If there's one thing you learn from me, it's that you should never trust anyone– and I mean anyone -by the name of Patrick or any variation of the damn name. Patrick, Cedric, Keifer… I should probably stop before I go off on some fucking tangent but take my advice and stay away from anyone with any of those names. Back to Patrick–– oh, take a wild guess as to what his surname is! Fitz-fucking-Patrick. His parents must've hated him something fierce, poor old sod. Anyway.

We had a meeting – quite a one-sided meeting if you ask me, but I was quite used to that from Mr. Fitzpatrick. Oh, did I forget to mention that I've known the sap for the past two decades? Oops. Yeah, he's an acquaintance of mine. So what? Just because he's an arrogant, untrustworthy sod doesn't mean I can't use him for what he's worth which was at one point in time, a few good lays and information… Hopefully he was still the go-to guy for information.

"You're lookin' good, Moran." A blatant lie if I ever heard one. I mean, I know I wasn't too hard on the eyes but it was only after four… five years in the service and three in India that I was finally back in London. With the time overseas, I was branded with brand new battle scars–– some visible, some not so much, but either way, I was older - much older than he remembered. So, all I could do was laugh quietly at the compliment which wasn't really a compliment at all. It was just the way he liked to distract his prey.

"Not here to be 'seduced', Patrick."

"Oh, I know why you're here. Gun for hire now that you're all big n' bad, hm? Think since you've killed a couple a foreigners, you can play with the big boys?"

Alright, so he knew exactly what to say to get my blood boiling and my face a bright vermilion. Knuckles whitening with the grip I had upon an imaginary vice… and the bloody knob could see it all.

"Or was it your little run-in with Kali's Kitten that's got your ego so inflated?"

"Just shut the fuck up."

"Still got the same temper I see."

Oh, he had no idea just how bad I could get and I was just about to show him, maybe leave him with a broken jaw or nose, or even both, but his entire demeanor changed and his face grew serious again. "Alright Moran," he finally huffed about after a moment or two of staring straight into my soul with those cool eyes, "Let's get this over with before you bash my skull in."

To be quite frank, if I weren't desperate for work, I would have done just that, but…

"Moriarty." Couldn't help but to blurt the bloody name out, and I swear, the moment I did, I felt the entire pub turn cold and everyone inside went silent. At the time, it seemed ludicrous, like the name was sacred or forbidden or some shit. The way Patrick stared at me; you'd think I just shot his dog. About a minute of awkward silence passed before the man started in with the hysterics: arms flailing and several death glares paired with a 'hush!' every now and again. "Watch where you're throwin' that name around, Sebastian."

He used my first name.

Fitzpatrick never used my first name and despite how off it made me feel, I managed to chuckle at his hysterics and you know what else? I said the name again. For shits and giggles mostly.

"Moriarty," I said, "boring old Irish name. What's the big deal?" I fucking shit you not, the dirty bastard reached right over that damned table and clasped a burly hand over my mouth. My initial reaction was to jump up, Webley in hand, but somehow, I resisted the urge to shoot his head clean off his shoulders.

"Tell me right now how you know that name." Don't fucking doubt me when I say that I was only seconds away from slaughtering Patrick right there, but I needed to know what was so god damn special about 'Moriarty'.

"You know how it is in the slums, Patrick," I started in once he took his hand away from my mouth, nonchalant as always about the whole situation, "I heard word that Mor-." I stopped myself from saying the name when I watched Patrick's eyes widen, "…that he's lookin' for a shooter." Wary, unbelieving, suspicious; all were feelings and thoughts that I watched cross the red-faced man's features.

"No fuckin' way, Moran. No one just 'hears word' about… him."

I had to roll my eyes at that. How the fuck else would I have heard it!? And that's exactly the question I asked and the sod's reply was to pull out a card from his shirt pocket. Strange looking card with a scrawl that was barely readable except for two letters.

JM.

He held it between his index and middle fingers, a very obvious anger written upon his face. "No one just 'hears about' Moriarty." He repeated himself and even spoke the name aloud that time.

"If that'll be all for you gentlemen…" The barman came over to our table to drop the bill off (two beers in total) but he never placed it on the table, only stared hard at the card and without any further interruption, he gave a quick nod and scurried away, unpaid bill still in his hand.

"Take this," Patrick tossed the seemingly important card my way, still red-faced and white-knuckled, "and this too." If I knew any better, I would have said I could hear bitterness on his tongue as he wrote down an address upon a loose napkin. "And that's where you'll find him," he spat, "while you're at it, tell the bastard that I resign."

I apologise for this chapter being so short but I hope it was enjoyable nonetheless~! Reviews are much appreciated but I will never ask for any. I just hope you enjoy the story!