A/N: To paraphrase an earlier song, "Tell all of my reviewers — I don't have too many …" Thank you so much for your comments and feedback. I'm sorry this next chapter was a bit slower in coming. I'm hoping to update a bit more on the regular this week. And thanks to those who've been reading along, as well. It's all appreciated more than you know.

Spring-heeled Jim winks an eye
He'll "do," he'll never be "done to"
He takes on whoever flew through
"Well, it's the normal thing to do."


Jim Moriarty reclined languorously in the back seat of the luxury sedan, slipping his phone back into the inside pocket of his tailored Westwood jacket. Once in a while — in a very long while — events of the day would conspire to surprise him. It was incredibly rare as he was accustomed to being completely bored by the world and everything and everyone in it pretty much all the time. One day after the next like one foot in front of the other. Plod, plod, plod. If anyone knew what it was like inside his head, they would understand why he did the things he did. And until recently he didn't think he would ever meet anyone who grasped the concept with any kind of clarity. Generally people were too slow to come even close.

But suddenly, there he was. Oh, and he was glorious. He really was. Dangerously so. Where on earth had he come from? What kind of circumstances created a Sherlock Holmes? Anything similar to what had created a James Moriarty? It was difficult to say — Jim wasn't even certain himself as to why he was the way he was. How he'd been created and how the world had shaped him. But he didn't care to dwell on such things. Let the so-called experts sort that out someday. With their theories and nature-versus-nurture debates. How he and Sherlock Holmes came to be wasn't relevant. What mattered was that they existed and while their two orbits remained separate, everything stayed balanced.

But Sherlock had been encroaching on Jim's orbit — his territory, his life's work — a little too often lately. He'd been vaguely aware of the detective's existence for some time now, but he'd seemed relatively harmless. A show-off know-it-all trying to impress the police.

The police. Ugh. The people in the world whom Jim respected the least. Anyone who wanted to impress them must have something wrong with them.

But then Sherlock started getting in the way. Jim would execute one of his beautiful, brilliant machinations — oh, they were works of art, truly — and Sherlock would throw a wrench into it and send all the carefully arranged pieces flying everywhere. The first time with the cabbie — Jim had written it off as a fluke. Lucky shot, Sherlock. Now go back to your puzzles and let the grown-ups do their jobs.

But then Sherlock had dismantled the smuggling ring and, oh, that was spitting in Jim's eye. It was infuriating. And fascinating. If Sherlock wanted to play, then Jim could play. And he played to win. But first he had to get a good look at his rival. He bided his time. He took an IT job at Bart's and seduced sweet little Molly Hooper. Not that it was difficult. Molly, so besotted by Sherlock and so desperate to make him pay attention. To be seen as the woman she was. A few flirtatious looks with Jim's puppy-dog eyes and some kind words was all it had taken. And then one day he happened to "drop by" while Molly was with Sherlock and John. That had been fun. He had to admit he had been impressed. Maybe others didn't feel or notice Sherlock observing them, but Jim had felt everything — Sherlock's eyes passing over him like gently questing fingertips. A little sexy, really. Good, detective. So very good. Call me! The experience left him incredibly excited for their game.

The game. He really had enjoyed watching Sherlock jump through hoops for days. Running all over the city, solving Jim's little puzzles. And they'd finally gotten a chance to speak, albeit through various mouthpieces. And Jim found himself liking Sherlock more and more. Oh, he still had to be destroyed, of course, but never before had he encountered someone who seemed so familiar. Who lived and thought at the same speed as he did. They were leaps and bounds ahead of everyone else.

Oh, Sherlock. Does everything seem so slow to you, as well? Isn't it absolutely hateful? You solve puzzles. I create problems. You want to fix things and I want to burn everything and everyone. I want to destroy it all. I'm the best thing that ever happened to you.

And the worst.


Jim had mentally planned his day thus:

Wake up.

Stretch.

Thirty minutes of cardio.

Shower.

Shave.

Coffee.

Breakfast.

Correspondence.

Light snack.

Send final plans to sniper team.

Kidnap John Watson.

Kill the doctor and Sherlock Holmes.

Dinner and dancing.

Well, of course he wouldn't be the one to pull the trigger. He never was. But that was plan and the only part of it that really excited him was finally coming face to face with Sherlock. He'd plodded through the day's tasks, plod, plod, plod. Dull. Though the charming little melodrama that had ensued when the detective saw his pet all dolled up in bombs and wire had been amusing. A little flair to keep things vaguely interesting for Jim. And the dramatic entrance and big reveal. No one could ever say Jim Moriarty didn't know how to put on a show.

And then it had appeared that Sherlock and John were willing to sacrifice themselves to stop him. How noble. Ugh. He had watched with a clinical interest as Sherlock had aimed the gum at the bomb and turned the proceedings into a game of chicken. Jim had been willing to hold his ground. He was not afraid to die. Not in the slightest. It simply would have been inconvenient because he really was such a terribly busy man — so many irons in so very many fires — and he liked to win. Jim did things — things were not done to him. Doers were winners. People who sat around and waited for things to be done to them were the losers. Always. He'd learned that from an early age and had sworn no one would do anything to him ever again. Oh, they could try, of course. Try all they like. But they'd get nothing from him that he didn't choose to give.

And Sherlock wasn't the type to wait around, either. So it made for quite the deadlock. No pun intended. Dickery, dickery, dock, your time is running out, Sherlock.

But then — phone call.

Jim had a soft spot for The Bee Gees — oh, come on, who didn't? And really, wasn't it what everyone was trying to do every day? Stay alive. Stasis. Boring.

But the phone call was promising. Jim believed in prioritizing. And Jim believed in not rushing a good plan. Every now and then he believed in signs. This appeared to be one. Irene Adler had something very valuable information. And in return he would get his shot at the Holmes brothers. It was perfect.

So he let the detective and the doctor go. Several weeks ago he would have found such a plan inconceivable, but over the course of the game with Sherlock, Jim found himself wondering if perhaps he'd spoken too soon. Perhaps he was missing out by exterminating Sherlock Holmes too early in the game. Turned out he was right. Always trust your gut, Jimmy boy.

Time. It was always a matter of time. Once there had been all the time in the world. Now it all seemed to go too fast. Live at five times the average speed and I suppose that's what you get.

Sherlock would bring Jim right to the edge, he just knew it. And it was thrilling. In the end someone would fall. He certainly didn't intend for it to be him.