Chapter Text
There was a pine box and a lot of dust.
Waking up in said environment was hardly pleasant, but it was a fact, so Jim Moriarty dealt with it, as he dealt with everything.
In addition to the overwhelming smell of pine, the rich, earthy scent of soil filled the space, its weight bowing the lid above him in a claustrophobic’s worst nightmare, had they been able to see it in the absolute darkness.
Jim Moriarty filled his lungs and tasted the air. Uncirculated. Stale. Cold.
He shifted his stiff body into a less awkward position and rested his hands flat on the wood above him, testing it carefully. Tiny splinters flaked off onto his suit as he scratched and explored, dust motes swirling unseen past his parted lips into his cold body. How strange. It was as if he’d been buried. As baffling a development as that may be, Jim pushed his confusion aside, focusing his attention on escaping. Surely there wasn't enough oxygen in this coffin to last him, he needed to act quickly.
Gradually, Jim Moriarty peeled back a dampened plank and allowed the dirt that had been packed above it to cascade into the provided space. With some work patting it down with his feet as he dragged more into his small box, Jim Moriarty began to work his way upwards.
At long last, his hands broke through to the surface. Jim grasped the dew soaked grass with his dirty fingernails and clawed his way out of the pit, entirely covered in dirt and mud and dust, consciously coughing what he could from his lungs since it felt like the thing to do in such a situation. He sprawled onto his back and coughed and wheezed in the fresh air and stared up at the stars like a man back from the dead, in awe of their impossible shine despite the darkness. They were so incredibly beautiful. He couldn't remember the last time that he'd paused to admire them.
The leaves of trees rustled nearby as a calming breeze danced through the cemetery, somehow still perceptible on his skin through the layers of grime, and Jim rattled a sigh of relief, thankful for the sensations. He wasn’t dead. Somehow, some way, he’d survived. Oh, and how beautiful it all was.
Jim wasn’t certain how long he lay still in the grass, his suit soaking up moisture, eyes drinking in the sky, but gradually the stars faded and the deep purple above started to make way for vibrant orange and blazing yellow as the sun began to break over the horizon.
He ran his shaking hands down his thighs, assessing the strength of his legs, before making a move to pull himself to his feet, staggering clumsily as he straightened. A quick glance at the tombstone told Jim that he’d been buried under Sherlock’s name, and he gritted his teeth as he began to lumber towards the path leading back outside, head aching at the implications.
Sherlock must not be dead. But why had… well, it wasn’t possible that he’d killed himself, so someone must have drugged him. But why bury a living person? Why not just finish him off? It hardly seemed like the sort of thing that Mycroft would leave up to chance.
Jim limped out onto the sidewalk and looked around at the early morning city, already bustling with activity. He tried to hail a cab, but no one seemed to trust the dirty man in front of the cemetery, and after a few tries Jim realized he had no money on him anyway, plus no phone to call someone. He brushed his clothes nearly clean with his uncoordinated hands, then set off down the street, determined to find one of his many flats. Hopefully he made it to safety before Big Brother picked him up. The last thing he needed was to be reburied.
By the time Jim got into his keypad guarded flat and hauled himself up to his room, he was not particularly interested in getting cleaned up. His muscles were twitching painfully from disuse and he badly wanted a glass of water and a sandwich and a nice long nap in any order that he could get, but instead of giving in, Jim dragged his body into the bathroom and drew himself a bath. Tracking the dirt all over would only piss him off later, it just made sense to handle it now.
As the tub filled and steam rose with the smell of bubble bath, Jim tore his clothes off and dumped them into the trash can, certain they were ruined. Naked and surrounded by dirt on the pristine tiles, Jim slumped against the wall and got to work examining his body for wounds in the full length mirror.
He couldn’t remember anything that had happened after he’d put the gun into his mouth. He’d been so certain that that fiery blast and mind shattering bang had been confirmation that he’d properly pulled the trigger, but somehow, he’d must have been hit with a tranquilizer from a long distance before he'd managed to take the shot. Jim smiled faintly, the uneasy knot in his chest loosening somewhat with the explanation. Yes, and the rest must have been a hallucination caused by the drug.
So perhaps Sherlock’s friends were dead. Which was disappointing, because Jim had been so hopeful that Sherlock would prove himself, but maybe… Maybe he’d faked it. Maybe no one had gotten hurt, then that meant that Sherlock was everything Jim had been hoping…
Jim rubbed his chest, feeling for the change in his heartrate that such a thought normally would have elicited. Nothing. Nothing at all in fact, maybe a side effect of the drug was an almost imperceptible heartbeat?
Jim checked his pulse at his wrist, then his neck, dark eyes locked steadily on his own reflection as he searched in vain. It would come back, it was just the drug, not yet out of his system. Again, not the best plan for Mycroft, but it was possible that the drug just had failed to kill him.
Once he’d finally given up, Jim went back to examining his body. So far no noticeable wounds, no puncture marks, no cuts or scrapes from being dragged, no bruising on his back from falling. A brief thought of Sherlock catching him and easing him to the ground made Jim bite his lip but he didn’t entertain it for long, instead filing it away for later use.
On recognizing the state of his hair as a disaster, Jim raked his fingers through it just to try and get it flat, only to shriek in horror and revulsion as his fingers slipped inside what was apparently a gaping hole in the back of his head. Jim grasped the edge of the sink and tried not to collapse as he hyperventilated, mind rapidly rejecting the situation. Nothing was wrong. Nothing was wrong, he just needed to get into the bath. It was insane to think that he might... Oh god, no, absolutely impossible.
Jim hurriedly clambered into the hot water and bubbles, splashing a substantial amount over the edge in his rush to sit down. He was fine. Everything was fine, he just needed to get clean. Everything would make more sense when he was clean.
Jim put off washing his hair, repeatedly scrubbing at his skin until it was red raw and stinging before he dared to dip his head beneath the water. Distancing himself from the situation as he always did in interrogations, Jim worked shampoo into his hair, forcibly ignoring the hole and the way it made him want to be sick. When he was finally washed and rinsed, Jim allowed himself to come out of his daze, just drying his body and limping into the kitchen naked, unable to spare another look in the mirror in case it confirmed what he’d felt. Not that he'd felt anything. It was all fine.
The glass of ice water felt amazing after the hot bath and Jim eagerly tossed it back, quickly slowing to dainty sips as water poured out the hole in the back of his throat, a deeply horrified grimace on his face. This was fine, everything was fine. Jim pulled up a smile as he stared at the wall in front of him, convincing himself that he’d feel better when he acted happy.
Thankfully, the sandwich posed no problem aside from a few times getting caught on the edge of the hole in his mouth but Jim wrote it off as normal and focused on getting into bed, curling up under the blankets with a woolen hat pulled over his damp hair, chanting that this was fine. There was no way he could yet consider this new development in a logical manner, all that mattered was resting.
So Jim slept.