A/N: Hello everyone! Welcome to my newest story. I'm pretty excited about this one, and I hope you all are too. I'm interested to know what you guys think of my little poem, so if at any point you feel that you have figured it out, I'd love if you told me. Now, I want you to suspend all ideas you have about what this story is possibly about, because it is most likely not what you think at all, and will continue to be so until you completely understand the riddle.
Now, concerning this chapter, it is my (entirely useless) headcanon that Moriarty is a vegetarian. I have no idea why, perhaps I dreamt it up, but I just imagine him to be a bit of a health nut, and also somewhat of a neat freak, so... Here's the first chapter, and the start of the adventure.
.
Jim Moriarty was no ordinary man. Yet here he was, doing the most ordinary of tasks. He gritted his teeth, shifting the shopping basket to his other hand. He hated this. There were far too many idiots, bumbling around, in his way, buying processed stuff that wasn't even food. The only reason he was doing it was because the man he normally had do the grocery shopping had crossed him, and he hadn't had the time to find a replacement.
He rolled his eyes as he pushed his way through the aisles, smoothing the rumples from his suit as he walked. He had stopped by the produce sections, rifling through the crate of apples to find the freshest ones, frowning as all the ones he could see had bruises or other blemishes. He picked up a few of the least damaged apples and placed them in his basket.
Movement caught Jim's eye, and he saw a woman, younger than him by a couple years, dressed in a white blouse and an olive pencil skirt. She shuffled beside him, throwing a few oranges into a plastic bag and tying it off, placing it in her own basket. She had a smile on her small mouth, and Jim waited, counting down the seconds.
Five, four, three, two-
"Oh, um, hi," she spoke a fraction sooner than he had anticipated. "You're Richard Brook, aren't you?" she asked, looking up at him curiously. The smirk still played at her lips.
She had skin that was grey and smooth, and dark curls framed her face. Her lips were thin and knowing. Her eyes were a forest-y green, piercing.
Jim met her emerald gaze, saying nothing. He let his eyes burn into hers, knowledge hanging like smoke between them.
"I know who you are," she whispered, looking him up and down. She took a step closer, now in his face. Jim grinned.
"Then why are you here?" His smile was saccharin and it didn't reach his eyes. His teeth, lion-like, were bared as his lip curled away.
She smiled back, revealing perfect teeth, bright against her ashen skin.
"I want to join you, James."
...
In the flat of 221B, Sherlock had his head buried in an experiment, since they hadn't had a case for a while, and John was sitting in his favorite chair, siping tea. It was abnormally quiet, and rather peaceful, until John heard commotion from downstairs.
There was the shuffling of feet on stairs and Mrs Hudson's voice along with another distinctly feminine voice.
"Boys!" Mrs Hudson called as she ascended the stairs, "I believe you have a client!"
A girl stepped into the room. She was young, late twenties perhaps, and her hair was a fiery mane of red tangles.
Sherlock swept into the room upon hearing "client," motioning for the girl to sit, taking his own seat near John.
"What case do you want our help on?" Sherlock cut to the point, skipping pleasantries.
John leaned forward as she began speaking, giving her his full attention. Sherlock watched her, fingers pressed together under his mouth.
"I don't want help on a case," she said easily, crossing her ankles and leaning back a bit.
"I want to help you."
...
Jim leaned against the fruit display, eyebrow raised gracefully.
"What makes you think I would allow that?" he asked, licking his bottom lip. "Hmm?"
The woman glanced around the store, leaning in to whisper, "Because I know what you want. You want to take down Sherlock Holmes. And I can help you do that," she promised.
"I don't believe you," he challenged. "You're ordinary, you don't know a thing."
She laughed. "That's only what you think based on what you know. But you might change you mind when I tell you that I was at his flat yesterday. Bloody idiot thought I was there as a client. He believed the whole story I made up," she smirked. "He's stupider than I thought."
Jim examined her thoughtfully, assessing her honesty.
"Right," he grimaced, thinking of the foolhardy consulting detective. "And when did you plan on giving me your name?" He asked.
She smiled slyly. "Lauren." She offered her hand. He didn't take it.
"What's on your face?" Jim asked, noticing the unnatural tinge of her cheekbones. It was not her real skin tone.
"Nothing is on my face," she lied, the corner of her mouth turning up in amusement.
"Of course not," he laughed. Suddenly, he was right beside her, his breath hot on her ear. "I know you're lying." His voice left know doubt that he was talking about not only her disguise, but every word she had said this far.
She laughed, flashing him a smile. It was warmer and truer than her other grins.
"I'm aware."
...
"What's you're name?" John asked after she had explained her idea.
The girl smiled at him, her freckled face happy and bright. "Rebecca," she answered. "But I get called Becky and Becca a lot, so that's fine too," she explained.
Sherlock was staring ahead of himself, unblinking and distant.
Rebecca scanned the room. Something caught her eye, and she was on her feet in an instant, striding to the other side of the room.
"Whoa, it's the hat!" she exclaimed, picking up the deerstalker. She turned to Sherlock. "Mind if I try it on? I just can't resist," she asked, bubbling with excitement.
Sherlock gave her a permissive wave of his fingers, going back to his thinking. She giggled, shoving the hat on her head. It was a bit big, and it sagged over her eyes. She pushed it up, strutting around the room importantly, and John's lip twitched in amusement at her impression of Sherlock.
"Rebecca," John started as she put the hat back in its place, retaking her seat. "If you don't mind me asking, how old are you?"
"Twenty seven," she said breezily. "And I don't mind at all, but I won't ask your age," she grinned at him.
Sherlock stood up abruptly, pacing the flat much like Rebecca had done a minute or so ago. John nearly snorted.
Sherlock was muttering under his breath, rapidly and to himself. He turned his attention to Rebecca.
"And I suppose you will require the use of our flat?" he asked to confirm.
Rebecca nodded her head. "If that's not too much to ask, that is. Although I will need to be able to come and go at any time, and I may not be present all that often, it would be beneficial to have my stuff set up here," she explained.
Sherlock nodded. "You can take the bedroom upstairs."
John gapped at him. "But that's my-" his protest was cut short by Sherlock's curt reply.
"As I don't often sleep, it would be unfair to ask Rebecca to stay on the couch, as I am often up and about and I would disturb her with my racket. You will use my room." Sherlock glanced at John, face unreadable, but a muscle in his cheek twitched minutely.
"But what about when you do sleep?" John persisted.
"I'll sleep on the couch. I don't see why this is a big deal." Now Sherlock was carefully avoiding John's gaze, and his back was turned as he continued walking the flat.
John stared after him for a while, incredulous, before sighing in defeat. "Fine," he huffed. "I do suppose it's better for Rebecca to have her own privacy upstairs, having to share a flat with two men. I'll move my stuff out, I suppose."
Rebecca looked between the two men and smiled secretively. Sherlock glanced back at her, almost as if he could physically feel her amusement.
"What are you grinning about?" Sherlock frowned at her, eyebrows lowered in question.
Her smile widened. They both knew. John looked horribly confused as he glanced at Sherlock, then Rebecca, then Sherlock again.
"Nothing. Nothing at all."
