Author's Note: I am so never retiring again. I've said I was going to stop writing fan fiction twice, but ever the lure of a new fandom pulls me back in. You lot are stuck with me for life, I guess. So, I've never written for something that wasn't an anime before, and I'm surprised and delighted that this will be the fandom to break me in—ooh la la, be gentle. God, I fucking love Sherlock. This is a brilliant show. Do you people realise how brilliant this show is? I bet that's why you're here.
Right, so, back on point: This is a JohnLock fic, set before the Reichenbach Fall, and Moriarty is in it. Why? Because I love the fuck out of him. He has no fucks left, because I loved them all right out. I'm a sucker for quirky God characters. Moriarty is wonderful, and writing him is beyond a doubt going to be my favourite bit of this fic. Oh, and I'm writing this as a gift of sorts for a friend of mine, Teal, who is figuratively my heart and soul. I may never forgive her fiancé for snatching her up before me.
The plot is already worked out, so the only thing standing between me and updating is actually writing the blasted thing and my inability to stay sober for 24 hours. No, seriously, I drink vodka like I need it to live. If I stop updating, assume I died from liver disease. You'll likely be correct. Reviews help, though. Reviews definitely help. They make me love writing more than I love vodka, and God do I ever love vodka. If I could take vodka on a date, I would cook its favourite meal, take it dancing, walk along the beach under the stars with it, and at the end of the night I'd give it a foot rub. That's how much I love vodka.
Oh, and I'm curious to know the geographic diversity of this fan base. Are most of you British or American or… what? If you could tell me when you review, that would be excellent.
One final thing: I'm open to suggestions. No plot of mine is ever concrete, and indeed they usually change dramatically as I write. You want a particular scene? Let me know. You want someone to bang someone else? I might just write that for you; I've written many a bonus epilogue that featured a special kink someone requested of me. Send me your suggestions/requests in reviews, and chances are they will be answered.
Warning: this fic will contain drinking, smoking, swearing, fucking, homosexualing, prancing, dancing, frolicking, collar-turning-up-ing, angsting, Britishing, and general ne'er-do-welling.
If you find any of those things offensive, get off the fucking Internet. No, seriously, what are you doing here? You're clearly Amish, and Amish people aren't allowed to use the Internet. Go back to your sheep.
Yes, I'm always like this. Best buckle up.
…
…
"Oh East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the Earth!"
- Rudyard Kipling, The Ballad of East and West.
…
…
In the span of just twelve hours, John Watson's life had been irreversibly altered.
He gingerly twisted his wrists, attempting to alleviate the pins-and-needles sensation creeping up his arms. He was immediately rewarded with a sharp burning sensation that made him suck in his breath through his teeth. He tried to calculate how long his arms had been chained above his head from the level of pain, but his final conclusion was simply too bloody long.
"Moriarty!" he shouted into the darkness, "I know you're watching me! Tell me why you're doing this!"
He paused but heard only the faint echo of his own voice in response. Sometimes Moriarty would deign to reply, his taunting voice sounding like eerie laughter as it bounced off the walls. John couldn't say why he still bothered to call out. His captor never gave him any actual information, just jibes and gags in a sing-song voice. The man really was mad.
There was always a chance that he wasn't responding because he'd vacated the premises, however. It was unlikely he'd elected to set up camp and watch John stand perfectly still for half a day. That would be boring, after all. The doctor couldn't do a bloody thing about it either way. He was blindfolded, bound at the wrists, and pulled upward into a standing position with his arms stretched high above his head. He could walk blindly if he wanted to, but he wouldn't get far, and his captor had informed him that he was surrounded by explosives that would be triggered if he so much as brushed against them. He had no idea if that was true, of course, but taking the risk didn't seem wise considering Moriarty had displayed a prior penchant for bombs.
The former soldier took a deep breath and began to clear his mind. He'd been in high-risk situations before and knew how to cope. If Moriarty was expecting him to panic, he was going to be sorely disappointed.
Think like Sherlock, John instructed himself. What would Sherlock do?
He chuckled quietly. Sherlock would probably know precisely where he was by now. John knew he was in a building from the way his voice echoed. He knew his wrists were bound by handcuffs from the feel and shape of the metal pressing into them. He knew they were attached to a hook and chain above him because he could hear the links clinking when he moved. He knew he was probably in a warehouse or boathouse on the coast because the air was damp and tasted salty. All of this he knew, yet none of it did him the slightest bit of good. As Sherlock often told him, he'd missed everything of importance.
If Moriarty's goal was to drive him mental with feelings of uselessness, he was well on his way to succeeding. John still couldn't quite process that this was even happening at all. The last thing he'd seen—literally—was the ceiling of his hotel room as he fell backwards after receiving a particularly nasty blow to the head. Sherlock and he were on a case, following the trail of a serial murderer in a small coastal town. They'd stopped at an inn for the night and after a quiet dinner together had adjourned to their separate lodgings. Sometime before midnight, there had been a knock at John's door. Assuming that Sherlock couldn't sleep—as was often the case—he'd opened it without a second thought.
Jim Moriarty was on the other side, smiling cheerfully at him.
"Oh, you're going to sleep well tonight, honey," was all the criminal said before he struck John over the head with a mallet that looked suspiciously like something a cartoon character would own.
And now he was here, chained like a prisoner and left to stagnate until someone came to his rescue.
He'd tried to use that as leverage at first, assuring Moriarty that Sherlock would find him and then arrest the thief. The cackling laughter he received in response forced the truth to dawn on him: of course Sherlock would find him. Of course Moriarty knew that. Of course that was why he was alive, tied up and surrounded by explosives. He was the most obvious bait that ever existed, dangling from a hook and everything. Moriarty undoubtedly couldn't resist the imagery.
He wanted Sherlock to come, and he wouldn't be disappointed.
John groaned. Twice now he'd been used this way; it was starting to be embarrassing. Why did he always have to be the damsel in distress?
For now, however, all he could do was wait for his knight to arrive.
…
…
"God, this is going to be sexy."
Jim Moriarty was squatting on the roof of a bakery across from an innocuous neighbourhood café. It was the kind of quaint, family-run establishment that would have seemed like an anachronism in the bustling streets of London. No, this one suited the coast, along with all the tourists, gossiping elderly women, and mundane days that went with it. The thief wouldn't have bothered with it at all—he vastly preferred the gritty alleys and smoke-filled dens of his darling, industrious London—but this café had the honour of being the breakfast destination of the one and only Sherlock Holmes, the world's greatest consulting detective.
That made it quite the interesting place indeed. Moriarty watched the detective from his perch on the roof across the street, grinning like the Cheshire cat. This was far from the first time he'd watched his rival this way, but each time was a new, voyeuristic thrill. Sherlock made the most exquisite facial expressions when he thought no one was watching. He allowed more of his thoughts to show on his face, and reading those minute, rapid flickers that only he could see was better than pornography to the master criminal.
Moriarty could tell, for instance, that Sherlock had gotten his note. His right hand had strayed to his left breast pocket four times, indicating that he'd stowed something of significance there. From the lack of a bulge or outline, it had to be something flat and thin, like a sheet of paper. He could tell that the other man was genuinely worried about John as well. He'd placed his phone on the surface of the table, within his immediate field of vision. Sight was Sherlock's favourite sense and the one he relied on most, so naturally it was what he turned to for comfort. The moment his phone lit up with responses from the sources he'd tapped for information, he would see it. Finally, Moriarty could tell that he himself had done an incredible job of covering his tracks. From the way Sherlock tapped his long fingers on the surface of the table and the downwards tug to the corners of his lips, he knew he hadn't found any clues. No witnesses, no leads, and no odd fibers or rare cigarette ash to point him towards the location of his missing friend.
It was obviously infuriating to Sherlock, though only Moriarty could read the emotion boiling just beneath the surface of his otherwise placid exterior. Two sides to the same sociopathic coin, they were. The head and tail of Ouroboros, destined to consume and destroy each other.
But that was too dreary of a thought for this fine morning.
Moriarty stood up, still smiling broadly, and dusted some imaginary lint from the shoulders of his suit. It was black Versace—stunning in the way it hugged his body like a one-night stand—and felt like a swath of cool midnight sky against his skin. It perfectly fit the inner image of himself that he wanted to convey to the world: the superiority, the beauty, and the power. This suit was yet another indulgence he'd used to slake his lust for hedonism. Moriarty was, and always would be, ruled by the whims of his appetite. There were many things he hungered for—entertainment, stimulation, recognition—and he made a point of gratifying in every temptation that came his way. Leave no vice unturned; now that was a motto that should have caught on. People had asked him before why he did it, why he wanted to see great cities burn and watch little screaming figures flicker out from his perch above mankind, and the answer was simple.
He did it because he wanted to. He did it because he enjoyed it. And really, who was he to deny him anything?
His current flavour of the week was just finishing his second coffee. Sherlock's index and middle fingers on his right hand twitched together. He was thinking about smoking. Moriarty had to wonder what his lips tasted like after a cigarette. He couldn't say if his fascination with the detective was carnal, intellectual, or some mixture of the two, but he could say that it was thorough. He wanted to cut Sherlock open, wriggle into his skin, and simmer in his juices. He wanted every fiber and sinew, every neuron and synapse. He'd burned for him from the moment he'd realised who he was. He was the only person to cause a fuss when he'd drowned that boy in a pool 20 years ago, the only one clever enough to notice the missing shoes. Sherlock was beautiful and grotesque and everything he'd ever wanted in an adversary. In short, he wanted to eat him up.
And some day he would.
But not just yet.
Moriarty pulled out his phone, wrote a quick text, and hit send.
Moments later, Sherlock's head snapped towards his vibrating phone. It was in the detective's hands in one blurred second. The thief watched with gleeful malice as blue eyes scanned the message. In a flash, there were gears turning just beneath their lustrous surface. The game was on, and now they both knew it.
God, how he loved those eyes. They were the most lovely icy-ashy colour. Moriarty wondered how many people had noticed the spot in the right one. Just above the top of the pupil. It was a tiny, barely noticeable imperfection that he clung to with greedy fingers. He loved that spot, loved that he had been close enough to his obsession to even notice it at all. He loved it because it was a flaw in his diamond that put Sherlock below the level of God. Much as he was absolutely aching for him, he liked his place above humanity too much to invite anyone else to join him. He would satisfy his hunger for the detective, decimate him, and then move on to the next savoury treat that caught his eye.
That spot was what allowed him to do that. That spot was his favourite spot in the whole wide world. Maybe someday he would preserve it in a jar full of formaldehyde and keep it in his spice rack. Oh, how naughty that would be.
For right now, though, it was finally time to trot off to the literal and metaphorical first stage of his plan. The curtain would soon rise. It would be a shame to arrive late and miss the touching reunion. His text had just delivered unto Sherlock precisely the information he needed to locate his missing pet, and it wouldn't take him long if past precedents held true. Moriarty's plan would come to fruition by midday if everything knit cleanly together.
His plan. Now that was the important bit. Despite the erratic nature of his speech and actions—which he liked to consider just one of his many charms—there was both rhyme and reason to the premeditated kidnapping of one Dr. John Watson. The reason was simple: defeat the detective. The rhyme was even simpler: make him defective.
It had all started when a little bird by the name of Irene Adler had imparted some fascinating information to him: their darling detective wasn't just on the side of the angels, he practically was one: a virgin, pure and clean by every definition of society. Naturally that had made Moriarty's obsession grow quite a bit, oh yes. Desecration held a particular allure for him, and the idea of being the first to do that to him just… Oh God, he couldn't think about it without shivering. Mmm. Delectable.
It was not to be, however. The really succulent bit was what Irene told him next. She'd been naked, on top of him, practically on his prick already, and he hadn't said yes. He hadn't said no either, of course, but men on the whole are atrocious at doing that to attractive women. Now there was a contest in place, and Moriarty could never resist one of those. If not Irene, then who? Who would the great Sherlock Holmes say yes to? Who would he invite willingly into his bed?
Not Moriarty, of course. Rape was out of the question—not for any moral reason, naturally, but because that would be violating the terms of the contest—and the thief would never be able to convince him that he had genuine feelings for him. They were, after all, the same entity. Sherlock cut love out of his life in order to maximise his potential. He would know that Moriarty had done the same, that he was the same breed of unfeeling sociopath who put logic over emotion...
...and there the answer lay. The method by which the world's greatest consulting detective could be undone.
It was positively simple, really.
It wasn't about the sex, not anymore. It was about love. Love. Arguably the foremost driving force working in the heart of every human being. With two notable exceptions.
By his own definition, Sherlock Holmes would be weakened—degraded, diminished, decimated—if he fell in love.
Moriarty could defeat him with something he'd said himself.
Oh, it was too fucking delicious.
It was worth giving up his chance to be the one to defile that long, supple body for a chance to defeat him utterly. That little, lovely spot on his eye would grow until it consumed him. He would become a shadow of his former, glorious self, and Moriarty would stand triumphantly over his ravaged remains.
And he would giggle like a little schoolgirl.
There was still the obvious question that needed to be begged: if not Moriarty, then who? Sherlock would have to be open to this person, vulnerable. He would have to be completely free from suspicion as to the moral alignment of his or her intentions. It would have to be someone he was incredibly familiar with, perhaps someone who had access to him in his most sensitive moments…
Oh my.
Well, well, well, doesn't that just describe someone to the letter? John Watson: the wholesome, kind and utterly unintimidating flatmate.
Perfect.
Once he had the means, he merely needed the method, and Jim Moriarty was no novice when it came to the delightful and unscrupulous art of scheming. The last time he'd placed Watson in a life-or-death situation, Sherlock had threatened to shoot a pile of explosives that would have undoubtedly killed them all. So, danger is what makes true feelings show then? He could work with that. Dangerous situations were a specialty of his.
It had a certain charm to it, his plan. Make their hearts race near each other enough times and see if they don't eventually mistake just what it is that's causing their pulses to quicken. Psychology had shown some evidence for that, not that he much cared for the tickings of the average human brain. The swinging bridge phenomenon, it was called. If you let a man cross a stable bridge and then show him a pretty woman, and he'll like her well enough. However, if you put him on a swinging, unstable bridge, suddenly that woman becomes cream to a kitten.
Moriarty suspected there was already a bit of something brewing under the surface between those two. Sherlock Holmes suddenly had a friend when he'd never had one before. He'd invited a total stranger into his life and then mysteriously became willing to put his own life in danger in order to stop the man who'd slathered him in explosives.
Interesting.
In truth, Moriarty was committing his first good deed. By pushing these young men together, they would find love, he would defeat his greatest adversary, and everyone would be happy. Except for Sherlock, of course, who would be humiliated and ruined, especially if love did in fact deplete his astounding abilities.
That was alright, though. Moriarty was going to kill him anyways.
And his little dog, too.
Whistling cheerfully to himself, Moriarty slid his hands into his satin-lined suit pockets and strode off towards the beginning of the end.
…
…
"Would you like another coffee?"
Sherlock glanced up from his phone and sighed mentally.
The waitress. Again.
"No."
She smiled coyly at him and leaned down a bit, causing her hair to fall over her eyes in a way that heterosexual men obviously found appealing. The gesture was too practiced for her to be unaware of the effect it created.
"If you need anything at all, please feel free to ask me."
She winked at him, and his inner revulsion rose exponentially. He watched as she walked away and began chatting with another customer.
She wasn't attracted to him. Most people would initially conclude that she was, but most people would be wrong. Sherlock Holmes was not most people.
She was being exceptionally agreeable because she needed him to leave her a large tip. She might not be able to pay her rent this month.
There was a tan line on her left wrist where a large watch had recently been worn and another smaller one on her left ring finger. Her uniform's white shirt had stains from the makeup she wore on the back of the collar, and all but one of the buttons were sewn with white thread. Her shoes were designer but were at least a year old. When he'd asked her what brand of coffee they brewed, she'd asked someone in the back for the answer. Her necklace was a locket with engraved initials that did not match the name on her nametag. She was wearing too much makeup and perfume. She lingered at the tables that had attractive men, as long as they appeared to be of more than 40 years of age.
Conclusion: the watch and ring had belonged to a fiancé who had ended things between them within the past six months. If it had been any earlier than that, the tan lines would have faded by now. He'd made a considerable amount of money, enough to afford giving her designer shoes as a gift. Now that the relationship was over, her source of income was severed, and she couldn't afford to replace her outdated footwear. She also couldn't replace her stained uniform and had sewn one button back on herself, hence the mismatched thread. She'd sold the watch and ring for the money but kept the necklace because it likely belonged to a family member. It was certainly not a gift, however, because the initials were not hers. She'd taken this job recently and did not yet know everything a customer might ask, such as the brand of coffee they brewed. She was looking for another rich, older man to care for her, which explained the extra makeup and perfume. Sherlock did not appear to be old enough or rich enough to want to pay for an attractive young woman to pay attention to him, and so she'd turned on her wiles in the pursuit of the only remaining benefit he could feasibly give her: a large tip.
Easy.
It was only mildly entertaining, but considering he had nothing else to do at the moment, it would suffice.
He reached again towards his left breast pocket. That was three times now. One more would likely do the trick. Moriarty was being atrociously slow about this. Sherlock had been considerate enough to select a café with large windows so he could sit right where anyone who wanted to could watch him, and how did Moriarty repay him? By dawdling.
Really, criminals could be so inconsiderate at times.
He knew he could ply him into action, however. It was a simple matter. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. That formula was especially analogous to Sherlock's relationship with the world's greatest consulting criminal. The more apparent it seemed that he was thinking about Moriarty and what he'd done, the sooner the man would cave to his desire to set things into motion. The true egotist cannot stand to let his genius go unseen for long.
The more he pushed him, the harder he would push back.
Sherlock had to admit, however, that he had not predicted this particular kidnapping. He'd knocked on John's door that morning with the assumption that the former soldier had merely slept in.
Instead he'd found an empty room, a bed that had obviously not been slept in, and a pornographic movie playing on the television. How did he know it was Moriarty? Couldn't John have simply gone for breakfast early and accidentally left his movie on? He was a sexually-active male after all. There was no reason to wonder if he watched adult films; it was practically expected of him.
The note he'd found had been the rather obvious clue that foul play was afoot. It was hand-written on a pad of paper with one of the inn's cheap, throwaway pens, and someone—clearly a man from the shape and thickness—had put on violently pink lipstick and kissed it in place of a signature.
It had one sentence scrawled across it in flamboyant, curlicue handwriting:
"Oh where, oh where did my little dog go?"
There was only one man Sherlock knew who was that obnoxious about his own capacity for evil.
Moriarty.
Sherlock was disappointed, in truth. Pulling the same trick twice? Boring.
He would find John, he would arrest the thief, and then everyone would be happy. Except for Moriarty, of course, who would be humiliated and ruined, especially since he was always taunting Sherlock and challenging him to defeat him if he dared.
That was alright, though. Sherlock was going to catch him anyways.
And that was a fact.
Just as he finished his second cup of coffee and was contemplating ripping off his nicotine patches and having a cigarette instead, his phone lit up. He made sure to snatch it up in the most eager way he could, playing up the role of the concerned friend. It was a new text message and precisely the one he'd been waiting for.
You might want to check the red boathouse down at the marina. Third from the left. - JM
Perfect.
It was show time.
…
…
Sherlock strolled up to the doors of the boathouse at a leisurely pace. Moriarty had made him wait for this all morning; now he was going to return the favour. He would never let it show, but inside he was an undulating mass of exhilaration. This was the bit he loved best: the electric final moments, charged with anticipation, that came right before the denouement. His heart was skipping in his chest like an overexcited child. The case was solved, the trap was set, and now the fruits of his labour would unfold. He hoped the harvest would be a plentiful one.
The metal doors swung open easily at his touch. No lock, no bomb, no barricade of any sort. Sherlock was immediately suspicious. It was one thing to send him a text with the exact location of what he needed—this was a blatant trap, after all. No need to feign subtlety at this point in the game—but it was entirely another to leave the door unlocked and unguarded. John was indeed standing in the centre of the boathouse, blindfolded and with his arms pulled above his head. A single shaded light bulb illuminated a circle around him, but otherwise the only light came from the now-open doors. The darkness was deep and impenetrable to Sherlock's sharp eyes.
He quickly scanned the concrete floor between John and him, searching for trip wires or other traps. There didn't appear to be anything blocking his path, but he knew something would pop up eventually. Moriarty was psychotic, but he wasn't stupid. Making it this easy would be boring.
"John," Sherlock called out, taking a cautious step forward.
His friend's head jerked up. "Sherlock?"
"Yes. Are you alright?" He took another ginger step. If there were traps laid under the floor, it wouldn't do well to rush into them. Moriarty was undoubtedly lurking nearby. If the detective stalled long enough, he might make some move that could alert him to potential danger.
"It's about bloody time. My arms are killing me."
A flicker of a smile ghosted over Sherlock's lips. "Patience, my dear Watson. I shall be right over. I'm just making sure Moriarty hasn't left any nasty surprises waiting between you and the door."
"He said there were explosives around me. Can you see them?"
Another step. "No."
"He might have been lying."
"There's something going on here, rest assured. I just haven't the faintest idea what it is."
He took another step. John was right in front of him now. For the slightest moment, he let his apparent victory cloud his judgment. He relaxed. That was when Moriarty struck.
A high-pitched, sing-song voice sounded practically in his ear, "Oh, but I doooooooo!"
Sherlock whipped around, but it was too late. Moriarty was beaming as he reached up and jabbed something into his neck. The detective stumbled back, grabbed at it, and yanked it out. A syringe. An empty syringe. He could hear John shouting behind him, but everything was becoming blurred.
His final vision before he lost consciousness was of Moriarty's eyes sparkling with deranged merriment.
...
...
Closing Note: Ohhhhhhhh yeah, chapter 1 completed. So, what do we all think so far? Send me a review and let me know, please. =]
If anyone is curious, Benedict Cumberbatch (Sherlock) legitimately has a spot at the top of his right pupil. I found a picture where you can see it decently well:
http : / / 27 . media . tumblr . com/ tumblr_lhjo2f2vWG1qcp9w5o1_500 . jpg
and here's a screen cap I took of the last episode of season 1. I added an arrow to point it out:
http : / / i .imgur . com/tilJU. png
Remove the spaces from the links, and you're good to go. I noticed it while watching the series. Does that make me a bit obsessive, or did everyone notice that as well? Please spread the word! I want this to become… in the spotlight. ;)
Oh God, that was atrocious. Please forgive me.
If you'd like to know more about the psychology behind this fic, google "excitation transfer theory". The swinging bridge phenomenon pops right up. It's a real thing that actually happens to people. Who says fan fiction is unrealistic?
I hope to see you again next time! You can expect an update by Sunday, March 11th if all goes as planned. Look for me then!