Authors' Notes: Our wonderful, faithful readers. Anna and Mariya are back with another chapter of Cor Cordis, so please enjoy, review and favorite. Ta!

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Sebastian woke to the steady sound of water droplets beating on the sink, echoing into the bedroom through the unclosed door of the bathroom. He groaned quietly, feeling a dead weight settled on top of his arm, trapping him to the bed. Who the fuck…?

Then it hit him. The morning suddenly became much better as he smirked blearily and pressed a kiss to the spot behind Jim's ear, watching the other man's chest move steadily as he breathed. The Boss was home. Settling back onto the sheets, Sebastian willed himself to relax, even though his arm was really starting to bother him. Jim deserved some rest.

The smaller Irishman woke up to something brushing his ear and a strange dripping noise disturbing his slumber. For a moment, his mind flew back to his usual resting place– and the tapping was the rainwater dripping through a crack or hole in the ceiling (he'd been put in the decaying wing, surrounded with ruin and made to feel as if, while the days passed without incident that he, too, was decaying slowly, even as he drew another breath), and the brush was the hand of an intruding doctor. Then he realized something was not quite right.

The bed was too soft and comfortable. He was too warm and inexplicably safe for that to be true. He calmed, only then noticing the arms he was entwined in and he remembered, relaxed, feeling a sleepy half-smile twitch at the corner of his lips.

"Morning," Sebastian whispered into Jim's ear, making the smaller man shiver involuntarily. "No need to pretend you're asleep, we've lived together for quite some time."

He snuggled closer to Jim, hanging on to the illusion that everything was just the same as it had been several months ago. In five minutes, they would get up, take turns in the bathroom (Jim had always insisted morning sex slowed him down, though sometimes, ever a lover of 'starting the morning off right,' Sebastian had succeeded in convincing him), and then go have breakfast together, discussing all the plans for the day. Jim's phone would beep regularly, making changes in their packed schedule.

Jim, with his soft edges and vulnerable, thin body hummed, and the illusion broke.

"Mph, I assumed," he said groggily, allowing the sniper to press closer to him. Somewhere in his sleep-fogged mind it occurred to him that Sebastian must still be upset this morning, realizing that things wouldn't be the same. That he would have to guide him through the day. That in itself didn't bother him as much as it should have – he was free now. That was all that really mattered at the moment.

"You assumed," Sebastian scoffed before giving Jim another absent-minded peck on the cheek and pulling away, half-surprised that he'd gotten away with the gesture of affection, wriggling his arm from under the smaller man and laying on his back to look up at the grey ceiling. God, he hated it when reality set in during the wee hours of the morning. What a waste. He exhaled, suddenly aching for a fag, and forced himself to speak.

"Well, Boss, we've got a whole day ahead of us. The whole crime world's been waiting for your return with bated breath and to be honest, I wasn't that thrilled about taking over your job either. So, time to get up, Princess."

The shorter criminal groaned, closing his eyes again and burrowing his face into the pillow.

"Must I get up?" He whined, muffled by the pillow. The first (natural) good night's sleep he'd had in his own memory, and the bed was so comfortable… He knew that he had to face the day eventually, but some part of his brain just wanted to escape. Sebastian's face softened when he saw Jim shrink into the mattress, and put a hand onto the man's small shoulder, shaking him gently.

"I know you're curious to see what your business is like. And I bet you can't say no to my special morning latte." He smirked to himself. "Perhaps a ride in your Porsche. And we will have an hour to plan the painful demise of the people who kept you in the clinic."

Jim perked up a bit with interest.

"Maybe, probably not, and I have a Porsche?" He muttered, turning over on his back and letting a smirk twitch his lips. "Ah, Sebastian, you know just how to make a guy feel special." He cracked an eye open. "…Fine."

"Good." Sebastian stretched his arms above his head and turned to look at Jim. "Do you want to take a shower first? I'll get started on breakfast. Any special requests, your majesty?" He asked playfully, sitting up and stretching his legs.

"I'll take eggs and a pile of toast smothered in Nutella, my dear slave," Jim ordered with a little smile.

Sebastian groaned. "Must you eat that stuff so early in the morning? Honestly, if I were to ask a certified physician, they'd be sure to tell me you went nuts with all the nuts." He chuckled and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

Jim's smile vanished.

"Are you fucking kidding me, Sebastian? Did you actually just say that? Was that supposed to be funny or something?" Jim asked, a disgusted expression on his face. He sat up, stretching. "God, I can't believe I keep you around." He shook his head.

Sebastian only grinned, giving Jim a soft slap on the thigh, earning himself an undignified squeal and a poorly-aimed kick to the side. "You know where everything is now, I'll be in the kitchen," and with that he walked out of the bedroom, whistling Personal Jesus to himself while looking for a shirt to pull on.

After a moment, Jim shoved himself up off the bed and walked toward the bathroom, grabbing a new suit from the closet on his way.

"Don't rumple the suit! I'm not ironing!" Sebastian yelled from the kitchen upon hearing the wardrobe door close. He shook his head and sighed. Oh well, Jim will just have to deal with it. For some reason everything seemed simpler in the morning. He reached into the fridge to pull out the eggs.

"Oh my god, yes, okay, mother, I'll be careful," Jim yelled back with a snort in his voice, beginning to strip. Honestly, it was so domestic at the moment, it was impossible to think that they were a pair of homicidal criminals.

In the kitchen, the phone rang and Sebastian picked up, placing it into the crook of his neck.

"Moran here. Yes. Yes. No–, Yes. Oh, really? Sure about that?" He looked up from the cutting board to see Jim walk in, hair wet, pants and shirt already on.

"Fucking hell, Jones, you had one fucking job to do and you fucked it up!" He growled into the receiver and then his face turned somber: "You will be hearing from us. Yes, us. The Boss and I. He's back. Completely. You know what the fuck that means, don't you? And you better not fucking run, Jones. You. Better. Not. Fucking. Run."

Sebastian slammed the phone onto the counter before picking up the knife and throwing it at the wall.

"Fuck!"

Winding a towel around his shoulders, Jim raised an eyebrow, staring at the knife now embedded in the wall. "Jones? The man with the children? What's he done now?" The criminal asked, rather calmly for the situation, but he supposed that the almighty James Moriarty didn't scare easily. Sebastian merely growled, gripping the edge of the counter tighter, his knuckles going white. He turned to look at Jim and exhaled, making himself calm down just a tad. Anger management. Had never worked for either of us, he reminded himself grimly.

"He secured those doctors of yours, three of them, to be exact, and then, and I quote: 'turned away for one moment and they were all gone.' Fucking idiot," he said bitterly, punching the tabletop for good measure.

Jim froze, slowly turning his gaze to the sniper. "...Repeat that." He commanded, voice still and dangerous.

"I won't. You'll get upset and you'll go off killing random people. And we need crime to be organized." Sebastian shook his head before leaning onto the counter. "Fucking Jones is fucking dead.

Jim closed his eyes and exhaled.

"Fine. Did he say who, exactly?" He asked, trying to calm himself down. So perhaps he wasn't as different from his old self as he had formerly thought. Still there was that homicidal rage, apparently… And a very creative imagination.

Sebastian nodded quietly before turning to the drawer to get another knife out, giving into the need to occupy his hands. Butchering the bacon and vegetables as if they were idiotic human beings, he sighed. "Helinger, Smith and Laurels."

Jim forced himself to relax.

Helinger, if he remembered correctly, was the one who was in charge of the hospital. Jim hadn't seen him before, having been shut away in the decaying wing, while his office was in the heart of the building. Smith, on the other hand... He was the doctor for most of the patients in the North wing, the one who gave most of the punishments, and had taken a special liking to Jim. Laurels he knew the best - TaylorLaurels, the psychiatrist and amateur scientist. She liked to try her experiments out on the patients. Luckily he hadn't seen much of her; but he'd learnt enough from the screams inside the neighboring cells, slowly getting louder every other night. He ran a hand through his short brown hair.

"And the other doctors?"

Sebastian threw the eggs onto the frying pan, scrambling them viciously. Fucking Jones had to go and ruin what had been promising to be a perfectly normal day... Well, as normal is it could have been, given the circumstances. As the eggs settled into some shape or another, he switched on the coffee maker and popped some milk into the cappuccino machine.

"The others haven't been caught yet. We were hoping to get them one, two, three at a time. Fucking Jones." He shook his head in indignation. "I wanted those three to be a special thing... Your first kill, so to speak. Miserable, old, gnarly Jones is fucking up my marriage even before it happens. Great."

Even under the inappropriate circumstances, Jim couldn't help but giggle. "Minor setback. We had probably better hurry up and round up the others before word gets out to them." He raised an eyebrow. "How… sweet, planning my first murder."

"Should I walk you through it or do you reckon you can make a foolproof plan on your first try?" Sebastian asked gently, placing Jim's plate in front of him together with the horribly expensive silverware which was, in fact, silver.

Jim rolled his eyes, annoyed. Honestly, that tone was just so incredibly condescending, as if Sebastian were speaking to a child. The irony of the fact that Sebastian was giving him food and setting his plate as if he were one didn't occur to him.

"I can do it on my own, thank you." He looked down, and nodded. "And thank you again," he added, patting Sebastian on the side. "But I want my Nutella."

"Jim, do you realize how many calories we're talking–," Sebastian broke off when he saw Jim's eyes bore into him, a strange shiver of elation passing over him when he saw the old Moriarty – aggressive, wild, uncontainable – behind the black irises. With a shrug, he passed the jar to his boss. "Enjoy."

"That's better, good boy." Jim petted him again and started slathering everything in sight with the hazelnut paste.

"So then, I assume I have all the resources I'll need at my fingertips already. What are the limits?" He asked, shoving some toast in his mouth. Dear lord that tasted like heaven.

"Pretty much unlimited, boss. Well, except for the obvious things – time, gravity – you know, the universally unchangeable stuff – although you've said more than once that these things tend to be quite yielding," Sebastian answered, taking a bite of his own Nutella-free breakfast.

Jim would've smiled, were he not busy eating.

"Good, good," he said, his words somewhat muffled by the bread in his mouth. He glanced at Sebastian's plate and shuddered slightly. "Excellent, then. Where was it located, anyway?"

"Where was what located, love?" Sebastian asked, leaning forward, placing his elbows onto the table. He didn't notice his slip of the tongue. Well, it wasn't a slip, really, was it? Jim was still his love, wasn't he?

Jim took a tentative sip of the hot coffee, not mentioning Sebastian's endearment. No need to make breakfast awkward.

"The 'mental hospital.' I didn't get a good look at the sign – after all, we were, you know, fleeing."

Sebastian nodded, lowering his eyes for a moment before answering: "Baskerville. You know, the military base? We might have had a job there once or twice. Dodgy place."

"Too far from here?"

"A bit. I guess you didn't notice how much time we'd spent driving." Sebastian put his dish into the washer, rinsing it with water before turning back: "It has been a bitch, finding you. The government can be quite fucking good at covering up."

"Oh, I haven't thanked you yet, have I?" Jim recalled, finishing off his toast. "I suppose I'll save that for when all of them are dead, then."

"You don't need to thank me. I want the bastards dead as much as you do. I mean, the took you away from home and now you can't rememb–," Sebastian cut himself off, knowing he would probably upset Jim by talking about it.

The criminal froze for a moment, and then simply tsked. "I know what they did, Sebastian," was all he said while dumping the dish into the sink and turning back to his coffee. "All too well, I know. I'm sorry for bringing it up, I know it's been hellish," Sebastian replied regretfully, soaking the dishes in the sink before settling them into the dishwasher.

Jim couldn't help but groan again. He didn't want Sebastian's sympathy, no matter what had fucking happened to him. He was not an object worthy of pity. "It's fine. So, do I have an evil study or somewhere to concoct my scheme?" He asked lightly, changing the subject.

"I'm afraid you burnt that one down after a particularly cumbersome homicide planning session," Sebastian replied, snapping back to business. Proud Jim. Fuck my life, he thought to himself. "You can use the sunroof, I had a shield set up, you know you burn easily."

Jim rolled his eyes.

"That'll do." He nodded, before plastering on a slight smile. "Sounds like it was fun."

"What was? The homicide or the burning? Yes, you poured gasoline all over the walls and floor and danced around to the Styx with a blowtorch. Hilarious."

He gestured for Jim to follow him out of the living room cum kitchen and into the corridor. He heard his Boss's new shuffling footsteps behind his back and lead him further into the depths of the apartment.

He stopped in front of a steel door and nodded at it.

"I don't know your security code. Never was stupid enough to try to find out."

Jim's fingers reacted of their own accord. One, two, three, four, and the door was open. Sebastian raised an eyebrow but said nothing, following his boss up the hidden staircase and into the open office which had been converted into a suitable working space from a roof. The insulation provided suitable comfort for them both to keep up the pretense that it was an actual office.

The mahogany desk took up most of the space, loaded with dusty documentation and the occasional novel which had been read and abandoned halfway through. Behind it, a comfortable, worn-down chair, the only thing that had survived Hurricane Moriarty previously, stood proudly, offering refuge to the thinker. The wall opposite the desk was littered with maps and photographs, predominantly those of a certain horse-faced man and his associates. Sebastian bit down on the inside of his cheek.

"Who's that?" Jim asked, gauging Sebastian's reaction. "The truth, please."

Sebastian sighed. "Sherlock Holmes. Remember him?" Jim wracked his brain, while watching Sebastian's face undergo a series of funny spasms. He turned his gaze back to the wall, and remembered nothing, yet had to repress a strange little shiver.

The master criminal shook his head, cautiously making his way to his desk through the scattered objects all over the floor. He should have probably felt lost, but this one the one place he seemed to know exactly what to do. He paused a moment. "Could you leave for a while, please? I'd like to be alone."

Sebastian immediately tensed his shoulders in a military fashion, nodding at Jim curtly, and walked out the door, trying not to look back as his neck tingled. He didn't know why he was so relieved that Jim remained emotionless about Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps he'd deemed his boss's obsession with the detective to be on the brink of attraction or even lust before, but now Jim Moriarty, although incomplete, seemed to be completely and utterly his. The notion calmed Sebastian, filling his mind with warmth as he walked back into the kitchen and poured himself a shot of espresso. He pulled out his phone and fired off a couple of orders regarding Baskerville Mental Facility and kicked back in his chair, relaxing for the first time in months.

Meanwhile, Jim did exactly what he said he would. He sat down in the leather chair, and steepled his hands together, closing his eyes. No, that wasn't right. He leaned back in the chair and opened his eyes, peering at the dust floating by in a ray of weak morning sunlight. Better. All right, so. What now? Jim started shuffling around his desk. How did he... Call people? To put what he'd thought of into action? No, no. That was for later. Now, he needed to some up with something.

The criminal settled back into his chair again, a little more uncertainly this time, and went about it.

Sebastian's ear was very attuned to hearing the slightest noises in their flat and he smiled to himself upon hearing nothing from Jim's office. He leaned back and closed his eyes, maybe ready to dose off, when the phone started ringing again, wrenching him out of his reverie.

"Yes?" His eyes widened. "Fine! Keep him there until I arrive! Do nothing!"

It wasn't every long after Jim had started to formulate a plan, the cogs in his mind really starting to turn for the first time in over half a year, when he heard Sebastian yelling through the crack in the door. The Irishman couldn't make out any words – the door was mostly closed, and it seemed his evil lair of sorts was soundproof – but he got the gist of it by the tone of voice. Something was wrong. Jim stood, quickly maneuvering around the objects on the floor, and came out into the hall.

"What's going on?"

Sebastian cursed under his breath when his boss's voice reverberated throughout the flat questioningly. Great, he thought to himself, as he put the phone down and made his way to the corridor where Jim stood, looking so... so... There was no way to describe Jim at that moment. The professional, slightly mad light in his eyes was back, and his expensive clothes spoke of luxury that he'd been used to once upon a time. The bags under his eyes, though not as prominent as they had been the day before, and the way the fine shirt hung just a bit wrongly on his frame reminded Sebastian of how different things were now. How much had been lost. How much head been through that had been forgotten. Feeling his eyes itch with moisture, Sebastian blinked furiously and then cleared his throat.

Jim raised a mild eyebrow as Sebastian said nothing, simply staring at him with a look in his blue eyes something close to reverence. It did Jim's quickly recovering ego wonders, but he wondered what it was that made his sniper look at him like a starving man did water. And... Wait, tears? Again? Jim was surprised at how he reacted to the shining in those eyes, an unexpected mixture of both pity and exasperation… and annoyance. He didn't show it, of course. Was he always like that, or was it just because, secretly, he thought Sebastian was just on the wrong side of 'emotionally unstable teenager.' The Irishman shook it off, pretending not to have noticed, and froze at what came next.

"We got another one of your doctors."

"You... All right. Good. Where is he?" Never mind the plan he'd made up, this would be much easier, and quicker, if they did it right. He wondered if Sebastian was up for some torture, and then wondered where the hell that thought came from, and wondered why his head was starting to hurt again.

Sebastian swallowed the lump in his throat with difficulty and turned away to look at the blank wall across from him. He nodded, blinking hard once more, and looked back at Jim, his eyes completely void of any trace of tears. He needed to be strong for Jim, now more than ever, and he had no business falling apart like a fifth-former.

"He's at one of the garages our... enterprise rents for these specific purposes. There's a cleanup team on hand, if you're interested." He looked at Jim cautiously, gauging his reacting.

When Sebastian looked back at him, the tears were gone, and for that Jim was grateful. He didn't want to deal with that, or acknowledge that Sebastian was sad or any other... bad emotion. Selfish of him to want Sebastian there when he was upset, but not to be willing to help him when it was the other way around. Oh, well. He had a captured doctor to take care of. Jim raised an eyebrow at the taller man, a reflexive smirk playing on the edge of his lips.

"A bit, maybe... but we have others, don't we? Others running free."

Sebastian let out a sigh, thankful that his boss had let it go without argument, and smirked right back, pocketing the phone he'd been brandishing in his haste and looking Jim fully in the eye. He was momentarily entrapped in the dark brown, so dark they were almost black and all-consuming, but the shook himself, and reminded himself that he was a sniper first and a fiancée second. That was how their relationship had always worked.

"Yes, we do. But I suggest we practice on this one while the others are being tracked down. Bastards got wind that we're looking for them."

Jim nodded slowly, considering. His first... torture session. He wasn't sure how he felt about that; not repulsed, or disgusted. Morals had nothing to do with this, if he had any. The too-loose fabric around him, the reminder that he had only been alive (for all intents and purposes) for a few months, served to make him nervous. He pushed that down – it wasn't time to dell on that. He had things to take care of. Jim hummed absently. "...That sounds fine... which one is it?"

"Doctor Mondejar... right bitch, according to our sources." Sebastian shrugged, knowing Jim expected honesty from him. If he had been able to get his hands on the security footage of the hospital, he wouldn't have watched it for one sole reason: he hated seeing Jim in lost, or in pain. From the very first moment, when he'd saved Jim's arse for the very first time on a job, he had been reluctant to see Jim getting hurt. "Shall we, love?"

Jim frowned but nodded, stepping past Sebastian wordlessly. He didn't feel nervous, not exactly, but more as if something were wrong. He felt off. He felt frustrated internally, but he didn't know why, because there was nothing to get frustrated about. Jim glanced outside a window as he made his way to the front door. It was dark and cloudy with the promise of rain, which suited his sudden mood perfectly.

"Stay here," the shorter man said. "In case there's any more news. More important than this. I can get someone else to drive me."

Sebastian was across the corridor in a couple of strides and he pinned Jim to the wall without actually touching him, his two hands balled up into fists and pressing into the wall on either side of Jim's head. With a growl, he lowered his mouth to Jim's ear and whispered, his voice almost inaudible despite the apartment's perfect stillness:

"Boss, you own me completely. I will follow any order as your employee. But since you've chosen to stay as my fiancée as well, then you can't make me stay while you go off on your own. Not after what happened. Plus, denying me the satisfaction of seeing the bastards suffer is too cruel, even for you."

Where Jim might have flinched in fear before or perhaps tried to back down, he just glared, annoyed beyond words for some reason he didn't even know.

"Get your fucking mouth away from me unless you want it stitched together, do you hear me? You'll stay here like I tell you to or, in light of recent events, I'll make sure you being my fiancée is no longer an issue. I'll send pictures, if you're lucky," he spat and ducked under Sebastian's arm, striding to the door once again.

Sebastian let Jim go, sighing and retreating to the living room. He nearly flinched when he heard he front door slam with a flourish and immediately downed a tumbler of scotch, failing to grimace at the bitter taste. He'd gone soft. He had forgotten what it was like to be with James Moriarty. It was like Hell.

With a shake of his head, he retrieved his mobile phone from his pocket and set it onto the table top, expecting news.

Jim felt in a daze as he stormed out of the house and got into the car, deciding to just drive himself, working off of the directions that had been sent to him. He didn't know what the hell had come over him or possessed him to scream at Sebastian like that when he hadn't done anything that wrong. As he started driving, Jim sighed, glaring down at his phone. He wanted to apologize. He didn't want his pride to be stung.

The last thing Sebastian heard from him was a short text.

Sorry. I'll film it for you. JM x

Sebastian stared at the text, the joints of his fingers going stiff. His Jim rarely apologized. Was that person even his Jim, now? Had he come back to himself, or was it just a bit of him coming through? This time the apology was welcome, though, even if it didn't come for him Jim, so he let it slide. The sniper poured himself another glass before pausing for a moment, and putting it down. He awaited a sign, a message, anything to indicate that the job was over and that his lover was coming home. Jim was diligent when it came to signaling each other – it was one of the bases of self preservation.

Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty. Thirty five. Thirty six.

Sebastian snapped up from his chair and stormed out the door, barely remembering to pause and take his rifle and handgun with him. Jim.

Sebastian cursed under his breath, nearly breaking the glass on his iPhone as he punched the redial option with his thumb over and over again, getting nothing on the other side except for a polite voice telling him the subscriber could not be reached. He felt like stopping the car and vomiting over the side of the street. The last time he heard that voice, he lost Jim for a very long time. He was not about to lose him again. How could he have let his boss go out alone without supervision, when the guy had the mental stability and capabilities of a day-old kitten?

Swearing heartily, he activated the GPS on his phone, praying to Heaven and Hell that Jim's phone was at least reachable through the radar. Finally. A location appeared on the screen and he fought the urge to laugh. This could be a trap, he knew. He also knew that most of the people that were likely to kidnap his fiancée were idiots. He pressed down the pedal even further, earning himself several speed tickets on the way to rescue his Jim.

"Tell me what you said!" The man spat viciously, finally loosing his cool facade after asking one too many times and not receiving an answer.

"I don't know what you're–," One of the muscle-men, now absent of his outer jacket, swung another punch at Jim's jaw. His head snapped to the side with a sickening crack, and he clamped his eyes shut again, trying to move it minutely; a shot of white-hot pain shot through him and he barely restrained a whine from escaping. Well, I guess I got my first torture session in one way or another, Jim thought bitterly.

The man who was did the asking stepped forward, and Jim opened his eyes to look at him. Cold grey eyes, a hawk-like nose, short brown hair. When he spoke, his voice was utterly cold and reeking of barely restrained fury.

"Tell me what you said to him, or I'll make you pray that it was you who died. This is my last warning."

Jim bared his bloodied teeth and spat on him, figuring that he might as well have this if he was going to die. The man's revolted expression was little satisfaction. As soon as he stepped back into his former position, the muscle-man swung at his head, and Jim knew no more.

The door slammed open and two bodies fell through the doorway, both formerly wielding guns and both dead. A man emerged from behind them, a monstrous, furious man. His eyes were a blend of numb and wild, it was as if he was partially unaware of his surroundings yet a determination of the kind that was bordering on manic shone through. His movements were completely controlled and only the slight twitch of the vein upon his neck gave away the fact that all of his muscles were trembling with fury. He stepped over the bodies, and into the vast space.

When he spotted Jim lying in a heap on the ground, his demeanor changed. The rage shifted into the manner of a soldier. He was nothing more then a weapon, a faithful pet. He was not himself, he was an extension of the broken man lying on the asphalt. His arm rose up in an arch, a Glock cradled firmly between calloused fingers. He wanted no explanations or reprieves. He wanted revenge. He wanted to hurt these people for hurting him through Jim. He was selfish.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he greeted, his sight Irish lilt breaking the silence.