If it weren't for John Watson's visits, Jim Moriarty wouldn't have known how long he'd been locked away. John had entered his cell three times since their first meeting, staying for as long as the officers would allow. Jim was eating now, at least, but that was the only advice the doctor had given him which he followed. The nightmares had been even worse when he tried to sleep again.
This time, it had been him on the rooftop, rifle in hand, aiming at a blonde mop of hair below him. No matter how much he screamed and struggled, he couldn't stop his numb, agonisingly steady finger from pulling back the trigger. Over the explosion in his hands, Jim could still hear the thud of flesh on concrete; see the body falling through the smoke. Fixed as he was to the cold stone, no-one ran to the dying man's side that night. The blood ran cold from the wound, a pool growing around him, larger and darker, threatening to swallow Jim whole as he gazed into its depths at the body floating on a sea of crimson which he himself had brought forth from the cooling corpse.
He had woken with a start, a cold sweat enveloping him and chilling him to the bone. Wrapping his meagre blanket, which he had thrown to the floor during the night, around his trembling shoulders did nothing to alleviate his shudders. From then on, he had once again refused to allow his body to fall into a slumber instead, whenever he began to feel drowsy, gouging at the skin of his thin arms until he drew blood. Only this thin blanket had kept the marks from Doctor Watson's concerned gaze.
John had left some time ago, leaving Jim alone, staring at the wall.
He hadn't shed a tear for Moran.
He had grieved, of course he had grieved, but he was still numb. More shocked than upset, he had counted bricks, recited Oliver Twist to his echoing head, anything to force that cold state of mind to linger for as long as possible. But Moriarty knew that he couldn't last forever.
By his calculations, today was Saturday. If it were Saturday, it must have been around eleven by now, as John left later. There had been a job scheduled for Saturday. It would have been a simple asphyxiation-in-a-dark-alley type affair, far beneath his sniper, but necessary. Strangulation was always his preferred method of disposing of those who knew too much. He found it rather poetic.
If anyone had cared enough to ask James Moriarty whether he enjoyed rugby, he would have told them no. It was useless, uneventful and took up valuable time to suffer through. This, however, wouldn't have been entirely true.
Moran liked rugby, he loved it. He watched every Six Nations game, last week cheering on Italy to a glorious defeat to the French. Moriarty always seemed disinterested when the bodyguard lectured him on the sport's rules and regulations, famous players or matches, but he was somehow intrigued. When he sat with Sebastian, a tiresome game suddenly became the most thrilling eighty minutes of his week.
Until now, he had never known why, but at this moment he could see it plain as day. The passion in Sebastian's eyes as he yelled at the captain, who was clearly cheating. The jubilation which filled his entire being at a try for England, or Ireland. He had always supported Ireland, for Jim's sake, even if they were playing against England as they had been this weekend.
Due to the time-consuming nature of the job, Moran was going to record the match. By now, he would have returned to their headquarters, kicked off his shoes and flopped down on the luxurious clean sofa with a can of beer and the television already flickering with the figures of burly sportsmen walking out onto the field to their national anthem and the roars of the crowd. Jim would have sat on the nearby armchair, claiming that he can't work with this racket, so he may as well watch this appalling game.
But instead, he was shivering under lock and key, alone and trembling in fear and grief as the memories of Moran rose up within him, a tide approaching inexorably until it swallowed him whole.
He screamed. The spine-chilling sound stretched on and on until his lungs were empty and his cheeks damp. He yelled anew, rending the blanket as he tore it from his form. He fell from the bed, pounding his fists on the floor and walls until his hands were bloody and numb. Barely seeing through his tear-stained eyes, he lashed out at the iron bed-frame, pulling at the metal slats with no rational purpose.
If his mind had been logical at that moment, he would have noticed the fact that his must now be a sound-proofed cell. That, or they simply didn't give a damn about him, not after Sherlock. He ran now to the door, tugging at the handle and screaming to be allowed to see Sebastian.
To his surprise, he fell backwards to the floor, cracking his head on the unyielding stone. Dazed, he lay still for a moment, gazing absently at the ceiling. When he at last found the strength to raise himself up on his elbows, he found himself looking through an open door into the dark, empty corridor beyond.
For a moment, Jim couldn't take in the scene before him. His addled mind, now suddenly sharpened, tried to rationalise the situation. Was this just typical police carelessness? Was it a trap? Perhaps it was that bastard Wesson, come back to finish him off as well, gunning him down the moment he stepped from his cell.
He quickly decided that whatever awaited him out there, be it escape or death, was preferable to languishing in a stone box for the rest of his life, wallowing in memories and misery.
Pressing himself against the doorframe, Jim peered cautiously down the corridor towards the double doors. It was entirely dark and empty, not even the snores of other prisoners marring the stillness. He turned his gaze the other way and froze when he caught sight of a guard not five metres from him. The man was slumped in a flimsy plastic chair, Jim not making out any movement.
Slowly stepping from the cell, Jim found that the guard was not roused by his movement. Jim slipped and fell, only just holding back a yelp as his hands met stone. Slowly turning his head, his gaze met the guard's.
The eyes looking back at him were glassy and blank. Only then did Jim notice the familiar metallic taint in his nostrils of what he had slipped on. Jim didn't bother to hide the sound of his footsteps now as he approached the doors through which Moran had once vanished, knowing that whoever had killed the first guard would not have hesitated in bestowing the same fate on every other in the building.
As he strode through the lobby, he glimpsed a figure through a glass wall, huddled beneath a coat on one of the metal benches which adorned the prison waiting room. Apparently, John had stayed every night to ensure that he could be on hand should there be an emergency with Jim. He felt again a rush of warmth towards the doctor, interlaced with a sickening hatred of the betrayal he was committing now.
Then he wondered why his 'saviour' hadn't killed him. If every other living thing in the prison had had their throat slit to allow his escape, why not this man too?
He shook the thought from his head, pushing through a final set of doors into the chill night air, relishing at last the crisp scents of London. As such, he didn't see John Watson's eyes follow him leave or hear him curse under his breath.
Turning left, Jim slunk along the mercifully clear road, keeping to the shadows as he kept a keen look out for anyone choosing to join him in the empty street. He steeled himself for a moment before swiftly striding beneath the bright lights of a level crossing, his head held low.
Almost immediately, James Moriarty veered into one of his more often used alleyways, leaning against one wall to catch his breath and clear his mind. Gazing up at the stars, mostly unobscured by cloud, he began to feel human again. As long as he was out, there was a glimmer of hope for him, a slim chance that continuing his old business would bring him back to his old self. Jim didn't like the idea of coldly casting aside all thought of Sebastian Moran, but he could see no other course of action. No other way of maintaining his position within the criminal world, everything he had worked for – they had worked for. Together.
Jim tensed as he made out a gloomy, indistinct figure approaching him from the dim dead-end of the alley. As he strained to discern the man's face from the shadows surrounding him, he shifted his weight from the wall to his feet, ready to flee from Wesson's hastily hired men. The pale face of the moon slipped out from behind a veil of cloud, illuminating the visage of the man who had rescued him. Again.
"Sebastian?" The hoarse name ghosted from his lips like a supplication.
The sniper grinned. "You did give me a few tips on faking my own death."
"Oh, Sebby!" Jim sobbed, leaping forward to fling his arms around his bodyguard's neck. Sebastian's fingers stroked his hair soothingly as their lips connected, his warmth enveloping his shaking employer.
Moriarty heard a figure jog up behind them, slightly out of breath, making vague noises of disbelief. He was rather surprised that he hadn't noticed John following him, but at that moment he couldn't bring himself to care, wrapping himself tighter around Moran merely to reassure himself of his presence. However, his sniper pulled his head back, gazing into Jim's eyes.
"And, of course," he flicked his eyes towards the doctor, "I did have a little help."
When Sherlock Holmes rounded the corner of the alley, his face portrayed a lingering guilt and a burgeoning hope of John's forgiveness.
"I, um-" the usually eloquent man stumbled over his words, "you were right, John, I see that now. I mean, I shouldn't have – well, I-"
"Oh, shut up, Sherlock." John interrupted fondly, before folding the anxious man in his arms.
Sebastian, too, pulled Jim in tighter, resting his forehead on the shorter man's before kissing him again.
The detectives and the criminals, side-by-side.