Chapter Text
"So what was that all about?" A disgruntled Sherlock Holmes asked, sitting in a very dark room, having forced the lock moments ago. Through a small window, light trickled in from outside, outlining standard living room furniture. He double-checked a piece of paper that he had been clutching, "Cambridge University, Apartment 13C." While this was typical fare for a student's room, Sherlock couldn't help thinking he graduated over a decade ago, and hadn't a reason to be here.
Except one.
At some point during the encounter on the roof, before throwing himself off a 3-story building, Moriarty had slipped the paper into his coat pocket. This also being before Moriarty gleefully committed suicide. In his manic state of shock and panic, Sherlock almost didn't notice that the gun was fake. Almost.
A dramatic slow clap met his ears, "I'll admit, I'm impressed." Moriarty glided into the room, wearing the same suit as when he supposedly died. Unlike Sherlock, however, he didn't clean the fake blood off, barely visible in the moonlight, "Oh yes, I live for the punch line." He gave a dramatic pause, "Or maybe I don't." He smiled and took the chair opposite Sherlock, the lights clicking on.
"When two people enter into a suicide pact, if one of them ducks out of it, it's considered manslaughter. But I'm sure you knew that." Sherlock said, scanning the criminal.
Jim had seen better days — bags under his eyes, hair slicked with fake blood, melting a bit from recently dried sweat — he must've been running around all day, plugging the leaks caused from his faked suicide.
"Oh please," Moriarty waved his hand dismissively, "I didn't think you'd actually kill yourself." At this, Sherlock had to scoff, "Then what about the assassins?"
"It was a test. And like I said: I'm…" Moriarty gave a giant, Cheshire Cat-like grin, "Impressed."
There was an uncomfortable silence. The fire in Moriarty's eyes danced, but the brunette couldn't place what it was for — his plan had only half succeeded. Or maybe it was complete: as long as Sherlock didn't reveal himself as alive, the twisted story that was laid out would still have a satisfying conclusion. As for himself, Sherlock knew loose ends were bad for business.
"How did you do it?"
"What? Survive a gunshot to the brain? Aren't you supposed to be a genius? Why don't you tell me?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but honestly had no plausible conclusions; how do you survive a bullet through the skull? "Why don't you tell me how I survived?"
At this, the Irishman chuckled, "Oh my, does that mean you don't know?" He leaned forward, left hand drumming the Partitia No. 1 on his knee, "Admittedly, I don't know how you did it either. But I'm dead curious."
Sherlock groaned, "Is this going to be a running joke?"
"Perhaps… unless you want to end it here and now."
Sherlock bit his lip — he tried not to squirm, but his discomfort betrayed him, his knee jerking and hand twitching, trying to brace against the chair to steady himself. There were still tricks Holmes needed to keep secret, just in case his psychopathic adversary wasn't quite done with his death wish, "Why the location?"
"Oh, this?" Moriarty gestured around carelessly, taking a lighter mood, "This is where I work. Well… worked. I was provided free housing to educate the bright-eyed university kiddies."
"You had an ordinary life?"
"Mmm yes, Sherlock. Actually, I'm quite surprised you never looked for me here. I didn't even use an alias — Professor James Moriarty, Advanced Euclidian Geometry. Imagine that! The most cursory Google search would've lead you straight here." He snickered, as if it were so obvious (and it was), "Did you really think I could write 'Consulting Criminal' on my taxes?"
"A double life…" Sherlock mused, almost breathless in awe, "Brilliant."
"It's disappointing that you thought I lived at my own little Baker Street, putting holes in the wall out of boredom, with my own little pet Watson, relentlessly and pathetically waiting for a challenge. No, no, no, I leave that to the amateurs." He narrowed his eyes, "No wonder it was so easy to defeat you."
"But you didn't." Sherlock huffed, "Not really."
"And yet here we sit, two dead men. Well… dead to the world, at least. Your reputation is all I really wanted, not your life." He shrugged — he really could've gone either way, "What is your next move?"
"That depends, what is yours?"
"Pick up. Continue being me somewhere else." He said matter-of-factly, "But if you make it your life's mission to hunt me down, I'll make sure my compatriots know that you didn't hold up your end of the bargain."
"You know I can't let you do that."
"Oh please, Sherlock." He rolled his eyes, "Even if you stop me, my web is well established. I've got plans going on for at least the next decade. You can't stop the disease; I am not the cause, I am merely an opportunist. I don't participate in wars, merely see profit in starting them."
"Ah, but I'd be forced to fight against that too, no matter how impossible the odds. But you could easily force my hand — I've already shown my willingness to protect those I hold most dear. So the question becomes: what do you expect me to do?"
Moriarty giggled; a nasty smirk encompassed his face, "I expect you to do it anyway, because you're… you. Even if the angels were against you, you'd serve them regardless. If only you could commit to evil this way." For the smallest fraction of a second, Moriarty lost his composure. His amusement fell, his brow wrinkled in dismay. Sherlock was thrown — what could this mean? It was as if his entire being were trying to say, "I'm disappointed."
"Why would I exhaust myself trying to flush out your network, when you could just threaten my… friends again?"
"Because I'm going to hand it to you!" Moriarty giggled again, riding out every inch of pleasure he could ascertain from Sherlock's bewildered face, "The names, the connections: everything I've created."
At this, Sherlock was taken aback; physically and very visibly flinching, mouth agape.
"Yes, you didn't see that coming, did you? I'll even give you the information in cryptic messages, for old time's sake. Ah, but now you must be asking yourself: what's the catch?" All of the criminal's teeth were visible, his words sprinkled with excited laughter, "Let's have dinner."
"I'm not hungry." Sherlock's mind swam — this request was innocuous, but completely off topic. He isn't a fool, he pondered, That information is priceless, especially now that he's on the run. How would dinner possibly pay for it?
His line of thought was interrupted by a very concrete answer, "Neither am I."
Suddenly the conversation got far too ripe with conflicting emotions for the detective, "If you'll excuse me, I have my own funeral to attend." He had heard this phrase from all too many females in his life, most notably from the Woman, prompting him to jump out of his chair and rush to the door.
"Have you ever kissed a boy, Sherlock?" Moriarty remained seated, only slightly craning his neck to his shoulder, voice eager, with just a hint of sarcasm. This gave Sherlock pause — he always had to have the last word.
"Is that supposed to be funny?" His hand twitched over the doorknob.
"Is it?"
"This is rather sloppy — I was impervious to the Woman's charms, what makes you think you could seduce me?"
"What can I say? I. Am. Sher. Locked." He winked, venom in his voice.
Sherlock felt his stomach drop to the floor; apparently his private life wasn't as private as he'd anticipated. He had known all along that the Woman was working for Moriarty, but he had greatly underestimated the lengthy and intimate extent to which his nemesis had been monitoring him.
"Answer," he hissed, "What makes you think I'll fall for this?"
"Because you defeated Ms. Adler. Took you longer than you would've wanted, but you did. But you see, our little game… neither of us can win. You love it."
"We're equal."
"Yes. And that isn't boring now, is it, my pet?"
"You're assuming just because I haven't beaten you yet, I must have affections for you."
"Well… yes."
"You're wrong."
"Am I? Or do you just want me to be?"
There was a loaded pause as Sherlock realized everything Moriarty said was right. Every waking second of my life, he thought, I crave excitement. Not what ordinary people would find exciting, of course, but real mysteries. As much as I have shoved all idea of affection aside… He couldn't help but notice that the enigmatic James Moriarty pervaded his thoughts, The one thing that has never let me down. Not once did he mess up, never did he allow me any knowledge that he hadn't carefully crafted. It became increasingly difficult for Sherlock to breathe, his mind racing faster than his body could keep up, And… he… James is a constant reminder of the thin, dangerous line I walk between justice and criminal… he forces me to question all of it. In all honesty, he is perfect.
Moriarty could read Sherlock's face, showing those shark-like teeth again, "Your problem is that you love yourself and the work. Happy birthday to you, I am as close to both as you're ever going to get! Of course you love me."
Basically, yes. The thought smacked Sherlock in the face.
It was an uncommon event that he was left speechless; not even a snarky quip to be had. Almost completely unheard of, he thought, fully aware of his shortcomings. As far as he knew, he had never fallen for the chemical waste that love marinated so many suffering souls in. Nevertheless, the concept, even if it weakened his judgement, had been more appealing ever since he met Watson.
Yet, he had never felt any romantic inclination. People were too… simple. Boring. Stupid. No one understood what Sherlock needed. Oh so many things that the detective could pick apart, leading to people being beneath his notice.
But this wasn't Moriarty. He and Sherlock understood each other perfectly, they didn't feel… at least, not obviously. And he knows it, Sherlock thought. More so, he knew the dark-haired man was his arch nemesis, but couldn't think of any compelling reason not to submit to his feelings. Already feelings are clouding my judgement. I should be repulsed… But all he found was this intense elation — This man is dangerous. No, he IS danger… However, it was no secret that Sherlock lived for risk.
"Are we playing a game?" Sherlock asked, oblivious to normal human social interactions.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Moriarty smirked, his flirtatious tone very… inviting.
"I admit, I have enjoyed your games in the past."
"Well…" Moriarty's eyes still danced, but a sinister sheen clouded them, "I'm done playing."
"Unfortunately for you, I won't make it that easy."
"Oh really? You're showing more initiative — I like that in a man."
"Forgo the praise. My game is simple: if you really want me, you're going to have to find me."
"Ohhhh, we're playing hide-and-seek? That's a good one." Moriarty licked his lips, "Best when played naked, don't you know?"
"Focus!"
"You're no fun." Moriarty fake-pouted, "But since I've already found you… does that mean I'm winning?"
"As I've said, I have places to be. I want to dismantle the work you've put out there in the world. But I don't want you to just hand me the information. I want you to make this another puzzle."
"You're going to hold your affections hostage for a game? Dangerous. What if I just surrender it?"
"Please." Sherlock scoffed, "It's never that simple. The game is this: you give me two clues that could potentially lead me to two different schemes of yours. Then you give me 24 hours of a head start to parse out what they mean, choose which one to pursue, and get to where I need to go."
"Ahhhh… and then after a day, I must figure out which one you've taken, and where you'll be going."
"Yes. When and if you find me, we can do… whatever it is you're after. For as long as it takes me to solve it."
Moriarty flashed his signature devious smile, standing up and walking uncomfortably close to Sherlock. Tensing up, Sherlock almost took defensive measures, far too close. Without warning, Moriarty's hand was caressing his cheek. Knowing the criminal was just going for shock value, Sherlock decided not to act on his desire to twist away.
Leaning into his ear, Moriarty whispered, "I'll hold you to that."
Goosebumps puckered Sherlock's skin, both dread and delight creeped down his spine; he struggled to keep a deadpan face, "I'll be expecting a text." Moriarty pulled back, clearly satisfied with his victory, "Aww, no kiss goodbye?"
Opening the door, Sherlock had to suppress the urge to bolt down the hallway.
[later that evening]
It was a balmy night — heavy cloud cover, no stars, vaguely warm; most would've called it muggy, by all accounts. Mycroft insisted that Sherlock couldn't travel by plane, "Too dangerous, your face is plastered around all of England, little brother."
Sherlock grumbled, people so rarely see what is right in front of them. I could have been in Paris three hours ago. But Mycroft had bought him a ferry ticket and a private cabin, which Sherlock was conveniently forgetting to use.
Standing on the ship's deck, breaking into a fresh pack of smokes, Sherlock's pocket buzzed.
Don't think I don't know I'm getting the raw end of the deal. But dear me, if the idea of being a player and not the game maker isn't novel. I feel like a schoolboy again. -JM
He smiled. Perhaps the criminal mastermind felt exactly as he did when he was first offered an actual challenge. The clues came shortly afterward — two pictures.
Tick-tock, dear Sher-lock! -JM
"30 minutes 'till docking." The ship's loudspeaker shouted, snapping Sherlock out of his thoughts. Half an hour to catch his breath and try processing what was happening. The youngest Holmes had already picked the location from the pictures, all that was left was to secure plans.
He shifted through his address book and hit the "Call" button. As the phone rang, he realized he had never been in a stranger situation, "Brother, dear…"