Jim had sincerely believed that Sherlock Holmes was, and always would be, the only person able to challenge him. It was not that Jim admired Sherlock, or was in any way fond of the man himself – but he whole-heartedly adored the game they played. Sherlock's supreme intelligence and apathetic demeanour meant that he was a simply perfect contestant for Jim's little show.
If London was a stage, then Jim considered himself a puppeteer, a dictator of eight million strings. He knew how to make each and every one of them dance; and it amused him endlessly. Sherlock was the only man Jim had ever encountered that wasn't merely a puppet. From terrorist cells to the government, Jim had a witting hold on them all. Why, even Jim's tough right hand man, Sebastian, had his weak spot.
Naturally, Jim knew had to make Sherlock dance, too – the man threw himself head first into any situation if he could sense danger. Sometimes, it was easy.
What was interesting about Sherlock is that he knew had to make Jim dance as well. He, too, was a master puppeteer.
Jim sat in his desk chair, hands draped over the silver metal arms, and surveyed the scene of the bustling street below from his window. The office in his penthouse offered the most magnificent view of London – from this height, every street looked like the veins of the city and every dotted building was the blood pumping through. London didn't have a heart – London was the heart. The heart of Great Britain; the heart of the earth. Primarily because it was home to the world's first, last and only consulting criminal, thought Jim.
He smiled to himself when he saw the time. His petit lapin's audition was finishing in half an hour. That gave Jim twenty minutes to travel to Potier Street in Borough and wait for her return home. She was never late, but never early either - her footsteps from the audition room to the small shop on the corner to the nearest underground back to her flat were embedded so deeply in Jim's mental map of the city that she herself unwittingly followed them, everyday, without fail.
His petit lapin's continued lack of success amongst the theatre crowd perplexed Jim. He knew with certainty that he'd cast her as second lead role in any performance he directed (after Sherlock, who would always take centre stage, naturally). In a way, he already had – Jim had invested a considerable amount of time in her over the past few months. They hadn't met, yet, but Jim knew all there was to know. He'd rifled through paperwork, files about her that only he could access privately.
Somehow, he was still intrigued. For such an ordinary human, Jim's petit lapin possessed an unbridled ability to infinitely entertain him.
He stood up, taking one last glance through the glass at the toy world below him. Straightening his tie, he paced to the door, lifting his coat from the white leather sofa and made his way to the elevator. A car waited for him outside.
She rounded the corner to Potier's Street at exactly five o'clock, her strides a little uneven as she walked with a carrier bag jarring against her leg. Loose strands of flaxen blonde hair tumbled around her face as she hurried towards her flat. Her coat collar was turned up against the wind. It had clearly been another unsuccessful audition.
"Poor petit lapin," Jim cooed under his breath.
On a normal day, she would not have seen Jim as she made her way to her front door. She'd never even sensed that somebody was studying her every move with uninhibited intent. Despite the theatrics that came so naturally to him, Jim knew how to stay unseen and inconspicuous – merely an ordinary face blending into an ordinary crowd.
He'd been perfecting the art his whole life. A consulting criminal did not simply saunter into a room, all guns blazing.
But Jim was calm and collected as he sauntered towards her, hands deep in the pockets of his suit trousers. She didn't see him with her eyes glued to the pavement until she'd bolted straight into his chest, the tip of his chin bashing against her forehead.
His petit lapin snapped her neck up, her pale, watery eyes wide as she gazed at Jim.
"I am sorry," he drawled, a smile playing on his lips. "I didn't see you there."
Pink immediately flushed her porcelain skin. The proximity between them remained excruciatingly close, as if the ground had swallowed her feet like quicksand. Jim stood tall, his hands still in his pockets, disregarding the social cues to move away. She continued to stare at him, scarcely blinking. Petite lapin recognised him. It was as if Jim had released a floodgate in his mind and the notes from his observation diary had overflowed into her own head – she'd seen this man before, in the library, on the tube, at the restaurant, on the bus, at the pool, in the shopping centre, at the drama studio, in the park. Petite lapin was frightened.
"C-can I help you?"
Jim had never heard his petite lapin stumble upon her words in fright before. It was unusually satisfying.
"You might be able to. Alternatively, I could help you." Jim shrugged and then offered her his hand. "James. Jim, if you will."
Shewarily raised her dainty hand. Jim saw the tiny blue green veins spread over her knuckles from beneath her exquisitely pale skin – he adopted a firm grasp as he shook it. He could have snapped his petite lapin's hand cleanly from her bony wrist.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," Jim purred when she remained silent. "Let me take your shopping, it looks heavy."
He reached out, tucking a single finger beneath the plastic handle of her carrier bag. Instinctively, she recoiled, pulling the bag up and out of Jim's reach. In turn, Jim put his own hands up in the air; palms flat towards her in submission.
"I'm not trying to steal it from you. I've got plenty of pot noodles at home," he gently teased, peering into the bag. "What's your name?"
"'What do you want from me?" she asked, her voice merely a hoarse whisper.
Jim smiled. "Can't a gentleman not help a lady with her shopping?"
She briefly glanced past Jim at the street ahead – only a few yards away was her house. It looked as if she might start running; unbuckle her legs and elbow past Jim, leave her shopping at his feet, sprint to her flat, slam the door shut and lean with her back against it until she thought he'd gone.
She didn't, of course – Jim's petit lapin had always been so thoughtlessly determined.
"I know you," she croaked. The colour drained from her face. It was a shame, thought Jim - she looked much prettier with rosy cheeks. "You… you've been following me."
"We might have seen each other before," Jim admitted coolly, rocking back on his heels.
"I – you were on the bus yesterday. In the morning. You sat near me."
"And you didn't even talk to me. I was quite hurt really, seeing as we were the only passengers," he said, sighing.
Unease washed over her pallid features. "Why?"
"Why?"
"Why are you following me?" she asked. Her voice was assertive this time; indignant.
Jim resisted the itch to tell her that he thought she was just so adorably hilarious, settling with, "I could be of some use to you, Maria."
Her eyes widened again at the sound of her name easing through the lips of a stranger. "I d-don't want your help with anything."
Before Jim could make his offer, she'd lowered her eyes back to the pavement and began striding past him. Had it been anybody else, Jim would have snatched him or her back, making sure that they were fully aware it wasn't a 'very wise idea to run away from Jim Moriarty'.
But he wasn't at work now. This was all just fun.
"I don't know why that casting director was so snarky today. He didn't give you a fair chance at all," Jim hummed. His petit lapin's footsteps stopped behind him. "And how terribly unprofessional that he cast the girl who was so unashamedly flirting with him before the auditions even began. Everyone in that room should have questioned the professional integrity of a man who hired the first female to drop her yet…" Jim turned around to face Maria, who was staring at him once more in disbelief. "You did. You knew he was just a sleazy pig, living in a dog-eat-dog world. Because you're clever."
"Were you at the audition, too?" she asked cautiously.
"Oh, no, no, no," Jim muttered. "You'd have made a simply divine Diana Kirkwood though."
Jim strolled towards her, closing the gap between them once more. This time, she didn't flinch. He reached into the breast pocket of his blazer and, with two fingers, handed her a sleek, black business card.
"I know people in the industry, you see," he started. "I can help you out. I personally think that you were born to be on stage, but judging by your recent pursuits, it looks like I'm the only one to have seen your potential."
Petit lapin reached out her slender fingers and took the card from him.
"It has my number on the back," Jim said indifferently. "You can meet me tomorrow to discuss matters, if you'd like."
"You know I could just call the police?" she replied.
"Oh, I know," Jim crooned with a smile. "But I really wouldn't advise it."
He turned on his heel and began to walk back down Potier Street. It was silent for a moment, bar the click of his black leather brogues, until his petit lapin's saccharine voice drifted past him.
"Where do I meet you?"
