bakerstreet | Healing the Broken

Other than adding elephants to the list and mumbling that he detested poachers, Jack welcomed the sound against his chest. With his immediate security concerns handled, weapon nearby, and, most importantly, his arms full, it was easy to let himself be lulled, to have a dream of the heat of the Afar Valley, the jungles on the foothills around Mt. Kilimanjaro, the wide flat plains, the acacia and baobab trees...which one was the 100 year old sprawling trees that elephants ate and were killing off the last of? Wanted to save them, grow more. The cliffs at the edge of the world. Someone would get a tan and he'd have to see if the flavor of that white flesh changed when browned.

Getting to Cairo was a breeze. Being in Cairo wasn't.

The nighttime view was spectacular from their penthouse suite, full of brilliantly lit bridges and skyscrapers, overlooking the Nile river. The climate control on this side of the floor-to-ceiling glass was perfect, the furnishings were luxurious, the service was impeccable, and Jim Moriarty felt like he had been run over by two taxis, several bicycles, and a jogging pram just for variety. He lay in bed, curled up in the deep fluffy white comforters, feverish and sweaty, nauseated, and fatigued, just as he had been for the last three days from the barrage of innoculations he had been given right off their little chartered plane at a nearby airport.

They were supposed to be having fun! "Is this really any better than actual malaria?"

"Yes," seriously. Laying across the end of the bed, Jack looked up from the arrangements he was pondering to get them south, taking their time getting through countries and countryside, seeing where Moriarty wanted to end up. "This feeling lasting six to ten hours every other day, and that's the uncomplicated type." Severe meant death.

Something about being out of the London weather that lifted his spirits, where the sun came out for most of the day, where the streets were full of chatter that wasn't always English. His skin sucked up color, still too white, still viewed as a tourist, even if his language helped him fit in better.

Didn't ask if Jim needed more juice, just rose to refill his glass and set out pain reliever that he was due for. That was really what the complaint meant, that it was time to be coddled.

Everything meant death out here. Jim could die of dehydration, crocodile attack, snake bite, yellow and blue and purple polka-dotted fevers, impaled on thorn bushes, and then sucked into quicksand, all in a single day!

He didn't want juice, and the pain reliever was just a rubbish excuse to make him sit up and go through useless exertion every few hours. Was Moriarty really such a hothouse flower that he wilted as soon as he stepped foot out of Britain? "Then why aren't all the mosquitoes languishing in agony on the streets? If they can't get sick from it, then they could at least mind their own business."

"Short life spans," certain they had this conversation two and four hours ago. Tried a different tack, "Could continue to Antarctica and go native" ...or as native as scientists and whalers could be.

The cold liquid, a plummy citrus from the look of it, sounded very different compared to a hot beverage, when poured into the glass. Sat on the edge of the bed, holding out his hand to pull the achy man upright. He felt better after taking the last dose, actually sleeping instead of repeating his complaints. Was glad that the complaints weren't about him.

"Up. Time to take your meds." He would get that tapas platter out of the cooler, the one James had been picking over earlier, to help buffer the stomach.

Edited (negatives are very important when needed) 2016-03-27 05:27 (UTC)

"Are there Antarctica snakes?" Jim really wanted tea instead. It was easier to go along with whatever useless thing Jack was trying to make him do than fight it. Jack knew it, and he knew that Jim knew that he knew it, and who cares, fine, he'll reach for Jack's hand and get jostled about.

"I don't want Antarctica snakes. They'd have to be huge, what with only having polar bears to eat."

"No snakes. No bears either," pulling him up then handing off the implements of torture. Some lizards, the marine iguana, lived fairly far south - not that far south - ones that plunged into icy cold water to eat seaweed. On the Galapagos Islands.

"If your fever has broken, where shall we go tomorrow? Museum to point out fakes?"

"Not even glacier snakes? There should be glacier snakes. Lots of good places to hide, in the crevasses and such. Lots of room to grow. I'm sure they could eat polar bears, if they could get them."

It took a moment for him to figure out what was in his hands. "What happened to the tea?" Had Jack made tea and somehow Moriarty lost it? Well it can't have gone far. He glanced around the room a bit, but there was no hint of the missing tea. Yes, he was a delicate cold-house British daisy that had wandered off into the desert to die but was somehow looking out upon a huge river out his window.

"No snakes," repeating, "No bears."

Tea?, pressing a hand to the hot forehead.

"You drank the tea," alright, it was true earlier that day, not right now. "Drink this," tapping the glass to get James' attention, "and I'll make more," gladly. Mint jasmine tea in beautiful multicolored glasses was one of Jack's very favorite things. Sweet without sweetener, refreshing, warm, and relaxing all in one. The English could keep their Earl Greys and what have you, Jack wanted Moroccan mint.

Wasn't that awful? His Tiger's hand was on his face, and Jim couldn't reach for him because both of his own hands were full. That's what he gets for not taking his medicine right away. How could he turn this to his advantage? Jim smiled sweetly up at Jack. "What will you give me if I take my medicine?"

It was entirely pro forma, if Jack didn't offer anything at all Jim would swallow the pills anyway. Even if Jack promised to reward him with something distasteful, that would be fine too. Jim had already stuck the tablets in his mouth and brought the juice to his lips even before Jack had a chance to reply, but he still looked up expectantly. See how clever he was, Jack? He was already being done a huge favor, but was now demanding even more favors to accept it. Now appreciate the cleverness of Jim! Wait, what had they been talking about?

"Tea, as you requested." A little warmer than he like, but the fever reducer would help. His hand slipped to Jim's neck, feeling the temperature there too, and kissed the broad forehead. The glint in the dark brown eyes gave away who he was dealing with, except no one in there was in full form. Repeated, "Drink your juice."

Rose to rummage in the small kitchenette. Worked quickly, no wasted movement. Started the kettle and fished the half finished platter out of the cooler. Flat bread was unwrapped, excellent for spreading hummus on or folding around slices of veg or meat. Sliced off more of the melon and chunked it into bite sized pieces as well as a halved and quartered pomegranate, torn, not cut, to preserve the tempting jeweled seeds. The kettle began to burble and the hot water was poured over the fragrant leaves, that particular sweet delicate scent filling their rooms.

Returned and slid the tray onto the mattress, made certain to order and stock tempting foods to keep James eating during his recovery.

The supposedly useless fever reducing medicine began working almost immediately, which did improve Moriarty's coherence. In this particular situation, it also made him rather talkative. The effect might be vaguely comparable to how many people reacted to moderate alcohol intoxication, except the Boss never drank alcohol. Even when he had been ill in the past, it typically made him grumpy and quiet instead of silly and chatty.

"I should be a member of the information age nouveaux riche, made my fortune with some sort of casual mobile game, sold it and now I'm lazy and idle. Decided to see the world with my modest fortune, blithely marching into parts unknown with the soft naivete of a pampered and clueless Westerner. You can't be my manservant, even if you're perfect for the role, that just isn't done these days. You could be a soldier of fortune, that wouldn't be much of a stretch, but it wouldn't explain any affection you might display. Did we meet at uni? We can't meet at uni, someone could look it up. We can't simply be mysterious, people love mysteries and they might actually stumble on the truth if their imaginations get truly outrageous. So who are you, and how did we come to be traveling together?"

Joined Moriarty, boots toed off hours ago, and, taking the empty glass, replaced it with a handful of grapes in his hands instead. Keeping James hydrated, keeping his hands full, encouraging absent minded eating.

"You need a experienced, world-wise adviser." At least, common sense, down to earth advice like 'dump out your boots before putting them on'. One that knew what to do when the nearest cell tower was a thousand miles away. "The young are entirely too dependent on technology." He remembered the first home computers, punch cards, and magazines with lines of Basic code that had to be entered, correctly, to gain a blinking Christmas tree or other useless image. "Someone to tranq a wild animal that would find your flesh tender," tongue touching a canine, one might call it a leer.

Moriarty attempted a little playful growl and a swipe of curled fingers in the air in response to Jack's delightfully wicked expression, but it sounded nothing like a real growl. It was the noise of someone reading a storybook out loud to a small child and, having gotten to the dialogue of the cartoonish big bad wolf, was hoping to elicit a giggle instead of the more appropriate sense of ominous dread. "Rawrr!"

Jim wasn't really one for mindless eating and he wasn't at all interested in food right now. The tidy bundle of grapes went directly onto the tray Jack had brought so that Moriarty had both hands, and the rest of his body, free to pull his nursemaid down into the cushy bedding for a proper full-body snuggle. "You'd have to be something else, too. Nobody is going to believe that I could land such a sexy beast for a babysitter, with nothing more enticing to offer than a paycheck."

Laughter in an exhale. "Wasn't that exactly what you offered when you interrupted?" Would never forget the blur through his scope as Jack was looking down the barrel at his targets.

More than a little drunk and bruised, having given better than he got the night before, and then up that morning to track and photo a flock rather than the next person he had decided needed to be checked out of the gene pool - there was always someone. Had been played poker the night before, knew the room, knew the people for the most part, knew the mood and it was not the night to win, except he had because cash reserves were running low. Not by a lot mind you, but enough to pay for his flat and food. He was Things turned ugly a little quicker than he had guessed, someone sliding across the table, through the coins and case and might be valuable heirlooms. For a man who had lost his inheritance, the paltry sum would have meant the difference between paying for dinner and taking what he wanted and he disliked taking from those who had little to spare.

It had taken over two dozen tries before Moriarty had managed to sail one of his little bank note flying airplanes past the photographer's lens, but the look on Moran's face when he first saw well over a hundred pounds sticking up in the grass like some ultra-fast-growing invasive weed species was priceless. "Well yes, a paycheck is always a good place to start, but there would have to be something more to keep a free spirit around after your pockets were adequately padded. Ooh, maybe I'm really good in the sack. That has some potential!"

"Mmm, you do have a certain something," happily pummeled and snuggled and filling his own arms.

Now, there were no minions to coordinate, no big plans in the air (that he was aware of at least, and none that Moriarty was currently capable of making), only the ones falling onto the floor that had been entrusted to Jack. They could afford the time to recover, the time to be lazy, the time to do nothing at all.

Mrs. Whatsit had left her mark on Jack. Even if he pretended that some scar, which he might never see unless heels over arse, was very much like others, it wasn't. Even if he had cut himself before, or dug out a bullet, or cause some other minor self harm, usually to forward healing, the emphasis was on minor and not a psychological scar. Could understand why some men named their dick and joked that it had a personality. His was certainly sulking and rightfully resentful.

"You were rather cocky at the time too."

"Oh hardly. If I had dared to get within three meters of you, or made some kind of noise to get your attention, that would have been cocky. Offering you something that wasn't cash in hand, or telling you that you'd have to sober up first? That would have been cocky."

What day was it? He would have to remember to ask. There was something about stitches coming out of Moriarty's face after five days, arse after ten. It would be nice not to wear the bandage over his cheekbone any more, it was really rather annoying when he got sweaty. At least Jack didn't have to worry about his own stitches, they would all dissolve on their own. Maybe they already had?

"Three meters and I would have had a new sheath for my knife, Love," just one more body on a path littered with the dead and destroyed. Drink had only made him meaner. Hadn't lost his temper, to his knowledge, not that he ever drank in public to unconsiousness, but it would have come out soon. He had been looking for an excuse to forget everything. Didn't shudder, but felt like someone had walked on his grave. "Would have missed everything."

Found by his family, if they threw enough people at him, he would have been locked up and detoxed and drugged until he stopped fighting.
It would have taken a lobotomy.
He had been an embarrassment.

"Oh rubbish, I was perfectly safe. I positioned myself so that all of your camera equipment was in the way. Would you really have flung everything to the ground and trampled it just so you could kill someone as harmless as I am, in broad daylight?"

Moriarty pressed his good cheek against Jack's. "Two meters might have been pushing it."

"I would have hardly had to move and you know it." Asked (well,, not asked, but skirted) a question he still had running around in his head to this day, "Although, your sniper," who became second string "would have splattered my brain...assuming he could hit that large of a target. Besides, you didn't look harmless."

"I'm sure that one of the six could have clipped you in the shoulder, at least." Oh, you didn't realize, Jack? Moriarty only switched to using a single sniper after he met you. Actually, Jim had briefly considered having one of them shoot Moran's camera lens to get his attention, but because his quarry was actually worth recruiting this time instead of just driving mad, he thought better of it.

"You don't think anyone looks harmless. Anyone else would have taken one look at me and been more wary of the ducks."

A 'six' he knew his eyebrow had bounced. That creepy crawly of his spine feeling had been very much present, and it hadn't been about the man in front of him.

"I don't make the mistake of thinking ducks are harmless either," cheek quirking. "But they seemed rather interested in the watercress."

Two of them were still in training! Experienced snipers are so hard to find, it's easier to look for talent and train them in house. "Ducks, amoebic dysentery, jackals, bees, Egyptian mummy curses, it's a wonder any of us are still alive."

Wouldn't go so far as to tickle him, but went with the impulse and blew a wet raspberry into the crook of James' neck. Laughter shook him, escaping as he rolled to his back, pulling James with him.

"I can't imagine..." breath stuttering and stopping with the continuing sound of good humor "You digging - digging up bones." Directing it, wanting to know progress and why nothing had been found, absolutely.

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