Hi there everybody!
Been busy with a pysch project so that's why I haven't been updating as quickly as I did during Spring Break when I had all day to write.
I actually stayed home from school today to write this.
That's how much I love you all.
And of course, now my mommy's found out about this story and actually found it too!
...So she'll probably be reading this eventually. (I say eventually because she hasn't yet seen the second season and so I told her to wait, at least, to read this).
*shoots self*
I bet she'll be sooooo proud of her darling, innocent, virgin daughter now.
*shoots self again*
Hope ya'll like it.
Arthur reached the Tower of London to see Jim Moriarty being escorted out in handcuffs by police and put into the back of a police car.
…what the hell…?
This was notpart of the plan.
Mr. Moriarty had told Arthur to be there at this time and Arthur had been the one to bribe the guards so that they 'just happened' to leave their post at just the right moment…
…the moment that that Mr. Moriarty would steal (no not steal, retrieve…on behalf of their rightful owner) the Crown Jewels, which he would then give to Arthur who would be waiting for him outside.
That was the plan!
So why was Mr. Moriarty being arrested?!
Arthur was supposed to be getting his birthright as the long lost but definitely legitimate heir to the throne!
"Excuse me, sir..."
Arthur turned to see a uniformed police officer approach him.
"Yeah?" he said.
"You can't be here." the officer declared, "We cleared the area twenty minutes ago."
"Fine whatever…." Arthur grumbled, "I was just leaving anyway."
He started to go.
"No you're not." the police man countered, "You're going to need to come with me…"
"What?" Arthur cried, "Why?"
"Because…" The officer began, "You're under arrest for aiding the criminal in his attempted theft of the crown jewels! Moriarty said you were his accomplice!"
He then grabbed Arthur by the wrists, forcing him to put his hands behind his back.
Arthur struggled to get free but was unable, because the police man was too strong.
"Damn it!" Arthur cursed and he, too, was being led away from the Tower of London in handcuffs.
Jim Moriarty had set him up!
Meanwhile, in Pentonville Prison...
Conan decided that it was the perfecttime to stop out of the security office for a cup of coffee.
And when he had stepped out for a cup of coffee, all the electronically locked doors of the prison cells 'just happened' to open.
And as soon as the flood gates were opened, the river of prisoners came rushing out.
Okay.
Everything was going according to plan.
Conan was in the break room, chomping on a donut as he waited for the coffee-maker to start steaming, when he heard the shouts and pounding feet of the felons.
Conan went over to the door and locked himself safely inside, away from all the dangerous criminals.
...except for the lock on thatdoor, just like all the rest of the keypad-access doors in the prison, wasn't working.
Shit.
Conan could hear someone jiggling the handle and soon the door flew open.
Several prisoners burst into the break room.
"Take all the food you want!" Conan shouted, jumping back away from them, "Just don't hurt me!"
"You have donuts in here?" one of the prisoners exclaimed, "It's been twenty-eight years since I've had a donut!"
He stomped up to Conan and snatched the half eaten donut of his hand, then proceeding to eat and swallow it in one bite.
…ew…
Some other prisoners from the hall way must have heard the word 'donut' because soon the break room was being subjected to a stampede of men in orange jumpsuits.
And so was Conan.
"Hey, hey stop, stop!" Conan called as he was being pushed to ground by the felons on their mad rush to the box of donuts sitting on the counter next to the coffee-maker.
What was going on here?
Mr. Moriarty had told Conan that he was going to let one (just ONE) prisoner out of his cell, and all the rest were just a diversion so that that one could escape.
Mr. Moriarty had told Conan that he would be safe.
This was not the plan.
"…wait a minute…!" Conan said, realizing what had happened, "That motherf—"
His words were cut off by the escapees knocking him backwards to the floor.
Conan's last thought as he was being trampled was that…
Jim Moriarty had set him up!
Meanwhile, at the Bank of England…
Doyle waited until precisely the right moment to enter.
Just as he walked through the glass doors, the bank's heavily armored vaults 'just happened' to open wide, as if welcoming him in.
Doyle pulled out his gun.
He and his crew marched into the bank, weapons drawn.
"Everybody down!" Doyle shouted, firing a few warning rounds into the ceiling.
The bank employees quickly obliged.
The crew stepped over and around them, past the front desks, towards their target.
Everything was going according to plan.
Then they stepped into the vault and began to fill their duffle bags with money.
It was all perfect...
...except...
…suddenly the vault doors re-shut themselves, trapping Doyle and his crew inside.
This was not part of the plan.
"Son of a bitch!" Doyle growled.
Now he and his crew wouldn't get the money, they probably all go to jail, and his boss was definitelygoing to kill him. All because…
Jim Moriarty had set him up!
By the time the police car had pulled up in front of Scotland Yard, there was already a cloud of flies buzzing around the smell of fresh meat.
Yes.
The media was there.
"…great…" Lestrade groaned.
"Great!"
Lestrade and Donovan turned around to glare at Moriarty who was obviously very pleased to see the crowd of reporters, television and newspaper, and cameramen, photo and video.
He was grinning at them out the window…or maybe he was just grinning at his own reflection in the glass (who knows? the guy's crazy!).
They glanced out the window as well, briefly and then at each other, nodding.
Simultaneously, Lestrade and Donovan stepped out of the car and slammed the doors behind them.
"I'll hold them off so you can get him inside." Donovan told Lestrade.
"You've got the easy job." Lestrade replied, sighing.
It was a joke.
But it was also serious.
(Normally, the media was more difficult to handle than an arrestee, but not in this case.)
"We can trade, if you want…" Donovan offered, her facial expression something passable for an unenthusiastic smile.
"No, it's alright." Lestrade refused, shaking his head, "I've got it."
He had already decided not to allow Moriarty near any females. He'd probably try to grope them or something.
Donovan nodded and then started towards the mob of reporters.
"Okay, that's it, everybody, back up!" she ordered, flashing her badge, "Make room! This official police business, you need to mind your own!…and I don't want to see any of you inside…or I'll make sure you don't come out!"
Threats as always.
Ah, that was his Sally.
True, she was mean…but Sergeant Donovan was damn useful.
The buzzing flies backed away as if Donovan were swatting at them with a rolled newspaper, rather than just shooting them with her verbal bullets.
Lestrade opened the back door of the police car.
"Thanks, Jeeves." Moriarty smirked as he exited the car.
Lestrade did not roll his eyes.
Instead, he closed the door and then pushed Moriarty towards the building, past the media personnel.
Of course, the usual questions were shouted, microphones and pens aimed like arrows in Lestrade and Moriarty's direction, and the usual flash photography occurred.
Moriarty stopped, turned to 'greet his public' and flash a smile.
"Keep it moving." Lestrade warned, pushing him sharply forwards.
"Back up, back up!" Donovan kept saying, arms even outstretched to physically block the more intrepid of the reporters that stepped out of line.
The roar of the crowd was steady and unbearable.
(Just as loud as those rock concerts Lestrade used to go to before he had kids…or maybe it had just been awhile.)
But Lestrade knew it was only going to get worse.
Donovan opened the door to Scotland Yard and Lestrade shoved Moriarty inside.
Only the most high-profile, extreme criminals that got arraigned the day they were arrested.
It was a short, private affair.
(Closed to the public (the media) but that didn't stop them from standing right outside the courthouse.)
Jim Moriarty was escorted into the courtroom, told the exhaustive list of crimes he was being charged with, and then escorted back to his jail cell.
No bail was set.
The cell was small, dark and isolated, with only a bench to sit on.
Lestrade or some other pig must have decided that Jim should be kept separate from the common criminals (the kind of 'common criminals' that were probably stampeding over Conan's unconscious body only an hour ago. Too funny.), which Jim really didn't mind except for the fact that he just got so lonely…
…and bored…
It would be at least a week before he'd go to trial and finally be able to see who would undoubtedly be the star witness for his prosecution, Sherlock Holmes.
And Jim would be the ticking time bomb inside the box until then, just waiting to explode.
But how would he keep himself occupied for an entire week?
He didn't have any people to mess with and they didn't even give him a crossword puzzle to do or anything!
…what to do, what to do…
Bored, bored, bored, BORED!
Wait a minute.
Didn't Jim get a lawyer or something?
One of those 'overworked, underpaid' public servants?
Didn't he have rights!
"Don't I get a phone call?" Jim had yelled as he was being gently escorted into the cell, "I want a lawyer!"
But Lestrade had said nothing.
The heavy metal door thudding was the only response.
How rude!
Jim was offended.
(And that must have been how Doyle had felt, too, when he and his crew became the Bank of England's newest deposit into the vault. Jim wished he could have been there to see it.)
Offended and bored.
His mobile phone had been confiscated as 'evidence' so he couldn't use that to keep himself entertained.
Jim wondered if the police tech guys would be 'entertained' trying to figure the complicated this (it wasn't just a smartphone…it was a smart-ass-phone. Ha, ha, ha.) and if they'd find the pictures.
After seeing his handsome head (in a crown) in the convenient mirror that was inside the display case with the Crown Jewels, Jim just had to snap a picture.
Then he had sent it to all his contacts.
(Including Arthur who might not have actually seen it because he, too, had probably been arrested and so had his phone confiscated. Pity.)
Molly's phone buzzed.
She stopped work on the corpse, setting down the scalpel on the metal table so that she could reach into her labcoat pocket and pull it out.
New picture message.
Molly stared into the image of Jim Moriarty…
…and what was he wearing …a cape?... and some kind of crown…
…huh?
And he was posing in front of…what was that, broken glass?
Hold on.
…were those…
Were those the Crown Jewels!
Jim was in the Tower of London and he was wearing the Crown Jewels.
…what the hell?
Jim sat down on the cold bench and was just starting to doze off when he heard the cell door click open.
He kept his eyes closed, his elbow digging into his knee, propping up his head, resting on his palm.
He listened to the footsteps.
Who would it be?
…hmm…
Not expensive shoes so nobody from the courthouse…and not the standard shoes a guard or a police officer would wear…
…combat boots.
Jim grinned.
"Mr. Sebastian Moran." He said, "…come to bust me outta here?...Or just keep me company?"
Jim heard the door shut.
He opened his eyes and sat up straight, back against the concrete wall.
Despite the dim light he could see Moran standing before him, expressionless as always.
Jim had been too sleepy to notice when he had last seen him that his auburn hair had grown out considerably from the first and second time they had met.
"You just allowed yourself to be arrested." Moran stated, "Your picture and your name are all over the news."
"…So?" Jim shrugged.
"So you and my employer had a deal." Moran reminded.
"Why doesn't your 'employer' come talk to me himself, then?" Jim snapped.
"Don't you understand?" Moran growled, "You're never going to see him again. That was the deal."
He grabbed Jim by the collar and shoving him against the wall.
Jim's eyes and mouth widened.
"Please, Mr. Moran, sir, don't hurt me!" he begged-and then he was unable to contain his snickering any longer.
Moran released Jim from his grasp and Jim dropped down, back onto the bench.
"I can hurt you." Moran declared, "I have orders to kill you."
"Kill me, then!" Jim exclaimed, "What are you waiting for?"
"You want to die?" Moran asked, with just the slightest raise of an eyebrow.
"Hey, why not?" Jim smiled, "You only live once. Gotta try everything."
And Moran did not roll his eyes.
"My employer ordered me to kill you." he said, "…But I'm not going to. I'm going to leave you're here and let the law take care of you."
"Oooh, the toy soldier disobeys his orders!" Jim chuckled, "So you're not just a remote controlled drone, after all! So you've actually got a mind in there…somewhere…"
Jim leaned forward and poked Moran on the forehead.
Moran caught Jim's hand, crushing it inside his fist with a practiced amount of pressure that caused serious pain and bruising but no broken bones.
Jim looked up into Moran's eyes, but they were just as dead as his blank face.
Jim tried amusement on his own, and then fear and even agony…but none could force a reaction from Moran.
"…you know what, Sebby?" Jim finally hissed, "Free will doesn't suit you. Just do your job."
And then…
…for the first time…
…a smile.
Moran, just ever-so slightly, smiled and let go on Jim's hand.
Jim shook and then rubbed his hand to restore it back to its normal shape from the compressed and contorted one Moran had molded it into.
"I am." Moran stated, "My job is to do what my employer wants…and although he may have ordered me to kill you…I don't believe that my employer wants you dead."
Jim snorted, eyeing Moran through the darkness.
So Moran was both willing to go against James's orders and claimed to know what James really wanted—even when he explicitly stated that he wanted the opposite.
Interesting.
And, of course, that 'gesture' was even more 'kind' (interesting) since Jim knew that Moran probably wanted very badly to kill him, now had the orders and opportunity (and excuse) to, and so the only reason that he wasn't killing Jim right as they spoke was because he knew that James wouldn't be…happy.
Interesting.
"You're quite the intuitive one, aren't you?" Jim chuckled, standing up, "…Tell me, what else does your 'employer' want…and how do you two go about doing that?"
Moran ignored the comment as if he hadn't even heard it.
"This is what I'm going to do." He stated, "I'm going to leave you here. Alive. And this is what you're going to do. You're going to keep your mouth shut….You're not going to explain your crimes, or what you do, or mention any names… even if they put you on the stand. And you're not going to lie either. Your just going to keep your mouth shut…and then you're going to go to prison for the rest of your life where my employer will never hear from you again. Got it?"
"Yes sir!" Jim saluted.
And Moran did not roll his eyes.
"Good." He said, "Then this conversation is over."
Moran turned and started to leave.
"I do have a plan, you know…" Jim muttered to his back, "…but he has no faith in me…he doesn't trust me…but he'll see…he'll see I've done exactly what he asked me to…he'll see, he'll see…"
The door clanged shut behind Moran.
"The vultures are already circling…" some hotshot lawyer from some expensive firm had said, "they'll tear you apart. You need a lion, you need a defender to protect you from public that'll eat you alive. I'm willing to take your case. Pro-bono. I'll make sure you don't get convicted, and more importantly, I'll make sure no harm comes to your name…"
"No thank you, sir." Jim had said, "I don't need a defense."
The guy was obviously only in it for the publicity, anyway. Jim had heard of him, his firm took the cases of all the high-profile criminals.
He had probably been sent over by a client they had in common.
And so out the prominent attorney had gone and in the public defender had come.
"Were you abused as a child?" Jim's court appointed lawyer had asked, "Did something happen to you that could be used to, you know, explain why you grew up to do all these things?"
"Nope." Jim had grinned, shaking his head.
"How about insanity, then…" the lawyer had suggested.
"I've actually been declared legally sane by a licensed evaluator." Jim had stated.
And it was true.
Playing 'sane' had been fun during his 'vacation' at the mental hospital James had decided to put him in 'time-out' inside…and very necessary to his release.
The staff there had said they'd 'never seen such swift improvement in a patient before'.
"...then do you have anything?" the lawyer had basically begged, "anything at all that could be used in your defense?"
"No." Jim had said, "I don't want a defense."
And he didn't.
Jim Moriarty had to been 'torn apart' and 'eaten alive'…
…so that Sherlock Holmes would be.
Jim Moriarty had to die…
…so that Richard Brooke could be born.
And Richard Brooke had to be born…
…so that Sherlock Holmes could die.
The trial lasted four days.
The first day, prosecutors told the story of how James "Jim" Moriarty had attempted to steal the Crown Jewels, break into the Bank of England and break prisoners out of Pentonville prison. And how, two years ago, he had blown up an apartment building, killing a blind, elderly grandmother and twelve other people.
"A monster!" they had declared.
The second day, prosecutors added that Moriarty was also involved in various other crimes including art theft, art forgery, stealing government secrets, contract killing, terrorism and many other illegal activities that came with being the world's only 'consulting criminal'.
And on the third day, Sherlock Holmes came to testify.
His testimony promptly had him held in contempt of court and so he was gently escorted into a holding cell.
Later, Jim Moriarty had to be taken back to his cell too.
Right next to Sherlock Holmes's.
But an hour before, on the third day, proceedings were only just beginning and Jim Moriarty was being led into the courtroom by a female officer.
(Lestrade had changed his mind about the gender to 'handle' Moriarty ever since, on the first day, he had tried to grope a male guard.)
Molly watched Jim stroll into the room, carefree as ever despite the fact that he could be sentenced to probably hundreds of years in prison, pushed by a female (why female? 'Get your grope-y hands off him'!) court officer and followed by his lawyer, standard government-issued.
He was cleaned up from the last time she had seen him (hair slicked back neatly and face completely shaven) and he was obviously trying (but not too hard) not to laugh.
Molly was being careful, she had waited until the day she knew Sherlock was coming to court in order to come watch the trial herself.
And then when Lestrade (accompanied by Donovan and Anderson who 'had to see this freak testify' for themselves) had asked her what she was doing there, early enough in the morning to get a good seat, Molly had said:
"I want to see Jim Moriarty put away for all things he's done. Forever."
And then Lestrade had let her come inside the courtroom with him (and Donovan and Anderson) and sit in the area usually reserved for those attending in an official capacity or government employees.
Now, Molly was seated in the back row of the wooden benches in the still mostly empty courtroom.
The judge hadn't even arrived yet…
…and neither had Sherlock.
But Jim was here.
Instantly (as if he had some kind of sixth sense that knew that she was here and exactly where she was) he caught her eye as he came in, smiling.
He tried to wave but his hands were trapped behind his back in handcuffs.
Molly quickly looked away, down at her own hands, folded in her laps.
Lestrade must have seen this because he immediately crossed the room from the corner he was having a serious discussion with a court officer in over to the table where Jim (and his lawyer and the grabby female) stood.
Molly couldn't hear what Lestrade was saying but he was aiming a finger sternly at Jim, who shrugged innocently, and his face looked pretty angry.
Jim said nothing throughout that conversation. He just smiled and nodded until Lestrade walked away.
Molly expected Lestrade to come up to her, after he was done with Jim, and tell her not to worry and that that criminal wouldn't be bothering her anymore.
But he didn't.
And soon people were filing into the viewing area upstairs, taking their seats and chatting like an audience waiting for the lights to dim and the show to begin.
The judge and prosecution came into the courtroom next, all wearing white wigs, and took their respective posts.
Jim was talking to the grabby female (what was she? A police officer or a court officer? Either way she should have been acting much more professionally!) who reached into his pants pocket (!) and put something into his mouth (!).
Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson came and sat down in Molly's row, but not too close to her.
Then, finally, Sherlock Holmes (accompanied by John Watson ('get your grope-y hands off him'!)) entered.
And the room fell silent.
Sherlock gave his testimony on Jim (which often tangented but always returned), a dramatic, deep-voiced speech which culminated in the line:
"James Moriarty isn't a man at all. He's a spider. A spider at the center of a web. A criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances."
Oh, what beautiful poetry.
Molly was sure Jim would appreciate that.
And he did.
Molly saw Jim nod, slowly, at Sherlock's words, with just the smallest hint of a smile (that only someone who knew him would even notice).
And then, of course, Sherlock got himself held in contempt of court and put into a holding cell.
"…Sherrrrrrrlock…I know you can hear me, Sherlock, don't pretend that you can't…I'm not stupid, Shhhherlock, neither of us are, Shhhherlock, let's talk, Sher-lock…I know you want to…it's why you got yourself put into time-out."
"…and why did you?"
"I misbehaved. It's what I do."
"I asked why."
"Why do people do anything? Because they want to. That's why."
"And why do you 'want to'?"
"…so many questions—"
"So many deflections. Are you going to answer me, Moriarty, or not?"
"…why do you care, Sherlock? Why do you care what I do…why I do what I do…why do you care?"
"It's not because of …sentiment… if that's what you're implying. I don't 'care' because I've got a 'bleeding heart' and it hurts me, the fact that you hurt people and I can't even fathom how you're able to do such things, such terrible things, to your 'fellow man'…That's not why I care—"
"Oh I knew that, Sherlock. I know that we're both heartless monsters. I'd never try to insult you otherwise…but why is it? Why is it that you care, Sherlock? Because you do care…"
"I care because I want to understand…I like to know things."
"You do? Really?"
"I do. It's a hobby of mine, actually…"
"I never would have guessed that, Sherlock. You're always so full of surprises—"
"Moriarty."
"Yes, dear?"
"I answered your question. Now you answer mine…that's how this game is played, isn't it?"
"Yes it is…that was your answer, by the way, since the thing you just said was a question…"
"That doesn't count."
"Yes it does…now don't be a spoilsport. Play by the rules…"
"You never do."
"But you're not me, Sherlock, are you?"
"No I'm not…And that counted as a question. Now you have to answer mine."
"Ah, you got me there. Good one. Ask away!"
"Why are you doing this?"
"I told you—"
"No you told me it was because you 'wanted to'. You never told me why you wanted to."
"You never asked."
"Yes I did."
"You didn't just now—"
"Shall I rephrase?"
"You can…if you want…but it won't count….unless you answer another one of my questions."
"Answer mine first."
"Okay. Like I told you before. I'm doing this because I want to. Happy?"
"Yes."
"Now my next question is—"
"No. you just asked another question when you asked if I was 'happy'. Don't forget the rules, Moriarty. Now I get to ask my question."
"No, you don't. You answered that question when you said 'yes'. Don't forget the rules, Sherlock…it's my turn now."
"…fine. Get on with it, then."
"With pleasure. As I was saying…my next question is…boxers or briefs?"
"Really?"
"Up-bup-bup. You don't get to ask a question yet. First, you've got to answer…"
"…Ugh, this is absurd."
"Oh, but it's worth it, Sherlock…if you want me to answer your question."
"Neither."
"…Come again?"
"Neither. That's my answer."
"Oooh! I like that. You've really got me all hot and bothered. Now tell me, Sherlock, do you just go completely commando…or do you wear lady's underwear—"
"No. You don't get to ask me another question yet. It's my turn now."
"And what is your question?...that question didn't count, by the way, since it was a question about a question."
"You can't change the rules."
"No, I can't. But I can cheat. And I do cheat…thought you knew that already, what with you being a genius and all..."
"I do know that. I just assumed you held more respect for The Game, I guess I was wrong…"
"Love the player, not the game…"
"I'm flattered."
"Don't be vain, Sherlock, how do you know I was talking about you?"
"Wait your turn, Moriarty. Let me ask my question."
"Hurry up!"
"…Carl Powers. Why did you kill him?... And don't just give me some vague answer like you did the last time. Tell me why, really why you killed him. In detail."
"Alright…it wasn't just because he laughed at me. It was because he didn't want to be my friend…and I was lonely, so lonely…"
"More."
"That's not fair—"
"More. Tell me more. Or I'll quit playing."
"Cheater."
"I do do that, cheat. Now keep talking."
"…I was angry. And I don't get angry that often—"
"I'm sure."
"No, I'm serious. I don't. I really don't. But that time I did. I did get angry. Carl got me angry…and I loved it. I'd never felt anything like that before. I got angry and suddenly, the things I wanted to do to him…the ideas, the brilliant, beautiful ideas…I'd never been so focused before…so smart...it helped me, you see, being angry, it helped me to think. Gave me 'purpose', as they say…"
"Mmhmm…and?"
"And so I killed him. I killed him because I had to do something with all that angry…It just builds and builds, you know, builds up inside of you…but it can't be like that forever…it's got to come out sometime…like a climax it's got to shoot out all over and—"
"Your answer is deteriorating. I've heard enough. You may ask your question now."
"…Damn it, just when I was getting to the good part…alright, fine. My question…hmm…have you ever gotten angry, Sherlock? I mean really angry…angry enough to kill someone?"
"I've killed people before—"
"Not very bright, admitting to murder while in custody. They could be listening…"
"They are listening, I'm sure. And I'm sure 'they' appreciate that I was able to dispose of a sub-sect of terrorist that had become quiet annoying to them, before its destruction, planning various attack such as bombings and plane crashes that I know you're aware, having been involved with them…"
"I was never charged...And that's not what I was asking, if you ever killed anyone before. I knew about those terrorists, how you killed them to rescue your beloved woman…and how you, at the age of thirty-five, finally lost your—"
"To answer the question you asked earlier. No. I've never gotten angry enough to kill someone. I don't do things out of anger. I don't get 'angry'. Emotions interfere with judgment, with the mind…and I'd never compromise my mind."
"… 'never'? Not even with…certain illegal substances?"
"It's not your turn to ask a question."
"Don't worry. I'll save that one for later…what's your question now?"
"You said you killed Carl Powers because you were angry. So after you killed him, then what did you feel?"
"You saw me…that day in the locker room, at the pool…I was laughing, I was happy…"
"No you weren't. You were pretending to be happy. You were pretending to laugh. And you're lying now. You have to tell me the truth. What did you really feel?"
"Nothing…"
"Nothing?"
"Yes. Nothing…but you knew that, didn't you?"
"I did."
"You knew that because you feel it too, all the time, don't you? Nothing…"
"Is that your question?"
"It can be. Are you going to answer it?"
"No. Because I just answered that question."
"Well, that doesn't count because you answered my previous question with a question, which I answered. I answered one more question than you did. That puts me 'in the lead'. I have to ask another question to make it even it again….and you have to answer, if you want to be 'in the lead' yourself."
"Fine. Ask."
"I knew you wouldn't be able to resist winning a game…You're too competitive. Do you think it comes from having an older brother that's always, always no matter how hard you try, how hard you think, always, always better than you? Smarter than you?"
"Mycroft is no one to compete with, he's too busy…and too lazy…But that's an interesting psychological insight, even if it is incorrect. I wonder where that came from…Personal experience, perhaps?"
"Perhaps."
"More."
"No. My turn…Don't you ever get bored?"
"Obviously. But I try at all costs to avoid it."
"No, I mean bored of what you do. You know, that 'consulting detective' thing…do you ever get bored of that?"
"Only if the cases get boring."
"So never? You never just get bored of detective work all together? Of doing the same thing, with the same people, day after day?"
"It's my turn now. I get to ask the question. How about you, Moriarty, do you ever get bored?"
"Of course! But you know that! You of all people know that."
"No, I meant it in the same way you did. As in: do you ever get bored of what you do? Of, you know, that 'consulting criminal' thing, as you put it? Do you ever get bored of that? Do you ever get bored of committing crimes…?"
"That's two questions."
"They're essentially the same thing, though. Answer either and either answer will be satisfactory."
"Okay. Okay, Sherlock, okay I'll answer….I do get bored. I do get bored of that 'consulting criminal' thing, as you put it. In fact, I'm so bored of it already that I'm seriously considering retiring…"
"And doing what? Settling down? In a little house in the country? Or maybe you're more the travel the world on a cruise ship kind of guy…"
"That's three more questions. You're cheating. And you're talking like I'm some kind of old man…"
"You did say 'retiring', didn't you? Isn't that what retirees do?"
"I shouldn't have said 'retiring', then. I should have said that I'm seriously considering a change of careers…"
"To what, exactly?"
"Another question. That makes four you've asked without giving me any answers. I call a 'foul'. It's time to even the odds…"
"Ask me question, then."
"Alright…do you or do you not wear ladies underwear?"
As soon as the trial recessed, Molly stood up.
She watched Jim being led away by the female dog— court officer and followed by the court appointed attorney that had been mute the entire time (why wasn't he defending Jim?...not that Jim deserved a defense, or anything. It's just that that was his job, wasn't it?).
Lestrade, too, stood up (along with Donovan and Anderson, who had been muttering snide comments the whole time and snickering to themselves when Sherlock had been kicked out) and turned to Molly.
"Would you like a ride?" he asked.
"Huh?" Molly replied, turning to Lestrade.
She had been too distracted by the way Jim was whispering something to the guard escorting him out.
"Would you like a ride?" Lestrade repeated, "To work, I mean. Back to the hospital?"
"Oh, no." Molly smiled politely, shaking her head "It's fine. I can take the tube. Thanks for offering, though."
"Are you sure?" Lestrade asked.
Not again!
But before Molly could tell him that 'yes' (for the last time!) she was 'sure' she and Lestrade heard a slap that echoed in the courtroom.
They whipped their heads around to find it's source.
Apparently, the female officer had slapped Jim (how unprofessional).
Could what he had whispered really have been that bad?
(Yes.)
Now Jim's lawyer was saying something to (telling her off) the lady and Jim was blowing her a kiss as she snapped angrily and offendedly at the both of them.
"Hey, hey, hey!" Lestrade shouted as he jogged up to the altercation, Anderson and Donovan right behind them wanting to see the action up close.
Lestrade then traded jobs with the female court officer, who stalked off still angry and offended, taking Jim back to his cell.
Molly then left the courtroom herself.
Being careful, she about thirty minutes until she was sure that Lestrade (and Donovan and Anderson) had returned to Scotland Yard.
Then Molly traveled down the corridors of the courthouse towards the holding cells.
She had to see Jim.
She had to talk to him about what he had said the other day.
Molly wasn't stupid.
She knew what what he had said was.
A confession.
"No reason."
Jim had confessed some kind of feeling, some kind of logic-less emotion to her that night.
But Molly wasn't stupid.
She knew he didn't feel things like normal people do, she knew he didn't do emotions.
He only pretended.
He lied.
Jim had lied about feeling something, some emotion for her.
And then, then very next day, he had gotten arrested.
Molly wasn't stupid.
That had been no coincidence.
Obviously, Jim was trying to mess with her.
To make her think that he actually felt something for her…and then leave her (perhaps forever, if indeed he did get a life sentence (and didn't decide to break out or something)) alone and heartbroken.
But Molly wasn't stupid.
She wasn't going to fall for it.
She wasn't going to fall for him.
No.
Molly was going to march right up to Jim's cell and laugh in his face (which he wouldn't be able to do a thing about because they would be separated by bars or whatever jails were made of nowadays (Molly had never seen a jail before)).
She was going to prove to him, once and for all, that she wasn't stupid.
And then he would be the one that was stupid for ever thinking that she was stupid in the first place.
She'd show him.
Molly's pace quicken as she stomped towards the holding cells, all she had to do is turn a corner and she would be there (or so a court employee had told her).
But just as Molly was about to turn the corner, Lestrade appeared.
What?
He was supposed to have been gone by now!
What was he doing here?
"What are you doing here?" Lestrade demanded, in a tone of voice Molly had never heard him use before—when he was speaking to her.
This was the tone of voice he reserved for suspects (like Jim (and for Sherlock, too, when he was being especially Sherlock-like)).
"I'm here to see Sherlock…" Molly said, innocently.
"No you're not." Lestrade stated, "John already bailed him out."
"I didn't know—"
"Yes you did. You were in the waiting room. You saw them walk out together fifteen minutes ago."
"I—"
"And you said you were taking the train back to the hospital. So why are you even still here?"
"Why are you?"
"Because I'm not stupid, Molly!"
Lestrade's exclamation was sudden as he threw up his hands in an exasperation so pent up and hidden, as if built up and built up over such a long period of time that it was the kind Molly had thought only she possessed.
"…what do you mean?" Molly inquired, nervously, fearing his answer.
"You know exactly what I mean. You're not stupid either…We both know that you're here to see Moriarty."
"…N-no! I am not! Why would I be? I would never! I don't wanna see him! He's a criminal! I don't want anything to do with him! He killed people! He's crazy! Why would I go see him! I don't…"
Molly's frantic protestations trailed off when she saw Lestrade staring at her, unconvinced, shaking his head.
She never was a very good liar.
"I'm not stupid." Lestrade repeated, "I know something's going on with you and him. How else would you 'just know' he was the one responsible for the murder of that boy at the hotel? And those men on the street? Without any evidence? Why else would you say you'd be able to contact him and get him to meet with you at that coffee shop?"
"I was trying to get him arrested!" Molly reminded, "That proves that there is nothing 'going on'!"
"I don't know what you were 'trying' to do." Lestrade countered, "…For all I know there is 'nothing' going on between you and Moriarty—and you're trying to change that!"
"My god! I'm not! I swear!" Molly cried.
This was what she'd been fearing all along, Lestrade finally figuring it out about her and Jim.
And, of course, it would have to happen on the day (one of those days) that Molly had decided that she was done with Jim.
For good.
(…For now…)
Molly was just that lucky.
"Look, Molly, I get it…the two of you dated, you might still have feelings for him…" Lestrade said, with a sigh, "…it happens, it's normal. Sometimes it's just difficult to get over someone. I understand."
And then Molly understood.
It was almost funny, actually, she had to stop herself from laughing.
Molly could see the lack of wedding ring on Lestrade's finger.
She guessed him 'working things out' with his wife hadn't actually 'worked out' too well.
And it was taking its toll on Lestrade.
(His hair was grayer than normal. His eyes looked tired and he had been rubbing his back and the back of his neck all through the trial (and even was now, too, periodically), stretching trying (and failing) to get comfortable…probably because he had been sleeping on the couch as of late.)
This was why, suddenly, he was more suspicious of Molly.
He had recognized the same conflicting feelings of wanting to be with someone while at the same time knowing that you shouldn't that Molly felt within himself.
"I do not 'have feelings' for Jim Moriarty." Molly insisted, and then, to make it more believable, she added, "…There's someone else…I have someone else that I—"
"Who? Sherlock?" Lestrade completed, and then groaned, "…Like that's any better. Of all the guys in the world, Molly, why those two? They're not—they're not normal! They…Moriarty's a criminal, it's not safe. He'll kill you, eventually. And you know it. You're not stupid…And Sherlock, well, he's Sherlock. It's not like he actually has normal human relationships. He won't ever notice you and don't take it personally, that's just the way it is. And you know that too. You're not stupid! For god's sake, Molly, you're not stupid…you're not stupid…so why them? Why them-"
"And not you?" Molly finished (Because she wasn't stupid. She could see where this was going. The same thing had even happened to her before).
"That's not what I—"
"What you meant?" Molly finished again, "Yes it is. And really, Detective Inspector, you wait to start all this once you and your wife break up? You didn't seem to care before."
"Yes I did." Lestrade stated and then realized what she had 'deduced', "…And how do you even know my wife and I—"
"Because I'm not stupid, Greg!" Molly exclaimed in the same way Lestrade had earlier, even tacking on his first name because that's what he had asked her to call him buy the night he had knocked on her door to ask about Jim (probably the same night he had gone home and started to sleep on the sofa).
"It's not even like that…" Lestrade sighed, almost defeatedly.
He had come to confront her and now it had been turned around him.
He was losing.
"Then it's not even like that, either!" Molly reasoned, "Me coming back here to see Moriarty."
"So you were going to—" Lestrade declared, triumphantly.
He had been right!
He was winning.
"Yes, of course!" Molly admitted, "You already said that! But like I said, it's not what you think…I was going to tell him to leave me alone. I was going to tell him to stop harassing me—"
"He was harassing you?" Lestrade asked, both concerned and angered, "Are you alright? Why didn't you tell anybody? Did he threaten you? Did he hurt you? Why didn't you report this?... Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I am not a child and I can take care of myself." Molly snapped, "If you would realize—"
"You should realize I'm only trying to help you!"
"I don't need your help! I'm not a child!"
"I'm not treating you like a 'child'! I'm just trying to protect you! That's what friends do!...and I thought we were friends, Molly. I care about you…"
Molly didn't care, she realized, she really just didn't care.
(Maybe a year or two ago she would have, but not now, not anymore…)
But she did care about being arrested.
And it was actually kind of sweet what Lestrade had said.
"We are friends..." Molly stated, attempting a smile that was almost passable, "…And I care about you, too…"
"Then, as a friend, I'm asking you to please just stay away from Moriarty." Lestrade requested, "He's too dangerous. I'm not just saying that because I think you can't take care of yourself or anything. I'm saying that because Moriarty is different. He's not your average criminal, he's not even your average killer! He's—he's just…different. Not normal. There's something very, very wrong with him…"
"Well maybe it's not his fault!" Molly said suddenly, before she could stop herself, "He—he and Sherlock. They were just born that way. They're just being who they are! It's not their fault…but, still, they're punished for it—for being who they are—everyday."
At that, Lestrade just shook his head again sighing and laughing sadly.
"You don't get it." He said, hopelessly, "You just don't get it…But how can you, I guess…You don't do my job. You don't see what I see everyday…you only work with the aftermath…"
"Don't get what?" Molly inquired, folding her arms.
"Monsters aren't monsters because they're born that way, Molly." Lestrade explained, taking a breath, "Monsters are monsters because they're born that way and then refuse to change…I mean, look at Sherlock. He's different. He's not normal. He's even said himself that he is so similar to Moriarty…but Sherlock is not a monster. He could be, so easily. He could be just like Moriarty, he'd probably enjoy it too the exciting criminal lifestyle, the thrill of being on the other side of the chase and being smart enough not to get caught. He'd never be bored. Sherlock could be just like Moriarty, if he wanted to…but he's not. He's not…So what's Moriarty's excuse? What's any criminal's excuse?"
The trial lasted four days.
And on the fourth day, Jim Moriarty was found not guilty and released from custody.
As he exited the holding cell and made his way through the courthouse towards the exit where he knew the crowd of reporters would be waiting for him, he couldn't help grinning to him.
Everything was going according to plan.
But before Jim reached the doors, a woman approached him.
"Kitty Riley." She introduced herself, extending a hand to shake, "Congratulations on the verdict, Mr. Moriarty."
Jim looked her up and down, raising an eyebrow.
She was dressed in a skirtsuit that was a similar color gray to the suit he was wearing.
It was new, but low quality from a cheap department store.
So this was her game.
Dress to impress the desired interviewee.
…and she was a journalist, wasn't she?
Jim had seen her in the courtroom viewing box all four days of the trial, furiously taking notes.
The press wasn't technically allowed in for trial…so that meant Kitty (that was her name, right?) must have snuck in somehow.
So she wasn't just a journalist…she was sleazy, rule-breaking journalist.
Jim liked that.
Maybe she'd be worth talking to.
"Thanks, hun." Jim said, and then stepped around her, pushing her outstretch arm out of his way, "I'd love to chat…but I've got somewhere to be."
He had to go see Sherlock.
(Not just yet, though…but he didn't need Kitty to know that.)
Jim continued to walk down the hall, towards the doors.
"Wait!" Kitty called after him as he knew she would, "You'll want to hear what I have to say."
"…I will?" Jim asked, spinning around on his heel to face her.
"Yes." Kitty affirmed, "And I want to hear what you have to say, Mr. Moriarty. That's right. I want you to tell me your story. I want you to tell me your story so that I can tell it to the whole world."
"Oh, stop lying. Journalists aren't supposed to lie." Jim groaned, rolling his eyes, "You only want my story because Sherlock Holmes wouldn't tell you his."
Kitty smiled.
"…how do you do that?" she inquired, "How do you both do that?"
"It's a secret." Jim whispered.
"I like secrets." Kitty stated, still smiling.
"Yeah…" Jim nodded, "…you like to go publish them in the papers for everyone to see and then they're not secrets anymore."
"It's my job." Kitty confirmed, "…but it's also your chance. You're chance to get your side of the story told to the public. You know, so everybody doesn't hate you…"
"Who says they shouldn't 'hate' me?" Jim asked, "I am a monster, after all."
"…but you don't have to be." Kitty countered, "…or at least you don't have to look like one—if you don't want to. Criminals aren't born, Mr. Moriarty, they're made. They're products of their environments, nothing more, it's not their fault. They're not 'monsters'. You're not a monster."
"You actually believe that?" Jim scoffed.
"It doesn't matter what I believe." Kitty shrugged, "What matters is what they believe. And they'll believe it. If I tell them. They'll believe it."
"Well aren't you the all-powerful one, then." Jim commented.
"Words are the powerful ones." Kitty corrected, "I just use them. I'm just the storyteller. You, Mr. Moriarty, are the story…and what story shall we tell them? What made you into the James Moriarty, the monster, that you are today?"
"Sherlock Holmes." Jim smiled, "Sherlock Holmes made me."
Dun dun dun!
lol
Mommy, if you're reading this, I'm sorry!
...and can you please review?
(that one goes for everyone, too)
:)