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

[6]

"You...remember me."

You watched as he sat, sunken into the chair by the window as he looks spaced out at the floor just in front of him. Why was this such a shock to him, you had no idea. Wasn't that the point of the animal, the boxes, and the devices? Wasn't that what he wanted?

And why did he need you to remember so badly?

"Moriarty—"

"Don't call me that," he blurts, snapping his head up and locking eyes at you. "You out of all people are not allowed to call me that."

"You haven't had a name for almost sixteen hours, and now that I have it, I can't use it?"

"No."

You become uneasy as Moriarty gets up, standing right in front of the window. He was wearing a suit again, but not Westwood, and you didn't particularly like it.

"You have on a different suit."

"Well that's what happens. It's a new day."

"You just seemed...happier in it."

You see his Adam's apple displace then recenter itself before he leans against the wall, still studying you, how you sat, your demeanor, every trace of your face and fingers. You wanted to give him the same look, but there was something about it that you couldn't replicate; you didn't know how to look at him the way he did you.

There was something delightfully different about him.

"Why do you need me? Clearly you could have handled this yourself."

Moriarty rolls his eyes. "Don't be so obvious."

"But it's true, isn't it?"

"Being as that's a stupid question you should already know the answer to, I'm going to ignore it."

He was right. You already knew. If Tom was a spy, then he was already trained to take torture. He was trained not to have any weaknesses, trained not to crack under even the most severe interrogation. What they did not prepare him for was you, and that's where he was falling short.

As long as you were alive, he would bend at will.

"What is it that you want me to do?"

He steps to you, and, still not trusting him, you lean back a bit. Taking notice, he remains in his place, the corners of his lips dropping slightly lower.

"Your voice can travel, you know."

There's the smile you knew he had.

"Still so stubborn."

Still.

"Is there a reason why I don't—"

"Yes."

"And are you g—"

"Not yet. You aren't ready." Not caring that you had scurried, your back against the wall while sitting on the bed, he sits on the bed opposite you, as if craving to enter a barrier he once had access to. "Even this, me just being four feet away from you, scares you. You push yourself away from me. You can't know because you don't want to know. You don't want to accept what I have to say, and I'm not about to waste my breath."

"That long of a story, huh?"

"Even if I was on a lie detector, you will make excuses for him."

Tom?

Before you can ask any questions, Moriarty gets up and goes back to the living chair to sit, keeping the distance he knew you desired. But even after a half hour had gone by, you couldn't stop looking at him. What was going on in his head? What was he hiding? You craved to know the secrets he was hiding, but you also relished the peace of not knowing.

It was a paradox meant to be broken.

"Wednesday."

He lifts up his head. "What did you say?"

"The cat," you say, tossing the stuffed animal onto his lap. "Her name is Wednesday."

With a smirk, he sits up straighter, petting the toy as he does so. "She's more than just that."

"She was a prize at the fair."

"And?"

You pause. Wasn't that it? As you fish for a memory, his smile quickly fades back to the sullen and hollow frown he had before, and you knew you had disappointed him. But then again, it wasn't exactly your fault, now was it?

"Mori—"

"Stop calling me that!"

"Why?"

"Because that's not what you call me."

"You have got to give me a better reason than that."

Flustered, he snaps up, face narrowing as he makes his way to the door. "This was stupid, all of it. You'll never get it."

"I'll never get it."

"C'mon, (Y/N), it hasn't even been five minutes."

You grab Moriarty's arm just as he passes you, and he looks at you bewildered, as if your touch defiled him. But you had to, the memory's voices coming in like whispers and the images popping in blurs.

"Wait."

"Just have to hold your hips like this," he had said, softly guiding your body with his hands, "nice and square."

"And just go for it?"

"First brace your hand with the other. You're new to this, so you might get some kickback.  Plus, it keeps your aim steady."

You look at Moriarty's jacket, and you see the weapon, concealed in his left chest pocket.

"Aim for the chest."

"I'm surprised you didn't say the head."

"Well the chest is more exposed. You'll need to hone your skills before taking a headshot."

You had been in a warehouse, punching bags lining the wall, each with a person's outline on it. It was evening, and it felt like you had been there all day with him. You don't remember what you were wearing, besides a black tank top, for you well remember the beads of sweat. But there he was, still maintaining his class, as if he had come from work that day.

"When will I need this?"

"In case I'm not there to protect you, Kitten. I want you to be able to defend yourself."

"Now, Jim, when will that ever happen? You've said it yourself, who would look for me?"

You look back into his eyes, his raging eyes of despair. How this was the same person you didn't understand, for the person you remembered was kind and gentle, but the one that you had grasped in your hand made you quake with fear. From what you remembered, he gave you hope, whereas now he had taken it away.

But maybe this was enough reason to consider trusting him.

"Jim...that's what you want me to call you, isn't it?  You taught me how to shoot a handgun."