Prologue

As twilight faded into an encompassing darkness, James Moriarty stepped out onto the streets of London. The streets that were bustling, filled with nothing but boring people only a few hours ago were now much more subdued. However, nighttime was when the more interesting people came out to play, and Jim loved to watch them, listening to their little plans and mentally correcting their frankly laughable mistakes. Most of them were stupid, but at least London's so called 'criminals' provided him with a certain degree of entertainment.

Neon lights from clubs and bars flooded the streets; the fluorescent signs reflecting in the rain-kissed pavements. Jim opened his umbrella, glad of the shelter it provided him from both the cold showers and the eyes of the passersby. Nobody interesting ever gathered in the clubs, and he did not fancy initiating a conversation with some petty crook. He briskly walked past the colourful venues, turning to the left and heading down a much quieter avenue. This was more like it.

Under the haze of black cloud that danced over the moon, he felt utterly at peace. Nighttime was when people stopped pretending, and James was no exception. He loathed having to pretend to be an ordinary person who had an ordinary person job and lived an ordinary person life; it was enough to make a man mad. The darkness of the city at night was his escape.

As he rounded another corner, the streets became narrower. The harshness of the sickeningly bright signs was suddenly replaced with the dull glow of streetlights. The only sounds to be heard were the distant thrum of traffic and the muted conversation coming from the apartments he passed. Jim was accustomed to seeing someone attempting to break into one of the ground floor apartments, but it seemed as though those pathetic people had some other plans in their dull, little lives. He rolled his eyes. London would have to answer for not entertaining him, but first he had to make the tedious trek back to his complex. Turning on his heel, he grumbled something about the state of the underworld these days and was about to begin plotting against the lackluster city when suddenly from the gloom there came a scream.

A smile crept onto Jim's face. Oh, how he'd hoped London wouldn't disappoint him for the third night in a row. He followed the delightful sound through the winding labyrinth of cobblestone lanes and back alleys, resisting the urge to hum merrily as he went. The best type of idiot to watch was a killer. Most of them didn't have a clue what they were doing, and it was hysterical watching them trying to play out their crime in the way that they'd dreamed about it. They never succeeded. Poor things.

Another scream.

Jim came to a stop at the entrance to another alleyway, and he watched the scene in front of him unfold in a silent fascination. In the dim light that oozed through the narrow gaps in the brick walls, there was a man. He stood hunched with his back to Jim, the shadow of the night hiding his victim from sight. Shrugging, Jim approached the man as quietly as he could. His heart raced as he stood a mere metre behind him, the telltale smell of iron filling his nostrils, and yet he still couldn't see the body. The man held their victim close, almost cradling the body in their arms. If there was anything he hated more than clueless killers, it was dull ones. Becoming decidedly bored, Jim let out a huff of air and moved to walk past the man.

"Next time, at least let a guy watch, jeez..." Jim drawled.

The man snapped his attention up to the consulting criminal in a blur of animalistic panic, and he felt a rush of excitement course through his veins. The man's eyes were wide, like a deer caught in headlights, and he clung to the lifeless body even tighter. Perhaps he would get some entertainment after all. Usually he got told to 'fuck off' if he made a snarky remark to a killer after a hunt, but this one simply stared at him in an almost innocent bewilderment that captivated him. As he crouched down beside the man, Jim saw something that made the innocence fade ever so slightly. The man's face was covered in blood. The crimson liquid was smeared around his mouth, coating the tongue that darted out to wet his lips so that he could try to speak, but he couldn't seem to find the words. It was almost as though he was a child searching for an excuse for misbehaving. In that one harmless motion, Jim saw something that spoke to him more than any words ever could. A flash of white belonging to two sharp, elongated canines.

Gesturing nonchalantly at the body, Jim peeled the woman away from the man's clutch, examining her thoroughly as the killer watched on in a shock induced trance. Her corpse was waxy, the only colour the deep red that spilled from her throat. Jim regarded the sight in front of him and quietly contemplated what he should do, for hidden beneath tendrils of matted hair, the woman's neck was decorated with two perfect puncture wounds.

"You really must let me watch next time, you know." Jim straightened up, brushing off his suit as he did so. He held a hand out to the man who was still gawping at him, his lips curling into an amused smirk. "James Moriarty. You can't wander around London on your own looking like that, you'll get locked up or attacked. No one will even dare look at you if you walk with me. Now, where are your manners, hm? I told you my name."

The stranger hesitated, but hastily gripped onto his hand. As he helped the man to his feet, Jim leaned in closer to study his face. He was a fair bit taller than Jim, yet despite his obvious advantages he still looked scared. Lost, even.

"It's Moran." The man muttered, his voice barely audible as he struggled to keep his canines hidden. "Sebastian Moran."

The smile on Jim's face stretched wider.

"Good. Once we've worked on your table manners, I have a proposition for you, Sebastian Moran."