Who: Jim Moriarty and Emma Swan What: The Consultant Criminal Arrives Where: A Lawrence Park When: Early on the 8th Rating: TBD (Moriarty so there's violent imagry) Status: In Progress
So it hadn't worked for her, the one that called herself 'The Woman'. Poor Irene had let the Virgin get to her and now she'd find herself unfortunate enough to fall into some trouble in the middle east. Tragic of course, but he really couldn't do with having a loose end that close to Sherlock. It was a pity, she'd had some promise but he was never too surprised when people turned out disappointing. He'd forgone the shoe threat in favour of just letting her run herself into trouble and making sure his people talked to people who would do the job quick and cleanly. Sherlock would thank him one day, if he didn't kill him first. He'd probably kill him first, seemed to be the way things were going.
Jim lay back on the bed, still dressed in one of the Westwood suits he so loved, sans jacket of course. Contrary to popular belief, monsters did need to sleep. And he always slept well, none of the foolish tossing and turning guilt brought. He slept when he needed to and it had been a long morning and would only get longer, He had a meeting in three hours so there was time to rest. Productive though, the Iceman had sulked more than a little when the whole Bond Air thing had fallen apart. And money had changed hands and people were happy. Score one more for the Consultant Criminal. Oh he was still out there. Sherlock Holmes, he'd escaped by lucky timing. The fact he was still in the world though, it wouldn't do at all. It was with thoughts and methods for killing the great detective on his mind that Jim finally drifted off, he fully expected to be waking up with those same thoughts on his mind. Or at least to the sound of his phone.
He hadn't expected exposure to do it. He was cold and as he opened his eyes it was dark.
Had someone actually managed to...
No that would be ridiculous.
But then where was he? Certainly not London. In fact nowhere familiar at all. For a moment Jim Moriarty was without a plan, and frankly he'd never been more bothered by anything in his life. Reaching for his phone he quickly decided to put that to rights, calling one of his contacts and vowing to barbecue alive whoever had done this to him and make their accomplices watch. And then make them eat them.
When the first ten hadn't answered, the worry properly set in. Something was very wrong here