Ugh, I'm seriously kicking myself so hard right now! I had everything on my memory stick ready to go, and then somehow it gets moved from my shelf and now it's lost.
Anyway, I had quite a difficult time thinking of how to write Moriarty's introduction, and I quite like what I came up with in the end. Also, I've used Andrew Scott's Moriarty from BBC's Sherlock, because I feel like his portrayal fits better into the fic, he was easily my favorite Moriarty. And third, well, just look at him, he's absolutely gorgeous! So, as always, hope you lovely readers enjoy, reviews are always appreciated ^_^
Disclaimer - I don't own anything from Sherlock Holmes, neither do I own Robert Downey Jr, Jude Law or Andrew Scott. Believe me, I wish I did!
It was half passed two, precisely three hours since Charlotte and Watson had both retired for the night, when Sherlock had taken his bottle from the corner of the mantel, and with it the syringe from its neat casing. Rolling back the sleeve of his left wrist, and adjusting the delicate needle, before finally thrusting its sharp point into its mark and pressing down the plunger, sinking back into his armchair when he felt the excitable effects the cocaine had upon his mind. Wanting to get all he could about Charlotte Cunningham, from what she had told him and what he'd been able to observe of the woman.
She couldn't have been older than seven and twenty, never married, Miss Cunningham accepts nothing less than the finest of quality, of course she would not accept the proposal of any man who did not impress her. But fierce and unafraid to dirty her hands for her benefit, thus no doubt, creating a rather censorious relationship with mother and father – which, most likely, was met with an apology the woman did not mean and her 'appalling' behaviour continuing.
It was uncertain precisely how much time Charlotte... Miss Cunningham, would spend on her vanity, it was however, clear that the lady much preferred to look her very best at all times while accompanied. Although for a young woman of her wealth having been born into the higher class, it would be only natural.
But, the one characteristic that even the stupidest of minds could catch; Charlotte Cunningham's lack of true emotion. Or rather, choosing who would be lucky enough to witness her without the security and the mystery.
In some way or another she had told Sherlock all of this, still there was something more to her, something she kept hidden. Some treacherously alluring secret that he could not quite reach. With or without the cocaine further coursing through his veins.
He sat, perfectly poised but for his elbow propped upon the arm of his chair to bring his long fingers to his lip – facing the window of his private quarters, although not necessarily looking at anything in the London streets below – a small smirk playing across his handsome features and a brow that was threatening to quirk, as he softly hummed to himself, thoughtfully, without knowing.
He'd seen her, walking the streets, day and night, always staying behind a number of feet away and always keeping within areas where she could easily remain unseen while following Holmes and his loyal lapdog. Undisguised she was this time around, and still just as pretty and dangerous as he remembered.
Always watching, but never chasing, not himself personally, technically, it would be idiotic to think that the woman would willingly follow should he be the one to do the physical work. No, no, he had his own 'John Watson' for that, to return her to him in any way possible – however, should he disturb one black hair on her pretty head, he would not be as concerned at being rid of his lapdog.
Closing his eyes, he sunk back into his seat, the smirk now an eager grin, beginning to think of just how he shall reunite with his dear little girl, when a knock upon his opening door disrupted him from his thoughts.
"Moran..." his velvety Irish accent echoing a little through the excessive space of the room, when he stood and turned to greet the man with a strange smile, to anyone who had not been accustomed to his changeable persona would have been perfectly frightening, "Good news I hope. We don't want another of your terribly avoidable mishaps."
"No, sir, Mista' Moriarty." A hand unwittingly raised to gently finger the long scar beneath the right eye of his roughened employee.
"So...?" Lifted eyebrows as he awaited his answer.
"She'll be going to Brighton in the afternoon. With Holmes."
With every minute James Moriarty's grin had grown more and more maniacal. Of course she could have the 'brilliant' Sherlock's trust, she could have the world believe anything she'd wish without the slightest bother. Each moment was just one step closer, and, at last, he could finally have his pet, safe and sound, leading his greatest enemy into his long awaited demise. The ecstasy and the anticipation lighting up his cold, black eyes.
"My dear, dear Moran," his voice calm, easy to have been mistaken as boredom while he was in fact quite the opposite, "I do believe that it will soon be time we pay darling Serena a little visit."
