Depths of Despair (Sherlock Holmes, casual)

[JAMES MORIARTY EDWARDS]

f

The art is in the crime, not in the result. If the plan is well done and well executed, the bounty was merely a perk. The real reward came when the plan went off without a hitch and everything went right, even the aftermath. This particular crime, however insignificant, was one of those glorious moments that James reveled in.

The whole ordeal wasn't anything more than a simple little heist, a few hundred thousand worth of diamonds kept in the bar's safe (which really, how was that even a good idea?) with almost no security. The real challenge came with the time James had decided to go in. During the peak of business hours. He was toeing a fine line; either the crowd would keep him from being noticed too much or it would equate to over 70 people seeing and remembering his face. It was a gamble which made it that much more interesting and fun.

The actual details of the crime were boring in execution. Slip in, grab a uniform, crack the safe, slip out, ditch the uniform, and leave. Simple. Classic. Elegant. The perfect crime in its purest form: not a great one that would make the history books though those were fun too. The perfect crime, no matter the size, is the one that was, in every way, flawless.

Like this one.

It had his criminal fingerprints all over it, James knew, even though he didn't leave any real fingerprints behind. The cops would have noticed and good ol' Holmes would have been called in to handle it. The consulting detective probably thought it banal to be asked to help with a measly $350,000 diamond heist. There was no death, no kidnapping, no bombs...just a few rocks. Oh how it must bore him.

Knowing that it would take long for Holmes to need to see the crime scene sans the public, James made a week long habit of sneaking into the establishment after it closed and having a few drinks on the house. Only one night was he unable to go and that was because of a mugging that had caught him off guard. True, James knew how to fight, but he wasn't stupid enough to take on five armed men. He let them take his wallet (no cash or credit cards in it, being a decoy wallet) and his Rolex watch as well as beat him into the ground, ruining his new Davore suit. More peeved than hurt, James replaced both the watch and the suit and got on with his life.

It was another night in the bar now, a glass of the bar's best in front of him, James smoked a cigarette lazily as he waited for Holmes to finally show up.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

It wasn't because of the actual case that Sherlock Holmes had agreed to help.
In fact, most of the reason he was working on it was due to the sheerly pitiful way the police had asked for his help. And, though simple robberies were never something that would particularly stand out to him, he was quite certain (by description, of course, as the detective hadn't had the chance to visit the scene yet) that there was something there determined to spike his interest.
As always, Holmes was quite accurate in that detail.

The crime was boringly simple - a handful of so of diamonds taken from a bar's safe. Why they were kept there in the first place was something that Sherlock was certain displayed the finest of humanity's idiocy. The absence of a few oddly valuable rocks were nothing special, of course. But it was how they had managed to disappear that puzzled more than a few people. And, in particular, who had managed to make them disappear.
It was an old, easy trick - one which really had the simplicity to rival the well-known 'pulling a rabbit from a hat'. But the signature was there, apparently.
And Sherlock wasn't going to pass up an opportunity.

Especially not this one.

It had been almost painfully easy to acquire means of access to the bar. Being in its location, visiting during opening hours were simply and obviously out of the question. But working out another way to snoop around the scene hadn't been difficult at all. All that it had taken was a false smile, before the detective had his hands on a key to the doors, and soon a copy had been made (no need to pull strings for that - someone, like the rest of New York, owed him a favour), and the original replaced before it had been noticed as gone.
Cringeworthy, honestly.
One would think that the reputation of New York would pressure people into taking greater care in protecting things. Or at least make better locks, and keep keys in safer places.

The man fished the key from his pocket as he approached the door (there truly was a preposterous lack of security), unlocking it with a slight click. It was dark, and the streets were almost empty in this part of the city, but it was far from quiet. In fact, ever since arriving New York, it seemed that the distant noise of cars and voices were constantly present; Holmes still hadn't grown used to it.

Letting the door swing shut behind him (it emitted a rather annoying low creak as it did so), Sherlock took a few steps into the empty (not quite) bar. He would later blame the darkness for the fact that he didn't immediately notice that someone else was there.
It was somewhat of an unexpected expectation to see James.

[JAMES MORIARTY EDWARDS]

The alcohol burnt a smooth path down his throat and the cigarette showered fine white ash over the dark, scarred wood of the bar. James waited patiently for the tell-tale creak of the battered door to signal the lanky consulting detective's presence. It took a lot longer than James had hoped, the clock ticking its way to five in the morning when Holmes finally showed up, his presence announced by the faint squeak and a flash of street light in the darkened, smoky room.

Languidly, James turned on his stool, taking his glass of 100 proof heaven and burning fag with. "Hello beautiful, took you long enough." James flashed Holmes what would have been a charming smile had it not been for the bruised upper lip and scabbed gash tearing at the corner of his mouth. It was a sick mockery of his usually handsome face. In the hazy half light of the empty bar, James felt like the thing nightmares were made of. He felt twisted and dark, a looming threat that would never quite be banished from someone's peripheral.

James rather liked the thought of that. Being the thing that went bump in the night that lurked beneath beds and in half-open closets. Scurrying, crawling, invading people's thoughts; slinking in through their ears and gnawing away at the tender flesh of the psyche, leaving scars that no amount of time could erase. Fear was a powerful weapon, leaving the most delectable marks behind.

Marks that James knew would never touch Holmes. The man was indifferent to everything except his own amusement, much like James himself. The only paranoia either of them suffered from was failing at the hands of each other. It was a parasitic rivalry, sapping them both dry with every encounter and every barbed comment.

Personally, James lived for those little show downs. They were so much more interesting than safes, security systems, and disguises. The true measure of a man was found when he was pitted against his equal and still emerged victorious. James had never lost to Holmes, if he had, he would have been behind bars for all of two days before he escaped and gone back to what he did best.

Taunting authorities.

Stealing priceless gems from "unbreakable" security systems.

Making Holmes look like a bloody fool.

With his clown's smile still in place, James rose to his feet gracefully, setting his glass down on the bar. He walked towards Holmes with slow, sure strides as he took a deep drag from his cigarette, the embers catching to life for a brief moment, casting ghastly shadows over his bruised face.

"I have to say," James paused his advance to flick some ash onto the ground. "I'm rather disappointed it took you so long. You're losing your touch, old chap. How very....sad."

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Well, of course it was expected. As he had been told, the recognizable markings and prints of New York's 'Napoleon of Crime' had been detected (the word was a joke - as soon as he was through the door Sherlock had seen the place practically swarming with the evidence, but then again the fact that the man in question was also there possibly helped) at the scene.
Holmes had taken somewhat of an interest in 'Moriarty' at first. The cases he had been presented with were puzzling - and acted as a relief from the monotonous dullness of countless other murders, robberies and kidnappings he had already studied. It had started subtly, with the detective snatching up close to every investigation with some form of similarity to the first. The man behind it had simply been a challenge, and that was that.

But it wasn't.

Being one to easily develop obsessions (it could be counted as one of Sherlock's weaknesses, in all honesty; obsessions cause a man to do reckless things), it hadn't been long before Holmes had become infatuated, almost. There didn't seem to be a word suitable enough to describe the consulting detective's curiosity toward the criminal - which, in a way, suited him fine. It wasn't as if it really mattered, after all.
But soon, it was no longer an interest. His sheer enthusiasm for the work had deepened until he awaited each new case with glee. To Holmes, they weren't like the others. Where ordinary, pedestrian cases were often simply a way of preserving his brain - stopping it from rotting due to a lack of work it would undoubtedly suffer without them. His own personal formaldehyde.

Moriarty's challenges were different.
Because that was all they were, really, challenges. Puzzles so complex, so interesting that they had somehow managed to capture Sherlock's attention and hold it. And it didn't take many before Holmes began to crave the next - constantly keeping the circuits of his mind going some way or another as he waited for James to make a move.

His mind was elsewhere as James began to talk - but he was still listening, of course. Processing every word, though they would soon be lost in the jumble of thoughts he was conjuring. Words had never meant much to Holmes. The true way of learning about a person was through their actions - the subconscious ones were particularly useful for the finer details. After all, a person reveals through their speech information that is only willingly given. And information of that sort could never be completely reliable.
It didn't take him long to learn that James had been mugged recently (an event displayed through many things - though the reason he could be sure that it had been a mugging was mainly by his watch, despite the fact that the man's facial wounds were positively singing a tell-tale tune), but this little shred of data was as useless as anything else he also managed to pick up.
Sherlock couldn't help but be a little disappointed.

"I have to say, I'm rather disappointed it took you so long."
The consulting detective's eyes narrowed at this. He had only taken long due to lack of available time. Of course, Holmes had not been fully expecting (unexpected expectation, after all) James to be at the bar, but if he had he most likely wouldn't have procrastinated so much. Despite his enemy's almost unbearable behaviour, he did so like their few face-to-face discussions.

Taking a slight step sideways, Sherlock arched an eyebrow in what he possibly wasn't aware was an over-dramatic manner. His perfect posture did not falter, though even so the man could be described at being perhaps a little too relaxed for a man standing in front of Moriarty. It was probably Holmes' mistake, but he was fairly certain that he wasn't going to die. And if he was? Well, he wouldn't have much time to be displeased at being wrong, anyway.

"You're losing your touch, old chap. How very... sad."
He had learnt to block out taunting comments or remarks, and so every utterance of exclamation of 'freak' or 'tosser' were easily brushed off. And, though Holmes was so very careful not to flinch, he had to credit the man on knowing what to say to have his words even acknowledged.

"James, fancy seeing you here." Sherlock cast a quick, almost bored glance around the rest of the room, "I do hope you haven't been waiting up for me long. I'm afraid I was far too busy to have visited sooner. How's life?"
Holmes lay on the sarcastic tone as thickly as he dared to stoop so low to do, drawing out the last syllable in such a sickeningly ove the top way that he could quite possibly have walked into the sets of one of those ricidulous overly-faked television shows he despised so much.

---

OOC: I may... have rambled. Just a bit.
Sorry.

[JAMES MORIARTY EDWARDS]

James stayed silent and let Holmes paint the walls with sarcasm and thinly veiled defense mechanisms. Letting the consulting detective talk and absorb everything gave James time to suck in a lungful of poison and hold it in. James held in the smoke and took time to puff out a few smoke rings at Holmes and grinned his usual shark like smirk at him.

"Life has been good. Quite good indeed." James tilted his head in Sherlock's direction and turned and went back to the bar, sliding behind it like he owned the place. "Drink?" James made himself a new drink, taking his time to mix it up methodically. He knew almost every drink recipe known to man and had no trouble mixing a large helping of A Bitter Canadian, adding a littler extra whiskey for a healthy kick. James poured another helping for Sherlock and slid it across the bar to him.

"How's the Dog, Sherlock?" James of course was referring to his loyal sidekick Watson but was well aware of their newest addition to the family. A pet.

A pet James understood that Sherlock was afraid of. His little spies were all over and he made sure a few kept their eyes on Sherlock and his bitch. They had a dog and James had it on good authority that Sherlock was not fond of it.

That thought alone gave James warm and fuzzy feelings and made him giggle.

The great Sherlock Holmes, a fantastic mind, scared of a dog.

A dog.

He took a gulp of his Bitter Canadian to keep from laughing out loud.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

"Life has been good. Quite good indeed."
As expected.

Holmes followed as the other man walked back to the bar, leaning against a stool until partially seated. He resisted the urge to frown at the man's offer for a drink, instead fixing a watchful stare on Moriarty. It was likely that he knew full well just how brilliantly Sherlock handled alcohol, and was offering in order to simply taunt.
The likeliness increased in percentage by the man's next words.

"How's the Dog, Sherlock?"
It seemed he could know everything, if he put his mind to it. Well almost everything. After all, even James Moriarty must have his limits.
Deciding to ignore the question completely (in a manner that he probably should have put effort into making subtle - but didn't happen to be concerned about that at the time), Holmes pushed away from the bar with an unnecessary roll of his eyes.

Every step recieved a light tap on the floorboards, echoing around the room and becoming lost somewhere in the detective's head. Sherlock took three paces away from the bar as he attempted to muster up enough logic to deduce what, exactly, had called for the confrontation.
Not that the man was complaining, really. Life had begun to grow slightly dull recently. New York was becoming far too much like London, and, eventually, the twin paths of the cities would cross somewhere in the middle causing them to lead to one, sole destination. Boredom. So he felt that a visit could be quite pleasant, considering the circumstances.

"This all seems a little bit below you, James," he assisted the words with the quirk of an eyebrow and a a flick of a wrist, "slowing down, are we? Dear me."
Holmes trailed a hand along the rough wood as he walked around a table.

[JAMES MORIARTY EDWARDS]

"This all seems a little bit below you, James, slowing down, are we? Dear me."

James rolled his eyes and drank from his cup. James hadn't been slowing down at all. This fool just couldn't see the art of the crime. He was like any other athlete, James had to practice and train to be at the top of his game. This was just that. Practice. Endurance training. Building his metaphorical muscles. Sherlock was starting to disappoint him.

"A perfect crime is never below me, Holmes." James had to restrain himself from making an off color comment about how Sherlock's brother was, though.

Oh how James wanted to make that little jab at Sherlock. But he didn't. Another time, another place.

"You didn't answer my question. How is your lap dog, Dr. Watson doing? I do hope his leg isn't giving him any bother." James smiled charmingly and took another drink. He watched Sherlock over the top of his glass carefully, making note of how he was walking and how his body moved, trying to read his body language.

One thing that James had to give Holmes was that he was deceptively good at masking his true feelings or attitude with his body language. All the way down to the tips of his fingers was carefully planned. It made it far more interesting for James to try to get a read off of him.

It also helped that in doing so, James had to stare rather intently at Holmes. He hoped it made him uncomfortable.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

He began to absently tap on the wood of the table, filling the air with the lightly audible sound every second or so. Methodically random, in a way. Sherlock was circling the table now, reeling in every far corner of his busy brain to focus on the thing that was important.
And this time, it was only very slightly to do with the case.

"A perfect crime is never below me, Holmes."
Oh, of course. James had just done it to show off. A perfectly excusable reason for anything, in the detective's mind. But perhaps that opinion was rather largley biased.

"You didn't answer my question. How is your lap dog, Dr. Watson doing? I do hope his leg isn't giving him any bother."
Again, he waved his free hand in a dismissive manner before slipping it absently into his pocket.
"I didn't answer because you don't need me to. I am aware of your... eyes on the flat. Don't pretend as though you think otherwise." Not bothering to put in any extra effort in thinking of a way to refer to Moriarty's people (spies), he simply decided to refer to them in a way that was obvious.

As he finished walking around the same table for the fourth (he hadn't been counting, but there was a certain point where James would be directly in his line of sight for a few seconds) time, Sherlock couldn't help but notice the other man's eyes staring (quite intently) at him. It wasn't unnerving, but rather intriguing - finally, the work put into hiding things from the world seemed to pay off when facing a man that noticed things like he. It kept his secrets in the dark, at least, when they were willed to be.

"Interesting choice of location." Holmes gestured around the bar as he spoke the words.

[JAMES MORIARTY EDWARDS]

"I didn't answer because you don't need me to. I am aware of your... eyes on the flat. Don't pretend as though you think otherwise."

"Ah, very good Holmes, very good." James nodded and continued to step closer to the rather rag doll like individual, tilting his head to the left every so slightly. He never stopped advancing, not until his hip was brushing the table and Holmes was within an arm's reach. James looked Holmes over carefully, noting the casual poster and how at ease he seemed. Good, then he was able to see that this wasn't a threatening visit. James liked to compare brain pans from time to time, just for the sake of doing it.

It kept him on his toes and it passed the time. There were so few good minds to amuse him nowadays and he was limited to Holmes or his brother.

And really, talking with Mycroft could get quite stale.

"Interestingchoice of location."

James nodded and looked around, subtly sliding his hand closer to Holmes. "It's a nice little establishment. Reputable on the outside, your normal bar. The owner, though-" James slid his hand over the fingers tapping on the table top. "-was stupid enough to get involved with the mafia." James grinned, baring his teeth, his eyes still cold, flat, and calculating. "Stupid to be so transparent about it, anyway."

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

"Ah, very good Holmes, very good."
He was unable to help the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. James' word choice really was rather dramatic, but then again Sherlock was never in a position to stand straight and accuse another of theatrics.

He would be decieving himself if the detective thought that Moriarty's advance wasn't slightly unnerving. He kept his distance from people for valid reasons - one of which being that it was much easier to pick up information when the target was near. And, being able to do so even if a man was standing two metres away, Holmes found the close proximity rather overwhelming at times.
Yet, he didn't move. Not just yet.

"It's a nice little establishment. Reputable on the outside, your normal bar. The owner, though was stupid enough to get involved with the mafia. Stupid to be so transparent about it, anyway."
One eyebrow quirked upward for a fraction of a second as his gaze dropped to the other man's fingers tapping out a beat on the table. Still, the detective didn't move - wouldn't move, even. A retreat was hardly needed, anyway. Moriarty wasn't doing any...
Stupid thought. Moriarty could do harm to anyone anytime he wanted, and he didn't have to be stood particularly close to do so.
"How interesting." He wasn't entirely sure if he was stalling or not, in actual fact. Something made Holmes adjust his stance slightly, until he was leaning just a noticeable fraction of an inch forward.
"So what are we here for, James? I'll be honestly disappointed if it's really just to say 'hello'."

[JAMES MORIARTY EDWARDS]

"So what are we here for, James? I'll be honestly disappointed if it's really just to say 'hello'."

The corners of James's mouth quirked up when Holmes leaned closer. What was this? Holmes, the anti-social boy wonder, leaning into someone else's space? Grinning slowly, James slid his hand closer, sliding over the back of Sherlock's hand and tracing a circle on the back of his wrist. James leaned in some more, not too much and paused.

Another cigarette was lit and enjoyed in silence before he answered him.

"Just to say hello? Of course not. I have my diamonds. You were just a perk." Tapping the ashes onto the table top, James released a steady stream a smoke through his nose.

Oh he had such a wicked thought. He couldn't possibly go through with it.

He took another drag and studied Sherlock and exhaled again.

Oh yes he bloody could.

With a wicked smirk, James in quickly, pressing his lips to Sherlock's and then retreated just as swiftly.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Perhaps it was because he wasn't exactly sure how to react.

Sherlock had, in all honesty, been distanced enough from other people for his entire life to make even someone standing too close cause the man to feel ridiculously awkward. Under certain circumstances, of course, irrationality could be pushed aside - any uncomfortableness covered by an act.
It seemed to be one of those circumstances. Or at least it was up until the point that James invaded far much more personal space than allowed.

He had... what?

Automatically, the detective's eyes widened in pure shock - something hard to come by usually. All of a sudden Holmes' legs were moving of their own accord, carrying him back far too quickly to not be considered a retreat. His arms were raised very slightly, shaking in a barely noticeable way that suggested the man in possession of them was trying very hard not to let them wave around his head, or mindlessly attack the other.
Maybe it was an over-reaction, considering that, really, the man had only kissed him to obviously gain that response. But, being Sherlock, he was already far too concentrated on deciding on his expression.
Because the current one, which was displaying a wide array of internal thoughts - the most obvious being, of course, variations of shock, horror and utter disbelief - was simply not one that Holmes found himself able to like, really.

It only occurred to him that he was still moving backwards when the lanky detective ended up backing straight into a chair. In fact, it could have been a table, he wasn't entirely sure. Sherlock rose on to tiptoes, spinning around almost involuntarily as if in attempt to transform into some sort of whirlwind.
"What the bloody hell was that for?" It wasn't shouted, obviously, but the tone of voice was far from quiet - and probably seemed even less so in the almost-empty bar.

[JAMES MORIARTY EDWARDS]

Try as he might, James couldn't stop himself from busting out into loud, raucous laughter. Leaning heavily on the table, the criminal bent almost double, roaring with laughter, one hand clenching his stomach. The laughing soon turned into wheezing, and he was wiping tears from his eyes.

"Oh God..." James let out another bark of laughter. He wiped his mouth and tapped his cigarette against the side of the table, calming down slowly.

Still chuckling, James straightened up, and looked at Holmes, then promptly burst out into laughter again. Shaking his head, James walked back to the bar to get his drink. He swallowed it between laughs and finished his cigarette.

Cleaning up took no time, especially since it was passed in a very, very amused silence on James's part. He looked at Holmes again, now chuckling lowly.

"I must say, it's been lovely chatting. I'm afraid I have to be off though. Countries to conquer and what have you, I'm sure you understand." James grinned.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Sherlock watched in silence as Moriarty began to tidy up the bar, doing nothing much but glare at the other man. It was ridiculous, for the consulting detective to have acted just as James had anticipated. And so he was going to be petty about the situation, naturally.

Holmes scowled, leaning against the (chair? No, it was a table after all) behind him. James Moriarty was simply an infuriating person - though the puzzles he provided were truly captivating in their constant complexity, or even simplicity (though far too wonderfully conducted for ordinary people to appreciate).
Yet this was most decidedly a time that Sherlock wished he would simply grow up, for God sakes.

"I must say, it's been lovely chatting. I'm afraid I have to be off though. Countries to conquer and what have you, I'm sure you understand."
The lanky detective narrowed his eyes slightly, before waving one hand in the air. He had, in fact not visited the bar for a chance meeting with Moriarty, but for the knowledge he needed for a case (it didn't matter how the two related). So it wasn't of any concern to him that the other was now choosing to dash off and 'conquer countries', as he so claimed.
Holmes had other matters to see to, after all. Ones of immediate importance, unlike the criminal before him. It had been so long since something interesting had happened.

"By all means," Sherlock stated, waving towards the door, "Don't mind me."