A/N: Eh, screw it. I'm just writing this crap for myself now, and to hell with all the rest!
The morning…after…..
Several times in the last few weeks, Moriarty had found himself questioning the status quo. Here again, was another instance. Undoubtedly a result of his dreams, though they were hazy and indistinct now, leaving only vague emotional impressions. When he had begun to awaken earlier, in the arms of his "enemy" no less, he had felt…nothing. No no no. Not nothing, per se. Rather, it was the lack of his inner demons that made it feel as if there were nothing. Their absence was…uncharted. And had happened only once before. With the same man, and the same results. The thoughts echoing round his head found no purchase on the slippery slope of his awareness and sanity. It was as if he was free of the influence of his past, but was yet held under by something else. Something far more powerful and compelling…
Then he had opened his eyes. And it felt that way in a metaphorical sense as well. Tucked in and wrapped against Sherlock, he felt that unnamable something shift inside him. And he completely bewildered himself by giving the detective a soft kiss on the throat, intimating an emotional attachment heretofore thought to be feigned on the criminal's part. Oh, he had felt the pull on his emotions whilst playing for the detective's own, hoping to further ensnare Sherlock within his plan for their criminal partnership; the complete 'turning' of Holmes being not a small part of it all. But…everything had always been done with Jim's audience in mind, planned and purposeful. The spontaneous kiss, though…it, had come from himself. And he wasn't quite sure how to deal with that knowledge. Not yet.
On the one side, his eventual strategy was for Sherlock to forsake his lawful inclinations and join with Jim in running a black empire unrivaled in all the civilized world. So then, what did it matter if the criminal let himself become attached in this manner if they were to be together in the future in every other way? Partners in crime, partners in…what? But the more logical side of himself remembered the last, and only, time this had happened before, and how it had ended… And the thought of Seraena had him climbing to his feet to put distance between himself and the detective, if only for a moment. It was needed…right? Necessary. Distancing kept him safe. Kept others safe…from Jim.
He had attempted to play it off with his usual nonchalance, squirting Sherlock with the water gun in an attempt to become a human alarm clock. And Jim did thoroughly enjoy that flicker of doubt that flashed across the detective's normally calm features upon finding a gun leveled with him. At least that had fully woken him. Damn it, but the lanky git was a solid sleeper! Jim did have plans for them today, after all, internal emotional crisis or not. They needed to get moving. But once in the shower, the criminal's thoughts had continued to circle round, always convoluted, and always bringing him back around to the wild haired man on his bedroom floor…..who then entered the room to shave. And Jim couldn't resist his next actions...
It was a strange feeling, wanting to do…well, anything, for another person. Shaving was a mundane and almost ritualistic task to most, and yet Moriarty felt as if it were the most intimate of services he had performed yet on the other man. Peculiar. And Sherlock didn't seem to mind at all. Or if he did, he hid it well. The blade had done its work in fine order, leaving the taller man's skin smooth as silk under James' questing fingers. And they had stared, eye to eye, for a long moment after that, with the criminal marveling at how it felt inside of his chest right then. What was that? A buoyancy that both constricted and weighed him down while simultaneously seeming to expand his senses into the next world. He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head almost imperceptibly as he reached the conclusion that, whatever it was, he liked it. And so he had left the detective standing there, to watch in befuddlement as Jim's towel clad form exited the room. To the gray-blue eyes that tracked him, Jim appeared cool and unfazed. The criminal's last thought on the matter, though, before turning his mind to business was, Definitely more of that later.
The remainder of the morning was somewhat uneventful, with Jim settling his stomach with a breakfast of fruit and toast, and Sherlock torturing his own choice of eggs instead of actually eating them. It had been amusing at first. Until Moriarty tried to remember the last time he had seen Sherlock eat anything of substance. What followed was not one of Jim's more graceful moments. Physically restraining the larger man whilst forking eggs all over the both of them…well, it was a good thing the criminal had chosen to dine in the smaller, private breakfast nook. But in the end, four forkfuls of protein laden poultry output had managed to land squarely within the toothed confines of the detective's mouth…more or less…mostly…damn.
After changing out of clothing that had become quite…soiled…the two men made their slow way to the front of the mansion, a companionable silence falling between them. If companionable was even a word applicable to them. Jim reached the door before the other man and opened it with a flourish, as if for a lady. The dead look shot Jim's way let him know the poor jest had landed perfectly. And as the criminal moved to follow, he felt a rare true smile take hold of his lips. Though, now that he thought on it, those rare expressions seemed to be occurring at a rate that would soon require an adjective adjustment. Perhaps…
He opened his mouth to further needle the detective but found his voice stolen by the sight in front of them. The mansion's front lawn spread before the main building, vast as ever, cut through by a smooth, paved drive that circled through and back out once more. A sleek Rolls awaited them with engine idling. Bushes and other well-kept foliage with flowery appendages lined the gray roadway. However, yesterday, and all the days before since moving in here, yellow and white had been the color of the flowering plants lining its edge. Today, though, there was an addition. Not overwhelming, no, but there for the observant to pick out. Which Jim was sure that Sherlock would, too. But the taller man had no idea what finding those delicate bell-shaped blossoms alluded to. But the now tense criminal did. James Moriarty the younger had been here. Or, at least, his people had.
Jim walked to the closest plant and reached out to run a finger over the small, purple petals. Atropa belladonna. How appropriate. Deadly nightshade. It seemed his brother was now getting better at presentational theatrics. The criminal felt a twinge of concern at the thought of what this might be implicating, but he dismissed it as an issue for later, possibly tomorrow. His brother was trying to wind him up, and Jim wouldn't allow it. Fear was something you felt, but you didn't fear it for itself alone. You were cautious, careful not to let its effects alter your course. So he smirked at the bother that his sibling must have gone to in order to place these, and he turned to his…accomplice, and gestured toward the waiting car. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at the delay, but he said nothing. Jim was a strange one even when seemingly normal, after all. The automobile pulled away moments later, leaving the flowers trembling in its wake.
Later the same morning…
It could be said that it was a fine day. For London anyway. Less gloomy, less rainy. Not much else, except perhaps a good touch of Autumn chill. About 10:30 in the morning, and most people should have already found their destinations, be it work or otherwise. Citizens paced along the sidewalks and busy streets, dodging traffic and hurrying on towards the rest of their lives. Cab drivers collected fares, street vendors cried out to passersby, and police officers patrolled an otherwise stale shift. An outside observer would label it as indistinct, uninteresting, and bland. And yet, above it all, splayed on the rooftop of St. Bart's, two persons of interest, once presumed natural enemies and intellectual rivals, waited on the fruition of a collaborative effort.
They lay side by side on the gravel roof, their shoes leaning lightly against one another's, staring up into the clear summer sky. Jim lifted his arm to peer at his watch, then smiled and laid it back at his side. Beside him, the detective's face was impassive, unemotional; and the consulting criminal then adjusted his other arm a bit, shifting tiny pebbles along as he did. Slightly cautious, almost unsure, his marginally smaller hand slid fingers between longer, pale ones... No reaction. But no rejection either. Jim relaxed once more. They didn't look at one another, just continued to lie there. Waiting. Waiting…..
"Tick...tick...tick..." Jim whispered into the crisp air, his hand twining ever so slightly further into the detective's. He thought perhaps he could see straight on through to Heaven if allowed to do this every day. His eyes closed for a second as he attempted to capture the feeling… And a few blocks away, within the city, sirens began to alarm, their insistent cries announcing police and emergency personnel were en route. The shorter man's eyes flew open, and he said softly, "Boom!" Giggling, he glancing over at the dark haired man beside him and squeezed his hand, "C'mon. Get up." The criminal urged as he rolled to his feet in a crouch, hand remaining entwined. "Let's watch this thing you've done for me, my detective."
Again, the shorter man was met with a placid expression, as if the events unfolding held little or no interest…but Jim knew different. This was simply the mask that Sherlock projected to the world. Those kaleidoscopic eyes were a bright blue-gold in the weak sunlight, and they landed on soft brown ones as the entreaty finally penetrated the detective's concentration. The criminal repeated himself, at the same time realizing that he never did that for anyone else.
"C'mon!" A light tug on the taller man's arm. "It's starting. We can roll back the security cams later, but right now...it's live." He heaved Sherlock's arm until the detective was standing, and then he pulled him to the edge of the rooftop. Below them, people were turning their heads toward the alarms a few blocks up the road. And further down the same street, police cars were weaving around traffic, with a few passing just beneath the pair, who looked on much as the Gods of ancient mankind must have. The bank to which the cars rushed had never stood a chance. With Sherlock's calculating evaluation of its blueprints and security features, supplied through the artful deceptions of Moriarty's crew, every flaw had been laid bare, exposed. And Jim used every bit of that knowledge to very gently break the detective in to this new, more sinister, role as Jim's….hmmmm, what? Jim found a very amusing question floating around and around as to how he would refer to their…relationship; if that was even the most efficacious term. No matter for now, though. His chosen match had just committed his first ever purposefully organized criminal event…effectively initiating Sherlock into his new career. Could there be such a thing as a consulting criminal detective?
As they stared down at the speeding policemen and useless civilian populace, Sherlock grunted with a kind of laugh, causing Jim to look askance at him. The same expression was in place, but Jim could sense something more swimming behind the eyes that set the criminal's world afire when he stared too long; Moriarty found it much like falling headfirst into a terrible, beautiful kind of madness. And he always wanted more.
"What is it?" The detective heard asked of himself. And he flicked his eyes to Jim's before he looked up over the other rooftops and then slowly scanned around himself where he stood, almost as if considering their physical positioning. He stared hard for a moment directly below himself, at the pavement spread out so far beneath his feet. Hard and permanent…unyielding to flesh... He halted his wandering gaze when it came to rest on the shorter man once again. His captor, his…what? He considered their clasped hands. No easy answer, that. He looked again below himself, wondering at the fleeting emptiness he felt awash in at times.
And as he gazed downwards, his brilliant, gemstone eyes seemed to manifest the ghosts of another choice...one not taken, one discarded...and he gave a half-sneer, half-smile, as he looked first away to the left and then back towards the criminal beside him. His stare seemed unfocused, and his contemplative state had returned. When Sherlock finally spoke, it was as if he was still thinking deeply even during the response.
"I just never...pictured our first time alone together, truly alone…on a roof...going anything like…this..." A heavy pause followed the statement, with such a quantity of nothing behind it that any lower function thoughts were quashed immediately. Neither made a move to comment, though Jim did take particular note that Sherlock still clung to him, neither having let go of the other yet. Significant? With this particular Holmes it could mean everything in the world…or it could just be another way of working through a self-imposed experiment. That was the beauty of this relationship, if one could even call it that. It was strange, and wrong, and powerful, and mesmerizing, and…the most frustrating thing Jim had ever done. The criminal frowned down at his shoes, wriggling his toes within them as he thought. Still the silence persisted between them for long minutes as the alarms to the bank continued to sound in the distance. And then...beginning light and hushed, but growing to an almost harsh crescendo, Moriarty's laughter rolled off and down the rooftop, loud enough that people below looked upwards.