Alone [Sheriarty] [Mpreg/Parentlock]

Chapter Three

"I would take a whisper if that's all you had to give"

-Jason Walker, Echo

-Chapter Three-

Friday night. A week since he'd seen that lovely detective of his.

Jim was sat in the club where they always meet, sat in his usual spot, waiting for Sherlock to stroll through the door and order a drink or two, or six. Then the tipsy curly haired heart throb would stumble over and kiss him like Jim is his life support. Then they'd go back to Jim's and for a few not-so-drunk hours, Jim wouldn't need to pretend.

By ten o'clock Jim had consumed four drinks more than he normally would on Friday evenings. Sherlock was usually here by now. Nine was the time Sherlock often appeared and he'd never been later than half past nine.

Jim's gut twists in fear, Sherlock's threat ringing in his ears.

Of course, he'd said he wasn't coming back on countless occasions but never had he been this late...

What if this time he was following through on that threat?

The smile previously on Jim's face falls as he starts to get nervous. His fingers tap out random beats on the side of his seat in an attempt to calm himself. It didn't work.

Seven drinks later, the club is closing. He leaves, sadness weighing his shoulders down. For the first Friday night in over half a year, Jim is stumbling home alone. Without his gorgeous detective.

Over the next month and a half, Jim returns to the bar on Friday evening in hopes that Sherlock would walk in and everything would go back to how it was before.

It never does.

When Jim does give up and stops going to the bar, he doesn't bother Sherlock. He doesn't send any of his men to spy on him, nor does he text or call the man. As much as he wanted to do the exact opposite, Jim had made the decision to leave Sherlock to his life.

He didn't want Jim around and Jim highly doubted he could take having Sherlock spit more cruel words and look at him with those beautifully cruel eyes.

It takes less than a week for Jim to turn to drink, drowning his despair in alcohol.

As each of his night's pass in a blurry haze, the name Moriarty fades from London. Time passes and the name becomes another story, something that once was and doesn't even seem real now.

And anyway, it many ways it wasn't. It was all pretend.

-

The smoke twirled as it floated towards the ceiling, crashing into the plaster eventually and disappearing all together just a moment later. The curtains were closed, hadn't been opened in a long time, and the darkness this caused just made the smoke that much more visible.

In the background, the tune of a violinist could be heard. It was depressing, there was no other word to describe the music.

It fit the rest of the room and the man sat on the low black couch.

"Boss, we got another special request from the Travis twins" Sebastian Moran speaks, voice wiped of anything other than boredom as he strolls into the smoke filled room.

"Mm.." is all Jim replies, leaning further into the sofa and looking up at the ceiling.

"You sure you want to quit all this, boss?" A hint of worry wormed it's way into that bored tone.

"How many times, Seb? We're set up for life, you don't even need to be here anymore. You're free"

As he speaks, Jim sits forward and retrieves his cigarette from the table.

It's only just gone ten in the morning and yet Jim has a bottle of rum sat beside his ashtray. It's just been opened and a drink had been poured, but Jim hadn't touched it just yet. Smoke and then drink. That was how it went now.

When he doesn't get a reply from his minion, and friend, Jim looks up and raises an eyebrow at Sebastian. He slides the cigarette between his lips as he does.

"I'm not leaving unless you force me to" The sniper tells him, eyes locked onto the other's face.

Jim's eyes fall to the table as he hums. "Your room will always be just that, yours. I won't force you out, but I'm not working anymore"

The sofa dips then, Sebastian taking a seat beside him.

Why'd they always pretend? Sebastian did it just as much as Jim did. He acted like he wasn't worried and didn't care about anything but Jim knew the man worried over him like you would a little brother.

"Because of him, right?" He doesn't get an answer. "Holmes?"

There's another long pause. Neither say a word, then Jim let's out a soft noise that sounded like he was trying to feign disinterest.

"It's nothing, Seb. I just don't feel like working anymore"

Lies. All lies. They both knew that. Of course Sherlock was the reason. He was the reason Jim was quitting the work, The Game. He was reason Jim was quickly becoming an alcoholic. He was the reason that Jim no longer had a spring in his step.

"Right" The other nods, not convinced.

"I'm moving away from London" Jim says before lighting his cigarette and taking the first relieving drag. "You're welcome to come with me, if not then this place is yours"

"I won't leave you by yourself, not like this" Not when you're hurting like this.

"Fine" Thank you.

"Okay." You're welcome.

It doesn't take long for Sebastian to leave and start packing, knowing Jim was eager to leave. Sebastian arranges most of it, Jim being too drunk to be of much use now.

It was like having a babysitter. Sebastian made sure he was fed and watered. He made sure he was sleeping and would even carry him to bed when he was too drunk or passed out on the sofa.

He looked after Jim.

Moving companies are called, everything is arranged for them to go live in Jim's hometown. It was a small town that was more country than town, somewhere in Ireland.

The new house was beautiful and open and light and perfect. Jim hated it.

He and Sebastian had moved into a large flat designed for a small family in the slightly posher side of the small town. They had more than enough space and that was exactly the reason they'd choose this one. The space. Something they both needed. Jim's mood made it so neither of them wanted to be around him for long. Unfortunately for Jim, he couldn't escape.

Now, they had stupid amounts of money and were planning on living as comfortably as possible.

They had everything they needed and more but Jim couldn't bring himself to smile.

He needed time. Lots of time.

Under all the fronts he had, all the acts, was a sensitive man who was far from used to emotion pain. He rarely let people get close. That hadn't been a lie. No one ever got to him.

But Sherlock did...

Jim shakes his head, reminding himself to forget, before he unpacks the last box for his bedroom.

When that's done he stands in the middle of the room, looking around him and doing a 360 turn. It was perfect. He had a desk, his laptop, a large bed, a bookcase, a great view to the Ireland country side, a walk in wardrobe, a giant TV and even a loveseat.

Even together, none of it was better than having Sherlock in his arms. Sherlock's lips on his. Sherlock's hands all over him. Sherlock's eyes staring down at him. Sherlock's breath of his neck. Sherlock's hand in his, squeezing.

Nothing was better than that.

And there wasn't a thing that would ever be better.