Disclaimer: Not my characters. Not for profit.
Note: I found myself again inspired by Schubert, what I perceive as Moriarty's almost abnormal passion for music, and a my smutty imagination. Nothing special to warn for in this story.
Flat. Holmes frowned at the outline of his borrowed violin and started tuning it. The particular dockside street he currently occupied was not one of London's better lit, so his adjustments were made mostly by feel – which was rendered the more difficult by it not being one of London's warmer, drier streets either. There. When he was at last satisfied with the pitch of every string, he moved chilled fingers over the wood of the instrument, getting to know it. Smooth grain… glossy finish… smooth grain… rough indentations… The fiddle was as worn and scarred as the traveler from whom he had borrowed it.
Recalling the tired old Norwegian to his mind, the detective tried to recreate the music the man had made. The chords, however, escaped him, sounding weak and plaintiff rather than resonating with deep longing for snow-frosted cliffs and ice blue fjords. He sighed, breath misting in the cold, damp night. That's not going to work… If he was going to perfect this disguise, he clearly needed to expand his repertoire to include more Norwegian music. He did know a little Grieg, but after only a few measures, he knew that it was too modern, too tame, too polished for both this instrument and for the character he wished to become.
Foreign… It would render him uninteresting to the average Londoner. Well-travelled and adventurous… Those descriptors summoned an image of Watson that he swiftly pushed away – not thinking about his erstwhile companion was an unvoiced reason for his current activity. Well-travelled and adventurous, but lonely – a bit out of place and time… It would be a persona whose story was so indelibly written in his appearance, music, and actions that no one would bother to look beyond them.
Perhaps folk music would suit "him?" Holmes scraped out snatches of old folk songs, then shifted into a Scottish air, and then went on to snippets from sea shanties before he abandoned them, their mismatched remnant notes still echoing in the chilly air and drawing a shout from an illicit denizen of the derelict building at his back. Too British – all of it. He moved the bow across the strings in soft, random chords as he delved his mental library for any bit of music that might serve.
Screech. The strings complained stridently when a shiver – an involuntary response to a sudden cold gust off the river – shook both his frame and his bow hand. The first breath of winter, I think—
"Ah!" He accompanied his exclamation with a more deliberate, musical chord that he quickly softened and mellowed to a simple, sorrowful melody. Schubert's Winterreise… I'd nearly forgotten it. He had adapted the first song in the cycle many years ago: an offering (in lieu of rent) to Mrs. Hudson, who enjoyed sad romantic ballads. Who would have thought it would prove useful again? The uncomplicated beauty of the piece and the timelessness of both its melody and theme… An excellent choice.
But perhaps a too excellent performance? Holmes' character would never have acquired an educated polish to his playing. His technique would have to be more instinctive and emotive.
The detective shifted his hold on the fiddle, drawing it more intimately close. He sacrificed consistent tempo and finesse to lavish emphasis on the more emotional passages. "Gute Nacht,"he recalled the name of the song, as well as its story. A note of farewell to a would-be lover who has turned to another…
…Watson… The name – and the image of twinkling blue eyes and a rueful smile – came unbidden. Empty rooms… the wedding… that constant dull ache that sharpens in the night… Holmes could not stop the unwanted, unwilled flow of pent-up feeling and sensation, so he pushed each away as it came, pouring them all into the music he played. "Good night," the violin cried softly, sending strains of bitter loneliness to fade to nothing in the cold and dark…
"An unusual performance." He inadvertently drew another unmusical squawk from the violin as a soft voice interrupted his brief reverie. "Most…striking."
It can't be. The voice was hushed, its usual smoky velvet tones made huskier by the low volume and whatever indistinct emotion filled it, but the detective would recognize it anywhere. Professor James Moriarty? He took a careful look up, angling his head so that the droopy brim of his shabby hat kept his face in shadow. His companion was taking similar precautions: the collar of his coat was turned up and the brim of his top hat was pulled low. Still… the glint of lamplight on a fair beard… the solid yet elegant build and poise… the indefinable air of menace… It was unmistakably Moriarty, looking entirely out of place in his fine, immaculate clothes. Yet we both know how at home you are in the shadows.
"Thank you, sir," he finally replied to the other man's compliment, mimicking the Norwegian traveler's accent as best he could.
"You favor Schubert?" the professor asked, tone intimate, voice caressing the syllables of the composer's name.
"Schubert?" Holmes shrugged, using the motion to disguise the shiver caused by that tone. "I favor the songs that favor me."
"I believe another Schubert—" Moriarty cut off his own words with a brief wave of a white-gloved hand. "Another Austrian song would favor you greatly right now." He reached into a pocket and pulled out a silver coin that glittered slightly in the faint light.
"Well now." The detective paused, one part of his mind calculating risk versus benefit (What might I learn from him in an unguarded moment…? But if he should draw closer and recognize me somehow…?), while another searched his memory for another lied (Schubert composed so little for the violin… not many transpositions…). "I may have something for you then…" He rapidly reached a decision, though a choice in song took a moment more. After a few pretended adjustments to his instrument, he began to play mezzo piano.
"Nacht und Träume," his listener commented after a few bars. The fingers of the man's free hand started moving minutely, as if conducting. They twitched and jerked in suggested irritation whenever there was a misplayed chord of the tempo was fumbled.
He really is quite fond of Schubert, Holmes mused abstractedly as he sacrificed part of his character and polished his performance so as not to lose his audience. More pertinently, he observed, clearly dressed for society. No signs or stains visible to indicate other activities. Dock smells covering any other odors… Where have you been, Professor?
He made another quick decision, easing some pressure on his bow and doing a decrescendo to piano. As he had hoped, this drew Moriarty closer. However, it only served to illuminate to the detective how much his adversary was affected by music. Hmm… Curiosity more distinctly sparked, he shifted a bit more of his attention into the song. Night and dreams… He did not doubt that for Moriarty, the latter were darker even than the former. With this in mind, he changed key and shifted the range down to that in which a baritone might sing the song. He drew out all the darkness he could find in the music in hopes of producing a similar effect on the other man.
And he watched from the corner of his eye – was mesmerized in his periphery – how well it succeeded. The professor took another unconscious step forward, exposing his face to a dim shaft of lamplight. His gaze, unshuttered and glinting amber in the lamp's glow, fixed on Holmes with an intensity that brought gooseflesh to the detective's arms and a quiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
"Most… striking." Moriarty's words echoed in Holmes' mind. Striking, indeed. He had been aware, naturally, of the criminal mastermind's interest in music, but now he understood just how far it went. Passion. The word struck a warm answering chord in him that came out in his playing. And he watched that note – that feeling – catch in Moriarty's throat and ignite in his eyes.
The last notes vibrated softly in the air between them. "Another," the professor rasped before they completely faded, echoing Holmes' unvoiced desire.
The power I have over him right now… It was exhilarating, intoxicating – stronger than cocaine. His bow quivered across the strings, loosing tense, heated chords as he rapidly searched his repertoire for their next fix. Yes. With the hint of a smile curving his lips, he segued his tuneless chords into a dramatic motif.
And watched, gaze now directly fixed on Moriarty, as the other man gasped inaudibly, right hand clenching involuntarily around the coin it held. "Erlkrönig…" he breathed, steaming the air before him.
Perfect, Holmes purred mentally as he furiously, passionately – almost savagely at times – played the alternating passages of fear, seduction, and menace. All the attention he could spare from his performance, he fastened onto his audience, taking in every tensing of muscle, every twitch of beard-framed lips, and every flame that flickered in his slitted gaze… Basking in the molten emotion that radiated from the usually cold mastermind, until the heady effect of watching Moriarty come undone (at my hands!) became dizzying and forced the detective's gaze down. Still, he felt the other man's heat building and drawing closer. Heard his ragged respiration speeding to match tempo with the violin.
Holmes only noticed the rapidity of his own breathing after he brought the song to a close with a final, thrilling flourish. That was… Words failed him. All he could do was lower his borrowed fiddle and stare at its dark outline as he tried to catch his breath.
"Player." He was startled out of his by a voice that was now more smoke than velvet and a hand on his shoulder. The touch moved to his chin, tipping his head back until he was once more meeting Moriarty's gaze.
He's… The finger on Holmes' jaw trembled ever so slightly and he could feel its heat even through the glove. Moriarty's eyes seemed almost to glow and even in the dim light, the detective could make out the feverish flush tinting the other man's face. And his aura, his smell emanated… He's aroused. Holmes' heart fluttered in his breast, sending hot-winged butterflies down into his stomach and up the length of his spine.
"How would you like to earn tenfold this?" The professor's other hand moved upward to brush the coin he held along the detective's stubbled cheek. His eyes were filled with dark invitation and a clear intimation of his meaning.
Holmes swallowed, hard, hoping it might settle the disquiet in his stomach. The unsettled, though strangely not unpleasant sensation only moved deeper in his gut. "Here?" he asked, barely remembering to accent his voice.
Instead of answering, Moriarty's gloved, heated fingers drew violin and bow from the seated man's hands. After setting them on a low, broken crate, he coaxed the detective up and into the deeper shadows between more crates stacked in the alley siding the building. He stood with his back to the wall and he gently pushed Holmes down to his knees before him. "You know what to do?" His voice was silk over sandpaper.
This time, it was the detective who responded with actions rather than words. He reached up and ran his right palm up Moriarty's thigh, over the solid bulge in his trousers, and to the buckle of his belt. The professor gave a muted grunt and, when Holmes repeated the action with his left hand, rocked his hips forward, thrusting into that touch. The motion continued, a subtle undulation, as the detective's fingers first unfastened the belt and then opened the front of the other man's trousers. He brushed aside the fine cloth and cupped Moriarty's arousal over his undergarments, eliciting a deeper, rougher, more impatient grunt and another buck of the man's hips.
Mmm… Fascinated and aroused in equal measures by the effect he was having, Holmes leaned forward and ran his tongue over the professor's clothed erection in a long, slow, experimental stroke.
The sound Moriarty made at that was a harsh, purring growl, equal parts pleasure and frustration. His hands moved swiftly forward, knocking the hat off Holmes' head and tangling gloved fingers in his hair. "Sforzando," he commanded as he pulled the detective's face closer, threat implicit in the pressure of his touch and underlying the restive lust in his voice.
"Mm…" The air of danger only sparked Holmes' own desire, sending sensual currents down his frame to concentrate in his abdomen and stir his own manhood. Less steady, more hurried now, his fingers tugged at Moriarty's underwear, pulling it down to release his arousal. He hummed another note of longing as he drew closer, smelling his partner: a heady mix of sex and foreign herbs. A part of the detective's consciousness recognized the distinctive soap used at one of London's Turkish baths; stored the knowledge for later. A more distant, weaker part of his brain protested his recklessness and depravity as he parted his lips and took the tip of Moriarty's erection into his mouth…
…But at the man's purr of satisfaction, the tightening of his fingers in Holmes' hair, the unexpected sweetness of his taste on the detective's tongue… All moral and logical thought went away. The only observations Holmes made were of all the ways his touch affected his adversary: how the caress of his fingers at the base of Moriarty's shaft coaxed heated whispers of Schubert lyrics from his lips… How the alternately strong and teasing pressure of his tongue along the professor's length made the man's fingers alternately stroke and pull Holmes' hair… How the slow, sucking withdrawal of his lips caused Moriarty's grip to tighten spasmodically while his hips thrust harder, pushing himself back into the detective's mouth, deeper.
So close… Holmes was unsure which of them he meant as he lowered his right hand to his own groin and started rubbing furiously as his own clothed arousal. His left hand moved to the joint of Moriarty's thigh and groin, fingers kneading and pressing back against the other man's thrusts as his thumb stroked heated, sensitive flesh. His lips and tongue worked as feverishly as his right hand, moving back and forth, sucking, blowing, stroking, nipping until—
"Umph," Moriarty loosed a breathless staccato grunt, his fingers roughly pulling at Holmes and pushing himself in deeper in a move that was more instinctive than dominating. Then, with a long, oddly musical groan, his shaft pulsed and vibrated in the detective's mouth, filling it with his seed. And, as Holmes' mouth and throat worked to take in the other man's release, the grip on his scalp eased to an arrhythmic massage while an uncontrolled flow of German verse poured from the professor's lips.
He's… he's… Whatever descriptor he might have found for the state to which he had brought his rival was lost in an explosion of white. The next thing he was aware of was the slick, solid feel of pavement beneath him and against his left palm… Then, the satiated torpor of his limbs… the pleasant flush of heat radiating out from his core… the soft rasp of his own respiration as he caught his breath…
It was not until he also heard the faint rustle of clothing and muted clatter of metal as Moriarty tidied his appearance that Holmes realized that he had reached in own climax not long after the professor's. Ah. His right hand still rested on the now damp front of his trousers and he gave his softening manhood a final, gentler caress before raising that hand to wipe at the moisture around his mouth. He drew a finger into his mouth, abstractedly analyzing the mix of bitter, sweet, sour, and salty that composed Moriarty's flavor.
"Here," the standing man offered, silken voice still roughened slightly by passion. The word was followed by the sensation of linen tickling Holmes' cheek and he perceived that the pale outline of his face must have been visible even in the dark alley.
What will come, will come. He lacked the energy at that moment to care if the other man might recognize him – some part of him might even have wished it. "My thanks," he whispered, still remembering to add the foreign lilt to his voice, as he took the proffered handkerchief.
"You may keep it," was the somewhat cooler, smoother reply as Moriarty moved away from him. A soft tinkling of coins sounded as the professor dropped Holmes' "earnings" into his fallen hat. The detective watched his silhouette once more raise the collar of his coat and resettle his top hat before the man moved toward him again. "Farewell," Moriarty whispered, lightly running a gloved finger along the backs of Holmes' shoulders, "Player." The firm, steady rhythm of his receding footsteps contrasted the soft note of regret in his voice.
Till we meet again, Professor, the detective silently promised as he at last rose and moved back to where his borrowed violin and bow had been left. He resumed his previous seat and absently brought the handkerchief he held to his face. Gunpowder, he smelled, and a hint of glycerol. The corners of his lips curved upward as he wiped at them with the cloth. Still smiling, he pocketed it and filled his hands instead with bow and fiddle.
The loneliness was not gone, he knew as he quietly played again the last refrain from Nacht und Träume – it had not even abated. However, with the memory Moriarty's passion and weakness still in his senses – and the ghost of his touch still tingling his shoulders – he understood what would temporarily replace it.
Exhilaration and challenge. The last chords of the lied sounded louder, more dramatic, musically embodying the words he had just thought.
There was an entirely new, exciting game afoot.