Title: "Playmates"
Pairing: Sherlock/Moriarty
TV Show: BBC Sherlock
Word Count: ~600
Rating: G

A/N: This is the first time I've ever done a Moriarty-centric fic. Well.

I do prompts on Tumblr from time to time, and this was something requested.

Enjoy!

x x x x x x x x x x x x x

Sherlock hated parties. They were always so predictable. The child would scream and run around, play with meaningless toys, make their friends do something they themselves don't want to do, then eat cake (Mycroft loved parties for this, he was sure). Their presents weren't any better—those that wrapped them did nothing to hide what was inside. An action figure, clothes, toy gun, and some type of disc. Boring.

He stood in the corner of the room, watching the guests interact with one another while the children played. He would play, but they hated his games. Someone usually ended up crying, which was not how Sherlock wanted it to end. He didn't mind, he liked playing his other game.

Another boy stood next to him, eating a piece of cake. "You should have some," the boy whispered, "it'll make you seem normal."

"Normal, normalcy's boring," he quickly replied.

"It's not very good," the boy commented.

"Too much sugar, the color is too dark," Sherlock noted. The boy smiled.

"Just as how the boy outside is too dark for two white parents?"

Sherlock looked out the window. Come to think of it, the boy was a bit tanner than the rest. Could be because of sunlight, but no tan lines were visible. "I'm Jim," Sherlock turned back to the little boy next to him. "I'm just like you, some say. They wanted me to befriend you."

"Is that so?"

"Just," he said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow—just like him? A sociopath? "You've been watching people, I can tell."

Sherlock looked back at the party. "They're all trying to hide something, so it's a little game I play."

"Have you found anyone interesting?"

"The woman in the corner next to the table is a maid. You can tell by the way she is slouching. The man over there has been to jail. His rigid forehead is a sign that he's been out for not that long," Jim scanned the room with Sherlock, pointing at others.

"The man on the couch just had surgery. See?" The man on the couch put a hand on his chest and rubbed it a bit, trying to find a comfortable position to sit on the couch. "Heart surgery."

"That woman there eats a lot of lemons."

"She likes to garden."

"The man in the kitchen is going through a divorce."

"She works in a coffee shop."

Back and forth Sherlock and Jim observed. They started with the adults and worked their way down to the children. The adults at the party would not talk, but they would stare at the two of them, just staring and wondering what they seemed to be doing. "Molly has a cat at home."

"Greg stays up until the wee hours of the morning."

"Sally likes to play rough."

Jim smiled. "Have you wondered if any of this is true?"

Sherlock grunted. "Please, it's all true. If it is not, they will show the denial through their facial expression." Jim frowned.

"Then who am I?" Sherlock turned to him. Well-dressed, proper, emotionless. Mannerisms are great, speech is phenomenal. Observations are fair.

Sherlock smiled. "A sociopath."

Jim leaned against the wall with his back, smiling. "Just like you dear Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't ask how he knew his name. He didn't care. Someone else was like him, someone that was bored with it all.

Finally, someone with which he could play.