Chapter Text
“Sherlock!”
That was all Moriarty’s mind could supply as his heart began to pound.
Sherlock
His mind worked as quickly as the young detectives ever did. They were both brilliant scholars who were far too clever for their generation. It still vexed Moriarty to no end that Oxford didn’t appreciate either of them.
Sherlock
Now that brilliant mind was laying in a pool of his own blood.
Sherlock
The crowd stampeded like a heard of wild animals. Men turned into mere beasts at the threat of death.
Sherlock
Yet, there Sherlock was, actually fighting for every breath. Or was that him.
“Sherlock!” he shouted once again.
Men cut him off in his pursuit but he merely pushed them to the side. This dark mass of people were all in his way as Sherlock lay on the ground: and not for the first time, Moriarty wanted the world to burn. He knew, somewhere in a dark place that frightened him, that if Sherlock was dead he would do it.
Without Sherlock he would burn this world to ash. Starting with Shou’an.
“Sherlock! Sherlock!” he shouted, finally moving through and nearly falling on top of his bleeding friend.
Moriarty’s hands moved in quick, gentle, and fluid movement. A hand on his chest and hand on his face.
Heart still beating, still warm...but getting cooler.
His mind filled with books he’d read about blood loss. Mental calculations swam before him as he returned a hand to Sherlock’s clammy face.
“Hey, Sherlock!” he said, his hand tapping slightly against Sherlock’s face.
Wake!
Groggily, dazed blue eyes opened and stared into his own. Moriarty felt his heart leap out of his chest. He tried to let out a small smile but the panic was too much. He watched as Sherlock finally refocused his gaze, eyes filling with so much pain Moriarty could practically taste it. It was then, he realized just how close his face was to Sherlock’s.
With a wheezing gasp, Sherlock tried to move up slightly, only to have his head roll back to the side in pain.
“You’re all right. I’ve got you.” he said, voice breaking, as he moved an arm under Sherlock’s head to try and raise him up slightly.
Moriarty was filled with a desire to keep him close. Afterall, look what happened when he let Sherlock out of his sight. He pressed the other man closer to him as he fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief. What possible good that was going to do with so much blood.
“You know, getting shot, eh? That was a terribly stupid thing to do.”
Sherlock let out a sound of pain that almost sounded like a laugh.
More awake now, Sherlock brought a hand down to his own wound and flung his other arm out to grasp at Moriarty tightly. Shifting, Moriarty brought them closer together.
“Shou’an, she,” Sherlock’s voice broke in pain. Swallowing harshly, Sherlock tried to meet Moriarty’s gaze. “She tried to shoot my father. You have to stop her.”
“I’m not leaving you down here,” said Moriarty firmly.
“Sherlock!” the voice he knew as Mycroft Holmes came barreling towards them.
Moriarty’s vision filled with more hands and Holmes: this one more worried.
“Why’s he bleeding?” asked the man in a way that Moriarty understood was meant as a rhetorical response. Yet, he couldn’t help the quip that left his mouth.
“Suppose it has something to do with the bullet in his abdomen,” he said as lightly as he could: but his voice broke once again on the delivery.
“You have to...” Sherlock winced and panted as the two men struggled to get him closer to upright. “you have to stop her.”
Moriarty looked at him with wide eyes and shook his head.
“I’m not leaving you here!” he said again, more firmly to try and get it through that stubborn intelligence.
“If she kills him, we’ll never find Beatrice,” gasped Sherlock.
Moriarty felt his heart twist. Sherlock was in so much pain. He knew logically that what Sherlock said was the right move. That Mycroft could carry the other up and get him to Mrs. Holmes. Yet, he felt a twisting in his stomach: some unspoken choice was echoing through him. If he left now, he’d never get to be with Sherlock again. All of his dreams for them would be gone.
Sherlock may survive...but they wouldn’t.
“I’m not leaving,” he said firmly, grasping ahold of Sherlock’s arm and waist.
“I can go,” said Mycroft, starting to rise up.
“No,” cried Sherlock. “Shou’an will shoot you too. Please..please James..please...”
Moriarty felt his heart crack in two. Sherlock’s eyes met his with a desperation that boarded on manic.
James Moriarty was a selfish bastard.
But he couldn’t say no to that pretty face full of pain and tears. Quickly, he rose up to begin the chase. Sherlock’s grip weakened slightly to let him go, but a hand still clung to his jacket. With so much sorrow it threatened his resolve, Moriarty broke away as Sherlock shouted for him to go.
He raced through the cavern tunnel: the image of pain hazed blue eyes filling his chest with panic and anger. Anger at everyone who would dare to take something that was his.
Hot anger and cold panic filled him until he found his mind screeching to a halt.
A man lay dead before him: a soldier.
He’d killed a man.
It took Moriarty a minute to determine if he had killed to protect Shou’an or if he’d killed to ensure he could get back to Sherlock.
He wasn’t certain which path frightened him but he knew...he knew deep down that Sherlock wouldn’t forgive him for this. Not for killing an innocent.
But...had he been innocent?
He would’ve killed Moriarty without a second thought.
It was self defense right? Not the same as cold blooded murder.
Mirthful blue eyes filled his mind. Eyes shining with tears. Eyes hazy with pain.
“James!” a shout came from a voice he knew well.
Whirling around, Moriarty was once more on the edge of panic, because the man before him shouldn’t be here.
“Mycroft?! Where’s Sherlock?”
“We couldn’t get through,” the man panted, suit in disarray and hands covered in his brother blood.
There’s so much blood.
“I can go get the doctor,” said Shou’an but Moriarty didn’t hear. He couldn’t hear over the ringing in his ears.
He’d left Sherlock, let Silas go free, and killed a man, only for Sherlock to be left alone and dying in a Parisian brothel.
Sherlock
Whether he spoke internally or let the man’s name slip through his lips, Moriarty once again took off in a run. His legs burned but he couldn’t stop. He ran back the way he came and into the madness of bodies moving rapidly.
A hand grabbed at him and he tried to shove it away in fury until words filtered through his panicked state.
“He’s up here monsieur! The shot man. He’s in here! They told me to bring you. That you’d come,” said a blonde man with rouge painted cheeks.
Moriarty distantly registered the words and his mind supplied the reference of the man from earlier. This man had flirted with Sherlock: knew they had come in together.
“Take me,” he said, voice pitching low in command.
More movement.
More bodies.
More pushing.
Then it all muffled as a door opened and closed.
The image that filled his vision didn’t seem real at first. It was as if his mind was trying to protect him from the horrid reality.
Sherlock was laying on a pink velvet sofa in a room of soft greens and golds. Moriarty’s mind registered frantic French: two feminine voices and the mans. It supplied that this must be a private salon for high value guests. But his body, his hands, his heart all lunged frantically towards Sherlock.
Towels had been wrapped around the wound, and his friend listed in fevered pain.
“Sherlock,” he called, hand rising to his friend’s face as his knees sunk into the carpeted floor.
“He isn’t responding,” came the panicked and tearstained voice of Mrs. Holmes.
“Sherlock, look at me,” he said again, ignoring calls that it was useless. “Sherly! Look at me damn you.”
Dark lashed fluttered open and Moriarty felt his heart slow to a less frantic rhythm.
“James,” came a slurred response.
Moriarty felt his heart clench at the whine of pain that followed after.
“I’m here. I’m here. Stay with me, I’m right here,” he whispered, brushing Sherlock’s hair back.
“I’m sorry,” came another slurred response.
“Don’t you dare,” he said firmly, practically shouting while still maintaining a whisper. It felt right to hold hushed tones in this moment: though he wasn’t certain if that was due to Sherlock dying or due to the emotions surging between them. “Don’t you dare apologize for any of it. Not now. You owe me Sherlock Holmes. You burst into my life and you’re not leaving it yet.”
“Hurts,” Sherlock whined again, eyes fluttering shut.
“You gotta stay awake,” said Moriarty firmly, his other hand coming up to grab at the others cool cheeks. He shook his head gently, forcing Sherlock to look at him.
“I’m...I’m glad you’re here,” Sherlock whispered, turning his face into Moriarty’s hand.
It was still subtle enough that any outsider would assume he was merely in pain. But Moriarty saw the awareness in those blue eyes. It was confession enough.
For them anyway.
Taking a deep breath, Moriarty let his mind fall into the same place Sherlock would go. To a place filled with cold logic and reliving memory. No French doctor would come to them. Not in time. They needed someone they could trust. Moriarty only new of a few but they were far away from here. Except....
Not for the first time, he damned Silas Holmes.
He had planned on taking this secret with him to the grave.
“Mrs. Holmes, tell them to go to the nearest Irish pub. Tell them this exact phrase, A Good Son of Ireland Needs Aid. Can you do that? Repeat it!”
“A Good Son of Ireland Needs Aid. Oh! Oh, I see,” she repeated: as smart as her children and just as fearless.
“Good,” he said and began to assess the state of Sherlock on pink velvet that made him look paler than the moon. “I need hot water, more towels, needle, thread, and whiskey. The good stuff, not watered down.”
Moriarty began to unbutton Sherlock’s jacket. He carefully pulled the wretched thing off just as more voices entered the scene.
“What are you doing?” demanded Mycroft, a hand coming down to still his work.
“You listen to me Mycroft Holmes,” he said, anger, fear, and threat burning his throat. “Sherlock is dying. He is my friend and you’re no good father and that one behind you got him shot. I’m not going to hurt him but I need the lot of you to either work with me or fuck off. Cause I’m not explaining every step of the process to you. Got it?”
Moriarty turned his face away from Sherlock and burned a fury glare at Mycroft and Shou’an. If she wasn’t helping, Moriarty would skin her alive for the pain she’s caused them.
“J..’mes,” came the hoarse whisper of Sherlock. “I..it hurts.”
“I’ve got ya. We’re gonna get through this you and I. Yeah? But I need ya to stay awake. Can you do that?” he asked, returning to stripping Sherlock from his blood soaked clothes.
“Name three things you can see,” he said, “Don’t have to be nothin’ profound. Just give me facts Sherly.”
“Pink cushions,” came a muttered reply.
“Good, next,” Moriarty responded.
As Sherlock panted out an answer on the framed mirror, Moriarty began to lift him out of his shirt. The cry that came from his lips was animalistic.
Moriarty knew he would remember it all of his days.
He couldn’t help the slight cry of his own at the pain he was causing. Couldn’t stop himself as he bent his head to lay on Sherlock’s brow.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry love,” he said, pressing Sherlock back against the couch as he writhed in pain.
He heard a hiss of breath as Mycroft, who had decided to help in stripping the clothes off his brother, registered the words.
“Give me another thing Sher, anything,” he said, nearly panting in time with Sherlock’s strained gasps as he raised his head and continued to work.
“Ah!! Fuck…gold…gold…” he gasped.
“Good Sherlock, stay with us,” he said distantly as he looked at Sherlock’s wound.
Without the dark clothing masking it, the wound was not pretty. Moriarty had seen a thing or two in his lifetime, but this… this was beyond him.
Breathe man. Think.
“Hot water,” he said and a moment later had a bowl filled with soaking towels thrusted at him.
He looked over at Shou’an: silently helping with his efforts to keep Sherlock alive.
“James,” panted Sherlock.
“I’ve got ya,” he responded, moving back into action. “Mycroft, hold him stead and keep him talking.”
“Shall we argue about the bees again brother dear?” questioned Mycroft in a desperate attempt to joke.
“I…was…right,” panted Sherlock. “Are...you crying?”
“No,” said Mycroft with a slight scoff.
“Why not?” whined Sherlock.
Moriarty couldn’t help the twist of his lips at the humor.
Looking at the wound, he grabbed the bottle of whisky and drenched his hands. Next, he grabbed a hot towel and placed it directly onto Sherlock’s abdomen. The man howled in pain.
“Drink this Sherlock,” he said, handing Mycroft the bottle of whiskey. “Get him to sip it.”
As he cleaned the area, he listened to Mycroft chastising his brother for his foolishness. Trying to cajole him into issuing a biting response in turn. Sherlock only weakly complied.
“I need that back,” asked Moriarty.
Grabbing the bottle, Moriarty motioned for Shou’an to take Sherlock’s legs.
“This is gonna hurt like hell and I’m so sorry,” he said to Sherlock just a moment before he poured whiskey directly into the wound.
Sherlock screamed so loud Moriarty was certain the rest of the patrons outside could hear it above the revelry. No matter how tucked away they were from the action.
As he continued to clean the wound, Moriarty kept whispering how sorry he was, how it would be over soon, how he just needed to work a minute more.
Looking closer, he saw that Sherlock had been lucky in one thing, it was a clean shot. However, he needed stitched up, or he would bleed out.
“Where’s the man I sent to the pub?” he called out.
“He’s back!” came a response from someone he didn’t recognize.
“Did someone call for a Son of Ireland?”
A warm, deep Irish accent filled the space and nearly brought tears to Moriarty’s eyes.
Finally, some luck.
A quick explanation was given, some curses exchanged, and then work and careful hands took over where Moriarty had left off.
“Ya did good lad,” came the man with soft green eyes and firm hands. “I can stitch him but I need to keep him still and calm.”
“Opium?” Shou’an asked.
“We don’t have any,” said Mycroft, voice tinged in sorrow.
“We’ve given him whiskey,” said Moriarty.
“Give him a swig or two more then whoever can keep him calm and awake for as long as possible needs to talk to him.”
“You do it,” came a broken Mycroft. “I can’t..I can’t..l...”
Moriarty nodded, giving the man a quick pat. It was understandable, he couldn’t lose another sibling. Meanwhile, Moriarty couldn’t bear to not doing anything while the man in front of him was suffering. So, hands still sticky with Sherlock’s blood, he knelt beside the man who’d stormed into his life and into his heart.
Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes were ushered out by others as Shou’an and the blonde man stayed to help hold Sherlock down. Drawing in a quick breath, Moriarty fixed a small smile to his face and turned to look at Sherlock.
The smile fell away before he was even fully turned. Sherlock was pale as a ghost. Sweat shined from his skin and he was lightly shivering.
Broken whines were leaving his lips as he twitched in their hold.
“Hey, hey,” Moriarty soothed, hand running through Sherlock’s hair. “Easy. Yer gonna be fine. This man’s gonna fix you up. But you need to stay still.”
Sherlock’s head lolled his way, barely conscious of his actions.
“J…a..ames,” he breathed.
Moriarty ran his fingers through the man’s hair, lightly scratching his scalp.
“I’m here,” he whispered.
“Did…did you…you…” Sherlock muttered, eyes closing .
“Now now, stay with me. Sherlock, you gotta stay awake a little longer,” he said, moving his other hand to soothe Sherlock’s jaw.
“Mean it?” whispered Sherlock.
“Did..did I mean what Sherlock?” he questioned.
Sherlock blinked at him slowly, eyes filling with tears. Moriarty knew that now was not the time for games. Not here. Not like this.
“I meant it love,” he whispered. “My love. My Sherlock. “
A small smile drifted on to Sherlock’s face.
“Love…” he whispered as the needle penetrated his skin and he lost the battle of consciousness with an agonized cry.
Moriarty stayed by his head, soothing his face and his hair. Trying desperately to not think of tomorrow.
He could worry about his words tomorrow.
Tonight, Sherlock needed them to be true. So, James Moriarty, ended his game, and waited with bated breath for the man to finish stitching Sherlock up.
He couldn’t watch as the man worked.
Instead, he kept his eyes focused on Sherlock’s face: drinking in every detail.
One particularly difficult stitch dragged Sherlock from unconsciousness with a scream. Moriarty laid an arm across his chest and pulled Sherlock’s head towards him.
“Sherlock, it’s alright,” he cried. “You’re gonna be fine.”
Sherlock, awake with adrenaline, cried in agony, back arching against being held. Tears streamed down his face and ran into his sweat soaked hair. Moriarty had never felt more helpless. He couldn’t think. His ears rang with Sherlock’s screams. He couldn’t even breathe as Sherlock began to thrash.
“Hold him steady! Get that other man in here. Hold him down. Boy, get him calm!” called the Irishman.
Sound rushed back and Moriarty began to hum an Irish tune. It was a song his mother had sung to him in what seemed like a lifetime ago. Raising his voice, he leaned his whole weight onto Sherlock’s chest. As he started singing, Sherlock began to calm slightly. He still shook and cried, whimpering in pain, but the thrashing eased.
Hazy eyes opened and looked at him with pain and tears.
“Just listen to me Sherly,” he said. “I’ve got ya. Listen to my voice.”
Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed in pained unconsciousness as Moriarty continued to sing. The other irishman’s deep baritone echoed his words: a desperate healing symphony for Sherlock.
Time passed with strange slowness and frightening quickness. The man soon said he was done.
Another woman, the madam, began to speak in quick French. Moriarty saw the others all begin to move from the corner of his eye. Distantly, he registered they must be considering moving Sherlock. Moriarty continued to cling to him, running a hand through his hair, and humming more soft Irish lullabies.
A hand on his shoulder finally made him pause.
“We’re gonna move him to a bed. Come on,” said Mycroft, his face worn and disheveled.
Nodding, Moriarty went through the motions of assisting. He took Sherlock’s head and helped to raise and carry him to a new bed of soft white linens.
The contrast of the red blood on his hands against those sheets nearly made him sick.
“Take a moment son, then come back,” said the stranger who had helped them.
Moving without thought, Moriarty walked where he was directed towards a bath. The silence after hearing his own raw voice and the screams of Sherlock seemed to pierce his minds haze. Everything rushed back to him in horrific detail. He’d always had a good memory: he cursed that fact now.
All he could see was Sherlock half dead in his arms. Looking down at his hands, seeing the blood on them, he went over to the basin to wash them: the water instantly turned red. Scrubbing, Moriarty’s mind began to flit between Sherlock and the dead soldier he had killed. He had both of their blood on his hands. Yet, it was Sherlock’s that disturbed him. Sherlock who he began to pray for. He hadn’t prayed for a long time but he sent a prayer up now.
“I can’t lose him,” he whispered. “I can’t. I can't. I can't. I can't.”
The whispered plea became great heaving gulps of air. Sherlock’s face filled his vision: masked by red water.
“Don’t take him from me,” he begged.
Slowly sinking to the floor, James Moriarty raised his red stained hands to his face, and sobbed.
It took him quite a while to pull himself together, but eventually, he changed and made his way back into the small room where they had tucked Sherlock away.
Casting a glance around the room, his eyes went straight to Sherlock laying on the bed. Quietly, he took a seat near the foot of the bed: placing a hand on Sherlock’s ankle.
“James,” called Mycroft.
Moriarty hummed as he raised his head.
“We need to ask you a question,” he said firmly, eyes downcast.
“No, we don’t,” said Mrs. Holmes firmly from her position by Sherlock’s head.
Mycroft scowled at her softly.
Moriarty felt more fondness for the woman. He took a slow and shaky breath before responding.
“My father worked with the Irish Republican Brotherhood,” admitted Moriarty. “He was an...interesting patriot you could say. You’d call him a rebel.”
“And that’s how you knew to go to an Irish pub and ask for assistance?” questioned Mycroft. “But why risk it? Sherlock’s English.”
“No French doctor was going to leave their patients and come here,” scowled Moriarty. He couldn’t understand why the man was being purposefully dense. “It was either that or do it myself. And if I tried, Sherlock was gonna die. So I made the call. A true Son of Ireland isn’t gonna let a man die. Not even an Englishman. I regret nothin.”
On that last point, Moriarty raised his head to look at Mycroft fully, meeting his gaze. He couldn’t have sat by and did nothing. Maybe Mycroft could have for the sake of propriety, but where Moriarty was concerned, British sensibilities could go jump in the river.
“And we appreciate it,” said Mrs. Holmes, smiling at him softly. “You’re a good man James Moriarty.”
Moriarty felt his stomach twist.
No. He wasn’t a good man. But he was Sherlock’s and that was something.
“I have to report this,” said Mycroft quietly.
They both turned to stare at him.
“Mycroft!” scolded Mrs. Holmes. “He saved Sherlock’s life! That’s more than enough to make up for any political duty you think you have.”
“Just give me till he wakes,” said Moriarty, tone as neutral as he could force it. “Just till he’s awake. Then you can report it and I’ll go. No fuss. But not the man that helped him. He's probably an old country doctor. No use taking away a doctor round these parts.”
Mycroft nodded slowly.
“Alright,” he said. “Until he wakes.”
Waiting for Sherlock to wake was agony. They each took turns sleeping and sitting close to his bedside before moving to catch some sleep on the small couch that had been moved in for them.
Shou’an had already moved on to Constantinople with the promise of bringing back news of Beatrice.
Moriarty wasn’t certain if they could trust her but after hearing her story, he had to admit that Silas Holmes deserved everything that was coming to him.
As Moriarty sat, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, he began to hum a small diddy to pass the time. Both Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft were downstairs getting some much needed food. It had been two fully days and half a night since Sherlock had been shot.
As Moriarty began to mummer the words to the song about two doomed lovers, he felt Sherlock’s head move under his hand.
Moving faster than his stiff muscles would have preferred, he inched closer to Sherlock as he began to stir. Slowly, hazed blue eyes began to wake to the world.
“Why top of the morning to ya sleepy head,” said Moriarty, unable to resist poking a bit of fun at the other man.
Sherlock’s face scrunched in a way that Moriarty refused to find adorable and he began to blink away the sleep.
“James,” he murmured hoarsely.
“Come now, let’s get you some water,” Moriarty said, lifting Sherlock’s head so he could drink.
After, Sherlock began to look around with his typical intelligence. Moriarty could see the puzzle coming together, so he simply waited for the other man to draw his conclusions.
“I’m at the dance hall,” said Sherlock, more to himself than Moriarty.
“We couldn’t make it through the gun fire,” he confirmed.
“I remember...” said Sherlock before pausing. His eyes widened as, Moriarty was sure, all of the prior events came into a clearer view.
“Was...did I imagine...” he questioned before turning his head to look up a Moriarty.
“Which part are you having trouble with Sherly?” he teased.
Sherlock swallowed.
“Before you answer that,” said Moriarty, putting a hand gently on Sherlock’s shoulder. “You’re brother and mother are downstairs. They’ll be back up in a bit and there’s a part of this that you need to know before they get up here. I have a feelin’ it ties in with your question so forgive me for jumpin the gun.”
Moriarty took a shaky breath and looked away before turning his face back to Sherlock’s. His emotions were already a mess but the look on Sherlock’s face nearly did him in. For the first time, the young detective looked scared. He looked so frightened and unsure and Moriarty wanted to hold him in his arms.
But now wasn’t the moment for that. He couldn’t do that to him. Not when what would come next would break them both.
“Sherlock...you remember getting shot I assume?” he questioned, and chuckled as Sherlock nodded with a scowl. “Rather stupid that. Next time, let the man that’s supposed to be shot, get shot. We would’ve found your sister another way. On that, Shou’an is off getting that information. Yer father ran to Constantinople and we couldn’t follow given the circumstances.”
“Mycroft tried to bring you to a doctor but couldn’t get through. So, he brought you here. I rushed back here when he came to get me. When I saw you...you were...you were so cold Sherlock.”
Moriarty paused a moment and cleared his throat, looking away from those sad blue eyes.
You have to do this. He has to know.
“We needed a doctor so I used an old code of me da’s. It was an IRB code. An Irish doctor came, we Irish are everywhere you see, so...I knew you would be alright. And when you were settled...well...Mycroft’s gonna have to report it to the foreign office. They’re enemies of the crown and…I knew that. I knew that when I called for the doctor.”
Moriarty’s stare never left the door but he heard Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath.
“I made my choice and I stand by it, Sherlock. I regret nothing,” he said turning his head back to Sherlock.
Sherlock’s eyes were cold and shining with held back tears. It was like looking at a block of ice underwater.
“I regret nothin. And I'm gonna fight but you...you and your brilliant self need to stay out of trouble. No breakin me out of prison. No more running off into the world unprepared. You need to keep being brillaint and stay far away from the likes of me.”
Sherlock had begun to shake slightly, trying desperately to control the raging emotions with logic.
“Did..did I hallucinate it then. When you said...” Sherlock began, voice cracking.
And oh, how Moriarty couldn’t take it. He hated that he was causing Sherlock pain. Without a word, Moriarty climbed into the small bed and gently lay next to Sherlock.
“Did I image it?” he asked, shaking. “You said...You called me love. You don’t make those kinds of mistakes, James, but you do flirt with anything that moves. So was...was it just to calm me down or...”
Moriarty reached up and ran a hand through Sherlock’s dark hair.
“I meant it,” he whispered. “But I can’t say it and then leave you. I won’t do that too you. You’ve lost too much.”
Sherlock turned as much as his injury allowed and buried his face in James’ shoulder.
“I don’t normally feel this much,” he murmured against James’ shirt. “You make me feel too much. It’s better to be feared than loved.”
And that was the end of James Moriarty. For surely his heart stopped beating at the resigned tone of Sherlock’s voice.
“Sherlock…this won’t be the end,” he said firmly, gripping his hair.
“No,” said Sherlock firmly. “I won’t let it be.”
Raising his head, Sherlock looked straight into Moriarty’s eyes.
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel,” said Sherlock. “I don’t feel how most people describe. But…I can’t bear the thought of your great mind being lost. I feel sick at the thought of you being in prison. I know what happens to Irish prisoners James. You’re not going. You’re going to run and I will find you. One day.”
Moriarty felt his eyes begin to mist.
“You gonna wait for me Sherlock?” he teased.
Sherlock gave a soft smile.
“Well…Mycroft certainly can’t have you. You’re mine.”
Moriarty smiled and pulled Sherlock’s head to his chest once more.
“And you’re mine.”
Selfishly, Moriarty laid with Sherlock’s head on his chest for longer than he should have. He knew he should leave as quickly as possible. But, he couldn’t help but wait a few more minutes.
Afterall, this could very well be the last time they were ever together.
“You have to go,” whispered Sherlock.
Moriarty tightened his grip.
Resolved filled him. He’d done nothing wrong. He wasn’t leaving. He was going to fight: and they would have to pry Sherlock away from his his dead body. He’d already killed for Sherlock once…and he’d do it again.
“I can’t,” he breathed. “Just…pretended…for moment. Give us this Sherlock. You don’t have to feel more or less than what you can. I’ve got enough emotion for the both of us. Just…pretend for a moment.”
Sherlock was silent for minute, then he shuffled closer and adjusted in the small bed.
“Sing me to sleep love,” Sherlock whispered.
A tear fell down Moriarty’s cheek as he began to sing of Irish hills and soft blue eyes.
For one peaceful moment, this would be enough.