Author's Note: Okay, so this chapter is kind of short than the other ones, but I got this idea in my head for a chapter and decided to run with it, so we'll see how this goes. I was kind of not surprised by the lack of comments on the previous chapter - it was a little strange, I admit.

Anywhosies. Onto the next chapter! Thanks everyone who had read, followed and favorited. Extra thanks to all my lovely reviewers, you make the earth go 'round! But seriously, your wonderful comments really have helped this story along and I thank you for taking the time to tell me what you thought.

Please enjoy!

Chapter 3: Two's Company - Three's a Crowd

Jim Moriarty was not a morning person.

Unsurprisingly, life as a criminal mastermind didn't typically require terribly early waking hours. Thusly leading to an unhealthy amount of sleeping in, or at least as Sebastian, the quite literal early bird, would inform him on occasion. To which Jim would roll over in his silk sheets and tell the sniper what a lovely floor matt he would make.

Morning was simply dreadful. The sun was just barely up, everyone and their mums were either tired or hung-over, and smothered in intricacies detailing their previous night or what they so planned to do with the rest of their day. How mind numbingly boring.

Jim hunched over his psychology text book, scanning a page on human social disorders for the third time – each word was already memorized of course, photographic memories rather ruined the fun of attempting to retain any knowledge.

"Sir, your order," an entirely too cheery barista set down one cup of coffee, black with two sugars, and a tea, served with a splash of cream and a half cube

Jim smiled shyly in return, brushing his blonde bangs from his eyes, and nodded mutely before going back to his 'studies'. Had he currently been himself, he might've just blown the bloody café to hell. Certainly a project to look into, Jim mentally noted.

It would undoubtedly send a statement.

A statement meant only for the consulting detective sitting a street away, similarly at his own table on the patio of a small coffee shop, flipping idly through a case file. Blissfully unaware of the man only a couple hundred feet away watching him over his own morning cup, sans food.

Really, Jim worried about his detective.

"A university student? Being a bit optimistic, aren't we?"

Ah, but one could never get a moment's rest these days.

"Mycroft Holmes," Jim pushed his unnecessary glasses back up his nose as he took in the other, duller, Holmes brother.

As always, the Ice Man appeared impeccable – what with his cleanly pressed Armani suit and insufferably elegant Bruno Magli dress shoes. His ever-present umbrella served only to annoy Moriarty further, almost more so than the arrogant pinch Mycroft's face seemed eternally stuck in.

I was so dangerously close to enjoying myself," Jim gestured to the seat facing him, "I'm lucky you showed up when you did."

Mycroft took a full moment to glare down his nose at the wrought iron chair before finally taking a seat, looking wholly out of place in fully regalia at a breakfast joint on a foggy Tuesday morning. Of course, casually chatting with the British Intelligence's most loved criminal mastermind, who was in turn dressed in a ratty university sweatshirt and frankly frighteningly blonde wig, remained equally odd.

"Should I even bother inquiring what you're doing here?" the elder Holmes glanced down at the strategically placed tea.

"How cold, no pleasantries before business. I even ordered you a little something – I know how you like it," Jim grinned wickedly back at Mycroft as he pushed the still-steaming tea a few inches closer. He'd have to thank Irene for borrowing one of her favorite lines – perhaps a few pictures of Sherlock in the shower would do nicely. That, or the personal mobile number of that striking daughter of a famous petrol tycoon.

"You've become awfully careless recently," Mycroft continued as if uninterrupted. "A few personal visits with my younger brother, leaving your calling card at fresh crime scenes, handing out evidence to those same crimes. It's almost like you want to get caught."

Jim hummed and then shrugged, glancing pointedly over at the younger Holmes, still obliviously reading across the street at his own table.

"Maybe," Jim grinned crookedly, "but I suppose I don't have to worry much about you. If only you were as interesting as your brother, then perhaps I could abate some of your jealousy. But not all things run in the family, I suppose."

Mycroft looked absolutely offended, if going by the taught line forming on his brow and on the grim shape his lips had taken. He replied in a low, icy voice, "I am not jealous. You are a master criminal with an awful penchant for being… 'naughty', chasing doggedly after my much younger brother. You and I shall never see eye to eye."

"Certainly," Moriarty nodded in mock understanding, "especially if I cut out your eyes, then we really never would and that would be just too much of a shame. But on the other hand, I'm sure they'd make a lovely gift to Sherlock – your eyes in a glass jar with a little note: You're the apple of my eye."

The blood drained from Mycroft's face, but the man managed to look undeterred, sipping silently at his tea. It was almost endearing how the elder Holmes was attempting to shield his brother, guard his innocence so to speak – but it was pointless. Mycroft had already served up Sherlock on a silver platter to Jim, and now that he'd had a taste, well. Jim couldn't just let that go with eating the whole dish.

Surely, of all people, Mycroft could understand the sentiment.

"Truly, this has been lovely but I can only allow someone to ruin my morning to such an extent," Moriarty made a sweeping motion with one hand.

For a moment, Mycroft looked caught between stubbornly staying where he was and leaving all together, but then the decision was taken, rather abruptly, out of their hands by a certain barista.

"Gentlemen," she smiled again, dimples popping on her round cheeks.

She set down one plate of white cake before Mycroft, a delicate little desert dressed finely in pure white crème frosting with pale blue candied rose accents. And before Jim, she placed a tumbler of scotch, just about two fingers worth in the glass and at the rim, a small lipstick mark where someone had taken a sip.

Both men stared curiously at each other before simultaneously glancing back over to the great and confounding Sherlock Holmes – who was watching them from over his book with a look of pure satisfaction. He waved, wiggling in his fingers in a mockingly friendly gesture.

Jim waved back, unable to contain the grin which split his face.

Meanwhile, Mycroft simply looked humiliated, alternating between glaring at the piece of cake and his younger brother.

Third time was certainly the charm.

And Sherlock Holmes was never one to disappoint.