Title: The Twin Tangents

Summary: Jim Moriarty has to lie low for a few years following the Reichenbach Fall. After responding to a summoning from an old friend and mentor, Sherrinford Holmes, he takes on what might be the two hardest challenges of his criminal, and (meagerly small) personal life. How can a psychopath deal with two twin boys and another psychopath all at once?

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of its characters. Even the storyline has taken inspiration from other famous original works like Despicable Me. The inspiration of Sherrinford Holmes and his relation with Jim Moriarty comes from the amazing forums, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself (bless his dead soul) and Q from Skyfall. Good writers borrow, great writers steal.

A/N: I don't know what I'm doing. I just had an idea for this and I'm going to see how far it can go. If you are any of my followed readers, I'm so sorry for not updating Part-Time Demigod. I got disenchanted with it for a long time, but I will finish it! I promise! It just might take a bit longer.

A/N 2.0: Thank you for reading and supporting this story. Follow, Favorite and Review. Press all the juicy buttons. They make me dance. And my dancing is ridiculous.

He looked around and then down at the brightly lit laptop. With a deft touch of his index finger, he slid the cursor over the word processor program and tapped twice quickly. A mass of notes, newspaper clippings and magazine articles lay around the small coffee table. A stark white earbud hung loosely in his left ear, playing Bach's famous Brandenburg Concerto No. 1 in F Major, while the other one dangled over a black plaid shirt. He took a small sip of the cheap house coffee, glanced at his notes, and shifted them until a large manila folder labeled "The Twin Tangents" rested delicately above the others. He quickly flipped through them and closed it again. It was senseless to keep his notes with him; he already knew everything by heart. But he had grown attached to the notes he had taken over the years and decided that they should stay. Just in case he forgot anything, which he never did. He turned his attention back to the screen. The blinking line waited patiently on the new document format, and he began to tap furiously on the sleek silver keyboard.

"It was a dark and stormy night."

A classic, if not cliché, way to start a novel, although it was completely true. In the year 2012, when the riveting storm of the Reichenbach Fall blew over, like candle smoke swept away by the winds of time, and everyone returned to their sorrowful, pedestrian lives, another storm was hastily heading south to London. It should not have been a surprising event; after all, storms were common in England. But this storm brought a sinister, melancholy atmosphere along with it, seemingly reminding the residents of 221b Baker Street of the continuity of the Fall's aftermath. Even the civilians unaffected by the Fall felt the spine-shivering sentiment from the northern gale. Mr. Burton's cat yowled at the gathering clouds, and the Olivia's sunflowers turned their royal heads away from the sky. Even Scotland Yard was in a state of uneasiness.

It was as if a hole had been forcibly cut out of each of their hearts and mercilessly abandoned to bleed freely.

Now that everyone knew that Sherlock was alive and faked his own death, one question remained: Did Jim Moriarty fake his as well? Sherlock wasn't going to divulge the details anytime soon, and Moriarty was nowhere to be seen or heard. When Scotland Yard arrived at the top of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, no body nor blood traces were found. Eyewitnesses were taken in for questioning, but none had seen anyone on the rooftops after Sherlock fell. Lestrade had scratched his head furiously over it and developed a splitting headache. He tried to reason with the possibilities, but for a man to carry dead weight off a rooftop before the authorities arrive, which was in thirteen minutes (a feat to be proud of, in Lestrade's opinion), and clean up the blood spill was not possible.

The only alternative, unfortunately, was that Jim Moriarty was still alive somewhere. Lestrade did not tell this to anyone; it was only a cock-and-bull theory he developed and expected it to go nowhere. He did not want to stir up any unwanted drama. So it was as it is. Everyone accepted the fact that Sherlock was alive and kept it at that.

He tapped three more words.

"Jim was alone."

And it begun.

It was a dark and stormy night. Jim was alone. His light-stepped footfalls echoed quietly between the slum walls as his pristine dress shoes tip-tapped over the dirty, uneven cobblestones. The night was young, and the face of the moon concealed itself behind the murky rain clouds. A sharp-tipped black umbrella hung unused on his wrist and swung back and forth like a pendulum's gentle sways, ominously counting down the seconds people still had to live.

His classic navy suit and matching necktie pressed tightly around his handsome figure, an advantage he used countless times against his unsuspecting female victims. His left hand fingered a gold band in his jacket pocket as he traversed down the filthy alleyway. Homeless men jeered at him from behind their newspaper blankets, and Moriarty smirked inwardly. They didn't know, of course, that he could burn them all. He could burn all of London in his own crooked reenactment of The Great Fire. That was actually a very good idea. He would save that for later, if he were to grow bored.

Jim Moriarty did not walk in the worst slums in London for leisure. The consulting criminal was there for a bigger reason altogether, a bigger reason than fulfilling a client's request or anything he had done before. He swung around the corner into the darkest and one of the only deserted alleyways in London. The homeless whisper it as one of the hideouts of the famous 1800's Jack the Ripper, and a deep curse befell it. What curse it was, Jim did not know or particularly care. All he knew was that it was one of the creepiest places in London and did not hesitate to step into the shadows of a hidden side door.

A smoky voice pierced the silence. "Midnight, on the dot. You did not disappoint me."

Jim managed a smile and walked slowly towards the voice. His eyes quickly adjusted to the pitch blackness and saw the silhouette of a tall, wiry man. He wore a casual black plaid button up and black tie under an open leather jacket. A flesh-piercing smirk flashed alongside black browline glasses as dimmed lights flickered on. His face largely resembled his youngest brother, high cheekbones and tall nose but the shape of his face not as oval. Unruly curls of chocolate brown hair swept neatly to the left. Brown eyes darted to Jim's face as he talked, not looking at him but seeing through his very damned soul. It was a trait all the Holmes brothers acquired. Sherrinford Holmes, oldest of the infamous Holmes brothers and indefinitely the most intelligent and dangerous one of them all.

"Since when did I ever disappoint you, Sherry?" said Jim lightly.

Sherrinford's smirk grew. "I can recount several rather embarrassing moments…"

"Well, we're not here for that, are we?" Jim said as he tried to steer the conversation away from his past. "You haven't called in so long, I was starting to get worried. How long has it been? Seven years? And you haven't aged a day, old boy! Still look like you're thirty!"

"I'm only thirty-seven, you dolt."

"Yes, yes I know. Boring. Who cares how old we all are? We have more interesting things to do!" Jim rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "What's the lingo?"

Sherrinford looked around the ruined and blood-soaked room with a pensive look. His smirk faded until he wore a stoic mask. Jim waited patiently as the oldest Holmes brother gathered his thoughts. "Do you know where my baby brother is?"

"Sherly? Mm. No. Don't really care. Not now, that is. He'll show his face sooner or later," Jim said as he shrugged noncommittally. "I have bigger things to focus on. Big plans. Of course, you know about them. But I'm supposed to lay low right now. So… that's what we're doing, right? We're meeting in a goddamned cursed hideout, after all. I would definitely call that laying low."

Sherrinford's eyes narrowed slightly at the angry change in Jim's tone, but his own was one of subtle amusement, as if he shared Jim's sentiment. "Laying low is boring, isn't it?"

The consulting criminal snorted. "I don't know how you can cope with it."

"I don't."

"How— I'm not even going to ask."

"Good idea."

A deep silence ensconced the small room as the two greatest criminal masterminds of all time retreated far into their own thoughts. Eventually, Sherrinford took a seat in the bloodied armchair near the destroyed fireplace, and Jim bounced lightly on the balls of his feet with his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. The consulting criminal chewed on the inside of his cheek as he trained his eyes on Sherrinford. The eldest Holmes brother had his eyes closed, and his hands teepeed under his chin like they always were when the mastermind was thinking. The soft plink of rain reached Jim's ears; the storm had started.

Finally, Sherrinford spoke up again. "If you're bored, I found something for you to do, but you may not like it much."

This peaked Jim's curiosity. Something Sherry knew he wouldn't like would be something worth exploring. "Is it interesting?"

"Very interesting. And… challenging." Sherrinford paused again and looked at Jim with doubtful eyes. "You will have a very high chance of failing."

"Go on," Jim implored.

"You will not like it, I assure you."

"Come on, tell me!"

"It might not be a good idea for you to do it." Sherrinford paused again and shifted his glasses with two fingers. "Definitely not a good idea. I don't know why I thought of it."

"It doesn't matter. Just tell me. I can deny or accept it." Jim started bouncing faster until he was practically rocking back and forth on his feet.

Sherrinford took a deep breath and said, "Adopt a child and become a parent."

Jim stopped bouncing. He blinked once, twice, and raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"If you want an exceptionally hard challenge, then adopt identical twins. I heard they could be quite troublesome."

"Why do you think I would accept something like this in the first place?"

"You have at least two years before Sherlock Holmes comes back from being 'dead' and five at the very most. You are going to be very, very bored, and you won't be able to blow anything up like you used to. If Scotland Yard sees an increase of crime in London, it will be in the news, and John Watson will hear of it. He knows about you, Jim. You cannot attract any sort of attention. You are the primary and only source of the criminal going-ons in the country and if anything big happens, it will be linked back to you by John Watson and Lestrade." Sherrinford stopped and silently stared at Jim with his seeing eyes again. Jim rubbed his nose and looked up at the ceiling. The storm was coming down in a furious downpour now.

Jim frowned slightly. "But I like being alone. Children annoy me."

Sherrinford laughed. It was a very interesting laugh because it definitely did not suit him. It sounded far too lively and merry-hearted for a nefarious cyberterrorist. But then again, his handsome figure did not suit him either. And neither did Jim's. "Oh, you are so funny, Jim. You don't like being alone? Everything about you screams for attention and company. You're obsessed with my idiot baby brother and his little endeavors. You need someone to realize how wonderfully wonderful you are, which you are, by the way."

Jim cleared his throat and chose to ignore the last comment. "But why a child?"

"You can influence children in any way possible. Why don't you be creative with your child? That's what you do best, isn't it? Being creative and all."

"What could I do with a child other than set it on fire or strap bombs to it and send it to Sherlock's doorstep?"

"Oh, I don't know," Sherrinford replied sarcastically. "How about you teach him how to play piano or kick a soccer ball? Give him some of your vast resources of knowledge and teach him how to be a criminal genius like us. Do whatever you want with him. Just don't kill him. There's no fun in a dead kid."

"He can use it against me."

"Sure he can. But he won't if you make him utterly loyal to you, like you did to poor old Sebastian Moran. That's the challenge."

"How am I going to find a child like me?" demanded Jim. Sherrinford raised his eyebrows.

"They don't need to be psychopaths, dear," he said mildly. "Get a normal child. That's more difficult."

"I don't know about this. Did you say that I could deny?"

Sherrinford shrugged. "There's not much more you can do. You can join a book club, or a knitting club, or a gardening club. You can adopt a cat or something and settle down until Sherlock comes back. All the plans are already laid out and set in stone, and your criminal network is temporarily shut down. Act like a normal person and see what it's like to be the boring person instead of looking at the boring person."

"Says the psychopath to the psychopath," Jim pointed out. Sherrinford smiled, and then Jim remembered that Sherrinford hid undercover for seven years.

"It's really not that bad."

"I don't want to settle in. It makes me seem... so domesticated."

"You might die from boredom if you don't. Scratch that, you will die from boredom."

"Doesn't the adoption process take a long time?"

"I can pull some strings and speed it up."

"What about the application requirements?"

"We all know you're a master at identity theft, and you can quickly get past background screenings. Don't be idiotic."

"What would happen to the child after Sherlock comes back?"

"Are you caring about your future child?"

"No! But what if the child is troublesome?"

"That makes it more fun. There's plenty of parenting books out there."

"But what if—"

"Oh Jim, Jim, Jim," said Sherrinford with a hint of annoyance. He waved his hand in the air dismissively, as if swatting away Jim's feeble excuses. "You've always liked trying new things. I know you." He leaned forward in his seat, causing flakes of dried blood to fall onto his jacket, which he swiped away with a hand. "You're scared, that's what you are. You know perfectly well how to handle children, but you don't know how to handle yourself if you find out something new about yourself. Consider it a step into the unknown. If you need any company or help, you can always contact me."

"You should've been a stupid psychologist instead of a computer genius," muttered Jim. "Jeezus beezus."

Sherrinford sat back with a handsome grin. "I'm guessing it's a yes, then? Consider it a game. You manage until Sherlock comes back, you win. If you don't, well…"

"What happens if I lose?" Jim asked sharply. The idea of a game made it sound more appealing, and when he started playing, he did not like to lose.

"I'll hack into your checking accounts and steal all your money."

Jim closed his eyes and fought the urge to facepalm. "Are you serious?"

"Of course not," Sherrinford said incredulously. "I don't need your money. Hacking into rich looneys' checking accounts provides more than enough money for me."

"So what happens if I lose?"

Sherrinford smirked. "That would just show that you aren't as mighty and capable as you thought you were."

Checkmate.

Jim's eyes lowered as he chewed on the inside of his cheek again. Sherrinford had unknowingly stepped into personal territory. His pride was at stake. If he refused, he was telling himself that he was a coward and too afraid of failure. If he accepted and lost, he would just prove himself not as capable with manipulating his emotions and other's emotions as he thought he was. The only alternative his inflated ego would accept would be to play the game and win. Jim took a deep breath.

"Fine. I'll do it."

Sherrinford fist-pumped into the air, and Jim had to fight off a roll of his eyes at the childishness. His foot started tapping again. Sherrinford looked content, but Jim tried to fight off the nagging sense that convincing him to adopt a child was not the only reason he was called by Sherrinford after seven very long years.

"So, what do you really want?" asked Jim. "As much as I enjoy the little reunion, get to the point. You want something from me, so tell me what."

Sherrinford looked up from inspecting his fingernails with an innocent façade, but behind it Jim clearly saw madness, sweet, sweet madness, spark in his eyes and set his mind ablaze. It was a look he often found himself wearing on his face, and he had gotten as used to it quickly. This was the mad face of an evil computer genius. This was the old Sherrinford Holmes, the one Jim always loved to see in action. This Sherrinford Holmes made Jim's pulse beat rapidly in anticipation.

"It's time for me to step back out into the world of the living, Jim. I'm tired of hiding."

"Doesn't Mycroft still have your number? The Secret Service still has your intel." Jim cocked his head to the side like an innocent puppy. "What are you planning, Sherry?"

A roll of thunder thundered dangerously close to their location, but neither Sherrinford nor Jim were fazed. The flickering lights burned out, leaving the cyberterrorist and consulting criminal in black light. A flash of lighting seared past the punched-out windows and illuminated Sherrinford's glasses lenses. Jim started counting down from ten.

"I want you to help me start a fire sale in London."

The roar of thunder followed immediately after.