Chapter 30: Masks

"Speak roughly to your little boy,

And beat him when he sneezes:

He only does it to annoy,

Because he knows it teases!"

-Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass.

A/N: Trigger warnings for cutting and abuse. Nothing graphic; it's a retelling; but still.

"And so Loki and Thor returned home triumphantly, and were greeted with a great cheer, for the power of the Thunder God was back where it belonged, and the giants had been defeated yet again." The kids cheered loud enough to reach Asgard, and John smiled. "And now it's time for all of you to get back to work, or catch some sleep."

The consulting criminal and his doctor smiled at their kids' collective sigh. John looked around at the people that had gathered for his story. Two wheelchairs had been commissioned for the more aware patients, so that they could listen to the story, and interact with the kids. On either side of the group, there were three of John's hospital workers, whom he had made good friends with. They didn't talk much about their lives before Brewer's, but they chatted enough to know a good deal about each other. In the center of the Misfits sat Moriarty, with his usual kids sitting all over him.

At the head of the group, John sat on his 'story-teller throne,' which the kids had decorated for him around two weeks ago, with paint and fake jewels. It wasn't very comfortable, but it had been such a sweet gesture that John had to sit in it anyways.

The kids left, and the patients returned to their beds. Half of the workers went back to their rooms, and the other half stayed to watch the patients; they would work one at a time, in shifts. If anything went wrong, they woke John, and he would have to assess and instruct. Leo slept in the hospital wing, studied with John during the day, and had time to play in the evenings. It was a good system, and it had worked for the 1.5 months he had been living in Brewer's.

He and Jim headed back to his flat, and started their standard cleaning routine. For a few moments, there was silence, with the rush of the water and the clink of dishes the only sound in the apartment. And then Jim turned, running the dish towel over the plate he was drying, and spoke casually.

"I still want to hear the story about your scars. I don't like not knowing things." John looked down at the cutlery he was washing, running the cloth gently over the forks and the spoons.

"I'm not telling you for nothing," he answered. "You know how this works. Is my story worth yours?"

"Oh, now that's just a hard question. It was a long time ago, and the story is despicably boring."

"I doubt I'll find it so. Is it a deal or not?" John wasn't sure what he wanted the other man's answer to be. On one hand, he was awfully curious about his scars. On the other, telling his own story was not something he wanted to do.

"Yeah, fine," Jim said with a melodramatic sigh. "You go first, because I asked."

"You should go first, because you asked."

"That isn't the way it works," Jim said firmly, putting away one of the mugs.

"Alright. Fine." John handed Jim a plate, and started on the next one. "I was sixteen years old, just beginning Year Twelve. I was still trying to decide what to do with my life. I mean, I was applying to medical school, but I didn't know what I was doing. It was what Dad would have wanted me to do, you know? I felt trapped, in a life I wasn't sure that I wanted. Harry had troubles of her own, dad was gone, my mum, well, we didn't get along. I guess it just let me forget. For a second. Everything. What I was supposed to be, what I was supposed to be doing."

"You tried drugs, though, somewhere in the story," Jim added. "That's an important part, don't leave it out."

"How?" John asked simply, too surprised to finish the question.

"There are still a few marks on your arms, barely perceptible, but it's something that I can still notice decades later. And the way you reacted when I drugged you. Again, barely noticeable, but just enough."

"Yeah, fine, I tried a few variations. I did stupid things. Some people got hurt. Never did them after that. Your turn." John turned back to the dishes with a vengeance, scrubbing at the black scorch-marks on the pan as though they had done him wrong in the past.

"That was hardly a story," Moriarty muttered, then straightened his back to put away a glass. When he spoke again, his accent was slightly more pronounced, and his voice had a storytelling lilt to it, like a pleasing nursery rhyme. The words, however, were darker than any children's story.

"Little James lived in a pretty Irish town. In towns like those, everyone knows everything about everyone. People noticed the first marks on my arms, and on my mother's, and they knew that Frank was a little bit harsh on his family. Sometimes, one of us ended up in the hospital, saying that it was an accident, we slipped. Someone would always feel bad enough to send us a jar of soup, or maybe a bouquet of flowers, as though they were going to help us in some way."

"Kids hear rumors. They hide in the hallway and listen to their parents' conversations, and once one boy hears something, everyone knows. But to good little Irish boys, with perfect parents and big old houses, some things just don't seem real. In fact, they seem laughable. So that's what they did, they laughed, at James and his clothes, his cuts, and his family."

"Until Carl Powers," Jim said, and now, for the first time, there was an undertone of emotion in his voice. "Then they all stopped laughing, one by one." He leaned back against the counter, since John had stopped washing the dishes, and was simply watching. "But James couldn't stop laughing at himself. Thinking about how horrible life was, and people were, and he was. How weak he was. He didn't really understand pain, or death. So he taught himself about it, he found rope and knives and lighters, and he taught himself about pain. He found stray animals that no one would ever miss, and he taught himself about death, until he knew those things, inside and out. And that is how you tell a story, Johnny boy."

John started when he heard his name, eyes coming up to meet Jim's.

"It's a horrible story."

"And I'm a horrible person. It's okay to say it, you know. I am what I made myself to be."

"Yes, you are," John said quietly, and pulled the plug out of the sink. He watched the grey water get pulled down the drain with a sucking sound, the various pieces of garbage caught by the grate and left behind as the water flowed around them, to rush downwards and away. "And you always will be."

"Are you scared of me now?" Moriarty asked, and his voice was almost hopeful. John didn't look up, pondering the strange tone. Yes, the criminal mastermind had a reputation for himself, and yes, John hadn't really regarded the reputation as terrifying, like others did. But did he really want John to be scared of him? Despite the honesty of the story, John didn't think so. After all, there were much easier ways to get rid of him.

"No, I'm not," John said easily. Then, after a pause, he asked the question on the tip of his tongue. "Why do you want me to be?"

"Why aren't you?" Jim retorted, as usual, driving the answer-for-answer bargain. John thought about that for a minute, and then weighed the truth against the truth. In the end, his curiosity won over his trepidation.

"I'm here now," he started. "There's nothing I can do if you decide to kill me. I doubt that I could get away with running, even if I went to Mycroft. But that isn't it. I'm getting the answers I wanted, slowly. Because even if it's still a possibility that you're going to kill me, I don't think it's likely. Because I'm too busy being fascinated. Because I'm too busy having fun."

"Do you have any idea how dangerous that is, Johnny boy?" Moriarty asked, voice smooth and low. "Playing with fire is a clichéd understatement in this case. Francium would be more accurate. Mercury, perhaps."

"I completely do not understand what you just said, but you know very well that danger has never been a deterrent for me."

"Of course. Well then. My answer." Jim walked away from the kitchen, both men rolling down their sleeves and rebuttoning their cuffs from the dish-washing. They sat down beside each other on the living room couch, John looking over at the criminal mastermind, Moriarty looking straight ahead. "Why do I want you to be scared of me?" There was a silence. It was a thoughtful absence of sound, and John got the feeling that Jim didn't yet know his answer.

"It would save me a lot of trouble. Protecting you. Wondering if one day, it's all going to be too much, if I'm going to be too much. You're an uncertainty, Johnny boy. An uncontrolled variable. That's dangerous to let into my equations. If you run off, it's one less problem in my life."

"And yet you're not really trying to run me off."

"I need a doctor," Jim said, shrugging. "And the Misfits would never forgive me." John already knew Jim well enough to deduce that he was leaving something out, but he didn't press the issue.

"Oh, I think they'd come 'round. They absolutely love you." Jim's mouth twitched into an unexpected half-grimace, then morphed into a wide grin.

"Now, don't go telling me things like that, Johnny boy. Stoking the ego is never a good idea."

"In my experience, it can't hurt."

"Your experience is rather limited."

"I could find many people who would debate you on that. Want a cup of tea?"

"Yes, please," Jim said over-enthusiastically. John grinned, happy to let go of the unexpectedly sober conversation, and headed into the kitchen.

"Don't set anything on fire while I'm gone!" he called over his shoulder. Jim just laughed.

He set the water on, and ducked into the infirmary while it boiled. Everything was okay in there, so he headed back in. He chose out their favourite mugs, slipped in the teabags, stirred in Jim's three tablespoons of sugar. Then he headed back into the living room, handed Jim his tea, and settled down beside him.

Jim didn't look at him when he sat down, staring at the black screen of the television.

"Penny for your thoughts?" John asked, and Jim turned an unimpressed look towards him. "Right, I'm sure they're much more expensive than that. Seriously, though, what are you thinking about?"

"You've forgotten," Jim said distantly, and then looked away from him again.

"I've forgotten what?" John asked, bewildered, and received no answer. "Your birthday? Our anniversary? A promise? I've forgotten what?" Jim took a single sip of the tea, but the Cheshire smile didn't spread over his face, no sound of satisfaction passed his lips, and John knew that something was wrong. Jim loved his tea. "Jim? What's going on?" The other man simply set down his mug, and got up.

"I'll see you tomorrow, John," he said, and then walked towards the door.

"Wait, hey," John said, and came after him. One hand reached out, he brushed Jim's shoulder. The man turned unbelievably quickly, hand whipping out to hit away John's.

"Don't touch me," he hissed, and then he was gone.

John stared after him, knowing that he was missing something. Something big. He wandered back to the couch, aimless. For a long while he sat there, scouring his memories for something that Jim could be so upset about. Remembering their earlier conversation, trying to find something that could have set him off so badly. You've forgotten. Forgotten what? John sighed, giving up. Jim would tell him when he was ready, and until then, he could only wait.

Both teas were cold, so he poured them down the drain, and went to bed. Sleep came quickly, as he had been staying up late with Jim for days. He dreamed of Misfits in trouble, and flying about London, and about cooking some truly bizarre dinners with Jim.

He had no idea what the next day would bring.

A/N: I think this is a good example of how my music affects my writing. It was all nice music, and then the Doomsday soundtrack came on, and suddenly there was an unexpected plot twist staring me in the face. So. Any guesses as to what Jim could be talking about? I doubt that I've given you enough clues to know, but who knows, maybe someone is capable of following Jim's thought-jumps. I'm certainly not.

Sorry 'bout not updating. Exams are just coming up, and I have a couple essays that are currently kicking my ass. No guarantees about updates this time around. In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that this chapter sucked, so any suggestions for rewriting it would be good.

Also, no spoilers in the comments. I still have to find the episodes online somewhere, since I don't have cable or satellite or whatever you use nowadays. Yes, I know about the end (unfortunately/fortunately), but everything else has yet to be spoiled.