A/N: Sorry this chapter is so late. School and life get in the way sometimes, ew. I hope you're enjoying it, and thank you to those of you who review and follow and favourite this little fic of mine! xx~
Chapter Eight:
Sherlock stared at the file of Vincent Spaulding on John's laptop, squinting his eyes, trying to concentrate on the small words on the screen. He was already dressed for his "date" with Jim in a black, tight-fitting jacket, straight black dress pants, and his tight, purple, silk dress shirt underneath. His hair was combed and handsomely arranged around his face, and he smelled strongly of cologne.
Sherlock sighed, glancing at the time on the laptop, 21:17, getting late already. He thought about going upstairs and getting John to come down here and sit with him, but he decided that that was extremely selfish. John hadn't been sleeping well lately and was asleep upstairs, so Sherlock didn't want to bother him.
He glanced at the clock again, 21:25; Sherlock sighed and drummed his fingers on the table impatiently, bored. 21:27, Sherlock got up and began to pace the room, pausing to pick up his violin before deciding against it and putting it back down. 21:29, Sherlock groaned loudly and ran his hands through his hair, pushing it out of place.
"Dammit," Sherlock muttered as he looked into the mirror and busied himself with smoothing his hair back into place. 21:32, he turned away from the mirror and continued to pace, his hands shoved in his pockets. 21:35, Sherlock jumped slightly at the sound of a delicate knock on the door.
"Sherrrrrlyyy, ready for our daaatteeee?" Sherlock's mouth turned up into a sarcastic grin as he glided towards the door, opening it slowly.
"Good evening, James," Sherlock murmured, his voice low and slightly mocking. "I've been waiting for you." Jim grinned, his eyes widening.
"Sorry Sherly, I've been busyyy. Daddy's ready now, are you?" Jim grinned again, winking at Sherlock. Sherlock nodded and bowed sardonically.
"Extremely," Sherlock said as he pulled on his coat and winded his scarf around his neck. He walked out the door past Jim, giving him a mocking smile as he passed, and he could hear Jim whistling as he walked down the stairs. He paused and turned around to stare at the little man; Jim actually looked excited and maybe a little happy. "Rather excited, aren't we?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows as he opened the door and stepped out into the cold air.
"Oh, quite so, actually," Jim murmured, a genuine smile stretching across his face, looking oddly out of place on the face that usually contained such evil anger and hate. Sherlock shook his head and turned to call a cab. Jim actually seemed to think that this was going to be fun. Sherlock laughed internally at the thought; Jim Moriarty was a very interesting man.
When the cab pulled up, Sherlock opened the door and ushered Jim in, ducking into the cab after Jim had scooted into his seat.
"Someone still seems excited," Sherlock said, staring straight ahead as they drove.
"Of course I am," Jim said, his voice high pitched as he smiled at Sherlock, something almost devilish residing in the wide brown eyes. Sherlock just nodded and smoothed his jacket down, settling back comfortably into the cab's seat. "Do you want to know where we're going tonight, Sherly?" Jim's eyebrows arched in excitement as he stared at Sherlock, leaning against Sherlock's arm.
"Sure," Sherlock replied coolly, wrinkling his nose at the sharp smell of Jim's exotic cologne.
"An extravagant French restaurant that I bought a while ago," Jim said grinning. "I was going to take you to France, but I decided that you wouldn't like that." He paused and looked at Sherlock closely. "You know, Brother Holmes would like it, and so would Daddy and Mummy Holmes. Why are you the different Holmes? What made you become so unlike them?" Sherlock tensed up; his past was one thing he never discussed, not even with John.
"I have no idea," he said quickly, his voice low. "I was always the freak, didn't fit in from the beginning." Sherlock turned away to face the window, staring out into the velvety blackness of the blurring streets, not allowing his face to portray any of the emotions bubbling up inside of himself. Why was he telling James Moriarty of all people this? Sherlock shook his head and sunk down into the worn leather seat, wrapping his coat around himself tightly.
"Oh Sherlock," Jim breathed, his voice low and sympathetic. "I know exactly how you feel." Sherlock just nodded and tightened his jaw.
"I'm sure you do," he replied coldly.
"Aw, Sherly," Jim began softly, running a warm hand down Sherlock's cheek. "We're a lot alike, you and I. Both trying to solve the Final Problem, now aren't we?" Jim's hand trailed down to brush across the corner of Sherlock's mouth before pulling away, and Sherlock turned to follow the hand, tearing his eyes from the swiftly passing world outside the window.
"Final Problem?" Sherlock asked softly, so softly the question was almost unintelligible.
"You'll find out soon enough," Jim replied, equally as quiet. "Just have patience, Sherlock Holmes." Jim's voice sounded low and throaty, maybe even a little sad, and Sherlock frowned. Final Problem, what was the Final Problem? There were lots of problems in the world, but what would be defined as the Final Problem?
Sherlock pushed the thought out of his mind as the cab pulled up along a curb in front of a large, beautiful building. Twinkling lights decorated the trees along the walk way, and the large, cherry maple door was glossy and looked beautiful in the faint light of the lanterns hanging by the door. Sherlock rubbed his hand along the glossy wood and mused to himself at how expensive it must have been to buy this place. Nothing less than exquisite for James Moriarty, though.
"Gorgeous isn't she? And you haven't even been in yet," Jim said proudly as he walked up behind Sherlock and placed his hand over the top of Sherlock's resting on the door. "And it's all ours." Jim grinned as he pushed the door open, going in with a spring in his step.
Sherlock stood in the cold air for a few seconds longer, rubbing his hand where Jim's small hand had rested. James Moriarty was certainly very interesting.
"Come along Sherly," he heard Jim call from inside the spacious restaurant and Sherlock sighed, heading in towards the sound of Jim's voice and the smell of food.
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"Wasn't that just delicious?" Jim asked him, leaning back in his chair with a light smile on his lips. Sherlock shrugged and pushed his still mostly full plate away from him a bit.
"I wasn't really hungry," Sherlock replied calmly, watching Jim's face darken slightly.
"I set this up especially for you, Sherlyyy. The least you can do is eat some for Daddy." Jim's lips pulled down into a slight, mocking pout. "Pleaseeee?" Jim pulled his lips down into what was probably supposed to be a "puppy dog face" and looked at Sherlock pleadingly.
"I'm simply not hungry, and oh, look at the time, it's getting late," Sherlock said coolly, glancing at the time on his phone. 23:10, Sherlock was ready to leave. He'd indulged Jim's little game, going out to dinner with him, pretending to be his date, and now Sherlock was getting tired of pretending.
"Oh, you're not leaving just yetttt. We haven't gotten to the best part yet." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but Jim shook his head. "Don't say a fucking thing, Sherly; I'm here to have my fun!" Jim shouted loudly, his voice echoing eerily throughout the basically empty restaurant. Aside from the cooks and a few waiters, it was vacant, and Sherlock laughed to himself, enjoying Jim's dedication to being thorough with his games.
"Oh come now," Sherlock said, his voice annoyed. "I'm done playing along with this." Sherlock sighed and started to get up. "I'll only play along so much, Jim." Sherlock pulled his coat on and began to twist his scarf on as well, but stopped as he took in Jim's body language and facial expression.
Jim was slumped in his seat, a devastated look apparent on his face as he stared down at his lap, not realising that Sherlock was watching him. Sherlock stared at Jim for a few seconds longer before clearing his throat. Jim's head snapped up and his desolation was quickly replaced with the usual mask of sarcasm and crude humour.
"Have a nice night, Sherly," Jim cooed, giving Sherlock a cynical, curt grin. "Oh how I've enjoyed this little game of ours. It's going to solve it, you know. The Final Problem; it will be solved." Jim winked at Sherlock and blew him a kiss as he tipped his chair up on its back legs. "Send the pet my love," Jim said, waving Sherlock off. Sherlock just glared at Jim and walked briskly out of the restaurant, hailing a cab from the curb out front.
Sherlock enjoyed the silence of the ride, and went over the night slowly in his head. Jim had been so happy and genuine, and it made Sherlock wonder if maybe, just maybe, this hadn't been a part of his game after all. Sherlock sighed deeply and pulled his phone out. 00:03, Sherlock felt a wave of something he doesn't often feel: guilt.
No, he did not like James Moriarty. He didn't like anyone, not romantically at least, but it definitely seemed like James Moriarty was interested in him, and romantically so. Sherlock shuddered.
00:12, Sherlock realised that whatever he was dealing with was something much larger than he had originally thought.
00:18, Sherlock arrived at 221b and went inside to ponder the Final Problem; the end of the game.
A/N: Reviews still always welcomed and appreciated! Have a lovely rest of your day! Cheers xx~
