Chapter 25

The glow of the computer screen was the only source of light in Simmons's office. But it might as well have been off too, as he had his face hidden in his hands.

He was very different from the man who had been sitting behind this very desk five years ago, when he had been in control of the largest criminal organisation in Western Europe. Now he had nothing. Well, almost nothing. He still had his houses, cars and three of his lovers. But the rest was gone. His wife had left him last night, taking the children with her. But that had only really been the last straw.

He looked up, hardly daring to glance at the gun on the table in front of him. How had it come to this? He had been on top of the world. He'd had it all. And then, somehow, things had started going wrong. First funds had gone missing. Lots of small amounts, but quickly amounting to a very big problem. Then deals had begun falling through. Old contacts had cut him off. And then his employees had begun… dying.

Someone had been picking them off one by one. In their homes, on the street, even one when vacationing in Spain. Never while they were on the job. They'd go home for the weekend and just… die. Shot, stabbed, strangled, pushed off buildings, smothered with pillows, poisoned or... taking five of them and a poker table in one go, blown up.

For the fifth time in less than ten minutes, Simmons reached for the gun, but stopped himself. It was the only option really. Not only had he lost everything. But, somehow, a branch of the Asian mob now believed that he was the one responsible for the raid on one of their warehouses in Glasgow, during which drugs worth several millions had been confiscated and about a dozen of their people had been killed or arrested.

He'd received the message this morning. They were coming for him. He knew death at their hands would not be quick nor in any way merciful. So this was really the only option left to him. To end it himself. Here, alone and with what he hoped would be little pain. He buried his face in his hands again. If only he wasn't such a coward. If only he could be a man, this one last time.

He heard the door open softly and reached for the gun. This was it. His last chance.

But instead of a group of ninja-like henchmen come to collect him, before him stood a young man. He looked to be in his early twenties, was short and skinny and had large and somehow unsettlingly familiar dark eyes.

His long bleached hair made him look odd. Almost sickly. Or maybe that was the dark rings around his eyes. Those eyes... Simmons racked his brain. Where had he seen this man before?

Still holding the gun, he watched as the young man approached. He did not look threatening. Not really. Just kept his eyes on Simmons. The eyes.

Then it hit him. He gasped. He had seen those eyes before. But not in that face. Those had been the eyes that had twinkled mischievously at him as Jemima Moriarty had accepted her final assignment and hurried out of his office, trying to hide her pregnant state from him.

So this must be... But no... Surely this couldn't be the child. The child would only be four now. Five maybe. So this must be someone else. But someone closely related to her. Had she had a brother? Maybe a twin? "Mo... Moriarty?" he gasped.

The young man nodded and Simmons echoed the movement. Yes, she had a brother. James, as far as he could remember.

He had not thought about that girl in so many years. That foolish girl. He had been searching for her when she'd had her accident. And fucked up everything completely. Both of the Holmes brothers had slipped through his fingers and forever out of his grasp. The younger one had gone through rehab and then entered university under careful supervision of his brother and his minions.

All because Jemima Moriarty had decided to squirt out her baby, right in the middle of the job. And then die right in front of her target, leaving him so traumatised he did not even resist when his brother had him admitted to the private clinic.

But why was her brother here? Simmons opened his mouth to ask, but the young man shook his head and glanced at the gun that hung forgotten in his limp hand. For a long moment they just looked into each other's eyes. Then, finally, Simmons nodded, closed his eyes and raised the gun.

…

The loud bang made Emma scream. She had only been working in the office for a week and already knew the job wouldn't last long. Her boss was a mess. He was supposed to have been somebody at some point. But now he was just a burned out loser, pretending to still run a business. But as far as she had been able to tell, whatever he'd had was long gone. She had done nothing but sit behind the desk for a week, playing solitaire on the computer.

The young man she had shown in had been the first visitor she had seen. And he hardly seemed like someone who had come for business. Unless of course he was a rent boy. She giggled and blushed, picturing him on his knees in her bosses office. She wouldn't put it past the old bastard.

But then the shot sounded and she was on her feet and at the door before she had even had time to think.

The young man was just standing there. Right in the middle of the room, looking at the desk where her boss was supposed to be sitting. Then she noticed the red spray on the wall and gasped.

He turned to look at her and his smile made her shiver. Then he walked over to the desk, shifted something heavy with his foot and then sat down in the chair, turning to the computer.

"So, Miss Clark," he said, his voice soft and warm. "Shall we get started?"

…

Larson straightened his tie and glanced at the small mirror next to the panel of buttons. He had not been in this lift for half a decade and he had honestly not believed he would ever be back inside this building.

The years as Moriarty's right hand man had been surreal to say the best. Hunting down his former friends and colleagues, hiding for months at a time in derelict buildings or off shore hotel rooms.

Somewhere along the way they had become lovers. Well... sort of. It was a strange kind of relationship. Larson did not doubt that Moriarty had no real feelings for him and that if their association ever became inconvenient he could as easily leave him as kill him.

He knew that his best chance of survival would be to run for it. Surely he was not important enough to Moriarty to be worth tracking down. He was just an extra pair of hands for the dirty work and a willing body when he needed to unwind.

It had started in the worst imaginable way. That night so long ago when Moriarty had approached him and almost killed him. Somehow Larson had managed to convince him that he would need help in taking down Simmons' empire. And that Larson could be trusted.

So they had run for it. Stayed away from London for nearly six months while Moriarty focused on the computers and Larson did all the other work of setting up a flat and a sort of life for them.

Then, one night, he had been woken up by Moriarty screaming. He had run to his young boss's bedroom, only to find him in the throws of what must have been a horrific nightmare. Larson had tried waking him up but suddenly found himself flat on his back, with Moriarty's hands in a surprisingly strong grip around his neck. He had looked into his eyes and seen nothing but fear and madness. Convinced that he was about to die, he had lashed out in panic and somehow managed to punch Moriarty hard enough to make him loosen his grip.

They had fought. Wrestled, punched and clawed at each other, rolling around on the bed, tangled up in the sheets and each other's limbs. And then suddenly he had found Moriarty's lips on his in a hard and very demanding kiss.

He had tried to push him away in disgust. He was not gay. Not even the slightest bit curious.

But Moriarty had a good grip on him and he couldn't escape. So he closed his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts. Suddenly Moriarty pulled back and then, to his utter astonishment, Larson found himself flipped over by a young boy who hardly weighed half as much as himself. A sharp blow to the side of his head left him dazed just long enough for Moriarty to tie his hands together and secure them to a bedpost, and that was when Larson realised that this was not just pretty bad. This was his worst nightmare come true.

But, having secured him, Moriarty seemed to calm down. Instead of attacking him in any way, he lay down flat on Larson's back and began kissing his neck and shoulders softly. "Don't worry, Tiger," he whispered. "I'm not going to hurt you. I've just missed you so much. Why did you leave me?"

Larson opened his mouth to answer… something... But a warning hiss from Moriarty made him keep quiet. He didn't really know what was going on, but he was beginning to realise that he was playing a part. A part from the dream that had made his boss scream and had now turned him into a dangerous but gentle predator.

Moriarty shifted a little and then Larson felt a hand going down the back of his boxers. He tensed immediately, but the probing finger did nothing but brush over his hole, and to his surprise it did not feel unpleasant at all. In fact, it sent a wave almost like electricity through him, that made his body shiver and his cock twitch.

Then the finger was gone and Moriarty was whispering again. "Did you miss me, Tiger? Have you been thinking about me? What I used to do to you? Do you remember?"

Larson found himself nodding, not sure what he was agreeing to, but certain that playing along was the wisest course of action at this time.

"I've thought about it too," Moriarty purred. He raised his hand to his mouth, sucked on his finger, and then it was back, teasing and pushing. Unable to stop himself Larson moaned and raised his hips a little, as if to meet the finger.

Moriarty giggled and pushed. And suddenly the finger was inside Larson and it hurt like hell but still felt so good. He buried his head in the pillow to keep from screaming or making any other embarrassing noises.

Moriarty began kissing and sucking on his neck again while he slowly fucked his arse with his finger. "I want you, Tiger," he whispered between kisses. "I need you, Tiger."

Finally Larson could take it no longer. He lifted his head and, biting his lip hard, nodded.

The finger was withdrawn, there were sounds of movement and then everything was pain as something much larger than a finger was forced into him. Moriarty did not hold back but continued pushing slowly until his rather large cock was sheathed completely inside Larson, who was fighting back tears of pain and humiliation.

It seemed to last forever and somewhere along the way, pain turned to pleasure and he was moaning and begging before it was over. Moriarty emptied himself inside him and then turned Larson over to finish him with his mouth.

He had left him tied up for the rest of the night, snuggled up to him and sleeping with a happy little smile on his lips. Larson had finally gone to sleep and woken up alone, with his hands freed and a rather significant pain as a reminder that it had indeed not been a dream.

But even the pain was not completely unpleasant. Because it brought back to him the parts of the night that had felt really good. Better than anything he had ever experienced. And although they never talked about it, three nights later, Larson found himself back in his boss's bed, on his hands and knees crying out in ecstasy as he was fucked over and over again.

He was never allowed to speak while they fucked, and he knew that when Moriarty called him Tiger, he was really thinking about someone else, but he did not complain. He had never had better sex, and though he was always on the receiving end, Moriarty never left him unsatisfied. And there was no denying the fact that his boss was a lot easier to work with when he got laid a couple of times a week.

He liked it rough and Larson soon found that he quite enjoyed getting tied up and smacked around a bit. The one thing he could not deal with was a cock in his mouth, but after the first few attempts, Moriarty caught on and didn't try to force him. He, on the other hand, would use his mouth, tongue and even throat eagerly. The first time Moriarty rimmed him, Larson nearly came without any of them touching his cock.

In short: in spite of all the weirdness, he was very happy with the arrangement. And now Simmons was out of the way, things would only get easier. No more cheap hotels or creaky cots. They had a penthouse overlooking London where, though Larson had a room of his own, he spent most nights in the large round bed, cuddling his boss who still, when he slept, looked impossibly young for someone who had killed trained assassins with his bare hands and taken over one of Europe's largest organised crime syndicates.

…

"Uncle James is coming to see you."

Those words always started a chain reaction of feverish running about as little Timothy prepared for his uncle's visit. Every drawing he had done, puzzle he had solved or book he had learned by heart (or, in the last few months actually managed to spell his way through) was laid out on the living room floor. Uncle James wanted to see them all.

While Ma watched from the door, they'd go over Timmy's accomplishments one by one, and his uncle would test him and then praise him. And when they were done, there'd be tea and biscuits and uncle James would tell him wonderful stories of thrilling adventures or magical realms.

Timmy loved his uncle James. He even had a secret name for him. One that he would never tell a living soul. Not even his uncle. But in the dead of night, when he was working on a new drawing to show, he'd whisper: "This is for you, Jim. This is for you, Papa."