Chapter 13: Multifaceted.

"The rabbit-hole went on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down what seemed to be a very deep well."

-Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

Sebastian stared at them as they stared at each other, blue eyes locked with black. "Hang on, you know each other?"

"He tried to blow me up, killed my best friend, then took me out for dinner," John said slowly, without looking away from the unexpected man behind the desk.

"Took you out for drinks once, too," Moriarty added happily, then broke their staring match to glance over at Sebastian. "He never told you he was living with Sherlock Holmes? I'm surprised. Usually he goes on and on about him. So amazing, so intelligent, so… What was your catchphrase? Oh, yes. So brilliant. Isn't that right, Johnny?" John shifted from one foot to the other.

He hadn't mentioned Sherlock, because he hadn't wanted to get into a fight with his only friend about whether the consulting detective had been a fraud. Also, he just didn't want to talk about it. Why didn't anyone get that?

"You were the flatmate?" Sebastian's voice was incredulous as he stared at John. Then he turned on Moriarty. "Why didn't you tell me this? Jim, your list of people not-to-kill is six people long. John Watson is on that list, and don't you dare tell me you deleted it."

"I knew you'd have this sort of reaction," Jim sighed dramatically, hanging his head back to look at the ceiling. "That's why I sent you to America while this all played out. John was never in any real danger. Not unless Sherlock screwed up, and I trusted him not to. Here he is, look, still alive. Now don't yell at me like that."

"Not in any real danger?" John asked incredulously. "I was strapped to a bloody bomb vest!"

"And Sherlock saved you, just like he was supposed to. Yes, there were a couple moments here and there where I thought he might go off-script and mess up the whole thing, but he didn't, and we're all living happily ever after. Well, except for Sherlock, but that's got nothing to do with anything."

"You can't do things like that! When you have a list of people not to kill, you also don't put those people in situations where they 'might be killed'!" Sebastian shouted. In one movement, Moriarty was out of his seat with one hand around Sebastian's throat. Sebastian was much taller, but the other man's grip was strong, as evidenced by the fear on Sebastian's face as he struggled for breath.

John made a move forwards, then stopped, reminding himself that he was currently in the middle of enemy territory. He would make a move if Sebastian was dying, but until then, it was better to watch.

"Listen to me, Sebby." The nickname was spat venomously. "You work for me, not the other way round, alright? I tolerate you because I like you. But you do not tell me what to do, when I own you, body and soul. Never forget that, or I will call in my debt." He released the other man, and Sebastian put a hand to his reddened throat, coughing and inhaling with a sort of squeaking sound. Jim smiled, relaxing back into his chair, and shaking out his hand. "Good. I'm glad you agree. Well, I was planning on either offering the doctor a position, or killing him outright, but Johnny is apparently on my no-kill list, and I'm guessing he wouldn't react well to the offer." He left a pause, inviting John to speak.

"No, I'm not working here," John said shortly. Jim laughed. It was familiar, dangerous, and made John lean towards him slightly before he caught himself and straightened. The sound was simply magnetic, it made the hairs on John's neck stand up.

He thought about Sherlock on the ground, dead, but the image was starting to somehow lose its power. Memories only seem real if you can remember the emotions you felt then, and John's memory of the feelings was starting to fade, the startling image of blood on the sidewalk powerless by itself. So he called up another image, of a delicate little girl on an operating table, beside the men that worked for Moriarty. "Why was that girl shot?" he asked out loud.

"What girl?" Moriarty asked carelessly.

"The one that I operated on. Shot once in the abdomen, once in the leg. Came very close to dying. Why was she shot? What was she doing in the firing line?" Moriarty straightened, and looked to Sebastian, who looked at the floor.

"Seb? A Misfit was shot? Why did I not know this?"

"You didn't read my report," Sebastian answered quietly. "It was Sammy." Moriarty scrunched up his face, then looked up at the ceiling again.

"Brought in by Socks two years ago. Trailing Des at the time of the incident…." He recited, then turned to John. "I honestly have no idea. Tell you what. You go back to the hospital wing and make sure no one's dying. I'll send you five people with some sort of medical experience. I'll find out what happened, take you out to dinner, tell you the whole story, make you another offer, and then take you home." John hesitated, running over the sequence of events one more time in his head and making sure there were no loopholes that Moriarty would exploit.

"Sounds fair," he said, nodding.

"Good. Seb, take our doctor back to his ward, then come back. Johnny, you've got your phone, yes?" John nodded, and Moriarty simply waved a hand, clearly dismissing them. Sebastian opened the door and let John go out first, back into the marble-floored hallway. They started to walk, feet loud on the floor, silence thick between them.

John's only friend was working for Moriarty. How could he have missed it? How could Sebastian do something like that? He turned to his friend, and they both spoke at the same time.

"Why would you work here?" "So, you lived with Sherlock Holmes?"

Both of them paused and looked at each other, then laughed. John shook his head and answered first.

"Yeah, I was Sherlock's flatmate. Lived together, worked together, travelled together."

"Slept together?" Sebastian interjected, and John sighed.

"No. I'm straight," he said, without much conviction. As Irene had once pointed out, sexuality seemed to make an exception for Sherlock.

"What happened between him and Jim, anyways? I only heard bits and pieces while I was in America, and by the time I got back, it was all over. Guess I know why now. But I've always been curious."

"It's a long story," John said. "I don't even know all of it, and I only figured out some parts of it afterwards. He was balancing Mycroft and Sherlock, giving Sherlock puzzles to distract him, and playing worldwide games with Mycroft at the same time."

"He's brilliant," Sebastian said, admiration in his voice. John tried not to cringe, remembering how he used to talk about Sherlock like that, in that same voice, using those words.

"One of the puzzles was a series of bombings. If Sherlock didn't figure out the puzzle, then the people would die. I was the last threat, thus the bomb vest, but we stalemated. Sherlock almost killed all three of us, but then Moriarty got a call and backed down. He sent Irene next."

"I remember her," Sebastian commented. "She was something else, wasn't she? A little too sane to survive, but she was…" He trailed off, unable to find the right word.

"I don't know what happened, the last time everything went to shit," John continued over his friend. "Sherlock did his best to keep me out of it. Well, Moriarty planted two messages in two communities. He told the criminal side that he had a secret code to break into anywhere, and Sherlock had it. He told the police and the media that Sherlock was a fake. So then we were outlaws. After that, I don't know what happened. I got a call telling me to go back to Baker Street, because our landlady was dying, but when I got there, she was fine. I realized Sherlock must be in trouble, so I came back. Next thing I know, he's up on the roof, telling me he's a fake and he's going to jump. He does, he dies. Someone tells me there's another man dead on the roof, shot himself in the head. It's Moriarty. They're both dead, one comes back, here we are."

"Wow," Sebastian breathed. "And I thought that what I was doing in America was complicated. I wonder how he does it, keeps all those jobs and plans straight in his head? He seems so unorganized, chaotic, but somehow everything fits into place. Don't you wonder?"

"No," John replied shortly, although it was a lie. "I believe this is my door. You'd better get back to Jim." He knew he sounded cold, but this whole situation was unbelievable, and Sebastian didn't even seem touched by it. His boss had murdered John's friend, and he didn't even care.

"Yeah, you're right. Hey, John?" John was already walking towards the door, but he turned back. "I don't feel bad about Sherlock's death. It had to happen. But I am sorry that you were hurt by it. I'm sorry you got pulled into all of this, I wouldn't have brought you here if I'd known."

"I know," John said, and closed the door behind him.

The afternoon passed quickly. The five people Jim sent were better than the original girls, but they weren't exactly Med School graduates. John felt like he was giving a lecture to a class, teaching them how do deal with this and that. He was most concerned by the girl, Sammy. She needed surveillance, by someone who knew what they were doing. The others could get by, they were strong. But not such a young child, her body couldn't handle it. She needed to be in a hospital.

Kathy was a great help, running around and repeating John's instructions, making lists and charts, even getting John some new, un-bloodstained clothes. His cell phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out.

Come to my office. JM

"Said the spider to the fly," John muttered, and put the phone away. He glanced up to see his six workers looking at him worriedly. Kathy finally spoke.

"Are you leaving now?"

"Yeah, I've been called. Um… Sorry. But you're all doing very well, I think you'll do just fine. Kathy has my phone number, you can call me if something bad comes up, okay?"

"Yes, doctor," one of the men said.

"Just John," John repeated for the hundredth time. "So…" There was a time of awkward silence. "Good-bye?"

"Thank you," Kathy said. "You probably saved their lives." John just dipped his head, and then made for the door, because as uncomfortable as he was with the fact, it was true. But it was just his work, it was who he was. It wasn't heroic or outstanding, like so many people made it out to be. Doctors saved lives, teachers taught, children played, it was the way of the world. It was instinct.

The door shut, and he stood in the hallway, looking around. 'Come to my office'. That was all well and good when Sebastian was leading him, but this building was bloody huge, and John hadn't really been paying attention when he was being led there. Luckily, he'd always had a good mind for direction (nothing like Sherlock's, of course), so he set off to his right, following his gut. Turn and turn again. The décor changes helped him, because he knew when it started to get more posh, he was getting closer. And soon enough the floors were marble, and he made his way to the black door.

Remembering what Sebastian had done, John tapped his initials, and waited.

"Come in!" Jim's voice sang, and John walked inside. The black eyes turned to him, and there was that Cheshire grin, too wide, too many teeth. "Hello, Johnny Boy. Ready to go?"

"I am," John said, and Jim swept out of the office, closing the door behind him and setting off down the hall. John half-expected people to fall onto their knees as Jim walked by, considering the mystery and awe surrounding 'M', but no one spared them a second glance, even as the hallways got more and more busy. "They don't know who you are," John stated.

"Nope!" Jim said cheerily. "And you have no idea what's going on, do you?" John shook his head reluctantly. "Secrets for secrets, Johnny, and I don't feel very inclined to talk right now." They came out into a familiar room, where John and Sebastian had come in and parked their car. Jim spread his arms out, as though embracing the pure variety of cars. "Pick a ride, any ride."

John traced his eyes over the cars, the trucks, the buggies, the vans, the taxis. "Um… that one?" he suggested, pointing out a sedate-looking black car. Jim gave him an odd look.

"That one's my favorite. I have the keys right here," and indeed he did. "Were you nosing around in my head?" His eyes narrowed, and his tone was serious. John fought the urge to run, or laugh.

"Nope, just a random pick. I like it, it's not noticeable, but it still looks nice. Tinted windows, too, so that's one less thing to worry about, right?" He was babbling now, so he pressed his lips together, effectively shutting himself up. Jim was still eyeing him very suspiciously. "Honestly," he said quietly.

"I know," Jim said with a sudden smile. "Now come one, we'll lose our table if we're late." He slid into the driver's seat, and John took the passenger's, putting on his seatbelt just in time. They slid out of the parking spot and the doors opened for them. Then they were racing out, tires hitting the gravel road behind the factory and sliding, spinning them around the sharp curve and then picking up friction, sending them rocketing down the back road and into the traffic.

John took a deep breath and told himself to trust the manic driver beside him, as they tore apart the road. He blocked out the sound of the horns, and watched the destruction unfold. His attention was captured by one of the CCTV cameras they were driving past. It made a slow circle, turning around neatly so that it was surveying the area, but completely missed the black car speeding down the street. As he began watching them, he realized that all of them did the same thing.

"You've got the cameras rigged? Thought Mycroft would be preventing that."

"Complicated," was Jim's answer. "He used to be looking out for my interference. But now he's not so concerned with Moriarty's people, which is one of the perks of being dead. You get to take everyone off-guard." John just nodded, and left Jim to concentrate on his driving. Despite the ease of the answer, John didn't want to distract the criminal mastermind, not when they were tearing down the road at over 60mph, on a crowded London street.

Finally, they pulled to the right, through advancing traffic, and into a parking lot, where they slid neatly into a free space. Then Jim got out and opened the door for John, bowing low like a footman. "M'lady," he said mockingly. Rather than make an issue of it, John got out without comment.

"Thank you," he said simply, and then let Jim close the door and lead the way towards the restaurant. "High-class pizza?" he asked when he saw the sign. "How does that even work?"

"Specialized. You ask for it, they make it. Quite convenient, really." They made their way inside, and were seated by a red-haired man with a half-hearted attempt at a mustache. His name was Bob, and he was going to be their server for the evening, apparently.

John and Moriarty made their drink orders, both opting for waters, and then settled in to make their choices. Or rather, Jim pulled out a sheet of paper and wrote down orders for both of them, while John was still looking through the menu. Then everything was set aside, and they made eye contact. The anger in the back of John's mind flared up again, and he took a deep breath before speaking.

"So. You said you'd tell me the whole story now. I want to know why a seven year old girl was shot during one of your operations, and why isn't in a hospital right now, because that's where she needs to be."

"I did say I'd tell you, didn't I?" Moriarty mused, took a drink of water, then tilted his head to one side. "A long time ago, when I started my little network, I realized that I needed more people. Sherlock had the homeless people already loyal to him, most of the business owners were indebted to Mycroft, and the people who weren't connected to one of the Holmes boys were working for drug dealers, pimps, or mob bosses. So where could I find people that I wouldn't be constantly worrying about their loyalty?" He made a thoughtful face, tapping a finger on his cheek.

"Then I realized, there was a group that had been overlooked. They'd been thought useless, immature, not ready, or too obvious. But the truth was that, if they were handled the right way, they could be sneaky, quiet, unexpected, good listeners, and most importantly, completely loyal. And that was the children. There are dozens of children on the streets of London, or in homes that are even worse. Give them food, a toy, a phone, some instructions, and praise for a job well done? Words spreads among them, never reaching the ears of adults. They come to you in packs, and they're so willing to do anything for you."

"So you send them out to kill?" John asked, who had been becoming more and more horrified as the explanation went on.

"Goodness, no," Moriarty said, his eyes wide and innocent. "I have experienced men to do that. No, children are willing to do anything, but not without beginning to lose their youth. And that's what makes them valuable, the air of innocence about them. People answer their questions. People follow them if they ask. But if a child kills, you can tell. They stop being a child."

The waiter came and took their orders, while John mused over what Moriarty had just told him. Once the red-haired Bob left, Jim turned back and picked up his story from where he had left off.

"So I ended up with around sixty children, who spied and ran messages and knew the shortcuts of the city like the backs of their hands. Sebastian came up with the name Misfits, and the group's only been growing. They take it in groups and shifts, and there's safe houses for them all over the city. Sammy was warning a group of my men that another group, working for an American boss, was coming. Unfortunately, they got there before anyone could react, and Sammy was caught in the crossfire, according to my men's reports. Brewer's is on the warpath, all my workers love the Misfits."

There was silence, as John pondered this information. It was hard to accept. Very hard. On one hand, there was the Moriarty that almost killed children with chocolate, and killed Sherlock, and strapped people to bombs, and blew up a random old lady because she started describing his voice. On the other hand, there was the Moriarty that took John out for dinner, and earned the loyalty of John's friend, and saved over 60 children from the streets, giving them a purpose.

It wasn't supposed to be like this! Moriarty was the villain, and that was all! A perfect story-book villain, just as he had made himself. And what was this? Some sort of upside to him? Yes, of course everyone was three-dimensional, but Moriarty was the exception, and always had been, by his own choice! Now he was Jim, who couldn't care less about most people's lives, but reacted sharply when one of his own was injured. A man who liked grilled cheese, and hated pineapple on his pizza, who hated when people told him what to do, and loved to tell stories of all kinds. A man.

John looked across the table as their separate pizzas were set down in front of them, meeting dark eyes and holding their gaze. They were not empty holes, they were not pits of darkness, they weren't even black, not really. In the light of the restaurant, John could suddenly tell that they were dark brown. He could see his reflection inside them. They were human eyes, not spider's eyes. Moriarty is a man. Jim is human. Psychopathic, murderous, amoral, unpredictable, dangerous, but human.

One more puzzle piece slid into place, one more rope bound them together. John was really down the rabbit hole now, but there was nothing he could do to stop himself from falling.

A/N: Sorry about the wait. School's a bitch. Review if you please, go if you won't, hail and farewell. I'll try to have the next chapter up for mid-week. Also, there was a ton of British stuff in here that I wasn't quite sure about, so if I screwed something up, let me know! See you next time.