Chapter Text
This was not what Sherlock had planned to happen. This is not the what he expected to see when he opened his groggy eyes after having jumped off that building, the drug used to fake his death still coursing through his veins, fainter now than before. He expected to see his connections, for Molly and those he had trusted in the ambulance to be the first sight he saw when he came back from the dead. What he did not expect to see were round, deep chestnut brown eyes, filled with concern.
"Oh my dear, he's waking up !" the voice that was undeniably Moriarty's called. The man leaned forward towards Sherlock, taking his hand – with an IV imbedded in his vein, Sherlock noted – in his own. “How are you feeling, my love?”
“Moriarty?” he slurred out, tongue heavy as an after-effect of the drug. “But you shot yourself.” His mind was racing, despite his body's lethargic state. It rapidly attempted to come to a conclusion, one that worked to explain how James Moriarty was standing before him and how he had ended up at a hospital, for surely that was what this place was.
“Oh love, the delusions are kicking in again. Doctor, how long is he going to be this way? I thought the surgery was supposed to help.”
“Give him some time,” a tall blond woman in a white coat told Moriarty. “The surgery stopped any further damage, but the memory impairment that was already present prior to the surgery will remain potentially indefinitely.”
Sherlock glared at the woman, disliking how she discussed his well-being rather incorrectly with Moriarty. Didn't she watch the news? Wasn't she aware of what had been happening for the past few months? He would normally mark such behavior from normal people as due to their lesser mental processing abilities, but this woman was an outright ignorant imbecile.
“Darling, I've missed you. I'm just happy you're awake now.” It was then that Sherlock noted, rather distastefully, that Moriarty was still holding onto his hand.
“Moriarty, is this another one of your acting stunts?” Sherlock questioned. “Are you even going by James Moriarty right now or is this another Richard Brooks act?”
“Richard Brooks?” Moriarty's eyes lit up. He and the doctor exchanged furtive glances. “Sherlock, dear, Richard Brooks is a character in my top-selling novel.”
Sherlock glanced at Moriarty. His expression screamed honesty, and his clothes backed up the statement. Ink splatters were almost undetectable, but present on the cuffs of his sleeves, glasses were tucked into his shirt pocket, a callous on his middle finger suggested lots of writing. But then again, this was Jim Moriarty – Master of Disguise.
“I read excerpts to you when you fell into a coma before all of this insanity began.”
“Coma? I...” Sherlock thought. For a second, it seemed possible. For a second he remembered, remembered something that he never remembered before. He glanced at his hand in Moriarty's and startled at the sight of the ring. Matching rings, he noted, on either of their fingers. The rings weren't new, no. They fit both of their fingers like they had rested there for a great length of time. Sherlock pulled his hand free from Moriarty's, removed the ring, and stared in wonder at the tan line left behind.
“Are you alright, Sherlock?” Moriarty's voice held a tone of worry. When Sherlock turned to face him, he saw soft, round eyes staring at him, almost pleading him to say he was fine, that he remembered and everything was going to be alright. But Sherlock couldn't. What about John? What about Molly and Mrs. Hudson?
“I have not figured out how you've done this, but I will. I fell like you asked me to, my name was ruined, and I betrayed John for you. There's nothing else you could want from me.”
It was then that the doctor spoke up. “It seems the damage is worse than we anticipated. I'll plan more treatments and get him on some medication to suppress the episodes.” Sherlock scrutinized every aspect of the woman's conduct, but each subtle movement, each piece of cloth and hair upon her form passed as truthful under his cognizant gaze.
“Doctor Clark, will he still be released into my care tonight? I have the house prepared and had taken into consideration the potential...” He glanced at Sherlock and spoke quieter, but not so softly that he couldn't be heard, “severity of his condition. He'll receive the top care, I promise, just please let my husband come home.”
The word husband hit Sherlock hard, despite the fact he had already seen the rings on their hands. His grip on his, which now rested within the palm of his hand, tightened, as if to assure him that it was real. He couldn't hear the doctor's words, but saw her nodding and offering a sympathetic squeeze to Moriarty's arm before she turned and left the room.
When Jim turned back to Sherlock, he looked like he was about to be in tears. “I'm so sorry this happened to you, Sherly. I'm so sorry.”
“Stop apologizing and tell me what you think this will achieve. And don't call me Sherly.”
“Dear, we've been married for 11 years now. About four years ago, you nearly died of asphyxiation in a swimming pool. You were in a coma for 10 months. The doctors had just about given up on you, but I hadn't. I knew you'd come back to me. Then you did, but you kept saying strange things. It was then that we found out. You're schizophrenic, honey. But I love you just the same! I will always love you.” Moriarty took a step closer before leaning down and pressing his head against Sherlock's. “We were made for each other.”
“Why the surgery?”
“What?” Moriarty leaned back, surprise on his face.
“The doctor, Doctor Clark, was it? Said I had a surgery. If I'm schizophrenic, as you claim, then why did I need a surgery? There is no surgical cure for schizophrenia.”
“That's a bit more complicated, love. I don't think you're ready...”
“Tell me, Moriarty, what was the surgery for?”
“Please, Sherly, stop calling me by my last name. It's Jim. Always Jim. Always your Jim.”
“You're stalling. Answer the question.” Sherlock's patience was tried. He was confused, but determined to get to the bottom of the situation.
It was then that the door to the room opened and the doctor appeared once again. “Alright, Mr. Moriarty. You and your husband can go home. You just need to sign these release documents saying that he has been handed over to your care. He should be on bed rest for at least the next four days to have time to heal. Here are the prescriptions for the medication, and here is the number and referral to the clinic who will deal with his treatments.” Moriarty signed the paperwork quickly, obviously in a hurry to leave the hospital. “Alright, you're all set. One of the nurses will take you out. If you need anything, don't hesitate to contact me.”
Moriarty's attention was directed entirely towards Sherlock after the doctor left again for, hopefully, the final time. “Don't worry, love, everything will be sorted out soon. Just you wait.”
~
Moriarty's home was not a home, but a mansion. The two of them were picked up in a sleek, silver Rolls-Royce, Jim having made the comment that he hates limousines because “they attract too much attention.” When they passed through the gates to Moriarty's manor, the house was nearly too far away to be viewed.
Sherlock took in every detail of the property and stored it in his mind palace for later. “I thought you said you were an author,” Sherlock scoffed. Surely Moriarty would need to be a criminal mastermind to afford such a property.
“Come now, Sherly, I inherited my property from my father, and he from his father before him. You know that.”
“Yes,” Sherlock commented, because strangely, he did know that.
Jim was standing outside Sherlock's door the moment the car stopped. The light-eyed detective hated how he leaned almost entirely onto Moriarty for support as he limped towards the house. His abdomen was sore, so sore he had to fight back the gasps of pain that threatened to escape his lips. The nurse had explained to him that the soreness would pass within a day or too, and that they had given him heavy narcotics to ease the pain until it faded. Still, Jim refused to explain what the surgery had been for, which had Sherlock feeling suspicious.
They were at the door, having just made it up the last step on the porch, when Moriarty paused.
“Jim?” Sherlock questioned, waiting for his nemesis to laugh and give up his act. Instead he did something Sherlock had not expected. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock, hard. His hands left Sherlock's shoulders to tangle in his dark, curly hair, leaving Sherlock with no option but to rest his hands on the slighter man's shoulders in order to keep from falling. Pain erupted in his stomach and Moriarty took his gasp as an opportunity to deepen the kiss. His wet tongue pushed dominantly through Sherlock's mouth, tasting and claiming every corner. Jim tasted... familiar. Sherlock found himself pressing back into the kiss, as if it was natural. His tongue curled with Jim's, fighting for dominance, only to be shot down and pushed aside so that the other man could claim what was his. The sensation was so entirely new, yet so entirely familiar, as if he and Jim did this every day, all the time, for a long time (11 years, possibly?), that Sherlock didn't know what to think.
Jim's eyes lingered on Sherlock's for a moment when they pulled apart before he pulled open the doors to the manor and beamed. “Welcome home, honey.”