Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Here I am

And you're a Rocket Queen, oh yeah

I might be too much

But honey you're a bit obscene

Rocket Queen - Guns'n'Roses

PART ONE: Fledgling

i. Sabine Moran

It was the country song that she ended up focusing on, not the pain. She hated Americans whole-heartedly in that moment, firm in the knowledge that her father's opinion had always been a correct one. It was perhaps the only time she was willing to admit he was right. Americans were ridiculous, uncouth, rude, disgusting, awful-- and the worst part of Americans existing was that they had invented this bloody awful song for her to have to listen to when she was in such pain.

Sabine Moran had always believed that caring was an advantage. Her emotions gave her strength, and even the pain she felt now was worth it. In secondary school, when she was a prim and proper public school girl with shiny hair and teeth, her emotions had safely led her away from the sillier boys and the lies that had entangled so many of her classmates. She found the boys dull, and had hated being pinned down to just one way of being or acting. She liked playing football and doing her hair. She had enjoyed being brilliant and being pretty.

She felt neither brilliant nor pretty now.

"Can you turn that bloody thing off?" she asked the nurse sharply. The country song jangled jauntily on, making the speakers give a tinny screech.

The woman gave her a flat, unimpressed look. "I don't control the music, Group Captain," she said. She deposited a fresh blanket at Moran's bedside and adjusted the IV that was dripping into her arm. "Any other requests?"

Moran turned away.

Her father, Lord Augustus Moran, had only wanted her to be a trophy, something beautiful that he could trot out in front of his colleagues for them to admire. But Moran hadn't been born to be a trophy. Instead of fainting when faced with fear, like the girls in her class, adrenaline made her mind clearer, focused her. It was why she joined the military at the tender age of eighteen, a fact which her father had been horrified by-- that any child of his should be a member of the Royal Air Force, much less that his daughter should, was a source of great embarrassment for him. For Moran, it was a consolation prize for what she really wanted to do: be a sniper.

It wasn't every little girl's dream to be a sniper. It was hardly anyone's dream, even if they eventually became one. But Moran grew up obsessed with movies about American mobsters, shooting each other point-blank in the local Italian eateries. Whenever the nanny wasn't watching, she snuck down to the cinema to watch classic men in business suits call hits on one another calmly, politely, and with a knife in one hand as they cut their steaks with seething menace. When boys bothered her in school, she kneed them in the groin and held her fingers to their temples: "Bang!" she would whisper, staring into their tear-filled eyes. Eventually, they stopped bothering her altogether.

The psychiatrist that her father had forced on her after her mother had left said that she had psychopathic and narcissistic tendencies. Her father had fired him immediately.

It was probably why she hated doctors even now. Moran watched the doctors pass in the hallway of the medical center, trying to distract herself from the music on the radio. Even the doctors here were nut brown with their tans, their faces weathered by the heat and glare of the Iraqi sun.

"Is someone ever going to update me on my condition?" she called out, struggling to sit up despite the burn in her chest.

They barely looked at her before moving on.

Of course, even if it wasn't her first choice, she had been somewhat enamoured of the idea of female pilots, of the idea of fighting for Queen and country in the only way she could, even though she was a woman and no one thought that she could have any worthwhile contribution. Yet the fact that she couldn't do the down and dirty work in the trenches, couldn't fight the hard-won fights that would make her name ring through the halls of history-- it burned something deep inside her. She was an excellent marksman-- could shoot anything, from any distance-- she was brilliant, she was beautiful. And the military still kept her out of the action as much as possible. The men called her names because she was pretty, tried to get her to fuck them at every opportunity, and one had once tried to corner in her in the showers. One incident was all it took before they started calling her a bitch. Of course, the man who'd tried to corner her had lost one of his balls, so she hadn't expected anything else.

Perhaps the fact that she was a bitch was why she had gotten shot down and was currently lying, wrecked, in an army hospital in the middle of Iraq. Perhaps that was why she was being forced to suffer the song playing on the radio at her bedside: "I don't know the difference between Iraq and Iran."

She, naturally, knew perfectly well the difference between Iraq and Iran. She had graduated at the top of her class and had a basic grasp of geography, unlike the singer of the song. It was one of the reasons that she found American country music so… insipid, so boring that she was going out of her mind. She would have killed to have a gun at hand to shoot the blasted thing, but no one was willing to give her a gun.

Then again, she had just shot down quite a few things that she had not been, strictly speaking, told to shoot down. Her superiors had given her the orders to stay; instead, she had gone. She had seen the situation and had known that if they hadn't completed orders then, there would be no other chance-- it was then, or never. A man would have been promoted for this transgression. As a woman, she was dishonorably discharged and was going to be sent home. She was not pleased.

"Group Captain Moran." It was one of the doctors, finally, all military fatigues and disapproval. Clearly, what she had done had gotten around. She just stared at him, the twang of a guitar ringing in her ears, and tried to place him. Yuri? Gorshev? Something Slavic. She didn't know him, exactly, but she'd had her hand in for several operations-- a couple of the gambling rings on base, a handful of letters she had helped smuggle past the censors-- and she was sure he had seen him somehow. "Your… incident unfortunately led to your two fellow pilots dying, as I'm sure you're aware. You're lucky to have escaped as unscathed as you did. Your currently have two broken ribs and a fractured pelvis. Your left wrist is sprained, and you have a severe laceration to your chest, which we have mended to the best of our abilities, but it will scar."

"So I suppose that I'll have to avoid low-cut dresses for the time being," Moran quipped.

"That would be your prerogative," Doctor… Nikolay, his name was Nikolay, said. "I am here to tell you that you're currently stable enough to send home."

"And within a month, I'm sure the legal matters will be sorted out and I'll be a citizen again." Moran made a face.

"Did you open your eyes, hope it never happened, close your eyes and not go to sleep?" crooned the radio.

"A man would have been given a commendation," she said. She wasn't bitter at all.

To reward her for no longer being part of the RAF, Lord Moran had given her a posh apartment in Belgravia. It was a beautiful space. The front of the building had a stark white stucco façade, golden-brown staircases, and a balcony. The inside was all white as well. Her spending budget to decorate further was enormous; her father was pleased to sweep the whole "military adventure" under the rug.

Moran hated it. She was pleased to be out of his house and further away from his judgment, but she knew the kind of woman he wanted her to be. A silly girl, who would tumble in and out of Belgravia with arms full of shopping bags, kick off her heels as she entered her posh flat, and change into some slinky black dress to appear on a gentleman's arm as they toured parties all over London. Mia Hemswick from school was just like that. Moran had visited with the girl-- and she was a girl, not a woman-- right after she had come back from Iraq. She had still been bruised and broken, but Mia had given her a ring one afternoon and she had felt obliged to respond. Mia had told her all about the marriage of Elizabeth Barnes-Lovell to Gerald Campbell and what a coup is was for the man to land someone as well-blooded as Elizabeth Barnes-Lovell. Moran had felt her brain cells dying as Mia spoke, because didn't Mia realise that Moran just didn't care?

"Oh, that's really lovely," Moran said, barely listening but still British, thank you very much. "How lovely for them both. Sorry, really, but are you hot as well?"

Mia laughed. "Oh no, I'm really quite fine! You're wearing all those layers, dear."

"Oh, sorry. Really. Must just be me then."

Moran had smiled, but she hadn't taken off her sweater. Her shirt wasn't cut quite right, and without the sweater, Mia would have been able to see the scar on her chest, livid and twisted in the daylight. Sometimes, it felt like that scarlet A that Hawthorne was always whinging on about-- another American, sent to torture Moran with his Puritan ideals. A man might have been given a commendation, and it wasn't fair, but better to be in the RAF than in Belgravia.

"Of course, their new flat is right next to that stuffy Holmes bloke."

"Holmes?" Moran couldn't recall the name from any of her old circles.

"Oh, right, a bit after your time. I suppose you had already left by the time he started popping about." Mia gave a tittering laugh that made Moran cringe inside. "Mycroft Holmes. He's a mystery, that one. Of course, the Holmeses have been around since the 1700s at least, but the family hasn't lived in London in ages. They have the Musgrave House in Sussex, or did until that dreadful fire. Anyway, we all rather assumed they'd lost their money somehow, but apparently not. He dresses quite nicely. He wears a ring, but I've never seen anyone in his house but him."

"Not that you spend all your time looking, I'm sure."

"Of course! He does something in government, always has black cars around. Very mysterious," she repeated.

Moran resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "This has been a lovely visit, Mia," she said instead, leadingly.

Mia patted her on the hand, her long, dark red fingernails clicking against the table. "Oh, no worries, love. I have plenty of time and I wanted to see you-- this wasn't a problem at all!" She hesitated. "A shame, about your hair. So short now." She tutted lightly.

Moran sighed. "Funny thing is about hair, it grows." Also funny how she hadn't told Mia that she thought it would be a 'problem' to spend time with her.

"Oh! Yes!" Mia drew back, startled by the harsh tone. "Really."

"I really must be going."

"So soon!"

It took another twenty minutes for Moran to manage to extricate herself, and then it was back to the flat. She stared inside at the white interior and nearly turned around again. Even a bed-sit would be better than this… Barbie house. It was positively barbaric. It set the women's rights movement back by at least a year, just existing for washed-up rich girls like her throw tea parties in.

She had "Barbie Girl" by Aqua stuck in her head now, which she firmly blamed on her father.

"I am Group Captain Sabine Moran," she said out loud, still standing in the doorway, "and I shan't be defeated by a flat in Belgravia."

She ended up actually using the money her father had set up for decorating. She put in ridiculously plush, multi-colored throw rugs all over the floor, and hung Bohemian tapestries on the walls. She did the bathroom up in mosaic and left her make-up lying on the counters, something she had never been able to do at the military or at home. She left lurid novels in stacks by her bedside and layered them with the latest magazines on guns. She put pictures of Billy Idol, AC/DC, and Queen up on the walls, and ever-so-carelessly painted a pair of red lips on the wall of her bedroom. She went stir-crazy and watched Rocky Horror on repeat for two days straight, scratching at her scar like making it bleed would make it go away.

As soon as her chest healed, she was at the shooting range every day, trading Louboutins for Doc Martens again. She had perfect aim, still, but it was so unbearably dull to shoot at a target that just stood there and didn't move at all. The worst thing was when she had to leave the range and she was still bored. She would walk through all the bad areas in London, tracing the paths that the homeless took, skirting around wild-haired junkies, daring someone to take a shot.

It didn't take long for someone to take a shot. It was late one evening and Moran was getting home from the opera. She had gone with a group of friends-- dreadful people, really-- and though they had all called a cabbie, she had decided to take a walk back. She was in a dress and a pair of heels so high that it had taken her no more than a moment to take them off and carry them in her hand. Her feet would get black from the streets, and she had a fair chance of stepping on glass, but as long as she was careful, she was sure she could make it. Of course, she was a touch drunk, so she was perhaps more self-confident than was wise.

After a few minutes of walking, she had focused so closely on making sure she didn't step on anything that she nearly ran into a man. He cursed loudly, then reached out to steady her. She looked up.

He was angry, clearly, with dark hair and eyes. In heels, she would have been taller than him, but as it was they were of a height. He had a lovely suit-- really, just lovely, all dark lapels and tapered lines, and a tie that had little silver sickles all over it. His cuff links were skulls. She assessed all this in barely a moment, accustomed as she was to having to assess clothing.

Moran didn't believe in love at first sight. She just didn't.

"You should watch where you're going if you don't want to lose your head," the man snapped.

Moran raised an eyebrow. He was Irish, with a sort of bored drawl that made elongated all of his vowels in a way that made his voice seem deadly soft. "Really, now? You think you could find it from down there?"

He glared at her. "What, no 'sorry'? No apologies for nearly killing me?"

She smiled, and simpered, affecting the same tone as Mia and her ilk. "Oh, sorry, dreadfully sorry, sir. You're all right? My Daddy will take care of your suit if you need to send it round for a cleaning. Oh dear. Sorry. Sorry."

He barked a laugh. "Oh, you're actually clever. Good luck." He walked away then, a bit of a swagger in his step. He wasn't wearing socks in his fourteen-hundred pound loafers. She shook her head and continued down the street, only to be met with three toughs.

"Oh, so this is what he meant by 'good luck,' then?" she said as the men approached.

"What is she on about?" the one on her left asked another.

"Who cares?" was his reply. "Why are you out on such a dark night, miss? Should have stayed home."

"Oh please," Moran said, dropping her purse. "I am not a little girl, and you are not a wolf, so let's get on with it."

She laid them out in about five minutes. She was getting rusty. She looked with dismay at the bodies, which were more or less still breathing, but she had hit one of them in the temple with the heel of her shoe and he was fading fast. Maybe she really would have to call Lord Moran to fix it, and he would give her the most demeaning look, as if she only ever lived down to expectations. She crouched next to him, a frown on her face. It was most inconvenient. Also, she might be in shock.

"That was brilliant. Just top notch."

Moran flung her remaining heel at the voice before she even realised who had spoken, and she learned only after her shoe bounced off his forehead that it was the man from earlier.

"Now I really do apologise," she said, rubbing her forehead. Her hair was still too short, but it had grown out and was almost to her shoulders now; she brushed it back from her face and looked at him. He still had a strange, intense look about his face. His eyes were too big for his face, but it didn't make him look innocent. It made him look dangerous.

"Military training, then," he said. He walked closer, holding her shoe like a demented Prince Charming. "They don't let women in close combat, you're definitely not a medic, and I doubt you would stand a secretarial position-- must be the RAF. Hint of Scottish accent, but long ago, almost trained out of you. Moved to London when you were… nine? No, ten. Rich background, I would say, but not new rich. The way you hold your shoulders screams old money, and you live in Belgravia. Nice place, Belgravia. Very… white." He handed her back the shoe, and his hand lingered against hers.

Moran made a face and tried not to be disconcerted. "Like a hospital room, really. You're spot on. Sabine Moran, ex-Group Captain at your service. Now, unless you want to call this in about the thug currently bleeding out, I suggest that we both leave."

"And why wouldn't I call this in? I'm an upstanding citizen, after all. Just look at my suit."

She snorted. Her father would have slapped her for making such an indelicate noise, or more correctly, would have paid a nanny to slap her. "I am looking at your suit. No man wears a suit that expensive unless he's paid in blood at some point. It's polite manners at this point to introduce yourself, you know."

He smiled, all shark teeth and angel eyes. "Jim Moriarty. Hiiii."

ii. Jim Moriarty

He followed her home that night. More correctly, he called up a car, biting an order into his phone before transfixing her with his eyes. She stood in the alley with her bloody shoes in her hands, bare feet, and watched the snap of his eyes and the animated jerk of his chin as the black car rolled up.

"Get in," he said, opening the car door and gesturing her inside.

"You must be kidding." She wanted to cross her arms, but didn't want to get blood from her shoes on her dress. At that thought, she looked down and, realizing that she was covered in a splatter anyway, crossed her arms. "I just escaped three thugs. Do you think I want to enter an enclosed space with another one?"

"Did it seem like I was giving you a choice?" He crooned out the words, leaning closer to her. "One hint," he whispered in her ear, breath kissing her neck, "I waaa-sn't. Now get in, before I leave you in the road with the rest of the trash."

She didn't think he was talking about leaving her to make her own way home. She was fairly certain he meant leave her dead. She huffed at him, irritated and a little afraid, and got in the car.

He smiled brightly at her once they were inside the car and reached into the bar, drawing out two glasses and a bottle of champagne. "Want to celebrate, darling?" he asked. Queen was playing in the speakers, almost too loud for regular conversation.

"Celebrate what?" she asked crossly. She adjusted the fit of her shrug, briefly revealing the scar in all its lurid glory. His eyes were drawn to it instantly, devouring everything she deigned to reveal.

"Why, the beginning of a wonderful partnership." He popped the bottle, and it sounded like a shot fired.

"How could I possibly be of any use to… whatever you are?" She was under no delusions. She had stepped into something more criminal than she was really prepared for, juvenile love of mob movies aside. She had been a good girl all her life; even rebelling by joining the army was good, even disobeying those orders and being discharged was because she thought it was right, not because she wanted to do something bad. Of course, she had just killed a man. She was still waiting to feel guilty, but she had never become guilty for defending herself before and didn't really want to start now. Guilt, her father would say, wasn't something that Morans did. "Why do you think I would want to be of use to whatever you are?"

"Second question fi-rst," Moriarty said, sing-song, as he poured the champagne. "You are terribly bored, aren't you? You walk alleys alone at night. You don't try to run from fights-- you pick them. And you killed a man and you don't even care. Oh girl, way to turn. Me. On." He fanned himself. "First question second, I need interesting people more than I need competent ones. Of course, if you fail to be competent, you will be killed, but being interesting counts for a lot with me."

She took the glass he held out to her and studied him over the rim of it. "You wish to hire me because I have failed to be dull."

 "Hole in one, we HAVE a winner." He smiled again, teeth and flash, and knocked back his champagne like it was a shot of whiskey.

She drank a sip from her own. "All right," she said. "What do I have to lose? After all, I am as bored as you said, and you're the most interesting person I've met, at least since I came back from Iraq, possibly ever. What will I be doing?"

He poured himself more champagne and clinked their glasses with the exuberance of a child. "Cheers, sweetheart. I'm sure I can come up with something for you. You'll be like my… sidekick. Robin to my Batman. Harley to my Joker."

"I always preferred Poison Ivy myself." The car slowed to a stop in front of her flat. She never told him where it was, but she somehow wasn't surprised. She didn't get out, but instead took another sip.

He dug a remote out of the seat and abruptly, the radio was blaring, "She comes on like a rose, but everybody knows. She'll get you in Dutch. You can look but you better not touch. Poison ivy, poison ivy…."

It surprised a laugh out. When she drained the last of her champagne and set down the glass, he reached out a hand to her. "You'll work for me then, my interesting arsenic?"

"I don't come cheap," she teased, the champagne maybe going to her head. But Moriarty seemed to like it, taking her hand in his.

"You'll call me Jim," he decided. "How novel." He looked endlessly pleased with himself. She shook her head.

"Jim, then," she said. "But if you call me Sabine, I'll toss the champagne bottle at your head. I would think my mother was still on the pain medicine when she named me if I didn't know perfectly well my name is my father's fault."

"Moran and Moriarty. Oh, this is the start of something special."

With Jim, nothing was boring, ever. Instead of a whirlwind of parties with her friends, Moran started going to a whirlwind of parties with Jim. She was near him at every event, "his poisonous flower," as he put it. When someone tried to kill or threaten him, she would slip up behind them with a drugged drink, and smile. No one paid much attention when she smiled, and often conveniently needed to wet their throats. They would wake up in an interrogation room with one of Jim's men, who she saw rarely and who all seemed to fear her without her needing to do anything.

When the meetings were private, she carried a gun, which she found much more satisfying than any of the subtler methods. She hated to be conventional. When he caught wind of her abilities with long-range rifles, hard-won and mostly self-taught, Jim was only more delighted. He sent her all over the world to learn from the best snipers until she was good enough to be called one of them, and even the first time she shot someone in the head from over a thousand yards away, she never felt guilty.

"Guilt is for losers, darling, and we're winners!" Jim said when she mentioned it, spinning her around in his arms until she elbowed him in the ribs.

Moran wasn't in love. She wasn't sure she believed in it. But she wasn't not in love either.

The best thing, the absolute best thing, was when Lord Moran came popping round, fresh from Parliament and all in his suit, and Jim happened to be in her apartment with a mission. Her father had barely knocked, since he considered any flat he paid for more or less his to come and go in as he pleased.

Moran hadn't yelled, like she wanted to. She hadn't thrown him out or thrown anything against the wall, since she wasn't a child and she could hold her temper. She smiled. "Daddy, this is my boyfriend, Jim. Jim, this is my father, Lord Augustus Moran."

"Wonderful to meet you, sir, really. Your daughter is just lovely."

Lord Moran had taken one look at Jim's smile, at Moran's hand hastily linked into his arm with her fingertips obscuring one of Jim's bloody-dagger cuff links, and had sighed a sigh of relief. "Nice to meet you as well. I was starting to worry about this one, living all alone."

"Well, now she has me," Jim had said, all charm. When her father had left, he burst out laughing. "He thought you were a lesbian, you know. Started to wonder why you weren't dating."

Moran rolled her eyes and started to play with her mobile, loading up the latest information that Jim had sent her. "Really. I'm somehow not surprised. Mum took a long holiday a decade ago with the housekeeper-- still hasn't returned from it. He must have thought it would run in the blood. His own fault for marrying a Scot, as I assure you he's told me half a million times."

"Don't be melodramatic, dear. It's boring."

"I wouldn't want to be boring." She linked their arms again. "Now, tell me, Jim. How can I fix this horrible drug dealer in Peru for you?"

"Up for a holiday?"

"It is so difficult getting a tan in London. There's positively no sun at all!"

Jim wasn't even a little self-conscious about his height, so Moran wore heels when she needed to seduce and boots when she needed to shoot. As the years passed, there was less call for her to be with Jim at parties, seducing idiots, and more call for her to practice shooting in distant locales.

"There's always scads of pretty girls, new ones every year," Jim said, "but there's very few women with sniper skills like yours. They never even see you coming."

"That's the point of a sniper, sir," she said flatly.

He laughed at her, eyes sparkling, and she barely resisted kissing him. It would be so boring to sleep with your boss, so instead, she made a habit of fucking a man in every country she visited. She kept a map in her bedroom in Belgravia, posted on the wall across from the one with the painted lips. She had different colored pins depending on how good it was stuck in place. If anyone knew about it, she was sure to be called a slut because she'd had sex on all seven continents, but that was their problem. She didn't really want sex, exactly. She just liked the power of it, the power of having whoever she wanted with the bat of an eyelash.

She didn't know all the details of Moriarty's operations. She probably knew very few of the details, to be honest. He consulted with people who wanted to do crimes on the best way for them to do it. Very few people knew who he was. He was actually usually just hunched over a computer, and his legwork was usually just him gathering information to help other criminals for a price. Next to no one saw him in person, if they lived more than 24 hours. As far as she knew, she was his only permanent staff-- everyone else was mercenaries hired through intermediaries.

When she asked him again what he saw in her, why he had chosen her, all he said was, "You looked bored, darling, and you had just killed a man. What was I to do?"

Moran began to consider the possibility that there was something very wrong with her, but it was probably the rest of the world instead. If people didn't want to die, maybe they shouldn't be so stupid, after all.

One afternoon, she was in her flat with Jim. It was always her flat they were in, never his. Moran wasn't sure he actually lived anywhere. It seemed like all he did was work and exist, a bogeyman to the criminals of the world. She had seen him eat, but only when the food cost more than most people's rent. He might actually live with her, as far as she knew. He did have some clothes there, and had taken a shower at hers more than once.

She had the paper open and was lying on the couch, her slippered feet flung over one of the arms. "The hothead, the one in East End. Might need a talking to again," she said absently, reading through the articles.

He grunted at her, trying to affix two wires together. He had taken to soldering computers in his spare time. Nothing had exploded yet, but she was expecting a robot army at any minute.

"Apparently he blew something up, a sandwich shop. And my cousin Fitz is marrying again, some little blonde girl. Bit younger than me. Marriage announcement is just in the papers today."

He grunted again, fidgeting with wires.

"Advert now, something about sex toys. Always wondered how you'd look with a great black dildo up your bum, sir."

He looked up at her, horrified. "Really, now. A sex advert in The Times. Don't be vulgar, Sabine."

She smiled at him, all teeth.

"There's going to be a man who will appear in your flat any day now," Jim said abruptly. She blinked, taking her feet off the arm of the couch. "You somehow managed to get on his radar-- maybe the frequent trips in and out of country, maybe just your background. He'll try to intimidate you, ask you to work for him."

"Don't I already have a boss?"

He smiled proudly at her. "Yes, you do. But isn't two always better than one? Especially when they're at odds, poor souls."

"So I'm to spy on him." Moran considered it for a moment. "I assume this is more… legitimate than my work with you? So I can actually say that I have a job and that I'm not just a useless dilettante?"

"As much as he allows you to say, certainly. He'll claim he's just a minor civil servant, at first, but he's the second most dangerous man you'll ever meet."

"I do love dangerous men," she agreed.

"I'll be coming by less frequently. He'll become suspicious if I keep tampering with his CCTV on your flat, so we should try to avoid that."

That made her narrow her eyes, sitting up a bit. "I don't want you to stop coming about, boss."

"Too bad, so sad." He paused. "I'm trusting you here, Moran."

Moran looked at him. He was probably playing her, but she could never tell whether he was actually lying or whether he actually did change emotions and opinions that quickly. She didn't love dangerous men as much as she loved interesting ones, she supposed. She valued the quick-thinkers, people of action who did more than aspire to tea with the Queen.

"Bollocks," she grumbled, but she settled down on the couch and picked up her paper again.

iii. Mycroft Holmes

The weeks that followed were the first time in three years that Moran's every waking moment hadn't been filled by Jim in one way or another. Even when she hadn't been with him, he had blown her phone up with ridiculous texts, occasionally ordering her to bring him the most obscure things-- albums, art, stationary-- so that he could start some new project to alleviate his boredom. In the weeks without jobs, without Jim, she went back to being mind-numbingly frustrated with her life. It got to the point where she stomped out of Belgravia and spent an unsatisfying hour at the shooting range, nearly putting a bullet in the proprietor's forehead when he tried to cop a feel. When she got back to her flat, tossing down her gear beside the front table, she noticed the figure standing in the middle of her sitting room.

"Are you serious?" she asked him. The man blinked at her, looking a bit shocked. He was very tall, and a bit heavy, with ginger hair and-- "Does that umbrella have a sword in it? Be honest."

She shook her head at him, rolling her eyes as she dug through her purse.

"I wouldn't do that, Miss Moran."

She flashed him a look, bypassing the gun to take a compact from her purse, quickly checking her makeup and a few of the corners where extra muscle could possibly be hiding. "Good, because neither would I," she said. "Drop the 'miss,' or I'll be forced to have my father hide a rather messy accident, and it's dreadfully difficult to get stains out of all this white. Who are you and why have you broken into my flat?"

"My name," he said gravely, hand curling around the crook of his umbrella, "is Mycroft Holmes. We have--"

She giggled, then clapped a hand over her mouth to cover it. She lowered in, fighting to keep the glee out of her expression as she tossed her compact back into her purse. "Now that's just a ridiculous name. You're one of those Holmes boys that Mia Hemswick keeps going on about? She says you've got a posh car-- probably a secret squirrel or something, I would reckon, given your entrance into my flat." She felt fairly certain that this was the man Jim had told her about, and set her purse-- and the gun-- down.

"You're the one who's been having those well-meaning gentleman watching me from across the square. Very rude, and I think one of them is trying to catch me naked. You might want to have a word with him about that."

"Miss Moran, if you could restrain yourself for one blessed moment," Holmes snapped, "then you might actually learn the reason of my visit."

She crossed over to the couch and sat on it, looking up at him with quirked eyebrows. "Please, sit, Mr. Holmes," she said, gesturing to the chair across from her. "I assume you're here to either kill me or offer me a job. I just don't know why. I didn't do particularly well in the military, and since, I've done very little besides shop."

"And leave the country no less than twenty-six times that we know of, to some very strange locales." He sat, smiling genially at her now. "That reminds me, happy birthday, my dear."

"Thank you," she said. Yesterday had been her twenty-sixth birthday. She would have to make a note to Jim that he would have to take her out, as an apology for putting her through this. Struggling to bring her society manners to the fore, she pondered Holmes' face for a moment. He was lovely, in an odd way. It wasn't so much his face as it was his manner, all poise, brilliance, and aggression. He might even be smarter than Jim, but she would bet that he was far more predictable. It was why her boss would win in the end, she was sure.

"You are correct. We have been observing you. Why have you been leaving the country so frequently, Miss Moran?"

"No 'miss,' please," Moran said. "I hate it. I much would have preferred to have been born a man and not called 'miss' all the time. Of course, my father says he would have saddled me with the name Sebastian Augustus, which would have probably ensured me only pulling ditzy idiots like Mia." His face was starting to get stormy again, so she quickly added, "All right, sorry. I've had a rather rough day. Couple of weeks, rather. I've been doing some freelance work, as I'm sure you're aware." It was the cover story she and Jim had come up with, close enough to the real thing to still look fishy without actually being the whole bloody truth. "Nothing too serious. Just some information gathering for interested parties. My time in the military ensures that I am more or less safe, and my personal background and appearance often causes people to give the information to me without realizing. How does this concern the government? It's fishy, I'll grant you, but not illegal."

"Miss Moran-- I hate the nonsense of calling you just 'Moran'; won't Sabine do?"

"I'm not fond of my first name, either," she admitted.

"Well, then chose another! By god." He pinched the bridge of his nose, heaving a sigh. "Moran, I am in need of an assistant."

Funny way of giving someone a job offer. "And why should I give up my lovely, jet-setting job to work as your PA?"

"I guarantee you'll find it intriguing." Like Jim, Holmes' voice was like a melody, tripping down over the words to linger over the word "intriguing" like it was a state secret. Moran's eyelids lowered as it hummed in her blood. "I occupy a minor position in the government," he continued, "with the Ministry of Transport, which is how I first noticed your movements in and out of the country." Moran wasn't quite sure that was what the Ministry of Transport did, but she already suspected him of lying anyway. "You'll get to travel a bit less, but it will be more dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Despite herself, it was interesting. If she had been living without Jim all this time, the offer would have been a boon, and Mycroft Holmes would have been her savior instead of Jim.

Noting her interest, he smiled. "Tremendously so."

She frowned, twisting the dog tags she still wore around her neck. "This whole thing is still confusing. What exactly do you need me to do? If it's answering phones and running around for your tea, my current employment doesn't involve that and I have no desire to take it up." Though, she had answered phones and gotten tea for Jim more than once. She had thrown it at him more than once too. He had threatened to cut off her ear, but when she just looked at him, he had burst out laughing, so he was just joking. Probably. What was life without danger?

"I have recently received a promotion of sorts. That promotion means that I have to juggle quite a few commitments. One of my commitments is the monitoring of the CCTV network in several flagged locations. Others include meeting with several officials to discuss certain events in discreet locations. I can't possibly say more until you take the job, Miss-- Moran."

"Will I have to wear heels?"

"In all probability, yes. For extremely long hours. But I keep a masseuse on staff."

"And if I agree to work for you, but I don't like it, will I meet some quiet and civilized end, or do I get to keep my head?"

"You are, of course, free to leave at any time. I can't guarantee you'll get to keep your memories of your time with me, though."

Her eyes widened. "No, really? You can do that?" She couldn't wait to tell Jim. He would find it hilarious. "Yes, then. Sign me up."

He rose to his feet. "A car will be round for you next Monday. Please don't make me regret this, Moran. And try to keep a tighter lip on yourself around the office. You've been more… loquacious than I was given to suspect."

"This wasn't an interview; you sought me out and broke into my house," she pointed out, standing as well. "And I know how to change between my military manners and my society ones. Don't treat me like a child, and we'll get along just fine, Mr. Holmes."

"Mycroft, please," he said. "Good night, Moran."

Jim rang her phone just half a moment after Holmes left the flat. She knew it was him, since he regularly changed all the ringtones on her phone and had set his own to scream: I'm too sexy shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy it hurts. She was sure he did it so she would pick up as quickly as possible. "How do you like your new daddy, Moran?" he asked drolly.

She nearly threw up in her mouth at that. Why did men think that women of any age and relative sanity would enjoy calling them "daddy"? Tightly, she said, "If you ever say that again, or refer to yourself like that again-- even tangentially-- I quit. And you know me, Jim. I'm not joking."

He was silent for a moment. "Apologies, Moran."

"He's interesting," Moran said, forgiving him. She nudged out of her boots and curled her feet under herself, leaning back against the sofa. "Mycroft Holmes. He chose to hire me, but I'm not sure he's convinced of his own decision. I think I gave him the wrong reaction. He expected me to withdraw when I saw a government man poking about, to be more careful, but I think I'm too used to you. I laughed at him."

"And one thing our Ice Man doesn't like is to be laughed at. Oh, you're a delight, Moran."

"Thank you, sir."

"He will never suspect you," Jim continued gleefully. "I've been careful to keep our connection a secret. The only question is if we have the same taste in women."

"I am to everyone's taste," Moran said primly. When Jim burst into peals of laughter, she smiled.

Being Mycroft Holmes' assistant was like walking into an alternate reality, where she got to see everything that she could have been, but wasn't. She was that straight-laced and shiny schoolgirl once again, with perfect hair and a French manicure on her nails, long legs and A-line skirts. The only change was a discreet and tiny gun pressed daringly against her thigh, and given who she had been at sixteen, it wasn't really that much of a stretch to think that she could have had the gun then too. If she had not gone to war, this might be who she actually was, not just who she was pretending to be.

 "Your main job is the CCTV," Mycroft informed her, as soon as she had a government id clipped to her coat pocket and was sitting in front of him in the cavernous, darkened room he called an office. "You need to monitor a specific list of persons at all times. The technology can set flags for certain kinds of behavior, but isn't specific enough to always weed out the specific-- Mr. Brown reaching into his suit pocket and pulling out a gun to shoot his lover, for example-- from the generic-- Mr. Brown reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a credit card to pay for a meal. You will sort through all of the flagged incidents, choosing which ones to bring to my attention.

"You will be briefed on what, exactly, we are looking for from each of the individuals on the list. You are expected to memorize this. If you do not memorize this, and something is overlooked, your employment will be terminated. I have high standards for my employees. Your failure is not an option if you expect to be associated with me.

"Additionally, you will be at my side at all times to watch my meetings and provide recommendations for the list of active CCTV monitoring. You will carry a gun. Since you will be at my side at all times, you will have to be excellent at multi-tasking. The CCTV will be downloaded onto a work phone for this purpose.

"Your private life is, as of now, no longer private. Your apartment will be watched, and the CCTV for your lodgings will from this point forward be monitored by me personally. All prospective lovers, friends, and companions of any kind will be monitored and vetted by the security personnel. Your private life is also unlikely to be particularly full after this point, since you will be expected to always be on call. Our work is often a matter of life and death, Moran, and your personal life is not your country's concern.

If all of this is still acceptable, you will have today to familiarize yourself with the files, the CCTV, and your new mobile. Tomorrow, you will begin shadowing me. Do we have an accord?"

Moran nodded, a secret thrill at the challenge making her heart skip a beat. "Yes, sir."

He slid the mobile over to her, a slim, black device that was nothing but a black screen. There were no markings on it at all, no buttons. She turned it over for a moment, briefly confused.

"Ah," he said, "they call it an iPhone. It won't be released officially for another year, so mum's the word. Our own technology division has had their hands in yours as well, to add further functionality than the Americans are capable of quite yet."

"Of course, sir," she said. She set it to turning on, and began looking through the stack of files in front of her.

Three weeks later, she was standing behind Mycroft's chair as he met with the head of a Russian construction company that dealt less with construction and more with murder. She didn't let on that her heels were killing her, that her ankles hurt, and that she hadn't had a proper shower in two days. She knew regardless that she was the best thing the Russians had seen in a while, since when they had smarmily asked for her name-- she had lied, of course, and told them it was Annaleise-- they had leered and drooled. Instead of letting on about any of it, she flipped rapidly through footage on her phone. It was only when the Russian's voice changed inflection suddenly, going just a touch higher, that she glanced up. His bodyguards were shifting on their feet.

She slipped her phone into her pocket, drew her gun, and shot all three Russians through their heads. She took the phone back out and closed out of the video. Lifting one foot, she pulled off one heel and then the other-- her ankles really were killing her-- before stepping over the bodies and looking carefully at the company head, "Mr. Raskolnikov," or so he had claimed. He was an older man, not quite as heavy as Mycroft, with rings that nestled into most of his fingers. He had a phone in his hand. She nudged it out and carefully took it by the edges, reading the unsent text carefully. Her Russian was tolerable, but not wonderful. However, it was good enough to be able to see that he was texting in a hit against Mycroft; she had seen similar phrasing enough during her dealings in Russia herself.

"Do you plan to clue me in, Moran?" Mycroft demanded. "Despite how cavalier you seem to be, we do not just shoot our business contacts in the head when you work with me." He was very pale, and looked just seconds from tossing his lunch.

She snorted and slid the phone over to him. While he read and turned several other interesting colors, she began searching the bodyguards, revealing a baker's dozen of weaponry and some clearly fake sets of identification.

"What led you to the conclusion to shoot him?" Mycroft sounded grudgingly respectful now. He had taken out his own phone and was scrolling through his contacts, no doubt looking for the appropriate person to call now that they had three dead Russians on their hands.

Absently, Moran said, "His voice changed."

Mycroft gave her an unamused look. "That's not enough evidence to lead to any kind of useful deduction, my dear. What if you had been wrong? You would have shot three innocent men."

"Hardly innocent," she said. "And I'm rarely wrong. If it helps--" --Here she nudged the closest bodyguard with her toe-- "I think that I may have met this one in Prague. If thinking that it might have been some kind of unconscious memory rather than sheer instinct helps you at all. I was trying to retrieve some information and he was trying to kill the source."

"So happy that you have some consideration for my feelings," Mycroft muttered.

"The negotiation was clearly heading south anyway, and can hardly be pinned on us. Let's talk to the Russian diplomat and see why he wanted you to meet with these men. I'm sure it would be edifying."

As Mycroft heaved a sigh and brought his phone to his ear to call the clean-up crew, he said, "Please schedule a psychiatric evaluation for yourself."

She frowned. "Why? For this?"

He ignored her to begin talking on the phone, but his gaze remained on her for a long, unreadable moment before he turned away.

Discreetly, Moran texted Jim: Are you really having hits put out on my new employer just so that I can prove my loyalty? Because I'm sure that it will happen in its own time regardless. SM

Don't be smart, lovely Moran, Jim replied. Dinner tonight? JM

I'll do my best, Moran wrote. You're paying. SM

Of course I am. Feel free to bring your new employer. We'll have quite the threesome. JM

Ha. Ha. Feels like I'm in a threesome already, except somehow I'm not getting any satisfaction. Or maybe it's a tug of war. SM

He didn't reply, but she got a notification saying that her ringtone had been changed to "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction."

Sighing, she flipped the phone closed, pulled out her work phone, and returned to work.

iv. Sherlock Holmes

Moran had been working for Mycroft for a year when she finally made a mistake. Not one concerning her place in Moriarty's operations-- she was fairly sure that Mycroft wouldn't have been able to see that if she had danced the truth naked in front of him. No, just a simple mistake, brought on by overwork. She had been monitoring a situation with a very junior member of the war office for days, and had failed to keep up with most of the other CCTV footage as a result. She had also been required to provide long-distance back-up for Moriarty in one of his rare meet-ups with a client. She was weary and worn thin when she realized that Sherlock Holmes had slipped away from CCTV and she couldn't trace him.

She was in her flat, naked in the bath, trying to chase down loose ends when she began frantically flipping from CCTV camera to CCTV camera, trying to catch sight of him. An hour later, dripping wet on the couch, she was putting the call into Mycroft.

"Moran, I thought I had told you to go home."

"I am home. I was working in the bath. Mycroft…."

"Spit it out, Moran."

"I've lost track of your brother."

"What."

"Two days ago. I've had a backlog of footage. I made an error, and I can't find him."

Mycroft was silent. Moran had never known him to go see his brother, never known him to talk of his brother at all, but she knew from the constant supervision of Sherlock, and the frequent reports that he expected of her about the man, that he did indeed care for Sherlock.

Jim would probably save her from being killed, if he didn't find her error too amusing.

"I'm surprised it took him over a year to slip away," Mycroft finally said. He sighed, the sound light and soft on the other end of the line. "I will take care of this, Moran. Good work." The last words were said in distraction, and made Moran gape in silence even after the click and the beginning of the dial tone.

Irritated with herself, Moran turned the sound system on and set Billy Idol to blaring. The guitar wailed as she got out the fork for her takeaway and set to dumping it on a real plate to make it look more like real food.

"Last night a little dancer," Billy sang, voice licking around the words, "came dancin' to my door. Last night a little angel came pumpin' on my floor. She said, come on, baby. I got a license for love, and if it expires, pray for help from above-- because--"

Her phone rang, an irritating little beep like the roadrunner from the Loony Toons. "Darling, I can tell you're angry even from here," Moriarty said.

"In the midnight hour, she cried, 'More, more, more!' With a rebel yell, she cried 'More, more, more!"

Moran sighed, picking at her palak paneer. "I lost Holmes' brother. He doesn't appear inclined to kill me, however."

"You lost Sherlock Holmes." Somehow, in Moriarty's flat tone she sensed more danger than Mycroft's could have possibly ever contained. She tensed immediately, setting down her fork and staring into the air.

"Yes, sir," she said.

"Well, find him!" Moriarty screamed, so loud that she flinched and had to hold the phone away from her ear. "Find Sherlock Holmes, or I will gut you and wear you like a hat."

The phone clicked, again. Dial tone, again.

Why did Moriarty even care about Sherlock Holmes? Wasn't his game with Mycroft? Moran shook her head. Getting to her feet, she repacked her food and changed her clothes, slipping out of her pajamas and into a pair of jeans and a loose top. It was time to pull some overtime.

Tracing Sherlock from the edge of the last known CCTV footage took forever. It would have taken a long time even without the tearing exhaustion that ripped through her brain and into her bones, but such was the rewards of having two demanding jobs. She questioned everyone, from the businessmen on the street to the taxi drivers to the homeless, several of whom were veterans and more than willing to help a fellow soldier out, especially if she was a beautiful woman. Inch by inch, minute by minute, she traced Sherlock's path to a seedy heroin den. He was lying on a pile of dirty blankets, staring at the ceiling with bruised track marks racing up and down his arms. His hair was matted and his eyes were ringed with bluish-gray.

Moran sighed at the sight, taking off her gloves-- it was bitter cold this December-- and wrapping her fingers around Sherlock's thin wrist to take his pulse. It was steady, but far too fast. Hand still on his wrist, she called Jim.

"Boss?" she said once he finally answered with an irritated snap. It was four in the morning, which was generally the time when he was able to close his eyes for the first time in a good twenty-four hours, some days. "I've found him. Shall I report it?"

The phone was silent. There was just the sound of too heavy breathing for a moment before a gusty sigh. "Yes, Moran. Just keep him alive. He's no good to me dead. Where is he?"

"Heroin den. Islington."

"Now, why would he go and do that again?"

"Again?" She didn't really expect a reply, checking on Sherlock's eyes. His pupils were dilated, glazed and blood-shot in the dark. He was aware of her now and his eyes, even now, were roving over her, skating over her shoulders, the material of her shirt, the way the gun at her waist made her shirt tuck close to her body. "If he's anything like you, I suspect he was bored. Must go."

She set the phone back into her bag and pulled out her work phone.

"Two phones? Naughty, naughty." His words were slurred. "Two phones usually means… cheating."

"I'm not 'cheating.'" Moran gave a sniff. How absurd…ly accurate, actually. "I work for your brother and I have a work phone and a personal phone. I just called your brother with a personal update, and now I need to make the official report, so that we can use official resources."

"Don't want help," Sherlock said, struggling to sit up. "Not from a rich girl playing soldier. Is this how you get your thrills?"

"Don't try to be clever when you're high," Moran advised. "It's the same as when you're drunk, I expect. You just sound silly, and you'll regret it later. Set yourself to observing instead. You can always use your observations against me later. Boss," she said, when Mycroft picked up on the first ring. He had obviously been fielding calls all night, probably about Sherlock. "I have him." She rattled off the address, happy he didn't bother with such questions as "Why?" and "How?" and other such stupid things. And then, exhausted, she sat beside Sherlock, her shoulder against his, and coaxed his drooping head onto her shoulder. "Hope your friends don't rob us," she said. She drew her gun and let it lay in her lap, her eyes falling half-closed.

"Even if they did, you're an excellent shot," Sherlock mumbled, breath hot against her collarbone.

"Too right," Moran said. She was getting an odd rush of maternal feelings, which was quite odd considering that she hated children and Sherlock was older than her by at least three or four years, if she remembered correctly. It was probably explained by not having slept in the past few days. "I'm a sniper, you know. Don't tell your brother. I'm waiting for him to find out on his own."

Sherlock mimed zipping his lips and throwing away the key. "What's your name?" he asked, voice a deep rumble.

"Umm… Hyacinth."

"Liar," he said, lips curling in good humor.

"Would you like some music? 'Tubthumping' seems oddly appropriate."

"I would rather you leave me here to die. Do shut up."

His bent head was nestled into her scarred chest, and her own eyes began to close rather against her will. She kept the gun close, falling into a wary half-sleep that could be broken at any moment. Half an hour later, Mycroft was at her side, helping her get Sherlock to his feet and out of the disgusting hole they were in. Sherlock was pressing a crumpled slip of paper into Mycroft's hands with a grip that trembled, and for a moment, Mycroft's face is unmistakably, unspeakably soft. "I think I'm overtired," Moran admitted when she slumped into the town car beside them. "I'm finding him charming. I've never met him, but that doesn't seem to be the usual reaction."

"No, it's really not," Mycroft said. He was looking at Sherlock's head, again listing alarmingly to her shoulder, with bemusement. "Most find him abrasive, manic, and cruel."

"Just my type," Moran mumbled. She didn't quite fall asleep again, but she also didn't remember getting to her flat, putting on her pajamas, and going to bed either.

When she woke, Jim was in bed with her. His fingers were clicking idly over the keys, no doubt chatting with another criminal in need.

When Moran sat up, Jim spared her a look from the corner of his eye. He was unreadable to her so much of the time that it didn't surprise her that she didn't understand his expression now. She tried to rake her hair into some semblance of order, then gave up and let it stand on end as it wanted.

"You wouldn't gut me," she claimed, voice rough with sleep. "You like my guts where they are. You think I'm gutsy."

He touched her tentatively. His skin was so pale it made her hair look darker than it was, his fingers twisted through her hair.

"I'm a bit fond of them, but I could live without," he said. He was nothing but eyes in that moment, dark and thoughtful and lingering on her lips. She could hardly breathe and his hand was only on her cheek. "You are truly loyal, Moran. You were prepared to stay in your apartment and binge-listen to Billy Idol when you thought only the Ice Man cared about Sherlock, but you raced out to find him when I asked."

"Of course, boss." She grinned, trying to gain some distance. "I don't do double-double agent shite. I'm yours."

His lips were a ghost against hers, so hot they burned. It was dry and quick, almost like the kiss of a child, but the room still spun as he drew away.

"I should go," he said, getting up. "Wouldn't want Holmes to get too suspicious. Expect him to draw you in for questioning when you go to work."

"What?"

He smiled at her, delighted at her confusion. "Why, he wants to question you about where your fiancé has been all this time."

"What?!"

"Do learn another line.

"No. No, this isn't funny, boss. What are you talking about?"

"Relevant files are on the taaaab-le." He said the last bit in song, then swanned off. She threw a pillow at his head, so angry that she couldn't speak and with no idea why.

"It has come to my attention that you somehow have managed to become engaged. How, exactly, did you manage to keep this from me?" Mycroft's voice was dry and unaffected, his gaze steady as he looked down at his nose at her. He had lost some weight, and the strain of Sherlock's rehabilitation was lingering around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. "What did I say about your private life, Moran?"

"That I should expect it to no longer be private. I took it under advisement, but decided that it doesn't suit me." She smiled, crossing her legs. His gaze didn't even flicker to the exposure of her thighs as the skirt rode up and she wondered, not for the first time, if he was gay.

"Oh really." Mycroft opened the manila file on the table. It was neat, as all files were by the time they made it to Mycroft's hands. There was a CCTV capture of Jim leaving her flat, face just slightly obscured, stapled to the inside cover. There is another picture inside of a man that looks mostly, but not entirely like Jim. "James Mortimer. Security consultant, often out of the country. I assume that's how you kept him hidden this long?"

"Jimmy," she corrected, neither confirming nor denying. She expected it to give her a thrill every time she had to say it, since Jim hated the nickname and wouldn't tolerate it under normal circumstances.

Mycroft gave her a look of sheer, unimpressed disgust.

"Oh, all right. I met him on a job, before you." Half-true. "Since he's a security consultant, he got a bit in the way of what I was trying to do. I… I found him impressive." She smiled at that, remembering their first meeting. Remembering that childish, yet somehow heated, kiss from the night before. "He's the smartest person I've ever met, with the vilest sense of humor. He adores fashion but never tries to make me wear high heels in my off hours, and his mother was a morgue attendant in Ireland, so he has the most morbid taste in ties and cuff links. What do you want me to say, Mycroft?"

"You actually love this… consultant." Mycroft's nose wrinkled as if she was dangling a dead rat in front of his nose.

Moran thought of all the times she had told herself that she didn't love Jim, including the day that they had met. She thought of his shark smiles, and the way his tongue slid over vowels, and the way he changed accents and personas at the flip of a coin. "Of course not," she said. She knew she was lying, but better a comforting lie than the truth.

Mycroft sighed. "Caring is not an advantage, Moran. It clouds your judgments, makes you lie to your employer, and causes unfortunate confrontations, such as this meeting. However, since I can't stop you from caring, I urge you never to make me meet this man so I won't have to watch you turn from a smart, rational woman into an insipid schoolgirl with an infatuation."

Moran raised her eyebrows. "Me, boss?"

Actually laughing at that, Mycroft said, "You have a point, my dear. I trust that your… connection won't stop you from watching over my brother at a secure facility? I have other matters to attend to, and he appears to not despise you with ever fiber of his being, which is a check in your favour."

"I'll pack my bags," Moran said. She thought, briefly, of what it would be like to do something other than what she was told for once.

As she rose to her feet, Mycroft stopped her in her tracks by saying, "Best wishes to you. Endeavour not to invite me to the wedding."

"Trust me, I've no intention of it," Moran replied.

Moran spent a whole month at the rehabilitation center with Sherlock, and by the end of it, she wanted to kill him, herself, Mycroft, and Jim for getting her into this whole mess. Sherlock spat deductions at her like insults, incorrectly concluded that she was in love with his brother since she "stunk of unrequited love," and for two weeks knew the color, shade, and material of every pair of pants she wore and she had no idea how.

She still, however, let him curl his head into her lap when he went through withdrawal, and read him Fight Club when he was bored. The protagonist reminded her of Jim somehow.

Ostensibly, she was guarding him. Privately, she guessed that Mycroft wanted to punish her for managing to hide Jim away, and also give his brother a toy. Either way, Sherlock coming off a bender was nothing compared to Jim every day, so she greeted each mood swing with patience and tried not to fall in love with this psychopath, since she already had her own.

"I get so bored," Sherlock whispered into her thigh. His eyes were wide, panicked; he hadn't been able to sleep in forty-eight hours. "I can feel my brain dying around me. There's nothing to drive it, to illuminate the shadows, to keep me moving. I might as well be dead."
She started braiding the curls around his ear and thought about that.

"I have a fiancé. My unrequited love is over him, for the record. I don't think he loves me the way I love him, but I try not to care. I'm not sure if I even love him or just the idea of him. I'm not sure he can love me. He's very bright, and when his job is boring, he starts fights, and throws temper tantrums, and really you remind me of him quite a bit. But when his job is interesting, everything is right in his world. Have you thought of getting a job?"

"Dull. Office work. Suits. Ugh. Water coolers."

"Make your own job, then," she said sharply. "You're brilliant, Sherlock. Use it."

"I don't like anything," Sherlock whined, "and no one likes me."

She snorted. "You have to like something. There has to be one puzzle you never solved, or some job that never stops providing puzzles. Humans beings are the most awful creatures put on this planet. There has to be some unique thing they do that you absolutely must figure out. That could be your job."

Sherlock's eyes light up. She can see them even from this angle, up above, his bright blue eyes turning icy and focused.

"Go away," Sherlock said. He sat up abruptly and flapped her away. "I have to think."

She frowned. "What?"

"Don't be stupid, Marta. I have thinking to do."

She was used to frequent mood changes, both with Jim and with Sherlock, but his sudden manic energy was beyond her. "I don't understand."

"Carl Powers!" he shouted at her, and then threw himself into the bathroom and locked the door.

v. The Announcement

When Moran was finally able to go home next, she naturally found Jim on her couch, reading over scripts. Whatever his latest plan was, it required him being an uncomfortably fluffy and scruffy actor. It was probably meant to make him seem charming, and it did, but for some reason, it just made Moran deeply discomforted. Jim was still wearing the cute-actor clothes, his hair standing on end, and he spared her a pleasantly confused look when she entered before turning back to the scripts.

She dropped her bags to the floor, ignoring him as she stripped her nylons off about two paces away from the doorway. Peeling them away from her legs, she wound them into a ball and stuffed them in a nearby pair of her boots before trudging over to the chair. She sat across from Jim and studied him. He looked up at her again, expression wry and a little bit more "him" than it had been before.

"Yes, dear?" he asked.

"You realise that you have made an error."

"A what?" His voice darkened.

"A mistake, a misjudgment." She stood and wandered into her bedroom, calling back to him as she took off her skirt and blouse. "Unless you had considered that we are going to need to have… dinner… with my father and get him to post an engagement announcement in the papers, or else Holmes is going to look at my fiancé closer than we would like."

Jim was quiet for a long moment as she pulled on an old Clash t-shirt and a pair of shorts.

"…Of course I did." As she walked back into the living room, Jim set down the scripts. "But in case I didn't, why do we have to do anything of the sort?"

She sighed heavily, wondering why all of her geniuses had to be so stupid. "Because, boss, my father is a peer of the realm." He continued to look at her. "A peer of the realm," she repeated. "That means that there are certain expectations. One day, I'm going to be Lady Moran, if he doesn't find a way to disown me. If my marriage isn't announced, it will make just as much of a fuss as if it is."

He frowned, putting on his "hush, darling, Moriarty is thinking" face, so she began flipping through songs on her iPod, trying to decide a playlist to pull up.

By the time she looked up, he was directly in front of her. She jumped, finger slipping and starting "Cherry Pie" blasting through the sound system.

"Well, shit," she said, dialing the sound down.

"It shouldn't be too bad." His voice was a purr of amusement as his gaze met hers levelly. "And your father has met me already and thinks we've been dating for years. It will hardly be surprising to him."

"There will have to be pictures. In the papers," she snapped. She set down the iPod with a hand that shook. Her nails were a chipped and battered crimson. Sherlock had said the color was atrocious and she was clearly trying too hard; who was she trying to impress, exactly?

"Remember who you're talking to, kitten," he snarled, leaning closer. He didn't normally wear cologne, but whoever he was pretending to be clearly did, something that smelled like coconut and sunshine.

She snorted. "I know exactly who I'm talking to, boss. You didn't think this game of yours through because you wanted to mess with me."

"I found a reason for my presence in your life, and our business can operate much more smoothly if we don't have to sneak about when we have something to discuss. What more do you want from me, Moran?"

She raised her eyebrows. "You're the one who wanted to be in my life, Moriarty. I could just as easily do without."

"Face-to-face contact is required of your position in my organization if you want to retain it. Do you want to quit, Moran? Because it comes with a death sentence if you do. A long and painful death sentence, so let me know now so I can find a torturer worthy of your blood."

"I'm not quitting." She turned away from him, feeling cold. She was beginning to realize just how toweringly tired she was. Sherlock had run her ragged, in between his sickness, his neediness, his rages, and his relentless whining. Mycroft had demanded debriefings more frequently than even made sense, as well, and in between that and her regular duties, she was feeling a touch thin. She hadn't done her real job for Moriarty in ages. She missed feeling useful; day-to-day, it was as if she really was just Mycroft Holmes' nameless, insipid assistant.

"Aww…. Is someone feeling neglected? Poor Sabine Moran…." His eyes were endless pools of pity and humor; she snapped, shoving him back angrily and heading toward the door.

"Leave, if you're going to be--"

"--Myself?" He sighed, walking over to her. "You're clearly tired, Moran, because I'm not any different than I normally am."

"I've requested a vacation, which I ordered Holmes to let me take. Is there anyone I can shoot? Anyone? Working for him, I might as well have married Sir Clive George like my father wanted."

"Sit down. I ordered Indonesian food, and if you're a very good girl, I'll let you help me rehearse."

"I will shoot you in the stomach."

She fell asleep next to him on the couch, a beer in one hand and Jim reading scripts beside her, but somehow it wasn't enough anymore.

Before she scheduled what was sure to be an uncomfortable dinner with her father, Sabine took her vacation. She shot no less than four different people through their skulls and, breathing deep as she lay on in the ruffled silk sheets of a bed in an expensive hotel in Madrid, she realised that she was letting her life get away from her. She had coasted through these years with Moriarty and with Mycroft, doing what both had said without questioning why.

She had been angry and restless after the war, and Moriarty had given her purpose. She loved him for that, but the question was, did she love him for other reasons or just because he had taught her how to do what she had always wanted to do? Was that a good enough reason to love someone, truly? What did she really know about him, even after all these years?

On the streets of Paris, she wore a white sundress in February, a duffle bag thrown over her shoulder with her gun inside, and thought about how much she liked Sherlock, truly, and her grudging fondness for Mycroft, and her blinding devotion to Moriarty.

She remembered trips to Paris in her youth, the summer before her mother had run off with the housekeeper. She had been a sullen fourteen-year-old with a piercing through her lip. She had just grown into her legs, and it kept surprising her how much older people tended to think that she was.

"They call Paris 'The City of Love,'" Mother had said. Her blonde hair was in a long braid, tendrils curling into her eyes and softening her harsh face. She had always worn red lipstick like a weapon, and when she had left, her goodbye for Moran had been a tube of dark wine-red color.

"Love," Moran had scoffed, tugging up one of her knees socks. She had crossed her arms over her chest, feeling uncomfortable because her body was suddenly all soft curves and long legs and she hated it. She wished she was a boy, all angles and sweaty palms and cracking voice. She had dreamed of playing football, of going to punk rock concerts and letting the drumbeat vibrate up the soles of her feet and into her heart.

"Don't make fun of love, darling," Mother said. She had been in one of her rare moods, happy and less distant than normal. Likely, she and the housekeeper had begun making plans to run away already. "One day it will pounce, and you'll regret not listening to my advice."

"And your advice is?"

"Love twice, marry once, and sex is power, so exercise it as much as possible."

She had really been an awful mother. Moran still didn't understand what she had meant. Should both loves happen before the marriage, and the marriage be separate? Was she meant to marry someone old, get all their money, and love again after they died? (Knowing her mother, this wasn't out of the question.) Had her mother meant sex as in sexuality, or as in genitalia?

Was this really going to be what she did for her entire life?

Moran went home again after three weeks away, feeling far more relaxed and thoughtful than she had when she had set out. She took off her boots, set her bags down in her bedroom, and then sat beside Jim on the couch. He looked up at her curiously. He was back in a suit, expensive and sleek, with the jacket thrown over her chair and his sleeves rolled up. He had the slightest bit of foam on his upper lip from a latte, a fuzz of pale brown froth.

"Done with your sulk, then?" he drawled, snapping his laptop closed.

She considered him, brow furrowing as she studied the cruel set of his chin, the hardness of his eyes, and the displeased twist of his lips. He was irritated by how long she had been away, maybe, or maybe business wasn't going as well as it could be.

"Cat got your tongue?" he asked, gaze softening as she continued to look at him.

She smiled fleetingly and decided what she wanted.

Snagging his wrist, she jerked him forward and buried her hands in his slick hair. Ignoring his squawk and wriggling, she dragged him up to kiss her, biting his bottom lip and breathing him in. Her hair fell around them messily as she pressed their lips together, wrinkled his suit, and slid her leg between his. Her heart was beating fast as she drew back slightly, watching as his eyes blinked open, then narrowed. She kissed him again, framing her hands around his face. His arms came up once free, knotting in her hair and forcing her closer still. She made a whining noise, biting his lip in protest before breaking away again and resting her head against his.

"And what's this about, Moran?" he asked. She was gratified to notice that his voice was just as unsteady as she felt.

Smiling, she said, "I believe caring is an advantage."

He quirked his brow at her, trying to look superior with her lipstick on his lips. She snorted, nipping his chin before rolling off him.

"I've really got to unpack. You know what it's like when you go off on holiday-- more to do than when you left."

"Really."

"You sound confused. Catch up with the program."

She smiled back at him over her shoulder. He looked absolutely ridiculous, ruffled and covered in lipstick, and this was the man whose life she intended to protect with her own until she died.

"And what's the program now, darling?"

She took a breath in the privacy of her room, shuddering as she unzipped her suitcase. He could kill her; she knew who she was bedding down with and was going into it with open eyes. "I'm going to marry you," she said, quietly, but she knew he could hear her. "And you're going to tell me why we care about the Holmes brothers."

He was suddenly behind her, his hand spreading against her abdomen open-palmed, fingers inching over the bare skin between her shirt and her jeans. She leaned back into his chest-- pressed her lips to his cheek. She wanted him so much it hurt.

"And why would I do that?"

She smiled at that and slammed her elbow into his ribs, forcing him back. "Because I am irreplaceable to you." She covered his mouth with a hand, not wanting to hear him argue. "And if I'm not, you can shoot me yourself, because this is what I want for my life."

She let him go. As he stood there, rubbing his ribs like an offended cat, she reached into the suitcase and pulled out her handgun. She tossed it over. He didn't fumble with it until she dropped to her knees, waiting. Ten-year-old her would be so pleased that if she had to go out, she would go out execution-style.

"I've made my choice, boss," she said, smiling as he stared at her like he had never seen her before. "Make yours. You like games: marry, shag, or kill."

She stared up at him as he pressed the gun against her forehead, his face absolutely unreadable. The scar on her chest burned as she breathed, tilting her head up so the gun was flat against her forehead. Their eyes met below the barrel of the gun. The weight of it set her mind racing, telling her she's stupid, and silly, and that her mother would not approve, not that she had ever cared what her mother thought. She thought about going to war and getting shot at without ever feeling like she was useful, thought about being in a hospital bed with a hole in her chest, thought about tottering down an alleyway in bare feet and killing someone because she had been so bored her skin had crawled.

He dropped the gun to his side. "You're surprisingly interesting sometimes, Moran," he said lightly. "I won't kill you yet."

He left the room and her heart sunk, not sure how to take that. After a moment, however, she started laughing: he had set the Bee Gee's "More Than a Woman" to screech out of her sound system.

"I'm taking this as a declaration!" she yelled to him, rising from the floor.

"Take it however you like," he yelled, as the singer's ridiculous falsetto continued, "but I'm keeping your gun."

He couldn't break her good mood, however, as Barry Gibb sang, "Suddenly you're in my life, a part of everything I do. You got me workin' day and night, just tryin' to keep a hold on you. Here in your arms I found my paradise, my only chance for happiness, and if I lose you now, I think I would die. Say you'll always be my baby."

Her father had been absolutely overjoyed at the news, despite "Jimmy Mortimer's" rather low position in life. Jim wore a suit nearly half the price of his usual and she wore flats at her father's request, so that they Jim would appear taller. In the engagement photographs, she made sure that the tilt of her head when she kissed him obscured his face.

The photographer was most scandalised by how long the kiss lasted.

vi. Moran and Moriarty

Things changed in subtle ways, though in equally subtle ways, they were exactly the same. During most days and many nights, she was Mycroft's assistant. She was posh and nameless, beautiful and brainless, or so many people assumed, unless Mycroft had her rattle off information about someone they are tracking through the CCTV, or unless she was forced to use the little gun which was part of her uniform.

During many of her days and most of her nights, she was Moriarty's right hand. She was an ex-soldier and a criminal, uncouth and far closer to Jim than anyone thought she had a right to be. Few people who met her lived. No one who met Jim did, except her.

She took Jim's refusal to shoot her as a sign that she was now allowed to pursue him as actively as she wanted, but catching his attention was oddly difficult. It took about four months after the incident with the handgun before she finally received some satisfaction on the Holmes project, at least. It seemed like Jim was always distracted by a crime to consult on, tapping away at his laptop, or one of his many projects: a web-series he was starring in, a book he was writing, a math dissertation he was publishing. It was simply ridiculous.

Moran sat down to tea with Mia Hemswick, Anastasia Whyte-Richardson, and Dolly Dolph after four months of ignoring their wishes to congratulate her on her engagement. She wished that she had managed to ignore them for longer, but there were really only so many ways that you could politely say "no, no thanks to dinner, but let's meet up for a drink sometime!" and not mean it before the other party's dogged persistence wore you down.

"So who is this dashing gentleman who swept you off your feet?" Dolly asked, before the scones had even arrived. "We've all been dying to know. It was quite out of left field. We had all rather thought you were--"

The three exchanged glances and burst into nervous laughter. Moran eyed the bread knife on the table and envisioned gouging out their eyes.

"I met him at work. Not the usual crowd," she allowed. She was trying to remember if she had packed her flask, and if she could still discreetly tipple a shot or three into a cup of tea. She had had the talent in secondary school, but it had been a while since it had been required of her to discreetly inebriate herself.

"You must give us more details!" Anastasia pressed, tossing her perfectly-dyed red curls back. "What man could hook the legendary Sabine Moran? You only ever dated university boys all through school, and then you ran off to shoot people, of all things."

"He's a security consultant and he's often away, so it'll have to be a long engagement," Moran said. She was cut off when the scones and tea arrived, blessedly, and for a few moments, the table fell into a flurry of pleased murmurs, clinging glasses, and politely patted lips. Perhaps ten minutes later, Mia realised what she had said.

"A long engagement! Dear, that's the kiss of death!"

"I imagine the kiss of death would involve more tongue," Moran said dryly, buttering her scone.

The three women all made horrified, shocked noises. Moran began envisioning the perfect kill shot. The way her breath settled into her chest and her shoulders released all tension, the way her joints went liquid and her eyes sharpened-- it was like the best kind of orgasm.

"But Sabine, dear, long engagements! What if he should stray? You say he's away often. Are you sure it's on business? Perhaps he's just stringing you along."
"Perhaps I'm just stringing him along!" Moran snapped. "God, Mia."

Mia's eyes flashed and she leaned forward. "I'm just trying to protect you. You would do well to take my advice. After my first husband, well."

"I'm sure you mean well, Mia, but Jim's fidelity is not something I have to worry about." Moran sighed. "He's a workaholic. He's a brat-- utterly childish-- and obsessive, and inconsiderate, but I honestly don't worry about him sleeping with another woman."

"Talking me up again, sweetheart?"

Moran closed her eyes, not wanting to see as Jim slid into the seat next to her, his hand warm on her knee. He leaned in briefly, brushing her cheek with his lips so as not to get her gloss on him.

"I will murder you," she said, not for the first time.

He quirked an eyebrow. "Promises, promises." His eyes trail over the other three women. "Are these your friends then?"

"Sure," Moran said, unconvincingly.

"You didn't tell us he was an Irishman." Dolly looked at him with interest. "How… intriguing."

"I am to please," Jim drawled.

"No you don't," Moran said crossly. "What do you need, Jimmy?"

His nose wrinkled at the hated nickname. "Fine, Sabine. We need to talk about work-- it will be lots of fun. Can you leave early?"

"How dreadful. Well, if I must!"

"Oh, we must do this again sometime!" said Anastasia, her gaze fixed to Jim. "We'll bring our husbands and you'll bring Jim. Do you have a date for the wedding?"

"Small ceremony, very private, not sure yet-- we must be off, sorry."

Looping her arm through Jim's, she set off at a walk that wasn't, quite, a retreat-- it just looked like one. "

"I love you," she murmured fervently.

"I know. You'll love me even more when I tell you about what's up next."

"And what's that?"

"Have I ever told you about Carl Powers?"

It wasn't the first time a sociopath had told her that name.

Once upon a time, there was a grimy little boy named Moriarty. He had started attending school in London at twelve years old, and no one liked him. Not just because of his Dublin accent, not because he was dirty, not even because he stared through you like you were dead to him-- though it didn't help. No, they didn't like poor little Moriarty because Moriarty was brilliant. Sums came to him faster than even a calculator could do them up. He comprehended theoretical physics in a way that most could only dream of. And he knew it, and he told every student about how stupid and pathetic they were at every chance he could get.

The boys didn't like that especially. Oh, the girls would cry and whinge away into each other's shoulders, but the boys took out their fists and their bricks wrapped in socks and beat Moriarty black and blue. Moriarty was clever, though. He knew the most expedient way to not have his studies interrupted by bruises would be to get rid of the ringleader, a rich boy absolutely obsessed with collective footwear: Carl Powers.

There was always a first, you know. A breaking point. An inevitable beginning. Carl Powers was the beginning of the transformation from Jimmy to Jim, and then to Moriarty. The name Moriarty meant more than just a person, after all. It meant that there was always someone out there clever enough to help even the most incompetent criminals get their revenge however they wanted to. A public service, really. Even the most downtrodden need to get back their own somehow, and Moriarty would always be there to help the waiter at the expensive restaurant that you snubbed kill you in cold blood, and never be caught.

But that was later. First, there was Carl. Moriarty started to pretend. He was just shy. He was just awkward. He admired Carl, really-- what lovely shoes! what a strong swimmer! If only Moriarty were as fit as Carl, he would definitely be able to pull all the girls, like Carl. He moved in close, and when Carl least expected it, Carl died doing what he loved.

A mercy killing, that's what it was. Wasn't it best to die doing something you loved?

Moriarty took the shoes, not because he wanted them or needed them as a trophy, but because Carl would have hated that Moriarty had them.

It was all fun and games until this little rich boy with eyes too big for his face and curls all over the place started screaming to any police officer who would listen about murder. And where, Sherlock Holmes demanded, were the shoes? But no one would listen.

"The fairy tale of Moriarty," Moran said, once he was finished speaking. She was faintly disturbed for reasons that she couldn't quite settle on. His logic made sense to her-- after all, hadn't her ruination of Lisa Wellington when she was fifteen made the girl's family move and Lord Moran scramble to avoid jail time for her? It wasn't the idea of getting rid of the problem in your life that bothered her.

"So what does this mean?" she asked at last. "Why are you telling me your fairy tale?"

He raised an eyebrow. "You did say you wanted to know more about my plans with Holmes, darling."

"And? Why now, when it was four months ago that I asked you?"

His eyes flared with that familiar, mad light that always gave her a chill. They burned like lit coals in the pale expanse of his face, quick to light and hard to cool.

"Sherlock is one of the few people with even the slightest chance of catching me. I could have let it slide-- keep an eye on it, but let it slide-- and then you went and reminded him of Carl Powers."

"Your beginning. The birth of Moriarty."

"And now, I expect, of Sherlock Holmes."

Moran liked Sherlock genuinely. It was a shame that he was sure to die in this game-- that someone so brilliant, so childish, somehow so pure-- had to fall to Moriarty could succeed. But she had admired some of those she had shot before. She had already made her decision, and she stuck by it.

"How can I help?" Moran asked.

Jim smiled, a fox in the hen house. The plan that she was finally in on was a long one, and difficult, and he needed help. That was her.

They divided responsibilities. Moriarty was already established as someone to fear, respect, and go to when you needed Daddy to fix it. He would appear in person even more rarely, and Moran would take over some of his duties working on the computer-- or more precisely, her phone, using the laptop only when necessary. To set Jim's plans in motion, both Jim and Moran would be Moriarty.

"This is the absolute hottest thing you've ever done," Jim said thickly a week later, the first time she signed an email with their ambiguous "M."

"You're a narcissist," Moran said fondly. His hand was inching up her thigh for the first time. He traced intricate patterns on the crease where her thigh joined her body, swirls and dashes and stars, runes in languages she didn't know.

"Fortunately, so are you, Moran."

She turned to meet his kiss. She wanted him more than she wanted sex, she realised as her breath began to stutter. His hands were in her hair, pulling her against him. She wanted his attention, his focus, his admiration, his interest, and all it implied. Sex was more a sign of that then the actual goal.

She nipped his neck, low and hard at the nape, and smirked at his scowl.

"Don't start something you don't intend to finish, boss. I've made my intentions perfectly clear, after all."

He raised his brow at her, arch. "Did I say I didn't intend to finish it, Moran?"

She shrugged, sitting up enough to put the laptop aside on the coffee table. Leaning into his shoulder, she pressed her lips into his temple, quick and fond.

"You're you. I suspect I would be more attractive to you if you thought you couldn't have me. Knowing that you can… why would that possibly interest you? Where's the challenge?"

He frowned, eyes darkening almost dangerously. "Don't begin to suspect that you can predict me, Moran," he warned. "I'm hardly normal enough for that."

"Of course not, sir," she said, tone mild enough to make the agreement nothing more than a platitude. His eyes flashed, furious, and she laughed. If anything, that made him angrier, pale face reddening.

"Do you think that having you isn't its own challenge?" Jim finally said, biting out the words like he would much rather bite her.

That startled her a little. It was just aside an open declaration, surprisingly sweet from a man who detested sentiment as if he was one of the Holmeses himself. "Yes, but I rather thought you would think the challenge a dull one."

In the face of her surprise, he caught her gaze as he lowered his mouth to hers, glaring into her even as he caught her lip in his teeth.

She snapped. Breaking away, she pulled his hands up, pinning them above his head at the wrist as she pressed her lips to his. Their mouths met and parted, a gliding pressure that was soft and hard in its turn. His scent filled her nose, the vague smell of blood and an expensive cologne. It was like she was steeping in him, drawing out his scent, his taste, until it was all hers. His neck tasted acrid against her tongue, bitter and almost sour from the cologne, the feel of his skin soft in her mouth as she bruised it with her teeth. She switched her grip on his wrists to one hand and leaned hard against them as she used the other to unbutton his crisp, expensive white shirt. Through it, he watched her passively, like he was above it, above her, and she bit at the skin above his nipple, turning it rough and red in retaliation. His ribs, just at his heart-- his stomach, below his bellybutton-- both received the same red mark, a flag that she had managed to touch the untouchable.

Finally, like a valediction, he arched at her mouth, pressing into her touch even as he tried to tug his wrists free. He wasn't fit the way she was, and despite his struggle couldn't quite manage to pull out of her grip. She eased a tad, leaning over him to kiss him, slow and careful as her muscles burn to keep him under her control. His face tilted up into hers, his long, dark lashes sweeping down against his cheek.

His eyes blinked open slowly, pupils dilated so wide that he looked possessed. "You're playing with fire, Moran."

"If your head gets too big, you won't fit into the crown, Moriarty."

She released him, though, since she didn't doubt he would figure out some retaliation if she didn't. His shirt hung open as he stood, offering her a hand like she had just won a negotiation. In his slacks, she could see his arousal, and he was bruised from her lips, mussed; maybe she did win something after all. Feeling like a child at Christmas, she followed him into her bedroom.

He peeled her out of her jeans with careful deftness, somehow managing to divest her of her clothes without her really noticing. His eyes laughed at her, distant but fond. He knew where her condoms were somehow. Likely, some of the time he spent breaking and entering her flat went to snooping and rearranging.

He didn't care for her the way she did for him, but it wasn't about the sex anyway, she thought when his hands were on her legs (gentle) and he pushed inside her (rough). Her head hit the back board as her back stiffened, and her vision began to blur at the edges as her climax started to tighten in her stomach and her chest. It was about… well, it was about being Moriarty.

She gasped, like a lost little girl surprised by a ghost, and closed her eyes.

He didn't sleep after, but he stared at the ceiling and held her to his chest until she did.