Work Text:
"One need not be a chamber to be haunted;
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place."
Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886)
-
It was already about 4 in the morning when Sebastian got back to the flat, boots off at the door, Duffel bag carefully placed by the leather sofa in the living room.
Normally, at this hour, Jim would be in one of two places;
1. In his office, viciously attacking one of his three white boards, ruining yet another set of markers and rambling madly to himself. Music would be blasting in the background, to keep Jim’s brain from blowing a fuse and giving a fine example of why soundproofing had been necessary the moment the pair stepped through the door.
Or
2. In their bed. Either sleeping soundly with the tv on, usually playing some silly cartoon, or up and watching forensic shows while snapping at Seb to hurry up and change because he’d ‘waited’ for him. Like his snarkiness was somehow from doing the Colonel a kindness instead of just the result of him being cold and in the mood to cuddle him like a giant stuffed animal.
But neither was the case tonight.
Tonight, Sebastian heard no snapping only the TV blasting and the electric buzz of every light in the flat turned on.
The bathroom lights, the kitchen lights, the living room lights even though the kitchen lights more than illuminated both areas adequately. The hallways were lit up, the linen closet, the strangely-empty office…
It was somehow more unnerving, seeing everything bathed in sharp florescent.
“Jim? Boss, you up?”
It didn’t take long for Sebastian to make his way down the hallway, a small caliber pistol now in hand, opening the door on edge and ready for anything.
“Oh, Moran, thank god.”
Jim, curled up with the blankets around his shoulders and eyes wide, hand relaxing the gun from the bedside table away from the side of his head, had not exactly been the ‘anything’ he was expecting.
“Jesus Christ Jim, what the hell? What happened?”
The smaller man curled up tighter, his chin now pressed against his knees.
“I was…reading.”
There were many times when Jim had done insane, not-the-least-bit-sensible things that made his second in command confused and frustrated.
This was slowly creeping it’s way to the top of the list.
“Were you on that bloody website again?”
The grin that creeped across Moriarty’s face was disgusting.
More than the cat that swallowed the cream, this was the clown that stabbed the children to death in the middle of their birthday celebration.
“I only read a few.”
Sebastian sighed, his shoulders dropping and his gun returned to it’s holster. All this, the bleeding beacon-in-the-night that was their flat, was all because Jim had gotten bored and sat his ass down to read ghost stories written by some goddamn teenagers with not a damned thing better to do with their time.
“Didn’t you learn from that video game one?” The larger man hissed, peeling off his jacket and sliding into the closet as he undressed. “For god sake, I don’t even know why they freak you out so much. You’ve done worse things to people than half the ‘things’ in those stories.”
Jim was relaxing now, he’d turned down the TV and returned the gun to its spot in the side drawer, hadn’t said anything about Sebastian stepping out in a pair of cotton pajama pants and turning off each light one by one.
“It’s not about what they do, Sebastian.” Jim’s voice was quiet, the blankets tighter around his shoulders when his second returned and shut the door behind him. “It’s that they’re uncontrollable. Inescapable. Unknown.”
His smile was somehow getting sicker, his teeth exposed and digging slightly into the skin on the back of his knees.
It almost distracted Sebastian from just how terrified the man clearly was, every muscle tight and his eyes wider than what seemed humanly possible.
“So they’re you?” He joked as he flicked off the light and climbed into bed. Jim’s smile waned and he curled up against Sebastian, eyes wide and locked on a dead bolted and heavily curtained sliding glass door. It lead to their balcony, something Jim had always enjoyed having, except on nights like this.
“No.”
The reply was small, lacking the usual venom and carrying the slightest air of fear.
No, they were not him. Jim Moriarty was a terrifying man. Brilliant and cruel to the point of inhumanity. He didn’t even fear death, nothing real life offered him even struck much of a cord anymore, why should ending it impress him?
The things he feared were not ‘real.’ They were impossible, both unknown and unknowable.
But that was why he feared them. For something to be beyond the grasp of even his incredible mind, for it to exist outside his web of control. To not die but be trapped by something. To be lost to something or manipulated by something. Something that would reduce him to the same state as the confused, wandering ‘sheeple’ he so disdained.
Tonight, they’d leave the TV on. Tonight, Jim wouldn’t throw a careless arm around the snipers neck and pretend it wasn’t cuddling. Tonight he’d cling for dear life to the only protection he’d have from the somethings in his head. The fears he created all on his own and fed with ridiculous stories in the middle of the night.
And tomorrow?
The sun would come up and work would pick up and John’s blog would be updated about some case that would distract Jim from his own head, and then it would return to normal.
Until then, Seb would act as a security guard for his boss, from his boss, to the best of his ability.
“Goodnight Magpie.”