So long little birdy.
Moran stood over Jim's body, blood on his shoes. Jim bought him those shoes last week because he thought the other pair were hideous or scuffed or didn't match his own eyes. Moran hadn't paid attention at the time and now it was lost to him. He smirked for a moment and crouched down, stupidly feeling for a pulse that couldn't be there. The wound
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He did, however, hand over a note for Moran to read.
It was entitled to 'My loyal Sebastian' and inside? Well, it was clearly code as if he knew that doctors and police might try and sneak a peek at it. But it as easy to see the meaning in the subtext, or it would be for Moran, he did know the man the best.
Dear Sebastian
Thank you for being my bodyguard at this troubling time, you know my fears and I know that you know how to fix them if you really must. I appreciate that and I am thankful, always will be. Sherlock terrifies me and I'm worried about what will happen to me. What if I get hurt? I don't want people to know what happened or anything about this big mess, I don't want to be a part of this any more. Please, erase me from this final problem and make sure I'm never mentioned again.
RICHARD BROOK
The capitals were there for a reason. Because Jim was near done being Rich and once he woke up, he wanted that erased. He wanted to be Jim and only Jim.
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He'd fallen asleep in the corner of the room, right ankle resting over left knee, arms crossed over his chest. The magazine on game hunting had dropped into his lap. His head was tilted at an awkward angle.
So what if he stuck by Jim?
He was his bodyguard still.
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Raising his head, he put his hand on the bandage that went around his head, obviously to keep his skull together.
Oh great, it was probably ruining his hair and most likely did nothing for his complexion. Rubbing his hands with the one that didn't have a IV stuck in it, he took in his surroundings.
Why was he in hospital? What happened to his head?
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"Jim," he breathed and stepped over the magazine left to hit the linoleum and half running towards the other man. He was being ridiculous. Oh, Jim would make fun of him for it. If he remembered. And what a thought that was! How terrifying for Moran.
He clutched at Jim's hand to still it.
"Lay the fuck back down!"
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In all fairness, he had just been in a coma, he was hardly going to start rattling off the theorms he knew to prove his sanity.
Though he could, he knew his maths. He knew the binomial theorem, he remembered writing a book. He was an author? No, that was wrong, he'd never written a book with Sebastian.
Dropping back down when prompted, he offered Moran a dumbstruck smile, not sure what on Earth he was doing. But it would come back to him soon.
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"He's awake," he growled into the call box and waited for a slew of medical professionals to come in and take his vitals and test his cognative reflexes.
What year was it? What month? What was his name, how old was he, who was that in the corner, what do you get adding two to two?
The usual questions.
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"4," he informed him before sniggering and looking over at Moran. "I know, I know, isn't basic maths so boring. At least let me use my brain, unless its pickled. Is it? Have I lost my mind Moran?"
Jims tone was as odd as ever and his words were sung in that same old high pitched lyrical manner. To the doctors, it seemed worrying, almost too childish. But Moran must of known he was in there still, very awake and very aware.
Just very confused because he honestly didn't know what was going on.
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The expletives and the stress Moran had been under for a week just came pouring out. It was cathartic. It was necessary. Otherwise the American might just have had to blow something up...killed someone important, or something else really very disturbing.
He didn't want to hurt someone, not at the moment at least. Let the world rejoice that Jim Moriarty did not die.
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Anyway, he didn't know why Moran would be so angry with him. What did he even do to make his head go all messed up.
Who knew a career as an actor was so hard? Maybe he should of retired early.
"What did I plan? You'll have to forgive me, my mind is everywhere. Did someone shoot me?"
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Shit.
He stalked across the floor and plunked down in the seat next to Jim's bed. He didn't touch him. He just scowled. "What's the last thing ou remember?"
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"Last thing. I can't remember well, everything a bit everywhere. I remember rabbits, how odd. Rabbits and you," Jim smiled that odd almost unsettling smile before shaking his head in disbelief. Jim always did have the most unnerving smile unless he was playing someone, it never looked quite right on his face.
"Moran, darling, why would I blow my wonderful brains out when the survival chances are so poor? I need my brain, how else will I make a living? Formula's are my life-- sorry, that isn't right, is it? ... Acting?" Jim honestly couldn't recall his job, he had so many bouncing around in his head, which one was right.
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"You--" He wouldn't entertain the thought actually. He couldn't stomach it. "Jim, what do you know about me?" If Jim didn't know he was an assassin, if his clients found out he wasn't a brilliant criminal genius, they were fucked. Both of them. Good. And. Hard.
Oh God, he wanted to kill Sherlock again. Dig him up and shoot him in his stupid face.
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"Bodyguard? With a sniper," Moriarty smiled and snorted in amusement, hard not too because it was all so mad. What mental little life did he lead?
Despite his jumbled mind, one thing was still certain. He knew what he wanted and he expected Moran to do it. Which is why he soon leaned over and wrapped his arms around the other man.
"Sneak me out, I want to go home."
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Sebastian gently pushed Jim back down.
"Or at least until your skull isn't being held on with bandages. I'll sneak Inle in, all right? But I can't take you home yet."
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It wasn't still the Friday that he got to see Inle, the snuck in rabbit that he had to stop to pet.
He was bored of being here but he was told his stay could be up to a month depending on if the ex rays of his head get better and if he cleared up in some ways. Moriarty wasn't impressed at all.
"Moran, I still want to go home."
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He waited for Jim to make a fuss and then put a hand on his chest.
"You're not safe," he spat at, growling slightly. "You're really just not safe, Jim. Why do you think you needed a pseudonym and a bodyguard huh?"
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