Sherlock sighed, staring at the giddy girls who were throwing a water bottle around. The tallest in the group screamed, throwing it wildly behind her. It narrowly missed a window, only to be caught by a mousy-faced girl—Molly Hooper, he recalled.
He hated this boarding school—it might have been one of the finest in the world, yet it physically sickened him. Half of the students hailed from America, the other half from England. A Revolutionary War threatened to break out every major holiday.
One of the girls screamed, drawing his attention back. A girl with jet black hair swooped in, grabbing the water bottle with ease. She winked at them, feinting a throw to the right, only to throw it straight towards Sherlock.
Damn it, Renny! He frowned sharply, setting down his book, and he grabbed the water bottle from the air.
Or rather, he attempted to.
Instead, it eluded his grasp, hitting the pavement behind him. The girls continued to giggle, with the youngest of the group racing towards it. She brushed past him without a trace of apology, and then she lobbed it back towards Molly.
"You should be more careful," Sherlock frowned sharply, picking up his book and pulling his coat back on.
He'd go retreat to the library, where he would be free of this sort of activity. The silly games only served to make the mind wilt—only books and puzzles were of any use to him. His teachers would often admonish him, wishing that he would study their classes with the same intensity that he studied the story of Kate Warne, or Alan Turing.
But none of their classes mattered—the information was useless, and quite frankly, completely boring.
"Aww, come on, Holmes!" the girl with dark hair—Renny—teased. She came bounding up to him, a single braid at the front of her face, with the rest of it left down. Her blue eyes were keen and mysterious, glinting with hidden knowledge.
Renny was the only one that he could tolerate at this school. She was the only one who wasn't a complete and utter idiot.
"Irene," Sherlock smirked. "Tired of wasting brain cells on them?"
Renny wrinkled her nose. "You know I hate that ghastly name—it's dreadful. It makes me sound like some sort of helpless flower…"
Sherlock chuckled a bit. "Aren't you?"
Renny rolled her eyes, punching him in the shoulder. He pretended it didn't hurt, but Renny had a vicious right hook. The pair then proceeded to walk to the library, kicking their feet slightly on the ground before entering.
It was fairly quiet, with most of the children off enjoying their last day of freedom. Most of the students had moved in a few days ago, yet classes would begin tomorrow. For now, it was all about relaxing, and denying that school would have to begin once more.
The librarian gave them the side eye, yet Sherlock and Renny marched back towards the farthest corner of the library. No one else would go disturb them there. The couches they always lounged on were open, and without any ceremony, Renny flopped on one.
"Care to join me?" Renny teased, wiggling her eyebrows.
Sherlock laughed derisively. He took his friend in, looking at the dark shadows on her eyes and the way she tugged down on her sleeves.
"You've been using again," Sherlock frowned. "You said you quit."
"You said the same," Renny mused, picking at her fingernails a bit. "We both like the thrill too much to stop."
Renny chuckled, patting the seat cushion on the other couch lazily. Sherlock sat down mechanically, pulling out his favorite novel—the Adventures of Sherringford Hastings by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It continued to inspire him, with promises of a life better than a dead-end government job.
"So, Dad got hired to teach here," Renny mused, popping a stick of gum into her mouth.
Sherlock didn't respond, staring at the book. There was an illustration of the author, and he frowned. It took him only a few minutes to deduce the author—he was given to pranks, yet ashamed of his works. He had no desire to be known for them-he would rather they were forgotten.
It made Sherlock mildly uncomfortable, but he shoved the feelings away. His brother, a newly appointed government official, had been quite clear.
Feelings were not to be tolerated—they would only cause pain. Nothing good could come of them.
Renny sighed a bit, picking at her fingers again. "He's teaching drama and choir—which means he expects me to perform this year."
"You always perform," Sherlock muttered absently, opening up his novel.
"Not when my dad is in charge," Renny groaned. "I don't even like theatre—he has this idea that I'll grow up to be an opera singer or something."
Sherlock chuckled, glancing up from his novel. Renny was quite beautiful, yet both of them had long since made a deal regarding their friendship. It was too dangerous to be out in the open at this school—it was a death wish to even be suspected as being gay.
And so, she was his beard, and he was hers. It worked out perfectly.
"I do not think that you would ever be an opera singer," Sherlock commented. "Perhaps you'll become a dominatrix?"
"Please," Renny laughed. "I'd be awful at it—I'd start to fall in love with my clients…or accidentally kill them. Toss up between the two."
He grinned slightly, closing the novel and tossing it inside of his bag. Strangely, he was able to imagine Renny dominating people—yet she was so intelligent, the thought of her wasting her talents in the sex industry saddened him slightly.
He hated to see wasted potential.
"You could be a serial killer," he offered, checking his watch. "They'll want us returning to the dormitories soon, I expect."
Renny rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Sherlock, when do we ever do exactly what they want? There's a reason neither of us made prefect all these years—they know what we're like."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking at her pointedly.
"We're troublemakers," Renny boasted. "We're the stuff of nightmares."
"Please," Sherlock laughed a bit, offering a hand to help Renny up. "We're just two assholes who people tell to piss off."
"There's a difference?"
John woke up, staring into the darkness of his room. It wasn't larger than a closet, and for that, he was grateful. Jim didn't have to see to his living space being livable—at most times, he took pleasure in forcing people to sleep in crates and kennels.
John was a bit of a favorite of Jim's.
Sighing slightly, John hoisted himself to his feet. He pulled on the chain suspended in front of him, and the tiny closet was filled with a dingy light. A small number of pictures were plastered onto the wall, depicting John's childhood. His favorite one was a bit torn on the side—he and Harry were covered in chocolate, running wild in their house.
He smiled a bit, before his eyes fell on the uniform of sorts that he had adopted. Changing quickly, he ended up wearing all black, the material designed to be sleek and silent. It was rather different than what he had been supplied with in the army—there, he had been dressed in fatigues.
There, he had been fighting a tangible war, rather than the invisible war that Jim fought each and every day.
Pulling down on the cord again, the closet was plunged back into darkness. John opened the door to it, hearing the way that it creaked open—he would need to get some oil for it soon.
The outside was far more immaculate than the inside. Shining and pristine, various works of art—mostly stolen—adorned the walls. The very trim was ornate, fitting for a member of royalty.
Jim did love to be in style—it was everything to him.
"John," a tall blonde man nodded, stalking by. He was dressed similarly, with a bag slung over his shoulder—he had an assignment today, evidently.
"Seb," John said, grinning tightly. Seb had been rather kind to John when he joined up. It had kept John out of poverty, due to his failure to be able to hold any sort of job or attend medical school.
The lust for battle was engrained into him, even at the young age of twenty.
"I heard you'll be getting a big one," Seb remarked, tossing a muffin at John. John caught it without blinking, biting into it viciously—he was utterly famished.
"Oh?" John chuckled. "I thought she was getting the next one."
"Oh, no," Seb shook his head. "She's going off to do something with Magnussen—it'll be a miracle if she makes it out in one piece."
Neither of them exactly knew her name—Jim, for whatever reason, seemed to change what he referred to her as every time. They had met her once, a blonde with a narrow face. She raved about cats and baking, yet she was the best shot they had.
"Pity," John sighed. "I rather fancied her—could've been something there."
"In this line of work?" Seb raised an eye. "You've gone mad, kid."
Perhaps he had. Memories of the war would come back to John ever so often, and on occasion, the assignments would bleed into his mind. He never considered himself to be a terrible person—yet in his nightmares, he was a monster.
Jim's the monster. Not you. You're a good man. He shuddered a bit, taking another bite into the muffin.
"Anyways, I'll be seeing you," Seb chuckled. He clapped John on the back and walked off, his gait slightly off. It was no secret that he was nailing the boss.
John couldn't imagine having to please Jim in that sort manner. The man was volatile and vivacious, a walking nightmare. Yet there was something about him that intrigued John, something that had encouraged him to apply to work for Jim closely. All records of John Watson had been modified—he had sold his existence to Jim.
The army captain was listed as dead. Jim had managed to supply a body, and the people of England accepted it without a fight. John had expected for Harry to protest, to claim that it hadn't been her brother on the slab.
There was nothing. The world moved on, refusing to realize that John Watson was indeed alive—and in the service of a criminal mastermind, no less.
Glancing around the expansive room, John saw no sign of anyone else approaching. He grimaced a bit, prepared to go and look for Jim. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck, and he forced himself to head down the hallway, heading towards the extravagant master suite.
He knocked, and he waited.
The door opened almost instantaneously, revealing Jim Moriarty. He was dressed in his signature suit, with a tie paired to match. His hair was slicked back and he grinned, a piece of gum sticking out slightly.
"Hello-ooo Johnny!" he laughed, chewing on his gum. "Here for the morning assignment, hmm?"
John nodded, standing still at attention. He mustn't allow Jim to get to him—any reaction would only increase the treatment, and perhaps result in his death. Jim was too unpredictable, a true wild card.
"Excellent," Jim muttered, leaning against the door. "Seb had already come by—he's going to have a bit of fun."
"I saw that, yes," John agreed. "So…Do you have an assignment for me today?"
Jim's grin spread across his face quickly, and he looked like the Cheshire Cat. His eyes seemed to move around oddly, and John felt rapidly more and more nervous.
"Yes, I do, Johnny boy!" Jim laughed. "You'll be taking out some kid—he isn't even eighteen yet, I hope that doesn't compromise your morals…"
John knew that it wasn't an option.
"Of course not," he smiled thinly. "I'll take pleasure in doing this for you, sir."
Jim nodded. "Good, good…Now, I have a bit of business to take care of, and then I'll give you more information. For now, get packed—you won't be staying in your closet much longer."
Mycroft glanced around his new office, grinning internally. At the age of twenty-eight, he was the youngest person to ever hold this position. His parents, unfortunately, did not seem to understand what a great honor this was—they insisted that he leave work to take them to the cinema, and other ordinary activities.
He sighed, checking his watch—at any moment, his younger brother would begin his first day of classes. He smirked a bit, glad to be done with the bane that was a boarding school education.
There was a rap at the door, and Mycroft straightened instantly. He checked over his brand new suit, ensuring that nothing was out of place—he had to look impressive, fierce, and immaculate.
"Enter!" Mycroft called out, his voice sounding slightly hoarse.
The door opened, and a well dressed man walked inside. Mycroft recognized the designer of the suit instantly—it was Westwood. The man grinned a bit mischievously, as if he had been caught in the middle of a criminal offense.
"Mr. Mycroft Holmes," the man said, a hint of reverence in his voice. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure before."
Mycroft nodded, narrowing his eyes slightly. He held out a hand for the young man. "You haven't."
The man grinned, seemingly more and more ecstatic by the moment. "You'll become familiar with me—Professor James Moriarty."
"Professor," Mycroft nodded, shaking the man's hand. He let go, gesturing towards a chair. The man obliged, yet sat on it strangely, as if it was a throne.
"Please, call me Jim," the man laughed. "All my friends do."
"Jim," Mycroft said, sitting down in his own seat. "What brings you here?"
Jim laughed again, as if Mycroft had said something incredibly funny. "Oh, just a matter of introductions—we're going to get to know each other, you and I…"
Mycroft frowned, staring at him. Alarm bells were going off in his head, yet he remained still, waiting for the scenario to unfold further. It would be in his best interest to be proven wrong once.
"And why exactly would that be?" Mycroft questioned.
"One of my men is at your brother's school," Jim explained, lounging back further in the chair. "If you do something I don't like, your brother will die—his name is Sherlock, isn't it?"
Mycroft didn't reply. He sat still, drinking in the silence. His brows furrowed and Jim laughed again, a laugh that was starting to get onto Mycroft's nerves.
"Thought so," Jim bragged. "So, shall we make a toast to our new working relationship, hmm?"
He had no clear reason to suspect that Jim wasn't telling the truth. Deductions floated in and out of his mind, as he stared him over. It took him less than a minute to realize the horrifying truth.
Sighing a bit, Mycroft grabbed the scotch and poured it out into two glasses, prepared to make his deal with the devil.