"Do you know what happens, if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? Do you?"

It felt like a show down between two cowboys, although the odds were off balance by quite a lot. The potential winner was obvious - and it wasn't the man with the gun clutched in his hands. It was the man with the detonator in his pocket.

Sherlock met his adversaries gaze firmly - a brave feat, despite those pretty little eyes being riddles with fear. It was Moriarty's strength, to instill fear in people. Well, except for one person, but he hadn't really wanted that particular man to be afraid of him, had he?

He looks like him, doesn't he? Jim thought, his gaze not wavering as he managed to keep his composure. He forced the thought away. Now was not the time for unwanted memories.

"Oh, let me guess," Sherlock Holmes replied, his deep voice breaking down Jim's walls and gripping his heart in a giant fist. A heart which he was surprised even existed. That deep voice... It seemed he couldn't avoid such memories anymore. "I get killed."

"Kill you?" Moriarty replied, scrunching up his face before letting it fall back to it's original expression. "Uh, no... Don't be so obvious! I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyways - someday. I don't want to rush it, though."

No, wouldn't want to rush it. Not when Sherlock Holmes reminded him so much of the one person whom he missed more than anything.

"I'm saving it up for something special, no no no," Jim continued, his hands tucked away in the pockets of his trousers. "If you don't stop prying... I'll burn you." He paused, gritting his teeth. "I will burn the heart out of you!"

Sherlock barely flinched. "I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

That line. Jim remembered hearing it, years ago, when he'd woken up, half-clad in another man's house, and had asked him about his heart.

"Who does your heart belong to?"

A chuckle. "I've been informed by many that I don't have one."

Jim had leaned against the counter, felt the cool surface press against his back. "Oh, we both know that's not quite true..."

That's what he told Sherlock now, with the same smile on his face, although this one lacked the warmth - warmth, what a strange thing for a man like Moriarty to feel - that it had posessed that day. No, instead it was replaced by hatred, hatred towards Sebastian for disappearing out of the blueuch like him, hatred towards Sherlock Holmes for being so much like him-

Holmes only blinked, not daring to move, the gun in his hands still pointed directly at Jim's forehead. Moriarty's gaze slowly drifted to the floor before shooting back up again, directed elsewhere, anywhere in the room but Sherlock.

"Well, I better be off," he replied, looking back. He had to get out of here. He felt defenseless, or at least not defended enough. He had to get away, even for a few moments, out of sight so he could gather his thoughts. "Well, it's so nice to have had a proper chat."

"What if I was to shoot you, now?" Holmes asked, waving his weapon a bit. Hardly threatening. "Right now."

"Well, then you could cherish the look of surprise on mu face," Jim replied with hardly a moment of consideration, mimicking a gasp which quickly faded into a chuckle. "Because I'd be surprised, Sherlock. Really, I would. Just a teensy bit... dissapointed." He smirked. "And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long." He turned on his heels.

"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

He began to walk away, the pressure inside of him only increasing with every step. Need to get away, need to get away... But he walked slowly, unable to expose this weakness of his. This horrible, horrible weakness, fueled by memories of a man which were further enhanced by a certain Sherlock Holmes.

"Catch you later..." He heard that deep voice echo after him, and the iron hand was clenched around his heart once more. So familiar, those words, that voice, but this time laced with cruelty rather than fondness. Fondness, a warmth which he missed so dearly, whose absence was a cold cavern in his chest, slowly causing his heart to freeze over.

Until Mr. Holmes brought back the memories.

"No you won't!"

Here he was, hidden behind these doors, the conversation on the other side barely audible past the hands pressed to his ears. His hands, his cold, cold hands, shaking, trembling from the weight of these memories. How could he be rid of them? Could he delete them? No, that was impossible, not these memories, not these. They were precious, far too precious, each one a tiny pearl on a strong of secrets. Secrets that only him and Sebastian had shared.

What was he doing? Crying over a man who obviously wasn't returning, despite his best efforts to contact him. To find him. But all in vain.

It was ridiculous, that Sebastian Moran's location could escape the knowledge of a man like Moriarty. That Sebastian Moran could make Jim Moriarty, of all people, cry behind closed doors. That that man could break him down to something like this simply by having someone bring back old memories...

Jim had thought that he was king of the world. And he was, wasn't he? Or at least somewhere up there. But there was that one man who he would give everything for. Thr true King to his queen.

"You're king of the world, Jim."

"Am I?"

A smile, a hand brushing against his cheek, a pair of eyes gazing into his. Warmth. "Absolutely.

A chuckle from Jim. "Then you'll be my queen? I'd hate to rule this boring, boring world all by myself..."

And a chuckle in return, followed by a pair of soft, soft lips brushing against his. "Of course."

A kiss.

And the world tilted on it's axis.

This was ridiculous. How could he allow Sherlock Holmes to live so easily? No, he had to go back. He whipped out his phone, sent a quick text to his snipers, ordering them to point their weapons towards Holmes and his plaything.

Jim stood. quickly brushing himself off, and walked back through the door.

"Sorry boys!" Jim announced as he strolled back in, clapping his hands together in a coldhearted sort of glee. "I'm sooo changeable!" He chuckled, a smirk playing at his lips. He felt it from them, now, from Sherlock and Dr. Watson. That was more lke it. "It is a weakness of mine, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness."

Other than him.

He quickly squirmed away from the thought, like a worm from a bird.

But oh, the fear that shook Holmes was priceless.

"You can't be allowed to continue," Jim continued, smiling coldly. He shook his head, like a parent scolding a disobedient child. "You just can't... I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

Ugh, he could practically feel the waves of chemistry coming off of the two of them, John looking to Sherlock to save him, like a terrified princess, and Holmes just standing there, frozen, dumbfounded, like a ditzy little excuse for a hero.

But Sherlock wasn't a hero, was he?

"Probably my answer has crossed yours," Holmes replied, turning and aiming his weapon - first at Jim, but slowly letting it fall to the discarded pile of explosives on the floor. Jim watched him, chuckling softly, his hands in his pockets. Would he do it? He honestly didn't care. At least he would be shaking hands with Mr. Holmes in hell.

And then...

And then his phone started ringing.

He let it go on for a few moments before letting out an exasperated sigh. "Do you mind if I get that?"

An almost sarcastic response fell from Sherlock's lips, which could've cost him his life. But Jim held back. "Oh no, please, you've got the rest of your life."

Jim ignored it and answered the phone, mouthing an apologetic 'sorry' to his audience. "Hello?"

"This is Moriarty?" A woman's voice. He smirked. Miss Irene Adler. She always had the best news.

"Yes, of course it is," Jim replied, pacing his side of the pool, Sherlock and John's stares painfully noticeable. "What do you want?"

"We think we've found Moran."

Moriarty's expression froze for a moment, his mask falling away for the slightest of seconds to reveal his look of utter shock and... hope. But his mask was quickly donned once more.

"Say that again!" he shouted into the reciever, forcing his anger into his voice in an attempt to conceil his desperaton. It worked; even his snipers seemed to flinch. "Say that again, and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will skin you!"

"Would I lie to you, Jim?" Irene replied, her voice wavering a bit. Not out of fear, but of something else. Something else, something else... "Especially about this, of all things. I of all people know how much this means to you."

Moriarty sighed, looking back to his adversaries. To Sherlock's gun pointed at the explosives, which would surely kill them all if it went off. No, Jim couldn't die today, not when there was a chance of getting much-needed answers from Sebastian.

"Sorry," he said. "Wrong day to die."

Sherlock's voice became curious, annoyingly curious, like another man's had once been, many years ago, when Moriarty had been asked another, much more important question.

"Will you marry me, Jim?"

Jim had stared at him, mouth agape, at a loss for words.

Sebastian had chuckled and joked. "What? Did someone else give you a better offer?"

Sherlock wasn't joking in the least bit. "Oh. Did you get a better offer?"

Oh, it stung.

Warmth. Spreading from his heart to every other bit of him, all the way to the tips of his fingers.

"Where could I ever find a better deal, Sebby?"

Sebby. His Sebby. His beautiful, beautiful Sebby.

The queen to his king.

The king to his queen.

"You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock," he mumbled before turning back to the phone. "Tell me more," he whispered, barely audible.

"I have information on the whereabouts of Sebastian Moran," Irene continued. Oh, Irene, his dear friend. But even she was afraid of him. "Information that I'd rather exchange in person."

Moriarty's heart seemed to start it's beat again, slowly melting through it's icy coating. Slowly, with only the smallest flicker of such a powerful flame - hope. He hadn't felt that in quite a while, had he?

It wasn't quite like the feeling Sebastian gave him - it didn't fill him with warmth like his Sebby's words could. But it was far more useful to him than fear, wasn't it?

He walked back to the door, Sherlock and John almost forgotten (but for the snap of his fingers that turned his snipers away from them). He spoke into the phone, a small drop of joy fueling the flame of hope burning inside of him. Almost like a drug.

"So, if you have what you say you have, I'll make you rich," Moriarty said to Miss Adler. His dear friend Miss Adler, whose words had postponed his slmost sure death. "If you don't, I'll make you into shoes."

He inwardly chuckled at the thought of Irene Adler shoes. How would she feel wrapped around his feet? It would be a proper punishment, for getting his hopes up with word of Sebastian Moran only to send them plummeting downward again. It was a promise he could most certainly keep.

But he hoped, with all of his being, that he didn't have to.