At this moment, John couldn't picture the slumbering Irishman slumped in Sherlock's desk chair as the infamous master criminal with whom they had battled for years. It had taken him a fevered hour of stitches and demands of trajectories and rifle calibres before Dr. Watson had proclaimed the sniper stable. He had advised Moriarty that he be left to rest until midday, promising that he would watch over him to ensure that there were no turns for the worse during the morning.
Jim was exhausted, eyes wild and stained with tears, but he refused to sleep while Sebastian could still be in trouble. He had sat stubbornly down beside Moran, his brown eyes staring into the darkness. Sighing, John admitted defeat almost immediately , instead electing to take Jim a cup of tea to last him through his vigil. It was Sherlock who had eagerly provided the sleeping pills John added.
The dawn light had long since filtered through their navy curtains when John saw the colonel stir. Despite the drugs, this almost imperceptible movement alone was enough to rouse the criminal. He jerked awake, sitting bolt upright in his chair, his eyes wide as he looked back towards Moran.
"Jim," the man croaked, his confusion clear in that rasped word, "Boss, what's happening? Where...?"
Only then did he turn his gaze to his surroundings, recognising the flat's interior, and John's concerned face as it drew nearer to check his vitals once more. Scrambling backwards, Moran reached into his back pocket for the gun that was no longer there. In desperation, he lashed out towards the doctor with his bare fists. John managed to deflect the blow just as Jim said sharply:
"Don't, Moran. He..."
He cast a soft look at John.
"He saved you, Seb."
"You were shot." John explained as Sebastian slowly lowered his arm. "Moriarty..." He coughed, "Jim brought you here, and I fixed you up the best I could. You'll need to be careful with those stitches for a few weeks. I'd give it a month before you are fully recovered."
He glanced nervously between the two men.
"You're very lucky, really. Steep trajectory, the bullet... just missed your heart... um..."
Jim had glanced away, his eyes trained on the floor as he wiped a tear from them.
"Hey," Sebastian grinned, "I'm ok, Boss, you can't get rid of me that easily."
The criminal sobbed aloud, flinging his arms around his bodyguard and burying his face in the crook of his neck.
"I was - I was so worried, Sebby." He whispered brokenly. "I thought you were going to die and - and it was all my fault."
He clung onto him more tightly, a new wave of tears flowing forth.
"I should've - should have calculated, I mean - we swept, we swept the whole area, but he - he was one step ahead of me. I let myself get distracted, and I almost lost you, Sebby. I - I'm sorry - I'm so, so, sorry, Sebby, please -"
"Hey, hey," Moran pulled the smaller man up to face him, wiping a tear from his cheek with a calloused thumb, "it's not your fault, Jim. It's just part of the job."
"A job I gave you," he insisted, "a job that almost got you killed."
"Stop blaming yourself, Jim, please. I swear I will always be here, yeah?"
"You'd better be." Jim smiled through his tears, drawing the marksman into a tight embrace.
"And John." Moran called as the doctor turned away, intending to leave the two with some privacy. "Thank you. If anyone has reason to refuse me treatment, it's you, so - thank you."
"I did my duty for you, as I would for any other." John paused. "And I," he cleared his throat, "I know how it feels, and I, quite literally, wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy." They laughed together. The doctor and the killer.
"I'm just going to make some tea. You're welcome to join us in the kitchen, if you feel up to it. And, um, you're welcome to stay as long as you need to. Sherlock'll probably kill me, but - yes, well - as long as you need to."
Moran smiled again. "That's awfully generous of you, John, but I assure you that we'll both be out of your hair as soon as we can make some arrangements."
He ran his fingers tenderly through Jim's hair as John left. The doctor switched on the kettle before stretching up to the teabags - on the top shelf, he noted, which meant that Sherlock was annoyed with him. He had just managed to dislodge the box with a long spatula when he heard Sherlock enter the room
"They're still here, then?" The detective asked nonchalantly.
"Yes, for as long as it takes for Sebastian to recover." John replied, without turning.
"Good. That's good."
John span around, shocked.
"Good? I thought you hated it? You said that they didn't deserve our help."
"Yes, well," Sherlock looked at his feet sheepishly, "you were right. They should stay."
He rounded the table, rising on his toes to give Sherlock a soft kiss on the cheek. "Thank you."
The kettle's whistle accompanied the sound of Sherlock's bedroom door opening. Sebastian Moran shuffled through it, leaning heavily on Moriarty, his face ashen from the effort. John rushed to pull out a chair for the injured man before pouring four cups of tea.
Jim sat beside his bodyguard, lacing their fingers together on the table top . Sherlock sat stiffly opposite him, silently accepting his tea from John. Three more steaming mugs met the kitchen table to gruff thanks before John sat, stretching out his stiff leg.
Silence descended in the flat for several minutes, the men sipping at their scalding tea without meeting each other's eyes. John was about to suggest biscuits when a door beneath them slammed open. Heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs.
Moran's mug slipped from his fingers, smashing on the tiles.
He quickly stood, his face draining of what little colour it initially had.
The flat's door crashed open.
Sherlock smirked.
"Ah, Lestrade. What kept you?"