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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What was wrong with a touch of the old passion to spice everything up between them?
Smirking, he leaned over and wrapped his arms around Morans neck. It didn't take much to do what he did neck but transferring his weight, he hauled himself up and managed to wrap his legs around Morans waist before pulling back.
"Oooh goodie! Is this my gift for being such a good boy and escaping jail? Shall we fuck up the wall darling?"
So romantic.
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If, however, he really did feel ready then? ... Well, he'd go for the brain. It depends on if Sherlock interested him enough to know he could keep at it.
But, of course, he had to be showy and pray that this would all work out. If not? He was in trouble. He had already written Moran a note which he planned to hide on his person. If he had any sort of brain damage, loss of genius or memory loss then he wanted to be shot and killed.
The next morning, curled up against Moran, he didn't bother to get up. He just lay there and contemplated his fate - it was going to be so fun!
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When the cell when off for the third time, pinging away to get their attention, Moran turned in Jim's arms and grabbed the stupid thing from his jeans on the floor.
"Come play," he read out loud before groaning. "You need new friends, Jimmy. This one seems to think that it's fucking normal to go on play dates before eight AM!"
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Not that he cared, mind, he was just a bit too busy talking to discuss the joys of his new live-in.
"I like that, he's so unpredictable. What will he do next? Hopefully die. Do go fetch your sniper rifle."
They had to be ready as fast as they could, that was certain.
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Moran made the calls to the other two assassins as he was meant to do and then headed to the hospital. It took him five minutes to get in because of the traffic from the jumper. It took him ten more to get to the roof.
Sitting in the stairwell with Jim in his arms, Moran nosed the side of his head where there was still head intact and laid his hand on Jim's chest when he felt it.
The breath.
"My fucking God!" He never ran so fast in his entire life. "He shot him! He shot him before he jumped! Can I get some fucking help here, mother fuckers?!"
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His nose was bleeding, there was blood from his ears and the back of his skull had some damage, not as much as to expected but there was an exit wound where the bone had shattered.
The last thing he remembered was he was on a gurney and the white lights of the hospital whipped passed his vision as he was being raced through.
"What's his name? Do you know him?" the Doctor was asking Moran and Jim blinked slowly. What was his name? Why was the room moving so much. He slurred something audible before passing out once more.
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Instead, Jim was taken from him by scrub doctors that had better know what they were doing or Sebastian would track down their families, line them up against the kitchen wall and shoot them in the head one by one.
For the moment, though, he was confined to curling up in the waiting room, hands and shirt bloody, watching as John Watson was denied access to Sherlock and then carted out by his friends.
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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 ( ... )
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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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