Chapter 14

The Angel

He was a man of simple pleasures. Fine wine, exquisite food, a good film or a good read, he enjoyed it all. There was that other side of him, the more complicated one. The dark side of him that gave orders to end a person's life, steal a man's life savings, or destroy a woman's reputation. The part of him that gained pleasure from the suffering of others, that sometimes scratched the itch of the whisper in his mind telling him he would feel better if he just stabbed that grinning teenage boy walking by right in the eye.

Then there was the man he continued to seek attentions from. The man he kept warning to stay away before the itch came back and he did something bad. But he wasn't used to not having what he wanted, and so he kept pursuing the other. He was facing the very man at the moment, smiling his most charming smile and utterly wrapping the befuddled man around his finger with his aggressive flirting.

"You told me it was a bad idea."

The doctor was trying to talk himself out of sleeping with Moriarty again, on the car ride over to Jim's rented flat. Why did he think it could possibly work? John was sweet and innocent. John was a do-gooder. Honestly, Jim was surprised actual wings hadn't sprouted out of the man's shoulder blades yet.

"Well, I like bad things. I'm a bad guy. A criminal mastermind of the worst sort or so they say."

It was John's turn to regard him with a smidge of derision. "Well, you do kill indiscriminately."

"Isn't that better?"

"Not really. No."

Jim decided now was a good time to pout. He pouted, effortlessly. It was genuine. John wasn't agreeing with him and it was upsetting. The man upsetting him added more to..perhaps try to appease him? He liked to think so.

"I mean, children, Jim?"

Ooh, he had an answer. "I don't actually do most of the crimes you know. I just show people how."

John sighed. "Yeah, not better."

He was contemplating now. He admired John Watson, respected him. The feelings he had started with evolved. He liked where this was going.

"Alright. I'll do better."

"What?" he startled.

Jim placed his hand on John's thigh and leaned in close, lips brushing along a soft cheek. "We're good together, John. You're going to love me one day."

The other scoffed at such a claim. "It's never gonna happen."

"We'll see."

There was a certainty in his voice that his person of interest didn't like. He was pulling back. Jim wasn't going to have any of that. On his own terms was fine, however, so he pecked a quick kiss on the cheek his lips hovered over and pulled away himself.

"John."

"What?"

"It's great sex."

John glanced sideways at him. "It's good, yeah. Doesn't make it more than that."

"It's great sex."

John was grinning now. Yes, mission accomplished. He was his for the night. Jim looked out the window as a passerby walked by and he took note of what hadn't crossed his mind. Homicidal thoughts. He had fewer and fewer of those thoughts. A curious thing. Peculiar. He looked over to John.

"How do you do that?"

A slight frown creased his forehead and Jim wanted to reach to smooth the lines until they were gone. Sheesh, what the hell was wrong with him?

"Do what?"

Jim locked eyes with him before voicing the wonder. "Make people care."

John didn't understand and looked confused. It didn't matter. The night went on and it was a good night. In the morning, he woke to a pleasant sight. John was there. He was asleep, face sunk into a pillow and an arm slung over Jim's chest. He stayed. That was progress. He smiled, feeling like he was glowing inside. That was a first, too.

/

John stared daggers at the detective inspector standing across from him. He couldn't believe what he was hearing from these supposed professionals. They were nowhere on identifying his sister's attacker. He was tempted, tempted to go to another man who would get the job done and get it done promptly. Would this man help him if he asked? There was a high probability he wouldn't.

He wasn't certain what was going on between him and Moriarty at the moment. They spent a fair bit of time together, often those times included getting off, but that didn't mean anything. Moriarty was still Moriarty, so there was no way John would ever see the man as more than just good company in a lonely time of his life. Besides, the other was obviously using him in the same way, and maybe as a way to use him against Sherlock at some point. That wouldn't surprise him at all. Moriarty didn't mean what he said about them having more between them that could become something. That was bollocks designed to mess with his head.

"Dr. Watson, we're doing what we can but as you well know, there is no shortage of crime in London and we have other cases requiring our attention."

"Why isn't Lestrade lead on this? I requested him a month ago when you weren't getting anything done."

"You know the answer. You're friends with the man. He is devoting the majority of his time to the Professor cases."

"Right. Criminal mastermind and serial killer who kidnaps victims and forces them to make a hard choice. Some die, some live, but the living are traumatized the rest of their lives." He was aware his voice was rising in volume as he carried on and he failed to care much. "I know who he is! Sherlock Holmes is my flatmate!"

"Then you should doubly understand how vital it is we catch this criminal before he strikes again."

John's head was feeling hot. These cops were all idiots. The only ones competent enough to help him wouldn't even help because they were too busy with the big case. He made a possible connection in his head and it was as though a light lit up in his brain.

"What if my sister's attacker is this Professor fellow?"

"What? What makes you think that?"

"A man broke into her house, held her against her will, and forced alcohol on her until she nearly died. That sounds like him!"

"Dr. Watson," His tone was condescending, causing John's expression to darken further. "There was no actual evidence of an assailant in your sister's case. We don't know for certain she was attacked."

"You think she was lying?" he demanded.

The detective had the tenacity to smile falsely at him and lean forward over his desk. "Your sister is an alcoholic, Dr. Watson. We will not waste valuable resources on a woman who repeatedly harms herself."

"You daft tosser!"

He started to lunge over the man's desk but was stopped by an arm wrapping around him and pulling backward. It distracted for a moment before he made a second attempt to rip the man's head from his neck. This man was an arsehole and he deserved a good wallop to the brain he clearly wasn't using.

"He's a bloody pillock! Arsehole!"

"You must have evidence, facts to back you up," the voice belonging to the man holding him in place informed. "Only then can the detective act on your claim. That said," He turned on the cop. "You're a git. Lestrade's taking over the Watson case. Piss off."

Well, that was satisfying to hear. But still, he wasn't in a good mood. He didn't want to deal with Sherlock if he was going to act distracted or disinterested whenever the case ceased to suit his fancy. He needed his friend at the very least right now, and with Sherlock, it was never clear if that was what he would get. Even in his predictability, he could be unpredictable.

"John."

He regained control and turned to his friend. "Go away, Sherlock. You don't care about this."

"I do. It's why I'm here."

John frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I went to your sister's house for another look-around."

He straightened up, noting Lestrade and Donovan were watching from a few yards away. A couple breaths and then he asked what he found.

"A recording. The thing is, I don't believe it was there before. I believe the Professor came back and placed it to be found."

John stared. "Wait, you think it was the Professor criminal, too?"

Sherlock extended a gloved hand where a small tape recorder was clasped. He hit the play button. There was static and a man's voice started speaking.

"Some experts believe too much of something can cure a person of an addiction. Want a smoker to quit? Give them pack after pack until they nearly die of nicotine poisoning. A heroin addict? The same. As for you, your addiction of choice is alcohol. Let's test that theory, shall we?"

There was sobbing, his sister. She was begging him to stop. The audible sound of a slap had John wincing. The man hit her. His anger level was rising. This criminal was now definitely the target of his desire to harm.

"Take it gracefully, my dear. This will happen regardless. If you manage to survive, be grateful it will be a shortened life but a life led sober and clear-minded. That is a life much more valuable and worthy."

The recording cut out and static followed. Sherlock pressed the stop button and continued to stare at John, measuring his thought-process and emotions. That piercing and focused look was annoying.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but whatever was coming he would never know. A PC jogged into the work area, out of breath and eyes wide. He ignored the questions directed his way and went to the nearest television. He switched it on, talking to the room of people in general.

"The Professor hit again. He left a message this time."

John moved along with everyone else to get closer to the television. A reporter began to speak about a recent crime committed.

"Helen Young, reporting live outside the Bank of England, where a security guard and two bank employees lost their lives this afternoon."

She gestured behind herself, glancing in the direction before returning her gaze to the camera.

"Shortly before taking his own life, the security guard was heard yelling about how he had no choice. A man forced him to either kill the bank employees who'd allowed a minor robbery to take place two weeks earlier, or his own family would die. Bank officials claim no such robbery had taken place and that they have no idea why the guard chose to end two lives so tragically."

He glanced at Sherlock and some of the other cops watching, wondering what was going on with this criminal. His targets were seemingly random, yet there appeared to be a kind of flawed logic to his madness. This Professor knew where to strike, his timing impeccable. He wondered what it could mean about the man. He'd struck far too many times to be ignored, and most of the time it brought senseless death. What did the criminal seek to accomplish?

The reporter revealed something that had him listening.

"What stands out about this specific crime, is that the criminal calling himself "the Professor", has marked the crime as his own in the form of a letter. One of our investigators recovered a copy and I will read it here."

Lestrade cursing grabbed his attention for a moment. Other cops were looking pretty unhappy as well, muttering how the letter was confidential evidence and not to be shared with the public. John didn't care about any of that. He wanted to hear what the letter said.

"Alright, I'm going to be reading the letter now. 'The world has evolved into a place where people live under the illusion of safety. It is delusion. Danger is everywhere. Death is inevitable. As sure as the sun rises every day, everybody dies. I seek to rid the people of their ignorance. I wish to show them a world filled with fear, chaos, and death because that is reality. Chaos is all-consuming. It will consume everyone. Compassion is a weakness, a trait people who do not care will not share. The heart does not require compassion to be strong and pure. We can all of us become pure of heart, worthy of existence. This is what I seek to do.' Signed, the Professor. So as you heard here-"

John tuned out the rest of what the reporter had to say. He didn't need their analysis of the letter. They didn't know anything. He was better off using his mind to try to figure out what he knew. The guy was definitely crazy, yup, but in a very grounded manner if that made sense. It was like he knew how the world worked but didn't think other people did, and he was trying to share the "truth" or whatever.

It didn't matter what the insane criminal calling himself "the Professor" believed. What mattered to John was this man made his sister one of his victims and apparently wanted the police, or Sherlock, to know it was his work. Why else would he leave a recorder with part of the attack at the scene of the crime? This was a mess. He didn't understand what was going on.

He looked to Sherlock, wondering if the man had a better grasp on what was happening. Sometimes he wished his mind worked like his friend's because then maybe he wouldn't be so afraid of what the insane criminal was planning next. Would he continue to hurt people as he had before? Or would he step up his game and do something even more terrible?

/

"Why should I care, Johnny?"

He peered over his tea cup at the man seated opposite him in the cafe. "I don't expect you to. I just- I don't know, wanted to get it out. I tried talking to Sherlock, but it..it never goes anywhere."

Moriarty waved off that comment with a wave of his hand. "No, no, not about what you were saying. I mean caring, about other people. I know that's what you wish I would do. You wish Sherlock would, too, if you're set on bringing him up."

John stared. "Sherlock does care about other people. He's just awful at showing it."

"Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn't see the point. I'm the same way. Why would you care about dysfunctional human beings like us?"

He gritted his teeth. Where was Moriarty going with this? Why did he have to talk to him about Sherlock? He'd rather not. He would really rather not.

"So tell me. Why should I care? Why is it important to you?"

Of course the man had been able to sense he no longer wished to talk about his friend. It was nice he ceased talking about him. Moriarty had taken into account how John felt. This was new and unfamiliar. James Moriarty giving a damn about his feelings.

He responded simple and blunt. "People care."

"Caring doesn't change anything. It's a weakness. Why should I care?"

He sighed tiredly. "That's what people do."

Moriarty stared blankly, yet somehow meaningful, so John continued. "That's what you can do. You're alone..."

He remembered how well Moriarty dealt with reminders of his weakness and rushed to add, "Bored. Because you think you're above everyone else, all those 'normal' people. That is precisely what makes you like them. Pride is a very human thing. It's why you need to start caring about somebody, anybody. If you make yourself just a bit like regular..normal people, you'll be less bored. I guarantee it."

This brought a wolfish grin to Moriarty's face. "I like that. Sounds almost poetic. I told you you'd care about me."

"I don't."

Even as the words spilled out, he knew he replied far too quickly to be convincing. Wait. Why was he questioning his own feelings? He didn't care about Moriarty in any way. Oh, God, the man was giving him the intense, 'I know what's going on in your head' stare. His skin felt like it heated up ten degrees.

"Well, well, John. I must say, you've managed to impress me once again. You've made me an utterly fallible human."

John stared back at him, wondering if that was a good thing. Jim could either be complimenting him and pleased, or this was the predator smiling right before devouring its prey and John was going to pay. He set the cup of tea down on the table, beginning to feel uncomfortable.

It surprised him when Moriarty reached over and placed his hand on the hand John had resting on the table. "You do make me care, John, and it's frustrating as you can believe. You make me want to stay alive."

John started. "What?"

"You just might be my guardian angel."

"Is that a joke?"

"Not at all."

He frowned into his drink. He didn't know what Jim was saying. He didn't know what this was between them. It was supposed to be simple. Sex and company and nothing more. Why then, did Moriarty keep alluding to something else? What was this business about staying alive? Was this one big game with him as the piece to be jostled around until it was perfect for the final strike against Sherlock? His head was starting to hurt.

/

Sherlock being gone was still fresh. He thought about his dear friend nearly every minute of every day and it was suffocating him. His thoughts nearly always occupied with his friend who jumped off a rooftop in front of him. That's why he almost missed it. In fact, he saw just in time. A man walking on the pavement ahead about to be hit by a swerving car, the driver likely intoxicated.

He acted automatically, running and shoving the man forward out of harm's way. The car skidded partially onto the pavement, exactly where the man had been, and swerved back onto the street proper. Already he could see other bystanders on their phones, reporting the reckless driver as they gawked at the erratic car speeding off.

Shaking his head at the awful behavior he witnessed and making a silent prayer no one would be hurt because of this driver, he straightened up and caught his breath. He turned when he realized the man nearly made into a pancake was approaching. He wore a hooded sweatshirt and jeans, just a regular guy almost killed by a reckless idiot.

"You saved my life."

"Ah, yeah, I guess. It was nothing. Stay safe."

He turned to go, hesitating when the guy kept looking at him like he had something he wanted to say. He waited a moment but the guy didn't say anything so he awkwardly said more himself.

"People can be real gits. You never know what they might do."

John was speaking about more than the situation they almost had a minute ago. He didn't need to transfer his problems to a complete stranger though. Thankfully the man chose to speak.

"You must have a heart of gold to save a random soul such as mine."

"Uh..." That was a strange thing to say. "Well, you're welcome. It wasn't a big deal."

"You know, compassion is a weakness, a trait people who do not care will not share."

Huh. It rhymed. Strange thing to say too. "Oh. I suppose that's true..."

What was with this guy? He wanted to get out of this odd circumstance. He took a step past the man and smiled politely at him as he did.

"You have a heart of gold, I think. Such a heart is not necessarily pure. You want a pure heart, consider letting go the concept of compassion. Your heart will truly be strong then."

"Okay, thanks. I should be going. Be careful out there."

The man smiled at him now, his appearing genuine as opposed to John's rather sad excuse for an attempted smile. The situation just felt so..off. He walked on down the pavement and didn't look back. He had enough on his mind and an act of kindness on his part that ended in weirdness wasn't going to beat out previous thoughts. He forgot all about that day.

John woke with a gasp as he sat upright in the bed, breathing heavy but subdued. He kept his lips pressed tightly together until he centered. Hands sought him out and wrapped about him. John pressed himself into the embrace.

"Shit! Jim, I met the man. I met that Professor criminal."

"What? How do you know?"

"There was a man I ran into on a street in London once, a year or so ago. Saved him from getting hit by an idiot who didn't know how to drive straight. It only lasted a minute, maybe two, so I can't recall a face. But what he said to me stayed with me. I just remembered it now from the letter he left at the latest crime scene. Something the criminal said and something the man I met said. They said the same goddamn thing about compassion being a weakness. What he said rhymed so I remembered. It was him! Shit..."

"If you don't have memory of what he looks like, what good is it? Come on, let's go to sleep."

Even as Jim was saying that, John was pulling out of his arms. He slid out from under the sheets. He had to tell Sherlock.

"Sherlock needs to know."

"Your information has too many holes. It will mean nothing to a factual creature like him."

"I need to let him know what I can. He'll be awake. The bank shooting will keep him up all night. He should know I could possibly remember something else, maybe even identify this bastard."

John was in a hurry to get home. He didn't think on noticing disappointment and sadness flicker across Jim's face. He didn't really see the jealousy or anger growing in his eyes. He forgot Jim was James Moriarty. No one touched James Moriarty. No one made him care and then left him in favor of Sherlock Holmes and another one of his mysteries.