James Moriarty blinked the moment of surprise away and smiled a more devilish grin. "Oh ho ho, look what we got here, a bum who can get himself into first-class. Old pleasures are hard to kill, eh Sherlock? Though if I had to take on a disguise like yours for, what was it, three years? I would let myself live a little more loosely on the return leg myself."
Sherlock only sat there quietly while Moriarty chuckled to himself while sipping at his drink. Dr. Pepper, he deduced in his mind, dark dye and twenty-three flavors for a colorful character.
A waitress approached the two of them, the same waitress who made the reservations, recalled Sherlock. "Is there anything I can get you, Mr. Keyes?"
Sherlock barely spared a glance at his unlikely of companions, who was tickled pink to hear Sherlock Holmes's alias as "Keyes". "Just water please," he replied coolly, paying no heed to Moriarty.
The waitress nodded and left to fulfill the order, returning shortly to deliver the glass long enough to set it before him. She disappeared in the dining-hour chaos.
"Keyes? Keyes? Of all names your little head could conjure up you chose that name?" Moriarty was more than tickled pink by this chance discovery as his face brightened to a deep flush of red and he erupted into a fit of giggles.
Sherlock shrugged, sipped at the water, and waited for Moriarty to calm himself. Once his composure was regained, Sherlock asked him how he had come to survive the bullet he swallowed on top of the hospital that fateful afternoon. It frustrated Sherlock to not only discover that the man sitting across from him is not dead; but, judging from what Sherlock could see form his place at the table, Moriarty suffered no trauma. There is no presence of scar tissue, no inhibitions in his motor skills or personality. In fact, from what Sherlock could observe, Moriarty is just as intact as he is, well, save for Sherlock being a bit leaner than what he once was.
Moriarty smiled and shook his head. "Now, now Sherlock, you have your methods of surviving your fall from grace and I have mine. What matters more than how did who survive that is the fact that here we both are, you and me, two of the most opposed men in history, the most mad and sane and genius men, sitting here, across from one another, consulting criminal and consulting detective, two men trapped on a ship in the other's company for seven glorious days. Some vacation!" Moriarty called a waiter to the side. "Get me a shot of Jack Daniels, if you would be so kind. Make that two, one for my friend as well."
"I'm not your friend," Sherlock protested as he glowered at Moriarty.
"Ooooo, make those doubles," Moriarty turned to Sherlock after the waiter went away. "I really don't see why we can't play friends for seven days, Sherlock, I really can't. You played penniless hobo for three years, which, in my opinion, is your best disguise and fashion yet. And tough too! But really, seven days ought to not kill the both of us really. Well, hopefully, not quite literally."
The glasses were set before them. Moriarty picked up his glass and gestured Sherlock to follow suit. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, glancing up at his nemesis before looking down at the glass of whiskey. With the same amount of hesitation, he picked up the glass. Seven days, he thought to himself. The both of them threw back their drinks, Moriarty with more enthusiasm than Sherlock as he slammed his glass down upon the table while Sherlock merely set his down gently as he would with any tableware piece.
"Well," began Sherlock, "how did you spend the last three years? In the United States I suppose?"
Moriarty leaned back in his chair. "I just busied myself here and there. Visited a few cities, tourist spots really. I wanted to see what made them sooo interesting. But they were all boring; the whole country is boring. If I had my way I would play a game, but there was no one to play with. That's the problem, Sherlockâafter our little altercation three years ago, when you no longer proved to be an interesting, like-minded man, the world ceased to be one grand delight. Now it's just a hellish globe of boring people."
A live band began to play some jazz music across the room, and a scowl formed upon Moriarty's face when the tunes reached his ears. "Just a boring world of boring people and shitty music."
The conversation ceased at the last comment. Moriarty took to looking out of the window once more while Sherlock never turned his gaze from the so-called Napoleon of crime. His eyes narrowed as he tried to nitpick at Moriarty's apparel, but there was not race of soil upon the clothes, no distinctive brand or label to suggest a location or a particular personality quirk. All of his clothes were generic, all bland and blank of design and real color. From what Sherlock could observe, Moriarty lost much of his spark, as if the Reichenbach incident left him devoid of the dangerous and ferocious vivacity he once possessed. As much as it pained Sherlock to admit to himself, he also felt like something has "died", that fateful afternoon. Sherlock noted that he himself felt odd and deflated, the sensation of ghostliness he experienced when he heard of The Woman still being alive when he followed John. The time he spent in New York City felt much like a blur but slow at the same time, a feeling one could attribute to a dream, John Watson would say.
Everything felt like a dream.
Finally, Sherlock broke the silence. "I'm not your toy, Moriarty," he said quietly.
Moriarty sharply turned his gaze away from the window and locked it onto Sherlock. He stared into his eyes, and in that space of time the consulting detective noticed the familiar yet somewhat unusual intensity that burned in the criminal mastermind's eyes. It is almost as if a small flame of the old Moriarty had been rekindled. "I played you well and good," Moriarty replied with the same sharpness as his stare. "I broke you and this is you now, a shadow of all that remains."
"I could say the same about you."
The two feel silent again. Sherlock moved to stand up and leave. He had enough of James Moriarty for one day. As he began to move away form the table, Moriarty spoke up, his eyes still upon his nemesis, his casual, bored tone returning to his voice. "You believe that you're not a boring, broken toy. Prove it."
Sherlock turned and looked back at the man. He knew Moriarty was pushing buttons and very well knew which ones he was pressing. Sherlock caught he whiff of a game, and the insatiable thirst for a solution touched upon him once more. "How?"
"I knew a man once who played his parts well, so well that he walks in shadowlands seeking his purpose by the strum of certain strings, and yet when dawn touched his face the purpose evaporated, nevermore to be. They say that he had an effect upon people, but I personally do not know what they mean by that. You have the next six days to tell me who this person is."
"Six days is too much time."
"It will be plenty."
"And if I refuse?"
"You will always be a broken toy, Sherlock Holmes. And let's just say that I will personally ensure that your family back at 221b Baker Street won't be there to welcome you home."
Sherlock Holmes winced slightly, but Moriarty caught this quick weakness in Sherlock's face. A cruel smile formed upon his lips and he chuckled to himself as Sherlock rushed out of the lounge.