"James?" Moriarty grimaced as the rumble of his name broke the quiet of his bedroom. He groaned quietly, his throat hoarse, and tried to disregard the stickiness of his bed sheets. "Jim?' Moran approached tentatively, intrigued and horrified by his employer's silence, and he tugged on the covers to test the waters. "Jim, it's after noon... are you alright?"

"No." With a pathetic snuffle, the blankets shifted and the sniper stiffened. "I feel terrible. I'm hot, I'm cold, I'm sore- this must be what Hell feels like. I hate it."

Moran chuckled quietly. "Women do this every month, so I'm sure it couldn't be that bad." He set down the breakfast tray beside the bed, his employer not moving still, and he began to peel back the sheets. When his new face appeared, Moran noticed that the consulting criminal was pale and damp. His high, female cheekbones were coated in a thin sheen of sweat, and he looked manic when his eyes opened.

"You don't look alright, Jim." Taking his pulse, Moran realized how cold his swan-like neck was. "Jesus, Jim! You're freezing!"

"Am I?" Shifting, Moriarty curled in tighter and pulled his knees to his chin with a dull expression. "...I change my mind. I don't feel well at all." He could feel blood loss beginning to take its toll, his frail soft form heavy and listless, and it took a dizzying degree of effort to sit up.

"Your arm!" Moran had glanced down, at his employer's sloping female shoulder, and his eyes widened. Moriarty followed his stare, unashamed of his nakedness even as a woman, and was shocked by the dark bruise of clotted blood along the outer edge of his bicep. He touched it almost reverently, but there was no ache or feeling to the blackened skin.

When he locked eyes with Moran, there was plain fear in them. "Sebastian, something is definitely wrong."

"MARCUS!" Suddenly Moran was propping him up on his pillows and the on-site doctor was hurrying in. His dress shirt was rumpled and creased where he had obviously fallen asleep in the next room, and the red blotch where his hand had supported his head was proof of that, but Jim couldn't muster the gumption to say anything cutting. "Marcus, something is wrong!" Jim watched Moran instead, the trim ex-soldier fighting his instinct to speak clearly and calmly with the doctor while he looked on.

He didn't pay attention to the words, but Moriarty could tell that the doctor was keenly interested in whatever Moran was telling him. He kept glancing at Jim, curious, and it made him sick to his stomach to be looked at like a science project. John Watson didn't look at him like that.

Surprising himself with the thought, Moriarty paused his entire process and returned to it, picking it apart and dissecting it meticulously until he'd had his fill. It was true that the doctor had not seemed to look at him like Marcus was now; John Watson did not look at anyone like that. His patients were people, always, and that was a reason why Moriarty had sent for him.

"Sir, perhaps you should stay in bed today..." Marcus brought him back to the moment and Jim was shocked to see the doctor experimenting with his sudden bruise. He hadn't felt a thing. "It wouldn't do any good to stress yourself by going out like this."

"No." Pushing at him, Jim pulled the sheet over his chest and grimaced at both weak and feminine displays. Marcus barely shifted when he pushed and it brought a sour taste to his mouth. "I'm going. John has set up his little clinic, and his study benefits me. You, so far, poke and prod me. Congratulations."

"But sir-" "James?" Moran broke in and smiled at him. "should I leave the breakfast tray or will you sleep more before the appointment?"

"Leave it." Moriarty struggled to kick his legs over the side of the bed. " I could use something to eat."

"And the paper?" Holding the Times out to him, the sniper asked him another unspoken question. Was he going back to business today?

"Turn on the news, would you?" Jim ducked his head and tried to slip his feet into the slippers beside the bed. He struggled, scowling, and soon Moran stooped to put them on his dainty feet himself. Moriarty watched him, looking down his nose, and he extended a foot as if he had commanded Moran to do it; when he noticed the doctor watching, he snapped. "What the fucking hell are you staring at?"

Marcus jumped. "I-" "Sebastian." Snapping his fingers, Moriarty watched the sniper approach the doctor and grab him by the neck. "let him out." Without ceremony, Moran tossed the doctor out of his bedroom and shoved him down the hall. "That's better."

As Sherlock watched John leave, he felt a twist of sour guilt season his bitterness and aggravate his bruised ribs. He knew what John had said last night was true; as of late, his lack of challenging cases had been driving him a little batty. However, now that John was gone, a case of intriguing nature had practically fallen into his lap.

"When you returned to collect him, what happened?" Sherlock demanded, steepling his fingers as he considered the distraught couple in front of him.

"He was gone, Mr. Holmes!" Cried the husband, holding his wife close. "There was no sign of our boy! Will you help us?!"

"H-He even left his duffle." Stammered the wife, dabbing at her eyes daintily. "His phone, his wallet- everything was there! If they took him for ransom, why wouldn't they take it?"

"Darling, calm down," Hushing her, the husband provided emotional support by meeting her eyes and gave her a sense of closeness with a hand on her knee. Appropriate, but full of meaning. "Mr. Holmes will help us... won't you?" Sherlock wasn't really listening. His mind was running through possibilities and his attention was far from the posturing father and his whimpering wife. He stared past them silently, only adding tension. "Mr. Holmes?"

"Hm?" Blinking, Sherlock left his mind palace and gave them his attention. "Ah, yes. Lost son, very sad."

"He's not lost, Mr. Holmes!" Bawled the wife, "Someone stole him! Someone stole my baby- I know it!"

"Marcia, you don't know that for sure." Murmured her husband, touching her arm.

"Don't 'Marcia' me, Paul!" Swatting his hand away, she leaned in Sherlock's direction. "Mr. Holmes, I can feel it in my bones somebody took him! Please find my baby!"

"I will try."

Molly Hooper's day was just getting worse and worse as her day went on. She put a run in her new hose, leaving her legs bare, and she had lost her hair tie to pull her hair back when she was jostled on the tube ride over. With the accumulation of those facts, Molly just wanted a nice relaxing day with her corpses and no Sherlock.

She didn't need any additional stress on top of everything else.

Sighing, Molly opened the door to a fresh man and, pulling out the drawer, her jaw dropped.

"SHERLOCK!"

Hehehe, how is everybody liking it so far? Any theories about poor Jim's condition? Any input to give, good or bad? I'd be much obliged to the criticism; it only makes me better.