Well, I really have no excuse for being late with this one...except that it was rainy and I was sleepy.
lol.
Tomorrow I'm not going to school, though (hopefully), so I'll be able to write!
yay!
This ones kinda short, but we're getting towards the end here...
(Mid May, 2012)
"We had a deal, Jim." James began, after a deep breath, "I set you free and you set me free."
"Then why are you here, James?" Jim inquired, as he sat down at the table, cluttered with notebooks and newspapers, across from him, "Just missed me?"
"No."James corrected, "We agreed that you would no longer use the name James or Jim Moriarty…and then you orchestrated 'crime of the century', got yourself arrested and your name—no, my name all over news!"
"Nobody gets it—even you, brother, you just. don't. get it!" Jim's groan turned to a laugh of disappointed disbelief, "It's all there, it's all right there and all so perfect. Right in front of your noses! But nobody's picking up the scent! Nobody's following the trail…" his exasperation faded to a sigh, "…sometimes I wonder why I even bother…"
"I wonder that too, sometimes" James muttered, rolling his eyes.
Jim smirked.
"It's all part of the plan, don't you see?" he said, "I'm doing exactly what you told me to do. I'm following the rules…"
"What, by breaking the law?" James snorted.
"No." Jim countered, "By building myself—and Sherlock Holmes—up…so I can bring us both down."
James raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of coffee from Kitty's mug.
He lifted the newspaper that's front page pictured Sherlock (in his 'trademark' dear stalker) and a headline about yet another case brilliantly (and quickly) solved.
"So all of this…" James guessed, gesturing to the paper, "…is to attract a large enough audience to fully satisfy you when you kill Sherlock Holmes—and inevitably yourself, as well, in the process."
"Isn't he beautiful, James?" Jim mused, gazing upon image of his enemy and then looking back up at his brother (and gazing upon the image of his enemy), "When this is over…there isn't going to be a 'Sherlock Holmes' anymore. He won't just be dead. No. he'll be worse than 'dead'. He'll simply cease to exist…and so will I."
James leaned back in his chair, pensively, examining Jim.
"Just what are you planning?" he questioned.
"Well it wouldn't be any fun if I just told you, you have to guess!" Jim snickered, "Besides, it wouldn't be fair either, I haven't told anyone else the whole thing—I've just given different bits of the story to different people. The puzzle's only complete up inside my brain…" he patted his head, "everyone else has got to put it together for themselves."
"You can tell me, Jim, it's okay…" James said, smile inching across his face, "We're brothers, remember? We have the same name, the same mind…"
"We used to be brothers, we used to have the same name, yes…" Jim shook his head, laughing, "…but we've never had the same mind. If we did you'd be able to figure out what—"
"I am. I have." James interrupted, "You're not going to kill Sherlock Holmes…you're going to make him kill himself."
"Very good, James, very good…" Jim congratulated sarcastically, clapping.
James tossed the newspaper so it slid across the table to Jim.
"It won't work." James warned.
"Course it will." Jim grinned.
"No it won't." James insisted, "Holmes has solved crimes, cold cases, from before he was even born, there's no possibility he could have faked those. And even the more recent ones he's solved, they all can't have been simple fabrications. There were actual clients involved, Jim, think. The story doesn't add up."
"It doesn't need to add up." Jim replied, "You told me yourself, once. Truth and lies don't matter. It's all about believability..."
"Well your story is unbelievable." James countered, "The details—"
"No one cares about the details!" Jim exclaimed, "All people want is a story! Something novel to keep them guessing, keep them from getting bored…And it's strange too, so very strange... Because everybody loves fairytales but nobody believes in magic. And what Sherlock Holmes does is magic—which is why everyone would rather believe it's just a trick."
"No such thing as magic, Jim." James sighed, "It's all science…"
"Yes." Jim smirked, "The 'Science of Deduction'."
James rolled his eyes, shaking his head.
"You know, it's actually induction, what Holmes does, not 'deduction'." He groaned, "He doesn't deduce, he induces. Shame nobody reads the dictionary anymore…"
"Oh yeah, that and the encyclopedia, too." Jim agreed, sarcastically, "Your favorite bedtime stories, right, James?"
"Of course." James nodded, "Because they're true. I may lie, I may pretend…but I never accept fiction from anybody else."
"You're no fun." Jim pouted, "You always spoil everything…for me, at least. Like when I was ten and you told me how the magicians up on stage did their tricks; all smoke and mirrors…"
"I'm sorry, Jim, but the truth is the truth." James said, "Disappointing, isn't it? Even the most interesting and exciting things are actually all quite ordinary."
" 'Ordinary'…" Jim repeated, elongating the 'o' and shaping his mouth to match it, "Never liked that word until our friend Mycroft Holmes introduced me."
"Why?" James inquired, "It's only a word."
"What do you mean, 'only a word'?" Jim inquired incredulously, "Words are everything. It's language determines how we think."
"How you think, perhaps…" James sneered, "..and perhaps that is your flaw. I, however, think in numbers. Much more concrete. Everything always makes sense."
"You're right." Jim shrugged, "The word 'ordinary' doesn't make any sense at all. It means normal, common-place, I've read the dictionary…but then 'extraordinary' means something brilliant, unbelievable…it doesn't 'add up'. 'Extra' means more. So shouldn't 'extraordinary' just mean more 'ordinary'…more 'normal'?"
"It doesn't matter." James replied, also shrugged, "It's only a word. And words could mean any number of different things and often do. They're so easily misinterpreted, twisted…actions are what count. "
Jim laughed at this.
"I wouldn't be so sure about actions, they're just as easily 'twisted' themselves." He said, "In fact, you misinterpreted my actions…I never actually gave Sherlock the keycode. Or gave it to anyone, for that matter. No one knows it…and no one ever will—except, of course, you and me, brother, in our same mind. And so that means you kinda disowned me-so dramatically, by the way, the books were a nice touch, I really liked that bit—for nothing."
"If that's true…." James responded, shocked and skeptical, "…then why would you go through all that trouble, pretending to take your 'revenge' against me?"
"Because I was angry, okay?" Jim sighed, "I overreacted and I'm sorry. Now I just want to make it all good again between me and you, like it was before. I just want to get my brother back…"
"Things were never 'good' between you and I." James dismissed, "So what do you really want?"
"I want your help." Jim stated.
"What would I get out of giving you what you want?" James scoffed, "Why should I help you?
"Because if you do…" Jim smiled, "When this is over, you'll be rid of me forever…I promise."
(Early May, 2012)
Toby was napping in the bathroom sink when he heard the door click unlocked and open.
Molly?
…no.
Those weren't her footsteps on the carpet, that wasn't her smell…
Toby jumped up out of the sink and trotted out of the bathroom to see Jim tip-toeing into Molly's flat (glancing around the entry hallway, nervously, checking to make sure nobody was home).
He was carrying a suitcase in one hand, and plastic bag in the other.
Toby crouched (just around the corner, just out of Jim's line of sight), waited for the right moment (just as Jim was rounding the corner into Molly's bedroom) and pounced.
Jim tried to block the cat with the suitcase, but ended up getting stabbed by Toby's tiny retractable knives in the leg, anyway.
Forcefully, Jim shook Toby off of him.
Toby landed on his feet (because that's what cats do), bristling his fur and hissing, claws digging into the carpet.
"What's your problem?" Jim asked.
He set down the suitcase and then with his free hand reached into the plastic bag, pulling out the catnip laced treats he'd brought and tossing them towards Toby.
Toby tentatively sniffed one of the small, round objects (food?) and then, deciding it was safe, lapped it into his mouth.
Instantly his eyes dilated and soon he was practically dancing around the hall.
With the cat thoroughly distracted, Jim was now able to continue into the bedroom where he unloaded the contents of the suitcase (Molly's clothing) into their proper places (closet, dresser drawers).
Jim didn't really understand why Molly wanted these unfashionable (and/or boring and plain) clothes back…
(He'd offered multiple times to pick out and purchase for her a better wardrobe but she'd always refused.
The one time they had actually gone shopping she wouldn't even come out of the changing room because she was too embarrassed wearing the outfit Jim had chosen for her( which, in his opinion, was very sexy and chic) —when she should have, of course, been too embarrassed to wear what she had put on that morning (which Jim, if he were her, certainly would have been).)
…but there was no logical reason for him to keep them. They took up too much space, were ugly, and imagine if Kitty saw and asked just why Jim had a suitcase full of women's clothing.
And so, Molly could have them if she wanted them so bad. They were hers anyway.
Besides, this all proved that Molly was nothing to him and that he could sever the rope binding them together just as easily as he had tied it. It proved it.
Molly wasn't Sherlock.
She didn't count.
…so why couldn't Jim return to her those pink panties?
(Mid May, 2012)
Within the next few weeks, Molly's 'life' returned to 'normal'.
…which was strange.
Recently, she had become so accustomed to the 'rule' that whenever anything started to be certain, started to be normal—then it wouldn't be.
Things would change.
And they always, always did.
So this (this being Jim having come into her life like a flash flood, intense and then suddenly gone), Molly reasoned, was just another part of that. Her life was just following the rules…
Molly was never late for work anymore, she never missed any days or took any time off.
The only thing of any interest in Molly's boring little world now was the occasional Sherlock (distant and temperamental as usual) and those days when she 'just happened' to pass by Robert in the halls of the hospital (so they could smile at each other, and then she could look down and away blushing, and they'd both keep walking but maybe he'd text her later and ask if she was available that night (Molly always was) and they'd meet up and things would be like the 'good old days' again and it would be maybe even kind of fun, actually, because this time Molly didn't care that Robert was 'using' her and this time Molly was pretending).
Was it pitiful, Molly wondered, that she lived for these little distractions?
She also wondered where Jim was and what he was doing.
She'd feared (naively, hopefully) that he hadn't wanted to leave her and that he'd been forced to somehow (or that he was dead—oh, god, that was terrible of her)…
…but Molly had come home one morning to find all her clothes (and whatever other items she had left at Jim's hotel room) back in their normal places in her flat.
That and what Jim had said the other day when those men had attempted to use her to get to him (Their mistake. You have to have something of value in order to bargain. They were stupid. Molly was worthless.) proved that they he just didn't care about her at all (and maybe even had a new girlfriend, too). Proved it.
(June 15, 2012)
"Just talk to him." Anthea had urged, "He's your—"
"No." Mycroft had refused, "I can't. Get John."
So now Anthea was in her normal place in the backseat of the car, doing all her deskwork by smartphone like she always did.
And she was bored.
"You going to ask me out again, John?"
Anthea looked up from her phone, turning to John who had been sitting quietly, staring out the window until she had spoken.
He laughed (and it was both polite and sarcastic at the same time. impressive).
"No. That didn't go to well the last time and I don't try the same thing over again expecting a different result. That's insanity, you know, and I've been trying to convince my therapist I'm not crazy."
An Anthea laughed, too, at this (she had too, but it was actually genuine).
Then she raised an eyebrow.
"Or maybe you've just found somebody else…"
And then John raised an eyebrow.
"Read the papers, lately? I'm 'confirmed bachelor' Watson, now."
"What they put in the papers aren't always true."
John shrugged.
"Yeah, well, they do get the weather wrong often enough…"
"Among other things—you do get where I'm going with this, right, John?"
"Yes. I do…and I was actually trying to steer the conversation away from that topic."
John rolled his eyes.
Anthea smiled.
"I won't tell Mycroft about it. I promise—"
"You're lying. And besides, he's probably got the flat bugged, anyway. You both know nothing's 'going on' between me and Sherlock."
"Nothing on the outside maybe, nothing yet—but on the inside…yes. Something is definitely, definitely 'going on' between you and Sherlock Holmes… Mr. Holmes—that is, my employer, Mr. Holmes. Mycroft Holmes—said he's never known his brother to care about anyone like this before."
"Oh. Okay. Well, then, I've got to inform your employer, Mr. Holmes, that in addition to my 'secret affair' with Sherlock, he's also got a thing 'going on' with Mrs. Hudson, as well. Because he cares about her, too, and that always means something, doesn't it?"
And it actually impressed Anthea how John was able to say all that with a completely straight face.
Maybe she shouldhave gone out with him, after all…
"I'll put that down into my schedule."
Anthea was joking, of course, as she glanced back down at her smartphone, pretending to type.
She was also hoping that maybe, upon hearing the word 'schedule', John would take the hint and ask her if there was any room in it for him—even if only to prove he was straight and nothing was 'going on' between him and Sherlock.
He didn't.
(And did that mean that he just didn't catch it…or that he just wasn't crazy? Anthea didn't know.)
"Look," John said, after a sigh and Anthea looked back up from her phone at him, "I do care about Sherlock and he cares about me—at least, I think he does, anyway. You never really can be sure what—or even if—he's feeling…But it's not how you—or anyone, especially the papers—think. It's not romantic. At all. Sherlock and I…we're like brothers. It's like how it was in the army. You get close to the guys you're working with, you really care about them, since you live in close quarters and have been through so much together…but that doesn't mean anything's 'going on'. Because it's not. It's just a bit more…intense cause it's just me and him."
"Like brothers?" Anthea repeated.
"Yes." John affirmed.
"And Sherlock feels this way too?" Anthea asked.
"I told you, I don't know." John stated, "But when you text what I'm saying to Mycroft you can tell him not to take it personally if Sherlock does consider me more of a brother than Mycroft."
"Oh, Mr. Holmes has learned along time ago not to take his brother's…eccentricities personally." Anthea scoffed, as she indeed texted (without even needing to look at the screen, she was a professional, after all).
"Good." John said, "So maybe next 'Mr. Holmes' can learn to mind his own business, if at all possible. You, too, 'Anthea'—was it?"
"Athena." Anthea corrected (as if she was actually correct), "Like the goddess of wisdom."
"Oh. Very good, then, 'Athena'." John nodded (politely and sarcastically at the same time. annoying).
And he smiled and she smiled.
(And then Anthea 'forgot' to tell John the 'no talking' rule of the Diogenes Club when she dropped him off to see Mycroft.)
(Summer, 2006)
"And so what are you going to do, then? Throw your whole life away?"
Molly had to fight to keep her voice down as she whispered harshly at her twenty year old sister.
Their father was just down the hall, immobile and hopefully sleeping through all this. Hopefully.
And dying, he was still dying.
(Which also meant that he was still alive.)
Leaning against the wall, scowling and avoiding eye-contact, was Molly's little sister.
She was in love.
Again.
And she was going to run away with this no-good, bad-boy, flavor-of the-week and escape the monotony and conformity of modern society (or whatever the bands they listened to's melodic lyrics (orders) told them to do) to be with him forever.
Yeah, sure.
Molly, at least, knew better.
(Although not from experience.)
But her sister, of course, didn't (or if she did, she didn't care) and so continued to declare that she was leaving because she was tired of all this.
('all this' meaning the stress of her father still dying just down the hall, when put into perspective—which both she and Molly were too emotional to have at the moment.)
"I'm not throwing my life away!" Molly's sister insisted, "I love him. He's all I want, all I need…"
"That is just so stupid!" Molly almost shouted, then remembering her father and so, instead, squeaked, "You should be focusing on getting an education, so you can have a job, have a life. Leaving everything you have, all for some boy? You are just so—so…petty!"
"Why should I get an education?" her sister demanded, "Why should I get a job? Just cause people tell me to, just cause everybody else does? That's not a reason at all. And why do people even get educations, get jobs, anyway? All for the money. And people only want money because they think they can buy them what they need to be happy…But do you know what makes people happy, Molly? It's not money. It's love…and I, I've found love and so I'm happy."
Molly was taken-aback and at a loss for words.
What her sister (her stupid, petty, baby sister) had said actually made sense.
…but that didn't mean she was right.
"It won't last." Molly told her, "You may be in love with him now, you may be happy now…but it won't last."
"And why not?" her sister asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Because it never does." Molly answered. And that was the only explanation, really.
Just because.
"Maybe not for you, Molly…" her sister countered, finally looking Molly in the eyes, "…but it will, for me. Because I, unlike you, am willing to trade everything, give anything to get what I want. And sometimes you need to break the rules. I don't care because I love him and nothing else matters. Nothing…you would know this too, if you weren't too scared to ever let yourself be happy."
And with that, Molly's little sister pushed past her and was gone.
(Early May, 2012)
And Molly wanted to call Jim.
She wanted to beg him to come back and tell him that she didn't care who he was or what he'd done and that they could be happy together, she'd do anything for them to be happy together.
But that was just late at night while she was lying alone in bed, or bored at work cutting into a bloated patient who had died alone in their apartment and hadn't even been found for days.
She wanted to call Jim, yes, and keep calling and calling until he answered.
Until he came back (to her).
But she knew he would not answer and he would not come back (to her) and Molly was not going to waste her time doing the same thing again and again expecting a different result.
She may have been lonely, she may have been pitiful, she may have been nothing…
…but Molly was not stupid.
And she was not crazy.
Definitely, definitely, definitely not crazy…
(Late May, 2012)
The next time Jim cautiously (not confidently, like he 'owned the place') pushed open the door to Molly's flat and walked inside, Toby came bounding up to him and rubbing against Richard Brooke's jeans, as if he hadn't attacked him only a couple weeks earlier.
It was funny how forgiving cats could be.
(Not forgetful, though, because Toby had never forgotten Jim.)
Jim wondered if Molly would be as forgiving if she ever saw him again…
…or if she had forgotten all about him in the time he was gone.
He also wondered if Sherlock had forgotten about him, too. The consulting detective hadn't heard a peep out of Jim since for almost two months now, which should have been suspicious, considering the threat (promise) Jim had made to him.
What if neither Molly norSherlock remembered him?
What if nobody did?
(Even the newspapers had stopped running 'Crime of the Century' stories about the notorious James Moriarty—although they printed a new Sherlock Holmes case every week, still.)
And if everyone had forgotten about Jim, then it was like he had ceased to exist (and it was too soon for that!).
This was a problem.
Jim didn't like to be alone.
He always did get lonely…
And people were the distractions that kept him from being lonely (just like they kept him from being bored—he had to keep busy), it didn't even matter who they were.
Jim just needed someone.
(Because if he was ever alone, ever truly alone, Jim just wouldn't know what to do. He'd probably self-destruct…)
Perhaps that was why Molly had been so convenient.
She was always available.
Sure, she was no Sherlock…but she was there.
…except not anymore.
And it was self-sacrificial, really, Jim 'leaving' Molly.
If he hadn't left, cruel fishermen like Mycroft would cast her like a worm on a hook into the water just so they could catch him.
And although fishing might not have been Jim's sport, he knew enough about it to know that, at the end of the long day, both the fish and the worm were dead.
Fish sometimes got thrown back into the sea; he worms, however, always got stabbed, drowned and eaten.
So Jim was really being a Good Samaritan when he had left Molly, even if it did make her cry, call him and text him again and again.
He was only trying to protect her…
…by not letting her be used as a weapon against him because then that made her a weakness to him and weaknesses to him made him weak.
It was all selfish and self-preserving!
But still, just because Jim had left Molly didn't mean Molly could leave Jim.
She was supposed to be his.
(He had promised Sherlock he'd steal her from him, didn't he? And Jim kept his promises.)
Molly was a really valuable possession to him (right up there with his phone and his favorite tie) so even if he couldn't 'spend time' (or actually even just spend time) with her at the moment, he still had to remind her of his existence (and remind her that he remembered her existence).
Jim leaned down to pet Toby with one hand, taking care not to damage the flowers for Molly in the other.
(Flowers were kind of their 'thing' now, Jim had decided. It was crime with Sherlock, their shared name with James, and flowers with Molly. Those were the games and these were the rules.)
They were azaleas, this time.
(And he knew she'd look up the meaning on the internet again, too. It was something between fragile, careful and passion. Didn't make any sense, really…)
Rhododendron ponticum.
(June 13, 2012)
Jim opened the oven, pulling the door down with one hand while he tried to wave the smoke that came rushing out away from his face with the other.
He had to jump back, the smoke stinging his eyes and burning his throat even though he was now holding his breath.
(Jim didn't understand how Sherlock could smoke, how he could stand it. Smoke, itself, was positively painful…)
He then opened every available window in Kitty's townhouse (to air it out…and so the smoke detector wouldn't go off), afterwards donning her purple oven-mitts on both hands.
But before Jim could pull the poor dying men from the burning building (pull the gingerbread men out of the oven), he heard a knock on the door.
"Who is it?" Jim called out in a sing-song voice, already on his way to the front door.
The absence of an answer was the answer.
And so, when Jim opened the door he saw exactly who he was expecting to see.
James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran.
(And neither of them looked very happy to be there.)
"Good afternoon, gentlemen!" Jim exclaimed, "So nice to see you boys again. Please, come in!"
He stepped aside to allow for their entry.
Moran (deliberately avoiding eye-contact with Jim) scanned the living room to make sure it was safe before walking inside.
James followed him, Moran then going back around him to close the door behind them.
Jim watched them, waiting 'patiently' (by tapping his foot and fingers) for them to finish their pretend security check.
But by the time Moran was still looking behind the couch and the television and under the tables and chairs (and what exactly was he even expecting to find?), Jim finished his pretend politeness.
"Oh, come on!" he groaned, rolling his eyes, "I know you've got place bugged. And you both know there's nothing 'scary' here…so let's just get down to business, shall we?"
Moran straightened from where he had been pulling up the sofa cushions, searching underneath.
He sniffed the still smoky air, causing James to do the same.
"Was there a fire here?" James questioned, suspiciously, glancing around for signs of damage.
Jim strolled over, flopping onto the out-of-place cushions and resting with his arms behind his head.
"I was just cooking." he explained, "Gingerbread men. They're cooling off now…"
He gestured towards the oven upstairs.
"I see your 'girlfriend' has domesticated you, Jim." James commented, moving to stand in front of the sofa, "You never cooked when we were at home."
"And I'm still no good at it, too." Jim lamented, "But I'm learning…maybe you can teach me, professor?"
James rolled his eyes.
"You've always refused to learn." He said.
"Or, perhaps, you're just a bad teacher." Jim responded, "…Kitty's not. She's so brilliant, she's taught me to make—"
"Save your lies for someone who'll believe them." James interrupted, curtly, "And you're right. I do have this address under surveillance. And so I know that Kathleen Riley means nothing to you. She's not even a proper distraction for you, you don't even enjoy toying with her—or sleeping with her."
"Finally told her I was gay." Jim shrugged, "She didn't care. I think she likes it, actually. Likes submissive little boys who can't hurt her the way her daddy hurt her mummy…"
"Whatever keeps you under control." James conceded, also shrugging, "but don't think I've forgotten about Molly Hooper."
"I have." Jim replied.
He was lying, of course.
And James knew.
(And Jim knew that James knew.)
"Well, she plays no part in your plan and as long as she remains uninvolved, I will have no reason to have her killed," James stated, "And when this is all over, whether you, Richard Brooke, chose to remember Miss Hooper or not, will no longer be my be my problem."
"That's nice." Jim accepted, blandly, "…now have you picked up the things on my 'shopping list' I asked you to?"
"Yes." James nodded, "I purchased the abandoned chocolate factory you requested."
"Good." Jim nodded, smiling and closing his eyes, "Next."
"I also located the perfect targets for the kidnapping you'll frame Sherlock Holmes for." James continued, "Tomorrow there is a certain boarding school that, as you know, will be letting out for the summer…two children, a boy and a girl, however, will be staying. Their parents are divorced and both out of the country on business. Their father is an ambassador to the United States, his prominence assures that the children's disappearance will garner the necessary attention—of the police and Mr. Holmes."
"Oh, no!" Jim complained, "You've made it too easy…I get bored when things are too easy..."
"You're planning to kidnap the children yourself?" James inquired, raising an eyebrow.
"Of course." Jim snorted, "I love kids."
"...I see." James accepted.
Both he and Moran eyed Jim uncomfortably, then exchanging an uncomfortable glance in the following uncomfortable silence.
Jim opened his eyes to see this, chuckling.
"Besides," he added, "There are just some things you've got to do yourself…"
"Some things," James agreed, "But not all…You asked for three gunmen?"
"Mm-hm," Jim nodded, closing his eyes again.
"Not four?" James clarified.
"What would I need four for?" Jim dismissed in a confused mumbled, as if James was stupid simply for suggesting it.
"No reason." James responded.
"Just who are these gunmen, anyway?" Jim asked, "I trust you'd get me only the 'best of the best'."
"I have." James confirmed, "I've hired the Australian for the Hudson woman, out of convenience since he's already moved to Baker Street, seeking the code. And I already have my inside man at Scotland Yard on the Detective Inspector. And for Doctor Watson—"
"No." Jim interrupted, sitting up, "Whoever you've hired to kill the good doctor, fire him."
"Whatever for?" James inquired, taken-aback, "You haven't even heard who I've got yet."
"It doesn't matter." Jim declared, "There's only one person worthy of training a gun on Doctor John Watson…and I think we all know who that is."
James eyes followed Jim's sight until it finally rested on Moran (who was deliberately not making eye-contact and instead pretending to search a trash bin).
"No." James refused.
"Why not?" Jim whined, jumping up from the couch, "Come on, James, 'help a brother out'! Please—"
"No." James repeated, "I'm not risking my best man on one of your ridiculous schemes. There is a high probability that this could go wrong. It's not safe for Mr. Moran to be involved. He's too valuable to me."
"Oh, okay, James, I understand." Jim smiled, giving James an exaggerated 'knowing-look', "Sebby's 'valuable' to you, I see…"
(But Jim didn't 'understand' now. The fact that James would openly declare Moran's importance to him, despite knowing exactly how Jim would interpret that, caused Jim to re-interpret the sentiment all together (forgetting, of course, that James was smarter than him and so knew he'd do that too).)
Suddenly, Moran turned to James and Jim, speaking for the first time during this 'visit'.
"I'll do it." He said, looking at James, "…I want to make sure this thing gets done right—so that we can finally get it over with." He then looked at Jim, "Besides, like you said, there are just some things you've got to do yourself."
Jim grinned.
"See, brother?" He boasted, "Even your maid-of-honor—I mean 'best man'—thinks it's a good idea. You've got to let me—well, John, really—have him now."
"…Fine." James conceded.
"Don't call him 'brother'." Moran snapped at Jim, albeit coolly (all anger invisible behind his expressionless mask, "…this is the last time he's ever going to help you, protect you or even see you again. So now you should thank him for putting up with you all these years, and then say goodbye."
James blinked, clearly surprised as this was the closest Moran had ever come to an outburst (at least in James's presence)…but upon remembering his thinning, graying hair he decided he agreed completely with Moran's statement.
"Alright." Jim agreed, shrugging at Moran before he turned to James and patted him on both shoulders saying, "Thank you, and goodbye, my dear brother James, thank you and goodbye…"
(Early June, 2012)
Molly found the new flowers in the vase in on the counter.
…so Jim hadn't forgotten about her after all…
She sat down on the stool, staring at them, Toby up on the countertop as well waiting 'patiently' (pacing back and forth and mewing insistently) for her to pet him.
Her laptop was (plugged in, charging) sitting on the table nearby, she knew she could search up the flowers' (and it was just one type, this time—she didn't know their name but she knew she could find out) meaning but she didn't want to.
What if they meant 'goodbye'…?
Molly sighed, reaching for one of the purple flower and pulling it out of the vase by the stem to smell it.
But before the pedals could touch her nose and she could breathe in their scent, lifting the flower out of the vase caused something else to fall out as well.
It was a tiny, torn piece of newspaper that coasted through the air before landing in front of Molly.
Molly recognized the handwriting scrawled on the scrap.
They're azaleas.
And I'm a dirty rotten liar.
Forget me not,
Jim
Well...
...hmm...
lol.
So yeah.
And really, moriartylovesfrenchfries/toby?
It's not like I didn't think it was you...until you said "stop reviewing for both" as Toby-and then you went and reviewed as Moriarty.
lol.
You won...but you cheated.
lol.
And this is the last time I'm gonna address a reviewer in chapter lol. It's against the site's rules, actually...
...and it's not fair to everyone else who doesn't get a 'shout-out' (I LOVE YOU ALL!)
So make an account, 'fellow American', review with it, and we can chat.
I (almost) always reply signed reviews.
And speaking of reviews...