Mr. Prepared
Title: Mr. Prepared
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock, John/Moriarty.
Genre: Mystery/Drama/Angst/AU
Rated: T
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is working as an undercover agent for Mycroft after losing a bet. He is prepared for everything, and anything. Well, with the exception of a certain John Watson.
Prologue - A Lost Bet
How did it come to this? He inwardly inquired, as boxes were loaded off the truck, carefully carried up the stairwell, and stacked in a great pyramid at his front door. He reluctantly maneuvered to unlock the door, with the spare key the land-lady had given him, temporarily until she had a new one pressed. His nose wrinkled at the slight scent of mildew and collective dust. The space was manageable, but judging by the vast amount of boxes outside, they'd soon cluster the area. He did a quick walk about, cringing as the flat was about the size of his bedroom back at the manor. Already, he became nauseous of the thought of the dozen mid-way experiments he was forced to desert. It had been promised, as a part of the terms, they'd be looked after, but it wasn't like he put much faith in the word.
So, he began to transfer the load from his front step, to a pile in his temporary quarters. Finally, the end of it came, and the truck pulled away, with his signature- which was cleverly forged to Mycroft Holmes, all was fair, the least the man could do was play the expense. Sherlock already had to do all the manual labor. The ground work, god, how he hated it. Approximately twenty minutes later, he had managed to transfer everything from his doorstep, making it manageable for the other tenants to walk about, and had lined them against the wall. A few were opened, contents laid against the floor, simply unpacking only when he needed, or wanted, something. There was no use settling in- he'd finish his business here soon, and leave to his spacious home, comfortably tending to his experiments.
Everything was planned. Down to the last pin. He rummaged through, stopping to pull out an official looking envelope. Along it was stamped confidential, yadayada, his curiosity was savored, as Mycroft seemed to be in the possession of many envelopes like this. He had seen in all. Tentatively, he opened it, a stack of papers slid out into his fingers. Glancing down at the information he had already memorized. New name, identity, job, friends, and family. Finally the past, apparently, Ben was a bit of a delinquent, now cleaned up. He inwardly sneered at his brother's snide notes written; Ben had been afflicted, in the past, with substances- namely heroin, as his own abuses were not unknown.
Tomorrow, he would officially begin, as an undercover agent. Losing a bet, this was the inevitable consequence, Mycroft forcing him onward, to do his dirty work. Falling back onto the stained, old carpet, he felt his phone buzz. Tossing it, irritably, as it was the devil himself. And so he fell asleep there, stretched out on the empty apartment's floor, too exhausted to do little than think.
Sherlock had calculated everything, every possibility and consequence that could go dreadfully wrong in this mission. He configured a plan for each, an escape route, and only when there was a satisfactory course for each, he allowed himself to drift to sleep. Peacefully unaware of what was ahead of him, and the small, direly important possiblity he had not considered... Sherlock had not prepared himself to fall in love.
---
Chapter 1 - The Watch Dog
On the outside, there was nothing out of ordinary about the company. It was small, managed and run locally. It was not particularly rich, but nor were they in debt. The founder created a steady, very stable, system, in which every worker was treated with equal respect, and made a fair profit. That was until his successor took a hold, Jim Moriarty. A common man, middle class, he was one of the brightest, and most loyal. It was agreed, prior, that he would be suitable for such a job, as the owner, whom was a known workaholic, lacked a blood successor. Jim was crafty, his ideas always brought profit to the business, and so most of his unethical practices were brushed aside. New, innovative, there was a great buzz about the place, a sense of both fear, of the unknown, and a sense of excitement for the imagination of what could be.
Just was it was foretold, the company rose from a steady, local business to a fiercely rising corporation. It turned out the man happened to be a heavy gambler. The more Jim expanded, the rules of their previously humble provinces no longer applied. With the old founder lost, to cancer, there was nobody to question his authority, and so Jim, after half a year of ruling, decided it was his job to renew the rules and regulations.
The worst happened at the end of the first year, when Moriarty announced his revaluations of the pay rolls, which were significantly deducted. In his greed, he reduced the common worker's pay, and increased that of his most dedicated workers. Rather, the ones that groveled before his feet, namely calling him their leader, 'king'. This began the rumored Inner Ring. The group consisted of nine members. Some looked rather rakish, while others were more common to sniveling rats, corruption read even upon their faces. All followed Moriarty around, often styled in a protective circle about him where ever he traveled.
To this injustice, some made a futile attempt to protest. However, with his power Jim simply dismissed them, and brought in a replacement. Attempts to gather the whole company in protest were not successful, as the workers, whom had worked there almost half their lives, feared what would come of them if they lost their jobs. They were now too old to be useful at new stations, and none as familiar as this one, so they stayed, silently fearful.
But the corporation's corruption was not enough evidence for Sherlock Holmes to become involved. Rather, his job revolved around a single woman. A reporter, to be specific, she went undercover, much as he had, to write an article as to expose Jim Moriarty as the tyrant he was. However, three days before her deadline, she went missing. And when she wasn't accounted for, it was classed as a disappearance. As it was, Anthea, her pen name, happened to be close friends with Mycroft Holmes, so starting his investigation into her objectives. Now, Sherlock, rather, Ben was here, deemed to find out what happened to the journalist. The case of the missing person.
"Ben Fischer?" primed a woman, whom was dressed handsomely. She were a smooth pencil skirt, topped with a smart white blouse. Sherlock was broken from his thoughts, and rose to his feet, brushing the folds in his tailored suit. He was escorted inside, leveling down into one of the chairs placed before her desk. Politely they shook hands, and she rose her pen to her clipboard, scribbling down some comment. "Why do you wish to work here, Mr. Fischer?"
He smiled, calmly reciting his answer, "this company is advancing quickly in the market, it is innovative, and a new skeptical. It is at the center of a great controversy, as are many great changes, and I suspect I'd like to be a contributing factor, and study here. To empower my own strengths, to use them for the better of this company." It earned him a mark.
The rest of the interview continued in the same nature, until the woman set her clipboard down, breaking her professional poker face, "it's been a pleasure, Mr. Fischer, I'm sure I will be seeing you again." And then they shook hands again.
Sarah, was the name of his superior, as well as the woman who had interviewed him. She was an ordinary, but charming character. Everyone felt comfortable under her supervision, because she just had earthly nature to herself. Very humble, kind, normal. Despite having a great deal of patience, she didn't tolerate slacking, and disliked gossip even less. Sherlock might have appreciated practice, if it were not for the fact that his job required blessed rumors- a hit, something.
Fortunately, he sat in the cubicle next to one of the most notorious gossipers, Molly Hooper. She was a bit more in awkward company, as she instantly fashioned herself to impress Sherlock. And since she found he held interest in the latest, they'd often eat lunch together, her muttering over the inners of the company. However, everything that she told him, he happened to know, or was useless information. It was hard to keep up the pretense of being enthusiastic, but the sooner he heard something, the sooner he could leave. After two weeks with nothing, he had finally, much to his displeasure, buckled in and unpacked his air mattress.
On his fifth week in, deprived into the dull lull of daily work, he finally caught his first glimpse of the Inner Ring. He had been crossing the main floor to deliver his finished plans, when sudden they inhabitants of the room all parted to the left or right side of the room. Dumbfounded, Sherlock hadn't realized what had happened before it was too late. In strolled the infamous Jim Moriarty. Whom was surprisingly small of stature, a small man for such a large reputation. He flocked by the nine, who lived much up their expectations of being greasy rats.
Frozen, he stared, as they passed, shocked that after five weeks, he was finally seeing what he had to come down to. It was intimidating, and all the same an adrenaline rush. At first he thought he had been dismissed, despite not following the obvious procedures, breathing a sigh of relief, realizing that he had been holding his breath the whole thirty seconds they passed.
However, suddenly the group, almost in synchronization, all halted. They split, and out stepped the tyrant himself, a smirk brimming to his lips. His head cocked to the side, almost lizard like, as if viewing his prey, full of contempt, "well, what is this?" he said in a shrill voice, mocking, as he stepped about Sherlock. "A wise guy? Think you are too good to follow the rules? Do you know what we do to people who don't follow the rules?" The man was practically in Sherlock's face, amused by this public bullying.
He would tolerate only so much. He swallowed, looking down upon the man, hardly intimidated by this figure. He was better than Jim Moriarty. "Oh, let me guess, I get fired."
This seemed to take the man by surprise, his face converged into several different emotions, and shapes, in split seconds. First, utter shock, anger, and then amusement. Clearly, he wasn't used to people contradicting him. "Shall I show you?" he muttered softly, as if asking it more to himself than Sherlock. His mouth opened to say more, but it was then that a new figure stepped out from the Inner Ring of nine men.
A tenth. Expect, this man was much different from the others. He was short, with sandy blond hair. Looking quite fashionable in powder blue suit, which matched his level, blue eyes. Form his stance, it suggest military, his erect backing, and puffed out chest, as if trying to make up for his obvious lack of height. However, there was also something steady about him. He wasn't particularly muscular, but all the same, he looked solid, like a rock. He interrupted Moriarty so simply, and calmly, as if he were scolding a young child what was right and wrong. "Jim, that is enough, we are going to be late."
Jim hesitated at first, but with a one last warning glance in Sherlock's direction he reluctantly stepped back into his circle. It instantly reformed around both Moriarty and the man in the blue.
Molly rushed to his side soon after they parted, worrying over him, and apologizing for not warning him of the rules. However, his mind was already on the tenth man, who was so out of place to other nine. So distracted, that he didn't realized he had inquired about him out loud.
"Oh, him? He isn't part of the nine. Hardly important. He's more like Jim Moriarty's pet, or whatever, a watch dog."
"What's the watch dog's name?"
"John Watson."
---
Chapter 2 - Second Glance
It had appeared that Sherlock, and his little stunt, had disappeared from the corners of Moriarty's mind. Which, was all fair, because the point of being an undercover agent was to not draw attention to oneself- which he had failed at so vigilantly. In a month and a half Sherlock had managed to scrap up little than the scandalous rumors of whom was sleeping with whom. However, in his time, he managed to find something better. Something of substance, John Watson.
He rested his elbows on the edge of his desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Nonchalantly, he slid them under the smooth skin, occasionally pressing to parted lips. This display was not a unusual sight, but still was an unusual habit. He'd sometimes mutter off to himself, shaking his head occasionally when ideas came off base. And now it was happening again, looking a bit distant, brooding.
John Bloody Watson. There was absolutely nothing about the man. That evening, after their first encounter, he had rang Mycroft in bitter demand for all the files he had on this watch dog, who remained unmentioned. It was detrimental to his case, to the investigation, that he knew everything about everyone who might be in the good gracing of Jim Moriarty. Who might have been a witness, or acquaintance to the missing journalist. Who better than Moriarty's own pet? But it turned out that the man was just so ordinary. There was nothing on the man's record to suggest fault. In fact, he appeared to be a good humanitarian.
He went to university to be a physician, and received fair remarks. Soon after engaging himself into military servitude, becoming an army surgeon. He fought in Afghanistan, getting shot in the shoulder, and shortly dispatched home later. His record for there remained blank up until he showed up at Moriarty's side. So, Jim was recruiting old army doctors, who knew little of the nature of business? Clearly, there were pieces missing.
Frustration, at this puzzle that didn't fit together. The world rotated about him, as he spun in the plush office chair, colors blurring between infuriated eyelashes. He was jerked to a stop, an empty stomach giving a lurch at the sudden impact. Blinking profusely, he gazed up at the figure that had shattered his thoughts. Sarah, her hands were defensively pressed to her hips, lips pursed in disapproval, "Ben... I know it's been a long day but-"
He managed a smile, grimaced with the fact the world appeared to still be moving, and he wasn't. "I understand. I just have to send some papers," he mumbled looking over his shoulder, pointedly at the two stacks of papers which sat. He was dismissed.
Carrying the stacks of paper, which he had completed in the pretense of his tiny flat. The work was completed in his flat, and that left time for the real reason he was here. To investigate. His step was slow, but with purpose. Lightheartedly hoping for another glance at the Inner Ring, and perhaps the mysterious watch dog. A week had passed since their last sighting, and since then Sherlock wandered the building. Going the long way about his business, in hopes of getting another look.
Patience was indeed rewarded. He had been making his way, when suddenly the room became silent. Knowing what was about to occur, he stood behind the backs of two particular men, obviously coming back from smoking break. He didn't mind, eyes trained to see through the spaces of the marching men. Getting an unforgettable rush as he saw a tint of blond hair between the masses of dark.
John.
Blue eyes narrowed, as if he could almost hear what Sherlock was saying. And Sherlock could see, through the spaces of passing men, John had stopped. He was looking precisely to the crowd in which he stood. Another man passed. No, no, rather the blue eyes were gazing upon him. He was chilled, frozen to the coldness, yet there was an endless depth to them. And into the abyss he was falling, desperately trying to catalog the feeling.
Then it was broken, another man passed by, and as Sherlock craned his neck to see as they disappeared from sight. The Inner Ring and John were already gone, and he was hollow. Did he hear him thinking? Improbable. But there was no explanation for what had just come to past. Indignantly, he left these irrational conclusions behind.
***
"John? Were you listening?" preached the thin, dark haired silhouette. He nodded, as to appease the coal black eyes that looked to him. He wasn't convinced. "Quit daydreaming."
And in fact, Jim was correct, he really did need to stop daydreaming. To stop seeking out the one person who had ever dared to mock Jim to his face. So fearlessly. The scene was something to behold. Moriarty stepping out after a moment's debate whether or not he had time to publicly bully his staff into submission. He had. With a dry mouth, he watched the man approach his victim with vigor. Sympathetically, as he could predict what was about to occur, Jim purging the man into submission.
Except it wasn't so. He heard the snared resistance in his voice, peeking out behind the backs of the men. This man, he looked down upon Jim. His gray, intelligent eyes purchased in disgust. Nobody did this. Nobody dared.
Anybody else would have been relieved. That it was amusement that played out over the rage. However, John Watson knew better, an amused Moriarty was much more dangerous. And so he ended things before they went too far. Made Jim forget the man. Whom he later had searched out. Everyday, scanning the crowd for the mop of dark brown curls. As if to assure himself that Jim had took his to his promise.
The nine followers parted ways as John and Jim boarded the elevator to his private office. Naturally, it was the top floor. The doors slid open, and shortly an impatient hand curled around the nape of his neck. Jim advanced, lightly playing with the golden hair. He closed his eyes, shivering as the devil's warm breath ticked his exposed skin. The once gentle hand upon his throat tightened, and hot pain sheered as teeth sank into his throat. It wasn't an affectionate bite, between lovers, but a raw, possessive mark. A promise, a truth, a punishment.
He grounded his teeth together, afraid to swallow against the teeth that grazed his skin. He shuddered in fear, and the sheer empowerment this man had over him. Blue eyes flickered open, to see the iron doors sliding shut, and behind them his horrified expression fractured upon gray.
Ben Fischer. He saw.
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock, John/Moriarty.
Genre: Mystery/Drama/Angst/AU
Rated: T
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is working as an undercover agent for Mycroft after losing a bet. He is prepared for everything, and anything. Well, with the exception of a certain John Watson.
Prologue - A Lost Bet
How did it come to this? He inwardly inquired, as boxes were loaded off the truck, carefully carried up the stairwell, and stacked in a great pyramid at his front door. He reluctantly maneuvered to unlock the door, with the spare key the land-lady had given him, temporarily until she had a new one pressed. His nose wrinkled at the slight scent of mildew and collective dust. The space was manageable, but judging by the vast amount of boxes outside, they'd soon cluster the area. He did a quick walk about, cringing as the flat was about the size of his bedroom back at the manor. Already, he became nauseous of the thought of the dozen mid-way experiments he was forced to desert. It had been promised, as a part of the terms, they'd be looked after, but it wasn't like he put much faith in the word.
So, he began to transfer the load from his front step, to a pile in his temporary quarters. Finally, the end of it came, and the truck pulled away, with his signature- which was cleverly forged to Mycroft Holmes, all was fair, the least the man could do was play the expense. Sherlock already had to do all the manual labor. The ground work, god, how he hated it. Approximately twenty minutes later, he had managed to transfer everything from his doorstep, making it manageable for the other tenants to walk about, and had lined them against the wall. A few were opened, contents laid against the floor, simply unpacking only when he needed, or wanted, something. There was no use settling in- he'd finish his business here soon, and leave to his spacious home, comfortably tending to his experiments.
Everything was planned. Down to the last pin. He rummaged through, stopping to pull out an official looking envelope. Along it was stamped confidential, yadayada, his curiosity was savored, as Mycroft seemed to be in the possession of many envelopes like this. He had seen in all. Tentatively, he opened it, a stack of papers slid out into his fingers. Glancing down at the information he had already memorized. New name, identity, job, friends, and family. Finally the past, apparently, Ben was a bit of a delinquent, now cleaned up. He inwardly sneered at his brother's snide notes written; Ben had been afflicted, in the past, with substances- namely heroin, as his own abuses were not unknown.
Tomorrow, he would officially begin, as an undercover agent. Losing a bet, this was the inevitable consequence, Mycroft forcing him onward, to do his dirty work. Falling back onto the stained, old carpet, he felt his phone buzz. Tossing it, irritably, as it was the devil himself. And so he fell asleep there, stretched out on the empty apartment's floor, too exhausted to do little than think.
Sherlock had calculated everything, every possibility and consequence that could go dreadfully wrong in this mission. He configured a plan for each, an escape route, and only when there was a satisfactory course for each, he allowed himself to drift to sleep. Peacefully unaware of what was ahead of him, and the small, direly important possiblity he had not considered... Sherlock had not prepared himself to fall in love.
---
Chapter 1 - The Watch Dog
On the outside, there was nothing out of ordinary about the company. It was small, managed and run locally. It was not particularly rich, but nor were they in debt. The founder created a steady, very stable, system, in which every worker was treated with equal respect, and made a fair profit. That was until his successor took a hold, Jim Moriarty. A common man, middle class, he was one of the brightest, and most loyal. It was agreed, prior, that he would be suitable for such a job, as the owner, whom was a known workaholic, lacked a blood successor. Jim was crafty, his ideas always brought profit to the business, and so most of his unethical practices were brushed aside. New, innovative, there was a great buzz about the place, a sense of both fear, of the unknown, and a sense of excitement for the imagination of what could be.
Just was it was foretold, the company rose from a steady, local business to a fiercely rising corporation. It turned out the man happened to be a heavy gambler. The more Jim expanded, the rules of their previously humble provinces no longer applied. With the old founder lost, to cancer, there was nobody to question his authority, and so Jim, after half a year of ruling, decided it was his job to renew the rules and regulations.
The worst happened at the end of the first year, when Moriarty announced his revaluations of the pay rolls, which were significantly deducted. In his greed, he reduced the common worker's pay, and increased that of his most dedicated workers. Rather, the ones that groveled before his feet, namely calling him their leader, 'king'. This began the rumored Inner Ring. The group consisted of nine members. Some looked rather rakish, while others were more common to sniveling rats, corruption read even upon their faces. All followed Moriarty around, often styled in a protective circle about him where ever he traveled.
To this injustice, some made a futile attempt to protest. However, with his power Jim simply dismissed them, and brought in a replacement. Attempts to gather the whole company in protest were not successful, as the workers, whom had worked there almost half their lives, feared what would come of them if they lost their jobs. They were now too old to be useful at new stations, and none as familiar as this one, so they stayed, silently fearful.
But the corporation's corruption was not enough evidence for Sherlock Holmes to become involved. Rather, his job revolved around a single woman. A reporter, to be specific, she went undercover, much as he had, to write an article as to expose Jim Moriarty as the tyrant he was. However, three days before her deadline, she went missing. And when she wasn't accounted for, it was classed as a disappearance. As it was, Anthea, her pen name, happened to be close friends with Mycroft Holmes, so starting his investigation into her objectives. Now, Sherlock, rather, Ben was here, deemed to find out what happened to the journalist. The case of the missing person.
"Ben Fischer?" primed a woman, whom was dressed handsomely. She were a smooth pencil skirt, topped with a smart white blouse. Sherlock was broken from his thoughts, and rose to his feet, brushing the folds in his tailored suit. He was escorted inside, leveling down into one of the chairs placed before her desk. Politely they shook hands, and she rose her pen to her clipboard, scribbling down some comment. "Why do you wish to work here, Mr. Fischer?"
He smiled, calmly reciting his answer, "this company is advancing quickly in the market, it is innovative, and a new skeptical. It is at the center of a great controversy, as are many great changes, and I suspect I'd like to be a contributing factor, and study here. To empower my own strengths, to use them for the better of this company." It earned him a mark.
The rest of the interview continued in the same nature, until the woman set her clipboard down, breaking her professional poker face, "it's been a pleasure, Mr. Fischer, I'm sure I will be seeing you again." And then they shook hands again.
Sarah, was the name of his superior, as well as the woman who had interviewed him. She was an ordinary, but charming character. Everyone felt comfortable under her supervision, because she just had earthly nature to herself. Very humble, kind, normal. Despite having a great deal of patience, she didn't tolerate slacking, and disliked gossip even less. Sherlock might have appreciated practice, if it were not for the fact that his job required blessed rumors- a hit, something.
Fortunately, he sat in the cubicle next to one of the most notorious gossipers, Molly Hooper. She was a bit more in awkward company, as she instantly fashioned herself to impress Sherlock. And since she found he held interest in the latest, they'd often eat lunch together, her muttering over the inners of the company. However, everything that she told him, he happened to know, or was useless information. It was hard to keep up the pretense of being enthusiastic, but the sooner he heard something, the sooner he could leave. After two weeks with nothing, he had finally, much to his displeasure, buckled in and unpacked his air mattress.
On his fifth week in, deprived into the dull lull of daily work, he finally caught his first glimpse of the Inner Ring. He had been crossing the main floor to deliver his finished plans, when sudden they inhabitants of the room all parted to the left or right side of the room. Dumbfounded, Sherlock hadn't realized what had happened before it was too late. In strolled the infamous Jim Moriarty. Whom was surprisingly small of stature, a small man for such a large reputation. He flocked by the nine, who lived much up their expectations of being greasy rats.
Frozen, he stared, as they passed, shocked that after five weeks, he was finally seeing what he had to come down to. It was intimidating, and all the same an adrenaline rush. At first he thought he had been dismissed, despite not following the obvious procedures, breathing a sigh of relief, realizing that he had been holding his breath the whole thirty seconds they passed.
However, suddenly the group, almost in synchronization, all halted. They split, and out stepped the tyrant himself, a smirk brimming to his lips. His head cocked to the side, almost lizard like, as if viewing his prey, full of contempt, "well, what is this?" he said in a shrill voice, mocking, as he stepped about Sherlock. "A wise guy? Think you are too good to follow the rules? Do you know what we do to people who don't follow the rules?" The man was practically in Sherlock's face, amused by this public bullying.
He would tolerate only so much. He swallowed, looking down upon the man, hardly intimidated by this figure. He was better than Jim Moriarty. "Oh, let me guess, I get fired."
This seemed to take the man by surprise, his face converged into several different emotions, and shapes, in split seconds. First, utter shock, anger, and then amusement. Clearly, he wasn't used to people contradicting him. "Shall I show you?" he muttered softly, as if asking it more to himself than Sherlock. His mouth opened to say more, but it was then that a new figure stepped out from the Inner Ring of nine men.
A tenth. Expect, this man was much different from the others. He was short, with sandy blond hair. Looking quite fashionable in powder blue suit, which matched his level, blue eyes. Form his stance, it suggest military, his erect backing, and puffed out chest, as if trying to make up for his obvious lack of height. However, there was also something steady about him. He wasn't particularly muscular, but all the same, he looked solid, like a rock. He interrupted Moriarty so simply, and calmly, as if he were scolding a young child what was right and wrong. "Jim, that is enough, we are going to be late."
Jim hesitated at first, but with a one last warning glance in Sherlock's direction he reluctantly stepped back into his circle. It instantly reformed around both Moriarty and the man in the blue.
Molly rushed to his side soon after they parted, worrying over him, and apologizing for not warning him of the rules. However, his mind was already on the tenth man, who was so out of place to other nine. So distracted, that he didn't realized he had inquired about him out loud.
"Oh, him? He isn't part of the nine. Hardly important. He's more like Jim Moriarty's pet, or whatever, a watch dog."
"What's the watch dog's name?"
"John Watson."
---
Chapter 2 - Second Glance
It had appeared that Sherlock, and his little stunt, had disappeared from the corners of Moriarty's mind. Which, was all fair, because the point of being an undercover agent was to not draw attention to oneself- which he had failed at so vigilantly. In a month and a half Sherlock had managed to scrap up little than the scandalous rumors of whom was sleeping with whom. However, in his time, he managed to find something better. Something of substance, John Watson.
He rested his elbows on the edge of his desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Nonchalantly, he slid them under the smooth skin, occasionally pressing to parted lips. This display was not a unusual sight, but still was an unusual habit. He'd sometimes mutter off to himself, shaking his head occasionally when ideas came off base. And now it was happening again, looking a bit distant, brooding.
John Bloody Watson. There was absolutely nothing about the man. That evening, after their first encounter, he had rang Mycroft in bitter demand for all the files he had on this watch dog, who remained unmentioned. It was detrimental to his case, to the investigation, that he knew everything about everyone who might be in the good gracing of Jim Moriarty. Who might have been a witness, or acquaintance to the missing journalist. Who better than Moriarty's own pet? But it turned out that the man was just so ordinary. There was nothing on the man's record to suggest fault. In fact, he appeared to be a good humanitarian.
He went to university to be a physician, and received fair remarks. Soon after engaging himself into military servitude, becoming an army surgeon. He fought in Afghanistan, getting shot in the shoulder, and shortly dispatched home later. His record for there remained blank up until he showed up at Moriarty's side. So, Jim was recruiting old army doctors, who knew little of the nature of business? Clearly, there were pieces missing.
Frustration, at this puzzle that didn't fit together. The world rotated about him, as he spun in the plush office chair, colors blurring between infuriated eyelashes. He was jerked to a stop, an empty stomach giving a lurch at the sudden impact. Blinking profusely, he gazed up at the figure that had shattered his thoughts. Sarah, her hands were defensively pressed to her hips, lips pursed in disapproval, "Ben... I know it's been a long day but-"
He managed a smile, grimaced with the fact the world appeared to still be moving, and he wasn't. "I understand. I just have to send some papers," he mumbled looking over his shoulder, pointedly at the two stacks of papers which sat. He was dismissed.
Carrying the stacks of paper, which he had completed in the pretense of his tiny flat. The work was completed in his flat, and that left time for the real reason he was here. To investigate. His step was slow, but with purpose. Lightheartedly hoping for another glance at the Inner Ring, and perhaps the mysterious watch dog. A week had passed since their last sighting, and since then Sherlock wandered the building. Going the long way about his business, in hopes of getting another look.
Patience was indeed rewarded. He had been making his way, when suddenly the room became silent. Knowing what was about to occur, he stood behind the backs of two particular men, obviously coming back from smoking break. He didn't mind, eyes trained to see through the spaces of the marching men. Getting an unforgettable rush as he saw a tint of blond hair between the masses of dark.
John.
Blue eyes narrowed, as if he could almost hear what Sherlock was saying. And Sherlock could see, through the spaces of passing men, John had stopped. He was looking precisely to the crowd in which he stood. Another man passed. No, no, rather the blue eyes were gazing upon him. He was chilled, frozen to the coldness, yet there was an endless depth to them. And into the abyss he was falling, desperately trying to catalog the feeling.
Then it was broken, another man passed by, and as Sherlock craned his neck to see as they disappeared from sight. The Inner Ring and John were already gone, and he was hollow. Did he hear him thinking? Improbable. But there was no explanation for what had just come to past. Indignantly, he left these irrational conclusions behind.
***
"John? Were you listening?" preached the thin, dark haired silhouette. He nodded, as to appease the coal black eyes that looked to him. He wasn't convinced. "Quit daydreaming."
And in fact, Jim was correct, he really did need to stop daydreaming. To stop seeking out the one person who had ever dared to mock Jim to his face. So fearlessly. The scene was something to behold. Moriarty stepping out after a moment's debate whether or not he had time to publicly bully his staff into submission. He had. With a dry mouth, he watched the man approach his victim with vigor. Sympathetically, as he could predict what was about to occur, Jim purging the man into submission.
Except it wasn't so. He heard the snared resistance in his voice, peeking out behind the backs of the men. This man, he looked down upon Jim. His gray, intelligent eyes purchased in disgust. Nobody did this. Nobody dared.
Anybody else would have been relieved. That it was amusement that played out over the rage. However, John Watson knew better, an amused Moriarty was much more dangerous. And so he ended things before they went too far. Made Jim forget the man. Whom he later had searched out. Everyday, scanning the crowd for the mop of dark brown curls. As if to assure himself that Jim had took his to his promise.
The nine followers parted ways as John and Jim boarded the elevator to his private office. Naturally, it was the top floor. The doors slid open, and shortly an impatient hand curled around the nape of his neck. Jim advanced, lightly playing with the golden hair. He closed his eyes, shivering as the devil's warm breath ticked his exposed skin. The once gentle hand upon his throat tightened, and hot pain sheered as teeth sank into his throat. It wasn't an affectionate bite, between lovers, but a raw, possessive mark. A promise, a truth, a punishment.
He grounded his teeth together, afraid to swallow against the teeth that grazed his skin. He shuddered in fear, and the sheer empowerment this man had over him. Blue eyes flickered open, to see the iron doors sliding shut, and behind them his horrified expression fractured upon gray.
Ben Fischer. He saw.