Note: This fic contains spoilers for Season 2, Episode 1. You've been warned.
Note 2: Still writing the epilogue on Matchmaker, fear not. Just got bit by this idea and so it goes :)
Warnings: Abuse of poker, pet names and personal head canon.
Disclaimer: Don't own this. Ain't making any money.
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Poppin' Cherries:
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For Sebastian Moran, the greatest intimacy came through the sights of the sniper rifle. Letting his eye caress the unwitting form, so far, yet close enough to end it. Killing, Moran had determined in the army, was a bigger rush than sex. And he'd been good at it. Too good, eventually, which was why they let him go without honor. As though there was honor in either fucking or murder.
Sebastian Moran sat across a round table from his boss, between them a stack of poker chips, a bottle of tequila and pile of human skin. They paid cards on Thursdays, and if Moran amassed the bulk of the chips that night, he had the choice to cash in for either money or a favor. Moran had only managed the favor once, on their third match, and he still held it, unused, for insurance.
"Call," Moriarty said.
Moran nodded and laid down his cards. Two pair, king high. He didn't bother saying it. He didn't speak without purpose, one of the things that suited him to the boss, though Moran would never state such a presumption out loud.
"Full House," Moriarty said and took the pot. He always did, eventually. After an hour the skin had stiffened a bit; blood congealed along the inner lining where Moran had slid the knife as the target, the disappointment, had screamed herself raw. Moriarty scraped a clot with his fingernail and held it in front of his eyes. "Was it good for you?"
"Yes." Moran poured his boss's drink before refreshing his own.
Moriarty swirled the liquid in his glass. "I lost my virginity when I was twelve," he said. "To a boy on a rival swim team."
"Carl Powers."
"It was so easy. The eczema cream. And he shook so beautifully at the end." Moriarty raised his glass.
Moran followed suit. Their glasses clinked. "Cheers," Moriarty said, and they drank.
It was Moran's deal. He did it silently, slipping a pair of aces into his hand because he knew his boss would notice, and that it would amuse him to best such a transparent attempt at cheating.
"Naughty boy," Moriarty said as he picked up his cards. "You do realize I could take a toe for that. Five thousand."
Moran smiled and pushed five blue chips into the center.
Moriarty laid four cards face down. "So how did you pop your cherry?"
"The war."
"Late bloomer."
Moran shrugged.
Moriarty drew his four. Moran took two.
"Two thousand," Moriarty pushed two blue chips to the center.
Moran looked down at his hand. Pair of aces, pair of threes. He added five more chips.
"You might win this one," Moriarty said. "Raise you ten."
"Call."
Moran laid his cards out.
"Not bad sweetie," Moriarty took a swig of his tequila. Then he pulled cards down one by one at random: two of spades, king of diamonds, ace of hearts, king of clubs, and king of diamonds. "But not today."
Moriarty took the pot and began to deal.
As he laid down the third card, Moran asked, "Is that why you called him that? The younger Holmes."
Moriarty hesitated. "The Virgin, isn't it obvious?"
"He's killed."
"Only by accident. Or in self defense. And yes, he'll hurt a man in anger, but that doesn't count!" Moriarty threw the cards one by one by one, his voice taking on the whine of oncoming rage. "I pleasured myself too, before. Like when I sprayed my aunt's yapping dog with oven cleaner just to hear it whine. But there's nothing like doing a person with intent. Watching them fall apart, and then the stillness that follows. The older Holmes, he gets it, though he has no heat in him, which would make him hardly a satisfying lay. Not like the younger. He's red hot. And so close. You saw that display at the pool, of course. He would have killed us all." Moriarty laughed. And laughed.
Yes, Moran had seen it all in silent film through the intimate gaze of his sniper sight. Holmes had loyalty, love, and even a bit of conscience. He might be persuaded to murder, but he wouldn't enjoy it. Not like Moriarty. Not like Moran.
"He's no match for you, boss," Moran said.
Moriarty's eyes narrowed. "I think I'm far better suited to judge what's right for me than some lackey."
"Yes, sir." Moran picked up his cards and methodically sorted them. Ace, two, three and seven of hearts. Two of clubs.
Moran pushed one chip in. Moriarty matched him. "How many?" Moriarty asked.
"Three," Moran said, keeping the pair. Only fools and madmen bet against a sure thing.