Chapter Text
Moriarty had commissioned the rifle for him to commemorate the first time that his precise marksmanship had saved the professor’s life. Moran tended to think less of the apparently legendary shot, first of many, than of the tongue-tangled kiss that followed. True, that was also the first of many, but the significance of that was the permanent, invisible brand while the gun was like a leash's clasp on a collar.
Moran had commissioned the thin, semi-flexible metal vest after the first, and only, time that he had failed to be at his master's side at a critical moment. He himself would never have worn such a thing, as he needed every ounce of his body's mobility and speed, but the professor in his even stillness had no such excuse; he refused instead with a simple, firm, "No."
The night of the summit, Sebastian Moran changed the dressing on the bullet wound in his side, paling again as he carefully cleaned the aching, expertly stitched lesion. When the angry red mark was covered again in fresh gauze, his eyes lost their glaze of pain and it was as though the wound had ceased to exist.
"Tonight, professor; this isn't like other nights."
And so the ginger professor, the morally insane genius, had said yes as he pulled the gunman close with his hands on his lean sides. Then he pressed his thumb against the wound hard enough to make Moran cry out into his mouth as he kissed him. Soon after, he had him on his back, his smooth intellectual hands on the insides of his lover's knees pressing his thighs apart wide enough to test the limit of his fatigued muscles.
"Professor, professor..." moaned the gunman, as though they no longer had names.
As he fell through the freezing mist for eternal moments, James Moriarty's eyes seemed to see every flake, swirl of water, and droplet of moisture. His emotions cycled rapidly through hatred, fury, pride, and admiration as his mind rapidly composed paragraph after paragraph of narrative and abuse, starting and ending with "Holmes." It wasn't until the icy water became visible through the mist below that he felt his first penetrating realization of mortality, and it was at that moment that his heart screamed "Moran."
He fell past the range of the pounding falls themselves rather than directly under their violent downpour, and his outstretched hands broke the turbulent surface with a sickening snap. The swirling water permeated his clothing instantly, weighing it down; the breath he'd taken before impact was forced out in a watery gasp as his body immediately went into shock. As the undertow pulled him under and twisted his body, dragging him across rocks and through rapids, he distantly felt bones breaking and flesh and fabric being torn and abraded by the rocky bed. Even when his face broke the surface again and again as he struggled intuitively for air, he had no perception of direction, no concept of which way was up or down.
He would later claim to have been contemplating Dante's vision of an icy circle of Hell, but the reality was that he had few thoughts other than clawing at anything that seemed solid and fighting for breath like the most common of men. Ultimately, what would save the world's greatest criminal mastermind was a combination of luck, loyalty, and a form-fitting metal vest.
----
He was aware of pain before anything else. Each time he regained some semblance of consciousness he was better able to assess the sensation. Pain, he reflected groggily on one occasion, but the curious fogging and near absence of pain that signified heavy use of drugs. He deduced by smell that he was being tended by a medical professional, but the lack of certain sounds told him that it was not a hospital. He also knew without opening his eyes that someone was beside him, and he knew even during most rudimentary levels of consciousness that the individual at the side of his bed was none other than Sebastian Moran.
The knowledge that it was his marksman compelled him to feign sleep longer, postpone meeting his keen eyes until he had reasons. Excuses. Explanations. His waking thoughts were Sebastian, Holmes, and failure. Though he thought them in that order, he finally addressed them verbally in the opposite.
"It's all gone, Moran. Finished."
He was surprised by the quality of his own voice: quieter, coarser, and slightly lower than he remembered. His lover's voice was quiet as well and sounded exactly the way he thought it should.
"What do I care, professor? I have more money than the damned Prime Minister."
Eyes still closed, the professor felt the warm weight of Sebastian's hand on his chest. He had never been reliant on physical contact but he felt a sudden, startlingly human comfort in the touch. He was silent again as he wearily assessed these emotions and asserted his dominance over them. It would never do to need this.
"That's quite callous of you." His mouth responded sluggishly to his mental order to smile as he spoke, trying to make his comment take on the lighter, slightly disaffected tone he wanted to hear.
His companion laughed in his mild way, though there was a barely audible breathlessness.
"Well, I think that perhaps the tables may have turned, professor, and I'll be needing your services."
"What services might those be?"
"A gunman's not much use all on his own. I think I'd like to hire your brain." His hand moved a little restlessly on the covers. Even when it wasn't wrapped around the grip of a gun, it was a powerful hand; James Moriarty felt slightly disconcerted by its seeming impotence.
"You have a perfectly serviceable one of your own, Mr. Moran," he replied tiredly.
"Yes," he said agreeably. "But it isn't nearly so good at mathematics as yours... and I feel I could use a man who's sharp with numbers. Investing."
Moriarty recognized it for what it was: an offer to share what he had, an offer to act as a backer on a new enterprise, an offer to resume service as a hired gun for literally no payment at all. Sebastian wasn't the type to pull punches; this was a clear acknowledgement of failure, but it represented an oddly reassuring faith in his future success. And ultimately, this was what had made him Colonel Moran prior to his discharge - the ability to assess a situation and create a new strategy without breaking another man's pride.
"I'm only concerned that you wouldn't be able to afford me," he continued in the same quiet voice he was so unused to hearing from himself. Moran laughed a bit.
"Maybe we can negotiate on the terms, professor."
Professor Moriarty finally opened his eyes to meet those of his closest ally, the only man on the devil's green Earth whose continued existence mattered to him. He could tell by looking at him that the stage of carefully directed fury had already passed; he had moved into an introspective, verging-on-mournful quiet that would linger until he set himself a new task. Moran constantly required direction. He saw anxiety in the other man; he saw a convenient willingness to forgive anything. He saw affection. In short, he saw everything that he wanted to see, save his own reflection in the other man's eyes.
"How damaged am I now?" he asked firmly, without self-pity.
"Damaged?" Moran looked at him consideringly, his thoughtful mouth pulled slightly. "Well, better than you were three weeks ago, but unfortunately not so well as you were a month ago."
"Just give me a basic appraisal, Sebastian. A list, if you will."
He licked his lower lip, and Moriarty could see that he had chewed the center almost raw and likely had been doing so for weeks.
"Both of your legs are broken, professor. One quite badly. Your left arm is broken, your left wrist. Several fingers on both hands. Several ribs cracked, but not broken. Bruises. Deep lacerations, all stitched up, of course... the scars will be smaller, but you'll definitely have them....” He paused for a long moment then said, "I'm glad you wore that vest, professor. Otherwise you would have had your damn guts ripped out. Doctor said it was probably what kept your back from snapping like a fucking twig."
James wanted to wave his hand dismissively, but even the slight shift of his arm under the blanket brought the stomach-twinging stirrings of pain. Moran immediately moved closer to light on the edge of the bed, where he laid his hand lightly but rather firmly on his shoulder. "It's better for now if you don't move too much."
"Yes... though soon, I would hope. I should be quite bored, otherwise."
Moran watched him, his narrow face intense. He knew that his lover had questions, and he knew what they were. He also knew there was no point in not answering them or trying to approach them indirectly. It wasn't his way.
"Holmes is potentially alive, despite a funeral. I saw him, just for a moment, as he was climbing out of the water. I... was going to shoot him when I saw you. There wasn't time for both."
"Ah," Moriarty replied after a quiet moment.
Moran readily recognized that disapproval undercut gratitude in the single syllable. "I know you understand."
"Yes, of course."
And he did understand. Blindingly intelligent, single-minded Moran had made the instantaneous decision to abandon Holmes, likely with the rifle already raised, in favor of a rapid descent down the rocky face of the falls. He simultaneous loved and hated him for it. He groaned quietly, closing his eyes again.
"Kiss me, Moran, before I have the strength again in these broken hands to strangle you."
Moran paused then obediently leaned down to kiss him.