Chapter 28: Marks of Memories.
"Oh, Alice dear, where have you been? So near, so far, so in-between. What have you heard? What have you seen?" –Danny Elfman, Alice in Wonderland (The Theme Song)
A/N: Quick trigger warning for past cutting and scars.
Sammy left two days later, and John was sitting in his flat, waiting for something to happen. Something always did; he wasn't idle for long. Either a Misfit wanted help, or one of Moriarty's people got shot, or Jim himself would need a subject to talk at. As the minutes passed without incident, John started to wonder if he would actually get some free time. He cautiously got up and put on the kettle, half-expecting his cell phone to ring. It didn't.
He made himself a cup of tea, and then sat down on the couch, waiting for someone to come bursting in the door. No one did. How strange. He turned on the telly, and waited for the text that didn't come. Eventually, he allowed himself to relax back against the cushions. Still no interruptions. He went and made himself breakfast, taking the unusual liberty of sitting down to eat it. No one came in half-way through. He decided to take a shower.
The hot water hit his back and steamed up, his skin turning red. He reached for the shampoo and rubbed it into his hair, fingertips scrubbing his scalp, enjoying the ability to actually be clean. It was so rare that he had the time to take a shower… And that, of course, was when the bathroom door flew open and someone walked inside.
"What the fuck?" John yelped, slamming his back against the wall of the shower. "Who's there?" He couldn't see through the shower curtain (thank god, that meant they couldn't see him). There was a moment of silence, and then a familiar laugh.
"You're so jumpy when you're in the shower. I texted you. And I knocked on your front door."
"God, Jim, I didn't hear you over the water. That doesn't mean you can just come barging into my bathroom while I'm, you know, not clothed!"
"I was going to wait in the living room, but I got impatient. I want you to come with me."
"Um, sorry, come where?"
"On a job! I know you're tired of being stuck inside, so I wanted to take you somewhere, but I'm very busy, and you can't go alone, so then I thought, why not take you with me?"
"Oh, I see," John said, leaning backwards to wash the suds out of his hair. "Wait, no I don't. I'm not killing for you, Jim. No way in hell."
"It's not that sort of job. I know your moral standing wouldn't be able to take it, and I usually don't go along on those either. My men can handle mindless murder, it's negotiations that I don't trust them with."
"Of course," John said, soaping himself with a bar of soap as quickly as he could, and then ducking under the spray again. "And you're doing this because you know I want to get out of here?"
"Yes, you were soo happy to get out to the park on Saturday."
"Right. Could you pass me the towel?" John asked, turning off the water and sticking his arm around the curtain. The rough fabric was pressed into his hand, and he brought it back in, toweling his hair briskly. "So you want me to come to some sort of… negotiations with you?"
"Yes, that's exactly it. We could stop off for lunch afterwards."
"And I'll just... stand there while you're in this meeting?"
"I'm sure I could get you a chair. But no, you won't be doing any talking, you'll just be there to back me up. This isn't a deal that I want any of the lower-downs knowing about, especially since I know we've been infiltrated. And Sebastian is in Scotland right now, so…"
"You asked your second resident ex-soldier to come along. Brilliant." The word was delivered sarcastically. "Alright, fine, I'll come." He really did want to get out of the house, after all. "But you have to sit in the living room so that I can go get dressed."
"I can do that." There was a rustle of clothing as Jim got to his feet and left the room. John gave a long sigh, leaning his head back against the wall. Jesus, this was not how he was supposed to be living. This was not how anyone was supposed to live. And worst of all, no one should enjoy this sort of life. It was ridiculous, to feel relieved when that interruption came, even though it was so invasive.
He poked his head out into the hallway, relieved to see Jim's head facing the other way. He scurried down to his room, leaving the towel in the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a gasp. Then he went around, trying to decide what to wear. Since Jim hadn't specified any clothing requirements, he was left to his own decisions. He decided on an outfit that was something he had worn in the army on his off-days, the old clothing bringing him into a more combat-ready mindset. Yes, it was just negotiations, but this was Jim. Better safe and all that.
He slipped on a pair of older jeans, a short-sleeved button up, a pair of mismatched socks, and his shoes. His jacket was by the door, so he made his way into the living room, sitting down next to Jim on the couch.
"So," he said, inviting an explanation, or some sort of comment. Anything, really. Jim simply looked over at him, raising an eyebrow, leaving John to find something else to say. "We're going to be heading off soon, then?" he finished reluctantly.
"Yes, I imagine so," Jim said pleasantly. His gaze swept over John in that distinctive, gravitational way. And then those eyes fixed on his arms, and John froze. Careless. He had always had his jumpers on, or a long-sleeved shirt, when he was around Moriarty, knowing that he'd see the scars on his arms and recognize them.
The eyes drifted up, locking with John's own, and Jim edged closer on the couch, an inch at a time, like an awkward lover. But the look in those eyes was serious, dark, and certain. John stayed very, very still, recognizing that look as a potential for danger. Long fingers closed around his wrist, pulling his left arm forwards. The touch traveled upwards, and John fought the instinct to jerk away when the fingertips brushed the faded white lines. He flinched anyways, and Moriarty's eyes, which had focused on his arm, returned to him, snatching John's world away in darkness.
"A story you haven't told me?" His voice was low and accented, even more than usual.
"A story I don't care to tell," John said shortly.
"I'm sure it's not that bad," Jim said, his fingers tracing the scars again, the lines becoming patterns, his invisible drawings becoming letters, letters becoming words. "They're beautiful, aren't they?"
"No, they aren't," John said. "They're hideous."
"Are they?" Jim said, and then pulled up his own sleeve in quick movements, like Sherlock showing off a nicotine patch. But instead of the round patch, there were pale lines against pale skin. Some long and thin, almost invisible, and others thicker, rough around the edges, faded like his own. John caught his breath.
"But wouldn't Sherlock have-"
"Oh yes, he did. They fit quite well into playing gay. It's so common, you know? It seemed so textbook to him, I'm sure."
"He didn't say, though."
"I suspect he'd already noticed yours, and didn't want to provide a trigger. Worried about your mental state," the last vowel enunciated harshly. John reached out and touched Jim's scars, noticing the way the other man tensed, like him. The marks were, after all, something usually hidden, under sleeves and make-up, excuses and lies. Not something to be shown and touched, traced like something beautiful. And they were beautiful, unexpectedly so. Twisted, unnatural, raised and eye catching. But symbols, of past pain and obstacles overcome. They made the criminal mastermind look delicate, like he'd been taken apart and sewn back together, and these were the only signs of shoddy workmanship.
"A story you haven't told me," John echoed, looking from his arm to Jim's face. His lips twisted into a reluctant smile.
"Lots of stories I haven't told you."
"I'm sure."
"Stories to be told later, I think. I was due at that meeting two minutes ago."
"Shit!" John pushed himself to his feet sharply. Jim buttoned his sleeve and rose languidly, uncaring.
"I planned it that way, relax. Ever heard the phrase 'fashionably late'?" Jim led the way to the door, sauntering along in his Westwood suit as though he had never been hurt in his life.
"Right, okay…" John said. Jim turned at the door suddenly.
"Oh, almost forgot. You'll be wanting this back, I think. Just in case. She's all taken care of. Cleaned and loaded." And he handed John his gun. There was no question about it, it was his. There was the scratch on the bottom from where he had dropped it, four years ago now. He stared at it, then looked up at Jim.
"You know, the last time I held this, I threatened to shoot you in the head. Is it really a good idea to give it back?" Moriarty moved suddenly, grabbing John's hand and forcing it up, so that the mouth of the gun pressed into his forehead. The hand that wasn't holding the gun crept around and cocked it.
"I don't know. Let's find out." John whipped his hand down on instinct, half-expecting Moriarty to pull the trigger on himself.
"Jesus Christ, Jim! What the hell are you doing?" Moriarty looked back at him seriously.
"I killed Sherlock," he said. "I forced him to jump. And I killed that blind woman, just to make a point. I've killed other people, too. Hundreds of them, dead because of me. And I don't care. That's the difference between us. You care, so much. You care about every person you see on your operating table, every child that you hear laugh. It's a miracle that you still work, with the amount you care. And I don't care. Not about Sherlock's death, not about Fiona's death, not about you, or the Misfits. And you hate that, I'm sure you do. So why don't you shoot me?" He spread his arms, grinning, a perfect target. "Oh, Johnny Boy, don't you want to? Don't you feel obliged to? After all, you'd be saving lives. Hundreds of lives. Maybe millions, if I get bored one day, and end up causing World War Three."
"Stop it," John said, still pointing the gun at the floor. "Stop, I don't want to hear this."
"Ah, so you're hiding from reality. Making believe that I'm good after all. Misunderstood. Are you trying to save me, Johnny? It's not going to happen." John started to laugh, which surprised Moriarty enough to make him shut up.
"You haven't got me figured out at all," John said. "Oh, I shouldn't be laughing. This isn't funny, not really. Hang on." He did his best to get the semi-hysterical, semi-sincere laughter under control. "I'm not going to shoot you, Jim. Not for a thousand lives."
"But why not?" Jim asked, suddenly serious, the sing-song cadence dropping away. "Aren't they worth more? Those innocent people, the women and children?"
"It's not about being worth more," John answered, "and you know it. Or at least, you should. I'm not answering that question. You think about it, and the answer will come to you, I'm certain of it. I couldn't put it into words anyways."
"Oh, but that's not fair," Jim whined.
"It is what it is," John said. "Now come on. There's fashionably late, and then there's ridiculous." The two of them headed out, walking side by side, their footsteps leading them towards the car that was now 'theirs,' rather than 'Jim's.'
A/N: Chapter 2 of 3 for today!
Okay, I have kept you waiting long enough. Is this story Johniarty or not?
Well, it's... *drumroll please* both!
Yeah, that's right, I worked out a way to do both. There will be a point, probably around chapter 41, where the story will end for the first time. You can stop there if you want. If you want a more final ending, or you're in for the Johniarty, then you can keep reading, and the story will end at around 47 chapters long.
Keep in mind that this is sort of slow-build, so yeah, even in the first 41 chapters, there might be little romantic (or the equivalent) moments, but they aren't going to be anything that couldn't pass for banter between very... close friends.
I did my best to please both groups, maybe it's not perfect for everyone, but it's all I can do. I hope you accept what I have done!