Hi everyone! SORRY FOR THE WAIT! Thank you so much for reading so far and for all the wonderful and supportive reviews!

Many thanks to laal ratty one of my native consultants for my fics.

And thanks to GoogleMaps, the British Government's websites, and the Youtube videos posted by Department for International Development in which you can see Big Ben from the window of their apparently two different offices, at least one of them too close for it to be located in the address given on the website. (Not that that adds to the story in anyway.)

Explanation of this chapter's title: 'Three Men In A Tub', is from "Rub a dub dub, three men in a tub". For the purpose of this story, a tub is a metaphor for a drug gang.

I know some people said it was confusing, the nonlinear format, while others liked it. Sorry if it's confusing. There's basically only two timelines, though, so far…

Timeline A- 2011, Molly and Jim meet and date, Mary comes to the UK, Jim hires Mary, Jim confronts Sherlock, Mary calls Irene, Jim visits Molly, Jim meets with Irene, Jim gets shot at.

Timeline B- 2012, Jim is interrogated by Mycroft's men, Jim gets released because of Mr. Banks, Jim goes to visit Magnussen, Jim makes a plan to fake his death and make Sherlock fake his death, Sherlock and Mycroft make a plan to fake Sherlock's death, Jim and Sherlock fake their deaths.

This chapter introduces Timeline C, which begins 2010 and overlaps into 2011, and later goes all the way back to 2008 (but don't worry about 2008 just yet and also don't worry about the 1990's and early 2000's which will be Timeline D when Carl Power's transformation into Jim Moriarty yet, either).

Would it help if I added which timeline the section of a chapter is part of? So like instead of (June, 2012) it would be (Timeline B: June, 2012)?

And also, avoid confusion (for readers…and for myself), let me list the plot so far…

-Jim's Criminal Network wants to kill him. Sherlock and Mycroft want to capture Jim. Jim wants to live so he has to fake his death to get away from Criminal Network, Sherlock and Mycroft. He makes Sherlock fake Sherlock's death as a distraction for Sherlock and Mycroft so that they don't realize that Jim faked his own death. Once his death is faked, the Criminal Network is no longer trying to kill Jim and Mycroft and Sherlock are no longer trying to capture Jim. Jim is safe.

-Magnussen wants information about government activities just because he likes having dirt on the powerful. He wants to go to Mycroft's secret meetings. He attempted to blackmail Lord Moran into letting him into Mycroft's meetings by threatening to give Jim to Mycroft, but Lord Moran instead gives Jim to Mycroft himself. In retaliation Magnussen then told Mr. Banks that Jim was Carl Powers and alive, causing Mr. Banks to get Jim out of Mycroft's prison. Jim agrees to give Magnussen information about Sherlock in exchange for having it published. Magnussen wants this information to have power over Mycroft. Unrelatedly, Magnussen is also trying to blackmail Mary Morstan for no reason except that he likes to creep on women.

-Lord Moran helped Carl Powers fake his death to get away from Mr. Banks who wants him dead. He is a parliamentary lord and Minister of Overseas Development (which I think is actually called International Development, but I see why the creators didn't want to slander the department). As part of Jim's plan, Lord Moran turned Jim in to Mycroft. He attended Mycroft's meetings but gets barred from attending once Mr. Banks frees Jim from Mycroft's prison. He smuggles in western goods to communist North Korea and China via diplomatic trips to make extra money, meaning he works with gangs as well as the North Korean and Chinese governments, however he doesn't directly sponsor or condone violence.

-Mr. Banks is the tall gray haired man at the end of The Hounds of Baskerville. Mr. Banks is not his real name but he is some sort of a banker, and it's the name he uses for his investments so they can't be connected to his real identity. For reasons later to be revealed he wanted Carl Powers dead and told Lord Moran to kill him in exchange for campaign money that got Lord Moran elected as an MP and later appointed to the House of Lords. For years he believes that Carl Powers died. Magnussen informs him that this is not true and so Mr. Banks sets out to get revenge on Lord Moran and Carl Powers, now known as Jim.

-Mary Morstan is the ex-CIA assassin's new name, with help from Irene Adler she came to hide in the UK from the CIA and other enemies. She has a crush on John so calls Irene to stop Jim from killing John (and Sherlock). Magnussen is trying to blackmail her and in a failed attempt ends up getting the CIA to storm Irene's house.

-Irene learns of Sherlock and Jim from Mary. She wants to decode some stolen government information so she can make the government protect her in case anyone comes after her. She needs Sherlock to do it because he's the only one smart enough. She gets Jim to get her information on Sherlock and Mycroft, so she can use it to get close enough to Sherlock that he'll decode the information. The CIA storms her house looking for Mary and whatever CIA information Mary may have given Irene.

-Molly wants to stop Jim and protect Sherlock from him, winning Sherlock's admiration and affection. She's not sure how she's going to do that, especially because she still sort of likes Jim, too.

Also because it was called the Ministry of Overseas Development in the TV show, that's what the story will use and there is of course no connection to the Department for International Development who I'm sure is staffed by very noncriminal people regardless of their political affiliations. Still, for convenience sake, it'll have the same office location not that I'll bother to write the address anyway…

This chapter will introduce three new players to the game, who will be summarized in the after-chapter A/N. I think they (and later Jim's mother) will be the last ones, other than the usual subjects like Kitty Riley, the assassins, the gunmen and Tom, who are all from the show and will happen later.

Now to find out who they are and also how Molly confronts Jim.

Sorry for the long author's note. Hope you like this chapter!


"I'll see you at the Fox. About sixish?"


(December, 2010)

London was a beautiful city. Constantly moving, constantly updating; incorporating modernity around its historic architecture and sites. And snow covered, it looked timeless.

It had changed since Jim Moriarty (Carl Powers) had first been here in 1989 for a swimming competition (and then later, secretly, for the second time when he was seventeen). Jim had respectfully avoided the city—and all of England—for so long on (paranoid and protective) Lord Moran's request, but over twenty years had passed since he had had to go into hiding and so he figured it was safe now.

However, it was not London's beauty and history that brought Jim to London this winter (nor was it a swimming competition or the futile search for his father).

It was Christmas.

(Well, Christmas Eve, anyway.)

Jim wasn't religious and he wasn't festive…but he was the reason Lord Moran spent the holidays alone (every year since Jim's second time in London), without his ex-wife and estranged son, and so Jim thought that this year instead of pretending December 24th was just another day of the month (or visiting his estranged mother) he might just try to cheer the old (middle-aged) man up. He hadn't been invited, or even hinted at, to come but he didn't care.

August Moran had a nice townhouse in an expensive neighborhood of London where he stayed when in the city on parliamentary business. When not in the city, he was usually in East Asia on diplomatic (and other illegal) business. (He also used to have a house in the north of England where his ex-wife lived and worked, but she owned it now after winning it in the divorce.)

(Not) surprisingly, when Jim knocked on the door to the nice townhouse in the expensive neighborhood Lord Moran did not answer and continued not to answer when Jim called his home, mobile and work phones. Lord Moran must have gone to somewhere people didn't celebrate Christmas like he usually did.

This year, though, Moran had mentioned to Jim that his soldier son might be visiting for the first time since the divorce this Christmas after getting back from Afghanistan alive. Those plans obviously had changed.

(Too bad… Jim was looking forward to crashing the reunion and meeting the real son of the man he used to wish was his real father.)

So Jim turned back around, fashion-over-function peacoat wrapped around him, and left the stone doorstep. Past the miniature lawn and back on the pavement by the roadway, Jim decided that he would suffer the cold and walk since (what seemed like) the only cabbie working on Christmas Eve, who had dropped him off in front of Lord Moran's townhouse, had attempted kill him with an experimental drug from a study and a cigarette lighter built like a gun.

Five streets down, and still a few away from the nearest Tube station, shivering Jim was about to change his mind and call the cabbie (they had exchanged numbers when Jim had paid him not to make him another 'serial suicide' victim)…

…when he looked up from the his clean shoes and the blackened splattered gum on the pavement, to see three tall men surrounding and confronting a fourth man.

The three men were not only taller and a few years younger than the fourth man, but the fourth man held a cane. A cane! Three tall men were threatening a short, older, crippled man!

Jim proudly admitted his lack of sympathy and empathy, both to himself and whoever happened to ask, but today was Christmas Eve and what was more in the spirit than watching the bigger bullies beat up on the little guy?

"Look, John." The ruddy-haired, square-faced man asserted, "We got you the gun you asked for, now it's time you help us in return."

"I already told you," the short, blond man apparently named 'John' countered, "I'm not interested and I don't want to be involved. I learned my lesson the last time back in Afghanistan. So thank you for the gun, I'll pay you if that's what you want, but I'm done with this drug scheme." He attempted to step around the man in front of him, but Ruddy moved to block him. "I'll remind you that I do have that gun with me now." John added.

So…what was this? Jim wondered, watching the scene intently while he pretended to check his phone.

"We know you need the money." The tawny-haired, oval-faced man said, "Look at you. You can't hold a job, you've got a shit pension—you're barely getting by! You'll get rich with us."

Behind John, he John by the shoulder pads of his black jacket to keep him from walking away. John shook him off and so Tawny held him in place with two hands.

John turned to the third man; hair chestnut and shaggy, face angular—the youngest of the three by five to ten years.

"You have anything to say?" he asked him.

Chestnut shook his head, silently.

"Thought not." John snorted, shaking his head knowingly. He turned back to Ruddy in front of him, and pushed him away with his cane before ducking out of Tawny's grasp.

The two men quickly reached out to grab him again, but before they could Chestnut was pointing at something. Someone.

Jim.

Tawny and Ruddy turned to stare at Jim who looked up 'confusedly' from his phone, pretending to have just noticed them for the first time.

"What're you looking at?" Tawny demanded, "Walk away. Now."

"No." Ruddy disagreed, "He might have taken our picture or filmed us on his phone. We can't let him go."

The three men began to approach Jim. Jim met the men halfway in the center of the pavement, a busy street on one side and a busy storefront on the other where customers were doing some last minute Christmas shopping. Too many witnesses for anything…too bad to happen (here, at least).

Meanwhile, this allowed John to hurry away (not limping) in the opposite direction, already dialing the police on his mobile. He went back into the almost empty pub where he had met up with his sister Harry for the first time since returning to England.

Ruddy, Tawny and Chestnut stood before Jim. Now Jim felt short, though by less than John must have felt.

Ruddy wore a black turtleneck and shoes, and a brown jacket and pants. Tawny wore a black leather jacket, a green plaid shirt, and jeans. Chestnut wore dramatically all black, jacket, buttondown and pants (Jim decided that along with the not talking, and being the youngest, Chestnut must have been still in his emo faze).

Drastically different than the three men, Jim stood out wearing a red shirt and a green suit, under his black peacoat, to partake in the Christmas season.

"Give me the phone." Ruddy 'politely requested', a forced smile on his face with the slight turn of his head. He held out his hand.

"Phone?" Jim laughed, "And here I thought you 'tough guys' just wanted my lunch money."

Ruddy widened, his smile at the joke; insincere and vicious like the teeth shark. Jim tried to match it, but his mouth wasn't big enough.

Tawny didn't smile. He raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"You think you're funny, don't you?" he sneered. It was a close as he could get to a false smile.

He stepped closer to Jim, looking down at him menacingly. He clamped his hand on the side of Jim's arm, holding Jim still so he could pull the mobilephone from Jim's fingers. He then stepped back and was already building the momentum throw it down onto the pavement and step on it when Ruddy stopped him with the gesture of a hand.

Chestnut was staring intently at the phone in Jim's hand.

Jim, Ruddy and Tawny all turned towards him. His face was expressionless but his lips were slightly parting as if he wanted to speak.

"Go on." Ruddy encouraged.

"…That's a Japanese phone." Chestnut stated, not even glancing up from the mobile, "That model isn't allowed out of Japan; none of the new technology ever is. So how does he have that phone?"

"Yes," Ruddy agreed, then looking back at Jim, "How do you have that phone?"

Jim smirked. He was surprised that someone had recognized his phone, a gift from Lord Moran, and indeed restricted and so smuggled technology.

"The real question is…" he redirected, "…how are you going to sell all the heroin you've smuggled here?" and then cherished the looks of surprise on the three men's faces.

"You're a good listener." Ruddy complemented, "Smart, too. John walks with a limp and said 'Afghanistan', so soldier. My associate said he could make John 'rich', so drugs."

"Lucky guess." Tawny dismissed, rolling his eyes.

"Which you've just confirmed as correct by saying so." Ruddy reminded, matter-of-factly.

Tawny scowled.

"Does your associate have a name?" Jim asked, "Do any of you have names?"

"What's it to you?" Tawny snapped.

"Well, if I'm going to help you boys sell your drugs, I should at least have something to call you." Jim reasoned, "I know it won't be your real names, of course, but something."

"Charlie." Ruddy—now known as 'Charlie'—declared, "Pleasure to meet you." He smiled and extended a hand to shake.

Jim took it and Charlie's handshake was overly firm but not overly enthusiastic; practiced and powerful. His hands were too soft, though, for him to be a soldier like the limping John who the three men had been trying to pressgang into their wannabe drug cartel.

"And them?" Jim followed-up, after Charlie had released his hand, turning to Tawny and Chestnut.

"Victor." Tawny—now known as 'Victor'—admitted, grudgingly, "And that's Romeo." he gestured to Chestnut—now known as 'Romeo'—who stood in silence beside him, "He doesn't talk much."

Romeo nodded in quiet agreement with that particular statement, confirming it.

"The NATO alphabet." Jim recognized, "Not very creative with codenames, are we?"

"We didn't choose them." Victor said, shrugging.

"So you've got a boss then." Jim gathered.

"Yes." Charlie confirmed, with a nod, "Papa."

Jim chuckled.

"Wonder who that is…" he mused, idly imagining a fat old man behind a desk, he then moved on to "Does John have a codename?"

"John didn't want a codename." Charlie replied, "As you already witnessed, John did not want to be a part of our…organization."

"And what exactly is your organization?" Jim questioned, "You've got military-inspired names but you're not soldiers and you're not ordinary drug smugglers, either, since you haven't been able to break into the business yet. I think you three are undercover. Spies, maybe even." He smirked again.

"And I think you're full of it." Victor snorted.

"I think he's smart." Charlie countered, "He could be useful." He then asked Jim, "What is your name? Who do you work for?"

"James Moriarty." Jim stated, "Call me 'Jim'. I work for myself, primarily…but I do rent myself out to whoever asks the nicest…" He winked. "I'm the only consulting criminal in the world. I help people like you do things like you want to do. You should feel flattered, seeing my face. Not very many get the pleasure."

Victor rolled his eyes again.

"He's crazy." He said, "Let's off him and be done with it." He reached into the pocket of leather jacket for what was presumably a gun.

Charlie raised an arm in front of the pocket to once again stop him. He sighed.

"I apologize for Victor's temper." He told Jim, "But don't take it personally. There aren't many people he doesn't want to kill."

"The world gives me a headache." Victor shrugged. He elbowed Romeo, "You, too. Right?"

Romeo nodded.

"Romeo is a rare exception to Victor's misanthropy." Charlie smiled, "I, unluckily, am not. And you won't be either, James. So when you work with us you'll have to be careful of him. Even I must."

"So you are going to consult me on your crime." Jim responded, then adding, "…And it's 'Jim'—not 'James'. James sounds too formal. To English."

"My mistake." Charlie accepted, "But before we decide whether we'll hire you to be our…what did you call it, again? Consulting criminal? You'll have to prove that you can actually help."

"Alright." Jim agreed, "Follow me."

He reached into Victor's hand, gently retrieving his Japanese mobilephone. Once he had it, he dialed the number of the cabbie he'd met that morning.


(April, 2011)

A half hour after the private Hickman gallery where she had met Sofie Wenceslas and down the street from the National Gallery, Molly Hooper emerged from the tube station and walked the less than five minutes across and down the busy street to the gray stone and brown-orange brick building in which the London office of the Ministry of Overseas Development was located. Behind it was the old Admiralty House.

Once standing at the doors, Molly pulled out her mobilephone. She dialed the number she'd found online and had already made a contact in her phone. She held the phone to her ear.

A woman's voice answered. She had a slight West African accent, underneath the practiced proper English.

"Office of Overseas Development. How may I direct your call?"

"Hello, um, I'd like to speak to Mr—Lord August Moran. Minister of Overseas Development, please."

"I'm afraid he doesn't take calls at this number. What is your reason for calling?"

"Carl Powers."

"Excuse me?"

"Carl Powers. Tell him I know about Carl Powers."

"Sorry, who?"

"Just tell him I said that name, please...He will know who I'm talking about."

"I'm sorry, but I'll have to disconnect this call now. Goodbye."

Molly lowered her mobile when the line cut off.

Then she waited.

A car honked in the street, a red bus pulled up to the curb. Pedestrians on the pavement pushed past her for standing too long in the same spot.

The phone rang; one of the pre-programmed, beeping melodies.

Molly clicked the touchscreen and lifted it back to her ear.

A man's voice answered. He had a slight…Irish accent, beneath the practiced proper English.

(It actually reminded her of Jim Moriarty's…except opposite.)

"Hello?"

"Hello? Who's this?"

"August Moran. Please come to meet me in my office. Do you know where it is?"

"Yeah, I do, I'm outside the building right now."

"Come in, then. My assistant will be waiting for you in the lobby."

"Okay."

The phone once again disconnected. Molly put it back into the little black purse she used for special occasions, smoothed her top and skirt under her Sherlock-inspired longcoat, and opened the doubledoors to the building.

Up three flights of stairs, before opening the door to the third floor, the same braid-haired assistant in the plain black dress who had originally answered the phone stopped Molly.

"I have to search." She stated, "Just in case. There's always the threat of terrorism, even at our department."

"Okay." Molly allowed.

She stretched out her arms the way she'd seen criminals do in the movies. Their weapons never seemed to be found. Of course, Molly hadn't actually brought any weapons…

The assistant checked Molly's coat pockets and then moved to check her blouse, skirt and gray knit-tights.

"Excuse me, but this isn't something normally done, is it?" Molly questioned, tensing in awkward discomfort.

"I'm sorry." The assistant apologized, "But Lord Moran doesn't trust you after what you said. He's not sure what you want. He wants to make sure you're not wearing a wire."

"I'm not." Molly asserted, "…but I suppose you'll have to check anyway…"

A few minutes later, Molly was cleared to enter Lord August Moran's office. The assistant returned to her cubicle in front of the door to the office after opening it for Molly and allowing her in.

With most offices, the desk and the person sitting in it was the centerpiece of the room, while the supplemental bookshelves and pictures on the wall were only for decoration. But in this office, it was different.

There were at least ten framed photographs on the white walls and propped on the brown bookshelf of the man at the brown desk (presumably August Moran) in the developing world; he was sitting in on a school for girls in India, he was in a South Korean hospital bonding with the elderly, he was delivering food to Tsunami victims in Thailand, he was rebuilding a home destroyed by a bomb in Iraq.

There were also just as many framed photographs (mostly National Geographic, some that Molly even recognized) of poorer countries that didn't include the lord (enough that he didn't seem vain); vine-covered Mayan ruins and tattoo-covered rainforest dwellers, skinny South African nomads and a miniature Igbo mask, a rural Chinese village and terracotta soldiers, a desert mosque and a girl with bright haunting eyes wearing a loose red scarf.

And on the desk, outnumbering the desktop computer screen, were framed photos with their backs turned to Molly so that she could not see who was pictured.

The man at the desk stood up when he saw Molly walk into the office, glancing around as the door was shut behind her. He cleared his throat.

Molly turned to face him. He looked to be in his fifties, his dark hair was graying, and he seemed underdressed for his position in a black suit with no tie.

"Who are you, what do you know, how do you know it, and what do you want?" he asked, getting straight 'down the business'.

Molly was quiet for a moment, processing the questions and considering carefully her answers to them. She wondered how long this meeting would take and so whether she should bother to take off her coat or not. For now, she didn't. (Emotionally, it was armor.)

"I'm not comfortable giving my name, I know Jim Moriarty is Carl Powers because Jim told me, and I want to know where Jim is." Molly stated, firmly, making sure to maintain eye-contact and not to seem in any way afraid.

"You must be Molly Hooper, then." Moran sighed—in relief and almost smiling—as he lowered himself back down into his swivel chair, comfortably, "Jim told me about you. Asked me for advice, actually. Everything he knows about women, he's learned from me. But he'd never slept with anyone on the first date before. Did you know that? He wanted to know what he should do next. He really likes you. Finds you interesting. You work in a morgue and you wear pink. You're moral, kind and optimistic…He won't admit it but I think he admires those traits because he's never been able to find them in himself."

Molly swallowed the breath she had held at Moran's statements. She didn't let herself feel flattered or get distracted by the declaration (that could easily be a lie) that Jim Moriartynot Jim from IT—sincerely liked her. It didn't matter because she didn't like criminals, she liked detectives.

And today, she was a detective and she was going to get her clues.

"So you were the one who helped Carl Powers fake his death." Molly gathered, "And you've kept in touch with him ever since." She hoped she didn't sound stupid, 'deducing that, the 'dots' had 'connected' in her mind.

"He never told you that." Moran said, "All he told you was his real name. He never thought you'd be able to do anything with it. It was Sofie who told you about me, wasn't it?" Molly nodded. "She doesn't know who Jim really is, but I should never have tried to help her get her painting sold."

"Why are you helping Jim?" Molly questioned, "You work for an organization that helps the most vulnerable people in the world. Is it all just a cover?"

"No." Moran answered, "I don't approve of what Jim does. I never thought he'd turn out like this. He was a good boy growing up. I put him through school and he did well; he was smart and well-liked. I gave him every opportunity to succeed in life the legal way. He used my resources to start an international crime ring."

"You could've stopped him, turned him into the police." Molly reminded.

"The police?" Moran laughed, "Jim could buy the police. He already has. The Chief Superintendent and a Detective Inspector."

Molly pursed her lips, folding her arms protectively. So if Moran was telling the truth, trying to get Jim arrested was out of the equation, then…

"Why is he interested in Sherlock?" she inquired.

"That's my fault, too, I'll admit." Moran admitted, somewhat embarrassedly, "I told him, just recently, that Sherlock Holmes was interested in Carl Power's 'death' back in '89. Within a week he had a plan to reveal four crimes he had helped commit to put the detective 'on the case'. I honestly think Jim was just bored of organizing things in secret and saw Sherlock Holmes as a way out, a way to get the attention he's always craved. But nothing's ever enough for him…"

"Why do you still speak to him?" Molly wondered, genuinely.

"Why are you here looking for him?" Moran returned.

"Because I want to stop him." Molly declared, "You don't. But you're still in contact with Jim even though you don't agree with what he does."

"What choice do I have at this point?" Moran shrugged, chuckling and leaning back in his chair. It leaned too with the backwards force, hovering just above the point of falling. "He's all I have. My wife divorced me, my son won't talk to me. All because of him. That's what he does to people. Destroys them. He doesn't kill them, he destroys them. He'll find the one thing that makes your life meaningful and take it away from you. It's what he did to me, what he did to his own mother…and it's what he'll do to you if you try to stop him."

"No, he won't!" Molly protested, too quickly, "He can't." Then she instantly silenced herself. She had said too much (with only the contractions of 'will not' and 'can not'), with too much emotion. She had made herself vulnerable…

Because what was the one thing that made Molly Hooper's life meaningful?

Was it Sherlock Holmes?

No. He was brilliant, she liked him and she didn't want him to get hurt…but if he ceased to exist Molly would live. Her life didn't revolve around a man, not even the most extraordinary one she had ever met.

Was it her parents?

No. Her father was already dead. Her mother was remarried and moved on. And so was Molly.

Was it her cat Toby?

No. She loved her furry friend with all her heart, but he was just a cat. They have shorter lifespans than humans and if she no longer grieved for her father and no longer missed her mother, it wasn't very long she would grieve for or miss a cat.

Was it her job?

No. Molly enjoyed her job, and it was more than 'just a job', but if she ever lost it for whatever reason, she could always find something else to do with her time and earn an income.

So what was the one thing that made her life meaningful, then?

She had no significant other, no children, and no close friends or family that she saw regularly (university friend Meena lived in Cardiff now, her mother and her mother's husband spent their retirement travelling the world, her work friend Caroline went on maternity leave and wasn't planning to return).

She had nothing.

And that, of course, was why Jim could never 'destroy' her as Moran had said. Still, she didn't need Moran (and so Jim) to know that…

"Why not?" Moran asked, eyebrow raised, "Because he likes you? That doesn't make you safe. That puts you in danger."

"…If I don't stop Jim, Sherlock will." Molly tried, fists unconsciously clenched.

"That's what he wants." Moran countered, "He likes him, too, and so he'll destroy him along with you and anybody else who gets close to him—friend or foe. So if you want to protect Sherlock Holmes, tell him to stay away from Jim. And if you want to protect yourself…well, you know what my point is by now." he rested his chin on his hand, elbow on the desk.

"So you won't tell him that I was here today." Molly replied, "So that he doesn't come after me and I stay away from him."

"I wouldn't tell him…except that if you've found me, then that means Sherlock Holmes inevitably will." Moran disagreed, "And he has an older brother with a higher position in the government than I do. He can't know of my connection Jim, or he'll think I'm involved with his crimes."

"What does that have to do with me?" Molly questioned, one of her hands reached across her torso to hold the coatsleeve baggy around her elbow. She fidgeted the fabric back and forth.

"Sofie won't tell Holmes about me, she didn't even tell him that she was the one who painted the forgery." Moran explained, "So if he learns about me, it'll be from you. I can't have that. But I'm kind of person who sings lullabies disfigured orphans and always looks both ways before crossing the street. I'm not scary enough to stop you from going to Sherlock Holmes. But Jim Moriarty is. And he'll have to be a little more convincing about frightening you this time, as he obviously wasn't the last time since you're here."

"Good." Molly stated, matter-of-factly, causing Moran to blink in surprise, "Please do tell Jim that I was here because I want to talk to him. It's why I came all this way."

"I will and I'm sorry." Moran responded, regretfully, "I'm so, so sorry…"


(December, 2010)

In Tower Hamlets, there was bike messenger who rode around on a bicycle delivering 'messages' long after the invention of email which made bike messengers obsolete.

His name was Joe Harrison.

He was tall, skinny and in good shape, due to his job. He wore skintight bikeclothing ( shortsleeve shirts and shorts no matter the weather), and always a helmet.

"How do you know this man?" Charlie asked Jim.

They, Victor and Romeo were loitering in front of a Tesco, watching the messenger deliver his goods to various passersby in the neighborhood of highrises.

"Met him at a party." Jim answered, "He's got fancier clients, too. Businessmen, barristers and solicitors, bankers…But it's almost Christmas so they're taking some time off."

"You met him at a party?" Victor scoffed, "Whose party? How well do you really know him? We can't trust him."

"How well do you really know me?" Jim returned, "But you trust me enough to get your drugs sold. Harrison's just a dealer and he'll do his job. What else is there to know? ...and not to drop names, but it was McQueen's party."

"Who?" Victor asked, taken aback. He glanced at Romeo who shrugged and shook his head in matched confusion.

Jim chuckled, half in mockery and half in shock that Victor and Romeo didn't know who Alexander McQueen was.

"A fashion designer." Charlie informed his two associates.

"Are we supposed to be impressed?" Victor snorted.

Jim shoved his hands into his peacoat pocket, "Well, the man was a legend, god rest his soul…"

Victor rolled his eyes. Charlie folded his arms. Romeo stood still and silent.

Jim sighed.

"Go and get your dealer." Charlie instructed.

"He's not my dealer." Jim corrected, in offense, "I'm not an addict. Well except maybe for caffeine, that is."

"Just go, already." Victor groaned.

Jim jogged across and down the street until he blocked the path of Harrison's bike. Harrison jerked to a quick stop, put one foot down to balance the bicycle in place, and glared at Jim.

"What do you want?" he snapped.

"Is that any way to greet an old friend, Joe?" Jim chastised.

"We're not friends, Rich." Harrison countered, "You don't make friends by accusing someone of being a drug dealer in front of a room full of important people."

(Joe Harrison new Jim Moriarty as 'Richard Brook', as did the majority of people who had seen his face.)

"Well you certainly weren't a model, tall and skinny enough but too much chest hair." Jim reasoned, pointing at the hair poking out through the zipper of Harrison's compressionshirt, "And your clothes were too cheap and tacky that night."

"I'm going to ask you one more time before I run you over." Harrison declared, "What do you want?"

"See those guys over there?" Jim gestured behind himself towards Charlie, Victor and Romeo, "They've got heroin for you to sell, and they'll give you a better cut than the Bengali's do for selling it."

"I'm not working for you and your stupid friends." Harrison refused.

"You want to be slave to the Asian gangs forever?" Jim checked.

"You think I care if the people I work for are Asian or English?" Harrison laughed, "I don't as long as I get paid."

"Well, you seemed pretty angry that night that your sister was dating an Indian man." Jim recounted, slyly.

"I was drunk and I got over it." Harrison recanted, "He's a good man. He has a good job with the government and he treats her well."

"And do you want your dear baby sister to find out about what you really do for a living?" Jim asked.

Harrison tensed at this. "You have no proof…" he attempted.

Jim pulled his mobilephone from his pocket, waving it in front of Harrison and smirking. "I've recorded our conversation," he said, "…and don't bother trying to take my phone, it's linked up to my business partners' phones over there and I don't you can chase all three of them down and steal their phones too, even if you're cycling."

"Fine, whatever." Harrison gave up, groaning, "I'll sell your damn drugs."

Jim smiled.

"Then, come on over and meet the family." he requested, already turning and starting towards the corner shop, "We'll get you set up."

Reluctantly and defeated, Harrison hopped back on his bike and rode after him.


(April, 2011)

Once Molly Hooper had left his office, Lord August Moran stared into his blank computer screen (fallen asleep due to inactivity during the conversation) and the empty frames propped up on his desk where photographs of his wife and son used to be. He sighed, then reached down to unlock the deskdrawer where he kept the phone he used to communicate with Jim Moriarty. It was Japanese. And in the drawer were the old photos.

"Jim, where are you?"

"What? No pleasantries? Not even a 'hello'? I won't be so rude. Hello, Uncle Aug, how are you today? How was the Chinese election?"

"South Korean. You know it was South Korean. And went exactly how I paid for it to go. Where are you?"

"Hiding."

"…what kind of trouble did you get yourself into this time?"

"You know the Criminal Network I spent the last ten years of my life building…?"

"Yes?"

"…well, they want to kill me now. One of them just tried to shoot me with a sniper rifle."

"Oh, Jim….I warned you about going public. But that's not the only problem you have at the moment, I'm sorry to say. Molly Hooper just visited."

"Really? I'm impressed. But that means Sherlock won't be far behind."

"That's what I want you to prevent."

"What if I don't want to prevent it…?"

"You want us both to get arrested by Mycroft Holmes?"

"Not you, Auggy. Just me. When Sherlock, or Mycroft, or whoever comes to you to get to me I want you to turn me in. Tell them where to find me and that I'll go quietly. Cut a deal with them to give me up and stay out of trouble."

"…what? Why?"

"I need to get close to my Holmes-boys It's for a client. And for me, too…"

"If Mycroft Holmes captures you, you won't be taken to a regular prison. You'll be hidden away somewhere and I won't be able to get you out. So how do you plan to escape?"

"I know some people. Don't worry about me."

"You know I've never been able to do that. Who are these 'people'?"

"An ex-CIA agent and a three man drug gang."

"My god, how do you meet these kinds of people…?"

"I'm just the sweet honey that attracts all the flies."

"Or maybe, you're just the venus flytrap that eats them alive."

"Speaking of eating alive, where has Molly run off to now? I'm getting hungry…"

"I told her that you'd be coming after her. So wherever she is she's waiting for you. Be nice to her, please. She seems like a sweet young lady."

"You say that about every woman. But it was your old flame who sold you out, wasn't it?"

"That doesn't matter. I was raised to respect women. And I tried to teach you the same."

"You're a manwhore and you know it. You cheated on your wife and you sleep around in whatever country you visit."

"And yet I've never killed anyone. Don't lecture me on morals, Jim. And before you say it, no Carl Powers doesn't count because, as you know, you didn't actually die."

"You know, you still never did tell me why little Carl had to die…"

"But I did tell you, every time you asked, that it's really better for you that you don't know."

"I'm an international criminal with my own network out to murder me. What more harm could it possibility do at this point?"

"…I'm not going to tell you why and I never will. But is there anything else you'd like me to do besides turning you into the authorities whenever they question me?

"Yeah, um…do you think Molly'd like flowers or chocolates better?"


(January, 2011)

After coming to London and meeting Jefferson Hope, and later Charlie, Victor, and Romeo, all on Christmas Eve (paying the former not to kill him and arranging for the latter three to sell drugs via bike messenger), Jim Moriarty found himself standing outside the hotel in which the newly-elected local MP of Transport Beth Davenport was having her victory party.

Charlie, who seemed to be the leader, of the 'Three Musketeers' (as Jim referred to them playfully in his mind, himself being the fourth) had texted Jim, asking for a favor.

That favor was killing the MP of Transport so the runner-up who would surely win the by-election could take her place. The runner-up was willing to instruct transportation authorities to look the other way as the Three Musketeers smuggled in their heroin.

It was dark and chilly, the base of whatever music was blaring inside pumped like an enthusiastic heartbeat. Jim couldn't help but tap his foot despite not being able to hear the song.

Eventually the blonde woman emerged from the hotel's doubledoors, wobbling in her heels and state of intoxication. Jim followed her, just far enough behind her that in her drunken stupor she didn't notice him, and watched from behind an adjacent vehicle as she rooted through her purse in front of her car.

Unable to find her keys, she threw her hands up in frustration, dropping her purse. She bent to pick it up and when she returned to her full height, Jim stood beside. She gasped and jumped, falling backwards slightly, to lean against the door to her car.

"Who are you?!" she demanded, placing her purse between her and the stranger as 'protection'.

"Just a constituent." Jim smiled, "I voted for you."

"Oh, thank you..." Davenport returned. She extended a hand to shake, but couldn't steady it and so brought it up to clutch her forehead. Everything was blurry. "I'm sorry, I'm not being very, um, professional…"

"It's alright." Jim shrugged, "We all have our bad days. But it's a good day for you. You've just won your first election. You deserve to enjoy yourself a bit—or a lot, as it seems you are." He chuckled.

Davenport laughed, too. A little too loudly. She quickly covered her mouth with both hands.

"…let me just call you a cab, alright?" Jim decided.

"Yeah." Davenport nodded, "Please."

With one hand Jim patted her on the shoulder, with his other hand he pulled out his mobilephone and dialed Jefferson Hope.


(April, 2011)

Molly was on her way back to the tube station when she heard her phone beep in the purse hanging from her shoulder, indicating that a text message had arrived. She pulled it out and covered the screen partially with her other hand so she could read the text.

See you at the Fox.

There was no signature, but it was from the same number Jim from IT had used (which meant that apparently it was Jim Moriarty's real phone) and the message obviously referred to the location their third date would have occurred—had Jim not been a mass murderer.

Molly, and her heart, stopped.

This is what she wanted, wasn't it? To track Jim Moriarty down and confront him, just like Sherlock Holmes would. To prove herself worthy (not just to Sherlock, that she was 'good' (clever) enough for him but to herself, too, that she really deserved someone different like Sherlock…even if she never got him).

But Molly was suddenly afraid. She had been so sure of herself (well, as sure as she had ever been) meeting with Sofie Wenceslas and Lord Moran…

…but now that she would be meeting with Jim again she was scared. Last time, he had come to her, trapped her in her own territory. This time, she was hunting him—or at least she was supposed to be.

But once again, Jim was the one who had chosen the location of their meeting. First her flat, now an upscale pub.

Why would Jim choose the Fox in particular? Molly wondered. It was place he'd promised to take her on a real and romantic date to, since the first two had happened in her flat. He was trying to remind her of their 'feelings' for each other, then, Molly decided. But was it to bring her guard down…or to mock her for being fooled by him and put her on edge?

Molly couldn't tell.

Nervously, she hailed a taxicab and rode the fifteen minutes through the traffic quietly staring down at her mobilephone in her lap. She then paid and exited outside the renovated old two-story corner building that was the Fox.

Its outer walls were white with brown trim on the ground floor and brick above it on the outer walls of the first, its thick wooden door had a silvery carving of the animal it was named after so Molly knew she was in the right place.

It was surprisingly bright inside, for a pub, since all its curtains were open and it was really more of a restaurant. In the doorway Molly glanced at the bar, tables and booths, (all empty except for the man behind the bar and the man at one of the booths) searching for Jim.

She almost didn't recognize him until he looked up at her, he was in the very back booth, staring down at a mug of coffee (she could tell from the rising steam) instead of whatever alcoholic beverage he preferred (they'd never drank together in the short time they'd known each other). Jim was wearing the exact same suit he had worn the night (early morning) before, but looked much more unshaven and disheveled than he had then. Molly stared blankly at him in shock once she had sat down across from him on the wood bench.

With the hand not clutching the coffee mug, Jim grabbed something from the seat beside him that Molly couldn't see and sat it on the table in front of her so that she could.

"Here," he said, "I bought you chocolates." He slid the small and square, red and white box towards her.

Molly blinked in surprise. "You did?" The lines on her forehead scrunched.

"I know you're watching your weight, which I appreciate, but I think you look fine the way you do and deserve to indulge." Jim continued, smirking as he sarcastically he recited the line August Moran had told him over the phone. (The lord thought it was his charms that won women…really it was just his money and power.)

Molly didn't open the box, she didn't even touch it. It's not that she thought the candy would be poisoned, or anything, she just didn't want to accept a gift from the likes of Jim Moriarty. (And yes, she was watching her weight and the thing about boxes of chocolates wasn't that 'you never know what you're going to get' but that you can never just have one.)

"You look…terrible." She finally choked out, instead, to distract from the chocolate.

"You're too kind." He snarked weakly, only bothering to roll his eyes half way.

"Are you alright?" Molly checked. She even attempted to reach across the table to feel Jim's high forehead for a fever. She pulled back, midway, not wanting to touch him.

"I haven't slept in thirty odd hours." Jim shrugged, "Sherlock Holmes and the police are after me. Someone decided to shoot at me outside my hotel. I haven't even had a chance to shower or change clothes, and now you're harassing my clients and associates to get to me."

"So you're fine, I take it." Molly joked. She didn't know whether to believe his story about being shot at, but if it were true then he wasn't as all powerful as he'd pretended to be or as Lord Moran had warned.

(Still, she was 'playing it safe', for now. Part polite, part vitriol. Like friends would. None of the 'deep', important stuff yet. This was foreplay.)

Jim chuckled.

"So what do you want, Molly?" he asked, "After I was kind enough to let you live, why'd you put yourself back in danger and play detective? Don't tell me it's just to impress Sherlock or that he and all of Scotland Yard are waiting outside to arrest me. That would be painfully predictable and so far, except for calling the cops on me last night, you've done such a good job of surprising me."

"I want you to stop." Molly declared, "Stop committing crimes. Stop killing people. Stop going after Sherlock."

"No, not that." Jim groaned, resting his chin on his palm and his elbow on the table, "Of course you want to stop me. Almost everyone does. That's obvious. But what else do you want? Why did the princess really come to face the dragon?"

Molly rolled her eyes at the metaphor. She'd left her princess phase behind in primary school and right now, dirty and tired, Jim didn't look like a dragon.

(It was time to stop 'playing it safe' now. Time to stop playing.)

"I want to know why." She stated.

"'Why?'" Jim repeated.

Molly nodded. "Yes," she confirmed, "Why?"

Jim laughed, shaking his head down at his coffee before looking back up at her confused expression.

"No, no, I mean 'why' as in why do people always want to know why?" he clarified, "It's not like it really matters, does it? What's done is done."

"…Understanding helps people process things, I think." Molly replied, thoughtfully, "It doesn't change the past, it just provides context."

"And you want 'context', so you can 'understand' and 'process' me lying to you and blowing up a building?" Jim smirked, glancing up at the decorative lamp hanging above their heads like a miniature sun, "Sorry darling, there is none. I just thought it would be fun. Now doesn't that scare you?"

"Yes, honestly." Molly admitted, "But I don't think you only did it for 'fun'. You already told me about Carl Powers. For some reason you trust me. So why not tell me the rest?"

"I don't trust you." Jim scoffed, "I told you so you'd tell Sherlock. He'd get so pissy that 'stupid' Molly Hooper figured out something he couldn't. If you tell him, he might just start to notice you. Carl Powers is my gift to you."

"You told me because you wanted me to know." Molly edited, "And you wanted me to tell Sherlock so that he would know. You want him to understand you. So you don't feel alone."

"You think I feel alone?" Jim asked, chuckling as if the idea was ridiculous but then adding, "…you're right. I do. Very good. I'm different. Sherlock is, too. And so he's the only one that could ever 'get' me—capture and comprehend me—because we're the same."

"You and Sherlock aren't the same." Molly protested, "Both of you are geniuses, that's true, but that's all you have in common."

Jim snorted at that. "I love death, Sherlock loves death. I live for crime, Sherlock lives for crime. I use people, Sherlock uses people. We've both even used the same person. You."

"Sherlock would never kill." Molly countered, with complete certainty.

"Why are you so sure of that?" Jim questioned, raising an eyebrow, "You're idol's an admitted sociopath. A pragmatist. He's never believed in law and morals, he thinks they're silly. He just does whatever serves his purpose. Right now it happens to be solving crimes. But he'll get bored of that eventually…"

Molly swallowed contemplatively.

One of the traits she admired in Sherlock Holmes was the same trait she despised in Jim Moriarty; breaking the rules. Sherlock broke them in moderation. Jim broke them in excess. It made Sherlock into a sharp but controlled knife with a single point. It made Jim into broken glass that cut from all edges.

But what if Sherlock became too addicted to breaking the rules? What if he moved past moderation and into excess…?

"What about you?" Molly redirected, "Will you ever get bored of crime?"

"I already have." Jim declared, matter-of-factly, "It's why I gave up my Criminal Network for my game with Sherlock. He's the last chapter of my crime novel."

Molly gaped, taken aback. Jim grinned.

"Why didn't you just turn yourself in, then?" Molly continued, unfettered by Jim's shocking admission.

"I'm getting to that," Jim promised, "All in good time. Can't be too obvious about it or they'll suspect something…" He leaned back against the smooth board of the booth behind him. Attached to the brick wall, it didn't budge and so he just slid down in his seat.

"You want to get caught?" Molly inquired, narrowing her eyes, "Why?"

"Already told you, I'm bored of crime." Jim shrugged, "…The only problem, of course, is that Sherlock doesn't want me in prison. He'd have caught me by now, if he was trying. But he isn't. He wants me free because I gave him something no one else could. I'm the only one who's ever designed a case just for him. He had so much fun jumping from stone to stone across the rapids to get to me that when he did. And he'll always let me go, 'cause if he catches me the game is over and so is the fun."

"…so you want to get caught…" Molly repeated, making sure she understood the situation, "…but Sherlock doesn't want to catch you."

"That's right." Jim confirmed, with a nod and a smirk, "And that changes things for you, doesn't it? You can't turn me in to the cops because it's what I want, not what Sherlock wants and you wouldn't want to make dear Sherlock sad…or me happy. So it's game over for you, Molly Hooper. You lose."

Molly sighed.

"…this isn't a game for me, Jim." She said, speaking his name for the first time this entire conversation. It felt strange on her tongue, like in word in another language. It didn't have the same definition it once had.

Molly felt helpless.

If she somehow managed to get Jim arrested, which was her original plan, it would be exactly what he wanted and probably also annoy Sherlock, eliminating whatever small chance she ever had of receiving his attention—unless Jim was lying (again). And he just wanted her to think that so she wouldn't call the police or Sherlock and get him locked away for the rest of his life.

Molly didn't know what to do. She wondered what Sherlock would do in a position like this, how he would figure it out…but she wasn't Sherlock and so she didn't know.

She stared down at wooden table where her plate would have been had she been able to order any food…

(Jim must have instructed the staff not to bother them with menus, he probably had slipped them some money so he could sit for hours nursing a single cup of coffee, too, as well as paying them to shut down the pub while he was in there so that he could be alone.)

…The hand that had tried to reach towards Jim early rested on the table, while the other rested in her lap.

Mimicking her earlier movement, then subverting it, Jim reached out towards that hand on the table and took it in his own.

The feeling of an extremely warm (from holding the steaming coffee mug) hand around hers startled Molly and she jerked on her bench, head immediately jolted back up to face Jim.

"Yes it is." He asserted, more seriously than he'd ever said anything to her before, gazing directly into her eyes, "Everything's a game. And when you realize that, you'll be free…"

"No." Molly disagreed, shaking her head and pulling her hand back away from him, "I'll never believe that nothing matters—that nothing is real. It's just an excuse not to care about anything, about other people."

"I don't need an excuse not to care." Jim dismissed, laughing, "It's not about that. It's about living my life the way I want to live it. Most people follow. Orders, leaders, rules; cultures, family members, friends. Doesn't matter whether they're civilians on the street or soldiers on a battlefield, people follow. And what they do depends on what they're told. But I don't listen."

"That doesn't mean you have to hurt people." Molly reasoned. Now, she hid her hands under the table and away from Jim's.

"It does, if I want to." Jim countered, "There're millions who have hurt people. Killed people. Why aren't you lecturing them on morals?"

"Because they're not the one sitting in front of me." Molly stated simply, "You are."

"And why am I sitting in front of you, again?" Jim checked, "Because you sought me out. Even though you knew better, even though you were warned not to. You're gambling with your life. This already is a game to you."

"It's not." Molly denied, "I'm just doing what I have to."

"Doing what you 'have to'?" Jim snorted, "If you were doing that you'd have killed me and damned the consequences, damned your emotions and morals. Because that's what needs to be done. I'm a murderer and I deserve to die. I know it and so do you. But you're not doing anything. You're just talking to me, feeling me out…you're not sure what to do next because you were never sure of what you wanted to do in the first place. So you're swinging back and forth, back and forth, waiting for something to happen so that you don't have to make a decision. You're a follower, Molly, and you're waiting to be told what to do."

Molly was silent for a moment. She furrowed her brow, stiffened her shoulders and then took a deep breath.

"Okay." She accepted, nodding, "I am a follower…but I know what I'm going to do. I'm going to follow you."

"While, I'm flattered you've chosen me as your prophet—" Jim began, smugly…only to be interrupted.

"Not like that." Molly corrected, "I mean I'm going to physically follow you. Where you go, I go. I'm going to…well, spy on you. There's no use calling it anything else or trying to pretend that's not what I'm doing, since you'd have figured it out pretty soon anyway. I'm going to do exactly what you said I'd do; follow and wait for something to happen."

"And what if I don't let you?" Jim tried, raising an eyebrow.

"You will." Molly replied, confidently. She lifted both hands from her lap to rest folded on the table.

"Well, I suppose I wouldn't mind having you around for a while til the spooks come for me…" Jim mused.

"The spooks?" Molly inquired.

"Sherlock doesn't want me behind bars…but his big brother does." Jim explained.

(Molly was still unsure of what Jim meant (did Sherlock actually have 'big brother' or was it some kind of 1984 reference?) but didn't ask for further clarification so as not to look stupid and uniformed about Sherlock's life.)

"Oh." Molly accepted, ambiguously.

Jim smirked, recognizing and relishing in her confusion. He loved feeling smarter than other people.

"But there is one condition," Jim decided, "if you want to be my second shadow."

"What is it?" Molly asked.

Jim grinned.

"You've got to eat the chocolate I got you." Jim told her, opening the lid to the red and white box for her, "Every last piece…"


(January, 2011)

Large blue metal crates sat on the dirt ground, surrounded by thin wire fencing. Inside one of these structures, storage units, lay the body of Beth Davenport slumped dead against the only items in the room—a plastic table and chair.

The searing yellow light from a circular bulb above lit the room as Jim entered, holding open the door for Charlie, Victor and Romeo and then gesturing to the dead woman at the table.

"There's your girl." He introduced, "Just like you asked for."

Charlie stepped towards the table, inspecting the corpse without touching it.

"Clean." He complimented, "…almost like those 'serial suicides' that have been in the papers recently…" he turned to Jim, cocking his head slightly to one side and giving him a quizzical but knowing look complete with an almost-smile, "You wouldn't know anything about those, would you?"

"Nothing." Jim grinned.

"Now that we've seen she's dead, let's go." Victor stated, "Won't be long before someone comes looking for her."

He eyed the body approvingly, then Jim dismissively, and then started back towards the exit. Romeo followed.

"So, have I proven myself to the cool kids, yet?" Jim asked in false over-eagerness.

"You have." Charlie confirmed, with a nod and the same small smile, "Welcome to the club."

"So when do I get NATO nickname, then?" Jim added, leaning on the plastic table but not letting his ungloved hands rest upon it.

"You can be Juliett." Victor snorted. And Charlie smiled fully at that.

"Does that mean I get Romeo?" Jim inquired, batting his eyelashes at the younger man just mentioned.

Romeo tensed, glancing away uncomfortably. Jim snickered.

"No, you get to die at the end." Victor corrected, chuckling darkly.

His prediction didn't stop Jim's laughter, though, as he had hoped. The consulting criminal continued to smirk.

"We don't give out or choose the codenames ourselves." Charlie explained, "Papa does that."

"When do I get to meet Papa?" Jim questioned.

"Never." Charlie answered.

Victor chuckled darkly again. Maybe at Jim not being allowed to see Papa, maybe at something. He continued out the storage unit's door and was gone.

Romeo glanced back at Charlie and then was gone, too. Charlie turned to Jim but Jim motioned an 'after you' towards the exit so Charlie passed him and left.

Alone in the metal crate with the body of Beth Davenport, Jim gently blew the woman a kiss and then left her alone to rest.


(April, 2011)

At her desk in front of the door Lord Moran's office, his assistant sat staring into her computer screen with earbuds in her ears. Instead of music, they softly played the sound of the conversation occurring in the room behind.

A conversation about Carl Powers and Jim Moriarty.

Once it was over, the assistant removed her earbuds, stood up from her desk, went back into the stairwell and pulled out her mobilephone to call her other boss.

Her other boss that would get her family deported back to the country where certain political rivals wanted them dead (especially her father) if she didn't do as he ordered.

Her other boss, Mr. Magnussen, of CAM Media Corporation.


I was gonna call Magnussen the assistant's 'owner'…but I made her West African so that wouldn't really be PC. She is how Magnussen knew about Carl Powers to tell Mr. Banks.

Meanwhile, of course, characters are dealing drugs, threatening and killing people. So I win the award for not writing as evilly as I could have. lol.

I miss Magnussen, though. He was a wonderful creep. But bring back two villains from the dead is too cheesy.

Moran seems like an Irish name, so I made August Moran part Irish, too. Jim calls him 'uncle', but they're not genetically related.

I know absolutely nothing about high fashion beyond the movie The Devil Wears Prada. All my clothes are from Target, Forever 21 and Goodwill.

As always, Wikipedia is my lord and savior. Well, mostly just my savior.

RIP to Lee Alexander McQueen. He died in 2010. No disrespect towards him intended.

There are multiple restaurants, clubs and pubs with variations of the name 'Fox'. The one in this story is some sort of a combination of some of them.

And I really didn't wanna do the whole 'Hades and Persephone' thing because it's been overdone with this paring…but then came the chocolate and I couldn't help it.

Charlie, Victor, Romeo and Jim are the "serious people" Joe Harrison got involved with when selling drugs.

And if you haven't already guessed this… Charlie is headcanon Michael Fassbender!Moran, Victor is headcanon Craig Parkinson!Moran, and Romeo is the mysterious sniper from The Reichenbach Fall. We'll see who else these people really are, later…

Any guesses? (One of them's easier to guess than the others.)

Hope you liked it! Please review!