Author's Note: Blergh. Super not happy with this chapter but I couldn't another thing with it. I've also noticed that this is my longest fic so far. It's getting hard to tell if things are coming together the way I want them to because I've been so close to the story for so long. Is the pace too slow? I've still got a long way to go to the end. Anyway, enough blathering from me. Here's another chapter. x
The fever fluctuated, unrelenting. The painkillers helped to bring Samantha's temperature down, but the effects would subside after a few hours, at times catching her while she was in deep sleep. This caused her fitful, restless sessions of nightmares and hallucinations. She quickly learned how to differentiate between the fever-driven images and reality, but the times where she caught glimpses of Moriarty by her side were more difficult to determine.
Eventually, as if reaching the end of a long nightmare-fuelled wasteland, she woke up. She had no sense of what time, or even what day it was. She reached for her phone that was left charging on the dresser. The battery was at 100%, she had 12 missed calls and had apparently been sleeping for 16 hours. Her message inbox was also full. Sighing, she sent a quick "I'm alive, talk later" text to Mycroft. He responded almost immediately of course but she chose to ignore it. Moments later her phone rang. She killed the call and sent a harsher "talk later" text. She was not in the mood for Mycroft. She carefully sat up and checked her wound, which by now had begun to crust over. Good. She would just have to hope it wouldn't bleed again.
She popped the painkillers and antibiotics that were on the dresser and lay back again, staring at the ceiling. What was she going to do here while she was recovering? Make a plan? She supposed she had plenty of time for that. Moriarty had said she was safe here, but that meant her actions would still be limited until the threat of a repeat attack had lifted.
Oh, right…Moriarty...
She wasn't sure how to feel about his presence here. She didn't trust him and probably couldn't afford to, but it seemed like he was an asset she couldn't ignore right now. She also had to face the fact that there was still a subtle chemistry between them. There. At least she admitted it to herself. Dr. Matheson would be proud. She knew this was something she'd have to keep in mind if she were to stay objective. She did not want to be marked as compromised on her mission report.
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.
No. She did not want to talk right now.
As the door opened she pretended to be asleep.
"I know you're awake," came Moriarty's voice, "Did you think you could fool me?"
"If you know I'm awake, then you should also know I'm not in the mood for company," Samantha retorted icily.
"Well then I won't stay long."
She felt his weight on the edge of the bed and she opened her eyes again.
"I brought you soup," he said, offering her a bowl.
She raised an eyebrow.
"Soup?"
"Soup."
She cautiously sat up, grimacing as her stitches tugged.
"Why?" she asked then.
Moriarty made a face.
"What do you mean 'why'? Aren't you hungry?"
She didn't think of it until now but she hadn't eaten in at least 28 hours. She wasn't particularly hungry but her stomach did feel hollow.
"I meant, what do you want in exchange for soup?" she said, eyeing the bowl longingly.
"I'll take it back, shall I?" he said irritably, withdrawing the bowl again.
Samantha hesitated. It did smell good.
"Didn't think so." He left the soup on the dresser next to her.
"What is it?" she asked, taking the bowl and inspecting the contents with the spoon.
"Chicken noodle. Made it myself."
Samantha gave a small discrete smile. She recalled from her stay at his country house that Moriarty was not a bad cook.
"You look a little better," he said then.
She nodded in agreement.
"Feels that way. Here's hoping I won't be bed bound for too long," she said, "The sooner I can get back on the case, the better."
She brought a spoonful of broth to her mouth and swallowed. The warm, salty flavour did good to wash the dry, metallic taste from her tongue.
"Speaking of which," she continued, "Have you made any progress on your end?"
Moriarty lay back on the bed across her legs, his hands behind his head. Samantha felt a familiar knot in her stomach as he did so.
"I've been pushing Rin to get me an audience with Saito," he began.
"Saito?" she puzzled, wondering if she should know the name.
"There's more than one Yakuza gang in Osaka, my dear," he responded, gazing over at her with a spark of excitement in his wide eyes. "Saito and Tatsumi have been at odds for generations: turf wars, that kind of thing. While they both ran different operations (Tatsumi running their business through gambling and blackmail, and Saito through...more grand ventures), they had a tendency to clash when it came to sharing the same city. But their peace agreement was initiated by Rin's old man and the two have coexisted in harmony since."
"So you think Saito could give us a lead on the Tatsumi murder?" Samantha said.
"Precisely."
"But…?" she prompted when he never followed up.
"Well!" Moriarty sprang back up and propped himself on one elbow, "Saito is in prison. And as it so happens, notorious crime bosses tend not to have a whole lot of visitation rights. There's a loooot of red tape to cut through-"
"And there it is," Samantha sighed, dropping the spoon in the bowl.
"There what is?"
"The favor you need from me," she quipped, "In exchange for soup."
Moriarty laughed heartily. "Why are you so paranoid?"
"Because! You're being…" she struggled to obtain an appropriate descriptor, "nice. It's disconcerting…"
"Would you rather I wasn't nice?"
"I'd rather you just be more...transparent."
"You really have trust issues."
"Hmm... I wonder why that could be."
There was a silence as Samantha held her gaze down, idly shifting around the noodles with the spoon. She had to be honest with herself, she had to be. That vexatious feeling she had whenever he was around was not just chemistry, it was also hurt. It was what armored her words whenever she felt it wrench in her gut. She knew the right thing to do would be to turn him in, but she didn't want to. It took her some time to realise but she was almost glad he wasn't locked up. It meant she would have the chance to exact her revenge for everything he put her through. But also, in a weird way, she had missed him. And she hated herself for it. Staying objective may be more difficult than she thought.
"I'll talk to Mycroft," she muttered, not looking up.
"Splendid!" Moriarty said, "I hope it goes without saying that I should go unmentioned."
"Of course."
Moriarty leaped up, harping on about something about a beautiful friendship. As he was about to take his leave he lingered in the doorway. He looked back at her, his mouth open as if he were about to say something. He seemingly decided against it though and left without another word.
