Written for this prompt: In this AU soul mates always find one another fairly easily, usually very early in life. John and Sherlock's souls have always found each other lifetime after lifetime, and so have Moriarty and Moran's.
But an aberration occurs in the present incarnations and John Watson winds up as Jim's right hand man, and Sebastian Moran winds up as Sherlock's flatmate and friend. None of them realize anything is wrong until the night they all finally meet at the pool and then it all starts to unravel. John's got a sniper rifle trained on Sherlock, Moran's readying himself to grab Moriarty and tell Sherlock to run, but suddenly both John and Seb get the overwhelming sensation that they've devoted themselves to the wrong person.
Gen if you want or eventual Sherlock/John, Jim/Seb.
Warnings: It will be dark. Foul language, sexual situations, violence. And sooo much of bad writing. Sorry, but I keep on inflicting my ideas to the world in such ridiulous manner.
Enjoy? Please? And please comment, whether you liked it or not!
WRONG
PART 1
Mike Stamford turned out to be as nice, calm, collected, normal and, as goddamned boring, as John remembered him from their early years. And there he thought that a few more years of walking this crazy world would teach Stamfy that irony is not, in fact, a French dish, and sarcasm is not a Spanish city; if anything, it appeared that the man became even more convinced about those facts. But John forced himself to uphold the small talk – he was a civilian now, an army surgeon with shaking hands and panic attacks, one of those little, antlike, boring and plain men, even if unwillingly. Small talks were good. Throwing coffee in your acquaintance face was not. Small steps.
"Maybe you should find yourself a flatmate? Or better job?" said Stamford, and John had to clench his fist to prevent himself from screaming 'I killed seven people with my bare hands, I don't want to want a flatmate, I don't want to have a bloody better job, I want to look them in the eye and...'.
"C'mon. Who would want me for a flatmate... And who would want me as an employee." he snorted instead; to his surprise, so did Mike.
"You know, that's second time I've heard both today. One guy from our lab searches for a flatmate, and second for a bodyguard for his sister's company - the story is, frankly, quite crazy. But let me tell you about Sherlock Holmes, the flatmate..."
"No, Mike, tell me about that bodyguard position, sounds... fun."
And in two hours John Watson met Jim Moriarty, who, as it turned out, was not looking for a bodyguard, but rather a doctor to patch up some of bodyguards in his sister's agency. Messy work, many injuries, many violent actions, much too much for a PSTD ex – army doctor.
"And it might get a bit dangerous" admitted Jim, swaying in his office chair, smiling from over the computer he currently occupied. "Her men specialise in a bit... messy cases, you understand, and there might be some glitches, so their doctor might be on the wrong side of someone's fist and I really wouldn't want you to..."
"This position is perfect" cut in John, then suddenly realising what it might be all about, elaborated. "Well, my hand might not be up to brain surgeries, but I can do basic stuff better that your average GP, and I have a lot of experience with soldiers..."
"Your hands. Show me your hands! " Jim threw himself from the chair to grab John's hands in grip so strang that the circulation almost stopped. For the first time young programmer looked remotely interested, what pleased John although he didn't quite follow what could it be that rigged such a response. Jim smiled warmly after short examination, however did remove his hands.
"You play with the guns, Doctor, and you play frequently. Naughty, naughty... Tell me, are you any good?"
"Very good"
Three days later John was up to his elbows in man's ripped open abdomen, trying to save as much as he could with equipment found in the small, dark and musky flat in the middle of nowhere.
Three weeks later, in Argentina, he was digging out bullets from hitman's shoulder, as the projectiles swished mere centimetres above their heads.
Three months later he stood by the window in horrifyingly expensive and tasteless apartment in Dubai, taking aim on some of Jim's enemies who attended the party in the apartment across the street.
Four months later, John woke up in a hospital to the sight of Jim biting his nails so hard it drew blood ("Never, Johnny, never get yourself shot again, you understand? You're my right fucking hand and I don't like having it operated for four hours, thirty two minutes and nineteen seconds!").
Half a year later John and Jim sat in one of the safehouses watching Bond marathon ("Doctor's orders, Jimmy"), eating messily real Chinese takeaway when their lips met, for a seconds, minutes or days, they couldn't really tell and they didn't care at all.
It was great. It was everything John ever wanted. It was more than he could ever dream of wanting. It was perfect.
It really was.
"Afganistan or Iraq?" asked strange, tall man, who walked into interrogation room as if he owned not only the place, but several countries and a few kingdoms as well. If Sebastian Moran was a normal, ordinary citizen, he would probably piss his pants or faint in anticipation of most elaborative torture methods. But even if you could say many things about Colonel Moran, the world 'ordinary' would be the last one you would think of – well, maybe just before 'sweet', 'cute' and 'meretricious' (who the hell WOULD ever think of the word meretricious, anyway).
"Both. And I have ripped out the hearts of enemies with my bare teeth, with hands tied on my back, and with both legs cut off" he said, just to unnerve this pretty young sergeant, Sally or something, who was so beautifully pissed off all the time. Tall man raised his left eyebrow contemplatively.
"Both legs cut off?" he asked, and Sebastian could swear there was a smile in his voice even if he face remained passive.
"I didn't tell you those were my legs" he smiled cheekily. "Or, for that matter, hands."
Instead of the answer, all he got was a most unsettling stare he ever encountered. It wasn't aggressive; it was neither a challenge, nor disapproval. But it cut you in pieces, dissected your demeanour, drilled into your skull and examined every spot, scar and defect you had, made you think of what he sees, remember that you didn't really brush your teeth this morning and that you forgot to call your mother the day she died... It was disgusting and horrible and Sebastian wanted this man to take him apart just to see what the hell he could find, wanted to show the depths, the dark spots, blood and dead bodies lurking, just to... Check. Himself, this man, just to prove he was not normal, not ordinary, that Spook will not just turn around and forget one of dozens others who came and went.
He was so wind up, he didn't notice when pretty sergeant changed into tired inspector in old, worn out suit.
"So, no questions, Sherlock?" asked policeman, Lestode, Lestrade, something with an L, and Sebastian suddenly realised he was holding his breath like some goddamned schoolgirl on first date. Spook, or rather, Sherlock, just rolled his eyes and Sebastian felt sudden pang of remorse.
"Any idiot would see that he didn't do it, Lestrade, what is a testament of the skill of entire police force combined. Look at his fingers! Just look at his HANDS!"
"I am looking"
"Do you see it?"
"What?" this time Sebastian decided to remind everyone that he might be a bit more conscious than a lamp or a table and someone could try talking about him as he was there, for a change. Sherlock let out a long sight, full of pain and general suffering.
"The girl was strangled with a rope. The killer did not use gloves. The rope was rough. Do I need to go on?"
"I've got clean, not scratched hands" understood Sebastian finally. "So you know I'm innocent. Nice one, this guessing thing, although I came to that conclusion a bit earlier than you."
"Deduction" said Spook standing up, and adjusting his scarf. Sebastian let out an eloquent 'huh?'. "This, as you put it, 'guessing thing' is called deduction. And, using it, I can tell you're looking for a flatmate. The one, preferably, who could put up with your fascination with weaponry... ("Purely scientific" explained quickly Moran to Lestrade.) How do you feel about the violin?"
Two days later Sherlock Holmes and Sebastian Moran solved their first crime together and giggled on the crime scene for the first time. Two months later, they became inseparable, and Sebastan's collection of knives and guns rose steadily, while Sherlock had a great time playing with the poisons Sebastian was getting him with some help from his old, army friends. Half a year later they heard the name Moriarty for the first time and started The Hunt.
If Sebastian was any happier, he would explode.
He almost did, in the end. Or in the beginning, it's hard to tell for sure. Things got complicated and time was one of the last problems he had, with Sherlock Bloody Holmes almost getting himself killed, John Fuckin' Watson shooting from all the buildings and (probably) a few kennels and dustbins, Sally Donovan dumping him (either predictably painful, or painfully predictable, that one) and last but certainly not least James Holy Gay Knickers Of Doom Moriarty who was (in alphabetical order) crazy creepy, cruel, eerie, fascinating, frightening, handsome, insane, mad, maddening, psychopathic, sick, sinister, terrifying and well dressed.
Moriarty lurked in the shadows of Sherlock's cases, his name hanging in the musky air of the worst gambling dens and resounding in subtle clicks of vine – glasses in the most posh clubs. For all Sebastian knew, he and Sherlock were pursuing the ghost, some wicked and twisted spirit of pure crime and suffering. But they tried (to be honest, Sherlock tried while Sebastian tried to look useful and badass) their best to find this yellow brick road to the famous wizard of Crime, even though London they saw was still Kansas – the more Sherlock looked, the more there was no sign of anybody under the name of 'Moriarty'.
However Sebastian knew that when the moment came, he would recognise the man from the mile and on his scent alone. It was not something he would confess to Sherlock, of course: strange feelings, premonitions and old wives' tales were listed in "Are you kidding me" section, the one Moriarty learned quick not to explore. But he just had this hunch, twist in his gut, that he just knew the man - his tongue turning exactly right while saying his name.
Both Sherlock and Sebastian looked into the void of organised crime, fuelled with fascination and (let's be honest) a bit of very unwanted admiration, so it was just a matter of time when the void looked back. With a bang.
"Hello, Lestrade, still having trouble with the easiest things? It's a wonder you manage to tie your shoelaces... Ah, so there is an explanation for the state of Sally's knees." smirked Sherlock Holmes walking into DI's office, with his faithful sidekick in tow. Lestrade hated Sebastian Moran with all his might, and suspected that his troubles with 'brainwork' were mostly due to the devoting 90% of his brain capability to hiding the disgust he felt in man's presence. Sherlock Holmes was never a good man - great, yes, brilliant - always, genius – no doubt, but he was never the one to escort old ladies across the street without a legitimate reason in form of a gory murder; and with this colonel of his he tried to... the best term was, Lestrade supposed, show off, deducing the most private secrets, sharpening the razor of his witticism and dark humour.
Sebastian Moran was witty, calm and collected man; he was rather liked by Lestrade's team (with notable exception of Anderson and Lestrade himself) for bringing stability and humour on the crime scenes, not allowing anyone to really feel how bad was the situation.
( "He was an accountant? Well, I guess it was rather taxing day for him" he would say innocently when Sherlock bend down to examine the corpse, and it was damn hard not to giggle while collecting samples of blood from the walls of this home – made butchery.)
But he was... wrong. Unsettling.
"I called you here, Sherlock, because we received a package today" started Lestrade, trying not to look at Moran, who flirted openly with Sally. Before consulting detective could roll his eyes, DI continued. "It was addressed to you, and we had enough sense to X – ray it to see if it was a bomb. Guess what."
"Oh no, it was a bomb." mocked Sherlock, looking around expectantly, as if offending package would appear suddenly out of thin air. "Where is it?"
"You really think I'd keep a bomb in my office? I gave it to the bomb squad, but I took the letter attached." Lestrade raised heavy, expensive envelope with Sherlock's name written in big, neat letters. Holmes snatched it, and Moran shuffled closer to take a look.
"Written by a man, slight hand tremor, sure of himself, strong hands, paper is expensive... Bohemian, yes." muttered Sherlock, while carefully opening the envelope (with help of Sebastain's knife, which appeared suddenly in his hand) and taking out a letter and a photo.
A chair standing in the middle of small, dark room. Moran looked at the photo in concentration that could, probably, move mountains but with something as ethereal as a picture it didn't stand a chance.
"A room? A bloody room? What is that, invisible date?"
"Dear Sherlock Holmes," read consulting detective aloud "My name is Moriary and I am very happy to be your new pen pal! I think we have much in common and you trying to stalk me is such a great bonding time, don't you think?
Now I should tell you something about myself, right? Well, where would be fun in THAT? But, as much as you, I like playing games, so instead of commenting on each other's musical tastes (I prefer Led Zeppelin to Bach, incidentally) we might indulge ourselves in one mystery and misery game. The clue is on the photo, Sherlock Holmes, and you must solve the case (that's the mystery part – I am aware that you read it aloud to some idiots, so I thought that spelling it out would be polite) as fast as you can – every two hours someone will accidentally drop dead. Oops. That's, if your harem didn't get it, the misery part.
Looking forward to hearing from you,
M
PS – You might also decline and stop being my bestest pen pal, of course. All it would take is for you to stop pursuing me in such a sweet manner. I HAVE a boyfriend, you know. Say you won't fight me, burn your files and we'll be gold. But we both know good game, don't we?
love&hugs, but not too much (boyfriend, remember?),
XXX"
"Wow" silence that followed was broken, of course, by Moran, who tried his best to hide a smirk forming on his face ('tried' is the keyword there, unlike Sherlock the man could not act if his life depended on it). "The guy has guts, I must say."
Sherlock stood in silence, eyes fixed on a piece of paper as it held answers for all the problems of modern world; to Lestrade's astonishment, he, too, wore a slight smirk, reserved usually for confrontations with the most interesting murderers he caught – it was joy, excitement and pride. DI shook his head, not wanting to think where Sherlock's thought were wandering right now, he just had to stop this.
"Sherlock, just ease up a bit, will you? I think you should really consider dropping this Moriarty search right now, and get back to it when he abandon's the idea of..."
"You think he's serious?" cut in Sally, the same time as Moran huffed in irritation short "Are you serious, abandoning the search?"
"The man who sends a bomb is usually quite serious and I don't want to wait till someone is killed to check this. And I don't like the idea of people getting murdered on regular intervals!" Lestarde tred to keep hs anger in check; he folded his arms, trying his best not to look at still bend over the letter Sherlock, wonderful, brilliant Sherlock who certainly could see the madness, the mindless destruction the 'game' will bring, who could stop this before it begun. DI hoped, time after time, that one day Sherlock will choose what is right. He grabbed Sherlock arm, forcing him to look up. "Sherlock, think of this; every two hours one person, that makes 12 a day, all you have is photo... This could go on for weeks! Think. Of. Those. People."
"Where's your perspective, Inspector?" chimed in Moran, positioning himself between two man, shielding Sherlock from... who knew? "People will die, yes. But if we catch Moriarty the crime rate will drop for years! Sherlock discovered he had a hand in 70% of organised crimes in last three years. Think of it! What is 12 people to hundreds of killed, hurt, robbed and raped?
Damned Moran. There WAS something in Sherlock's eye, Lestrade was sure, there was some sort of regret before, but after those words the consulting detective resumed his indifferent pose.
"I will crack the case as fast as I can. And you, Lestrade, try to find what you can about the bomb. In two hours we will know how he kills; then you will have more to do. Goodbye. "
And he left with a swirl of his damned coat, with his damned sidekick at his heels. Lestrade wanted to punch the wall in frustration.
It didn't exactly help when he overheard Sally talking about her date tomorrow, with the Sebastian Fuckin' Moran.
"I think I'm starting to get jealous" muttered John from the kitchen of their suite, pouring himself a cup of tea, pointedly ignoring naked Jim Moriarty, who was spread all over the table in the living room, buried deep in the photos, files and documents about Holmes. "I come back from Pakistan. Tired, sore and dying from tea – deprivation. And what is the first thing I hear when I come home? Was it 'Johnny, how nice to see you, look, I'm making tea for you'?"
"But I'm naked" said Jim impatiently, flipping through thick dossier that was so top secret you should burn it before reading. "Last time you mentioned that as a preferable form of welcoming."
"Yes, but the part with dragging to bedroom was not including walls covered with photos of some completely unfamiliar guy and shouts of 'look John, this is Sherlock, I'm going to kill him soon, omgomgomg' and girly squeaks."
"You still didn't look" sulked Jim, who made the effort and rolled from the table just to corner John between the fridge and the counter, kissed him soundly, and almost threw in his face photo of Sherlock Holmes. John, out of pure reflex and in post – kiss haze (what was it with this madman leaving him all restless and bothered after a single kiss?), caught it and, out of habit this time, looked into the face of their archenemy.
It was beautiful. The man was... just beautiful and as much as John wanted to find any other word there was none. He wasn't handsome; the face was tad too long, his lips a bit too thin. He didn't look nice; entire man radiated with cold and indifference. And the eyes - even on the photo John could feel how sharply they would dig into the brain, all wits and intelligence, stripping your soul and clawing into the mind. For the first time in many, many years John couldn't remember how to breathe properly, out of the sheer force of this picture... He never saw Holmes, of course, but he knew, somehow, that his movements were fast, sharp and catlike, predatory and when he turns, the coat...
And there was Jim, clearing his throat with amusement (jealousy?), grabbing the photo and draping himself all over John, kissing him in earnest this time, tongue exploring, hands claiming what was theirs.
Coat, he thought as Jim's nails dug painfully into his back. There was a coat, John was sure.
Jim drew back and chuckled, but there was an edgethe Doctor learned not to ignore.
"Not in the mood, are you" he asked, and before John could explain (how? 'there was a coat and I can't get it out of my head'? Romantic, that is. 'I'm tired'? Jim always knew when he was lying, anyway) Jim in one fluid move threw John at the fridge, face first, and twisted his bad, left arm behind his back.
John hissed in pain.
"I have to go now, Johnny. I love you, but you see... business. John. John. Johnny. Masturbate for me tonight. I will know, and it will be beautiful, I'll sit with those idiots and I'll know you are on the bed, all hot and messy and hard just for me. Just. For. Me." with three last words Jim pulled his lover's hand a bit higher, just to emphasise the point. John bit back a groan of pain, but managed nonetheless to say, if just a little out of breath:
"I'd rather do it with you, Jimmy. I'm just back... stay?"
"I love you" Jim instantly let John go, and kissed him again, tenderly this time. "Be a good boy. I WILL know."
John nodded, taught time and time again that Jim meant every word, and that his wishes were not really guidlines. But of course Jim couldn't really know what John thought about, could he? And those eyes...
John kissed Jim back, fighting the urge to back away and run, thinking where exactly in the last 20 minutes it went all wrong. He loved Jim. He loved JIM.