Amnesia: Unknown [a Tom Hiddleston / Jonathan Pine, Jim Moriarty fanfiction]

[5]

You didn't even have to say who you were.

"We've been expecting you," the hotel clerk stated as he handed you your room key. "Top floor, second hall to the right, and straight to the end of the hall."

You didn't know what to expect. What do you expect from a hotel room a random stranger says is lying in wait for you? Honestly, it could have turned out either for the good, the bad, or indifferent, and it wouldn't have mattered because it was all in his control; for Tom's sake, you went through with it.

Your card swipes through, and you brace yourself for the inside. And it looked like a standard room: two beds, a television, desk, mini fridge with an even smaller freezer, decent bathroom, a round, wooden table, and a living chair to go with it. And, as promised, your things were there, from your charger plugged into the wall, to your favorite books stacked on top of the desk, to your clothes folded neatly in the drawers and hanging so nicely with your shoes lined so organized in the closet.

The only things you didn't expect were the one laptop, the two cellphones, and the three boxes, all perfectly situated on and around the table.

Immediately, you're drawn to them. You didn't know where to start first, so you figured the cell phones. Besides, one was obviously a burner phone and the other, a smartphone, seemed more homey.

But both were locked, having an eight-digit code that was unknown to you, so finding out its contents were out the question.

The same went for the laptop, but this time, you knew not the number of blanks. So that left the three boxes, each varying in size from the size of your hand to the size of a small suitcase. And perhaps you should have started with them, for they were labeled, specifically with dates.

And one of them, the medium one, was tonight.

Not knowing what lay within, delicately you open up the top. And, of course, there was another box lying in wait, also properly labeled, but what was as your use was only a stuffed animal, a black stuffed cat.

"Kitten."

He had called you that this evening.

But why?

As you sat on the bed closest to the door, you stare at the plush. Why on earth would this be waiting for you? What did this have to do with anything?

***

Not only did you wake up with a migraine, but you had to wake up without tea.

Your head wouldn't stop pounding, as if your brain was too big for your skull. It beat in sync with your heart pulse, and both you could feel behind your nose. Your ears were popped. All you wanted to do was bang your head on the wall and hope that it cracked open, wanting to feel some relief from your pain.

And all you wanted was tea.

Not this morning.

You had fallen asleep with that stuffed cat next to you. Why it smelled like sandalwood puzzled you, but at the same time, it comforted, making the tension of your head ease away like melting butter and your ears come back to the ground.

And for the first time, you remembered.

"You know it's closed right?"

"Isn't that what makes it exciting?"

You had been walking along somewhere, where it smelled like hot dogs, burgers, and fried dough. Why the man was there, you have no idea, but there he was in the starless midnight with you along the boardwalk, standing in front of a game booth to toss hoops onto bottle spouts.

"It would be so much easier to take a prize, and yet you insist on playing for it."

"Aren't all games fun when you play it by the rules?"

"Since when do you ever do that?"

You don't remember how the game went, who won, whether someone cheated or not, but you remembering both of you laughing, playful pushing each other, and hugging that stuffed cat in your arms.

And that's when you remembered two more important things.

Looking back at the cat with some newfound love, you smile and kiss the top of its head.

Wednesday.

And as if hearing your memories, the doorbell rang. And once you opened the door, the man had more than a Westwood suit; he had a name.

"Moriarty."

***

Tom's POV

"What have you done with her?"

"I don't believe you are in a position to ask me that," Moriarty answers, "but in any case, it's more when I tell you." He gestures to a chair. "May I?"

Not even caring to wait for my answer, he pulls up another chair, which had been folded up in the corner behind me, and he sits, just a few feet away.

"She's not a pawn in your game."

"Of course not, considering this was never a game." From his jacket, he pulls out a clear, glass bottle.

(Y/N)'s favorite, to be precise.

"Scotch? You seem like you could use some." With a snap, he summons the guard to bring two crystal glasses over. After pouring himself a drink, he pours the alcohol in the second glass and holds it to my lips. With one knock of my head, the crystal shatters on the ground, the room smelling like Sharpie markers and bandaids.

"Not a fan of Johnnie Walker?"

"Let her go."

"You really think I would lock her up?" Moriarty asks, his face contorting. "Like some dog?"

"I wouldn't be the least surprised. She did betray you." He sits back in his seat, and I know I got him. "You stalked her, coming all the way from the U.K. to see what she was up to. Everywhere she went, you were right there, in the coffee shops, in the restaurants, across the street. Her new job, new home with a price too good to be true, all of it was you."

"You think you have it all figured out, don't you?" Leaning forward, Moriarty looks dead in my eyes, all wise remarks aside. "Let me make this absolutely clear to you: she is not my enemy."

"She was your lover."

"We were never in love."

"You're a good liar."

"I have no reason to lie to you. You're as good as dead anyway." He takes a sip from his glass. "What (Y/N) and I do should be none of your concern. She is safe under my care—"

"Define 'care.'"

"–and no longer under your smokes and mirrors."

My head empties as Moriarty, after taking one last sip, puts the glass on the ground and stands up. "She will know the truth. And you won't be there to feed her lies anymore. She doesn't deserve to be lied to."

She can't know, not ever.

As he walks to the door, I strain to break free, but the binding, as it did countless times before, doesn't give. "Moriarty, please—"

"I'm disappointed, Jonathan. Begging?" He chuckles lightly. "Even if you were, you can do so much better than that."

"Just let me see her, hear her, something! Do what you will with me, but I need to know that she's alright."

He stops, hand just on the doorknob. For a moment, I thought he might give, that maybe I had tamed the beast, reasoned with the unreasonable. But all he can say is this:

"Be careful what you wish for, Johnny-Boy."