Your muse is kidnapped and mine has to pay the ransom.
He was disorientated, vision swimming in and out. They wanted him alive, that much he’d been able to discern from the moments of clarity that were few and far between. Ransom. But the only person around that had money to pay for him, for his release, was Jimmy, and Jamie could never fathom why his brother would do so. Jamie had no value, no purpose. Jimmy wouldn’t spend his money on the brother that hated him. He had better things to do.
The younger Moriarty didn’t know where he was or who had him. Another ring of criminals, likely. At odds with Jim. He’d been out on his morning walk when they’d come out of nowhere, too many for the single man to handle despite his abilities in combat, though he certainly did try. Bumps and bruises, including a bloody nose they hadn’t felt necessary to clean. It was dry though -- how long had he been out, how long had they been keeping him under? His head was pounding, the chair he was secured to in the tiny dark room offering nothing of interest to help him. There wasn’t even a sliver of light indicating a door.
Torn between praying Jimmy found him and praying for death, he slipped under again.
