This hasn't been well edited, which shall be amended but it'll do for now. I realise this story is very Aziraphale heavy at the moment but with him being the only person who remembers who he is he'd bound to be the most active at the moment. I'm not going to apologise, the characters contribution will even out eventually and Good Omens is fabulous. RIP the great Terry Pratchett, you who penned my second ever fandom.

James Moriarty sat slouched before the nailed down table on the nailed down chair as he stared across that un-kept man who had been sent in to talk to him due to the lack of care applied from the police department assigned to his case. He'd last seen him when he'd knocked him out, before he'd gotten caught. Moriarty couldn't feel the insanity in his eyes but he could see it in Will Graham's dull blue (or at least blue in that moment) ones. Then again his insanity was significantly different to Jim's, parts of themselves that they'd both carried with them from where ever they'd been before these wards. Not that Jim had really been aware of the look in his eyes the way his victims had back then. Not that either remembered those lives.

"You managed ten years without an incident here, Jim. You were a high-security patient, but you were doing well." Will didn't apply much tone aside from the applied surprised-but-not-surprised tone over the information he was using. Patient Moriarty smiled.

"Or perhaps it was the security workers who were doing well." Patient 1 .0 -U let the words fall through his rattle of an Irish accent to meet Dr. Graham's American. Will noticed the differing accents in this place in his phases of being overrun by how impossibly odd some things in this place were, he felt like he could almost understand it sometimes before the beliefs of being more suited to the padded cells than some of the patients overwhelmed him.

"Why now?" Will could understand Jim Moriarty, he didn't like it, but he really could; Moriarty's true self was locked behind closed doors and wrapped up in a straight jacket every routine day for as long as any of them could remember, he'd wanted to do what he'd done, he'd wanted too for a long time but he really didn't care why he'd chosen the specifics of the situation. Will knew why he'd done it, but he needed to understand why it had taken until now.

"Maybe I'm not crazy, Dr. Graham, maybe I am. There are all kinds of crazy but I don't think I'm supposed to be sat here." He was supposed to be doing things like that of why he was bound by good quality handcuffs now, playing the instrument of the rattling chains as they danced through the loop they were secured through in the middle of the table. Will knew where Jim Moriarty belonged - he didn't want to - but right then he didn't care, he didn't care why he knew any of this either as long as maybe he could use this knowledge to get a grip on what he didn't understand – maybe he could help people, and that would make the understanding worth it.

"Why didn't you kill me, Jim?" That was it. The two questions he needed to understand and yet he had the definitive feeling that Moriarty wasn't going to give him the answers that he needed. Somebody wanted Will to understand this though; he'd gathered that much whilst looking at the crime scene, he just wasn't sure Moriarty was that attuned to his own motive.

"Do you know what kind of crazy you are, Dr. Graham?" Patient Moriarty's smirk only grew slyer as he studied Will Graham studying him. Moriarty was more in tune with his motive than Will thought but that didn't mean he understood it more than he did either. He'd like the answers to the questions he was being asked just as much. He wanted nothing more to slit the doctor's throat, he'd wanted things like that for a long time and was as baffled as to why he was restraining himself now just as he was with why he'd restrained himself for as long as he could remember. And Jim knew Will wasn't really a doctor even if he was fairly certain that Will didn't know that himself.

This was getting nowhere. Will had expected as much, but it was worth a shot, he'd have to figure this all out by himself, besides, the Intel of a crazy person could only get him so far and he wasn't sure how relevant this whole murder was on his strained confusion on everything about St. Raphael's. Will got up to leave, slightly defeated, without another word. His hand had wrapped around the handle before Moriarty started his parting words.

"You're forgetting something, Dr. Graham."

Will turned back momentarily, as if to check whether there was something he'd left behind – not that he'd brought anything with him – but the mocking tone Patient Moriarty layered onto Dr. Graham was enough to tell him the suspect was referring to something mental. Will left, the two knowing just how true the last words Moriarty would share with him for a long time were but with neither being any clearer on understanding why.

Aziraphale tripped on his shoe laces for the fifth time that day. Tie yourselves back up, as infuriating as being without angelic ability was, he couldn't help his tendencies to forget and expect energy to be chanted through him at his will, so he carried on without any difference having been made to the footwear situation that would undoubtedly make him fall at any moment.

The murder of the manager that was his genuine excuse for visiting this hospital and the subsequent patient deaths that had already extended his stay (a fact he was grateful for in his search for the Wrath wards, it was just such a shame that there was such a gritty business to allow him it) had really been quite a nuisance to the back of his mind so far that day but as he'd been reaching the area of where they were keeping the patient of the two suspects of all four murders he'd been met with quite a ruckus and was promptly retreating.

It seemed Patient Moriarty had escaped somehow. Aziraphale munched on some shortbread as he speed walked in quite a dither towards the door, blowing a few crumbs up at his attempt to get the blonde curls that had fallen over his strawberry round glasses. His stay near this hospital would surely last a quite extensive amount of time now and despite the dreadful turn of events that it was due to, it was just what the angel needed. The kill list of St. Raphael's Home for the Mentally Corrupt had previously been restricted to those of the site managers but the addition of patients at the hands of a patient and a nurse had to mean something surely! Unless this was all an unfortunate coincidence; dear, dear, all this dreadful business was a lot to handle even if Aziraphale had in fact once helped to stop the apocalypse.

Outside the hospital the hospital the sky was clear and bright blue with only a few touches of cloud, an atmosphere that Aziraphale would once have sat contently by the window in with a good book and a mug of warm cocoa. Now he was in quite the hurry as he stepped into the Bentley he'd left waiting outside and clicked the engine on as he tried to organise his mind.

It was all well and good remembering who you were and trying to figure out what the hell had happened so you can return to your own world but if you weren't really going to put much effort into it then you'd get stuck in procrastination forever, forever being a word Aziraphale didn't take lightly. He'd search every inch of that place for the wrath wards and figure out whatever he should do after that before he did so. Organisation, he'd had it on every bookshelf in his shop and he'd have it in this mess.

Beethoven's I want to Break Free burst from the speakers half a minute after the engine roared up and Aziraphale started up the city street which had been considerably narrowed by the number of cars parked on the double yellow lines up the of the length of the road. They might be breaking the rules but Aziraphale was sure the drivers had their reasons; it would be a shame to scratch the side of anything a mechanic had put good work into anyway, so he took his time to get away from the hospital. His trepidation was equally over his certainty that the Bentley had to be Crowley's trigger if he wasn't. He just needed to get him to the thing, even if it wasn't – once the demon was back to his right old self – he'd surly be furious at Aziraphale if he scratched his beloved car anyway.

Once Aziraphale did reach the end of the street, under a nest of sunglasses and baseball hats he saw the white blonde hair of the recently fugitive Nurse Sebastian Verlac and the mouse brown of Patient James Moriarty of whom the former just busted out of custody. Aziraphale waited at the traffic lights as the amber flashed to green and the driver behind him started honking his horn and cussing through her window as he stared at them, deciding whether to follow or not. The driver behind honked again and Aziraphale rapidly made up for the lack of flustered apologies he'd given the poor woman before turning right and after the fugitives.