(no subject)
Summary: A while ago I opened up for some prompts on my personal LJ, and finally decided to stop being lazy and clean them up and post them here, mostly because there were a couple of typos I couldn't edit which were driving me batty.
Rating: U-18
Warnings: A lot of these are RP based (my life), so expect complete silliness, some OOC-ness (who am I kidding, a lot of that), some porn, some fluff, some gore. A horse? You know, the standard stuff.
For capt_spork-
On the table in front of Toby is a small, square television. He can't even see where it's plugged in, and the reception is terrible. The picture is black and white, and keeps flickering. It appears to only be able to receive the five main analog channels, and is currently showing Come Dine With Me.
“I've made this before, of course,” a man is saying to the camera as he rolls a long strip of meat up.
“Yeah, right,” the narrator snipes sarcastically. The wooden legs of a chair scrape loudly across the concrete floor as it's dragged next to Toby, and Jim sits down beside him, crossing his legs at the knee. He brushes his hands across his slim thigh, wiping away imaginary dirt from his immaculate suit. In his right hand, he holds what looks like a remote detonator, which he holds up, resting his chin on the tip for a moment.
“This is a repeat, isn't it?” he asks Toby.
“Yes,” Toby replies, but it comes out as 'mff'.
Jim sighs theatrically.
“I hate repeats. You know what they mean? I have no life. When I can look at a trashy TV show and go, 'hey, haven't I seen this?', that means I need to get out more. But what can I say, it helps me unwind. And, as I'm sure you can imagine, Detective Inspector, in a high stress job such as my own, relaxing is very important.”
Toby watches the other man speaking out of the corner of his eye; he appears very casual, and speaks with his hands, splaying his fingers expressively.
“There's a lot of trust in these programs, don't you think? If I entered, you know what I'd do? I'd use oleander. Vomiting, stomach pain, diarrhea, seizures, maybe even a coma... you just don't know what's being put in your food is all I'm saying.”
He gestures with the detonator, and taps it on his chin again as he leans forward, watching the flickering image. He turns quickly to look at Toby, leaning over, large brown eyes disconcerting close up.
“Do you mind this being on?” he asks, voice low, and Toby shakes his head sharply. Jim relaxes back into his chair once more.
“Good. I do so hate to put people out.”
Toby would point out that if this was true, perhaps he could untie him from the chair that he was sitting in, and remove the duct tape that is somewhat restricting his breathing. Being a true gent, however, he says nothing.
Somewhere behind Toby, in another room, someone curses loudly. The lights in the stark, empty warehouse dim momentarily, the television picture flickering to black before coming back. Jim glances upwards, lips pursed. The sounds of a cordless pneumatic drill starts up, accompanied by a blood chilling scream. Jim smiles at Toby genially.
“Your friend has caused me a little bit of inconvenience, you know. I understand, I do, it's all so...” he pauses, slowly windmilling his left hand as he carefully chooses his words, “difficult, what with Sebastian and Sally, as I'm sure you very well know.”
Despite himself, Toby nods wearily.
“But really, you Yarders need to know your place. I can't have you getting out of hand. It's bad for business.”
Another scream echoes through the room, and Jim tilts his head.
“Let's turn this up a bit, small we?”
Still grasping the detonator in his hand, Jim stands up and crosses over to the TV, turning it up as loudly as it will go.
“Well, Inspector,” he says loudly, patting Toby on the shoulder. “It's been a delight. Best of luck to you; you're going to need it.”
He leans down next to Toby, and he smells of a subtle, spicy cologne, his lips brushing Toby's ear as he speaks.
“I'll tell Seb to be gentle with you.”
Well, Toby thinks, as the fake laughter of the contestants drown out the ringing screams. Bugger.
For r_scribbles-
At roughly 9:43pm on October 31st, Molly Hooper possesses Jim Moriarty. After spraying on cologne, he leaves his flat and, like a homing pigeon returning to the coop, heads to St Bart's hospital. At 10:15, his phone rings.
“Where the fuck are you?” asks Seb. “You're supposed to be meeting with Brady in fifteen minutes!”
“I'm on a bus,” Jim replies, and his voice has a strange, dreamy quality to it.
“You're on a-- what? Where?”
“I'm going to a hospital. There's someone I have to do.”
“To a hos-- wait, someone you have to do? What? Jim, are you hi--”
Jim hangs up, switches his phone off, and puts it in his pocket. He sits quietly for the remainder of the bus journey, hands folded demurely in his lap. When he finally reaches St Bart's, he walks through the corridors confidently, following a familiar path down to the pathology lab. He presses his nose to the glass of the window, fingers spread against the door. Molly was right- Sherlock Holmes is exactly where she expected him to be. For a moment, she wishes he had some lipstick to put on, but instead she makes do with having Jim quickly biting at his lips, making the blood rush to the surface.
He pushes the door and strides into the room. Sherlock Holmes looks up from the microscope he's peering into, irritated at the unexpected disturbance. His eyes widen almost comically as he spots Jim and he pushes up and away from his stool, knocking a Petri dish to the floor in his surprise. He circles the table as Jim strides towards him, wary, but Jim is fast and leaps towards him, closing his fingers around his wrist. Sherlock jerks as though an electric current has shot through him as Molly's influence takes over him, too. His eyes become slightly unfocussed, and he looks at Jim as though he doesn't know remember why he's supposed to hate him. After a moment, he twists his wrist in his grip, curling long fingers around the Irishman's skinny wrist and pulls him towards him. Jim goes with it, and when pressed against Sherlock's chest, he holds the back of his hand to his forehead.
“Oh, Sherlock,” he says breathlessly, “you are the sexiest Sphyrna lewini lookalike.”
“I love it when you talk Latin classification to me,” Sherlock growls.
“Take me,” Jim breathes, and Sherlock swipes his arms across the desk, sending chemicals, microscope, pipettes, and other science detritus tumbling to the floor. He backs Jim up onto the desk and climbs on after him, straddling him.
“Oh, your eyes are like a crashing wave,” Jim whispers, and Sherlock leans down, large hand cupping Jim's head.
“Yours are the exact same shade of brown as that of a Springer Spaniel the grounds-keeper owned when I was a child,” Sherlock replies, and his voice is low and rumbling and perfect. “It's quite remarkable.”
He leans in, and just before their lips brush Jim feels a thrill of girlish glee welling up sharply in his throat, as though he's been waiting for years for this to happen. Sherlock presses their mouths together, and it's almost chaste. Jim feels a wave of disappointment that isn't his own. Frustrated, Molly has Jim put on the moves. As Sherlock pulls back, Jim chases him, curling one hand in the hair at the nape of his neck, bringing him back down. He presses their mouths together again, sucking lightly at Sherlock's bottom lip before biting at it lightly. Sherlock makes a low noise and parts his lips, and Jim seizes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, brushing the tip of Sherlock's tongue with his own, teasingly. Finally, Sherlock angles his head properly and opens his mouth, sliding his tongue along Jim's, and a thrill runs down Jim's spine. His fingers tighten in his unruly curls, enjoying the feel of Sherlock's oddly shaped, full lips pressed against his own. Sherlock reaches down and pulls Jim's leg up along side his hips, grinding down, and Jim gasps. Sherlock's hand slips up his stomach to his chest where it flattens, his thumb brushing against Jim's nipple through his shirt. Jim makes a pleased sound and reaches down to grab Sherlock's surprisingly full arse, pulling him closer to him and angling his hips so that they slide together, a sharp frisson of pleasure rolling down Jim's spine.
Sherlock slides his hand underneath Jim's shirt, long fingers trailing over the hair leading down from his navel, which makes him pause. Jim reaches for Sherlock's belt, undoing it and pulling the leather through the loops. He pauses with it in his hands, all sorts of interesting ideas racing through his mind (well, mostly Molly's, but surprisingly, part of his own too), but Molly is impatient and so he drops the leather and, without any preamble, undoes Sherlock's trousers, slipping his hand in. Sherlock makes a low noise of surprise and his hips jerk against Jim's fingers, and he begins to rub the thick outline of Sherlock's cock with his palm. Determined to not be left behind, Sherlock reaches down and presses his own hand between Jim's legs, and freezes.
“...this is somewhat unexpected,” he murmurs against Jim's mouth, as he slowly palms his erection.
“Does it bother you?” Jim asks, pulling back and biting at the line of his jaw.
“Bother me, no,” he replies. “I just hadn't factored you having a penis into the equation, Molly.”
“Shh,” Jim whispers, and curls his right hand into his hair again, bringing him back down for another kiss. He rubs harder and Sherlock hisses against his mouth.
“Just--”
Jim tightens his fingers in Sherlock's hair cruelly and tugs his head back, sliding his mouth along the exposed line of his neck. Sherlock grunts and his hips snap forward as wet warmth floods the material underneath Jim's palm. Jim pulls his hand out and reaches down, curling his fingers around Sherlock's wrist and grinding his hips up into his hand. Sherlock rubs his thumb along the hard ridge of Jim's cock and Jim spreads his legs further, arching his back.
“Do you think I'm beautiful, Sherlock?” he gasps.
“Beautiful is an objective viewpoint, Molly. Your lips are rather thin but, on the whole, I would say your face has what could be considered an aesthetically pleasing symmetry,” Sherlock says, and Jim's grip on his wrist tightens as he comes, swearing quietly.
Both men pull apart, straightening their clothing, and without another word, Jim walks straight out of the pathology lab and out of the hospital, hailing down a taxi. Neither men remember anything of the encounter; Sherlock wakes up unexpectedly, slumped over the desk, wondering why his trousers are sticky and the lab is trashed; Jim wakes up on the settee after Seb lets himself in and angrily prods him awake.
In the afterlife, Molly stretches, satisfied.
“Oh Miss Morry,” Shan tuts, wagging her finger. “That vely naughty. You should not do that.”
“Oh, don't ruin the moment,” Molly sighs. “I wish I could have a cigarette.”
For hehangs-
When Seb's phone starts ringing, he's in the middle of an exclusive restaurant with Jane Thierditt, the daughter of a baron. She has perfect breasts which she's subtly pushing together, slim fingers coyly toying with her long, blonde hair. She keeps tossing it back over her shoulders before pulling it back and carding her fingers through it, laughing loudly when Seb talks, biting at her lower lip. Seb feels relaxed as he carefully strokes the back of his fingers up and down the thin stem of his wine glass, a satisfied glimmer of warmth coiling in his stomach with the knowledge that he can easily have her.
He glances at the phone when it first rings; it shows up as Amelia, and Seb apologises before setting it to silent. It keeps ringing, though, vibrating in his pocket. Eventually he excuses himself, and heads into the bathroom to take the call.
“Is this important?” he says, forgoing any polite greeting in his irritation, “I'm halfway through seducing Baron Thierditt's daughter.”
He doesn't expect his sister's reaction to be hysterical. She's sobbing down the phone at him, theatrical, and he holds the phone away from his ear for a moment as she wails.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hisses, bringing the phone back to his ear, “what are you screaming for? Is it your time of the month?”
“It's Jim,” she howls, “he's gone insane. He's gone mad, and he won't talk to me, I don't know what to do. I think he's killed someone.”
It's as though someone's dropped a brick of ice in Seb's stomach, and he immediately straightens up.
“Where are you?”
“He's filthy and he won't say anything, and--”
“Shut up,” Seb barks, “where are you?”
“I'm at Jim’s,” she replies, and Seb hangs up before she starts wailing incomprehensibly again. He makes his apologies to the beautiful Jane, who looks put out and disappointed, but he's anxious enough that can't bring himself to care. There's always next time.
Unfortunately, his plan to enjoy a drunken evening of sex with Jane means that he hasn't brought his car, and so he hails down a Hackney cab and directs it straight to Jim's. Once there, he lets himself in through the outer door with his fob and races up the stairs, neglecting the lift in his impatience. Once at Jim's door, he lets himself in with his own key, only to find Amelia pacing in the corridor. She's worked herself into a frenzy, face wet with tears, hands fluttering around uselessly. Seb strides over to her and grasps her by the shoulders, steadying her.
“Are you hurt?”
“No,” she says, and he pushes her aside and walks into the living room. As he steps into the living room, the first thing he sees is Jim. He's lounging in an arm chair, legs sprawled, tie pulled open and aside, top two buttons undone. A mostly empty bottle of whisky is dangling from his limp fingers, which, Seb notices after a moment, are coated in dirt, his short fingernails encrusted with mud. He rolls his head across the back of the chair as Seb enters the room, and it takes a moment for him to focus on him.
“Oh, Christ,” he mutters, and rolls his head back to stare blankly at the wall.
“He won't talk to me,” Amelia cries, following Seb through from the hallway and clutching at his arm. Seb shrugs her off.
“What the fuck have you done?” he asks Jim, who doesn't reply, but brings the whiskey up and takes a deep swallow.
“James,” he says, threateningly, and Jim balances the bottle between his legs, rolling it between his fingers.
“Blundell,” he says eventually. “He was doing an investigation. My name came up. Things got messy.”
“Messy,” Amelia repeats, voice high and strangled, “what do you mean, messy?”
Seb shushes her with a wave of his hand.
“Messy, as in I put a bullet between his eyes, and dug a fucking hole in the ground, by myself, and put him in it.”
“Jesus.”
“You don't know how to shoot a gun,” Amelia says, stunned. “You're a mathematician! You do people’s accounts!”
“Oh shut the fuck up,” Jim shouts, his weak grasp on his patience slipping.
“Don't talk to my sister like that,” Seb says warningly.
“Jim, what have you even done? I can't believe this,” Amelia screeches, and Jim loses his temper entirely, standing up unsteadily.
“Oh don't act so innocent,” he spits, pointing at her.
“Jim,” Seb barks, but Jim ignores him.
“I know who your father is,” he continues, “I know what he does, and I know what you've done, so don't act like this is some great fucking surprise to you.”
“And you?” Amelia asks, rounding on Seb. “You knew about this?”
He brings his hands up, spreading his fingers in supplication.
“I--” he begins, but Jim interrupts him.
“Of course he knows,” he shouts, gesturing wildly with the bottle, “he fucking works with me, you stupid bitch.”
Amelia crosses the room to Jim and backhands him, hard enough that in his drunken state he stumbles backwards. The crack of her striking him is obscenely loud in the flat, and Jim instinctively steps forward, raising his own hand. Seb starts. Jim quickly schools his temper and drops his hand, instead wheeling around and hurling the mostly empty bottle of whiskey at the wall. It shatters in a burst of glass, and he spins on his heel, getting in Amelia's face.
“Get out,” he bites, and she gathers herself up, flicking her hair over her shoulders and staring him down.
“I hate you,” she hisses coldly, “you will never see me again, James Moriarty.”
She stamps away from him, pushing past Seb and glaring at him coldly as she stalks through the flat, grabbing her coat and bag, throwing her set of keys on the floor before heading out and slamming the door. Seb hesitates, unsure whether to follow her or to stay where he is.
Jim sinks into the chair and scrubs his fingers through his hair, frustrated. He leans on the arm, burying his face in his hand.
“I was going to have a really nice night tonight,” Seb says, the light tone of his voice at odds with the clear signs of fury, evident in the way that he holds himself.
“Don't, Seb,” Jim says, voice muffled by his hand, and for once he sounds off balance. “If you're going to be like this, just fucking go with her. I'm not in the mood. Don't.”
“You're not in the mood,” Seb hisses, but Jim holds up his free hand to stop the diatribe, and it's trembling slightly. Seb sighs.
“Well, this is a fine mess.”
Jim makes a vague, frustrated noise of agreement into his palm. Instead of following his sister and comforting her, Seb instead drops to his knees and begins to pick up the shards of broken glass as Jim sits with his head in his hands, taking careful, measured breaths.
For the_randomist-
It's 6pm, and of all the things Seb could be doing at 6pm, he's at Jim's house about to watch fucking Glee. It's been a long and messy day; they'd caught an informant, and whilst drilling through his kneecaps Seb had caught the popliteal artery which had sprayed blood over the both of them. The informant had promptly, spectacularly vomited over Seb. After it had all been dealt with and they'd returned to Jim's, a brief squabble had ensued over first shower rights. For once, Jim had backed down, as much for his own sake as Seb's- the vomit was beginning to smell particularly pungent.
Now, freshly showered, he's curled up in the corner of Jim's buttery leather sofa, waiting for Jim to stop dicking about in the kitchen. He doesn't have to be here. He should be out training, or getting laid or something. He's interrupted from his disgruntled musing by Jim padding barefoot in from the kitchen, cup of tea in each hand, and a bowl of freshly made popcorn balanced carefully in the raised crook of his elbow. He passes one cup to Seb and settles down with his own disgustingly weak, sugary brew at the other end of the sofa, kicking his bare feet up into Seb's lap.
“Do I look like a footstool?” Seb gripes, and Jim offers him the bowl of hot popcorn to placate him. Half way through the episode, the bowl is empty, and Seb can no longer distract himself from the abomination of a TV show play in front of him. Instead, he curls his buttery fingers around Jim's long, slim foot, thumb rubbing along his high arch. He digs his short thumbnail into the soft underside of his foot, drawing it down towards his toes, and Jim's leg jerks wildly in his grasp. He kicks at him, digging his heel into Seb's thigh before settling down again. Seb, feeling childishly mean spirited, pulls on his toes.
“Stop that,” Jim grouses, not even glancing away from the TV, and Seb sighs, knowing when he's beat, and resumes rubbing absently instead.
On screen, two young men are dancing around a sofa and singing to each other.
“This is so gay,” Seb complains.
“Says the man giving me a foot rub,” Jim shoots back.
Seb sighs loudly.
“Who's the black one?” he asks.
“Mercedes.”
“The gay one?”
“Sam. Not gay.”
“Yeah,right. Oh, hello. Who're the cheerleaders?”
“Santana and Brittany.”
“I'd like to roam those hillsides, if you know what I mean.”
“They fuck.”
“What?”
“They mentioned sweet lady kisses.”
“Sweet lady kis--”
“I'm quoting, Seb. Also, scissoring.”
Seb raises his eyebrows.
“Huh. Maybe I should watch this more often.”
They watch the rest of the episode in silence, and Jim hides his smirk in his now-cold cup of tea.
For shellfish-dimes-
It isn't the first time that Jim's been shot at, not at all, but it's the first time it very almost hits him. He's meeting with a contact, a drug dealer from Hackney who says he wants in on Jim's rapidly expanding empire. Jim's not a fan of drug dealers; he likes his mind crystal sharp, hates the way that some drugs muddle that, yet others offer a startling clarity. He understands addiction, and is unwilling to fall prey to it. Nonetheless, he likes to think of himself as a fair man. He is willing to give the dealer some of his valuable time, and so, with Seb, he arranges a meeting in an abandoned industrial estate; it's not glamorous, but it is private. Unfortunately, as his notoriety grows, so does the amount of people who are unhappy with having their toes trodden on. The dealer is apparently one of them.
The bullet comes from out of the blue and shaves the side of Jim's head, leaving a burning line in its wake. The shooter is close, and the bang echoes loudly around the empty building. At his side, Sebastian grasps him by the lapels of his jacket and propels him backwards across the room and around the corner of the door way, slamming him up against the wall, his left hand braced beside Jim's head. He then draws out his Luger from within his jacket and leans around the corner without hesitation, his right arm crossed over his left, taking aim at the catwalk above them which is shrouded in darkness. His sense of accuracy is finely tuned, and with only the memory of the sound of the shot to guide him, he fires. There's a cry, and a man tumbles off of the catwalk, arms and legs wheeling before he hits the floor with a sickening crunch. Seb then swings his gun to aim at the drug dealer, who puts his hands up in supplication. Seb fires, and he crumples to the ground, bleeding from between his eyes.
All of this happens in a matter of seconds. Seb immediately turns his attention to Jim; their chests are pressed together, and he touches the gash on Jim's head with his fingers, the hand still holding the gun pressed to his shoulder. Jim lets out a shaky breath, but he's grinning wildly, chin tilted upwards, his pupils blown. It makes something in Seb's stomach twist. Jim's blood trickles over his fingertips, running down his neck and staining the stark white of his shirt crimson. It's bright against his pale skin and Seb wets his lips before glancing at Jim's face again. Jim's eyes are on Seb's mouth and Seb's fingers curl against his neck. Jim's eyes flick up to meet his.
“That won't wash out,” Seb says, and his voice is unexpectedly low and gravelly. Jim's eyes widen fractionally before his eyebrows quickly lower, suddenly consternated. Seb leans in slightly at the same time that Jim turns his head away. Seb is quick enough to pull back, suddenly feeling flushed. Jim brings his hands up to squeeze Seb's biceps, and then pushes him away.
“It doesn't matter,” he says, and Seb thinks he if he were describing anybody else, he would say he sounded flustered. “At least it wasn't Westwood.”
Seb laughs, a little too loudly, and follows Jim out.
For aimeebeff-
Though Jim does not recognise the seal on the letter when he first receives it, he slips the flat edge of the letter opener beneath the lip of the envelope and opens it regardless. The sudden loud burst of music startles him so much that he loses his grip on the paper, and the letter flutters to the floor.
Bad Horse
Bad Horse
Bad Horse
Bad Horse!
With sterling reputation,
A pure breed through and through,
He has an invitation,
Which is just for you!
A rather special meeting,
A treat we're sure you'll see,
Refuse and you'll be in a bind,
(Just something you should keep in mind).
Bad Horse
Bad Horse
Bad Horse
He’s Bad!
The Evil League of Evil,
Quite like what we have seen,
To join both of our forces,
We would be quite keen.
So make the Bad Horse gleeful
We'll all make quite the team...
Get saddled up
There’s no recourse
It’s Hi-Ho Silver
Signed Bad Horse!
Despite usually being quite a collected person, Jim feels a giddy rush of glee bubbling up in his chest as he claps his hands over his mouth in delighted surprised. Bad Horse was only his bloody idol. He admired his style; when Freddie Wilkes (a low level thief) had crossed Bad Horse, he'd been found hours later with a horseshoe through his forehead. His retribution was swift, relevant to his species, and served as a warning to other petty crooks. Jim aspired to be just like him. After picking the letter back up with trembling fingers, he read the small paragraph at the bottom that had not been put into verse; it instructed him to meet Bad Horse at 5pm the next day in Regent's park.
And so, the next day, Jim headed to Regent's park. Full of nerves, he makes sure that he is fifteen minutes early. He sits on a bench near the Baker Street entrance, Guardian unfolded on his lap, hyper-aware of everyone in the park. At precisely 5pm, he hears the soft click of horse's hooves on the path. He glances up to see Bad Horse walking towards him, one of his agents casually sitting astride him. Bad Horse stops next to the bench and huffs, lowering his head and nosing at the grass. The agent clears his throat casually, before saying the code phrase-
“Kind treatment makes good horses, Jim.”
“Bad treatment ruins them,” Jim replies, remembering the reply he had been instructed to say. The agent nods, satisfied.
“James Moriarty,” he says, and Jim doesn't know whether to keep looking at the agent or to look at Bad Horse instead. Bad Horse seems intent on worrying at a dandelion, however, and so Jim keeps his eyes on the man.
“It's a pleasure,” he says. “I'm quite a fan of your work.”
Bad Horse whinnies.
“Bad Horse is delighted to hear this,” the agent says. “We've been watching you for quite some time. Bad Horse feels you would make a valuable asset to The Evil League of Evil. With Bad Horse as your mentor, we are certain you will go far.”
Jim's heart sinks.
“Ah,” he says. “I'm afraid, in that case, I shall have to decline. I work alone, you see, and working under someone else would just not suit my style. I am rubber, you are glue. Er-- sorry, Bad Horse. No offense meant.”
Bad Horse scrapes his front hoof against the floor.
“Bad Horse says he suspected as much. It is a shame, Mr Moriarty, but we shall part on amicable terms. Perhaps, in the future, we may work together.”
“It would be my honour, sir”, Jim replies.
“Extend your hand,” the agent says, and Jim complies. Bad Horse raises his large head and snuffles at Jim's palm with his velvety nose, the equivalent of an equine handshake. Jim pats him on the cheek gingerly.
“Bad Horse, away!” the agent cries, and Bad Horse rears onto his hind legs and lets out a mighty whinny, front legs pedalling before he leaps away. Jim watches him go, a little misty eyed.
“I hated saying goodbye to that plucky little pony,” he says, before rising from the bench and watching Bad Horse gallop away into the sunset.
For messageredacted-
Jim's never really been a firm believer in the old adage 'if you want a job done well, then do it yourself'- he has a team of people to do his jobs for them, and they do them very well indeed. However, when he gets a call about a dead body that may be of interest to him, Seb is in Berlin and his other, more competent men are wrapped up in a blackmail case involving a member of the royal family, he has no choice but to get involved himself. He hates dead bodies, he really does- they smell, and they're messy, and Jim is not a fan of either of these things. When the nondescript white van rolls into the empty warehouse, he's not expecting Mary Morstan to be sitting in the passenger seat. He strolls over to the van and pulls open the passenger door, lounging against it, arms crossed.
“Well, well, well,” he says, amused, “Mary Morstan. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“She'd text your phone,” the driver says before Mary can speak, shaking his head as he climbs out of the van. “Insisted on coming along. I tried to ring you, but--”
“Ah, yes,” Jim interrupts, frowning. He takes his Blackberry out of his pocket and tuts at it before putting it back.
“I cycle my SIM cards to make it harder to pin me down,” he explains to Mary. “You must have text a different phone. This is a Three week, so naturally, I have no signal...”
He trails off and studies Mary through narrowed eyes, curious.
“I found Pike,” she says.
“Pike's none of my concern,” Jim replies, shrugging.
“Dead.”
Jim raises his eyebrows.
The back doors of the van creak open and there's a muffled thud as Jim's man pulls an occupied body bag out and drags it across the floor. Jim pushes himself off of the door and walks over to the body bag, crouching down and unzipping it. Rising back up, he nods once at the man.
“Put him on the table.”
He turns and walks back to Mary who has climbed out of the van and is standing with her arms folded, looking defiant and not at all nervous.
“You've spoiled me Mary, truly,” he says, circling her, hand carefully trailing across her shoulder blades, designed to make her ill at ease. “It's not often a beautiful woman brings me a corpse.”
“Don't get too excited,” she replies, unconcerned. “I want in.”
“In on what, darling?” he asks, tone carefully innocent.
“I know you're planning on selling his organs. I want in.”
“What would give you such an idea?”
“I saw the ice boxes in the back. That, and your driver said.”
Jim sighs.
“This is a messy business, sweetheart. As a piano teacher, I don't think black market deals are your forte.”
“You don't know anything about me.”
“That was a piano joke.”
“I know; it was terrible.”
Jim watches Mary and she tilts her chin up, raising an eyebrow.
“Anyway,” she adds, “Pike still owed me that £10.”
After a moment, Jim's mouth quirks in a smile.
“Smith,” he barks, “bring the lady a seat.”
Turning his back on Mary, Jim crosses the warehouse and walks over to the free standing autopsy table. Shrugging off his jacket, he folds it and hangs it over a railing beneath the table. He unloops the tie from around his neck and places it over the jacket, undoing the top button of his shirt before doing the same to his cuffs, rolling his shirt sleeves back over his forearms.
“Are you sure you want in on this?” he asks Mary snidely as he pulls on a long pair of blue latex gloves. “It might be too much for your delicate woman's constitution.”
“You seem to manage,” she replies lightly, and Jim lets out a huff of unwilling amusement. Bending down, he picks up a brown leather duffel, which he sets on Pike's clothed body. He pulls out a medical face mask, a rolled up fabric case, and plastic surgical glasses, which he puts on.
“Hot,” Mary deadpans, and Jim quirks a suggestive eyebrow at her before putting on the face mask.
“Try to contain yourself,” he says dryly, before rolling out the fabric knife case and pulling a thin, sharp scalpel, placing it to the side before pulling out a pair of scissors. Smith appears with a wooden stool and drags it over to Mary, letting it go and walking away again at a nod from Jim. The stool rocks slightly before Mary sits on it, legs crossed.
“So, while it certainly makes my life easier, dare I ask why you have a dead gossip monger on your hands?” he asks, placing the bag back on the floor and beginning to chop through Pike's clothing with the scissors.
“Like I said, he owed me a tenner,” Mary replies, eyes on the scissors. “He told me to meet him, and when I got there, there he was. Dead.”
“And you immediately think of me. I'm flattered.”
Mary shrugs her thin shoulders.
“You gave me your number. It seemed logical. It's not like I know anyone else who could get rid of a body.”
Jim considers her for a moment before putting down the scissors and picking up the scalpel instead. He uncharacteristically pauses for a moment, glancing up at Mary with the scalpel held above Pike's collarbone.
“This isn't going to be pretty, you know.”
She holds his gaze steadily, unintimidated.
Jim presses the blade down and draws a line to the breastbone, doing the same on the other side before slicing down to his groin. The skin parts easily, yellow fat and tender, red flesh on display. Glistening wet coils of intestine bloom out from Pike's stomach, a foul, raw meat smell wafting from them. Jim tugs at the split edges of the flesh with his right fingers, slicing away the connecting tissue with the scalpel blade, peeling the skin back and away from the bones. He pauses and glances over the plastic glasses at Mary. He raises his eyebrows, playfully sinister, before leaning down and picking up a blue handled pair of bolt cutters. He wedges them under the bottom of the ribs, the muscles in his forearms jumping as he applies his weight to the handles, cutting cleanly through the bones with a biting, sickening crunch.
“Think you've made a mistake yet, darling?” he asks Mary, his voice muffled by the surgical mask.
“Not at all,” Mary replies lightly, casually linking he fingers together and hooking them over her knee. She looks more curious than disgusted, which Jim finds interesting. “In fact, I was just thinking how I could go for a bacon sandwich right now.”
Jim pulls a face at her which is largely hidden by the mask, but she catches the disgusted wrinkle of his nose and the lowering of his thin eyebrows. She smiles winningly at him.
Jim returns to his task, grunting slightly with exertion as he yanks on the broken ribs, careful to not cut his fingers on the sharp bone. With a final effort there's a loud crack, and the ribs and connected sternum break away. He drops it on the floor with a hollow clatter before rolling his shoulders, rubbing the back of his wrist on his forehead. He leaves a smudge of blood, and Mary smirks. Now that Pike's chest is open, Jim sinks his hands into the cavity up to the wrists, moving the organs around and cutting them out with deft, somewhat alarming precision. He carefully places Pike's liver, heart and two kidneys on the small tray at the top of the table and taps his chin thoughtfully with the handle of the scalpel.
“I knew he was on drugs. Those are not healthy kidneys.”
He purses his lips as he does some quick calculations in his mind, before pointing at Mary with the blade.
“£2500 for the kidneys, both, £1000 for the liver, £5000 for the heart. You get a twenty five percent cut.”
Mary scoffs.
“Fifty.”
“My offer is very generous. Thirty.”
“Fifty.”
“Forty.”
“Fifty. This wouldn't even be happening if I hadn't have found Pike.”
“No.”
Mary spreads her hands.
“Fine. I'll just take those with me and leave, then, shall I? Go tell Scotland Yard what I've seen.”
“Maybe I'll just kill you and harvest your organs instead.”
“You wouldn't kill me.”
“And what makes you think that?”
Mary smirks.
“You like me.”
Very interesting.
“You certainly seem very sure of yourself.”
“Fifty.”
Jim narrows his eyes at her, but Mary refuses to back down. Eventually, Jim sighs.
“You drive a hard bargain Miss Morstan,” he says, peeling off the blue gloves and dropping them carelessly in Pike's open carcass. “It looks like you'll finally get your loan back.”
“You'll forgive me if I don't shake on it.”
“Smith,” Jim barks again, and as if he has been summoned, the man reappears. “Take Miss Morstan home, and then deal with this.”
Smith nods, and heads towards the van.
“Well, Mary,” Jim says, “I shall be in regarding your cut of the proceeds. If you should ever mysteriously come across another corpse, you are welcome to call me.”
“Hopefully that won't happen,” Mary replies dryly, and turns to walk to the van.
“Perhaps you'll ring me anyway,” he calls lightly.
“Maybe,” she tosses over her shoulder airily as she saunters away. Jim grins.
Rating: U-18
Warnings: A lot of these are RP based (my life), so expect complete silliness, some OOC-ness (who am I kidding, a lot of that), some porn, some fluff, some gore. A horse? You know, the standard stuff.
For capt_spork-
On the table in front of Toby is a small, square television. He can't even see where it's plugged in, and the reception is terrible. The picture is black and white, and keeps flickering. It appears to only be able to receive the five main analog channels, and is currently showing Come Dine With Me.
“I've made this before, of course,” a man is saying to the camera as he rolls a long strip of meat up.
“Yeah, right,” the narrator snipes sarcastically. The wooden legs of a chair scrape loudly across the concrete floor as it's dragged next to Toby, and Jim sits down beside him, crossing his legs at the knee. He brushes his hands across his slim thigh, wiping away imaginary dirt from his immaculate suit. In his right hand, he holds what looks like a remote detonator, which he holds up, resting his chin on the tip for a moment.
“This is a repeat, isn't it?” he asks Toby.
“Yes,” Toby replies, but it comes out as 'mff'.
Jim sighs theatrically.
“I hate repeats. You know what they mean? I have no life. When I can look at a trashy TV show and go, 'hey, haven't I seen this?', that means I need to get out more. But what can I say, it helps me unwind. And, as I'm sure you can imagine, Detective Inspector, in a high stress job such as my own, relaxing is very important.”
Toby watches the other man speaking out of the corner of his eye; he appears very casual, and speaks with his hands, splaying his fingers expressively.
“There's a lot of trust in these programs, don't you think? If I entered, you know what I'd do? I'd use oleander. Vomiting, stomach pain, diarrhea, seizures, maybe even a coma... you just don't know what's being put in your food is all I'm saying.”
He gestures with the detonator, and taps it on his chin again as he leans forward, watching the flickering image. He turns quickly to look at Toby, leaning over, large brown eyes disconcerting close up.
“Do you mind this being on?” he asks, voice low, and Toby shakes his head sharply. Jim relaxes back into his chair once more.
“Good. I do so hate to put people out.”
Toby would point out that if this was true, perhaps he could untie him from the chair that he was sitting in, and remove the duct tape that is somewhat restricting his breathing. Being a true gent, however, he says nothing.
Somewhere behind Toby, in another room, someone curses loudly. The lights in the stark, empty warehouse dim momentarily, the television picture flickering to black before coming back. Jim glances upwards, lips pursed. The sounds of a cordless pneumatic drill starts up, accompanied by a blood chilling scream. Jim smiles at Toby genially.
“Your friend has caused me a little bit of inconvenience, you know. I understand, I do, it's all so...” he pauses, slowly windmilling his left hand as he carefully chooses his words, “difficult, what with Sebastian and Sally, as I'm sure you very well know.”
Despite himself, Toby nods wearily.
“But really, you Yarders need to know your place. I can't have you getting out of hand. It's bad for business.”
Another scream echoes through the room, and Jim tilts his head.
“Let's turn this up a bit, small we?”
Still grasping the detonator in his hand, Jim stands up and crosses over to the TV, turning it up as loudly as it will go.
“Well, Inspector,” he says loudly, patting Toby on the shoulder. “It's been a delight. Best of luck to you; you're going to need it.”
He leans down next to Toby, and he smells of a subtle, spicy cologne, his lips brushing Toby's ear as he speaks.
“I'll tell Seb to be gentle with you.”
Well, Toby thinks, as the fake laughter of the contestants drown out the ringing screams. Bugger.
For r_scribbles-
At roughly 9:43pm on October 31st, Molly Hooper possesses Jim Moriarty. After spraying on cologne, he leaves his flat and, like a homing pigeon returning to the coop, heads to St Bart's hospital. At 10:15, his phone rings.
“Where the fuck are you?” asks Seb. “You're supposed to be meeting with Brady in fifteen minutes!”
“I'm on a bus,” Jim replies, and his voice has a strange, dreamy quality to it.
“You're on a-- what? Where?”
“I'm going to a hospital. There's someone I have to do.”
“To a hos-- wait, someone you have to do? What? Jim, are you hi--”
Jim hangs up, switches his phone off, and puts it in his pocket. He sits quietly for the remainder of the bus journey, hands folded demurely in his lap. When he finally reaches St Bart's, he walks through the corridors confidently, following a familiar path down to the pathology lab. He presses his nose to the glass of the window, fingers spread against the door. Molly was right- Sherlock Holmes is exactly where she expected him to be. For a moment, she wishes he had some lipstick to put on, but instead she makes do with having Jim quickly biting at his lips, making the blood rush to the surface.
He pushes the door and strides into the room. Sherlock Holmes looks up from the microscope he's peering into, irritated at the unexpected disturbance. His eyes widen almost comically as he spots Jim and he pushes up and away from his stool, knocking a Petri dish to the floor in his surprise. He circles the table as Jim strides towards him, wary, but Jim is fast and leaps towards him, closing his fingers around his wrist. Sherlock jerks as though an electric current has shot through him as Molly's influence takes over him, too. His eyes become slightly unfocussed, and he looks at Jim as though he doesn't know remember why he's supposed to hate him. After a moment, he twists his wrist in his grip, curling long fingers around the Irishman's skinny wrist and pulls him towards him. Jim goes with it, and when pressed against Sherlock's chest, he holds the back of his hand to his forehead.
“Oh, Sherlock,” he says breathlessly, “you are the sexiest Sphyrna lewini lookalike.”
“I love it when you talk Latin classification to me,” Sherlock growls.
“Take me,” Jim breathes, and Sherlock swipes his arms across the desk, sending chemicals, microscope, pipettes, and other science detritus tumbling to the floor. He backs Jim up onto the desk and climbs on after him, straddling him.
“Oh, your eyes are like a crashing wave,” Jim whispers, and Sherlock leans down, large hand cupping Jim's head.
“Yours are the exact same shade of brown as that of a Springer Spaniel the grounds-keeper owned when I was a child,” Sherlock replies, and his voice is low and rumbling and perfect. “It's quite remarkable.”
He leans in, and just before their lips brush Jim feels a thrill of girlish glee welling up sharply in his throat, as though he's been waiting for years for this to happen. Sherlock presses their mouths together, and it's almost chaste. Jim feels a wave of disappointment that isn't his own. Frustrated, Molly has Jim put on the moves. As Sherlock pulls back, Jim chases him, curling one hand in the hair at the nape of his neck, bringing him back down. He presses their mouths together again, sucking lightly at Sherlock's bottom lip before biting at it lightly. Sherlock makes a low noise and parts his lips, and Jim seizes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, brushing the tip of Sherlock's tongue with his own, teasingly. Finally, Sherlock angles his head properly and opens his mouth, sliding his tongue along Jim's, and a thrill runs down Jim's spine. His fingers tighten in his unruly curls, enjoying the feel of Sherlock's oddly shaped, full lips pressed against his own. Sherlock reaches down and pulls Jim's leg up along side his hips, grinding down, and Jim gasps. Sherlock's hand slips up his stomach to his chest where it flattens, his thumb brushing against Jim's nipple through his shirt. Jim makes a pleased sound and reaches down to grab Sherlock's surprisingly full arse, pulling him closer to him and angling his hips so that they slide together, a sharp frisson of pleasure rolling down Jim's spine.
Sherlock slides his hand underneath Jim's shirt, long fingers trailing over the hair leading down from his navel, which makes him pause. Jim reaches for Sherlock's belt, undoing it and pulling the leather through the loops. He pauses with it in his hands, all sorts of interesting ideas racing through his mind (well, mostly Molly's, but surprisingly, part of his own too), but Molly is impatient and so he drops the leather and, without any preamble, undoes Sherlock's trousers, slipping his hand in. Sherlock makes a low noise of surprise and his hips jerk against Jim's fingers, and he begins to rub the thick outline of Sherlock's cock with his palm. Determined to not be left behind, Sherlock reaches down and presses his own hand between Jim's legs, and freezes.
“...this is somewhat unexpected,” he murmurs against Jim's mouth, as he slowly palms his erection.
“Does it bother you?” Jim asks, pulling back and biting at the line of his jaw.
“Bother me, no,” he replies. “I just hadn't factored you having a penis into the equation, Molly.”
“Shh,” Jim whispers, and curls his right hand into his hair again, bringing him back down for another kiss. He rubs harder and Sherlock hisses against his mouth.
“Just--”
Jim tightens his fingers in Sherlock's hair cruelly and tugs his head back, sliding his mouth along the exposed line of his neck. Sherlock grunts and his hips snap forward as wet warmth floods the material underneath Jim's palm. Jim pulls his hand out and reaches down, curling his fingers around Sherlock's wrist and grinding his hips up into his hand. Sherlock rubs his thumb along the hard ridge of Jim's cock and Jim spreads his legs further, arching his back.
“Do you think I'm beautiful, Sherlock?” he gasps.
“Beautiful is an objective viewpoint, Molly. Your lips are rather thin but, on the whole, I would say your face has what could be considered an aesthetically pleasing symmetry,” Sherlock says, and Jim's grip on his wrist tightens as he comes, swearing quietly.
Both men pull apart, straightening their clothing, and without another word, Jim walks straight out of the pathology lab and out of the hospital, hailing down a taxi. Neither men remember anything of the encounter; Sherlock wakes up unexpectedly, slumped over the desk, wondering why his trousers are sticky and the lab is trashed; Jim wakes up on the settee after Seb lets himself in and angrily prods him awake.
In the afterlife, Molly stretches, satisfied.
“Oh Miss Morry,” Shan tuts, wagging her finger. “That vely naughty. You should not do that.”
“Oh, don't ruin the moment,” Molly sighs. “I wish I could have a cigarette.”
For hehangs-
When Seb's phone starts ringing, he's in the middle of an exclusive restaurant with Jane Thierditt, the daughter of a baron. She has perfect breasts which she's subtly pushing together, slim fingers coyly toying with her long, blonde hair. She keeps tossing it back over her shoulders before pulling it back and carding her fingers through it, laughing loudly when Seb talks, biting at her lower lip. Seb feels relaxed as he carefully strokes the back of his fingers up and down the thin stem of his wine glass, a satisfied glimmer of warmth coiling in his stomach with the knowledge that he can easily have her.
He glances at the phone when it first rings; it shows up as Amelia, and Seb apologises before setting it to silent. It keeps ringing, though, vibrating in his pocket. Eventually he excuses himself, and heads into the bathroom to take the call.
“Is this important?” he says, forgoing any polite greeting in his irritation, “I'm halfway through seducing Baron Thierditt's daughter.”
He doesn't expect his sister's reaction to be hysterical. She's sobbing down the phone at him, theatrical, and he holds the phone away from his ear for a moment as she wails.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hisses, bringing the phone back to his ear, “what are you screaming for? Is it your time of the month?”
“It's Jim,” she howls, “he's gone insane. He's gone mad, and he won't talk to me, I don't know what to do. I think he's killed someone.”
It's as though someone's dropped a brick of ice in Seb's stomach, and he immediately straightens up.
“Where are you?”
“He's filthy and he won't say anything, and--”
“Shut up,” Seb barks, “where are you?”
“I'm at Jim’s,” she replies, and Seb hangs up before she starts wailing incomprehensibly again. He makes his apologies to the beautiful Jane, who looks put out and disappointed, but he's anxious enough that can't bring himself to care. There's always next time.
Unfortunately, his plan to enjoy a drunken evening of sex with Jane means that he hasn't brought his car, and so he hails down a Hackney cab and directs it straight to Jim's. Once there, he lets himself in through the outer door with his fob and races up the stairs, neglecting the lift in his impatience. Once at Jim's door, he lets himself in with his own key, only to find Amelia pacing in the corridor. She's worked herself into a frenzy, face wet with tears, hands fluttering around uselessly. Seb strides over to her and grasps her by the shoulders, steadying her.
“Are you hurt?”
“No,” she says, and he pushes her aside and walks into the living room. As he steps into the living room, the first thing he sees is Jim. He's lounging in an arm chair, legs sprawled, tie pulled open and aside, top two buttons undone. A mostly empty bottle of whisky is dangling from his limp fingers, which, Seb notices after a moment, are coated in dirt, his short fingernails encrusted with mud. He rolls his head across the back of the chair as Seb enters the room, and it takes a moment for him to focus on him.
“Oh, Christ,” he mutters, and rolls his head back to stare blankly at the wall.
“He won't talk to me,” Amelia cries, following Seb through from the hallway and clutching at his arm. Seb shrugs her off.
“What the fuck have you done?” he asks Jim, who doesn't reply, but brings the whiskey up and takes a deep swallow.
“James,” he says, threateningly, and Jim balances the bottle between his legs, rolling it between his fingers.
“Blundell,” he says eventually. “He was doing an investigation. My name came up. Things got messy.”
“Messy,” Amelia repeats, voice high and strangled, “what do you mean, messy?”
Seb shushes her with a wave of his hand.
“Messy, as in I put a bullet between his eyes, and dug a fucking hole in the ground, by myself, and put him in it.”
“Jesus.”
“You don't know how to shoot a gun,” Amelia says, stunned. “You're a mathematician! You do people’s accounts!”
“Oh shut the fuck up,” Jim shouts, his weak grasp on his patience slipping.
“Don't talk to my sister like that,” Seb says warningly.
“Jim, what have you even done? I can't believe this,” Amelia screeches, and Jim loses his temper entirely, standing up unsteadily.
“Oh don't act so innocent,” he spits, pointing at her.
“Jim,” Seb barks, but Jim ignores him.
“I know who your father is,” he continues, “I know what he does, and I know what you've done, so don't act like this is some great fucking surprise to you.”
“And you?” Amelia asks, rounding on Seb. “You knew about this?”
He brings his hands up, spreading his fingers in supplication.
“I--” he begins, but Jim interrupts him.
“Of course he knows,” he shouts, gesturing wildly with the bottle, “he fucking works with me, you stupid bitch.”
Amelia crosses the room to Jim and backhands him, hard enough that in his drunken state he stumbles backwards. The crack of her striking him is obscenely loud in the flat, and Jim instinctively steps forward, raising his own hand. Seb starts. Jim quickly schools his temper and drops his hand, instead wheeling around and hurling the mostly empty bottle of whiskey at the wall. It shatters in a burst of glass, and he spins on his heel, getting in Amelia's face.
“Get out,” he bites, and she gathers herself up, flicking her hair over her shoulders and staring him down.
“I hate you,” she hisses coldly, “you will never see me again, James Moriarty.”
She stamps away from him, pushing past Seb and glaring at him coldly as she stalks through the flat, grabbing her coat and bag, throwing her set of keys on the floor before heading out and slamming the door. Seb hesitates, unsure whether to follow her or to stay where he is.
Jim sinks into the chair and scrubs his fingers through his hair, frustrated. He leans on the arm, burying his face in his hand.
“I was going to have a really nice night tonight,” Seb says, the light tone of his voice at odds with the clear signs of fury, evident in the way that he holds himself.
“Don't, Seb,” Jim says, voice muffled by his hand, and for once he sounds off balance. “If you're going to be like this, just fucking go with her. I'm not in the mood. Don't.”
“You're not in the mood,” Seb hisses, but Jim holds up his free hand to stop the diatribe, and it's trembling slightly. Seb sighs.
“Well, this is a fine mess.”
Jim makes a vague, frustrated noise of agreement into his palm. Instead of following his sister and comforting her, Seb instead drops to his knees and begins to pick up the shards of broken glass as Jim sits with his head in his hands, taking careful, measured breaths.
For the_randomist-
It's 6pm, and of all the things Seb could be doing at 6pm, he's at Jim's house about to watch fucking Glee. It's been a long and messy day; they'd caught an informant, and whilst drilling through his kneecaps Seb had caught the popliteal artery which had sprayed blood over the both of them. The informant had promptly, spectacularly vomited over Seb. After it had all been dealt with and they'd returned to Jim's, a brief squabble had ensued over first shower rights. For once, Jim had backed down, as much for his own sake as Seb's- the vomit was beginning to smell particularly pungent.
Now, freshly showered, he's curled up in the corner of Jim's buttery leather sofa, waiting for Jim to stop dicking about in the kitchen. He doesn't have to be here. He should be out training, or getting laid or something. He's interrupted from his disgruntled musing by Jim padding barefoot in from the kitchen, cup of tea in each hand, and a bowl of freshly made popcorn balanced carefully in the raised crook of his elbow. He passes one cup to Seb and settles down with his own disgustingly weak, sugary brew at the other end of the sofa, kicking his bare feet up into Seb's lap.
“Do I look like a footstool?” Seb gripes, and Jim offers him the bowl of hot popcorn to placate him. Half way through the episode, the bowl is empty, and Seb can no longer distract himself from the abomination of a TV show play in front of him. Instead, he curls his buttery fingers around Jim's long, slim foot, thumb rubbing along his high arch. He digs his short thumbnail into the soft underside of his foot, drawing it down towards his toes, and Jim's leg jerks wildly in his grasp. He kicks at him, digging his heel into Seb's thigh before settling down again. Seb, feeling childishly mean spirited, pulls on his toes.
“Stop that,” Jim grouses, not even glancing away from the TV, and Seb sighs, knowing when he's beat, and resumes rubbing absently instead.
On screen, two young men are dancing around a sofa and singing to each other.
“This is so gay,” Seb complains.
“Says the man giving me a foot rub,” Jim shoots back.
Seb sighs loudly.
“Who's the black one?” he asks.
“Mercedes.”
“The gay one?”
“Sam. Not gay.”
“Yeah,right. Oh, hello. Who're the cheerleaders?”
“Santana and Brittany.”
“I'd like to roam those hillsides, if you know what I mean.”
“They fuck.”
“What?”
“They mentioned sweet lady kisses.”
“Sweet lady kis--”
“I'm quoting, Seb. Also, scissoring.”
Seb raises his eyebrows.
“Huh. Maybe I should watch this more often.”
They watch the rest of the episode in silence, and Jim hides his smirk in his now-cold cup of tea.
For shellfish-dimes-
It isn't the first time that Jim's been shot at, not at all, but it's the first time it very almost hits him. He's meeting with a contact, a drug dealer from Hackney who says he wants in on Jim's rapidly expanding empire. Jim's not a fan of drug dealers; he likes his mind crystal sharp, hates the way that some drugs muddle that, yet others offer a startling clarity. He understands addiction, and is unwilling to fall prey to it. Nonetheless, he likes to think of himself as a fair man. He is willing to give the dealer some of his valuable time, and so, with Seb, he arranges a meeting in an abandoned industrial estate; it's not glamorous, but it is private. Unfortunately, as his notoriety grows, so does the amount of people who are unhappy with having their toes trodden on. The dealer is apparently one of them.
The bullet comes from out of the blue and shaves the side of Jim's head, leaving a burning line in its wake. The shooter is close, and the bang echoes loudly around the empty building. At his side, Sebastian grasps him by the lapels of his jacket and propels him backwards across the room and around the corner of the door way, slamming him up against the wall, his left hand braced beside Jim's head. He then draws out his Luger from within his jacket and leans around the corner without hesitation, his right arm crossed over his left, taking aim at the catwalk above them which is shrouded in darkness. His sense of accuracy is finely tuned, and with only the memory of the sound of the shot to guide him, he fires. There's a cry, and a man tumbles off of the catwalk, arms and legs wheeling before he hits the floor with a sickening crunch. Seb then swings his gun to aim at the drug dealer, who puts his hands up in supplication. Seb fires, and he crumples to the ground, bleeding from between his eyes.
All of this happens in a matter of seconds. Seb immediately turns his attention to Jim; their chests are pressed together, and he touches the gash on Jim's head with his fingers, the hand still holding the gun pressed to his shoulder. Jim lets out a shaky breath, but he's grinning wildly, chin tilted upwards, his pupils blown. It makes something in Seb's stomach twist. Jim's blood trickles over his fingertips, running down his neck and staining the stark white of his shirt crimson. It's bright against his pale skin and Seb wets his lips before glancing at Jim's face again. Jim's eyes are on Seb's mouth and Seb's fingers curl against his neck. Jim's eyes flick up to meet his.
“That won't wash out,” Seb says, and his voice is unexpectedly low and gravelly. Jim's eyes widen fractionally before his eyebrows quickly lower, suddenly consternated. Seb leans in slightly at the same time that Jim turns his head away. Seb is quick enough to pull back, suddenly feeling flushed. Jim brings his hands up to squeeze Seb's biceps, and then pushes him away.
“It doesn't matter,” he says, and Seb thinks he if he were describing anybody else, he would say he sounded flustered. “At least it wasn't Westwood.”
Seb laughs, a little too loudly, and follows Jim out.
For aimeebeff-
Though Jim does not recognise the seal on the letter when he first receives it, he slips the flat edge of the letter opener beneath the lip of the envelope and opens it regardless. The sudden loud burst of music startles him so much that he loses his grip on the paper, and the letter flutters to the floor.
Bad Horse
Bad Horse
Bad Horse
Bad Horse!
With sterling reputation,
A pure breed through and through,
He has an invitation,
Which is just for you!
A rather special meeting,
A treat we're sure you'll see,
Refuse and you'll be in a bind,
(Just something you should keep in mind).
Bad Horse
Bad Horse
Bad Horse
He’s Bad!
The Evil League of Evil,
Quite like what we have seen,
To join both of our forces,
We would be quite keen.
So make the Bad Horse gleeful
We'll all make quite the team...
Get saddled up
There’s no recourse
It’s Hi-Ho Silver
Signed Bad Horse!
Despite usually being quite a collected person, Jim feels a giddy rush of glee bubbling up in his chest as he claps his hands over his mouth in delighted surprised. Bad Horse was only his bloody idol. He admired his style; when Freddie Wilkes (a low level thief) had crossed Bad Horse, he'd been found hours later with a horseshoe through his forehead. His retribution was swift, relevant to his species, and served as a warning to other petty crooks. Jim aspired to be just like him. After picking the letter back up with trembling fingers, he read the small paragraph at the bottom that had not been put into verse; it instructed him to meet Bad Horse at 5pm the next day in Regent's park.
And so, the next day, Jim headed to Regent's park. Full of nerves, he makes sure that he is fifteen minutes early. He sits on a bench near the Baker Street entrance, Guardian unfolded on his lap, hyper-aware of everyone in the park. At precisely 5pm, he hears the soft click of horse's hooves on the path. He glances up to see Bad Horse walking towards him, one of his agents casually sitting astride him. Bad Horse stops next to the bench and huffs, lowering his head and nosing at the grass. The agent clears his throat casually, before saying the code phrase-
“Kind treatment makes good horses, Jim.”
“Bad treatment ruins them,” Jim replies, remembering the reply he had been instructed to say. The agent nods, satisfied.
“James Moriarty,” he says, and Jim doesn't know whether to keep looking at the agent or to look at Bad Horse instead. Bad Horse seems intent on worrying at a dandelion, however, and so Jim keeps his eyes on the man.
“It's a pleasure,” he says. “I'm quite a fan of your work.”
Bad Horse whinnies.
“Bad Horse is delighted to hear this,” the agent says. “We've been watching you for quite some time. Bad Horse feels you would make a valuable asset to The Evil League of Evil. With Bad Horse as your mentor, we are certain you will go far.”
Jim's heart sinks.
“Ah,” he says. “I'm afraid, in that case, I shall have to decline. I work alone, you see, and working under someone else would just not suit my style. I am rubber, you are glue. Er-- sorry, Bad Horse. No offense meant.”
Bad Horse scrapes his front hoof against the floor.
“Bad Horse says he suspected as much. It is a shame, Mr Moriarty, but we shall part on amicable terms. Perhaps, in the future, we may work together.”
“It would be my honour, sir”, Jim replies.
“Extend your hand,” the agent says, and Jim complies. Bad Horse raises his large head and snuffles at Jim's palm with his velvety nose, the equivalent of an equine handshake. Jim pats him on the cheek gingerly.
“Bad Horse, away!” the agent cries, and Bad Horse rears onto his hind legs and lets out a mighty whinny, front legs pedalling before he leaps away. Jim watches him go, a little misty eyed.
“I hated saying goodbye to that plucky little pony,” he says, before rising from the bench and watching Bad Horse gallop away into the sunset.
For messageredacted-
Jim's never really been a firm believer in the old adage 'if you want a job done well, then do it yourself'- he has a team of people to do his jobs for them, and they do them very well indeed. However, when he gets a call about a dead body that may be of interest to him, Seb is in Berlin and his other, more competent men are wrapped up in a blackmail case involving a member of the royal family, he has no choice but to get involved himself. He hates dead bodies, he really does- they smell, and they're messy, and Jim is not a fan of either of these things. When the nondescript white van rolls into the empty warehouse, he's not expecting Mary Morstan to be sitting in the passenger seat. He strolls over to the van and pulls open the passenger door, lounging against it, arms crossed.
“Well, well, well,” he says, amused, “Mary Morstan. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“She'd text your phone,” the driver says before Mary can speak, shaking his head as he climbs out of the van. “Insisted on coming along. I tried to ring you, but--”
“Ah, yes,” Jim interrupts, frowning. He takes his Blackberry out of his pocket and tuts at it before putting it back.
“I cycle my SIM cards to make it harder to pin me down,” he explains to Mary. “You must have text a different phone. This is a Three week, so naturally, I have no signal...”
He trails off and studies Mary through narrowed eyes, curious.
“I found Pike,” she says.
“Pike's none of my concern,” Jim replies, shrugging.
“Dead.”
Jim raises his eyebrows.
The back doors of the van creak open and there's a muffled thud as Jim's man pulls an occupied body bag out and drags it across the floor. Jim pushes himself off of the door and walks over to the body bag, crouching down and unzipping it. Rising back up, he nods once at the man.
“Put him on the table.”
He turns and walks back to Mary who has climbed out of the van and is standing with her arms folded, looking defiant and not at all nervous.
“You've spoiled me Mary, truly,” he says, circling her, hand carefully trailing across her shoulder blades, designed to make her ill at ease. “It's not often a beautiful woman brings me a corpse.”
“Don't get too excited,” she replies, unconcerned. “I want in.”
“In on what, darling?” he asks, tone carefully innocent.
“I know you're planning on selling his organs. I want in.”
“What would give you such an idea?”
“I saw the ice boxes in the back. That, and your driver said.”
Jim sighs.
“This is a messy business, sweetheart. As a piano teacher, I don't think black market deals are your forte.”
“You don't know anything about me.”
“That was a piano joke.”
“I know; it was terrible.”
Jim watches Mary and she tilts her chin up, raising an eyebrow.
“Anyway,” she adds, “Pike still owed me that £10.”
After a moment, Jim's mouth quirks in a smile.
“Smith,” he barks, “bring the lady a seat.”
Turning his back on Mary, Jim crosses the warehouse and walks over to the free standing autopsy table. Shrugging off his jacket, he folds it and hangs it over a railing beneath the table. He unloops the tie from around his neck and places it over the jacket, undoing the top button of his shirt before doing the same to his cuffs, rolling his shirt sleeves back over his forearms.
“Are you sure you want in on this?” he asks Mary snidely as he pulls on a long pair of blue latex gloves. “It might be too much for your delicate woman's constitution.”
“You seem to manage,” she replies lightly, and Jim lets out a huff of unwilling amusement. Bending down, he picks up a brown leather duffel, which he sets on Pike's clothed body. He pulls out a medical face mask, a rolled up fabric case, and plastic surgical glasses, which he puts on.
“Hot,” Mary deadpans, and Jim quirks a suggestive eyebrow at her before putting on the face mask.
“Try to contain yourself,” he says dryly, before rolling out the fabric knife case and pulling a thin, sharp scalpel, placing it to the side before pulling out a pair of scissors. Smith appears with a wooden stool and drags it over to Mary, letting it go and walking away again at a nod from Jim. The stool rocks slightly before Mary sits on it, legs crossed.
“So, while it certainly makes my life easier, dare I ask why you have a dead gossip monger on your hands?” he asks, placing the bag back on the floor and beginning to chop through Pike's clothing with the scissors.
“Like I said, he owed me a tenner,” Mary replies, eyes on the scissors. “He told me to meet him, and when I got there, there he was. Dead.”
“And you immediately think of me. I'm flattered.”
Mary shrugs her thin shoulders.
“You gave me your number. It seemed logical. It's not like I know anyone else who could get rid of a body.”
Jim considers her for a moment before putting down the scissors and picking up the scalpel instead. He uncharacteristically pauses for a moment, glancing up at Mary with the scalpel held above Pike's collarbone.
“This isn't going to be pretty, you know.”
She holds his gaze steadily, unintimidated.
Jim presses the blade down and draws a line to the breastbone, doing the same on the other side before slicing down to his groin. The skin parts easily, yellow fat and tender, red flesh on display. Glistening wet coils of intestine bloom out from Pike's stomach, a foul, raw meat smell wafting from them. Jim tugs at the split edges of the flesh with his right fingers, slicing away the connecting tissue with the scalpel blade, peeling the skin back and away from the bones. He pauses and glances over the plastic glasses at Mary. He raises his eyebrows, playfully sinister, before leaning down and picking up a blue handled pair of bolt cutters. He wedges them under the bottom of the ribs, the muscles in his forearms jumping as he applies his weight to the handles, cutting cleanly through the bones with a biting, sickening crunch.
“Think you've made a mistake yet, darling?” he asks Mary, his voice muffled by the surgical mask.
“Not at all,” Mary replies lightly, casually linking he fingers together and hooking them over her knee. She looks more curious than disgusted, which Jim finds interesting. “In fact, I was just thinking how I could go for a bacon sandwich right now.”
Jim pulls a face at her which is largely hidden by the mask, but she catches the disgusted wrinkle of his nose and the lowering of his thin eyebrows. She smiles winningly at him.
Jim returns to his task, grunting slightly with exertion as he yanks on the broken ribs, careful to not cut his fingers on the sharp bone. With a final effort there's a loud crack, and the ribs and connected sternum break away. He drops it on the floor with a hollow clatter before rolling his shoulders, rubbing the back of his wrist on his forehead. He leaves a smudge of blood, and Mary smirks. Now that Pike's chest is open, Jim sinks his hands into the cavity up to the wrists, moving the organs around and cutting them out with deft, somewhat alarming precision. He carefully places Pike's liver, heart and two kidneys on the small tray at the top of the table and taps his chin thoughtfully with the handle of the scalpel.
“I knew he was on drugs. Those are not healthy kidneys.”
He purses his lips as he does some quick calculations in his mind, before pointing at Mary with the blade.
“£2500 for the kidneys, both, £1000 for the liver, £5000 for the heart. You get a twenty five percent cut.”
Mary scoffs.
“Fifty.”
“My offer is very generous. Thirty.”
“Fifty.”
“Forty.”
“Fifty. This wouldn't even be happening if I hadn't have found Pike.”
“No.”
Mary spreads her hands.
“Fine. I'll just take those with me and leave, then, shall I? Go tell Scotland Yard what I've seen.”
“Maybe I'll just kill you and harvest your organs instead.”
“You wouldn't kill me.”
“And what makes you think that?”
Mary smirks.
“You like me.”
Very interesting.
“You certainly seem very sure of yourself.”
“Fifty.”
Jim narrows his eyes at her, but Mary refuses to back down. Eventually, Jim sighs.
“You drive a hard bargain Miss Morstan,” he says, peeling off the blue gloves and dropping them carelessly in Pike's open carcass. “It looks like you'll finally get your loan back.”
“You'll forgive me if I don't shake on it.”
“Smith,” Jim barks again, and as if he has been summoned, the man reappears. “Take Miss Morstan home, and then deal with this.”
Smith nods, and heads towards the van.
“Well, Mary,” Jim says, “I shall be in regarding your cut of the proceeds. If you should ever mysteriously come across another corpse, you are welcome to call me.”
“Hopefully that won't happen,” Mary replies dryly, and turns to walk to the van.
“Perhaps you'll ring me anyway,” he calls lightly.
“Maybe,” she tosses over her shoulder airily as she saunters away. Jim grins.