Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

Moriarty

Had he been in any sort of condition to enter into conversation on how he expected to wake up – or even if he expected to wake up for that matter – Jim would not have predicted this.

He had doctors at his beck and call of course – men and women alike that he had suborned for just this purpose, but Jim had never expected that the quality of care they would afford him would allow him to wake from serious injuries in anything close to approaching this level of comfort. He'd know even as he fell that he was in serious trouble – the wounds were not instantly life threatening but they did pose something of a challenge in the area of after treatment care.

He didn't have a clear recollection of the events immediately following their escape, but he had a hazy idea that he'd insisted on seeing Pet at one point; because if Pet was willing to sacrifice his life for Mad Aunty, surely the man would take proper care of his wounds?

Now he lay comfortably in a bed, pain dulled by drugs, monitors making a low noise to one side.

"Mr Moriarty?" the voice was familiar, and he frowned, trying to place it. Gentle hands touched his wrist and arm and Jim opened his eyes to the rather exhausted visage of Pet, who was standing beside him and looking at the monitors. Jim grunted and Pet glanced down at him, his face calm. Bright eyes flicked over him for a moment and then Pet let go, fetching water and a straw, lifting his head carefully and allowing him to sip at his leisure.

"How is the pain?" Pet asked, lowering his head carefully, "You shouldn't be too uncomfortable at the moment – I gave you a shot an hour ago."

"Its fine," Jim sniffed, his voice weaker than he would have liked. Pet nodded and straightened the blankets with deft touches, sitting on a hard chair beside his bed. From the grimace, it appeared that Pet had been there ever since Jim had arrived, however long that was.

Jim closed his eyes again, thinking furiously about what had happened. Sherlock had betrayed him, had in fact attempted to kill him, something that Jim had never once believed to be possible. True, Jim had Pet and Sherlock was annoyed about that – the man did so hate to share – but shooting Jim over the situation was a bit of an over reaction to say the least!

And there was also the quandary of how to respond to that insult. The most natural reaction in the world would be to take his pain and frustration out on Pet… but those hands were back, touching him with gentle care, seeing to his needs with calm competence. Dressings were changed and when Jim grimaced in discomfort a soothing voice offered kind words to distract him while the procedure continued.

It was care at its finest, even though the man ministering to his wounds had been held prisoner for well over a month, locked away with nothing but a blanket and a box of crayons for company. Pet was not stupid – Pet knew that he was living on borrowed time, but still he treated his captor with the same care and attention he'd treated other patients. Not even Jim's own mother had treated him with this much care, though she'd payed for what she'd done fully before the end…

He'd thought that Sherlock was his friend: that the game they were playing was a bit of harmless fun. In as much as a man like Jim was capable of feeling a positive emotion in regards to another human being – Jim had no delusions about his own mental state, after all – he'd always thought that Sherlock understood him. He'd been misunderstood his whole life, even Moran didn't comprehend all of Jim Moriarty, but in Sherlock he'd thought… After all, who else would understand him if not a genius sociopath who faced the same problems with boredom as he did? Sherlock had loved the Game they'd played, even as the people around him bleated mundane warnings about what was proper and decent.

He hadn't anticipated Sherlock actually liking Pet to the degree that the man would fret when they were apart. He certainly had been entertained by Sherlock's preliminary tantrum, but he hadn't expected that his friend – enemy now, because Jim didn't forgive and forget when it came to being shot, no matter who fired the bullet – would turn on him over something as simple as a bit of teasing over a third party. All his life, the people around him had wanted something from him – his mind, his body, his influence. Even those he allowed closest – like Moran – only did so because that closeness conferred a certain amount of deferred power to their own cause. No one had ever really cared what he wanted… he'd been betrayed by so many…

"Why?" Jim breathed the question, opening his eyes. Pet's beard had become fully established and the man was pale with exhaustion. He was favouring his bad shoulder, which meant the chair was doing more harm than good now.

"Why what, Mr Moriarty?" Pet asked quietly, touching Jim's forehead lightly. Jim turned into the touch, pressing against it wordlessly and Pet's hand lingered for a long moment. Jim didn't answer, basking in the touch of someone who wasn't about to hurt him, nor trying to manipulate him. For the first time in his life, Jim Moriarty felt safe.

The sensation was indescribable.

In an instant he'd made up his mind. Pet would not suffer for Sherlock's betrayal. Jim would find another way to punish his new enemy.

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