Chapter Text
“Moral wounds have this peculiarity - they may be hidden, but they never close; always painful, always ready to bleed when touched, they remain fresh and open in the heart.”
-Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo
At first glance, James Moriarty does not seem the caring type.
He cares little for the scornful looks sent his way by snobbish Brits, and cares less still for the law. And yet, looking closer, it is plain to see his loyalties are fierce and that they lie with friends— friends who care for him in return.
Sherlock pats him on the back, ushering him toward their box seats and away from his head. James must continually remind himself that this is for the case, this is for Sherlock. Because this life, a life of trips to the theatre? Starched suits? This isn’t something he ever thought he’d want; it is certainly a life he’ll never be used to. The twat hadn’t told him anything about the case, only woke him up an hour ago and told him they were going to the Vic for a matinee. With Sherlock, there was really no knowing what a day would bring. Which was fine. Really. But James really wished he had some idea of what to expect. Of when he must rebuild the wall around himself that Sherlock so unceremoniously smashes every time he forgets to knock on the door. Of when he must replace the mask of confidence he carves from his own ribs each morning.
The theatre is ornate, decked out with seats of red velvet and a chandelier surrounded by baroque decoration. While James tries not to gape, Sherlock is all business. He nods at a security guard who pulls the curtain open to reveal the box. Which isn’t empty.
Their face is turned away from the two men, elbows braced on the balcony in order to lean closer, examining the curtain…or scanning the audience; brown hair neatly gelled and coiffed, their jacket a deep green. James adjusts his shirt cuffs and shrugs Sherlock’s hand from his shoulder, folding his hands politely behind his back. Sherlock, tactful for once, clears his throat to alert their company to their presence. Said company stands abruptly, pivoting on their heel.
“Sherlock! Always a pleasure,” they greet cheerfully. “Usually a nuisance, but always a pleasure. And your friend?” The stranger’s face holds little emotion as their hazel eyes flick toward James. They have a slight five-o-clock shadow and a flat brown birthmark on their right cheek. Their lips are prominent, their brow sloping gracefully into a nose that he can tell would be more aquiline than not if he examined their side profile. He admonishes himself internally; he’s already examining too much. But under their piercing eyes he himself feels examined, more stripped down than if he were nude. James swallows. They notice and grace him with a smirk.
“James Moriarty. Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he all but stammers. It suddenly hits him– he cannot tell if he is speaking to a man or a woman. The thought equal parts arouses and frightens him.
“Lennox Falleder. Pleased to make yours.” His (?) voice is a rich tenor, less probing than his gaze but no less confident. He does not offer a handshake; only gestures toward the velvet seats in the box. For once James curses Sherlock’s perceptiveness, as the Holmes offers a wink before situating himself between James Moriarty and the most intriguing person he has ever met. Though shame grates at him, he leans over his companion to make small talk, of all things.
“What exactly is this production about?” He tries to sound as if he is above such trivial things as the theatre (he is no stranger to the playing of parts). Falleder beams at the question.
“It’s one of my favorites of Dumas’. You have no idea how much it took to bribe my understudy so I could meet you today.” James’ eyebrows raise slightly.
“A player?” Curse Sherlock and his lack of explanation. This seems important for him to have known before they got there.
“I’m the principal for Fabien, actually. But, and this must stay between us,” Falleder lowers his voice, “our director is a bit of a drunk, if you’re picking up what I’m putting down.” James carefully blanks his expression and nods politely. Now he understands why Sherlock likes Falleder, why he went to the trouble of arranging this meeting. The casual exploitation is in some strange way attractive— he sees some of himself in this near-stranger, the same white-lie moral code that James himself lives by.
The curtain rises.
Mycroft Holmes’ bleary eyelids brim with the sensation of rough fabric. His sudden stirring must have been noticeable; he was dragged to his feet by his bound arms. He felt a tugging even as he stumbled. The indignity of being leashed was quickly overcome by the confusion and fear about what such a situation would entail. Though the blindfold rendered it meaningless, he tried to remember which direction they turned but quickly lost track. Cool cement floors have thus been the only clue to where he is being taken.
Mycroft Holmes’ bare feet are assaulted by splinters and debris with every step. He does not know how long he walks. He does not know where he is, who took him there, or why. There are a great many things he does not know, and that is the most uncomfortable thing of all.