Light dimly and lazily made its way into the space.
The tall, white-washed walls reached the high ceiling, which was made of speckled white panels and criss-crossed by assortments of aluminum air vents and copper piping. The hanger-sized room was very spacious and vacant, its windows were missing squares of glass. Those which were remaining were either cracked or made opaque by the years of caked-on dust and mold. The building itself hadn't been used for any purpose in over fifty years; it was caution taped off and had danger signs posted all around the structure and the fence that lined its perimeter, hailing warning to everything from lead to asbestos. It was, simply put, desolate.
Well, that's what most people thought. And it was true. Except for that one large expanse of a room on a certain early Monday morning.
This day in particular, the depressing piece of construction housed three occupants. No, they had not forgotten to hail the warnings that practically concealed half of its exterior; and no, they weren't children breaking in on some sort of immature quest to prove to their cronies their abundant supply of bravery and courage.
All three were grown adult men, and the situation at hand was much direr than a truth-or-dare game gone awry.
The first man was a person of a smaller stature, for which he made up for with his infamous reputation in the business of crime, and his gigantic extent of pride and ego. These, but mostly his reputation, no doubt preceded him wherever he went. He wore one of his usual tedious black Westwood suits with a tie to match. Pinned to the tie was a pin that bore his crest and symbol, the magpie. His face donned what would appear as a genuinely friendly smile, If his eyes weren't glittering with such malevolence and devilish fire that even a tiger would put its tail between its legs and high-tail it in his presence. His coal black hair matched his pitch black eyes, which would have been a deep chocolate if all the evil they portrayed was purged. His name was James Moriarty.
The second man was a person of a much broader stature, and he didn't have a Napoleon complex, nor a need of one, like the previous person mentioned. His reputation was, however, nothing to be overlooked; even compared to that of his egotistical employer. He was wearing an old, patched up army jacket, a simple olive-green tee-shirt, cargo pants, and trainers. He had a gun case with a strap slung over one massive shoulder, and his facial expression consisted of a man in the midst of his boring 9-to-5 office day job. His sandy blonde hair was neatly combed in a military fashion as was his norm. All of these details added up to the brief description of none other than Colonel Sebastian Moran, retired British army officer turned rogue gun-for-hire.
The third was the least remarkable of the trio. He held no striking features, excluding the fact that he was tied to a chair and gagged, eyes practically bulging out of their sockets in fear. He was the subject of an interrogation session forced upon him by the other two men which were in the room with him.
The conductor of the whole shebang was, of course, Moriarty. He was always the ring-leader, save the times he didn't want to get his hands dirty at all. The enforcer was, obviously, Col. Moran; which left the man forcibly seated, mute, and otherwise immobile, to play the role of the victim.
Sebastian Moran had simply stalked his prey while he was on his way to work that day, waited for him to leave, and snatched at his chance, knocking out his victim senseless and dragging his unconscious form here, where he presently resided. Both the sniper and the consulting criminal took slight joy in the abductee's reaction upon awakening and discovering himself in this strange place and coming face-to-face with the top two people on everybody's "stay-the-hell-away-from-if-you-value-your-life-and-everyone-you-love" list.
"Good morning, sunshine," Moriarty drawled and bade welcome to the captive in his usual sarcastic and musical style. He waited a moment as if the man had the ability to move his mouth and form coherent speech to respond with a similar "warmhearted" greeting before continuing.
"Oh, your tongue all tied up? That's too bad," the criminal pouted, sticking his bottom lip out slightly. Moriarty liked to play with his food before he ate it.
His bodyguard/assassin rolled his eyes at his boss' normal attitude. He knew it was all part of his style, but he himself preferred to cut to the chase and get to the point right away. All of these theatrics seemed to be a waste of time to the ex-soldier.
"But that isn't how things are done around here, Sebby," his employer once told him. "Everything is done my way, and my way only. That is the first rule you must commit to and always follow while in my service."
Sebastian turned the rules around in his mind, going over them again and again, one by one, so he would never forget. Sebastian got punished when he forgot the rules and made a blunder, no matter how small and insignificant the mistake appeared.
"They all add up, Seb. You should be grateful for my scoldings, because they are also reminders. Reminders that I could just let you go unpunished until all of your errors snow-balled to a point where I am more than a little bit cross with you."
The sniper mulled over rule number two:
"Only speak when directed to or asked questions where you receive my explicit permission to respond."
He proceeded to rule number three:
"Always end your questions and other statements when addressing me with 'sir' or 'Boss.'"
Rule number four:
"Don't question my orders or protest against my wishes, or you will find yourself in a more miserable and pitiful state of mind than when I first pulled you in from the streets."
Rule Number five:
"Give me my personal space. I get rather…claustrophobic when my space isn't respected properly."
Rule Number six:
"Protect me from harm, for you are not only my personal killer on a leash; you are my bodyguard and most trusted accomplice."
The military man was just about to ponder rule number seven when a voice snapped him back to attention.
"Seb. Sebby. SEBASTIAN!" His boss growled angrily.
Startled, Sebastian jumped. "Yes?"
Earning a none-too-pleased stare, Sebastian caught his mistake quickly, but not quickly enough to evade later reconciliation in the form of pain. He had broken rule number three.
"Yes, sir?" he corrected himself, knowing he would regret this later.
"Really now, Colonel, you had to trash your pristine winning streak! If you had made it just a few more hours without a slip up, you would have defeated your longest-standing record! I am most displeased, Moran."
A needle of dread lodged itself between the blonde's ribs, grazing his heart.
"S-sorry, sir. I'll try harder this time, Boss." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably.
Moriarty smiled a feral smile before remarking, "Oh, I'm sure you will, Seb." His voice was dripping with such fake approval and laced with such decimating poison even the idiot in the chair looked concerned for Sebastian's sake. "You almost never disappoint, Tiger."
If Sebastian had had a tail, it would without a doubt be tucked between his legs in a mixture of horror and shame. He cursed himself out inside his mind.
"Now, back to the order of business." James cracked his neck and then continued to do the same for his fingers. Taking a step forward, he began pacing in a circle around the kidnapped businessman, in only what Sebastian could compare to as a shark with the scent of blood swirling in his nostrils, circling some hapless surfer in the water.
Sniffing a little, as was another one of his abundant habits, the crime lord spoke, addressing their prisoner. "I have brought you here today to discuss some very pressing matters, Mr. Davis."
A few drops of sweat rolled down the brow of Mr. Davis.
"I have become increasingly aware of information leaking out from what I have keenly and most accurately identified as your sector."
Mr. Davis's brow was now covered in a thin sheen of perspiration.
"There's something you must know before I remove your gag, Mr. Davis. It is that no one ever succeeds in deceiving me for long if at all. And when they are caught red-handed in the attempt…ooh, I get to have some leisure time. My job is a very stressful one, as you can imagine," the mastermind knew this man was putty in his hands.
"If you come clean and admit you are not who you say you are, hand over the information you've stolen, and tell me exactly who you are working for, I may yet spare you any manner of harm." Taking a similar step forward as he had earlier, the gag was gone from the captive's mouth and tossed haphazardly to the side, landing softly on the grimy cement floor.
Being generous as he was, Moriarty let the man who was on a verge of a nervous breakdown somewhat recollect his breath.
"F-fine. I am not Mr. Davis," he whimpered in a nasally voice, hyperventilating. "I'm Mr. Williams."
"Goooood. That's one part of the problem solved already. Lovely work, please continue with alerting me of who has sent you to steal from me."
"The B-British Secret Service, sir," the man squeaked.
Nodding in his head in an I-knew-it –from-the-start fashion, James said, "I thought as much. On whose specific authority, though?"
The man eyed Moriarty indignantly, licking his lips nervously. The muzzle of James' pistol pressed itself into the center of the quivering man's forehead, cool against his overheated skin.
"Go on now; I have a tight schedule to keep. You don't want to make me late for my next affair, now do you?" A thin finger from the gun-wilder's other hand tapped the watch on his wrist fervently, emphasizing his impatience.
"Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes." The way the gentleman pronounced it, the surname "Holmes" sounded as though the H were either silent or non-existent.
Giving another nod of his head, the black-haired man asked, "And where can I find the information you have stolen from me?"
A quick snap of the prisoner's eyes towards the briefcase next to his feet was more than enough of a clue as to where the missing logs were.
Sneering snidely, James ostentatiously gestured for Sebastian to pick up the object.
"You have given me all that I require, Mr. Williams. You are free to go." With yet another gesture, the colonel had untied Mr. Williams, who quickly skittered his way towards the nearest exit. Right before the man had made his departure, Moriarty aimed his pistol at the back of his head, squeezed one eye shut, and shot. The following thump confirmed the bullet had reached its desired destination—lodged in the back of the cranium of a more than unfortunate spy.
Blowing imaginary smoke off of the tip of his weapon like he were the corrupted Sheriff in an Old Western film, the genius flipped the gun through the air and put it back where he had had it hidden previously. The light that had trickled through the windows flickered and danced in his eyes with a nefarious flame.
"Sebastian, you know what to do."
As he was ordered, Seb knew exactly what to do without the specific words being expressed. He disposed of the corpse and all evidence of the crime.
"We really must be off, Sebastian," Moriarty chimed, once the deed was done. "We have a flight to Dublin to catch."
NOTE: This. I'm not sure which story will be more fun to write and which will be the better received between this and my other story, Changeable. I wanted you to know that I am not certain as to when in my AU timeline this occurred compared to Changeable (yet).