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

[7]

You didn't remember his car being so nice.

In fact, you didn't remember a car. But that wasn't your fault. You didn't know how your brain was reacting and why it was remembering the things it did. Sure, the stuffed cat was pretty obvious, for it was the exact object, but the training practice kicked in upon conversation.

But how did he know that the cat would work? And why not just simply ask if he knew it would work?

"Did you always have this?" you ask as you get into the passenger side, noticing his eyes shift when you had reached for the backseat handle.

He gets into the driver's seat and, turning on the ignition, shuts the door. "No. Now, Kitten, it's my turn to ask the questions."

You don't talk until five minutes later, as you're stuck in traffic. "Why do you call me that?"

"That's for you to figure out."

"Were we in love?"

"No, we were not in love. Now drop it."

Dead end.

The crowded street quickly turns into a moving highway, which then turns into the suburbs you know. But instead of the sights changing from skyscrapers to trees and mountains, you focus on Moriarty's face, cold, frozen, yet so desperate for warmth. He wouldn't look at you, like you were just another part of the vehicle, or, worse, not even there. And maybe he had good reason to; to him, you were just a ghost of a past you couldn't remember.

You didn't talk again until you saw him turn into a gated area. The building—brick walls, flat roof, garage door—looked abandoned, ivy running down its side and the grass rising from the cement parking lot. Looking around, you could tell that this was in the middle of nowhere, not a car in sight or in hearing range. You could have been easily there to meet your grave, proving of no use because of your increased or slow-to-increase mind activity.

And yet, not only were you afraid, but you welcomed stepping inside.

"This way." With a flick of his wrist as he approaches the door, scanners come out of the walls. By the looks of it, one scanned the eyes, as it was upright, and the other scanned the hand, as it was flat like a desk.

But Moriarty wouldn't go near them.

"Aren't you going to unlock the door with those things?"

"C'mon, you know better than that." You hadn't noticed the tiny metal cabinet near the ground, as if the casing were an outside outlet. After he opens it, he presses his left pinky against the pad.

"I can't believe you don't remember that." He starts to stand. "It was your idea."

You decide to ignore him, fed up of the comparisons of then versus now, because it was the present in which you operated in. But as you walk deeper inside and down an elevator, there were the punching bags, and there was a woodshop table, a dismantled automatic gun disperse on top of it.

"Why did you take me here?"

"To see if you're ready."

"For?"

But you already knew what he meant, and you feared it. This is what you had been avoiding for four months, what you couldn't even bear imaging yourself doing, and now here it was, not only that you once did but that you were going to do it again.

The pieces of hard plastic and metal seem foreign yet familiar as your fingers glided over each piece, as if conversing with an old acquaintance. You knew not what they had seen, nor where they had been, but you knew that you knew them once upon a time ago, for the ridges of the bumps and curves were enticing and the wear fit your thumb perfectly like a glove.

And he watched you, watched you like a hawk to see if anything would come to mind. And you knew not what he was waiting for exactly, as if you were supposed to know subconsciously the exact piece of information that he searched for. But besides the feel, nothing was clicking.

Not even the put-together gun you reached for, to try and get away.

"You're never going to shoot someone with that," Moriarty states, walking over as you try to figure out why your boldness didn't pay off and also try to lower your heart rate. But both are futile. Tom trusted you to help him, be smart, and now if anything, your life was the one that was to be sacrificed.

But Moriarty only eased the gun out your hand and whispered, "You have it in safety, Kitten." With a click, he made it live, and with a gentle hand, he set it back in your hand, barrel pressed to his forehead.

"Go ahead," ever so softly still. "I won't fight, and I won't be mad. You feel unsafe."

I feel unsafe.

You remembered lights...many of them, small, flickering things. And you couldn't figure out why, but you had been moving, everything swirling so elegantly. And you remember smiling, being warm and cold, were you outside? Your body says yes, but your mind says no, for there was music. And you remember a dress, drenched thing it was.

But most importantly, you remember the person who was now beckoning you to shoot.

Trembling, you set down the gun, tears forming in your eyes. His breathing doesn't change, he not even fazed that one wrong move could have ended his life.

"You...you didn't--"

"I couldn't." You set the gun down on the table, but his hand meets yours.

"I thought so." Moriarty smiles. "Not like that anyway." Gesturing with his head, he points out a door. "Go through there. It's a spare room, your spare room. There's a closet in there, filled with emergency clothes, and well...I think we can both agree you won't get much done in a skirt." As he walks away to let you be, he smirks. "Not now, anyway."