Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.
Moriarty
He'd had to let Pet lie down after being treated, though he'd insisted that Pet's cot be put directly alongside his bed and lowered said bed as far as he could so he could still see and touch Pet when he wanted. With the catheter out, he was mobile and while it was uncomfortable, Jim was pleased that he could make a trip to the loo in a wheelchair. The Other Doctor was made to stay around to see to both his needs and Pet's and did so with a miserable countenance. He had taken pictures of Pet's injuries and Jim emailed them off to his rival – no sense in wasting images that would get his point across – as well as organising a dozen stripper-grams to arrive at irregular intervals and scheduling for Baker Street to be dug up on night-works for maintenance (unnecessary) on the gas mains.
Moran's body, blood, grey matter and other such detritus had been removed and/or scrubbed away. Jim hadn't thought twice about it since – Moran had only been good to Jim as long as he was obedient; the moment he showed defiance, he was useless. The Goon that was guarding Pet was very obsequious as a result of Jim's show of power and, even better; he handled Pet with utmost care for the evening loo break.
With Moran gone, there was an opening for top spot in Jim's little enterprise, and Jim had made up his mind that Pet would take that spot. He knew Pet could shoot remarkably well – look at how he'd assassinated the cabbie to save Sherlock – and that the man had a good grasp of tactics. Jim would need to train him into better observation skills, as well as skills in the bedroom, but he had quite made up his mind that Pet would become everything to him that Moran could have been had he been more intelligent and less homicidal. With that in mind, Jim settled to his own sleep, one hand firmly gripping Pet's hair to ensure the man didn't leave without Jim's knowledge.
Morning brought with it stiffness and Pet refusing to taken anything stronger than paracetamol. He accepted a low dose of muscle relaxants and insisted on alternating hot and cold packs to manage the swelling and 'discomfort'. That was Pet's term for it, but Jim knew he meant pain. The Other Doctor had given in quickly under Pet's glare, backed by Jim's silent look – Pet was an excellent doctor and would be treated however he decided his injuries needed to be treated. Money was no object and Jim was already planning to ensure the physical therapist that he would use to regain his own muscle strength after being shot would also attend to Pet's therapy.
Jim had once read somewhere – and disregarded it as twaddle – that sometimes being given a task would take a person's mind off pain. In the interest of experimenting, Jim saw Pet settled in his chair and then asked him to read the papers aloud. He allowed Pet to lay the paper flat on the bed as a concession to only having one working hand, but insisted on retaining his grip on Pet's wrist, rubbing the inside of it roughly with his thumb. He'd squeezed until Pet's voice was just right and then relaxed, staring up at the ceiling as Pet read, allowing the words to wash over him in soothing cadence.
There was a scuffle in the corridor and the Goon at the door choked and stumbled against the door frame before sliding slowly to the ground. The Other Doctor was hyperventilating in the other room and Jim looked up with a scowl as someone stepped into the doorway. Pet's voice broke off with a gasp as he realised who it was and Jim squeezed the wrist he held tightly.
It was Sher –
(AN – YES I mean to stop there!)
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