Fic: The More You Ignore Me (Sherlock; T)
Author/Artist: enzymion
Title: The More You Ignore Me
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: T
Summary: Since the Middle Ages, the rich and powerful have kept menageries of exotic animals to show off their power and admire their beauty; Jim keeps Sherlock for much the same reason.
Warnings (if any): Spoilers for ASIP, TBB & TGG, Swearing
Total word count: 6868
Original prompt number: 7
Disclaimer: This story/artwork is based on characters and situations created and owned by the BBC. No money is being made (boo) and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Beta(s): blue_eyed_1987
The more you ignore me
The closer I get
You're wasting your time
The more you ignore me
The closer I get
You're wasting your time
Sherlock was bored. Jim could tell, even from this distance. He could see his silhouette pacing back and forth past the living room window of his flat, like that of a caged beast.
This flat was bigger than his old one on Montague Street had been, only a little, maybe, but enough to add a few more seconds to Sherlock’s journey from wall to wall. A few more seconds between all too brief glimpses of that shadow. It was just a few seconds, but Jim knew that a few seconds could be everything and his heart lurched painfully in those moments when he couldn’t see him, couldn’t know what he was doing, thinking, deducing.
Sherlock stopped in front of the window - looking out onto the street, perhaps - his tall frame stark black against the warm glow of his living room, and Jim’s heart stopped with it. Did he know he was being watched? No, he never did. Sherlock was good, of course he was, but Jim was better.
He knew the detective had noticed the cars that used to linger on Montague Street, so nondescript they became obvious, because that’s what Sherlock did - he noticed. He noticed, and he deduced, and he had deduced that his irritating older brother had stepped up his surveillance on him. For Sherlock to be wrong…it was brilliant. Jim knew he was better than Sherlock, but he did so love to have proof of it.
Sherlock began to move again, and Jim began to breathe. He hadn’t noticed him - he never did - just as he hadn’t noticed when the flat across the road from his had been sold a few days after he moved in, after months of languishing on the market. Nor had he noticed when the owner of the flat above it disappeared not too long after that, and turned up a week later, washed up on an embankment. The flat had fallen into the hands of the same buyer, and Jim had luxuriated in the better view of 221B he could enjoy from the bedroom window. The angle just hadn’t been right before.
Jim counted him back and forth: fourteen seconds; sixteen seconds; almost twenty eight seconds, and when Sherlock passed by the window again there was the shadow of the bow of his violin in his hand. After that, there was no more sign of him, but Jim fancied he could hear the sharp chords of Vivaldi or Paganini, and it didn’t matter.
Sherlock was bored, which meant that he was bored, and that had to be rectified. Sherlock needed a new game to play. Jim knew that he had enjoyed his last one - a string of armed robberies, not too interesting or even profitable, but enough of a distraction - enjoyed it enough to release chlorine gas into his flat in pursuit of the answer. His landlord had taken offense, and now he was here, 221B Baker Street, with the too large living room and the too small windows. Maybe the flat above this one would have a better view? No, it was too risky: it was owned by a young couple with no enemies, no debts and everything to live for; Sherlock would be on the case like a bloodhound.
Jim toyed with the idea of killing them anyway, just to watch Sherlock try and find him. Oh, he would enjoy watching Sherlock attempts at finding his way through the twisted mess of fake lives and dead bodies that made up his past, but a game you knew were going to win wasn’t any fun. It would break Sherlock, not being able to solve the puzzle, and Jim didn’t want him broken. Not yet, anyway; not when there was so much fun left to be had with him.
A different game, then: a serial killer on the loose, perhaps. Sherlock did so like serial killers, and it had been a while since the last one (she’d reached three victims: strangulation, all of them, and the bodies dumped in building sites. Quite dull, really, and Sherlock had solved the case within days; what a waste of time). Nothing happened in London without Moriarty knowing. Police officers would kill for his kind of connections, and occasionally they did, if they were desperate enough and he was looking for some entertainment. Finding a murderer would be easy. Finding one interesting enough to intrigue Sherlock, and smart enough to evade him (for a while, at least), though, would be a little harder. But the name Moriarty was whispered like that of a God in the alleyways and empty warehouses of the city, and when word got around he was looking for something, it never took long to appear.
Almost absent-mindedly, if Jim’s mind could ever be described as absent, he slid his phone (well, someone’s phone) out of his pocket and let his attention drop from his watch, concentrating on hacking into a neighbour’s Wi-Fi. It wasn’t even a minute before he was in and onto the phone’s former owner’s email client (and he had been a naughty boy, going by his sent messages). He lost interest as he typed, his gaze flicking back over to the window of 221B.
Sherlock was back, his long fingers drumming on the window pane and sending the thin, tatty curtains billowing. Suddenly, he pulled them aside, and Jim caught a glimpse of black curls and pale eyes staring balefully into the street, as if it had somehow failed him. Sherlock was bored.
We’ll soon fix that, Jim thought, and he smiled, and hit Send.
I will be
In the bar
With my head
On the bar
I am now
A central part
Of your mind's landscape
Whether you care
Or do not
Yeah, I've made up your mind
Things had not gone according to plan. Normally, that would be brilliant. Jim didn’t like plans; plans were dull. Plans were for people too thick to able to think without being given prior warning. This time, though, he was most definitely not pleased.
It was all Sherlock’s fault; the man was so ungrateful. Jim could have had him killed the second he turned up in his city, making a nuisance of himself - maybe he should have - but, no, he had kept him alive, kept him safe and even given him games to play to keep him sane. Sherlock had no idea quite how much of London’s underworld’s primary concern at any one time was keeping him entertained (of course, they had no idea, either; people who asked questions of Moriarty tended not to remain alive long enough to hear the answers), and it was all down to him. All that time, all that effort, all that money, and he had to go and find his own entertainment.
Sherlock Holmes had found a friend. No, not a friend, because Sherlock didn’t have friends. People like him and Sherlock didn’t need friends - they were too good for friends - so who the hell was John Watson and why the hell had he moved in with Sherlock?
Jim could answer the first question as well as anyone. John Watson had been a good student at both school and University - leaving with 6 A*’s and a Bachelor’s degree, respectively - despite the death of his mother at an early age, and a turbulent childhood which had left his sister with a drink problem and a string of failed relationships; he had found a good job at a hospital, and then got a better job at a different hospital; he’d got engaged to a nurse there, but they had called it off a few months later, which probably contributed to his decision to sign up to the Royal Army Medical Corps.
He had been rapidly shipped out to Afghanistan, where he was well-liked by his colleagues, but that hadn’t stopped him from taking a bullet in the shoulder and getting himself sent home. A few weeks in hospital and a few more in rehabilitation and he had been left to fend for himself with not much more than an army pension and a grotty bedsit to his name. ‘Not much’, however, seemed to include trust issues, PTSD and a psychosomatic limp, according to the notes Jim had had stolen from his therapist. And, apparently, he wasn’t the only one interested in those notes, which was strange when John was so very boring.
It was a mystery why Sherlock had deigned him interesting enough to waste his time on when, as far as Jim could tell, he was just as crushingly dull as everyone else in the world. The only notable features he seemed to possess were a penchant for ugly-as-sin jumpers, a good aim and the ability to ruin Jim’s fun.
The game had been going perfectly until he had blundered in. Jeffrey Hope - desperate, dying and so wonderfully bitter about it, too - had proven himself a fine player. He had been a competent killer, not as smart as he thought he was, maybe, but a class above most of the dumb apes which inhabited the city, and happy to obey Moriarty’s whims as long as his money kept coming. He’d vaguely tried to justify the fact that his life had sunk to the level of being paid to kill strangers by giving his payment to his kids, which really was very sweet, but the fact that he enjoyed killing strangers had been clear enough.
It had taken four victims to get Sherlock’s attention (he was playing hard to get - time was a missing pair of trainers would catch his eye), and then it was all over in a matter of hours. Jeffrey had never stood a chance; to pit him against Sherlock was like throwing a fox to the hounds. No, it was even better, because a fox runs from the hounds and that is just dull. What Jeffrey Hope had done was try to outsmart them, to create a game of his own, and that was interesting - perhaps the only interesting thing he had ever done in his short, sad little life, and John Watson had ruined it with a shot to the heart.
Usually, that would be enough to earn him a shallow grave in a patch of wasteland in the outskirts of the city. This time, though, Jim was feeling generous. This one time, he was willing to forgive him, because there was a greater game on the horizon, the game he had been waiting to play for so, so long.
There were rumours, in London’s back alleys and drug dens and not-so-empty warehouses, that somebody was asking the questions nobody asked; somebody was searching for a man who couldn’t be found; somebody wanted Moriarty. They had a hundred different names, a thousand different reasons, but Jim knew who it really was, as certain of it as he was anything.
Because there was one man who specialised in asking the questions nobody asked. A man who was an expert in finding things that couldn’t be found. And maybe it was wishful thinking, or maybe it was exactly what Jim had been waiting for.
Sherlock Holmes vs. Jim Moriarty. A battle for the ages.
And if John Watson even thought about interfering, he would have every bone in his body broken and his corpse strung up in the middle of his flat for Sherlock to come home to.
The more you ignore me
The closer I get
You're wasting your time
The more you ignore me
The closer I get
You're wasting your time
Sherlock had been living on borrowed time for so long now that, sometimes, Jim forgot that he was doing the lending. There were times, though, that he managed to make it so very clear why it was Jim needed him dead. There were things, see - important things - that you were supposed to leave damn well alone, and if you didn’t there would be consequences. Everyone knew that, from being a kid and wondering what would happen if you poured bleach into the fish tank. And yet Sherlock, who knew so much, didn't seem to.
There were thousands of murderers and scam artists and thieves for Sherlock to go after, and Jim did his bit to ensure that. He kept Sherlock in his city like the rich kept exotic beasts, knowing that, for all their beauty and grace, if you ever let you guard down for even a moment, they would have your neck between their jaws in seconds. The difference was that he never let his guard down. But Sherlock could still do damage, could still get in his way, and this time, with his latest case solved successfully, he had.
The Black Orchid might have been little more than a couple of leaves on one branch of the sprawling tree of his criminal empire, but they were his, and you didn't mess with Moriarty's toys, not if you wanted to live long enough to see tomorrow's news. Sherlock, though, had taken them apart and broken them, because that was what he did, and he couldn't see the difference between what he was allowed to play with and what he wasn't supposed to touch.
He was going to have to teach him.
He didn't suppose Sherlock would be an easy student; he had had his own way for far too long to give it up easily. That was his fault…he’d been far too easy on him. He doubted, too, whether he would be as easy to persuade as the others who had come close to getting in his way. A few veiled threats would usually leave them running or, if that didn't work, he had always found that loved ones made excellent persuaders. Sherlock was too smart for that, though. His threats had gone ignored, mocked, and he'd never been weak enough to fall for anyone else.
Well, there was that doctor of his...
And if he enjoyed his games so much...
Ideas were coming to him, fast, like bright, white sparks of lightning from some unknown place. Sherlock was looking for him? Well, let him find him; let him know what he's dealing with. Let him learn a lesson about interfering, one he wasn't going to forget in a hurry. Although, that didn't mean they couldn't have some fun along the way...
Beware
I bear more grudges
Than lonely high court judges
When you sleep
I will creep
Into your thoughts
Like a bad debt
That you can't pay
Take the easy way
And give in
Yeah, and let me in
The flat opposite 221B Baker Street had served Jim well, and it would serve him well one last time, when he filled it with explosives and set them off in the late hours of the 30th of March, in the first move of his and Sherlock's latest, and greatest, game. He couldn't remember why he'd chosen that date; it was one of the ideas that just came to him, whispered into his ear in the middle of the night. He would kill for those whispers, those flashes of inspiration where everything was bright and so, so clear. He often did.
He wondered whether Sherlock heard them too, whether they were what kept him awake and pacing up and down his flat at night. Perhaps he would ask him, when they finally met, ask him what they told him, whether they ever spoke of him. Maybe he had learnt to ignore them, learnt to stop them screaming when you didn't listen like he never could. Sherlock, he had found, was good at ignoring things he didn't want to listen to; important things. Maybe if he just paid attention, it wouldn't have had to come to this.
They had told him to kill Carl, all those years ago; it was such a good idea he had never even thought to say no. It was their idea, too, to play at being Jim from IT, to get a job at St. Bart's and wrap Molly the pathologist round his little finger, the way she was already wrapped around Sherlock's. It was fun, pretending to be ordinary; he did love playing dress up. And every lunch break he had to fill with inane chatter, every night he had to spend over at hers, was worth it for the glimpses he would sometimes catch of Sherlock striding through the corridors of the hospital or bent over an experiment, oblivious to him and knowing, just knowing, that he wouldn't be for much longer.
Jim might not care for plans, but he was proud of this one. Four crimes, four puzzles for Sherlock to solve and four people who would die if he didn't, just to raise the stakes a little. And then, for the grand finale, they were going to have a nice little chat. Whether Sherlock would walk away from it, though, was...uncertain.
He could never quite bring himself to make up his mind about Sherlock. He had lost count of the number of times he had decided to have him killed, but every time Sherlock would do something brilliant and he would have to give him some leeway - a few more weeks until he died that would go on for months, or until he upset him again and he realised he needed him dead, and so it went on.
He had killed so many others without so much as a second thought, but Sherlock was special, in the way nobody else was. Nobody else but him, that is. Sherlock was almost as good as he was and that was just as dangerous as it was wonderful. Dangerous and wonderful…that was Sherlock all over. It seemed, to Jim, quite unfair that he had to be both when most everyone else in the world was neither. Maybe you couldn’t have one without the other, and that was, truly, a shame, because as long as Sherlock was wonderful, he needed him alive. And, as long as Sherlock was a danger to him, he needed him dead. If only he could learn to behave...
Right now, though, there was a game to be played. And, maybe, if he was lucky, there would be an answer to the puzzle at the end of it.
Oh, let me in
Oh let me...
Oh, let me in
19:59, the 30th of March, and Jim was watching 221B from the flat opposite for the last time. This time, though, was different; there was the tang of anticipation in the air, the hum of activity. It was filled with his men, rearranging furniture; laying explosives; trying to make themselves look useful, but Jim barely even saw them. He danced from window to window, too excited to stay still, watching the curtains across the road twitch.
20:03, and there was the muffled boom of gunshots across the street. The room stopped, imagining police, or a rival gang. Jim waved them on, and beamed. Sherlock obviously wasn't coping at all well with Jim taking his toys away. Good. He was going to be ever so grateful for his little game.
20:06, and Sherlock's doctor stormed out the flat, towards Baker Street tube station, to the crackle of the police radio that someone had left in the living room. Someone must have reported the gunshots; the police were twittering away. Oh, they better come to investigate; there was nothing like the death of a police officer to spread some panic. There weren't enough explosives to reach across the street - he'd made quite certain of that - but if he timed the explosion just as they arrived...
But then there was Sherlock's pet detective telling them to stand down, insisting that 'going anywhere near Baker Street was a one way ticket to madness'. Spoilsport.
20:08, and there was the sound of voices upstairs, a door being slammed, feet on the stairs - the couple upstairs, going out for the night; lucky them. They better hope neither of them had forgotten anything. Someone came to his side, told him in broken English that everything was ready. Jim grinned from ear to ear and told him to get out.
20:11, and the flat was empty, except for him, several pounds of explosives and a safe box, containing an envelope addressed to Sherlock - his first clue for his first puzzle. He had been told it would be able to survive anything. Well, it was time to find out. Two minutes until everything went boom.
20:12, and Jim was out of the flat, practically skipping down the stairs and on the street. There was a car waiting for him, ready to take him to his life as Jim from IT, and the night shift at St. Bart’s, to lay out the last few pieces of the game. Little more than a minute to go, and the blast would surely reach him here, but he didn’t get in straight away - couldn’t get in straight away. He stopped with his hand on the door handle, looked back towards 221B. The flat was silent, curtains firmly shut, but he was still smiling as he slipped into the back seat.
20:13, and the car slid silently away from its parking spot and towards Melcombe Street. It was as it took the corner that he felt it, the distant rush of heat and the smash of glass and the piercing wail of car alarms.
The game was on.
IT'S WAR
The death of Carl Powers; the disappearance of Ian Monkford; the murder of Connie Prince; the case of the lost Vermeer; even the fetch quest he had sent his little dog on: Sherlock had solved them all and he’d made it look effortless, like breathing. It almost was, for him: doing the impossible, solving the unsolvable, it came naturally to him. He could no more do without puzzles to solve than any ordinary man could do without food or water. It was fascinating. It was why Jim needed him alive; it was why he needed him dead. It was why he needed to own him, to hold his heart and his mind and his body in his hands and crush them.
But, right now, they still had a game to play. Sherlock was still waiting for his final pip. Jim was still waiting for Sherlock. He had been silent since the lost Vermeer, chasing the missile defence plans his brother had sent him after, ignoring him again. He had wanted to let Sherlock make this move, the one that would finally bring them face to face, but his patience was wearing thin. He wouldn’t wait much longer.
And it seemed Sherlock wasn’t going to, either. His message came with a quiet chirrup that sent a smile spreading across Jim’s face: 'Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect. The Pool. Midnight.'
The pool…Of course, the pool where little Carl Powers died; where it all began, really, all those years ago. Genius. Midnight, then. He’d be waiting. In the meantime, though, there were preparations to be made. The text was sent quickly, to a number he knew well. It read, simply:
‘Get me John Watson. M’
This was going to be fun.
IT'S WAR
The cramped changing rooms of the pool were no different to the day over ten years ago now, when he had killed a boy and stolen a pair of trainers. No, there were some differences: a yellow No Smoking sign had been taped to the door a few years ago; they had replaced a row of lockers by the back wall fairly recently (they hadn't even tried to match them with the others), and there was an unconscious ex-army doctor handcuffed to one of the rotting wooden slat benches that ran around the sides of the room.
Jim sat on the bench opposite, his foot tapping out an impatient rhythm, waiting for him to stir. He hated waiting. It was bitterly cold, cold enough to see your breath, and it came in short, misty puffs of smoke as he spoke. There was nobody listening; two of his men stood by the door, guns in hand, but they barely spoke a word of English, and Doctor Watson was still firmly out cold, blood oozing sluggishly from a cut behind his ear (He'd have to get someone to clean that up. What was Slovak for ear? Ucho?). He barely knew what he was saying, anyway. The words came out in a rush of sheer excitement, confessions and plans and jokes and threats and Sherlock. Over and over again, it came back to him. The phone in his pocket was logged on to Sherlock's website, his message, his promise. He checked his watch: 11:32. Twenty eight minutes until he arrived.
John was sprawled on the floor, back against the bench and hands cuffed up behind him. Whoever it was that had pulled the parka on him hadn't zipped it up. It hung off him, revealing the semtex strapped across him and the steady rise and fall of his chest. His breath caught and stumbled out in a low moan. Jim fell silent and watched, intently, as consciousness returned to him so very slowly. He could pinpoint the exact moment John realised something was wrong, when he tried to lean forward and his arms jarred on the handcuffs with the rattle of metal on metal. There was a moment, just a moment, of panic, but then his military training kicked in and his breathing was suddenly slow and deliberately laboured. His eyes snapped open, somehow dazed and focused at the same. His gaze fell on Jim's shoes and slowly travelled upwards until their eyes met.
Jim grinned.
"Hi!"
IT'S WAR
John opened his mouth to reply, but all that came out was a pained groan before he collapsed into a coughing fit. The bench moaned as he fell forward and hung on his handcuffs, his entire body jerking against their hold, spat red blood onto the floor and finally stilled.
"Ooh, were my boys a bit rough with you? They can be a little overeager sometimes." Jim grinned, wide, checked his watch (Twenty two minutes to go).
"I should probably tell you now," John's voice was barely more than a whisper, but, bless him, he was still trying to put a threat behind it, "I'm not Sherlock Holmes."
"Oh, don't be silly. Of course you're not. Sherlock would never have got himself captured so easily. In broad daylight, as well. How embarrassing. Military training isn't what it used to be." He tutted.
John's face twisted into a frown as his feeble, most likely concussed (at least he hoped so, he couldn't be this slow all the time, surely?) mind try to pick apart what he'd just been told. It was an embarrassingly long time before he spoke, "How do you - do you…Have we met before?"
"Jim Moriarty. It's such an honour to meet properly. I don’t think gay really suits me," He sighed, stood, held out his hand to shake and laughed as John tugged against his handcuffs, "I'd be a bit more careful, if I was you. Between you and me, the guy who did the wiring on that thing wasn't exactly the most careful man in the world. Who knows what might set it off?"
John blinked in confusion, looked down and finally noticed the explosives strapped round his chest, "Jesus - Jesus Christ. Shit. You - You're the bomber. Sherlock's bomber?"
Jim didn't even try to hide the frisson of excitement that ran through him at being described as Sherlock's anything. He would prefer Sherlock being his anything, of course, but...
He couldn't stand still, began to pace to up and down, hand tapping double-time against his thigh. John was still talking, chattering away like a panicked chimp.
"I'm - I'm the fifth pip, aren't I? Fuck. Fuck. Why did you kill that old woman? She didn't do anything. She was - she was...Are you going to kill me? If you are, can you make it quick? My shoulder's - shit - my shoulder's killing me." He began to laugh, half hysterical giggles that sent his handcuffs dancing behind him. (Nineteen minutes, now)
"Oh, don't worry; I'm not going to kill you. At least not until Sherlock gets here."
IT'S WAR
That seemed to stir something in the doctor. He glanced around, obviously trying to work out where he was. His eyes lingered on the bodyguards by the door, then swung from left to right, scanning the room. He sniffed the air, wrinkled his nose at the smell of chlorine and years of damp. Jim lost his patience. How did Sherlock put up with this idiot? He stopped in front of him and, in one swift movement, crouched down, grabbed his hair and slammed his head back hard against the bench. Something cracked.
"We're in a swimming pool!" He snarled, stood and turned away.
"Why...why a swimming pool?" John's words were coming between sharp gasps of pain now, slightly slurred at the edges. Jim sighed; he shouldn't have got so carried away. (Fifteen minutes for him to recover)
"Oh, it wasn't my choice." Jim smiled and held up Sherlock's message. John squinted at it.
"Bastard." He swore, softly.
"I think he thinks I want the missile defence plans," Jim slid the phone back into his pocket and sighed, "How boring."
"But - why all this? What do you want?"
Jim leaned in close, smiled, and whispered, "I want him."
"...Why?"
Jim gave no indication that John had even spoken. Instead, he leant over him (and noted, with no small pride, the way John failed to stop himself flinching away) without saying a word, licked his finger and, in an almost perfect imitation of affection, carefully wiped away the trail of blood behind his ear. He pulled both sides of the parka together and, finally, reached behind him and un-cuffed him. The handcuffs fell to the floor and John scrambled to his feet; he swayed a little where he stood, rubbing awkwardly at his wrists, but still glared at him. Did he think that was threatening? Bless.
"It’s almost show time. I'm sure you know what comes next," He nodded towards one of the men at the door, who produced an earpiece from his pocket and held it out towards John. He ignored him; a small act of unacceptable defiance, "I said, I'm sure you know what comes next."
He took it, slowly, and clipped it round his ear, trailing the cord down the back of his coat so it almost disappeared, staring down at the floor the entire time. Jim pulled out a matching microphone
“Good. Now, let’s put on a show!” He threw his arms out and spun on his toes, playing the ringleader of a crowded, invisible circus, “We’re going to have some fun with Sherlock. In, oh, less than ten minutes, you’re going to go out there and you’re going to do exactly what I say, say exactly what I say, or I’ll be pulling the trigger on that dashing coat of yours and they’ll be finding bits of you in Soho. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” John still didn’t look up, said the word as if it was being dragged out of him.
“Good dog,” Jim grinned, shark-like, and patted John hard on the back, “Well…see you soon.”
Then he was gone, away to wait for Sherlock, like he always was.
IT'S WAR
The silence in the pool was oppressive; it was the silence before a storm, when the dark clouds hang low on the horizon and electric buzz of lightning pulses in the air. There was a staff room on the far side from the entrance, separated off from the main pool. Jim waited behind its door, and watched.
Three minutes to go...
Two minutes...
One minute...
WAR
And Sherlock had arrived, slipping through the fire exit like a thief, his footsteps echoing through the unnatural silence as his Yves Saint-Laurent’s scuffed on wet tiles. He may have entered like a thief, but he walked like a king surveying his kingdom, watching every corner of the empty pool at once. He stopped; held up his hand; spoke.
"Brought you a little getting to know you present,” He held a memory stick - the missile defence programme. Oh, he actually brought it? “That's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your puzzles, making me dance; all to distract me from this."
Oh dear. Sherlock was so very clever. How could he have gotten this so very, very wrong? Did he really think he would do all that for…oh dear. Poor old Sherlock; maybe he had more lessons to learn than he thought. Well, there was no point in letting him embarrass himself more than he already had; time to send out his secret weapon.
“Go say hello to your master. Say evening.” He murmured and watched, greedily, as Doctor Watson obeyed, and stepped out of the stalls towards Sherlock. Sherlock stopped, instantly, like he was a recording and someone had hit the pause button.
“Evening.”
“Good boy,” He crooned, “This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock? Say it.”
John did.
"John? What the hell...?"
It was as if Sherlock was frozen, those ever-searching eyes stuck on John, the perfect machine of his mind run to a halt for perhaps the first time. Even from across the pool, he knew the look on his face; he’d seen it before, so many times. Fear. It didn’t belong on Sherlock’s face. It wasn’t right. It was time to end this.
“What would you like me to get him to say next?”
“Who are you?” The fear fled, scattered into dark corners, keen to be forgotten. Now, this look was more familiar, all threat and aloofness and icy enough to freeze the damn swimming pool. But now he had seen a flash of the weakness beneath it, and it refused to leave him. He had thought - well, it didn’t matter what he thought. He had been wrong; Sherlock was no better than all the other little people he had crushed beneath him on the way to the top. He might have solved all of his puzzles, but he had failed his final test.
There was no need to hide, not any more.
WAR
"I gave you my number. I thought you might call.”
He pulled off the microphone, stepped out of the darkness, into the too-bright fluorescent light and out towards Sherlock. He had dreamt of this, gone over and over it in his head until his and Sherlock’s voices melted into one and the words became meaningless and everything that he thought to do Sherlock had already done, and it wasn’t meant to feel like this: empty and cold and disappointing. He regretted this, every bit of it; he should have just had him killed straight off, should have kept his distance.
Sherlock had a gun, tucked into the waistband of his trousers. It was John Watson’s British Army Browning L9A1, and Jim told him so; Sherlock pulled it on him, arm outstretched; cold steel to match the look in his eye. Predictable.
"Jim Moriarty. Hi,” He kept moving, the gun trained on his head of no more note than the decaying floats stacked on the other side of the pool, and equally as dangerous, given the man holding it. He kept talking, too. A laser sight danced over John’s chest; Sherlock glanced at it and there was a pale flicker of worry in his eyes. Jim was opposite him now, only a scant few metres of wet tile and a few morals separating them, “I've given you a glimpse, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world.”
Sherlock’s voice echoed out in response, darkly amused and, he liked to think, impressed. Well, he should be. He had spent so long thinking he was the biggest fish in the pool, and now he was coming face to face with a shark. He cocked his gun, as if he was actually going to fire it.
“So, take this as a friendly warning...my dear. Back off,” Jim smiled, a tiny, tight little thing. He was almost close enough to touch Sherlock, now, “Although, I have loved this: this little game of ours.”
"People have died." He said it bluntly, perfunctorily, but he meant it. And then he saw the truth; Sherlock had been ruined. The Sherlock that had come crashing into his kingdom might have chosen the side of angels, but he hadn’t cared about a few dead bodies in the name of the game, in fact, he had longed for them. He may never have set out to kill anyone, but there had been something about him; a brilliant darkness that he didn’t even care to hide, and Jim had been convinced that, with a little persuasion, a few nudges of the kind he specialised in, he could be swayed. Now, though, it was like watching a pale imitation of the man he used to be, and John Watson was looking at him with something akin to pride beneath the fear in his eyes and, God, it was his fault - it was him who had ruined Sherlock.
"That's what people do." He roared.
Sherlock didn’t so much as flinch, gun held steady, words whispered in threat, "I will stop you."
"No, you won't." He said it simply, like it was an undeniable fact, because it was. And then…things were happening. Sherlock handed over the missile plans and actually looked shocked when he threw them away and let them sink to the bottom of the pool. John Watson ran at him, held him with an arm round his neck and Sherlock’s gun at his head and he had to laugh, even if he was creasing his suit, especially when he told Sherlock to run and especially when the red laser sight of a sniper skittered over Sherlock’s forehead and he fell away, defeated.
“Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you? If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you."
"I have been reliably informed I don't have one."
“But we both know that's not quite true.” He surprised himself at how it hurt to say it; it was a new sensation, one to be pulled apart and endlessly studied. Not now, though.
“Well, so nice to have a proper chat,” He turned to leave, and Sherlock countered with some petty, pointless little threat, “Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."
The gun followed him as he walked away, towards the nearest door, and so did Sherlock. He had a quick, bright vision of him continuing and falling into step beside him and...
"Catch you later."
He held the door for just a second, gave him a chance to give up on this pathetic flirt with normality and live up to his true potential. He didn’t take it. Instead, he came to a stop, watching him carefully, and there was that pain again, like acid on raw flesh, "No, you won't."
He let the door swing shut, and it felt like much more than that. It felt like a decision made. The voices were hissing in his ear, or maybe it was the faint echo of Sherlock and his doctor still talking in the pool - he couldn’t tell any more. But it was loud, too loud, like a beast howling in his head and he had to make it stop.
WAR
A whispered word into the microphone, slid out of his pocket, had laser sights dancing over the pair as his snipers aimed and, for a split second, as he stepped back out into the pool, the voices stopped dead; it was a peace like he had never known. He clung to it, even as it slipped away, leaving too-familiar noise in its wake.
“Sorry, boys! I’m so changeable! It is a weakness with me but, to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can’t be allowed to continue. You just can’t. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind. ”
Sherlock looked over to John before he moved, something that anyone else would probably have missed, or thought unimportant, but Jim knew it was anything but and it reassured him that, yes, killing him was the right thing to do.
“Probably my answer had crossed yours.”
Sherlock turned to face him, gun held out in threat - really, Sherlock? - but then he shifted and it slid down, facing the bomb jacket and oh, that was interesting. Would he really do it? For the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn’t know what was coming next. He would thank Sherlock for that, if he could, but he stood silent, instead, and he waited.
Your move, Sherlock.
Oh, let me in
Ah, the closer I get
Ah, you're asking for it
Ah, the closer I get
Ooh, the closer I...
Title: The More You Ignore Me
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: T
Summary: Since the Middle Ages, the rich and powerful have kept menageries of exotic animals to show off their power and admire their beauty; Jim keeps Sherlock for much the same reason.
Warnings (if any): Spoilers for ASIP, TBB & TGG, Swearing
Total word count: 6868
Original prompt number: 7
Disclaimer: This story/artwork is based on characters and situations created and owned by the BBC. No money is being made (boo) and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Beta(s): blue_eyed_1987
The more you ignore me
The closer I get
You're wasting your time
The more you ignore me
The closer I get
You're wasting your time
Sherlock was bored. Jim could tell, even from this distance. He could see his silhouette pacing back and forth past the living room window of his flat, like that of a caged beast.
This flat was bigger than his old one on Montague Street had been, only a little, maybe, but enough to add a few more seconds to Sherlock’s journey from wall to wall. A few more seconds between all too brief glimpses of that shadow. It was just a few seconds, but Jim knew that a few seconds could be everything and his heart lurched painfully in those moments when he couldn’t see him, couldn’t know what he was doing, thinking, deducing.
Sherlock stopped in front of the window - looking out onto the street, perhaps - his tall frame stark black against the warm glow of his living room, and Jim’s heart stopped with it. Did he know he was being watched? No, he never did. Sherlock was good, of course he was, but Jim was better.
He knew the detective had noticed the cars that used to linger on Montague Street, so nondescript they became obvious, because that’s what Sherlock did - he noticed. He noticed, and he deduced, and he had deduced that his irritating older brother had stepped up his surveillance on him. For Sherlock to be wrong…it was brilliant. Jim knew he was better than Sherlock, but he did so love to have proof of it.
Sherlock began to move again, and Jim began to breathe. He hadn’t noticed him - he never did - just as he hadn’t noticed when the flat across the road from his had been sold a few days after he moved in, after months of languishing on the market. Nor had he noticed when the owner of the flat above it disappeared not too long after that, and turned up a week later, washed up on an embankment. The flat had fallen into the hands of the same buyer, and Jim had luxuriated in the better view of 221B he could enjoy from the bedroom window. The angle just hadn’t been right before.
Jim counted him back and forth: fourteen seconds; sixteen seconds; almost twenty eight seconds, and when Sherlock passed by the window again there was the shadow of the bow of his violin in his hand. After that, there was no more sign of him, but Jim fancied he could hear the sharp chords of Vivaldi or Paganini, and it didn’t matter.
Sherlock was bored, which meant that he was bored, and that had to be rectified. Sherlock needed a new game to play. Jim knew that he had enjoyed his last one - a string of armed robberies, not too interesting or even profitable, but enough of a distraction - enjoyed it enough to release chlorine gas into his flat in pursuit of the answer. His landlord had taken offense, and now he was here, 221B Baker Street, with the too large living room and the too small windows. Maybe the flat above this one would have a better view? No, it was too risky: it was owned by a young couple with no enemies, no debts and everything to live for; Sherlock would be on the case like a bloodhound.
Jim toyed with the idea of killing them anyway, just to watch Sherlock try and find him. Oh, he would enjoy watching Sherlock attempts at finding his way through the twisted mess of fake lives and dead bodies that made up his past, but a game you knew were going to win wasn’t any fun. It would break Sherlock, not being able to solve the puzzle, and Jim didn’t want him broken. Not yet, anyway; not when there was so much fun left to be had with him.
A different game, then: a serial killer on the loose, perhaps. Sherlock did so like serial killers, and it had been a while since the last one (she’d reached three victims: strangulation, all of them, and the bodies dumped in building sites. Quite dull, really, and Sherlock had solved the case within days; what a waste of time). Nothing happened in London without Moriarty knowing. Police officers would kill for his kind of connections, and occasionally they did, if they were desperate enough and he was looking for some entertainment. Finding a murderer would be easy. Finding one interesting enough to intrigue Sherlock, and smart enough to evade him (for a while, at least), though, would be a little harder. But the name Moriarty was whispered like that of a God in the alleyways and empty warehouses of the city, and when word got around he was looking for something, it never took long to appear.
Almost absent-mindedly, if Jim’s mind could ever be described as absent, he slid his phone (well, someone’s phone) out of his pocket and let his attention drop from his watch, concentrating on hacking into a neighbour’s Wi-Fi. It wasn’t even a minute before he was in and onto the phone’s former owner’s email client (and he had been a naughty boy, going by his sent messages). He lost interest as he typed, his gaze flicking back over to the window of 221B.
Sherlock was back, his long fingers drumming on the window pane and sending the thin, tatty curtains billowing. Suddenly, he pulled them aside, and Jim caught a glimpse of black curls and pale eyes staring balefully into the street, as if it had somehow failed him. Sherlock was bored.
We’ll soon fix that, Jim thought, and he smiled, and hit Send.
I will be
In the bar
With my head
On the bar
I am now
A central part
Of your mind's landscape
Whether you care
Or do not
Yeah, I've made up your mind
Things had not gone according to plan. Normally, that would be brilliant. Jim didn’t like plans; plans were dull. Plans were for people too thick to able to think without being given prior warning. This time, though, he was most definitely not pleased.
It was all Sherlock’s fault; the man was so ungrateful. Jim could have had him killed the second he turned up in his city, making a nuisance of himself - maybe he should have - but, no, he had kept him alive, kept him safe and even given him games to play to keep him sane. Sherlock had no idea quite how much of London’s underworld’s primary concern at any one time was keeping him entertained (of course, they had no idea, either; people who asked questions of Moriarty tended not to remain alive long enough to hear the answers), and it was all down to him. All that time, all that effort, all that money, and he had to go and find his own entertainment.
Sherlock Holmes had found a friend. No, not a friend, because Sherlock didn’t have friends. People like him and Sherlock didn’t need friends - they were too good for friends - so who the hell was John Watson and why the hell had he moved in with Sherlock?
Jim could answer the first question as well as anyone. John Watson had been a good student at both school and University - leaving with 6 A*’s and a Bachelor’s degree, respectively - despite the death of his mother at an early age, and a turbulent childhood which had left his sister with a drink problem and a string of failed relationships; he had found a good job at a hospital, and then got a better job at a different hospital; he’d got engaged to a nurse there, but they had called it off a few months later, which probably contributed to his decision to sign up to the Royal Army Medical Corps.
He had been rapidly shipped out to Afghanistan, where he was well-liked by his colleagues, but that hadn’t stopped him from taking a bullet in the shoulder and getting himself sent home. A few weeks in hospital and a few more in rehabilitation and he had been left to fend for himself with not much more than an army pension and a grotty bedsit to his name. ‘Not much’, however, seemed to include trust issues, PTSD and a psychosomatic limp, according to the notes Jim had had stolen from his therapist. And, apparently, he wasn’t the only one interested in those notes, which was strange when John was so very boring.
It was a mystery why Sherlock had deigned him interesting enough to waste his time on when, as far as Jim could tell, he was just as crushingly dull as everyone else in the world. The only notable features he seemed to possess were a penchant for ugly-as-sin jumpers, a good aim and the ability to ruin Jim’s fun.
The game had been going perfectly until he had blundered in. Jeffrey Hope - desperate, dying and so wonderfully bitter about it, too - had proven himself a fine player. He had been a competent killer, not as smart as he thought he was, maybe, but a class above most of the dumb apes which inhabited the city, and happy to obey Moriarty’s whims as long as his money kept coming. He’d vaguely tried to justify the fact that his life had sunk to the level of being paid to kill strangers by giving his payment to his kids, which really was very sweet, but the fact that he enjoyed killing strangers had been clear enough.
It had taken four victims to get Sherlock’s attention (he was playing hard to get - time was a missing pair of trainers would catch his eye), and then it was all over in a matter of hours. Jeffrey had never stood a chance; to pit him against Sherlock was like throwing a fox to the hounds. No, it was even better, because a fox runs from the hounds and that is just dull. What Jeffrey Hope had done was try to outsmart them, to create a game of his own, and that was interesting - perhaps the only interesting thing he had ever done in his short, sad little life, and John Watson had ruined it with a shot to the heart.
Usually, that would be enough to earn him a shallow grave in a patch of wasteland in the outskirts of the city. This time, though, Jim was feeling generous. This one time, he was willing to forgive him, because there was a greater game on the horizon, the game he had been waiting to play for so, so long.
There were rumours, in London’s back alleys and drug dens and not-so-empty warehouses, that somebody was asking the questions nobody asked; somebody was searching for a man who couldn’t be found; somebody wanted Moriarty. They had a hundred different names, a thousand different reasons, but Jim knew who it really was, as certain of it as he was anything.
Because there was one man who specialised in asking the questions nobody asked. A man who was an expert in finding things that couldn’t be found. And maybe it was wishful thinking, or maybe it was exactly what Jim had been waiting for.
Sherlock Holmes vs. Jim Moriarty. A battle for the ages.
And if John Watson even thought about interfering, he would have every bone in his body broken and his corpse strung up in the middle of his flat for Sherlock to come home to.
The more you ignore me
The closer I get
You're wasting your time
The more you ignore me
The closer I get
You're wasting your time
Sherlock had been living on borrowed time for so long now that, sometimes, Jim forgot that he was doing the lending. There were times, though, that he managed to make it so very clear why it was Jim needed him dead. There were things, see - important things - that you were supposed to leave damn well alone, and if you didn’t there would be consequences. Everyone knew that, from being a kid and wondering what would happen if you poured bleach into the fish tank. And yet Sherlock, who knew so much, didn't seem to.
There were thousands of murderers and scam artists and thieves for Sherlock to go after, and Jim did his bit to ensure that. He kept Sherlock in his city like the rich kept exotic beasts, knowing that, for all their beauty and grace, if you ever let you guard down for even a moment, they would have your neck between their jaws in seconds. The difference was that he never let his guard down. But Sherlock could still do damage, could still get in his way, and this time, with his latest case solved successfully, he had.
The Black Orchid might have been little more than a couple of leaves on one branch of the sprawling tree of his criminal empire, but they were his, and you didn't mess with Moriarty's toys, not if you wanted to live long enough to see tomorrow's news. Sherlock, though, had taken them apart and broken them, because that was what he did, and he couldn't see the difference between what he was allowed to play with and what he wasn't supposed to touch.
He was going to have to teach him.
He didn't suppose Sherlock would be an easy student; he had had his own way for far too long to give it up easily. That was his fault…he’d been far too easy on him. He doubted, too, whether he would be as easy to persuade as the others who had come close to getting in his way. A few veiled threats would usually leave them running or, if that didn't work, he had always found that loved ones made excellent persuaders. Sherlock was too smart for that, though. His threats had gone ignored, mocked, and he'd never been weak enough to fall for anyone else.
Well, there was that doctor of his...
And if he enjoyed his games so much...
Ideas were coming to him, fast, like bright, white sparks of lightning from some unknown place. Sherlock was looking for him? Well, let him find him; let him know what he's dealing with. Let him learn a lesson about interfering, one he wasn't going to forget in a hurry. Although, that didn't mean they couldn't have some fun along the way...
Beware
I bear more grudges
Than lonely high court judges
When you sleep
I will creep
Into your thoughts
Like a bad debt
That you can't pay
Take the easy way
And give in
Yeah, and let me in
The flat opposite 221B Baker Street had served Jim well, and it would serve him well one last time, when he filled it with explosives and set them off in the late hours of the 30th of March, in the first move of his and Sherlock's latest, and greatest, game. He couldn't remember why he'd chosen that date; it was one of the ideas that just came to him, whispered into his ear in the middle of the night. He would kill for those whispers, those flashes of inspiration where everything was bright and so, so clear. He often did.
He wondered whether Sherlock heard them too, whether they were what kept him awake and pacing up and down his flat at night. Perhaps he would ask him, when they finally met, ask him what they told him, whether they ever spoke of him. Maybe he had learnt to ignore them, learnt to stop them screaming when you didn't listen like he never could. Sherlock, he had found, was good at ignoring things he didn't want to listen to; important things. Maybe if he just paid attention, it wouldn't have had to come to this.
They had told him to kill Carl, all those years ago; it was such a good idea he had never even thought to say no. It was their idea, too, to play at being Jim from IT, to get a job at St. Bart's and wrap Molly the pathologist round his little finger, the way she was already wrapped around Sherlock's. It was fun, pretending to be ordinary; he did love playing dress up. And every lunch break he had to fill with inane chatter, every night he had to spend over at hers, was worth it for the glimpses he would sometimes catch of Sherlock striding through the corridors of the hospital or bent over an experiment, oblivious to him and knowing, just knowing, that he wouldn't be for much longer.
Jim might not care for plans, but he was proud of this one. Four crimes, four puzzles for Sherlock to solve and four people who would die if he didn't, just to raise the stakes a little. And then, for the grand finale, they were going to have a nice little chat. Whether Sherlock would walk away from it, though, was...uncertain.
He could never quite bring himself to make up his mind about Sherlock. He had lost count of the number of times he had decided to have him killed, but every time Sherlock would do something brilliant and he would have to give him some leeway - a few more weeks until he died that would go on for months, or until he upset him again and he realised he needed him dead, and so it went on.
He had killed so many others without so much as a second thought, but Sherlock was special, in the way nobody else was. Nobody else but him, that is. Sherlock was almost as good as he was and that was just as dangerous as it was wonderful. Dangerous and wonderful…that was Sherlock all over. It seemed, to Jim, quite unfair that he had to be both when most everyone else in the world was neither. Maybe you couldn’t have one without the other, and that was, truly, a shame, because as long as Sherlock was wonderful, he needed him alive. And, as long as Sherlock was a danger to him, he needed him dead. If only he could learn to behave...
Right now, though, there was a game to be played. And, maybe, if he was lucky, there would be an answer to the puzzle at the end of it.
Oh, let me in
Oh let me...
Oh, let me in
19:59, the 30th of March, and Jim was watching 221B from the flat opposite for the last time. This time, though, was different; there was the tang of anticipation in the air, the hum of activity. It was filled with his men, rearranging furniture; laying explosives; trying to make themselves look useful, but Jim barely even saw them. He danced from window to window, too excited to stay still, watching the curtains across the road twitch.
20:03, and there was the muffled boom of gunshots across the street. The room stopped, imagining police, or a rival gang. Jim waved them on, and beamed. Sherlock obviously wasn't coping at all well with Jim taking his toys away. Good. He was going to be ever so grateful for his little game.
20:06, and Sherlock's doctor stormed out the flat, towards Baker Street tube station, to the crackle of the police radio that someone had left in the living room. Someone must have reported the gunshots; the police were twittering away. Oh, they better come to investigate; there was nothing like the death of a police officer to spread some panic. There weren't enough explosives to reach across the street - he'd made quite certain of that - but if he timed the explosion just as they arrived...
But then there was Sherlock's pet detective telling them to stand down, insisting that 'going anywhere near Baker Street was a one way ticket to madness'. Spoilsport.
20:08, and there was the sound of voices upstairs, a door being slammed, feet on the stairs - the couple upstairs, going out for the night; lucky them. They better hope neither of them had forgotten anything. Someone came to his side, told him in broken English that everything was ready. Jim grinned from ear to ear and told him to get out.
20:11, and the flat was empty, except for him, several pounds of explosives and a safe box, containing an envelope addressed to Sherlock - his first clue for his first puzzle. He had been told it would be able to survive anything. Well, it was time to find out. Two minutes until everything went boom.
20:12, and Jim was out of the flat, practically skipping down the stairs and on the street. There was a car waiting for him, ready to take him to his life as Jim from IT, and the night shift at St. Bart’s, to lay out the last few pieces of the game. Little more than a minute to go, and the blast would surely reach him here, but he didn’t get in straight away - couldn’t get in straight away. He stopped with his hand on the door handle, looked back towards 221B. The flat was silent, curtains firmly shut, but he was still smiling as he slipped into the back seat.
20:13, and the car slid silently away from its parking spot and towards Melcombe Street. It was as it took the corner that he felt it, the distant rush of heat and the smash of glass and the piercing wail of car alarms.
The game was on.
IT'S WAR
The death of Carl Powers; the disappearance of Ian Monkford; the murder of Connie Prince; the case of the lost Vermeer; even the fetch quest he had sent his little dog on: Sherlock had solved them all and he’d made it look effortless, like breathing. It almost was, for him: doing the impossible, solving the unsolvable, it came naturally to him. He could no more do without puzzles to solve than any ordinary man could do without food or water. It was fascinating. It was why Jim needed him alive; it was why he needed him dead. It was why he needed to own him, to hold his heart and his mind and his body in his hands and crush them.
But, right now, they still had a game to play. Sherlock was still waiting for his final pip. Jim was still waiting for Sherlock. He had been silent since the lost Vermeer, chasing the missile defence plans his brother had sent him after, ignoring him again. He had wanted to let Sherlock make this move, the one that would finally bring them face to face, but his patience was wearing thin. He wouldn’t wait much longer.
And it seemed Sherlock wasn’t going to, either. His message came with a quiet chirrup that sent a smile spreading across Jim’s face: 'Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect. The Pool. Midnight.'
The pool…Of course, the pool where little Carl Powers died; where it all began, really, all those years ago. Genius. Midnight, then. He’d be waiting. In the meantime, though, there were preparations to be made. The text was sent quickly, to a number he knew well. It read, simply:
‘Get me John Watson. M’
This was going to be fun.
IT'S WAR
The cramped changing rooms of the pool were no different to the day over ten years ago now, when he had killed a boy and stolen a pair of trainers. No, there were some differences: a yellow No Smoking sign had been taped to the door a few years ago; they had replaced a row of lockers by the back wall fairly recently (they hadn't even tried to match them with the others), and there was an unconscious ex-army doctor handcuffed to one of the rotting wooden slat benches that ran around the sides of the room.
Jim sat on the bench opposite, his foot tapping out an impatient rhythm, waiting for him to stir. He hated waiting. It was bitterly cold, cold enough to see your breath, and it came in short, misty puffs of smoke as he spoke. There was nobody listening; two of his men stood by the door, guns in hand, but they barely spoke a word of English, and Doctor Watson was still firmly out cold, blood oozing sluggishly from a cut behind his ear (He'd have to get someone to clean that up. What was Slovak for ear? Ucho?). He barely knew what he was saying, anyway. The words came out in a rush of sheer excitement, confessions and plans and jokes and threats and Sherlock. Over and over again, it came back to him. The phone in his pocket was logged on to Sherlock's website, his message, his promise. He checked his watch: 11:32. Twenty eight minutes until he arrived.
John was sprawled on the floor, back against the bench and hands cuffed up behind him. Whoever it was that had pulled the parka on him hadn't zipped it up. It hung off him, revealing the semtex strapped across him and the steady rise and fall of his chest. His breath caught and stumbled out in a low moan. Jim fell silent and watched, intently, as consciousness returned to him so very slowly. He could pinpoint the exact moment John realised something was wrong, when he tried to lean forward and his arms jarred on the handcuffs with the rattle of metal on metal. There was a moment, just a moment, of panic, but then his military training kicked in and his breathing was suddenly slow and deliberately laboured. His eyes snapped open, somehow dazed and focused at the same. His gaze fell on Jim's shoes and slowly travelled upwards until their eyes met.
Jim grinned.
"Hi!"
IT'S WAR
John opened his mouth to reply, but all that came out was a pained groan before he collapsed into a coughing fit. The bench moaned as he fell forward and hung on his handcuffs, his entire body jerking against their hold, spat red blood onto the floor and finally stilled.
"Ooh, were my boys a bit rough with you? They can be a little overeager sometimes." Jim grinned, wide, checked his watch (Twenty two minutes to go).
"I should probably tell you now," John's voice was barely more than a whisper, but, bless him, he was still trying to put a threat behind it, "I'm not Sherlock Holmes."
"Oh, don't be silly. Of course you're not. Sherlock would never have got himself captured so easily. In broad daylight, as well. How embarrassing. Military training isn't what it used to be." He tutted.
John's face twisted into a frown as his feeble, most likely concussed (at least he hoped so, he couldn't be this slow all the time, surely?) mind try to pick apart what he'd just been told. It was an embarrassingly long time before he spoke, "How do you - do you…Have we met before?"
"Jim Moriarty. It's such an honour to meet properly. I don’t think gay really suits me," He sighed, stood, held out his hand to shake and laughed as John tugged against his handcuffs, "I'd be a bit more careful, if I was you. Between you and me, the guy who did the wiring on that thing wasn't exactly the most careful man in the world. Who knows what might set it off?"
John blinked in confusion, looked down and finally noticed the explosives strapped round his chest, "Jesus - Jesus Christ. Shit. You - You're the bomber. Sherlock's bomber?"
Jim didn't even try to hide the frisson of excitement that ran through him at being described as Sherlock's anything. He would prefer Sherlock being his anything, of course, but...
He couldn't stand still, began to pace to up and down, hand tapping double-time against his thigh. John was still talking, chattering away like a panicked chimp.
"I'm - I'm the fifth pip, aren't I? Fuck. Fuck. Why did you kill that old woman? She didn't do anything. She was - she was...Are you going to kill me? If you are, can you make it quick? My shoulder's - shit - my shoulder's killing me." He began to laugh, half hysterical giggles that sent his handcuffs dancing behind him. (Nineteen minutes, now)
"Oh, don't worry; I'm not going to kill you. At least not until Sherlock gets here."
IT'S WAR
That seemed to stir something in the doctor. He glanced around, obviously trying to work out where he was. His eyes lingered on the bodyguards by the door, then swung from left to right, scanning the room. He sniffed the air, wrinkled his nose at the smell of chlorine and years of damp. Jim lost his patience. How did Sherlock put up with this idiot? He stopped in front of him and, in one swift movement, crouched down, grabbed his hair and slammed his head back hard against the bench. Something cracked.
"We're in a swimming pool!" He snarled, stood and turned away.
"Why...why a swimming pool?" John's words were coming between sharp gasps of pain now, slightly slurred at the edges. Jim sighed; he shouldn't have got so carried away. (Fifteen minutes for him to recover)
"Oh, it wasn't my choice." Jim smiled and held up Sherlock's message. John squinted at it.
"Bastard." He swore, softly.
"I think he thinks I want the missile defence plans," Jim slid the phone back into his pocket and sighed, "How boring."
"But - why all this? What do you want?"
Jim leaned in close, smiled, and whispered, "I want him."
"...Why?"
Jim gave no indication that John had even spoken. Instead, he leant over him (and noted, with no small pride, the way John failed to stop himself flinching away) without saying a word, licked his finger and, in an almost perfect imitation of affection, carefully wiped away the trail of blood behind his ear. He pulled both sides of the parka together and, finally, reached behind him and un-cuffed him. The handcuffs fell to the floor and John scrambled to his feet; he swayed a little where he stood, rubbing awkwardly at his wrists, but still glared at him. Did he think that was threatening? Bless.
"It’s almost show time. I'm sure you know what comes next," He nodded towards one of the men at the door, who produced an earpiece from his pocket and held it out towards John. He ignored him; a small act of unacceptable defiance, "I said, I'm sure you know what comes next."
He took it, slowly, and clipped it round his ear, trailing the cord down the back of his coat so it almost disappeared, staring down at the floor the entire time. Jim pulled out a matching microphone
“Good. Now, let’s put on a show!” He threw his arms out and spun on his toes, playing the ringleader of a crowded, invisible circus, “We’re going to have some fun with Sherlock. In, oh, less than ten minutes, you’re going to go out there and you’re going to do exactly what I say, say exactly what I say, or I’ll be pulling the trigger on that dashing coat of yours and they’ll be finding bits of you in Soho. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” John still didn’t look up, said the word as if it was being dragged out of him.
“Good dog,” Jim grinned, shark-like, and patted John hard on the back, “Well…see you soon.”
Then he was gone, away to wait for Sherlock, like he always was.
IT'S WAR
The silence in the pool was oppressive; it was the silence before a storm, when the dark clouds hang low on the horizon and electric buzz of lightning pulses in the air. There was a staff room on the far side from the entrance, separated off from the main pool. Jim waited behind its door, and watched.
Three minutes to go...
Two minutes...
One minute...
WAR
And Sherlock had arrived, slipping through the fire exit like a thief, his footsteps echoing through the unnatural silence as his Yves Saint-Laurent’s scuffed on wet tiles. He may have entered like a thief, but he walked like a king surveying his kingdom, watching every corner of the empty pool at once. He stopped; held up his hand; spoke.
"Brought you a little getting to know you present,” He held a memory stick - the missile defence programme. Oh, he actually brought it? “That's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your puzzles, making me dance; all to distract me from this."
Oh dear. Sherlock was so very clever. How could he have gotten this so very, very wrong? Did he really think he would do all that for…oh dear. Poor old Sherlock; maybe he had more lessons to learn than he thought. Well, there was no point in letting him embarrass himself more than he already had; time to send out his secret weapon.
“Go say hello to your master. Say evening.” He murmured and watched, greedily, as Doctor Watson obeyed, and stepped out of the stalls towards Sherlock. Sherlock stopped, instantly, like he was a recording and someone had hit the pause button.
“Evening.”
“Good boy,” He crooned, “This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock? Say it.”
John did.
"John? What the hell...?"
It was as if Sherlock was frozen, those ever-searching eyes stuck on John, the perfect machine of his mind run to a halt for perhaps the first time. Even from across the pool, he knew the look on his face; he’d seen it before, so many times. Fear. It didn’t belong on Sherlock’s face. It wasn’t right. It was time to end this.
“What would you like me to get him to say next?”
“Who are you?” The fear fled, scattered into dark corners, keen to be forgotten. Now, this look was more familiar, all threat and aloofness and icy enough to freeze the damn swimming pool. But now he had seen a flash of the weakness beneath it, and it refused to leave him. He had thought - well, it didn’t matter what he thought. He had been wrong; Sherlock was no better than all the other little people he had crushed beneath him on the way to the top. He might have solved all of his puzzles, but he had failed his final test.
There was no need to hide, not any more.
WAR
"I gave you my number. I thought you might call.”
He pulled off the microphone, stepped out of the darkness, into the too-bright fluorescent light and out towards Sherlock. He had dreamt of this, gone over and over it in his head until his and Sherlock’s voices melted into one and the words became meaningless and everything that he thought to do Sherlock had already done, and it wasn’t meant to feel like this: empty and cold and disappointing. He regretted this, every bit of it; he should have just had him killed straight off, should have kept his distance.
Sherlock had a gun, tucked into the waistband of his trousers. It was John Watson’s British Army Browning L9A1, and Jim told him so; Sherlock pulled it on him, arm outstretched; cold steel to match the look in his eye. Predictable.
"Jim Moriarty. Hi,” He kept moving, the gun trained on his head of no more note than the decaying floats stacked on the other side of the pool, and equally as dangerous, given the man holding it. He kept talking, too. A laser sight danced over John’s chest; Sherlock glanced at it and there was a pale flicker of worry in his eyes. Jim was opposite him now, only a scant few metres of wet tile and a few morals separating them, “I've given you a glimpse, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world.”
Sherlock’s voice echoed out in response, darkly amused and, he liked to think, impressed. Well, he should be. He had spent so long thinking he was the biggest fish in the pool, and now he was coming face to face with a shark. He cocked his gun, as if he was actually going to fire it.
“So, take this as a friendly warning...my dear. Back off,” Jim smiled, a tiny, tight little thing. He was almost close enough to touch Sherlock, now, “Although, I have loved this: this little game of ours.”
"People have died." He said it bluntly, perfunctorily, but he meant it. And then he saw the truth; Sherlock had been ruined. The Sherlock that had come crashing into his kingdom might have chosen the side of angels, but he hadn’t cared about a few dead bodies in the name of the game, in fact, he had longed for them. He may never have set out to kill anyone, but there had been something about him; a brilliant darkness that he didn’t even care to hide, and Jim had been convinced that, with a little persuasion, a few nudges of the kind he specialised in, he could be swayed. Now, though, it was like watching a pale imitation of the man he used to be, and John Watson was looking at him with something akin to pride beneath the fear in his eyes and, God, it was his fault - it was him who had ruined Sherlock.
"That's what people do." He roared.
Sherlock didn’t so much as flinch, gun held steady, words whispered in threat, "I will stop you."
"No, you won't." He said it simply, like it was an undeniable fact, because it was. And then…things were happening. Sherlock handed over the missile plans and actually looked shocked when he threw them away and let them sink to the bottom of the pool. John Watson ran at him, held him with an arm round his neck and Sherlock’s gun at his head and he had to laugh, even if he was creasing his suit, especially when he told Sherlock to run and especially when the red laser sight of a sniper skittered over Sherlock’s forehead and he fell away, defeated.
“Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you? If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you."
"I have been reliably informed I don't have one."
“But we both know that's not quite true.” He surprised himself at how it hurt to say it; it was a new sensation, one to be pulled apart and endlessly studied. Not now, though.
“Well, so nice to have a proper chat,” He turned to leave, and Sherlock countered with some petty, pointless little threat, “Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."
The gun followed him as he walked away, towards the nearest door, and so did Sherlock. He had a quick, bright vision of him continuing and falling into step beside him and...
"Catch you later."
He held the door for just a second, gave him a chance to give up on this pathetic flirt with normality and live up to his true potential. He didn’t take it. Instead, he came to a stop, watching him carefully, and there was that pain again, like acid on raw flesh, "No, you won't."
He let the door swing shut, and it felt like much more than that. It felt like a decision made. The voices were hissing in his ear, or maybe it was the faint echo of Sherlock and his doctor still talking in the pool - he couldn’t tell any more. But it was loud, too loud, like a beast howling in his head and he had to make it stop.
WAR
A whispered word into the microphone, slid out of his pocket, had laser sights dancing over the pair as his snipers aimed and, for a split second, as he stepped back out into the pool, the voices stopped dead; it was a peace like he had never known. He clung to it, even as it slipped away, leaving too-familiar noise in its wake.
“Sorry, boys! I’m so changeable! It is a weakness with me but, to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can’t be allowed to continue. You just can’t. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind. ”
Sherlock looked over to John before he moved, something that anyone else would probably have missed, or thought unimportant, but Jim knew it was anything but and it reassured him that, yes, killing him was the right thing to do.
“Probably my answer had crossed yours.”
Sherlock turned to face him, gun held out in threat - really, Sherlock? - but then he shifted and it slid down, facing the bomb jacket and oh, that was interesting. Would he really do it? For the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn’t know what was coming next. He would thank Sherlock for that, if he could, but he stood silent, instead, and he waited.
Your move, Sherlock.
Oh, let me in
Ah, the closer I get
Ah, you're asking for it
Ah, the closer I get
Ooh, the closer I...