Title: "His Chief of Staff is Colonel Sebastian Moran."
Pairing/Characters: Iffy, not-quite-there Jim/Sebastian
Rating: PG-13
Word count: A little under 3000 words.
Summary: Sebastian gets a visit from his friend Jim, who wants to talk about a mutal friend (enemy?) of theirs.
Warnings: Hm Un-Beta'd and Un-Britpicked. Some cursing. Spoilers for S1 in general. See a mistake, please tell me so I can fix it. Thanks. 3 (Also, I fear that the dreaded OOC-ness may have crept in, but I think it might be okay...)
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the positioning of the words. :)
Notes: Set at some point between The Blind Banker and The Great Game. Mainly written because I freaked out when Sherlock introduced John to a guy who was frakking named Sebastian. So there you go.


It was getting damn close to being time to pack up for the day when Sebastian's intercom receiver buzzed. "Sir?"

Sighing, he set down the papers he'd been lazily mulling over and pressed the button. "Yes, Shelly?" he answered with feigned joviality.

"Sir, you've got a visitor."

"What? It's almost closing time! Does he have—"

"He says he hasn't got an appointment, sir, but he says you'll want to see him. He's—he's rather insistent, sir."

And right there, there was a very particular something in the woman's voice that gave Sebastian pause. It wasn't quite fear, but…caution. Wariness. The edge of suspicion.

"I see. Send him up, Shelly," he practically sighed.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Another buzz of the intercom marked the end of the connection.

Sebastian ran a hand down his face, and then sat back in his expensive chair, leaning far enough back to prop his legs up on the desk. Best to look as nonchalant as possible around the likes of his visitor. One wouldn't want to look intimidated if one could help it. Not that anyone was capable of fooling his visitor, but there's a certain peace of mind that comes with futility.

Only taking a minute, his visitor entered the room wearing a wide smile, along with what had to be the gayest outfit Sebastian had ever seen outside of a TV screen, let alone on a man of such professional vanity as this one. Interest piqued, Sebastian took his feet off the desk and leaned forward. "Why hello, Jim."

Silent question posed, Jim looked down at himself—v-cut T-shirt, hip-hugging skinny jeans, green underwear and all—and laughed. "You like the view, Sebastian?" he asked, rolling his hips a little, a mockingly flirty look on his face. There was something wrong with his voice, Sebastian noticed; he'd added an unfamiliar, enthusiastic, casual twang to it—to go with the costume, no doubt.

"Oh, definitely. May I ask who're you dressing up for, buddy? Certainly this…get-up isn't for my benefit." He smiled. Sebastian had a special smile for dealing with Jim, one that was patently both non-threatening and non-threatened at the same time. He imagined it was something like engaging an outwardly-placid wild animal. It could bite at any time with little to no warning.

"Ohh," said Jim, "just a friend. A mutual friend, actually. I want to talk to you about him." He twirled his hips a bit more as he spoke, the hem of his skimpy shirt riding up to reveal a flash of pale belly. Then he paused and considered Sebastian, tapping his lips with his forefinger. "Aren't you going to ask me to sit down, Basty?"

Sebastian rolled his eyes. "You don't usually wait to be asked," he replied, motioning towards the chair at the front of his desk before leaning back again and replacing his stocking feet on the wood finish. Jim followed suit, mimicking Sebastian's pose, positioning their legs so that the two closest to each other touched fully. He gave the closest approximation to a content smile of which he was capable, folding his hands over his chest.

Seeing as Jim seemed happy to just sit there and offer no further explanations, Sebastian prompted, "So, Jim, do you mind if I ask a series of questions?"

"I love it when you do," said Jim, not for a moment allowing his affected persona to lapse. "It's one of the many reasons I like you, you know; you always give me a reason to hear the sound of my own voice."

"Why don't you just talk to yourself, then?" This was the game they played, after all—talk until you've said too much, walk until you've overstepped a line. Mock until you've angered the psychopath.

Jim's black eyes flashed in the fluorescent light. "Well, that's not quite the same, is it? That's like the difference between getting hand-job and wanking, isn't it?" There was that tight, deliberate smile again, so close to turning into a teeth-showing grin. "That was the first question in the series thereof, then? Do go on, love."

Sebastian didn't want to admit it, but damn it, he fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. "Right, well, first things first—"

"Second things second," Jim corrected.

Sebastian waved him off. "Never mind counting. Jim. Is it safe for you to be, you know, out and about? Don't you usually prefer to stay hidden in the Bat Cave?"

"I think you mean Arkham Asylum," Jim replied, sounding bored, moving his leg against Sebastian's. Sebastian fidgeted again—damn it—and (hopefully subtly) slid his leg a few inches away. Jim was usually a pretty tactile person, always touching others as some strange show of dominance, but his seemed different—like he was attempting to stay in character. "As for whether or not I'm safe…well, as they say, the best hiding places are in plain sight. My theory is that when I'm dressed like this, I'll be disregarded by the exact people I hope will disregard me." He paused and slid his thin leg back into contact with Sebastian's, twisting his ankle so the side of his expensive boot rested on the older man's thigh. "But thank you for your concern. Did I answer many of the questions in your head?"

"You only really made me more eager to ask more."

"Oh good! Please do!"

Sebastian shrugged. "Well, if we're being honest…the only important question is, who's the mutual friend? I never imagined you had many besides me." Sebastian liked to do that—insult people and call them friends at the same time. He liked to gauge their reactions.

Jim's reaction…was pretty mild, actually. His dark eyes narrowed warningly, glinting, but nothing else happened. "If we're being honest, I'd suppose you'd call him…what's the opposite of a colleague?"

Sebastian shrugged.

"Well, he's that," Jim continued, undeterred. Then, suddenly, he glared at Sebastian in earnest and turned to shoot daggers all over the posh office. "Actually, he was in this very room not too long ago." His glare was no less than accusatory when it returned to Sebastian's face.

"Jim, wh—wait. You're not talking about—Sherlock Holmes? My old schoolmate? Really? What do you want with him?"

Jim still looked somewhat put-out, but also a little less murder-y. "He's getting in the way of business. In fact, when he was here, he helped ruin one of my investments. At your request, I might add. Thanks for that, Sebastian." Fuck, the murder-y look was back already. Time to punch the shark in the nose.

"That break-in-and-murder thing was your doing? Damn it, Jim! Ever think of, I don't know, telling me before you go and fund a crime that's going to affect my business? I thought, being your so-called chief of staff, you might trust me with that kind of information."

Jim had the nerve to look pouty. "If I'd told you, you would have said no. But if I'd known you were going to call in Sherlock Holmes—"

Sebastian once again kicked his feet off the desk and replaced them with his elbows. "Jim, buddy, I don't think we talk enough. We've got communication issues in our relationship." He tried not to speak as though he was dealing with a small child, but damn the idea was tempting. "Look at it from my point of view: somebody breaks into my office, they leave a damn scribble on a portrait, and an employee goes missing. What am I going to do? Am I going to assume that every crime ever is the doing of my best mate who happens to be the head of a criminal organization, or am I going to ask for help? I have an easily-contactable old schoolmate with a neat parlor-trick, so obviously the latter is the better choice, seeing as my mate is damn difficult to get a hold of. Really, what do you expect of me?"

Jim's eyes were little more than slits, blacked out by his full eyelashes. "I expect you to lose that tone. I didn't come here to argue with you, Sebastian."

Sebastian rolled his chair back and stood to pace. "No, you came to talk about Sherlock bloody Holmes. Jim, do you really think that weirdo is anything to get your"—he paused—"bright green knickers in a bunch over?"

Jim's black eyes followed Sebastian as he moved about the office. "I think I already answered that question. He poses himself as a severe detriment to my business."

"So, what, you need to, I don't know, get at him?"

"Yes, more or less. Do you object? He's your old schoolmate."

'Damn him,' thought Sebastian. 'It should be illegal to look and sound so collected in a situation like this. Not that Jim'd care, but…still.'

"Well. Um. No? I guess not? I mean, it's not like we were ever friends, but…do you really want to…?" He left the sentence hanging on purpose, because far be it from him to ever try to predict what went on in Jim's mind.

"Kill him? Well yes, eventually, I think, at least after I've gotten to play with him for a little while longer. For my troubles, I'd really love to drive him completely insane before we get to that point." His quick flash of a grin gave Sebastian chills up and down his spine, despite the fact that he should have been years past being affected by his mate's…creepiness.

"So why are you talking to me? Do you need help getting at Sherlock? I can tell you all his contact info—"

"No, I have access to all that sort of information. No, what I need help with is getting to the man. I'm still looking for ways to hurt him, to see if I can get him to leave my business alone by his own will." His brow had furrowed by now, his tight little eyebrows knitting over his wide, unsettling eyes.

Sebastian had the good graces to drop his gaze and shuffle his feet. "Well, I don't think you'll get to the man dressed like that. I'm not sure exactly what Sherlock does with his under-things, but I'm pretty certain he doesn't go for camp. For a while at Uni, for instance, he sort of went out with this one bloke, real sensible guy name Victor—"

Jim started and pointed at Sebastian. "There! That's what I mean. Victor…?"

"Victor Trevor. Just a guy I always used to see Sherlock with back then."

"Is he someone I could use?"

Sebastian had to stop himself from shivering at the word 'use', because he knew exactly what Jim meant by it. "Don't think so, buddy. Dead men don't make great hostages."

Jim considered this before relaxing again. "Well, no matter. The point is, that's the sort of information I'm after. Things I can use." And then, just now remembering Sebastian's 'camp' comment, he laughed his semi-cruel laugh. "And don't get the wrong ideas about this outfit, Basty. I don't want Sherlock to go for me when I wear it. I already told you; I want him to disregard me."

Sebastian clenched and unclenched both his hands a few times. "You know, buddy, you seem to have this whole damn plan pretty well worked out in that genius head of yours. Can I ask why you bothered to come all this way to talk at all?"

Jim stood then and walked up to Sebastian, close enough that their body heat mingled. "Maybe I just wanted to talk? Didn't I already answer that question, too? You really should pay attention when I speak, Basty; I've got such a pretty voice."

Sebastian bared his teeth in what could have been as much a grimace as it was a grin. "You really like playing this part, don't you? Have you found a new favorite role, Jimmy?"

Jim's eyes crinkled in an almost non-threatening smile. "You think you're so funny," he said almost fondly.

"You think you're so scary," Sebastian offered.

Jim shrugged. "I've been told that I am."

Sebastian didn't doubt it. "And I've been told that I'm funny. We've reached an impasse, I think."

Jim's smile said he didn't believe in impasses. He reached forward and inexplicably ran his hands down Sebastian's lapels, seemingly to smooth them out, although Sebastian was certain that this was just another power-play. He'd never met anyone before or after Jim that unnerved him this much even when they were behaving rather innocuously. Sherlock was an oddball, yes, but a more or less harmless oddball. Used his powers for good and all that. On the other hand, if anyone ever called Jim harmless, Sebastian would have had to laugh in their face. A rabid wolf was more harmless than Jim Morgan—or Moriarty, as was his stage-name.

When Jim's hands fluttered close to Sebastian's hips, Sebastian was pulled out of his reverie and coughed out, unbidden, "John Watson."

Jim met Sebastian's gaze with wide, excited eyes, hands frozen where they were. "What was that?"

"John Watson. Sherlock's new little…thing. He called him a friend, except Sherlock doesn't have friends. The fact that he sees this John fellow as one—well. The point is, the man probably wouldn't disappoint you if you tried to find a use for him." He paused, floundering a bit. "You could call him useful, maybe."

Jim's face lit up like that little boy from that one American Christmas film—when he finally got that toy gun he wanted so badly. "Oh, Sebastian! Now that is exactly the sort of thing I was hoping you would tell me! I can work with a friend!" There was suddenly and briefly the sensation of lips at the corner of Sebastian's mouth, affectionate in a possessive kind of way. And then Jim had backed off, beginning to pace around the room himself—but out of excitement and sadistic restlessness, not discomfort.

"I'm pretending to date a girl who works at Barts, you see. Sherlock sometimes goes there to use the lab, she told me. I'm going to make a chance to meet him soon, to observe him up close. Oh, what fun! I'll keep an eye on this John man too, if you think he's promising." He laughed then, sudden and ecstatic. "Oh, it's Christmas!"

"Um," said Sebastian, eloquently. "Glad to make you happy, I guess." He paused and watched his friend a little longer. "Is that it, then? Because I—"

Jim laughed again and put his hands on his skinny hips. "Why, Basty, you'd think you wanted to be rid of me!" Before getting an answer, though, Jim checked his wristwatch. "Tsk! It's just as well; Molly and I have a date in a few. She's a sad little bird, you know, and dense too—she's not picking up on any of my costume's hints."

"Sounds infuriating."

"Would be, would be, if she didn't like talking about our friend Sherlock so much. He's all she ever seems to really want to talk about…she's never mentioned this John fellow, though. Hmm. Oh! Before I forget"—he rummaged a bit in the back pocket of his tight, expensive jeans, and pulled out a thick wad of folded papers—"when's the next time you're in Hong Kong?"

"Two weeks. Why?"

Jim laughed again; he was just full of bubbles today. "Why else? I've got a few men I'd like you to shoot with that fancy gun of yours." The expression he pulled right then was obviously meant to be entreating, but it didn't quite hit its mark with Sebastian.

"Oh come on, Jim, you know how much I hate trying to get that thing through security. You've got a whole team of snipers in your pocket; can't you just send one of them?"

Jim shook his head with a tragic frown. "I really can't." He held the papers—the death warrants—out closer to his friend. "True, I've got a whole team, but you're the best of the whole lot of them. You're the only one I can really trust to never get caught and betray me." The little weasel of a man fluttered his dark eyelashes, trying to force Sebastian to agree to the job by sheer force of will.

It worked. It always worked. Sebastian stepped closer and took the papers. "I bet you say that to all the boys," he mumbled, unfolding them and studying the photographs of his targets.

Jim shrugged and smiled and patted Sebastian on the cheek. And then he was gone, no doubt to give poor Shelly one more unhinged smile, and then off to traumatize whoever this poor Molly was.

'God help Sherlock Holmes,' Sebastian thought half-heartedly. 'He's a dead man walking. Him and John Watson both. They're so fucking screwed.'

He looked out his treacherous window for a second. It was fully dark now, the city lit only by its own buildings' lights.

'Not that I'd ever do anything to get in Jim's way. I couldn't ever betray him like that, just like he said. He fucking owns me.'

He refolded the papers and put them in the inner pocket of his suit-jacket, moving towards his desk to pack up for the night.

'And I don't mind at all. I'm as crazy as he is.'