Chapter 4: Meetings.

"'The time has come,' the Walrus said,

'To talk of many things:

Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax—

Of cabbages—and kings—

And why the sea is boiling hot—

And whether pigs have wings.'"

-Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass.

John froze, then closed his eyes for a moment. The temptation was to walk away, but he wouldn't get very far before Moriarty caught up to him. He turned and walked reluctantly towards the voice, leaning heavily on his cane. Moriarty was grinning at him, hand falling back onto the table from waving.

"Good to see you again," he said. He delivered the line in a normal tone, suddenly sounding like any other man on the street. It was terrifying. "I see your leg is acting up again. That's too bad." His acting was superb. He actually sounded like a concerned friend. John reached the table and stood there, looking at the man that had killed his best friend, and almost killed him as well. "Well? Aren't you going to sit down? Don't be rude." The tone was more familiar now, playful and laced with danger. John sat.

"What do you want, Moriarty?"

"I'm off duty. You can call me Jim," said Moriarty with an easy smile. Suddenly he was leaning forward slightly, eyes fixed on John, the familiar insane light in the back of his eyes. The smile was gone, and his voice was low and threatening. "In fact, you will call me Jim." John simply stared at the man, memories rushing back. The volatile emotions were something so uniquely Moriarty, John had never seen anything like it. One moment he was a relaxed, happy picture of normalcy, startlingly at home in the role. The next second, he was pure, intense danger, his eyes on fire with warning, body tense with the possibility of movement.

"You didn't answer my question," John said finally, and Moriarty relaxed back in his chair with a small laugh.

"What do I want?" he repeated thoughtfully. He twisted his mouth up, and then shrugged. "I want to eat. That's it for now. I'm very hungry… You kept me waiting. But I'll forgive you this time, as I can see what kept you." He gestured at the skull hanging from John's hand. "That was Sherlock's, yes? Sentiment?"

"Sherlock used to sat that in exactly the same tone," John remarked, his social filters apparently destroyed by confusion and surprise. It got a laugh from Moriarty…Jim. John couldn't tell whether it was a real laugh or not.

"Well, I'm starving. Let's order. I suggest the chicken salad," Jim said, completely changing the subject. He signaled a waitress, and she hurried over.

"Hi, what can I-"

"I'll have a grilled cheese, with non-dyed cheddar, and thinly sliced bread. With ketchup on the side, and no useless, disgusting toppings like parsley. Johnny boy here will have a dark coffee, two milks, no sugar, and a chicken salad. Without cilantro." The waitress paused, surprised at being cut off, and obviously overwhelmed by the specifics of the order.

"Could you repeat that?" she asked tentatively. Jim opened his mouth with a familiarly impatient look on his face, and John knew that whatever he was about to say would likely reduce the woman to tears.

"Yes, certainly," John cut him off with a pointed look. "Sorry about that." He repeated the order, carefully including each of the modifications. The poor girl scribbled it all down on her notepad, and moved off to the kitchen to put in their order. John turned back to see Jim watching him closely. "What?"

"I'm caught between being impressed and angry. I can see why Sherlock kept you around; having someone else deal with the idiots is certainly refreshing. On the other hand, I don't usually allow people to cut me off like that."

"Yes, well, how about you go with impressed, and I won't ask how you know my coffee order… Or how you knew I didn't like cilantro."

"Deal," Jim said. "So, what are you doing with yourself, now that your purpose in life is dead?" John's eyes narrowed at him, and he felt hatred rush into his veins. It was good, to feel something that strong again. He was spared an immediate response when the waitress arrived with John's coffee. He took a sip and gave her a smile, which was returned with an added blush. She was obviously appreciated his rescue from Moriarty's rude order. "I wouldn't encourage her," Jim commented as she left. "She'd be a disastrous girlfriend."

John leveled a glare at him. "Oh? And why's that?" Jim lit up, shooting one other glance over at the woman, and then focusing on John with exited intensity. A smile threatened John's face. He could remember Sherlock doing the same thing when he was bored, deducing the waiters for something to do.

"She's a drug addict, and she's willing to do whatever she needs to do to get money for her drug of choice, which is currently cocaine, but she's likely to be moving onto methamphetamines soon. She works here during the day, but when she gets off work, she slips on a cat outfit and goes streetwalking. She's been involved in several robberies, maybe a few murders, but she's never actually killed anyone. If she did end up coming home with you, she'd disappear during the night with whatever valuables she could get her hands on."

John shot a look over at the woman in question. The deduction hadn't been like Sherlock's. It was lacking the showy reveal of how he knew. As it was, he was left scanning the waitress, wanting desperately to ask Moriarty what he'd seen that John didn't, and yet unwilling to admit his ignorance. He kept silent, until he realized from the satisfied look on his face, that the reaction was exactly what Jim wanted.

"How did you know all that?" John asked, throwing his dignity out the window.

"Oh yes, I forgot. Sherlock gave his secrets to you like dog treats, right? Spoiled you with them, giving them away so carelessly. No, no. You have to do something good to get one of my secrets."

"I bet you made half of that up," John said half-heartedly, anger flaring and then drowning in curiosity. "Or you have a file on her somewhere." That was more likely.

"Well, of course I have a file on her, but there are ways to see everything I just told you. Some things that even Sherlock Holmes wouldn't have seen." John was trying to focus on his coffee and forget his curiosity, but it wasn't working. From the smirk Jim was wearing, he could see it. "You really want to know," he commented. "Why?" It seemed like a simple question, but John found that he couldn't answer it.

He wanted to see things the way others saw them. He didn't want to be average. Nobody did, but not many people were exposed to the true possibilities of genius. But John knew that he could never catch up to Sherlock, so why did he try? Why go through memory exercises and read 'The Science of Deduction' over and over? Because nobody else believed in Sherlock's abilities anymore, and John Watson, perfectly average ex-soldier, was going to prove them wrong? He looked up and met Moriarty's eyes.

"Because I want to learn to see what I look at. Because, no matter how useless it is, I try to look at the world from other people's perspectives." Jim's eyes were locked on John's. It made him feel a strange mixture of nerves and exhilaration. Sherlock only ever gave him that sort of attention when he was explaining one of his deductions. He'd never had someone that focused on what he was saying.

"Dangerous thing, to see the world from my perspective," Moriarty commented. John thought back to his explanation, and realized that yes, he'd actually just made the suggestion that he'd like to see the world from the criminal mastermind's perspective. While he tried to find a response, his mouth took the initiative.

"Worse than invading Afghanistan, or getting kidnapped and forced into a bomb vest?" The familiar, sardonic smile spread across Jim's face.

"Oh, you have no idea, Johnny boy," he murmured. The waitress came with their food, and gave John another pretty smile. This time he only nodded back, and he saw Jim's smile grow even wider out of the corner of his eye. It looked too wide to be comfortable, vaguely reminding John of the Cheshire Cat. It was so difficult, sitting here, and making conversation, to remember that the man across from him had been responsible for Sherlock's death. And countless others.

He took a bite of the chicken salad that had been placed in front of him, and was pleasantly surprised by the taste. He smiled slightly. Moriarty's eyes fixed on his face, obviously cataloguing the new expression. John immediately stopped smiling, and glared back. Jim made an exaggeratedly sad face at him, and took a bite of his grilled cheese. The cheese stretched, still pliable with warmth. Jim made an annoyed sound with his mouth full, and used his tongue to twirl and break the strands of cheese.

John looked down at his chicken salad. It was so strange, to even consider the fact that Moriarty, the criminal mastermind, liked grilled cheese. It made him wonder other things. What was his favorite color? What did he do in his spare time, aside from kill people and blow up buildings? Did he like reading Orwell, or Austen, or Rowling? Or did he stick to books like 'How to make bombs' and 'Torture for Experts'?

"What's your favorite color?" John asked, and took another bite of salad to hide his embarrassment at the unintended question. Jim, in the middle of chewing another mouthful of grilled cheese sandwich, looked up and met John's eyes

"What did I say about secrets?" He said with his mouth full. "What's your favorite color?"

"That's not fair," John objected. "You can't make me do all the answering."

"But you don't have the same reward-only policy, and so you really have no excuse to not answer the question." John just shrugged and continued eating. Jim's eyes narrowed, and he tapped his fingers on the table. "Fine," he said after a long pause. "An answer for an answer?"

"Red," John said in way of a response.

"Interesting. I bet you don't say that when your therapist asks, though. You say something like 'I don't have a favorite colour,' right?" John's silence was enough of an answer. The Cheshire smile was back. "Well, today, my favorite colour is blue, but yesterday it was red." At first, John simply accepted the answer as slightly insane. Then he realized what Moriarty was really telling him.

Blue was the most common favorite colour. Standard. Calming, and peaceful. It was describing what Jim had to be today, at least, by his own standards. Red, in contrast, was the colour of action. Daring, anger, blood and fire. Not the best colour for an ex-soldier to admit a preference for. Therefore, his common insistence that he didn't have a favorite colour.

"The last man I killed was named Gordon," Moriarty said. John looked up, confused for a moment. Then he realized it was a question. For a moment, he thought about simply nodding. After all, it had been phrased as a statement. But he knew that Moriarty wouldn't let that go. So he answered honestly, figuring that Moriarty probably knew already.

"Sean."

"Ah, I thought so. That was a mess. Good shot, though. I had a bet on whether you would kill more of my men after Jeff. That means you aren't the person working through my snipers, though. More work to do, I suppose." He shrugged, a movement that used his entire body, and then took another bite of grilled cheese. "Speaking of work," he said around the mouthful, "I have to go in a couple minutes. I'll allow you one more question. Go crazy." The last word was sung, low and maniacal.

"Why did you ask me to come here tonight? You don't strike me as the type of person that would have dinners for the conversation."

"Having lived with Sherlock, I'm sure you can figure that answer out." It was an invitation, and John hesitated before speaking.

"You're supposed to be dead, so you can't resume your work immediately. You're bored. You needed an experiment, and you decided to use me." His voice rose at the end, making it a question. Moriarty, mouth full, applauded sarcastically. Once he'd swallowed, he spoke.

"Almost there. I needed a puzzle, John Watson. Not an experiment; don't sell yourself short. And now I'll ask the last question, and it's the reason you're such a good puzzle. Why did you come here tonight, to meet with the man you hate more than anyone else?"

John hesitated, tempted to mention that it was coincidence that had brought him here. But was it, really? He'd been to the next-door shop to drop off Sherlock's things; he would have noticed the café next door. Was it really coincidence that his feet had brought him here, or had some part of him wanted to come? Jim was watching him again with that intense focus that John doubted he'd ever get used to.

"I don't know," he answered finally. Jim nodded, as though something had been confirmed.

"Well, you think about it. Once you have your answer, I'll trade you a secret for it. Something you've been wondering for a while." His smile was a little too wide, and John felt his shoulders tense. The action made him realize how relaxed his posture had been for most of the discussion. "Until then, Doctor Watson," he said, and stood up. He pressed a piece of plastic into John's hand. "8347," he said, and walked out the door.

For a moment, John was confused. But when he looked down at the thing Jim had given him and saw a debit card, he understood. When the waitress came with the bill, he used the debit card and the PIN number 8347. It pinged and went through. John walked out, and tried not to think about where the money had come from. Probably the government budget or something equally ridiculous. John tossed it into an alley, not wanting to get blamed if it was illegal (which it probably was).

A/N: Might be a week or so for the next chapter; I'm trying to cut down on the amount of John's monologues. They're stubbornly long, and I don't want to bore you all with his inner essays. This is my first long scene with Jim, and I can't really tell if I got him right. So... review with your opinions! I look forward to hearing from you!