Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not one teeny, tiny little dot. ACD deserves the credit for the orginals and Mrs Gatiss and Moffat for the characters in this guise. She is mine though.

A/N:WARNING! This fic contains triggers for suicide and depression.

It is part of my complicated headcanon for James Moriarty, taking a rather different look at his past and considering his mental state as more than a little broken and probably verging on manic depressive.
It is Jim/OC not Mormor or Molliarty or Moradler. If you don't like the sound of that then please pass on by. If not then read on and I hope you enjoy.

Inspiration taken from 'Chasing Cotards' with Andrew Scott and Olivia Grant.


The first time was unoriginal, but being a student meant even suicide was on a budget.

£2 had bought him a razor.
A few clever flicks with a screwdriver-one of those ones out of a Christmas cracker-and he had two perfectly usable blades. It was cheaper than buying a set of knives, and it wasn't like he'd be around to throw dinner parties with the rest anyway.

Thinking about it he hadn't tried very hard.

Slicing sideways across his wrists despite knowing the best method was lengthways following the purplish line of the blood vessel just below the skin.
The small bathroom in which he was sat was shared as well: so only a matter of time before someone got tired of waiting and picked the locks.

Still it was worth the risk; the crimson would look lovely against the white. At least that's what he kept telling himself.

He couldn't remember why he was doing it as he made the first cut, smooth, the red blossoming beneath the silver and splattering on the split lino. Like raindrops.

His lips curled up, the blade poised for number two. He didn't remember but this made sense somehow.

Opposite him someone was watching.

He could feel their eyes like points of warm light on his forehead.

He lifted his chin slowly, pushing hair away and leaving a smear as he did so; hot and wet against his skin.

She was perched on the edge of the sink; bare feet swinging a good inch from the floor.

He raised a questioning eyebrow. She replied in silence.

Metal bit into flesh again.

She watched expressionless.

Two hours later Jim woke. His arms were heavy, wrapped tightly in rough dressings, there was still a small crust of blood beneath one of his nails and his nostrils burned with the acrid stench of cleaning fluid.

He blinked, clearing the haze that clouded the edges of his vision.

There was no-one else; the cubicle was empty. The weight of it pressed him down into the mattress.

He closed his eyes.



The office was unbearably quiet.

The police had cleared out hours ago, dragging Maxwell and Stevenson with them.
James was certain they wouldn't talk. He'd made it quite clear that a punishment worse than a few years in prison awaited them if they so much as breathed his name.

Those fools would take the blame and he would take the money. It was all fair as far as he was concerned.

And yet….


He wasn't entirely sure how he ended up on the roof.

The three hundred and thirty-seven steps between his office and the ledge had somehow been erased from his memory. It probably should have worried him: odd that someone who prided themselves on the exact workings of their mind should not be concerned about an obvious malfunction.

The air was cold and clear, the stink of exhaust fumes left far below and beneath his feet the flickering lights of the city were frozen like a hundred-thousand gold coins.

He was a king.

Stretching out his arms he curled his toes over the edge of the building, allowing a gust of wind to catch him. For a moment he wavered on the precipice, a single shift in his posture enough to push him over.
Would he fly?
Or would he fall?

He tilted his head to one side, analysing variables and calculating trajectory until he could pinpoint the exact point of impact on the pavement below.

Then he saw it; the flutter of white out of the corner of his eye.

He tilted his head a little more.

She was sat with Her legs hanging off the rooftop, cotton dress fluttering about Her knees. She turned to look at him, Her dove-grey eyes scanning the edges of his mouth, the curve of his nose; he felt naked beneath Her gaze as if She already knew everything about him.

Just as before She didn't talk and James felt the silence right down to his bones, like a continuous ache he had previously forgotten.

He blinked.

She was gone.

He stumbled back, cold to the core, before dropping unceremoniously to his knees. They cracked unpleasantly against the concrete.

Like waves the sob came over him, unbidden and unstoppable.

He didn't know why he was crying but it felt like he'd never be able to stop.



Water sloshed over the edge of the tub spilling across the expensive, tiled floor.

It reminded him of the time he'd had a man throttled in the bath; he could still recall the strangled cries as that flabby face had gone red…purple…blue.
A laugh cut through the silence, hollow and ice-cold; he didn't recognise it.

He slipped a little further down, banging his head against the porcelain.

The taps were still running, the gentle whoosh soothing against the raucous noise reverberating around within his skull.

His head dipped beneath the water and the racket faded, replaced by a slow melody; half-remembered.
For a moment he was still, wrapped in the silken embrace of the strange, echoing world and watching the last dribbles of air bubble to the surface.

He closed his eyes, savouring the oddly pleasant burn that followed before taking in a mouthful of water. The pain was excruciatingly beautiful.

The world around him wobbled and started to fade away, the colours melding together as if someone had smudged an oil painting.

Something skimmed along the line of his cheekbone, not quite touching just giving the promise of a caress. He had a memory of those fingers but it was distant, as if from another life.

Suddenly they were gone, replaced by rough digits tugging on his shirt front.

He was drawn up out of tub coughing and spluttering, the ugly features of one of his underdogs filling his vision.

"You all right boss?"

The man was feigning concern. Jim would see him canned as dog food before the clock struck three.



Jim shook the little, white bottle-empty-and placed it in line with the five others.

There had been more before those. The little pots tossed around the apartment; a little trail for his roommate to find after he returned from the erroneous errand he'd been sent on.

By the time Seb had bought himself a compensatory drink and smoked his usual two Camel's before heading up in the lift, it'd be over.

His head lolled forward against the granite counter, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple and pooling on the cold stone.

A light weight settled on the back of his head, not unpleasant but not particularly comfortable either. He didn't move.

She was there.

Her auburn hair fell over his eyes, cocooning him and for once in his life Jim Moriarty felt safe. It was nice.

He lifted his hands, his fingers caught one of the strands briefly; it shimmered against his skin, barely there.

Her feet swung in and out of his line of sight: he counted five toes, noted the exact number of wrinkles at Her ankle despite the fact that the wooden floor, just a few inches lower, was nothing but a drug-smudged smear of brown.

He shifted slightly, breathing beginning to slow.

He was sleepy….so sleepy.

She moved with him.
He could almost feel the tip of Her nose press into the space just behind his ear but there was no breath on the back of his neck, no solidity in Her not-quite-touch.

There was a bang from somewhere; it sounded dull and tinny in his ears. He just about managed to scowl, the muscles in his face refusing to co-operate properly.

The noises got louder; words were shouted and there was a crack, like plastic yielding under the heel of a heavy boot.

He was pulled up by a vaguely man shaped shadow of black, yellow and blue.

More words were spoken but they were just a jumbled mess in Jim's ears.

He just wanted to sleep God damn it!

The shadow picked him up and for a moment he felt like he was flying. He wanted to call her back, have her see his great ascent but he couldn't remember her name if he had ever known it at all.

Suddenly something cold was forced into his mouth. He gagged, choking.

The object was removed briefly and then replaced with more force. This time he felt his stomach contents rise, burning on its way up.

Jim's eyes watered. He retched. The pills had made everything taste funny.

He screwed his eyes shut and retched again.

It seemed life hadn't finished with him quite yet.



Jim sat slumped over on the sofa.

The fall was coming; his greatest triumph and he could barely muster enough energy to move.

He could hear Seb bumbling about somewhere in the flat; for someone paid to be invisible he certainly made a hell of a lot of noise.

Outside time ticked on but it seemed it was going at half-speed.
A boat made its way lazily across the grey-green water of the Thames.
A plane flew overhead going so slowly Jim wondered why it didn't fall out of the sky.

He'd always loved London: the noise, the buzz, all those petty, little people living out their lives unaware of how easy he could crush them all. But not today.

Today he looked out across the city…HIS city….and he was bored!

A flash of light glinted off one of the high-rise buildings across the water. He blinked once.

When he opened his eyes, She was there, stood with Her back to the glass.

The pale light streamed in around Her, blurring Her slight form at the edges.
Her auburn hair flamed, a halo of fire around Her head.

She took a single step forwards.
He lifted himself onto his feet.
Their eyes locked across the shortening distance.

Her voice was melodic, the Irish lilt strong. James knew he should remember it.

His eyes scanned her face; the soft line of Her lips, the gentle slope of Her chin, staring grey eyes. Something told him his fingers would fit perfectly around Her slender throat.

Still he shook his head.

"I don't know who you are."

She took half a pace forward, one hand reaching out but never quite touching. A wistful smile pulled at the corner of Her lips and an unfamiliar heaviness settled in Jim's chest. Suffocating.

"Yes you do."

He was close enough now to count the flecks of blue amongst the grey in Her irises and trace the faint lines around Her mouth with his eyes. His mind whirred, trying to place Her within the bank of his memories but every time he reached a promising path he ran into a wall.

Desperate he searched Her eyes for answers; the grey depths like pools looking back into the past. He shuddered. She smiled.

The next wall he ran into was cracked.

Things came back in a wave but it was just flickers, memories packaged away for so long they were damaged with age: flashes of smiles, snapshots of laughter, balled fists and snarls at a young age replaced later by love letters and stolen embraces behind a crumbling building.
He smiled. She didn't.

Panelled oak corridors followed, the red haze of anger, black suits and a drizzly graveyard, a little book padlocked and full of looping handwriting...fire.

His smile cracked.

Slowly he lifted his head, meeting Her eyes. They were full of tears.

He stepped forward, his mouth colliding violently with Hers. Her hands slipped up his neck, cupping his face and he remembered feeling this before…a long time ago. She hadn't been so cold back then.

It was Her who pulled back first. Her face was wet but still beautiful…always beautiful; Her grey eyes alive with pain, sorrow and something warmer, something Jim had vague memories of, something they had shared a lifetime ago.

Something they had lost a lifetime ago.

Her fingertips lingered on his chin.

Slowly he curled his fingers around Her waist, his nails catching on the fabric of Her dress so thin he could feel Her skin through it. He pulled Her flush against him. They bumped heads clumsily, a sweet chuckle erupting from Her rosy mouth. He watched entranced but it was broken, the sound cracked in the middle. Her fingers latched onto his suit, his shoulders any part of him they could as he pressed his nose into Her neck; the scent of talcum powder and rose-soap filled his nostrils. Yes, he thought as a strangled sob escaped into the air they shared and Her hands pulled on his hair, he remembered that.

They parted again, one-another's tears fresh on their faces.

He watched as Her eyes flicked from his chin to his hairline, a fond expression etched on every feature.

Lips met again, an almost cautious pressing of mouths, just the slightest trace of tongue and teeth behind. They fit together like jigsaw pieces.

Jim's knees buckled, he feel forward onto Her, his whole weight taken by Her tiny frame.
She mumbled something to him but he didn't understand. It felt like his mind was melting, the walls crumbling down just enough to give him a glimpse of a history he'd made himself forget.

He opened his mouth against Her collarbone, crying.

She cried with him.

There was a loud bang nearby.


Slowly Jim drew himself back in, straightening up and settling his weight back on his own feet. She wiped his face with the back of Her hand drawing out each movement as if She couldn't bear to lose the contact.
Another press of lips to the side of his mouth followed, his hands fisted in the back of Her dress.
He knew what was coming.
But he didn't want it…he didn't want to forget. Not this time. Not with the end so close.

She smiled but it didn't reach Her eyes.


She pulled away, easing herself from his death-grip. One hand trailed behind, he grabbed it, holding onto Her wrist hard enough to bruise. There wouldn't be any marks of course. He'd never be able to bruise Her again even if he wanted to.

She shook Her head and one finger at a time peeled him off Her, looking back at him over one pale shoulder as She walked towards the glass wall.

"You ready boss?"

Jim snapped his head around, his glare angled at the man lingering in the doorway. He turned back to the cityscape but just as he suspected She was gone.

His mouth dropped open ready to call Her back, out of the corner of his eye he could see Seb bracing himself for an onslaught of insults.

But the word wouldn't come. He could feel it lodged in the back of his throat but the sounds, the letters, the order remained elusive.

It was holy, Her name, and he had lost all claims to anything divine many years before.


Seb was looking at him like he was mad. Usually he at least had the decency to hide it.

Jim didn't say a word as he walked forward, shrugging on the coat he was handed and smoothing out the deepest creases just as he normally did.

He cast a single glance back to the window, swearing he caught a flash of flaming red in the glass, before he followed his loyal dog towards the end.

He'd been waiting his whole life to fall.

He'd simply forgotten he'd done it once already.

A/N: So there it is. Totally OOC. Atrociously written. But I hope you found something enjoyable in there somewhere.

I have a whole (tragic) backstory behind the pairing and how it made Moriarty if anyone's interested; I know I kept it very vague but I felt it worked better than going into in-depth flashbacks here. They can be written and posted though if people want.

Reviews are most welcome; both good, bad (though preferably constructive) and neutral. Thank you for reading.