In 5...
...4...
...3...
...2...
...1...
...and we're back!
Hannah, here and I'm SO SORRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY everyone!
I know it's been over a week!
I didn't mean to make everybody wait, and I'm really really sorry! Please forgive me.
Don't think I've been partying it up or anything or ignoring you all, I really wanted to write...
...I just couldn't.
I'd lent my favorite hairclip to a friend, one that I had worn for years that had become so sentimental to me, and then she lost it.
When I realized I'd never get it back I got sad and went through some withdrawal-like symptoms because when you get used to having something and then you don't have it anymore suddenly your homeostasis gets all messed up and I was in too bad a mood to write.
Or do anything really lol.
I tried to find a new hairclip but none of them really worked (my hair is very particular (difficult), you see-curly ( nappy, even)).
Oh well.
Finally today I was able to write because there's only so long I could go on like this worrying about a stupid hairclip.
I needed a distraction lol.
...but I couldn't think of any filler that wasn't stupid and so I just went back to plot.
Sorry for those who wanted filler.
And sorry again for taking so damn long!
I hope ya'll haven't forgotten about this story...
There was an app on Jim's phone that allowed one to spy into 221b Baker Street via a camera hidden somewhere in a ceiling corner.
For months, it had been 'broken' as said hidden camera had been confiscated by government agents.
But now the video feed was back online, watching the living room from between two books on a high bookshelf.
Jim stared into the phone.
Sherlock was pacing around the flat, walking over and on top of the furniture rather than around.
It worked alright until he stepped up on a table where a loose magazine caused him to slip and fall to the floor, backwards, causing a loud crash.
Quickly, Sherlock leaped up from the ground, brushed himself off and looking both ways to make sure nobody had seen.
Mrs. Hudson and John ran into the room from downstairs and upstairs, respectively, worried and confused looks on their faces.
But by the time they reach Sherlock, he was standing and it was the table lying sideways on the floor, the papers strewn all over the room (some still sailing slowly downwards in the air).
"Sherlock, what happened in here?" John demanded, glancing back and forth between the overturned table and Sherlock.
"The table." Sherlock stated, "It was in my way. So I moved it."
"Heavens, dear, are you alright?" Mrs. Hudson asked.
"No, Mrs. Hudson, I am not 'fine'!" Sherlock exclaimed, "I'm bored!"
Jim snickered to himself as he watched the live footage.
At least Sherlock was 'bored' without him.
That was fair.
Because Jim, too, was certainly bored.
He couldn't go anywhere in London, now, without being recognized. For some unfathomable reason this really bothered Molly, who refused to be seen in public with him.
That confined all their activities to what could be done in a hotel (prank calls, the knocking version of ding-dong-ditch to other guests' doors, ordering room service and then sending it back to the kitchen) most of which were boring (and 'rude', said Molly, 'don't call attention to yourself, they'll get suspicious').
The only time Jim ever got to leave the room was when the talent agency called Richard Brooke in for an acting job (which was happening less and less because most casting calls were intimidated by such a handsome person (-uncomfortable with someone who looked a little too like that creepy criminal from the news)appearing to read lines).
And so yes, Jim was bored.
(At least the Sherlock Cam was back on, though—and Sherlock was as bored as he was.)
Jim needed to do something.
(And somehow it never even occurred to Jim that he could simply go out alone, without Molly, and have his 'fun' or do whatever he wanted, without her panicked, nervous 'nagging'.)
He and Sherlock were both bored.
He and Sherlock both knew how to solve this problem.
…and yet, here they both were, on separate ends of the city living like zombies, fed only on distractions.
Sherlock was supposed to be a detective…so why didn't he just come find Jim, if he was so 'bored', it's not like Jim was hiding or anything, he hadn't even left the city! It would be too easy…
But Sherlock Holmes was arrogant.
The man who chased every other interesting criminal wanted the most interesting criminal to chase him.
And so 'chase' Jim would.
…wouldn't he?
Wasn't that what Jim was supposed to do?
(Get Sherlock.)
So why hadn't he yet?
Jim looked up from his smartphone at the building across the street (actually, another hotel), most of its windows lit (and curtained. Sorry, no peaking.) in the evening darkness.
He wondered if the people in those rooms were as bored as he was and if they were, did they even notice...or were they just too stupid?
What kind of world would it be, Jim mused, if everybody was like him (or Sherlock, or Mycroft, or James even)?
Well it wouldn't be boring.
(And Jim wouldn't be alone—but then he wouldn't be different, either.)
"Jim, come inside…they'll see you."
Jim heard Molly's voice behind him, she must have been at the doorway to the balcony where he stood, leaning against the railing.
Jim rolled his eyes.
'They' wouldn't see him. 'They' weren't even looking.
(Sherlock wouldn't see him. Sherlock wasn't even looking.)
And he wasn't hiding.
(Jim wasn't hiding and Sherlock wasn't seeking. What a boring, boring game...)
But Molly knew that.
She knew that and she knew that Jim was too high up and it was too dark for anyone to see him, anyway, (and even if they did then what would they do?).
She just wanted an excuse to call Jim back in to be with her, a logical reason to get him inside without having to step onto the balcony herself.
…A fear of heights, perhaps?
Jim turned around to face Molly (and she indeed was in the doorway, just behind the threshold to the balcony where the carpet touched the concrete).
His eyes were adjusted to the darkness outside and hers to the well-lit hotel room and so they both had to squint to see each other (both looking like shadows).
"No, they won't." Jim dismissed, with a little laugh, "…come outside."
Molly remained in the doorway.
"…too chilly out there for me." She refused, also with a little laugh, "I haven't got my jacket."
(It was almost the end of April.)
"Take mine." Jim offered.
He shed his suit jacket, then holding it out to Molly who didn't move.
"Room service'll probably be here soon, we should—"
But before Molly could complete her sentence, Jim had hopped up onto the ledge of the balcony behind him, sitting on it, adjudicating himself to a comfortable position.
Molly gasped, "Jim! What are you doing?"
Jim grinned.
"…What would you do if I fell, Molly?" he asked, wobbling his body and waving his arms for effect, "…what would you do if I jumped?"
"I would…I…" Molly fumbled, but then shook her head, "Just come back inside."
Then the wind snatched up Jim's jacket from right out his hand (or maybe Jim just let it go), carrying it away from the balcony and the hotel and Jim and Molly.
They watched it whip violently in the air and then fall diagonally downwards towards the streets below, disappearing into the dark.
"Oops." Jim shrugged, hopping down from the railing.
He went over to the doorway, Molly moved to allow him through into the hotel room.
Jim then walked over to the small, circular wooden table in the room where Molly had set down her purse and kicked it over.
And to Jim, for some unfathomable reason, a table on the floor was hilarious.
But to Molly, of course, it was just confusing.
"I was bored." Jim explained, turning back to her after he had finished laughing and answering the question she wasn't going to bother to ask this time.
Molly walked over to the overturned table, picked up her purse and set it on the bed before lifting the table back upright.
"We do eat there, you know…" she reminded, plopping down next to her purse.
And Jim was about to make a clever comment when the phone in his hand buzzed.
Follow-up interview tomorrow? 11am the coffee shop.
-Kitty
Jim read the text.
Yes!
Finally an excuse, a logical reason (since when did he need those?) for him to leave the hotel room!
…but Jim was not going back to that coffee shop with Kitty Riley.
The last time he had been there with Kitty, the barista had given him a dirty look, obviously assuming that he was cheating on his girlfriend ( that painfully shy and awkward but still very nice girl from the hospital) with this new flashy, more fashionable office worker.
I can't leave my hotel. I've been hiding in my room for days. Sherlock Holmes is looking for me.
If he finds me, he'll kill me.
Come talk to me at the hotel. I'll send you the address once I find some stationary or something with it on it.
-Rich
Jim sent the reply message.
So much for leaving the hotel…
"What are you doing?" Molly inquired.
Jim glanced up at her from the phone, she had stood up and was heading towards him.
Swiftly, he exited the text messaging application and returned to the Sherlock Cam.
"Look!" Jim declared, holding up the screen to Molly's eyes, "Our favorite reality show's back on!"
Molly stared into the phone.
John and Mrs. Hudson were picking up magazines, and newspapers and other papers from the already cluttered floor as Sherlock paced around, sometimes stepping on items they were trying to lift.
"I can't believe this…" Molly said.
"I know, isn't it exciting!" Jim agreed, turning the screen back towards him.
He sat down on the bed and Molly sat next to him so they could both watch the app.
"I thought the camera was gone..." Molly replied, "I saw Sherlock's brother and some of the men who took you go into Sherlock's flat and take the camera away."
"Well, Mycroft must've put it back, then." Jim figured.
"Why would he do that?" Molly asked, "He knew what it was. He looked right into it! And he probably even knew you're the one who put it there…so why would he put it back?"
"Sibling rivalry, I suppose…" Jim answered.
"But they're brothers!"
"That's what I said, isn't it, 'sibling rivalry'…"
"No, I mean Sherlock's brother, um, Mycroft- he knows it was your camera, right?"
"Right."
"But he still put it there, knowing you'd be able to watch Sherlock…and he even let you out of his custody! He caught you and could have stopped you from ever going after Sherlock again…but he just let you go."
"Right."
"…So why. Why would he do that? He's Sherlock's older brother! Isn't he supposed to protect him? Isn't he supposed be on his side?"
Jim chuckled at that, putting the cellphone down on the bed between Molly and turning to her.
"People like Mycroft like to keep neutral as long as possible," he explained, "It's simply more convenient that way. They never pick a side until they absolutely have to—and even then they're only ever really on their own."
"'People like Mycroft'?" Molly repeated, "…you mean the government, people in power?...or people like you?"
"Well, both, really…it's more fun to play on both sides of the field…" Jim decided, a smile growing on his face, "…and play for both teams."
He raised his eyebrows with exaggerated suggestion.
Molly allowed herself to giggle.
This was progress.
From gay to bisexual.
(Or, rather, from Sherlock to 'the exception'.)
Had she done that?
Molly couldn't say that she wasn't just a little bit proud of herself.
(Still, of course, it could be 'all a lie' or 'all part of the plan'…but as long as Jim was here, with her and not with Sherlock (or going around killing people, committing crimes, etc) Molly would be proud because this was a good thing. And even if she was 'just a distraction', she was a particularly good distraction, the particularly good distraction making Jim Moriarty 'be good'.)
A round table, originating in the Arthurian legends, was meant to promote an atmosphere of equality and cooperation between all those who sat around it.
However, despite its shape (which was actually a little more oval than circular) all the 'knights of the round table' were all arguing as they sat in secret and locked backroom (not shady at all, actually, very nicely decorated) of the Swiss meeting hall.
Sitting back in the stiff-cushioned chair, Mycroft watched the warfare he liked to avoid between the representatives from the West and the rest.
"You need to tell your leader that any further nuclear testing will not be tolerated." The man from the United States warned, standing up and pointing a finger across the table towards his target.
"I did not come to this meeting to be told what to do." The target, the representative from Iran, countered, also standing, "I will leave if you offend me again."
The two glared at each other until they were both ushered to sit back down by those sitting next to them.
"If your country makes nuclear weapons they will inevitably fall into the hands of terrorists." The Israeli representative declared.
"You are the terrorists!" The man from Pakistan exclaimed jumping up, "NATO is the terrorist! You all go around the globe like thugs, taking over all the other countries, killing their people and stealing their resources. You all have your own nuclear weapons and yet you forbid anyone else from having them, leaving the rest of us defenseless and at your mercy!"
"How dare you!" The man from Israel snapped.
He too jumped up from his chair, along with the representative from India.
"Your government is entirely composed of terrorists!" he responded.
And then everyone was talking (shouting) at once; everyone standing up, pounding the round table with fists and pointing fingers across it at each other.
It was all a very dramatic show.
One that Mycroft did not enjoy in the least.
He was one of the only two people still seated and he looked over when he saw the other rise, clearing his throat before speaking.
"Gentlemen, please calm down." James said, "Perhaps it is the altitude but no one is thinking with a clear head and an open mind. I suggest we all take a recess now and resume after we have all refreshed ourselves."
His voice was soft, barely audible over the uproar—which silenced upon his preceding cough.
And everyone listened to James Moriarty as he spoke.
Mycroft, impressed, nodded his head approvingly as the representatives murmured their agreement to James's suggestion.
Mycroft had assumed that James was only at the conference for the play-acted economic summit they had performed earlier that week, just to keep up its appearances as he was an authority on money and monetary policy.
But as it turned out, the Swiss hosts had specifically requested that James stayed for the latent purpose of the meeting as well.
He consulted for their banks (pretty shady, actually) and some of the rumors (surely completely baseless!) circulating around the table indicated that James had secretly purchased North Korea (strange…).
Mycroft decided that he'd get Anthea to check into that.
Until this gathering, Mycroft had not known just how extensive James's influence really was (he knew James was rich and good business man, but he had thought James had given all that up for the simple life of a teacher)…
…but he had known James since they were tops of their classes at university, professionally (because people like them didn't have friends), and knew that James was a humble and private man (kindred spirit?), which he had respected and (until this gathering) had no logical reason to suspect.
And still, Mycroft didn't 'suspect', James to be anything more than someone who could prove to be a helpful ally in the future (regardless of any little white collar crimes he was never even investigated for).
"Shall we proceed?" James continued, gesturing towards and approaching the door which he held open for everyone as they exited the room.
They all knew what he had meant by 'refreshed ourselves'.
Their generous Swiss hosts had a variety of options open to guests of this clandestine meeting at the complementary lodgings.
And once all the 'knights templar' ('knights templar' because if any men secretly did control the world, they were indeed in this room) were gone, James was left still holding the door for Mycroft.
"After you, sir" Mycroft allowed (maybe even bowing a little, for the fun of it) and before James could object, he added, "I insist."
"Why thank you, sir." James accepted, (also maybe bowing a little bit, too, just for fun) releasing the door and walking into the hallways ahead.
Although Molly had decided to 'risk' eating breakfast downstairs at the hotel restaurant with Jim before work…
…she still had to have a newspaper open, to quickly pull up and cover her face just in case somebody she knew happened to randomly come to this particular hotel at eight in the morning for no logical reason whatsoever.
The table was in the corner (and the farthest from the window as possible) and even had a cloth for the breakfast hours (since this was a classy hotel, after all).
There was both a menu and a buffet option, but just as Jim had predicted, Molly had stuck to continental.
She was sitting across from him, nibbling on some kind of pastry with a fruit(-like) filling, crumbs crumbling on to the newspaper she held with her other hand.
Maybe she was just trying to save money…which was unnecessary as Jim had switched the room over to one of his pseudonym's credit cards ages ago—although he had 'forgotten' to tell Molly this and was still waiting for her to say something about that.
But Jim wasn't one to judge, he wasn't even eating that morning, himself.
He was saving his appetite for when Kitty came because although Richard Brooke had a girlfriend…he kinda-sorta had maybe a little bit of a crush on the 'intrepid reporter'.
(And that barista could glare all she wanted too, Jim was bored! He needed a distraction and, besides, everyone knew that heterosexual males (like Rich was) were never satisfied with just one woman. They were like animals! Always prowling for more females to conquer. They just couldn't control themselves! ...and so 'cheating' was inevitable. That's what men do.)
Because he wasn't eating and he was just sitting there…
(still in his pajamas, for god's sake! He hadn't even bothered to get dressed to come downstairs. 'Oh how the mighty have fallen'. He was really in a rut.)
…doing nothing (bored. bored. bored.) Jim watched Molly eat.
This was progress.
From being embarrassed to eat in front of any man she was interested in, even 'Jim from IT', until midway through the second date…
…to munching away abstinent-mindedly on a danish as she read the newspaper.
Jim licked his finger and then collected the crumbs that had fallen onto the print, placing them all into his mouth once he had gathered enough.
This, of course, made it difficult for Molly to read.
She looked up at Jim, who grinned.
"So, what's the scoop?" he asked.
"There's so many articles about Sherlock." Molly said, setting down the half-eaten pastry on its small plate.
"He's quite the celebrity now, isn't he?" Jim commented, leaning back in his chair, "…everybody loves him. But we saw him first. We liked Sherlock Holmes before it was cool."
"Not 'everybody' loves him." Molly disagreed, looking down at the newspaper, shaking her head.
"I'm sure not a lot of the criminals he gets locked away love him like I do. But they're all just sore losers. They—"
"No. Not everybody loves Sherlock. Not everybody even believes he's real. Somebody's saying he's a fake…"
Jim gasped.
"Who? Who would dare say such a thing!"
Molly's eyes rose back up from the printed text and pictures of the paper, staring at Jim seriously.
"Richard Brook." She said, "He's claiming Sherlock made up all the crimes he solved, committed some of them even…"
"I'll cut out his tongue for telling such lies!" Jim declared, pounding the table.
The plate with the pastry shook a little and any remaining crumbs tumbled from the table.
"Just stop, I know it's you!" Molly snapped, folding the newspaper shut sharply, "You sent me those videos, remember? They had that name on them! I'm not stupid."
"Ah, well, you caught me, Molly." Jim sighed, "Now I'll have to eat my words and cut out my own tongue."
He pulled a butter-knife out of a folded napkin and brought it up to his tongue.
"Why are you doing this?" Molly demanded, "Why would you call Sherlock a fake? I know it's not all you're going to do. I know it's got to be part of some big plan you have…so why? What is it? What are you going to do to him?"
"Why does it matter?" Jim shrugged, knife paused, "It's not like you'd be able to stop me."
He tried to stab the newspaper with the butter-knife, but it was a butter-knife and so although it punctured the paper it did not cut through the tablecloth nor the table (which it clanged down onto).
"It's not even worth it." Molly stated, "All this with Sherlock. There's no point…and if you really want to hurt him, all you'd have to do is just leave him alone. He'd get bored and be sad. That could be your 'revenge' or whatever you want with him."
"You don't know Sherlock at all if you honestly believe that." Jim scoffed, "You've read all those stories about him and his cases, he's solves a new one practically everyday now, all of them high profile. He's been busy, he hasn't been bored. I've been bored. And that's just not fair."
"You're right." Molly agreed, "That isn't fair. You're so bored without him and he doesn't even notice you're gone. So why waste all your time and energy on him if he doesn't do the same?"
"Darling, it's what I do." Jim replied, as if the statement was obvious (which it actually was and so if Molly hadn't learned that by now then she was stupid).
"You can stop." Molly said, "…you can change."
Jim snorted.
"Do you think you can 'change' me, Molly?" he inquired, sarcastically, "Be the angel that finally redeems the devil? The good girl that fixes the broken, brooding bad boy? Do you think can save me, Molly, do you?"
"No." Molly answered, "You can't change people. You can't make people change. I can't make you do anything you don't want to…just like you can' you can't make Sherlock be as obsessed with you as you are with him."
"Now I wouldn't say that." Jim countered, "I can be very persuasive. I could force Sherlock to chase me—if I wanted to. But I don't even have to. I can just make him want to chase me, if I want to, I can make him want me. You of all people should know I can do that."
"Well you don't know Sherlock at all if you honestly believe that." Molly responded, "You'll never make him do anything he doesn't want to. He's stronger than that…And you, you'll always be just another criminal in a long list of cases. And even if you're his favorite one, you'll never be his only one. You'll never be the one. If you disappear, he'll have so many other distractions to replace you that he won't even notice you're gone. Because no matter how much you chase him in circles, his life'll never revolve around you the way yours revolves around him."
"…well you sound like you're speaking from experience." Jim smirked.
His 'deduction' was nothing but a deflection (…and perhaps if it had been more of an analyzed insight, he would have realized that she couldn't have possibly been speaking from experience with Sherlock and that there was actually only one person she could have been alluding to.)
"I am." Molly affirmed, nodding, "And I know that you can't make somebody care. Either they do or they don't."
"If this continues, there will be a war…" Mycroft predicted.
"There's always a war." James shrugged.
They walked through the back hallways where all rooms were soundproof and not detailed on the public map of the building.
"We've worked too hard to keep our ground neutral and our people safe," Mycroft insisted, "to allow this always war to touch our world—which will happen if this continues."
"Well, maybe it's best we do our negotiations separately, then." James suggested, "This meeting was nothing but a dog fight. Two rabid animals in the same ring can do nothing but fight. Separately, however, the dogs can be tamed."
" 'Divide and conquer'?" Mycroft inferred.
"Yes." James affirmed, "'Great minds think alike'."
"I know the representatives from the US and Israel." Mycroft stated, "I'll talk to them."
"You've got the easy job then." James laughed, "…that leaves me with the one from Iran."
"Oh, don't look so disappointed." Mycroft chided, "The Iranian's 'bark' is bigger than his 'bite', he only lashed out because he was backed into a corner and wanted to break off the 'leash'. If you 'feed' him I assure you he will not 'bite the hand'."
"Alright." James smiled.
And he did not roll his eyes.
(…even though the only other person he knew to get that 'punny' was his younger brother Jim.)
Kitty Riley was stupid.
If she honestly believed Richard Brooke to be an out of work actor, on the run and hiding from fake, murderous genius Sherlock Holmes…
…then why wouldn't she find it questionable that Richard was staying in an expensive hotel room?
Because she was stupid.
And if she honestly believed that Richard Brooke didn't have a girlfriend…
…then why wouldn't she find it questionable that Richard had both men and women's clothing in said expensive hotel room?
Because she was stupid.
Stupid…
…or she just didn't care.
And all she wanted was a good story, be it strange truth or strange fiction.
Kitty Riley sat across from Jim Moriarty—no, Richard Brooke, now, at the little table in his hotel room.
Her tape-recorder was on the table, recording their conversation as she took notes onto her laptop.
Also on the table was the newspaper, which Jim opened and slid over to her, pointing at a particular article.
"Oh, did you like it?" Kitty asked, "It's just a short preview, but I thought it was clever. It has to be a hook, you know. Something to draw the readers in so they buy the paper when the whole story comes out."
"You spelled my name wrong…" Jim—no, Rich complained, "It's 'Brooke'…with an 'e'. Not 'Brook'."
"Sorry…" Kitty shrugged, "But I can't change it now. It's already been published like that. I've just gotta keep going with that spelling."
(A/N: aka my reaction (excuse) when I realized I had made the same (but opposite) mistake.)
"But 'Brooke' with an 'e' looks fancier!" Jim groaned, "And if everyone thinks I'm fancy, they'll be more likely to believe me!"
"They're going to believe you." Kitty stated, "Stop worrying."
Jim rested his elbows on the table and his head in his hands.
"I'm just—I'm just so scared…" he sobbed, "Mr. Holmes's is gonna kill me now that I've gone public with this…and what if nobody believes me, what if they call me the liar, not Sherlock Holmes!"
"There, there, Richie." Kitty consoled, reaching across the table to pat Jim on the shoulder, "Like I said, stop worrying. They're going to believe you. I mean, what's more likely a genius who somehow knows everything…or some bloke who just made it all up to make himself look good?"
"Yeah, I guess…" Jim nodded, looking up at her.
"Besides…" Kitty continued, "Everybody needs stories. Real life is just too boring for most people, and so everybody needs distractions, needs something to keep them excited. And so that's where I come in. It's my job to tell them these stories and keep them distracted and happy. And it keeps me distracted and happy, as well, since it's always exciting chasing after a good story."
"So you're a storyteller." Jim smiled, "Like me."
"Yes I am." Kitty affirmed, grinning, "I'm a storyteller because everybody loves a good story. I'm just giving the people what they want… And even if it was all lies, everything you're telling me, the people are hungry. They'd eat 'the Scandal of Sherlock Holmes, deceptive detective' right up. They wouldn't even care."
When Mycroft had finished reasoning with the American representative (who was being very reasonable because he was getting a 'massage' from a pretty Swiss 'masseuse' at the time), he returned to the main hall of the building, just outside the auditorium (and nowhere near the backroom).
Because publically there was no meeting or event occurring, there was also no media presence, and the long room of long benches, long windows and a single long front desk, was all but empty.
All but.
Over to one side of the long room, away from the windows, stood James.
He was conversing with the Iranian representative, as well as the representatives from Pakistan and Afghanistan.
Mycroft wondered just what James was saying to them, and if it would be the reason that there wasn't a war.
But Molly Hooper wasn't stupid.
She came to the hotel after work and knew that Jim had had 'company'.
To be fair, of course, Jim had made no effort to clean up after Kitty's 'visit', leaving the all but empty take-away boxes of food she had brought on the table and even messing up the bedsheets (which the maid had changed and tucked in, all her hard work for nothing) just to see if Molly would say something.
She did.
"You brought that journalist here, didn't you? The one who wrote that article."
Molly entered the room, tossing her purse onto the dresser and kicking off her shoes.
"Maybe…or maybe I just procured the services of a sophisticated call girl."
He was still sitting at the table, picking at one of the boxes of Chinese foods, stabbing at the meat with a chopstick but not eating it.
"I stopped for coffee on the way…brought you some, too."
She set the full cup down on the table in front of him, next to the meal, and tossed her empty one into the nearby trashbin before sitting down across from him.
"Thanks."
Jim grinned, picked it up and taking a long sip.
It had been reduced lukewarm on the trip over. Cat hairs stuck by static electricity meant she had stopped at her flat to feed Toby.
And the label meant she had gone to the coffee shop they always went to.
That nosy barista must've said something to Molly about Jim and the 'mystery woman' he was 'cheating' on her with.
With that and the article from that morning, Molly must have 'put two and two together'.
"I have to ask you…how did this all start? The whole thing with Sherlock. What happened to make you so interested in him? How did it begin?"
"Well, once upon a time, Sherlock and I met up in the boy's locker-room—"
"Jim, I'm serious…"
The look Molly gave him was almost pleading, she really wanted to know.
Jim wondered why she even cared.
"I am too. It's all true, the story I'm about to tell you. So you do you promise to believe me, Molly?"
Jim looked Molly in the eyes, seeming to mean what he was saying, and she nodded, although she never really knew for sure.
Every one of Jim's expressions was carefully planned, forced even. He didn't seem to have natural facial movements of his own.
"Okay…"
"Okay. We were in a locker room. The locker-room of the very same pool I almost blew Sherlock up in a couple years back. I was fourteen. And like all teenagers, I felt like the whole world was out to get me and nobody understood me. I was right, too. It was true. I was all alone and I didn't have any friends. In fact, I had just killed the kid who could have been my 'friend' but didn't want to be. I think—or at least I thought, at the time and for a while afterwards too, that Sherlock could've been my friend too if he'd wanted to, or I'd wanted too. Now I know better. People like me and Sherlock don't have friends, just enemies…and so that's what Sherlock became. Enemy mine."
"But what happened?"
"I looked in the mirror and saw my reflection. And so did he. Years and years of stupid, boring people and no one understanding me and Sherlock took one look at me and knew. He knew what I had done. And more than that, he knew what I was. He knew I was like him…and I think that must've scared him too, because he wouldn't say anything to me. He just left. He just left me there all alone again. And it was worse that time because I finally knew what I was missing. I knew. I knew he was like me. I knew what he was—I just had to find out who. And I did, it took me years but I did. I finally learned the name Sherlock Holmes."
"If he's the only one who understands you, then why do you want to be his enemy?"
"Because I don't want to be nothing to him. Just another boring nobody in a world of billions to him. I have to be something to him. And people like us don't have friends, didn't you listen?"
"That's not true. Sherlock has friends. Sherlock has John Watson."
"Sherlock changed! And I'll never forgive him for that. He and I had the most perfect symmetry…and then he went and changed and set the whole world off balance!"
"Well, it's not like you don't have friends!"
"I don't."
"You 'don't'? What am I, then... nothing…?"
Molly was staring down at the other box of food that had been Kitty's, she wished she hadn't thrown away her coffee so she could have focused on that, rather than the fact that the 'mystery woman' the barista had warned her about had been here.
Well, of course, Molly wasn't Jim's friend. And if she wasn't even his friend then she definitely wasn't his girlfriend, either.
She was just the only woman stupid enough to waste her time visiting Jim in his hotel room for what were really just 'hook-ups'. Of course, she didn't mean anything to him.
It was 'for the best' Molly had reasoned, if not for herself then for the 'greater good' (Sherlock)… but now it was obvious that Jim wasn't going to stop hunting Sherlock, which meant she wasn't even a proper distraction.
So why was she even here with Jim, then?
…because she cared.
And even if he didn't, she still did.
"Oh, don't look so disappointed, Molly…"
Jim pulled the foodbox (distraction) out from under Molly's gaze, picking it up along with his own, getting up, and throwing them both in the trash.
She saw him standing by the bin and noticed what he was wearing.
The old, baggy clothes he had been 'leant' by Thomas (which Molly had meant to return along with the ones she had been 'leant' by her sister—after, of course, washing and folding them).
Not his.
Jim was 'in costume'.
This is what he had worn for that woman—probably the journalist (whatever her name was, Molly couldn't remember)— which meant that at least he was 'playing a character' for her (Richard Brook?...probably…) instead of 'being himself'.
But what did that mean?
…and did that mean Molly was special for seeing the 'real' Jim (if there actually was such a thing)?
"If I'm not your 'friend'…then why even bother talking to me? It's not like I'm useful to you or anything…"
Jim shrugged.
"Because your there."
He walked back over to the table, leaning back in his chair once he sat down and propping his feet up on the table.
Molly stood up.
She went to the bed, pulling at the rumpled sheets and began to make it, not facing Jim as she spoke.
"Well that's what friends do. They're there for each other. People need each other…"
"There is no such thing as 'need'. Only want."
Jim was watching her make the bed.
It was a funny sight to see, actually, because the only other person (excluding people who were paid to do so, of course, because they don't count) Jim had seen make his bed for him was his older brother James back when they were children.
This was definitely better.
(Especially because he had a pretty nice view of her behind as she bent.)
"…and so you 'want' to destroy Sherlock. Why? You still haven't given a good reason."
Molly completed her chore and turned back around towards Jim, eyeing him suspiciously and accusingly.
Jim snorted, rising slowly and rolling his eyes.
"Since when do I owe you an explanation? You're just a little mouse. You have nothing to do with what Sherlock and I have."
"Yes I do. You involved me in all of this when you decided to use me to get to Sherlock. I have a right to know!"
"We were both trying to make Sherlock jealous. I used you, you used me. It's fair. I don't owe you anything...In fact, actually, I don't need an excuse for anything either. I do what I want because I want to."
No reason.
No logic.
Just emotion.
Jim approached Molly, holding up a hand to touch her face.
She jerked away.
Jim gave Molly a sneer that meant 'you can only say no because I let you say no' but still, he lowered his hand, returning to the table which he leaned against.
"Why do you want to hurt him?"
'Him' meant Sherlock.
'Him' always meant Sherlock.
(They could write a dictionary, Jim and Molly. They had their own language. And every word was 'Sherlock'… Always 'Sherlock'.)
"I want to set the world right again. Sherlock put it wrong it when he decided to become normal and get himself a friend. I'm just restoring balance to the world…it's for the 'greater good', really. It's not like I want Sherlock to be gone. I'm just being selfless. A good Samaritan."
Now, Molly snorted and rolled her eyes.
Jim smirked.
"I lie to myself too, sometimes." He said, "Isn't that what people do?"
"Not people like you." Molly replied, "…So why, really, do you want to hurt Sherlock?"
"Because he hurt me. He hurt my feelings. And I want revenge…don't you?"
"No. I don't."
"Yes you do. Sherlock Holmes finally decides to make a 'friend' and he chooses that stupid, defective soldier of all people? Not you, not me…and we were right there, but he didn't even notice. He didn't even care! Doesn't that just make you burn?"
"…it makes me sad, yes…but I don't want to hurt him for that. I don't want 'revenge' or anything. And you shouldn't either. You should just move on. I have."
(As if Jim could (would) actually just 'move on'. Yeah, that and he's a 'selfless good Samaritan'.)
Jim decided to laugh for a long time, wiping tears that weren't there from his eyes and slapping his knees.
When he finally stopped, catching his breath, he saw Molly staring at him expressionless.
"…oh…you weren't joking…Well then, Molly. If you've moved on I really am a selfless good Samaritan."
"I really have moved on. I don't have a crush on Sherlock anymore. It was silly, I got over it…but that doesn't mean I'm not still his friend—even if he's not mine."
"Hmm...so you're Sherlock's 'friend'...but you're shagging me. So whose side are you on?"
Jim sneered, raising an eyebrow and folding his arms.
Molly shook her head.
"Neither."
"This is a war, private. You've got to pick a side."
"I won't. You can't make me chose between the two of you...and it doesn't need to be a 'war'. You don't need to fight him."
"But I want to, so I will...and I can make you chose, if I wanted to. If I cared enough to. But right now, I don't need to. So I won't. Sherlock is the only one I want. I don't want anyone else, just him. I don't 'need' anyone else. I don't have friends because I don't want or need them. They're just crutches for the weak, hive-minded people who don't know how to breathe other than collectively. It's so annoying it's not even adorable anymore, it's just disgusting. I'd never lower myself to that."
Molly sighed.
"…you know, Jim, you don't need to feel that you're alone—"
Instantly Jim's face changed from amused to angry.
"Don't try to pity me. I don't want your sympathy. It's beneath me. I won't be pitied by someone so pitiful…You think you understand me, but you don't. You can feel sorry for yourself. You should. I know I do. You have the most miserable, pitiful little existence in this world. You're nothing—but I'm not. So don't pity me."
(But Jim didn't understand the difference between 'sympathy' and 'empathy'. And if he'd ever truly felt either, he wouldn't know how to define them.)
"I'm not 'pitying' you! I'm trying to help you!"
"If you want to 'help' me, then you can help me get Sherlock."
"No. I won't help you hurt him. I won't help you hurt anyone."
"Why not? You scared, mouse?"
"No. It's wrong...and I don't have to hurt people to be happy."
Jim sighed, shaking his head and laughing.
"See, this is why I don't have 'friends'. They're never there for me when I need them."
"I'm your friend, Jim, even if you're not mine. And I'm here for you if you need me. Maybe not when you want me, if you want me to hurt Sherlock, or someone else…or even yourself—but I'm always there, I'll always be there for you if you need me."
With that, Molly turned to go, picking up her purse from the dresser on her way towards the door.
It had already closed with Molly on the other side when Jim asked:
"Why would I need you?"
And the silence answered:
No reason, no reason at all.
Finally, after a week of official unofficial meeting and un official reasoning, the summit in Switzerland was finally over.
This of course didn't mean that the problemwas solved… it just meant it was 'put on pause'.
At least for now.
And Mycroft found that it was quite a coincidence that both he and James ended up on the same plane back to England seeing as how they both could have afforded and gotten their own more private methods of transportation.
...or maybe it wasn't a coincidence.
Maybe Mycroft had planned it specifically so it would 'just happen' to happen.
He knew that despite how rich James was he didn't want people to know how rich he was and so would actually fly economy on an average airline.
The flight attendant bumped James up to first class.
Mycroft, once in a while, would lower himself to flying with the general public (ew, commoners)...but never second class.
The attendant led James to his new seat.
"Here you are, sir."
James sat down on the larger and more comfortable seat (leg room!), putting his briefcase underneath.
Mycroft removed the open newspaper from his face, folding it on his lap.
Dramatic?
Yes.
(But Mycroft, too, got bored, he had to have his fun somehow…)
"Well, well, well, Mr. Holmes." James greeted, turning to him, "We meet again."
Also dramatic.
(He too knew how to 'play the game'.)
"How coincidental." Mycroft agreed, turning to him.
"So do you just enjoy my company?" James asked, "…or do you have business to discuss?"
"Both, actually, I must admit." Mycroft answered, "I commandeered a plane—well a seat for you. Therefore, you should assume that you are important to me."
"To you?" James chuckled, "Or to the government?"
"You're money and expertise is of importance to the government," Mycroft clarified, with a smile, "You are just my old friend."
('Friend' having a very flexible meaning.)
"Well I'm glad I have 'friends in high places', even if just for the perks." James stated, gesturing around the fancier first class area of the plane.
"What are friends for, Mr. Moriarty?" Mycroft nodded, "…But expensive gifts and political favors?"
"Information." James added.
"Ah, yes." Mycroft accepted, "You've read my mind…I wanted to ask you what your how you conversation with the Iranian representative went. Was he reasonable?"
"More than reasonable, he was 'tame' as you said he would be. I just 'fed' him and his did exactly what I wanted him to."
"The on behalf of the British government I'll have to commend you for your effort and success in preventing a war. Why is it again, Mr. Moriarty, that you went into business rather than politics?"
"I didn't realize that I hadn't. I thought those two were the same thing."
James laughed.
Mycroft laughed.
"Yes, well...diplomacy then."
"Diplomacy isn't just part of business and politics. It's part of daily life."
"Well one has no business going into diplomacy empty handed. You always need a 'bone' to throw to the 'dog'."
"Or, even better, a piece of meat."
"And what 'piece of meat' did you 'throw' the representative? Did you pay him off…or buy his whole country?"
Mycroft studied James's face.
He made no reaction to the comment but that didn't 'confirm or deny' the rumors.
Every one of James's expressions was carefully planned, forced even. He didn't seem to have natural facial movements of his own.
"Neither. I gave him no money nor promised to give him any money."
"So something else, then? Something more valuable, more powerfu lthan money..."
"Money itself has no intrinsic value. It's only worth what value we place on it… Anything can have value—if we make it have value... Anything can have meaning—if we give it meaning. We humans ourselves created the concept of meaning. A is never just 'A'."
"Oh, I remember that! That was part of your thesis. You used part of it for your speech on artificial inflation. You think nobody listens. I listened. Do you honestly believe, though, that money is actually worthless?"
"Worthless, yes, money is only worth what people think it is worth. In it of itself, it is worthless—But don't let that my saying that put me on that list suspected communists and enemies of the state, now, that I know you intelligence workers have. I tell you this, Mr. Holmes, because I want you and our country to use it. With that simple knowledge we can rule the world."
"But don't we already?"
"That depends on your definition of 'we'."
"You know exactly who I mean by 'we', Mr. Moriarty."
"Yes I do, Mr. Holmes. By 'we' you mean the people like us."
I can't seem to keep them happy together, now can I?
What's wrong with me?
lol.
I hope that doesn't make you guys not happy...
And yes, quasi-conspiracy theorist I am, I do beleive the world is ruled by the richest buisnessmen and the graduates of the most elite and oldest universities and colleges like Harvard, Yale, Caimbridge(?), etc.
And of course buisness and politics are the same thing, I don't think that there is a government in the world that isn't corrupt and that money is what determines every government's decisions.
...which all, of course, leads to my own personal philosophy of 'if you can't do anything about it, just live your life and be thankful that you're comfortable'.
Easy for me, still, since I'm middle class in a first world country.
I don't need a lot to be happy.
Internet access.
I don't need any more money than I can use (which is why I don't understand the superwealthy just collecting millions and billions they can't possibly spend, most of it just sitting there reproducing interest that they're not actually interested in enough to use...
lol
Maybe it's just sour grapes, though.
Please review?