Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Whenever Moran does something, or seems to be doing something, as he's a shady fucker, I get an email.

I get a four-hourly digest of what the rest of the Empire is up to, but Moran is the head, and I need to keep a close eye on what the top brass is involved in. He appears to be doing alright - keeping everything ticking along as per my instructions; a bit more conservative and much less imaginative than me, but that's to be expected. As long as he keeps it going till my return from the land of the dead, that's fine.

An email pings up and I glance at the title.

Time is moving slower than tectonic plates shifting as my hand reaches for the mouse.

It takes forever to click –

yet it's too fast, way too fast, I don't want to read the content yet

I can't I must maybe leave the room and make a coffee and walk out of the front door and into the mountains and disappear forever.

'42-year-old man critically injured in shootout in Manchester'

What the fuck was I avoiding this for? Darkness is bliss... everything I want -

Strange to think I've been eluding Death for my entire adult life. It didn't scare me, I just - would never accept defeat. Couldn't. It was a game encoded in my cells, spiralling through my DNA, running through my veins... cat and mouse, cat and mouse...

And it was fun while it lasted. But we had an understanding, Death and me - I could play hard to get for so only so long... and then...

he would come to collect me as I always knew he would.

To claim me...

So farewell to Life in all its twisted misery.

Out it blows...

the curtain drops...

Fuck you, Life.

I feel myself surrender to the darkness spilling into me -

and I'm finally melting away in his inky embrace...

What - are these voices doing back here? They don't belong here!

Calling for backup!

What are they - what are they doing -

no-!

The pain when it comes is horrifying - not because of the pain itself. Because of what it means -

Let me - just let me go - I try to form the words, but all I hear is garbled noise -

and then a scream.

"NoNoNoNO!!!"

Oh god - no - don't save me - please-

please Death -

don't let them take me away from you -

don't let them take me-

please Death -

please -

**

When I open my eyes, minutes later, years later, centuries??! everything is hazy-too bright-distorted-painful-wrong wrong wrong -

I begin to weep.

It's him.

It's Moran.

What the fuck does *critically injured* mean –

I check the hospitals in Manchester until I've found him - Brian Allen, 42-year-old male, penetrating gunshot wound to the head. In surgery.

I read the rest en route.

I'm in the car to Pisa, scrolling on my phone for the next flight to Manchester. Tonight. Fuck that.

I charter a private jet; which it turns out *can* be ready in an hour if motivation is sufficient.

I keep refreshing the patient file on Brian Allen, but he's still in surgery.

The flight attendant's smile freezes on her face, she blanches, and makes herself scarce, which suits me just fine.

I didn't know planes could crawl.

Machines beep.

Nurses check vitals and steal my blood.

Doctors speak words - their spells float around my head, trying to seek entrance.

I repel their incantations and say nothing.

My vision is blurred and it hurts to keep my eyes open for long.

They tell me it may be temporary.

They tell me the head injury may not be... too soon to tell.

What does it matter. As soon as I'm strong enough to leave, I don't need vision or clear thought to pull a trigger and undo all their fine work.

Post-surgery recovery will include rehabilitation and - psychological evaluation?

I would laugh hysterically if I didn't think it might cause my head to split apart.

These doctors are wildly confident that they can get me under their power.

I just need to bide my time... I know that there's work left for me to do, but -

what good is a sniper with fucked-up vision? How do I function with a dysfunctional mind?

When sleep comes, the dreams are anything but comforting -

alien plagues -

bodies breaking apart, and people going mad at the sight, screaming like wounded animals-

relentless ghosts stalking me, grasping me, staring at me with pitch-black stares like an abyss that opens at my feet -

a malevolent consciousness lurks behind this post-apocalyptic world, where nothing will ever be the same -

And I'd rather be stuck in this hellish realm than the nightmare my life has become.

Brian is out of surgery.

It went - ok - but prognosis is uncertain. The coming days will hopefully bring more clarity.

The plane lands.

I'm in a car.

Patient is conscious and aware of his surroundings.

Some confusion present. At full alertness remembered what month and year it is, but said his name is Sebastian Moran instead of Brian Allen (poss. false name as involved in criminal shootout. Have so far been unable to reach any next of kin). Overall mental acuity very good.

Visual acuity: Perception of light and hand movements only.

Touch stimuli: Full body awareness.

Limb movement: Full movement within range.

Auditory and language processing: Phonagnosia - unable to differentiate between female and male voices, loud speech and whispers, high and low voices. No verbal aphasia or aphonia seem present. When alert, understands words and is able to respond coherently.

Time means so little here - it's all stretched out, one unending miserable day.

Not the worst day. Not that.

That's something.

People keep popping by to say words to me. A social worker (?) with sympathetic words. A doctor (?) who updates me on my test results in a monotone voice. A nurse (?) who is cheerful and speaks playfully - as if I'm here on holiday.

It's strange - not being able to see them - not being able to recognize their voices even if they tell me they've apparently spoken to me more than once -

they tell me it's part of my condition.

OK. It doesn't matter, I suppose. I don't need to speak to anyone anyway.

'They' seem frustrated by this.

It occurs to me that the sooner I give them what they want, the sooner I'll be able to get out of here. But what does it matter? I could be broken here or broken in the apartment.

I feel pain stabbing through my guts at the thought -

my heart begins to pound. Machines beep dispassionately.

I don't want to go back -

I won't -

Broken here, then.

Trapped in my mind.

It won't last forever. I won't let it.

I'm comforted at the thought and feel myself being pulled back into sleep -

it's not quite the embrace of Death pulling me towards him like a lover -

but it's close enough.

I have the car drop me off at a hotel.

This is so insane that it might just work.

I don't want to reveal that I'm still alive to Moran. I was going to get into the hospital and observe him from a distance.

But - if he can't see and can't recognize voices quite yet -

and I'm a master of disguise -

... I may just be able to actually talk with him.

Assess the damage. Find out what I need to do - get myself a new second in command, find some nice pasture for Moran to spend the rest of his days - he's earnt that - or - see if he can be fixed. At this moment Steve has taken over the Empire - which will do; he'll keep it ticking along, but he doesn't have your skills. I've grown a lot since you took over from Steve as my right-hand man - we complement each other; you have more imagination than Steve, more overview, more insight. I'd need to find another person like that - and they are rare as rocking-horse shit.

No you better get your shit together and get better, Moran - every day you spend in the hospital is a massive loss for the Empire.

I dye my hair blond just to be sure. Get a boring suit from Marks and Spencer’s. Get a fake ID.

Present myself at the hospital as Detective Inspector Palmer, here to investigate the shooting of Mr Allen.

The social worker/doctor/nurse tells me that someone will be coming by today to talk to me about the shooting. I feel myself growing alert which I'm supremely unhappy about.

Police. Fucking great. Can't they let me sink into oblivion without sticking their noses where they don't belong?

Well. Good luck to them.

Brian Allen is barely monosyllabic and Sebastian Moran is nowhere to be found.

So hard to think... Don't remember...

That should get me through the questioning enough to get them off my fucking back. Enough to avoid interrogation or ending up someplace worse than this. Like a fucking mental ward.

Right. Let's get this over with so I can return to my previously scheduled oblivion. It's nearly time for my painkillers...

I hear footsteps. A muffled conversation outside the door with a social worker/doctor/nurse. And then someone walks into the room.

Right. This should take about two minutes - let's get it over with.

The room is grey when I enter.

Grey the white bed the blue bedclothes.

The banks of machines surrounding you connected to you, that bleep and blink and give numbers that I could probably parse if I looked at them but I can't because there is your head.

Your hair, always on the reddish side of blond, is now properly ginger, and for a second I think that I have the wrong Brian Allen, that it's not you after all, but then I realize it's blood. Of course they're not going to risk washing your hair when

half your head is in bandaging, and your face looks

grey

I keep looking. I need information.

Bruising everywhere. Looks like you fell on your face. A cut lip

your eyes are grey

You turn your face towards me and the eyes don't see they just turn to the space where you think I am and I am, I am here Sebastian, I am, I will -

Talk with you like a policeman

later

I look. Your skin is grey. Your injuries. Your face. The machines.

The numbers.

They're not bad. They're not *bad* numbers per se. They could have been so much worse.

You are still looking at where the policeman is.

The policeman mumbles an apology and asks if he can use your bathroom.

I think you responded. Your voice was grey.

After I hear the door swish shut and lock, a hazy memory floats up - visiting a mate in hospital, being chided by a nurse that visitors aren't supposed to use patient's bathrooms...

This was in my first year of uni - why am I thinking of that now? I can barely remember the last month, but this is the memory coming back??

But I'm hardly going to shout at a policeman through the door about hospital policy, am I.

It would be funny...

I wince - where did that voice come from? Who said it - and why do I not want to know?

I hadn't -

expected this.

Why not? I've seen injured bodies so often -

just not often in the hospital -

And - I've seen you injured a lot, but never - never like this - with your head in bandages and your face all swollen and your eyes looking at me but not seeing me

the tiger

he destroyed his head

I breathe. Icy spark in the centre of the brain. Expand.

This is ridiculous. No reason to be carrying on like this Moriarty. Moran got injured on the job. It's hardly a low-risk position. He will recover, or not.

My job now is to assess what is wrong, and make sure he gets the care he needs. I don't want to have to find someone to replace him when I come back. I've invested too much in him.

I have a drink of water, then return to the room.

"Mr Allen. Apologies for that.

Could I ask you a few questions?"

I almost forget the policeman is in the bathroom. A sign that Sebastian Moran has nearly left the building. In what universe would he forget an investigation is pending…?

When the door swishes open, I sigh.

“Not sure - I’ll remember anything,” I mutter.

Silence.

I shift in discomfort. “I don’t remember much… from the last few weeks.”

"Your doctors told me that that might be the case. Now, Mr Allen - or is it Moran?"

Oh. Shit.

I - gave my real name, didn’t I.

“It’s Allen.”

Silence.

Jesus. “Must have been the head injury,” I mumble.

I think I’ve already said more in the last minute than I have since I arrived.

Just fill out your fucking notepad and leave me alone.

"I see, Mr Allen. So - do you have any idea who shot you? And why they might have targeted you?"

He's dead, of course. You managed to get his leg, and Rashid did the rest. But I need to work out what you remember, what you may tell someone who shouldn't be hearing things.

You're looking straight at me. And your face looks completely neutral.

You have no idea who I am.

Barbed wire wraps itself around my heart, which is a nonsensical metaphor, because I don't have one.

“Good question… I wish I knew.” Did I sound believable? I was aiming for frustrated, scared, upset - like a normal human in this circumstance would be expected to feel. But I’m barely capable of expressing one feeling, let alone a composite of them. My play acting is limited.

Why are you so silent after everything I say? Stick your notepad up your arse and piss off.

Good answer, Sebastian.

"There are witnesses who say they recognized the shooter as a Malcolm Delaney, active in the Manchester underworld. Do you know him? Do you have any idea why he might be targeting you?"

My brow furrows.

“What? Of course not. I don’t know any criminals,” I say. Dazed and indignant. Good.

Only it’s taking so much energy I don’t have to keep this up. Heaven help me if you decide to really interrogate me.

Heaven has already abandoned you, Moran…

Jesus. Where is that voice coming from!

Right.

"You don't know any criminals, you say. Yet the nurse told me that when asked for your name, you said it was 'Sebastian Moran'. Now - why did you say that name?"

That would be so good. If you weren't Sebastian Moran. If this were just a massive misunderstanding and I'm talking to a guy who looks an awful lot like you.

It's nonsense. I know it's nonsense.

But it's such tempting nonsense.

I make a sound of frustration. “I have no idea. I don’t even remember giving that name…”

Fucking police. Detective inspectors, always looking to put a feather in their cap…

Detective…

I wince.

A memory is trying to surface… and I don’t want it to.

"It's not a very common name. Also not the name of a celebrity you might remember.

Do you have any friends, Mr Allen? Any relatives?"

Seriously? I’m about ready to throw this man through the plate glass window…

“Who doesn’t have friends and relatives?” I ask sensibly.

Silence.

I feel the ghost of a familiar smirk rising to my lips - and then receding just as quickly.

I’m feeling so damaged, so raw, I can barely carry on this conversation without screaming like a wounded animal. But it felt satisfying to throw something snarky his way. Even if it makes me feel bone-weary, like I’ve been swimming in deep shark-infested waters for days. It was worth it.

Like I’m a millimetre closer to my old self. Only thing is, I don’t want to be my old self. I want nothing to do with him.

"Indeed. Could you provide us with their names and a way to get in touch with them, please? We haven't been able to locate any of them. You had your driving licence on you but no telephone; and we haven't been able to reach anyone. They must be worried about you."

You're doing well, so far, Sebastian - dare I hope there is nothing too wrong with your brain? That it is just the senses - vision, audio - do you remember the number to call for Phoebe who will be your very worried sister who can't leave because her baby is sick?

Do you remember –

do you remember me?

Fuck's sake.

I heave a disgruntled sigh. "Just because I have them - doesn't mean I'm close with them. No one's fucking worried about me - no one."

Oh god - a blade - stabbing through my entrails - for a split second, I think I must be dreaming. My hands grasp my abdomen and I look down in a panic - but I can only see hazy colours and shapes.

The covers of the hospital bed.

The patterned blue of the hospital gown.

No entrails, though.

Just the fucking emotions that this detective is forcing me to feel.

God, just - finish me.

"Tired," I whisper. So. Fucking. Tired.

Alright, that's an acceptable answer as well. I frown. You look genuinely exhausted.

"I will leave you alone soon, Mr Allen. Just one more question. Have you ever been associated with, or heard of, Jim Moriarty?"

...

Oh.

God.

The secret operative part of my psyche steels myself to keep my face from reacting.

Meanwhile thoughts are raining down on me like machine gun fire...

The name... The one I didn't want to remember. The voice that I kept hearing...

buried in my dysfunctional brain tissue in this waking nightmare...

and lurking in my dreams... watching... whispering...

Only in dreams. Because he's -

Steady, soldier... Get the detective off your back now. Fall apart after.

"No?" I say, managing with superhuman effort to keep my voice steady. "Who's that?"

Right. You do remember me, but you manage to deny it, finally. In a way that might just be believable to a policeman who thinks you're in pain. Best keep them away though.

And you are in pain - a lot of pain. This interview is taking it out of you.

Especially that last question.

Better let you rest. Rest is good for the brain.

"Thank you, Mr Allen. You have been most helpful. I don't think we'll need to be in touch again, but if you remember anything, I'll leave my card here."

I stand up, put a card on the bedside table.

You look -

terrible.

Even worse than when I walked in here.

"Rest well, Mr Allen."

Rest well. Right.

I don’t bother responding.

Is he going to do the thing police love to do - stop at the last moment when you’re just starting to relax, to catch you off guard with one pointed question?

‘Oh by the way, Mr Allen - I know you’re lying and I’m a smug bastard.’

As he walks to the door, I turn my head slightly in his direction.

Silence.

Is that the last I’ve seen of him? Or am I going to have to enjoy his company again and again - for just a few more questions, and a few more, and a few more - and being told what fascinating evidence they’ve collected?

“Wanker,” I say under my breath, and close my eyes.

I heard that. Good to know you still have your respect for authority.

I tell the staff that for now we know enough, and we will be in touch if we need anything else.

I am this close to asking how you are doing, what they think, what their experience is with this kind of injury - but I mustn't make myself stand out.

I leave the hospital. The evening air is chilly despite it technically being summer.

I breathe deep as I walk away.

You seem compos mentis enough to remember things, and to lie consciously, not because you don't know what's to say.

I try not to think of how you looked.

Of how I didn't touch you because a policeman wouldn't.

Your head so bruised and swollen. Your unseeing eyes. Your voice sounding like you, but also not like you - as if someone made a recording of your voice and played it at *just* the wrong speed.

I can't afford to think too much of this. I need to check what the police are doing - my hackers will have made sure that you're not a person of interest, but I need to check no one is going to go to the hospital and hear about the policeman who was there tonight; that no one knows you said you were Sebastian Moran – and all that without revealing I am still alive. It's probably best if I do it myself rather than have someone else do it; but it's been a while since I did my own hacking -

A car beeps its horn behind me. I look round - oh yes. I had a car and driver waiting. I just started walking when I left the hospital -

I get in and am taken to the hotel, where I get onto my laptop and try not to keep seeing the image of your red hair.

God. That was so much more than I could handle in this moment... fucking police.

My head feels like it's twice its normal size. Every thought makes it throb more.

I feel like I'm simultaneously feeling the effects of an explosion - and getting hit in the head with a plank - and being thrown into the deep sea. I'm drowning in the sensations and it feels like I'm sinking deeper and deeper into dark waters...

I should just let myself. Who cares if I never wake up - that would be a fucking gift.

I wonder if the police detective will be waiting here when I wake up.

Weird thought.

Why would he be-

I don’t know. I can't think anymore. I don't want to fucking think.

The darkness beckons… and I descend into its embrace.

I spend the night fixing things with the police and the hospital and pacing.

I hate pacing. Villains in stereotypical media pace. But I pace.

There are several routes open to me and I don't like them.

I can reveal myself. Take up the reins again; much earlier than I planned to. But that would seriously infringe upon my plans. I *need* to stay dead for several months more in order to get the government off my back. Revealing my continued existence now would - seriously complicate matters.

I can disappear again; leave matters with the doctors. It's their job to fix him, after all.

If only I trusted them.

I can hover, watching from afar.

That will drive me crazy. Crazi-er. I don't like having such an important asset incapacitated.

So… if you don't recognize me -

Once your injuries improve, I can disappear again. But until that time -

I sit back behind my laptop.

Malice lurks behind every corner.

The tyrannical force has changed the world, taken everything away -

I run from hiding spot to hiding spot - staying away from humans and their dramas and power struggles. The alien plague is spreading, unleashing horror -

But even I hear the whispers - that it was biological warfare. To weaken humans until it was time -

Time for what?

I don’t care. I don’t want to be alive to find out. But I’m too defiant, too angry to die.

So what the fuck am I supposed to do?!

Exactly what you’re supposed to…

oh. oh fuck. How did they get into my brain?!

I'm hyperventilating, hands desperately grasping bedcovers.

Where - the - fuck - am - I??

Hospital bed.

I'm in a hospital bed.

Dream. Just a bad dream.

I look around the hazy room - machines are beeping, nurses are laughing in the hallway.

This is worse.

The next day a locum psychologist shows up at the hospital to see Mr Allen. And only Mr Allen. Yes, I think it's weird too, but that's what the computer says. Oh well I'm happy I got some work. Yes, a coffee would be great, thank you.

My hair is black again and I have a bit of a stubble, and glasses. And the jeans and designer jacket, that really does it - so different from the shabby suit the detective wore. Also he had a Mancunian accent; mine is crisp RP sometimes sliding to Estuary.

"Mr Allen. Nice to meet you. My name is Dr Merrill, Philip Merrill. I am a clinical psychologist, here to help you deal with the consequences of your injury."

Psychologist??

I laugh out loud. My head feels too sensitive to laugh, like my mind gets jumbled up even more - but it was worth it. My little fuck you to the mental health industry.

"Consequences?" I mutter. "You mean - how I'll handle - if this is permanent...?"

A bullet to the brain is an easy fix. Why not, it was fucking good enough for -

Be nice, darling...

Oh god...

I screw my eyes shut, shaking my head. Your voice is starting to filter through, and I can't let it -

"Mr Allen. Are you alright?" The psychotherapist's voice sounds tight.

Clearly I'm not alright, genius.

But if he sees that, I could end up in a rubber room.

"M'fine," I growl. "If it's permanent - I'll take up basket weaving."

No - this cannot be permanent. I won't allow it.

I sink onto a chair.

This is not something I can control. And I can control *everything*. It's my *thing*.

It was a mistake, letting too much rely on one employee. I should have tried to find others like you.

*As if there are any others like you.*

No, but - I relied on you too much. Thought you'd just keep the Empire nice and warm while I was dead. Never thought you could be -

killed or -

incapacitated.

"It seems from your tone that that is something that you dread more than death, Mr Allen," I observe. "And from what I've read in your file, there's no reason to believe your injuries are permanent. I'm not a neurologist, but I've worked with people who had brain injuries for a long time.

Of course the brain is an immensely unpredictable organ, and we can't conceivably say what may happen at this point. But I'm definitely eager to help you work towards a full recovery, if that's in any way possible."

I listen to the lofty observations, and the oh-so-humble expertise, and the careful side-stepping of making any actual fucking promises. In other words, a steady stream of utter bullshit. Which is all these mental health professionals have ever been able to offer me.

"I'm so grateful - for any help," I say quietly. "Only - there's something I fear more - than permanent brain damage.”

I hear him shift in his chair as if leaning forward.

"Oh?" he says, sounding surprised. "And what's that?"

"Not getting enough - likes on Insta," I say with a grimace. "The worst, am I right?"

Silence.

Ohh sweetheart... you were expecting me to open up like a rose for you?

Get ready for a world of disappointment, fucker.

It's a good thing you can't see my face. It allows me to let my grin spread till it hurts my cheeks, and let my mouth set back to normal before speaking again, though you probably wouldn't hear it.

Thank fuck you're still the same irreverent bastard with the healthy disdain for anyone with a psycho-anything degree. Except psychopath, but they don't give out PhDs in those. A shame; I could be Dr Moriarty. Fuck it, Professor Moriarty. I dare anyone to be more expert than I.

I do allow myself a little chuckle. No reason for you to not realize I'm on your side.

"I understand - ex-soldier, aren't you?"

Aww wow… you understand!

I feel understood for the first time! So seen, so-

Wait - was there a military background in my alias’s file…?

Shouldn’t I remember that? Why don’t I remember that?!

Fuckfuckfuck -

Jesus Christ, Sebastian! Calm down. Just - give him what he needs to leave you alone.

“Mmm. From ex-soldier to influencer,” I say drily. “Living the dream, me…”

There. I’ve given you levity and lucidity in a handful of words. Now you can report back that I’m neither a vegetable nor a danger to myself, thank you and sod off.

Oh god… I’m trying not to noticeably tremble from the effort of keeping it together. The farce of pretending I’m ok - while I’m trying not to shatter into 1,000 pieces… or 10,000 tinier pieces…

Can he tell something is wrong with me?

Something is so… fucking… wrong…

But it wasn’t from getting shot in the head…

No…

not from that…

You know I *could* just turn all these machines off and then you'd be out of my misery.

I have to keep reminding myself that you don't know who you're talking to. And to be entirely fair - I do kind of enjoy seeing this side of you.

No wonder I kept you on such a short leash. You're insufferable without it. I'm glad I'm not really your psychologist.

"It's weird enough being out of the army. I thought I'd never fit in anywhere else - I wanted to be a career soldier but broke my hip so I decided to study clinical psychology instead - but yeah, Corporal Merrill, 2 Signal Regiment, pleased to meet you... Captain Allen?"

...

Fuck. You're ex-army?

So what, now I have to hold back?!

Debatable.

Not all soldiers are created equal. Especially ones who decide to study clinical psychology. Any psychologist I was forced to see had their work cut out of them - and you are no different, mate.

…

How do you know that I was a captain?

I grunt non-committally. "How did you break your hip... Dr Merrill?"

Stop trying to fucking bond with me over your military background. For all I know, you could have got smashed and fallen down stairs. Picturing it makes me feel better somehow...

I wonder what you look like. What's the expression on your face? Are you hot?

...

Fucked-up question.

That part of me is dead. So why would I give a shit...

I wouldn't.

"Airdropped into Sangin, Afghanistan. With the emphasis on dropped. The chute opened only partially and it took forever to sort it out. Landed too hard, fell over onto a rock, and that was it - I saw all of two hours of Afghanistan, and much of it I was too busy falling or swearing to take in the views. Great scenery from the chopper though," I chuckle.

"That was it for deployment - and then when I was in hospital they figured I needed some tweed coat to come and talk with me about how I *felt* about my life being ruined - that's how I saw it at the time - and I got so furious with the guy - he was fucking *clueless* - that I decided my fellow soldiers were better served with me taking over that imbecile's job than me sitting behind a desk sending morse code.

So - here I am. And here you are.

You don't *have* to talk with me. I get paid anyway."

Airdropped.

Life ruined.

Ugh.

"So what, I can't be a dick now - because you were in the army?" I hear myself say in annoyance.

He chuckles. "All evidence to the contrary..."

"Listen, mate... nice that you could rebuild your life after the army - I rebuilt mine. It was everything I could fucking want," I growl. "And now - everything I fucking want is gone!!"

I stop short. I'm breathing hard. Full of panic and fury.

Dizzy. Disoriented.

I don't want to do this -

I can't do this -

"Leave. Me. The Fuck. Alone." I manage to whisper hoarsely. I turn my head away from the shining beacon of hope for broken soldiers. Fuck him and his two hours in Afghanistan.

There's no hope for me. None.

Whoa.

You sound genuinely fucked up.

Why though? Your words are - unclear. Are you saying the army was everything you could want -

no - after the army.

And - everything you fucking want is gone?

Do you think you're perpetually disabled?

No - that was hurt that was already settled, not new.

'Everything I fucking want is gone.'

What -

what was it that was everything you wanted?

Chapter Text

I don't have any strength in me, but panic is threatening to pull me under.

And I am not going to fall apart in front of this man.

Desperately I try to focus on pulling myself out of the roiling sea of pain and anxiety. But it's really - fucking - hard - when my mind feels like a patchwork quilt -

half-thoughts emerging in a fog of confusion - and then receding -

murky memories trying to swim to the surface - while some part of me desperately attempts to drown them without slipping underwater myself -

I bring my attention to my ragged breathing, trying to regulate it so I don't end up in a full-blown panic attack.

And through all this he doesn't leave. He doesn't say a word.

I turn my head back towards him. My eyes open, and I make out a blurred outline. Dark hair. Dark clothes. Features threaten to come into focus and then disappear into the fog.

"Are you - still - fucking here?" I growl.

"What was everything you fucking want?"

My mouth drops open. You really think I'm just going to tell you that?!

"You know, I like to play hard to get before becoming besties with strangers," I say, giving you a smile that should make you turn and run. "You'll just have to wait for me to spill my guts until then."

"We don't need to be besties - in fact, that would be highly unprofessional," I reply. "Whatever you tell me won't ever leave this room; and you might as well talk to me - it's not like you can do much else. Worst case scenario it won't make a difference. Best case you feel a bit better getting it off your chest, or I may have some advice on how to deal with stuff.

Up to you."

I'm not sure I want to hear it. But I need to know it.

The set of bollocks on this fucker...!

I'm about to tell him where he can stick his advice... but one thing and one thing only makes me pause.

It's not like you can do much else.

The thought of being alone in this room, recovering from a head injury - not being able to see clearly, or think clearly... I'm going to be climbing the walls to start, and then a meltdown won't be far off. I can't afford that if I want to be released quickly.

And for the first time I realize - there's something about his presence that makes my mind - sharper? So even if it's just to avoid the abyss of depression and confusion that was pulling me under, then I guess - I could talk to him -

Are you fucking serious, Moran? Talk to him about what?

Remember the psychiatrists when you were a teenager... and the psychologists in the military?

Yeah... that was fun...

Playing mind games with arrogant wankers who only wanted to pigeonhole me.

Only - how am I supposed to play mind games when I can barely think straight?

Consider it rehabilitation for your brain.

Wait - was that my voice or - the other one?

...

Fuck it. It's worth a try. I just need enough to walk out of here and then I can disappear forever.

I realize I've been silent for several moments.

"Still here?" I say in a surly voice.

"So it would seem..." He sounds amused.

Oh is this amusing you? Tosser.

"I'm not going to talk about my feelings."

God I wish I could see the expression on your face if you think you're getting through to me... are you trying to keep from looking smug?

Right there with you, sweetheart...

I am not quite sure what I'm playing at myself.

The aim is to assess what is wrong with you and get you back in the game.

But what does it matter how you *feel*? I mean yeah, it's what a psychologist would want to know - but why do *I* care?

Well - you sound very -

well of course you sound *upset*, you're severely injured. But you sound - worse than upset. And - I've seen you severely injured before. Not like this. Of course. But it always made you furious that you couldn't do things and mad to get going again.

You don't sound like that.

At all.

"You don't have to talk about your feelings. Talk about whatever you want. The Voice UK, if that's what you're into."

“That’s just it, Doc… there’s nothing I really feel like talking about,” I say, aiming for slightly snarky but secretly concerned. You’ll love that won’t you…

“So what’s your advice - as a professional?”

God- I sound almost normal, don’t I. It’s scary how well soldier mode can work. For someone who doesn’t know me, I’m guessing they’d think - other than sounding weak and dazed from the head injury, I’ll get through this. Perfect.

But I won’t be able to carry on like this for very long. I’m already feeling a bit shaky and dizzy from pretending to not be fucked in the head.

You're using the Voice. Not the Voice UK - the Voice you use when you talk with superiors - the last couple of years only me - when you want to strangle them but are pretending everything is Fine and now please leave me alone or I'll explode.

Which was sometimes fun to provoke.

But not now. Because if you explode - I don't know what direction it will go.

"My advice as a professional is if you don't want to talk, then don't talk. No one is making you. It's not a chore you have to do, like physical therapy will be.

Brain injuries can be very disconcerting though, so any time you *do* want to talk, you can."

But I don't have anything to fucking say...!

Don't you?

Fucking hell! So what if I do? I don't even remember when is the last time I spilled my guts to someone...

Oh... right, in the SAS... but even then, it felt like trying to force water through an old rusty pipe.

Pain shoots through my guts again.

Fuck. That was so long ago! I wouldn't even know how to start now... I don't even know if I can...

Why are you making this difficult? You're the one who talks for a living. You start - and don't pry.

"Fucking ask me something then..."

*I fucking did and you didn't answer.* Moriarty roars inside me, but I press him down. Normally I have no problem being a persona, but normally I don't have to around you. Also, I don't usually have to see you so - broken. Bandages and bruises are normal, but not around your *head*. And your eyes looking at me but not seeing me, like a statue... one of those statues of saints in the church when I was a kid, who never looked at you no matter how you did their best to appear in their field of vision, because they weren't real and couldn't save you.

"How were you doing before this happened?"

Ugh. Did I not tell you I don't want to talk about feelings?

Interesting that you paused for so long before asking...

Interesting that there was the slightest edge to your voice...

Are you already finding this taxing, sweetheart?

I might have refused to answer, but the thought cheers me up slightly.

"Not. Well. Thank you for asking..." I say gruffly.

And it hits me that all this time I've been using my true voice, my posh voice... even as I struggled with words. Guess it's too difficult to maintain another accent after brain surgery for being shot in the head... more's the pity.

Fuck. What's next - demanding luxury accommodations and a valet?

...

You still haven't said anything. Jesus. Maybe you are giving up...

...

So you're just going to leave me here?? Alone in the darkness?!

"I lost someone, ok?" I hear myself say defiantly.

Nonono - what the fuck are you doing, Moran??

You -

lost someone?

What -

me?!?

You're -

upset about losing me?

I -

Of all the things!?

I didn't expect you to be - happy about it, but - well, in a way I did? I assumed you'd be keen to be in charge of the Empire. You were always complaining about how I didn't let you in on the big secrets; now they're yours. Or that I didn't listen to your advice.

You - didn't lose someone else, did you? Your mum or -

no of course not.

I'd know.

"A - special someone?" I ask. I hope your phonagnosia extends to you not hearing the slight tremor in my voice, but *I* certainly heard it, and that will not do Moriarty.

What’s with all the poignant pauses? Am I doing this wrong? I know I’m not the paragon of mental health but… isn’t that the point of you??

A special someone? really?

“Yeah… my mailman. I was very attached,” I deadpan.

Silence. Big surprise.

What the fuck do I say to that anyway? If I say my boss, there will be a lot of questions about why that would affect me so much. And I Am. Not. Going. There.

“Someone I - cared about…” I say grudgingly.

"*cared about*?! What do you mean - *cared about*!?"

It's out before I can stop it. I must be the least ept psychologist ever. But -

what *do* you mean cared about?! Cared about how? Cared about why? I thought we didn't - care about - anything??

Huh? Why do you sound weird? Is it my brain injury or are you - upset??

“What do you mean, what do I mean??” I ask, incredulous. “You said - a special someone! Everyone knows what that means!”

Why are we raising our voices? Why am I divulging my feelings to you? What the fuck is happening?!

"Your - lover?"

I force my voice to stay calm - don't want the nurses to come in wondering why the psychologist is having a fight with his patient -

but -

*cared about*?

A special someone?

I inhale sharply as the word hits me - the impact is like a wrecking ball smashing against brick.

Is that what we were??

My heart is pounding in my chest like it’s trying to break through and jump out onto the bed and stain the sheets crimson.

Don’t be fucking stupid, Moran! If I had used that word, he would have laughed his ass off or beaten me bloody… Probably both!

My throat is full of broken glass. My head is like a voodoo doll being jammed full of pins.

But I need to respond. To fucking say anything.

“Not a word - he would have used,” I say hoarsely. “Not in a million trillion years…”

I laugh bitterly and it sounds like tears are building up against a dam and - I’ll be damned if I’m going to cry in front of a fucking psychologist!

The wall that I had constructed against my feelings and ruthlessly reinforced throughout our relationship is crumbling…

And what does that matter, if I’m fucked in the head and I’m nearing the end because everything is destroyed anyway because you’re fucking dead, Jim!!

“But yes he fucking was!” I growl.

Not a word he-

I -

would have used. No.

But he fucking was.

He fucking was.

What does that mean?

Well I can hardly ask you can I -

Calm down Moriarty. He's - brain damaged. God knows what's going on inside there.

He's - so emotional. He often is - much more than needed - but - he genuinely looks broken mentally as well as physically.

It makes me feel -

uncomfortable.

"Not a word he would have used," I say, and my voice sounds amazingly calm.

"But he was. And - you lost him? How did that happen?"

“Died.” I whisper.

I swallow hard, feeling the shards of glass slicing up my throat.

“And I’m Not. Going. To. Talk. About. That.” I say, gritting my teeth.

You look - ashen.

Even under the bruises, in the grey light - all the colour has gone out of your face.

What *is* this? How can you be so -

you can't see, you can't hear properly, your brain is - addled -

you're clearly not thinking straight.

"I see."

Fury rises up in me, disintegrating the glass in my throat.

“You see,” I say, laughing in disbelief. Who the fuck do you think you are??

“Really. You see? Christ, I’m a fucking moron to talk to you… But then, I’m not at the top of my game - after being shot in the head.”

I open my eyes to shoot daggers at the foggy motherfucker sitting next to me. God I wish I could see your expression when I say:

“Write up your little report and get fucked. We’re done here.”

We're so far from done we're less done than when we started.

What the fuck is all this Moran. How damaged *is* your head. What of what you're saying is - from now, and what - was there before.

How - did you respond to my death.

*You were fine! You picked up where I left off, undoing Holmes' network, discrediting him -*

Because it's what I would have wanted?!

Little details about your search history. Inevitable that you would be - looking into things from me - from our past -

an homage, almost, if you will -

Did you -

miss me?!

I -

should I say something?

I guess a psychologist would.

Also a psychologist might know what to say.

Are you - just sitting there now after I told you to leave??

And why is your vibe - upset?! Am I fucking up your hot streak of putting broken things back together all shiny and new?

Well this broken thing is beyond your understanding, mate.

And I'm sick of lying here like a useless lump while you sit there with your superior air.

I raise myself up to my elbows. Test how that feels. I should not be doing this.

I narrow my eyes to see if that helps my vision - focus improves but not by much.

I blink rapidly.

Huh. Something almost familiar about you.

Head rush.

"Fuck," I say weakly and drop back to the pillow.

Oh. Feels like my brain is underwater. Not good.

"Why won't you go," I say brokenly.

You are raising yourself up like an angel from the deep -

no - you mustn't -

*Seb-*

no

*Moran-*

No -

*Mr -*

what was it -

and you're letting yourself drop - *NO* - careful -

"Mr Allen! Please don't exert yourself - you mustn't move your head -"

You're hooked up to a gazillion machines what are you *doing* -

"I will leave if you want me to - I am sorry I provoked you - please lie down quiet, I'll be taking my leave -"

I walk to the door - I should probably call a nurse? Should I say I agitated you? No - just that you seemed agitated, and you moved - I mustn't get myself banned –

Even lying here with my brain bobbing along a swift current feels better than what was just happening.

If this is the end, this is the end.

If my brain is going to liquefy, and Sebastian Moran never has another thought - so be fucking it.

I feel unexpectedly peaceful at the thought...

then the footsteps come.

Nurses. Doctor. So they tell me. I still can't recognize the voices. Or see much more than foggy shapes.

There's an examination. Studying data from the ever-beeping machines.

Firm chiding.

A needle. And then euphoria and then - nothing.

Gentle shoulder touch. Where am I?

"Brian," a voice says firmly. "Can you hear me?"

Right. Fucking hospital.

"No," I mumble.

"What?" the voice sounds confused.

Jesus. "Yes," I sigh.

Fuck. Still alive, still capable of thought… and my trademark snarkiness.

"We'd like you to try sipping some water," the voice continues. "If you can swallow without issue, you'll be able to eat a light meal. Won't that be nice?"

"Oh swallowing has never been an issue," I say lightly. "Sometimes I even get breakfast after..."

There's a pause and then a nervous laugh. "Here's the straw."

I sip and swallow like a good boy. I'm given the green flag for eating breakfast and the bed is raised.

Sitting up feels alarming - but better than yesterday.

The thought of food makes me feel queasy. But I hate the feeling of weakness and being confined to bed more than anything - and apparently if I feel up to eating, I can slowly begin my physical rehab. Standing up, going for short walks… Which I can't imagine at this moment.

But a few bites of soggy pancakes later, I feel less like a puddle in human form.

No caffeine allowed for two weeks, though.

Whatever. I doubt I'll be around to enjoy it.

Sleep comes soon after.

*

Firm shoulder touch.

"Brian," a voice says firmly. "Time for lunch. And Dr Merrill will be here soon..."

"What?" I say thickly.

"Lunch," the voice repeats. "And then you'll see your psychologist."

"Yeah? Well I don't want to see him..." I mutter.

There's a pause. "According to your file, it's mandatory..."

What the fuck?

I curse under my breath.

"Lunch and forced therapy sounds great," I say with a grimace.

Sebastian Moran who doesn't want to see me. That's a first. Normally I can't beat you off me with a stick.

But then you don't know it's me.

Should I really not tell you?

It doesn't seem a good idea... you appear to have got some weird feeling that I was - special to you - well, I was, of course, but - your lover. If I say I'm still alive, what - will you do? What will you think? That I'm your - lover returned to you? Where did you *get* that idea!?

Well - you said I wouldn't call it that - you're right about that - but then *you* wouldn't have called it that. It's ridiculous. It must be the head injury.

Also - I can't reveal myself now. It's bad enough that you're injured. If anyone learns I'm back all the pieces I've so carefully put in place will be unbalanced.

No - I will just speak with you as Dr Merrill and I'll help you get this nonsense out of your system.

I’ve never been picky when it comes to food… I enjoy it and I’m happy to eat whatever. But hospital food is as I remember it - barely resembling real food at all. It’s an odd experience eating when I can’t see clearly and I’m still weak - the nurse tries to help me and I immediately put a stop to that. I’d rather go hungry than be fed tasteless soup with a spoon.

I’m sure half of it ends up on the tray but it’s hardly a great loss.

The nurse hands me a cup of what she says is chocolate pudding. Once she’s satisfied I can manage it on my own, she leaves. I carefully take a bite - sugary sweet but good. Dessert is generally the best bit.

As I’m finishing up, I hear footsteps. Someone stops in the doorway and says nothing. I narrow my eyes at the shadowy shape - is god’s gift to psychology waiting for an invitation?

“What’s up, doc?” I say, finishing the last bit of pudding.

“Hello Mr Allen…” you say carefully and walk towards the chair.

So what’s your deal, mate? Do you have a wife and 2.5 kids? A mistress? A porn addiction? What’s your favourite flavour, horny schoolgirls… or slutty soldiers?

God it would be so much fun to get under your skin…

I lick the spoon suggestively - then I toss it onto the tray.

“What shall we talk about today?” I say, yawning and closing my eyes.

You are not going to get to me again, sweetheart.

"Yesterday you got quite agitated before I left," I say, sitting down on the chair next to the bed.

You look very un-agitated now - in fact you look cocky, the Sebastian Moran I know and - appreciate - who won't let anyone get to him.

Well - hardly anyone. And he doesn't know that I am the one he *does* let get to him - so I'm on a bit of a rougher track than I usually would be.

Which is kind of interesting - if you'd met me without the mystique surrounding me, without already knowing who I was - and if I would have been exposed to you in a profession that you tend to disdain - and unable to be my usual self - hm. Getting a bit far off-piste here.

But yes - this is going to be hard. You have a natural suspicion of anyone who tries to look into your head - rightfully so; can't blame you.

But as I said yesterday - there's not a lot else you can do. You can't read, can't watch TV - might as well have a chat with a fellow ex-soldier.

"How are you doing today?"

I consider your question. No point in wasting my extremely limited resources - energy and focus - on basic exchanges. I can answer this type of query without defensive manoeuvring and subterfuge. Doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun though…

“Well I passed the swallowing test,” I say, my tongue flicking over my lips. “Then I successfully ate soup and pudding. I’m expecting a gold star… Possibly a trophy. But I still can’t see clearly. And my head feels like it’s full of paste.” My voice wavers a bit towards the end, and I clear my throat to cover it.

“And how are you doing today?” I ask, the picture of politeness.

Right - you're snarky as ever, which is good. Possibly exploring a sexual angle, which is - well, innocent, I suspect. You wouldn't be seducing a blurry psychologist at this point - just habit. Also I might be reading into things because when you talk to me usually everything you say has a sexual undertone.

It's - unexpectedly hard to have you talking to me and realize you don't know who I am.

It's interesting to study you up close like this without our usual dynamics - but it also feels like I'm - missing something.

Missing you?

No - of course not. It's just - missing my competent second in command, lying about in a hospital while he should be ruling the world in my name.

"I am just fine, thank you, Mr Allen - can I call you Brian?"

“Not much for formality around here…” I say amiably. “What can I call you?”

This is a test, motherfucker. If you insist on being called Dr Merrill, well.

Then I know exactly what’s most important to you in our sweet little dynamic.

"Phil is fine, thanks - it always unnerves me when people say 'Doctor', I keep looking round for the medic in the room. Especially in a hospital."

I take my seat next to the bed.

"The nurse said your progress is good - you joke about the swallowing, but it's a very important reflex that often gets damaged in brain injuries, and it can cause immense trouble - if you don't swallow well, bits of food can get into your air duct and lungs causing infections. So - you've earned your gold star. I realize it's not exactly a Victoria Cross but I'd say it's a good sight more useful."

Huh. Phil it is.

Alright…

“Horrifying to think this medical clusterfuck could have been even worse…” I say wryly.

“Did the nurse say anything about my brain? Or my sight? No one’s talked to me except about fucking meals. When can I get out of here?” I say abruptly.

Can you make yourself fucking useful, Phil?

"You haven't talked with your neurologist yet?" I ask, frowning. Does this hospital need to feel some of the wrath of Moriarty?

I've seen your file, of course, but Phil isn't supposed to have. A lot of we don't know packed in medical jargon.

"I'll ask if anyone can come see you soon. Are you worried?"

They will be if they don't come and talk with you very quickly.

Worried? Not exactly.

But I’m not long for this world, so I don’t want to be here.

“Don’t like hospitals…” I say gruffly. “I’d rather be… home.”

Home. In a ditch. In an alley. Wherever.

Just not here.

"Where is home?"

Maybe that's a more cheerful subject?

…

Where does Brian Allen live?

Shit…

“Hackney.”

I think that’s right…

“Where do you live?”

Right.

"Ancoats," I respond. "I'm not from around here, but I managed to get work here. Are you a Londoner?"

“I am. Where are you from?”

Ugh, who cares -

No Moriarty. You're bonding. It's what normal people do. Small talk.

I'm so glad I never had to really do this with you. I'd have thrown you out a window. And it's not your style usually either... but then you're not usually brain-damaged.

"Milton Keynes," I reply. No one wants to talk about Milton Keynes.

This is riveting. I’d rather be suffocated by a pillow. But if I’m going to talk about me, you’re going to talk about you.

“Do you wish you’d had more time in the army? Or does it feel like psychology is the right place for you?”

Tending to the sad broken things? Is that what you think of me? Does that make you feel important? Like a big man?

I scoff.

"If my hip wasn't knackered, I'd still be there - I loved it. I know it's not for everyone, but - I just loved the physicality of it, the - adventure, if you will - sorry, that may sound stupid. But it's got a bit of a - boyish charm to it, if you don't mind the goriness and the hardships and the stupidity surrounding you. It lets you do what no one else does, go where no one else goes.

Psychology is - well, it was something to do.”

Boyish charm. Huh. So you do know, I think grudgingly.

Obviously I can relate to how you felt, but - I took a slightly different approach to being ejected into civilian life.

“If you miss the gore and adventure, you could try something else - maybe become an assassin,” I say with a smirk. “Although I’m not sure how boyishly charming it would be…”

Only I do know. Killing for Jim and wreaking havoc in the criminal world was fucking euphoric.

Even the army can’t compare.

Fuck… do not start thinking about that!

Oh?

A joke, of course...

would a good psychologist see through that?

And even so, would he bring it up? Might scare the patient into trying not to reveal more...

"Sounds great," I reply light-hearted. "And the best thing is that you can go home after a successful kill instead of sleeping in a swamp full of mosquitoes. Don't see why the career centre didn't suggest that, to be honest."

“Yeah they should really use that in their recruitment materials. Defend democracy, see the world, then begin an exciting career as a contract killer.”

I chuckle. “My sense of humour is a bit twisted now; you know how it is…”

You are doing a bang-up job of relating to me on my level, mate… irreverent soldier solidarity established. Hoping I’ll slip up and let you in after all? That’s cute.

I’m still wondering if you’re cute. Not that I give a shit. That part of my life ended when - well it’s fucking over now.

But it would help to know more about you -

if you’re attractive, people relate differently to you. Your ego can easily get affected by that. Weak spot.

If you’re not attractive, it could affect how you feel about yourself deep down. Weak spot.

So, doc - hot or not?

You speak confidently. And like you expect people will like you. Even sullen ex-soldiers who don’t want to talk.

Fucking charmer, are you.

Go on. Charm me.

“Call me crazy, but I even have fond memories of sleeping in swamps,” I say cheerfully. “Mosquitoes not so much…”

Yep that's the Sebastian Moran I remember. Weirdo. You'd have dragged me to sleep in swamps if I'd have let you. Hundreds of centuries of human evolution and you just want to crawl straight back into the primordial soup.

"Can't say I do, to be honest," I chuckle. "Fucking *freezing* and never a dry thread on your body. Either that or fucking *boiling* and never a dry thread on your body."

But you loved it, and Phil loved it too because he is really just like you and you trust him. This persona requires *deep* digging...

But you chuckle weakly.

Oh yes. Soldiers bond by griping about everything.

"Nothing worse than having a wet uniform chafe over mosquito bites all. day. long," I finish.

“Yep, and half the fun is in the whingeing - or giving someone shit for their whingeing,” I say fondly.

Slowly I become aware that there’s been a - softening inside me from this nostalgic journey. And I can’t afford to be soft - not when you have to give a professional assessment that helps determine when I’m discharged.

So maybe it’s better to not give you too much of a hard time… but I’m sure as hell not going to let you in on the inner workings of my psyche. Because then I’ll likely be thrown into a mental facility for my own ‘safety’. Or questioned further by police.

Whatever you said about confidentiality, I know that doesn’t factor into serious hijinks - like murder and oh yeah, overseeing a criminal empire that spans the fucking planet.

You have no idea what I’m capable of, or what my plans are… and it’s going to stay that way.

You're thawing out a little, which is good - but you don't trust Phil yet, and you're not going to. He's one of *them*.

How can I make him - or someone else - one of *us*? You're not going to trust anyone of the Empire coming to visit you. That would be madness. Also you wouldn't open up to them - you're the big chief; no weakness shall be shown to the minions.

Did you ever have someone you trusted, I wonder? You didn't talk about your inner feelings to me - I'd not have stood for such nonsense.

But in order to get you back into working order, I think I'm going to have to get through to - something.

*Everything I fucking want is gone* you said.

*I lost someone* you said.

I need to get those thoughts out of your mind to get you back to working condition. You don't need to be happy about it - but you sounded positively suicidal.

I -

try not to think about that word too much.

Why the fuck do you keep going silent?

Are you just waiting for me to talk? And then you'll guide the conversation in the direction you want, so you can glean whatever bits you need to make your assessment?

You're expecting that I'll be so desperately bored that I'll talk just so I can have some company??

Well maybe I am bored, but that's not new for a soldier and it sure as fuck isn't new for a sniper...

It's just...

not being able to move or think clearly...

I feel so adrift in this fog... like I could go floating off and never be found again.

Because I have nothing to anchor me. Not the army. Or the SAS. Or...

him.

Not the first time, I feel on the verge of tears...

I'm tired. I'm so fucking tired.

I can't do this.

"Don't let me keep you," I say tersely.

“You’re not. Like I said; I get paid regardless.”

Don’t give the impression you care too much, that’s anathema to someone like Sebastian. He cared - but only about important things.

Like - me.

I really don’t like having to look too far into this.

How do I get you caring about the Empire and your bloody job? Or - not even caring. Just *doing* your bloody job.

“What do you think the meaning of living is?”

Yeah. You get paid no matter what happens to me... how - heartwarming.

Trust a soldier to be such a mercenary.

I guess you get the therapist you deserve, Moran...

The meaning of what?

"What do I- seriously?" I turn to look at you, even though you're still a foggy shape.

"The meaning of living. Wow. Thinking of a career change? You can be the first clinical philosopher. You can grill patients to assess their existential angst..." I laugh darkly but it sounds frayed around the edges... I'm getting weaker...

it's getting too hard to pretend I'm ok -

and I don't want to answer that question... no good can come of this question!!

how can life have any meaning if all that matters can be torn from your life in an instant??

You are belligerent, which is always your first line of defence if something unsettles you.

Then you appear upset. Or in pain. Or both.

You must be in pain... your face and head look so beaten up. But you never much cared about physical pain. You must be in pain inside too... and I must be the worst person in the world to help with that.

But that's not why I'm here, anyway.

"I didn't mean to wax philosophical. But people find satisfaction in being able to pursue what they find is meaningful - for some that's their family, or children, or their job, or their religion, or their art... so I was wondering what drove you?"

"What drove me was - the work," I say through gritted teeth.

Yes... the work. But in service of something greater. Becoming the best soldier I could possibly be, defying death over and over again, relentlessly throwing myself into danger and surviving seemingly impossible odds... until I was one of the most elite operators on the planet.

And then -

and then -

It was all for you - I was honed to be your weapon, your blade -

I was your incendiary raining down fire and destruction on your enemies -

and it's been hollow and meaningless since you -

since -

"If I can't do it any more -" I swallow hard. My body is beginning to tremble.

If you're gone -

I clench my jaw, forcing back the tidal wave of emotion that's threatening to break over me. "What difference does it make now?" I growl.

Oh damn, you're upset. Very upset - you're shivering.

No soothing voice. You hate soothing voices. Just be matter-of-fact.

"There's no reason to assume you won't make a full recovery, Brian. You may well be able to go back to your job and do it just the way you used to - what do you do?"

I roll my eyes which is odd considering they've been useless to me since my injury...

"That is a silver lining... I may not have to deal with brain injury and blindness forever! I wonder when they're bringing the champagne..."

I shake my head and wince at the underwater sensation it causes. "I do - did - security. Like most ex-soldiers, who don't become psychologists..."

Security.

Yes, definitely.

You were very concerned about my security.

I never thought about how you must have felt when I died. Did you feel you failed in your job?

You must have done... after all keeping me alive was always your number one priority. Sometimes even against my express orders.

And this time... you couldn't. You didn't know.

I'm pretty sure you didn't know. If you would have known -

I could have said whatever. I could have threatened, ordered - you would have locked me up and taken whatever the consequences would have been, including your own death.

*Someone special.*

I rub my forehead.

Why am I ruminating on the past? It’s probably just your brain’s lead poisoning - I need to look at the future - get you out of here in decent shape if at all possible and back to work. What happened happened.

"Security. Right. And - that was what you lived for? What did you love about it so much?"

My mouth opens and then snaps shut. There's a sound in my head like white noise - but is it from my brain injury or from being asked -

Fuck.

I really need you to leave... But if I flip out, that will go into your assessment.

"I just - found my place in the world," I say very carefully. "I was-" (with who) - "where I belonged."

"Right. In your security work more than as a soldier? What is it you enjoy so much about it?"

“Yeah…” I trail off. How do I explain this without divulging -?

“I didn’t have to deal with the same bullshit… there was plenty of that in the army. But as a contractor, if your employer is good -“ I swallow hard. “Nothing‘s perfect but… it makes a difference.”

Why - is my heart pounding?

"I could imagine it could also be extremely frustrating, if your employer is an entitled narcissist, or an unnecessary risktaker, or rude..." I muse.

What?

How do you -

"Those are - very specific qualities," I say slowly. "Any reason why you chose them?"

Whoops.

Think quickly.

"Several of my friends have gone the security route, like you. Those are qualities they complain about in their principals..."

There, proper bodyguard language. I'm one of you.

"Celebrities are entitled narcissists, politicians are usually unnecessary risk takers who want to be seen as big men, and they're all rude, because they think they're more important than you."

Huh. OK.

I relax slightly.

"Oh I see what you mean..." I say easily. "Yes, not everyone is cut out for this line of work. Principals can be tossers... and employers can be mental."

As well as rude, narcissistic, risk-taking... and a massive pain in the arse.

But I would give anything to have the little tyrant back...

Fucking anything.

"But your employer - is good, you say?"

Fuck. Nearly said was. Pay attention Moriarty.

"I didn't say he was good. I said it made a difference when they are." I don't know why I'm getting hung up on details like this - what am I, cross-examining a witness on the stand?

But there's something about your line of questioning that feels... off.

I think back over the last few minutes - nothing too out of joint. Maybe the brain injury is making me paranoid? God - one more thing to deal with...

"He - made designations like good and bad meaningless," I say, my voice sounding tight.

Fuck! Why did I say that?

Why am I talking about him?!

...

Because I haven't talked about him in over a year.

Because I haven't talked about what - he did -

Because what he did has been a bomb ticking away in my chest, about to rip everything to fucking shreds –

Can I-?

*Surely* any half-decent psychologist would have seen this by now - they're not *all* blind -

"Is - he the one you lost?"

I huff out a breath.

You think you get to ask me a question like that?

God... the arrogance of this motherfucker...

But then... what difference could it possibly make now, Moran...

Maybe I just want to fucking say it out loud - once in my miserable life.

Like confessing to a priest on one's death bed...

Father forgive me for I have sinned... for I have done the unforgiveable!

I love Jim Moriarty.

…

"Yes," I whisper. "He's - the One..."

Chapter Text

Oh.

Well.

I am not sure what to say.

I mean - looking back at the evidence it's not *inconceivable* -

it's just - not something we - talked about. Or - thought about.

Well - *I* didn't.

I didn't assume you did. I mean -

It's a bit childish, isn't it?

Feelings.

I mean - brain damage can do all kinds of impossible things to a person.

But now the little maggot of doubt is wiggling through history...

The way you looked...

The desperation when I was working on my game with Sherlock...

The fits of rage, so unprofessional...

How you nearly let me *kill* you; not caring about personal safety, just - fascinated - with me -

Fascination.

Or love.

Shit.

How could I not see? What kind of a genius am I?!

Shit and you're still just lying there - a psychologist would say something -

*I need to think!*

Just - say something Moriarty -

shit - are you *crying*!?!

Moran doesn't cry! He's the toughest meanest motherfucker alive he doesn't -

He's brain-damaged. He can cry.

Right. Psychologist. Tissue.

I reach for a tissue and hand it to you.

This gives me some time. I am - letting you - process your feelings.

Of all the stupid reckless things you've done in your life, Sebastian...

Probably wise you never let on.

Now what?!

Oh god - I was wrong. So wrong.

Saying the words aloud, even to a stranger -

those words - was like breaking a cardinal rule.

Why else would it feel like it just shattered - everything.

I can practically feel your shock reverberating through the room! And yes I know I'm projecting, because what the fuck do you care??

If I'm a pathetic idiot who fell in love with his psychopathic boss, what could that possibly mean to you?

And yet you're silent...again.

Letting me twist in the wind, while the noose is tightening around my neck and swallowing feels like there's a ball of razorblades lodged in my throat -

What's worse is my cheeks are wet -

oh god, tears are streaming down my face now - when did that happen??

and then a sob breaks free, like it would have ripped right through my throat if I hadn't let it out - would that have been so bad?

Something soft is pressed into my hand - I think it's your hand at first but then I realize it's a tissue - what am I supposed to do with this, when buckets are pouring out of my eyes now -

I crush the tissue in my hand as I try to tamp down on the crying -

Jesus, Moran -

I start to cough as I struggle to contain myself. I swipe angrily at my tears with the crumpled tissue, soaking it quickly. I drop it on the bed.

Another tissue touches my palm, and as I grasp it the skin of your hand brushes against mine.

It feels - electric.

Why -

The signals in my mind and body must be completely confused -

either that or not touching anyone for a year has made me desperate for anyone's skin-

even the psychologist at my bedside who pushed and pushed until I broke down and then didn't say a fucking word.

I sniffle and blow my nose. And then I scowl, desperately wishing looks could kill.

"Wow. I was so wrong about therapy, Phil..." I say, sarcasm dripping from my voice like acid.

"Your compassion and your words of wisdom are really gonna help me turn things around, I just know it. Thank you for all your support... Thank you!"

You - *fucking* -

*No* Moriarty. You are Phil Merrill, psychologist. *Not* a confused and angry psychopath who needs to beat some sense into his second in command.

Stick with this. You can think later.

Swallow.

... aaand action.

"I'm afraid there isn't a simple way to help you, S-" *Fuck!!!* "*Brian*. I am sorry you feel that I'm not being compassionate. I assure you I do feel compassion. But it seemed best to give you some space to cry. You don't strike me as a man who cries often. And I understand that. But some things need an emotional release. Losing someone you - care about - is not something you should just shrug off.

We've all been there. And when you're in the field you *do* just go on, because you have no choice. But when you're alone in a hospital - well, it needs to come out some time."

I hand you a handful of tissues. It seems the weeping has stopped for now so hopefully you can clear up the fluids.

Is it bad to cry when you have brain damage?

"I wish I had some wise and helpful words that would make you feel better - wouldn't that be great. I'd be rich and famous, for a start.

But - there's no magic formula. You are the one who is suffering, and you are the one who can get over this. And you *can*, Brian."

There's a tightness to your voice that gives me pause - are you fucking angry?

And then that stumble over my name - what the hell was that! Do you have me mixed up with another patient, or -

Or -

Fuck! How do I even know what's real and what's an effect of the brain injury?

I still can't see clearly and I can't recognize voices! For all I know 'Phil Merrill' is a code name - a rotating team of shrinks sharing notes and a common goal of driving me fucking crazy.

You're blathering on about your mental health expertise - emotional releases and magic formulas, and how you can relate as a soldier, and ohhh I believe in you Brian!!

But the reality is I divulged a big fucking secret like a common civilian and then sobbed my guts out in front of a therapist... Jesus. How far the mighty have fallen...

I shudder to think of what Jim would have to say...

Only Jim's not fucking here. Is he.

He's the reason there's a time bomb in my chest... is it still there?

Gingerly I turn my attention inwards, as if it could detonate at any second.

Well - it doesn't feel like it's in my chest anymore -

Because it's me.

The bomb is me.

It's not enough for me to just get out of here and blow out what's left of my brain. I want to take people with me - people who have it coming. Too bad the fucking detective is already dead... but I can find someone else. Another enemy of Jim's...

I just need to get out of here first...

Is that progress?

I laugh darkly.

"Is something funny, Brian?" you ask cautiously.

"Absolutely, Philip. It's fucking hilarious," I say, shooting you a feral grin. How I wish I could see your face...

You -

are going into murder mode.

That's interesting. You're hooked up to machines and are barely able to feed yourself or see your target - but you want to kill.

Well, you and me both, honey. If Delaney hadn't been killed, I'd gladly have brought him here for you to slowly cut to pieces with your dessert spoon.

I don't think I can bring anyone else?

No - no that's not something a psychologist does. Even if it would make his client feel miles better.

"... what is funny about the situation, Brian?" I ask instead.

“Are you kidding? What’s not funny, Phil?” I say with a smirk. “You must be somewhat acquainted with the gallows humour of the soldier, even if you didn’t see any battles. No matter how dire and fucked-up the circumstances are, you can find something to have a giggle about.”

Like when Death is staring you in the face. Especially then. Nothing gets me laughing like when he shows up, brandishing his scythe like he expects it to frighten me.

Death always seems pleasantly surprised to me when I just stare back with a grin… and no wonder. Most people freak out when he appears. It must be a lonely experience for him…

He’d probably appreciate an invitation to drink beer and play Grand Theft Auto.

Phil on the other hand…

If you don’t get why I’m laughing, honey… you will never come close to understanding me.

I'm getting half worried half annoyed. This isn't damaging your head, is it? Or is it because of your brain damage? Should I call in a nurse?

And *fucking hell* Sebastian Moran what the fuck are you thinking thinking you're in love with me?!

And I can't keep convincing myself it's something your brain knocked out when it was shot. It was there beforehand for all to see if only one *looked*. But that's one area I did *not* like looking.

'Tiger, Feelings of' is a dusty file somewhere fallen down the back of a cabinet in an unused basement of the mind map. If you ever showed any feelings they were quickly punched out. That was a weakness I could not have in my main man - I needed infallible assassin Moran, devoted sex slave Moran, reliable second in command Moran. Not someone who would go about having feelings distort his vision and mission.

And you obliged, because you always obliged, because you existed to serve me in any way required, as you just told Phil...

Fucking hell.

Should I just push that pillow onto your face and be done with it?

At least you've stopped your infernal laughing.

"Very much so - I'm sure there's something infinitely ironic about the situation. There usually is, with death."

But I am not privy to it and please start sharing. I'm looking at the morphine pump. I could replace that with Tabasco sauce, you know.

“Yeah, Death has a pretty fucked up sense of humour,” I say cheerfully. “He’s such a comedian, he has people falling over and rolling in the aisles…”

Your words have been casual, but I swear I keep hearing tension in your voice… and it makes me tense up, like something is going to happen - like I need to be ready for - anything.

And just what am I supposed to do in this state? I haven’t been so out of commission since the tiger attack from so many years ago - I was knocking on death’s door then, but Death didn’t answer in the end.

He never does… it’s like a game of cat and mouse with him.

Weird that I would be the cat in this scenario… don’t people normally try to do anything to get away from death?

This situation though… death is nowhere near me and I’ll do everything within my power to seek him out.

I still have some healing to do, though. But that doesn’t mean I need to be lying around in this fucking bed for weeks on end…

“Did they mention to you when my rehab can start?” I ask suddenly. “I need to get up and start walking again. I can’t just lie here, I’ll lose my fucking mind,” I say sharply. “what’s left of it, anyway…”

"Your rehab started the moment you came in, Brian. Swallowing is an important process, like I said. Also the sitting up you do in bed is an important step; the arm, hand, and leg exercises they have you do - I know it feels like small fry to you, but they're all essential milestones. It must be hard for someone used to running over mountains and wrestling lions but you really have to start with the very basics again with brain damage.

It's good that you're so fit - you will probably recover faster than your average person - but it still is going to take baby steps at the beginning."

Wait - should I know all this? Yes - possibly; I could have asked to see the progress file and the plans, so I can support your mental preparation and feelings about all this.

Swallowing and sitting up in bed? Jesus...

"Yeah? Well I do recover quickly... I've had plenty of fucking practice," I snap. "So if you don't want to find me smothered by my own pillow, you might want to suggest to the doctors that they step up the pace. I want to start standing - today."

One step closer to walking out of here, whether they like it or not...

Oh shit - did I just divulge suicidal intentions to a psychologist? Or will he take it as a joke? Thankfully I already broached the subject of gallows humour... but do I need to tell you I was joking?

Wait - running over mountains. Wrestling lions.

Just how many details did they give you?? Why would you need to know all that?

I squint at you - god, I wish I could see your expression but you're still a dark figure floating in a fog...

"Not lions..." I say, my voice sounding very far away. "Tiger."

That's not just a fucking story... It's something more than most people could ever understand, and it's between me and the tiger.

So why the fuck did I just say that to you?!

...

Because.

Because.

I wanted to release the word... Feel it tumble into the room and then burst out like a predatory creature.

Tiger. What you called me. What I am. Your tiger.

Not a domesticated animal, and not meant to die in a hospital!!

I need to be in the air, under the sky... don't you see? Like you were when you went away from me...

Don't cry, Moran. Don't cry.

"Are you going to help me or not," I say, my voice hoarse.

You are not happy about this - well, no. You have never been good at lying down and doing what the doctor says.

But you are *very* not happy.

And then you mention the - tiger?

Why do you mention the tiger? You never tell that story to anyone. It's somehow private to you. I mean I could *see* you'd been mauled by a tiger and it still took you forever to finally share what happened. Dr Merrill hasn't seen any tiger scars.

You're looking at me so -

desperately broken -

are you -

crying again?!

Shit shit shit.

I am *so* unequipped to deal with this.

Can't I just threaten you until you do as I say?

I believe that went out of fashion in mental health care a century ago. Such a waste...

"I do want to help you, Brian. But I am not in charge of your physical rehabilitation. You have a whole team of medical specialists who are helping you with that.

Why are you asking me?"

Are you fucking joking?

You push me and push me when I'm already in a vulnerable position, until I'm fucking crying - me, weeping my guts out in front of a psychologist again! -

and then you're going to get all cool and logical on me??

"This must be so nice and cosy for you..." I say, my voice vibrating with fury. "Getting paid no matter what happens to me! So fucking comfortable in your ivory tower... bloody paragon of professional detachment. You keep saying you want to help me... but if you're not going to share what I need with this medical team that I've barely heard from - then I really don't see the point of you." I cross my arms and shoot a menacing glare in your direction.

For a moment, I think I see your features sharpening but then they fog up again. Fuck!

I sigh heavily. "You wanna know what the real problem is, Dr Phil? I don't believe in you... If you don't give a shit about how I'm feeling - I mean really give a shit, not just filling out reports to pay off your Mercedes S-class - then why the fuck should I tell you anything else, when it just makes me feel worse? Just - do us both a favour and sod off!"

I reach for the button to lower my bed until I'm lying prone. And then I close my eyes. Maybe as I sleep I'll have a stroke from my head injury and it will kill me.

I -

You need to rest.

And I need to change my tactic.

I will think about it.

I must leave now -

I hesitate, stand next to your bed.

I can't touch you. What psychologist would touch a patient.

My hand hovers over your shoulder, then moves back to its misplaced spot by my side.

"I - will be back. I'll ask your neurologist to have a word with you.

Take care. Brian."

I walk out, look back - you look so small, which is the last adjective I'd ever have associated with you. You are large physically, mentally, your heart is huge, you're loud, a presence in any place; unless you don't want to be seen, then you're simply absent. You've never been anything approaching small.

I head back to the hotel, make sure a visit to you is on the neurologist's schedule tomorrow - and he better have something useful to say to you.

Useful.

I rub my eyes and forehead, pinch my nose.

I am being as useful as a chocolate teapot and I fucking hate it.

You –

I sigh.

I will need to face this. You were in love with me.

It makes sense. All the raging you did about my game with Sherlock. The desperation when I was more and more absent - instead of being pleased you got to rule much of the Empire on your own, you begged and raved to get me back.

Then I killed myself. All your devotion and - love - and considerable - value -

cast carelessly aside in favour of winning a game of life and death - by choosing death, the ultimate unpredictable move.

And you were shattered.

I can stop trying to deny and not look too closely - you were.

Still, you didn't do a bad job continuing my work. Loyal even beyond death.

And then - bullet in the brain. Did that change you? You still *seem* yourself; I don't think your character has been altered... though it's hard to say.

But - there seems to be no reason why you can't just go back to work. It's only a few more months and your beloved boss will magically reappear from the grave.

All I need to do is motivate you to keep going.

I'm woken up for breakfast. I really wish they would stop doing that.

But at least I'm eating solid food now. I have to admit, it makes me feel a little less like a weak, broken thing. But a far cry from the lethal killer I was only a few days ago.

A few days... or longer? I've lost all sense of time….

I should probably be more worried about that…

Where's my phone?

What's going on with the Empire?

Even if I had my phone, I couldn't see it clearly - but I could talk to Steve.

Does he even know what happened to me?

Do I even care?

I hear footsteps. And yet another unfamiliar voice.

My heart rate increases, but it's not a certain psychologist who could use a good throttling.

It's the neurologist. Did dear Philip speak with him after all? Would he have come to see me so quickly otherwise?

Dr Sheridan goes over some test results that are meaningless to me, but reassures me that according to the signs, recovery after the surgery is looking promising.

Well. That's something. So when can I leave, doc?

"I hear you want to start standing up?" he says in a friendly voice.

"Honestly, it would help with my morale... I don't do well with lying around," I say, trying not to sound desperate. "If I can't see, I really need something to focus on."

"Well if your recovery continues like this, your vision will hopefully return to normal before long - or close to normal. That's why we are being very careful not to over-exert," he says cheerfully.

My hope plummets.

"But - I do think you should be able to try standing soon," he continues. "The physiotherapist will visit you today and I’ll advise you like a physical challenge. You've been doing the exercises regularly? Good. Keep at it. I know for someone active, the recovery process must be frustrating. But you can talk about that with your psychologist, he'll be coming by this afternoon. Have a good day, Brian. See you soon."

I mutter a thank you, goodbye.

Oh Philip is coming back, is he. I had half convinced myself that after the tongue-lashing I gave him, he would have arranged for someone else to take over. I don't know how I feel about that. I really don't...

He's a pain in the arse, but - the devil you know.

And I absolutely hate to admit this, but… I think it must be keeping the insanity at bay having someone to talk to... which is such a fucking weird thought.

When have I ever needed someone to talk to about my issues??

Since leaving home, a handful of times at uni and in the army - but never in depth.

I haven't breathed a word about my feelings since then...

getting kicked out of the army seemed to seal up something in me, and it's felt nearly impossible to open it since then. Not that I could have breathed a word about - Jim. Even if I wanted to.

And with Phil the Incredibly Annoying, I've had to walk a fine line between getting stuff off my chest, and not divulging too much - which has taken an enormous amount of brain power to manage.

But also...

Compared to how I was when I first arrived and after surgery... since he's started visiting, I've been able to speak more clearly. Think more clearly.

Is that just part of recovery or... did it have to do with having that irritating man pushing my buttons? And why the fuck would that help?? Maybe because... nothing makes me feel like myself more than wanting to punch someone?

Huh.

Or maybe - it's been a fucking relief to say some of the stuff that's been making me feel like I've slowly been suffocated from within over these last few years...?

Fuck...

Now what??

"Good afternoon, Brian," I say as I walk in. "How are you feeling?"

You mutter something non-committal and I take a seat.

I've been trying to consider how to approach this. At the moment, you're not interested in a word Phil has to say. You need to somehow learn to trust him - I need to get you to open up so you feel that he knows you, and *then* I can get you to fucking listen.

I hope.

So we've built up some soldierly rapport... that was the closest I got. But you don't trust Phil, because he's the Establishment.

But if Phil were to become complicit in something... or you had some dirt on him; dirt that also forges a bit of a bond -

It's highly unprofessional of Phil. But then you don't care much for professionalism per se; too akin to bureaucracy.

And maybe Phil has ulterior motives... your swelling and bruising has gone down and you're starting to look a bit more like yourself again. Who could resist your rugged grouchy charm?

Surely not Dr Phil...

"I hear you're possibly going to stand up today? That's good news," I start. "Your recovery seems to be going well - even if you can't manage to stand up today, you may tomorrow, or the day after."

"Yes... the sooner I get out of here, the better," you say.

Why is that Sebastian? What are you so keen to get back to? Or is it just aversion to hospitals?

I don't think so... so what are you running *towards*?

"I have been thinking about your words... what you said yesterday. I realize you were exhausted, but - you know I don't do this to - afford a Mercedes or fill in reports. I..."

I sigh.

"This is going to sound terribly unprofessional, but - you don't strike me as a man who cares much about the 'proper' way of doing things. Can I tell you something in confidence? I swear it's relevant..."

I only know it's you because the nurse let me know you were coming. Welcome back, Phil!

God - this not-recognizing people's voices is fucking mental - when is that going to get better?

What if it doesn't happen??

Well - in the end, what does it matter? With Jim gone, there's nothing left for me - no one I want to listen to, and no one I want to see.

For months I've done what he wanted me to do... but there's only so much I can do when I see everything through a fog and I don't know who's talking to me. A bit of a liability when running a global criminal empire...

I half-listen to you as you tell me everything's going so great for me...

Whoopee.

Then you make a conversational detour... where the fuck are you going with this, Philip? It's sounding... personal.

I may not know your voice, but I know when someone is feeling deeply troubled... and guilty? Do tell...

Unprofessional.

Proper.

In confidence.

Oh??

What's going on, sweetie? Tell the big bad soldier...

"Sure, go ahead," you say. You're trying to sound casual but I can hear the interest in your voice. I wonder if your phonagnosia means you can't?

Anyway...

"I - well. When I was in the Signal Regiment, I had - this OC who was - just brilliant. He was - sarcastic, bitingly so, but a genius. Each one of us would have run into a burning building if he told us to; he was just the kind of guy you trust blindly and it's always right.

He was a youngish man I guess, but older than the rest of us, and he had a wisdom about him - if you were in trouble, really in trouble, you went and talked with him, and he always knew what to say.

Probably that's where I got my interest in psychology... I wanted to be able to do that. I don't think I can.

Anyway. At some point, I - realized what I felt was more than professional admiration. I thought about him day and night, I - well, I had a crush on him. I tried to get close to him and one night we got drunk and we talked and I thought -

I tried to make a pass at him and he responded - in disgust. So I tried to make a joke out of it, and he went along with it, but he was less close afterwards.

But - my crush only intensified. Every time I saw him, or heard people talk about him; I couldn't sleep and if I did I dreamed of him... it was torture, sheer torture. I couldn't concentrate on my job, made mistake after mistake, blaming it on insomnia. Eventually the medic sent me to the army psychologist.

I was at my wits' end at that time and I decided to confide in him.

He - was a homophobe. He tried to get me to leave the army, saying it would be a 'breeding ground for my unnatural obsessions'. We nearly had a shouting match.

And - that was it. I was just - I had to go on trying to live with this man who I revered, but who avoided me. When we were sent to Afghanistan, I heard he was trying to get them not to take me, but I was functioning better at that time, and we were a smooth-running team. And then I hurt my hip and I've never seen him since."

I sigh, rub my forehead.

"I just - wanted you to know two things. That the reason I got into psychology is to save people from idiots like that guy I spoke with. And that I know what it's like to pine for someone who you can't have."

My my - I don't know what I thought you were going to tell me, but it wasn't this. Why do I feel like I'm hearing about myself in the description of your OC?

You like that kind of man, do you. It's amazing how competence, a love for danger, and a bad-boy smile can affect so many people...

Oh - you had it bad, mate. Sadly I can relate to this a little too well...

I shift uncomfortably. Well at least I had the common sense to not breathe a word of it to Jim... I can't imagine how he would have reacted. But I couldn't have handled that kind of rejection after laying myself bare... no fucking way. Not worth the risk. At least I could still touch him and share a life with him and do my job well enough to be his best weapon...

Unlike this sorry sod. What was he thinking, making a move like that when he didn't know if his feelings were reciprocated?! If there's one thing I've learned is love has a shadow side that can crush you under its heel and make you never want to get up again...

So. This is why you haven't given up on me, huh... you see yourself in me? My condolences...

"Mate. That's fucked..." I shake my head. "Now 'fess up, my guy. What kind of car do you drive?" I give you a sarcastic grin. A real soldier will know shit-talking is the fastest way to another soldier's black little heart.

*Yes.*

You fell for it.

Well of course you fell for it, I'm a great actor - and even if I weren't, you can't see me and hardly hear my tone of voice - but you are relating to the story.

Good. Good - now don't blow it Jim. Get him to open up, get him to map this exotic landscape of Tiger feelings for you, and then remodel it to fit. Make him realize that he's probably not in love with Jim Moriarty; it was just hero worship. Or if that's impossible, get him to at least accept that acting upon stuff like that is always a bad idea, like in my edifying parable.

And that the best thing he can do is keep on running the Empire and be fucking happy about it.

"A Kia Picanto," I grin. You probably can't hear the grin in my voice but it doesn't hurt to stay in character. "While I'm saving up for my Mercedes of course."

I snort with amusement. "Aww. That's adorable..."

A pang of pain shoots through me. That was always Jim's word... not mine. Why did I use it?

Anyway.

"So. What you're saying is you're as stupid and fucked-up as I am, so I shouldn't see you as one of 'them'... did I catch what you're throwing?" I say wryly.

Your approach is a little earnest for my taste, but - this mental health bollocks is bound to rub off on you when you're immersed in it, I suppose...

"Exactly. I know it's hard to believe in today's world full of shit, but I'm actually on your side. And - well. I'm happy to write in your report whatever you want me to, regardless of what you tell me.

And I've got some - ideas -

Look."

I lean over you, so you can see that I'm close, though you still won't recognize me, they say.

I move your head slightly so the CCTV has a good view.

And I kiss you.

Chapter Text

You'll - write whatever I want??

Why didn't you say that in the first place instead of putting me through all this, you fucker!

I'm preparing for another smart-arse response - but I have to make sure to keep things light-hearted, because I'm finally getting exactly what I need.

My lips part and suddenly -

you're moving closer -

why are you -

what are you -

What -

I want to throw you off me - no one gets to do this!!

But I haven't felt comfort in - so - long -

and I feel myself softening into it -

no – I can't -

and then your lips make me think of -

NO -

I grasp your shirt and push you back, staring at you - shaking -

and I punch you in the jaw. Not hard enough to knock you onto the floor, just enough to stun you - and hurt. Not because I'm weak. Because I know what I'm fucking doing.

You stare back at me through the fog, rubbing your face.

You make a breathy sound and I swear, in my mind I just heard one of Jim's little laughs -

(Oh really? After everything you put me through, this is funny to you?!)

I grab your shirt again.

"Well aren't we fucking inappropriate..." I snarl and yank you down into a real kiss.

You push me back and punch me - not unexpectedly.

I smile and open my mouth to say something when –

hey -

you're not supposed to kiss me *back* -

What the *fuck* Tiger - why are you kissing some *psychologist* -

*not* the issue here Jim -

Tiger -

oh god Tiger -

you taste so -

of - weak tea and hospital food -

not the usual cigarettes and coffee or whiskey -

I *miss* that -

I *miss -*

No -

No no no no!!

I pull back, panting, staring at you wide-eyed.

Did you - recognize me?!

No - no you would have responded differently - as it is you're just staring at me.

Now we're just staring at each other, breathing hard -

Now I'm angry and confused and even though I can't see you, you seem positively stunned -

Why are you so shocked? You're the one who kissed me -

And why the fuck did you anyway?!

It felt almost like -

You made me feel -

You made me remember -

"What the fuck," I whisper hoarsely. "What - the fuck - was that?"

"Entirely inappropriate, like you said," I respond, regaining my composure.

"There's a camera in the corner, keeping an eye on you - it's not monitored, but it records, so if anything happens, they can check what.

So if you were to complain about Dr Merrill kissing a poor invalid - that would be my career down the shitter.

So - I've given you blackmail material. To show you I am entirely serious - I do want to help you, and in order to be able to do so I need you to be completely honest with me... Sebastian Moran."

I'm listening to your explanation, growing more and more bewildered and furious by the moment.

You - gave me blackmail material. To help me.

You must be batshit crazy or have a martyr complex, because none of that makes any fucking sense - there must be something more to this, and I'm not getting it because my mind is -

"What did you call me?" I demand before I realize I should have just been confused by being called by another name.

I can't keep this shit straight while dealing with a head injury...

Fuck it.

"Start. Talking. Who the fuck are you."

"Phil Merrill, still. Your psychologist. And - I may not be the best psychologist, but I am not totally useless.

When they first asked you what your name was, you said Sebastian Moran. Apparently that caught the interest of the police, who came to interview you, and later asked some more questions of the staff about whether you had said anything else about being Sebastian Moran, or anything about a Jim Moriarty.

The name Jim Moriarty rang a bell. I googled him - he's dead. Committed suicide.

Sebastian Moran - harder to find things on. Very hard in fact. He attended Oxford, dropped out, and joined the paratroopers, then disappeared off the face of the planet until his discharge in 2006; much like a man might who joined the Special Forces. And a man who joined the Special Forces would have no problems finding employment - *unless* said discharge was dishonourable, in which case he would pretty much be limited to working menial jobs - or in criminal circles. Now anyone who is anyone in criminal London apparently worked with Jim Moriarty at some point, whether they knew it or not.

So - that's my theory. Sebastian Moran went to work for Jim Moriarty after his dishonourable discharge. Surely his Special Forces experience stood him in good stead - he might even make it to bodyguard of the great man himself, who, as we've all seen in the trial footage, was very charismatic and good-looking. Then Moriarty killed himself - leaving the man who spent his life devoted to him bereft.

And your joking about being an assassin - there are tells in someone's body language when they make a joke that's too close to the truth.

As I said, you have blackmail material over me. There's no reason to lie to me, and every reason to tell the truth.

I do want to help you - I see so much of myself in you - of what I - could have been - wish I had been."

I pause. It took me ages to get a story that a normal human might have puzzled together but this is something that a psychologist with *reasonable* intelligence and curiosity might have worked out. If the police had indeed asked such questions of the staff, which of course they haven't.

As you launch into your explanation, I close my eyes and listen closely. Jim taught me how to examine the fabric of a story - I need to focus not your words but the seams… and the side of the fabric that’s not on display.

Why are you so fixated on your patient - to the extent of kissing him to give him blackmail material so he’ll open up to you?

And would most psychologists do this much research??

And construct such elaborate theories? Yeah ok, accurate. Alarmingly so.

…

If you’re this clever, shouldn’t you be in another field?

Well you did have military aspirations…

And not everyone has the same view of mental health professionals that I do. It’s conceivable that someone clever whose first career path didn’t work out would turn to the field of psychology.

So the kiss wasn’t because you were coming onto me?! That’s weird. But a relief.

But weird.

You keep saying you want to help me.

Either you’re the most helpful psychologist in the UK, or…

Or…

I have no fucking idea.

Something’s not adding up. But I can’t suss it out. I’m too confused by everything that’s happened and - I can’t trust my mind to think clearly.

One thing is for certain. I can’t think with you here. I’m way too distracted by the thought of - lips on lips. Not because of you. Because it made me think of Jim’s lips.

Fuck…

Why did you -

Why?

There’s a painful lump in my throat. I open my eyes.

For a second I imagine Jim staring down at me through the fog, and my heart slams painfully in my chest - but then the image blurs again. Jesus.

“That was a lot,” I say with difficulty. “I think I need to be alone.”

A lot going on in the Tiger brain... and it's been hurt badly, so it's not as reliable as usual.

Not that I've ever been able to work out much of what happens in there... you are very enigmatic for a normal person. Your reasoning seems to always be just slightly skewed -

or -

is that because I refused to take one important motivating factor into account?

... to be considered.

For now - it's probably best to leave. You do sometimes need time to think things over and get violent and contrary when pressured into making decisions. Frustrating though it is, I could never kick your brain into thinking faster.

"I understand.

I am very sorry if I overstepped the mark. I -

well. You touched a nerve.

I'll be back tomorrow.

Take care - Sebastian."

I touch your shoulder briefly, then walk out without looking back.

I stare in the direction of the ceiling for a very long time.

Thinking about what you did. Thinking about what I did.

Thinking about everything that was said.

I do not think about how it made me feel. Not that, not yet.

When the nurse comes by, I ask for a phone - I’m ready to call a friend. She seems happy for me and a hospital phone materializes a short time later. Since most everyone has a mobile these days, these phones are almost relics - kept in a storeroom somewhere until it’s time to dust one off.

It’s definitely time. I call Steve.

“Henry? It’s Brian.”

Pause.

“Brian,” he says. “This is not your number! Are you alright?”

He must already know. Of course he does…

“Sort of… I had an accident and needed surgery. I’m just recovering now…” I say, sounding sheepish and like I’m trying hard to be brave.

“Oh no! Which hospital? I’ll come to see you today….”

“I’m not - really ready to be seen,” I say ruefully. “Not yet. I just wanted to hear a friendly voice…”

Pause.

“I’m worried about you, mate… are they at least taking good care of you?” he says.

“Yeah, no complaints. Recovery from surgery is going well. I’ve started rehab. And they even have me seeing a psychologist, if you can believe it…” I laugh.

“A psychologist,” he says. “You must love that…”

“He’s surprisingly perceptive," I say, making sure to sound impressed - and nothing like the Sebastian Moran he knows. "The man clearly knows a lot... honestly I think he knows me better than I know myself!”

“Really! Wow… well you’re lucky to be in such capable hands…” he says, sounding like the most supportive friend ever.

Well done, Steve... you never know who may be listening...

“Yeah… I remember your brother was having some issues after he lost his wife. I wonder if he might find Dr Merrill useful to talk to…” I say with concern.

“Oh? I think that could help him a lot… if he’s as good as you say, I’ll definitely talk to him about it,” he says as if considering how he would broach the subject.

Steve knows our codes inside and out. So now he knows to look up the good doctor and let me know if he doesn't check out.

“Yeah, why don’t you look him up… Dr Phil Merrill. Used to be in the army, can you believe it? Until he injured his hip doing a jump…”

I smile sharply. Steve is good, especially about digging through military files... if Phil Merrill is in the system, it will be thoroughly verified.

“Former army man… sounds like a great fit!" he says. "I’ll look him up for sure… and I’ll let you know how things go after talking to my brother…”

“Good luck, mate...”

“Seriously, Brian… let me know when I can visit you. We have a lot of catching up to do…" he hesitates. "And let me know if there’s anything you need... anything at all.”

“You’ll be the first to know. Thanks, Henry...” I say, swallowing hard.

“Take care of yourself, Brian…”

I place the phone back in its cradle. Good old Steve.

I don't want him anywhere near here, in case I'm being watched. But there are other ways for him to get me information... or anything I require.

Now I wait. The only question is, will I learn more about Phil before or after he arrives tomorrow? This should be interesting… Phil may very well have good intentions about my health, but he’s also used to having the upper hand.

I can do research too, motherfucker… let’s see if you’re going to like what I find.

I close my eyes, feeling the pull of sleep. I don’t want to… I’m afraid of what I’ll dream after - what happened. What I did.

How it felt. How it reminded me of…

Fuck. Can’t I just dream about alien plagues and a dystopian world, I think desperately.

Please, I murmur as I feel myself dissolving into the blackness that waits for me.

You got in touch with Steve. Who also thinks I'm dead.

Why so suspicious, Tiger? Just trust the nice psychologist!

Ugh. Fortunately I knew that if you'd get in touch with anyone, it would be Steve, so I've set up Dr Phil ready to be researched by any means Steve will use. And maybe that's a good thing... if your background check holds up and you know Dr Phil's army background and broken hip story are legit, you may be more sympathetic towards him.

And maybe this means that you are actually considering confiding in him...

I hope so.

I don't like looking too closely at your feelings, but -

I kind of was forced to. And your - words, your expressions -

you desperately want out of the hospital, but you don't really seem to care a lot about the Empire. You didn't ask Steve for any updates, not even ones that it would have been easy to give in code.

You talked about living for your work, but - in the past tense. When I was still around.

I just can't get rid of the fear that - once you get out of the hospital –

you intend to follow me.

And that is - unacceptable.

It would have been nice to return to nightmares from my first days in the hospital - about a malevolent presence making minds and bodies crumble... - but noooo, no such luck! Instead I dream repeatedly of Jim's ghost hovering around the hospital room.

Accusing me - of kissing someone else, of daring to almost enjoy it, of shirking my responsibilities - of no longer being your perfect - fucking - weapon.

And every time I wake up, I desperately look around the room to see if you're there - even though I can't clearly see my bloody hand in front of my bloody face.

I'm so fucking sorry to not be perfect, Jim - but how long was I supposed to do this for?! Steve is perfectly capable of carrying on after I'm gone...

Or would you prefer I spend decades as a broken hollow shell, protecting your legacy? For what?

For who?

After breakfast, I demand to see the physiotherapist - and for the very first time I stand. With support - but still. He's pleased with my progress and will return this afternoon. And I'm one literal step closer to getting the fuck out of here - far away from hospital machines and endless parades of chattering nurses and doctors.

I also receive a message from my good friend 'Henry' - thanking me for the recommendation. Huh. I guess Dr Phil's military background checks out, and he's a bona fide psychologist - will wonders never cease.

Where is that fucker anyway... he's usually here by now...

I walk in, close the door behind me.

"Good morning, Sebastian. It’s Phil."

"'Morning, sweetheart," I say, the corner of my mouth turning upward. "Been wondering where you were..."

Well you respond to 'Sebastian' without attempt to correct me. That's good.

"Aww, missed you too. Had any interesting thoughts while I was away?"

"Oh I'm always full of interesting thoughts..." I say cheerfully. "Yesterday was - an eye-opener, Dr Phil. It's a fascinating theory you came up with. Of course I can neither confirm nor deny... you understand."

"Obviously. But you could indulge an old psychologist. We could discuss this hypothetical situation as if it were reality - and see where we end up?"

I laugh shortly. "Well that sounds like a blast! Where do you want to start this little hypothetical adventure, pet?"

...

well at least I'm sure that you haven't worked out who I am by now.

“Let me see if I got the facts of our hypothetical scenario straight. Was everything I said last time acceptable?"

I shift in my bed.

"If it's hypothetical then the facts aren't relevant, Phil," I snap. Why are you pressing this?

Relax, Moran - he has no idea what territory he's blundering into...

I smile sharply in your direction. "Let's just say, the general outline of the situation works for me - for the purposes of this conversation."

Jesus. This is going to give *me* a headache and I don't have brain damage.

But fair enough, Seb - and good for you not letting yourself fall into the hands of some psychologist, blackmailable though he may be.

"So - Jim Moriarty shot himself in November last year."

I can see the wince of pain on your face. Damn.

"How have you been coping since then?"

"I don't know why you keep bringing this 'Jim Moriarty' into it," I say pleasantly. Although it's hard to sound pleasant through gritted teeth. "All I've told you is that I had a boss and he's gone - and that I had -" I hesitate.

"Feelings?" you prompt.

Fuck. Why is that still so hard to say out loud??

"Yeah. That. And - it's been -" I swallow hard. "Well if you know anything about fucking grief, Phil - you already know it's not been a bloody picnic. I've been focusing on work as best I could. And then the standard coping mechanisms…getting shit-faced. Numbing myself with pills…. Riding my motorcycle a little too fast… a little too recklessly… Getting into fights in bars, dark alleys, whatever… Therapeutic, wouldn’t you say?”

"Very therapeutic. And how did that work out for you?"

“Oh it was so good…” I say drily. “Even though my life was in devastating darkness and I was in pain like I’d never experienced before… pain that was raw and primal and seismic, that broke the ground under my feet…. Broke the very foundation of my life, myself, and everything I knew of existence - and left only a gaping chasm swallowing everything behind me even as I ran to escape it -

It felt like maybe there was light at the end of the tunnel. Yeah every time I passed out, or nearly lost control of my motorcycle, or had a beer bottle smashed over my head by some wanker in a bar - that’s definitely what I felt… a glimmer of hope.” I roll my eyes.

“How am I doing with my grief recovery, doc? Do I get a gold star?”

What.

What - what - *what*.

*Stop it*.

What on earth is all that -

*nonsense* -

That's not Sebastian! That's some - shell of a man -

Lost after being abandoned - Seb is not like that!!

But -

after the army kicked you out -

and you were just drinking and shagging and shooting yourself through life -

you didn't seem to care. Whether you lived or died. You had lost your purpose and you were a loose cannon.

Did - you lose your purpose again.

When I died.

'the very foundation of my life, myself, and everything I knew of existence'

I -

I'm reminded of something I read - I'm so shaken up I can't get the reference right - but it was something about you can't purposefully enchant someone without having them enchant you back - law of action and reaction - it's Newtonian physics -

This is *ridiculous* -

But - no, I had to be your - world -

that night when I made you mine, I made sure to strip off anything that was left of you that wasn't mine and replace it with complete and utter loyalty - yearning - need -

...

and that meant that - when I was *gone* -

Jesus.

I need to think -

"Apologies - weak stomach -" I mutter, and dash to your loo.

There is silence after I speak but I’m getting used to that.

I take the opportunity to consider how it feels that I was able to finally share what I had gone through, speak the words aloud… like truth bombs were detonating in the hospital room….

and yet I’m finding I feel nothing.

Suddenly you’re running to the toilet. Weak stomach? What the fuck?

…

I suppose you could have food poisoning or a stomach bug… but something feels - off. It’s bizarre timing that I finally shared with you what I was feeling - and this is your reaction??

…

Guess I have more time than I thought to reflect… to process. Ooh Sebastian Moran is learning how to do therapy… hell must have frozen over. Pigs must be flying.

But somehow I thought sharing my feelings would… feel like something.

Anything.

But nothing is infinitely preferable to the darkness and despair that gutted me in the early days, carving out bits and pieces until it felt like there were jagged sections of me that were just - raw - shredded - meat.

The worst of it was immediately after you left me, of course… I had fallen into the depths of what felt like hell - a devouring abyss that I tried to keep crawling out of, outrunning, so I could do the work I needed to do for you -

But the abyss that I’d tried to escape found its way inside me anyway… maybe it crawled into me while I was sleeping - pouring out from the nightmares, like a dark shadow … and then slithering into the spot where my heart was supposed to be…

Is this - what you felt before you blew your brains out -

Oh - god - I never really - I never let myself think -

Oh no - oh fuck I don’t want -

No – Jim –

I stare at myself in the mirror over the sink.

That was *not* a good idea - the man in there looks bewildered; his hair astray from where I dragged my hand through it, his eyes large, his face sallow in the poor light - not the suave, in-control gentleman who I usually find in the mirror.

I turn away. I went here because I needed to think, which is ridiculous, like I can't think in the room with you. Like you are some thick vapour clouding my judgement, my clarity, my very sanity - or whatever's left of it, anyway.

Calm down, Moriarty.

Why aren't I calm in the first place?! What is upsetting me? The stupid feelings of my Tiger? We had established he was in love with me - it shouldn't surprise me that my death came as a shock -

'gaping chasm swallowing everything'

too much -

be sad, sure, but don't -

'I felt a glimmer of hope'

- when nearly dying.

That's what you want. That's why you want to get out of this hospital.

To - follow me into suicide.

a storm rises inside me, wanting to rage, wanting to wipe everything away -

no - no keep with it.

That - is unacceptable, of course. You need to stay in position until I'm back.

What if I tell you -

no. I can't - that would throw a spanner into all my careful plans -

and besides - this is all nonsense! Overly dramatic teenage bullshit! Kill yourself over a lost lover - even one as irreplaceable as me? What kind of fighter *are* you, Sebastian Moran?

I swallow, steel myself. I must put an end to this. Whether it was caused by the brain damage or if it was there before - it's unacceptable for my chief of staff.

I wash my hands, throw some water on my face, wipe it off with a paper towel. A deliberate man looks back at me.

I head back into the room.

My body is shaking… I’m trying not to dissolve into gut-wrenching sobs -

But holding them back makes me feel like I’m about to have a full-out panic attack -

Oh god - sanity starting to unravel -

Need help - and I'm totally alone -

Suddenly I remember that there's a psychologist in the loo… how long has it been??

It seemed to me like - after confessing my feelings -

you - couldn’t handle it??

Because I don’t believe the weak stomach excuse for a moment.

My shaking begins to lessen. I turn to look towards the closed door - I squint, and for a moment the fog moves towards the outside edges of my periphery.

Then it drifts back.

But. For a second I saw the door through the haze.

What I need is to be able to see your face… your body language. Because I’m not getting enough from your words to verify this - but I think -

You’ve started developing feelings for me.

The ‘blackmail material’ to get me to trust you was an interesting excuse to make your move. What psychologist would put his career on the line to help a patient in such a batshit crazy way – unless -

You want me. Or you’re certifiable.

Likely both.

Oh honey… you are so betting on the wrong horse. But that's fitting for someone unhinged enough to fall for me in this condition...

Careful, Moran - can’t be too direct and risk upsetting him - I still need his recommendation to get out of here…

Tricky… very tricky…

You look so - lost -

on the verge of - crying -

That's ridiculous - Sebastian Moran does not *cry* -

only if I want him to -

"Soldier!" I bark. "What is this *nonsense*!? Look at yourself!"

No, you can't - you're half blind -

*Metaphorically* -

"What the fuck are you doing Moran?! You're nearly in *tears*! Over some *guy*!? What are you, a teenage girl? Bella Fucking Swan?! You're a *man*, more than a man, you're a *soldier* and you have a fucking *mission* - and instead you're weeping in a bed?"

I find myself snapping at attention at the sound of your voice. Since I’m still not recognizing voices, it could very well be my drill sergeant tearing into me.

Confused, I listen to the words.

What the fuck are you saying to me?

My mouth drops open.

Teenage girl -

Bella Swan -

And -

Some guy -

Some. Guy.

Some guy-??

I sit up and I’m pleased to see that it’s getting easier since physiotherapy has begun.

Now. To deal with you.

“Who. The Fuck. Do you think you are…” I say in a low dangerous voice.

…

So much for being careful.

“This ‘guy’ is so beyond your fucking comprehension -“ I snarl. “I’m not even going to bother explaining that to you because there’s no point! And what do you care about my mission?!”

Are you -

trying to convince me of how great I am?

This is so beyond absurd it would be hilarious if it weren't so serious.

You look like you're just about ready to step out of bed and punch me, regardless of whether you'll fall over or not - and you may just be enough driven by spite that you'd get to me before collapsing.

Again - it would be *so sweet* - if it weren't so unwelcome.

"Oh I'm *sure* the guy was above *any* human comprehension! A veritable *god* among men he was! Jesus Christ himself!

And what happened when Jesus Christ was murdered? Did St Peter go 'oh no woe is me I guess I'll top myself now'? Did John wallow in misery and drink? Did Matthew ride his camel too hard hoping he'd fall off and bash his head?

Well!?"

What?! What's got into you?!

Why are you acting like this - like -

like -

"Yes he is a fucking god among men!" I roar. Then I stop, as pain stabs through my guts like a red-hot blade.

"Was..." I mutter. "Fuck..."

It feels like such a betrayal to speak of Jim in the past tense. To me, he is eternal and always will be.

I just can't have you thinking I'm not lucid. Grief-stricken and broken, sure... But I'm all too aware of the reality I find myself in.

Which is now complicated by a psychologist who either has the hots for me... or is volunteering to be my drill sergeant... or has a split personality.

Whatever he is, I'm boiling mad - and so - fucking - confused!

Because what you said makes me think of Jim.

And what he would think... of me. And how I've been acting.

I glare at you and I can just imagine Jim standing there with his disapproving expression - but then what right does he have to judge me after what he -

FUCK!

"The difference is Jesus Christ didn't go and shoot himself in the head, did he!" I shout. "If he had, maybe Peter and the boys would have reacted like grief-crazed fuckwits!"

I hear footsteps and then the door opens - and a voice inquires if everything is alright. A nurse, I'm assuming?

Or someone's finally here to escort me to the psychiatric unit...

"Yeah, sorry - we're just having a theological discussion," I say tersely. "We'll try to keep it down, but we're getting close to Revelations... could get spirited!"

There's a long pause. "Well I don't know that spirited theological discussions are the best idea in ICU... don't want patients getting more agitated, do we!" she says.

Which for some reason tickles me. But then I've always been a defiant prick.

"I think she's talking to you, doc," I drawl.

*Not. Now.*

But I can't give the lady the Moriarty face because I want to be allowed back.

"I'm so sorry," I say quietly to her, looking suitably professionally calm yet sympathetic. "Mr Allen got a bit agitated when I asked if he had any religious beliefs which might be a source of comfort. It's a sore area, and he has no filter at the moment due to the brain injury. I will do my best to calm him down. We best close the door for now. So sorry if we caused you any upset."

She looks at me, then to you, then back to me.

"I'm sorry to hear that - do press the button to call a nurse if you feel he's getting too agitated. I will keep an eye on it."

I nod. "Certainly; thank you."

And she buggers off.

I walk back to your bed.

"You heard the nurse - don't get too agitated.

Technically Jesus Christ *did* shoot himself through the head - he agreed with his dad that he should die for the greater good. You yourself acknowledge that your guy was a god among men - surely he knew what he was doing and thought it was for the greater good, regardless of whether you could understand it or not.

So - how are you going to honour your god? By moping and wallowing until you can put a bullet through your *own* head as soon as you get out of this hospital? Or by keeping his name and legacy alive?"

A bit agitated? Oh you fucker…

Are you in any way hinting you could put in your report that I’m unstable? So much for fucking solidarity between soldiers…

God I wish I was strong enough to show you just what I think of that… when people who think they’re tough see their own blood splash onto the floor they tend to get a little agitated…

I listen with seething resentment as you continue your motivational monologue - preparing to deliver a cutting response and sending you on your way for good - the problem is the more you say -

Oh god -

if Jim were here -

He’s not here!

I can’t disappoint him -

He’s NOT HERE.

Loyalty doesn’t end when things get hard, soldier.

But I’m in HELL - how can I be expected to -

You are. You ARE expected to. You KNOW you are…

(…)

So do what you need to do to get back to your fucking job.

(!!!)

“You think you’re so – fucking -“ I trail off then sigh heavily.

I raise my head to stare at you - imagining Jim staring back at me…

I shake my head.

“The greater fucking good,” I say clenching my jaw. “Right…”

My internalized Jim continues to stare intently.

I sigh again. Realize I’m nodding. Huh.

Bring on the bloody apocalypse, then. I may die for the Empire yet. But I won’t die by my own hand. Are you fucking happy now, Jim?

Bitterness and anger swirl through me like a dark fog - but there’s something else in there, something I haven’t felt for a long time. Determination.

“The physiotherapist is coming by soon. So you can just fuck right off,” I say and flap my hand at you dismissively.

You're *livid*, but - I have got through to you. I know that look. Sebastian Moran hates admitting he's wrong, but I can read that face - even when it's swollen and half-blind and -

broken -

Stop it Moriarty. You're finally getting him where you need him.

Thank fuck for that. Being your psychologist has to be the hardest role I've ever played.

But I got under your skin and found your weak point - which, unsurprisingly, is me.

I should feel more satisfied with my success. But there's -

Well. I haven't been sleeping well in that hotel. It'll all work out.

"I shall do just that.

Good luck with the physiotherapy. We'll have you out of here in no time."

I turn around, open the door, and walk off.

Chapter Text

The physiotherapist arrives shortly after. He seems surprised at my intensity - but he goes along with my desire to not only stand but take a few steps. Only I refuse to use the walker he brought - so he leaves for a short while to return with a cane - not a dapper cane with a skull handle like I would have liked, but a frumpy metal one - I guess I’m not going to enter a competition for fashionable invalids any time soon.

I grit my teeth and step away from the bed. I don’t fall. I do waver a bit but then I get my balance and take the next step. And the next.

Each step feels like a wobbly victory.

He seems cautious but pleased with my progress. Then he gives me the next level of exercises to practice, cautioning me to not overdo it.

yeah yeah. The doctors told me the same thing after the tiger attack. I always recover better when I can move.

When I drop back into the bed, I feel exhausted - but strangely enlivened.

And - I want to tear someone’s head from his body.

There are things trickling back to me now…

Things I can’t ignore.

What was all that today??

Why did you practically run to the bathroom when I finally shared how I felt. and then return almost like a new person?

And go on about my fucking mission?

And how my boss had done what he did for the greater good??

How the fuck does suicide factor into the well-being of the Empire if he’s not around to enjoy it??

And what was that about keeping his name and legacy alive?! Why would a psychologist give a shit about the legacy of a criminal and his empire?? Unless - he’s -

…

involved??

but how?!

In such a way that even Steve wouldn’t see it?

Who could pull such a thing off??

Me.

(But it sure as fuck wasn’t me.)

Or…

Jim.

…

What the fuck!! Did Jim arrange for this guy to seek me out if there was a risk of me not completing the mission?!

My heart is pounding.

Ohhh you and I are going to have a conversation, you sneaky little shit.

…

What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck!!

Back at the hotel, I still feel tired and out of sorts.

I achieved what I wanted, but I don't feel happy about it - a sure sign I am overtired. But the Empire never sleeps and I have quite a bit of monitoring to do... I hadn't planned to take time out to go psychoanalyse a fucked-up soldier.

I start up an espresso in the machine, open up my laptop yawning.

Make another espresso.

It goes untouched.

This is -

not good.

This is *very* not good.

How did Seb get on his bad side? Is this - now I'm out of the way he thinks he can wipe out the Empire? An attack of opportunity? Brains are so unpredictable. We can't say what could happen. Blood clot. So sad. Delaney charged with murder, if they can find him.

Then what? Then Steve? The rest of the Empire?

*Died peacefully in his sleep*

Sleep.

Sleep is now.

Car gets to the hotel in seven minutes. To the hospital in 12.45. I've already called the night porter. Doesn't make a lot of money. Would very much like to make more. Can drive an ambulance. Has a nurse friend.

The three of us enter the room. Quiet.

Deadly quiet?!?

No – you’re here, breathing. You wake up when I touch you, immediately tense.

"Sebastian. We're getting you out of here. No questions, no fuss. Trust me; you're in danger.

Mycroft Holmes."

The Devil has me in an interrogation room. He’s been questioning me relentlessly about why I turned my back on the Empire…

Why – why – Sebastian – why -!

Then the questioning turns sharply - to how I could have turned my back on Jim!

That’s when I get angry at the Devil.

So. Very. Angry.

I stand up. Slowly. I am shaking with rage. I lift my chair, about to throw it against the wall - destroy it, destroy everything! - but instead I turn it around, bang it hard against the floor... And sit down, turning my back on him.

Because I know it’s the very worst thing I can do.

I feel his shock. Like the impact of a bomb…

Then I hear crying…

I turn my head and see Jim there. Weeping softly. Looking - so – lost -

Jim?? But you’re the one who left me, I think in confusion.

“Silly Tiger,” you mumble, your shoulders shaking with sobs. “How could you lose yourself? For some guy!”

“You’re not some guy!” I protest, stunned. Why do you keep saying that!

“No… I’m the one true god,” you say bitterly. “Positioning my horseman for the apocalypse…”

“Horseman?” I ask stupidly. “Just one?”

“There was only ever one who counted, Tiger…” you say, standing - and touching my face tenderly. “I am the Alpha and the Omega… who is, and who was, and who is to come…”

A memory floats by. Me, drinking heavily, crazed with grief on the bedroom floor - reading from the bloody book of Revelations. Shouting lines from it… shouting them at you - but you were too dead to hear me -

“Jim?? Are you quoting - Revelations??” I ask urgently.

This feels important. Why is it important.

“I am the Living One; I was dead, and now look, I am alive for ever and ever! And I hold the keys to -“ you break off, looking panic-stricken. “No!!”

“What’s wrong??” I jump up, grasp your shoulders - so warm, so strong -

So alive -

You look behind you, and look back at me in terror.

“They will make war on the Lamb -“ you cry out, falling to the floor - and a trapdoor opens underneath you as I desperately try to hold on to you -

Jim – please – no -!

And suddenly there are hands on me. Gently covering my mouth.

Fuck.

Assess!

Panic. Heart pounding.

Dark room, beeping machines. Two people standing still next to bed - no, three.

Attack.

Wait- not a threat. A warning.

Mycroft Holmes??

Wait.

I nod. The hand is removed from my mouth. My head is spinning. Nothing makes sense. But the one thing I know how to do is follow my survival instincts. It’s the easiest thing in the world.

Someone is organizing a rescue mission - for me.

Information later.

I’m helped up. Bundled into a wheelchair. Wheeled silently down the hall… and into a lift.

Metal doors bang shut. Lift whirs to life. Descending - descending -

down down down-

“Tell me who the fuck sent you,” I say quietly. “Now.”

My voice is cold and calm.

It’s not a question.

It’s an order.

I - god I'm really out of it. Of course - you don't recognize voices, can't see people - you don't know I'm Dr Phil.

That's great - I have been thinking up this whole backstory of how he found out and decided to rescue you but I don't have to - I can just be -

Who should I be? From the Empire, yes, but someone you don't know will be easiest. Though -

No, why?

"It's Steve, Sir. Kelly found information that you're to be assassinated in your sleep - make it look like a consequence of the shooting. No data on when so we thought it expedient to get you away straightaway. We don't have a safe location arranged yet but we will - we must just get out of here now."

The night porter and his nurse friend bundle you and the drip you're hooked up to into an ambulance and we're off.

Thank fuck that you're out of there - but I am very aware that I am somewhere in Greater Manchester with an injured Tiger and two random hospital guys and no plan on my way to god knows where.

I've had better days.

Steve...

Jesus, this voice non-recognition is a serious problem.... for all I know, it's someone just pretending to be Steve!

Although he always goes by aliases - so anyone with knowledge of his true identity would have to be so deep in the guts of the Empire, that at this point it wouldn't much matter what we did. We'd most likely be fucked.

Fine. I only promised not to off myself. Doesn't mean I won't die in service to the Empire.

Blaze of glory and all that.

Although there's not much glory to be found here - in an ambulance, in a hospital gown, hooked to an IV. Still half-blind, barely able to walk, and oh yeah that pesky not knowing voices thing.

Strange that anyone would want to even bother at this point with a broken soldier with porridge for brains... the thought that I could help with anything is a fucking joke. This rescue mission under cover of darkness is feeling more and more absurd by the moment...

"So, Steve..." I say with a sigh. "You don't write, you don't call? How's life treating you these days, mate?"

"We spoke on the phone only yesterday, Sir," I reply. Shit. Your mind isn't going, is it??

"Yeah, sure, but we didn't really have much time to chat... just making conversation," you sigh. Oh. OK.

"Life is much the same as always, Sir. A little bit too adventurous at the moment. This was much too close a call for my liking - the government is getting too bold. Thinking they can touch you and cover it up - it's rather worrying."

Shit - I shouldn't be worrying you - you're severely injured and I've just taken you away from medical care except for this random night nurse -

"But I'll take care of it, Sir. The most important thing is to get you to safety. I've contacted your doctor in London, she's on her way North."

She's not a neurosurgeon though.

Shit - shit shit shit!! Who does he think he is, attacking the head of the Empire?!

If anything happens to you - Britain won't have a stone left on top of the other...

Strange being called Sir when I'm in this state... (although implying that I've forgotten that I called him yesterday makes me want to throw something at Steve's head. But he's Steve so - he gets a pass. This time.)

It's also strange to be so apathetic about this latest brush with death... in my line of work I don't get scared by it; I really don't - if anything, it gives me tingles. Like Death just blew me a cheeky kiss and reminded me about our upcoming date - someday.

(Message received, sweetheart.)

But this attempted murder was by the government - and I fucking hate the government - I'm not about to pooh-pooh that they wanted to kill me in my sleep while I was recovering from brain surgery.

Am I?

...

No.

Fuck no.

This isn't about me, anyway... this is about the Empire. And they can't have it. Fuckers.

I've been so lost for so long, even before the head injury. But now I've been metaphorically slapped out of my stupor - by my bloody psychologist which I still need to think about but... there are more pressing things to deal with. Like the fact that I'm far from my usual lethal self at the moment... more of a hindrance at this point... and it's fucking important that Steve is aware of that.

"Steve, I'm sure you're up to speed about my medical records. But I'm going to tell you this anyway. I'm not in optimal condition, so - contingency plans will have to be made. You'll have to call the shots until-" I hesitate. "Well. You should also be aware that there's no guarantee that I'll return to normal - doctors seemed optimistic but you know sometimes they're full of shit. So I still have impaired vision and I can't recognize fucking voices..." I sigh heavily. "And my brain at this moment feels like lukewarm lobster bisque."

...

God, I hate admitting to weakness...that really fucking sucked.

"So! Where the fuck are we going, Steve?" I ask with sarcastic cheer.

I have no idea!

I just raced to the hospital and got you out! But you need medical care - and I can't take you to a medical centre - I will need to kidnap a neurosurgeon -

"I am not sure, Sir. Priority was to get you out straightaway because we didn't know when they were planning to strike, just that it would be when you were asleep. We have safe houses around Manchester, but no specialist medical staff. That will take time."

I turn to the nurse. "Do you have any insight into what care our patient needs?"

He looks startled. "I don't know - I don't work in the ICU. I don't have the patient's records..."

I manage to keep my curse internal.

"Let me get those for you..." I hand him my laptop with the file open. He reads through it.

"OK... he'll need some medication. Therapy - I guess can wait - he can eat solid foods but nothing that creates crumbs; that could make him choke. The wound will need care - I guess I can do that."

"You *guess*?!" I hiss, barely holding on to my temper. "I'll order the medications listed - give me that." I seize back my laptop, start contacting traders. "Anything else he needs?"

"Well - medical supervision. He was in ICU because he needed 24/7 monitoring so that if something happened to him, they would be able to give him the care he needed. ICU nurses have lots of specialist training that I don't have - and of course there are doctors available. We don't have all that..."

"What use *are* you!?" I shout, making him cringe - no, Jim, Steve wouldn't do that. Deep breath.

"We have a doctor coming. Is there any equipment she needs that's not in this ambulance?"

He looks around. "Look, I'm doing what I can, but I am definitely not qualified for this. If you'd rather I leave and you pick up someone more experienced in ICU care..."

"We most definitely will try but you are staying here till we find someone," I growl.

"Alright," he says, "but I am not responsible if something happens to him. I am not claiming to know anywhere near enough about him and his condition."

I want to scream.

I listen to the conversation taking place in fascination - the unfolding drama in the back of the ambulance is actually far more interesting than the plot against me.

Why does Steve sound like - that. Like he’s furious… trying to stave off a meltdown… and possibly about to throttle a nurse? Normally he’s calm, collected, cool as a cucumber… a consummate professional Steve is, no matter what’s happening around us. What the fuck happened while I was gone, to make him on the verge of freaking out like this??

Is it because Jim died and then I nearly died and - if we’re both gone, then - he’s the heir of a criminal empire? And that is not what he wants… he’s very intelligent and very capable, but our Steve has simple desires. He wants to work diligently in the background, and would prefer to not get killed so he can retire one day.

Has all this upheaval finally gotten too much for him?? Shit… that is not good news for the Empire…

I listen to the nurse tell Steve he’s not responsible for whatever happens to me. Steve’s silence feels like a ticking bomb about to blow apart the vehicle.

Jesus…

“Here’s an idea! Everyone can calm the fuck down right now,” I say lazily. “The doctor will be able to direct us as to what we need in terms of personnel - and from there we’ll have a better idea of equipment and medication. We’ve been in way more fucked-up situations than this and we got through them fine. I don’t think I’ll expire before everything’s sorted...” I tilt my head quizzically. “I’ll certainly try my best not to… I’m so looking forward to eating that non-crummy food that won’t make me choke…” I say drily.

Hey look at that… I took control. Assessed the situation. And even provided much-needed levity in the face of everything potentially going pear-shaped.

You’d almost think I was an elite black ops soldier… will wonders never fucking cease.

Oh.

Oh we get Commander Moran -

Of course I've seen you instruct your men and I've always found it - quite sexy, how calm, capable, and in command you are. But usually when I watch you I'm there, so you defer to me and pass on my orders. I know you can think for yourself, but it's really good to see it in person - you're defusing a volatile situation by laying out positive options, lessening worries, and using humour.

Very commendable.

It's just a little vexing that *I* was part of the volatile situation. I mean - I'm volatile, everyone knows that, but usually I don't *panic*. I am too many steps ahead of the game for that.

So - you're right. Calm the fuck down right now.

The doctor is en route - we need to head to a safe house, wait for her, and discuss the medical requirements with her.

Do I kidnap an ICU nurse? Or wait for her?

Both are risky but the latter might risk your health - so ICU kidnap it is.

Wait.

Wait Jim you're not *thinking*. Don't kidnap someone - just hire one. Get Zammit on it.

And for fuck's sake, start using that head of yours. Four people in this ambulance and the one with the brain damage is the only one who's making any sense.

"You're very right, Sir," I say. I tell the driver to keep driving round - I don't want him to go to the safe house, because I can't trust him. I got in touch with one of our own drivers who's confident she can drive an ambulance, so she can take over when we're ready to go there. I'll have to dump the non-ICU nurse as well beforehand, which means we're not going there until we have either an ICU nurse or the doctor in situ.

"How are you doing Sir? Is there anything you need?"

Please don't drop dead because we unplugged you from anything essential. None of it *looked* crucial but I am not a medic.

I always knew how much I relied on my instincts to survive impossible odds... Now that my physical senses have been impaired, it's interesting to note that I seem to be assessing what I can only describe as the energy of a situation - far more consciously than I'm accustomed to!

And maybe most people would find that cringey and airy-fairy, but they're not in life-or-death scenarios as often as I am...

they haven't survived impossible odds like I have...

aaaand they can go fuck themselves.

If this heightened intuitive approach helps me answer the questions, 'what's going to get me killed' and 'is this a threat to the Empire?", then that's all I need to fucking know.

Right now, I'm honing in on the vibe in the ambulance - it's still a high-tension environment, but not quite as ready to explode into anger and violence as before.

...

Anger and violence. From Steve.

Huh.

I'm having a hard time accepting this development...

Then Steve asks if there's anything I need. Yes. God yes.

"In fact, there is something, mate. What I really need is a cigarette..." I say casually - but there's no hiding the longing in my voice.

A cigarette?

I look at the nurse. He shrugs.

"I think it's a risk if he coughs," he responds.

"I won't cough," you growl.

"That's easy for you to say, but it's a reflex - Sir."

"I will not cough. I may, however, get violent. And that might hurt me - and others. Who knows?"

"Look - wait until we see the doctor. If she says you can have a cigarette without risk, or with minimal risk, you can, Sir. It's too risky when we don't know the dangers and we don't have qualified medical personnel." I glare at the nurse, who looks like he's regretting his choice to join this escapade.

"We can pick you up some nicotine tablets?"

"I don't want nicotine tablets," I snap. "Forget it."

Shit. Now Steve isn't the only one on the edge... I should probably try to get myself back to where I was a moment ago.

But I can't be arsed.

I'm on the run from the government, everything's a mess, Steve is not acting like Steve, and -

something's missing.

Something that was keeping me focused and centred and -

Really??

Him??

I wanted to punch the bloody psychologist more times than I can count, and now I - miss him?

Not him exactly - just his visits. I kind of enjoyed our adversarial dynamic -

...

What, it's not that weird... it was keeping me from going off the deep end!

That's really fucking sweet, Moran - and yes it is that weird! So what the hell do you want to do about it?

"Steve, in lieu of a cigarette -" I hear myself say. "Since it'll bring on the end of the fucking world - there's something else you can get me..."

"What's that, Sir...?"

"The psychologist I asked you to research."

"Yes, Sir... what about him?"

"That's it. I want you to get him for me." I wave my hand vaguely in the direction of Steve's voice. "I suppose you'll have to abduct him, so he can't rat us out. Take care of it, would you?" I say with a yawn.

What -

*What?!*

Why do you want Dr Phil??

What's he - how has he -

*You don't fancy him, do you?!?*

... this is the weirdest existential crisis ever.

Right. I guess - we can get Dr Phil back on board while Steve goes about his business. I am *very* intrigued as to what you have to say to him.

Fuck you Seb - days of trying to get rid of him and now you want him?

But Steve would not ask. Steve just gets.

"We'll be right on it, Sir," I reply. The nurse looks even more nervous now - we'll have to take care of him, I suppose.

And there's another issue - the driver and the doctor do not have brain damage or visual issues. They can't see me. So I have to hand you over to them while I stay out of sight, take care of the nurse and night porter, and then somehow produce Dr Phil but keep him away from the doctor taking care of you... who *would* want to speak to him.

Fuck this. *I* need a cigarette.

The ride takes forever. Steve spends most of the time checking messages and making calls. I sleep on and off. And in between, I listen to what's going on around me -

Steve is getting shit done - but in moments still sounds like he's on the verge of snapping. Very concerning.

By the time we arrive at our destination, I consider that technically speaking I have no way of knowing for certain this is Steve - the thought has been lurking in the back of my mind since his abduction of me from the hospital.

I can't verify his identity visually or by voice, which is very inconvenient.

The words he uses and the way he speaks is all Steve. But I've never seen Steve with such an uneven temperament...

However, he deftly takes care of Empire business like only Steve could - right down to arranging for an abduction of a psychologist without a second thought - as if he were ordering a pizza.

Mmm. Pizza. When's the last time I ate? Dinner.

Never mind - I don't want to add to his stress by asking about a crumbless breakfast. I'm in no danger but – he sounds like he's considering throwing the nurse out the back of the ambulance if anyone rubs him the wrong way.

...

Which is not something an irritated Steve would do.

Jim on the other hand...

...

Yes. Except Jim. Is dead.

Maybe he's throwing people from vehicles in the afterlife... but it has no relevance to what's going on in the back of this ambulance.

When I'm not asleep I test him subtly, asking coded questions about Empire business. To Steve it will just seem like I'm getting caught up on what I missed - but if he wavers I'll know something isn't right.

He doesn't waver.

Is it weird that I feel almost... disappointed?

Yes, Moran. It's weird that you've proven to yourself that Steve is who he says he is - and that you haven't been abducted by some psycho - and you're feeling disheartened about this. Someone's in need of therapy...

Speaking of which - I guess it's good that I have an upcoming session with my psychologist! Let's see how he likes non-consensual therapy...

Zammit is working to get an ICU nurse from a different hospital. The doctor is still in her car driving north. Both will take a while because I haven't worked out teleportation yet, which is very inconvenient.

I keep hassling the nurse to check your vitals so he's constantly monitoring *something*, though I suspect half the time it's just so I don't harass him.

Finally Zammit texts to say they have an ICU nurse and will get her to the safe house. Thank fuck.

The driver is also ready to be deployed - but I can't let her see me. God damn it - this is like some Shakespeare comedy of errors except it's *not funny*.

I tell the night porter become ambulance driver to park in a quiet street. As he's doing so, I slit the throat of the incompetent nurse, let him slide noiselessly to the ground. Then I do the same to the night porter, shove him onto the passenger seat. We can get rid of them when we're in the safe house - I chose one with a large garage that we can just drive the ambulance into so the nurse and doctor can use the equipment in there. I text the doctor the address so she knows where to go.

Now I just need to disappear before the driver gets here. I get out of the ambulance, climb over a garden wall. Text her that I (Steve) had to attend to something but the ambulance is waiting for her.

I'm half asleep when I hear Steve telling the driver where to park. And then there's the distinctive sound of a throat being slit - I grow very alert very quickly and fumble about looking for anything that could be used as a weapon. My hand closes over something metallic - with enough force, this could do some damage...

That was Steve talking to the driver wasn't it? But hopefully not getting killed??

FUCK. I squint from my stretcher but it's dark in here, and - oh listen to that, another throat being cut...

SHIT. That better be Steve doing the killing, or I'm fucked -

...

Is he - texting?

...

Is he leaving?

...

What the fuck? Why didn't he say anything?! Why didn't he leave me a burner phone?

I'm a sitting duck in here... unless that was the plan all along??

Calm down, Moran... Assess.

Do I trust that it really was Steve and that everything is going according to plan? Or do I flee? I'm in an unknown location - in a hospital gown - with impaired vision, no phone, no money... and with the government planning my assassination...

Hmm, tempting... but I guess I'll go with Plan A and trust that the unknown voice was Steve - and if it's not -

I heft the metal implement in my hand. I'm far from my usual strength, but - it's not the first time I've been weak and injured and had to kill someone horribly with a random object, fuelled by pure adrenaline.

My ability to murder effectively in less than ideal circumstances is not even a question. The bomb is me... it always has been.

It takes forever - well, seven minutes - for the driver to show up. Maybe I should have warned her that there's a corpse in the passenger seat, but then she's a professional - she only pauses for a second before moving into the driving seat and heading off.

I sink against the garden wall, sighing.

Now what.

I will have to phone the doctor when she's there - fortunately I am good enough at Steve's voice to do him across a phone line. I want her there 24/7 monitoring you - but maybe she and the ICU nurse can take turns and I can appear as Dr Phil during one of the nurse's shifts... Just hope that she hasn't followed the trial too closely. I'll dye my hair, put on some fake tan; that should take care of that.

Oh yes - I was going to sleep at some point, wasn't I...

I'll get a hotel nearer the safe house; there's a Premier Inn around the corner - which is an affront but at least their beds are comfortable. I'll get my luggage packed by the other hotel and sent over...

I sigh again.

*Fucking* Mycroft Holmes. If *anything* happens to Sebastian, I'll cut out baby Sherlock's organs in alphabetical order while he watches.

I climb back over the garden wall and hail a taxi to get me to the Premier Inn.

The madcap escape in the night, followed by all that driving...

Then the spurt of unexpected violence, followed by more driving...

And then finally being taken into what I assume is a safe house, to be set up in a garage that functions as a makeshift hospital room -

and then waiting for the doctor, without any word from anyone about what's happening...

Fuck - I may as well be back in the SAS.

Hurry up and escape death, now wait! Assess erupting danger, now wait!

...

And where the fuck did Steve go!

Why did he just disappear like that!

I didn't handle it well being treated like a mindless wind-up soldier back in the day - I sure as fuck don't appreciate it now.

I sigh and turn over in the bed - trying to make out details in the room through the cursed fog.

God - at least with the Regiment, we were all in the same boat - sometimes literally.

We could all gripe about the military brass who made decisions on our behalf - and who had no fucking clue what we were capable of when we were given support and autonomy to run things the way we saw fit.

Now who can I curse to high heaven and laugh with about my impending death? And then get debauched and plastered with when I live to see another day?

No one.

The only reason it didn't tear me apart to be out of the SAS was Jim. Because I didn't have to gripe about idiocy at the top. He was a force of nature - I was in fucking awe of him. And I had endless resources at my disposal, and autonomy to carry out my missions. And when I did well - fuck me. Our celebrations made the SAS seem downright adolescent by comparison… Schoolboys running amok in the desert with explosives and drink. And don't misunderstand me - I loved every single whisky-soaked, blood-stained, adrenaline-drunk second of it.

But with Jim... I didn't feel like one of a gang anymore.

I felt - Singled out. Special.

Even - yeah I'll admit it now - cherished. In his way... he really made me feel it. I was his darling deadly boy - his Tiger. The only one who was allowed to get close - to see him. The true Jim, peeking behind the mask.

How I lived for those moments - and the more I saw of him, the more my armour weakened - until I began to feel that monstrous force I'd always feared and craved in equal measure -

Intimacy.

And all the stings and cuts and bruises that come with someone holding your heart in their bloody hand.

I let out a muffled sob. This is - too fucking much!! What good did it do me??

I was yours, Jim - but why did you not understand that you were mine as well??

I was waiting for you to see! And sometimes it seemed you were getting so close -

I could see it in your eyes - the longing.

For me. Don't think for an instant that I didn't see it - even if I said nothing! Because I knew you had to reach this realization yourself...

And maybe you would have - if you hadn't got so fucking obsessed with the fucking detective. That petty - little - game! And all the immense consequences that followed...

It's almost like you needed something trivial to -

suddenly the fog in my vision seems to grow thin - and just for a moment, I see the room. It's still hazy but - I saw it.

I close my eyes, my heart racing. When I open them again, the blasted fog is back.

But for an instant I saw - everything.

I exhale sharply. It's coming back slowly - my vision. Just like they said it would likely happen. Maybe recognizing voices will return next...

And when I get my strength back - which is only a matter of time -

I'll truly be your Tiger again. Ready to wreak unholy vengeance in your name, until it fucking kills me.

My stuff gets delivered and the ICU nurse arrives at the safe house. I get in touch straightaway, ask how you are doing, if she needs anything. She replies in a calm and professional voice that she can tell me that if I give her a chance to check on you, and she will call me back.

I seethe but hang up, start rummaging through my laptop, checking, double-checking, and triple-checking that the safe house has not been compromised. I can't find anything. The plan to assassinate Sebastian Moran has been abandoned - his disappearance has been noted, but it doesn't look like they're about to start a chase, thank fuck. More an opportunistic move than a major objective then.

A dark hot rage rises inside me.

An opportunistic move.

Killing Sebastian Moran.

How. Dare-

My phone rings. I snatch it up.

The nurse tells me that you're in fine condition - a bit excited and tired out by the trip, but all vitals are fine and you've eaten and drunk.

I find myself asking if it would be dangerous for you to have a cigarette now.

She reckons it's not ideal, because smoking never is, but it won't immediately endanger you. You cheer in the background.

She won't need any extra equipment, and the medication I ordered was fine, and she'll tell the doctor to get in touch when she arrives.

She hangs up.

I realize I am pacing.

Ugh. I hate pacing.

Someone arrives in the house - I tense as footsteps approach, and squeeze the metallic object in my hand that I have not let go of since the ambulance.

The person enters the room, introduces herself and tells me she's an ICU nurse. For all I know she's a bloodthirsty assassin - or a crazy person who's wandered in off the street. But the crisp tone she takes when someone calls (Steve?) tells me she's the real deal.

She then begins to do a nurse-like assessment of the setup and my vitals. She very well could be bloodthirsty or crazy - but if so I'll deal with that scenario when it rears its ugly head.

The nurse makes a call and gives a report. And then considers my request for a cigarette - granted.

Fuck YES.

I love you, Steve.

"Right. One cigarette, please," I say with a grin.

"Strangely enough, cigarettes aren't included with the medical supplies," she says wryly.

"Well surely you can talk to someone to run out and grab a pack..." I say in my most charming Sebastian Moran voice. "I haven't had a fag since the accident, and I'm gagging for one -"

Silence.

"Please?" I wheedle. And then I smile in her direction - few women can resist me when I'm on a charm offensive, as I recall. But I have no idea what I look like since the accident... and what if - that part of me died when Jim did? Not that I cared after he died, I didn't think I'd have use for it ever again - but I really need that cigarette.

"I'll be eternally grateful... and a model patient," I say with a wink.

She sighs. "I'll go and find someone... in a moment."

OK... well that's something... As she finishes up her work, my mind returns to what's happening that I don't see.

Steve is keeping close tabs on me... but still not communicating. He didn't think of getting me a phone to stay in contact? What the fuck? It is very unlike him not to think of these things... What's got his attention?

"Can you ask Steve for a phone for me as well, lovely?" I ask, making sure my voice sounds sweet as honey.

It's weird to hear the doctor's voice again. She's one of the people who's seen me at my weakest and will take the least of my bullshit - the other one is you. Of course now it's Steve she's speaking with.

She sounds tired, a bit concerned. She's not a neurologist and you really need to be in a neurology department. The ICU nurse agrees - oh great. Go gang up on me. However, she's smart enough to realize that that is impossible at the moment, and suggests calling in a colleague of hers who does specialize in neurology. And, of course, is utterly discreet when it comes to sensitive clients.

It almost makes me snigger to hear her refer to you as a sensitive client, but I'm torn - on the one hand, every person extra we get out is another potential security risk - on the other hand, there doesn't appear to be an active hunt for Sebastian Moran right now and you have a fucking *hole in your head*. The other hand is a lot bigger. Yes - get the neurologist, let me know if you need anything or anyone else - Mr Moran's survival and full recovery are always primary. Secrecy is essential but only insofar as it doesn't hinder Mr Moran's recovery.

She promises she'll get in touch with her colleague in the morning; no, Sir, there is no need to get her here tonight, Mr Moran is perfectly fine, and would benefit from some good sleep.

Reluctantly I agree, then go and look up this neurologist. She's done some work with the Empire before, at a much lower level, and was both good, fast, and careful. Alright.

I read one paragraph for the third time when I realize I'm sagging and my eyes are falling shut. I guess I need to sleep as well, at some point...

Premier Inn do have good beds. Ugly as sin, but they wrap you in their springs as if you're their long-lost lover returned and they'll never let you go...

The doctor is next to arrive - apparently the one I'm used to seeing. Not that I would know. But it does feel like a relief - I subtly test her too, and yes she is who she says she is. Even if I hadn't asked her those questions, I'd be able to tell by her dry humour.

"How are you doing under these difficult circumstances, Mr Moran?" she asks as she reads through my file.

"Oh you know - living the dream..." I say in an airy voice. "Who needs perfect vision - or any vision at all? And I scoff at recognizing voices. It makes life so much more exciting..."

"Yes... just what you need after being literally shot in the head," she remarks, flipping through the pages. Jesus - how much information is in there?

"One more accomplishment to add to my CV..." I sigh.

"It's been a hard year for you, Mr Moran..." she says. I hear her closing the file and putting it down.

I shift uncomfortably. "Is there a question in there - or is still coming?"

"No question. Just a statement. It's understandable that you'd have a difficult time coping with this latest development after all the upheaval in your life."

"In my work," I correct her, making sure to sound casual. Why am I still hiding the nature of my relationship with Jim? It's not for him... secrecy is just second nature at this point.

Deny, deny, deny...

lie, lie, lie...

"Yes, your work," she says after a pause. "Well - just don't push yourself too hard to get back to it. You still need to recover physically before you can return to work in the capacity that you're used to. In the meantime, I think we can go to the next level of physical rehab - As for the voice recognition, you're far more likely to recover this if you let yourself truly rest and heal. It will come back with a bit more time, I'm sure of it. And I can give you some vision improvement exercises you can practice."

I perk up. "Vision improvement?"

"Have you noticed any change?" she asks.

"Yeah - when I arrived there was a moment - I could see the room. Still blurry, but the fog was gone -"

"That's a good sign. All right, here's what I want you to practice up to three times a day. Ten times per exercise. Just let yourself rest in between the exercises if your eyes feel strained..."

She proceeds to take me through some very thorough, very boring exercises - moving my eyes diagonally - vertically - horizontally - in arcs, up and down - through varying degrees of distances - as well as blinking rapidly - and finally, covering my open eyes with my palms and staring into the darkness, watching the residual light in my vision and how it shifts -

By the time I'm done - my eyes feel tired but my vision feels slightly less foggy.

"That totally helped! Why the fuck did no one show me this before?" I demand.

"You may not have been ready before, Mr Moran... but medical professionals are just people with specific training, after all - mainly in their field. It doesn't mean they know everything there is to know..." she says loftily. "Now I'm going to let you rest, and I'll be back to check on you in a bit."

I consider this as she walks away. Well thank Christ she knew... I look around the room at the colours and shapes.

Satisfied, I lie back and close my eyes.

I wake up in a state of high alertness, grab my laptop and my phone, look at any reports I've received. The doctor mentions she prescribed you an eye exercise that might help restore your vision quicker - good, of course, but something to be aware of. For now it's still blurry though.

She's already been in touch with her neurologist friend who can be persuaded to come over for a small fortune, which *of course* we'll pay.

She's arranged that she'll be with you till 10 am, then the ICU nurse will take over so she can get some sleep. I look at the time - 8:46. Excellent. That gives me some time to buy hair dye and fake tan and apply it.

When Dr Phil gets to the safe house, he's dark blond with skin a nice shade from probably a recent holiday - deeper than any I've ever achieved naturally. The ICU nurse tells me you've slept well, have had a problemless breakfast, and will be happy to see me.

I walk into the room.

"I missed you too, Sebastian, but there was no reason to *kidnap* me. I do hope we can come to some arrangement to ensure that I can actually walk out of here after our chat, or I'm going to be too distracted by my impending death to be on top of my game."

Somebody is in the house... talking to the nurse... heading towards me...

Ohh. Is it -?

A smile spreads slowly across my face as you greet me.

Well done, Phil – your words sound more surly and sarcastic than scared. I guess you would have made a good soldier after all...

"Philip! Pardon me for not getting up. If you were given the impression that your life is in danger, I do apologize -" I say, press my hand against my chest. "Of course you'll be allowed to walk out - and paid handsomely for your troubles - if we can reach an understanding that your mouth will be kept firmly shut. I'm sure as a former soldier, you understand the need for secrecy - and the consequences of not following orders?"

"Of course," you say.

I chuckle. Oh I'm so glad I decided to do this... I'm in a better mood already.

"Have a seat, sweetheart. You may as well get comfy..."

You drag a chair over to me - scraping it across the floor and banging it next to the bed rather pointedly.

"Now Phil... you did some very impressive research into my background. Given what you think you know about me - is it really so surprising that this is the way I do things?" I say with a grin. "Anyway you should be pleased to know I did get something helpful out of our sessions together - but I wasn't quite ready to say goodbye. Shall we pick up where we left off, doc?"

You little shit. I'm curious though - it's good to know Dr Phil was getting through to you.

I am scanning you for any signs of deterioration or discomfort, but you seem to be doing well - a lot better than in the hospital. You do hate hospitals... and even though you're bed-bound, you're in charge of what's happening to you now, and that has significantly improved your mood. Good. I didn't like seeing the shell of a man that I saw in that room...

"I'm *deeply* honoured that you found our sessions so helpful, Sebastian. I didn't always get that impression while we were talking - but I do understand the frustration with being stuck in a bed and passed from doctor to therapist to psychologist.

So - what made you decide you couldn't possibly do without my witty banter for another day?"

"Oh I found our sessions enlightening - eventually. If I seemed cranky, it's because the situation was intolerable... also you're an arrogant pain in the arse," I say with a smirk. "And in all honesty - I want to talk more because I'm fucking bored. I don't need any more reason than that."

What I don't say is that there are red flags here that can't be ignored - and I need to figure them out. Is it all in my head, or - is there more to you than meets the eye? Vision-impaired though that eye may be...

I squint and see through the haze - light-coloured hair. A man who's not very tall or big. But I still can't make out your face. Fuck.

I sit up with a sigh.

"You were the one bright spot during my hospital stay, my honey - and as I'm still recovering, you're still of value to me. So go ahead - do your thing."

"*I* am an arrogant pain in the arse. Well look who's talking - Mr so high and mighty he kidnaps people to take care of him when he no longer fancies staying in the hospital. And not just people to take care of him - someone to *talk to* because he is *bored*.

I am glad I was the highlight of your stay. I was hardly the most essential part, but I'll assume you have a full physical team in a lockup somewhere as well."

You grin. "They're being handsomely paid, as you will be. No need to feel sorry for anyone here."

"Right." Well that's enough curiosity from Dr Phil - I don't think he needs to pry further quite at this moment.

"So - when we parted yesterday we had just had a fascinating religious debate, after which you requested I, and I quote, 'fuck right off', which I duly did.

Why don't we pick up there? What did you think about what I said?"

Chapter Text

I chuckle during your lofty rant - fair enough. You have every right to be peevish... much good may it do you!

Now you know how I felt during our sessions, darling...

"Oh yes, let's return to when you fucked off... you know, I thought long and hard about what you said. And other than wanting to tear your head off and throwing it down a flight of stairs, I thought you made some valid points."

"That is just great to hear, Sebastian... so would you say you're feeling motivated to return to your mission once you're recovered?"

I can’t help but smile at your words - still professional on the surface, but sharp enough to cut glass.

"Mmm - well you were right that it doesn't honour the legacy of my boss to quit. So I won't off myself. If I get killed in the line of duty, of course - that's another story. It does seem likely given how many people want me dead lately. So I guess that's in the hands of Fate..." I say with an offhanded shrug.

Fuck I wish I could see your expression...

"So. Would you say I'm fixed now, doc? In your professional opinion..."

"You look a lot better, to be fair," I muse.

"In the hospital you seemed a shell of a man. I could see the soldier behind it, the man who wouldn't take shit from anyone, clever, resilient, tough as nails. But it looked like - I don't know. Like I was looking at him through a broken lens. You seemed defeatist, someone who'd given up.

Now - you look like a man in charge, who knows what he wants, which is not being in a hospital and being told what to do. You look - more alive, more alert, more determined.

I wouldn't call you *fixed* - I don't think anyone can be fixed; we're all fucked up in one way or another. As Winston said in Orwell's 1984, perhaps a lunatic is simply a minority of one - some forms of fucked-upness are culturally accepted, others aren't, yet others are only in specific circumstances - like in the SAS.

I don't think I've ever met a fully sane person. What a boring life that would be. Would drive you mad."

I consider this. Have I changed that much since leaving the hospital?

I guess I do feel different... not back to my old self, by any means. That Sebastian Moran is long gone... he disappeared when Jim did.

Pain stabs at my guts.

Not now.

But I can remember what it was like being Sebastian Moran, at least….

"Mmm. Good luck finding someone in the SAS who isn't already partway mad," I say with a feral grin. "Any organizations like special forces, intelligence, organized crime - the people who can do this kind of work well are attracted to it for a reason. And it ain't for their mental health, sweetheart. That's why I was putting up a fuss about our sessions, you know - was the counselling meant to make me mentally healthy? Or more functional for work? I thought it was Option A at first, which was just laughable. But by the end -" I point my finger in your direction.

"You seemed more inclined to push for Option B... which worked frighteningly well, I'll admit. Well done, doc. But I'm curious - why did it matter to you?"

"Why did what matter?" you say calmly.

Oh is that how you're going to play it?

I roll my eyes. "Pushing me to return to work."

Because I need you to run my bleeding empire, puppet...

"Look at you," I nod at you, then realize you can't see that and you also can't look at you.

"You're ten times the man I saw in the hospital. You are making plans, taking action, grimly determined to get back on your feet not to put a bullet through your head, but to get back to the work that you told me was so immensely important to you. As far as mental health treatments go, I'd say that was a success. I needed to find the angle - the thing that makes you tick, that makes you want to live. It can be something so small for some people, quite random - a plant they're taking care of even.

You are taking care of your Boss's legacy. It is clear that he was very important to you, and that that is the only thing left of him. It makes sense that that is what you want to live for.

Like all medical personnel, my first duty is to preserve life. I couldn’t do anything to your body - your brain - but I could take action on your mind."

You respond, cool as a cucumber. I had a line of questioning planned... but the problem is, I can't even refute what you say. Yes your approach in the hospital room, unorthodox thought it may have been, was bloody effective - and I'm the living proof.

Fine. You block my move with a bulletproof argument? I've got artillery.

I'm not used to interrogating from a hospital bed when I'm weak and visually impaired, but let's just see what I can do -

I laugh. "Got me there, mate. I wasn't expecting a drill sergeant to return to the room, but it did the trick. I meant to ask you then, but things escalated fairly quickly," I say with a wry smile. "Are you feeling better now?"

"Feeling - better?" you ask questioningly.

"Yeah you tore off toward the toilet like you were on fire. I assumed you had a stomach bug or food poisoning... but maybe it's something more serious like IBS? Colitis? Any critical health issues we need to be aware of, Phil?" I say, my voice cheerful as fuck.

"Yes, mild IBS. Nothing to worry about - I will occasionally dart to the toilet, but other than that there's nothing wrong with me.

What's that got to do with anything?”

"Hm? Oh - nothing," I say with a shrug. "It's just - I know such conditions can be exacerbated by stress... is it troubling you now?"

"Nothing to be concerned about. As I said, it's mild..." you say casually.

Wondering where I'm going with this? Well I'll just tell you, sweetheart...

"Right - you did say. So it's not flaring up when you've been abducted and you're unsure whether you'll live or die. But it did cause distress immediately after I told you I divulged my mental state Is my wellbeing worth more than yours, Dr Phil?" I press my hand to my heart. "I'm touched."

What the fuck are you playing at Sebastian? Torturing Dr Phil? Trying to get him to admit to - something? What?

"I am glad you are. But that's not how it works - I don't get issues immediately I'm in a stressful situation. Stress can exacerbate the symptoms in general, but yesterday was just because I'd overdone the whiskey the night before.

Now - can we move on from the state of my bowels to the state of your mind and body, or did you bring me here to turn the tables and quiz me about my health?"

"I'm so glad you're ok. I'd like to think we share a special bond now, after my trauma - and now yours -" I flash a smile at you. "And I do want to get back to the state of my mind and body - it's just - I don't trust people easily, could you tell? So I'd love your help with clearing up a couple of questions, so I can speak freely..."

You sigh. Was that - irritation? Interesting...

"I'm at your disposal, Sebastian. What do you want to know?"

Oh you are irritated...

but not scared?

"Given the secret you divulged to me - and then the kiss - I know you said it was to give me blackmail material but - do you want to fuck me, Phil?"

"What?"

Was that shock? Or - more irritation?

Interesting response...

"What? You're not into special forces soldiers? I know I'm not at peak condition right now, but - Christ, give a guy some time to recover!" I say, pretending to be indignant.

What the *fuck* are you playing at! Sebastian!

"What are you trying to do? Unnerve your psychologist? Why on earth would you do that?"

I lean my ankle on my knee.

"As a rule, I don't fuck clients. I also don't generally fuck convalescents."

Except you, but that will for now remain unsaid.

"But once you're fully recovered, and can actually see me and hear my voice clearly, I'm happy to talk again.

Now. What are you trying to achieve with these questions about me?"

Unnerve? But kissing a convalescent is fine?

I'm so close to snapping back, but I manage to keep a neutral face and then give an exaggerated shrug.

"Can't blame a fellow for trying, right?" I say, giving you a half-smile. "What am I trying to achieve? Well we find ourselves in rather unusual circumstances, Phil... and I just want everything finally on the table. You've been saying your only motivation is to help me get strong enough to get back to my mission. To the extent of saying you'd give whatever report I wanted to the hospital. And kissing me - a convalescent - to give me blackmail material, so I know I can trust you. None of this ever added up, sweetheart - but I have a few possible explanations floating around my mind... which has admittedly seen better days, so please bear with me -

A) You want to fuck me - thanks, sugar - and it's making you act irrationally

B) You're in love with me - that’s so sweet - and it's making you act irrationally

C) You're such a giver, you want to help your patients no matter what, even at the cost of your own career

Regarding A and B: you didn't take me up on an easy fuck - but you might be playing the long game. Possible - but seems unlikely. Let’s put a pin in scenario A and B, for now.

C is fucking adorable, but then - I'm not a starry-eyed hippie who believes people are that good and sweet. Hard pass on that one."

I pause, steepling my fingers together in front of my lips. Did I steal your move, Jim? Whatever - if anyone knows gesturing for dramatic effect it's you, you little shit-

A wave of missing you hits me so hard, I nearly lose my breath.

Fuck -

I push this aside angrily.

"I'm wondering if there's a scenario D, Phil. I'm told your story checks out on the surface - psychologist, military background - so neat and tidy, but I wonder if there's more to it. Do you have your own agenda? One that involves making sure I achieve my mission no matter what?

And if so - who hired you? I won't be mad about the subterfuge, Phil... I just need to know -"

I need to know what Jim was thinking about me towards the end! Now fucking tell me!

The next words out of my mouth tumble out in a mad rush.

"What's your mission and who hired you? Was it Jim?!"

My heart is pounding. It wasn't part of the plan to say that.

And I don't care!!

"Tell me exactly what you were fucking told to do, soldier!!"

...

what.

What.

*What!?*

Thoughts jumble over each other in my mind. There's pride at your cleverness and your dissection of the possibilities - that's *definitely* something you picked up from me. You were always an attentive student.

And yes, Dr Phil did kind of build up everything with duct tape and paperclips, improvising, rather than having a sustained plan - which is very unlike me!

And as I am racking my brain to try to find a suitable excuse for everything I've done, you -

offer it to me on a silver platter.

oh that is brilliant Sebastian -

Jim hired Dr Phil to make sure Seb would stay the course! Not necessarily a psychologist - he could have turned up in any guise; Jim would have given him several backgrounds that would withstand a check.

I could kiss you. What a great idea. It will make you listen to Dr Phil and stop being so recalcitrant. Brilliant, absolutely brilliant.

"Alright - he figured you might work it out. I wasn't to volunteer the information, but not to deny it if you did.

Yes - it was Jim Moriarty who hired me to keep an eye on you.”

My heart slams in my chest.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

I was right??

I knew there was something more to the story, but -

I was right?!

Jim sent you to what, be my babysitter??

"How - exactly - do you know Jim?" I say steadily. But my brain is going haywire...

"And what – exactly - did he tell you to do? Step in if things got messy - and be my fucking life coach?!"

Do I sound angry, Phil? Because I am fucking angry...

Right.

Yes.

What the fuck was Jim thinking. Why on earth did he get someone to babysit the toughest man in Britain.

"I have several identities I can fall back on. All of them have an army background, as that's something you respect, he said. I was just to keep an eye on things - I get updates from Steve, but I'm not sure he knows who I am.

I got the impression that he had a pretty good idea of what every cog in the Empire would do, except for its head, which was the most important piece. I had to keep an eye on it, and if you were to go rogue or give up or self-sabotage - I was to try to step in."

Except that didn't happen because Jim had *no idea* any of this was a possibility, did he...

"Your covers all have an army background," I repeat. "So you don't have an army background? Was that supposed to inspire a fucking Pavlovian response? 'In the army, you say! That's something I can respect, old boy!" I say in an idiotic posh voice. "God, how predictable he must think me - thought! Fuck!!"

I cover my face with my hands, struggling to regulate my breathing.

When I manage, I drop my hands onto the blanket and ball them into fists.

"So you were hired to monitor the situation and step in if I fell out of line," I say through gritted teeth. "That would be a handy chess piece to have on the board, wouldn't it! Keep the knight from freaking out if the king shoots himself in the head... oh wait - if I'm the most important piece, then I'm the bloody queen..." I mutter. "How fitting..."

"How is it fitting, Sebastian?" you ask, back to sounding like a psychologist.

"Like Queen Victoria... mourning her prince... for the rest of her life..." I say, shaking my head. "Carrying on like the fucking Widower of Conduit Street! Here I am behaving like we were a couple... but if Jim could see me like this, I'm sure he'd be laughing his arse off... 'Get a grip, Your Majesty!'" I say in my best Jim voice, and give a choked laugh.

*I don't sound like that!* I think peeved.

*Do I?*

*Not* the issue Moriarty.

Would I laugh my arse off?

Maybe...

it is -

silly -

"No, I have an army background... that part was true. And I did study psychology after. I'm just not a doctor - I went into more lucrative areas. Which is how Mr Moriarty found me. I am - persuasive. As are you - just in a different way. I find the button to press, and press it.

Look, for what it's worth - I do really like you. And I have a lot of respect for you. You're clearly strong, intelligent, and capable.

What on earth are you mourning someone for who wasn't even your partner?"

I consider your words carefully. What you say about me - doesn't feel like you're blowing smoke up my arse... And Jim finding someone scarily effective to use for their skill set is so very him -

but it's fucking upsetting to think I didn't know about this…And that he'd been deployed to watch me!!

But that last question is the bit that truly stings...

“That is the fucking question isn't it," I mutter, then heave a sigh- thinking long and hard how to answer this ticking bomb of a question. And growing more and more incensed.

"Because, Phil. Because I don't need the word to have been spoken aloud - I know what we had! Maybe not in a conventional way where we declare feelings and define our relationship and - and -

Christ, we slept in the same fucking bed every night!" I explode. "We were shagging each other rotten! We were jealous of any hint of attention from someone else! We knew each other in a way no one else could - I knew his real laugh - his real smile - his true face! Does that sound like it was just a working relationship with benefits?? Tell me, Phil - do you understand now why I mourn him?!"

Jaysus.

Was that what it was like?

Well - yes - that's just what - we were like.

But we're different from normal people. We're *above* all that - romantic drivel they fill their heads with.

Well - *I* am.

And I thought you were. Because -

because -

well. Because.

And it doesn't matter. When I come back, you'll be delighted to have all that back, and until then, you just need to bloody function properly.

And heal properly.

You still look - gaunt. A bit grey.

I want to quiz the ICU nurse about your exact medical status, but Dr Phil wouldn't do that - I must call her later as Steve.

You look so -

vulnerable.

Sebastian Moran should not look *vulnerable*. That's kind of the whole point of him.

I so want to touch him...

I remember what your skin feels like, what your mouth was like when we kissed -

would you -

*Stop it Moriarty. You're ruining everything.*

Yes.

I must not -

Kiss you.

I really mustn't -

do this.

We’re back to lengthy silences, are we? I so missed this…

Can I expect you to run off to the toilet again or a military-style tongue-lashing or -

No - You’re getting closer -

For a moment I think I’m seeing Jim - my lips part in shock. I close my eyes in case my vision clears for a micro-second - I don’t think I could take it having Jim taken away from me -

Not if I can imagine him being here with me - coming closer and closer -

And - pressing his lips to mine -

(!!!)

Oh god -

What is happening -

Why am I not punching you like before -

Because - I wouldn’t punch Jim for kissing me, would I!!

It’s ok it’s ok, I can have this just for a moment - imagining it’s him - kissing me one last time -

Oh god -

You really do - feel like him -

My hand is at the back of your neck, holding it firmly in place -

I never wanted to kiss anyone again - never touch anyone ever again -

My libido has been buried under strata of grief and trauma and - apparently it’s not gone, which is infuriating.

I want -

I want Jim - I always want Jim -

And at this moment - you’re representing Jim.

My other hand is a fist pressed into your back - drawing you closer -

My tongue slips into your mouth -

Oh - fuuuck –

You are so -

you -

god I've missed this -

I missed -

I can't - think straight -

We kiss and we *kiss* and it's *everything* that was wrong with Tuscany - everything that was boring and dull and it was because it's not London and because I wasn't visibly working but it was also so much because you weren't there - when the world is boring you make sure there's something fun - any time, every time -

We kiss - we *kiss* -

I can taste your desperation, your hunger, and I've missed that, I've missed being so desired, I've missed having someone so devoted to me, I've missed -

missed you -

"Sebastian, fuck, *Sebastian* - you were almost *dead* - I can't deal with you being dead Sebastian, never do that again, OK? Never get hurt again, not your head, your clever head, your beautiful face -"

Wait.

Wait wait wait wait shit.

I was thinking - I was thinking but I heard the voice -

Did I say all that out loud?!?

I kiss you and kiss you and kiss you - because it feels like you, and I know that’s impossible -

But my brain is playing tricks on me again -

I shouldn’t be kissing a psychologist or anyone, because you’re dead, you’re dead, but can’t I have this, just for a moment – please - can’t I believe I’m kissing you once more, just one final time, I’ll do anything - please Jim -

Can’t I just listen to these words from your lips, these beautiful words that Jim would never say -

“I won’t, baby -“ I murmur, kissing you dreamily. “I won’t, just come back to me now – please -“

My hand is grasping your neck, holding you in place - my other hand is a fist against your back, drawing you closer -

Wait - I said that out loud -?

Don’t ruin this, Sebastian!

Which means you - said those words?

My chest grows tight and my entire body begins to tremble.

Why would Phil -

…

Why would -

Wait – Wait -

I pull back from the kiss and open my eyes -

And just for a moment, I see a flash of Jim before the fog rolls in -

!!!

What I kept seeing and thinking was just my mind playing tricks -

Tricky things, minds -

They can convince us of impossible things -

Don’t do this, Seb -

“Are you -?” I whisper.

Stop talking! If I say this out loud, if I say the words and I’m wrong -

If I’m wrong -

I won’t survive this -

This moment is eternal - in this moment Jim could be -

But I know it’s impossible -

Oh god -

Don’t - Seb, don’t -

“Tell me,” I say my voice scraping my throat. “Tell me.”

My fingers move to your face -

Oh - god –

No -

Nonono -

What's happening. We're not - this isn't real -

Yes, that's what I'll tell you. This isn't real.

Something deep inside me cracks painfully. Something I never knew existed, like a vase in an unused room. Not relevant.

I walk out of the room. The ICU nurse is scrolling on her phone. I pull my face into a suitably worried look.

"I think he's having - visions? delusions?

He seems to be thinking there's someone there, someone he loves. I think it's neurological, not psychological, so could you have a look?"

She's already up and away to you.

Now what do I do?

What do I do?!?

The memory of your lips still lingers on mine... all my nerves cry out, abandoned, demanding to be soothed with the only remedy that has ever worked.

Your face moves away from my fingers - your lips have no more words - and no more kisses.

You just - get up and walk out.

…

!!!

What the fuck! Is! Happening!

I’m shaking - my heartbeat is erratic - I’m fighting back panic -

Have I gone absolutely mental? Did I really think that was -

If it was Phil, why did he kiss me and leave??

But - if it wasn’t -

Voice. Nurse.

Asking questions. Running tests.

Requested by Phil.

Christ. Everyone thinks I’ve lost it… maybe I have…

Yes… that’s the only reasonable explanation.

Yes. Run your little tests.

Because I can’t fucking do this anymore…

I close my eyes, listening to the beeping machines…

my mind is blank… I can’t go crazy if I’m not thinking…

I just need to not think any more…

It’s fine… I can do this… I’m a soldier. I’m your soldier.

I don’t need anything. It’s fine…

Oh god what if I made it worse? What's she doing? Why is she taking so long?!

What if I am impacting your recovery by making you think you're seeing things?

I must - shit.

What do I do?! I should get out, but I'm supposed to be kidnapped. You're going to be suspicious if I disappear.

Also - will it make you feel more insecure?

Why did I *do* that?! What the fuck is going on with my brain??

And -

your brain -

Your poor brain - I am not helping -

What is she *doing* in there?! What's taking her so long?

Oh god - is something -

no -

Sebastian -

I move to the door, look inside. The ICU nurse has her back to me, she's checking some cable.

Your eyes are open. You're looking directly at me.

A shape moves into view- light hair, tan skin.

Average height. Lean build.

…

Kisses like -

…

Don’t, Sebastian.

Was it really all in my head? Because didn’t I think when he kissed me the first time that it reminded me of -

Leave it, Moran.

Why does he keep kissing me??

“Everything appears to be fine according to the tests, Mr Patten -“ the nurse informs me.

“Are you sure?” I ask cautiously.

“No changes from this morning. Increase in heart rate is the only difference. If you were talking about something stressful with your psychologist - that would explain it. Do you want to resume your conversation - or get some rest?”

I squint at Phil.

“Send him back in. Thank you.”

My jaw sets and I wait.

God, I was convinced you'd recognized me - you seemed to look straight at me -

Now what?

If Phil leaves - Seb will get angry at the guards who aren't here because I wasn't kidnapped which will confuse him further.

Shit shit shit!

What do I do?

You look at me - angry, stubborn, so like Sebastian. But also scared and hurt and it makes something inside me feel liquid and painful.

Do I deny what happened? Will that affect your recovery; making you think you're delusional?

Or - do I say I was pretending to be Jim to - what? Shock you into spontaneous recovery?!

I - don't know what to do!

I can't just keep standing here!

I can't walk away - I can't go to you –

can I just disappear?

But then wouldn't that make you think you were crazy even more?!

You don’t come back into the room… you just stand in the doorway, not saying shit.

But I can see you through the haze - deep in thought. Intensity radiating off you in waves - it’s practically making the walls quiver.

How do I know this about you??

How. Do I know this.

…

Oh god-

Seb, you can’t-

Please.

My heart is pounding in my chest. There’s a coil of tension-anxiety-fear-anger-anticipation within me winding so tightly - if this continues -

Between what we’re both feeling -

The walls of this building seem like they’re going to collapse.

What we are feeling…

We.

As if I know you like I know -

…

Oh god -

Enough of this shit!

“Get over here… Phil.”

My voice has an intensity to it I’ve never heard in my life.

I see you moving towards me.

You don’t say a word. Just - stand next to the bed, your arms hanging awkwardly, your hands balled up into fists.

I swallow hard.

“You know psychology… what would you say about someone…” I trail off, my voice wavering. “Someone who - fakes his death. Disappears to start a new life. And then -“

Just - say it, Seb!!

“Comes back - when someone from his past…. gets hurt. And can’t stay away.”

My voice sounds raw and hoarse.

“What - would you have to say about that??”

I’m nearly dizzy from the tension of the moment -

I hear a sound catching in your throat - and I know that sound -

I reach out and grab your hand -

And I know this hand -

And I yank you down onto the bed. You sprawl down over me -

And I grab your shoulders and I kiss you like it’s the first time, and the last time, and -

And -

Like - it’s -

Jim -

Oh god -

“You fucker -“ I gasp. “Oh - you fucker -“

My fingers dig into your arms as I kiss you like it’s the end of the world and we have first-row seats to watch it fucking burn.

Oh god -

Oh god you realize -

Of course -

what the fuck was I thinking -

'can't stay away' -

no - I couldn't - just leave you like this -

but now -

what now?!

Now -

we are kissing -

oh god I've missed this -

Your hands are leaving bruises on my arms, you're holding on to me so hard, like you're afraid I'll disappear - again -

I am lying on you and oh god is this alright? Am I not squishing some essential tube or important cannula - and your head, is that -

you are not going to let me go, and I'm sure something will beep if anything is blocked or dislodged - and oh god I have waited for this *so long* - all that time in Tuscany with no one to keep me company, because there is no one who is you -

... we are going to have to stop kissing at some point. And you will probably punch me again. And probably be quite furious. And have a lot of unpleasant questions. Probably shouting.

But now - now I have landed in the arms I've been longing for so much for so long.

God - am I actually kissing Jim?? Is this real??

You still haven't said anything -

but the way you're kissing me - I don't need voice recognition or vision to know -

Because no one kisses like Jim Moriarty.

Even if we fucked each other senseless here and now - we'd have to speak eventually.

And also - I want to hear it from your fucking lips.

I break off the kiss but I don't let you move back. My hand grips your shoulder while the other holds your face in awe.

"Tell me now - I need to hear it," I demand.

But my voice is shaking. And my hands are shaking.

And there's a tiny part of me that still isn't sure of anything after all this insanity over the last few days... and the last year!! Has all this been cooking in my brain since getting shot in the head? Was I even in a hospital - or am I in a ditch somewhere in my final moments??

But - this feels so real -

and also like I'm in danger of losing it so completely, that there will be no recovering from this - if you're not -

oh god - if you're not –

I am lost in smells of Tiger and arms of Tiger and lips of Tiger, it's a warm bath of Tiger, it's the Tiger Balm I've needed to ease all my aches...

*Jim.*

Shush. I'm covered in Tiger. I'm not here.

*Jim!*

leave me alone.

*Jim Moriarty. You're *ruining everything*. You're compromising the Empire. Sebastian was on a promising track - everything is in place for your return at the right time - if you reappear now you're jeopardizing the entire careful setup.*

... noooo...

*You are risking *everything you so carefully planned* for a few *cuddles with your Tiger?!**

Noooooo...

*End. This. Now.*

I don't *want to!*

I grip you closer.

*Jim. Ratio. Ratio is what got you to the top of the world. Cold calculation and reason. Not hiding your face in your Tiger security blanket. In fact it might be best if he disappeared altogether - he's becoming a bit of a crutch -*

NO!!!

*Then get off him and act fucking rational!!*

...

*Icy spark in the centre of the brain. And expand...*

Coldness spreads through my mind, through my body.

I can see everything with cool clarity. I see the potential courses of action, the possible consequences, the most desirable outcomes.

A body underneath me. Not currently part of the path to the most desirable outcomes.

I get up, roll my shoulders, my neck. Release any of the tendencies in my weak little body that want to connect to the body in the bed.

We are not connected. I am an island. Alone, independent. Whole unto myself.

I bend over the bed.

"It's all a dream, Sebastian. Just a dream.

Sleep now."

I reach for the morphine drip, turn it up a bit.

Chapter Text

You pull back.

Wait - why are you -??

You get up. With the most Jim-like movements you could possibly make.

My heart slams painfully in my chest.

Then - you tell me -

It's - what??

No!

My lips part but I'm distracted by your next movement and the feeling of -

You didn't -

Oh - you - fucker -

I hear myself start to laugh darkly, before I manage to stop with superhuman effort.

I'm being surrounded by your demonic henchmen, made of fog and darkness - as I'm trying desperately to keep my eyes open to look in your direction -

"Better sleep - with one eye open, baby," I murmur.

Then I'm stolen away - listening to the sound of my echoing laughter - as I'm dragged into the Abyss -

Where everything -

disappears -

Wait –

I walk away.

What if he asks after Dr Phil though?

I can bribe the ICU nurse, but will she deceive her patient?

Who has brain damage?

Will it exacerbate things?

Shit!!

I hang around. Pacing.

I need to think up a plan but my brain is - stuck or something - grinding - it's not its usual fast self.

What is wrong with me? I keep seeing your face - so hurt, so damaged, so vulnerable...

My cold Moriarty side whispering that it might be best to retire you after I've come back and taken over... you're becoming a liability...

But for now, you need to get back to work, and stop being difficult...

I was making progress but then -

then -

What the fuck was I thinking?! Why did I *kiss* you? Am *I* brain-damaged?!

I keep pacing until the ICU nurse walks into the room to check on you.

I wait without breath until she returns.

The malevolent Presence is back - or perhaps it never left?

It's threatening the survival of - everything. The humans rallied - and it seemed to make a difference.

But The Presence must have been lurking in the background... waiting to unleash its final assault.

Humanity will have to make its last stand...

I look towards the horizon, at the blazing sunset...

Will this be the last one I ever see?

Seems likely - I heft my automatic rifle, then look down -

What kind of rifle am I carrying? How do I not know this?

Emblazoned along its side is 'Panthera Tigris 666'.

I frown. I'm not familiar with this one. Where did I get it?

In the distance I hear high-pitched sounds - and then several blasts, followed by screaming. Rumbling aftershocks make the ground tremble under my feet.

I pull out a cigarette pack and lighter from my jacket pocket.

As I light up, the cigarette sizzles loudly. I breathe in the smoke like it's beautiful beautiful medicine - I smile - that's what's been missing! No wonder I've been so out of sorts...

The packet has an image of a Mexican candy skull on it, with black sunglasses. I peer at the name - it's written in hieroglyphics, but - I look closer - all the symbols are kittens. And - they're moving! Stretching, licking a paw, chasing a mouse. Riding a tiger.

Riding a tiger?

"Moran!” I hear from behind me. “If you don't get that sexy arse moving - I'll have your guts for garters..."

I know that voice. I know it.

I turn slowly.

There's a quick movement - and I find myself staring into a dark forest, with a path leading into it… and a tree with shaking leaves.

"Hello?" I say, putting the cigarette between my lips and moving closer. I touch the tree and look behind it - where I find a silky black kitten.

I stare at it in confusion. "It's not safe for you here -" I start and hear another explosion.

The kitten mews and winds around my ankles.

Well, shit... I can't just leave it here! I'll have to find a safe place for it... but I have to get going; I need to complete my mission.

I put out the cigarette on the tree... scoop up the kitten, place it on my shoulder.

It mews and bats my cheek. I laugh and begin to walk.

I sing softly as I walk, to distract the kitten from the bombs - and all the shouting and screaming - but I never seem to get any closer to the action.

Instead I find a dark manor looming closer... and closer...

I know this place - I look up at the tower, and see a light in the window.

Determined, I walk towards the large building - passing by a garden with mysterious twisting plants - and signs with more kitten hieroglyphics. There's a pleasant aroma wafting under my nose that makes me want to go to sleep in the garden. Plants are waving like anemones, and they look so inviting… beckoning me closer… an underwater narcotic seduction…

But I have to find the guardian of the silky little devil sleeping on my shoulder -

When I reach the main door, the kitten yowls and jumps onto the grass - I try to scoop him back up, but he dashes around the building.

Well. It seems like this could be his home... He should be safe here.

But perhaps I should have a word with the proprietor of the manor.

I reach my hand out, hesitate - and knock on the door loudly.

I almost jump the nurse when she returns. She frowns, looks a bit puzzled - I just told her I'm your psychologist, which is indeed a rather odd position to be so demanding. But she has quickly realized that the money comes from me, so if I want to be a psychologist, I can be a psychologist.

"Did you turn up the morphine or did he do so?" she asks, looking straight at me.

"I don't touch his medication," I say innocently, wide-eyed. "That's not my area."

She looks at me; seems to believe me. Of course.

"He's asleep; he's fine. This is probably good after the confused episode he had earlier. Why don't you go home and come back in the morning? I'm sure he will be fine for the rest of the day..."

No fucking way. A neurologist will be coming and I want to speak with her.

"I'll just hang around here till he wakes up, if that's alright," I reply, making sure that my voice clearly conveys that that *is* alright and she has very little say in it.

She shrugs and gets back to her iPad.

There's a muffled laugh - movement behind me. I spin around - see nothing.

I knock on the door again.

It swings open.

It's - you.

You're wearing a grey cardigan, grey shirtsleeves, grey trousers -

"I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else," you say politely. You take off your glasses to polish them, smiling pleasantly.

What's happening?? I didn't even say your name - why did you deny that's who you were? Are...

"I don't know what you mean," you say, peering at me through your glasses. "Do these look smudged to you?"

I realize I can see clearly. Has my vision improved??

"Goodness, that would complicate things," you chuckle.

Suddenly cracks are appearing in the walls of the building.

"Was it you who brought my cat back?"

I look at you in confusion - why aren't you concerned about this?? Then I notice the kitten racing around in the room behind you. "Yeah... Cute little guy. What's his name?"

"Silly Tiger. You know his name," you chide. The ground begins to tremble - I see a candelabra crash to the floor behind you.

You flinch.

"Why won't you tell me?" I say urgently. More cracks appear in the walls. The ground is shaking now.

"Look what you've done!" you snap, and push me back -

I shove my foot into the doorway to keep you from closing it.

"But - you're not safe here!!" I protest.

The building trembles.

You look at me so disdainfully. "Oh please. You know better than anyone - no one ever gets to me -"

"But - the kitten!" I shout, trying to push past you.

Then you slam a syringe into my neck.

"I said sleep, Sebastian!" you roar.

The door shuts and I fall back -

flying down through the darkness -

I can't - let myself - hit the ground -!

I hear your voice, disembodied, and everywhere -

"Playtime is over, poppet. Back to the mission now."

But in the background, I hear the kitten mewing...

And I open my eyes.

I wait till the ICU nurse nears the end of her shift and the doctor will come with her neurologist friend - I *have* to disappear for that.

I head back to the hotel where I try to sleep but I'm not fooling anyone. Every five minutes I look at my phone. I had given instructions to update me on the state of the patient as soon as the neurologist has looked at him.

Kitten!

Wait - no kitten?

...

I’m - awake. In a makeshift hospital room...?

...

Right. Shot in the head. Hospital. Rescue. Psychologist... but not a psychologist. He's - more than that. And there was a dream... But it was somehow more than dreaming?

And it feels important to remember the dream. Very fucking important.

So why can't I remember it? Why can't I think clearly??

A new person with a new voice has entered the room. I assume it’s a new person, and not a trick - but strangely enough I’m finding it difficult to take people at their word these days.

But wait - my vision sharpens and then blurs again -

Yeah I don't know this lady. But she's reading my file, checking readings on machines... asking me questions about an episode.

Episode?

Wait - Phil.

What did that fucker tell people?

"Oh lord... I should have guessed he took it the wrong way," I say drily. "I have a pretty out there sense of humour... and that psychologist -" I shake my head, chuckling. "Well I'm sure he's good at what he does, but - he's not the sharpest tool in the shed if you know what I mean. Not when it comes to telling what's a joke and what's real..." I say, rolling my eyes.

"So you were joking about something? And he took it literally..." the doctor says, frowning.

"Poor guy probably just needs a holiday, if he thought I was serious," I shrug. "Anyway - ask me whatever you want."

The neurologist does ask me a series of questions but she can't be too concerned because it wraps up within a couple of minutes. Then she does some tests and seems satisfied enough.

"This looks very promising, Mr Patten. You've shown significant progress since your surgery - if you continue with physical rehabilitation and the vision improvement exercises you were given - I'm cautiously optimistic you can make a full recovery, or very close to."

I feel more relieved than expected. I was so used to not caring...

"Including the issues with vision and voice recognition?" I ask cautiously.

"Yes, these things tend to resolve on their own - it's difficult to predict. But I don't imagine it will go on for too long..."

"That's great," I say forcing myself to sound cheerful and normal.

"I'll check in on you tomorrow, Mr Patten - do your rehab exercises and then have a restful day," she says pleasantly and leaves the room.

I lie back against the pillow, exhausted from putting on a performance of being positive and normal -

Now what was I dreaming about?? And why do I want to fucking throttle Phil - even more than usual?!

The neurologist phones me - Steve me - and updates me that you seem absolutely fine, recovering well. Ideally you should be in a hospital, but no reason to be in an ICU.

She hesitates before ringing off. "And then there was the psychologist..."

"What about him?"

"Mr Patten seems to think he's not very bright and he played a - a trick on him because he was bored. That is a good sign, Dr Rosslyn says. It's in character for him."

"Oh - oh, yes, very in character..."

*You* played a trick on *me*!?

"Anyway, I will be here for three days, and can come back sporadically after that. Dr Rosslyn and I think that should be plenty to minimize any risks."

"Thank you. Very good to know."

I feel mixed when I hang up.

Relieved, certainly, but - worried as well. About you, about everything that happened -

why the *fuck* did I kiss you!?

And then tell you it was a dream... oh god please have forgotten about it, Sebastian. It was all just a dream.

Speaking of dreams - I need to get some sleep. I am not tired, but I haven't had a good sleep in a while. And the doctor is with you, who can't see me. So I can't get to you for hours.

But the Empire also isn't sitting still... I'll need to do some monitoring and string pulling first.

I'm tired though... maybe a cat nap?

No - work first, Moriarty.

Get that laptop open.

I try and try to let the dream filter back through my consciousness but no luck - it's long gone...

Fuck.

But I know there's something I'm supposed to remember - think Sebastian.

Why can't I think??

Breathe - you can't think if you're panicking...

Right -

I do some deep breathing, the kind that helped me as a sniper.

Just let yourself be clear, Moran...

now... what do you remember?

But I keep skipping over the dream and returning back to earlier, with -

Phil.

Wait.

...

He kissed me. Again.

And this time - it reminded me of -

Oh fuck.

My heart starts to race.

How did I forget that?? I know I was groggy but - it's more like I was -

Drugged.

Morphine??

"It's all a dream, Sebastian."

I did dream of Jim!! He lived in a big manor in a war zone... and there was a cat.

Bombs. Shouting.

Was that - the dream or the morphine?

And why did Phil drug me? Or did I hallucinate that too??

FUCK!!

Wait - I think I thought - Phil was -

but it can't be.

It can't be.

My chest is tight with tension... anger... my brain feels muddled.

I can't think like this... I need to let my head clear again.

My eyes droop. Maybe if I sleep...

Yes... things will be clearer when I wake up.

Then I'll get to the bottom of this...

the darkness beckons and I sink into its familiar embrace...

Somehow hours passed and I'm still working.

I can't seem to concentrate on the simplest tasks. I keep remembering kissing you and it makes my body feel weak. I order food and coffee but it doesn't help.

It was *stupid*. I might have jeopardized your health. I definitely jeopardized my undercover status, and thereby the Empire.

I look at the screen. I seem to have looked into -

no that makes sense. Of *course* I considered what would be the best course of action if I compromised myself. If I need to disclose myself to you. If I *did* mess up or if you *do* recognize me - I need to be prepared.

I sigh. But it's not the *best* course of action. The risks are too great. It could destabilize several projects I've carefully set in motion.

... and what about destabilizing my best man?

I'm back in the war zone.

Walking in darkness.

Bombs in the distance.

Shouting in the distance.

This doesn't frighten me. This never frightened me.

But - being alone does.

There's a flash - the sound of an explosion, throwing me back - back - back -

And suddenly I'm there. The day it happened. The day you left.

I'm collapsed on the floor next to - our bed. Where we'll never sleep again.

Staring blankly at the ceiling in deafening silence.

I look down at myself, survey the damage - it looks like a wild animal tore through my torso and ravaged me - yanked out my guts, leaving them half-eaten, hanging and twitching -

My heart, though - there's only a chalk outline where it used to be. Filled in with moving shadows. Anguished screams. Wounded animal.

Where - did my heart go, I wonder in a daze... It must have disappeared when you did -

it knew - it wasn't needed.

Because I'll never need anything again.

I close my eyes.

When I open them again, I'm back in the war zone.

Walking in darkness.

Bombs in the distance.

Shouting in the distance.

A kitten appears over the horizon - sits and licks a paw. Then he looks at me.

He looks alarmed, his tail growing bigger, his ears flattening -

He's trying to look bigger - but he's so small -

There's a hammering sound in my chest. It hurts.

I look down slowly, pull open my shirt -

No more chalk outline - it's been replaced by a deep red ugly scar, like I had a procedure done by Dr Frankenstein -

Who is the real Monster? Does it even matter?

My heart - is back. Beating. Needing -

oh god -

The pain of that - throbbing - wild and raw -

The sound of bombs grows closer. The air is singed. It burns my lungs.

I look up in panic. The kitten has turned and streaked away like a sleek black rocket -

no - DON'T GO -

I wake up, heart racing. Chest tight. Throat constricted. Hard to swallow.

Makeshift hospital room. Staff taking care of all my needs. Nurse, neurologist - psychologist.

I shout for the nurse. She hurries in, chewing something.

"Yes, Mr Patten. How are you doing?" she says, her eyes scanning me from top to toe.

"I need to see the psychologist," I manage to choke out.

"Are you - feeling unwell?" she asks, her brow furrowing.

I swallow hard. "I just had a dream I'd like to discuss with him..."

She stares at me for a moment, then shrugs. "I'll let him know," she says, walking out.

I raise my arms, linking my fingers behind my head. My jaw sets. I stare at the ceiling and wait.

My phone rings.

It's dark again - how long have I been sitting here?

It's the ICU nurse - I answer immediately -

you are alright, but asked for me; would like to see me.

Shit - I haven't had any sleep -

but I'm supposed to be kidnapped; I can hardly say I need a nap first.

And I need to check if you're alright - what you remember - what to do -

I am still in yesterday's clothes. I have a quick shower and a double espresso, then head to the safe house.

Why is this taking so long? Aren't you being kept in the building? Why would they take you somewhere else?

My eyes have closed again. Don't fall back asleep, Moran.

Think of something - anything. That nurse reminds me of someone from Oxford - a woman I hooked up with. Eyes the same shade of green. What was her name -?

Can't remember - not important -

Wait.

...

I saw her.

Eating something... staring at the machines... staring at me -

The colour of her eyes -

My vision is - back??

I open my eyes –

Shit. Still can't see clearly.

But - maybe a little less foggy...

I narrow my eyes, look around the room. Maybe.

I honestly can't tell anymore - what's real, and what's in my fucking head.

And I'm sick of it.

Well there's one person who can help me get to the bottom of the most important thing.

Jim hired you, sweetheart? Well I'm running his Empire - so you answer to me.

"Nurse!" I shout.

She walks back into the room. "He's on his way," she says like she's trying to be patient.

"Yeah? I'm thrilled to hear it," I say not bothering to do the same. "I asked for clothes when I arrived... I want them."

"Now?" she asks in confusion.

"Yes now. I'm not wearing this bloody hospital gown anymore. Go get them and help me get dressed."

She sighs and walks away. Huffy cow - just like the girl from Oxford.

After a couple of minutes, I hear her footsteps.

"Black?" I say.

"Yes," she says and I hear something land softly on a table.

"These will be harder for you to get in and out of than the gown..."

"Don't care," I say. "I've been an invalid long enough."

I sit up and swing my legs over the bed.

"Alright, Mr Patten. Here we go..."

A few minutes later, I'm sitting up in bed wearing a t-shirt, hoodie, track pants, socks - all black.

Like I would have worn around our apartment if I wasn't planning to leave. Clothing that was easy to pull off was important around you - otherwise I'd have to keep replacing stuff whenever you lost patience and tore something off me - or cut it off with a knife.

Which I have to admit was fucking hot.

...

Why - am I thinking of that now? I'm expecting a confrontation, not a bloody seduction.

Oh - wait -

how could I have forgotten??

You kissed me. I kissed you.

And you -

felt like -

!!!

I am just not able to think straight. Am I getting sick? I need to sleep at some point, yes, but I'm not usually this disoriented if I go without.

I keep trying to think things out but get distracted by the tiniest memory of your scruffy beard, your soft lips, your words - your poor face, bruised and - so distraught, so upset -

I must plan - but I feel so powerless; a mere ping pong ball adrift on currents, unable to control where I am swept, which is *not me*, I am master of my destiny and the world's, rivers flow where *I* ordain, not the other way round.

And here I am at the safe house, let in by the ICU nurse, and walking into your room again.

You're - oh.

You look so different. Your normal self - casual gear that you would wear around the house, soft cloth to not irritate your skin after I'd treated you to the special brand of Moriarty loving, black the colour you naturally gravitated towards - easy to blend into the shadows, the most forgiving of blood stains.

Your face looks pensive, serious.

Your eyes so blue when they meet mine.

I hear footsteps. And even though you don't say anything, I know - it's you.

My vision is still impaired but - it's almost like sunlight is trying to break through clouds. I see glimmers of light in certain areas of my field of vision for an instant - and then the clouds roll back - then there's a break in another area.

I still can't see your face clearly.

And it doesn't matter. I'm not waiting for verification any longer - not by my vision.

And not by your confession.

"I had a dream that felt important to share with my psychologist. But things were so confusing when I woke up, I couldn't remember it clearly," I say, crossing my arms with a scowl. "But then - you're not a real psychologist anyway. And more than that - I've had a gut feeling growing for a while now, but it seemed so impossible that I've been trying to build an airtight case in my mind. Then I realized - when it comes to you - nothing is fucking impossible."

I pause - I can hear you breathing. I can see that you're not moving.

Are you just going to bolt when I say the words? I still have to say them... Jim.

"If you didn't want me to know - you shouldn't have fucking kissed me!" I shout. My entire body begins to tremble.

Fuck this. I'm not having this confrontation sitting down. I turn to put my feet on the floor and I stand up.

"But you did kiss me," I say, my voice dangerously soft. And shaking. "More than once. And you did want me to know. Didn't you..."

I take a step towards you. And another. My legs are shaking - I don't know if it's physical or emotional at this point but it doesn't matter. If I had to climb a bloody mountain to get to you, I would.

I keep walking until I'm there - towering over you.

"So. Mission accomplished, Sir - I fucking know," I growl. "The only thing I can't figure out is, what was so important that you had to let me think you were dead - or is your most important weapon not allowed to have fucking feelings?" I lean closer to you, glaring.

And then -

then - the clouds shift just enough for me to see your face -

Oh god - Jim –

It was inevitable, really.

I don't know what I was thinking. Not even I can pull that off.

Maybe I could have, with time to prepare, if I wasn't so worried, so tired -

I failed.

You are looking at me, shocked - then your right leg wavers, you nearly fall -

I shoot towards you, catch you, try to nudge you back to the bed, but you insist you can stand -

"I know you can stand, stupid Tiger, stop trying to prove yourself - if you fall -"

You are so tense, nearly shivering. I get you back onto the bed, stand before you.

*You shouldn't have fucking kissed me*

*You did want me to know*

*What was so important to you*

God where do I start?

"I didn't know you had feelings. You never said."

Have to be the lamest words ever to come out of my mouth. I'm already on the back foot in this - fight? Discussion?

When did we ever have a fight that didn't turn physical? But we can't now -

We're not good at - verbal disagreements.

“Didn’t know I had feelings?? Am I still dreaming? Is this a morphine -fuelled hallucination??" I cover my eyes, laughing darkly. "Even if I didn’t share those feelings - even if you didn’t feel the same way and never would! - given everything we shared, did it not occur to you that I fucking cared about you?!”

When I lower my hands, the clouds in my vision are moving - it’s disorienting but - I can still see your face.

And I never thought I’d see your face again.

Jesus - you’re actually here. Alive.

I stare at you, too overwhelmed to speak - think -

My entire body is shaking. My mind is spinning in wild circles -

I love you! I hate you! How could you! Never leave me again!

Why aren’t you kissing me -? You know I’m going to kill you… but WHY AREN’T YOU KISSING ME?

You argue back but then you look at me like I'm an apparition, a phantasmagoria come to life and you don't know how to cope -

well, yes. If you love someone and lose them - and they're suddenly there -

that would be a mindfuck even if you're not suffering from brain damage.

I'm not going to try to pretend I'm not me - I think we passed that bridge a long time ago. All I can do is damage control.

And I am not quite sure how to damage control this - your brain is spinning wildly and your eyes are focussing then losing it but keeping on trying again - at least I can walk forward, get closer, hopefully that will make it easier for you to see me.

You seem unsure what to do. Jesus I can't believe I'm seeing your face - not perfectly yet, but well enough to try to read your expression!!

Not that you were ever easy to figure out, you little shit...

The problem is it was easier to be angry when I couldn't see you -

but now -

now that I can see you - after so long - Jim -

now what??

You move closer. My heart is racing.

You're close enough to touch -

close enough for me to drink in the sight of you - feeling like I've been slowly but surely dying of thirst.

I stare at the lips that kissed me not so long ago -

the only question is do I want to punch that mouth - or kiss it -

or both??

"As for telling you how I felt - I never would have," I say, my voice wavering - but defiant. "Not in a million years. It's not like you wanted to hear it, even though it was right in front of your face..."

And there you are - right in front of my face.

"You - kept coming back," I murmur. Why did my voice sound like that??

So you're - what? Calling me stupid? For not seeing what I didn't want to see and what it would not benefit me to see?

"Yes. I kept coming back. I - had to see you were alright. And then when I saw you were not - I had to - get you back on your feet. It's not like you to give up, Tiger."

"It's really not," I agree, feeling strangely numb. "I've always fought to the bloody end even if there was no hope - and if that meant dying, then - I wanted to go out like an angry wounded tiger... taking down as many bastards as I could - screaming and bleeding out and crying for their mums -" I smile faintly. "In a fucked-up way, it was the most fun I could ever imagine. Only..." I swallow hard.

"Only?" your voice is quiet but gives nothing away - it reminds me of all those sessions with fucking Dr Phil.

Drawing my feelings from me against insurmountable odds...

making me stronger...

healing me...

Talk about achieving the impossible.

"Strangely enough, Jim - it didn't seem like fun anymore... but then, losing the most important thing to you will do that -" I shake my head, squeeze my eyes shut. "When you died, it's like - I did too..."

I feel light-headed - my body and brain haven't caught up with any of this unfolding drama. Reality in this hospital room is dark and slippery as an eel.

I'm talking to Jim.

Jim is alive.

You're alive.

And you know. Everything.

I would be more horrified by that but -

I've lived through your death - even this doesn't scare me now.

I open my eyes - I can still see you. The clouds are wispier now, floating lazily across my field of vision. It creates a romantic effect - like I'm seventeen, dreaming of the one I -

...

love -

Fuck it -

"It wasn't just that you kept coming back, Jim -" I say slowly. "The way you kissed me - it was like you - missed me?"

What?

Well - of course I missed you.

You were -

we had -

There was no one like you in Tuscany.

Not that I looked.

"I - well. There was - I had -

Well of course. You are a - good thing in my life. I enjoyed having you around - that's why I kept you. If I didn't like kissing you, I wouldn't have done it. So - it makes sense that I missed it."

There's a weakness to that argument but I can't quite put my finger on it.

‘Makes sense’, does it Jim…?

I smile, despite everything. You poor - confused - bellend -

“And everything you said yesterday when you were kissing me - it was because you like having me around?

‘I can't deal with you being dead Sebastian -’

‘Never get hurt again -’

And what about - ‘your beautiful face’?” I say hoarsely.

A flash of irritation, replaced by confusion. Your lips part but no words come out. You look as disoriented as I feel.

It doesn’t matter. You don’t have to feel like I do… but I can’t pretend that this isn’t - everything -

“If you couldn’t tell, Jim - I fucking missed you too -“ The words come out sounding cracked and raw.

And suddenly I’m pulling you down into my arms, holding you so tightly -

I’m dizzy at the feeling of your body against mine - your warmth, your heart beating so quickly -

My hand presses your back, the other holds the back of your head - my fingers stroking your hair -

Oh god - keep it together, Seb -

He doesn’t know what he feels, Seb -

But all I can do is pull you even closer and breathe you in - oh god, that scent -

My eyes start to sting.

“Fuck -“ I whisper. And then the tears start streaming down my face.

No -

No don't pull me so close I can't -

No don't -

Don't *cry* Sebastian -

you don't cry, those are the rules - neither of us cry - only after nightmares and they don't count -

You sometimes have tears in your eyes after I've tortured you particularly hard but -

... after I've tortured you.

Particularly hard.

Like - after I've been away for months and let you think I was dead.

Your fingers are digging into my skin, your arms clasping me, your shoulders moving in abrupt little moves -

no sound comes out, but my shoulder is getting wet -

and my cheeks -

How did your tears get on my cheeks?

Time has no meaning here…

There is only you - and me holding you - at last - even if it’s only for a moment.

But I’m afraid a moment is all I’ll have. You’re going to pull away, I know it!! - there’s a tension in your body I remember so well, and it almost makes me start to sob - god, the familiarity of it - that heartbreaking familiarity -

Not now, Jim - please -!

I know! Weakness is forbidden! And tears are a cardinal sin! But can’t you cut me some fucking slack after - everything??

But then - the tension seems to drain from your body -

you melt against me - meld against me -

And -

Then -

There’s the tiniest sound - a catch in your throat -

a shudder in your shoulders -

You’re not -

Are you??

I wait as long as I possibly can - and then I pull back slightly.

To see you - Jim Moriarty - crying -

!!!

I stare at you in confusion. Alarm bells are ringing in my head. Must protect Jim - but from what?? What is even happening -?!

My hand floats to your cheek –

I should stop this madness - I should make sure - you’re alright -

No, Sebastian - I don’t give a shit about ‘alright’! I’m not alright am I?

And Jim is alive - and weeping in my arms -

So ‘alright’ can get fucked!

But should I let you go now - so we can talk this through -?

Fuck off - I never want to let you go again -

Instead I find myself doing something I never thought I'd do -

staring into your eyes -

pressing my lips to yours - softly - longingly -

This kiss is a question - the kind of question that only a madman would ask Jim Moriarty.

But I have a lifetime of madness to draw upon.

No Sebastian don't *look at me* - I am not - I am not to be seen; I am - dysfunctional - leaky -

I want to squirm; I want to run off to the loo -

but you hold me and your face comes closer, your poor lovely face - looking so desperate -

and your lips land on mine and they're soft and yielding and welcoming and I am so tired - so tired, Sebastian...

It was no fun ruling the world without you...

I let myself sink into the kiss, the warmth and security that is you, your strong arms, your hot mouth, your questioning and welcomed tongue.

This. This is what I missed. I never knew...

I've never kissed you like this -

We have never kissed like this -

And are we that again? We -

Moriarty and Moran - the most unstoppable force since - metal and propulsion.

But are we... more?

...

Stop thinking, Sebastian -

Keep kissing, Sebastian -

He's alive, Sebastian -

I hear a desperate sound in my throat as I pull you even closer to me - my fingers digging into your clothes -

"Never - again - Jim," I gasp out. "Don't you ever -"

I cut myself off with a strangled cry - kissing you again hungrily. My lips can't stay away from yours - it's impossible –

"I won't," I hear my treacherous mouth whisper, when did I give it permission to -?

"Never again, Sebastian, we mustn't be apart, it's not right, it's not natural... I didn't know, I'm so sorry, I didn't know..."

Am I - apologizing?! I never apologize! It makes them think you can be wrong, which I never -

almost - never -

I said I didn't know - this is all going so very - awry -

"I don't know what I'm saying - you're making me all - muddled and tangled and kaleidoscopic - why, Sebastian, why are you different? Why am I different when I'm with you? What did you do?"

As you speak, small explosions are going off in my mind - and in my heart.

'Who - is saying these things??' gives way to 'thank fuck thank fuck' -

Oh god - Jim -

My hand returns to your face - the fingers of my other hand curl possessively around the nape of your neck - as if my body is afraid you'll disappear in a puff of smoke -

"What did I do?" I ask in a daze. "I don't have a fucking clue, Jim - never stopped feeling what I feel for you, even when you're a heartless bastard?"

There's an edge to my voice - I can't help it.

But I'm shocked to see you flinch. God - you really are sorry -?

Jim Moriarty - remorseless ruthless psychopath - feels bad about hurting me??

My face softens. "Maybe not heartless," I murmur, pressing my forehead against yours. You let out a shaky sigh and it makes my heart want to burst.

I close my eyes, feeling shaky myself.

"I mean it, you know - I’ll never stop," I whisper, stroking your face. "It's like oxygen to me - and it won't end until I stop breathing..."

"Nono, I am heartless," I protest weakly against your jaw.

"I have to be - either that or stupid, idiotic - or both.

Oh god Seb the things I did - I could have killed you - and when I saw you in that hospital, tied to all those machines - you were grey, your face was black and blue, your hair was - red - from the blood -

you looked so -

I could have lost you!

And you would have - thought -

I was dead -"

I can't talk any more. I am overwhelmed with the images -

you demanding to talk with me, why I am so absent, so focussed on that detective -

me staying away more and more, shutting you out, so determined to not be distracted from my game -

not confiding in you because I didn't want to risk my plans -

your desperate face the last time I was home, the way you shouted at me, how I tortured you - until your face was -

blue -

I could have killed you and you didn't care, you didn't care as long as it was by my hand -

and then you in that hospital bed - so alone -

not by my hand, my hand was gone -

"Oh god Sebastian -"

Oh god what you're saying - the things you did - I know exactly what you're referring to, all the incidents that bruised my heart -

and left me licking my emotional wounds alone in injured silence -

A pang of pain pierces my abdomen at the memory -

But I forget about it when you bring up a memory of your own -

I had no idea seeing me like that in the hospital had affected you so much (!!!) -

That meant you really do care more deeply about me than you were willing to admit... until you couldn't keep it inside anymore.

I feel the vice that's been gripping my insides begin to loosen -

But now you're clearly getting overwhelmed by everything that's happening - the way you get when you're locked inside yourself, clawing at the walls in your own mind -

"Jim," I say urgently. "I don't care about any of that! Well I do care very fucking much about the faked death, and trust me we are not done talking about that -" My voice is getting louder, and I realize my hands are grasping your shoulders tightly - and I loosen my grip, swallowing hard.

"But you're alive - do you have any idea what I'd have given to have you back?!" I say, staring at you with such longing. "And - if you care about me..? Then I don't give a shit about anything that happened in the past. You're all I want - and I need you -"

God, I didn't mean to say any of that! I was going to try calming you down with reason or - something. (I don't know! I'm rusty at this!)

But apparently since my heart has come back to life, it has some very strong opinions about how to handle this situation that neither of us seem emotionally equipped for -

"I need you, Jim," I breathe - and I press your hand to my heart, and mine to yours.

What you'd have given to have me back.

"I - think I have some idea.

When you - when I thought you might die - when I saw you in that hospital bed and I thought you might just - die -

I would have done anything - given anything, sold the Empire, burnt the world, given myself up to Mycroft Holmes naked with a red ribbon round my neck - *anything* to get you back.

I - I said I had no idea," I feel my throat constrict, my voice sounding so - tinny and weak -

"And I didn't, I really didn't - but - I guess it was because I didn't - *want to* know. We were above such squishy things as feelings and attachment and anything - Moriarty and Moran, more concepts than reality. And I could be that - that theoretical concept in my mind. As could you.

But -

this kind of broke that - perfect picture. This - squishy body thing - it's one thing knowing that you can die, or I can die, because we live dangerous lifestyles - alright, fair enough. But - that's theoretical. I've never taken very well to you getting *actually* badly hurt. As you know.

And it was all fine saying that you were my best asset; I would never be able to find someone like you to take your place, all that -

but when I saw you - so hurt - and so - weak -

I - told myself it was fear of losing my best asset. I told myself that.

But then why was I here?

Again, I had a perfect excuse - I needed to get you back on your feet. And Dr Phil did a good job.

And then Dr Phil *still* couldn't stay away. Even when you kidnapped him. Even when he saw you were doing better. Even when you saw - when you thought you saw who he was -

I should have - could have just kept away, and you'd have thought it *was* an illusion, because it was all impossible -

but I couldn't. And that can have two reasons, and neither of them is good.

I couldn't stay away from you. Or I couldn't do that to you."

Chapter Text

You - would have sold the Empire? Surrendered to Mycroft Holmes?

For me??

Your face is streaked with tears... and brimming with raw emotion. I've seen rare peeks behind your mask before, but not like this! And I've never heard you sound so - vulnerable.

I listen with rapt attention - I didn't know what would happen but the last thing I expected was for you to speak at such length... about your feelings.

When you stop talking, the air feels hushed. I'm almost afraid to breathe, let alone speak. But I have to know where this unfathomable ride will take us -

"Why are neither of those reasons good?" I ask quietly. "They both sound fucking great to me..."

You look at me dubiously and I give you a half-smile.

"Yeah alright - the almighty pressure points," I sigh. "Not ideal for a criminal psychopath. Or his right-hand man. But it seems to me the pressure points were already there, lurking under the surface - for both of us. Isn't it better to acknowledge that instead of ignore it? Seems important to account for all data... like when you're planning a mission, you factor in any vulnerabilities so you can protect them..."

I stop and my brow creases. Did I just apply military strategy to a relationship?

I look down to where my hands are holding yours in your lap. When did that happen?

And - is this a relationship?

"But - I'm not *supposed* to have pressure points... I'm not supposed to have feelings. I'm a bloody psychopath! What the hell am I doing getting all *upset* when my second in command is hurt?"

I can hear how petulant I sound.

Like when I complained Tuscany was so boring... that's what I told myself. That it was boring, and that's why I hated it so much. And that I had to keep an eye on the Empire, and that's why everything you did was communicated to me straightaway. And that Italians were not my type, so that's why I didn't take any steps to have sex with anyone.

I shake my head.

Did I actually believe all that myself?

"I - don't know. I'm tired. I - am struggling thinking logically.

I think - it seems as though I have fallen in love with you. It - all the symptoms are there, and it's the explanation that makes the most sense, except for the fact that I've never fallen in love with anyone, so that makes it less likely - usually one's first infatuation would take place in one's teens. If one hasn't experienced one by 36, and one has been diagnosed with psychopathy, the chances of -"

You are rudely interrupting me by squishing me close and kissing me.

For the first time, I find myself thinking about what this has been like for you - I've been pretty fucking focused on my own devastation and grief... and oh yeah the aftermath of being shot in the head - like the blood-stained icing on the seven-layer trauma cake. But - I can see from what you're saying - how disorienting and horrifying this vulnerability must be for you... and I find myself wondering for the millionth time, what trauma lies within your psyche to have made you not just Jim but - Moriarty??

Not one among us knows, not even me... but for the very first time, I wonder if you'll feel safe enough to share with me - one day.

I'm staring at the confused exhaustion on your face - I'm not sure how to make this better. What am I supposed to do -??

And then - you say the words.

!!!

Holy - fuck - Jim -!!!

I haven't even said the words! Not to you directly! I've been trying to navigate the shark-infested waters of our emotions without freaking you out, freaking me out, and dismantling any potential we have to be something before we can even -

but you! said! the words!!

"My beautiful psycho," I murmur in between kisses - "I was waiting for the right time to say it and - you beat me to the punch."

I stroke back your hair and gaze at you. "Well it 'seems I've fallen in love with you' too, sweetheart. So madly and completely, I think I may have lost what's left of my mind," I say ruefully. "Good thing you're clever enough for both of us... but the way I'm feeling now - I could take on the fucking criminal world and burn it to cinders for you. So if you're worried about this love thing making me soft - think again. And take that any way you will," I say looking you up and down - and seductively trailing the back of my hand over your chest.

No no no Sebastian -

"No - you're recovering - how are you feeling? Is your mind really confused? Or is that just a - figure of speech?

And don't you look at me like that - you are not touching me until the doctor says it's OK - oh! The doctor! She can't know I'm alive -

no one can know I'm alive, including you, but that cat won't get back into the bag - but it's important you don't tell anyone, OK?

I was going to come back - I promise I was going to come back -"

What?? Why are you waiting for some doctor to give us permission to fuck?? I'm fine - I'm about to tell you so in no uncertain terms, and then -

Your concern for me seems to trigger something and - you begin to ramble... I listen awestruck to your concern as it spirals - and spirals -

Are you actually asking me to keep a critical secret instead of threatening to cut my throat if I breathe a word?

What the fuck - is happening?

"Whoa - Jim - just take a breath," I interrupt. "Of course I won't tell anyone, what do you take me for? And my mind is fine," I say, feeling defensive. "Don't look at me like that - it's fine. I'm just - struggling a bit to catch up. But it's been feeling better - closer to normal. Normal for a vicious assassin, anyway," I say with a wry smile, hoping a little levity will wipe away the creases from your brow.

And then my smile fades when I remember the other little thing you said.

"So you were going to come back - when? How the fuck were you planning on breaking the news, Jim - with confetti and a bottle of champagne?!"

Shit - so much for our tearful reunion and declaration of love...

Oh -

oh yes you're angry with me -

of course you are -

I wasn't supposed to -

I forget what I wasn't supposed to.

I'm *so* tired.

"I - in a few months," I sigh, looking down at the hospital blanket. "Around a year after I vanished. Just so I could -

it can be really useful to be dead. People think they can take advantage of your absence - as you noticed - and you can use that if you know what you're doing."

It sounds so lame when I say it out loud. What is - my *business*, which is really what the Empire is - compared to - you?

I watch you deflate like a balloon. What's the point in getting angry if you're going to be so - sad and lost?? Fuck! I've seen you be many things but this - this is new territory that I have no map for. And I don't want to know it.

"A few months," I say quietly. "That would have been - good information to have. I just-" I shake my head, dazed. "I don't understand why you couldn't tell me!"

Now I sound just as sad and lost as you. Christ. I don't want to feel this way! You're alive!

I take one of your hands, and press it to my cheek - as if it's the only thing that can keep me from drowning.

"Fuck, Jim! I don't know the way through this," I say desperately. "Yes I'm still angry. But I also don't care. I missed you more than I can possibly express - and I love you - more than anything!" I kiss your hand, staring at you longingly. "I don't want to be lost anymore. I don't need things to be fixed at this moment... I just need you!"

"I - know..." I say, and look up at you.

"But - I didn't know. Please - believe that - I didn't know."

Would I have cared if I did know?

I don't know!!

"I couldn't tell you - because he'd have seen. He'd have noticed that you didn't behave like I was dead. He would have realized how easy it was to fake my death - so much easier than how Sherlock faked his-"

The name slams through me with the force of a battering ram.

I stare at you in shock. And then it’s like scar tissue gets ripped from an old ugly wound that never healed-

“Are you telling me-“

Something slams down in my abdomen and I can’t - breathe -

I grip the side of the hospital bed so tightly it hurts -

I fight the rising panic and rage until I can suck in a breath -

Oh god – Jim -

“you - let me think you were dead - because -“

!!!

My hand has turned white from gripping the railing-

I want to tear it off the bedframe, bludgeon someone - now.

Who.

…

The detective. But I don’t know where he is. And I’m not strong enough to leave. Yet.

My eyes turn to you - this moment is the closest I’ve come to feeling something towards you that is so black and violent that there’s no coming back from -

You’re staring back at me, eyes huge.

No. Not you.

“Where. Is he.” I say, my voice vibrating with fury.

What??

Of course, you thought Sherlock was dead, but - that's a very vehement response -

What did Sherlock ever do to you?

*You mean except steal away and eventually kill the man he loved?*

Well -

Oh god your jealousy was so intense -

I was so lost in the game and you were constantly pulling at me, wanting to know where I went, what I did, when I was coming back, why I was doing this -

The name Sherlock was like a red rag to a bull, you'd be foaming at the mouth -

of course - you loved me and I only ever talked about that stupid detective -

but you thought I was fucking him which was ridiculous - I just enjoyed the game -

*and was there no other reason, Jimmy?*

I don't know - I am tired -

"He's in Belgrade - trying to dismantle the Web, which is being remantled as quickly as he gets through it, but he doesn't know..."

My eyes narrow. Wow - your obsession transcends death, does it.

"That's so sweet that you kept up with his news, even in the afterlife," I say, my jaw hard. My muscles are shaking with the effort of not getting up and breaking every piece of equipment in the room. But the one thing I'm very aware of at this moment is how much I need to get strong again.

"Well here's some fun news for you, Jim - I just made it my mission to put that motherfucker in the ground. Or a river. I don't much care where his corpse ends up. You wanted me to focus on getting back to peak condition? To remember who I am and what I'm capable of?"

My jaw muscle twitches with anger. I close my eyes and take a deep centring breath. No throwing a hissy fit, soldier. Save that rage for what's to come...

For being a Tiger again.

My eyes open and I stare at you steadily.

"Done," I say, my voice deadly quiet.

Oh yes of course.

You say you live for me - well, maybe you do. But you also live for killing and revenge - and I don't think I've ever seen you hate anyone as much as Sherlock. Not even your father.

So we're here again.

I rub my forehead. It really is like I never left, isn't it?

"You can't. See; that's why you couldn't know - couldn't know I was alive or he was.

He isn't doing any harm - just nibbling on the edges - and he needs to be allowed to keep doing that or Mycroft is going to throw a wobbly."

Unbelievable. After everything you put me through - after everything you just said -

do my feelings matter to you at all??

I look at you, wishing the hurt wasn't visible on my face - but I know it's there.

"Isn't doing harm?" I let out a shaky laugh of disbelief. "But he is doing harm! To me! That's all he's ever done!"

I wave my arm around the hospital room. "All this - because of him. Me being in hell for so long thinking you were dead... the brain injury and all the impairments that came with it - I lost everything because of that arrogant wanker! And he matters more to you than me?" My voice is shaking.

But I will not cry. I am done with crying. Hear that, eyes??

"You said you would have given up the Empire for me... and now you -" I swallow painfully around the lump in my throat.

But I can't continue. I need all my focus on those traitorous tears, threatening to break free –

No - wait - why are you so upset?!

"No - Sebastian -"

I try to think, but there is so much - my brain is - just not *working* properly -

"I - yeah, I said that. And - yeah I would give up the entire Empire to save you - but not just because you have a dislike of someone! He's never done anything to you! He's never even met you!

All this - Delaney had nothing to do with him! What's your fascination with Sherlock of all people? The one guy who will get Mycroft on your case - and he *will* kill you this time!?"

"I didn't mean I wanted you to give up the Empire! You think I dislike him??" I cover my eyes, feeling like I'm going insane. How can you understand so little about what this means to me??

When I lower my hands, they bunch into fists. Was it really only a few minutes ago we were holding hands?

"I'm not the one who's fascinated by fucking Sherlock! And all this happened because of that stupid game you were both playing! And if you're still playing it-"

I heave a sigh, beyond exhausted. Beyond despair.

I can't do this again... I can't go back there...

"I don't have the words..." I say sadly. "I just need - sleep."

Like I'll be able to sleep a wink...

I stare down at the blanket like it's the only thing that matters in the world.

Yes - sleep...

I need sleep too... I wish I could just curl up here with you... but if the doctor comes...

"I'm tired as well, Sebastian... I wish - I don't know.

I guess I need some time to think."

I find myself looking at the blanket as well, as if somewhere in its pattern is the solution to our issues.

I walk to the door, then -

no -

what the fuck am I thinking -

this is *Sebastian* -

I just got you back -

I do go out the door but only to warn the ICU nurse that we are not to be disturbed at any cost. She looks uncertain but I tell her to check it with Steve if she has any doubts and show her a face she hasn't been exposed to yet - she blanches and nods.

I close the door, lock it, run back to you - it's been too long, at least fifteen seconds and I need to touch you -

I dive onto you, carefully avoiding any potentially fragile areas, and dig my face in your neck.

"I will think of something, Sebastian - I will. Anything for you. If you want him dead - we will make a plan that doesn't put you at risk, OK? We will - for now - can we just - I think if I get in on your left side I can just lie beside you? I - so want to sleep beside you again..."

I listen dully as you speak. You don't know. I don't know.

You need some to think. I need some time to think.

All of this makes sense. It's so fucking overwhelming.

We just need some time... time apart to sort out our feelings.

So why am I panicking??

Why do I feel I'm dying when you get up and go to the door - like the breath got stuck in my lungs, like you just pulled my heart out of my chest??

Please - I can't do this - I can't lose you now when you just came back to me- !!

But I know I'm going to wreck everything with how angry I am, how much I hate Sherlock and want to make him pay -

So I don't say a word, even though each footstep feels like a nail being hammered into my coffin.

You speak to someone - the nurse I assume. I lie down feeling miserable - I don't even pay attention to what you're saying. For all I know you're telling her you're leaving and never coming back.

I don't think I can keep these tears at bay for very long - I just need to wait until you're out of the building -

only - you're coming back in?

Why are you-

oh -

Your face - your beautiful face - pressing into my neck, breathing me in -

My arm goes around your waist.

And your words - oh god - am I dreaming?

I'm not used to you being sweet and caring! Is this what you're like when you're - in love?!

Overcome with emotion, I take a deep breath - the tears break free and start flowing down my cheeks.

My arm tightens around you, and I bury my face in your shoulder.

"Is that why you don't want me to kill him - because you're afraid of what Mycie will do to me?" I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut.

I consider that -

Is the game still on?

I - had kind of assumed it was. I faked my death to beat him - he faked his death to escape me - he is dismantling my network; I'm restoring it after him. I kind of expected to get back to London and have him get back and continue our cat and mouse play.

But do I really want to?

It's hard to see why the game was so all-consuming at the time. I do tend to get really sucked into challenges - they are so rare, and so engrossing - able to flex my brain fully -

Yes, it was rewarding. It was exhilarating. But - in the end it was a bit of an anticlimax. I thought I had won, but he had played his own game, with the help of big brother - now there is the real challenge. I could keep dangling juicy bones in front of Sherly for years and see how he jumps, but I think the fun is past. I can mostly predict how he thinks now - the faking his own death was unexpected, but I suspect Mycroft had more than a small hand in that.

So - yeah, if you want to dispose of him - if he makes you so upset -

because you love me -

Oh god you love me and - I love you -

It hits me like a freight train, one with a massive delay.

Did - all that just happen?

I feel you, your strong chest and shoulders and arms and smell your neck -

Yes - I am back with Sebastian - Sebastian who loves me and I love him and the rest of the world is so utterly insignificant I have no words -

I am *in love?!?*

And - it's the most magnificent feeling in the world?!

"*Yes* - god yes - you can kill him, kill him as soon as you want; I don't care if I never lay eyes on that arrogant horseface again - but you can't risk your safety, because - because you-

are the only person I've ever been in love with -"

I stare at you, wide-eyed. Your face looks - more beautiful than should be possible. Like - an angel. With an inner radiance and enchantment -

"How do you do that??"

Silence.

Shit.

I focus on continuing to breathe - pushing back against waves of emotion that keep rising - panic, fury, hurt feelings - I'm being slammed but in the end I keep hearing your voice -

Anything for you -

We will make a plan -

I so want to sleep beside you again -

!!!

I feel you breathe me in - and your body softens -

God - you're lying against me again, for the first time in nearly a year -

I can't pretend I'm not hurt and angry but - at this moment, this is all I want.

And then you tell me - everything I want to hear - and I melt -

My eyes open. You're looking at me like you're awe-struck - and completely bewildered.

"Do what - be in love?" I ask, mystified. "You're asking me?"

The assassin? The career soldier?

"What do I know?" I say helplessly. "I've actively avoided entanglements my entire life!"

Well I guess I've had a little experience, but I was just a teenager - and it was a disaster and - I really don't want to think about that now.

"You're thinking - this is the one area you have no real data for? That you feel incapable of figuring out?" I guess. "Well I'm almost as in the dark as you, Jim. Yeah I was in love with you but - it was one-sided so - it didn't change how we interacted... Except when I would freak out at you about - you know. And you would get frustrated and angry."

I shake my head. "Yeah I do not want to go back to that. You'd really let me kill him?" I ask softly, stroking your hair.

You look back at me unwaveringly - and nod.

"He's all yours, Tiger."

"Oh..." I smile tremulously at first - and then the next thing I know, I'm beaming.

"That's the most romantic thing you could have said to me, Jim Moriarty..." I whisper, holding your face - moving closer to you, and kissing you longingly.

"And if I come first - then I can hold off, for now. Until you say it's safe. I'll be your tiger on a leash again."

Our gaze intensifies at my words, and my hand trails down your chest.

"I miss it, you know... being on your leash," I say, my voice low. "I just wanted - to also be the queen bitch in your heart..."

"Since when do you come first?" I say, teasing, but my voice cracks and I have tears in my eyes.

"I miss you too - I mean I did miss you... I told myself it was just the - convenience, and the sex, and everything - I'm very good at deception, as you know... apparently also of myself.

You will always be the - queen bitch in my heart. You know, that sounds wrong. First Tiger, like in Calvin and Hobbes. I'll be Supreme Dictator-for-Life. Calvin and Hobbes didn't get much into the whole leashing thing, but then Hobbes did regularly take the piss - clearly not well-disciplined. I'm sure I can do better."

I kick off my shoes and my jacket and climb into your bed with you. Feel your body next to mine again... smell your unmistakable Tiger scent.

"How are you feeling?"

I look at you in amazement.

"Jim Moriarty loves me. I feel like I could take on the world - the criminal underground, the government - and the Holmesy Boys," I say, unable to keep a sneer from my lips. "But I suppose I should recover from the head injury first..."

"Probably a good idea," you say drily.

"Yeah at the very least I should have a nap first," I say, pulling you against me before I realize what I've done. Out of habit, I check your face and body language to see how you're feeling. You seem fine with it - more than fine. Well, maybe I don't need to do this to quite the same extent as before but - it seems like a good idea with a psychopath anyway. Like if one has a live tiger at home, one should probably monitor his moods as well.

"Did you mean how I was feeling physically? OK. A bit tired - but I can't imagine why. It's been such an uneventful day," I say, then I shake my head in disbelief. "Is this actually happening? Am I lying in bed with you... making jokes? I guess it's easier than all the crying and freaking out," I sigh.

Then I kiss you again… awe-struck that I apparently can just do this now...

"You're right, First Tiger works better than Queen Bitch," I murmur, gazing at you. "I was going for a chess metaphor - like the King sending the Queen out to do the fighting - but it fell apart... Hey, it’s been a long day. How are you feeling, my Supreme Dictator-for-Life?"

I bury my face in your hair to breathe you in and you sigh contentedly. God - heaven is a heady thing after a year of hell...

"I'm - really tired..." I murmur. How long has it been since I slept?

And here is a bed with Sebastian - a real Sebastian, who is doing well, who loves me -

I can't really conceive of all of it...

"I am - sorry Sebastian. You probably have - lots of questions and things to say and I should probably do a lot of explaining... but for now - can we just - can you just - can we just sleep together?"

As you open your mouth my phone buzzes - oh for *fuck's* sake -

It's the nurse. She wants to check that the instructions the psychologist gave are alright with Steve - she doesn't think Mr Patten is in any danger, but it seemed a weird request -

Steve reassures her that yes, he is to be obeyed and trusted, and he's working with his personal blessing. Unless Mr Patten or Merrill ask for her, she is not to disturb, nor let anyone else disturb them.

I hang up, feel tempted to turn the thing off, but what if someone tries to contact 'Steve' on this number and can't reach him... they might think to do stupid things like come into this room.

And I want to see absolutely no one. I want to be held by strong arms which are still so very strong even though you came so close to being so very seriously hurt - you could have *died* -

I grab your T-shirt, pull you close - smell your neck - you smell of hospital, yes, but you mostly smell of Tiger.

I feel so tired... but also so - safe...

"Tiger..." I mumble, and then I'm gone.

I look down at you, stunned at the very idea that you're sleeping in my arms - because you're alive and you love me.

Just the thought of everything that's happened, that has brought me to this moment... Brought us? That's going to take some getting used to... my poor brain was already struggling to deal with reality and now -

Well. Reality just underwent a massive paradigm shift, a seismic movement that just changed everything.

I study your face - there are stress lines that I didn't see a year ago. I have no idea what you've been doing for the past year - what you've been feeling - what the hell you were thinking doing all this for a game. But I intend to question you thoroughly until I'm satisfied that nothing like this will ever happen again.

There's a strange thought - making demands on you - and you listening - and answering me.

I let out a slow exhale.

Nothing will be the same will it? Good fucking riddance.

I stare at you for a while longer - I'm beyond exhausted but not ready to not be seeing your beautiful face.

And there's a fear that I haven't wanted to even look at but I know it's there, snaking its way through me -

What if - you're not there when I wake up?

What if you change your mind and leave??

What if this is all a morphine-induced dream?!

I don't know which would be worse. But I can't stay awake forever... my eyelids keep lowering and I find myself jerking awake.

But try as I might, I find myself sinking into the blackness - deeper - and deeper – and

I sleep better than I have in months.

I don't know why; something is annoyingly poking in my back. And my head is - there's hair tickling my -

*There's someone in my bed*

*Why don't I feel alarmed*

*It's Tiger*

*How can it be Tiger*

I drag myself from a deep deep slumber to the surface of reality, which is normally not something I relish, but now -

Tiger -

*Tiger!?*

Yesterday and the days before come crashing back over me like waves - the kissing, the talking, the discovery - you in your black outfit, looking so like yourself again -

I move back, quickly, but carefully - how can I just have fallen asleep in your bed; you were hurt –

Something stirring in my bed -

wait-

Did I - sleep with someone?!

NO -

I shove the warm body away from me in a fury-

my eyes fly open -

Jim?!! But you're – dead -?!

You're staring back at me in shock -

My heart is racing -

Am I - dreaming again??

I look around in confusion.

Hospital bed - safehouse - Dr Phil - ?

"Jim?? Are you- real??"

My voice is small and hesitant - I sound scared.

nothing scares me - nothing -

But if you're not real -

oh god –

Your eyes are wide and panicking - no, Sebastian, don't -

"Yes! Yes, Sebastian, I'm real, it's me - here -"

I reach out, touch your chest, your neck, your face. Your hand flies up and grasps mine, like you're afraid I will disappear if you don't hold on to me.

"It's me, I'm here, I'm real..."

Fuck - how often did you wake up like this? And with me *not* there?

A shard of ice stabs through my stomach and my heart at that picture. Ah - guilt. It's been a while. I thought we had parted forever, but I guess that's one of the side effects of being in love.

... love.

Oh god I said I love you. You love me.

Doesn't mean you're not going to kill me for what I've put you through. But probably not.

You feel real - but I’ve never seen your face look like that - like you’re feeling -

Troubled. Guilty. Afraid?

I look at you suspiciously for a moment - like you’re a figment of my imagination trying to trick me. Because Jim doesn’t do guilt… And he sure as fuck doesn’t show fear!

(What about the nightmares, Sebastian…?)

But then - I don’t do fear either.

(I repeat - what about the nightmares?)

Yet here I am clinging to your hand like it’s the only thing that’s anchoring me into this world - like I’ll get sucked into a gaping black abyss without it…

I give a shaky sigh and close my eyes, focus on my racing heart and my irregular breathing.

“Fuck,” I mutter. “That was - bracing…”

When I open my eyes again, you’re staring at me intently - but you seem so unsure. Join the fucking club.

“You’re not going to leave again?” I ask fiercely.

You shake your head.

“I really don’t know where to go from here, Jim,” I admit. “But - if you’re with me, then - I can handle it. All of it…”

I bring your hand up to my mouth and press my lips - first to your knuckle and then to your palm. It feels symbolic - loving your hardness and your softness - you’re Jim Moriarty after all.

You’re watching me closely. I stare back at you and an electric charge seems to spark between us - good to know that hasn’t changed.

I look at the door, wondering who’s biding their time to get in here to run their infernal tests.

“How long do I have to deal with this shitshow?” I ask urgently.

You look bewildered. “What shitshow?”

I gesture to the machines and the hospital bed. “This - I hate it. I don’t want to be here. And I don’t want staff outside the door. I need to be alone with you.”

I move my free hand to your hip, digging my fingers into your clothes - revelling in the warmth and solidity of you. How could I have thought you were in my imagination? You’re the realest thing in the entire fucking universe.

“Don’t you want - to be alone with me too?” I ask, gazing at you hungrily.

Your eyes look - sharper when you look at me, like you can see me, and keep seeing me. In earlier days you would occasionally seem to focus, but then your eyes would drift away or cloud over. Now you look more - like you can see me.

And Sebastian Moran would not be Sebastian Moran if he didn't want to fuck what he saw. I smile wryly.

"Yes, I want to be alone with you - but not if it means risking your health. You got - very badly hurt."

I stroke your head, very carefully, near where the bullet pierced your skull.

"Yeah I noticed," I say drily. But the feeling of your fingers in my hair is heaven.

And oh that look - that indulgent 'oh Tiger what am I going to do with you’ look of affection -

even as a heartless psychopath, you gave me that look on occasion when you'd relaxed enough - or had enough to drink -

a memory flashes through my mind - that night in Prague when we were drinking shots of Slivovice - because you discovered you loved the taste of strong plum brandy -

and when we discovered it was a traditional drink of newlyweds at a wedding reception, we were so drunk we found it hysterically funny -

and you kept play-acting that we were a chaotic newlywed couple called the Montagues and of course I played along -

The only ‘Montague’ I could think of was Romeo - and surely you weren’t drawing a parallel between us and Romeo and Juliet -??

I would never have dared to ask.

But now - you've outright told me you love me! I've unlocked a level that should have been impossible! And I'm not about to let stodgy doctors get in the way of consummating this love that not even a faked death could stop!

"Who says it's a risk to my health?" I ask, pouting at you in a way that I happen to know gets your motor running. "Did a doctor ever say the words 'don't you dare eat any crumbly food and oh yeah, don’t even think about fucking anyone'?" I raise an eyebrow.

Oh - there's the 'oh tiger' look again - I'm never going to get tired of that, I think as I smile at you winningly.

"You can ask the neurologist - if she says it's OK, I'll be straight onto you," I smile.

"God I've missed you -" I blurt out before I think - hey. Didn't I use to have an editor to decide which thoughts could exit my mouth? But you look at me with those large blue eyes and I melt - it really feels literally like I am melting; like body parts which are quite likely rather important are turning to liquid and presumably giving up on whatever function they were fulfilling. Fortunately I am in a hospital environment already...

We've slept nearly ten hours - well, I was exhausted, and you are recovering - but the medical staff must be burning to get in here. And likely the doctor is there.

There's no way I'm going to expose myself to more people than required - Steve phones her up with a sudden emergency in Manchester and how fortunate that she's already there; surely she's not required when the neurologist is here?

When she is gone, I let said neurologist in to examine you. It's up to you if you want to ask her if we can engage in any strenuous activities...

After my examination, the neurologist makes a few notes in my file. Then she looks between us for a moment - I'm not sure why, since you're sitting in a chair at a distance. Although the phone in your hand seems to be forgotten when she begins to speak.

"Recovery is coming along fine, Mr Allen. It's a very good sign that your vision has cleared up so much. Voice recognition should hopefully begin showing signs of improvement as well.

No cause for concern after surgery, so I'll make recommendations to the physiotherapist to increase the frequency of your exercise regimen -"

"Oh great," I interrupt. "Speaking of exercising - when can I have sex again?"

Her face remains neutral but her eyes stray towards you. You appear to be engrossed in the contents of your screen again.

"Generally we would say 2-3 weeks after surgery. Before that - intracranial pressure from exertion and from orgasms could lead to complications."

My heart sinks. Two weeks?? Minus - how many days has it been since surgery?? I would consider risking it but - by the serious look on your face, there's no way you're going to allow it.

"It's not too long at all - a week should be fine," she says reassuringly. "It will give you time to get stronger."

A week is not too long at all?? When's the last time someone you love came back from the dead for you?!

"That's great news," I mutter.

Satisfied her work here is done, she tells me she'll see me tomorrow - and that she's very pleased with my progress.

Whoopee, I think as she leaves. Give me a gold star on my chart.

And then smother me with a pillow.

"Any chance you didn't hear that?" I sigh.

"Didn't hear the words spoken clearly in English by this eloquent neurologist? Sorry, Tiger, but you're not risking complications from intracranial pressure, irresistible as I am sure I am. I guess -"

You look at me hopefully, but I shake my head.

"I wasn't thinking about that. I - well, I'll need to make some arrangements - I guess you don't want me to leave again now I'm here. And the doctor is going to come back soon, puzzled that there was nothing at the address she went to - ah, that will be her," I nod when 'Steve's' phone pings. I send an apology saying that the intel I'd received was muddled up and that there is no medical emergency after all.

"I will need to leave - I am sorry, I wish I didn't need to. I'll be back -"

I look at your big eyes, seemingly terrified I'll be disappearing again -

I lean over you, kiss you. "I promise, Sebastian. You have my word - Jim Moriarty's word."

I wish I could give you something, something that would reassure you.

In an instant, sex is the farthest thing from my mind. Every word that follows 'I guess you don't want me to leave again' sounds like white noise as I struggle to understand what the hell you're saying to me.

You guess I don't want you to leave?? What the fuck, what the fuck, Jim!!

The kiss barely registers on my lips. My body is filling with cold and I'm feeling that familiar trembling in my muscles that tells me everything is not ok - if you're even thinking of leaving after all this, everything is pretty far from fucking ok!!

"What do you mean, you need to leave??” I demand. "You don't need to do anything! You're Jim Moriarty - you do what you want and make your own rules!" My mouth tightens, as I think about all the times you made that painfully clear. "So whatever 'arrangements' are needed - we can figure out how to accomplish your plans together."

Or did everything that happened mean nothing to you?? I think desperately - but suddenly I'm too afraid of the answer to say the words.

"Yes - hold your horses; I'm not going back to fucking *Tuscany*," I say, rubbing my forehead. "But I need to make sure the doctor doesn't see me, I need to get to work on my laptop, I need to - sort stuff out so we have *some* Empire left to rule together.

Don't worry, Tiger..." I stroke your cheek. Did it have so many lines before I left?

"I'll be back in twelve hours."

Hold your horses? Did you really just say that to me, Jim?

I'm fighting back panic as well as anger, otherwise you'd be getting an earful - All of these things you need to do seem - not trivial but - something you can easily handle, and why do you seem stressed out about them... and why do I feel like if you leave this room I'm going to lose you forever?!

Don't worry, Tiger -?

How can I possibly not worry after the last year?! I'm momentarily distracted by the gentle touch of your hand on my face.

Twelve hours - OK... it's not as bad as I thought but - why can't you go for a few hours and come back to me?

But if I freak out about twelve hours - you'll think I'm going off the deep end -

Well I fucking am - can you blame me!

Yeah but then you'll think of me as what, your histrionic boyfriend who freaks out at the first sign of stress?? Great - just what you've always wanted!

My heart is racing - there's nothing I can say, nothing I can do to change your mind...

So I just need to soldier up and endure twelve hours -

Only - I have a sinking feeling that it's not going to be twelve hours - something will come up that you have to deal with and then something else - and twelve hours will become eighteen, twenty-four, thirty-six - it's not like it hasn't happened before - you disappearing, me not knowing where the hell you are -

You told me you loved me. And I believe it - but I'm not sure I believe anything will change how you do things. You’re Jim fucking Moriarty. So -

So the fuck what. Deal with it, soldier.

"Do what you have to do, Sir," I say, looking at you steadily.

Your face journey is a thing to behold.

Anger, fear, determination, frustration -

you settle for the stoic soldier, which is not my favourite in any circumstances, let alone now.

"Sebastian... I will only be away for a bit. You know I'm back but no one else can know; it's too risky - things are too unbalanced, people may decide I'm better off never coming back at all - and I don't think they're going to offer me a retirement package in Tuscany.

I have been playing for very high stakes, and still am. You - you had to know, I get that, I couldn't - you were suffering so much. But literally *no one* else misses me. So we must keep up the pretence that I am dead, and you are grieving, but determined, and not let anyone else find out about me. I can't keep the doctor away from you, but I can hardly go 'Oh yeah funny did Jim never mention his identical twin?', so I *have* to leave - do you get that? I am not doing this to get away from you, or because I don't care - I'm doing this to keep us both alive...

They nearly *killed* you..."

What the fuck - why are my eyes damp *again*!?

You're explaining it all to me like how I feel matters -

But what difference does it make? You're going to do what you've already decided, and I'm going to fucking deal with it - the only way I know how - And I just told you so! So what is it you need from me?

As you keep talking, I stare back at you in bewilderment. What - is happening right now?

Yeah I get it, Sir - very high stakes. Very important game. Keeping us both alive.

I'm very aware they nearly killed me -

Why are you the one that's crying?!

"Sir," I say hoarsely. "I understand how this works better than anyone. The mission comes first. So I'm doing what I need to do to let you accomplish that."

Do you understand that, Jim?

Softening, I reach out to gently wipe the tears from your eyes.

"Please, just - be careful, Jim-" I say, my voice wavering. "I couldn't bear -"

I swallow hard around what feels like shards of fucking glass in my throat - and I remove my hand from your face.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I breathe in deeply -

I will not break down in front of you, I will not -

Letting out a long shaky exhale, I open my eyes again - my vision is clearer and it barely registers. You're staring at me with huge wet eyes and I can't do this, Jim - I can't open my heart only to feel it break when you walk out that door - if you need me to be a soldier, then let me do that.

"You'd better go. Now," I say quietly but firmly. "See you in twelve hours, Sir."

Jaysus. Sir this Sir that -

you'd think I'm heading into battle without you and you are needing to steel yourself to prevent from falling apart - I'm going to the Premier Inn, Seb. Hardly the Ritz, but hardly Helmand either.

"I will be with you in no time, Tigger. I'll phone you in six hours, if that makes you feel better - or whenever you prefer. I don't want to disturb you if you're asleep -"

"Six hours is perfect, Sir. Now go."

Christ. Have I ever been *ordered to leave* by Sebastian Moran?

Or - anyone, really??

But alright. You're hurt and upset - I'll give you this.

I nod, leave the room. It feels like the air outside is too thin, like I need to rush back in to save myself. But I nod at the nurse and leave the safe house.

I need to make sure everything I've been monitoring keeps being monitored, even though I have less time and things are not going according to plan. I need to move the Albanian players, the Shurogen deal, get in touch with Tsybulenko -

I sigh. I slept so well in your arms... I want another few weeks of that, please.

When I tell you to go, you give me a dumbfounded look - which is quite something to see on the face of Jim Moriarty. It's not a sight I'll easily forget. Christ, you didn't even try to hide it -

It's strangely satisfying after being unable to say what I really felt for so much of our relationship - and after all the devastation I've gone through this past year -

But the satisfaction disintegrates the instant you walk out the door.

I sit in stillness for a long moment listening to your footsteps like a fading drumbeat -

my heart is pounding - I can't breathe -

and then I can't hear your footsteps anymore and I'm alone and I know you said I'd see you in twelve hours but -

what if I never see you again after just letting you walk out the door?!!

My body is throbbing with raw grief and panic - my guts feel mangled and bloody -

the state I was living in for a fucking year, Jim!!

But you're not here to hear my pain -

I take in a shaky breath and then I can't hold back anymore -

Sobs rip through me -

and I let the tears unleash - all the anger and fear and pain I couldn't express to you before you left me on my own again.