wearing-westwood:

Finally!  Finally he’s here, he’s done it and he’s won!  Sherlock Holmes is over, he’s finished—yes.  He, Jim Moriarty—they, Jim Moriarty—have beaten the last, greatest opponent.  ”You’ve won,”  he breathes, a response too excited to be in his normal, controlled tone of voice.  ”We’ve won.”  How are they two?  How do they exist together?  Can’t be right, can’t be normal—and he doesn’t fucking care.

It doesn’t matter to him in the slightest that the mirrored reflection of himself exhibits none of the flaws that run rampant in him—nor does it occur to him that the other has imperfections which he, himself, doesn’t show.  They’re not quite perfectly identical—but why should he care?  There is no option but his own—he’s right, they’ve won!  They’ve emerged from their conflict victorious, and despite the double vision(which would indicate that something had gone wrong), he’s convinced, wholly, that they’ve carried out everything to perfection.

Won? He - they - won? What did that mean? Something was wrong that they were two, that they were consumed in blackness, falling, fading, splitting… dying. They were dying, weren’t they? That was that splitting, spreading, aching pain in his head, that was the warm wetness in his hair he dared not reach back to touch, wasn’t it?

Pity. Pain. Mourning. Loss.

“We haven’t.”

They’d solved the puzzle, but that didn’t mean they’d won. 

cardsharper:

By the time they had cleared the hospital foyer, James’ shoulders had slumped significantly. No longer was he in the mood for any petty taunts or snide comments; the mile-long list of his brother’s prescriptions was perfunctorily folded and shoved into his jacket pocket, he held a heavy, black, luggage bag in each hand, and he felt as though he stank of disinfectant and the alcohol-scrubbed plastic surfaces of the floors and walls and cubicle curtains. He made no conversation as they crossed the car park. His jaw was set, and his eyes were fixed on the car.

Only upon unlocking the vehicle did James realise that he had probably brought the wrong one. The jaguar allowed no space for luggage—the most he had been able to modify on it was in adding a small cavity behind the back seats for various tools and weapons. Certainly no room for a couple of overnight bags. He stood for a moment, deliberating, before he gave his head an irritable shake.

“Get in. These can go in the foot-well.”

The taller man yanked the passenger door open, stepping back as Jim passed him, returning the dry expression he was presented with. When his brother was sat down, he leant in and shoved the bags between his feet, one on top of the other, before pushing the door to. For a further moment he stood again, turning and resting his back against the car. His hand came up to cap his temples, and he screwed his eyes shut. 

The weeks ahead already seemed to stretch. 

This responsibility was unprofessional. It was going to take more patience and time than he had. As if he had had any to spare to begin with. Damn Moran. And damn Jim, too. Dropping his arm, he raised his eyes again to dully watch vehicles trudge into and out of the car park, and people trudge into and out of the vehicles. Grey as the tarmac they trudged on. He straightened. Jim would be due for his several dosages, soon. Probably. He hadn’t given the medication times a first glance, never mind a second.

Returning to the driver’s side, he dropped in beside the other man, jamming his thumb onto the start key. The engine mumbled into life.

It was nice to be out of stark-white, too-clean, and back in normal (if more comfortable than his customary pressed suitings) clothing, even if his arm was strapped securely in a sling, even if the walk to the car seemed longer than it should have, fatigue settling in by the time he settled in to the car, even if the reality of the coming weeks settled in with it, the fact he’d be confined in close quarters with his brother of all people - damn Moran - when he would usually use a messenger to send any sort of contact, if any was exchanged at all.

But small glimpses of good in this situation had to be grasped at if he had any hope of making it through without ”accidentially” taking too much morphine, so for now he settled on being comfortable. The drugs he was on were keeping him in a blissful haze, void of pain, and in the car there was the lingering smell of smoke and the taint of blood and gunpowder and it was different, certainly, from Moran’s, but there was still the overarching feel of belonging more there, with one of his soldiers (because James was his in the end, whether or not either of them cared to admit it), than in the sterile hospital environment. That was simple fact.

It did not; however, keep him from noticing that he’d been unceremoniously packed into the car with the luggage.

Jim’s seatbelt was fastened while James leaned against the car, waiting, thinking, cultivating his melodramatic image for all the world to see, and then it was the younger’s turn to wait, too, with nothing to do, so he fiddled with his shirt hem, with his phone, with the straps curving over his knees to James’ bags. It wasn’t a long span of time by any stretch of the imagination, but it was certainly testament to how slowly time would tick by once they were actually confined to a flat together.

The driver’s side door opened and shut, and the car grumbled to life. Jim sighed and rested his head back against the seat, let his eyes slip shut, and readied himself for anything; a jolt as James sped off, or an indeterminate amount of time wherein he wouldn’t be able to tell if they were moving until they got back home. He couldn’t know what to expect, hadn’t driven with James before until now, hadn’t wanted to, for good reason.

cardsharper:

A dismissive snort was James’ only return to the statement. Why Jim assumed kinship would make such a thankless duty any easier was not as apparent to him. Still standing motionless and without sign of advance, the elder of the two cast a level glance around the room, white and sterile. His gaze landed on the patient.

“Any forms I should know about?” He decided to keep any communication between them purely mechanical. This was in no way an ideal situation; pretending it was anything else would soon become tedious—for them both. It was a disruption enough as it was. James had had little time to organize his work schedule before being called out. Thinking about it, a lot of things would have to change to accommodate Jim for the next few weeks. All of his paperwork would have to go somewhere else, out of reach. All of his calls would have to be redirected to his mobile. He wasn’t taking any chances. 

Jim was an inconvenience.

James folded his arms across his chest, making no attempt to hide his scornful menace.

“I’ll get your stuff.”

“If there are, then they will be waved at you as we’re leaving, I would suspect.” Jim grumbled drily, shifting and fidgeting, eager to leave now that the possibility was more real than, perhaps, fleeting hopes directed at too-white walls and celings. Even if leaving necessitated staying with his dear, wonderful brother for some length of time. It almost made him want to dial Sebastian, to grumble through interactions with the man, and begrudgingly endure any overtures set to secure his position and wellbeing.

Almost.

As it was, it was difficult enough to keep from picking at the IV drip, difficult enough to wait for the medic to remove the needle, difficult enough to parse with the fact that James was Moran’s replacement. The idiot knew how brilliantly they got along, and yet, in some half-thought notion of the other idiot being the only person he could trust with the job, he’d sent him along. It promised to be a very long several weeks, at the least.

As Jim’s things were gathered, and as the medic readied him for leaving, James would be subject to the long list of medications he would have to make sure Jim took at specific times, and under specific conditions. Antibiotics, painkillers, antinausea so he could eat, sleeping pills if necessary, all culminated into a schedule that Jim wouldn’t have bothered to keep to on his own, even without the added difficulty of being at least partially out of the usual handle he kept on his thoughts at any given second.

Forms, too, needed to be signed, a process expedited by the fact that an immediate relative was on-hand - a step at which Jim made no effort to hide smirking at - but that was the last before they could finally leave the white room and halls and noxiously sterile environment. It had been entirely too long since going home was an appealing prospect, but there they were - and it was not a sensation Jim cared overmuch to repeat anytime soon.

moran-sm:

The rain was just starting to fall in fat, heavy drops as they stepped outside. Sebastian watched the little circles forming and blurring on the ground before moving into it. He always got the urge to run when it was raining but he held himself back, laughing a little as people round the pool tried to salvage their cushioned sunbeds beneath too-small umbrellas.

He was glad to find the beach emptying. He let a tiny crab the same colour as the sand scuttle over his toes before reaching out for Jim, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him close as they walked down to the shoreline. He wasn’t sure what had prompted him to do it, but it had felt natural. It was strange to feel the warm rain but only be able to hear the growing crash of the waves. He tiled his head up and closed his eyes to let the rain soak his face and hair but it was too much like being able to breathe so he looked down again.

The first rumble of thunder sounded, low on the horizon. Sebastian’s skin crawled and he squeezed Jim a little tighter.

“You want to watch out over on the horizon,” he said, gesturing. “Unless the lightning strikes overhead… but it’ll hit me,” he added with a laugh, glancing round to check for anything taller. Nothing but sand and them.

Jim tucked himself a little bit closer to Sebastian as he was pulled close, almost as though he thought that being so close would keep him dry. The rain was warm where he’d almost been expecting the chilled rain of London, and for a moment he thought he might pull away before thinking better of it. They were soaked in minutes, on the beach soon after, and Jim was quiet. He was quiet, not for fear of not being heard over the crashing waves and rolling thunder, not out of some great awe for the forces of nature at work, but for the simple fact that he didn’t feel the need to break the silence between them.

Sebastian did that readily enough himself, at any rate.

He didn’t feel the need to remind Sebastian that, with how close they were holding one another, any lightning strikes that were so unfortunately timed as to strike one of them would strike them both (especially considering it was raining), didn’t, out of something akin to sentimental comfort, want to ruin the moment like that. Besides, any strikes were more likely to be attracted to the resorts behind them, with their towering stature.

So Jim sunk down into the sand, buried his toes in the beach, and shot that look up to Sebastian that said he ought to join him, even as he had to wonder at the state of the tide, whether it would wash in soon enough - and quickly enough - to overtake them. Unlikely.

cardsharper:

What had put Moran in such a state so as to drive him to prescribe James as his brother’s chaperone was beyond him, until the reluctant texts that finally disclosed his reasoning were received. They were read without disbelief; it was more with a sense of foregone conclusion that the eldest Moriarty set his mobile down on his desk that day, and sat fingers steepled at his lips as he held this new knowledge of events in cool, calm consideration. 

Reiske. He had never set her apart as a mould-breaker. Not so serious a contender. Yet his judgement of the agent pieced together from the fragments of what he had heard of her had not prevented her from putting a bullet in the wrong man. Stupid girl. She would have been better off shooting Sebastian than thinking for a second that he would sympathise with her for that mistake. What some people do for love or loathing… James tilted his head. The screen of his phone lit, and a glance was cast over the new message.

[Text] There’s no ‘I’ll see’ about it. I’ve told you what your job is, go and do it and do it damn well. - SM

His jaw hardened. His hands lowered from his face slowly and flexed, each of his knuckles cracking, before he snatched the item up, fingers flying over the keys. His thumb stopped short over the return button. A moment later, a breath was sucked in, and the sentence deleted and replaced with a single word of confirmation. He was only sorry that his irritation could be no better communicated.

[Text] Sir. JM.

And so it was. 

Walking down the main corridor of the hospital brought back no memories, as cliché would normally have it. There were none related of any major significance. A broken collar bone here. A punctured lung there. What more was there to remember, or even care about. The door to Jim’s room came up, pale grey, like the plastic tiles of the floor. James almost felt overly conspicuous in his usual dark attire. Almost.

But he didn’t.

A knock was put on the door, and a shout from inside was returned. James smiled, without humour. What a picture.

The code was punched down, and he stepped in. Wordless. 

The door swung open and Jim’s gaze slid from the celing to it, watching, picking out form and feature of whoever Sebastian had sent over. He couldn’t quite believe it at first, reaching up to rub at his eyes to, perhaps, change who had stepped in. It could have been a different man with a similar build and gait, features could have been hallucinated after the first flickering of the possibility of it being…

No, that really was his dear, sweet brother sent to retrieve him.

He had to wonder if this was Sebastian’s own form of punishment to him, sending along someone he knew would make life… difficult, instead of a simple, nameless, ‘yes, sir’ ‘no, sir.’ That would have been boring, but easy. This situation would be neither.

So, with a sigh, he sunk back into the pillows, shook his head just a bit and tried to reconcile staying in close quarters with James for what could become weeks, with letting him touch and move and help him, when necessary - because it wouldn’t be an if, it would be a when, and it was likely to be a daily occurence for a decent stretch of time. It was sure to be a… pleasant experience.

“I’m going to go ahead and skip our usual forced pleasantries and tell you to go on and get me out of here. It shouldn’t be too difficult. You’re family, after all.”

The hospital was too sterile, too stifling, and while it failed to conjure unpleasant memories for the younger Moriarty as well, that did not mean he had any particular affinity for the place. Quite the contrary.

There was something to be said for medics who operated under the table. The aftercare wasn’t much to speak of to be sure, but the provided painkillers (not that Jim would have had any trouble getting his hands on something of equal strength) were certainly nothing to sneeze at. He was teetering on the edge of not-bored, was certainly beyond caring, was almost to the point where sleep would be a nonissue.

Pain was a foriegn concept, and good thing too, all things considered.

He’d been situated nicely in bed, bloodied clothes long since peeled off and disposed of in favor of fresh bandages and clean pyjamas, propped up on too many pillows and under too many blankets, but the morphine was sitting right there on the bedside table for whenever he should need it next. Books were a bit further away to stave off the boredom, but he knew that Sebastian would be sending someone around soon, whether or not he took a glance at that damned replacement list, so there was a slim chance of them providing some measure of entertainment before he had to resort to making them fetch him things.

Before he’d gotten through counting the swimming dots on the celing, there was a knock at the door. A knock which it would not be in his best interests to get up and answer at the moment. While he was reasonably confident walking wouldn’t be too much of an issue, what would be problematic would be the off chance he might stumble into something or trip over something else. That would be both humiliating and very bad for his injuries.

So he yelled in the direction of the door.

“I know he gave you the bloody code, just come in!”

moran-sm:

youroldfashionedvillain:

There it was again, that same cocksure conceit that got Sebastian into his mess in the first place. That attitude of being the only one that  could look after him, of being the only one that could possibly do what he’d been doing for years now. He was a self-appointed glorified nanny, and he’d gotten far too comfortable in the position. He’d gotten far too comfortable and, as a result, had made far too many mistakes along the way, culminating in this end-all betrayal.

If it wouldn’t have harmed him, Jim might have turned and slapped him.

As it was, he didn’t have to do any more than refuse to look at him.

“So find someone else to do it, Moran.”

Sebastian stared at him in silence for a long time, almost believing that he’d have to look at him eventually, he’d have to deny it, he’d have to say something that wasn’t going to result in them not being together.

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

“Alright,” Sebastian said finally. He got to his feet and straightened his shirt and brushed down his trousers as though that would make it possible to leave without Jim’s blood on him. He’d call James, because there was nobody else who could even come close. “I’ll get the list of replacements to you by tonight and call someone to take you back to the house once I’ve picked my stuff up. Take care of yourself.”

And then he silenced everything inside, shot Jim a half-hearted salute and walked out.

moran-sm:

Sebastian nodded silently, still staring at his knees. He was being depersonalised and it did more than sting. It grasped his chest and squeezed, hard. After everything he’d done… who else could say they’d done what he had for Jim Moriarty? How could he possibly be replaced?

But that was his fault, wasn’t it. All that self-entitlement he’d always despised in others, all the arrogance he’d shot his General for. Sebastian swallowed it down, nodding again. There wasn’t a choice. He didn’t want one.

His head shot up at Jim’s last words. Sebastian stared at him. He struggled to keep down protests and realised all over again just how complacent he’d got around Jim. There wasn’t supposed to be anything but the job. But now, take that away, and there was still something there and it wasn’t supposed to be there, but it was, and now Jim was sending it away, packing it up with his stuff and kicking it out.

“No, I won’t want to,” Sebastian said coldly, even as that self-same coldness seeped through him. “Who’s going to look after you? Who’s going to-“ Follow orders, make my word your gospel. He cut off suddenly, mouth twisted, allowed himself the one last selfish thought of and what am I supposed to do when I’m all on my own again without either of you to turn to again this time?

He was being depersonalised and it did more than sting but if that was what Jim wanted, then that was what he’d let happen to himself. But he wouldn’t do it peacefully. He’d fight back, he’d keep fighting, he’d be the best again, there wouldn’t be room for argument. He’d work to the point that Jim wouldn’t be able to ignore it. He’d get back to where he’d been before for the simple reason that he couldn’t not. There was nothing without it, there was no point, no reason, rhythm or hope.

“Yes, sir.”

There it was again, that same cocksure conceit that got Sebastian into his mess in the first place. That attitude of being the only one that  could look after him, of being the only one that could possibly do what he’d been doing for years now. He was a self-appointed glorified nanny, and he’d gotten far too comfortable in the position. He’d gotten far too comfortable and, as a result, had made far too many mistakes along the way, culminating in this end-all betrayal.

If it wouldn’t have harmed him, Jim might have turned and slapped him.

As it was, he didn’t have to do any more than refuse to look at him.

“So find someone else to do it, Moran.”

moran-sm:

Sebastian almost flinched at his tone, at Moran. That answered his question, really, didn’t it. Was this it? Was everything he’d done for the man, everything he’d thrown away, everything he’d kept close and never so much as breathed a word about, everything he’d tried to be worthless now because of less than a week of bad choices?

“Doesn’t matter, sir,” he muttered, staring down at his knees. He’d rather not know for certain. “An outline of what… of the nature of change in what you’ll be wanting from me from now on would be appreciated though.” The reassurance that it would pass, sooner or later, eventually, would have been appreciated more.

“I’ll expect nothing more and nothing less of you than I always have, and that is to follow orders, make my word your gospel. It has always been your own decision to go above and beyond that.” The actions had certainly been appreciated, to be sure, but they had never been asked for, never been expected of him, and as a result, they would not be expected of him now. Point and shoot, say ’yes, sir’ and fall in line. They’d taken their turns at grasping the other by the wrist and pulling them from the darkness, but that didn’t mean Jim was incapable of simply letting go.

“You’ll want to pack up your things when we go back to the house.” 

moran-sm:

Sebastian suppressed a groan. In a way, this mood of Jim’s was the hardest to deal with out of all his erratic and perpetually changing whims because it was the hardest to read. Did he want him to keep talking? To keep his mouth shut until spoken to? To walk out? Jesus, in his position, Sebastian wouldn’t want him around at all. And yet, he’d want him there most of all too. With a carefully quietened sigh, Sebastian mentally reprimanded himself for projecting his own feelings onto the man, who looked more incapable of feeling anything at all than ever, lying there, staring blankly at the ceiling. Sebastian pressed his hands to his face and closed his eyes for a moment. They smelled of iron. Jim’s blood. He raked them through his hair before straightening up.

“Is this it, then?” It came out ruder than he’d intended it to sound. He hastily tacked a sir on to the end of it and licked his lips.

“Is what it, Moran?” Exasperation didn’t begin to outline just what bled into Jim’s tone as words were drawn from him, though he didn’t so much as incline his head in Sebastian’s direction. ‘It’ could have been anything, could have encompassed the end of their relationship - professional or otherwise - could have meant Jim wanted him to leave the room or the house, could have meant anything or nothing or some combination of such.

It was frustrating.

It was tempting to just say yes and see how the other man took it.