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Sorry for the delay in posting!

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Jim was already at the airport when he pulled out his phone to send a text of victory.

Irene Adler isn't dead, silly.

You actually fell for that little body swap trick?

They do it all the time at magic shows…but I guess you never go to Vegas since you don't like to have any fun.

Well, anyway, I'm off to visit the dead woman.

Merry Christmas ;)

He didn't sign it, since the person he was text would know it was from him and never signed texts either (some bullshit like 'protecting the good name' or whatever).

The airport was even crowded at two in the morning on Christmas Day, since travelers were arriving from all over the world where it might have been a more reasonable hour at this time.

Most of the people bustling around the building were tired, jetlagged passengers or tired, jetlagged employees, or even tired-er security officials, eyes squinting because they were suspicious of everything…and because they were falling asleep.

And there were lines, oh god, there were lines stretching and curving for what looked like miles and what felt like hours…

…but Jim Moriarty didn't have to wait in lines.

He strolled right past everyone and right onto the plane that was already waiting for him.

(He knew a guy who owned a good bit of stock in the airline…and in the airport…and in most large, wealthy companies in the world.)

As the flight took off and his ears popped like little explosions (the explosion metaphor made it tolerable), Jim watched shiny, contrasting London at night get smaller and smaller through the round window.

He knew he could have probably (actually) had quite a nice Christmas holiday with playing with Molly Hooper (who had been of surprising help to him which is probably how Sherlock must have felt about John)…

…It was too bad he had to work.

It wasn't as if he had put a gun to her head.

No. It was worse.

It was the very fact that he didn't need to.

Rigidly uncomfortable, Kate led Moriarty into the fancy bedroom of the fancy hotel suite.

He was dressed in an expensive suit this time, rather than the street clothes he had worn at the train station.

He had knocked casually on the door as if he was hotel staff and then had grinned at her like a shark.

Irene looked up from the book she was reading as she lay on the bed in her bathrobe.

"It's okay, Kate." She said warmly and then turned to Moriarty and demanded, "What are you doing here?"

Kate nodded silently and backed out of the room, closing the door behind her just as she did back in Irene's London 'office' whenever there was a client.

But Irene and Moriarty both knew that she would be right outside the door, listening to the conversation inside, perhaps even holding a weapon in case things went bad.

"What are you doing here?" Moriarty returned, "I mean, why chose Israel for you 'afterlife'? There isn't even Christmas here…"

"It should be apparent." Irene said, closing her book, "It's the safest place for me. The British and the American governments both think I'm dead. They'll share that information with Israel and Israel is the one country I know the terrorists can't get to me in if they didn't get the notice that I died."

"…and why didn't I get that notice?" Moriarty inquired, approaching the bed, "…or the notice that you were actually alive…?"

Irene couldn't tell if he was angry or not, his voice was as playful as ever but that told her nothing.

Just in case he was angry, she stood up.

"I just assumed you would figure it out." Irene stated, "And I was right."

"Sherlock Holmes didn't figure it out…" Moriarty informed, "Does that….disappoint you?"

"Why would it?" Irene shrugged.

"Well you did text him…. Fifty seven times," Moriarty reminded, chuckling now and starting to pace, "…Not that he ever replied to you, of course. He obviously isn't interested but it's like you just can't take a hint."

Irene had no idea how Moriarty had found out about her messages to Sherlock or why he seemed to be mad about them.

After all, he was the one who told her to get both Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes involved in this whole situation.

(And she was glad he did, despite herself, because Sherlock Holmes was the most difficult opponent she had and it had been the most exciting game she had ever played….

….Never before had a man so enthralled her and Irene was now beginning to wonder if she was playing the wrong team (in both metaphorical senses), wishing that she could be on the same side as Sherlock instead of Moriarty.)

"Is that what you traveled all the way here to discuss?" Irene asked Moriarty.

"Oh, no, Miss Adler," Moriarty answered, shaking his head exaggeratedly, "I came here to work."

"Alright, then." Irene nodded, "Let's talk business. I'm sure you know why I had to fake my own death."

"I'm assuming it wasn't just for the fun of it." Moriarty replied, rolling his eyes and sighing, "No one does that anymore…'cept me and Sherlock."

Irene ignored the comment crossing the expensively-decorated room to open the complementary safe in one of the large closet, but never turning her back on Moriarty.

Moriarty quickly memorized the safe combination she used, but judging from the way she hadn't tried to obscure his view at all Irene didn't care if he knew her hotel suite safe combo.

"The reason," she began, tossing him a folder "was because the joint British and American taskforce had discovered my location and increased their efforts to apprehend me."

Moriarty flipped through the contents of the folder.

There were photographs of regular-looking men in regular-looking attire, pointing cameras from behind trees and bushes at various windows of various hotel rooms.

Moriarty recognized the scenery from all over London and Europe.

"They tracked me to where Kate and I were staying in Paris. They pretended to be the paparazzi and gained access to my hotel room while we weren't there and ransacked it. They were looking for something and it wasn't my phone because they know I always keep it on me."

"Not always." Moriarty corrected, "Really, giving somebody a used cellphone for Christmas isn't the most tasteful move but Sherlock didn't seem to mind. And at least he got a Christmas present. You didn't get me anything…"

Again, Irene ignored the comment.

She thought Moriarty 'came here to work' so why did he only want to talk about Sherlock Holmes?

"Anyway," Irene continued, "I figured out what they were looking for. It was a code. It was really small on the laptop I downloaded it from and even smaller in the picture I took of it with my phone…but the man, a glorified pencil-pusher who once every two weeks indulged in a de-stressing, said it would save the Western world. And it was his name the operatives were cursing as the one to blame while they searched the room."

"How do you know who they were cursing?" Moriarty asked, raised eyebrow and looking up from the folder, "I thought you said you weren't in."

"I wasn't." Irene confirmed, "But the maid was. And I know what she likes."

Moriarty laughed.

"You seem to know what everyone likes and yet somehow you've managed to make a lot of people very mad."

"Well you know how high-ranking bureaucrats are, always so flustered…Some people just like to be mad."

"And what does Sherlock like?" Moriarty inquired, eyebrow still raised and once again directing the conversation away from his stated purpose for it, "thirty-two, twenty-four, thirty-four?"

It was the combination to her safe, which she had let him see.

But how Moriarty could have known the significance of those numbers and that Sherlock too knew their significance frightened Irene.

She didn't let it show, however.

"No, I think Sherlock loves it." She said and then started to tug at the rope holding her bathrobe together, "Now what about you, Mr. Moriarty…"

She said his name.

She would turn this around on him yet…

"Why, Miss Adler, I'm flattered you'd offer…" Moriarty feigned, "But I thought you knew…I'm gay."

"In the course of my career I've come to learn that nothing is ever so absolute," Irene continued and continued to open her bathrobe, "…especially when it comes to sex."

"Did Sherlock teach you that?" Moriarty asked.

In his voice was the same personal offense that existed in the voices of straight men who got personally offended that attractive lesbians didn't just exist for their viewing and/or threesome pleasure.

But at the same time, there was nothing in his voice that existed in the voices of those same straight men would hated gay men and hated even more the implication that they themselves could be gay as well.

It confused Irene but as she had said, nothing was ever so absolute.

"You're asking if Sherlock and I had sex." Irene stated plainly, "If you didn't care than you wouldn't have asked… But then again, if you didn't care you'd be thinking straight. You'd realize that, of course, we didn't. The same way that if Sherlock didn't care that I was dead, he'd realize that, of course, I'm not….does that disappoint you, Mr. Moriarty, that Sherlock didn't figure it out because the cold, unfeeling 'ice-man' cared…are you jealous?"

Moriarty was quiet and for a second Irene thought she had won.

But finally he spoke.

"….Sherlock's not the 'ice-man'…He's just a virgin. And that's how I know you and Sherlock didn't have sex. So no, I wasn't asking and no, I'm not jealous..."

Moriarty snorted, leaning forward, closing the folder, and even his eyes, leaving it on a table and then dissolving into childish snickering as he walked towards Irene.

Even though his eyes looked closed Irene made sure not to step backwards implying fear.

However, she did pull her bathrobe tightly closed.

"Grow up, then!" Irene spat boldly, when Moriarty got too close "You said that you came here to work!"

Suddenly his eyes were open, staring into hers, and his hand was on the bathrobe tie.

"I did." He confirmed, "But I'm not going to let myself be the only one that has to work on Christmas."

At this point Irene didn't know whether she should allow him to touch her like this and call his bluff….

…or push him off of her and call hers.

(It was this sort of quick, difficult decisions that came with playing the game, that decided the winners and losers.)

"I'm not taking any clients at the moment." Irene said, "I'm dead."

"No, you're not." Moriarty defied in a sing-song voice, "Besides, you offered…"

"But it doesn't work like that." Irene declared, slapping his hand away, "I don't work like that. If you want me to work, I'll work. Even on Christmas, even on you…But if you want me to work on you, you have to like the way I work."

"I want you to work on me the way you'd work on Sherlock." Moriarty clarified, rubbing his slapped hand, "I want you to show me why he likes you so much…"

"You know that nothing ever happened between us—"

"Yes it did." Moriarty interrupted, "It wasn't sex but something did happen between you and Sherlock. Something better... at least in your and his opinions, something that caused you trust him with your phone and him to take up smoking again at your 'death'."

His voice was an enraged shout and then a calculating whisper.

Irene couldn't decide which was worse (nothing was ever so absolute).

But she knew he was mad, and that he wasn't playing anymore. And it was his face that told her, not his voice or his words.

"It was a mental connection, a 'meeting of the minds' one could say," Irene explained, "How do you expect me to show you that…?"

She wrenched herself out of Moriarty's grasp and to go and pick up the folder he had set down from the table as an excuse to put some distance between herself and the consulting criminal she definitely regretted hiring.

How dare he just show up and bother her like this?

He had no sense of professional courtesy.

He knew how to play but he didn't know how to work.

(But then again, for Moriarty, they were the same thing.)

"Show me what you'd do to him if it were him here in this room with you instead of me." Moriarty ordered, "We're the same, Sherlock and I. It really wouldn't be that different, you can pretend I'm him, if you want to, you can even use his name…"

"You're crazy." Irene dismissed, trying to sound less alarmed than she was.

This situation was rapidly deteriorating.

"No, I'm a genius. And so is Sherlock. Does that make him crazy, too? I'm sure some people would say that. I mean, what's the difference, anyway, genius and insanity? It's all the same to me…nothing is ever so absolute."

"Insanity is when you do the same thing over and over again—"

"Expecting a different result? You mean like texting a man fifty-seven times and expecting him to respond when so far he never has…?"

Moriarty raised both eyebrows and laughed.

Irene cursed herself for getting poisoned by her own fangs.

"Don't feel bad, Miss Alder." Moriarty consoled, "That's not really crazy…that's just the scientific method. Repeated trials and all that…a lot of genius has been worked with the scientific method…"

And now 'genius' was not just a synonym for 'crazy' and 'insanity' but for 'magic' as well.

"…and this is just an experiment." He continued, advancing towards her, "I'm just experimenting to see if you're actually worth the amount of caring Sherlock has afforded you. If you're actually worth him dulling his crazy, genius, beautiful mind for."

"You'll do no such thing!" Irene exclaimed, assuming a battle stance.

Moriarty didn't seem to have any weapons on him but that didn't mean he didn't.

She knew she could temporarily fight him off but who knew if he had goons outside or a sniper trained on her?

Irene and Kate had packed up and left the country pretty quickly after she had faked her death, rushing off to Israel.

Irene didn't have with her any of her supplies that could have been of much use to her in this situation.

And where was Kate anyway?

She must have been outside, hearing everything that was going on between Irene and Moriarty.

Shouldn't she had run in to break it up or went and got hotel security or something…?

Irene looked towards the closed door, considering calling out for help.

Moriarty saw this and must have realized what Irene did (that Kate should have done something by now).

And then there were gunshots.

A long series at first and then returned fire and then undeterminable pitter-patter like loud rain.

Moriarty and Irene's head slowly turned away from the door and their eyes met.

The question in each of their pairs of eyes answered the other's question.

(Does he know what's going on out there?)

(Does she know what's going on out there?)

(He doesn't know.)

(She doesn't know.)

What was going on?

Irene and Moriarty could hear the stomping footsteps (definitely military boots) running through the rooms and halls of the suite, right towards where they were.

"Do you happen to have a gun?" Irene asked.

"Why would I have a gun?" Moriarty replied as if her question was ridiculous.

(And it was, in his opinion, 'ridiculous'. He didn't carry or use guns. (He had people for that.))

"I don't know, maybe because you're a criminal." Irene stated, "And a fugitive."

"So are you." Moriarty reminded.

"No, not anymore." Irene countered, "Now I'm just dead."

She realized then that she probably would be 'dead' if she didn't figure out a way to get away from not only Moriarty but the marching military men that would arrive any minute now.

Irene at first tried to keep her composure with a deep breath but then decided that there was no longer any point.

"My god…" she muttered, hand on her brow, "They're going to kill me…they've probably already killed Kate, this is all my fault….Oh, Kate, I'm so sorry…."

Jim looked at Irene, completely confused as to why she was speaking to a woman (Kate) who was not in the room and worrying more about that woman (who was just her employee) being already dead then her own impending (real) death.

He was a (criminal) genius but there were still things he didn't understand.

He decided, though, that Sherlock must not have understood it either and so it was all fine.

"Well this was a nice visit…" Jim said, hearing the footsteps draw even closer, "But since you're next clients are here for their appointment, I'll be on my way…"

He started towards the floor length window to the balcony, leaving Irene (who didn't even acknowledge his goodbye) to stand alone in fear and guilt.

But when he opened the see-through sliding door (stories high, but he could climb down using the balconies), Jim found himself being blown backwards by the rushing wind and pounding noise.

A helicopter.

Its lights were on him now, too, bright in the darkness outside, as he stood up and squinted at it.

At that same moment, Jim turned away from the window and the helicopter when he heard the door to the room burst open and the footsteps come galloping in, brandishing semi-automatics.

Standing in formation, a group of five men were in the hotel room now, causing Irene (who could also hear and see the helicopter) to shout.

"You'll never recover the information if you kill me now! I don't have the phone! I've left it with a trusted contact! If I die, he'll release the information to the public!"

"Miss Adler…" one of the men began, slowly approaching her.

"Get back." She warned.

The man stopped.

His weapon was lowered and so were the weapons of the rest of the men.

That's when Jim realized that this team was not the joint British-American taskforce sent after Irene or any of the militaries, militias or gangs that wanted her phone, and her dead.

Irene should have realized this too, Jim noted…

(since this team was (obviously by their dark gray uniforms) working for the mutual acquaintance who had directed her to him)

…but she was too busy caring about Kate being dead and herself about to die to realize that Kate (probably) wasn't dead and she (definitely) wasn't going to die.

Jim laughed at this, walking away from the glare of the noisy helicopter to stand in between Irene and the man who had spoken, (probably the leader of the five man team working for the mutual friend).

Once he was closer he found that he recognized this man.

(Average height, muscular build, one of those faces and auburn hair that had once been cropped short but now was in the process of being grown out.)

"Don't I know you…?" he smiled, "You're…Mr.….um…"

"…-…Sebastian Moran, sir." The man finished.

There was a slight hesitation at the beginning of his sentence. Like he was used to putting a rank before speaking his name.

(Military, maybe?)

Then he had addressed Jim as 'sir'. More likely out of a force of habit than because of whom he was working for.

(Military, again.)

"Oh that's right!" Jim remembered, "Mr. Sniper-Guy! From the pool! Sir, yes, sir!"

Jim thought the mocking rendition of the military phrasing would at least make Moran cringe but the sniper had no reaction whatsoever, continuing to stare blankly at Jim and Irene.

"Yes, March thirty-first," Moran nodded, "back in 2010."

There was a complete lack of emotion in his voice and eyes that bothered Jim (since he thrived on bothering people).

"You know him?" Irene suddenly blurted, "Is he working for you? Did you plan this? Who are they and what are they doing here? Where's Kate?"

"I dunno…" Jim shrugged.

"Ma'am," Moran addressed Irene, "fifteen militia members were deployed by the terrorist organization Al Qaeda to this resort. My orders are to protect you and so we terminated them. Now I am to escort you-"

"Where's Kate?" Irene demanded.

"Safe." Moran stated, "She's already in the helicopter, ma'am. You'll see her soon. Please go with Four and Five."

He gestured to two of the men who he had come in with.

The two split off from the formation and approached Irene.

"Four and five?" Jim chuckled, "That's too funny. Your boss has got you all numbered, then! He always did like numbers more than people…"

It was then that Irene finally realized who the team that had burst into her hotel suite was working for.

Instantly relief rushed over her.

"Alright." She agreed, deciding it was safe to go with them, "…May I put on my shoes first?"

Four and Five and Moran all nodded.

Irene hurried to the closet, pulled on what was probably her only pair of flats and went back towards the men.

"Follow us." Four said.

Irene followed Four and Five towards the hovering helicopter by the balcony.

Jim watched the helicopter turn to accommodate the three stepping in and indeed Kate was already inside.

He saw Irene throw her arms around her secretary, shoulders shaking in a way that told Jim that she was probably sobbing.

Tears of joy.

One of the bigger oxymorons and yet it existed since nothing was ever so absolute.

(Jim, of course, didn't understand this. He thought it was silly to cry when one was happy.)

Four signaled to Moran, who returned the signal, and then helicopter was clear to depart from the resort.

Once it was gone the two other operatives (probably Two and Three) turned to Moran, who nodded.

Wordlessly they had been ordered to 'clean up' and so filed out of the room to do just that.

Jim wondered how many bodies lay dead in the halls of the hotel.

"It was three minutes and forty-six seconds since shots were first fired." Moran noted, "It takes hotel employees only one to get through to authorities and so the Israeli police are already on their way. It will them less than fifteen minutes to get here and it's already been four. It will take us two minutes to get to ground level if we run down the stairs. We have to vacate the premises immediately."

Oh, so he was good with numbers…

No wonder he had been hired.

"We?" Jim repeated, grinning, "I didn't know there was a 'we'…"

"My orders are to protect you, as well, sir." Moran stated evenly, still no reaction, "No can know that you were here or involved with any of this. You need to come with me, sir, and return to London."

"And how will 'we' be getting there?" Jim inquired.

"The same way you got here." Moran answered, "Anonymously. The plane is already waiting for you at the airport. We have to go now, sir."

Moran turned to leave the room but stopped and turned back once Jim did not begin to follow.

"Now, sir." He said again.

"…make me." Jim taunted, rocking back and forth on his heels like a child.

Still Moran's face and voice were devoid of emotional reaction however his words…

"There is only one person who can make you do anything and it's not me…but I do work for him. So let's go."

…So this guy had a personality after all...

Jim grinned and started to follow Moran out the door.

"You know it's really quite rare," he said, "what with all his connections to defense contracting firms, who are more than willing to lend them their human resources, for your employer to use the same man twice. In fact, I think this is a first. Is that why he calls you 'One'? You must be special…"

Jim watched Moran's back as he walked behind him out of Irene's suite and down the hall, hoping to see some kind of shudder like he had seen when Irene had sobbed into Kate's arms or even see Moran turn around in frustration, or anger, or some kind of emotion he couldn't control.

But Moran gave Jim nothing.

"He sent you to watch over me, didn't he? To spy on me…" he continued, "That night at the pool…I just happened to need a sniper and then one conveniently appears, fully qualified and highly recommended by my… 'trusted source'… Oh, I should have known. I really should have known….You're the one who told him about me kidnapping the good doctor and throwing the flash drive away into the pool and letting Sherlock Holmes go…that's how he knew to call me. That's how he knew to get Miss Adler to call me."

Still nothing.

(And it was all true, of course.

Moran's first introduction to Jim's way of 'working' was when his employer sent him over on Jim's request.

Jim's request had actually been for twenty snipers, with twenty sniper rifles but Moran's employer had refused and all Jim had gotten was Moran and one sniper rifle.

This didn't bother Jim for too long, however, because when Moran arrived Jim had already hired nineteen other men and given them all laser pointers to wave around as if they were aiming weapons.

(And Moran, of course, didn't actually need a laser pointer attached to his gun. He always hit his target.)

Moran's employer had told Moran to contact him if anything at the pool went wrong and so when Jim tossed the flash drive with the Bruce-Pardington plans into the water, Moran texted his boss.

He texted his boss again when Jim told Sherlock Holmes and John Watson that they could go free.

This was why as soon as Jim left the room he got a phone call.

And Moran texted his boss when Jim returned and Sherlock Holmes threatened to detonate the bomb.

Which was why Jim got another phone call.

And after Jim and Sherlock and John had all left, Moran fished the flash drive out of the water and gave it to his employer as planned.)

"Tell me why, then…since you obviously know him so well or else you wouldn't still be working him for almost two years when most of his boys only last one job….does he always have to spoil my fun?"

Nothing.

And on the ride back to the airport and right up to the plane with its engine already running Moran still said nothing, despite Jim's best attempts to get him to talk.

Once Moran had made sure Jim was safely on the plane ('safely' meaning unable to cause any trouble that could come back to bother his employer) did he respond to his words.

"Mr. Holmes was about to shoot the bomb. You all would have blown up and died. So he told Miss Adler to call….My employer wasn't trying to spoil your fun. He was trying to protect you."

Jim listened to Moran's explanation quietly for a moment, no expression his nodding head.

And then, again, he smiled.

Sinking down into his comfortable first class seat, Jim closed his eyes and leaned back.

"Same thing." He sighed.

So...

Enter Sebastian Moran! lol

and just who is he working for?

I think it's becoming a little more clear now...

I've decided to take some liberities with this story (well it is fanfiction), liberties inspired by my best friend Wikipedia.

I'll explain later.

For now, PLEAS REVIEW!

Thanks!