Sherlock and James Moriarty

Sherlock was bored, as usual. Clad in his dressing gown and and pyjamas, he tapped impatiently on the sitting room table in his flat. He needed a case. Any sort of case. At this point he'd even take a six, just to have something. Maybe even a five. He stood up and strode over to his violin case, removing his bow and rosining it up only to change his mind and toss it back in with a disgusted look on his face.

"Bored!" he exclaimed to no one in particular. "BORED!" John was away, Sherlock could probably deduce where but didn't want to bother. He closed the latches with his feet and paced the width and breadth of the flat, sorely wishing that he had cigarettes. Something to pass his time. Anything to pass the time. Anyone to pass the time. It occurred to him that perhaps there might be something he could do.

It was a longshot, he decided, but it may be some form of entertainment. He removed his phone from his dressing gown and selected a number filed under the 'J's. Doubtlessly, he was bored too.

Bored. -SH

Jim was in the middle of some negotiating with a client. Well he called them clients, others would probably refer to them as victims. The man had no idea what kind of trouble he had put himself into when he had asked Jim Moriarty for help.

Just as he was about decide whether he would just finish him, or make the man suffer by peeling his skin off like a banana, his phone buzzed inside of his trouser's pocket. His eyes rolled back, annoyed. This better be important or the man in front of him would be carrying the consequences, even though he had nothing to do with it.

Jim's eyes flickered with a certain kind of pleasure as he saw the familiar number pop up on his screen. Oh this was convenient, very convenient. He could imagine the state Sherlock had to be in before addressing a text, confessing his boredom. The poor thing was probably slowly going insane by now.

"I would say I'm sorry, but I'm not." Jim started, not looking at the man in front of him as he tapped a reply to Sherlock. His eyes then fluttering back up. "I suddenly found a much more interesting toy to play with." Jim snapped his fingers and a single gun shot went off. The man dropped down on his knees, before falling over onto his chest. "Clean." Jim ordered as he walked away and out of the building he'd been in.

-- Text --
You must be desperate. But I aim to please. Expect me soon.
JM. Xx

Sherlock had seized his violin again when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Deciding to ignore it, he began the first movement of Borodin's 2nd when he heard the first three bars of Staying Alive—a personalized text alert for a very special person. He drew it out of his pocket, keeping his violin pinched between chin and shoulder, and read the text. Gingerly, he set the phone down on an endtable and poised the bow over the strings. This was going to be fun.

Perhaps his violin needed a polishing, thought Sherlock. He decided he'd rather confront Moriarty in something other than his pyjamas. He gave himself five minutes and returned to the room in a crisp Spencer Hart, newly ironed by Mrs. Hudson. He drew a handkerchief, one he'd stolen from Mycroft years ago, out of his violin case and set about wiping the fingerprints off of the instrument. Expect me soon, the text had said. It had been ten minutes, but London was a big city. He boiled some water and sipped a cup of Earl Grey.

-text-
I'm waiting.
SH

Should he replace the strings? The set was fairly new but they were already starting to fatigue. No, Sherlock decided. Another day. He drummed his fingernails on the endtable, not quite bored, but at the least impatient. He was done with his tea, waiting for either a call from Lestrade or a footstep on the stairs. This would be delightful.

Jim had only just made it outside, hopping into the car that had been waiting for him. The driver waited for Jim to order him where to go and with the most devilish grin on his face, he spoke the short address.

"221B Baker Street."

It would take him a while, even though he had wished he was able to get their sooner. It had been a while since he last saw his most favourite detective and Jim could not deny he was looking forward to this meeting. He always kept the special things for Sherlock. He always had some plan stored in the back of his mind, there was always some game he wanted to play with this man.

His phone beeped and he could tell it was Sherlock before he even took it out. "Impatient, impatient." He whispered to himself, shaking his head just a little. His eyes still had the same kind of spark in them as his thump moved over the screen to wrap up a reply.

-- Text --
Good things come to those who wait.
-JM. Xx

Another 10 minutes later the car stopped in front of the dark front door with those shiny letters. Jim got out, straightened his dark grey Westwood suit before he crossed the street. For a moment he considered ringing the bell, but declined the idea almost soon after. Sherlock just made things too easy and should really consider some better security.

With ease the door clicked out of the lock and Jim found himself in the entrance hall. His eyes rolled over to the mirror in front if him and he fixed his hair in it just before he started making his way up. He didn't even bother skipping the creaking step, just a firm sign for Sherlock he was nearly there.

For a few seconds, Jim stood still in front of the door leading into the living room. He was trying to listen to any ongoing movements inside the flat, but could make up very little of them. His tongue licked his dry lips just before he, once again way too easily, unlocked this door as well. It swung open, and Jim arrogantly leaned against the door frame.

"Hello, sexy."

Sherlock played his entire way through the first movement of the Borodin and began on a Bach piece. Not the Sonata, he decided, it was far too melancholy. The cello suite had always been a favourite of his, but it was, after all, for cello. Partita for violin, he decided, leaning over and drawing the sheet out of his impeccably organized music index. He could play from memory, but he wasn't in the mood. He ran his right index finger over the beautifully fashioned Stradivarius and closed his eyes, ready to feel the music, but realized that Moriarty would be on his way and it was best not to get to absorbed. He struck the opening chords.

Something was wrong. He played his G string and realized with a scowl that it was out of tune. He reached over to the peg and adjusted. Perfect. Fifteen minutes, now. He was getting impatient, and something was still wrong with the A. He finished the piece with a flourish and set the accursed thing down, resolving to replace the strings as soon as he could. He drummed his fingers on the armrest and tapped out a melody. Should there be an A there? Or...no...he shook his head, resolving never to again try to compose while so distracted.

-text-
I hope it's worth it.
SH

Was that a footstep? The creaky step had just squeaked, Sherlock was sure of it. He stayed put, sure that the intruder wasn't the one person he was waiting for. Moriarty always skipped the creaky step. Well, always meant the one time that he had broken into the flat. Then doubt crept into his mind. Perhaps Moriarty hadn't bothered, perhaps...

His mind began to race. Had this been a good idea in the first place, unleashing Moriarty? Surely the Irishman would have continued his daily activities of death and destruction, but at least he wouldn't have been provoked. At least the moving finger couldn't move to Sherlock and accuse him of setting off a criminal mastermind. But there was no going back now, and Sherlock had been terribly bored. Words, spoken many months ago by a man now dead, resonated through his head. Still the addict. His resolve hardened. He would take whatever puzzle Moriarty threw at him, and beat him, and they'd continue with their lives. Just entertainment. No need for anything serious to happen.

But he was fooling himself. Of course Moriarty would—

"Hello, sexy." Sherlock didn't turn to face the speaker. The Dublin accent combined with the snakelike quality of the voice could never be mistaken.

"Have a seat," said Sherlock, fingers clasped in front of his chin, and he snapped back to a musical area of his mind, Ode to Joy running rampant through his synapses. Too airy. He though of the Partita. Better. He closed his mouth and waited for his nemesis to speak.

Letting his gaze run through the room, as of he was looking for something, Jim Moriarty pushed himself off the wall. His hands slipped into his pockets and arrogantly he took a few steps forward to enter the room.

It always sort of surprised him how Sherlock managed to keep the place so tidy. Or perhaps his little pet John did the cleaning for him. Jim had to snap his thoughts back, he had to concentrate and focus instead of wondering about these little things that made him even more curious about the other male in the room.

Jim roamed over to the chair opposite Sherlock's, removed his hands from his pockets and sat down leg crossed. He completely leaned back into the chair, letting the other know he felt comfortable around. Or perhaps just wanting Sherlock to feel uncomfortable with his own ease.

"I knew you were willing to take." Jim began, his voice more serious then ever before. "But I never saw you as the demanding party." His head tilted sideways for a few seconds. "At least not to my services." Jim added.

((I kind of want to post a Sexually Oblivious Sherlock meme right now.))

Sherlock looked at his nemesis and stared him straight in the eye, his brows raised. His gaze slipped down Jim's neck and down his arm to his hand, which rested cavalierly on the armrest of John's plush chair. John's chair, thought Sherlock in a moment of panic. Where was John? Was he on his way home? What would he say if he found out that Sherlock had provoked, nay, invited Jim Moriarty to wreak havoc of some kind of another?

Sherlock tugged at his collar and palmed a bead of sweat off of his neck. "You've been busy," he said at last, checking the tan, the powder burns on his jacket, and, of course, the sinister snakelike look on Jim's face. Services? No, he wasn't looking to hire the consulting criminal. He was looking to solve crimes. What did Jim have in mind?

It didn't dawn on Sherlock until several seconds later, after glancing all over Jim's face for body language. He looked straight into his face, tongue half-lolling out, and then looked at the kitchen, wondering if he'd left a perishable experiment in the microwave.

[Only admins are allowed to see this image]

Jim's lips curled up a little bit when he felt Sherlock's eyes burning on him. He knew the detective well enough to know what he was doing, reading every little detail. Suggestively Jim raised an eyebrow, he loved it when Sherlock showed off what he had found out, but he stayed quiet this time.

"Of course I've been busy. Did you really thought my whole word revolved around you?" His eyebrow still cocked up. Of course, most of the crimes he had committed lately had been for Sherlock, but not every single one. He had other clients, other business he couldn't link with Sherlock. Or perhaps he could?

Jim leaned closer, elbows resting on his knees now. "I can cure your boredom Sherlock." He almost whispered, his voice clearly indicating something darker. "But not just with another crime, dead bodies can only keep you entertained for such a short time." Jim nodded to himself a bit, as if he was approving his own words. "But are you willing to take whatever I offer? Hmm. I could always force you, though." Now he was just wondering out loud, not directing his words to Sherlock anymore.