Richard had a lot of bad memories associated with his brother. There were the times that Jim would steal something and leave Richard to take the blame. Richard had a police record and Jim didn't. There was the time that Jim boredly killed the kitten in front of him, the one that Richard had been caring for despite their parents telling them they couldn't have any pets. There was the time that Jim had tied Richard down to the bed and ripped out one Richard's ribs.
Richard had a lot of good memories associated with his brother too… or at least better than the bad. Richard would sometimes look back on the bad memories with a rosier eye. The year Richard spent in prison for one of Jim's thefts had been reduced from five, and had been in a minimum security facility. No one touched Richard during that time, though Richard knew he could have gotten hurt. The name Moriarty was already being whispered with a certain amount of fear with the inmates.
Richard found out later exactly what would have happened to him if his parents found out about the kitten. He'd watched the beating administered to Jim when their parents around the mouse Jim had been feeding. Jim's eyes had found Richard's during that punishment. The blank look had conveyed very clearly to Richard one absolute truth: Richard never could have held up under his parents abuse if Jim wasn't there to take the brunt of it.
Richard still had the rib Jim had popped out. He kept it in a shoe box with other things that were important to him: the tickets from the time their father took Richard and Jim to a football match. The picture of the first girl Richard had ever slept with. The tiger tooth that Sebastian had given Richard when he caught Richard admiring it. The picture of Richard and Jim at their third birthday party; Richard grinning like an idiot and Jim almost really smiling. The rib went in the box with everything else that Richard found important. It was a reminder that there was nothing that Richard couldn't withstand, and that there was nothing more terrifying in the world with Richard's own brother.
Yet the one memory that Richard had of his brother that he couldn't spin in a positive way was one of his last. Jim didn't even do anything to Richard that time, yet it still haunted Richard day and night. Richard had been afraid of his brother up until that point, yet there was a very real security in the idea that Jim was untouchable. Richard had truly believed that short of God, no one could touch Jim Moriarty. Then he learned differently/
He remembered that it was a Wednesday. That wasn't an important fact, but somehow he held onto that piece of knowledge more securely than just about anything else. He received the call on Wednesday. His cell phone rang, "Staying Alive". Richard didn't know how Jim did it, since Jim seemed to change his number fairly regularly, but it was always Jim when "Staying Alive" started playing.
"Hello," Richard said with a sigh, expecting Jim to either chatter at him for a while, or to simply tell him what he needed.
"Mr. Moriarty," the man on the other side said. Richard tensed completely. The voice was clearly not Jim.
"Who is this?" Richard asked.
"Unimportant," the man said. "Your brother has been in our care for a while, but it's time for him to go home."
Richard's blood went cold at that. No one, absolutely no one knew that Richard had a brother. "Where is he?"
"We'll send you the address," the man on the line said before hanging up.
Richard pulled his old beat up phone away from his ear. It was at least two generations too old, right before everything became touch screen and like a small computer in your hand. It was top of the line when Jim bought it for him, but now it badly needed to be replaced but Richard wouldn't have it. He loved his phone, he didn't even care that it didn't even get updates anymore.
The phone went into his jacket pocket with Richard's keys as Richard whipped out the door, not even waiting for the text. Richard practically sprinted out of his flat, down seven flights of stairs to the basement where his building's garage was. Richard had a hard time finding a place with rent he could afford. It wasn't a great building or a great part of town, but it had parking, and he liked it well enough. He vaguely thought that Jim had leaned on someone to get him the flat, but Richard also knew that he was possibly romanticizing Jim a bit too much. Jim didn't care about him that much.
Richard hoped into his car, and old Ford Anglia that had no radio, or A/C, and only one of the windows rolled down and that window wasn't even on the driver's side. It was noisy and hateful and Richard loved it. He loved it because he'd bought it completely with his money and kept it up with his own money and Jim definitely had no hand in it. He also loved it because it gave him the independence to get where he wanted whenever he wanted. Now he was glad for it because wherever Jim was Richard didn't want to include any more people in getting him, like a cabbie.
Richard sped out of his garage as fast as he could, heading out of town. He knew wherever Jim was it wouldn't be in London. The address that appeared on his phone confirmed it. It was maybe a three hour drive. Richard didn't care. He just drove, humming to himself absently. He couldn't stand silence sometimes. Normally he played music from his phone, but he didn't want to risk using up the battery, in case the man should call back.
The place that he pulled up to looked like a very normal sanatorium. The guard at the front gate asked to see his license when he pulled up. Richard couldn't help but tap his foot impatiently. He didn't even bother hiding it since he had to open his door just to hand the man the card. "Around back, Mr. Moriarty," the guard said. Richard held in a shiver. He'd been Richard Brooke legally for about ten years. His license said Brooke.
The old Ford Anglia pulled around back, a man in a suit was waiting for Richard there. Richard didn't know at the time who it was, but later he'd learn it was Mycroft Holmes. Richard got out, walking to the man. "Do you have him?"
The man glanced over at him from the cigarette he was smoking. The man let the cigarette drop, before he ground it out with his foot. "Come inside Mr. Brooke," the man said. He turned and headed in. Richard headed in, fully aware at the small power play that had just taken place. In order to get his brother back, Richard had to follow the man. The man gave him no choice. Richard had seen Jim play the same game before.
"Where is he?" Richard asked as the man led him into an office. Richard thought it was probably the man's office, but he was never really sure. It probably wasn't, but Richard would only think of that later.
"In due time, Mr. Brooke," the man said. "Your brother is not a well man."
"I am aware," Richard said. "What have you done to him?"
"Personally? Nothing," the man said. Richard wanted to punch the posh accent right out of him. Those bouts of violence Richard would sometimes feel boil up in him always frightened him and soothed him. Jim was the violent one, and Richard was always afraid of taking after him. At the same time, Jim was never physically violent when he had to be. Richard always wanted to be the one to administer the beating.
"What has been done to him?" Richard asked.
"A bit of this and that," the man said.
"Why are you even talking to me?" Richard asked. He could tell that this man was looking for something.
"You don't know anything, that's all I wanted to know," the man responded. Richard felt that this man wouldn't be above having a 'bit of this and that' done to Richard if he suspected Richard knew anything.
"Can I have him then?"
"He should be in your backseat now, I expect," the man said.
Richard simply turned and walked out. He didn't run but he was outside far faster than it took him to actually get to the office. Jim was in fact in the back seat. He barely seemed to be breathing at all. Richard felt a bolt of fear run through him, remembering young Jim after being 'disciplined' by their parents. Sometimes he would just collapse, barely moving at all. He'd used up all his energy remaining passive and unbreakable under their father's belt. As soon as their parents were gone, Jim's will to seem strong would fall away.
Richard didn't even touch him; he simply climbed into the front seat and drove away. It was three hours back to London, but Richard knew that Jim wouldn't stand going to a hospital. He'd drag himself up, pretending to be fine and possibly breaking the fingers of anyone who tried to touch him. Jim would just make himself worse. Richard could patch him up, he was sure.
He drove back the three hours in silence. Richard thought that maybe Jim was asleep; he hoped Jim was asleep anyway. He looked so small under the blanket he was wrapped in. Richard dreaded having to see the damage. He didn't stop for anything, and when he got home he felt badly dehydrated, as well as a desperate need to piss, but he couldn't deal with either until he had Jim inside.
Richard was a lot stronger than he looked, but he also wasn't someone who could carry an entire body of his own size up seven flights of stairs. He gathered Jim up as best he could in the blanket, keeping Jim covered as much as possible. Jim would kill him if someone, anyone saw them both. Richard desperately wished that he had Colonel Moran's number. The Colonel would have no problem getting Jim upstairs.
As Richard started to drag his brother up the stairs (a very slow and painful process from both of them, Richard was sure, though Jim didn't make a sound) he thought that Jim would be pissed if anyone else saw him so weak. Jim probably was pissed off enough that Richard had seen him be weak as a boy, Richard didn't want to compound that by calling more people over to see Jim like… this.
Richard had a hard time getting Jim up the stairs. He basically had to sit Jim down on each step before dragging him up each step, Richard's arms wrapped around his brother's torso and under his arms. Jim maybe we awake, but he stayed completely limp. That told Richard just how tired Jim was: Jim would never put up with the indignity of being dragged up 168 steps and across twelve landings (28 stairs per floor, 2 landings per floor. Seven flights of stairs from the basement to the 6th floor).
By the time Richard got Jim to the hall Richard's back felt like it was on fire. He was literally just bent in half dragging Jim on his butt across the floor. Richard might have found it comical if he hadn't been so afraid. Jim hadn't stirred at all, only Jim's very weak, very slow hot breath on Richard's arms assured the younger twin that his brother was even alive.
When Richard finally dragged Jim into his flat, Richard simply dumped Jim on his bed and went to relieve himself. Richard expected that whenever (if ever) Jim woke up that he'd call Richard weak. (You're so pathetic, I bet you couldn't even look at me. It's not like you haven't seen it on yourself before.) Richard at least hoped Jim would say that. Sometimes Richard would imagine all the awful things he wished would happen to Jim, but faced with the possibility that many of them (and many more things he hadn't imagined) had happened all Richard wanted was for nothing irreversible to have happened to his brother.
Richard washed his hands for probably too long. He just didn't want to face Jim, not yet. He hesitated for another moment before quietly padding out to the bedroom. Jim was still completely still, lying just as Richard had laid him. "Okay Jim, just hold on," Richard murmured. He went to the kitchen for his first aid kit, dropping the kit on the bed before returning to the bathroom to get the large plastic box of bandaids he'd kept on hand ever since he was young.
Finally Richard couldn't hesitate any longer. He carefully pulled the blanket aside. He frowned, seeing the plain white tee shirt and grey sweat pants that adorned Jim's body. It just seemed wrong for Jim; though Richard knew he himself would be perfectly at home in such an outfit. Richard reached out, carefully pulling the shirt up and off.
He made no sound when he saw the amount of gauze wrapped Jim's torso. He made no sound when he pulled down the sweat pants and saw the continuation of the gauze. Richard made no sound as her quietly unwound the gauze, realizing just why there was so much when he saw that under the second layer blood had already seeped through. Richard made no sound as he gently sat Jim up, continuing to unwrap his elder brother. He didn't even make a sound when he finally had Jim completely unwrapped and could see the full extent of the damage.
Richard hadn't heard from Jim in six months. That wasn't exactly uncommon. Sometimes Jim would call and bother Richard every day, and other times he'd simply not contact his brother for months. The longest time of no contact was two years, three months, one week, five days, seventeen hours, 29 minutes and 59 seconds. Richard thought as he saw the damage, noting the scars that were already forming that Jim could not have been in that place for six months.
Given the way his own skin healed, Richard estimated that Jim had probably been in that place for a month and a half. Seeing the damage Richard also expected that Jim hadn't made a sound the entire time.
It was at that moment that Richard realized Jim's eyes were open, staring at Richard. "Oh, hello," Richard said like he hadn't even noticed Jim there. Jim only blinked. "Don't worry," Richard said, reaching up and stroking Jim's hair like Richard would with the kitten that he used to have before Jim slit its throat. Jim's eyes looked up at the hand, but no other part of his body moved, save for the steady rise and fall of his chest. "I'm here now."
Richard slipped off his jacket, dropping it next to Jim before he climbed off the bed. Jim's eyes followed his movements. Richard simply went back to the bathroom. He drew a bath, only about half full. He couldn't get Jim as clean as he wanted, but Jim would probably lose his mind if he stayed covered in dry blood.
Jim still lay unmoving when Richard returned. Richard dragged him up, carrying Jim on his back this time. Jim gripped Richard's neck just enough so that he wouldn't fall. Richard found that comforting. He helped Jim into the tub, humming the whole time. Normally Jim would snap at him to shut up, but Jim didn't make a sound.
Richard found a wash cloth and quietly started to wash around the wounds. Jim didn't react to anything. Richard knew that he had to have accidentally hurt Jim a few times, no matter how careful he cleaned the battered body. When Richard got the grime and blood off he'd see open wounds or large black bruises where Richard had run the cloth over. The sight of the burn wounds made Richard's heart clench the worse. The water was tinged pink when Richard finally opened the drain and let the water out.
He had to drag Jim out of the tub and back to the bed. Richard carefully dried him before starting to tend to the injuries. He tended to the bleeding injuries first, applying the generic Neosporin that Richard's poor working actor budge preferred. Next he treated the burns, liberally applying the burn cream. The circular burn wounds bothered Richard the most. They were too perfect. Richard couldn't figure out what they were, but just seeing them frightened him.
"It'll be okay, Jim," Richard said. He thought Jim would roll his eyes, but Jim didn't even blink. "Jim?" He asked, his voice raising a bit. What if Jim became completely unresponsive. Just as Richard was about to start to really worry, Jim slid his eyes over to Richard. Richard let out a shaky sigh of relief. "I'm here for you, nothing's going to happen to you. I'd kill before I'd let that happen." Jim held his gaze for a moment before he looked away.
Richard knew how dangerous such a promise was. Richard had sworn never to kill anyone, saying that he would do something for Jim… Richard was sure that Jim would try test that theory, but Richard wouldn't take it back, not when Jim still seemed to be barely breathing.
He carefully bandaged Jim up as best he could before quietly laying Jim down. Under all his wounds, Richard could count Jim's ribs. The Moriarty brothers had always been small, but Jim was not terrifyingly skinny. He was gaunt, white, sick looking. His hair and clearly just been cut, but Richard suspected it had been too long while Jim had been held. Whoever dropped Jim in Richard's car had made sure to get Richard at least partly cleaned up. The worst wounds had been stitched up, and the worst burns had clearly already been treated a little.
"Just sleep now," Richard said, tucking Jim in lightly. "I'll make you some soup later, just rest." Richard's stomach wrenched when Jim obediently shut his eyes. Richard didn't know what to do with this Jim, this Jim that couldn't even move himself. Richard had never seen another human being so dependent on another, never seen a body so broken. It was all the more sickening because it was Jim, Jim who was supposed to be untouchable.
Richard slipped out of his bedroom and went down the hall to his second bathroom where he finally gave into the nausea that had been building since he received the phone call that morning. Richard wretched into the toilet and quietly as he could, not wanting to wake Jim up.
Jim didn't speak at all for a week. He didn't even move on his own for the first three days. Richard fed him, took Jim to the bathroom, cleaned Jim's body and changed his bandages. Through all of that Jim was eerily compliant. He allowed his brother to haul him around, slept when Richard told him to, and ate whatever Richard gave him. The only time Jim refused food was when he seemed to be feeling sick. At one point during those first three days Jim got violently sick but couldn't even move to vomit, the result being that Richard found him nearly drowning in his own vomit.
Richard had left Jim on his side on the sofa after he got him cleaned up and Jim had stopped being so sick. Richard hadn't complained about having to wash his bedding, carpet and bathroom. He didn't complain about having to sleep on the sofa when he slept at all. He didn't complain at all.
On the fourth day Richard had just finished tending to Jim's still healing wounds when his brother's hand suddenly slipped around his wrist. Richard jumped, having gotten used to the immobile Jim. The grip was so weak that Richard nearly burst into tears. Instead he looked up into Jim's intense gaze. Richard got the message: Jim was healing. Richard helped Jim lay down, but Jim shifted himself into a comfortable position once there and let his head fall to the side on the pillow.
When Richard slipped out of the room he sat down on his sofa and wept silently. He couldn't remember ever feeling so relieved in his life. He hadn't even realized how scared he'd been until he found himself there on the couch, bent almost completely in half, sobbing into his knees. He couldn't even stay quiet. All the fear and anger and frustration were coming out and Richard couldn't have censored himself for anything.
He could finally stop he felt so mortified. Jim must have heard him. Jim didn't like it when Richard showed so much natural emotion. Jim had taught him not to do it. Richard hated himself for the emotion that spilled from him. Quietly he stood and went to the bathroom, washing his face. He went back to the sofa and lay down, falling asleep very quickly. He just needed to escape the world for a while.
Jim didn't speak until five days later. In those five days Jim had moved from being nearly completely immobile to being able to shuffle his way to the bathroom and kitchen on his own (though Richard still stood at his side, refusing to let Jim do it alone yet). Richard propped Jim up on the sofa with enough pillows to make Jim sneer (Richard took that as a good sign), a box set of old Looney Tunes (which Richard knew Jim loved, even if Jim would never say it out loud), and a bowl of stupidly sugary cereal that Jim had loved as a kid. Richard was so happy that Jim could hold the bowl on his own and feed himself. Jim had started to fill out very quickly, just a sign to Richard that Jim's gauntness came from not being given food.
Richard had sat in his uncomfortably squishy arm chair to allow Jim the couch to himself as they wanted Bugs and Daffy argue whether it was duck season or rabbit season. All of Richard's furniture was old and uncomfortable, but it had been cheap and Richard had paid for it on his own. Like his car, he treasured his ratty old furniture.
"Thank you," Jim said and Richard jumped.
"Jim!" Richard gasped, jumping up and practically skidding to Jim's side. He hadn't heard Jim's voice in over six months, but hearing it at that moment sounded like a miracle to him.
Jim didn't say anything else, though he did hand Richard the empty bowl. Richard just smiled and took it. He went and refilled it, bringing it back. In good cheer he bent down and kissed the top of Jim's head. Jim batted him away and Richard chuckled. Jim would never be deterred from his cartoons and cereal for anything. Richard also knew that the one small 'thank you' would be all he'd ever get for time he was putting into helping Jim get better. Richard didn't mind, he treasured it.
Jim didn't talk much that second week. The words he threw out were very simple, mostly things like: "You idiot", "More" and "Shut up". Richard didn't seem to mind, though. He was just desperately happy at Jim's progress. By the end of the second week Jim could move around without Richard's help. He could shower on his own, though Richard still hovered around. Richard still changed Jim's bandages, and cooked for him, but Jim was healing very well.
"You call Sebastian at the end of this week to come get me," Jim said one day from the sofa.
"Yes, Jim," Richard said for the kitchen where he was making sandwiches. He knew that meant that Jim would be well enough for other people to see him at the end of this week.
"You won't forget," Jim ordered, sulky. He was clearly bored. Richard just smiled.
"Do I ever forget anything?"
"No," Jim answered.
"Here," Richard said, bringing the plate out. "Jim…" Richard hesitated.
"You want to know what happened." Jim said, smirking a bit.
"Yes," Richard said, his voice stronger and more determined than he felt.
"Do you want to know exactly what they did?" Jim asked. "About the electrocutions? Would you like me to tell you how it felt? How about the water boarding, dull and predictable, though I imagine it would work on a normal person." Richard shuddered, unable to stop himself. "Does it scare you?" Jim cooed. "Do you want me to tell you about the drugs they used? Those were fun, a few I've used, a few I'll have to use later. I don't have to tell you about what it felt like when they ripped my rib out, you already know."
Richard turned white. "They ripped your rib out?" he breathed, reaching out a gripping Jim's wrist. Jim's eyes went down to his brother's wrist before looking back up at Richard, meeting his eyes.
"You're angry, that makes you angry," Jim observed.
"No one is supposed to touch you; no one is supposed to hurt you. How dare they?" Richard hissed through clenched teeth.
Jim chuckled and drew Richard down, kissing his forehead. "You're very cute," he said. Richard knew that meant weak. He snarled at Jim, he just laughed at him.
"I'm serious!" Richard snapped.
"I know, that's why it's cute."
"Why, why would they do that? Do they not know who you are?" Richard demanded, standing up and starting to pace.
"They, or really he, knew exactly who I was," Jim said, lounging back.
"Who?" Richard demanded.
"Mycroft Holmes," Jim said. "You probably met him. He probably wanted to see if you'd be any use when I wasn't."
"I hate him," Richard said, and he really meant it. He'd never hated anyone so much. He felt a white hot anger course through him. How dare that man, how dare anyone hurt Jim like that.
"Don't worry about it," Jim said. "Daddy will take care of everything," he cooed.
Richard shivered. He knew Jim said that to make Richard stop being so worked up. It worked, but Richard always hated it when Jim called him 'daddy'. "Stop."
"You've been such a good boy Richard," James sang.
"Shut up!" Richard snapped.
"Do you want me to give you a present?" Jim asked with a malicious smile.
"Stop it!" Richard snapped. "You're just bored, but you have to stop. You owe me Jim, you fucking owe me this. I didn't have to help you. I could have made the Colonel do it."
Jim's eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't."
"Yeah, I wouldn't have, but not because I'm scared of you or any shit like that. I did it because you would have hated it if I'd called him," Richard snapped. "You couldn't even move and I wasn't about to make you feel any more helpless than you already felt. That's not what brothers do."
They both went silent for a moment, Jim's attention focused completely on Richard. Richard wasn't ever comfortable with Jim's full attention, when even all of Jim's thoughts would be focused on him. "You're right," Jim said. "That's not what brothers do."
Richard knew exactly why that didn't make him feel better at all.