Disclaimer: Not mine. All respects paid to Sir Doyle, the BBC, and writers Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

A/N: The last two fics in this series followed almost exactly the same order. This will not be the case for this piece. Even though these are vignettes not strictly tied together by a tight plot line, they do take place more or less chronologically (though many of them will overlap). Thus, our villain makes his appearance here instead of at the end. Enjoy.

Moriarty

Delightful weakness.

The game was going well. Exquisitely well, as his undiscovered camera had attested. Sherlock and Watson were strung out to the end of their tethers, one with glee for the puzzles, the other in his predictable desperation, confusion and disappointment at the ticking away of each human life.

He strode into the monitoring suite. The two men should be back in 221B by now…and he hadn't sent the next clue. Would the detective be getting jittery with anticipation? Sherlock had long since figured out the pattern…he knew there should be another one.

There was little better than breaking the rules you yourself had established. It left all the other players so deliciously antsy, so fragile, knowing that they had no control…

Watson was already talking as Moriarty entered the room, gaze fixed on the lithe figure fidgeting impatiently in an armchair in the middle of the room. He did so love it when Sherlock obliged him by sitting there, dead center of the camera's shot. He had a perfect view of the detective's face.

"So why is he doing this, then? Playing this game with you? Do you think he wants to be caught?"

Caught? By anyone other than a Sherlock Holmes? Who, since he loved playing the game more than actually keeping law and order, could easily be persuaded not to turn him in? Oh John Watson…too simple, too boring, too unimaginative to understand.

"I think he wants to be distracted." And he smiled…the swift quirk of the full mouth in complete understanding, and Moriarty laughed aloud in delight…they were so alike, he and Sherlock!

"Oh-ha," Watson's laugh was mirthless, dismissive. Just a shade short of the hopeless disgust in his face as he rose, unable to continue even looking at his flat mate. "I hope you'll be very happy together."

We will be, Johnny…see what he is? How totally out of your league you are?

Sherlock didn't catch it at first, then his brain stopped, took stock of what Watson's cold words, and the unfocused quicksilver eyes shot to him, sharpening to iron. "I'm sorry, what?"

"There are lives at stake, Sherlock! Actual, human lives. Just…just so I know, do you care about that at all?"

"Will caring about them help save them?" Sherlock snapped back, startled.

"Nope," John shook his head, disappointment written all over his broad face.

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."

"And you find that easy, do you?"

Ah…the real crux of the problem. You find that easy. John Watson had watched men die – under his gun when he intended it, under his knife when he was desperately trying to save them. And he had cared about – or known that he could care about – all of them. To witness Sherlock's detachment now, to plumb the depths of how very much the consulting detective didn't care, didn't have the capacity to care, about these civilians, these innocent Londoners who were dying for no reason other than Moriarty had decided to play God with their lives, wounded him. The pain was there, shadowing his blue eyes.

"Yes, very," Sherlock bit back. And then frowned up at him. "Is that news to you?"

John was shaking his head. "No." He almost looked surprised at his own words, but he was smiling – the smile that substitutes for either tears or rage – and said again, "No."

Understanding dawned on Sherlock's face. "I've disappointed you."

"That's good. That's a good deduction, yeah."

"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

Moriarty grinned at John's devastated-by-disillusionment face. That's exactly right, Johnny-boy. The army stuffs your head full of nonsense – heroes-and-glory and right-and-wrong and Queen-and-country. And dull little people like you just swill it down. You don't want to stop to understand that it's not about good and evil or sacrificing for the homeland…it's about cleverness. It's about creating your own rules to win the most complex games, to prove you're the best, to revel in the knowledge that some of us are just better than the rest of you…

This would spell the end of Sherlock's fling with the ordinary John Watson. Carefully selecting the right image, Moriarty hit SEND.

On the live feed, Sherlock's phone ping'ed and nervous fingers seized it. "Excellent," the consulting detective breathed over the new picture. Watson's face was a study in disenchantment bordering on despair, mouth drawn down, sudden exhaustion bowing his shoulders, slackening his eyes.

"View of the Thames. South bank. Somewhere between Southwark bridge and Waterloo. You check the papers. I'll look online—" Th detective stopped, eyes settling on where Watson stood, hands gripped the back of his armchair, head bowed, shoulders curved in defeat.

Impatience slashed his full mouth, thinning it, then "Oh…you're angry with me so you won't help. Not much cop, this caring lark." He went on typing furiously into his phone, clearly dismissing Watson's pained expression as irrelevant.

The eager observer did not trouble to restrain his elated laugh. Sherlock was so busily placing the nails in Watson's coffin that he hadn't even stopped to wonder what he was doing. All to the better. That mind was made for flying – no point in having a commonplace tether to keep him grounded.

His heels clicking smartly against the floor, Moriarty headed for the door to go out again. Sherlock would be on his own. It was time to change the rules yet again.

Moriarty excelled at games. It was why he always won. And he did so love winning.

888

The Irish criminal took a long sip of his coffee, rolling the rich taste around in his mouth before swallowing with relish and surging to his feet, pacing swiftly, almost manically, his smile wide.

Moran watched from where he was seated flicking through the latest issue of Guns and Ammo. Moriarty could sense the wariness in his subordinate's posture, but he couldn't have cared less.

Last night had been…extraordinary. It had more than made up for the confusion of the previous forty-eight hours. Because two days ago, right as they were commencing the Vermeer case, was where the plan had gone slightly awry.

The first spanner in the works had been when Watson – brimful of righteous indignation, had been on Sherlock's heels anyway.

Moriarty seated himself, leaned back in his chair, slipper-clad feet crossed at the ankles and resting on the table. That had been the puzzle right afterwards. Everything had happened as it should have. All the neatly-arrayed dominos had fallen in precisely the correct pattern – Watson had seen exactly what Sherlock was (and wasn't) – but, somehow, they had come up with the wrong picture.

Because John Watson – livid, disappointed, hopelessly outside the narrow zone he had defined as 'right' – was still just a step behind Sherlock on the Thames, staring at his flat mate in wonder as the detective unraveled the entire crime (aside from the specifics of the fake) in a matter of minutes, murmuring "Fantastic".

Who was this man who – furious, and fighting with himself every step of the way – stayed with Sherlock despite the fact that all common sense dictated that he should have walked away the instant he met him?

The game changed. This time to accommodate John Watson in a small, but significant role.

Moran had done his job beautifully – nabbing Watson off the street (Really, too easy. You'd think people would be more cautious with a madman running around London dressing various innocent bystanders to kill), rigging him carefully, the doctor's deep blue eyes growing wider with each explosive device strapped methodically to his chest. When he was loaded with enough to take out a city block, Moran had stepped back, surveyed him and nodded curtly.

"When your lover shows up, Dr. Watson, you might not even get detonated. Me? I'd take great pleasure in seeing your brains decorating the street, but the boss can be funny like that." Moran had meant only to twist the knife, his words the empty cruelty to reinforce the reality: John Watson's life now swayed like a pendulum from another man's hands. He could be destroyed at any step, any breath.

But even henchmen had surprising insight sometimes, even if they lacked the brains to understand what they'd hit upon.

Your lover.

Moran's throw-away taunt had stuck in Moriarty's brain. And the criminal had been rewarded. In light of last night's events, suddenly, it all made sense. In the messiest, most impossible, most ordinarily human way – the only way that he'd never imagined it would all turn out.

Oh, the things he had learned last night at the pool! Far more than he'd ever hoped to – ever dreamed there was to learn – about his favorite detective.

Moriarty was so seldom surprised…and he could count on one hand the number of times in life that he'd actually enjoyed it. But he had to admit that last night's revelations had been thoroughly entertaining.

The expression on Sherlock's face when John Watson had stepped out of the locker room…Moriarty had deliberately set himself to be able to see the unfolding drama without being seen, and was glad he'd been hidden, because he could have been knocked over with a feather. The pale, distinctive features of his adversary had mutilated with shock, and disbelief…and pain. Real, soul-wrenching anguish.

And then, when the doctor had shifted to display the Semtex…relief had painted the detective's face in startling contrast. Did Sherlock have any idea how obvious he was? How clear he had made it just how far he could fall? How easy it would be to burn the heart out of him?

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

So very, very untrue. It had been written in the rain-colored eyes. The whole of his painfully present heart belonged to John Watson.

"Sherlock, run!"

Burn John Watson, burn Sherlock. QED.

He glanced towards Moran, who was rustling his magazine. Just as well he didn't have such a…tangled relationship with his subordinates. Moran was well paid…but he wouldn't die for his boss. Which was exactly as everyone wanted it. Moriarty knew which side of the fence he controlled – everyone in his sphere was for sale to the highest bidder. They kept it clean from the nonsense of nobility. Loyalty was determined in the clear-cut figures of the bank account.

Now…now the detective had a weakness that could – and would be – shamelessly exploited. It was a pity Sherlock had to bestow his affection on such a pathetically ordinary little man, but now…now the game took on new dimensions, new layers of complexity. If Sherlock allowed himself to be tied down, there was more than one way for Moriarty to get his pleasure from the consulting detective.

Watson had been cleverer than Moriarty thought possible…maintaining the careful appearance of rigorous heterosexuality. He'd certainly had a girlfriend as boring as himself long enough to justify that assumption.

But then…the speed with which he'd jumped on Moriarty's back when he'd seen his chance, how quickly he'd released him at Sherlock's say-so when the sniper had shifted targets, the swift, unspoken communication between the two, undercutting the raw edges of their fear…

Sherlock had shown his hand. Made it so wonderfully, blindingly obvious. And Watson…for the first time Moriarty had an interest in the doctor aside from getting him out of the way.

It was time to deploy a different weapon, one that neither man could hope to defend against.

Orchestrating this new game would be so much fun.

888

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