"ATTENTION! IF YOU ARE READING THIS, (thanks by the way, I'm v flattered that you decided to click on my story) THEN A SMALL WORD OF WARNING, YOU MIGHT WANT TO REREAD THE LAST FEW PARAGRAPHS OF THE PRVIOUS CHAPTER BECAUSE I MADE SOME ALTERATIONS TO STEER THE STORY IN A DIFFERENT DIRECTION, IF THIS IS YOUR FIRST TIME COMING ACROSS THIS STORY THEN YOU SHOULD BE FINE*
The tranquil silence in the small bedroom was ungracefully broken by a mixture of Clara Oswald's disgruntled, indignant groan and the cause for her distress, her obnoxiously buzzing alarm clock. A few blind, lazy thumps with her palm soon sorted that out.
Or not.
Because it wasn't her alarm clock that was buzzing, she realised as soon as she sat up and fixed the object in question with a puzzled frown. A small crease appeared between her eyebrows as she noted the green digits flashing on the clock. It was 4:27am. No wonder her brain was having troubling catching up with her actions. She cast a searching glance around, her sleep addled mind failing to locate the sound of the incessant buzzing until she finally laid eyes on her phone which lay on the floor a few feet away. Presumably, she had knocked it from its resting perch on her bedside locker to the ground when she had attempted to cease her alarm clock from ringing.
The insistent buzzing stopped momentarily, only to resume again a minute later. Someone really wanted to get a hold of her.
She snatched the mobile from the floor, reclining back onto the bed to blink blearily at the screen. No caller ID. How convenient.
Deciding to bite the bullet, she pressed answer and held the phone to her ear.
"Hello?" She tried, her voice thick with sleep. She cleared her throat.
"Clara Oswald?"
"Yeah?" She sat up a little straighter at the grave, slightly familiar male voice. Whoever he was, he sounded all business. "Who's speaking?"
"This is Inspector Lestrade, I'm sorry to wake you at this time of night but we need you to come down to the station as soon as possible," His voice crackled across the speaker, and Clara's tired brain finally managed to put the voice to the face of the silver-haired policeman who had stormed into 221B when she had been there. "It's urgent."
"I- What?" Clara's eyebrows drew together in confusion. "Why, what's happened?"
"We've got a man in custody and, God knows why, but he's demanding to speak to you," Lestrade's voice sounded as weary as Clara felt. She froze, a feeling of dread seeping into her bones. "Miss Oswald? Are you still there?"
"What man?" She breathed, though she already knew the answer.
"Goes by the name of Jim Moriarty."
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me."
"He's refusing to speak until he sees you," Lestrade sighed heavily. "I hate to put you under this sort of pressure, but will you come?"
"I'll be there in ten," She relented dubiously.
"Thank you."
She hung up, hesitating for a moment before springing into action. What the hell was going on? She grabbed the nearest pair of pants she could find and pulled them on, hurrying to get dressed and whip herself up into some sort of presentable appearance. Her nerves were frazzled, and she was irritated. Not in the best of moods to be answering questions from the police. She wasn't sure Jim had managed to get himself into this time, but it clearly wasn't good.
Scraping her hair back into a short ponytail and applying the minimum amount of makeup required to ensure she didn't look like she'd just come back from the dead, she pulled on her boots and prepared to leave. If the dark circles under her eyes were anything to go by, it was clear she was in desperate need of a coffee, but she decided it would have to wait until later. Right now her first priority was to get to Jim Moriarty.
Deciding she wouldn't have much luck finding a cab at this hour, she opted to take her moped instead, fastening the helmet quickly, her mind drifting back to something the Doctor had once said. "The helmet looks a bit silly, doesn't it?" He had scrunched his nose up as he regarded it dubiously. Clara had arched a brow and eyed his exuberant bowtie. "Safety is not silly, Doctor."
She was far from safe now, she could feel it. She had gotten herself into something big, something bad, and she wasn't sure there was a way out of it anymore. The journey to Scotland Yard was shorted than usual due to the lack of traffic on the road, something which she was grateful for, though in a way she didn't feel quite ready to face whatever awaited her yet. Parking her moped and unclasping her helmet, she strode forward defiantly, pushing any concerns to the furthermost regions of her mind. Now was not the time to worry. She could do that later.
She spotted Lestrade as soon as she entered the building, and he looked just as haggard as she expected. She waved a hand in greeting as he noticed her and approached.
"Thank God you're here," The bags under his eyes were far worse than Clara's and he ran a hand through his hair in agitation. "It was a last resort, calling you, but he's not complying. We just don't know what to make of the whole situation. I mean, the man's meant to be dead, for Christ sake! Here, this way."
She followed him past multiple people, some engrossed in arguments, some holding clipboards and coffee, the scent of which wafted over to Clara enticingly.
"What happened, then?" She quizzed, genuinely curious. "How did you manage to get a dead man into custody?"
"Funny story, actually," Lestrade scratched the back of his neck, perplexed. "We didn't."
"Well, there's a surprise," Clara muttered under her breath, too low for Lestrade to hear properly. Of course Jim Moriarty would have some roundabout way of doing things. "If you didn't arrest him, then why's he here?"
"I… Don't know," Lestrade admitted after a loaded pause. "He was waiting for us when we got here. And as for how he got in, I haven't the foggiest. He made a good job of wiping out the CCTV. We've called Sherlock, but he hasn't got here yet. I don't know what's keeping him. Probably his own ego holding him hostage."
Clara snorted at the comment but her smile faded quickly when Lestrade motioned at her, indicating that they were here. He pushed the door open and Clara followed him, uncertain as to what she might find.
Jim Moriarty sat handcuffed to a desk in the middle of the small interrogation room with the smuggest smirk on his face that Clara had ever witnessed on any living human. A man leaned with his fingers pressed against the desk, his back to Clara as he stared at Moriarty, but he turned to see the newcomers as they walked in.
"Nice of you to join the party, Miss Oswald," Jim drawled sardonically.
"This is her?" The tall, thin man with the exasperated disposition who was unfamiliar to Clara raised an eyebrow in her direction.
"Yeah, this is her," Lestrade confirmed gruffly.
"And what's so special about her, that you'll only speak to this woman?" The man glanced from Clara to Moriarty sceptically. Clara crossed her arms defiantly and answered before Jim could get a word out.
"I'm not boring. He likes that," She held a hand out to the man to shake. "Clara Oswald."
The man eyed her hand for a moment, his face scrunching up with barely concealed discomfort as he forced a smile onto his face, holding his chin high and electing to ignore her outstretched hand.
"Mycroft Holmes," He retorted curtly in his refined accent, brushing down his pristine suit.
"Holmes?" Clara blinked. "You mean like-"
"He's Sherlock's brother," Lestrade interjected from somewhere behind her.
"Yes, unfortunately," Mycroft replied in a light tone, the same fake smile plastered onto his face as though it pained him to show such a trivial display of emotion. "Well, if we could just get back to the matter at hand-"
"Alone," Moriarty sang, closing his eyes and leaning back languidly. Mycroft narrowed his eyes.
"Excuse me?"
"I'm speaking to her alone," Jim emphasised, his tone turning acidic.
"I'm afraid that won't be possible," Mycroft replied formally, eyeing Moriarty with suspicion. Clara took a step forward.
"Actually, it will," She lifted a brow. "This is why you brought me here, right? To speak to him? Well then, let me speak to him."
"Clara, I don't think you quite comprehend the severity of this situation-" Mycroft began, but Clara cut him off.
"Oh, I comprehend a lot more than you think, Mr Holmes," She replied fiercely. "Let me speak to him. Please."
There was a tense pause, in which Clara's heart threatened to break through the walls of her chest and Mycroft glared at her intensely. Finally, after a moment of apparent deliberation, he relaxed. Or at least, let it look that way.
"Very well," He smiled blandly. "Lestrade, have two guards man the door while we step outside. You have five minutes, Miss Oswald."
"Make it seven," She called over her shoulder as he retreated from the room with Lestrade in tow.
"Don't test me, Clara," He replied curtly, giving her one last warning glare before closing the door shut behind him. Clara breathed a sigh of relief and sat down in the chair across from Jim, who still had his eyes drifted shut as if lost in some pleasant dream.
"Hey!" Clara leaned across the table and snapped her fingers in front of his face, snapping him out of his reverie. "What the hell are you playing at?"
"It's the next step in the game," Jim leaned forward, clenching and unclenching his fists in anticipation, his eye alight with childish glee. "Don't you see?"
"What I see, is an idiot in handcuffs," Clara snapped, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms again. "Why am I here, Jim? Why are you here for that matter?"
"I can see you're not a morning person," He issued her with a conceited smirk, his eyes twinkling with mirth.
"And you are a morning person, I suppose?" Clara huffed exasperatedly, trying not to pout, feeling extremely vexed due to her lack of sleep.
"Darling, I'm barely even a person," Jim rested his chin in his hands and stared at her with delight.
"Jim Moriarty, if you don't tell me what's going on right now-"
"Can I give you some advice," Jim fidgeted and straightened up in his seat, his face suddenly devoid of all humour. Clara pursed her lips.
"Absolutely not."
"If you're not willing to get into a bit of trouble," Jim carried on anyway in a theatrical whisper, eyes wide and earnest. "Don't get involved."
"What's that supposed to mean, you daft palm tree?"
Jim blinked with a bemused expression, completely and utterly taken aback by her comment. Clara took his brief moment of speechlessness as a silent victory.
"What does that mean?" He choked, lips curved downwards in a frown, his nose crinkling in confusion.
"It means," Clara hissed, leaning forward and widening her eyes dramatically. "That you're acting shady."
"Honestly, Clara, who writes your stuff?" Jim shook his head incredulously and Clara opted to ignore his snide remark. She tilted her head to the side, surveying him properly. He looked calm, and surprisingly awake considering the time, which was more than what she could say for herself. His hair was a little dishevelled, but apart from that, everything was in place, his jet black suit utterly pristine. There had definitely been no struggle. He had planned to be here. Just like he planned everything down to every last microscopic detail. She raised an eyebrow at his black suit.
"Who's funeral is it?" She remarked wryly.
"I haven't decided yet."
How could she have not seen that one coming? She sighed.
"You're here because you want to be," She mashed her lips into a firm line, scrutinising him. "You're an old dog and that's you're old trick."
"I do tend to…" Jim tapped his dextrous fingers on the desk in a short, sharp, uneven rhythm. "Circumvent the rules a bit, I'll admit."
"And where do I come in in this little plan of yours, huh?" Clara folded her hands on the desk in front of her. "Don't tell me I'm your, I dunno, accomplice or something. That's not how this works."
"Who said you can rewrite the rules of the game?" Moriarty smirked, eyeing her devilishly. "It's too late for any of that now. The operation is in full swing," He sang the last line contentedly.
Clara bit her lip. She needed to figure out what he was planning, but she couldn't get a straight answer out of the man.
"Whatever you're thinking, don't. Violence leads to more violence."
"I know, it's a win-win situation."
"Ugh, shut up!" She huffed, irked at his lack of cooperation.
"Let's not get side tracked," Jim tugged at the shackles on his wrists with an arched brow, the same smug expression dancing around his features. "Once I'm out of these, we can get on with the hostage situation."
"The what?!"
"Oh, don't panic, you'll be fine," Jim rolled his eyes and stretched his neck lazily. "Just remember your training."
"I don't have any training!"
"Then just follow your instinct."
"My instinct is to punch you right in the face!" Clara hissed in a low hush, straining not to raise her voice as her temper flared. "You can't do this!"
"Oh, I'm sorry," Jim drawled sarcastically, glaring at her obstinately. "I think you're confusing me with someone with remorse."
Clara squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose, resting her elbows on the desk.
"This is going to be a long day."
Sorry about the disgracefully long wait, we all do things we're not proud of!
Next chapter will hopefully be up within the week, it's time I got up off my arse and started writing properly again!
I was watching loads of Moriarty tribute videos on youtube to get myself in the zone for the story, does anyone else do that when they're writing characters? It actually helps so much :O
And sometimes a certain song just goes so well with a certain character, don't you think? :D What song do you think best suits Moriarty? I'm thinking Mad Hatter by Melanie Martinez, but there's really so many! :D
Anyway, I hope this was worth it, thanks for reading! :D