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

[8]

For a place that looked like it had come straight out of a crime show, the room Moriarty directed you into seemed, for lack of a better word, homey.

Too homey.

The bed had so many pillows, they almost overtook it. There was a desk, cherry wood, so neat and tidy, yet visibly worn down from use; it was almost-new. Besides an unlit candle, there was a notebook there, but when you went to read its contents, there wasn't much but scribbles in your own handwriting, phrases and markings that once upon a time meant something, but not anymore.

11:00. Angel. Postman's.

You would have given anything to understand what you had intended those words to mean, even if all it was was jargon. But everything you had was gone, taken, abducted.

Tom.

You open the closet, and Moriarty was right: t-shirts, black pants, jackets. Admittingly, it made you feel like a tough cop, like you were part of the CIA or something. But since it was the only things available to you, that's what you slipped on before slipping out the room.

"Ah, much better."

"That's because these pants are a little more fitted."

"Well, it has its perks," he says, tossing you a handgun. You almost didn't want to catch it, not knowing it had the safety on or not, but you did and, to your relief, it was.

"What, you think I'd throw a live one?"

"Yes."

After weighing everything out mentally, he adds, "Perhaps. But not to you."

As he takes out the gun from his suit jacket, you feel compelled to ask, "Were we cops?"

"No."

Hoping to sit on the gun counter now, you continue, "Bad guys?"

"No, we weren't."

"How did we meet?"

"My you're asking a lot of questions."

As he set up a target dummy, you watch him, every move he made full of purpose. Why were you of such great interest? Why was he withholding information if he needed your help? And for goodness sake, where was his other suit?

"Postman's."

Immediately, you notice his movement slow, as if suddenly living the memory that once belonged to you. And even though you knew he was trying to hide it, you saw the longing in his eyes, the ones that at other times were so tense and so precise and rigid. Well, except for in the brief moments of flashbacks.

"What about 'Postman's?'"

"What is it?"

Ignoring you, he straightens up, becoming the stiff man you first—well second—met, only inviting you to come meet him at the shooting line.

"Well, what are you waiting for?"

"What?"

Grabbing your waist, he turn you so that you face the dummy. "Fire, Kitten."

"I-I can't—"

"Oh yes you can, why are you giving excuses?"

"I couldn't kill a—"

"It's fake. And besides, you need to be able—"

"To protect myself," you both finish.

And for a moment, it was like he had hope, that maybe everything had come back to you. But of course, you only knew from what you remembered earlier that day.

"Why do I need to protect myself?"

Now that was a question you should've asked Tom a long time ago. But why all of sudden you thought to ask of it now, you weren't quite sure. Maybe because you trusted Tom so much that the thought that he couldn't shield you himself was inconceivable. But even though your gut feeling told you that this man in front of you might do just that, there was something that still haunted you about your trust, apart from the whole abduction factor.

"In case that I can't again."

"'Again?'"

"Just shoot."

And you did, to your surprise almost spot on, even though your skills were rusty. Why you couldn't put together a gun that supposedly you had done too many a times, but shooting 50 paces away you can do just about effortlessly was beyond you. But even still, maybe you would have done a little better if you weren't focused on how he made it a point not to look at you, to keep his eyes hard and fixed at the end of the line, watching as the bullets made impact into the dark, closed circle upon the dummy's forehead and chest.

He had admitted to being vulnerable, and somehow, that made him more reliable.

~

After the shooting range and another silent car ride, Moriarty drops you back off at the hotel, not even walking up to the room with you this time. All you could think about is "Postman's." Why would that so troubling? What does it mean? What does it have to do with him or me? Who was this "postman?"

As you undress and ready for bed, the tattooed scar catch your attention in the mirror as if they were shining like the stars they represented. Tracing over the edges seems more and more familiar, and you didn't want to stop, fearing that the feeling would disappear without warrant and hoping that maybe another memory was just about to come to light. But your mind stayed blank, beckoning the tattoo to be covered with an t-shirt.

The phones seem even more inviting, staring back at you as you sit at the desk. Eight digits, eight letters, eight symbols, or perhaps a wacky combination of both. Maybe the same password was for each of the phones and maybe even the laptop, but you couldn't attempt none of the three. Nothing you knew consisted of eight, so you couldn't even try to crack the code.

Wait. "Moriarty."

As you type it in for each, it declines three times, so that was the end of that. At least it didn't permanently lock you out.

The boxes didn't correspond to that day, although the second box, the larger box the size of a suitcase, was for a week from that night. So at least that was something to look forward to.

Before you could go to the bookcase and choose a book to curl up to, there's a knock at the door. You didn't know what to expect, so you grab your gun, Moriarty making you take it back with you. Looking through the peephole, you see one of the guards that escorted you there yesterday, but even still, you only cracked open the door.

"He wants to see you."

"I'm not particularly dressed for an outing."

"He's just down the hall, Miss." Almost chuckling, he continues, "Even with us here, you didn't think he'd just leave you here by yourself, did you?"