bakerstreet | Healing the Broken

The world might be reeling from Moriarty's wildly successful staged murder-suicide, but Jim's triumphant march home was utterly anticlimactic. He had stood up, dusted himself off, messaged Jack to pick him up at the loading dock, they drove home and he washed the fake blood out of his hair.

Less than twenty minutes after the grand finale to the Great Game, Jim emerged from the bathroom still damp from the shower, wearing nothing but a towel. He stood there contemplatively, eyes on his loyal sniper, considering what to do next. There were infinite possibilities, of course, but Moriarty had to make sure he picked something interesting enough to keep them both properly entertained. Murder, mayhem, danger, avarice, blackmail, but London had been played out.

The good doctor, Mrs. H, and the DI were left alive as promised. After breaking down his weapon, Jack slipped through A&E and witnessed the brain matter and broken skull for himself before family arrived. Sherlock Holmes had been pronounced dead upon arrival. Had thought that Holmes would find some way to weasel out. No pulse, no plugged in vegetable, no coma, no hope. Game Over. All for his friends - more accurately, for the people who called him friend. Left through the basement tunnels, picking up his stashed weapon and wended his way back to the meeting point. Even if he trusted Moriarty, Jack was certain that Jim would change out the blank rounds that had been put into the handgun, just to ride the edge. Hearing the water turn off in the shower and witnessing the blood splattered shirt and suit jacket tossed on the floor, he couldn't help exhaling a held breath.

Leaned against the wall to stay in contact with the building, to feel the vibrations that would give warning of a disturbance before anything happened, his eyes darted over the man when the door opened letting out a puff of steam.

You were right.
I worried for no reason.
Had been certain that ending Holmes would end you as well.

Moriarty already knew all of that, but it didn't stop Jack from crossing the room and giving the man a bear hug, squeezing James stupid - as if that were possible - lifting him from his feet.

That was not something Moriarty had expected. Both surprised and inordinately amused, his initial snickering turned into a full out laugh. Well, as much of a laugh as he could manage with his ribcage squeezed by a man who had outwrestled full-grown mountain lions for light exercise.

"I wasn't gone that long, Lovey."

"Long enough," muttered into the side of the neck, at the join of neck and shoulder. It wasn't just habit that caused him to bite the tendon, but rather the thought that he could have lost everything in those few minutes and would never be able to mark James again. With cross-hairs on the good doctor, he sat there in dread, stomach eating at him. If Jim tossed the blood packs filled with Moriarty's blood, as well as the blanks just to spite him, to let him come back here to an empty flat, to laugh as the truth was realized, Jack would have been gutted by his own hopes. His hold on hope had always been precarious.

Tongue swiped over the impression of his teeth and after his arms tightened again briefly, he set James back on his feet.

Moriarty didn't always react when bitten. When he did react, the most likely result was chaotic mayhem involving retaliation of various levels of severity. Sometimes, like now, he gasped in a breath and shuddered, humming his appreciation as the sharp ache grew and spread.

Jim would have ditched the safety net and genuinely blown his brains out, except that he had managed to uncover Sherlock's sneaky cheating scheme. Well now! If Sherlock wasn't planning to stay true to the spirit of the thing, then Moriarty would simply have to make sure he at least followed the script correctly.

When freed, Moriarty reached up with both hands to yank Jack into a long, hard, deep kiss. Just for a change of pace, he wasn't even planning to bite his Tiger's lips and tongue bloody in the process. Well, maybe a little. Nah, the man's lip was still split in one place from before. Moriarty would be content with the taste of blood from reopening the wound.

It was good. All good, just because he wasn't abandoned. Yes, he had crossed the line in the utter relief, but it was one he crossed often enough and the well deserved consequences were welcomed. Didn't stop him from squeezing James again. Yes, he could crack every rib in that dear little body and Jim could break Jack's mind into even tinier pieces. They had semi-equal footing and any physical damage Jim did, Jack had to allow in order for it to happen. At least any blood that had been spilled today, their blood, was given freely. As soon as teeth left him, Jack straightened, letting his hair be pulled, letting Jim count coup.

The police, Holmes the elder, would be searching the hospitals and other medical locations for Moriarty, what with the amount of blood at the scene and no body...unless there was a body.

"What is next?" his voice hoarse, giving away other thoughts to break the bed, the wall, James himself for alarming him.

Oh, there was a body alright! Someday, maybe someday soon, Moriarty would reveal the true origins of the good twin, Richard Brook.

Moriarty gave him a disdainful, patronizing look. "You repeatedly fucking my brains out of my perfectly intact skull, of course. What, did you think I had important business scheduled for right after breakfast? Even I know how to take a day off once in awhile."

"As you wish," as if it was a hardship for him to do exactly that. Not that he'd let Jim get on his knees. The blade in Jack's boot would be pulled so fast, he'd be lucky to escape with just a close shave to cock and balls.

Wasn't a unintelligent, although he liked to give the impression of an unthinking lunkhead who was kept around only for his ability to hit things hard, either with fists or a well placed bullet. Jack was educated, had common sense, had been around the world a few times and knew how nasty, brutish, and short it could be. Had experienced some very close calls, didn't like them, tried to prepare for them, and when that didn't work, fought his way out, narrowly avoiding getting disemboweled. He tried to balance on that narrow ledge of Jim's sanity, swaying with the breeze, knowing that at any moment the man could turn on him. When it was good, it was very, very good, and when it was bad, Jack embraced that too, because he deserved it.

As much as he would like to - was he really going to use these words? - 'make love' to James, there were no niceties. Jack had been allowed all he was getting for the moment. Without warning, had James' spun around, chest pressing against the wall, wrists held behind his back. Watching for kicking and other attacks, he popped the buttons on his jeans, fished a ever present tube out of his pocket and, towel dropping, pressed his thick fingers into James.

That Jack was so very talented at doing all of these things, quickly and deftly, one-handed, had always amused Moriarty to no end. He liked to believe that he was in some way responsible for forcing the man to hone his technique, dishing out disproportionately unpleasant punishments for any unnecessary delay. The vice-like wrist hold had nothing to do with Moriarty's influence, except that it was mandatory for at least the first few rounds lest Jack find himself repenting in haste and in leisure.

There were no attacks, at least in the initial moments. Moriarty grinned and then whined sharply at the intrusion, clenching uselessly around the digits that had already solidly penetrated. He turned his head, pressing one ear against the wall and looking at Jack sideways with a wickedly coy smirk. "Oooh, are you going to punish me for making you worry? Admit it, you've been fretting your pretty head off for days now. You were sure I was going to go through with it and leave you all alone, and you would have to watch the whole train wreck unfolding right in front of your eyes."

While Jim had been very well aware of Jack's troubled emotional attachment to him, he was also aware of just how serious it would be if he ever actually teased the poor dear about it. Years had come and gone, hundreds of explosions of vindictive attacks, and never one did Jim come anywhere close. He had chosen to reserve the topic only for the most special occasion, for maximum impact. This was that supremely worthy once in a lifetime occasion. For this little window of time, for the first time ever, Jack would be given a chance not only to admit those dangerous feelings without penalty, but to act on them.

If things went horribly wrong, they knew some talented doctors. Besides, Moriarty was "dead" anyway, it wasn't as if his precious could destroy him more thoroughly than Jim had already symbolically destroyed himself.

"Fuck you, Jim," retaliating by adding an additional finger before he would have normally, before the body he was manipulating was ready. It was that or punch that gloating, smirking, snarky face. Knew he was being provoked and although he might react, but doing what he wanted would have meant letting go and Jack wasn't that stupid...yet. But the reaction wasn't enough, it didn't give him what he wanted. The only person who talked to him like that without retribution was Jim and he hated Jim.

Pulled his fingers out, leaving the man gaping and fist clenching, punched Jim, once, twice without pause, his other hand firm around the wrists, pinning. The immediate bruising to the pale cheek was satisfying in a way that the internal pain hadn't. Licked the blood from the back of his knuckles.

"Fuck you."

Edited (words...coffee...something with people.) 2016-03-22 20:38 (UTC)

The one thing Moriarty had demanded from the very beginning is that Jack not leave any visible marks above the collar or below the wrists. This had turned into a sacrosanct rule for the last year and a half, as Moriarty had been making regular public appearances and there was no makeup good enough to fool both cameras and in-person witnesses. It was Jim who had decided to throw out all the rules at once, it wasn't as if Jack could possibly be held accountable for crossing the line. There weren't any lines left, Jim had burned them all down.

It would take days to recover completely from the mild strain injury to his delicate internal muscle tissue. The brutal blows to the side of Moriarty's face had caused far more impressive damage. Yes, Moriarty had very delicate pale skin which barely saw the sun let alone someone else's knuckles. The first strike had torn open a wide, jagged gash over his cheekbone, and the second one splattered the quick eruption of blood everywhere. A steady red stream flowed freely from his nose too, an ominous sign that one of his thin facial bones had cracked. The only reason he didn't suffer a concussion from the outburst was how he had braced his head against the wall.

None of this took the smile off his face, though by the time he had a chance to reply it had changed from a shark-like smirk to something softer. Moriarty's voice was a bit raspy, vocal cords battling the blood running down his throat, but not really rough. "Will you let me apologize for that instead?"

The only other time Jim had come close to putting himself in danger, was at the pool. It wasn't the initial encounter, it was Irene's interruption and Jim sauntering back in, 'changing his mind' that caused the problem. That and the fact that the explosives were very, very real. Hated it then and hated it now when a more calculated risk had been taken. Was grateful, had been very grateful that what he thought was going to happen didn't...at least until he was taunted and precarious balance was nearly lost.

Didn't answer, or he did, but it was non-verbal - No. Jerked the tongue of his belt, unfastening and yanking it from the waist of his unbuttoned trousers, pulled it free. Slipped the loop over Jim's hands, snug, a little too tight, a hole punched to catch the metal tab. Let go, catching the strap and wrapped it around his hand, once, twice, gripping it securely - tiger by the tail.

Then and only then did he pull out his pulsing length that had gotten so abruptly ramrod hard, at the strikes, and greased himself up. Didn't intend to waste his time further opening Jim up, his tormentor simply couldn't appreciate anything good. He always had to ruin it and rejoice in the wreckage.

In his mind, Moriarty calmly catalogued the growing body of minor physical damage. Nerve pinching in his wrists, possibly friction burns from the belt and definitely bruises, both shoulders mildly sprained, nasty bump on his opposite temple from being jarred against the wall... He tilted his hips back and relaxed as well as he could, enduring it, riding it out. It was odd, someone mentally snapping and exploding in a violent rage, someone who wasn't him this time, it was Jack's turn. Who knew how long it would last, or how crippling? Had Jim finally broken him?

There was nothing for Moriarty to do now, nothing but wait it out. If he survived, he would be able to determine if any of the pieces that remained were worth picking up.

Didn't hear himself snarling and cursing, not that he really said anything worth listening to. Didn't even bother to span the length and breadth of the languages he knew. No Hindi, no Farsi, no Arabic, just plain old fashioned mother tongue. Rage made him brutal, as much as it had done to his father. Didn't go out of his way to break anything, but took what he wanted, took what he had wanted to be jointly enjoyable, took what he had wished could have been, for once, slow, gentle, and with care. Didn't care, except in the most twisted way possible. The truth, the actual intent, the fact that he cared and was afraid was thrown back at him and clawed him open just like Kali's hooked nails. Between him and the wall, Jim didn't bring out the blade sharpened words, and Jack didn't hit him again. If Jim got off on this, then they were a degenerate pair - a matched set.

Spent, panting, his head rested against Jim's shoulder. Darkness, that he hadn't let get a hold of him since before leaving for the military, finally let him go.

This time, the expletive was muted. Had never fully slipped his leash in James' presence, not when torturing others, never, not ever.

Jack was a dead man.

Edited (words...) 2016-03-22 23:34 (UTC)

It wasn't that bad so far. In weighing the opposing goals of focusing on keeping his head from smacking into the wall versus dodging a proctologist's tutting, Moriarty had chosen firmly in favor of protecting his head. None of his internal organs were structurally compromised and all of the weight-bearing parts of his skeleton were still sound. Assuming that the belt would be loosened soon, he would get away with full use of both hands. One of his rotator cuffs was searingly swollen, more likely strained than torn. The face fracture would probably heal on its own if treated with the utmost delicacy over the next few weeks.

But his face would be a bloody horror. The bruises would heal, but his cheek had been smashed open clear to the bone and the damage spanned the full length and with of Jack's stone-hard knuckles. Not even the best plastic surgeons in the world would be able to put Humpty Dumpty back together again, not this time. Not much of the blood made it all the way to the visible part of Moriarty's shoulder, most of it was dribbling over his chest and smeared into the wallpaper. Only a few drops had scattered all the way to the floor, but one slowly advancing rivulet was currently snaking its way in a curved path towards an ankle.

Moriarty kept his chin tucked down against his shoulder, breathing steadily through his open mouth, eyes closed, concentrating on staying patient and calm. While it was possible that the storm was over now, there was still a strong possibility that Jack was only taking a breather before deciding it was too late for him and so he might as well finish the job.

No smartarse remark in the silence, Jack wasn't entirely certain who he had on his hands - on my dick. Didn't matter really which personality. What was done was done, they all saw, no matter how far down James retreated. Leather cut into his palm, into the back of his hand and he focused on that, lowering the leash, relieving the tension on James' contorted and wrenched arms. Pulled hard for a second, to release the metal fastener from the aperture and freed the pinned wrists. Jack's other arm already wrapped around Jim's waist.

Broke the thin connection between them. In his boots (again!), there was no stepping out of his jeans and with a slight stoop, snagged them, hooking them over his hips one handed.

Steeling himself to the mess, to the destruction he wrought, Jack scooped up James and shifted him those few feet to the bed. Muttered as the damage was assessed, "You're a bastard." Couldn't swear to which of them he was speaking. Both...or just himself.

As soon as Jack wound an arm around him, Moriarty spat out the frothy blood in his mouth to say "Don't pick me up." He wanted to stay on his feet, not be dropped into a position he couldn't get up from. His hands were numb and the one arm that might bear his weight was shaking too hard. He would have been able to walk, if uncomfortably, but the internal pressure from tensing his abdominal muscles hard enough to sit up would be intolerable. Worst of all, there was no good position for his head. Neither cheek was suitable for pressing against a pillow, and if Moriarty were laid face up he would choke on his own blood.

He gave Jack a long-suffering look, which might be very difficult to interpret because one of his eyes was swollen shut and more than half of his face was painted red. Moriarty sputtered a few words out, unable to fight the wheezing cough now that blood was pooling in the back of his mouth. "Stand me back up."

Ignored most of it, except turning Jim to lie on his mostly undamaged side. Correction not Jim - That definitely wasn't Jim looking out those eyes.

Nearly said what he thought again regardless.
Just open a vein, Jack.
Walk out into traffic.
Jump off a bridge.
Lovely when his internal voice was so...upbeat.

So, what was that about Holmes the elder watching medical facilities?
Damn. Well, looks like someone is going missing.

Well, there goes any chance of salvaging the mattress or any of the bedding. Moriarty's naked body would glue to the fabric, his saliva would pool under his chin, and it would just be that much more difficult to get up later to be bandaged. Now Moriarty couldn't even see, his one good eye mashed against the pillow. He held his mouth half-open again, letting the blood trickle out while avoiding further trauma to his nasal sinuses.

He couldn't see, but he could lift his arm to grope clumsily for the front of Jack's shirt. "Come here." It sounded a lot like "gumf meer," spoken with a quiet sigh. Jack should be able to understand people whose faces were half-beaten in, otherwise he'd be bad at interrogation.

Figured they would have to have a cleaner followed by an arsonist just to get rid of most of the DNA already present. Too bad Mr. Kaplan from Black List wasn't a real person. What was one more set of sheets, one more bedspread? It wasn't as if they could stay holed up here forever, regardless of what had been originally requested.

Already sitting on the bed, James nearly curled around him, Jack bent and kissed the unmarred temple, intentionally putting himself in reach of a well deserved punishment.
God, Moran, what have you done?
"Jack, you're an ass. One knee in the kidney for yes, two for no. Followed by, fix it you idiot, or other clever derogatory insult to intelligence here. Same indicators."

Close enough. Using what little purchase he had on Jack's clothing, Moriarty drew in a long breath, then held it as he tilted his head up to press their lips together through a slippery veil of Moriarty's own blood.

...shit. Turned out Moriarty could gut him without using a knife and Jack would like it.

His own blood was a regular flavor shared between them, some new scrape or cut, accidental or on purpose, James' blood was another thing entirely. Up until now, he was nearly 100% certain that all marks he had left were temporary, bruises, bites, sore or burning muscles, never this...nothing like this. Hated himself for chasing after the coppery tang.

Jack's reaction almost made Moriarty smile. Almost, because even the first faint twitch of an actual expression shot shuddering agony over the entire front half of his head. Well then, if his Tiger wanted to lick up his own mess then who was James to stop him? Taking in a short pull of air through his nose gave Moriarty half a mouthful of blood and triggered a coughing fit.

He wondered whether Jack would pull back out of concern for his airway and get his entire face spattered, or suck eagerly at his mouth to drink in all he could.

Jack stayed.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
However, he would be more vigilant about giving breathing breaks.
Had thought for certain he was going to be kneed.
Needed to stop this and fix it.
Now was not the time to confess that his father had beaten him until Jack hit back.
Especially because he's known that the entire time.
Taunted you, daring you to strike him, openly frustrated with your carefulness.
Thoughts stabbing him like Kali's claws.
Who needed Jim to tear him open when he did such a good job on his own?

Licked bloody drool from James' chin. He was a mess. "You need a physician, Love. Shall I kidnap one or bring you to someone with a private surgery? Knees are still excellent indicators."

Moriarty turned his head to cough properly, then left it lying there despite the pressure it put on a few of his bruises. "My personal physician still owes me a few favors." Not that James had ever mentioned having any sort of physician at all, let alone one who owed him something. He let his hand fall back to the surface of the bed, arm limp now that it had performed the difficult service required of it. "Get a phone."

It was more like "geddafone," but that should be even more straightforward to understand than the rest of it.

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no tea for you.

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