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Under the Influence

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A/N: Very, very sorry for the delay. I haven't been very well lately and was unable to write much (though I did get a small one-shot written, which was quite an accomplishment, as well as a companion piece of sorts to this story called Sweet Redemption. If you haven't already, I'd recommend you take a look at it. It's great :p). I know it was a crappy place to leave it, so you'll be happy to know this one will not end on a cliffy, though the following chapter will be a bit of a continuation.

On another note, the lovely LittleDesertRose has made some fantastic fanart for this story, which you can check out over on Ao3 or Deviantart. She even included Fingers, which I found totally awesome.

Disclaimer: none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language.

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Water pools over green, fields are swamped with exaggerated, opaque puddles. Streams flow freely, spilling out over the roadside, and the atmosphere shrinks in on itself with tension.

Raindrops cling to limp strands of grass, while branches appear on the brink of collapse, caving in, drooping down, darkened wood saturated as if to the core.

He roars down the winding country roads. Flying past the luminous sign kindly reminding drivers of the 30 mile speed limit, his tires squeal and swerve on the turbulent, waterlogged tar, a torrent of water erupting behind him, and he's forced to take it slow, though if ever there were a reason to obliterate the speed limit, it would be this. Even so, Sebastian would be of no use to anyone wrapped around a telephone pole, so he exercises a modest amount of caution (pushing little over forty), despite every single instinct goading him to get there as fast as he fucking well can.

The standard twenty-minute trip has now been stretched to a far from ideal thirty-five, and Sebastian might know nothing about medical emergencies, but he knows every second counts.

He can only hope he gets there on time. Figures something would happen to Jim during one of the worst fricking rainstorms to hit Britain in recent years.

The windscreen wipers work tirelessly, but the heavy rain cascades down his windshield nevertheless, and all he can see is a ripple of colour and short-lived, dull glows where there should be discernible scenery and passing vehicles.

The sun is vanishing in a muddle of fog and dusk and heavy, unrelenting showers, and darkness is bordering him in.

In his panic and haste, Sebastian doesn't notice his foot pressing down harder on the accelerator, and he relents as he hits another bottomless puddle hard, hosing his side doors and spraying a hail of muck and gravel in his path.

With a shuddering sigh, he ignores the pesky tremors in his hands and continues to squint out the window.

His heart hasn't stopped pounding since this whole ordeal began…

His shirt pocket lights up and begins to vibrate and Sebastian answers it minus any cowardly hesitation with a terse, "Jim, I swear to God, if this another damn assignment, I will come over there and kick your ass myse-"

"Unca - u-unca Seb?" a small, scared voice pipes up on the other line and he swiftly changes tone. Sure, he's pissed at Jim, but the last thing Sebastian ever wanted is for his anger to affect Sherlock; he couldn't bear it if he ever hurt the kid.

"Sorry, kiddo," Sebastian says cheerily. "Thought it was your Dad. He around? 'Cause I bet he wouldn't be too happy to hear you're playing with his phone again."

"H-he here," the little boy confirms in a wobbly voice that sounds close to tears, followed by a large sniff that has the hair on Sebastian's arms rising. Something is definitely not right here. "But Daddy not - he not okay, Unca Seb, and I dun know what to-to - what to do."

Swallowing his alarm, the man softens his voice to reassure, "It's okay, buddy. Take a nice deep breath and tell me what happened. How is your Dad not okay? Describe him to me. Is there any blood? Bad ouchies? It's gonna be alright, squirt. Just take a deep breath."

There's a hiccupping sound and a gulping whimper. "No-no blood," he confirms and Sebastian all but wilts with relief, "But Daddy h-hot and he-he not waking up."

Oh, shit. That isn't good.

"You did a great job, kiddo," he remarks, blinking back fear. "You're being really, really brave. I know it's tough, but can you maybe stay with your Daddy for a bit 'til I get there? I'll be there as fast as I can. Promise. I'm heading to my car right now."

Outside, the weather is brutal. Black clouds have been swarming the sky in preparation all evening and it was only a matter of time before they unleashed a heady downpour.

By this point, the wind is whistling and swearing loudly as it thrusts the rain at the trees, whose fearful branches duck and swerve with little hope of evasion, and the rain melts into his elegant suit as he braces the storm.

Cutting through the fierce winds and shielding his face with one hand, Sebastian jumps into his black SUV - fast but gloriously inconspicuous - and shoves his keys into the ignition while balancing the phone between his collarbone and his ear. The engine rumbles to life.

Sebastian shivers and shakes off his hair like a wet dog, droplets of water tumbling down his sharp cheekbones and gathering in the arc of his lower lip. His hair is now entirely flat, sticking to his forehead, and so black that it blends effortlessly into the approaching night.

"In the mean time," he coaches in a calming tone, peeling off his sopping jacket, chucking it in the backseat, and turning on the heating, before casting a glance over his shoulder and backing out of his drive. "Can you keep up the good work and keep on talking to me? I'm gonna dial 999 on my other phone and some lovely folks are gonna come out to your house and help your Daddy, but they might get there before I do, got that? If they do, you'll need to let them in. But don't worry about that just yet. You just keep talking to me. Tell me anything. It's really important that you don't hang up, okay?"

Sherlock whispers, "O-okay."

"Excellent," Sebastian replies breezily, thankful that Sherlock isn't here to witness the beads of sweat gathering between the cracks of his casual façade.

"So…" He clucks his tongue. "Ever heard of the game Twenty questions?"

Midway through their conversation, while Sherlock was in the middle of explaining the plot from his favourite film, Lilo&Stitch, the phone lines had abruptly crashed and entire area's power went out.

Immediately, Sebastian had released a long line of swear words and resisted the urge to bang his head off the steering wheel. The kid's probably freaking the hell out. And God knows how long it'll take before the power's up and running again? Hours, probably.

Never in his life has Sebastian been particularly religious, but as he sits here in the deafening silence with only the horrific weather conditions and his riving engine for company, hands clenching around the wheel and useless phone discarded on his lap, he finds himself praying to whatever God out there that'll listen.

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Uncle Seb said don't hang up, and he didn't.

The lights flickered, then the phone went quiet and gave a long beeeeeep, and he didn't hang up. Sherlock set the phone down on the floor real careful-like and sat back on his hunches with his hands covering his cheeks, and thought that maybe if he stared at it long enough, maybe Uncle Seb's voice would come back.

But it didn't.

The lights flickered some more, then suddenly there weren't any lights on anymore, and the pitter patter of rain on the roof seemed really loud all of a sudden, while the room got darker and darker and darker, 'til it was nearly black.

Uncle Seb had told Sherlock not to leave Daddy - and he didn't! - but as the furniture turns to black blobs and goosebumps rise up on his arms and Sherlock can make out frosty mist in front of his face when he breathes out, he knows he has to do something. He's cold and hungry and he's afraid that soon he won't be able to see anything in front of him at all.

So Sherlock pushes himself to his feet and hobbles on sore legs to his room, dripping dots all over the floor from his soaking hair. Kneeling down, Sherlock sticks his hand in his hidey hole under his wardrobe where he stashes his secret stuff and feels around until his hand touches the chilly plastic of his Batman torch. He grabs Wilbur and his Blankie and while he's at it, Sherlock supposes he might as well pinch some chocolate digestives from the biscuit jar in the pantry too.

When he gets back, Daddy's sitting up straight and gazing around him and his eyes are open and he's even blinking, but Sherlock still doesn't believe he's awake. His face is his Daddy's face, but right now, he doesn't look a great deal like his Daddy, and he's muttering a lot about a lot of things that don't make a lot of sense.

And Sherlock knows it's not very brave of him, but he's not so sure he wants to go back to this man.

"Incy Wincy Spider Climbed Up The WaterSpout," Daddy says slowly, in a voice so flat and different, that it gives him shivers.

His Daddy loves nursery rhymes and he loves his Daddy's nursery rhymes, but this doesn't send him to sleep, this doesn't chase the bad dreams away. This makes him want to crawl under his blankie and shuts his eyes so tight, he'll see the stars instead.

His voice is a whisper. "Down Came The Rain and Washed The Spider Out," He laughs, chokes, coughs for a bit, and Sherlock wants to run, to yell, to tell him to stop, but he's frozen by the door, shinning the torch and doing all he can not to cry again, "Out Came The Sun and Dried Up All The Rain…"

His eyes are wild and his breaths are winded and he sings so very soft.

"And Incy Wincy Spider Climbed Up The Spout Again."

Sherlock doesn't know if it's the eyes or the mouth or the shivers down his spine, but Sherlock doesn't like when his Daddy says those words, not when he says them like that.

But then Daddy makes a sound, a very strange sad sound, and it sounds so much like crying that Sherlock stops being scared, because he doesn't want his Daddy to be scared, too.

Sherlock dashes to his side and slips his fingers through his Daddy's, who doesn't even look at him, squeezing them tight. He cuddles up beside Daddy and flings his blankie around them both, since it's freezing now and Daddy's shaking so hard, it confuses Sherlock because his skin is still so warm.

His tummy rumbles again, so Sherlock nibbles on the biscuits, even though he doesn't really want them, and dusts the crumbs off by smacking his hands together. It doesn't get rid of all of them, though, 'cause when he puts his thumb in his mouth, it still tastes a bit like digestives. He sneezes in the darkness and wipes his nose with the back of his hand, and he waits, though he's not sure what he's supposed to be waiting for.

"…the heart…," Daddy is mumbling and tilting his head and he looks so, so confused, "…I was s'pposed to-to burn your...your heart. It w'snt s'pposed to be me, Sh'rlock. What h've you done to my heart?"

There's that funny feeling in his tummy again.

It doesn't matter, though. It doesn't matter - 'cause when Sherlock flips his Daddy's hand over and touches his wrist, his heartbeat is still there and he's breathing in and out - Sherlock counts the breaths, he's getting better at numbers, - and Uncle Seb will be here any minute and it doesn't matter. None of it.

Does it?

Sherlock bites his lip and tries not to think about it, but it's tough. He thinks a lot about a bunch of stuff all the time. It's hard to stop now.

And it hurts; and he doesn't know why.

Alone and scared, Sherlock burrows his head in his Daddy's stomach and hides from the world. He doesn't move when his neck gets stiff or his legs cramp. He doesn't move when the lights turn back on or when the voices ring out crystal clear.

He doesn't move until hands grasp him round the middle and pluck him away while he holds onto his Daddy's shirt and cries when they pull and cries when they talk and screams when his fingers finally get pried away.

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Rubber screeched as he grinds to a halt and clambers out of the SUV, before sprinting to the keypad and entering the security code just as the ambulance pulls up to the entrance, tapping the icon to spring open the gates and allow them access.

Their lights spin and red and blue fragments orbit the premise, cast along the surface of the walls and hedges, and the shrill siren dies away as they park and two, male paramedics in bright, luminous jackets hop out.

"Right this way, gentlemen," Sebastian directs with a grim smile, trekking inside and wondering what exactly is ahead of them.

They locate the pair in Jim's bedroom where Sherlock is wrapped around his father's abdomen and quietly sobbing, while Moriarty stares off into the distance, face flushed and drenched in sweat, twitching and rambling incoherently. The boy is clothed in only an oversized shirt, the back of which is stuck to his skin as if he was damp when he put it on, which seems likely considering his curls are stringy with moisture and there are suds clung to his bare legs.

Despite the power having returned, he is gripping a small, LED torch, which emits a small circle of light onto Jim's thigh, and he continues to sniffle softly and horde the bulge of fabric in his little fist.

The two paramedics share a bleak look, before squatting down and checking Jim's vitals, shinning a flashlight in his eyes and trying to generate a response from the agitated man.

Sebastian, meanwhile, addresses Sherlock.

"Hey, Sherlock? Sherlock, buddy, it's okay. You can let go now. Help is here." He places one hand on the youngster's back and that's when it all goes to shit.

Sherlock's bawling deepens and he clings on tighter to his Dad in fear, shaking his head and smearing snot and tears everywhere.

"No," he whimpers. "No, no, no. My Daddy. Dun take my Daddy."

"It's alright, kiddo. It's not forever. Your Daddy has to go away for a bit, so that these good people can make him better - don't you want him to get better?" But logic tends not to work on toddlers.

"No!" he burbles, crying harder. "No! My Daddy!"

"I'm sorry, bud." And damn, he really, really is. "But you've gotta come with me. Your Dad is sick and you have to let him take his special medicine."

"Can-can take med'cine hewe."

"He can't, though. That's the problem. He has to go to the hospital."

Sherlock wails, "But-but me dun wan him to go!"

"Sir?" The man, Dave, going by his nametag, says with an apologetic frown. "I'm afraid we really need to move him now."

"Yeah," Sebastian sighs. "Got it." Knowing that if he keeps trying to reason with Sherlock, they'll be trapped here forever, Sebastian grits his teeth and steels himself, before sweeping the little boy up with one arm.

"No! NO!" Sherlock screeches, kicking and flailing in his grasp. "Daddy! DADDY!"

He hangs over Sebastian's arms, stretching the shirt in his refusal to liberate it, screaming and howling with bright red cheeks and the most gut-wrenching of expressions, tear drops falling from his lashes.

The older man's heart breaks, but that doesn't stop Sebastian from peeling off his unyielding grip. And with the toddler struggling over his shoulder, breathless and frantically reaching out, he turns his back and he walks away.

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After leaving Sherlock off with some reliable caretakers, he returns to the hospital where he fills in Jim's forms, lying every now and again about the trivial facts like age, where's he's from, any future contact information, that sort of thing, and signs him in under one of his common alias, James Brook. He is being treated for a dangerously high fever and severe dehydration, and the doctor assured him there would be no long-lasting damage. If left untreated, however, the consequences would have certainly been fatal, and as slim a chance at it might be, if Moriarty had survived, there would have been many substantial complications that Jim would never have had the patience to deal with. As of now, they've given him a dose of fever-reducing medicine, as well as putting him on a drip to replenish any lost fluids.

Oh, and whatever they've given him? It's making him loopy as hell.

"Seb," Jim grumbles, "Go an' fetch my mini-marshm'llow," voice drowned out by the fact that he is lying face-down and his mouth is stuffed with the edge of a pillow. His Irish accent is thicker than he's heard in a long time and even if his words weren't tripping up and falling over themselves, anyone other than Sebastian would have a very hard time interpreting the man and now even he's left struggling.

He scratches his head in puzzlement. "Your what?"

"You know," Moriarty brandishes a lumbering arm in the air, before deciding that takes too much effort and letting it make a nose-dive towards the floor, arm flopping by his bedside. "My fluffy jelly tot."

"What the hell is that?" He thought that was a reasonable question, but apparently, he was wrong, because Moriarty only becomes more annoyed.

"Sebbyyyyyy," he whines impatiently, voice climbing into petulant territory as he rolls over and glares at him. "I want my squishy. Gimmie - else I'm gonna-I'm gonna break your stupid, u'ly feet."

Great. Now he's threatening him. "Jim, what on earth are you talking about?" Sebastian demands in irritation. "I don't understan-"

Moriarty's scowl lessens a bit as he shoves away the bed covers, heaves himself up and yawns, garbling in a drowsy jumble as he swipes at his eyes, "Your big toe looks like it ate all the 'lil toes."

"Not that," Sebastian clarifies, huffing an exasperated breath and tossing in an eye roll for free, before enunciating slowly, "What is a squishy?"

"It's m'squishy, Sebby," Jim moodily informs him, dangling his legs over the bed and peering down at them in fascination as he swings his feet back and forth, strumming his knuckles against the bedpost. "You can't have it."

Sebastian sighs. "That's… not very helpful to me at the moment. And lie back down," he scolds, taking hold of the other man's shoulders and pushing. "You're going to rip out your IV if you keep wriggling around like this."

"Just gimmie, Sebby," Jim repeats, but he lies back without any trouble while Sebastian fixes his blankets around him. The consulting criminal's hand bunches in frustration and he weakly thumps the bed with a perplexed, "I just want…Why won't you gimmie?"

"I would," Sebastian tells him. "But you're not making any sense."

"Gotta be 'round here…round here somewhere…" He pats the bed and frowns blearily. "Hand 'em over, Seb. I know you - you have 'em. He's gonna be scared."

"He? Did you say he?" he asks in disbelief. "Shit," Sebastian exclaims, smacking his forehead, "Are you talking about Sherlock?"

But he's lost him again as Jim picks at the coverlet's pills and blows them away with a noisy gust. Jesus. It's like dealing with a child. "Jim, focus." Sebastian snaps his fingers until wide, glassy brown eyes stare up at him. "Is it Sherlock? Is it Sherlock you want?"

Brows collapsing in peculiarly exposed thought, Jim glances away again and mumbles, "He's all I…all I have, Sebby. Don't want anything else."

And fuck if that doesn't hit Sebastian right in the solar plexus.

"Jim…" As much as it pains him to deny his sick friend's request, he has to. "Sherlock's not here right now. He's with Anna and June. You remember - at the safe house? The one for emergencies?"

"But-but I want 'em," he gripes, as if that alone solves everything, waiting for Sebastian to change his mind and magic Sherlock to the hospital doorway. Jim's used to getting what he wants and this is no different. Consequences be damned.

"I know you do," Sebastian replies gently. "But he's safe, alright? He won't be scared." Moriarty grunts some variety of protest, but can't summon the energy to do little more than pout. "Look - you're exhausted. You need to rest. I'll call the nurses, okay?" Sebastian suggests, already inching towards the call button. "They'll give you something to help you sleep."

Head shaking, he flings his arms over his face and rambles, "Don't want…Seb, don't want to go - don't make me go to sleep. I don't want to go to sleep."

"It's okay, Jim," he responds sympathetically as the nurse enters. "You'll feel much better."

"No! No!" He begins thrashing as the woman inserts the needle and the drugs pump through the tube into his system. "No! No! You can't make me!"

It's like deja vu all over again. So reassurance didn't work; time to take a less gentle approach. "Jim! Stop it!" Sebastian snaps harshly, pleased when he flinches and his feral eyes latch onto his cool, collected ones. God knows, he needs to be the rational one here.

Sebastian has never seen his boss in such a panic-stricken state and it is a little unsettling to witness the consulting criminal seemingly come apart at the seams.

Jim sniffs. "I don't - I don't like sleeping without my squishy…"

Grimacing and turning away, he offers lamely, "It's alright." The statement rings hollow.

But by this stage, the drugs are already beginning to take effect, and Moriarty sinks down deeper onto the bed with a lethargic, "Don't take…don't take my squishy." His arm instinctively snakes around the pillow, though his lip scrunches as if bewildered by its non-Munchkin-like puffiness.

"I won't. Promise."

"Mine," he reiterates for good measure.

"Yeah. I know. Go to sleep."

All he needs now is a damn, 'Property of JM,' sticker.

"Still wanna break your…your st'pid, uly f-feet…" his slurred voice dwindles away, only to be replaced by slow, passive snores.

He chuckles. "I'm sure you'll find a reason," Sebastian comments dryly, though his lips are dangerously close to smiling.

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"How long do you I have to stay in this landmine of disease?" Jim wonders the following morning, unable to prevent his aversion from trickling into his facial muscles or tone as he checks his phone for new texts and updating their clients via email that he's out of commission for the next day or two, because according to Sebastian, he's here to, 'rest, not work.' Bleh. He hates hospitals, he hates sick people, he hates the poor wifi connection and the constant monitoring and their cardboard food and the friendly staff - but most of all, he hates, hates, hates the vulgar, itchy hospital gown he was shoved into. It has a poka-dot pattern on it. Poka-dots. There is nothing more shabby and unrefined than poka-dots.

"Only for another two or three days and then they're bound to release you," Sebastian ventures - what he doesn't say, is that if Jim keeps up the way he has been, then there is no doubt in his mind that he'll have the release papers shoved in his arms to sign by tomorrow. Is it possible to kick out patients for being annoying? It seems unlikely, being negligent and unethical and all, but in Jim's case, Sebastian wouldn't blame them. Heck, he's tempted to throw him out the window half the time himself and he's used to it.

He's already whined about being bored several times to anyone who'll listen and it's starting to get on Sebastian's (and everyone else's) nerves - something he's sure the little prick knows.

Therefore, he feels it is his personal duty to ensure that a similar incident never occurs again. Only problem is, it's damn near impossible to deter Jim from anything.

"You know..." he says thoughtfully, "All of this could have been prevented if you'd only looked after yourself - No, don't roll your eyes at me. You need to take better care of yourself, James. For Sherlock's sake, at any rate."

"What are you? My mother?" Moriarty snorts. "And yuck. Don't call me that. You know how I abhor it."

"Good." He jerks his head. "Then maybe you'll listen. What if Sherlock hadn't called me, huh?" He sounds like a nagging mother-hen, Sebastian knows. But somebody needs to do something. "Then where would you be? I mean it, Jim - that kid was scared stiff. You were very lucky he called when he did."

"Save it, Sebastian." Jim rewards his genuine concern with barely a glance, as he shifts his features into scorn. "I'm lying in a filthy hospital ward with a bunch of average people. Lesson learned."

"You have your own room," Sebastian states in confusion, glancing around at the pale, lemon room he thought was actually rather cosy, all things considered. "This is a private hospital."

"I don't care. It reeks of death and old people."

"You sound like a child."

"No, I don't," he rebuts grumpily, before a wicked grin stirs his lips and he asks impishly, "Hey, can I do an American accent with the nurses?"

"No." God, no, Sebastian thinks, repressing a shudder. Hasn't he tormented them enough with his antics? "They already know you're Irish."

"You're no fun," Jim pouts, flopping back on the pillows and crossing his arms. "I should fire you."

The other man scoffs, "Like that's all you have up your sleeves."

"What do you mean?" His brows knit and he looks sincerely baffled.

"Oh, come on. You're not planning to…jeez, I dunno - taser my balls again now that you're lucid?"

His boss cocks his head, forehead wrinkled, but innocent eyes or not, Sebastian doesn't trust the dainty tone as he chuckles, "Now why would I do a cheeky thing like that?"

"Beats me, Jim." He shrugs. "Why do you do anything?"

Leaning forward, he licks his lips and presents him with a fraction of a frown. "Sebby, Sebby, Sebby…" Jim tuts. "Do you really think so little of me?"

"Not at all," Sebastian rolls his eyes, voice laden with sarcasm, "I forgot you're a gentle little angel. Wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Course not. What business does a spider have with flies?"

The creases around Sebastian's eyes tighten. "Are you calling me a fly?"

"Yes. No," Jim murmurs, overly blasé, but with a hint of a smirk accompanying his glittering stare. "Take a wild guess. I'm on a lot of medication."

"That's not an excuse."

"Could be. Look at me, Sebastian. I have an Iv bag," he points out, jiggling the bag of liquid, despite being told over and over again not to. "Doesn't that warrant a little sympathy?"

"So it's sympathy you're after?"

"No. Just a little forgiveness."

"Forgiveness?" he echoes dubiously. "What?"

Jim has the decency to appear a little on the shameful side, twiddling his thumbs. "I was harsh."

He nods hardly. "You were."

"I could have killed you."

"You almost did."

"But…" he glances up sweetly, as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. "You're okay now?"

He's not talking about his health.

"I don't hold grudges, Jimmy," Sebastian sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Least not with you. If I did, I'd have been out of a job years ago."

"Suppose." Jim returns to his default mischievous expression. "Also...you'd be dead ten times over."

"That too," he concedes, before jerking a thumb towards the door. "Listen - I gotta go. I've got some shit to care of. And before you ask, yes, I'll pay Anna and June a visit, see how Sherlock's doing. Maybe cheer him up - you know he'll be moping. I'll also grab some stuff for you and leave it off later when I'm finished." He checks his watch and shrugs on his jacket. "Remember - no work, play nice with the staff, and absolutely no American accents. Those are the rules. And just so you know, your apology is pending."

"You never could stay mad at me, Sebastian," Jim says smugly.

"Don't get too comfortable. There's a lumpy hospital pillow with your name on it."

"You wouldn't," he states with an ungodly smirk. "My face is way too beautiful to smother."

Sebastian mutters as he leaves, "Bloody twat."

"Love you too," the little shit sings after him.

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Thanks for reading and thank-you for your continued support and understanding. You guys are truly amazing. Hope this doesn't disappoint anyone.

Please disregard anything medical-related, though, because I seriously suck at sick-fics. Oh, and the reason Moriarty comes across as being really childish in this chapter is because that's how Sebastian views him, case anyone's wondering.