"James Moriarty," Mycroft strides into the cell. "I believe you have something that I want. And I'm afraid," he doesn't sound any particular emotion at all, "you won't be leaving until I get it."

Moriarty simply stares into Mycroft's eyes, cold and calculating, but above all else, completely silent. His breathing is barely audible, and his pulse regular. Many times before has Mycroft seen someone this calm before interrogation, but to be this calm moments afterward was almost entirely unheard of. It took most of Mycroft's effort to seem as unmoved as the criminal mastermind. Moriarty's callousness is, in all honesty, infuriating him.

"You will have to talk eventually. We can keep you here indefinitely," Mycroft sighs. While that is technically true, there is no reason to keep Moriarty if they can get nothing out of him. If he remains silent, eventually a time will come when Mycroft will let Moriarty go, just to allow him enough leeway to make a mistake.

Moriarty's entire face is pink and raw from repeated blows. Bruises and cuts line both of his arms, and yet, the man is as calm as the day he was arrested. Mycroft wonders if they will ever be able to get Moriarty to crack. He sincerely doubts it.

"We will give you one hour to reconsider."

The threats are all implied. In an hour, hired thugs will be allowed in again, Moriarty will be subjected to more violence, and of course, Moriarty will simply take it. There will be no information exchanged. The best Mycroft hopes for is that eventually Moriarty will give in. Even if it takes a month or more. But he honestly and sincerely doubts that this interrogation process will yield any information whatsoever.

Mycroft exits the cell precisely as he entered, dignified and unemotional. However, as the door locks behind him, he can't help but place his head in his hands. It is not often that the eldest Holmes brother expresses emotion, but the entire situation seems hopeless.

"Sir, if I may," Anthea offers, looking up from her mobile, slightly but not visibly alarmed by Mycroft's sudden display of distress, "Is there any chance that I might be able to get something out of him?"

Mycroft shakes his head at his assistant, "We haven't been able to get anything out of him for weeks, even with interrogation and torture. What could you possibly provide that hasn't already been attempted?" It is intended as a rhetorical question, not an accusation of inadequacy. Mycroft is at a loss, and simply does not know how anything could get Moriarty to talk.

"All your... interrogators have been male," Anthea notes, as she looks back at her mobile to continue her text. "Perhaps he would be more likely to open up to someone who seems to pose less of a threat?"

The idea seems absurd, but at this point, Mycroft sees little hope for the continuation of his current methods. The slightest chance of progress is enough to allow the proposition. Anthea has passed all the security checks, and she won't be in danger of reacting badly to Moriarty. She hardly ever reacts to anything. The prisoner is handcuffed to his chair, and his ankles securely tied. It only takes Mycroft a few seconds to consider.

"Wait an hour. We will catch him off guard when he doesn't receive the beating he's expecting."

In the meantime, they wait.

Sixty minutes pass, and Anthea enters the cell. Moriarty's eyes betray only a half second of surprise as the woman takes the seat across from him.

"So," Anthea begins, casually, but without any real emotion. "Is there anything you have to say for yourself?"

At first Moriarty pauses, as if appraising the situation. This is certainly a new tactic, and he takes the time to understand the implications. After a few moments, he then proceeds to do something he has not done in the entirety of his captivity. He moves voluntarily. He shifts his gaze upward to the camera in the corner of the room, staring directly into the lens. It is clearly a challenge, and Anthea notices.

"They're just as much for my safety as they are for you," she begins sending a text to Mycroft:

Can you cover the cameras and mirror? I may be able to get him to talk if it's just me. -A

She looks back up at Moriarty, who has not shifted his gaze from the camera, "But I'll see what I can do." Her mobile buzzes.

If that's what it takes, the cameras are off. You have ten minutes before we establish contact again. Be careful. -MH

Anthea stands, and shows Moriarty the texts, as two men enter the cell carrying sheets. They pin the coverings over the camera and two-way mirror, then leave without a word. Anthea slides her mobile into her pocket, and her hands feel remarkably naked without it.

"Better?" she asks, once the door is closed.

Moriarty is handcuffed to the chair, but he manages to turn his wrists upward and point in the general direction of his ears.

Anthea shakes her head, "They don't have visual or audio. The cameras are off."

Moriarty opens his mouth, and carefully forms the words without speaking. Prove it.

Anthea smiles. She had been expecting this from the moment Moriarty stared into the lens of the security camera. She was never one for theatrics around Mycroft, as he would simply never tolerate dramatization. With him, it was best to remain silent and follow orders. However, she has read Moriarty's file several times over and seen the way he operates. Cleverness will get him to open up long before violence or careless speech. The obvious answer would be to strip and prove she wasn't wearing a wire. A bit too intimate, and instead, Anthea, being an intelligent and resourceful government employee, has planned the unexpected.

She lets out a blood-curdling scream.

As the sound dies away, Moriarty's astonishment becomes mingled with obvious amusement. When nothing happens for a full eight seconds, he laughs madly, his smile so wide Anthea could count his teeth if she were so inclined. He makes a movement as if he had intended to clap, but realises his hands are still restrained.

"Well, well, well. What a show," he croons, his head rocking slightly back and forth, voice a bit rough from more than a week of disuse. "Very clever!" He intentionally pulls his hands and legs against his restraints, "I don't assume you could help me..."

"Anthea," she offers. "I'm afraid not. Too much of a personal risk," she smiles, albeit half-heartedly.

"Probably for the best," Moriarty smirks. "I can be a bit... dangerous."

"So I've heard," Anthea responds, disinterested.

"You want the computer code."

"Yes."

"You can't have it," he blinks twice in rapid succession, tilting his head slightly to the right, cracking his neck.

"We'll see. At any rate, we can work up to that," Anthea explains. "How about we start small? Why don't you tell me about yourself."

"Nothing much to tell, I'm afraid," he looks vaguely surprised that she would ask him such a mundane question. "I'm sure you've done your research. Why should I bore you with the details?"

"Because I asked." It's not a threat, and Moriarty notices. She may actually be interested. Most people would be curious as to how someone becomes a questionably sane criminal mastermind, after all. It intrigues some, and repulses others, but everyone is curious. Everyone wants to know if it could have been them, or someone they know. Their lover, next-door neighbour, co-worker...

"Do you have any gum?" Anthea is almost baffled by the sudden question, and Moriarty's suddenly pleading puppy dog eyes.

She pauses briefly, "Afraid not."

"Shame," he sighs dramatically, "They've been feeding me through a straw, just so they don't remove the handcuffs more than necessary. I'm dying to chew on something."

Of course they don't want the liability of Moriarty loose. Anthea carries on, "What was the first law you ever broke?"

"Oh, as if you care. Don't bore me," he rolls his right wrist in the handcuff dismissively, a deliberate attempt to contradict what he suspects to be true.

Anthea shrugs, sounding disinterested as always, "Maybe I do care. Who says I don't?"

Moriarty barely suppresses a sideways smile. "In that case... my answer depends on your view of legality. I'm sure I've driven over the speed limit a few times."

"First felony then."

"I don't like getting my hands dirty," he blinks again, as if his answer should have been obvious.

"So you're saying you don't commit crimes," Anthea almost smiles at the absurdity. "At least... not felonies."

Moriarty shrugs as much as he is able with his hands tied to the seat of the chair, cocking his head. "There's no fun in it. The thrill is in the planning. I could hardly care less if they were actually committed, except I do like to know if a plan works," this calculated move is a risk, and Moriarty knows it. He wouldn't have his life any other way than bordering on masterful execution and utter ruin. The frailty of genius...

The admission is vague enough he can't be pinned down for anything. Especially if he didn't commit the crime, and didn't exclusively order it. Thanks to his careful planning, the names of most of his associates are still unknown, and no one would be willing to testify against him. It could be an admission to any misdeed. Honestly, it's a confession of many, but there's no way they can know which ones. As it happens, the answer is many of them, in varying degrees of illegality.

Anthea is not at all surprised. It's all in the file.

"How did you start planning crimes?"

Moriarty looks like this is exactly the type of question she should have been asking all along, "When I was a boy," he begins, "I started putting together puzzles. Starting with the small, easy ones, and worked my way up to more complicated ones. One day, there was a piece in the box that didn't fit. It belonged to another puzzle, but I liked the colours. So I took the piece and cut the edges until it fit."

"Is that so?" Anthea sounds sceptical.

He looks pleased with himself, "Does it matter?"

"I suppose it doesn't," she sounds as if she still wants to know if it's true.

"Nice story though, isn't it?" he beams.

"A bit too sentimental," Anthea remarks coolly.

"Maybe," he acknowledges. "But it makes for a good conversation starter. Poor little Jim with his puzzles. What a natural progression! He was born this way, it couldn't be helped," his tone is mocking, "People like to remove blame."

Anthea raises he shoulders, "Some people are just naturally..."

"Disturbed?" Moriarty offers, "Are they though? It's so hard to tell. Too many variables."

"Well, some good people come from bad homes, and vice versa."

"Children can form their own ideas though, can't they," it isn't a question. "We aren't all blank slates. Though most people are comparatively... dull. Predictable."

"Perhaps," Anthea acknowledges. "We only have a few more minutes," she warns, checking the time on her mobile.

"I know. What a shame," Moriarty grins, shaking his head.

"You've been remarkably talkative today, Mr Moriarty. That is most certainly to your advantage, and I'm comfortable saying that you will be duly rewarded. Is there anything else you would like to say before I go?"

"Oh, no, I think I've talked enough for one day. Wouldn't want to give away all my secrets," he smiles and licks his lips.

Anthea smiles back, realising that neither of them has said anything of consequence. She pulls out her phone.

I think we're done for now. Open the door. -A

She stands to leave without a word.

"Do come again," Moriarty chimes, just before she reaches the door.

"Maybe tomorrow," she agrees, as the cell door opens.

Mycroft is waiting on the other side to hear of her progress. There is not much to tell. She tells him simply that Moriarty is talking, but has not saying anything useful. At least, not yet.


Two days later, Anthea returns. The cameras are once again disabled, the mirror covered, and Moriarty and Anthea are left alone.

"You're late," Moriarty jokingly accuses.

"I brought you something," Anthea responds, drawing a package of gum from her pocket. She removes one of the white, rectangular pieces from the plastic casing. Bribing the prisoner with gum can't hurt. Especially if it works.

Moriarty practically beams. Anthea approaches him, and he opens his mouth, sticking out his tongue. As she places the gum in his mouth, she seems neither repulsed nor pleased.

"We have twenty minutes," she says in her most professional tone as she sits, "So, how are you today, Mr Moriarty?"

"Please, call me Jim," he encourages.

"That's a bit intimate, isn't it?" Anthea narrows her eyes slightly.

"Isn't this entire arrangement?" Moriarty shrugs as he rolls his head, effectively gesturing to the entirety of the small space, "You, me, a locked room... no eyes or ears save yours and mine. I know a few people who would be willing to kill for this sort of arrangement."

"Would you care to name them?" Anthea is beginning to feel bolder about this game they're playing the longer Moriarty speaks.

He chuckles, "Surely you don't think I'll crack that easily."

Now it's Anthea's turn to shrug, "No. But it was worth trying. There must be something though. Something that you want, or are willing to exchange for information."

"And if there's not? You can keep me forever, but what's the point? I sit here, the taxpayers pay for me to rot, and you get nothing. Everyone loses. Wouldn't that be a shame?" he doesn't look the least bit remorseful. In fact, he looks pleased by the prospect.

"I'm sure there are more persuasive measures that haven't been used yet," Anthea offers. It's unclear if the comment is a warning or a threat.

"There always are," he smirks, "People can be so creative with that sort of thing. But your boss is quite angry with me right now. I never seem respond quite the way he expects. If he's mad and hasn't resorted to more persuasive measures by now, he has his reasons. I wouldn't want to interfere."

"Is there a particular reason you're not revealing any information?" Anthea already knows the answer, but she asks anyway.

"There's always a plan. I never leave home without one."

"Care to enlighten me?" she dares.

"Oh dear, if I did, that would ruin all the fun. You'll just have to wait and see," his tongue darts out of his mouth and across his bottom lip, culminating in a knowing smile.

Anthea continues, "But there must be information you're willing to exchange. If there weren't, you wouldn't bother talking to me."

"As a matter of fact, there is some information I'm willing to share. At a price, of course."

Anthea's eyes twinkle with the slightest hints of intrigue and victory. She knows that she is succeeding where so many others have failed. As used as she is to a lack of emotion, the ability to crack Moriarty, even a bit, is almost intoxicating. Especially where the rest of the entire government has failed. "What did you have in mind?"

"I have some information that will be very valuable to your employer. Information that could make or break his political career. I won't give him the key code, of course, but that's not all I have to offer. All I ask in return, is a little information about your boss's brother. Nothing he would feel uncomfortable divulging, just some trivia. Where he went to school, whether or not he had any friends, childhood hobbies..."

"Why?" Anthea inquires, legitimately intrigued. She's not feigning disinterest any more, as there seems to be no point. Her interest actually seems to be getting Moriarty to open up, if anything.

"Because Sherlock is interesting," Moriarty says, as if it is the most obvious answer in the world.

Anthea smiles knowingly, "I suppose he is." She has read Sherlock's file, and Mycroft talks constantly about the situations his younger brother gets himself into.

"Everyone else is so boring. I don't mind it here actually. The people are less stupid than average, but the hourly beatings were becoming entirely too predictable. I was afraid your lot were going to turn out to be just as boring as the rest after all. But then they sent you. That is very interesting."

Anthea isn't entirely sure how the conversation had come to be about her, but she is slightly flattered by the recognition, "Is that so?"

"A thug's creativity ends with his access to tools and brute force. I know the type," a small, wry smile, "You, on the other hand... you know how to properly talk. There's a brain in there too. Maybe not a magnificent one, but you have potential."

Anthea can't believe that she's almost blushing. It's such a backhanded compliment, and yet, usually she is considered nothing more than a pretty face, a note taker, or a chaperone. She takes orders on a regular basis for a living. It's nice to know that someone thinks she has potential. Even if Moriarty is a criminal, he is also quite intelligent, so his opinion counts for something.

"Thank you," she smiles, but with consciously suppressed warmth. Moriarty practically beams with satisfaction, chewing his gum with an open mouth.

"Are you going to tell Mycroft?" he inquires.

"Tell him what?"

"My demands."

"Of course," Anthea reaches absently for her phone, checking the time, and considers sending Mycroft a text.

Moriarty continues chewing the gum, "What about everything else?"

She shrugs, "Everything important. I don't need to repeat every word."

"Probably for the best."

"Why?" She inquires, vaguely concerned. It is entirely possible that Moriarty is capable of having Mycroft killed or otherwise inconvenienced.

"We wouldn't want him getting jealous."

Anthea laughs slightly, "Jealous of you? Mycroft doesn't do jealousy."

"No?"

"There's nothing to be jealous of," she adds. "Mycroft Holmes doesn't own me."

"No... no he doesn't," Moriarty shoots Anthea an appraising glance. "You wouldn't let him. You work for him, but you're... independent."

"I suppose. I could take a different job if I wanted." Suddenly aware that the conversation has turned back to her, Anthea attempts to redirect focus. "I'll tell Mycroft your demands, and then he will decide what he is willing to divulge."

"Simple enough," Moriarty agrees, "but once you tell him that, he'll stop letting you in to see me. I still have a few more... secrets that I would like to get off my chest in your company. But we're almost done for the day, and there simply isn't time." He tilts his head and rolls his eyes for emphasis.

"You could start now, and we can pick up tomorrow where we left off..."

"No, no, no. That won't do," the look in his eyes is intense and somewhat alarming, but it vanishes quickly, "I have another demand before I tell you anything else," his voice had suddenly become syrupy sweet.

"Something from me," Anthea concludes.

Moriarty nods solemnly, but with a saccharine smile, "I have quite a story to tell. But, you see, I've been stuck in this chair for two weeks now. Pacing helps me to think... To keep my thoughts straight. If I could only get up..." he gestures to the ceiling with both his eyes and his head.

"I don't think that will be possible. I doubt Mycroft will surrender the keys."

"Anthea, Anthea, Anthea..." The disappointment in his tone obvious, and the repetition of her name sends subtle, but cold chills down her spine. Even despite the fact that the name was a fake one, "I thought you were independent. Come now, what's the harm? The door can't open from the inside, so there's no danger of me escaping... You can keep your phone and lock me back up before you leave. You have to admit, this is a little inhumane," he raises his arms as far as he is able with the handcuffs.

"I'll see what I can do."

"How very kind. Thank you." Moriarty nods, sounding legitimately grateful.

"No problem," Anthea says with indifference.

Moriarty watches Anthea pull out her phone and send a text. As the door opens seconds later to allow her exit, he swallows the gum, looking like a cat who has caught the canary.


"Half an hour this time, but I didn't get the key," Anthea sounds somewhat disappointed, but Moriarty seems indifferent. It has been two days since her last visit.

"No rush," he smiles, launching into a clearly pre-prepared dialogue, "You're so under-appreciated, aren't you? Sitting in empty cars and rooms full of government clowns every day. How tedious," he drones. "How do you manage?"

"Small acts of rebellion," she smiles, lifting a small set of keys out of her shirt.

"Oh, aren't you clever," his face a transforming from a smirk to a Cheshire grin. "You fooled me. You really did." Moriarty is laughing now, "You are so full of surprises."

"Like I said, that's sort of my speciality," she says, unlocking the left handcuff first, then the right.

"Legs are still tied," Moriarty observes.

"You have your hands free now. I thought you could use the exercise," Anthea shrugs. "I'm not stupid, I recognise a vulnerable position when I see one."

If Anthea had been wearing a wire, Moriarty's laughter would have brought the entire facility running in by now.

"Funny, am I?" she inquires.

Moriarty stands, having untied the knots from his ankles between his fits of laughter. He brushes his hands over the grey fabric of the track pants he has been wearing, and brushes out the shoulders of the white shirt, stained with blood and remnants of food. Anthea can't help but stare. Despite having been tied up for so long, Moriarty's movements are all smooth and coordinated. Mechanical and planned, but also strangely reptilian. It wouldn't be terribly surprising to find that the man were cold-blooded, given what his in his file. Nothing concrete, but it appears his hand has been behind at least fifteen murders and scores of disappearances. Nothing that anyone can prove, however.

"Hilarious," Moriarty remarks, taking a step toward Mycroft's assistant.

Anthea's first reaction is to step backwards, to keep the same amount of distance between them, but she overrides the impulse. Moriarty hasn't stopped smiling, and he looks predatory. Like a lion licking his lips before ripping open the throat of a gazelle. As a matter of fact, he is licking his lips exactly like that.

"I thought you had a story you wanted to tell me," Anthea asserts.

"Yes... of course," Moriarty stops approaching, and begins to walk circles around his chair, keeping one hand on the back. "But you know, I could have told you sitting down."

"Would you have?"

Moriarty raises his right shoulder and tilts his head to meet it, "Perhaps. Hard to say, really. But this... this is a risk. I'm sure I don't have to inform you that you're liable for whatever happens now."

"I have my phone, but I'm not going to need it," Anthea is confident, and rightfully so. Injuring her would only prove a detriment to Moriarty, rather than creating an advantage. He is more than content to experience a bit of freedom of mind and body for the time being.

"What does my file say? What would you like to know?"

"It says you're a megalomaniac," Anthea begins, realising that she has been circling Moriarty, orbiting his orbit, centred around his chair. The prey circling the predator, "but I don't think so."

Moriarty is obviously pleased, "And why not?"

"Megalomaniacs have delusional fantasies of power, and self-importance," she elaborates, "I don't think you're delusional. You're fully capable of whatever you say you can do. Your associates are everywhere, and the government is unable to trace them."

Moriarty quirks an eyebrow, as he notices that Anthea has not used the collective. "The government," rather than "we."

"You're just as powerful as you think you are, and I don't think you aspire to be more, unless it's to outwit Sherlock Holmes. You're a consulting criminal. You love solving puzzles, and, just as often, creating them."

"How flattering," he seems legitimately pleased and sufficiently impressed. "World domination does seem a bit much... but I'd be willing to give it a go." He runs his right hand over the back and sides of his chair as he circles, leaving his left hand free to gesture to the other, "Why don't you take a seat?"

"I'm fine, thanks," Anthea insists. Moriarty stops to face her.

"You are, aren't you?" It isn't really a question. It isn't the same definition of "fine" either. Anthea stops moving altogether and blushes.

Moriarty takes a step toward her, and again, she defies her impulse to recoil. The predator is back, but she holds her ground, hoping that will be enough to assert her lack of subservience.

"Mr Moriarty, I think you should sit down," she suggests, the slightest hint of a tremor in her voice.

"Jim. My name is Jim," he smiles, only about two feet away now, "or James, if you'd prefer. But you can't honestly think that I would want to sit back down in that chair until absolutely necessary."

"I suppose not," she swallows carefully. Moriarty takes another step forward, now close enough that she can feel his warm breath on her face. Not cold-blooded after all. Not physically, at least.

Moriarty reaches out, and grabs Anthea's right wrist with his left hand. She does not protest, but inhales softly, and makes a small jerking motion, as if half-heartedly expecting to free her wrist. While it occurs to her that she won't be able to reach her mobile to call for help or send a text, she remembers that Moriarty has little reason do do her any harm. That thought keeps her calm – not that she was ever prone to panic.

Moriarty's gaze shifts suddenly, appraising again. His eyes squinting slightly, and scanning Anthea's face. Anthea isn't sure if he is calculating, contemplating, or just plain crazy. He opens his eyes fully, but continues raking his eyes over Anthea's face, her long, dark hair. Whatever it is, it doesn't seem overtly malicious.

And before long, it isn't just Moriarty's eyes. His right hand is on her face, stroking her cheek, threading lightly through her hair. It isn't romantic or loving by any means, nor is it predatory – but it is definitely intimate. Intimate in a remote, almost absent sort of way, which sends slight tremors down Anthea's spine. Not shivers. It's not hot, nor is it cold. Room-temperature. Luke-warm.

There is warmth coming from Moriarty's hand, and the air from his lungs is warmed, but Anthea's distinct impression is that it feels as if it might as easily be her own hand on her face. Nonchalant, but deliberate. She has almost forgotten her right wrist is trapped in his grip.

Moriarty cups her face in his right hand, tilts her head up, and leans in, millimetres from her lips. He chuckles with self-satisfaction. The look on Anthea's face now could be described most accurately as a challenge. She is unwilling to fight, flail, or back down. That would put her at a distinct disadvantage in their delicate power dynamic. If she allows it, there won't be a winner. At any rate, she is curious to see if he is actually going to kiss her. Whether or not he has the nerve, and whether he possesses the power he thinks he has. He does.

Their eyes close. Neutral. Physically, but not emotionally warm. That is, until Moriarty takes one more step forward, pushing Anthea against the cold wall if the small cell. He lets go of her wrist and presses his left hand to the wall, just to the right of Anthea's head. She could push him away if she wanted to. But she doesn't.

She does, however, open her mouth slightly in surprise, which Moriarty interprets as a victory and an invitation, sliding into her mouth, brushing his tongue along her lower lip. She reciprocates. And suddenly, Anthea thinks she knows what it feels like to be pressed against the wall by the devil himself. She doesn't believe in gods or devils, strictly speaking, but Moriarty is probably the earthly equivalent of the latter, if not both. Warm, and getting warmer.

She can feel her air of neutrality quickly slipping away, as she places her newly freed hand on Moriarty's lower back. She can feel him smile against her lips, and she smiles back defiantly. There still isn't a winner. She turns her head to the left, opening her eyes and breaking the kiss. She had expected Moriarty to back away, but she should have known that his desire to win went deeper than that. He would not be satisfied with an equal power dynamic. Rather than retreat, he begins to kiss her earlobe, teasing it with his tongue, and moving slowly down her neck, kissing and sucking gently, but intensifying to the point where his mouth could easily leave bruises. Anthea feels her heart rate increase, and her knees start to buckle. She hopes that she is pressed firmly enough against the wall that Moriarty won't notice, but he does. And as he pulls himself away, Anthea stifles a slight whine, refusing to give Moriarty further gratification. His self-satisfied grin is a loss enough.

Anthea straightens her blouse, and throws her hair in front of her neck to hide the bruises which will soon start forming. As she reaches into her pocket, Moriarty returns silently to his chair, tying himself to the legs, and closing one handcuff. Anthea leans over him to close the other, and presses "Send" on her phone.

When the door opens, James Moriarty is still smiling.


Anthea marches in the next day as confident as ever, the bruises on her neck expertly concealed. Hiding things from her employer is no simple task. It helps that he hardly ever notices her.

"Not scared off, I see," Moriarty says with chilling smoothness.

Anthea smiles, "Surely you don't think I'll crack that easily."

"You have quite a good memory," he notes her use of his exact words on their second day, precise down to his emphasis.

"Naturally," she walks to her seat, but doesn't sit, leaning on it with her right arm. "So, how shall we handle today?" The question is rhetorical. "It would seem I can't trust you, and you won't talk unless I do."

"You haven't told Mycroft my terms yet then," Moriarty deduces, quite correctly.

"Perhaps tonight, depending on how this afternoon goes," the way she says it is almost a threat.

"You could start by removing these handcuffs," he offers.

"I could..." Anthea steps forward, drawing the keys out of the front of her shirt. She pauses for a moment just in front of Moriarty, leaning down a bit for just a hint of condescension. "Oops," she smiles, as she tosses the keys across the room.

"Why the hell did you do that?" Moriarty demands, anger suddenly fuelling his gaze. It is the first time Anthea has seen him legitimately angry. By all rights, she should be terrified, given what she knows him to be capable of, but she remains unmoved. While Moriarty is restrained, she has the upper hand, and she knows it.

"Because I don't always do exactly as I'm told," she says, unflinchingly.

Anthea raises her hand, and strikes Moriarty across the face. As his face begins to redden, she raises her hand again, only to discover that Moriarty is smiling. Such reaction was not entirely a surprise, but it suddenly dawns on her that this is all a game. It always has been, and remains, a dangerous game. It has never been about the key code. Not for Moriarty, at least. Nor has it been about Mycroft, or the government, or a criminal network. No... these conversations had been all about infiltration. Espionage. Subterfuge. And it's working.

Anthea has never been particularly loyal to the government, or to Mycroft. She has a job, but it is merely a job. She has the necessary skills, no criminal record, and so they pay for her house, her bills, and her unlimited texting. They drive her around, and use her to escort people back to her superiors, and that is it. That is where her duties end. But this... this is much more exciting. It is intellectually engaging, and along with it come responsibilities. Smuggling in the handcuff keys had been easy. She couldn't unleash Moriarty on the unsuspecting public, but she could expedite the process if she wanted. She could see to it that Mycroft provided the details that Moriarty required as payment for his information. But before that, she could also allow herself a bit of fun.

"Tell me, James," she sighs in his ear, leaning further forward as she uses his first name for the first time, "Do you still want me to take off the handcuffs?"

Before he can reply, she strikes his face again, and his smile only widens.

"No wonder you put up with interrogation for weeks," her voice is breathy and barely above a whisper. "You like it."

She straddles Moriarty and slowly lowers herself into his lap. A low hiss escapes his lips, and she looks him square in the eyes. This is a victory, for both of them, and Moriarty knows it.

He smirks, "You would kill for me if I asked."

Anthea shrugs, legitimately indifferent, "Maybe I would, maybe I wouldn't. But you're not in much of a position to be asking for favours."

The criminal mastermind's face lights up as he laughs. "You're quite right. I am absolutely going to enjoy this."

Anthea takes Moriarty's face in both hands, and kisses him roughly, feeling the blood rush to his face, and biting at his bottom lip until she can taste the metallic warmth of his blood on her tongue. Eagerly delving her tongue into his mouth, only to have him bite her back, just hard enough to break the skin.

"Fuck," she murmurs as she pulls her mouth away, her voice heavy with arousal, and a drop of blood gathered at the corner of her lips. She looks reproachfully at him. In response, Moriarty makes a humming sound deep in his throat, that vibrates throughout his entire body and Anthea sighs. She slides her hands underneath his shirt, up Moriarty's sides, and across his chest. She presses her nose into his neck, and she can smell the blood and sweat from all the times he has been beaten throughout his captivity. She grazes the nape of his neck with her teeth, causing Moriarty to hiss again and buck his hips ever so slightly beneath her. She smiles against the sensitive skin, and sucks hard enough to make a few bruises of her own on his neck. No one else will notice or question a few more cuts and bruises, so she can mark him however she likes.

"James Moriarty," she whispers in his ear, "You. Are. Mine," she punctuates every word with another small bite of his neck.

His hips jerk again, and his breath catches every time. The snarl he makes is half desire, and half contempt, "You don't own me."

Anthea calls his bluff, feeling his erection against her inner thigh, "I think you'll find that I do." She kisses and bites her way down his neck again, then sticks her thumbs into his track pants, standing enough to pull them to his knees, then to his ankles. She draws her right thigh slowly between his legs, locking her eyes with his, "I own you."

Both lick their lips simultaneously with anticipation as Anthea kneels between Moriarty's legs. She glances up and sees no apprehension in his eyes. His gaze is stone cold until she takes him into her mouth. He blinks rapidly, takes a deep breath and exhales heavily through his open mouth, while Anthea begins to bob her head with agonising slowness, sucking, and rolling her tongue around his hardening shaft. Moriarty attempts to thrust into her mouth, his body betraying his desperation, but his movement is limited by his restraints. Anthea laughs, the vibrations of which cause Moriarty to let out a poorly suppressed groan.

She continues slowly for a time, running her hands up and down Moriarty's legs, relishing the fact that she can make him tremble by brushing her fingers lightly over his inner thighs. Moriarty is becoming visibly and vocally impatient. He breathes in huffs and deep sighs, occasionally licking his lips, and the handcuffs are digging further into his wrists as he grasps the seat of the chair with white knuckles. Eventually, Anthea increases her pace, taking him further into her mouth with each stroke. Moriarty's breath becomes short and ragged, and he throws his head back, eyes wide open. He strains harder against the handcuffs, creating cuts on both wrists in his desperate desire to lock his hands in Anthea's hair and push her head further. "Fuck," he gasps.

Anthea smiles as far as she is able and deliberately slows her pace again. Moriarty shoots her a caustic glance, his eyes deep and reproachful. But she has control, and he has no choice but to wait until she is ready. Just as Moriarty opens his mouth to berate her, Anthea grasps his hips firmly and slides her mouth down his entire length in one solid, fluid motion, contracting the muscles in her throat. Whatever Moriarty's criticisms were going to be, they become nothing more than a strangled moan. His legs tighten around Anthea's head, encouraging her further. His breath is loud and heavy, but he has to wait, albeit impatiently, until she decides to take him as deep and fast possible, all spit, tongue, suction, and the warm tightness of her throat. When Moriarty finally comes, his entire body shudders, and when he exhales through his open mouth, his breath is shaky and uneven.

Anthea smiles with the utmost satisfaction as she removes her mouth, and catches Moriarty's chin with her hand and presses her lips against his, reclaiming them, tasting his blood, sweat, and cum.

"You're welcome," she remarks forcefully, as if she has done him a favour.

Moriarty simply smirks in return.

Anthea stands, casually checking the time on her mobile as if nothing has happened, "There never was any story that you wanted to tell me, was there?" she asks, disinterested in the answer.

"I would have come up with something," he lies poorly, and his skin is shining with sweat.

"No, you wouldn't," she sighs, pulling his track pants back up to his hips.

"You're right," he smirks again, "But there is something I can tell you now."

"What's that?" she asks.

"There is no key," he smiles, confident that the information will never make it back to Mycroft.