channels.
Eighteen months and Jim tumbled out of bed, his head splitting. Seb was downstairs, on the telephone, and didn't hear his boss fail to suppress a strangled cry of pain as he crawled to the bathroom to try to fetch his pain medication. Shaking hands opened the bottle, spilling pills all over the wooden floors, but eventually, Jim swallowed three and collapsed in a shuddering heap, waiting for the medicine to work and the torture he'd inflicted upon himself to go away.
"It hurts, Seb," he whispered when Seb found him fifteen minutes later, massive arms lifting him and putting him back into his bed. "It hurts…"
WELCOME BACK, BOSS, read the banner above the entry way in the middle of the living area. It was two years to the day since Jim shot himself, and he was finally feeling up to working again, despite the constant regimen of painkillers. There was cake, ice cream, alcohol, and several illegal drugs all ready for the taking at his welcome-back party. He was surprised that so many people came, glamorous women in tight-fitting dresses, tattooed bikers, thugs, and ex-convicts, computer wizards, and chemists—Jim's upper tier, all present, all applauding, and, for the most of them, all genuinely happy to see him at work again.
"You guys," Jim said in his best Richard Brook voice. "D'awww, you're the best." He grabbed Seb in an apparent embrace, took the gun from Seb's holster as he pulled away, and pointed it at the chandelier before firing twice, knocking it down and into the dance floor. "I'm baaaack!" Jim slid down the banister, all smiles, grabbing a swig of a dark-skinned woman's drink, and throwing his hands up. "Time to party!"