A/N: I've had this head canon for quite a while now, so I decided to go ahead and type it up!
Wow it has been literally months since I've written anything so this may suck. And it's pretty darn short… Oh well.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle does. (And I guess you could argue for BBC's ownership but whatever)
For the record, she was entirely against this. Kitty eyed her ridiculous looking pigtails with sheer loathing. In her own opinion, her hair looked much better up in a ponytail or bun. But her bloody boss wanted her to look 'childish' and 'sweet'.
I wonder how sweet I'll look if I shove a sniper up his ass. She thought angrily.
With a huff, Kitty straightened her (bloody stupid looking) deer stalker, and unbuttoned the top few buttons of her white blouse. She glared daggers at her own reflection, sighing when a cheerful ding sounded from her cell phone. Reaching her hand into the pocket she had inside of her jacket, she pulled out her somewhat new phone, and read the text message that had just came in.
Stick to the plan. Don't screw this up -JM
Growling low in her throat, she shoved the phone back into her pocket, and pulled out the printer ink. With a steady hand, she smeared a bit on her hands. This should give that bloody detective something to go off of. She looked at herself uncomfortably, shifting her weight to get used to the heels she wore.
Her balance felt completely off. Without her trusty sniper rifle hanging from her back she felt exposed. Worst of all, Jim was making her do a complete 180 concerning her personality. Act like a rabid fan on his, won't you, dear? Oh joy. The only thing, or rather, person, that Jim seemed to want to talk about these past months was dear old Sherlock. Basically, Jim was asking her to act like himself. Go out there and gush about him. Give him a show. At least she knew enough about him, what with Jim's incessant babbling about how great and how brilliant Sherlock was.
Her phone let off a different toned ding, and without even looking at it, she knew that it was time.
Might as well go and see what this detective's made of.
Kitty walked out of the bathroom and immediately opened the door to the men's restroom. Time to make a horrible first impression.
"You look stupid in that," Kitty said, not looking up from the riveting article all about the shocking verdict passed on to her boss.
Moriarty had just finished changing into his 'Brooke' clothes, and mussing up his hair. He gave her a crooked smile, and leaned on the wall.
"Oh come on, 'Kitty'!" Jim crooned, pushing himself off of the wall and sauntering closer to her.
"You know I hate that name, you idiot," 'Kitty' said, exasperated with her boss's attitude.
"You're such a spoil sport, Moran," Jim groaned, plopping down onto the couch and haphazardly propping his feet up on the coffee table.
Jim closed his eyes and placed his hands behind his head, sighing deeply in relaxation.
Moran rolled down the newspaper she was holding and glared daggers at Jim. Or more precisely, Jim's feet, and where they were. With a chilling smile, she sat the newspaper down and coughed politely to get Jim's attention. He opened his eyes lazily and fixed her with an unimpressed stare.
"The last man to put his feet up on my coffee table had the privilege of having his brain decorate my walls," She said, and Moriarty let out a giggle, closing his eyes once again.
"Of course he did. But as our dearest Sherlock," Moriarty crooned, "stated, I'm not a man, I'm a spider."
"All the easier to squash," Moran grumbled.
Moriarty let out a hard laugh.
"Every once in a while I find myself confused as to why I let you talk to me like that, "Moriarty's voice suddenly became hard, "After all, the last man to laugh at me ended up face down in a swimming pool, if you remember."
Moran shrugged, used to her boss's threats by now. Smiling, she studied her nails, newly repainted, and stayed quiet for a moment before staring at Moriarty.
"If you remember, I am no man," Moran commentated lazily, as Moriarty let out a huff of laughter.
"No you most certainly aren't," He sighed, as Moran went back to studying her nails.
"I thought," She began lazily, "that you had a plan to deal with that ridiculous consulting detective."
Seeing Moriarty's mouth open, she hurried on.
"Something other than, 'Make up a new identity and force poor old Moran to keep me in her new apartment while spreading lies about The Virgin'," Moran said, glaring at Jim, "You know? Something concrete, something that is an actual plan instead of some ridiculous game that you are intent on playing with Holmes."
Moriarty tutted from the couch, eyes cracking open to peer at Moran.
"You have no sense of fun, Kitty. You'd much rather me give you something to shoot at rather than just sit back and watch the target slowly unravel and fall apart," He drawled.
"You're right. I don't understand why you're playing this ridiculous game of Cat and Mouse, in which I don't even know which one of you is which anymore, when I could just as easily grab my sniper and just finish him off! And you're keeping me locked up here, making me act like some fucking reporter lady, when I should be out in the field!" Moran snapped, hands gripping the poor arms of the chair in a death grip.
Moriarty smiled a bit, and finally opened his eyes.
"When I asked you if you wanted to see more action after your removal from the war, I told you that you would have to play by my rules. If all goes according to plan you'll be out in the field very soon. You just have to be patient," He said calmly, as Moran seethed.
She let out a sigh finally and sat back in the chair.
"Okay, so what happens next, Mr. Brooke?" She asked, rubbing her temples and trying to calm herself down.
"Now, the game begins," Moriarty said, smiling widely as Moran sighed.