FIC: More Things in Heaven and Earth 5/9
Fic: More Things in Heaven and Earth
Previously
Chapters 1 and 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter Five
Ghost of a Chance
There was an empty mug and the lingering scent of coffee in the room. The kettle had been moved onto the left ring of the gas stove. Not a hallucination, this time.
Moriarty came up from the chair to meet Sherlock, extended a hand, sardonically amused. "Sherlock Holmes. Fancy meeting you here." The fingers wrapped tight around Sherlock's felt warm, pliant, real. Shaking Jim Moriarty's hand in hell. Data.
"You're not a ghost." Sherlock let go.
Jim laughed, sharp-edged. "We're all ghosts, Sherlock. You must know that by now. But I'm your sort of ghost, not these sentimental keepsakes. Did you make them yourself?"
"No." Sherlock stepped back, sat down carefully on the sofa. His rifle was lying on the table, loaded. "Do you know what they are?"
"Exactly what they seem. Boring. Odd, though, they didn't give me any ghosts. But then I didn't make the mistakes you made."
"Who are 'they'?" Sherlock's mind was racing as it hadn't done for months. This changed everything.
"Oh, Sherlock, love! What have you been doing since you arrived? Surely not just playing with pets and LSD? Did you meet the angel?"
"Yes."
"Did you kill it?"
"No." Sherlock frowned. "No, I didn't kill it. Was I meant to?"
Jim shrugged. "Probably not, strictly speaking. But it was fun. Feathers everywhere." He curled back into John's chair, rubbing himself like a cat against the cushions, and Sherlock felt a twinge of anger. He'd left that empty for nineteen months, and not so Jim Moriarty could get his scent all over it.
"I'm sure it was." Sherlock needed to get back some control over this conversation. He considered Moriarty carefully, assessing the tan, the sun bleached hairs on his arms, the clothing, the marks of wear and tear, the wristwatch. The feel of the callused hand in his. Jim Moriarty. The worst kind of trouble, the one man who'd beaten him, John's murderer, quite possibly, and Sherlock had never been so glad to see anyone in his life.
"West coast of the USA, I see. How long did it take to get here?"
"Ten days by land, three weeks by sea. I found a rather better boat this time. Well stocked bar and a decent stereo system. Mostly automated, of course, but it was still more virtuous fresh air and exercise than I ever want to experience again. Some bits of Hell are more hellish than others."
"This time? You sailed solo across the Atlantic twice?"
Jim stretched out his legs, sighing. "No internet, no courier service, not even a minion with a fax machine. There is not one single living human being in this universe except us, and our existential status is somewhat dubious. If I wanted information I had to go and get it. And I wanted this information badly enough."
Sherlock had never had so many questions but he intended to be cautious about asking them. Moriarty looked like a man with answers but the detective had very little to bargain with.
Jim was watching him, eyes cool and amused. "Did you jump?"
"Yes." It seemed a lifetime ago.
"I knew that you'd do it. I won."
"You died before I did. Just." Sherlock paused. "Did we die?"
Moriarty turned his face away, closed his eyes. "They really were inspired, Sherlock, Hell's designers. They gave me one person in the entire universe, just one, to play with. I cross continents and oceans for you, and what do I find? A stupid man who stinks of goat and would rather put chemicals in his brain than use it!" His voice had become louder, less stable. Genuinely angry.
"This is our own private Hell, yours and mine, and you're frittering it away. I'll leave you to play with your pets and your drugs. California has a much nicer climate."
"You're bluffing." Sherlock reached out a hand to seize Moriarty's sleeve at the door. "You need me. You've only got half the answers. You know how this happened, what it is, but none of your research has found you a way out of here. That's why you've come to me. You need my help."
Jim narrowed his eyes, calmer, contemplating Sherlock. "I need someone intelligent. I've already given you far more clues than I had. Show me there's something left in the pathetic wreckage of that brain of yours and I'll think about working with you."
"Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow." Jim pulled away and down the stairs. Sherlock let him go.
That evening Sherlock took up his long unused violin, tuned it carefully, his mind circling around everything Moriarty had said. By the time the other man walked quietly into the room and curled up, feet under him, Sherlock was playing Vivaldi, complex and beautiful. He acknowledged Jim with a look, kept on playing.
There was a long pause when the piece ended. Sherlock had started to put the instrument away by the time that Moriarty spoke.
"I don't know everything."
"No?" Sherlock laid the bow in its worn case.
"No. What I don't know, and it really does bug me a little, is why my hell should have you in it."
Sherlock shrugged. "That's the role of a nemesis, I imagine."
"Too trite. I have given this a great deal of consideration and I cannot imagine why I've been allowed a toy to play with, when I have undoubtedly been very bad indeed.
"Maybe I'm expected to make you unhappy." Sherlock was picking his way carefully through this conversation, trying not to let that show.
"Oh, you've never made me unhappy, Sherlock. Disappointed, frequently, but then I'm used to disappointment. You did it less than the others."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
That pleased Jim, for reasons that Sherlock couldn't immediately fathom. Moriarty uncurled himself, stood up.
"You are the only person in my world. Don't think that doesn't come with obligations attached." His smile was confident. "I'll take John's room. He won't be needing it this side of eternity, after all. Good night."
Sherlock stood in the chaotic living room looking at the empty chair for some time, a flicker of hope getting steadily stronger. Moriarty was here because he thought there was a chance to change the hell that they shared. And Jim wasn't given to wishful thinking. Even if escape was only into the oblivion that real death would bring, it had to be better than this.
He picked up the violin again. First he had to deduce what Jim already knew. The nature of Hell.
Chapter 6 Then What Remains
Previously
Chapters 1 and 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter Five
Ghost of a Chance
There was an empty mug and the lingering scent of coffee in the room. The kettle had been moved onto the left ring of the gas stove. Not a hallucination, this time.
Moriarty came up from the chair to meet Sherlock, extended a hand, sardonically amused. "Sherlock Holmes. Fancy meeting you here." The fingers wrapped tight around Sherlock's felt warm, pliant, real. Shaking Jim Moriarty's hand in hell. Data.
"You're not a ghost." Sherlock let go.
Jim laughed, sharp-edged. "We're all ghosts, Sherlock. You must know that by now. But I'm your sort of ghost, not these sentimental keepsakes. Did you make them yourself?"
"No." Sherlock stepped back, sat down carefully on the sofa. His rifle was lying on the table, loaded. "Do you know what they are?"
"Exactly what they seem. Boring. Odd, though, they didn't give me any ghosts. But then I didn't make the mistakes you made."
"Who are 'they'?" Sherlock's mind was racing as it hadn't done for months. This changed everything.
"Oh, Sherlock, love! What have you been doing since you arrived? Surely not just playing with pets and LSD? Did you meet the angel?"
"Yes."
"Did you kill it?"
"No." Sherlock frowned. "No, I didn't kill it. Was I meant to?"
Jim shrugged. "Probably not, strictly speaking. But it was fun. Feathers everywhere." He curled back into John's chair, rubbing himself like a cat against the cushions, and Sherlock felt a twinge of anger. He'd left that empty for nineteen months, and not so Jim Moriarty could get his scent all over it.
"I'm sure it was." Sherlock needed to get back some control over this conversation. He considered Moriarty carefully, assessing the tan, the sun bleached hairs on his arms, the clothing, the marks of wear and tear, the wristwatch. The feel of the callused hand in his. Jim Moriarty. The worst kind of trouble, the one man who'd beaten him, John's murderer, quite possibly, and Sherlock had never been so glad to see anyone in his life.
"West coast of the USA, I see. How long did it take to get here?"
"Ten days by land, three weeks by sea. I found a rather better boat this time. Well stocked bar and a decent stereo system. Mostly automated, of course, but it was still more virtuous fresh air and exercise than I ever want to experience again. Some bits of Hell are more hellish than others."
"This time? You sailed solo across the Atlantic twice?"
Jim stretched out his legs, sighing. "No internet, no courier service, not even a minion with a fax machine. There is not one single living human being in this universe except us, and our existential status is somewhat dubious. If I wanted information I had to go and get it. And I wanted this information badly enough."
Sherlock had never had so many questions but he intended to be cautious about asking them. Moriarty looked like a man with answers but the detective had very little to bargain with.
Jim was watching him, eyes cool and amused. "Did you jump?"
"Yes." It seemed a lifetime ago.
"I knew that you'd do it. I won."
"You died before I did. Just." Sherlock paused. "Did we die?"
Moriarty turned his face away, closed his eyes. "They really were inspired, Sherlock, Hell's designers. They gave me one person in the entire universe, just one, to play with. I cross continents and oceans for you, and what do I find? A stupid man who stinks of goat and would rather put chemicals in his brain than use it!" His voice had become louder, less stable. Genuinely angry.
"This is our own private Hell, yours and mine, and you're frittering it away. I'll leave you to play with your pets and your drugs. California has a much nicer climate."
"You're bluffing." Sherlock reached out a hand to seize Moriarty's sleeve at the door. "You need me. You've only got half the answers. You know how this happened, what it is, but none of your research has found you a way out of here. That's why you've come to me. You need my help."
Jim narrowed his eyes, calmer, contemplating Sherlock. "I need someone intelligent. I've already given you far more clues than I had. Show me there's something left in the pathetic wreckage of that brain of yours and I'll think about working with you."
"Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow." Jim pulled away and down the stairs. Sherlock let him go.
That evening Sherlock took up his long unused violin, tuned it carefully, his mind circling around everything Moriarty had said. By the time the other man walked quietly into the room and curled up, feet under him, Sherlock was playing Vivaldi, complex and beautiful. He acknowledged Jim with a look, kept on playing.
There was a long pause when the piece ended. Sherlock had started to put the instrument away by the time that Moriarty spoke.
"I don't know everything."
"No?" Sherlock laid the bow in its worn case.
"No. What I don't know, and it really does bug me a little, is why my hell should have you in it."
Sherlock shrugged. "That's the role of a nemesis, I imagine."
"Too trite. I have given this a great deal of consideration and I cannot imagine why I've been allowed a toy to play with, when I have undoubtedly been very bad indeed.
"Maybe I'm expected to make you unhappy." Sherlock was picking his way carefully through this conversation, trying not to let that show.
"Oh, you've never made me unhappy, Sherlock. Disappointed, frequently, but then I'm used to disappointment. You did it less than the others."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
That pleased Jim, for reasons that Sherlock couldn't immediately fathom. Moriarty uncurled himself, stood up.
"You are the only person in my world. Don't think that doesn't come with obligations attached." His smile was confident. "I'll take John's room. He won't be needing it this side of eternity, after all. Good night."
Sherlock stood in the chaotic living room looking at the empty chair for some time, a flicker of hope getting steadily stronger. Moriarty was here because he thought there was a chance to change the hell that they shared. And Jim wasn't given to wishful thinking. Even if escape was only into the oblivion that real death would bring, it had to be better than this.
He picked up the violin again. First he had to deduce what Jim already knew. The nature of Hell.
Chapter 6 Then What Remains