It had all happened without warning or thought; he had never expected it would all lead to this.
After all, he never expected much from people…
James Moriarty aka 'Jim' was sat in one of the more extravagant London restaurants wearing a chocolate and cream blushed suit while enjoying a meal with one of his few close contacts, making arrangements for the Shan and her Black Lotus buddies to get into the country to sort their own mess.
The dark haired mastermind let out a bored sigh as he sipped tersely at the cherry tinted wine probably worth more than Wayne Rooney. Those big black eyes casting a glance to the ordinary people gathered around him, gauging themselves with their normal every day little problems and their mundane apple pie lives
BORING!
Then he saw it, a frail leather glove bound hand slipping a pair of red lacy knickers into the pocket of a man toasting his twentieth wedding anniversary, moving on to stealthy snag the silver charm bracelet of the wrist of the fat woman lined in fur and jewels, dripping cynicism for every spectator. Only for the thief to unlock a single charm then lazily drop the bulk of the bracelet in a glass of Champaign on a passing tray with little interest.
He watched with a crane of his neck as the figure slips by and to the bar, almost gliding as she looks into the mirror to watch the mayhem she had planted unfold; the doting wife striking her 'cheating' husband, the over fed cow going berserk about how some waiter had stolen from her.
Without warning a waitress who had flirted shamelessly and stuck her plastic breasts in Jim's face screams from the far side of the room, her hands smeared with crimson and face flushed with tears, motioning to the ladies room where a very messy body was no daunt losing the restaurant its precious stars as we speak
He looked from the dramatic scene to the reflection of the mystery woman, hair cut into a sharp red bob, her brown eyes concealed by the thick lenses adoring her makeup splattered face and a wisp of a smile on pulling on the corners of her lips. She had the decorous seating of a lady, back straight as steal, shoulders firm, chin high and ankles crossed tenderly, pushed back under the seat. She was dawned in a timeless burgundy dress and matching tights, a sunflower yellow cardigan paired with oxford heals and a designer satchel.
He saw all this and instantly knew it was a lie. Camouflage… and a well perfected one at that.
As the manager began to calm the bedlam Jim watches the girl stand to leave. Drifting away with grace through the crowd
So with the mild amusement she had provided he made the decision to follow, leaving his contact with a wink and a smile "Thanks for dinner darling"
After all she had been the most interesting thing to happen that day and he was bored
He casually followed those legs for two streets so far with a watchful eye. She picked pockets only to pass them into others, the same with jewelry. However he lost sight of her for a moment, just a moment…
Then without warning he is pulled into the dankness of a dark back ally, a blood stained blade at his throat, a hairs breath from nicking the skin, as a perfectly practiced London voice seethes "Why are you following me?"
He watches her, the caramel shear rested against her eye slipping just slightly to expose a speck of shimmering blue, before breaking out into a fit of giggles "oh my, we are observant aren't we!"
He'd expected some snappy come back, a threat, but instead she looked at him with a tilt of her head, before lowering the blade from his throat and inspects at the suit, smiling as she speaks "Westwood right?"
Jim stands, righting his suit with an almost impressed smile "good eye, love the shoes. Prada?"
"Charlotte Olympia" she lifts her leg slightly to show of the brightly colored shoes with a smile while Jim curses himself for the mistake
He suddenly notices how short she is, he'd bet barely over five feet without those heels but she was curvy, no, wrong word, voluptuous fits better. Her skin, that he could just see under the tanning makeup, reminded him of untouched snow; just waiting to be ran through and tainted. Not society's image of beauty, but she was a picture… despite the disguise "how rude of me, Jim Moriarty"
She stands, twiddling the knife in her hands before asking "hello Jim, going to answer my question?"
With his hands thrust deep into his pockets he sighs "I was bored, you seemed…entertaining"
She watches him, almost thoughtful before sliding the blade back into the heavy duty purse "oh, well then … goodnight Jim"
"That's it? No threating? How do you know I won't just follow you again" he calls as she starts to toe her way out of the ally
Turning back she beams at him, staring into those big brown eyes almost marching on black "oh Jimmy-boy, your way to cute to kill and what fun would it be if you didn't… see you around"
"Not if I see you first" He calls in a sing-song voice, standing with a smile as she backs out of the dankness and into the flooding light of the street.
He'd noticed how her accent slipped, how she'd bounced on the balls of her feet while they spoke, when she let out a small giggle without looking back at his need to have the last word.
But more important than that he had seen the tattoo on her wrist as she'd threatened him. A perfectly inked grey cartoonish rabbit looking up to three small stars; it appeared like a picture in a children's book.
Jim knew the mark and he knew without a shred of doubt that he had just met 'The Jackrabbit'
Well, this could be interesting.
When she finally got home she gave a sigh of relief as 'Barbie Girl' bounced off the walls and she kicked off her heels. Dancing through the flat with the beat of the music as she quickly strips of the persona she'd painstakingly created.
Putting the clothes in the washing basket and then prancing over to the dresser to scrub her face of the layered makeup, removing the contacts and placing them in their container, then carefully removing the lovingly treated crimson bob and setting it with a very of cared for wigs.
The girl that bounces on her bed with a can of coke and cheesy puffs in hand is not someone you'd mistake for the woman that entered this flat. This girl in black sweats and a batman t-shirt snuggled into a pink fluffy bunny as she swigs at her drink while opening her pink covered laptop, her long curls flowing down her back like a chocolate fountain with sparkling blue eyes.
Lost was the edict she had displayed as she sat slouched and cross legged on the rose patterned sheets typing as she thinks openly, her London inflection demolished for a northern drawl with each brush of the keys "Jim…Moriarty."