I sat in a plush chair by a redwood desk with a matching coffee table in front of me. Both of exquisite beauty and elegance, the pieces of furniture alone probably cost several thousand pounds never mind the rest of the room's fittings.
On the other side of the table, in an equally, if not more expensive chair, was Moriarty himself, the Napoleon of Crime. His head was laid back, eyes closed and hands touching by the very tips of their fingers. I could tell he was thinking, but about what not even God knew. However, I sometimes wondered if the devil knew instead. The wicked smile on his face suggested something involving a dead Sherlock at the moment.
Sipping my tea, I tried to wait for him to begin the reason for calling me down here but patients was never my strong suit. I tried to distract myself by looking around the room, trying to spot out new things. Sadly, it didn't work. I had sat in this room so many times that I could probably put it back together again exactly how it was right now if it was later trashed. So, instead, I tried tapping my foot, making up different tunes. That didn't work either.
Finally I had had it. "Oh hell! Tell me what I need to hear already Moriarty."
With an unparalleled grace, he slowly lifted his head forward and opened those icy eyes. He continued to smile as he spoke the first words that I had heard from him since the whole time I had been here. "I told you Seb. Call me Jim when we're alone."
"And I told you to stop calling me Seb," I said with a voice I knew dripped with annoyance. I hated how he called me that almost as much as I hated how he always insisted on me calling him Jim. However I didn't mind hating him. In fact, I loved hating him. It seemed to always set me ablaze with rage. Being full of rage was always fun when I was taking on a job which was usually the case when I saw him.
"I have a job for you Seb."
I smirked. It was so obvious that this was a business meeting. Even though I was nothing compared to the consulting criminal himself, I was now familiar with his different attitudes that coincided with the different reasons for calling me to his side.
"Details?" I then asked, wondering who I was to take down this time.
"It is a certain pest that is currently being bothersome."
Huh, I thought. Jim rarely asked me to kill someone for his own personal reasons. It was uncommon because of the lack of money that it brought to our thriving little (quite the opposite really) business and because of the "predictability of it all" as Jim put it.
I took a deep breath, popped my neck and then questioned, "Who is it?"
"I'm sure you've heard of him before. He keeps to the shadows but controls much of Britain, similar to ourselves."
"I don't care what he is like Jim. I want his name now," I replied, my anger slowly rising.
Jim stood up, smoothing his gray suit as he did. Not making a sound on the wood paneling, he advanced towards me. He didn't blink once, something that would have unnerved most men but which I was familiar to. He put his head right by ear, his skin just barely brushing my own.
His voice was deadly calm as he spoke. He only whispered to words but I shivered with anticipation as he said them all the same.
"Mycroft Holmes."
