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To say that Sherlock’s mood was foul was an understatement. Ever since he had solved the case about Count Drebbler and some imbecile had leaked his address, his shared apartment was swarmed with people who had cases for him. Pah. Sherlock didn’t want “mysteries” he could solve in a few hours; he wanted cases like Drebbler’s. He itched for a real mystery, preferably one which would lead him a step closer to that mastermind which had orchestrated Count Enders’ and Count Drebbler’s demise. Sherlock still remembered the thrill which had coursed through him at Drebbler’s crime scene at the discovery that again some criminal mastermind – most likely the same as the one on the Noahtic – had been behind the nobleman’s murder.
But alas, Sherlock had not killed Jefferson Hope and thus had not gotten a name or clue. If he had a second chance, would he do it? Would he kill Hope? John would despise him for it, that was clear as day. But Sherlock could not turn back time and stewing in ‘What-if’s’ would only lead to madness. Sherlock didn’t know why he had even bothered to check if that old duke really died from his illness a few days ago. Perhaps he had had the slightest sliver of hope that this mastermind would give him another riddle, which would inch him closer to the stranger’s identity. But of course the duke had to die of his illness! Would anything else have been too much to ask?
Sherlock looked at the crumpled train ticket in his hands. Damn Watson, he really could have given him a match before storming off into the train. The detective was itching for a cigarette.
“The train to London will depart shortly! Please those who wish to go to London, take your proper seats on the train! I repeat: The train to London will depart in a few minutes!”
Luckily, his seat with John wasn’t difficult to find, but to Sherlock’s surprise, he couldn’t open the door. He felt his irritation spike when he looked through the small window in the door and saw John sitting inside the cabin, blatantly ignoring him.
“Fine, then I’ll grab some dinner.”, Sherlock grumbled. His day couldn’t get any worse. The restaurant was mostly empty and the detective sat down at the first table he saw. A waiter approached him.
“Table for one?”, he asked and Sherlock grunted as an answer. The waiter handed him the menu and listlessly, he looked over it. His gaze drifted away and stopped at an unexpected sight. Immediately, Sherlock felt all agitation evaporate and his gloomy expression brightened as a wide, toothy smile unbidden stretched his lips. Could it really be – no, he was certain it was him! The mathematician from the Noahtic, who had deduced him as correctly as Sherlock had him. Who had sniffed him during his deduction and sometimes, Sherlock could still smell the perfume he had worn that evening. Promptly, he shot up from his seat and patted the waiter’s shoulder.
“Sorry, buddy, change of seats.”
Hastily, he ran towards the mop of blond hair, pure ecstasy filling him. Sherlock didn’t even notice Lestrade sitting at one of the tables. His eyes were set in tunnel vision on the mathematician. Who would have known this dreadful day would take a 180 turn? Uncaring about the man sitting opposite the mathematician, Sherlock easily plopped down next to him and grinned at the ruby-eyed man.
“Yo professor, fancy seeing you here.”, he said, as if he hadn’t been moping these past few days. Sherlock threw the man next to him a barely noticeable glance. It seems he really caught him off-guard. Smugly, he also discovered also a hint of panic in those red eyes, though they weren’t as beautiful as the mathematician’s, who seemed to have regained his composure much faster. He threw Sherlock a pleasant smile and the detective nearly vibrated.
“Ah, you’re the man from the Noahtic, …”
“Sherlock.”
“…Sherlock.”
“If you would excuse us, we have just finished eating.”, the man next to Sherlock stated and the detective threw him a grin.
“But you haven’t had dessert yet, have you?”
“It’s alright. Tell me, what brings you here?”, the professor asked, red eyes glinting. Sherlock sighed.
“A disaster. Ever since the Drebbler case I am swarmed with clients.”
“Wouldn’t you see this as an improvement?”
Sherlock laughed. “Ha! I’m not interested in those cases. I want the real mystery: The mastermind behind the fabricated murders of Count Enders and Count Drebbler. In fact, I am here because I wanted to check if the duke, who has died a few days ago, really passed from illness, or if he was another victim of that serial killer.”
The mathematician tilted his head slightly. “So you assume there is one person responsible for their deaths?”
“Yup. You know, the Drebbler case was interesting. The mastermind was reaching out to me via Jefferson Hope, the man who killed the count. If I killed Hope, I would get his name.”
Ruby-red eyes narrowed slightly with interest. “What a strange offer. And? Did you?”
“No. But after his arrest I visited Hope and he gave me a name after all.”, Sherlock lifted and eyebrow and leaned forward. “Who would have thought that mastermind would be you, William James Moriarty?”
Silence reigned the table. Sherlock held his opposite’s steady gaze, careful to note any change in his expression. He found none, not even the slightest eye twitch. Blood-red eyes, they would fit a mysterious criminal mastermind. If Moriarty was the mastermind, he wouldn’t use a public train in broad daylight. On the other hand, no one knew what the Lord of Crimes looked like, and Moriarty was intelligent. If there was one person who would be able to walk among the people in broad daylight and be responsible for the murders, it would be Moriarty. Of course, Sherlock had no proof, and it really would be hilarious, but a little fun hasn’t harmed anyone yet. Then, Moriarty’s eyes crinkles in amusement and Sherlock felt his heart do a funny little flip.
“That is…quite the heavy accusation. However, I cannot prove I didn’t do it. Besides”, Moriarty gave him a grin tinted with mischief, “wouldn’t that be your job, Sherlock Holmes?”
Sherlock threw his head back in laughter. “Ahh, I was kidding, I was kidding.” He watched with interest as Moriarty put an arm around the back of his seat and tilt his head. He had an unreadable smile on his face and his red eyes seemed to glow underneath long lashes.
“Catch me if you can, Mr. Holmes.”
Sherlock was screwed. His eyes widened with excitement, and he inhaled sharply. His cheeks began to hurt from the grin and his heart pounded in his chest. That phrase combined with that sight will haunt him in his dreams, and Sherlock didn’t mind. Was it unmoral, dare he say unnatural, for one man to lust after another? Perhaps, if you follow the bible. But he was Sherlock Holmes, and rules didn’t apply to him. For a moment, he dared fantasize Moriarty really being the man he was looking for. Moriarty would be a challenge, however, when had Sherlock ever said no to a challenge?
“Would it satisfy you to hear me say that, Mr. Detective?”, Moriarty asked, and was that a flirty undertone Sherlock heard? The way Moriarty was looking at him through his bangs certainly spoke to Sherlock and he could taste the tension on his tongue.
“Hahahaha! That was an impressive Impression, Liam.”, he smirked, and felt the man next to him, Louis, nearly have a heart attack. Moriarty, however, seemed unbothered by the nickname, to Sherlock’s mild disappointment. He had hoped to get a bit more of a reaction from Liam.
“I am glad my joke was received so well.”, Moriarty said and Sherlock was tempted to kick Louis out, so he had Moriarty’s attention all on himself. This man certainly was an intriguing, handsome enigma. When Lestrade interrupted them, Sherlock supressed his frustration. Could he not have some privacy? The murder discovered a few seconds later was even more fun, as he, for the first time, had a worthy opponent. Moriarty was good. Perhaps he could convince the mathematician to switch profession? But he wasn’t sure his ego would take constant rivalry well.
By the time he was back in his shared apartment with John, night had fallen and both readied for bed. Sherlock was glad his ‘apology’ was accepted (only because John was a good soul) and that he had his partner back. It had been a bit strange without his sidekick. John yawned.
“Good night, Sherlock. See you in the morning. Don't stay up too late, you near me?.”
“I won't. Night.”, was all Sherlock replied and he slammed the door to his small bedroom shut. John looked at it in confusion. Since when was Sherlock eager to go to bed? The case hadn’t been taxing and normally he stayed up late into the night. Shrugging, he went to his own bed. He should be glad Sherlock had the common sense to care for his health every now and then. Though, he still smoke too much for John's liking. Unbeknownst to John, who was soon sound asleep, his friend was still wide awake, his bedclothes strewn onto the floor. Sherlock grinned at the ceiling before closing his eyes. It didn’t take long for his blood to rush through him and a sultry voice whisper in his ear:
Catch me if you can, Mr. Holmes