The Transition Of Jim Moriarty To Richard Brook

Chapter 17: The Package In The Post

Almost a week passed with no unusual occurrences. No arguments, no Mycroft dropping by, and no 'Guardian Angel'. In the mornings, John had his locum work, in the afternoons he'd show Richard around London, they'd see a show or visit a gallery, or simply go to a park and people-watch and talk. Evenings were spent in the warm flat, watching television, balancing their dinners on their knees, or talking. Always talking, about films, music, crime, current affairs. Anything that popped into their heads. Richard always felt like his smile was triggered by John's presence.

And nights were spent in bed. This was the one thing they didn't talk about, and Richard would be lying if it didn't frustrate him. They'd go to bed at roughly the same time, and when the bedroom door had closed, that friendly banter between them evaporated, to be replaced by wordless lust, that inflamed the senses and ate up the hours. Maybe it was because he had no memory of sex, but Richard didn't think he could desire someone this much. It was like his objectives shifted, he'd think of nothing else but sex and touch and John. And nothing was ever enough. They hadn't had full-on sex, they'd kissed and humped but for some reason, John seemed reluctant to move it forward. Richard tried to pretend it didn't bother him, but a part of him wondered if it was too much commitment for John. Or perhaps John was worried about the health risks? Richard hadn't been tested, for all he knew, he could be infected with everything from STDs to a zombie virus. He knew with complete certainty that he should discuss this with John. Unfortunately, he also knew with complete certainty that he wasn't going to bring it up until John mentioned it.

Why? Well, the thought nauseated him, that he could have had other sexual partners besides John. Somebody he didn't love and care about, someone who didn't have a smile that made him melt, and the gentle yet firm touch of a doctor. It wasn't right, it was like the romantic comedies he enjoyed making John watch. The object of interest would be in a serious relationship with someone completely unsuitable, before finding true love. Richard felt lucky that he had no memory of the bitter break-ups and loss of love that he'd probably experienced, in his past. It had to be the only thing about his amnesia that he liked.

Richard turned on his side, gazing lovingly at John's sleeping form. He realised (from things John had said) that John didn't consider himself to be that attractive, and Richard found that ludicrous. How could someone be so kind and brave and special and not see it? How could John look in the mirror and see greying hairs and wrinkles, where Richard saw beautiful eyes and a smile that made his knees weak?

He stretched, coming into contact with the warm, still body of his lover, but before he could consider waking John up for morning kisses, he heard a sound downstairs, the creaking of floorboards and the thud of a door being shut. Red signs flashing in his head, Richard was on his feet, a dressing gown thrown over him, and down the stairs as fast as his slipper-clad feet could manage. His fear was redundant; the intruder turned out to be none other than old Mrs Hudson, doing a bit of morning spring-cleaning before John could get up.

"Hello, Mrs Hudson," Richard said stiffly, not liking the way her hand flew to her collar when she saw him. Miserable hag, she'd had it in for him since the moment he'd come.

"Mr…Brook. Hello. I trust you slept well?"

God, she was never this formal to John. Richard supposed she saw him as usurping the late Sherlock Holmes. Well, he was here now, she'd have to like it.

"Very well, thanks. It was cold last night but John kept me warm." It was a subtle dig and they both knew it.

"A package came. For you." She pointed at it, innocently resting on John's armchair. Apparently, she couldn't bother to pick it up and hand it to him. Richard snorted, and crossed the room to take it.