You find yourself stumbling to his door for the first time since you left him 7 months ago, sobbing, barely able to walk.
Moriarty is not an easy man to find.
However, hes always had a soft spot for you.
"I will ALWAYS come to help you. Always, pet." You remember him whispering to you.
Now, it was time for him to live up to that promise.
You raise your fist, and with the last of your strength, you pound on his door twice, sinking to your knees before he even answers the door.
"I always knew you'd come back, Y/N" he trails off.
"Y/N? Y/N! Come inside."
Moriarty steps forward, and with the speed and grace of a panther, he lifts you up like a groom carrying a bride through the threshold for the first time, and runs to deposit you onto a bed in a pristine, empty room.
All you know is pain, and crying, and crying that is not your own, that, somehow is HIS
Cradled in his arms, he rocks you into a peaceful sleep.
When you wake up, he is watching you.
One of your eyelids is swollen shut. You remember being cut all over, possible sprained wrist, definite twisted ankle. Now, all of your cuts are clean, dry and bandaged, and there is a splint on your arm and a brace on your foot. You turn your stiffened neck as much as you can towards him, and lick your cracked, dry lips.
"Who did this to you, pet? He whispers, voice shaking with rage and heartbreak.
Tears ooze from your swollen eyes, and your chest begins to shake as you cry, and with surprising tenderness, he lets you.
"He hit me, you whisper through your tears. I don't know why, don't know what I did I wanted help so much, cried out so many times, but no one heard me I was so scared Jim Will you please protect me?"
"You, Y/N, are the living heart of me. I will protect you." He nods his head, furious tears oozing through his eyes. "Yes, of course I will. But first I need to take care of something. I will return my love, I swear to you. Don't try to move. Your wings are broken. I must breathe life into them once again."
He turns and strides out of the room, as powerful and dramatic as you remember.
You let your head fall back onto your pillow, and you fall deeply asleep.
Don Purcett sits inside his dim apartment, beer in hand, TV remote loosely clasped in the other.
"Y/N!" He bellows drunkenly. "Y/N! God curse that mangy cur." He hoists the vast expanse of himself out of his beaten up sofa, and begins to waddle towards the kitchen, when he hears the front door click shut.
"Y/N! Come crawling back, have you? I'm hungry. I swear to God, if you haven't made dinner,"
"Honey, I'm home."
Mr. Purcett's blood runs cold, and he slowly turns towards the direction of the voice.
"That isn't the voice of his girlfriend."
That is the voice of a man. A twisted, mocking, haunting voice.
"You'd better get the hell out of my flat if you know whats good for you."
"That is remarkably ambitious. How boring ordinary people are. Think they can control everything, don't they? But she wasn't in control, was she Don? No," the voice purrs as an afterthought.
"Do you want to know what it feels like?"
Inexplicable fear courses through Don Purcett's body, into his very bones.
"Hey, I've got money, Ill give you the apartment, my car What do you want?"
"Something money just cant buy," the voice titters.
Out of the silence comes a blast of music so loud it makes Dons heart nearly stop. Can't Buy Me Love.
"Interesting song, isn't it? We of course know that this isn't true. But I don't want your love, Don. I want,"
Suddenly, unfolding himself from out of the shadows of the corner in which Don had just been seated stands a tall dark, dramatic man wearing sunglasses and chewing gum, a ghostly smile on his face.
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He leans forward. Don remains motionless.
"I want your heart," he whispers.
Don lets out a brief shriek of terror, a scream resembling the bark of a wild dog, but only one, loud and short, before its swiftly silenced.
"When your lung is punctured, it is very hard to scream out, no matter how much pain you're in."
Moriarty stands over Don, hands covered with the blood of his newly severed Achilles tendon, watching him bleed out and choke on his own blood, wondering which would kill him first.
"I didn't REALLY want your heart, you know. How would that be useful? Nah. Messy, but fun."
He strolls into the kitchen, grabs a towel, and wipes the blood from his fingers.
Satisfied, he straightens his jacket collar and sunglasses, surveys the room one last time, and strides out the door to go back to his beloved Y/N.
