In the wake of the 221B MorMor panel, I am reposting this in order to fill the MorMor tag with actual content. Please forgive me for my 15-year-old self’s writing skills.
Refraction
There are a lot of sides to Jim Moriarty. Sebastian’s known that for a while. He just never knew how important it would turn out to be.
There’s the first one, the most obvious. Jim Moriarty, Napoleon of Crime, tiny Irish mastermind. Controls the criminal classes of London, England, and increasingly, the world. Sebastian will never admit it to himself, but this Jim sometimes gets him unbearably hot. Untouchable in his impeccable Westwood, high above the teeming masses with his faithful sniper at his side. It’s a dizzying feeling, but Sebastian likes it anyway.
Then there’s the next one, and probably the most terrifying. This is cold, heartless Jim. The torturer, the bomb builder, the ruthless killer, the absolutely remorseless barely-human who barely acknowledges the bond he shares with Sebastian. It’s the Jim that Seb met first, and though he’ll never admit it, he’s still scared of, just a little. But it’s not someone (or something) he can rationalise with. Whether it’s him slicing Sebastian open when he messes up a job (“You look so pretty in red, sweetheart.”) or trying out the newest ‘toy’ he’s found on some unfortunate lackey who pissed him off at the wrong time, it’s not his Jim, and he hates that.
Next comes a version Sebastian likes a lot better. This is the Jim that calls him Tiger, that pushes him up against alley walls and bites into his neck, leaving a mark that won’t fade for weeks. Sebastian never hides the marks, instead proudly displaying them because it means Jim cares enough about him to claim him. Sometimes he can’t walk properly in the morning after he spends the night with this form of Jim. That’s okay. He likes that too. Making hits is harder when he can’t lie down comfortably, but he never misses. Ever. It’s the unspoken code that passes between them, that he absolutely cannot fail in these day-after hits. Good thing he rarely misses anyway.
Unfortunately, another Jim often emerges after those bloody frenetic nights. He’s quiet. Cold. Retracted. Most versions of Jim don’t eat much, but this one abhors the merest conception of food. Too focused, he says later. Food, the eternal distracter. Apparently. He makes his best plans his way. His mind spins at an inconceivable rate. He will work himself into the ground; it’s not uncommon to see him work for three days and nights straight with no food, drink, or rest. Then again, his manic scribbles and the small explosions that issue from Jim’s office usually turn out to be his most ingenious plots. Sebastian doesn’t know how he feels about this Jim. He worries for his kitten’s health, of course, but he respects Jim’s brilliant mind and his workaholic nature. Everyone’s addicted to something, after all.
Then there’s Sebastian’s favourite Jim, the flip side of the cold and withdrawn version who doesn’t emerge from his office for days at a time. This Jim is cuddly, affectionate. It feels most appropriate to call him ‘kitten’ when he’s like this, and Sebastian takes the opportunity. Then again, this being Jim, nothing can ever be simple. He pushes for more of Sebastian’s attention, mewling and pushing his head under Sebastian’s chin (regardless of whatever he was doing, like cleaning his guns or fixing his bike; it doesn’t matter) like a cat. There’s a reason for the nickname. They sit on their stupidly expensive couch and read or watch a film or just talk to each other. The sweet cuddling at bedtime is nice too. No sex; neither of them get off on gentle, which would be the most they could do right now. They need hard and fast and now, if that’s to be the mood. But it’s nice in any case.
Lastly, there’s Sebastian’s least favourite, the worst Jim of all. He’s not doing anything when he’s like this, per se. He just lies on the couch, eyes flat and dead, a small smile playing across his face as he stares like a lifeless puppet at the ceiling. He doesn’t respond to stimulus. Nothing attracts his attention. He just lies there and waits, like a spider for a fly.
This is the Jim that falls into a deep depression after the manic highs of planning, unhappy with the sudden dip in activity. This is Jim at his most volatile, his most vulnerable.
This is the Jim that ascended to the rooftop of St Bart’s Hospital and decided to dance with death. This is the Jim that lost.
Sebastian kneels by his side and strokes through his kitten’s hair, refusing to believe in the ribbon of red trailing almost benignly across the concrete. This is the Jim that never responds, eyes blank and cold. Sebastian wishes beyond anything that he could just wait, and his beautiful kitten will return to him, come back just like he always does after a little while.
He doesn’t.
Sebastian wonders if there was anything he could have done, some magic words he could have said to convince Jim to come back, to show a different side. He knows these are the kinds of musings that drive men mad. He’s seen it enough, but the thoughts are always there in the back of his mind, keeping him up at night. Not like he can sleep alone anymore anyway.
Jim was like a crystal: beautiful to look at but deadly to touch. Sebastian had thought that he was different, that he’d worked out the surfaces and the angles. That he knew how to handle Jim without getting hurt. But now the crystal’s shattered and all Sebastian has left are the shards, refracting light in a million different ways.
