A/N: Sorry if this one feels forced in a place or two. Kind of running on low/no sleep and loads of crazy lifebusiness. Still, I hope it gets some points across in these characters' development.
Jim attacked hard and fast, viciously flipping the two of them over on the ground, taking away the other's advantage of height and weight. His street fighting methods as a child had been developed into an art form over the years; and for such a diminutive man, Jim contained much in the way of wiry strength. Grabbing a fistful of dark curls, he rammed the taller man's head downwards once, twice. He panted hard after, feeling the fight (and consciousness) leaving the detective. Why then wasn't his own adrenaline ebbing? The battle was over….right? A tremor ran down his spine at the suggestion of a cessation to the violence. No... Something pushed him further, like an endless hunger never satiated. He had to be sure the threat was ended…permanently.
And Jim felt he watched from outside of himself as his hands reacted of their own volition to these invading thoughts of paranoia. Fingers tightened their grip, pulled back, and slammed Sherlock's head into the hard tile one last time, blood already present from earlier in their fight smearing under the criminal's touch. At this final impact, though, the detective's skull made a sickening noise as it connected, somewhere between the breaking of a branch and a melon being dropped from the table. There was only that sound…nothing else, echoing for a moment in the smaller man's mind. Then suddenly, everything stilled…even, he felt, his own heart. The struggle they had been enduring was voided, with the criminal emerging as the clear victor. He experienced an almost nauseating elation at this. Yes. He was happy! Or was he? Wasn't he? No. Yes. What? Blinking, he turned his gaze to the face of his conquered enemy, feeling disoriented of a sudden.
The mysteriously color-shifting eyes were frozen, half lidded, as if waking from a dream…a nightmare. The light and spark of intelligence was blank behind them. Sherlock's pale face lay fixed and motionless, though not unlike many trademark looks the detective was well known for in his days as a consultant. But this time, that expression wasn't flooded with his underlying layer of frightening intensity and bordering-on-omnipotent awareness. It held, instead, a terminus of life, an end. The last vestiges of who he was bled away in a faltering storm of electrical discharges once contained in fast-fading neuronal bundles. Jim imagined he could see it, feel it, as he leaned back, every atom of his being recoiling in horror as the cold realization broke over him. His hands flew back to himself, unable to continue their contact with the detective's body, to feel the confirmation of the life that had fled.
Because of him.
With one hand clutched to the front of his own shirt, the other raised up sluggishly to his face in shock. He started at a lukewarm, wet substance that slid against his cheek. And he stared in surprise at his palm and its dark, liquid coating… A slow, broiling sickness swept through him and found a home in his center.
Blood. Sherlock's…. Life. Sherlock's…. No. His heart forced yet more adrenaline through his body, burning everywhere it made contact, setting his limbs on fire with the horrible knowledge. Mental clarity and control were progressively regained as he fought the reality he was presented with….. Dead. He was dead. And the world would follow. There would be nothing left for him in this realm of decaying flesh. His mind sought rationality in the declarations, as if it could change the truth through sheer determination, but instead it slipped off and further down into insanity.
And. He. Couldn't. Breathe.
No. No. Not real. No. False. Untrue. Lies. No, No, No, No No No No No No NO NO NO NO! Never!
Jim woke with a start, thrashing about in his sweat soaked covers until his eyes regained the clarity of the waking world. Another dream, same topic. His stomach still heaved, but no vomit resulted from it. Unlike the other nights. He pulled himself up onto the side of his bed, dangling his legs down and observing how shaky his movements were. How weak. How pathetic. He couldn't keep doing this. He felt blank, void…empty. Except for one thing. A thing that filled almost every waking moment…and apparently un-waking ones, too. But that one thing terrified him more than any other thing had. He shook his head in denial.
No. He would never allow anyone else that kind of power over him. These dreams were just a product of his brother's recent meddling in his life, dredging up memories long suppressed, long escaped. Bringing out the animal he once was…and still could be... But he would be fine. Though these nightmares were stronger than ones in previous years…he would get past it, like always. He didn't need anyone. And yet…
His feet hit the floor, and he wrapped a dressing gown around his shoulders as he passed the wardrobe and fled the room. He pretended no knowledge of where his steps would take him, treading the hallway in slow and measured paces, though he never could quite pull off lying to himself. The darkened passage seemed to be leading him further into oblivion as he approached his destination, though it thankfully didn't take long before he passed through the door of Sherlock's room. The detective's suite had been moved closer to his own recently. He had deemed this necessary. For closer monitoring. Nothing else. Right…
It was strange, feeling this dependent on something (someone) for peace of mind. His steps brought him to the foot of the bed, and he felt the calm already settling over himself; the other man's presence invaded his blood like a sedative for his soul. His gaze pulled in the image of the detective as Jim stood uncertainly, with Sherlock sprawled out like a starfish on the sand. It seemed the dreamer had only made a half-hearted attempt at buttoning his pajama top, too. And one could almost think those limbs had been artfully placed, purposefully flung about to capture poses to their best aesthetic effect….
The criminal blinked. He was losing track, he knew, and so Jim refocused and thought, hard. He considered everything, all of the events that had combined in so imperfectly perfect a way so as to lead up to this moment in his life. This choice. And he sat down on the edge of the bed with the weight of his thoughts. All the games, the lies, the puzzles, the challenges, his endless anger at not having a single person to understand him, to distract him from the mundane, the ordinary, the…well, just life in general.
Suicide had been a fleeting moment of weakness in the past. Toying with his own life had only held his interest for all of a few days. He had soon realized that it would only be worth it if those left behind of the event were affected adversely. Because what is suicide but a poor spirit's last attempt at discovering its worth to others? And really…..who was there to weep for Jim Moriarty? Who would actually feel his absence as a hole in their world? He almost sighed, but that wouldn't have been very characteristic of him, would it? Consulting criminal, crime lord of the civilized aspects of society, the name no one spoke...sighing over mixed emotions? Having second thoughts? It didn't bear consideration... Then a flicker of memory burned in his eyes momentarily. He did know one person who would be affected, but they wouldn't understand the repercussions until much later in their life. And then he really did sigh. Completely on accident. More of a yawn really….
His hand wandered back behind himself as he continued thinking, sliding along the expensive cottons until it encountered the resistance of a certain previously mentioned, sprawled form. And his thoughts slowed. He smiled. It felt good. Actually, it felt great. After so many years of unceasing frustration, he had finally found a match for his own brand of intelligence. It gave him a sense of freedom and giddiness that threatened to escape in the form of a somewhat maniacal laugh. So he bit his lip. And he hid it. Always hidden…
For so long, he had held on to, and tried out, many different personas, attitudes…selves, really. It was hard to distinguish any longer which was false…and which was truth. His life itself was steeped in lies of the blackest kind, and with each passing year the depth of his darkness seemed to extend further into an eternity he was unsure he ever wished to meet. It was disconcerting, not knowing which you was you. How can a person not even know himself at all? And yet…he didn't. Some aspects of his characters seemed to repeat, and so he was almost certain that those things, such as his penchant for unpredictability, were part of the "real" Jim. And killing…yes, that was a part of him, too. Integral. But many facets eluded him or only seemed possible. How could one ever be certain when every day involved another front, another act?
Unless the act ended….
He glanced over his shoulder at what had eventually become his reason for continuing. Not in the romantic sense; of course not. He sneered and turned to face straight ahead once more. At least, not in the beginning….. Damn. Even his own thought patterns seemed to turn on him nowadays. Always returning to one topic. One very alive and intriguing, and maybe even snoring, topic. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. What price? What price this? For it would end. And horribly. He knew. He remembered what happened the last time… Seraena…. And he closed his eyes, bending forward a bit as if to curl into himself. Things like that, like happiness, like dreams, were not meant for those such as he. Were never to be his. Everything he touched, died. Withered into ashes that could no longer sustain their original purpose. He couldn't let that happen again. But how….?
Oh!
Brown eyes, black in the darkened bedroom, snapped wide. And his head lifted a bit. Yes. It came to him then, unfolding before him as a cosmic statement of truth, a manifesto of his destiny. Perfect. His mind began to form plans and counterplans more quickly than most could recite their own names.
No one could know. Well…only one. A confidante to help with the last details; to be sure the job was finished. Yes… His fingers gripped the sheets tightly. Everything would be alright after he was…..gone. Never again would the evil within himself gain the ground needed to harm what he cared most for. Never. Everything would be safe. Sherlock would be safe. …..and Sherlock was everything now, wasn't he?
A fit of lightning shot through Jim's chest at this mental declaration. The closest he had come yet to consciously admitting…something…something. He felt his breath hitch for just a second in fear… But then he let it escape, and his face set into the look of calm acceptance of one's fate. The kind of peace that only comes over those who have seen what their end will be, and are ready for it. And he was. He knew it. And it hurt…oh, it hurt.
He would never see so many things if he did this, if he pulled it off. But Sherlock would be safe from him. Right? Surely after….there would be no need for concern? There were others who would watch over the detective….others. Jim wouldn't be around to oversee it, though, and so he'd just have to hope that he planned everything perfectly. And he would. He was Jim Fecking Moriarty. He gripped the sheets tighter still. When he set his mind to anything, Jim Fecking Moriarty would never… "Ooooomph!"
He fell backwards into the bed as a pair of long arms wrapped around his waist and tumbled him down ungracefully. He landed in an awkward heap across the detective's chest, looking up quickly to the other man's face in consternation. Sherlock merely looked on blearily and tugged sideways as he rolled over more towards Jim and brought the criminal into what had to be the most intimate embrace the smaller man had ever encountered in his abused life. In fact, if he'd had time to consider it, the shorter man might have realized that he couldn't remember the last time he'd ever actually been held. Not like this. Seraena had loved him, but here and now he felt…safe.
He was brought firmly, yet gently, up against a pale chest, lean arms gripping around Jim's shoulders and waist. He could hear the other man's heart beat, and it sounded out the sweetest lullaby that his black and jaded soul had never thought to find. And something deep in his mind recoiled and readied for the strike…only to be quickly subdued by the more dominant aspect of himself at this moment, his heart. He closed his eyes. He didn't deserve this, no. But he would enjoy it while he still could. Once he had all in place, he would monitor for the tell-tale shift in himself. And then….when he eventually felt the darkness begin to build….he would act. And in acting…save…everything.
It was early when Jim woke after only a few hours, still wrapped tightly in an embrace he would have found amusing if he hadn't had to piss so damnably bad right then. After much internal debate, he stealthily disengaged the long limbs from his person and escaped to perform what morning ablutions were deemed necessary by his stressed and strangely tired body. It felt as if he had finally begun to rest after years' worth of none, but had been woken much too early from his slumber. He thought briefly of returning and seeing if he could replace himself within that embrace, but… No. He mustn't do this to himself. Stop. Just stop. Take, but don't initiate. Right. Well. So then.
He returned to his own room and changed into an outfit that any of Scotland Yard would have found amusing. Contrary to popular belief, consulting criminals did actually exercise just like normal people. And Jim preferred running, as it reminded him of the good times he and his only childhood friend had. Not a bad idea for a crook to be able to run in any event, he had often thought. And so, clad in trainers, loose jogging pants, and an I (heart) NY t-shirt, he headed to grab his Ipod in a nearby living area, intent on getting the miles in prior to the detective waking and finding him gone.
But when he entered the room, time slowed for him, and he stopped. Cold. Furniture was all in place, pristine and eclectic. Just as the previous owner's had it set up when he had stepped in. Yes, everything was in the same positioning, but there was a presence here he hadn't expected to confront for at least another few weeks. Damn. He was about to speak when he found himself shoved back and into the wall, held there by a hand pressed hard into his sternum. The breath blew out of him, and his head knocked a small dent in the wall, eyes closing as stars burst through them. He took a second to regain his senses after the blow. And when vision returned and eyelids opened, dark brown bored like acid through the returned gaze of his only living male relative. And he thought he would rather have that number be subtracted by one.
It appeared that James the Younger had finally learned how to utilize a bit of his older brother's unpredictability. And damn it all if he wasn't smirking like he knew it. The brutish man held his sibling there, saying nothing for long seconds, no doubt just giving Jim time to understand his situation and be suitably cowed. The palm on the smaller man's chest became a single finger after a bit, symbolizing how little effort it took for the older brother to be beaten. The often lethal stare of Jim Moriarty held no potency here, else the world would be less one redhead.
The peace ended, as it always did when they met, with violence, as James' backhand caught Jim across the jaw. The hand then settled around the shorter man's neck, tight and threatening, pressing him back against the wall once more. The criminal had tried to throw up a defense of some sort, but though he had long since mastered his own form of street fighting, he had not been living the street life like his younger brother did every day. Nothing he attempted, no trick or twist or turn could free him of his attacker's grasp. And the fingers closed ever tighter over his airway, bringing on an edge of darkness to Jim's vision. Then, with a final thud of a shove, James released his older brother and walked away to stand by a desk across the way, smirk remaining intact.
"Can't use that smart ol' brain o' yours when I be chokin' its oxygen off, can yeh? See now? What good is all that intelligence when all I 'ad ta do was wrap my hand 'round that scrawny neck?" James teased as he turned back to face his brother.
Jim reset himself, mentally and physically, while his resumed tread brought him to the opposite end of the writing desk, cautiously keeping an object between them. Control was needed. Now. The elder Moriarty shook inside, from rage and baseless fear at once. The feelings resulting from his past trauma were steadily building and thieving his body's conscious reactions even as he fought to keep his outer appearance placid. PTSD reactions were uncontrollable, and his were unfortunately not geared toward violence when it came to his sibling. They served more to cripple him. And though he knew and recognized it, the knowing didn't make the terror any less, nor his body's reactions to it; it just made him more aware, if anything. Humiliating.
James tilted his slightly redder head to the side as he watched, as if knowing full well the affect he had on Jim and loving every second of it. The smaller man had halted at the end of the desk farthest from James before speaking. His singular goal was to get this man to leave. Leave now. Sherlock was just down the hall, and Jim had no desire to see what the effects would be if the detective and his brother were to ever meet. He felt James would not kill him yet, but Sherlock…Jim felt something twist inside himself. He ignored it and steadied his voice, bringing in some of his classic snobbery to the tone and pacing.
"James…. I'd say I was pleased…but, really, why?" False bravado would have to serve here for now until Jim could regain control over the screaming images of pain and torment that crawled from the recesses of his mind. He stood in the presence of the only person with the power to hurt him without even trying. His brother smiled back at him, wasting no time in replying with his stronger accent, rough to Jim's cultured tones.
"Aw, Jimmy. You can 'urt a person's feelin's with tha' talk. No, I think a more proper greetin' is…"
"What. Do. You. Want?" Jim grated out from between gritted teeth. He wanted this man gone. Now. But the annoyed interruption seemed to only please his more physically blessed brother, as if it had confirmed the criminal's insecurity.
"Ha! Same as I've ever wanted, Jimmy…. You." And Jim felt a sickness break over his head at those words. Trigger words for his PTSD. He had heard ones just like them time and again as his brother had raped him with various objects when they were younger. Whatever had been at hand really; hammer handles, sticks, gun barrels….just never with James' actual body. The larger sibling had always said Jim was too dirty/skinny/worthless/useless to actually fuck with his cock. He left that to their mother's customers and the other boys in the ghetto, too feral and cruel to show any mercy.
Bile rose in the back of the criminal's throat as he watched his brother watch him, watch his reactions… Strength, show it. Must get rid of him! Quickly. Before Sherlock… He didn't finish that line of thought, just started talking, thinking ahead of his words instead. He was smarter than his brother. Vastly. Surely he could come through this with no foul outcomes? His stomach gave the twinge again. And again, he ignored it.
"I'm not coming with you. Not now. Not ever. In fact, I've suffered you to live for all these years, James, because you've never truly been a bother to me. Don't make me regret it and have to change the directives I've given my agents." Yes, that was good. More of the bravado, some of it not false, but he was still unable to progress farther physically. The wounds to his psyche were just too deep, and his body remained a prisoner to its own fear. The other man stared at Jim for a long moment, as if weighing this strange specimen before him.
"Oho, gone and tried ta grow yerself a pair, eh? Interesting. Or wait…somethin' else? Ah…." The younger sibling made as if gazing around to look for something. As evil a smile as had ever existed played across his lips after his slow scan. "E's 'ere…isn't 'e? That detective?" He stretched his arms and settled his shoulders as if readying for a fight. "Well then, why not 'ave him come out an play? E's got ta be a more worthy fuck than you ever were," the large man laughed, and Jim spoke up.
"Sherlock Holmes' whereabouts are hardly your concern, and…."
Another voiced interrupted his statement suddenly.
"And…he's here now, so no concern at all," Sherlock's words flowed out like black silk as he entered and crossed unconcernedly toward James' position. The detective still had his pajamas on, but his height and commanding presence were remained potent enough to redirect the younger Moriarty's attention. Sherlock's eyes scanned all around as he entered, taking in locations of various instruments that could be used in defense or offense. An umbrella behind the door, scissors on the desk, scattered pens, and the chair itself. Not much in the way of choices, but surprise could often help along a normally ineffective weapon. Better to be prepared and aware, as this man was clearly not welcome here.
The large redhead's eyes had raked the newcomer with hungry interest. And Sherlock deduced much from the few seconds of their dual scrutiny. Familiar, his features were… Ah. This had to be…the mystery sibling that the detective had discovered through he and Jim's game of deductions weeks ago. Hmmm. He went further into his examination. Younger sibling…though the way the man interacted would have implied otherwise. Dedicated to his own cause. Hard core, thug, gangster, whatever it was they were known as in Ireland. Dangerous, too. And…the detective's eyes flicked to Jim, taking in the positioning, expression, body language, and...
He almost startled himself into tripping at what he found there. Psychological trauma so profound…..abuse…physical, mental, of the worst and most degrading sort…. Jim stood there…Jim Moriarty, king of crime in any known part of the world, stood there with a fine tremor running his frame ragged, trying so hard to contain it. Trying so hard not to show the weakness that this mental instability induced in him. The criminal's hair stood at odd angles. There was small impression in the wall to one side. Redness over trachea and hyoid region. The detective's mind filled in and replayed the actions that had occurred prior to his entrance. And Sherlock swallowed. Anger had now replaced his idle curiosity at this stranger's presence.
Here before him stood the cause for Jim's anguish. The source. The well of evil that had been drawn from in the criminal's youth. Almost every sadistic thing the criminal did in his guise, his armor, as Jim Moriarty could be circled back to this one man. The deep sorrow, madness, anger, and hurt that Sherlock had caught hints of during their weeks together were a result of him. His blood boiled and evaporated, reforming into an acid waste. It scorched his insides with a kind of rage he had rarely known before. His muscles felt caught in the worst sort of tetany. Yet on the outside, in the few seconds that had flitted by during his evaluations, the wild-haired man seemed quite unconcerned and calm. Yes. Calm, I am calm. And no threat, surely. Focus on that…misdirection, Sherlock thought to himself as he came to a halt standing just off to James' left side, with the writing desk at the detective's right hip.
Jim looked on, a terror of cold glass shards inside him now that what he wanted more than anything to protect had entered and all but placed itself on a table for his disgusting mess of a brother. Anger and fear warred with one another, neither able to gain dominance. So he was only able to observe, fearing that anything he said would only to serve to make the situation worse. The more concern he showed, the more his brother would learn… But, no matter what, he needed Sherlock safe. Jim's heart jumped as the other two men began to converse, with James leaning a bit toward the detective as if in confidence.
"I monitor 'is communications when I can, ya know. 'E talks about you all the time. Tellin' people to leave you alone, coverin' your whereabouts and whatnot. It's sweet. 'E's even got in several arguments with that sniper o' 'is over you." James reached out a hand and ran a finger down the sleeve of Sherlock's top. "Says you're on the side o' the angels, 'e does. Heh. Find that hilarious. Him? Hangin' round wit' angels?" The redhead spat upon the ground between them. "Nothin'. That's what 'e is. All o' this?" He waved his hands around, indicating the large estate and everything Jim's power and empire symbolized. "This is mine. 'E can't 'andle it no more. Dirt like 'im is always reaching for things they shouldn' 'ave."
Sherlock chuckled lightly at the big man's words, his arms hanging loosely at his sides while he kept his gaze straight ahead at the wall behind James, still maintaining his adjacent position to the man's left. The other's eyes narrowed, as if seeking insult or threat from the soft laughter. But the detective spoke finally, breaking the other's visual interrogation.
"Really?" Sherlock admonished Jim with a glance over his shoulder before returning his eyes to the wall again, but speaking now to James. "Odd. He lies about many things, but I should have thought he would inform you that when it comes to Heaven…angels…and all things good….." The detective broke into a flurry of motion while speaking, his right hand shooting out to the desk, grasping the scissors, his legs pivoting to bring him circling around to his right in a complete 180. The hand holding the scissors came up, and the wielding limb became firm and rigid, his half-spin ending with a wet kthuk as his backwards stab came in contact with its intended target, and he finished his sentence.
"…that I am anything but." No answer followed, because none was needed. His point had been made in blood. The detective spared a glance to the side at his own violent handiwork, adding, "Also…you talk too much."
Jim stared in horrified and glorious amazement at Sherlock, who still held the scissors securely through the throat of the only person in the world to have ever had any power over the criminal. The eyes of the last remaining Moriarty male traced the detective's form as the taller man's hand finally came down, blood drops pattering to the floor. James the younger's body immediately crashed sideways to the ground, making all of the sorts of gurgling and wet popping sounds one could ever wish to hear emerge from a mortal enemy.
The criminal's thoughts and gaze considered his fallen brother's form. Yes, James had been the only one with unquestioned power over him, that could alter his actions, change his course. Dead now. Gone forever. He breathed out, eyes closing for a second before finding a new focus. Because Jim couldn't help to feel, as he continued observed the predatory poetry of Sherlock's movements, that there was now someone else who held the same position, albeit through a different means.
And as he drank in the sight of his brother's bleeding, mutilated form, Jim found that he didn't really mind all that much. His chest felt light, yet full of lead, too. Strange. But he smiled through it and walked to stand before the other man whose piercing and fiery eyes held his own with an equal interest and intensity. Nothing was said between them as of yet, as if they were dealing with language on a different level. The man, frustratingly complex and confounding, who stood before Jim…had now purposefully killed someone of his own volition. With no prompting or encouragement. Certainly, they had both been in danger, but the need for lethal force was…unfounded. On the detective's side at least. And so…..Sherlock had killed for him. No dubious help with the trigger this time… He had, in fact, eliminated the only credible threat in Jim's life.
The criminal stepped into Sherlock's personal space, reaching up to grasp the front of the taller man's shirt and pull him down a bit. The blaze of heat behind Jim's deep brown irises was felt all the way through the detective's soul as they stood there, almost nose to nose, breathing the same air. Jim had stopped smiling just before grasping his shirt, and now stared as if in wonder up at him. But the oft jesting smile was back suddenly, and the criminal released the fabric, smoothing his hand over the taller man's chest a few times before backing away.
Jim then looked at the ground momentarily before raising his eyes once more to meet those of gray-blue focused on himself. He also straightened his fairly ridiculous (on him at least) shirt, and turned to gesture to the doorway.
"Shall we?" Jim inquired as if nothing untoward was bleeding into the carpet at his feet. "I was about to go for a run, and I was…interrupted." Ignore the problem. That's it. Because my brother is one no longer. He took a step in the direction of their exit, but then stopped once more and spun, hand to chin as if thinking. "Although, I can think of several more interesting ways to elevate my heart rate…" His eyes passed over the detective's lightly clad form with this statement. Sherlock, however, stared on, uncomprehending. Finally, Jim rolled his eyes. Too soon? No matter. Later, maybe. He turned back and had the taller man trailing behind him in seconds. "Hmmm, well, anyway. Later, we neeeeeed to go over our parts for next week. Won't do to have the star players unfamiliar with their lines. Bad theater, that."
Jim kept on for a bit about the British Museum or some such thing. Sherlock wasn't sure, as he was running on autopilot behind the criminal. The detective would have seemed calm and placid to any onlookers witnessing the aftermath of James' violent death. But inside, he was seething with confusion, and…a bad feeling? A premonition? Something… Because as his weapon of choice had collided with the vulnerable throat of the younger Moriarty, he had heard something. A voice? But not really, because it had originated from inside his own head. Did words inside one's own head qualify as being "voices?" And if so, what….
No. Focus. The "voice" had said his name. But it was different than just any commonplace utterance of his name. "Sherlock" being yelled across a crowded room would certainly register in his attention, perhaps even have him turning to look for the source. But this, this voice…..he knew instinctively he would turn the world over in searching for its source. So strange. He couldn't identify anyone that it was attached to, though the voice itself, tone and enunciation, registered as being deeply connected with his own identity. Undeniable. Unbreakable. It had been male, that much he was sure of. And yet, there were so very few people consistently in his life… So he began to easily tick them off one by one, and still could find no owner. It wouldn't have bothered or intrigued him so much, perhaps, under different circumstances. But it, that voice, that connection to his soul, was wounded by his actions this day. Was scared. He knew it, felt it. And could do nothing about it but follow after a crime lord with an unhealthy idea of relationships.