A/N: This is another chapter from Moriarty's POV.

Dark Magical Sorcres awaits your reviews impatiently!

6. Fright day

Still chuckling, James Moriarty took the DVD with the copy of "Fright Night" from the cabinet.

It had been a most productive morning. Even though Sebastian had strongly advised against it, James had watched Mycroft stealthily take the pictures out of the Paddington Station locker where one of the Consultant Criminal's associates had deposited them earlier. Even from his hiding place Moriarty could see that the elder brother's face was a Study-in-Red-and-White, as the sight of his 'tortured' younger brother had done it's intended work.

James was most gratified that he'd been proven right. As a connoisseur of horror films and thrillers, his imagination could come up with scenarios persuasive and realistic enough to convince even an absolute expert like Mycroft Holmes. So much for Sebastian's constant bickering about his boss wasting potentially productive time on TV or big screens!

James was especially proud of the letter that had accompanied the photos of Sherlock's seemingly mangled body. Doubtlessly the self-styled head of British Secret Service would deliver all the most sensitive data Moriarty had asked for without hesitation now. After all he had to believe that otherwise these injuries would only be a slow start of what was in store for his baby brother.

The latest bet against Sebastian was that Mycroft Holmes would give up the data during the next 24 hours without so much as one refusal or counter move. Moran, on the other hand, believed that the man would try something before he surrendered. But after he'd seen Mycroft's reaction, James was confident that he wouldn't dare.

Well, wait and see. Sebastian would learn from his mistakes, once James had pocketed the 1 Pound the bet was about.

For the time being, James was completely content to have a quiet afternoon with his guest, watching telly.

Hence the DVD.

If Sherlock's attitude towards Harry Potter was a give-away, the Detective would loath this horror film even more. That promised to be fun. Not fair, perhaps, but fun, definitely. After all, fair was for fools.

However, James was in for a surprise.

At first everything went according to plan. When Moriarty opened the door, Sherlock was just waking up, as the injection that had followed the makeshift and therefore crude chloroforming was wearing off. So was, unfortunately, the local anaesthetic and Holmes felt the pain on his back. Which made, judging from his face, remembering and getting mad a bit too easy for Moriarty's taste, and briefly the Consulting Criminal regretted his order to untie his 'guest' immediately after last night's operation.

But, the tamer who shows fear will surely be kitty's dinner. "Wakey, wakey, sunshine. We'll just squeeze in a late breakfast and then it's scary movie time" James said gleefully.

Holmes did indeed get up, but only to corner his captor by pushing him roughly against the nearest wall. James read the other's expression effortlessly. "Murder! And no kidding."

"What the hell did your men do to me?" Sherlock growled dangerously.

"Really, what a childish fuss about some minor scratches" James retorted derisively. "Why don't you go to the mirror and find out, my sweet?"

To James' own surprise, Sherlock did exactly that. With his usual cat-like agility he had no difficulty scrutinizing his own shoulder blade in the mirror. Impatiently he ripped off bandage and plaster. He looked, looked again and his eyes widened in shock. His lips said "Voldemort' without a sound. He paled, but not from fear, and his expression underwent the most fascinating change. His nostrils flared, then turned upwards, his mouth became a thin line and somehow his cheekbones seemed to grow through his skin.

Yep, Sherlock was definitely angry now.

"Nice art work, don't you think?" James dared to advance further into impending doom, although he began to feel uneasy. "It's very becoming."

No, that had not been the right thing to say. Perhaps James had wanted to pour oil on the waves, yet he had actually poured it into the fire.

Without another word Sherlock turned, jumped on the bed and towards his tormentor with two big, lightning-quick leaps. Before James could react, Holmes had him by the throat, both hands pressing mercilessly whilst he pinned the other once more to the wall.

James gasped nervously – or tried to. Air was a commodity in increasingly short supply all of a sudden. "Ah, ah, Sherlock, remember our deal" he pressed out hoarsely. "Wouldn't ….. ouch! Wouldn't want any harm come to your Johnny, would we."

Sherlock bit his lip but it was James who winced. Was that blood? How could the idiot bite down so hard?

The aggravated Detective let go. He stepped back, visibly trying to restrain himself. Admirable effort, from where James was standing.

"Yes, we had a deal" Holmes said through gritted teeth. "So what are you trying to do to me... Jim?"

Moriarty heard him use his first name and instantly he was back at the top of the world. Say 'Johnny' and you've used the magic word. One had to mark that down to all eternity.

"But, dear Sherlock, you mustn't be that forgetful" James tut-tutted cheekily. "As I said to you before, if Harry were to lose the game, Voldemort would claim him as his own. Well, as you are Harry and I am Voldemort..." Nonchalantly the criminal reached out and patted Sherlock's shoulder. The uninjured one. Just to be on the safe side.

"This. Is. Not. One. Of. Your. Stupid. Fairy. Tales!" Holmes grumbled. Resentful. Dangerous. Not at all affectionate.

However, as his wrath had been proven impotent, Moriarty wasn't ruffled again, let alone intimidated. "Is it not?" he asked, his face and wide eyes an actor's study of innocent bewilderment. "I thought the rules are mine to make."

With an impatient huff, Sherlock turned away from him and walked back to the mirror. He still rubbed his shoulder unwittingly. "You don't know what to do, do you" Moriarty thought amusedly, and he decided to up the ante, just for the fun of it. He put on his best whining, girlish tone and said: "You know, I could make you happy, my dear, if only you'd allow me to. If you decide to stay I would treat you really nice. We could have so much fun together..."

As Moriarty had expected him to do, Holmes inhaled sharply. With forced calm he replied "As you said. We have a deal. One week, you said. Not a day longer."

"But think about it" James mewled, his merriment increasing by the second. "I'd love to keep you here. It's so very jolly to have you around. Can't you stay?"

"Why would I decide to stay? I hate it here. As I've already told you" Sherlock retorted firmly. "And there are people who are probably worried about me."

"If you knew how right you are" James thought, suppressing an exhilarated smile with all his might. "Your brother Mycroft most certainly among them."

Outwardly Moriarty let his shoulders sink in mock unhappiness. "If that's how you think...I guess I'll have to make the best of what I've got." He shook his head and sighed when he pushed himself away from the wall. "Anyway, time to watch 'fright night'. Perhaps it'll change your mind."

From Sherlock's face, the answer to that was eminent. "Don't count on it!"

James grinned furtively. Holmes was so very glad he'd changed the subject, he didn't even think of objecting to watching a movie he'd surely consider extremely stupid and boring. "You better get dressed, my dear, before you meet me downstairs. Otherwise my employees' sense of propriety might lead them to false assumptions. See you in ten minutes."

With that, James left the room, convinced that Sherlock would do exactly as he had been told.

In fact, it took the Detective somewhat longer to get ready for the show. James waited almost for half an hour in his small cinema hall that was his special pride. The spacious basement of his house had been completely built out and renovated into a recreation centre with a pool, a training room and, la piece de resistance, that very cinema hall with its comfy seats and state-of-the-art screen.

On Sherlock's entry, James held his breath. By no means Holmes had put on the attire his 'host' had had laid out for him. Instead he'd apparently found James' own bedroom and wardrobe, from which he'd chosen one of Moriarty's most expensive designer jeans and shirt, together with – unimaginable! – Moriarty's favourite pair of sneakers. The sleeves and pants were a bit too short for him, yet he seemed perfectly at ease with them. Somewhere with these clothes Sherlock must have found his mislaid self-confidence and independence, as he sat down at James' side casually, with the face of the cat that ate the canary. A canary in clotted cream, obviously.

James prided himself of being extremely quick witted and good at repartee, but the blunt outrage caught him off guard and, to his own substantial anger, he missed the right moment.

"Shall we begin?" Sherlock said with an impertinent grin. "By the way, I'm glad we could do without breakfast today. It's an obsession, all this eating, don't you think?"

Moriarty felt his eyes narrow. "Just you wait" he thought. "That'll cost you. Just you wait!" In his opinion, revenge was a dish best served hot, not cold, and he immediately knew what they would have for starters. "What makes you think I'd let you skip breakfast? Would reflect badly on my hospitality, wouldn't it."

Ten minutes later they were served breakfast at their seats, to Sherlock's unmistakable displeasure. But the Detective was a good sport, Moriarty had to grant him that, as he took his defeat with good grace - and a bowl of cornflakes.

But then a derisive side-glance grazed the Consulting Criminal and Moriarty's inner alarm-bells began to ring at top volume. An instant later he knew what his 'guest' was smirking about. Shirt and jeans sat comfortably on Holmes' body, in a perfect loose fit. The way they'd once fitted their owner, too. But these times had passed a while ago, a secret James so far had thought to be exclusively between him and his tailor. Now Sherlock's supercilious gaze disabused him.

So that was where the wind came from. Obsessed with eating, indeed.

But backing off was out of the question. So, as they ate, Moriarty talked on and on about what he would do for Sherlock, should the Detective stay with him. All Sherlock could do was nod at it but after a while, he wasn't really paying attention any more, which put James off in the end.

As soon as breakfast was finished, to Moriarty's secret relief, James instructed his 'guest' to focus his attention on the screen. "So, my dear, you're going to watch one of my absolute favourites with me" he said. "This film is a little scary but don't you worry, I will be there for you if you need me to hold your hand." As he had guessed, the sarcastic offer, silly and goofy as it was, went under Sherlock's skin. Holmes' jaws were grinding as if he was chewing granite. And apparently the stuff had a bad taste. Small wonder, as Sherlock detested being touched.

James signalled one of his associates who started the DVD. Keeping his expectant gaze on the screen Moriarty leaned in to his 'guest' and saw, from the corner of his eye, that Holmes actually felt uncomfortably crowded.

When they were half way into the film, James grabbed Sherlock's hand and tried his best to hold on to it. "Oh, please don't be scared, sweetheart. Although I sure would be scared if a vampire moved in next door," He squeezed Holmes' hand, which was a piece of artistic mastery as Sherlock did his best to get away. Instead, Moriarty pulled at the other's arm until he could effortlessly whisper into Holmes' ear. "But then again it could come in handy. I would ask the vampire to turn me and then I would turn you. We could spend eternity together – now there's a thought."

Sherlock managed to look livid and like vomiting at the same time.

Soon the plot on the screen reached a climax and James repeated the silent wrestling match. "Oh boy now he's going to get it" he said, referring to one of the action heroes on the screen. "I feel so sorry for him. Reminds me of myself as a teenager. I was exactly like him, the innocent victim of circumstances and other people's evil machinations..." He gave his, quite obviously, nauseous, companion the best puppy-like pleading look he had in his repertoire. The look that usually came together with the remark "I gave you my number. I thought you might call."

And quite obviously Sherlock did remember that kind of look. James heard him mutter something and strained his ears to decipher the whisper in spite of the loud end credits of 'fright night'.

"Five days" Sherlock muttered to himself, with his free hand pressed to his forehead. "Five days. God help me!"

"No" Moriarty thought, most gratified. "Until I'm finished with you, no God will help you." Then he leaned back in his seat and pondered the tremendously important question which other DVDs might be supportive to his planned educational programme for the presumptuous, spoilt brat at his side.

God, it would be a hell of a week.