James Moriarty was sitting on the slim metal bed, knees drawn up to his chest and fingers laced across the back of his dark head, gazing into nothing. The cold stone of the wall at his back leeched what little heat remained from the silent man. He hadn't spoken for days.

Not that his captors minded; they hadn't slept since they last held this criminal. Even with the cell door's hatch firmly closed and locked, they could still hear his ramblings, words chosen with precision in order to efficiently drive each guard insane.

Since his sniper spoke his last, there had been in Moriarty's head only a ringing silence, an agonising peace which he had not yet dared to fill. He encircled his trembling form tightly with his thin arms, which could never hope to provide the warmth and solace Moran's had given him.

So he sat, wrapped in his muted memories, when the bone-jarring scrape of a heavy door on stone rang through the cell. He waded through his dream-like consciousness until he began to surface in the real world, dimly aware that, today, his guard was not alone behind his metal barrier to civilisation.

Stiffly, barely remembering how, he raised his heavy head, eyes red from insomnia, hair wild from his anxious fingers. A flash of gold shining in the dim prison light made his broken heart leap.

But it was another soldier.

"You look terrible."

"A pleasure to see you, too, John. His voice was rough from unuse, harsh as death's himself.

The guard followed the doctor into the cell, folding his arms across his chest in a feeble attempt to seem intimidating. If Jim hadn't felt so hollow, he would have laughed, but he couldn't muster a sound.

"You haven't been eating." Dr. Watson said, matter-of-factly.

"No."

"Or sleeping."

"No." He had fallen into a fitful sleep the night Sebastian died, but he was haunted by the memory of a body passing his cell on a stretcher, carried away from him forever. Then it had begun to rain, and the blood stained body was lying in his arms, Jim again helpless to save him

After that, he had forced his eyes to remain open, his tortured mind closed.

"You need to take better care of yourself, or you'll only go the same way." Jim only glared in response. "Look – I know, in here, it might not feel as though anyone cares – but – they do." John finished weakly.

"Who?" Jim barked. "Who gives a damn about me?"

"Well, what about your family?"

"What family?" Jim Moriarty spat bitterly.

John let his mouth hang open for a moment, silent.

"Well," he said, warmly, "you've got me at least."

Jim looked up at the doctor, gaunt eyes shining with guilt and grief.

"Thank you, John." He hesitated. "I wanted… I wanted to apologise, for what I did last year. You're a good man, John Watson, and Sherlock may be a bastard – but he's your bastard. I'm so sorry to have made you suffer like this. Even – even if it was just a trick."

John wished with all his heart that he could say the same.

"Well, that's all behind us now, don't concern yourself with it. It's you we need to worry about now." He pulled a pork pie from his pocket. "Here. Mrs. Hudson's speciality."

Cautiously peeling away the cling film, James Moriarty took a tentative bite of the pastry. It was delicious, but after so long without food he almost brought it back up again.

"It's lovely." He told John, his voice muffled by the food. "Tell her for me, would you?"

His companion nodded as he tugged a flask of tea from his coat with a flourish. As John poured a cup for each of them, Jim spoke again.

"John, will you do something for me?"

"Of course." He replied, leaning towards him to pass the criminal his steaming tea.

Jim cast his eyes to the ground, momentarily silent, before saying: "Stay with Sherlock Holmes."

John blinked, his PG Tips forgotten.

"He's not a bad person, John. I'm sure he can be just as unbearable as me sometimes, but – but you were happy together. Please don't give that up for my sake."

John smiled weakly. "I'll try. It'll take a while, but… God, I can't stay angry at that man. He does this thing with his eyes; he looks like a lost puppy. He keeps telling me that he never had a dog, but I swear no man can do that look without learning from an expert."

Jim chuckled to himself at the faraway look in the man's eyes. But John's eyes too soon changed to give an expression of worried guilt.

"But… what he did, what he did to you – it was wrong. It was… inhuman."

"He was perfectly justified, John. He's been trying to get us put away for years." Jim reassured him.

"But – still –" John was interrupted by the heavy door scraping open to reveal Lestrade.

"You should leave now, John. It's getting late, and – there are regulations to follow…"

He watched uncomfortably as John rose stiffly from the cold iron bed. He moved his eyes back to the criminal for a moment.

"I am very sorry, Jim. Sebastian was a good man. Whatever Sherlock says, he didn't deserve this, and nor do you. If I can help, with anything… just ask for me, ok?"

"Thank you." Jim replied simply as the door slammed shut behind the doctor.