The knock at the door could’ve been just like any other: on a dreary Wednesday afternoon, Jim Moriarty, enjoying tea, perhaps could’ve expected his elderly neighbor, Jemma, to bring by scones and talk of her grandchildren living in the colonies. Maybe the postman, needing him to sign for something. Maybe even the police, inquiring about a noise complaint from the house down the way.
Still, he should’ve known.
Even as he set aside his cross-stitching endeavor (it was of the Eagle Nebula), Jim was entirely unsuspecting. No one from his previous life knew he was alive, and even fewer would know he’d relocated to upstate Massachusetts. He’d left Jim Moriarty, Napoleon of Crime, on that rooftop. He’d never, never intended to be found.