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The Holmes Dilemna, Ch.8
Title: The Holmes Dilemna Ch. 8
Pairing: Mycroft/Sherlock, Sherlock/John
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3,897
Summary: Mycroft receives an analyse of his relationship from none other than Moriarty.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this, unfortunately. Written for this prompt at the BBC Sherlock Kink Meme.
How one man could last as long as Moriarty had was admittedly interesting. Standing in front of the two way mirror, Mycroft watched yet another interrogation session with rapt fascination. For weeks Moriarty had been here, silently watching them all in a way Mycroft had scarcely seen before. He wasn’t like most people who came into their good graces. There were no cries of pain, no bitter laments of his treatment when he was alone. The man was quiet as the dead, somewhere between the reality they had created for him and his own twisted mind.
Catching those bottomless eyes staring at him, as though Moriarty could see anything but his own reflection in the glass, Mycroft stood a bit straighter. The madman could think himself as clever as he wanted to, at the end of the day. No one left their good graces until he got exactly what it was he wanted from them.
Noting when the agent came to stand next to him, silently wiping his hands after another failed day of work, Mycroft figured it was time he started to handle the matter himself. Nodding at the agent, he made his way into the small room. It reeked of stale sweat and the coppery scent of blood as Moriarty sat there so patiently. If he had noticed the way his lip was bleeding, he didn’t make any move to correct the problem.
Taking his own seat at the table, Mycroft wiped at the perfectly clean surface before resting his hands on it.
“Hello, James. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The man didn’t as much as move a muscle. He just continued to sit there, hands resting in his lap, eyes blindly staring through Mycroft more than at him. A look that Mycroft knew was meant to unnerve based on the way even his best people gave mention of feeling a bit leery around the genius. It was as though he was he was taking them apart piece by piece, somehow getting inside their heads, they’d confessed time and time again.
Seeming to perk up, Mycroft smiled a bit wider and asked, “May I get you anything?”
The only response he was given was the slow blink, those large, almost soulless eyes taking a moment’s break from boring holes into him.
“Continuing to say nothing won’t help get you out of here, you understand that, don’t you?”
“Well, I suppose if you’ve nothing to say.”
Looking toward the glass, Moriarty licked his split lip. Standing in front of his seat, Mycroft watched as Moriarty leaned toward him, eyes firmly looked on his own reflection once again.
“They’re watching. Must keep quiet,” he whispered.
It was as though the man was letting him in on some secret he expected no one else to know. Looking toward the window himself, Mycroft knew that the chances of Moriarty actually seeing anyone on the other side was about as likely as his chances of truly being so mad as to think that Mycroft wasn’t one of the people that often lurked on the other side. It was nothing more than another game.
But, for the first time, Moriarty had spoken to anyone since they’d captured him. So, with his eyes locked on the glass, as though him staring as well would help give him some kind of peace of mind, Mycroft asked, “Would you like them to go away?”
Moriarty didn’t respond. He merely looked away from the glass quickly, eyes focusing on the table top. Noting the curious behaviour of the man, Mycroft glanced back at the glass before pushing in his chair. He knew he was likely falling for Moriarty’s ploy, but he was certain that there was no risk. Whatever Moriarty had considered, Mycroft was certain he had thought of before hand.
So without another thought, he made his way out of the room and politely dismissed the agents there, watching over the proceedings for any sign of danger. He admired the way the concern for his safety, but it wasn’t even necessary. Moriarty was known for getting other people to do as he said rather than do anything himself. If anything, Mycroft felt he was more at risk with someone he didn’t have a clear eye on watching the entire proceedings, not that he didn’t trust his own people.
Thankfully, they left without a word, likely off to go watch the camera feed of the entire conversation from a safe distance. Still doing their jobs, like he would’ve expected, and appeasing the insane worries of the criminal consultant.
Looking back at the glass when the sounds of footsteps were gone, Mycroft wondered if he had made the right move as he watched the first signs of true madness in the man. Moriarty still sat in his chair, but his eyes were filled with a sort of manic glee as he smiled far too brightly at Mycroft, since it didn’t matter if Moriarty could actually see him or not. The man had a sixth sense for knowing just where to look somehow.
Moriarty certainly was nothing like anyone even Mycroft had encountered. Still, there was a plethora of necessary information that needed to be gotten from the depths of that brilliant mind and Mycroft had already come to the conclusion that he was the one who needed to get it.
Walking into the room, he smiled back at Moriarty as he took his seat, yet again. “They’re gone,” he announced with a gesture toward the glass.
Chuckling, Moriarty leaned back in his seat, rather than look at the glass again. “And yet the iceman remains. Hello.”
“Hello, James.”
“Sent all the mice scurrying away?” He asked, fists pressed to his face like an excited child. Giggling to himself, he began rocked back and forth. “You are powerful.”
“To some extent,” Mycroft agreed.
With a look of shock, Moriarty gasped. “And modest too. All the mums must just love you.”
“Thank you.”
“All sensible choices for when the kiddies learn that the mean, pretty boys aren’t reliable. That they never call back,” he said, the excitement slowly replaced by a look of anger.
Furrowing his brows, Mycroft managed to look moderately upset. “I’m wounded,” he said resting a hand over his heart. “You only ruined an international mission because Sherlock didn’t call back?”
“Why do we do anything?” Moriarty questioned with a careless shrug. “Why would you leave a willing body for the sake of seeing me? We both know I’ll always be home waiting for your return.”
“Excuse me?”
A look of disgust quickly falling over his features, whatever game they had been playing came to an immediate stop as the atmosphere around Moriarty seemed to grow cold. “Don’t do that,” he growled. “I already know you had the date on purpose. Because you would’ve noticed the bit of fabric caught in your watch, the way your own is still ruffled in the back. Dust from a tiramisu on the left side of your jacket. That your breath smells like mint in order to cover up the smell of it.”
“Could have—“
“Been stage? Yeah, it could’ve,” he agreed with a roll of his eyes. “But why would you fake a scuff on the instep on your left shoe? They’re not new, but they are nice. Very nice actually. I should get a pair.”
Mycroft stared at him, brows slightly creased as he played the evening over in his mind. It was easy to recall the moment when Sherlock pressed against him, knowing that it would’ve had to have happened then. But more than his own failure to notice such a fact was the way Moriarty’s mood seem to be lifted a he eyed Mycroft’s shoes curiously.
Looking back up at him, Moriarty lurched forward as he pointed at him. “And there,” he said wiggling his finger in front of the politician’s face. “I’ve surprised the Iceman again.” Pointing back at himself, he stared at his finger, eyes going a bit cross eyed as he added, “And look, you’ve surprised me by being more interested that I noticed a scuff than anything else.”
“The devil’s in the detail”
Following his finger tip, Moriarty held it up as he tilted his head to the side.
“You never answered me. I mean, I know they say familiarity breeds contempt, but I’d have figured a man willing to sleep with you would be tempting instead of contempting. Unless you’re.... you know, that way inclined.”
Chuckling, Mycroft shook his head at the man’s insane immaturity. “Interested in women? I’d hate to inform you of this, but most men and a number of a woman tend to be that way inclined.”
“I know,” Moriarty agreed. “Little Harry Watson is that way inclined. Detective Lestrade, Miss Adler, even the abusive friend you’ve given me. Although I think he’s going to dump her soon. Commitment issues.”
“So, you know about the people in Sherlock’s life?” Mycroft questioned, feeling mildly concerned by the statement.
Not that he didn’t have reason o know of Irene, given that he was the one behind her failed plans. Even Lestrade could be rationally explained, since the man often went to Sherlock. But knowing about John’s sister had no purpose unless he was doing in depth research into the good doctor’s life, something that would only happen if he had thoroughly looked into everyone who found themselves in contact with Sherlock.
“Answer me, Iceman,” Moriarty said in a sing-song voice.
“You mean confirm your beliefs? Fine, I put my work before my love life.”
“I’m better than sex, Iceman?”
“No,” Mycroft said quickly.
“Liar!” Laughing as he shook his head at some joke only he knew of, Moriarty sighed happily. Gripping the edge of the table, he began to move his head back and forth like some sort of snake. “Sex is sex. All grinding and humping and putting fingers in naughty places. Piecing together a criminal mastermind? You’d always pick me over sex.”
Ignoring him, Mycroft chose to get to the crux of their meeting, rather than continue to let the man analyze him.
“You’re a consultant criminal that—“
“Don’t do that!” He yelled, that short fuse of his going off again. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he let out a heavy sigh. “Don’t... Don’t start with the work. We were having fun.”
Watching him with a vague sense of boredom, Mycroft waited for the man to calm himself. Told himself that the man before him was no more dangerous than Sherlock. They were both just overgrown children, although where Sherlock chose to sulk, Moriarty threw tantrums.
Resting an elbow on the table, the madman stared up at the ceiling. “Is he pretty? Your lover?”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Mycroft said, figuring it best to play along with his madness.
“I could cut out your eyes and have a look myself?” Moriarty offered
Nodding in acknowledgement, Mycroft returned to his point. “Works with everyone from petty thugs to terrorist cells. You come from—“
“It also helps that you don’t love him because your heart—“
“Is made of ice and I have no feelings. May I continue?” Mycroft asked, growing tired of the interruptions.
“No,” Moriarty shot back. “You know what the file tells you. Yes, I do that. No need to question. And honestly, I do it for the same reason a dog licks himself.”
“Because you can.”
“Because it’s fun,” he corrected him. “Kind of like dating really. So many people wanting you, but you just want that one person who will keep you amused for awhile.”
Smirking at that, Mycroft scoffed. “Rather more romantic than I would’ve expected.”
Faking a smile, Moriarty asked, “Are you tired of him? I mean, you put work before him. Getting a little too comfortable?”
“I don’t need to be interested at every turn.”
“It helps though. Sherlock likes being interested at every turn too.”
“Maybe when you get out I’ll set you up with him,” he offered sarcastically.
“Silly Iceman with his head full of frost. I told you, pretty things just break your heart.”
“Well, I don’t think John would care too much for you given that you strapped a bomb to his chest. Plus he would think you’re just using him to get to Sherlock.”
Opening his mouth to say something, Moriarty stopped himself. Making a great show thinking it over as he scratched as his jaw, he eventually nodded in agreement. “It’d be true. And how long have you been with him if he’s so boring I’m a wonderful alternative to sex?”
“But you said you weren’t. According to you being here is more interesting than sex is for me,” Mycroft corrected him smugly.
“It is, but you’re dating this man of your own accord. Must mean you’re willing to overlook a lack of intellectual stimulation for the thrill of putting your ice lolly in special places.”
“You’re really proud of your Iceman moniker aren’t you?”
Not that he cared much either way about it. After years of teasing as a child and at the hands of his brother, the jokes about his lack of feeling were nothing. If anything, he took it as a bit of a compliment, given how easily so many people let themselves be run by their emotions. But Moriarty wasn’t the type to admire that sort of behaviour, and underneath his mercurial emotions, he didn’t seem as though he was any more emotional than Mycroft allowed himself to be.
Looking around the room, obviously bored now, Moriarty made some non-committal noise. “Prick seemed a bit terse.”
“I see,” Mycroft said, not missing the implication behind that statement.
“And don’t bother denying that you date him for your own pleasure. There’s no shame in it.”
“Unlike dating someone for the sake of some greater scheme?”
And that had the man’s interest once again. Biting his lip, he continued to look around the room, head once again sway to something only he heard. “Turning the tables on me? Well, if we must go through my sexual escapades, I did.”
“Miss Hooper?”
Moriarty covered as he leaned back in his seat. Glancing to his left and right, he leaned forward, arms splayed across the table, hand resting on Mycroft’s wrist as he asked, “Did you just make a naughty joke about my ex-girlfriend? What a bad Iceman.”
Glancing at the hand that remained on his wrist, he decided to ignore it. If the man wanted to test what boundaries they were going to allow him, he was perfectly free to. Instead, Mycroft focused on that oh so amused face.
“You used her for the sake of what? Why go out with her when you didn’t even do anything to Sherlock?”
“Tsk tsk. You’re overlooking so very much I did,” Moriarty complained as he removed his hand. Sitting upright in his seat, he rubbed tiredly at his eyes before gesturing for Mycroft to continue speaking.
“No, I’m not,” he said, pleased when Moriarty seemed to regain some of his interest in their conversation. “You gave him your number and nothing more. You would’ve already known he was on that foolish Carl Powers case because you set it up for him. Which, if you really wanted him to call, you would’ve gave him your number after telling him you were behind that little mystery. After all, it’s been his white whale since it first happened.”
Not that Mycroft wasn’t privately thankful that Moriarty had brought an end to that particular matter. E remembered all too well how crushed Sherlock had been as a boy when no one believed him, or cared about it, in the case of Mycroft’s own stance. A boy drowning in a pool was just that, regardless of whether or not it was intentional.
“Giving tips on how to get Sherlock? I don’t know whether that’s for my sake or his.”
“You became obsessed with him. Why?”
“No,” Moriarty snapped.
“What?”
“Wrong question. Don’t be dense now. I was almost enjoying this.”
“Why Molly?” Mycroft asked cautiously. The last thing he wanted was for the man to slip back into his trance like state after the unexpected progress that had come from the conversation so far.
“Are you asking me if that’s the right question or is that your question?”
“You could’ve gotten close to anyone,” Mycroft attempted more firmly. “Detective Lestrade, John, that Mike Stamford. Even Mrs. Hudson, if you wanted to get really close to him. But you chose Molly, the girl he treats with little more than indifference. Why?”
“You tell me, Iceman,” Moriarty challenged. “You don’t really care what I say. You just enjoy the puzzle.”
Racking his mind, Mycroft slowly lifted his head as the realization dawn on him. Mouth becoming slightly pinched as Moriarty arched a curious brow at him, he could’ve kicked himself for overlooking such a simple answer.
“He doesn’t notice her. He cares more about the men Detective Lestrade’s wife invites to her bed than Molly. And despite being a genius, or rather, because of it, you didn’t want to be in the centre of his attention. You just wanted to watch him work. Watch him tear you apart knowing he was falling into your trap. Getting it all wrong”
“I get nervous when meeting people I like like. My palms sweat,” he said, waving his hands in an effort to prove his point.
“You just wanted to watch him because you do like him. He’s everything you always wished for.”
And if that wasn’t a laughable thought, than Mycroft didn’t know what was. Moriarty liked Sherlock for the same reason Sherlock liked him. They were nothing more than a challenge that neither had ever had the benefit of meeting, since he wasn’t a challenge to his brother. He was merely a game to be played whenever he got bored. Certainly, some high power had to have conceived two childish men with such opposing views for each other. Coincidences of that nature were near astronomical when considering the odds.
“Your lover loves you more than you do him,” Moriarty said without any sort of preamble. “That’s why you’re here. You’re waiting for him to get bored or for someone else to come along and ruin everything. You’re resigned to the relationship because you don’t want to enjoy it.”
“I’m a very out closeted man,” came Mycroft’s sarcastic reply.
Slamming his hands down on the table, Moriarty laughed. “Ha! I don’t even care that you’re trying to deflect because I’m right.”
“Oh? I was under the impression that—“
“Don’t care,” he said, waving his hand to make Mycroft shut up.
It was something Mycroft did more on habit than anything else, as he watched the madman expectantly. If the stars had aligned just a bit differently, he was positive that Jim and Sherlock could’ve made the best of friends, if they didn’t drive each other, or Mycroft himself, completely mad first.
“You here is making me miss the abusive one. So to end this now, I picked Molly because I wanted to meet Sherlock. I wanted to see him up close because he’s been ruining my hard work from a distance for a while now. More than that I wanted to be someone he would forget instantly and that’s easiest done when being the no one who dates the person he never thinks about.”
“Sherlock has known Miss Hooper for some time now, actually.”
“So? I’ve known my brother all my life. Doesn’t mean I was particularly concerned about his chances of coming home in a box.”
“I’m sure the Colonel must adore you.”
The statement seemed to mean nothing to Moriarty, who merely shrugged off the entire thing as though they were talking about some stranger instead of the man’s brother. It was actually rather fascinating, given how much he seemed to care about Sherlock, obsession or not. Sherlock’s behaviour may have had him hovering around the fringes of being a sociopath, but Moriarty was hovering around the fringes of what made a person human.
“Sherlock cares about Lestrade because no one wants a DI that might lose his calm or be upset that his wife is screwing everyone but him in the midst of a case,” Moriarty started in an effort to change the conversation from anything as boring as his own family, judging by the look on his face. “He cares about John because he has a poorly hidden stiffy for him and he cares about Mrs. Hudson because of his misplaced affections for your mum.”
“And yet you figure Molly means nothing?” Mycroft asked, interested in Moriarty’s view of his brother.
“No. She’s useful, like a hammer. You don’t have feelings for them, but eventually you might need it. That and she wasn’t clever enough to piece it together, unlike you.”
“Oh. You were going to pretend to be my gay boyfriend? Doubt it would’ve had the same affect.”
Glassy eyed look falling over his face again, Moriarty asked, “How did you wind up with someone you don’t really love? Because I know how and why I wound up with Molly.”
“I never said I don’t love him,” Mycroft corrected. “I said I put my work before him.”
“Same thing at the end of the day.”
Swallowing, as he feigned contemplation on such a comment, Mycroft tapped his finger on the table before answering as honestly as he could.
“He pursued me. I gave in.”
“So much for not giving into peer pressure,” Moriarty scoffed.
Which was as clear of a sign as any that nothing good was going to come from continuing with him. Rising from his seat, Mycroft smiled politely and told him, “I believe we’re done for today.”
“Returning home? Or going to see him?”
“How do you know it’s not the same?” He shot back.
“Because you would’ve said it was instead of deflecting. You really don’t love him.”
“I truly value the interest you’ve taken in my sex life, but I must get going.”
“Poor little Iceman with his heart of snow,” he sang. “The joys of love, he’ll never know.”
“Goodbye James,” Mycroft said as he made his way to the door.
“Jim,” Moriarty called out, a touch of annoyance in his voice. Turning to look at him, Mycroft arched his brows while the rest of his face remained impassive. Moriarty only stared back, completely still and focused. “James is my father. And brother. I’m Jim. Jim Moriarty. Hi,” he said, wiggling his fingers in a rather meek wave.
It was perhaps the only honest thing that Moriarty had told him that wasn’t meant to annoy him. A brief moment of sanity and courtesy for no other reason than the fact that he likely knew they would be forced into more of these meetings. But, it was something that held some sort of meaning to the criminal mastermind, and that was a start.
Holding up his own hand in a greeting Mycroft nodded. “Hello.”
With that, he walked out the door. Someone would, no doubt, be along to take the man back to his cell before long. His only concern was looking over the video feed of their meeting and piecing together just what it was that Moriarty was playing at and how to get more useful information out of him before turning him loose.
Pairing: Mycroft/Sherlock, Sherlock/John
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3,897
Summary: Mycroft receives an analyse of his relationship from none other than Moriarty.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this, unfortunately. Written for this prompt at the BBC Sherlock Kink Meme.
How one man could last as long as Moriarty had was admittedly interesting. Standing in front of the two way mirror, Mycroft watched yet another interrogation session with rapt fascination. For weeks Moriarty had been here, silently watching them all in a way Mycroft had scarcely seen before. He wasn’t like most people who came into their good graces. There were no cries of pain, no bitter laments of his treatment when he was alone. The man was quiet as the dead, somewhere between the reality they had created for him and his own twisted mind.
Catching those bottomless eyes staring at him, as though Moriarty could see anything but his own reflection in the glass, Mycroft stood a bit straighter. The madman could think himself as clever as he wanted to, at the end of the day. No one left their good graces until he got exactly what it was he wanted from them.
Noting when the agent came to stand next to him, silently wiping his hands after another failed day of work, Mycroft figured it was time he started to handle the matter himself. Nodding at the agent, he made his way into the small room. It reeked of stale sweat and the coppery scent of blood as Moriarty sat there so patiently. If he had noticed the way his lip was bleeding, he didn’t make any move to correct the problem.
Taking his own seat at the table, Mycroft wiped at the perfectly clean surface before resting his hands on it.
“Hello, James. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The man didn’t as much as move a muscle. He just continued to sit there, hands resting in his lap, eyes blindly staring through Mycroft more than at him. A look that Mycroft knew was meant to unnerve based on the way even his best people gave mention of feeling a bit leery around the genius. It was as though he was he was taking them apart piece by piece, somehow getting inside their heads, they’d confessed time and time again.
Seeming to perk up, Mycroft smiled a bit wider and asked, “May I get you anything?”
The only response he was given was the slow blink, those large, almost soulless eyes taking a moment’s break from boring holes into him.
“Continuing to say nothing won’t help get you out of here, you understand that, don’t you?”
“Well, I suppose if you’ve nothing to say.”
Looking toward the glass, Moriarty licked his split lip. Standing in front of his seat, Mycroft watched as Moriarty leaned toward him, eyes firmly looked on his own reflection once again.
“They’re watching. Must keep quiet,” he whispered.
It was as though the man was letting him in on some secret he expected no one else to know. Looking toward the window himself, Mycroft knew that the chances of Moriarty actually seeing anyone on the other side was about as likely as his chances of truly being so mad as to think that Mycroft wasn’t one of the people that often lurked on the other side. It was nothing more than another game.
But, for the first time, Moriarty had spoken to anyone since they’d captured him. So, with his eyes locked on the glass, as though him staring as well would help give him some kind of peace of mind, Mycroft asked, “Would you like them to go away?”
Moriarty didn’t respond. He merely looked away from the glass quickly, eyes focusing on the table top. Noting the curious behaviour of the man, Mycroft glanced back at the glass before pushing in his chair. He knew he was likely falling for Moriarty’s ploy, but he was certain that there was no risk. Whatever Moriarty had considered, Mycroft was certain he had thought of before hand.
So without another thought, he made his way out of the room and politely dismissed the agents there, watching over the proceedings for any sign of danger. He admired the way the concern for his safety, but it wasn’t even necessary. Moriarty was known for getting other people to do as he said rather than do anything himself. If anything, Mycroft felt he was more at risk with someone he didn’t have a clear eye on watching the entire proceedings, not that he didn’t trust his own people.
Thankfully, they left without a word, likely off to go watch the camera feed of the entire conversation from a safe distance. Still doing their jobs, like he would’ve expected, and appeasing the insane worries of the criminal consultant.
Looking back at the glass when the sounds of footsteps were gone, Mycroft wondered if he had made the right move as he watched the first signs of true madness in the man. Moriarty still sat in his chair, but his eyes were filled with a sort of manic glee as he smiled far too brightly at Mycroft, since it didn’t matter if Moriarty could actually see him or not. The man had a sixth sense for knowing just where to look somehow.
Moriarty certainly was nothing like anyone even Mycroft had encountered. Still, there was a plethora of necessary information that needed to be gotten from the depths of that brilliant mind and Mycroft had already come to the conclusion that he was the one who needed to get it.
Walking into the room, he smiled back at Moriarty as he took his seat, yet again. “They’re gone,” he announced with a gesture toward the glass.
Chuckling, Moriarty leaned back in his seat, rather than look at the glass again. “And yet the iceman remains. Hello.”
“Hello, James.”
“Sent all the mice scurrying away?” He asked, fists pressed to his face like an excited child. Giggling to himself, he began rocked back and forth. “You are powerful.”
“To some extent,” Mycroft agreed.
With a look of shock, Moriarty gasped. “And modest too. All the mums must just love you.”
“Thank you.”
“All sensible choices for when the kiddies learn that the mean, pretty boys aren’t reliable. That they never call back,” he said, the excitement slowly replaced by a look of anger.
Furrowing his brows, Mycroft managed to look moderately upset. “I’m wounded,” he said resting a hand over his heart. “You only ruined an international mission because Sherlock didn’t call back?”
“Why do we do anything?” Moriarty questioned with a careless shrug. “Why would you leave a willing body for the sake of seeing me? We both know I’ll always be home waiting for your return.”
“Excuse me?”
A look of disgust quickly falling over his features, whatever game they had been playing came to an immediate stop as the atmosphere around Moriarty seemed to grow cold. “Don’t do that,” he growled. “I already know you had the date on purpose. Because you would’ve noticed the bit of fabric caught in your watch, the way your own is still ruffled in the back. Dust from a tiramisu on the left side of your jacket. That your breath smells like mint in order to cover up the smell of it.”
“Could have—“
“Been stage? Yeah, it could’ve,” he agreed with a roll of his eyes. “But why would you fake a scuff on the instep on your left shoe? They’re not new, but they are nice. Very nice actually. I should get a pair.”
Mycroft stared at him, brows slightly creased as he played the evening over in his mind. It was easy to recall the moment when Sherlock pressed against him, knowing that it would’ve had to have happened then. But more than his own failure to notice such a fact was the way Moriarty’s mood seem to be lifted a he eyed Mycroft’s shoes curiously.
Looking back up at him, Moriarty lurched forward as he pointed at him. “And there,” he said wiggling his finger in front of the politician’s face. “I’ve surprised the Iceman again.” Pointing back at himself, he stared at his finger, eyes going a bit cross eyed as he added, “And look, you’ve surprised me by being more interested that I noticed a scuff than anything else.”
“The devil’s in the detail”
Following his finger tip, Moriarty held it up as he tilted his head to the side.
“You never answered me. I mean, I know they say familiarity breeds contempt, but I’d have figured a man willing to sleep with you would be tempting instead of contempting. Unless you’re.... you know, that way inclined.”
Chuckling, Mycroft shook his head at the man’s insane immaturity. “Interested in women? I’d hate to inform you of this, but most men and a number of a woman tend to be that way inclined.”
“I know,” Moriarty agreed. “Little Harry Watson is that way inclined. Detective Lestrade, Miss Adler, even the abusive friend you’ve given me. Although I think he’s going to dump her soon. Commitment issues.”
“So, you know about the people in Sherlock’s life?” Mycroft questioned, feeling mildly concerned by the statement.
Not that he didn’t have reason o know of Irene, given that he was the one behind her failed plans. Even Lestrade could be rationally explained, since the man often went to Sherlock. But knowing about John’s sister had no purpose unless he was doing in depth research into the good doctor’s life, something that would only happen if he had thoroughly looked into everyone who found themselves in contact with Sherlock.
“Answer me, Iceman,” Moriarty said in a sing-song voice.
“You mean confirm your beliefs? Fine, I put my work before my love life.”
“I’m better than sex, Iceman?”
“No,” Mycroft said quickly.
“Liar!” Laughing as he shook his head at some joke only he knew of, Moriarty sighed happily. Gripping the edge of the table, he began to move his head back and forth like some sort of snake. “Sex is sex. All grinding and humping and putting fingers in naughty places. Piecing together a criminal mastermind? You’d always pick me over sex.”
Ignoring him, Mycroft chose to get to the crux of their meeting, rather than continue to let the man analyze him.
“You’re a consultant criminal that—“
“Don’t do that!” He yelled, that short fuse of his going off again. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he let out a heavy sigh. “Don’t... Don’t start with the work. We were having fun.”
Watching him with a vague sense of boredom, Mycroft waited for the man to calm himself. Told himself that the man before him was no more dangerous than Sherlock. They were both just overgrown children, although where Sherlock chose to sulk, Moriarty threw tantrums.
Resting an elbow on the table, the madman stared up at the ceiling. “Is he pretty? Your lover?”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Mycroft said, figuring it best to play along with his madness.
“I could cut out your eyes and have a look myself?” Moriarty offered
Nodding in acknowledgement, Mycroft returned to his point. “Works with everyone from petty thugs to terrorist cells. You come from—“
“It also helps that you don’t love him because your heart—“
“Is made of ice and I have no feelings. May I continue?” Mycroft asked, growing tired of the interruptions.
“No,” Moriarty shot back. “You know what the file tells you. Yes, I do that. No need to question. And honestly, I do it for the same reason a dog licks himself.”
“Because you can.”
“Because it’s fun,” he corrected him. “Kind of like dating really. So many people wanting you, but you just want that one person who will keep you amused for awhile.”
Smirking at that, Mycroft scoffed. “Rather more romantic than I would’ve expected.”
Faking a smile, Moriarty asked, “Are you tired of him? I mean, you put work before him. Getting a little too comfortable?”
“I don’t need to be interested at every turn.”
“It helps though. Sherlock likes being interested at every turn too.”
“Maybe when you get out I’ll set you up with him,” he offered sarcastically.
“Silly Iceman with his head full of frost. I told you, pretty things just break your heart.”
“Well, I don’t think John would care too much for you given that you strapped a bomb to his chest. Plus he would think you’re just using him to get to Sherlock.”
Opening his mouth to say something, Moriarty stopped himself. Making a great show thinking it over as he scratched as his jaw, he eventually nodded in agreement. “It’d be true. And how long have you been with him if he’s so boring I’m a wonderful alternative to sex?”
“But you said you weren’t. According to you being here is more interesting than sex is for me,” Mycroft corrected him smugly.
“It is, but you’re dating this man of your own accord. Must mean you’re willing to overlook a lack of intellectual stimulation for the thrill of putting your ice lolly in special places.”
“You’re really proud of your Iceman moniker aren’t you?”
Not that he cared much either way about it. After years of teasing as a child and at the hands of his brother, the jokes about his lack of feeling were nothing. If anything, he took it as a bit of a compliment, given how easily so many people let themselves be run by their emotions. But Moriarty wasn’t the type to admire that sort of behaviour, and underneath his mercurial emotions, he didn’t seem as though he was any more emotional than Mycroft allowed himself to be.
Looking around the room, obviously bored now, Moriarty made some non-committal noise. “Prick seemed a bit terse.”
“I see,” Mycroft said, not missing the implication behind that statement.
“And don’t bother denying that you date him for your own pleasure. There’s no shame in it.”
“Unlike dating someone for the sake of some greater scheme?”
And that had the man’s interest once again. Biting his lip, he continued to look around the room, head once again sway to something only he heard. “Turning the tables on me? Well, if we must go through my sexual escapades, I did.”
“Miss Hooper?”
Moriarty covered as he leaned back in his seat. Glancing to his left and right, he leaned forward, arms splayed across the table, hand resting on Mycroft’s wrist as he asked, “Did you just make a naughty joke about my ex-girlfriend? What a bad Iceman.”
Glancing at the hand that remained on his wrist, he decided to ignore it. If the man wanted to test what boundaries they were going to allow him, he was perfectly free to. Instead, Mycroft focused on that oh so amused face.
“You used her for the sake of what? Why go out with her when you didn’t even do anything to Sherlock?”
“Tsk tsk. You’re overlooking so very much I did,” Moriarty complained as he removed his hand. Sitting upright in his seat, he rubbed tiredly at his eyes before gesturing for Mycroft to continue speaking.
“No, I’m not,” he said, pleased when Moriarty seemed to regain some of his interest in their conversation. “You gave him your number and nothing more. You would’ve already known he was on that foolish Carl Powers case because you set it up for him. Which, if you really wanted him to call, you would’ve gave him your number after telling him you were behind that little mystery. After all, it’s been his white whale since it first happened.”
Not that Mycroft wasn’t privately thankful that Moriarty had brought an end to that particular matter. E remembered all too well how crushed Sherlock had been as a boy when no one believed him, or cared about it, in the case of Mycroft’s own stance. A boy drowning in a pool was just that, regardless of whether or not it was intentional.
“Giving tips on how to get Sherlock? I don’t know whether that’s for my sake or his.”
“You became obsessed with him. Why?”
“No,” Moriarty snapped.
“What?”
“Wrong question. Don’t be dense now. I was almost enjoying this.”
“Why Molly?” Mycroft asked cautiously. The last thing he wanted was for the man to slip back into his trance like state after the unexpected progress that had come from the conversation so far.
“Are you asking me if that’s the right question or is that your question?”
“You could’ve gotten close to anyone,” Mycroft attempted more firmly. “Detective Lestrade, John, that Mike Stamford. Even Mrs. Hudson, if you wanted to get really close to him. But you chose Molly, the girl he treats with little more than indifference. Why?”
“You tell me, Iceman,” Moriarty challenged. “You don’t really care what I say. You just enjoy the puzzle.”
Racking his mind, Mycroft slowly lifted his head as the realization dawn on him. Mouth becoming slightly pinched as Moriarty arched a curious brow at him, he could’ve kicked himself for overlooking such a simple answer.
“He doesn’t notice her. He cares more about the men Detective Lestrade’s wife invites to her bed than Molly. And despite being a genius, or rather, because of it, you didn’t want to be in the centre of his attention. You just wanted to watch him work. Watch him tear you apart knowing he was falling into your trap. Getting it all wrong”
“I get nervous when meeting people I like like. My palms sweat,” he said, waving his hands in an effort to prove his point.
“You just wanted to watch him because you do like him. He’s everything you always wished for.”
And if that wasn’t a laughable thought, than Mycroft didn’t know what was. Moriarty liked Sherlock for the same reason Sherlock liked him. They were nothing more than a challenge that neither had ever had the benefit of meeting, since he wasn’t a challenge to his brother. He was merely a game to be played whenever he got bored. Certainly, some high power had to have conceived two childish men with such opposing views for each other. Coincidences of that nature were near astronomical when considering the odds.
“Your lover loves you more than you do him,” Moriarty said without any sort of preamble. “That’s why you’re here. You’re waiting for him to get bored or for someone else to come along and ruin everything. You’re resigned to the relationship because you don’t want to enjoy it.”
“I’m a very out closeted man,” came Mycroft’s sarcastic reply.
Slamming his hands down on the table, Moriarty laughed. “Ha! I don’t even care that you’re trying to deflect because I’m right.”
“Oh? I was under the impression that—“
“Don’t care,” he said, waving his hand to make Mycroft shut up.
It was something Mycroft did more on habit than anything else, as he watched the madman expectantly. If the stars had aligned just a bit differently, he was positive that Jim and Sherlock could’ve made the best of friends, if they didn’t drive each other, or Mycroft himself, completely mad first.
“You here is making me miss the abusive one. So to end this now, I picked Molly because I wanted to meet Sherlock. I wanted to see him up close because he’s been ruining my hard work from a distance for a while now. More than that I wanted to be someone he would forget instantly and that’s easiest done when being the no one who dates the person he never thinks about.”
“Sherlock has known Miss Hooper for some time now, actually.”
“So? I’ve known my brother all my life. Doesn’t mean I was particularly concerned about his chances of coming home in a box.”
“I’m sure the Colonel must adore you.”
The statement seemed to mean nothing to Moriarty, who merely shrugged off the entire thing as though they were talking about some stranger instead of the man’s brother. It was actually rather fascinating, given how much he seemed to care about Sherlock, obsession or not. Sherlock’s behaviour may have had him hovering around the fringes of being a sociopath, but Moriarty was hovering around the fringes of what made a person human.
“Sherlock cares about Lestrade because no one wants a DI that might lose his calm or be upset that his wife is screwing everyone but him in the midst of a case,” Moriarty started in an effort to change the conversation from anything as boring as his own family, judging by the look on his face. “He cares about John because he has a poorly hidden stiffy for him and he cares about Mrs. Hudson because of his misplaced affections for your mum.”
“And yet you figure Molly means nothing?” Mycroft asked, interested in Moriarty’s view of his brother.
“No. She’s useful, like a hammer. You don’t have feelings for them, but eventually you might need it. That and she wasn’t clever enough to piece it together, unlike you.”
“Oh. You were going to pretend to be my gay boyfriend? Doubt it would’ve had the same affect.”
Glassy eyed look falling over his face again, Moriarty asked, “How did you wind up with someone you don’t really love? Because I know how and why I wound up with Molly.”
“I never said I don’t love him,” Mycroft corrected. “I said I put my work before him.”
“Same thing at the end of the day.”
Swallowing, as he feigned contemplation on such a comment, Mycroft tapped his finger on the table before answering as honestly as he could.
“He pursued me. I gave in.”
“So much for not giving into peer pressure,” Moriarty scoffed.
Which was as clear of a sign as any that nothing good was going to come from continuing with him. Rising from his seat, Mycroft smiled politely and told him, “I believe we’re done for today.”
“Returning home? Or going to see him?”
“How do you know it’s not the same?” He shot back.
“Because you would’ve said it was instead of deflecting. You really don’t love him.”
“I truly value the interest you’ve taken in my sex life, but I must get going.”
“Poor little Iceman with his heart of snow,” he sang. “The joys of love, he’ll never know.”
“Goodbye James,” Mycroft said as he made his way to the door.
“Jim,” Moriarty called out, a touch of annoyance in his voice. Turning to look at him, Mycroft arched his brows while the rest of his face remained impassive. Moriarty only stared back, completely still and focused. “James is my father. And brother. I’m Jim. Jim Moriarty. Hi,” he said, wiggling his fingers in a rather meek wave.
It was perhaps the only honest thing that Moriarty had told him that wasn’t meant to annoy him. A brief moment of sanity and courtesy for no other reason than the fact that he likely knew they would be forced into more of these meetings. But, it was something that held some sort of meaning to the criminal mastermind, and that was a start.
Holding up his own hand in a greeting Mycroft nodded. “Hello.”
With that, he walked out the door. Someone would, no doubt, be along to take the man back to his cell before long. His only concern was looking over the video feed of their meeting and piecing together just what it was that Moriarty was playing at and how to get more useful information out of him before turning him loose.