Criminals Make the Best Flatmates
Prolog:
A Day in the Desert
The last thing he suspected when heading to Afghanistan on 'business' was the (what was that a 9'?) bullet that ripped its way through his pectoral major just above his heart, and to the trapezius only to shatter part of his shoulder blade on its way out. If he was going to be 'killed', he would have at least expected it to be by a better marksman. He felt the burning sensation all too well, but looked on only in medical detachment. 'Nine to eleven weeks for muscle and bone regrowth. Tack on another few months of physical therapy and I'll be out for at least a year,' he thought bitterly, 'Pity. Really didn't feel like dealing with something so trivial for so long.' He lay still on the sandy, now blood sodden, ground, waiting for the one that had shot him to come out of hiding.
Ah! There was the tell-tale gait of a man confident in his own prowess. Jonathan A. Moriarty couldn't help the little giggle that burst forth from him throat at that thought. Whoever this was was a terrible shot: worse than a Storm Trooper if he was honest.
"May god have mercy on your wicked soul," the, surprisingly woman, not-so-surprisingly Russian, sneered before spitting at him. She hovered over him with a look of pure disgust and loathing for his very presence. He grinned up at her, eyes moving calculatingly over her frame.
Data: Short bleached blonde hair with black roots beginning to show and no head dress. Accent is Western European but the tattoo behind her right ear gives away her allegiance faster than saying it would.
Conclusion: Obvious mercenary sent from the Bratva to kill and get information from m-
Oh~ Now that's interesting.
Secondary Data: Hand placed over middle of abdomen. Body language suggests that it's a subconscious effort in protection.
Conclusion: "So, who's the father?" he asked, the gleam in dark blue eyes never ceasing nor waning to show the least bit of pain. The pain didn't matter when someone was being this fascinating.
Her eyes narrowed into slits. "How did you know about that?!" she snapped as she pulled out a gun from the waist band of her ankle-length skirt and forced it to his temple.
He giggled again, "I know everything, doll. I know that you didn't mean to get into this business, and yet, here you are. I know you were going to settle for being a mail-order bride, but about three and a half months ago that plan went down the drain faster than Zeus would cheat on Hera."
She growled in the back of her throat and shoved the barrel farther into his forehead, "You know nothing."
"Oh~" he grinned, "Mama Bear's getting a wee bit protective! That is about the right time you found out you were preggers with Lil' Auggy isn't it? I do hope you name him Auggy; always wanted to have someone named after me. Too late now I suppose. Ah well! Hindsight is twenty-twenty and all that jazz." The blond looked thoughtful for a moment before imparting, "Then again, I could just have him taken from you once I get home."
"You'll never make it out of this god-forsaken dessert," she hissed as she righted herself only to kick him in the ribs.
Moriarty flinched, there would be bruising there in the morning, if nothing else. "Oh, I will," he responded darkly, staring at her with an intensity he lacked before, "You can tell Ivan I'll be in touch soon." With those parting words, he blacked out in the dessert sun.
Irene Adler scoffed to herself, turning on her heel and walking away. Two years later, she would look back on this moment and curse her own stupidity.