Jim knew it was risky visiting Sherlock in hospital. Hiding in plain sight in a waiting room was one thing, but actually visiting his room was quite something else.
He had seen the "three" walk to the bistro and had a feeling they would be there a while, but he had positioned Sebastian so he could warn his boss if they did appear to be heading his way again anyway.
He really did not want to be seen by Mycroft Holmes. That he was certain of.
He circled the bed and took the chair alongside, pulling it close.
Sherlock. His poor Sherlock. He hadn't expected to be affected by the sight of the man laid in that cold, sterile bed. He looked so... small. So not Jim's Sherlock.
Jim slid a hand into Sherlock's, feeling the man; his body heat.
"Sherly," Jim scowled at the roughness in his own voice, "Sherly, really. What were you thinking? I never intended you to do something as stupid as this !" he waved his free arm about and fought back a lump in his throat. "But Sherly, was this ... even me?"
"Here I was thinking I was the only important one in your life. The person who you turned to when you needed something; someone. Even when you left me all those years ago, I knew you'd be back someday. I just knew. You and me, Sherly, we're something. You need me. We're special. We're the same."
Jim readjusted his hand, slipping his fingers, just momentarily, across Sherlock's pulse point, feeling the slow "ba-dum" beneath his fingertips.
He gently slid his hand higher, towards where the saline drip was fixed, and smoothed his fingers up to the crook of Sherlock's elbow, over skin peppered with needle scars, some old, some recent.
"This was us." he continued, flattening his hand over the scars and removing it again, as if it suddenly became too hot to touch.
Jim cleared his throat and straightened up. He was bigger than this. Better than this. His face blanked and he sat back in the chair.
"I've been hearing... stories, Sherly." he continued, his Irish tone impassive; emotionless. "Stories involving you and..." another calming pause, "you and a certain John Watson."
He wasn't expecting a reaction, of course. Sherlock probably wouldn't even be aware of the conversation they were - well, Jim was - having right now, but it was only fair to at least speak to him. After he had overheard the conversation in the waiting room - and aren't those places just full of information and gossip - he had pondered a while.
Sherlock was in love with John Watson?
He let that roll around in his head a while.
Sherlock never loved anyone.
He'd never been in a relationship as far as Jim knew, and Jim had been keeping tabs on his Sherlock since Sherlock had gotten clean all those years ago. If you didn't count that girl - Jim frowned - Jim had been the closest thing that Sherlock had ever had to any sort of relationship. Sure, it wasn't your conventional thing, but it was a partnership of sorts. For four years, Sherlock had needed Jim, and Jim, well Jim had used Sherlock however he damn well pleased. Which was often.
The young Holmes had gotten deeper and deeper into drug dependency until such time as Mycroft... Jim snarled at the mere thought of the interfering older brother's name... Mycroft Holmes had come and pulled Sherlock out. Away from drugs. Away from Jim.
And Jim? Jim had let it happen. He knew Sherlock - probably better than Mycroft did - and he knew that, sooner or later, Sherlock would come back to him.
It had taken longer than Jim had expected though. He'd had to amuse himself with other interests and other people, but eventually, Sherlock came back just like Jim knew he would.
But Sherlock Holmes was in love? With John Watson?
John Watson. Jim had done his digging when he saw John Watson come in to Sherlock's life.
John Watson was a doctor. Trained at St. Bart's before enrolling in the army and becoming a soldier.
He toured, got shot and was invalided home from Afghanistan on an army pension.
John Watson was dependable, sensible and... normal. He was... boring.
He followed Sherlock about like a puppy; a pet.
What was there that Sherlock could possibly fall in love with.
It wasn't right at all. Not. At. All.
"So, tell me, Sherly." Jim finally said, leaning in again and placing his hand on Sherlock's chest. "What is it about John Watson?" He began slowly rubbing circles over Sherlock's heart, carefully avoiding the wires and pads attached there. "What did you fall in love with? His loyalty? His empathy? Empathy: something you and I don't have to worry about. Or was it the way he thinks? His knowledge of all things mundane and normal?" Jim almost spat the word, as if it were disgusting.
"Or was it his heart, Sherly? Did you fall in love with the way his heart sees and loves? It's so... ordinary ."
He pulled his hands back from the body on the bed, crossing them in front of his chest and flattening his face into a stern, contemplative expression.
"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. What are we going to do about John Watson?"
Jim paused a while, of course not expecting a response but feeling it necessary to let that thought; that question process, even in the subconscious mind. And then he stood, leant over Sherlock and placed a single kiss on his forehead before leaving the room and heading outside.
After door to the hospital room had swung closed behind Jim Moriarty, the beeping monitors increased their pace and intensity, and Sherlock's eyes flickered open.
As a flurry of attentive hospital staff entered and swarmed around him, he just stared at the exit.
