Judge Moriarty lurked over the proceedings of the court. He sat, the personification of power, very high at the bench. He glared down a starved boy. Moran stands next to the boy – idly musing of how he would love to be supressed by that power, to be overcome by that power, held by the judge.
"This is the second time, sir, that you have been brought before this bench. Though it is my earnest wish to ever temper justice with mercy, your persistent dedication to a life of crime is an abomination before God and man," Moriarty announced, "I therefore sentence you to hang by the neck until you are dead and may the Lord have mercy on your soul."
The boy collapsed into sobs and Moran was pleased with the verdict. He always enjoyed those verdicts – he liked to think of them as twisted gifts to him, not those stupid bouquets that stupid man James, or whatever his name was, with the blond hair, always ignored. Moriarty gave him the gift of death – powerful, beautiful, more permanent than flowers. "This court is adjourned."
Moriarty and Moran walked away from the impressive edifices of the Old Bailey. "Thank you, your Honour. Just the sentence we wanted."
"Was he guilty?" Moriarty asked casually.
"Well, if he didn't do it, he's surely done something to warrant a hanging," Moran smirked.
"What man has not?" Moriarty muttered.
"Sir?" Moran frowned.
"No matter. Come, walk home with me – I have news for you, my friend," Moriarty grinned sharkishly, "In order to shield him from the evils of this world, I have decided to marry my dear Mycroft."
Moran ignored the pang that went through his heart, "Ah, sir, happy news indeed," he tried to congratulate.
"Strange, though, when I offered myself to him, he showed a certain… reluctance,"
Moran allowed a flicker of a frown to pass over his expression; 'Who could not want you?' he questions internally. But he proceeded with exquisite and obsequious delicacy.
Excuse me, my lord,
May I request, my lord,
Permission, my lord, to speak?
Forgive me if I suggest, my lord,
You're looking less than your best, my lord,
There's powder upon your vest, my lord.
And stubble upon your cheek,
And young men, my lord, are weak.
'As am I,' Moran mentally adds.
As they round a corner, the Judge feels his chin, "Stubble, you say? Perhaps at times I am a little… overhasty with my morning ablutions…"
Fret not though, my lord,
I know a place, my lord,
A barber, my lord, of skill.
Thus armed with a shaven face, my lord,
Some eau de cologne to brace my lord
And musk to enhance the chase, my lord,
You'll dazzle the boy until
He bows to your every will.
'I would do so anyway,' Moran thinks sadly.
"A barber, eh? Take me to him," Moriarty demanded with a voice like ice.
"I am honoured, my lord. His name is Holmes… Sherlock Holmes. And he is the very last word in barbering," Moran smiled, ignoring the pain of jealousy in his chest.
They began to walk towards the barber shop. Moran resisted the urge to place an arm over the judge's shoulders or around his waist.