Lestrade's voice echoes into the street and Sergeant Donovan shakes her head in what might be disbelief had this exact scenario not occurred five times previously in the last month alone.
"If it were up to me," she says, lining the words with the force of steel wool, "you know where you'd be."
James Moriarty, small and bold and always wearing a lifetime of her paychecks, seems like he should be showing all his teeth when he smiles. "My dear," he says, "it's never been up to you."
He nods at his companion. Sebastian Moran, casually tall, shrugs an apology in Donovan's direction and slumps under the crime scene tape and into the tenement. Jim stops and turns back towards the sergeant, his hand smoothing his tiepin into strict alignment. "I must say," he confides in a stage whisper, "this is the best your hair has ever looked."
He nods, the fringe of dark hair on his upper forehead bobbing solemnly in the breeze, and he studies her. Donovan stares back and has always been sick of this game. Jim draws a shuddery breath, giggles, and follows Seb into the building.
As they climb the stairs, Sebastian's aristocratic blonde head cresting through landing after landing, Jim's humming what Seb takes to be Puccini until he realizes that it is, in fact, Perry.
Jim is humming Katy Perry.
Jim is humming Katy Perry and grabbing Seb's wrist between floors five and six and twisting it behind his back and sucking languidly on his neck.
Seb hisses and Jim lets him go and walks up to the sixth floor landing in silence. Lestrade, attempting to appear patient, is standing next to the body of the third victim.
It's a woman this time. She's dressed entirely in pink.
Jim smiles and says, "Where's her suitcase?"
Seb walks the perimeter of the room, examining the walls, the floors, and the windows. "There was no case," is Lestrade's reply.
Jim giggles. "Of course there is. Trained assassin like her? Where's she going to stick her sniper rifle, her bra?"
Lestrade gapes. "Who said anything about assassins?"
"You assumed she was in media," smirks Jim, bending over the body.
Lestrade folds his hands across his chest. "If you're just making this up—"
"Musculature and posture say army training, tightness in her right shoulder with a corresponding strength in her left says sniper. She's clearly spent long periods of time in a stagnant position, holding a long, heavy metal object with the propensity to recoil. Pointer finger is smooth, but not from texting or typing because the wear pattern would be different, so we can assume it's her trigger finger. As for her clothing, your first instinct was media or PR because of the color and the coordination, but it's just a bit too perfect in some spots and crumbles away in others. Remnants of black dye under her right ear, surely a woman so concerned about personal appearance would have made more of an effort to clean that up. Her nails, while immaculately clean and polished, are worn from harsh manual work, more so than anyone in her 'profession' would ever have occasion to do. That says it's at least partly a disguise."
Lestrade lets his eyebrows fall back into their normal position as Jim grins and begins swaying slightly in place. Whatever else he wants to say is going to burst from his lips whether the Detective Inspector intends to hear it or not, so Lestrade take the initiative and says, "yes?"
"Well," says Jim, and he looks almost bashful, "there's also the fact that she tried to shoot my head off in Oxford Circus last Tuesday at around two in the afternoon."
Seb whips into a military stance, his automatic response to having acquired surprising new data, and barks "what?"
Lestrade says, "thank God it wasn't Watson."
"I told you to let me set up that security detail," Seb says, and it's almost a shout.
"Oh, I knew she was there," Jim dismisses.
"That's not the point!"
Sebastian drops his head into his palm and emits what one would be hard-pressed to avoid calling a whine. "I'm not worried about Watson," Jim explains to Lestrade, "because I'm not a criminal. Speaking of which, you're looking for Holmes."
Jim nudges the body lightly with his right foot. "Probably poison. The other victims were criminals as well, correct?"
At Lestrade's nod, Jim continues "he's clearly backing someone on a revenge quest. Boring, but it's the only way that Watson would get on board. He's such a moralist."
Jim says this last bit with an expression of such disdain it wouldn't have looked out of place on a puritan minister. "If you do manage to find the genius, give me a call. Until then, Seb and I will be home, enjoying a nice, long—"
"Alright!"
Lestrade shoes them out of the room, but Jim turns right before he reaches the landing and says, "Because you need me."
"What?"
"You put up with me because you need me."
Lestrade sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose and says, "I do. God help me."
