Author's Note: Okay, guys, this is a funny one, so please pleas please read this carefully to avoid confusion. This story is a bit of a challenge a friend of mine and I issued to one another. I love writing as Moriarty, but since I primarily write Johnlock, I get very few opportunities to do so. Me and heretherebefandom (yes, the same girl I wrote to for the Johnlock gift exchange) are going to perform a bit of an experiment. I'm going to write entirely from the perspective of James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran, and she's going to write Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. We're going to post separate chapters here that interact with one another, alternating which of us is writing, and we're not going to discuss the plot at length ahead of time. We're just kind of going to write our character and throw each other curve balls, and in the end we'll have an awesome fic that challenged us both.

Oh, and title is from John Keats's poem 'Ode to a Nightingale'. Parts toward the end of it are very Moriarty, if you care to give it a read. It's also a reference to how Socrates was forced to commit suicide via hemlock **spoiler** just as Moriarty forces Sherlock to commit suicide in TRF.

Okay, sound good? Everyone on board? Lets begin.

This chapter was written by me, Quinn Anderson, and will be from Moriarty's POV.

Warnings: This fic is going to delve very deeply into the mind of Moriarty at points, so needless to say it's going to be really fucked up. It will feature explicit sexual material, swearing, violence, murder, the whole nine yards. If you have a problem with this, don't read this fic and also stay away from Rob Zombie films.

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There were certain situations in which being a professional criminal really came in handy.

One was when you wanted someone dead but didn't necessarily want the thrill of murdering them yourself. The world is full of desperate idiots, and desperate idiots are incredibly susceptible to bribes, blackmail and general intimidation. James Moriarty never had trouble finding someone to do his bidding.

Another was when you felt like adding some new stolen-and-illegally-imported Monet to the décor in your flat, and you happened to know the perfect black market dealer to sell it to you at an incredibly reasonable price.

In this particular instance, however, Jim—consulting criminal extraordinaire—was taking advantage of one of the many skills he'd picked up in his time on the wrong side of the law.

Spying.

Glorified voyeurism.

He had discovered, through a small amount of trial and error, that with the right application of shimmery eye shadow (purple did wonders for the amber tones in his eyes) and the proper shade of pink lipstick, he could throw on a wig, a slinky Versache dress and some Manolo pumps and make quite the convincing woman. It was a skill he employed each and every time the opportunity presented itself out of sheer pleasure. His flair for the dramatic lent itself readily to the disguise, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't feel damn pretty in pink.

Beyond the simple joys of drag, it was an especially useful disguise because Sherlock Holmes—consulting detective—paid very little attention to women.

It wasn't that he disliked them—at least, not any more than he disliked the rest of the ordinary people—but rather that women as a demographic are considerably less likely to commit violent crimes; ergo, they captured Sherlock's attention much less frequently.

That was partially the reason why, after a shockingly minimal amount of effort, Jim found himself seated in a posh restaurant a mere three tables away from the detective, completely unnoticed by the man who noticed everything. The pet was there, too, the live-in one that Sherlock had apparently found some value in. The doctor and the soldier. They looked positively quaint, staring into each other's eyes and talking animatedly, then wondering why everyone mistook them for a couple. Oh, to be young and thoroughly oblivious. It would be charming if it weren't so stupid.

The two men appeared to be enjoying a late dinner together, or at least Watson had food in front of him. Sherlock must have been on a case, judging from the single glass of water he was sipping from. Jim knew from many long evenings of watching him that he never ate during cases. Terrible habit, really. Sherlock thought digestion slowed him down, but starving his brain of precious nutrients was going to be hard on him in later years.

If Jim allowed him to live that long.

Which, of course, he wouldn't.

Jim glanced across the table at his rather bland date. The man was clearly an idiot, but he served his purpose. A "woman" sitting alone in a restaurant would draw more attention than a woman who was seemingly out with a young gentleman. The poor thing had yet to notice the rather obvious Adam's apple bobbing beneath Jim's chin, though he fully planned to reveal it at the end of the evening just to cherish the look on the man's face when he realised the horrible truth. His date—American, late 30s and very happy to have met a nice Irish woman with a cute accent—seemed content to chatter on about his fantasy football league while Jim observed his prey.

The criminal had plans for tonight.

Oh, yes he did.

He'd been making his extensive network of puppets dance behind the scenes for many months now, and soon all his hard work would come to fruition. There were still a few kinks that he needed to work out, but those were mostly dependant upon how his obsession and his vacuous pet reacted to his machinations.

The more they pushed, the harder Jim would push back until they inevitably cracked under the force of his ill intentions. It was practically a law of nature.

Jim checked back into his date's conversation long enough to say something vapidly cute, and the man (Bruce was his name) laughed. Jim only barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Really, how did anyone make it through an entire dinner without losing the will to live? He was so bored he was considering setting the tablecloth on fire. At least then he could watch everyone scurry off like a herd of spooked cattle.

Thankfully, his salvation was nigh.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock leave his table and stride away in the direction of the toilets. John would be alone for a solid five minutes.

Perfect.

Jim pushed thoughts of arson reluctantly from his mind and quickly formulated a plan of attack.

"I'm sorry, darling," he said to Bruce, pitching his voice higher into a very believable alto, "but this drink is just not working for me." He held up his glass and pouted, even going so far as to bat his eyelashes. "I asked for a vodka martini, and they definitely gave me gin."

Bruce had the decency to look sympathetic, as if this were some form of legitimate tragedy. His simpering smile, however, indicated more sinister ulterior motives: he obviously wanted Jim to drink more in the hopes that the alcohol would loosen him up and he might get to give him one tonight. When coupled with his slight hesitance—lingering moral quandaries—and flushing cheeks—arousal, embarrassment, anticipation—the evidence was glaring. The criminal fought down the giggles that were bubbling up in his throat. If his date had managed to get his dress off, he would have got quite the surprise.

"That's awful," Bruce stuttered. "Have them make you a new one. On me, of course."

Jim winked. "You're a doll. Thanks so much."

He moved to the bar, which was conveniently located right next to the table where John Watson sat. He ordered a new drink in his sickeningly sweet damsel-in-distress voice and then made a point of turning to the side and resting his hip against the counter, his body language open and inviting. Jim also made certain, however, to let quite a bit of his "hair" fall into his face to obscure its shape. Even if the pet was an idiot, he wasn't blind. Jim couldn't afford to be recognised until his plan was underway, and people tended to remember the faces of those who strapped Semtex to their chests.

It seemed he had little to fret about, however. He felt rather than saw John rake his eyes over him, and the doctor's gaze most certainly lingered. Oh, how Jim loved playing this game, and playing it well. Showmanship was one of the most enjoyable things about staying alive.

He caught John's gaze just as he was about to look away.

They shared eye contact for a full, luscious three seconds. Then Jim flushed pink and glanced away, affecting an air of modest arousal.

It took Dr John Watson exactly seventeen seconds to approach him.

"Hullo," he said, leaning easily against the bar. "I'm John."

"Hullo," Jim repeated, affecting an Estuary accent. It wouldn't do to give his Irish heritage away. "I'm Delilah." His choice of alias was a bit of a risk, but he doubted John would notice the reference. "All right?"

"I'm quite all right, now that I've seen you."

Jim visibly restrained himself from cringing at the line and smiled instead. "Oh, really? See anything you like?"

John looked him up and down, his gaze lingering on Jim's fake breasts (a lacy bra stuffed with rolled-up socks) and his freshly-shaven legs (his calves were to die for, thank you very much). "Oh, yes. I see a very attractive woman who's currently out with a boring date."

Jim actually had to give him credit for his observation. He smiled and ran his fingers through his fake black curls in a flirtatious manner. "Are you a psychic, then? How could you possibly know that?"

"Well, you're standing at the bar, obviously in no rush to get back to your table, and there's a man over your left shoulder who is currently glaring daggers at me."

Jim gave a very cute, high-pitched giggle, and John flushed. God, men were so easy sometimes. "Do you read the minds of all the women you flirt with?"

"It's a bit of a habit I've developed of late."

"Well, it's certainly impressive." The bartender arrived just then with a vodka martini in a fresh glass. Jim picked up his drink and made like he was about to turn away. "Much as I would love to stay and have a proper chat, I'd hate to snub my nose at propriety. I can't flirt with another man while I'm on a date."

John grabbed his arm to stop him, and Jim only barely managed to suppress a triumphant grin. Gotcha.

"That's all well and good, but it won't stop me from flirting with you."

"You're so naughty," the criminal cooed, crinkling his nose cutely, "but, er… didn't I see you with a … well, with a man, before?"

John looked confused for a moment, but then his face snapped to attention. "Oh, no! That's just my flatmate. We're not a couple." He let out a breathy chuckle that Jim almost found attractive. "Everyone bloody well thinks we are, though."

"Oh? Why's that?" He took a delicate sip of his martini. He had the enemy open and unguarded, and he was not one to let an opportunity of this magnitude slip by. He settled into the role of curious stranger with dazzling ease.

"I dunno why, really. I suppose it's because we're always together. Living in the same flat tends to force you to develop similar habits and schedules. God only knows I seem to be the only person who can stand to be around him for more than ten minutes. He's . . . special." He paused thoughtfully and then looked chagrinned. "Sorry. Here I am going on about my flatmate when I should be flirting with the gorgeous woman in front of me."

Jim smiled. "It's quite all right. I like hearing people talk about their relationships. I took psychology in uni and always thought it was fascinating."

"Well, I wouldn't call it a relationship, per se."

"Why not? It sounds like this flatmate of yours is a big part of your life. I'll bet this isn't the first time you've discussed him with a woman."

John scratched his head sheepishly. "You've got me there. He certainly does come up in conversation a lot. Quite a bit more than I'd like, actually."

"I'll wager your love interests don't respond too kindly to that."

"Oh, certainly not. I had one tell me I was making her compete with him."

Out of the corner of Jim's eye, he saw a dark figure moving quickly towards them. It was Sherlock, apparently returned from the loo, and from the black look on his face, he had most assuredly recognised him. No amount of eye shadow or designer dresses could fool those brilliant blue eyes once they took the time to focus.

"I can sympathise with her," Jim drawled. "Competing with Sherlock Holmes is something no ordinary person can do."

John cocked his head to the side and gave him a funny look. "I'm sorry, but I'm almost positive I never mentioned my flatmate's name. How did you—?"

"I'd better be off." Jim grabbed his clutch, downed the last of his martini and began to sashay towards the front entrance. "It's been so nice to have a proper chat, Dr John Watson."

He reached the door just as he heard Sherlock begin to shout. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the detective was attempting to pursue him. Several waiters were barring his progress, however, obviously thinking he was trying to skip out on his bill. Sherlock was hissing at John—Jim couldn't hear him, but he was quite certain he was calling the doctor every variant of "idiot" that he could think of—and John looked utterly baffled by his behaviour.

Jim grinned with manic delight and slipped out the front door and into the brisk night air. The sky was clear, for once, and the streets were bathed in a generous amount of lustrous moonlight. Little flakes of snow swirled in the breeze before alighting on the ground with their brethren. It was quite romantic, and it instantly put him in a scheming mood. Not that it was difficult to get him into that mood, oh no. He merely preferred to have the proper atmosphere whenever possible.

Now that Sherlock was aware of just how vacant his little doggie actually is—I mean, really, who flirts with the world's most dangerous criminal and never thinks twice about it?—it was time to set his plan into motion. This was what it was all for, after all. He remembered when Sherlock had asked him that question at the pool where Carl Powers died. Their first date, as he liked to think of it. The poor detective had been genuinely confused, unable to riddle out Jim's motivation.

He just couldn't seem to come to grips with what the criminal had known for years now.

Sherlock belonged to him. He had Jim's name scrawled across his forehead, burned irrevocably into his skin. Other people tried to own Sherlock—the DI who used him for cases, the little lab rat who thought she could seduce him with her blandness, the loyal doggie who begged piteously at his feet—but they were all wrong. The only person in the world who deserved him, who could possibly understand him, was Jim, and he was growing weary of letting others play with his toy.

One day, he would pack his beloved detective into a box and never let him out.

He hadn't decided yet if he was going to punch air holes in it or not.

"Soon, Sherlock," he sighed softly under his breath. "Very soon."

Jim had just ducked down one of his favourite short cuts—the alley behind an abandoned antique shop—when he heard a shout. He turned back without the slightest trace of fear. There was no way Sherlock had managed to wrest himself from the grip of the waiters yet, and the streets of London held no threat he couldn't handle. He was the most dangerous predator in this particular urban jungle.

Sure enough, it was his clueless date running after him, looking flushed. Jim had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. Some men just couldn't take a hint.

"Hey," Bruce panted when he reached him, stopping about a foot away, "why'd you run out on me like that? I thought we were really hitting it off."

Jim studied the man with a face that would have looked sympathetic to any person expecting normal emotion from him. He should indulge the poor man, make up some emergency that he has to dash off to and promise to reschedule their date soon. It would take another five minutes of conversation, but it would soothe poor Bruce's wounded ego.

After a moment of silent contemplation, Jim whipped out the knife he kept in his coat pocket and slashed Bruce's throat in one quick movement. His flesh split open like warm butter beneath the sharp blade.

Jim ducked as the man's jugular released a spray of blood but still managed to get a few drops on his dress.

"Son of a bitch," he hissed as Bruce fell to his knees, gurgling and clutching at his mangled throat. Jim glared at him and the crimson that was dying the snow beneath them pink. "This is dry clean only, you miserable cunt."

Bruce did not apologise. He fell heavily forward on his face and laid very still.

Jim rolled his eyes and stepped daintily over the corpse, careful not to let his heels sink into the bloodied snow. "Really, some people are so inconsiderate."

Without so much as a backwards glance, he strode off into the shadows of a perfect London evening.

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Jim was not surprised in the slightest when he returned to his flat and found Sebastian Moran on his sofa. His most trusted employee spent such a large amount of time there he was practically a second tenant. Jim was surprised, however, to find the man perched over the back of the sofa with a large assault rifle trained at the door. There was a red laser point on Jim's chest, indicating he was standing directly in the line of fire.

The consulting criminal paused for only a moment before reaching down to nonchalantly pluck off the black pumps he was wearing and dump them on the threshold. "My God, my feet are killing me. I don't know how women wear these every day."

Sebastian lowered the rifle fractionally and considered him with a thoughtful expression. "I think they make gel inserts and things that you can use to ease the pressure."

"That's not a bad thought." Jim pulled his wig off and removed the pearl clip-on earrings he favoured. "Perhaps I'll pop into a store when I'm in the city tomorrow and see what I can find." He turned towards his right-hand man and studied him: attractive, close-cropped blond hair, weathered face, hands that were flecked with little white scars and steady blue eyes. He had the gaze of a man who could stare into the endless bowels of Hell unflinchingly. "You know the question I want to ask, Sebby." Jim nodded to the rifle in his hands. "Don't make me actually say it."

"Remember our last client?"

"The Norwegian man with the foot fetish?"

"Yes. He's dead now."

"Did his cheque clear?"

"Yes."

"Excellent." Jim moved into the living room and began unzipping his dress. "Get me some clothes."

The other man followed his instructions immediately. He set the rifle down carefully on the sofa before ducking into the bedroom on the other side of the room and returning a moment later with a grey V-neck shirt and some soft shorts. Jim took them from him, now unabashedly naked, and pulled them over his lean body.

Seb continued speaking, unfazed by the sight of his boss sans clothing, "He had a sudden change of heart and made some threats along the lines of turning us all into Scotland Yard."

"Ah, so you followed standard procedure and killed him and his immediate family?"

"Yes, but I was concerned his business-partner-and-secret-gay-lover might seek revenge. I've sent someone to dispatch him, but the rifle at the door was an added precaution until his death is confirmed."

"I see. Well, cheers to another job well done." Jim fell elegantly onto the sofa, careful not to land on the rifle, and let his limbs sprawl out. Sebastian retook his weapon and resumed his former position, pointing it steadily at the door.

"How was your date, sir?"

"'Was' is deliciously appropriate. He was boring, but I accomplished what I set out to do."

"The doctor fell for your disguise, then?"

"Like a horny uni student who's had one too many pints after a rugby game."

"Excellent use of simile, sir. So, you'll be proceeding to the next part of your plan?"

Jim flopped over onto his stomach, propped his head up on his fists and kicked his legs back and forth cutely. "Oh, Sebby, you know how I am. I'm a proverbial study in impatience." He winked and wiggled his hips suggestively. "I can never resist a good intrigue. Do you see the package on the table?"

He watched as Sebastian glanced at their work top, noting the package wrapped in neon-coloured paper with an enormous pink bow on top. "Yes."

"I'll need you to post that for me tomorrow, first thing in the morning."

"To what address?"

Jim grinned wickedly, and for a moment his face twisted into the visage of the eerie devil he truly was. "221B Baker Street."

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