Author's Note: Tell me who you love. That's right, next-day update. I'm really rolling on this story, so hopefully this keeps up. Or maybe hopefully it won't so I can finally go back to working on my two other fics. We shall see. I also totally meant to tell you guys in the previous author's note that Sebastian Moran will play a very small role in this fic and I know he hasn't been cast on the Sherlock TV show, so in my mind, I've kind of been picturing like Michael Fassbender or something.
Also, fair warning! This has mild Sherlock/Moriarty in it. I mean, I think of it more as Jim playing a game with Sherlock, who is rather asexual when it comes down to it, but still. You've been warned. (And there might be some crossdressing. whut.)
Anywhosies. Thanks go out to everyone who read and followed and favorited. Extra special thanks to everyone who reviewed, your words of encouragement mean a lot to me and my writing process.
Please enjoy (responsibly).
Chapter 2: The Second Time is Always Sexier
Jim Moriarty liked to take his time.
The master criminal also liked to think that he was meticulous and thorough in all of his affairs. Especially when it came to a certain sharp-cheekboned genius.
He took his time in the shower, purposefully running his obscenely expensive shampoo through his hair. With pianist's fingers and all the care in the world, Moriarty shaved his perfectly sculpted calves, removing any and all unsightly hairs from his hard, angled body.
Clean shaven and fresh, the real artistry began.
Sensual hands rolled individual lace-topped sheer stockings over legs that Aphrodite would have wept over. For effect, Jim even fished out a pair of silken cherry red panties and a matching bra from the lingerie bag at the foot of his bed. Sebastian did such a good job of understanding his unique style. A single white garter, with the faintest spattering of blood, decidedly decorated his right thigh.
Delicious.
Delicate fingers sought out his favorite lipstick – Lucifer's Lady – a blood red shade just a dash too dark; a touch too threatening yet looked like sex itself on Jim's well-formed lips. Next came the eyes, the easiest part of the whole ensemble. Really, it's as simple as a thick line across the lashes with some decent shadowing at the crease and highlighting at the brow. And then mascara. Child's play.
Why Irene ever complained about make-up, Moriarty would certainly never know. Speaking of Irene.
Jim picked up the Jimmy Choo black stiletto-pumps which The Woman had so deigned to send him as a 'thank you' gift of sorts. It really had been sweet – the shoes were sitting on his large bed suddenly one evening with a little note on top, simply reading:
Couldn't stop thinking about how good you'd look with these on and only these on. Let's have dessert.
Love, Miss Adler
Honestly, what was he going to do with her? Skin her and make shoes? Well now.
Of course the heels fit perfectly, and matched his official favorite outfit ever. A slinky black Marc Jacobs dress which clung in all the right places and whose neckline dipped dangerously low to reveal just a peek of that red lace bra and artificial cleavage. Meow.
Next came the wig, which would speak volumes about his character. Dare Jim Moriarty try the auburn A-line, or opt instead for the wildly sexy blonde waves? In the end, he chose yet another personal favorite – long and loose curls in a sultry chocolate tone.
Sherlock Holmes didn't stand a chance.
"Sebastian," Jim trilled, testing out his female-persona voice. "Darling, come zip me up."
The sniper came obediently, all hunched shoulders and stomping combat boots. If he was surprised to see his employer dressed up as the fairer sex, Sebastian Moran wisely kept his mouth shut. Simply put, one cannot ever predict the actions of James Moriarty.
"How do I look?" the genius asked, lasciviously eyeing himself in the bathroom's full-length mirror.
"Heavenly," Sebastian deadpanned, meeting the reflected-Jim's gaze from over the shorter man's shoulder.
Jim grinned delightedly in spite of himself, "Really? What a shame. I was going for 'naughty'."
Seb arched an eyebrow, "You're sin on legs."
Sherlock Holmes most certainly did not stand a chance.
. . . . .
God must love Jim.
Truly, because that night would find Sherlock Holmes and John Watson chasing a lead on a recent string of all-male homicides in a veritably unorthodox manner.
Speed Dating.
The whole meeting was precisely planned; Jim had carefully tracked the detective's movement for a few days anticipating the moment Sherlock might finally deduce who the real killer was. Which would inevitably lead him to the speed dating ring at a fairly upscale pub in London.
And thusly sitting only a few chairs down from the dragged-up Moriarty.
However, John Watson was also a few chairs away from Sherlock meaning that by that time in the dating circuit, John was not one chair away. Logically, the two had separated to 'divide and conquer' as it would seem and as luck would have. Once again, Jim found himself in the unpleasant position of handling the dog before addressing its master.
The bell rang, signaling the end of another three minutes.
Ethan, the dull computer programmer who had sat and discussed little more than his passion for hardware, got up to leave, casting one last despairing glance at Jim's chest.
"I'm Doctor John Watson," the army doctor took his seat, looking downright boyishly interested, "and you must be stunningly beautiful."
Jim allowed himself a cute tittering giggle before responding, "Charmed. I'm actually Vanessa, pleased to meet you."
The two chatted idly about where they grew up (Vanessa came from Ireland, hence the slight lilt in her speech) and about what they were doing with their lives now (Vanessa was a public relations liaison making a decent salary). Jim listened attentively to John vaguely describe his military career and in turn, just as vaguely described her fondness for gardening. It was all very quaint and scripted, politely distant.
In other words, boring.
Jim would rather string John up by his neck and flog him mercilessly than hear anymore trite blithering.
The bell sounded a few more times, each interval with each desperate man was becoming increasingly unbearable in the most delectable way. Anticipation. Oh, to wait for Sherlock Holmes with baited breath and false breasts.
Sherlock glanced over at the woman he'd just previously been talking to and gave her his false little grin, as if apologetic for the small time they had together. He'd been methodically casting the same look to each woman from the moment this whole sordid affair began, likely trying to scrutinize every last detail to commit for memory or looking for some sort of tell. Better yet, if Jim had to guess, he was attempting to attract the attention of a certain murderess.
"Hello," Sherlock dragged his gaze away, "The name's Sha–
The detective stopped, choking on his words. Those sea blue eyes widened incredulously as if trying to take in all the information sitting before him yet coming to the plain and starling conclusion: Jim Moriarty was in drag.
"Shane?" Jim asked innocently, batting his lashes at Sherlock. "What a nice name, and you can call me Maria."
Sherlock's mouth hung slightly agape.
Jim winked and put one perfectly manicured finger under Sherlock's jaw, gently closing his mouth for him. "Do you come here often?"
To his credit, Sherlock recovered quickly, "No, but I can't imagine that you do either. Special occasion tonight or is this all for me?"
"Well, it's been awhile since we last saw each other. I wanted to check up on you, see how you're doing," the criminal twirled a strand of hair around his index finger. "And I may have gotten a little dressed up, put on my Sunday best. You're not the only one who can appreciate it, however."
Jim pointedly glanced over at John, and Sherlock, who had followed his stare, twitched minutely. Amusement flickered in those eyes, lurking just behind suspicion and unadulterated loathing.
This was just too good.
"Anyway," Jim drawled in his falsetto, "I brought you a present."
Casually, the mastermind moved his right leg out from under the table, his dress riding up just enough to show the black lace of the tights peeking out from underneath. Sherlock stared at the appendage for a moment as if not understanding but Moriarty simply slid forward, arching his back obscenely to push his leg closer to the detective. After all, Sherlock wasn't such a dull man.
Those violinist fingers reached forward, ghosting over the line of Jim's thigh until dipping flawlessly under the hem of the dress. They ascended dangerously until finally hitting their mark.
Jim watched Sherlock's face, a placid mask of indifference as he retrieved the stained garter. A clue, obviously, dealing with the case the dynamic duo was currently unraveling.
"That's all you'll be getting. I mean, what kind of girl do you take me for?"
Sherlock's eyes snapped back up to Jim's, locking on him with a sort of intensity that made his stomach clench in the most disgustingly wonderful way.
The bell rang.
And the consulting detective didn't move.
"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock's voice dropped low, into that grating baritone Jim Moriarty would so love to hear begging for mercy or begging for more. Such a shame, if only the Holmes' weren't such prideful creatures.
"Excuse me," the next man in line looked politely confused as he cut in, "I think you're supposed to have moved over a chair."
"I'm doing you a favor," Sherlock glared daggers at the man. "Now. Move on."
"I think I'd like to decide that for myself," the man carried on, shooting a shy glance at Jim from behind his glasses. There was a tense moment as the two men stared each other down.
"Very well," the consulting detective got up, plopped down in the next seat and then turned himself until almost fully facing Jim once more. "What's your game? A little show and tell but for what purpose?"
The blonde woman sitting across from Sherlock looked positively affronted. But that's what happens when a sociopath tries being social.
"You're being awfully rude, Shane," Jim purred. "You shouldn't ignore your date – she might be the one – and you know I've always been fond of having an audience."
"Then you'll have to forgive me, Maria, this just seems so unlike you," Sherlock's voice took on something of a pout, playing his part equally as he leaned his forearm across Jim's side of the table.
"Do you know each other?" the glasses-toting man inquired meekly.
"We are acquainted." Sherlock didn't break his gaze from Jim.
The consulting criminal giggled and walked his fingers over to Sherlock's arm, inch by inch, "He's an old flame of mine."
"Old?" Sherlock's brow arched.
Jim smiled winningly, "Didn't know you wanted to rekindle our relationship, darling."
"I wasn't aware that it had been snuffed."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
The bell rang again.
Jim made to stand, not bothering to pull down where the skirt of the dress had ridden up, and pretended not to see the various pairs of eyes watching him. Especially not the blue gaze that raked over his frame. Certainly not.
Taking one quick step around the table, Sherlock blocked Jim's immediate escape route. The master criminal took his own step closer, standing almost flush against the impressively tall man, and glanced up through his lashes coquettishly. With a deft hand, Moriarty slipped the white garter into Sherlock's front coat pocket.
"Don't be a stranger," Jim whispered, leaning up and kissing Sherlock on the cheek before he could react. A perfect red kiss remained where Jim Moriarty's lips had been.
Without another word, Jim slipped past a stunned Sherlock Holmes and disappeared out into the murky London night.
Oh yes, Jim Moriarty was officially an addict.