A/N: So, I've decided to try my hand at a Sherlock Holmes Fanfiction. Now, it does involve Moriarty but it does not include the show's M. This is my own take on Moriarty, a version I created for a role-play site. You can read his profile here: http:/rewrittencity(dot)proboards(dot)com/index(dot)cgi?board=accepted&action=display&thread=3855&page=1
Chapter One: Show Me Your Teeth
There were few things in the world that no man could dispute. Physics, for one. What went up must, inevitably, come down; basic health, for another. When a heart stops beating, a person dies. But, most importantly, when a great mind grows bored, chaos will ensue and more often than not, a body or two turns up. At least, that's what happened when one James Moriarty grew tired of the daily grind, so to speak. There were only so many banks one could rob, so many federal fugitives to pick off from 500 kilometers away, so many lives to ruin before the spark...the excitement was exhausted.
James swiveled in his desk chair, the base squeaking slightly with every turn, as he stared at a series of screens with his hands steepled before him. He was oh so bored. Like an overeager child with a need for something new, he harnessed his proverbial magnifying glass and was on the hunt for an ant to burn. He already had a special ant in mind, one he wanted to torture and pick apart slowly, but he couldn't get to said ant. Not yet. James needed a way to sneak up on him, a sure fire way to infiltrate the nest and flood it. The way was apparent: Dr. John Watson. He lived with Holmes, they were 'friends', to an extent, and James knew that Holmes trusted Watson with his life after that nifty little sharpshooting incident with the deranged cabby.
James pushed off with his legs and swung around to face the rest of his room. Blackboards lined the walls, covered in scribbles, fragments of sentences in different languages. French, Cantonese, Mandarin, Japanese, Russian, German, Slavic, Spanish, Portuguese, Latin, Bulgarian, Danish, Swahili, Navajo, Finnish, Gaelic, Aramaic, Greek, Ancient Egyptian, Icelandic, Albanian, Yezidi, Croatian, Serbian, Bosnian...all thoughts and possible routes were inscribed in their letters and phrases.
Holmes. High functioning sociopath. Consulting detective. Only known companion: Dr. John Watson; army doctor, wounded in action. Position in friendship paradigm: the loyal dog.
James's eyes danced over what he had written out, every known fact he had carefully gathered about Holmes. He had nothing against Holmes; certainly, the fact that the nicotine patch addict had caught his scent was annoying, but so had others. James wasn't in any danger. Unless he could die from sheer boredom. The consulting detective was just interesting enough to hold James's interest like a particularly clever crossword sometimes did. Just like those crosswords, there was a pattern and a key to figuring it out. James swung back around and directed his eyes to the top most monitor.
Watson left 221 b Baker street, heading in the direction of the market. The man took the same route to and from the market every single time he went. James knew exactly how long it would take him to walk to the market and shop for his usual wares before he would be on the street again, walking home because he never carried enough money for groceries and a cab.
Originally, James was going to engage Watson later, once he had a perfect little script worked out, variations in response included, but boredom was a rather strong impetus for action. James traced Watson's movements across the screen, watching as he drew closer and closer to the market. As he slipped inside, James rose to his feet, gathering his jacket and walked out his door, locking everything as he left.
Onto the streets and into the first cab he could find, James lazily formulated a plan for that moment. Approach Watson exactly 4.6 blocks away from the market; make it seem accidental; exploit the doctor's obvious curiosity for same sex relationships. Accidental touch here, seemingly innocent offer to help him with his groceries.
Rinse, repeat.
It was a simple equation that he could easily modify for every encounter he shared with the good doctor. It would be a relatively slow process, James was sure of it, but the outcome would certainly be worth the effort. He would breech Holmes's Helms Deep, so to speak, destroy his impregnable defenses and pick him apart, little by little.
Oh what fun this was going to be.
James had the cab pull over just before his scheduled rendezvous and paid the cabby. Standing on the sidewalk, James straightened his coat and slipped into the coffee shop that stood just to his right. Change of plans. Checking his watch, James knew he had approximately thirteen minutes and 22 seconds before Watson was in the area. It would give him just enough time to enjoy a half a cup of coffee before the rest of it wound up down John Watson's front.
James strode up to the barista, flashing her his most charming smile, and ordered a vanilla and cinnamon soy latte, extra foam. It would taste vile but at least it would be caffeine and would smell halfway decent when spilt. Stuffing a couple quid into the tip jar, James settled himself off to the side.
With one eye on his watch, James enjoyed his disgusting drink.
T-minus 48 seconds and James was standing, on his way out the door. The coffee was half gone (much to the regret of his taste buds) and cooled enough not to burn Watson when James stumbled into him. It would be counterproductive to give the man he was going to sway second degree coffee burns.
James poured onto the street and his work was done for him. Just as Watson walked into his immediate vicinity, a startlingly rude Londoner ploughed into James, sending his lanky frame careening into the doctor's much smaller person. On impact, his flimsy coffee cup exploded, showering the pair of them in cinnamon vanilla soy latte, the extra foam covering Watson's coat.
Completely ignoring the litany of curses flowing from the man's mouth, James slipped right into his character for the occasion. "I am so sorry," James said while fumbling inside his coat for a handkerchief. Watson tried to wave him off but James was insistent on wiping him down while apologizing profusely.
"No..really, it's fine," Watson ground out, snatching the handkerchief from James's hand and wiping himself down. James extracted yet another handkerchief, this one regrettably lavender in colour, and dabbed at his expensive wool coat and ruined cashmere scarf. One could never have too many handkerchiefs, though one should be more careful in choosing the colour. However, in this instant, lavender worked. It complimented the feminine drink and added just enough flare to catch the doctor's eye.
"Normally, I'm not this clumsy," James said reassuringly, frowning at the large spot that had formed on his front. He had actually liked that shirt.
"Sure," Watson grumbled, walking off to the side and dropping his bags of groceries against the coffee shop wall. James followed, giving up on his scarf. Pulling it from around his neck, James tossed the charcoal cashmere in the bin.
"I am so, very sorry," James pulled out his wallet, grabbing at bills. "Let me at least pay for the cleaner," Watson waved him off. Sighing, James reached out and touched the coat's collar, earning a skeptical look from the doctor. His eyes danced between James's hand and James's face, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion. "It's such a nice coat, I'd hate to ruin it with my clumsiness," James slowly traced the line of the collar and Watson swallowed, shuffling back.
He nodded. "Fine, you can pay for the cleaner," James smiled gratefully, pulling a bundle of notes from his wallet (calf-skin, a beautiful piece) and passed them off to Watson, along with a business card.
"If it can't be fixed, ring me and I'll replace it," James said affably. Watson took the card and the money suspiciously but was kind enough to thank him before scuttling away with his bags. James watched him run off, smirking.
That had gone well.
-
Two days later, James was ready to make contact for the second time. The first time had been interesting enough for the doctor to easily recall but not interesting enough for him to regard it as anything vital. He had continued to monitor Dr. Watson's movements through the security cameras he had accessed all over town. Nothing had changed in John Watson's routine, which was good. However, when Holmes set his sights on dealing with the break-ins and staged suicides, James had to admit it put a bee in his bonnet. The consulting detective was a nuisance. As was that she-doctor Watson seemed to be infatuated with; she was going to make his job a tad more difficult, more interesting.
Onto the street once more, this time paired with an umbrella. It was raining, as usual, and Watson had stepped out into it without any means to stay dry. He was off to the pharmacy, as was James. Coincidentally, James actually had business to attend to at the pharmacy and the fact that Dr. Watson was going to be there was pure luck, to an extent. James knew he would have to go the pharmacy within the week just as he knew that Watson would as well (he had recently been prescribed sleep aid) so he timed it to meet him there.
It was simple really, painfully so, but it had to be that way. Anything more complex and Holmes would catch on immediately. The eccentric genius had a habit of over complicating things. When presented with something so simple that there was no room for imaginative spins, Holmes had no choice but to accept it at face value. When meeting Holmes, James would be sure to put a touch here and there to cement the role he was taking on. He was a homosexual businessman, trapped in a relatively dull job that was looking for an escape with another man.
Browsing the pharmacy aisles for boric acid, James slowly made his way back to the counter where prescribed medications were doled out. As expected, Watson was there, filling a prescription. He was even wearing the coat James had spilled coffee on. Perfect.
Strolling up behind Watson, James plastered a small, pleasant smile on his face and tapped Watson's shoulder. The smaller man turned around, looking a tad peevish. "What?" He snapped at James who raised his hands in surrender.
"I come in peace," James laughed. Watson's expression softened slightly; he sighed and rolled his eyes, rubbing his face tiredly.
"Sorry, sorry," Watson sighed.
James waved him off. "It's alright. I just wanted to check to make sure your jacket wasn't permanently damaged from the other day," Watson looked down at his jacket then back up at James.
"Oh, it's fine," As if making sure, Watson ran a hand down his front where the coffee had been spilled. "I can't believe you remembered me,"
Giving a shrug, James answered flippantly that he had a talent for remembering faces. "And yours is a face that I certainly wouldn't forget anytime soon," James said, throwing a shy tone into his voice, and touching Watson's sleeve lightly. As expected, Watson looked a bit taken aback at first, then somewhat flattered. God, this was too easy. If he wanted, James was sure that he could work his way into John's trousers by the end of the day but that would be a poor idea.
Slow and steady always won the race.
"John Watson, Doctor," Watson introduced himself after a pause, offering his hand. James shook his hand lightly, gripping his hand gently with his palm down-turned ever so slightly.
"James Derby," He used one of his usual aliases. It was the alias he had chosen to use when handing Watson one of his business cards. He had several made out in many different names, carrying only one set at a time with matching ID and other information. James had carefully built each background so that no matter who he decided he was, he would be normal. "Accountant," He added with a small laugh. John (he couldn't very well call him Watson now. After all, they had been introduced) gave a small, hesitant smile in return.
"So, James the accountant," John started, turning to face James more completely, leaning on the counter lightly. "Can I call you Jim? Or Jimmy?"
Inwardly, James wrinkled his nose but outwardly plastered on a small, amused grin. "You can call me that, but I can't guarantee that I'll respond," John chuckled, mumbling something inane about him being right and James resisted the urge to assure John Watson that he, like Holmes, was always right.
Taking a moment to look around them, shuffling his feet a bit awkwardly, James decided then would be a good time to bite the proverbial bullet. "Ah…listen, John, are you open next Tuesday? We could get coffee," After waiting a carefully measured pause, "I promise I won't spill it on you this time," They laughed together, John nervous and James faking nervous.
John rubbed the back of his head, looked away, and sighed. "James…you're a really nice guy and all but-"John trailed off, giving an awkward chuckle paired with a small shoulder shrug.
"Oh," James feigned embarrassment, raising a hand to his mouth. "You're already with someone," James turned away a little. "I should have known. I'm sorry,"
"No! Oh no," John waved his hands around. "No, I'm not with anyone. It's just that I'm not…gay,"
Once again, James gave a wonderfully subtle but believable reaction (he must commend his own acting skills, they were superb). "Ah, I see," James said, looking away from John. Inside, he was clapping his hands like a sadistically gleeful child; what an idiot Dr. Watson was turning out to be. What did Sherlock Holmes see in him to deign him a worthy companion?
"I'm very sorry," James added, now looking down at his expensive loafers. "I'll...just be off then," James turned and walked away, making sure his body language was one part tense and one part drained and loose. He had just been turned down, disappointment would wrack his body as well as self-directed anger for assuming too much.
1...2...3...4...
There was a flurry of subdued movement behind him, the rustle of a pharmacy bag, and then footsteps hurrying to James's back. "James, hold on a moment,"
5.
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