I know everyone wanted Jim to 'cave' and 'come crawling back' to Molly, but I feel like he's always the one 'making the first move' and so now it's her turn...lol
And guess who we get to meet this chapter...!
Our mysterious friend!
FINALLY!
lol
Hope you like it :)
I must be crazy…but I want to see you. You win.
-Molly
(Jim knew Molly would contact him. It was only a matter of when. Only a matter of time…and it had been three days.)
Too easy?
No.
Because with Molly Hooper being 'off-limits' nothing would ever be easy.
Still, Jim was all smiles as he stared down at the text message.
And replied:
Meet me at the airport in 30 mins.
-Jim
####
The airport? Why?
-Molly
####
Don't worry I'm not 'stealing you away'…yet.
I just got back to the country.
-Jim
###
Ok.
I'll be there.
-Molly
####
Oh, and Molly…?
-Jim
####
Yes?
-Molly
####
You ARE crazy.
-Jim
Molly (shivering not only because she left her labcoat behind, but because of who she was going to see and the decision she had just made) stepped out of the hospital onto the sidewalk, hurrying past the parking garage to stand on the side of the street and hopefully flag down a taxi.
Soon enough, a cab pulled up to the curb and Molly entered in from the cold, gray day…into an unheated car.
"Um, Heathrow airport please…" She told the driver.
"Yes ma'am." He said, nodding but not turning around to face her and he drove the car away from the hospital.
Molly wanted to ask him to turn on the heat, but couldn't find her voice and so instead sat shivering, trying to focus on the tiny television screens they had inside the taxis nowadays.
After awhile, the advertisements bored her and so she looked out the window.
They were going the wrong way.
"Um…excuse me…" Molly spoke up, timidly, after waiting a few minutes just to make sure the driver wasn't going to make a u-turn or something, " I'm sorry, but the airport is the other direction…"
"Yes ma'am." The driver replied, still not turning around.
(Maybe he was just 'going the long way' to make more fare…? Molly didn't think so.)
"…Why are we going the wrong way?" she asked.
"Because, ma'am, you have a meeting with my employer."
Jim had actually bought a ticket, this time (using a stolen credit card and fake passport), both to the United States and back to London, just so a 'certain someone' would not find out.
And now he was sitting on a bench in the crowded airport near the entrance, watching passerbys, watching for Molly.
He still had about twenty minutes to go until she should be there and there was always the possibility of her being late, caught in traffic, or having second thoughts and not showing up at all.
And so Jim decided to do what he always did, distract himself with his phone.
Yesterday Jim Moriarty had been in the United States of America.
And so had Sherlock Holmes.
And so had Irene Adler.
"Thanks for dinner…" she had said, whispered in his ear, "…It was lovely…"
And then she was gone and Sherlock was left there in the sand, in the cold desert night, with only the stolen black robes as blankets.
She, The Woman.
Now, Sherlock was here in New York City.
(It was not to solve an all-too-obvious case, but to travel one state over to New Jersey.)
He and John stood in front of the NYPD headquarters, about to venture in.
"I'll be right in." Sherlock told John, "You go in and get everything ready."
John looked at him, opening his mouth, about to ask "why"… but then he saw Sherlock reach into his coat pocket as if going for a cigarette and decided not to say anything.
Sherlock watched John shrug, shake his head, turn and walk into the building.
Buildings, they were all tall in downtown London, but they were all even taller in New York City.
Sherlock was going to where they were shorter.
That morning, before John had even woken up (from their SEPARATE ROOMS ( as insisted by John)), Sherlock had acquired directions to and a map of Newark, New Jersey from the concierge.
Soon, Sherlock was in the back of a yellow taxi, inside a tunnel (the Lincoln Tunnel—deleted) that was taking him under a body of water (the Hudson River—deleted) to New Jersey.
And then he was paying the driver and stepping out of the cab onto street of short, red and orange houses, in front one specific townhouse.
122 Panettiere drive.
(Recovered-Panettiere. Baker in Italian.)
Close enough.
She did like to play games…
Once the taxi was gone, Sherlock walked up the concrete path, past the small, slightly snow-covered yard, and knocked on the front door.
It opened, just a crack, but instead of her answering, it was another woman (brown hair. Obviously dyed. Auburn at the roots) whose name Sherlock had either never even known or deleted.
"…She's not here." Kate told Sherlock, knowing who he was and who he was looking for.
"…oh." Sherlock replied, studying the woman's worried, nervous face, "She knew I was coming…" he deduced.
"Yes she did." Kate affirmed, nodding sadly, "She's waiting for you. At the diner. Angelo's…it's just up the street, you can't miss—"
"I know where it is." Sherlock stated. He had seen it on the ride there.
She loved to play games…
Sherlock thanked the woman, who nodded and closed the door, and then walked the few blocks over to the diner.
But when he arrived she was not there waiting for him.
All that was, was a note, scrawled on a paper napkin.
Mr. Holmes,
We're in Witness Protection, you weren't supposed to find us.
You weren't supposed to find me.
You saved my life and I owe you a debt so if there's anything I can ever do to repay you, just ask and I'll be there.
But other than that, I think its best that we don't see each other.
You see, I'm free now.
Everyone thinks I'm dead and now I'm free.
I'm happy.
I told Kate (as you probably 'deduced' from seeing her at my new house) that I was still alive, despite your recommendations. I couldn't just let her think I was dead (even if everyone else did)…
And now we're here and we're both happy.
I'm going to run, Sherlock, but please, don't chase me.
For your sake and mine, don't chase me.
It was fun while it lasted, The Game, but it's over now.
You're the only man who's ever beaten me and you'll always be the one man who's ever meant anything to me…
'The Man' (if you will)
But if we stay together, we'll destroy each other.
It's like when two burning stars begin to orbit each other. They dance around, drawing closer and closer until they finally collide, bursting in an explosion of gas and fire.
It's better to just be content with the planets circling around you.
I have Kate and you have John.
All we do is take, people like us, we're fires consuming everything in our paths.
John can give you far more than I ever could.
And you don't even have to chase him, he'll come to you.
Just sit there and he will come to you, he will always come to you.
-The Woman
And Sherlock sat there, in the both with the red cushions, reading and re-reading the letter until (as she had predicted) John found him and walked in.
He crumpled the note and put it into his pocket, not looking up at him.
Instead of leaving downtown London, Molly was driven (against her will) deeper into the city until the taxi reached a tall building.
It parked by the curb (illegally) and the driver got out.
Molly considered jumping out of the cab and making a run for it but before she could do so, the driver was at her car-door, pulling it open for her.
Molly reluctantly got out, looking around to see if she recognized the area.
It was near the banking district…she thought…maybe…
"Follow me, ma'am." The driver said, closing the door behind her and then leading her towards the revolving doors.
The skyscraper shined silver, the glass of its windows all-but-completely reflective and mirroring the gray skies.
Molly followed the driver inside the building, through a bustling lobby and up the elevator to the top floor.
That floor was mostly empty and dimly lit.
When Molly (and the man escorting her) exited the elevator, all she could see was a desk, a chair and a man sitting in the chair at a desk.
"Thank you, Sebastian, you know what to do now…" The man said, and rose, "And welcome, Miss Hooper."
The driver (apparently named Sebastian as Molly had just learned) nodded and stepped back into the elevator, leaving her there with this new unknown person.
There was no heating in this wide, almost empty room and it was very cold.
Shivering, Molly cautiously walked forwards.
"…Who…are you?" she asked, looking the man up and down.
He was in his late forties, she 'deduced' from his graying hair (parted with impossible rigidness) and facial hair (beard and mustache, square-shaped and neatly trimmed, without even one hair missed). And he was well-dressed in a suit that looked very expensive and very familiar.
"Please, sit down." He urged politely, pulling out his chair and offering it to her, "… I apologize for the lack of proper furnishings. This isn't my usual office. It was all thrown together at the last moment. I normally take much more care in decorating…"
Molly sat down, hugging herself to keep warm.
"Who are you?" She repeated, looking up at him from where he stood next to her.
"James Moriarty." He stated and then extended the hand down to her.
"What?" Molly squeaked, jumping her seat a little, "No. You're not—You can't be—I know him!"
"You must be referring to 'Jim', as he's recently returned to calling himself." James Moriarty responded, "My brother."
He retracted his hand and used it to massage his brow as if the words 'Jim' and 'brother' were headaches.
"No." Molly exclaimed shaking her head, "if you were brothers….why would you have the same name?"
"Mother was a brilliant woman…" James sighed, "But always very repetitive…"
"I don't believe you!" Molly declared, leaping up, "This is a trick!"
"I don't have time to debate this." James said, his cordial manner and voice gone, "Sit back down and listen."
Molly lowered herself back into the chair that was probably some antique worth more than her life's savings.
"… listen to what?" She questioned, nervously.
"My brother, Jim Moriarty..." James told her, leaning back against the desk again, "…I've been trying, in vain, for almost a year now, to keep him away from you, Miss Hooper. Not for your safety because I honestly can't say that's my concern…but for his. My brother has always been a dangerous human being. Always, he's loved to play with fire…Ever since childhood, his job has been to make trouble and my job has been to clean up his messes. It's never been easy but only recently has my brother began to so openly, deliberately rebel against my influence. Do you know why that is, Miss Hooper?"
"…Sherlock Holmes?" Molly guessed.
"No." James chuckled lightly, "If it were Sherlock Holmes, then he would be sitting before me today, not you…You, Miss Hooper, are the 'why'."
"This is a trick…" Molly whispered again, again shaking her head, "None of this is true...I could never be that important to him…"
"You are." James countered, "Even if my brother doesn't realize it himself, you are…and that is what makes you so dangerous."
"…why?" Molly inquired.
"Why?" James repeated, almost chuckling, "Because you're too close to Scotland Yard. Because you're too close Sherlock Holmes. And, most importantly, because you are not like him."
Although he was trying to hide it, he was angry and when he got angry, Molly noticed, his upper class British accent fell into an Irish one…
But before James could continue with his rant to Molly, shrinking back into the chair away from him, the elevator doors re-opened.
Sebastian Moran was back in the spacious room, carrying a silver tray of teapot and teacups, which he place down onto the desk.
"Oh, looks like the tea's here..." James acknowledged.
Molly instinctively went towards the warmth of the tea while Sebastian decanted it into the two little cups.
Molly wondered how this Sebastian person managed to stay so expressionless in, to be so normal about such a strange (crazy) situation as bringing Jim Moriarty's brother a pot of tea.
Once the tea was poured, James turned back to Molly.
He sat up on the desk, one leg folded over the other, holding a teacup in one hand and the saucer in the other, right below.
This could not be real…
Jim had to have set this up, somehow, for some reason (who knows his strange and crazy reasons), to mess with Molly.
"As I was saying…" James began, "For various, obvious reasons you should stay away from my brother, Jim. Either by your own volition…or because you're lying cold on your own morgue table…tea?"
Scary, yes, but by this point Molly was used to threats on her life.
Once and while, she even welcomed them.
(From Jim (not James) Moriarty.)
They were normal.
Boring.
"Yes, thank you." Molly replied, picking up the other teacup and taking a sip, "…What did you mean before, when you said that I wasn't 'like' Jim?"
James set his cup and saucer back down on the tray.
"Only the most intelligent of animals," he explained, "can recognize themselves in a mirror. Most, when faced with their own reflection, believe it to be another member of their species. Some even attack it."
"…okay…?"
"Pretend, Miss Hooper, that you were to fight your reflection…"
"…okay…?"
"Who would win?"
"…Me, I suppose…or no one, really…"
"That's right. No one. Because there was really only one player in the game to begin with…"
Molly took another sip of tea and James stood up from the desk top.
"What does that have to do with Jim…with me?" she asked.
"That's what my brother's been doing, Miss Hooper," James explained, "fighting his own reflection. And it's all been fine, up until now. He's been doing his 'job', 'consulting criminal' or whatever his ludicrous and ever-changing obsession is this week…and I've been doing mine. I've been cleaning up his messes and keeping him busy…That's what happens when he fights his reflection. He stays busy. Because when you fight yourself….no one ever wins. The match just continues, blow for blow, and he keeps busy. And I keep everything under control."
He began to pace the room in a very 'Jim from IT'-like fashion, circling the desk and Molly like a vulture.
"I know all his moves, you see," James continued, "So when Jim fights his mirror image, I know all his opponent's moves too. Sherlock Holmes I can predict, just like I can my own brother…and so Sherlock Holmes I can control, just like I can my own brother…but you, Miss Hooper, are not like my brother. I can't predict what you'll do, I can't control you…"
"Control me?" Molly coughed, taken a back but making sure she did not choke on her tea.
She set the cup and saucer down on the desk.
Under and next to the silver tray, Molly could see rows of papers, charts and graphs, all with a very familiar logo (the PICA security system logo!).
There were notes in neat handwriting written in the margins of these papers, mostly just numbers.
James removed the china from atop these papers and placed them on the tray where they covered her reflection in it.
"The numbers," he told Molly, with another sigh, sitting back down on the desk next to but above her, "If you know the numbers, you know the patterns. If you know the patterns you can predict. If you can predict, you can prepare. if you can prepare, you can manipulate. If you can manipulate, you can control."
"…okay…?" Molly said for the third time, although she didn't really understand what his point was.
"You still don't believe me?" James interrupted, "Did you know that the other day I almost had you killed?"
"What!?" Molly cried.
"You set my brother up to get arrested at that little coffee shop." James recounted, "But I had a gunman trained on you the whole time."
He gestured over at Sebastian who was leaning against the wall next to the elevator, watching the conversation from afar with a blank but intense stare.
Sebastian nodded when Molly turned to look at him. His face was far away, but she could've sworn she saw what was almost a smile on his face...
"What do you want me to do?" Molly asked, looking back at James.
"Stay away from Jim Moriarty." James answered.
"…and what if he doesn't stay away from me?" Molly tried, a statement brave in two regards (cheeky to someone who could possibly kill her, and presumptive about someone who might not actually want to see her again).
"Don't you worry about that, Miss Hooper." James dismissed, finishing his cup of tea, "I'm sure I'll be speaking with him soon. You do your job…and I'll do mine."
Jim, 'friendly British tourist', lost in New Jersey, was kind enough (and somehow able) to give John Watson directions to Sherlock Holmes' (who he was a big fan of) location from behind a map, opened and stretched wide, obscuring his face.
Once he had watched John go into the diner and sit down across from Sherlock, considered his work to be done (for the moment) and walked the couple blocks through the neighborhood until he reached the little orange townhouse labeled 122 Panettiere drive.
He knocked.
The door opened a crack and Kate peered out.
Her face was suddenly afraid (as it always was when she saw Jim Moriarty (but the wide eyes and mouth were never as good as Molly's))…but there had been relief there only moments before and some of it was there still.
"She's inside." Kate told Jim, and opened the door full, moving out of the way for him to enter and then closing it behind him when he did.
Jim saw Irene sitting on the (obviously used) couch, dressed like a normal person in jeans and a t-shirt.
Kate (also dressed normally) hadn't known if Irene would return from her meeting with Sherlock, she had been afraid the two would run away together…
…and she had been relieved (shocked, too) when they hadn't and Irene had come back to her.
And now she was shocked and scared to see Jim Moriarty (who always brought trouble), standing in their 'hideout'…but relieved that it was not Sherlock Holmes.
"What do you want?" Irene demanded immediately, standing up.
There was no pretense of politeness in her tone.
She had just escaped death, she would not have a man (Sherlock or Jim) ruin her newfound freedom and happiness.
"I want to know—" Jim started.
"Oh not this again!" Irene exclaimed, rolling her eyes and flopping back down onto the couch.
"Let me finish!" Jim whined.
"Go ahead…" Irene groaned and waved a hand, "Continue."
"I want to know," Jim said, "Why. Why not Sherlock?"
Irene sighed, smiling sadly and shaking her head.
"Sit down…" She offered and gestured to the space next to her on the tattered sofa.
Jim shrugged and sauntered over, sitting down and facing Irene.
"I'll go put some tea on…" Kate decided, speaking more to herself, "Or…um…coffee…we are in America now.."
And she quickly took her leave of the room.
They heard her footsteps enter the kitchen, but afterwards no sounds of any cooking taking place. She could here them talking in the other room, too.
"Why not Sherlock?" Jim repeated, sincerely confused, "You had him. You could've had him forever…why not?"
"Because," Irene explained, "You can't love your own reflection. It's not healthy…We're too alike, Sherlock and I."
"No you're not!" Jim snapped, laughing, "Not like I'm like Sherlock. Not like Sherlock and I are alike! He's my reflection, not yours!"
"No need to get possessive, dear." Irene chirped, "Didn't I tell you before that you could have him…?"
She was no longer afraid of 'angry' Jim…in fact, she was beginning to believe that he was faking it.
"Yes, you did." Jim confirmed, "But you just said that isn't 'healthy', Dr. Adler."
"It's not." Irene said, seriously, "You shouldn't love your reflection. It's just arrogant. And you'll see it everywhere…No…what you need to love is your mirror. Find one good mirror and love it, because your mirror will give you your reflection and more…it'll show you who you are, and it'll love you for it…and it'll also show you who you can be."
"Now isn't that just beautiful." Jim snorted, "Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all? Well I can't show you that, but I can show you who you can be! That is just too beautiful, Irene, too beautiful. You make that up all by yourself?"
"No." Irene said, "I had help."
She glanced over to the wall that separated the living room from the kitchen where now Kate could be heard using the coffee-maker.
Jim glanced at the wall and rolled his eyes.
"Really?" he asked, raising an eyebrow when he turned back to Irene, "'Love your mirror'? Really?"
"I knew you wouldn't understand." Irene sniffed, still gazing at the damaged wall, "Sherlock won't either. But luckily for him, he has somebody who will."
John.
Irene was right.
Sherlock had a John.
The John.
And Irene had a John too; Kate.
And so did Lestrade; Sally, Anderson and (sometimes) Dimmock.
And so did Mycroft; Anthea (and the black suited men).
But who did Jim have?
…no one.
…nothing.
Jim didn't have a John…
He stood up from the couch and so did Irene.
"Leaving so soon?" Irene inquired as he started towards the door.
(Ha, ha! Finally, she was winning.)
(She had come along way from being all but defeated by Jim Christmas Day.)
"Gotta get back to work, you know." He mumbled, not facing her as he rushed to exit.
"You're not staying for te-coffee?" Kate, who was suddenly back in the room with a clear plastic container filled with steaming dark brown liquid, added.
"Hell no!" Jim declared, "I wouldn't even touch that disgusting excuse for a drink! I have class."
(It was a lie, of course. Jim actually preferred coffee to tea.)
With that, he opened the door, stomping outside, and then slamming it behind him.
Left inside, Irene and Kate giggled to themselves and then went to drink the coffee in the kitchen.
Alone outside, Jim trudged away from the house.
(Molly was going to call, Molly would call, she would, soon, soon…)
And yesterday Sherlock Holmes had been in the United States of America.
And so had Irene Adler.
And so had Jim Moriarty.
Now, Jim sat at the bench in the airport, re-reading the text Molly had sent him and waiting for her to arrive.
(She was late, but there could be traffic…Jim didn't think so, though.)
Where was Molly?
Unavailable…?
No.
Never to him.
So where was she…?
There were many possibilities…
...but there was only one probability.
Jim clicked out of Molly's text message and dialed a number he was not supposed to dial, holding the phone up to his ear.
It rang.
"University, how may I direct your call?" the voice on the other end asked.
"Hi, may I speak to Professor James Moriarty?"
"One moment, please."
It rang again.
"I'm sorry." The voice apologized, "But it seems Professor Moriarty is unavailable at the moment…" (the sound of typing on a keyboard), "…our records show he left early today…at around eleven this morning…"
"Okay, thank you." Jim thanked and hung up the phone.
…'Eleven this morning'…
…it was 10:53AM when Molly had first texted Jim.
He was right.
His brother, James Moriarty, had once again decided to interfere in his business…this time, personally, it seemed.
Jim stood up from the bench, shoving his phone into his pocket and almost running towards the airport exit, pushing past people on his way out.
He had warned James.
And if his brother wanted a war…then there would be a war.
And there you have it!
James Moriarty, older brother of Jim Moriarty!
(My dear Wikipedia said actually there were THREE of them lol)
I thought since Sherlock had Mycroft, Jim should have James.
(...And it helped move the plot along lol...)
And why PICA?
Because 'pica' is the genera classification of the bird Magpie (also via Wikipedia lol).
And why a Magpie?
Because Wikipedia told me Moriarty used that bird as his 'mascot' or whatever...(very intellegent, it can recognize itself in a MIRROR!)
And you'll all learn more about big-brother James Moriarty (my fanfic version, of course) in the comming chapters lol!
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