Observations on Form and Function (1/1)
Title: Observations on Form and Function (1/1)
Author: jenlee1
Rating: PG
Setting: 2009 movieverse
Pairing: Holmes/Watson (implied)
Word Count: 547
Warnings: none that I’m aware of
Summary: James Moriarty is, by nature, an observant man.
A/N: Written for a prompt by ingridmatthews on our little fic meme at worththewounds, asking for Moriarty's thoughts as he stands over an unconscious Watson in the sewers, near the end of the movie.
James Moriarty is, by nature, an observant man.
Oh, he has many other singular qualities - a man of his ambition would not have risen far in the world without a wide and varied array of talents - but he has found, over the course of his illustrious career, that none are quite so useful in advancing one’s interests as a keen and incisive eye for detail.
And so, he observes.
The man lying at his feet is of particular interest. Not because of anything he has done, or even because of who he is - a physician of some little renown, with a predictable laundry list of merits and faults. Formerly of Her Majesty’s service in the East, according to his sources. A good-natured and sensible man with a warm smile, a steady hand and a regrettable weakness for games of chance.
Not that any of it matters.
No, he interests the professor for another reason entirely. He has the dubious distinction of being the only thing in Sherlock Holmes’ orbit that he cannot bear to lose, and this makes him very interesting indeed.
Everyone - everyone, without exception - has a weakness. Holmes may have been motivation enough to secure Miss Adler’s cooperation but the reverse has never been true, no matter how much she might have wished otherwise. Moriarty is a man whose business it is to know things, after all; he has watched the detective and his pretty doctor long enough to be more than certain of his conclusion, and he knows.
Holmes has given his heart and in so doing, has sown the seeds of his own destruction.
He allows himself a moment, pausing thoughtfully over the object of so much speculation, to indulge his curiosity. The doctor is somewhat younger than he might have guessed, and a good deal more handsome than he had been lead to believe. Strong back and broad shoulders, as befits a military man; gentle, care-worn face, lined with the ample evidence of kindness and exasperation and too much worry. The moustache is every bit as neat and precise as he might have expected, and he finds his gaze lingering over the soft, supple mouth tucked just below.
He wonders, given the obvious nature of their relationship, if Holmes lingers over it as well.
In the end, of course, it makes no difference; this is what his adversary sees and feels and loves. And more the fool he is for it, in this respect as weak - and as painfully transparent - as any other man. For all that it gives him the critical advantage - and it does, make no mistake - it’s almost disappointing.
Pity.
And so he lingers, slips a single bullet from the chamber of his gun - a wonderfully ingenious device, as Holmes himself has doubtless noted, and quite distinctive in its way. The tiny piece of metal slides easily into the front pocket of John Watson’s waistcoat, and he straightens. The doctor may well wonder at its presence, but Holmes - Holmes will understand.
It’s fair warning, after all. He has never claimed to be a merciful man - and God knows, no one would accuse him of it - but neither is he unjust.
Sherlock Holmes, like so many others before him, will have to make his choice.