the king's crown | j. moriarty (18+)

twenty one

OF COURSE he wasn't dead. Elizabeth told herself to replace Donovan's evident and incoherent stupidity. True, the previous night's discussion still filled her with unmistakable doubt and Jim Moriarty flashed through her mind on repeat. His face with that manic grin when he was loosing grip on his following thoughts; the way his head tilted from one side to the other, smoothly sliding as his whole body taunted his target with an irreplaceable self-reliance. Or the way he'd look up from beneath half lidded eyes-the black of bottomless pits in place of his irises where inhumane plans formed incessantly behind. He was capable of killing himself, she knew, for any one of his games. But killing himself while he knew she depended on him? Elizabeth relied on the hope he couldn't.

The uneven air that surrounded her was like a blanket given for shock. Its mundane attempt to comfort her was unsuccessful, and the long exhalation she'd allowed through her teeth did not calm her nerves at all. Elizabeth pulled at her cheek with her teeth while looking up at the disappearing Sally Donovan. A blue coat was pulled over her shoulders as Elizabeth absently watched her lean to a co-worker on her way out, muttering something about herself to him. They turned, as well as a few others who must have overheard whatever Donovan had to say, but Elizabeth remained indifferent.

"Mind that one." Sally said, signalling obviously to all those around her who she was referring to. "Get her out of here or find a reason to arrest her. She's getting on my nerves." Straightening her vibrant collar as she spoke, her brown eyes slid disapprovingly to Greg Lestrade's office and the girl who remained within it. "Bloody mental." Finality clicked in the detective's mind and she shook her head, the absurdity of Elizabeth Dallon's involvement with the barbaric Moriarty- and therefore her existence in itself- settled in her mind with an outraged click of her tongue; "Unbelievable."

After Sally's confirmed departure from Scotland Yard, Elizabeth looked around for the possessions she didn't bring and pulled out her mobile before mindlessly dialling Moriarty's go-to. Lifting the device to her ear, she awaited the familier gruffness while she stood up from her seat.

"Hello?" Sebastian spoke anyway, knowing who had called but he waited through the crackling silence anyway. His boss hadn't contacted him to call off the men targeting Sherlock Holmes' alliances, and due to his complete lack of communication for the past few hours, it wouldn't come as a shock if he hadn't contacted Elizabeth, either.

"Sebastian? Can you come get me, please-I don't-" The brunette took a nervous gulp of air and squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as she could for half a second. "I want to go home." There was that tone again, Sebastian thought. The soft and half-confidence that fluttered through her words like the first day they met. And it had now returned, like the doubt sadly hitting her like the recurring edge of the tide. Nonetheless, Sebastian Moran arrived as soon as he could and Elizabeth made her way past the judgemental eyes of the remaining individuals around Greg Lestrade's office, and to the car waiting for her outside.

She felt heavy as the space between her feet and the pavement was closed and repeated. For some reason, it was exhausting. After what felt like years, Elizabeth found the coral eyes of the man she'd been waiting for, and some tangent of calm found its way in to her- though it did very little.

"Hello, Sebastian." She scorned herself as she spoke with the tiredest words; at least it did something.

"I would have come for you earlier." Was the first thing the male bluntly said. Eyes like the stone they were when she first saw them: cold, hard and a merciless blue. "Why didn't you call?" Sharply, his agitation became clear while a soft and honest laughter gently jingled over the girl's splitting lips. It was practically a normal demand-one of the first in a very long time, Elizabeth reflected in the silent moments between them. A conversation no-doubt, that she would have with Abigail after calling in sick for work, or not turning up to a lecture; or the very rare and uneventful occasions she attended a so-called night out when they were in University and didn't tell her.