sh (humanerror) wrote in onewaythreads, @ 2017-06-25 11:02:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, jim moriarty, sherlock holmes |
Who: Jim Moriarty & Sherlock Holmes.
What: Rivals reunite. Hopefully, no one dies in the process. (Right before this.)
When: June 19th, early morning.
Where: Science labs at the Abacus Institute, Ravenmoore.
Warnings: General creepiness.
Status: Complete.
Packing and moving boxes, rearranging furniture, and cleaning out spare rooms had entirely taken up all of Sherlock's attention that past week. He felt sore in places he hadn't in a long time, but God was it satisfying. The two-bedroom flat he'd occupied for six months finally felt like a home, and every time he caught his flatmate smiling, he knew why. It was a little bizarre that they'd fallen into their usual routine so quickly — they anticipated inviting clients into their sitting room as soon as Monday afternoon — but Sherlock wasn't about to question it. Not now that his center of gravity had been restored. That was what life had been away from John: like missing a step on the stairs, that unpleasant swooping in your stomach when the ground disappears beneath your feet.
Maybe that was why he didn't anticipate a visit from someone he hadn't spoken to since that windy day on a hospital rooftop.
Sherlock was at the Institute labs uncharacteristically early today, but the advantage of an ungodly hour meant he could avoid most of the student body. Today, thankfully enough, not even the high achievers were in yet, so he could work in peace. It was mostly just observing the effects of an experiment that he'd left over the weekend, and he recorded the results on his phone while sipping poorly made coffee.
It was never too early when it came to James Moriarty. If he was up early, it was for a reason. If he was out late, it was for a reason. No move went unplanned, which could have been classified as a weakness, but he thought of it as his greatest strength. Spontaneous simply wasn’t his style and a visit to the Institute was a part of his itinerary that morning. He had driven by many times before, but he never entered. He kept his distance from his dear old friend since he arrived. After all, one simply does not rush into the trouble they left behind so easily, especially when they are trying to push forward a mask of good behavior.
That was getting old as well. Making the world think he turned a new leaf for the sake of a new life. Some people might have believed him, but he knew his mask was invisible when it came to the one inside that lab. It was fairly quiet on his way down the hall, but he heard a familiar voice as he drew near to the lab door. His footsteps were silent and his breathing was low. He crept as sneaky as a feline, slipping inside and leaning against a shelf by the wall.
“Here I thought we’d go out for tea, but you’ve beaten me to the idea of a hot beverage,” he sighed, keeping a straight face while idly running his fingers down the corner of the shelf. He finally looked straight at Sherlock and, seeing him there, a smug grin tugged the corners of his lips.
A shock of ice cold terror raced up Sherlock's spine when he heard that lilting voice again. It had been a long, long time since he'd seen the man, but that didn't mean the Moriarty trapped in his mind was ever gone. He lurked there every day, waiting for even the slightest hint of weakness like a wolf scenting blood. That Moriarty was here now — in the flesh — felt like some bizarre play being performed, an out-of-body experience that couldn't possibly be happening to him. But then the man glanced at Sherlock, and all his fears were made real: Moriarty had grown tired of playing the reformed citizen. This wasn't make-believe anymore.
"If you really wanted tea, you'd have dropped by my flat," Sherlock countered, finally raising his own gaze. He'd taken his time before doing it, noting one last chemical equation before setting his phone aside. Despite the initial flash of fear, he felt surprisingly calm — much like the moment right before a car crash, the heart rate dropping to significantly mitigate any anticipated damage.
Why now? would be a stupid question to ask. There were only two feasible options, and he liked neither. So he tracked Moriarty's path through slightly narrowed eyes. "How's the desk job?" Sherlock didn't smile, exactly, but his tone suggested the concept amused him.
He wiped the smirk from his lips and continued to make himself welcome to the lab. Trailing a few steps further into the room, he found a desk and sat on top of it. Legs dangled and the heels of his shoes gently tapped against the front of the desk. A few taps and then it faded to silence, his feet remaining still, but his stare moving all around the room. His gaze settled on the window and he stared for another moment longer, glancing at Sherlock’s reflection briefly, and then turned back to his company with a pout.
“It isn’t Baker Street, is it?” Then he let out a sigh, as if such a thought broke his heart. It didn’t, though. “It holds that familiar aroma of mystery, though, doesn’t it? Custodial scents of diluted bleach and pine….”
He trailed off in his words and stared ahead for a few moments, allowing the silence to linger. “I heard you were here and I could very well have joined you for tea, but I thought this would be more romantic... After all, we first met in a lab. I’m sure you remember.”
Sherlock used the moment of silence to sweep his gaze over the man, attempting to quickly determine whether Moriarty was armed or not. He highly doubted it — not his style — but there was still the small possibility that he'd cut right to the chase and finish what he'd started. It was now clear that Moriarty had indeed faked his death, though that was something Sherlock hadn't had enough time to confirm on the roof. How? He thought, but kept his facial expression carefully neutral. There would be time enough for investigating that particular mystery later. That is, assuming he left the lab alive.
"I've been here for months," Sherlock replied, resisting the urge to squirm when Moriarty made himself at home. This was his space. "But then, you already knew that. I assumed you had no reason to see me anymore." It was half-true: when he'd received no word from the man, not even a threatening anonymous message, Sherlock waited for Moriarty to inevitably focus his attention on some other genius. Perhaps he hadn't found anyone interesting enough. Perhaps he hadn't been looking in the first place.
“It took me that long to think of what I’d say to you when I saw you,” he continued with a smirk. “A simple ‘hello there’ wouldn’t do the trick. Too dull, you know? It had been so long and something so boring would have put you to sleep. I wouldn’t want that…” He slipped off the table and trailed across the room, glancing over his shoulder as if to curiously note whatever reactions he received.
He observed the shelves he passed, finger trailing along some of the books they held, until settling not far from Sherlock. He leaned against another shelf, glancing at the books and materials that were set upon them. “Or perhaps I simply adore the idea of silence. Gives a man time to consider all that he has accomplished in his life, or what he has yet to accomplish. Anyway! I’m babbling, how have you been? How is your puppy doing? I heard he achieved a game of fetch and found his way home - that’s nice. It’s lovely you both are finally here together.”
Sherlock tensed slightly when Moriarty proceeded to make his way closer, invading his space, touching his things. It was invasive in the extreme, and he was barely able to contain a shudder of revulsion. But he couldn't allow the man to sense even a shred of weakness. This was clearly a test, and he intended to pass. That is, until Moriarty mentioned a dog — and all the color drained from his face. I'm going to be sick, he thought, forcing himself to take a careful, measured breath inward. Moriarty was winning. He wouldn't allow it.
"I'm more interested in you, actually," Sherlock said with false cheer, shifting slightly so that he could lean against the lab table. This angle gave him a far better view of the other man. "How did you manage to cheat death? You've already worked out how I did it, I presume — but you. It was a work of art, truly. So inspired. False gun? Aimed for the cheek? Come now, Jim. Give us a hint."
His secret was nothing more than a moment of vulnerability and a promise that made his art of mischief a little sticky. That was something he could not fork over in a conversation, since it would defeat the purpose of that smug grin slapped across his face. He listened, never stripping himself of the conceited glow of his face, and noted Sherlock’s expression intently. “I was at the end of my rope and wanted a life as a newly bred member of society and there was only one road to get me there,” he folded his hands and his gaze briefly shifted upwards. “I found God.”
Then, head still tilted back, he let out a laugh, short but high-pitched and it echoed across the room. “Could you imagine?” he turned his attention to Sherlock once more. “Some would say I’m a Judas, but I see myself more like Adam. Which reminds me…”
For just a moment, he disappeared in the doorway again, leaning behind the wall to retrieve something. A round object firmly in his grasp, he took careful footsteps and stopped just where he stood moments earlier. Unfolding his fingers, he revealed a crisp red apple, in perfect condition without so much as one indentation. He moved forward until he stood just next to Sherlock, and he placed the apple in front of the man. He twirled the apple on the table, revealing its pure form. “A housewarming gift for you and your pooch,” he said, eyebrows narrowing just slightly. Then, with great force, he slammed the apple against the table. Doing little damage to the apple, but making a loud noise, he finally withdrew his hand and started for the doorway. “Welcome home, darling.”
Sherlock watched Moriarty's retreating back through narrowed eyes. The man had clearly come to taunt him, but the question remained: why now? The Biblical imagery gave him a clue, as did the gift. Sherlock glanced down at the apple only when the door closed behind the illustrious consulting criminal. It was, unsurprisingly, just a simple piece of fruit — no threats carved into its flesh — but he'd test it for any traces of chemical substances anyway.
He reached for his mobile phone again, surprised to find that his hands were shaking so badly that he could barely type out a message. The traumatic nature of the encounter was finally setting in, and he knew he really needed a moment to gather his wits before plowing ahead. But Sherlock didn't have time. Not when Moriarty had referenced the arrival of his flatmate and friend twice. Twice. The implications of that terrified him, and he needed Mycroft to help sort it all out.