Surprise- in which spiders resurface

"Falling is just like flying - except there is a more permanent destination" - Jim Moriarty, The Reichenbach Fall


He was late. Very late. The man tapped his foot impatiently. He drummed his fingers on his knee, chords to his favourite piece; Bach.

His black marbles of eyes shifted from left to right. Purposely late. But then again, he wasnt in a hurry. His eyes wandered to no where in particular, a familiar tune whistled out from his puckered lips. Well, now this was boring. very boring. But that's life isn't it? Ordinary and boring. He wondered how the barista coped with all her debts. He wondered how the old man behind him settled that issue with his wife. He also was curious as to why the rest of the people in this very shop managed to live over such trivial things. He rolled his eyes and closed them slowly, letting out an irritable groan. He stopped whistling when he suddenly remembered the tune.

But it's alright it's okay,

You may live to see. Another day,

...Feel the city breaking and everybody's shaking

Stayin alive, staying alive,

Ah, ah, ah, ah

Oh for the sake of the sanity I've lost, end me now! The thought swirled in his mind enticing him to give it try. I already have, he reminded the persistent voice. That didn't work, he countered sourly, the events of yesterday played back in his mind. But it was convincing, he gave himself that. A promise was a promise... He thought for a while longer, or was it? He let the question hang in his brain, meanwhile reminding himself of his current disposition.

It so happens that I'm still alive and breathing and... boring.

He was prepared to let out a long sigh before he caught a glimpse of a familiar mop of dark hair bobbing past the huge glass windows. Jim didn't turn. He heard the bell at the door chime as a person walked through it, a person he had been waiting for oh so long!

Consciously, he smoothed his sleek black hair and straightened his...

Jim frowned dramatically.

Uh! Blast it! This wasn't his suit. His beautiful Westwood, was left bloodstained and abandoned in the dark bowels of a foreign washing machine.

The scary thought made him look at the terribly simple clothing he was forced into. An ordinary white t shirt and an equally ordinary brown over coat and a pair of jeans that weren't even his size. It was all a bit of a culture shock for Jim. Especially the jeans - since when had he degraded himself to such pieces of fabric. He made a mental note to remind Sebastian to send his suit to a proper laundry. Jim then remembered that he had just killed Sebastian. Oops.

"Busy being a good Samaritan?" a deep baritone said, his voice thick with sarcasm.

Jim looked up from his seat and smiled - genuinely.

"Why hello! How do the British say it? Fancy seeing you here? Fancy some tea?"

Forgive me for thinking you were dead. For thinking I was dead... Although," his wolfish grin disappeared. "It wasn't a pleasant surprise... I woke up cranky," said Jim who recalled shooting two men when he had awoken from the dead. One being Sebastian.

Sherlock skipped the formalities. From his pocket he withdrew a coin. Jim's eyes transfixed on the penny that twirled between Sherlock's fingers.

Sherlock noticed.

James won't be pleased.

Don't call me that.

Forgive me for thinking you were a genius, Jim.

Forgiven. You can call me supreme genius from now on.

I thought we were on the same side.

Forgive me for thinking otherwise.

Not forgiven.

There was a silence. Strange because they had never uttered a word. It was their eyes that spoke. Sherlock's as cold as ice and Jim's as black as the shadows that loomed over the lonely cafe.

After giving a quick sweeping glance around the cafe, Holmes turned his attention to Moriarty.

"Brother dear won't be pleased to find you here, breathing," Sherlock chided, in words this time.

Surprisingly, Jim's supply of witty comebacks dried in his throat. He managed nevertheless, unwilling to be the weaker one of the two. After all, they were the same. He didn't miss a beat.

"And what of yours? Hmm, Sherly?" he challenged, knowing it would hit a nerve.

His point was proven when the great Sherlock Holmes uncharacteristically stared to the ground.

"Mycroft wanted me dead," he spoke softly.

Jim clapped his hands sipped his drink.

"Exacto Mundo. Unfortunate, isn't it? The dwindling population of little brothers in the world."

"Yet here we are. "

"Indeed..." Jim agreed not really sure whether this was how he wanted to spend his afterlife - in an unknown cafe in the middle of London. In fact, after he died, he had expected the gates of the afterlife to open in his name. For him to skip right through them, a big grin on his face. Despite the fact, he had known all his life that the gates of heaven were never an option for him.

Moriarty yawned, finding a particular part of his fingernail interesting, he bit at it.

"Thanks to your big brother by the way," he said offhandedly " At least he took initiative. I mean, my fat sibling? He wouldn't have laid a finger on anything he did. Except for occasional shindigs."

Sherlock's eyebrow raised, "And you do?"

"I'm not fat!" Jim said defensively, already feeling uncomfortable without his suit. How come Sherlock got to have one?

Sherlock rolled his eyes, discontinuing the immature argument. The coin in his hand, he slid over to Jim who sat opposite him. Jim did not move to touch it, he flinched away from it, more so.

"No more pennies. No more falls."

Despite everything, Jim smirked, unable to resist. "Finally out of change?"

Instead of a death glare Jim was expecting, Sherlock smirked along with a knowing look that Jim knew he used to make him look smart when he really wasn't.

"Finally out of lives." Holmes said as he made a move to go, untangling himself from the horrid web that he had gotten himself into.

Moriarty was not having any of it.

"We could have done it again, you know! All over again and make them believe. Those ordinary people."

Holmes had his back to the criminal. "Make them believe... Ha. they're not as stupid as you think."

Jim attempted to loosen Sherlock's vice grip on the judgement. "We think alike. I wasn't talking about them," he raised his eyebrows knowingly (because when Jim says he knows, he really knows). Sherlock pretended not to notice.

"Mycroft was willing to supply me with a lifetime of your weaknesses just for his own cause, for the government...he killed you, Holmes. He killed you first... I was just a toy. But then again, aren't we all?"

Something snapped inside Holmes before Jim could finish speaking. And for a split second, he thinks its his heart. Perhaps it was that word. The first word he said - Mycroft. Despite the spiders that screamed in his head to stop the unexpected horror,the emotion, that followed after his brothers name, it was not enough to consume the rage that flared within him. Sherlock turned swiftly. His long legs almost knocking over the table. "I KNOW WHAT HE DID!"

There was a silence after that (a silence that drew enough attention from the crowd around them).

Blue met pitch black. They froze just staring at each other, questions moving back and forth, all left unanswered. Jim's gaping mouth slowly twisted into a smile of awe. "So you do have it," he said, more to himself. "Thump...thump...thump thump thump thump! It's beating really fast now, are you angry Sherly?"

Sherlock said nothing. He simply sunk back into his seat dejectedly, raising a newspaper he had conveniently found to read, when really, it was to cover the bit of emotion that threatened to slip on his face. The paper smelt like ash. smoke and ash.

Jim relished at this. "Sherlock Holmes, I will burn the heart out of you."

"Repeating yourself is redundant and very unbecoming," snapped Sherlock from his sanctuary behind his newspaper.

Sherlock didn't dare meet Jim's eyes despite a part of him that was just aching to. He simply buried himself in the black and white pages he was holding. He struggled to focus on the fine print. His mind was chasing its own tail, around and around it went - so unsatisfied. Within him, boiled a strong desire to just know. He just did not have enough evidence. Evidence to solve himself - the greatest mystery.

Having lost in his thoughts, Sherlock found himself reading the same sentence over and over again. He sighed.

Delete them. Delete all that is unnecessary.

ALL FALLS FOR FAMOUS FRAUD

Sherlock's eyes caught fragments of the text. He didn't need to read it to know. He almost disgusted himself by laughing at the pun. All falls. Sherlock then tried to remember how he felt when he had reached the ground. He just couldn't. It was deleted. Yet it stung whenever he tried to remember. Sherlock lowered the paper onto his lap, only to find Jim wearing a frown on his face.

"I should have wore navy during the trial. I didn't think they were going to use that photo for the obituary." Jim paused. "Although olive was pleasant too."

Sherlock's picture was ripped and stowed in the latter's pocket...Delete.

Sherlock had a funeral. In fact, He had attended it unbeknownst to the other mournful people there. Minus Jim of course, who did not have his own funeral, who probably never would shed a tear for the death of a loved one let alone the death of himself.

Sherlock thought of the people he left behind. The world and the few. The few of which included Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft... John. He wondered what they were doing now. He wondered if they were crying or whether they were relieved. He wondered if they were waiting or if they were moving on. He wondered whether they even felt the way he expected them to feel. To feel sad, to feel empty. To at least forget for a while but always remember. Or would it all just be deleted. Like the smell of smoke and ash.

Sherlock rubbed his temples. His mind hurt. The same irritating pounding in his head. His eyes flicked toward the ceiling instinctively. It was clean and white. His eyes flicked towards Moriarty and couldn't help but wonder how many cobwebs it took to contain his mad mind.

The ex- consulting detective spoke to the ex-consulting criminal. Sherlock wondered if anything was ever going to be the same again.

"I can't stop but I want to,"Sherlock said, finally.

Moriarty looked at Holmes. He could see the smoke in his eyes. The smoke that made them red and wet. The smoke from the article. The smoke from the fall. Jim smelt it too. Faintly. The only living person he left behind was James and he wasn't much to talk about. It would have been over, this game. Because quite honestly Jim wanted it to be over too, despite the fact that he initiated it. He wanted it to be spectacular, to be awesome, to be the most epic finale ever! Two genius plummeting to their deaths. Literally.

"Wonder who that coin belonged to Holmes?"

"James." Sherlock said finally. It took him a minute to respond.

It was like a kick in the face, ice water on drowsy eyelids.

"Question 1: Correct. Next question, just to clear things up... Why is it in our possession?"

Sherlock stared at the metal piece in Jim's hands. His slight fingers moving deftly around the surface as if he was afraid it might burn him. Burn. Burn.

"Question number 3, in order to ponder on Question 2, Why are we even asking ourselves these questions?"

Sherlock had his hands clasped before him. His eyes closed. Jim attempted to look composed ( he tried to stifle a yawn).

"I'm being patient, Sherlock. Patience is boring. You are getting boring," Jim drawled.

Sherlock wasn't hearing Jim anymore, he was listening to the cogs that were spinning in his mind.

James, Mycroft, Jim. All them with the intention of ending him.

James: with the intention to end his little brother by ending Sherlock by initiating the Game by giving the coin.

Mycroft: with the intention to protect the government by interrogating Jim for the key code by giving away weaknesses thus ending Sherlock unintentionally

Jim: with the intention to end Sherlock and himself simultaneously in an epic finale to their Game by using the coin as conspiracy ( because he was good at that sort of thing - the theatrics)

Jim was the weapon to end Sherlock. And that 'end' never came. Why? Because someone changed their mind. Not Jim. Not Mycroft. Not James.

"His name is Porlock," Jim confessed finally, heaving a sigh afterward as if it was the biggest secret in the world.

"Porlock?" repeated Sherlock despite his belief that repeating mocked, no, resembled stupidity. Yet how could one word be the answer to everything ? Was this what all this was leading to? "What does Porlock want with me that he would so kindly save me from certain death?"

Moriarty didn't miss a beat.

"You see, Porlock is an important man. He really is. In fact, he is the second only consulting detective in the world."

"And how would you be of his acquaintance? Let me guess, another game of cat and mouse?"

"You could say that," Jim drawled," it was a past life. Nothing more. In fact, it ended something like this - quite unfinished."

"What does he want with me?"

Sherlock was falling again. Jim's grin widened.

"He wants a favor. You owe him a favor. He wants an answer. He requires a solution and offers to be your benefactor."

"Oh? And what are you in this web, an agent, a toy? What are you Jim?"

Moriarty stared as Holmes drew closer to him. His sunken eyes almost hidden in the dark contours of his face.

"What am I?" Moriarty considered. Sherlock clenched his jaw, is eyes never leaving the devil in disguise. Jim didn't surrender. "Are you frightened of me?" he asked quietly. "Are you frightened that I know so much about you and you so little of me? Have you finally realized what we truly are?"

Sherlock simply read the psychopaths eyes trying to deduce the black, nothingness that dwelled within.

"Its me." Jim admitted. " My name is Richard Brook. I am an actor. It's what I do for a living. Porlock is my client, I simply lure, seduce. You were a tough bargain but it was worth it. Oh yes it was difficult but I enjoyed the challenge. In fact, I fell so deep, I think I'm in-"

Sherlock growled in frustration.

"You are mad," he said simply, unable to bear anymore of his counterparts presence (nonsense).

Moriarty cackled, "It's a mad world!"

A little voice in Sherlock's mind pondered to check the contents of Jim's tea just in case it was drugged. But then again, Jim was always like this, like drugged tea.

Instead, Sherlock simply looked out of the window, as raindrops trailed down the glass, like translucent spidery fingers. Porlock, another player or a puppet master? This Game will be the death of him. He sighed.

"It is indeed, a mad world," he agreed somberly.

Sherlock knew to the answers to his own questions, he always did, but he just wanted Moriarty to say it. "then what makes of us?"

Jim eyes moved from the penny that used to be in Sherlock's hand to the scowl on Sherlock's face.

"We, oh Sherlock, we. We are spiders."

"And the rest of them?" Sherlock said, averting his eyes to their surroundings. It disturbed him that the madman knew more than he did. Already was Jim's obnoxious voice filling his restless brain but the fact that the obnoxious voice was right unsettled him to no end.

A wicked grin formed on Jim's lips. "They are the flies."

Sherlock looked away from Jim, once again finding an excuse to look at the window since the newspaper was out of reach.

He pressed his finger against the cold glass. His breath fogging it up slightly.

Jim leaned and drew a symbol on it. S, it said.

So that's where we are. Drifting components in sample space.

Save me the lecture Sherly. I know my probabilities.

Penny in the air... I'll give you credit, Moriarty. It all makes sense now.

Jim felt like his body was set on fire. It was a wonderful sensation.

Doesn't it always, Holmes? Everything has to make sense. Of all people, I thought you'd be the first to find out. Pathetic.

Even the lies? Thought Sherlock after a while.

Once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must remain the truth. Jim quoted Holmes. Sherlock scowled.

Obsession is just a border over emotion. Be careful where you are stepping on, Jim...

I don't stalk you because I'm obsessed with you. I stalk you because I hate you.

Hate is an emotion.

Hate is a negative emotion which means less than zero emotion. Got jumbled with your pluses and minuses? Isn't that just, elementary...

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "There are many questions left unanswered yet we have left no stone unturned. What makes of those questions?"

"Questions like us..."

Sherlock leaned in his seat. His hands pressed together. His eyes closing slowly. It was a thoughtful silence.

"I guess we're just there. Neither dead nor alive, neither real or unreal. Neither a truth or a lie..."

Sherlock thought of Watson. He was surprised to find that he missed him.

"I suppose...like spiders."

Moriarty grinned again. He had been one step ahead of Holmes and it made his blood boil sensationally.

"Suspending on fine strings. Ready to fall. Have already fallen. It's raining outside. Stupid weather forecast. It's almost like a surprise but without cake and balloons. I never liked cake but I really fancied the balloons... especially when they pop...almost like children."

Sherlock touched the coin he had passed to Jim who refused to touch it as if it was a jinx. He noticed that both sides were worn, erasing the imprint that distinguished on from the other. There were no heads or tails. There was no difference. If it were in midair, in a split second before it landed, you would never know which side it would face. There would be no sample space. No probability.

Sherlock realized how improbable Jim and him were. Maybe that's why they didn't fit in with ordinary humans. They were too, improbable. Always full of surprises.

Realization sank into Sherlock's hard drive. All that bloody talk about spiders in the corners. All that bloody rain in England. All those bloody coins manufactured with her face on it.

"And the penny drops," said Jim, with a satisfied lean in his chair.

Sherlock set the coin down. Jim pocketed it like the thieving magpie he was. He couldn't resist.

"I'm not blind, it's raining right now," said Holmes. He shot Jim a look."What happened to your web of contacts?"

"I died. They don't contact me."

" London. You know every quiver of it. Every tingle and shiver in the air. You know it. Your brother knows it. My brother knows it. I don't care."

"Exactly, why I died. Realized how boring things got when people tried to jack my style. I only stayed because of you, Sherlock. You are my existence. You are my web."

"How touching, are you expecting me to play my violin now? Cut to the chase, Moriarty. It's getting boring..."

"Was it too difficult to deduce? I needed a leave! A safety net. I killed you off. With you out of the picture, my existence was unnecessary. I did not want my web to tangle with pesky flies."

"Yet here we are. Alive. Breathing. What about existence now?"

"I guess we'll have to build a new one, eh?"

Sherlock found himself agreeing. "In the shadows. "

"For now..."

Meanwhile, The rain poured relentlessly outside the quiet cafe. It never rained this heavy in central London. Although one could never tell with global warming and excessive spiders occupying corners in walls.

Jim stood staring down at the man he had known ever since he had beaten up big old Carl powers. "Where are you off to?" he asked out of courtesy, a rarity for Jim.

Sherlock didn't respond. His eyes distant and already farther away than Jim could ever go.

Jim didn't expect a reply. He simply wanted to hear the sound of his own voice, making sure, for one last time that this was all real. That they were both alive and ready to play. The game was not over. It never was, this, was just the next level.

He left Holmes in his seat, almost feeling the nostalgic memories radiating out of Sherlock. It was sickening. Jim almost vomited.

With a quick turn on his heel, he got out of the store, shrugged out his overcoat into the nearest rubbish bin, fixed on his earphones and in the pouring rain, he pondered on something that had been bothering him ever since he entered the cafe. He made another sharp turn down the street. He was going to the laundry.

Unbeknownst that behind him, was the fading sound of a violin. Jim couldn't hear it, no one could with the sound of the heavy downpour everywhere. But Sherlock knew that it didn't matter...for what mattered was that one person. The one person who would be listening for him, always.