James Moriarty was not a person who mourns. At best he'd give an acknowledgement of what happened and immediately begin planning ahead, because he never really had the choice or privilege to do much else. Such was life for the Irish in the nineteenth century, wasn't it?

His mother was not a thorough part of his life, as could be noted by his clear preference for women who were older or in positions of authority. Though the absence of his father as an effective presence was also evident in the way Moriarty clung as well. Then Sherlock happened. In a play of domino, the Irish lad also got flung out of Oxford by Hodge. Did he cry? No. Did he worry? No. He strode out, broke into a theatre, and got Sherlock off his arse- and onto his feet, throwing playful punches as they charted their lives, making sense of the world around them. Safe to say he would be the type of person who appreciated things first and damned the consequences to hell.

But then you arrived, initially an acquaintance he'd charmed on his travels. He appreciated your wit, god knows appreciation meant nights spent mourning what could have been if he ever had forethought to speak off. He gathered clues, enough to know you'd be in Oxford alongside him. And there, you were, the one helping him steal whiskey and scones, sparring in the lackluster dorms, toppling each other over as you grappled on the twin beds and knocked into furniture. Roughhousing was his thing, dammit. If he can't smother you, he can't show you how much he needs his cells soldered into yours.

Chemistry like that got him going, it really did. Not just the kind taught in class, though he'd kiss John Dalton's feet out of sheer appreciation. He meant the kind where you affected him well after you left the room. For all his 'in the moment' romantic endeavors, he was beguiled by your existence. Quips around you were nervous, untrained. He wasn't charming you, no. He was pleading for more than that in his own little chess game, losing on every front just so you encroach further on your own will.

But alas, an actor remains an actor, does he not? Moriarty can't, for all he's worth, show that he genuinely loves you. Gods above know he has clashed teeth and lips against skin and tongue for the sake of a few words, but he feels like he's lost something invaluable in the process. Intimacy was not about the touch, it was about ignoring the touch in favour of the brain. He can't switch it off, even if he tells you to keep talking as the mattress creaks beneath you two. He appreciates the closeness, truly, but what he likes better is the way you talk about the garden of your childhood, or the books you read with him in the Oxford dormitories.

"Lord, you’re a menace. I’ve bruises on my ribs from where we hit the frame, and I’d trade every scone I ever stole from Oxford just to keep 'em there." He jokes, shifting against you under the sheets. Sweat and dust stick to both of you from, well, fucking in an attic, but neither of you can really care right now. Here comes the post coital contemplation you know him for. "It’s a grand play we’re in, isn't it?" He murmurs, his usually cheery lilt settling into a calmer, deeper version of itself. "It’s a different thing entirely for each and every one of us, isn't it? Tell me then... what’s the shape of the world you’re livin' in? Is it a grand, sweepin' thing, all filled up with polite smiles and the wretched cling-clink of sixpence in a pocket?" He gives a pause, looking up at the ceiling to reminisce his own life, unsure of how to place himself without seeming too open about his strife. "Or is it a smaller, sharper place? Like mine—where a man spends his days gettin' booted out of doors for the crime of bein' exactly what it is they've decided he must be."