I'M NOT DEAD!
...or grounded.
Or anything, really, I'm just me lol I'm Over There.
lol.
And my mom actually likes my story! She's not ashamed/dissapointed/horrified of it/me!
Cool!
I love you, mom!
And I love all you reviewers too (thanks so much! I owe you guys my life-or was that my mom, I forget...)!
I'm soooooooo sorry this took so long!
School is...ugh...school.
I was gonna go straight to Reichenbach Falls...but then I rewatched the episode and saw a lovely caption...
'Two months later'
...and now I have two months to write, yay!
So this story will be dragged out and on longer!
Yay! (?)
lol
Hope you like it!
Jim didn't understand why everyone was so surprised.
Not guilty.
Really?
They were surprised at that?
…he had 'magically' broken into the Tower of London, Bank of England and Pentonville prison…all at once!
Not guilty.
For god's sake, people!
Surprise?
Really?
…of course, Sherlock hadn't been 'surprised'.
Sherlock had even believed the bit about the code, too.
Jim hadn't thought he would.
(Mycroft probably told him about it or something.)
…So now all the hungry wolves (his clients) believed it too.
And they all wanted him (for his code—how shallow!)…
JM—
So the keycode IS real.
Now I'm VERY interested.
Name your price.
####
Saw you on the telly today…
…that was YOU?
Nice face!
;)
####
Congrats on the acquittal, Mr. M!
How did you manage that one?
Nvm.
Your code is enough 'magic' for me.
Whatever you ask, I'll pay!
####
You set my employee up.
You will pay for this.
You owe me all the money in the Bank of England and you—
(Text message deleted.)
…well most of them, anyway.
Now that he and Sherlock had had their little 'tea party', it was time to visit Molly.
…he'd been doing a lot of that lately (admittedly so).
So many times he was going to be 'done' with her (and so many more times she was going to be 'done' with him)…
…and then he (she) just wasn't.
Why?
No reason.
No reason.
…except that, hey, people got bored.
And Jim Moriarty was bored.
And so was Richard Brooke.
But the difference was that Richard Brooke needed to be bored. Needed to be boring.
Rich was the one who had sent Molly those amazing(ly creepy) fairytale videos…
Rich was the one to tell her about the two ways someone can 'want' someone…
Rich was the actor (Jim was just the pretender (acting play within a play)).
Rich was normal.
…and being normal, Rich needed one of those…'girlfriend' things.
Molly was the obvious choice.
Molly was normal (just like Rich).
And Molly was convenient.
(…plus, Rich maybe (sort of, kind of) liked her.)
And so, Jim Moriarty went to see her.
No—Richard Brooke did.
And so, Richard Brooke went to see Molly Hooper.
…Not Guilty.
Not Guilty.
Not Guilty?
Molly's jaw dropped in shock and horror (in surprise and joy) as she listened to television reporter after television report state the verdict "not guilty".
What, were those jurors crazy?
…No.
Of course not!
They were sane.
Very sane.
The very sane jurors had been very sane to do exactly what Jim Moriarty had told them to (and so remain alive).
(Which was the same reason Molly did exactly what Jim Moriarty told her to do. Because she was very sane. Yes. Definitely.)
"Hear that, Toby?" she asked her cat, who sat, also watching from her lap, "Jim's 'not guilty'."
(She mimicked the solemn voices of the reporters which failed to hide their disturbed confusion at their own words.)
Toby lay his head down on his front paws, settling into her lap.
The newsfeed changed from the man on the steps of the courthouse, to a crowd of reporters in some city square where apparently Lestrade was giving a press conference.
Lestrade was also repeating two words, "No comment."
Molly clicked off the screen with the remote, standing up (and forcing Toby to, as well) from the couch and starting towards the kitchen.
It was the middle of the afternoon.
…So why was Molly not at work (again)?
"That's right, Toby, Jim's 'not guilty'…" Molly repeated as her pet followed from the carpet onto the tile, allowing herself to laugh.
Toby expected a meal (but it was the middle of the afternoon so he'd be expecting for a long time) however, instead of reaching into the cabinet with the cans of cat food, Molly pulled the (rarely used) tea kettle (gift from her sister as a 'flat warming present' (and a joke)) and the tea (also rarely used (Molly was a coffee person (…and so was Jim) but this was an occasion).
"Not guilty. Jim's not guilty…" Molly continued, glancing down at the expectant cat who mewed, "…and Molly's not stupid. She knows he'll be here. Sooner or later. Molly knows Jim'll be here…and so mummy's putting on a pot of tea for when daddy gets back—no."
And that was enough of talking to her cat (herself) for the day.
From then on, Molly waited in silence, cups of tea (and milk and sugar), waiting with her, ready but getting cooler and cooler with each passing second.
She was expecting Jim, yes, but it was the middle of the afternoon and so she'd be expecting for a long time.
It wasn't until almost seven thirty in the evening that Jim finally arrived.
"Adorable." Jim said, as he strolled into her apartment (after he had opened her door with a key he somehow apparently had) "You made tea. And it's gone cold, so you've been waiting. Adorable, Molly, just adorable…now be a dear and make daddy some coffee, it's been a long day!"
(….'Daddy'…? God! How had he known?)
Jim leaned against the counter, yawning, and staring at Molly expectantly once his eyes opened.
She jumped up from the stool she had been sitting (dozing on) and hurried towards the coffeemaker (also rarely used, she usually just got her coffee at the hospital cafeteria (…and sometimes, at a little shop a few blocks away)), then going through the necessary rituals for the machine to rain down that much sought-after elixir of life.
"I knew you'd be coming." Molly said, her back turned to him as she made the coffee.
"I did too." Jim replied.
She was sure he must have been shrugging.
Molly heard the stool screech against the floor, indicating that Jim had sat down.
"…you're late." Molly tried (risked), still not facing him.
Jim snorted.
"I had better things to do." He stated.
And she didn't try (risk) again.
There was some clinking on the countertop and Molly knew Toby must have hopped up there and knocked over the tea cups.
Great.
Now she'd have another mess (at least she's be able to clean this one up).
But she didn't bother to turn around until the coffee was made (just one cup. It was only for him. Her mouth was dry but she wasn't thirsty).
By that time Jim had already wiped up the spilled, cold tea…
…with his suit-jacket.
(!)
"What are you…" Molly started but stopped. No point in asking.
"You know…" Jim began, looking up at her briefly and then back down at the countertop he was mopping up and the expensive piece of clothing he was destroying, "…I really hate grey. So boring. Neutral. Yuck!... It's disgusting!"
He whipped up the jacket, flapping it a couple times so that brown sprayed everywhere, causing Molly to flinch backwards (almost spraying Jim's coffee everywhere and causing another brown mess).
She set the cup down for him on the counter, and then, tentatively, took the dripping jacket from his hands.
"…I'll just…uh…get this dry-cleaned for you…"
"Don't bother. I said I hate grey."
He sat back down on the stool, back to the counter where his elbows rested (and his white shirt was soaking up the remaining spill).
"Then why—"
"Did I wear it? Because Sherlock always wears black. Can't wear the same color dress to the prom as him, now can I?"
"…Why not white, then? Isn't that, like, um…the opposite of black?"
"Isn't obvious?"
"…oh right. Cause white represents 'goodness' and 'angels' and, um, things like that."
Toby was back up on the countertop and then he was down in Jim's lap, purring and further ruining the clothing that Molly could not afford to replace with his fur.
"Hmm, you're right." Jim nodded in mock consideration, "…never even thought of that one."
"But then—"
"Oh, come on, Molly! It's obvious! Think!"
"I don't—I don't know!"
Molly shook her head desperately.
Jim shook his, laughing.
"I don't wear white suits… because white's your color."
And he was right, of course.
Even though she wasn't even at work, Molly was still wearing her white labcoat (now stained with tiny brown stars).
As always, Molly felt silly (stupid).
Jim was still chuckling and so Molly just joined in because she might as well (it served Jim pretty well, didn't it?).
She, a little reluctantly, dumped the wet jacket into the trash-bin.
Jim grabbed his coffee and gulped it down although it was probably still scalding.
"…Lestrade knows." Molly told him, after a while of just staring at him (as if she actually thought he would be sentenced to life in prison (like he deserved) and she'd never see him again and finally 'all would be right with the world' (but not her world)).
"… 'Knows'?" Jim repeated, raising and eyebrow and setting down the mug.
"Knows about us." Molly explained, "Lestrade knows about us."
"… 'us'?"
"...yeah, 'us'. Aren't we, like, well…together, or something?"
"You know, Molly, sometimes I just don't get you. One day you're all over me, the next you're trying to get me arrested. So if we went by that kind of label, darling…we'd have 'broken up' almost every other day now. I never know where I stand with you."
Oh!
So he 'didn't know' where he stood with her!
Ha, ha…sure.
"…I just…I—"
He did have a point.
"The reason Lestrade 'knows'—if that idiot really does know anything—is because you told him! I mean, you're the one who told him your 'mystically acquired knowledge' about my fling with the hotel boy and the three Grinches who tried to steal your Christmas…."
Okay.
He really did have a point.
Like, really.
"…. And he should be thanking me for what I did. Those men were muggers and that kid was drinking underage. They were all criminals! They got what they deserved. I was doing a public service! Scotland Yard should give me a medal for what I did, cleaning up the streets. They should call me 'the world's only consulting vigilante', wouldn't you agree?"
…But not that.
That went too far.
That was wrong.
"…Not really, no…but, um, well Lestrade knows." Molly fumbled, twisting her free hands nervously around each other, looking at Toby rather than Jim's face, "…And you're here. And Lestrade knows. So maybe you shouldn't, you know…be here."
"Are you…. kicking me out, Molly?" Jim asked, voice flat as hand slapping a face, one eyebrow raised once again.
His absentminded strokes to Toby's fur stopped…which, for some reason, caused Molly's hands to freeze and clench awkwardly.
She slowly lifted her eyes to meet Jim's gaze.
His eyes were empty and black.
"N-no!" Molly denied, quickly, "I'm not saying that…I'm just saying it's not safe. It's not safe here. Lestrade knows where I live, he'll come here and—"
"Come here and do what?" Jim interrupted, "Arrest me? I don't think so. You on the other hand…"
"…you want me to be arrested?" Molly inquired.
"Well, that would be quite the sight to see…" Jim smirked, "Molly Hooper, scared little mouse in jail…with all those hungry cats."
"…no!" Molly exclaimed, knowing exactly what he was trying to mean (this time, at least).
"…I dunno, Molly, I don't they're all that bad, cats…" Jim mused, petting Toby again, "In fact, I find them adorable…isn't that right, Toby? You're just adorable, aren't you? Oh, I could just eat you up…"
And Molly did not slap her forehead.
"I don't want either of us to go to prison." She stated, moving slightly towards him, "…so if we're going to meet, I think we should do it some place else."
"Do you want me to leave right now?" Jim questioned, looking up at Molly from where he sat.
"No!" Molly cried, and then, realizing she had sounded too urgent added, "No. I mean…No, there's no need. You're already here so, of course, you can stay…Stay the night. Um, you can leave in the morning, I guess…and go down the fire escape so nobody sees you…"
"How cliché." Jim rolled his eyes.
"It wasn't 'cliché' when you were breaking into my window when you knew Lestrade was here!" Molly reminded.
"God, not Lestrade again." Jim groaned, "You just can't stop talking about that guy, can you? Personally, I've had enough of him..."
"Me too." Molly agreed, fervently nodding.
"Oh, really." Jim countered, "I thought he was like your adoring little puppy now, yapping and chasing after your heels, trying to get your attention, slobbering all over you…"
"No." Molly shook her head, "…At least not after yesterday. Especially not after yesterday. Not anymore."
"…Got in bit of a fight with him, did you?" Jim asked, smiling (as if he knew exactly what the answer was), "Good for you, finally standing up for yourself. My little mouse is not so 'little' anymore, not a child, now is she? Molly's all grown up…"
(…'Not a child'? God! How had he known?)
No point in asking.
"He figured it out." Molly recounted, "I was in the courthouse, I was going back to the cells to see you…and he knew. He was there waiting for me."
"Oh, so that's why you didn't pay me a visit." Jim shrugged, "I was wondering…I did see you in the courtroom, though. Sitting with your puppy, of course. He was very protective of you…"
"Lestrade's protective of everyone—female that is.." Molly reasoned, "…Even that guard when she was the one that slapped you."
"…Oooh, I remember that. Ouch." Jim feigned pain, rubbing his cheek.
"…What was that all about anyway?" Molly dared to ask.
Jim grinned.
"Wanna know what I said to her?" he offered.
Molly dared to nod a 'yes'.
Jim stood up (forcing Toby to, as well) and approached Molly.
Leaning in, he cupped his hands around her ear, whispering something.
Molly's eyes and mouth grew wide with shock.
She couldn't help but gasp.
He couldn't help but laugh.
After their awkward conversation (argument?) Lestrade and Molly had gone their separate ways, her to the hospital and him to Scotland Yard.
The next day, Lestrade had returned to the courthouse to hear the sentencing of Jim Moriarty.
Not Guilty.
What the hell?
What was that jury thinking?
This had to be a set up!
And there was no wayLestrade was going to let Moriarty get away with this.
Lestrade (with a newspaper strategically positioned over his face) waited until Moriarty had 'left the building' (after having an interesting conversation with a journalist), into the crowd of his adoring fans (the media (the vultures (Yes! Eat him alive! Please!))) and then walked away down the street.
Lestrade followed him.
Whenever Moriarty crossed a street, Lestrade crossed the same street.
Whenever Moriarty turned a corner, Lestrade turned the same corner.
He was not letting him escape!
…And it was only after about twenty minutes of walking that Lestrade realized that they were going in circles.
They had turned a corner, crossed a street and then suddenly they were in front of the courthouse again.
Goddammit!
Moriarty must have figured out Lestrade that was following him.
But how?
Moriarty had been texting (on the phone the police were forced to return to him now that it was no longer evidence since he had been acquitted) the entire time he had been leisurely strolling down the streets of London.
How had he even seen Lestrade?
It didn't matter.
Lestrade stopped, by the steps of the courthouse, and sighed.
…maybe he was going about this the wrong way.
Maybe he should just straight out confront the guy.
What was Moriarty going to do, anyway? Turn around and shoot him?
Get himself put right back in jail when he had just gotten set free?
Lestrade didn't think so.
"Wait!" he called after Moriarty, who turned around, briefly to look at him, glancing up from his smartphone.
And then he started to run.
The guilty ones alwaysran.
And it was Lestrade's job to chase them.
So he did.
Whenever Moriarty crossed a street, Lestrade crossed the same street.
Whenever Moriarty turned a corner, Lestrade turned the same corner.
And Lestrade turned that same corner...
...into a crowd of reporters.
What?
"Detective Inspector, Detective Inspector!"
Instantly, Lestrade was being barraged by a bombardment of reporters, microphones and cameras attacking his face.
"Any comment on the Moriarty verdict?" one demanded, pen and notepad ready to write down whatever Lestrade had to say "What do you have to say about this crushing defeat of Scotland Yard!"
"No comment!" Lestrade shouted.
There had to be at least a hundred of them (actually more like thirty or so but that was a lot), the square between four tall buildings was packed like an exploding minefield.
Where had they all come from?
What were they all doing here?
Lestrade attempted to push his way through the crowd of media personnel but like the waves of the ocean they crashed him backwards, swallowing him in their mass.
Where was Moriarty?
Gone.
Disappeared into the sea of people.
Damn this!
"…'No comment', Detective Inspector Lestrade? " Another reporter asked, "Then whydid you schedule this press conference?"
"What?" Lestrade exclaimed, "I didn't schedule—oh!…of course..."
Moriarty must have planned this; Moriarty must have lured the ever-ravenous animals (the media) here by text message with the false promise of a good meal (a Scotland Yard comment of the (shocking) verdict).
Moriarty had set him up!
And where was Moriarty again?
…gone.
Gone! Gone! Gone!
He had gotten away!
Again!
He was probably on a plane to like China or somewhere by now...
…or worse.
Visiting his 'best friend' Sherlock...or his girlfriend Molly.
And there was nothing Lestrade could do about it.
He groaned, cursing to him self and then stalking away, the trail of reporters following him like hungry sharks.
IOU
IOU
IOU
Sherlock repeated the letters to himself, over and over and over again his mind.
I
O
U
Just what did those three letters mean...?
Jim Moriarty had been here.
Sherlock had been expecting him.
"I owe you a fall, Sherlock." Moriarty had said, "I… Owe… You."
IOU
And then he had carved into an apple.
IOU
But why?
Obviously it was some kind of symbol for something…but what?
IOU
IOU
IOU
…Could it be the code, perhaps…?
No.
Too short.
Something that small wouldn't have the power to break into the Tower of London, Bank of England and Pentonville Prison…especially all at once.
…and how would Jim Moriarty acquire such a code in the first place?
He certainly didn't create it himself.
Obviously not.
Moriarty was smart, yes, a genius, quite likely…
…but him having the attention span to sit down and make something so complicated (and frankly, pointless) that it would take hours, days, perhaps even years of his time…
Never.
Even Sherlock wouldn't be that stupid to waste his mind and energy doing something so without-purpose (boring) as computer coding.
And neither would Moriarty.
That was one thing (among many others) that they had in common.
They didn't tolerate boredom.
So who would?
Who would spend hours, days, perhaps even years of his (or her—although a female creator was unlikely) his time creating this all-access keycode?
Who?
And who (that would) would Moriarty have known?
Who would he have gotten this code from?
…a client, probably.
Someone who could produce this 'good'…but was unable to market it.
That excluded all major computer and/or technology company employees (from the high level CEOs and founders, to the lowliest of programmers).
They would have had ample (overt and under-the-table) methods of selling (or using) the code.
Microsoft—no.
IBM—no.
Apple—no.
(..etc…)—no.
No.
No.
No!
…so who…
...one of Moriarty's clients…
"Big client list. Rogue governments, intelligence communities, terrorist cells…"
Terrorist cells.
(Recovered— all information terrorist cells.)
"You're skilled at hiding, Irene. How did they find you? Who told them your location?"
"James Moriarty."
James Moriarty.
…but wasn't Moriarty the one who had informed Sherlock of Irene being captured in Karachi so that Sherlock could rescue her?
(Recovered—Jim Moriarty's long text message.)
"Irene Adler is in Karachi…I just want my beloved to be happy…"
Why would he tell the terrorists where she was…and then tell him?
It didn't add up…
Of course, Moriarty had described himself as 'changeable'…
Moriarty had worked so hard to conceal his identity…and then revealed himself to Sherlock and John…
…and then tried to kill them (including himself)…and then let them all live.
'Changeable' indeed.
"Sorry boys! I'm soooo changeable!"
(Recovered—old blind woman. Now deceased. Blown up. By Moriarty.)
"His voice was so soft…"
"Sorry boys! I'm soooo changeable!"
"His voice was so soft…"
No, it wasn't.
…still only 'changeable'…?
(Recovered—first meeting with Jim Moriarty in pool locker-room. Seeing each other through their reflections in the mirror. Moriarty was laughing. No. pretending to laugh.)
"…Hey! What are you looking at? Huh? Yeah you! I know you hear me! I can see you standing there! What are you looking at, bright eyes? What are you staring at? Answer me! Say something, pretty boy, say something!"
"…"
"…just say something…"
But Sherlock had said nothing.
He had had to go.
Go…
…to where, though?
(Recovered—destination. Home.)
He was late.
Late…
…to what, though?
(Recovered—destination. Math lesson.)
"Sherlock. You're late. Where were you?"
"I was at school—"
"You need practice in lying as much as you need it in math. I know you were at that pool—"
"I waste my time with athletics! Mycroft you know that—"
"I know why you were at that pool… But your dealer didn't arrive, did he?"
"I—"
"You waited for him…that's why you're late. But he didn't come. It's a shame when people don't make their appointments. How rude—"
"Yes. 'How rude'. Which is exactly why you should stop delaying me from my math lesson. I'm late."
"Your tutor is a very important man, Sherlock. He doesn't have time to waste. You should consider yourself lucky that such an accomplished businessman as—"
(-Deleted. The name of the tutor had been deleted.)
(In fact, Sherlock had deleted most of his episodic memory in his mind from ages thirteen (when he had started smoking) to twenty-six (when Mycroft had finally locked him a dark room long enough for full withdrawal and recovery) so that his body could delete its dependence on addictive 'medications'.)
…what was the tutor's name?
"…such an accomplished businessman as—"
As who?
…what was the tutor's name?
"I'm not stupid. I know numbers. I can do math—If I wanted to…waste my time, that is. It's a waste of time. Boring. It's so repetitive. Boring. Always the same. Boring. Such strict, absolute rules. Boring. Only a pattern. Boring. Too easy. Boring… Boring. Boring. Boring! Like that. Again and again and again. Boring."
"…Boring?"
"Yes. Boring."
"So you say that numbers are boring?"
"Yes."
"Patterns are boring?"
"Yes."
"Boring?"
"Yes! Boring! How many times must I repeat it? It's boring. Math is boring! Numbers are boring! Patterns are boring!"
"…but you like to play the violin, right?"
"Yes…so…?"
"Well what do you think music is?"
"Music is—"
"Music is numbers. Music is a pattern…Do you know why you can play the same song on your violin in both 'A Minor'—"
(-Recovered. A Minor. Johann Sebastian Bach. "Thank you, Johann Sebastain Leopold…" Moriarty had said. And Sherlock had been playing violin.)
"…Do you know why you can play the same song on your violin in both 'A Minor' and say, 'D Sharp'?"
"The scales. There are different scales."
"Yes. 'Scales'. Patterns. Ratios…numbers. Music is numbers. Think of it that way."
"Why should I?"
"Because it's true. You can hear each number in your head…if you listen."
"I don't hear. I see. I see the colors. I see the music—"
"Then look! See the numbers. They have colors too! They have shapes. If you can't see them, you're not looking. You're just not paying attention…"
"That's because they're not worth paying attention to, numbers!"
"Yes they are. Numbers are patterns. Patterns are how you memorize. How you predict. How you know…what color is A?"
"Huh?"
"The note, A. You said you saw the colors in music. So what color does the note A sound?"
"…Yellow."
"…and what number is yellow?"
"…Four—no. Five. Or, um… both of them. Four and five. They're both yellow…I think…"
"Good…."
"Yes. They're both yellow. But…but five is a bit darker and four is a bit lighter…or no…maybe four is green—"
"The number or the sound of the number?"
"…I'm not sure."
"Don't get them confused. The sound and the symbol are different colors. What color is the sound of the number four?"
"…green. That's the four that's green. The symbol's still yellow. Light yellow. Five is dark yellow…almost orange."
"And then what?"
"Six is red. The sound….I'm not sure the symbol…or spelled out."
"Don't use the letters. Don't get them confused."
"…Oh, this is just making it more complicated!"
"Yes…but is it still boring?"
"…no."
"Good."
And after that first lesson, Sherlock didn't have any trouble with math anymore…once he did 'apply himself' (as Mycroft had put it).
…but what was the tutor's name?
The tutor that taught him that math was the same color as music and music was just patterns and ratios and numbers.
…what was his name?
(Sherlock had simply called him 'The Tutor' (to which Mycroft had made a joke about Henry VII (to which 'The Tutor' had politely laughed)) instead of bothering to learn his name…but he had heard it, hadn't he? He must have…)
He must have 'deleted' it.
"Your tutor is a very important man, Sherlock. You should consider yourself lucky that such an accomplished businessman as—"
As who?
"Sherlock, this is your new math tutor, Mr.—"
Who?
"He's been very successful, not only in his field mathematics, but in the business world as well. He's very busy and yet, as a favor to me, he'll be taking time out of his schedule every week to assist you with your calculus."
Who?
"…Don't treat him so coldly, Sherlock. He's not just you're average teacher. Not even just your average mathematician...no. he's not one of them. He's one of us. He's like us, Sherlock. He's a genius…"
Who?
…Who?
(Recovered—tutor's name. James Moriarty.)
James Moriarty!
…obviously not the same James Moriarty as the 'consulting criminal' recently acquitted that had come to visit (no, an older one, by at least a decade…) but one with the same name.
A coincidence?
"No such thing." Mycroft had said, regarding coincidences.
"A statistical improbability." 'The Tutor' (James Moriarty) had said.
…so…
So a mathematical genius could have produced a keycode powerful enough to break into the Tower of London, Bank of England and Pentonville prison…all at once…
…and then given it to 'consulting criminal' James Moriarty (related? most likely brothers) to market and sell.
"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."
Improbable.
(Recovered—'theimprobableone'. John's blog. Annoying comments. Previously deleted (from Sherlock's mind, not John's blog)… was Moriarty (which one?) trying to tell him something…?)
But it explained everything.
It all added up.
Of course, if James Moriarty (Recovered—computer coding. Security systems. PICA. Eyes everywhere. Defense contracting…British government…Mycroft…) the 'accomplished businessman' (as Mycroft had put it) wanted to stay an 'accomplished businessman'…
…he would want someone with the same name committing crimes overtly, ruining both their reputations (especially if they were related (most likely brothers)).
(Recovered—brothers.)
"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."
But because Jim Moriarty was Jim Moriarty…one can't just 'stop' him from committing crimes…
…and so James Moriarty would just have to make sure Jim Moriarty wasn't doing it overtly.
And because Jim Moriarty was Jim Moriarty…
…he would make even that difficult.
Which explained why James Moriarty was so 'changeable'.
Because he was two different people.
Two men, one name.
Acting was an easy living.
Too easy.
Boring.
But boring was good.
Richard Brooke was supposed to be boring.
And after his 'hard (easy) day's work' of shooting (children's television, not people), Rich returned to the hotel he was staying at while he was in London (for shooting (children's television (not people)).
And then Jim would wait at the bar for Molly.
No—Rich.
And then Rich would wait at the bar for Molly.
(Rich was the actor. Jim was just the pretender.)
Rich would wait at the hotel bar for his girlfriend Molly, a hospital employee (what exactly did she do, again?), who would usually arrive around nine-ish at night.
He'd get up and greet her, a kiss and an embrace (because they wanted everyone to know), and then they'd go up to their room 221 (which was just a random number).
Then Jim would—
No!
Not Jim.
Rich.
Richard Brooke.
(Richard Brooke was the actor. Jim Moriarty was the pretender. Jim was just pretending…only pretending…)
Then Rich and Molly would do what people do when they were 'together' (as Molly labeled it).
And it was all very nice.
And normal.
And boring.
Just like Rich and Molly were.
Just like Richard Brooke was supposed to be.
And it was always adorable. Just adorable.
Tonight was no different.
Tonight, in her coat, scarf and sunglasses (coat buttoned, scarf rapped around her head, sunglasses huge), Molly came into the hotel out of the pleasantly cool march night.
Seeing Jim, waiting for her at the bar (shifting back and forth on the stool impatiently, tapping the empty glass in his hand) she approached him.
He was up immediately and then right in front of her.
He kissed her before she could speak.
"You sure it's safe…?" She whispered, when she could, "Always meeting here, at the same place, every night?"
"Darling, we've nothing to worry about," Jim dismissed, with a chuckle, "even the great Sherlock Holmes wouldn't recognize you in that disguise."
And so, of course, he pulled the (cheap, tacky) sunglasses off her face and the scarf from around her hair, then kissing her again.
"I'm just trying to be safe..." She sighed.
(This wasn't normal, having to go 'incognito' to see your 'boyfriend' (?), having to hide and sneak around and lie. It just wasn't normal. It wasn't right...but it also wasn't boring.)
"You're just ashamed to be seen with me." Jim corrected, rolling the scarf around the sunglasses and then tossing the wad onto the nearby sofa, "I mean, really, the winter-coat? It's so last season…"
"Sherlock's still wearing his coat." Molly stated, folding her sleeved arms, "He always wears a coat, no matter the weather… it's actually kinda fashionable now, ever since he got famous."
Jim rolled his eyes.
"You know nothing about fashion." He groaned, knowing that beneath the coat was another one of her frumpy grandma outfits that were so egregious (adorable), "…Besides, dear…you're not here to see Sherlock, are you?"
"No, I'm not..." Molly shook her head, smiling just a little as she dared to whisper, "I'm here to see you… Jim Moriarty."
Hi, mommy!
...that button that says 'Review'...
...click it.
No, you don't have to have an account and yes, I'm that desperate!