Jim

Cold.

You have to learn to be cold.

In my position you can't afford to be anything but cold. If you're warm you let things slide. Important things, that at first seem harmless, but they always come back to bite you in the arse. Being cold is the only way to avoid future problems and to gain respect. Being cold allows you to come out on top because you take chances. Chances that normal people wouldn't take. Because they aren't cold. And if you aren't cold, you care. You start to worry, you start to care about the people you hurt, and the things you do to them. In a place like this, worrying, crying, caring gets you nowhere. Being cold on the other hand allows you to be more free. It allows you to move about more, without worrying about what you're treading on.

Being cold lets you play.

When it's a war between you and Sherlock Holmes, being cold is the only way to win.

He pretends.

He pretends to be cold.

When you fake being cold, someone can always get to you. It's better to be by yourself, to actually strip your emotions away as best you can. I clench my fists impatiently. Obviously there are some you can't remove fully.

This has gone totally awry. I, as much as I hate to admit it, can't fix it by myself. Only one man can help me fix it.

"SEBASTIAN!" I holler over my shoulder and out the door. My voice echoes down the hall and comes back toward me. Frowning I take a step back from the monitor. Where the hell could he be? I need him now. "Sebastian?" I ask empty air. No answer. My den is quiet, my lair empty except for me. As it should be. "Tch." I aim a kick at the desk. I guess I'll just have to fix it myself.

Grumbling, I look toward the monitor again, watching the moves that could ruin the whole operation. It takes skill to set something like this up, but even more skill to screw it over. No one screws with me. No one. No one messes with Jim Moriarty. I glance at the monitor again. I know just how to fix this. I take every precaution known to man. I'm careful. If things get off, I fix them. Sighing, I reach for my phone and quickly hold the three down. The man in the monitor picks up his phone, glances at the caller id and turns pale. He looks toward the camera and back at his phone before answering it.

"Yes?" His voice is shaky. Good. He's scared.

"Um. Yes. Hello. You're boss speaking. Aren't you supposed to be doing something?" The man pales more, if it were even possible.

"W-well. Y-yo-yousee. Um. We-wellyousee. But. Um-."

"Shut up and do what you're supposed to. Or I might have to get your family and have them ripped to shreds in front of your eyes, which may or may not be attached to your body by that point. I think you underestimate the extent of my domain sir. Try anything else and I will be forced to remove you." I pause for effect, "Personally."

The man swallows hard, "Yes sir. I understand sir."

"Good." I hang the phone up. "Took you long enough." I say without turning around. The shadow blocking the door doesn't say anything. "Well obviously I don't need your help anymore. Go back to whatever you were doing before which almost certainly isn't as fun as this." The shadow departs leaving me alone again.

Alone.

That's always how I seem to end up. Whether I want it to or not actually. Though I suppose it's better this way. Being alone. If I weren't, I probably wouldn't be so cold. So cold, all the time. Any doctor would tell you it's a bad thing, but honestly, I feel it's the cure for most anything the world could throw at you.

And it always has been.

And that won't change.

Ever.

I wonder how long it's going to take the rest of the world to figure it out.

Author's Note: This is a Jim Moriarty collection, as specified in the summary. I thought it'd be interesting to explore Jim's character.

Mischief Managed

-P