Meanwhile, Sebastian was having a tremendous amount of trouble keeping hold of Jim. His plan had been to scoop up his boss and run home to his hideout/ lair and then figure out Step 3 to his plan there, in the confines of his own home, perhaps safely on his own couch eating his own left over calzone that had been in his fridge when he had parted with his rooms that morning.
He did not, however, expect that he: prize fighting, big game hunting, ex-military, Sebastian 'Basher' Moran, would have trouble holding onto a struggling toddler mid-temper tantrum. If it had been anyone else's kid he might've slapped it once or twice to shut it up, but no, it was his boss, Jim Moriarty, whom no one dared to slap.
He glanced from his boss, to John Watson, to the door nervously. At any second he expected the Browning to raise itself at level sights with his eyes again, and for the Doctor to be on the phone with the cops describing how he'd 'walked in' on someone breaking into his apartment, or maybe he'd even go so far as to tell the operator the truth. Hell, maybe he'd explain it to his Inspector friend and they'd have a laugh about it right in front of him. It made him warm just thinking about it.
"Stop it Jim." Sebastian pleaded, receiving one or two kicks in his thigh for all of his troubles.
Jim squealed, bit, and kicked viciously. He did not want to leave in the middle of his program, and he was making sure everyone knew it. He squirmed in circles under Moran's arm, stuck his limbs out like a starfish, and dug into Sebastian's hand with his tiny, needle-like nails.
"We have to…go!" Moran tried to fight his way to the door, almost dropping his Von Herder in an attempt to secure his boss.
Jim saw his opportunity and bucked tremendously, sliding down lower beneath Sebastian's arm.
Moran knew what Jim was doing just before it happened but with his hands full, he was helpless to stop it.
Jim swung his foot in a perfect arch until it connected with the seat of Sebastian's jeans.
Moran groaned, dropping his precious Von Herder to the ground with a terrific clatter, and allowing his infant boss to hop to the ground and clamor his way back to the couch.
Moran sucked air through his teeth, realizing that his face was turning red with pain and anger. He counted backwards from ten and limped over to a nearby chair, which he collapsed into, curling into a tight ball of pain, blinking tears from his eyes.
John snickered quietly, fearful that a loud laugh might infuriate the serial killer in his chair. Sherlock however laughed out loud. John shushed him, surprised at the chiming melodious quality of his childish laughter.
Moran looked up, fearful, confused and weary of being cornered.
"He-he doesn't want to go…?" He asked himself aloud, puzzled beyond reason.
"He must want to finish the program he's watching." John said.
Moran looked from the Browning, to where Jim had planted himself on the couch with alarm.
"You can stay… for a while…if you want?" John offered before he could realize what a terrible idea this was.
Moran stared at Jim, his foot-and-a-half-tall boss sitting on the sofa contentedly, and weighed his options. He couldn't leave without his boss; he couldn't leave without his gun. If he left his boss, he might change back into a man, and the adult Jim Moriarty did not care for traitors. Let's face it, leaving Jim, the two-year-old criminal, to fend for himself in a room full of his sworn enemies would be the ultimate betrayal. His gun however had been used in dozens of unsolved assassinations. Leaving it behind would give Scotland Yard all the evidence they needed to nail him, and tie him to a slew of unsolved homicides. Beyond that it was his favorite gun; there wasn't another one like it in the world.
He could shoot John Watson, let Jim finish his precious program, and then walk out with no fuss. That sounded like the better plan. But John Watson had been standing in the room with a Browning trained on his face for almost five minutes without killing him. It seemed dishonest to kill someone who had plenty of reason to kill him, and hadn't. Beyond that, it was just plain scummy.
"You won't call the Police?" Moran had to ask, glancing up uncertainly at the Ex-army doctor. He didn't know what to make of John Watson; never had.
John smiled knowingly, "And tell them what exactly? 'Oh hey, do you know that assassin Moran? Well guess what? He's in my flat watching telly. He won't leave until his two-year-old boss finishes his show. See you in ten minutes?'"
Moran eased into the chair, his sore parts beginning to numb and the fear fading into a tired alertness.
"Point taken." He said.