J
This is it?
Jim knows the place – he'd be a madman not to - but when Irene made such a giant fuss about him ("He's very good at what he does, he's not like the others" - why doesn't she just take him right now?), you would think such a person would be living in a less…homely place.
As it is, there is only one set of windows that are lit up, and it's the set right above the café. Jim shifts his sunglasses just a little, to block out the morning light filtering over everything, and he can just barely make out a shape moving inside the window. A very tall shape, by the look of it.
At the same time, a car pulls up to the curb behind his driver and a man gets out. He looks like he is about to fall down and have a panic attack, whipping his head about and trying to hurry, oh wait, to the very same flat that Jim is going to now. He's knocking on the door, and a few seconds later, a little old lady invites him inside, all-smiles.
What am I getting myself into?
Knock, knock. The new driver, Roberto, is rolling down the window. "Is it going to be a while? I can shut it down if you want."
"Ah, it'll only be a few minutes. Keep it running." He's waving his hand absently, and Roberto rolls the window back up. He removes his sunglasses and crosses the street, thinking about how he'll have hell to pay if he can't deliver. Rather, he'll have to pay hell. Either way, hell is coming to meet him.
Jim doesn't even lift his hand to the door knocker before the old woman is opening the door again, ready and welcome for his arrival.
"Oh, hello dear. You're the one Irene told me to look out for. Would you like some tea?"
She's polite. That's refreshing.
"Yes, that sounds wonderful." Jim doesn't quite smile, but he's nearly there. Not many people bother with manners or niceties anymore; even more rarely doing so with happiness.
She's smiling again. All smiles, but he can tell straight away that that's not always the case. "Ooh, you're nice. I like you already." A hand pointing up the stairs. "Just up here on the next flight, dear. He has someone up there right now; do you want to-"
No sooner have the words left her mouth than the same man comes down, a little relieved but still obviously shaken. He's pushing down the stairs; past Jim and past the old lady, and then out the door.
Jim has been watching the man leave, but turns his attention back to the landlady - she's got that air about her. "Does that happen a lot?"
Her face turns up, not in a grimace but more in sadness, like it's a mere fact. "Oh, all the time…what's your name?"
"Jim."
"It's nice to meet you, Jim." She's reaching for his hand, and he offers his in a firm shake. "Miss Hudson. You're a sweetheart, you are."
Say thank you. "Thank you, Miss Hudson." He's pointing up the stairs now. "You said the next flight?"
"Yes. Good luck."
I like her. He's climbing up the stairs now, wondering what kind of man this is; wondering if he'll even get done what he needs to get done. In the back of his head, he's wondering about the old lady; how she seemed so nice. Maybe it puts the guy's clients at ease, or maybe it puts herself at ease. He's ready and willing to say that it's the latter, more likely than not. Or maybe she's worried about him. The same person everybody who has ever done as much as lifted a car in this city is worried about.
The door is already open when he reaches the top of the stairs, but he still takes the time to knock. A disinterested "come in" is given back to him.
He steps inside the flat and looks around. It's a bit dingy and definitely in need of redecoration – the wallpaper alone makes him want to burn the place down to a crisp – but everything is more or less organized into their seemingly proper places. It's the flat of a man who has other things on his mind, and Jim knows that intimately well.
"Interesting." He lets his thoughts slip out loud; an action he has not been known for since primary. Indeed; everything is interesting, especially the person standing in the window. He's tall and a bit lanky, with the cheekbones that a person would kill to have. He seems to have been standing there for a while. There are other things Jim's picking up on now – he's analyzing. He's paying attention to the room.
Anyone can do that, Jim.
"What do you need?" He's talking to Jim, but he hasn't turned around yet.
"Hmm?" He's not sure he processed that correctly.
"From my network. What do you need?" He still hasn't turned around.
Now that's got his attention nice and proper. He hasn't mentioned anything about needing the network at all, nor would Irene would have told him. She would only tell him the barest of details.
"So you're the famous James Moriarty." He's drawing out the last name; it sounds so good coming from him, and the height difference is certainly not helping Jim to focus.
Irene was certainly right about the sexy part.
She wouldn't have given him my name. He knows.
Anyone with half a brain and an ID printer knows your name, Jim.
Try him a bit. It can't hurt.
A 'Yes' isn't good enough. He already knows the answer will be in the affirmative, and that it would do nothing to help him along. He takes a look around the flat, trying to pick up on something else - anything. Finally, Jim's eyes land on a shining object next to him - a small, unassuming circle of gold that is lying on the table. He picks it up and turns it around in his hand. "He left this."
He's actually looking over now. "Payment. About eight hundred quid, he thinks."
From his examination, Jim is seeing all the typical signs of unhappiness, anxiety, maybe even abuse – shaky hands don't result from a shouting match over broken eggs - but something else too…a 24K stamped faintly into the inside of the band. He weighs it in his hand and it feels a bit heavy…
-"he's wrong; it should be about six-fifty."
A ring like this…anywhere from four to seven ounces…that's over three grand in today's prices. This man isn't as poor as you think he is.
Oh, this is brilliant. You come here and pay with a bit of the life that you're leaving behind. He knows what he's doing.
Another sidelong look at the man. The ring is forgotten for now. He's picking up sadness, and a lot of it. He's been down that road before.
As have you, Jim's reminding himself.
Tell him about the damned ring.
Jim's putting the ring down. "He's looking to get out of a marriage. Abusive to the point of threatening his life. It's a wonder he didn't take his own life already." It's lacking. "But you already knew that, didn't you?" Still not enough, for now anyway.
His face is totally blank now, and he's facing Jim head-on.
I've got your attention.
S
He's clever.
Sherlock knows as much, but when Jim picked up the ring and weighed it, turned it around, and told him everything he already knew…he was able to pick up on the exact magnitude of that pretty fast. And if he's right, he seriously underestimated the worth of the ring, and the worth of Alex.
And he has that sort of clever air about him. James Moriarty didn't get his reputation over nothing, Sherlock supposes. He always figured that he had to have some sort of cleverness to run an empire as such, but…he reminds him of himself, almost.
That's not exactly a common occurrence.
Tell him something. He's been standing in silence for minutes, hours, days. No, it's only been a second or two, but he still can't find anything sufficient to say.
Sherlock is prepared for a lot of things, but he's not prepared for that.
Someone like him.
Say something about the network. Get to the point.
"Yes, about the network." He claps his hands together and continues on. "I have to take a guess and say that Ma-he's giving you troubles too. Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised in your position. What is it? Fraud?"
He expected James to look a bit taken aback, but instead he looks right at ease, as if he was expecting this sort of response. Of course he would be expecting this.
"Oh, here it is." He digs inside his jacket and pulls out a single sheet of paper, folded neatly into threes. "Tower of London and back before tomorrow morning. It's a bit of a waiting game but given your people, it'll be back here soon enough." He's looking straight at Sherlock in a very unsettling way, but not in the disturbing sense. He's analyzing.
He's trying to find what makes you tick.
The moment is gone before Sherlock can try to figure out what he was going for, but the intention of covering it up is clear when he, of all things, winks at him. Nobody does that; not even Irene. Irene is too up-front and direct to do such a thing, but apparently James Moriarty is not. He likes to play around first.
"We'll be in touch, Sherlock." A smile to go with the wink. He places the paper down on the table with the ring and turns out the door.
What was that?
Who would flirt with…you?
You wanted to say something back.
Sherlock's still trying to make sense of the situation when his phone rings. He picks it up and Victor's voice greets him once again.
"Victor. Are the papers ready?" He's walking over to the window, and pushes the lace cover aside a bit. He can see Jim getting into a car on the other side of the street.
"Sherlock, it's Jackson." A pause. "He's dead."
Jackson.
"How?" Flirtatious gestures now aside; the new problem has Sherlock's attention front and centre.
"He washed up on the river a few hours ago. Bullet hole through the chest."
"That's about the norm for him. Anything else?"
Victor's quiet now. Sherlock can hear him hesitating on the other end. "A-a rose. A white rose in the entry wound."
Irene's calling card.
But she doesn't even take clients' offers within the UK, nor would she make such a public show.
Sherlock's talking quickly now. "It's a setup. He's driving everyone to ground now. Starting with Irene."
"Sherlock-" Victor lowers his voice to a whisper –" Why now?"
He can't even figure that out for himself.
"He's going to be after us all soon. Magnussen comes for everyone sooner or later." Victor is protesting now, but Sherlock hangs up the phone, and sends out a quick text to the woman outside of Baker Street Station.She'll come for the paper in a few minutes, and that leaves Sherlock in agitated thought once again. Something keeps coming to the forefront of his brain, though, ever since he watched the car start up and leave down the end of the street.
It dawns on him that James knew his name. Irene didn't tell him that, either.
[[END PART ONE]]