Seven Years Ago…..

"James? You're doing it again. Come back to me." A soft hand on his shoulder. "Come back to me, baby." The hand tightened, and the conscious light of life began to flood James Moriarty's eyes. Eyes which were already open, but had been…different somehow. Remote. Dead. He noted distantly that he was holding a gun that had recently been fired, his hand still tingling from the recoil. His entire body felt loose, unreal, uninhabited, but for this faint awareness of himself that he now carried. It was always like this, his way back. Reality slow and seeping as if it was the dream and the other was truth. He supposed it should worry him that this time he'd had no warning of the onset. No aura to foreshadow his waking nightmares.

When he was very small, and his mother had been able, he had been taken to a priest. They could not afford true medical care, and no one cared for another wretched child of a prostitute. So she settled for the spiritual care of his physical ailments. A religious whore, his mother. And he as well… He remembered his small hand in hers, trembling as the imposing figure had questioned him. Possession, it had been labeled after his 'examination.' The boy would hallucinate just beforehand, colors or lights that made no sense before he fell under; much like a migraine. In later years, certain emotions could bring it about, too; but always, it was precluded by the aura of lights, like fairies flitting along the edges of his vision. Sometimes there were auditory hallucinations as well, generally nonsensical, but some that would have scared his mother had he ever informed her of them, which he didn't. She had worried enough already.

"James?" More concerned this time. It didn't usually take him this long to respond. He turned, and his eyes found her. He could always find her... Seraena. And a warmth broke over the stone of his heart, setting it alight like the fiery waters round the shores of Ireland. There had never been any rhyme or reason for this love. And he reveled in the uncertainty of it. The bond they shared burned strong and scintillating, as if another spark between their hearts could end them both. They had met…and now they loved. Was that not how it was supposed to be? Fairy tales… But perhaps this tale was a bit darker more often than was the wont of their childhood versions.

"Fine. I'm…fine," he eventually whispered out, a slow smile stealing across his face at her worried expression, though she expressed relief at the response. And he drank in the sight of her.

He couldn't trace his initial attraction to her, nor she hers to him. She had been in his employ. Small time, nothing important. Probably just paper running, or as a visual distractor for daytime maneuvers. She rarely had come into his presence, much less actual contact with him, back then. There was no reason. He was…James Moriarty…principal figure for the growing epicenter of criminal negotiations and operations worldwide now. His name was on the verge of being the name when it had happened.

He had left through a back way of his lair, not wanting to bother with disguises and all that for once; looking the part of an ordinary person. He was tired and simply wanted to retreat to his cold and empty flat for the night. Perhaps get take away and sift through his Hall for memories of another time. But his thoughts had been interrupted by a sharp sob under the stairwell. He had paused, looking beneath, and saw her curled up, skirt ripped and hair torn from its arrangement to hang wildly about her face. One look, and he could see she thought he'd kill her for this. Female weakness, in the den of his network. After all, what crime lord cared for the sexual welfare of his people? With one look, he deduced her physical injuries, superficial; and her mental injuries, extensive… Given her height, the location of the attack, and the way she lay sprawled out, he narrowed the suspects to three. Now…her looks had a certain appeal to some, and he immediately disregarded the suspect who was gay. Of the other two…one was more likely to kill her than leave her like this, and so that left…alright. But better be sure.

He hauled her up to stand before him, and she bit back a scream. She was looking into the eyes of someone who had killed others for something as simple as accidentally touching him, and now he was touching her! He could see it all play through in her mind, but she kept quiet. She held firm. He quirked an eyebrow and tilted his head at that. Admirable. After all, he was quite scary! But for now…someone needed pain. In extensive quantities. He couldn't abide rapists. None of his people knew of his lowly origins, so they weren't aware of how much that singular crime set him off, flared his madness.

"Who?" His single word echoed with so many meanings, and she knew that when the name fell from her lips, it would be a death sentence for the one of whom she spoke. The reflection of her pain in his eyes bled through, he knew. And she trusted him when she understood it, calmly naming the one responsible. It took little time after that. Locating Agent Debrare and putting a bullet through his skull with no explanation, no warning, was accomplished as if going for milk. She followed James silently, and she watched her assailant die just the same. They stood there quietly a moment before she had softly slid her hand over Jim's to take the gun from him…and emptied the rest of the clip into the rapidly cooling form. Then she had licked a bit of her own blood off the back of her hand and spit it on the body. Jim thought he might have loved her then…

Another entreaty came through to him, and he blinked, this time slamming into his wakeful body all at once. He coughed, still looking into Seraena's emerald eyes, and she saw it for truth this time, that he was back with her. He smiled, though it was forced. And he looked around to get bearings on his situation. The gun in his hand rested heavily, and he turned it, wondering what he had been….oh. His eyes found the two dead men moments later. One of his own, and the other…he didn't recognize. He frowned, unable to figure what had set him off this time…or why he hadn't had an aura to warn him of the onset of his mental departure… As usual, Seraena read his thoughts.

"That one touched you, James," she said, indicating the unrecognized fellow, and Jim noted how she kept contact with his shoulder, still unwilling to let go. "He was a friend of Hassle's," she finished, meaning the other dead man. Ah, so one had touched him, Jim had reacted as he did to all human contact, and Hassle had attempted to aid his friend. Bad idea…Jim thought to himself. After all, everyone knew what a damn fine shot their boss was, even on the move. Many had joked that he would be able to shoot the hair off of a widow's mole while pole dancing upside down from the back of a galloping camel. And they were almost right…

"Well," he said, trying to start but not knowing where. It had been months since his last episode, and he had been hopeful of keeping this condition as secret as possible. Of course, now that he had dead-eye killed two men in the middle of his safe house and then acted like a zombie when called… Oh well. Adds to my glittering personality and charm, he laughed internally. "We should get back, darling. All of this," he gestured disgustedly towards the corpses, "has put me off for today's business. I think Michel can handle the rest without me. There's nothing else that needs attending to until this evening. Let's just go." He acted so nonchalant, as if nothing was wrong. Only she alone knew how much these black outs bothered James. He would never show such uncertainty in front of his men, though. And so she slipped an arm about his waist as if she were just desiring physical proximity and not actually helping him stay upright as they exited the building.

They hit the door to his room thirty minutes later, after taking a cab ride home in which the cabbie had threatened them with all manner of physical violence if they did not stop the wanton things they began in the backseat. She had smirked at Jim, knowing he, too, saw the irony of being threatened by such a peon. But for the cabbie knew, Jim was just some puffed up young banker fellow, all posh and prim, trying to make a grab at a pretty girl. Maybe they could work with that role play later? It had potential…

The door crashed against the inside of his room as they fought to keep their mouths against each other while they moved through the portal. She smiled into their kiss. She was always smiling, his Seraena. Even when he killed. Even when he robbed. No matter the bad things he did, she always smiled at him, the silent language of their hearts. He often wondered if she was quite as broken as he inside, the way she took his deeds in stride. The only time he had ever seen her show fear was that first day of their initial contact. Never after. Though one would think it wise to fear James Moriarty. He did, after all, apparently black out and kill randomly… But she always brought him back. It was a knack he hadn't planned on. An unexpected benefit of their shared tenderness.

The first time had been a shock. The aura of lights warned him, and he had frantically begun pushing her towards the doorway of the large library-like office that he operated out of most of the time. Once warned, he usually had scant minutes to prepare. His men stationed in the room had sensed the change come over him. He stopped being the never-able-to-sit-still-Jim and became the loose-limbed-stoic-devil-Jim. It was always as if a calm settled around his shoulders before it began. His men thought it just mood changes. Most times, he was never too concerned about his surroundings, just preferring to be alone if he could, and wake up to broken furniture. That time, though, she had been at risk. For the first time in a long time, he had actually been concerned about the bystanders. His men knew to just shuffle out and leave him alone, but Seraena…she did not. She had only heard the rumors of Moriarty's infamous random killings of crew members and mercurial swings of emotion. And she had chalked them up to be just that. Rumors. Oh, not that James didn't kill indiscriminately just to cause an upset in the rankings of his network. Made it hard for informants, that's for sure. But the kind of sheer brutality that came out during these spells was nothing shy of…monstrous. And no one was spared from them.

The last he remembered was being about midway to the door, his men outside ready to shut him in, Seraena being shoved before him with questions resplendent in her sea-green eyes. And then…nothing. He had awoken to the sound of her voice. He lay on his side on the carpet, blood on his hands, but it was his own. He had gouged long furrows down his forearms and into his palms. He felt nauseated and disconnected as always, but…she was still there, on the floor beside him, looking down with concern and…love. Yes. Perhaps this was when he truly loved her. When she spoke his name, it had the ring of having been oft repeated, and he mumbled something in reassurance that he was back. He was there. She had called him back; and he would never take her care for granted.

He could see the shadows under the doorway moving. His men. How much would it affect their lives should he die? In the grand scheme of things, not much. They would drift apart and find new leaders. Or perhaps one of them would rise to take his seat. It was not a small danger, he knew, because he had almost killed himself on several occasions in the past during these episodes. No. For the here and now, and most probably for the remainder of his days, there was only one person left whose life would be profoundly affected by his passing. And he knew then that he would do everything in his power to shelter and protect this creature from the world…and himself.

Their clothing began to rain down upon various furniture, decorating his room. It looked like a hurricane of fashion had blown through and left clutter in its wake. Even back then, Jim had always been conscious of his appearance, rarely ever to be seen in a simple t-shirt and jeans if not working an Op. His mouth claimed hers and then worked its way down her neck as she slipped a hand beneath the elastic of his pants, his trousers having long since fallen away and now decorating the bedside chair. He nipped her collarbone just before she divested him of even those, feeling the cool air settle over his skin and raise tiny prickles as she got down to her knees before him.

His head tipped back as she grasped the base of his cock and started a slow tease over the head. God, what she did to him! Never in his life before her had he allowed anyone this close, this intimate. He had no use for people in general. But she was different, his Seraena. She was clever, but the quiet kind, never flaunting her intelligence or the wily tactics by which she could see through some of Jim's clients as they tried, unsuccessfully, to lie to him. Her own talent for reading people was far better than his, because she saw the whole person, not just the deductions that made them at that moment. And so she could read them, turn them, and burn them; their lies fell to so much ash. And James could never lie to her. He wanted to keep her, protect her, shield her. Odd sentiments for a man of his inclinations, but true all the same. There was never another who had possessed his entire world so completely. She could break him, be the end of him; and she knew it, never giving any inkling that it would appeal to her to do so. And he adored her for it.

He gasped as she took him whole in her mouth, hollowing her flushed cheeks around him as he moaned. He swept a hand along her hair, silken and wild. He would make it wilder… He pulled away, bending forward to stand her up against himself as he worked the last of her clothing off. Once accomplished, he wrapped strong arms just below her waist and lifted her up only to resettle her down, oh so slowly, onto himself, feeling the tight heat engulf him. His legs shook momentarily as he fought not to drive in fast and hard, and she seemed to sense the same as she simply clung to him, enjoying the proximity of their bodies.

Then he flipped them to where her back was pressed firmly against the wall and holding her partially up. His mouth found hers, frantic with the need to touch, to consume. And she was equally as desperate, breath rushing from her lungs as his cock began to move inside of her in a rhythm old as life itself. With her against the wall, he was able to free one arm from around her waist to reach up and cup a small, yet wonderfully perfect breast under his hand, squeezing and gliding fingers over the erect nipple. The gasp stolen from her lips was worth the strain on his spine a thousand times over, as he smiled into their kiss and returned the arm back to her hips. He hated how quickly he came after his "disappearances," but it was as if his body had the need to reaffirm the life within it, and so gave no leeway where lovemaking was concerned, seeking the quickest path to resolution. And he felt it stealing upon him with its usual urgency.

He turned and stepped the few feet to the bed with her still wrapped about him, and they fell across it, coming apart as they did so. She made a displeased noise in the back of her throat, reaching for him in mock annoyance, and he laughed as he climbed over her, kissing her stomach first, then each breast, before finally finding her lips again in an almost chaste application. So lost in his bliss and desire that he didn't even realize that he had spoken until she responded to it, wriggling excitedly beneath him.

"Ooooooo, yes, do it! Fuck me in Irish, James." Only on her lips did his full name of James not rasp like blasphemy against his soul. And he did as she commanded, words as ancient as the stones and sands of his homeland flowing forth from his tongue, cradling her in their security as his body found its way back into hers and began the dance of flesh once more. She gasped as he spoke the unfamiliar and tantalizingly alien words into the base of her neck as he moved within her.

"Ooooh…I don't know…what you say…but it's…so….wonderful." He pulled back a second at her words, halting all motions, and looked at her worshipfully, whispering, "I say that you're beautiful, and precious…and that you're my whole world. A most complicated puzzle gifted to me to try to figure out for the rest of my days. You are a problem that needs solving…but never can be. You are a truth that I can always fall back on, Seraena. Your strengths increase my own. Your weaknesses, I'll protect. You're everything I need, and all that I want in this life. The game is secondary now, a diversion; it has been for some time. You've done what no one else ever could; healed where they have spit." His eyes closed. "You're…..perfect." And he meant every word. Killer that he was, there was something broken inside of him that this woman managed to fix with her mere presence. And the repaired pieces were graced with a hole that only she could fill. She inched upward to catch his lips softly and speak through the shared breath.

"I'm yours, James."

Thank God I'm a criminal, was the first thought James had on the last day of this life. Else I'd actually have to get up at this unjust hour. His eye was cracked open and staring at the clock on the wall. He felt a bit lightheaded and fuzzy. He had fallen asleep beside her on his belly, head turned away from her. Lucidity was slow in coming for some reason right now, disorientation hovering about his thoughts. But otherwise he felt warm, sated, loved. Something he'd never imagined for himself. Smiling into the sheet, he rotated his head to where it faced her. They had a mound of sheets, blankets, and pillows all around them, obscuring her face somewhat. Only the tip of her nose was clearly visible. His eyes trailed lower to where the rubble wasn't so high. Her breasts stood out against the dull morning light like tiny, perfect peaks. He giggled inside as a thought struck him.

He wanted her. All of her. For the rest of his life. Marriage had never entered his mind all of these long and lonely years. And why should it have? Before her, there was only the game. Now, he had everything before him. And he wanted her to share it with him. He fought down the excitement of the moment, not wanting to tip her off that he was awake yet as he plotted it all out.

A ring. Shall I get her a ring? She didn't strike him as the jewelry type, but women were funny about things like that. And the ceremony…would there be one? Yes, of course there would. She would be resplendent in that dress…her eyes would sparkle. All for him. The thrill ran through him once more, and he thought he couldn't keep it to himself. Knew he couldn't. I could always buy a ring later, tell her I had wanted her to pick one that suits her since I'm fuck all at this anyway. Yes, that way, he could have her happy affirmation this very morning! Nothing in his life seemed more important at this moment in time than asking Seraena Lilligan to be his wife. His permanent partner in crime.

He grinned all the larger for this realization. Precious yet burdensome, his new secret fought for freedom. Not a secret for long, though…. He reached out, as if stretching, to curl his fingers into hers, trying for an innocent way of waking her. Oh, she was cold! Perhaps if he pretended at seeking to cuddle her and cover her with a blanket, he could 'accidentally' wake her? His eyes refocused from their daydreaming haze, still fixed just over her wonderfully proportioned chest. And with his vision, so returned his deductive reasoning, never truly gone, merely dulled. And it ignited a horror previously unknown within him.

And his heart…..stopped...

His breathing..…stopped...

And his mind, for the first time in his life, went blank with him still present inside of it... As he watched; as he gazed; as he stared…at what had to be time frozen in place. His brilliant mind's perfect recollection counted backwards to just how long he had been gazing dreamily, unaware and unfocused above her chest.

Her motionless chest.

No.

His fingers tightened over hers. So cold… She hasn't woken up yet. She always wakes with me. Not today. She's just breathing shallow. This is a bad angle. Not true. He closed his eyes against the invading commentary. I'm still dreaming; I'll just wait a bit. We're to be married. Never. He couldn't keep them closed. His mortal body sensed a wrongness in the form resting beside him. It was an effort of desperation getting his body to respond to the brain's commands. And he could feel every muscle fiber, sinew, and tendon creaking as he untangled his fingers and slid his hands beneath himself to slowly, fearfully, elevate above the chaos of their pillow strewn nest. She's fine. I protect her, like always. We're to be married... Stop. His eyes shot to her face as soon as it became visible above the piled bed things. His breath hitched in his chest. She could be sleeping… Not now. Her features were bathed in the pale light of dawn, lending an ethereal quality to the already beautiful planes of her face. Eyes, nose, mouth, were all as they should be. Except…perhaps she was a bit more pale than usual… His thoughts flew back to the disorientation and lightheaded feelings that were receding when he had first awakened. So similar to… Waking nightmares…no. Not possible. Not so close together.

Tentatively, James reached out to lay fingertips to her cheek. His hand trembled as he did so, and increased in degree with his breathing as it encountered the cool, lifeless temperature. His hand then flew to the chest, resting over her sternum for long seconds as he stared hard into her features, not wanting to look down for the confirmation his hand sought. Nothing. No. This doesn't happen. Giving up on that method, he began to move his hand back up, with the goal of pressing in to seek her carotid's pulsation. But he caught himself as he finally saw what his eyes had been denying, had been avoiding…

Bruising…shadowy and abrupt, ugly and excruciating, like vomit on a birthday cake….it blossomed around her delicate throat, forming a dark butterfly of old blood beneath the epidermal layer. No... We're to be married. Joined forever. Touch her. See what you've done. His shaking fingers completed their route to lay against one side of her neck…and he watched his hand fit into the killing pattern, setting alight a pain like a ball of barbed wire being dragged through his gut. Joined forever… You still can be…make the choice. He shook his head, almost toppling over. Waves of nausea and dizziness were beginning to lap at the borders of his mind. Denial losing its battle finally…

He slid both arms beneath her shoulders, pulling her into an embrace, and kissed her face and neck frantically as his mind flinched at seeing her head slung back on the loose neck. He rocked her, cradled her softly, tears finally erupting as his mind began to encounter the reality of the situation. Jim held her to his chest, on his knees, as he rocked back and forth, pitifully seeking answers for the fickleness of a universe that no one has yet to figure out. Horrid, ugly things welled inside of him, but they couldn't overcome the helpless agony he was awash in. He spoke to her in English, and then in Irish. And at times, a mix of either; sometimes not even words formed, merely sounds and noises of the type that perhaps animals could interpret. The stars held no more mysteries for him if this was how they moved.

In his arms, he held the world.

His world.

Everything to him.

Everything.

And he had destroyed it….

Time passed, and he knew it not. There was no reason to. That reason was gone beyond his reach. And when he finally set her back against the pillows and sheets and the dessicated life and love that once resided there, he placed himself over her, one hand on either side of her shoulders. His vision was so far gone into a well of grief that tears obscured almost everything. But he knew this route by heart. No matter the obstacles placed between them…he could always find her. And he found her now, lowering himself once more, nose to nose. A kiss: the brow. A kiss: cheek, to cheek. A kiss: the chin. A kiss: ...the lips. Cool and soft, he closed his eyes in one last attempt to call this a nightmare…but they opened upon the same revelation: he was a monster.

The understanding rose like a beacon before him. A monster… Yes. He pushed up and stood slowly, silently, almost as if waking her was still an issue. His neck twitched painfully, involuntarily, and he turned back to look down upon her… She had been his, for a time. His love. His life. His everything. Her body lying so still among the white linens gave the scene a biblical feel, holy. As if this were hallowed ground, and he a demon intruder. His own voice echoed back to him from memory, 'You're too good, Serry; too full of life. You're on the side of the angels,' he had often teased her. And now... They had followed each other into many things during their time together, but now she had gone where he could not follow. You can. It's possible. Make the choice. His body shivered, but not from cold. And he thought he saw a flicker off to the side, as if someone had lit a candle. Left hand suddenly clenched by no command of his own. The previous shiver became a jerk of his shoulders. Still, he continued looking down at her. A few fireflies flitted into his vision, leaving sparkling trails of gold and silver behind. Even so, he remained motionless. And minutes later, when the sparks became more violent and numerous, he kept his eyes locked on Seraena, his once and only hope, as his vision failed and was replaced by an all-encompassing white fury that came howling down upon him. Make your choice. And then…..he was lost.

Moriarty's eyes flew open and he gasped for breath, flinging himself upright in the lounger beside his bed where he had sprawled. Brown eyes were widened in an expression not seen by others in years: fear…and self-hate. The fingers on his cut hand had gouged into the knife wound he had made last night, causing blood to run out and down. But the pain was washed out next to the horror he felt. It was as if he had just experienced everything anew. Love gained…and lost…horribly. My fault, he almost breathed out loud. And he knew that he was crying, but he didn't care, honestly didn't care. "Seraena," he whispered. And the screams began.

Not real. No. In his head. They began as if from a distance, building in strength. Wordless yells. Some of pain, others of loss, some that had no discernible state. All focused on him. All coming towards him. As if he were the center of a great maelstrom of torment. The disconnected voices didn't heed his mental defenses either, so carefully composed over the years specifically for this, his madness. And he knew then that something was wrong. Something had happened in his meditative state. He knew it had gone awry, but couldn't collect the details at the moment, feeling almost as disoriented as after one of his waking nightmares. He threw up every trick he could think of for repelling them: anger, hurt, hate, ignorance, anything… Nothing stopped them from coming on. And soon they were surrounding him, in him, pressing closer, pulling his soul apart from outside and in.

He could hear them. Monster. It didn't matter what other nonsense words came from their nonexistent mouths. Their meaning was clear. Monster. He covered his ears and slammed his eyes shut in a futile effort at denying other stimuli to the hallucinations. This was a bad one. Most especially since he didn't seem to have any way of getting rid of them. There used to be pills he could use to at least dull them, if nothing else. But he had none of those as he hadn't needed them in years. He soon began to hear another sound underneath the others, and it took him some little amount of time before he realized it was himself, the noise escaping his throat as a type of keening moan. And he didn't stop it. Couldn't stop it. It was too much. Too much. He needed to get up. Get away.

He removed his ineffective hands from his ears and leapt up quickly, with no idea where he was going but of a mind to get there, anywhere, as fast as possible. He took the first step of his run…..and fell flat on his face and stomach…collapsing over Sherlock Holmes.

The detective had arranged himself on the floor beside the lounger, complete with blankets and pillows, as if camping out. He barely seemed to acknowledge that a full grown man had just tripped and fallen over him. Screaming and shrieking all around in his head, Jim scrambled about until he came up beside the detective's left side. He saw, of course, his own laptop opened before infuriating man, but the pressure of the screams and wailing was too pronounced to care about these things. Sherlock was laid out prone, propping himself up on elbows to type; and he absently reached out and grabbed the criminal's hand that was closest to his own…..

Jim's world collapsed inward, voices shattering upon the contact made with Sherlock's hand on his, flesh to flesh. Silence, deafening in its crescendo of nothingness, poured into every gap of the shorter man's being. It was like being bowed beneath an impossible weight only to have it burst to pieces over you and disappear. He gasped, not loudly, but noticeably, beside the other man's shoulder. And Sherlock continued to scroll around on the screen with a bare pause at the exhalation. The taller man didn't turn his head, but spoke towards the screen.

"Saves me the trouble of hacking it," he said in a distracted tone as he moved Jim's hand. "You changed your password. Somewhat better, but not much. Wouldn't have taken long. But still…more fun this way." And Jim watched as his hand, covered by the detective's own, was pulled over and placed on the print reader on one side of the touch screen. The computer let out a chime of approval and unlocked. He set the shorter man's hand back down before any of this had truly cleared Moriarty's overworked mind. The criminal was still intently focused on the almost clairvoyant silence of his inner thoughts right now. Amazing. And the source of all this... The solution to the problem of his impending cognitive break…rested there beside him…hand still entwined with Jim's.

And it was this sight more than anything that caused something further to leave Jim. No name for it, just something. And the shorter man turned off of his belly and onto his left side, maintaining the half-noticed, mostly-distracted, and more-than-a-little-odd courtship of handholding. He didn't look up to the face illuminated by the laptop's artificial light. He looked only at what he held in his hand, sliding his other up along himself to place with the first. And slowly, he curled his body around that point of contact, his temple just touching the detective's shoulder; he cradled Sherlock's hand as if it were his love…his life…his everything. And he slept.