Samantha wasn't sure where she was at that given moment, but Moriarty was kissing her and it was all her attention was focused on. She felt restricted as if tangled up in a bedsheet but she didn't mind while she was being kissed. She was almost uncomfortably warm with his body on top of hers but she didn't mind this either. She just wanted this moment where they weren't fighting or killing or betraying each other. She just wanted to kiss.
She wasn't sure how long Moriarty's hand had been squeezing her throat before she realised she was starting to suffocate. She tried to reach up to pry his hand away but she couldn't free her arms from the constricting sheets. Something told her with utmost certainty that if she stopped kissing she would be free. She knew she would die unless she stopped but she didn't want to. Her instinct to survive just couldn't outmatch her need to be loved. It fizzed like television static at the back of her brain but it rarely had control over her impulses; unlike love - that pesky, needy nuisance that hijacked her brain, and kicked logic and rationality out of the driver's seat.
She grew more uncomfortable which each second. Her body felt like it was on fire and she struggled to breathe. She was going to die. She was going to die. She was going to -
A familiar scenario: she found herself underwater. She was back at the lake and swimming down hard towards the lake bed. She was still suffocating. She was running out of time. She had to rescue someone before it was too late…but who? Panic seized her when she realised she had no idea who she was looking for. She swam and swam and swam but the lake bed didn't seem to come any closer. Where were they? Where were they? And then suddenly she felt like she had been violently pulled through the water's surface…
And she awoke bolt upright and gasping for air. She felt cold and hot and wet all at the same time. What she initially mistook for lake water was actually sweat that drenched her clothes and bedsheets, and caused her hair to stick uncomfortably to her face and neck. Despite feeling hot, she shivered. Every muscle and joint in her body ached.
Just when she had managed to drag her consciousness out of her dreams a question formed: where the heck was she?
She was in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room. The curtains were drawn but she could tell it was night. Suddenly, light hit her retinas and she screwed her eyes shut, feeling like she just took a gunshot to the head.
"Sorry, love," came a soft voice, "I need to see what I'm doing."
Samantha slowly opened her eyes, carefully granting the light permission to fill her vision. When her vision focused she could see Moriarty crossing the room to her. He was carrying a bowl in one had with a cloth draped over the side.
"I found you whimpering under your bedsheets," he said as he sat on the edge of the bed. "I realised you had hit a fever so I thought I'd help you cool down." He dipped the cloth into the bowl and wrung it out. "You should lie back."
Samantha complied and felt every component in her body grate together as she did so. A sharp gasp hitched in her throat as Moriarty brought the cold damp cloth to her forehead. It felt like fire against her sensitive skin.
"Oh I know, poor pet," Moriarty drawled sympathetically, "Sure you're only miserable." He gently patted and rubbed her face and neck, cleaning the sweat and loosening some of her plastered hair. He stopped then as he seemed to notice something. He lifted the white shift she was wearing up to her ribcage. She was too weak to protest.
"I'm sorry about this," he said as she felt something sticky being peeled from her stomach. She hissed through her teeth, a whole new pain reverberating through her body.
"You've just been bleeding," he said then, "But the sutures look ok. I'll just get you some fresh bandages."
"Wh-" Samantha was utterly confused. She craned her neck downward as much as her fragile body would allow. A long row of surgical stitches jagged across her stomach. "Oh." She remembered the old woman who had stitched her up. She remembered the man that attacked her behind the Yakuza casino.
Moriarty returned not before long with a roll of gauze and some tape. As gentle as he was, she couldn't help but whimper at the slightest amount of pressure on her skin. His kindness at the moment didn't for a second go unnoticed by Samantha, but so too did his cruelty to her back at the room not go forgotten.
When he was done he produced a pill bottle.
"Painkillers," he said, rattling the pills before her, "Take two to help you sleep and bring down the fever."
She again obeyed his instructions, willing to do anything to shake off this biting, burning sensation that overwhelmed her. She then lay back down and watched as Moriarty gathered his things. He was muttering on about something she wasn't altogether paying attention to. She was still on edge from her fever dream and feared slipping back into it again. As Moriarty turned to leave, she reached up and grabbed him by the hand. He froze.
"Stay," she said meekly, feeling like a child, "At least until I fall asleep again."
He hesitated and for a moment she was convinced that he would refuse. To her surprise, he sighed, sat back down and said, "Alright." He gazed across the room seemingly deep in thought. His profile was the last thing she saw before falling back to sleep. She hadn't even realised she was still holding his hand.
