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When Jim Moriarty heard a thump outside his flat, his first instinct was to throw down his newspaper and make a run for it. Then he took a breath, composed himself, and decided that it would be better for his image to play the victim to the police. If someone caught a video of him shimmying down the side of his building on their phone… he could already picture the headlines in the Daily Mail.
Even as he stood up, the consulting criminal realized the flaw in his logic. If he were about to be arrested the police wouldn't leave it to a single thump. They would have kept knocking or broken his door down. Perhaps they were trying to trick him into fleeing. Yes, that had to be what they were doing – Sherlock must have put them up to it. So he would open the front door. There was nothing wrong with investigating strange noises outside of your flat. Being nosy wasn’t a crime, especially not for Londoners.
As he walked towards the door, Jim glanced at his wristwatch and noticed that it was well after midnight. When had it gotten so late? He had come home at half nine, eaten leftovers from the fridge, and then sat down with a book. He had read for a bit, then made a cup of tea… and then picked up the newspaper? Oh, but he had been waiting for a text from Sebastian, to confirm that his job was finished. Of course he’d never heard from the man; he was a reliable killer but horrible at returning texts.
Before opening the door, Jim took a moment to pick up his suit jacket from the chair he’d draped it on. He tightened his tie just a bit, then tucked in his white silk shirt. Catching his tired reflection in the hall mirror, he reached up and smoothed his hair into place. He lifted his eye to the peephole, expecting to see the police, or perhaps Sherlock with his new friend.
Whatever Jim had thought he’d see, it certainly wasn't this. Sebastian Moran was leaning against the door frame, his black athletic jacket zipped all the way up to his neck. He was looking back down the hallway. His hands were tucked into his pockets and his blond hair was wet and tangled. Jim had to admit he looked good this way. A little rugged, a little dirty. Like a feral animal only barely under his own control. Jim unabashedly ogled him through the peephole for a moment before pulling open the door.
“Since when do you wear Adidas?” Jim asked, tearing his eyes away from Sebastian’s biceps to look at his outfit. “I could have picked you out something that fits a little better, you know. I like my employees well-dressed.”
“It’s not mine.” Sebastian’s voice was thick, like he had a cold.
“Excuse me?”
“I stole it. Can I come in?”
Jim was about to say no, and why are you here, and how did you even find this place, when Sebastian turned his face and revealed his puffy left eye and sluggishly bleeding nose. He held Jim’s shocked gaze for a moment, then collapsed towards him.
Jim grabbed Sebastian by the front of his jacket and dragged him inside, closing the door behind them. "What happened to you?" he snapped, trying to hold the sniper up as he threatened to collapse. If Sebastian was capable of answering, he didn't show it. Jim hustled him into the flat’s small kitchen and dumped him in a chair, where he immediately slumped over the table. Jim wasn't sure if he was conscious or not until Sebastian made a failing effort to sit up. When he pulled his hands out of his pockets, they were sticky with drying blood.
"That's disgusting," was Jim’s first reaction. Sebastian made a noise that might have been a chuckle. Blood splattered the front of Jim's shirt, and he cringed a bit. "Sebastian," he said, being as patient as he could, "Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of a silk shirt?"
“Does it help to know it’s not mine?”
“Excuse me?” Jim asked, for the second time in as many minutes. The other man didn't answer, so Jim leaned forwards and grabbed his chin to make sure that he was still conscious. "You've got to stay awake, okay? Sebastian?" The man nodded slowly, then gritted his teeth and forced his eyes open. Jim could see a bruise forming around the left side of his face.
"How did you let this happen?" he chided, grabbing the zipper of Sebastian’s jacket and fumbling to pull it down. "I mean, I'm assuming that you didn't have to deal with our man point-blank. You- oh, my God." Under his stolen jacket, Sebastian was wearing a tight green shirt that would have flattered his silhouette if not for the wide, bloody slash across the ribs.
"You got into a knife fight?" Jim snapped, glaring up into his sniper's face. "Are you kidding me? Sebastian, what happened to keeping your distance?"
“You should see the other guy.” Sebastian’s voice was low and slurred. “Bit the hell out of him.” There was a pause as Jim tried to figure out what to say, and then Sebastian’s head lolled backwards, his eyes and mouth slack.
Jim shook him by the shoulders. "Sebastian – Seb, look at me. Come on, my tiger, stay awake." When he got no response, Jim’s mind went blank. He was a doctor of maths, not medicine. The idea of putting pressure on the wound came to mind. Carefully, he leaned the unconscious man against his kitchen table. He got up and frantically fished through his drawers for a clean dish towel, keeping an eye on Sebastian the entire time.
The man hadn't moved at all by the time Jim got back, but his right eye was twitching. That was bad. No, it was fine. Everything was going to be fine. "And of course there's no way we can check you into hospital,” Jim complained to himself as he gently lifted Sebastian’s arm. “Not without Sherlock breathing down my neck." Sebastian hissed through his teeth as his torn skin shifted. The towel touched his wound and blood bloomed through it immediately.
"I can't believe you," Jim mumbled. "There's blood on my carpet, my shirt, and… how do you even know where I live?" He wasn't really expecting a response, but there was something deeply wrong with the silence that followed. "Sebastian?" he asked, cautiously. How long had it been since the sniper stopped breathing?
Jim had no idea what to do. He didn't know how to fix it. It was an area of expertise he’d never needed before. There had to be something he could try, something he could do. An idea came to mind, but he didn't know if it would work. If it didn't, Sebastian would die. Maybe he was dead already. Jim pressed harder on the wound and felt a weak pulse. He steeled himself, knowing that every second he waited brought Sebastian closer to death.
"Okay, one chance. One chance." Leaning forwards carefully, he pinched Sebastian's nose with his free hand and covered the sniper's mouth with his own, breathing a lungful of air into him. Sebastian’s chest rose, then fell, and didn’t rise again. Jim pulled back, took another breath, and tried again. Still nothing. There was no telling whose blood he was getting in his mouth, and it took all of his willpower not to gag. As he leaned down to fill Sebastian’s lungs a third time, he suddenly felt the man’s mouth move under his. He pulled away just as Sebastian gasped in a breath on his own and began hacking. Jim let out a relieved laugh and Sebastian jumped.
“Never heard that sound before,” he said weakly. “Guess I’m lucky.”
“Don’t joke around. You scared the fuck out of me.”
“No, it’s…” He took a second to catch his breath. “I like it.”
Jim grabbed one of Sebastian’s hands and laid it on the towel so that he could put pressure on his own wound. "I'm taking you to King’s," he said. "I have a friend who teaches there. She’ll see to you and won’t talk. And when she’s done we’re coming straight back here and you’re going to sleep on my couch. In fact, you're going to sleep on my couch every night until I'm sure that you're not going to die when I'm not looking."
“Can’t I sleep in your bed?”
Jim sighed in relief. “That’s more like you. But don’t push it.”
Sebastian’s face turned serious. “Jim, I don’t need to go anywhere. Walking through the city to get here was already dangerous. If I’m in hospital I’m guaranteed to be on a security camera.”
“You walked—!” Jim waved a hand to dismiss his outburst. "Never mind. But this is non-negotiable. You're the best sniper I have and it would be a pain to replace you.”
“You have other snipers? Boss, I’m crushed.” Sebastian shifted in his chair, breathing hard through his nose. His face paled and the muscles in his neck strained, but eventually he managed to sit upright. “See?” he said, gesturing to himself. “I’m fine. It was just shock and blood loss. I’ll sew it up myself, no need for hospitals.”
“Not a chance. Can you stay conscious long enough for me to make a phone call?”
Sebastian sat back in his chair and wiped a hand under his nose. It only served to smear blood across his face, but he didn't seem to notice. "Sure," he replied, not sounding convinced, but at least willing to go along with the plan. Jim nodded, and as he turned towards the hall to pick up the suit jacket he’d dropped he heard Sebastian add a very quiet, "Did you call me… your… tiger?”
Jim didn't acknowledge the question, but when he flicked his gaze over to Sebastian the man was looking at him steadily. His eyes were tired, but curious. Jim turned away and fished for his phone. He needed to get Sebastian back on his feet as soon as possible. Sherlock was getting closer every day, and Jim knew that he would need someone like Sebastian on his side when the time came to enter his endgame.