The alarms at Appledore are soft, muted. For the most part, they consist of a slight dimming of the lights, like that which still signals the end of the interval in some traditional opera house. This, and a slight drone, just above the range of normal hearing. It is a most disturbing sensation, a pressure in the cavity of the chest and behind the eyes.

Disturbing, that is, to anyone but Magnussen. He, having tuned his keenest and most inexplicable senses to that same pitch, finds it rather pleasing, and looks up from his reading as easy and unperturbed as one drawing out of a pleasant dream.

This is not an alarmist place. There is so very rarely anything to really worry about.

With just the slightest edge of a smile, Magnussen hears his man push into the room. "Sir, there's an intruder." His steps are silent, bringing a tablet computer to his master's hand. The ghost-grin gains a little something. But it never quite concrete, and is gone by the time Magnussen stands.

"Not an intruder. A visitor." He gives the tablet back to be put away somewhere. Gives over his reading material to be incinerated. "Leave the tone ringing," is his first order. A momentary closing of the eyes, the stretch of a blink, to appreciate the warm, uterine comfort of being surrounded in that uneasy noise. Then he adds, "Steady the lights and stand down the men. He was expected."

A button is pressed. A dozen little signals are cancelled. A dozen armed men, three of them visible near the house and the farthest over a mile away, lower their weapons. Eleven go back to their patrols. One watches a black Mercedes approach from a distance. Nowhere near the gates yet, but that's the one that triggered the alarms. Though the signal is dead, though officially the car is no threat, he still watches. There's something odd about it. Something very slightly off. The driving, perhaps. The car itself almost seems to be leaning off the road, towards the gleam of the house.

The guard has no way of knowing this, but this is the effect of the driver's leaning almost off the road, towards the gleam of the house. That same gleam is reflected in his starry, awed, eyes.

"Aw, Jesus, Jim," he moans. "The whole thing's glass. It's built out of windows. That's like living in a greenhouse. That's the access a gunman's dreams are made of, mate."

Moriarty rolls his eyes. "And surrounded by miles of flat fields, mate. What're you going to do, dress up as a tree?"

"…If I had to."

"Don't sulk. Anyway, and please remember this because it's quite important and I'm depending on it a bit, we don't want him dead yet."

"But maybe later." Moriarty watches him for a careful second. The words of an order form on his lips. Moran hears it before it can be spoken and tries to cut it off, "No-no-no, c'mon, don't make me do this again."

"What's the plan today? Run me over the plan."

"You know I know it already."

"Then kindly drop your personal vendetta at the side of the road."

Moran falls silent. He's not going to try and explain again. Moran has been telling the story, over and over again, for days. There's no point. Every time he tells it he expects something to change. It will get easier or he'll be able to laugh about it or something will change. But nothing has changed. There's no point in telling it again. Moriarty is determined not to listen. At any rate, it wouldn't make a difference. It would only make what he has to do harder than it already is.

But pain still demands he cry out. Moran can't hold his tongue. "Jim, he's slimy."

"Yes, thank you for that insightful warning about the Lord Chief Blackmailer."

"No, I mean physically. When he touches you, and he will, he's slimy. Just so you're ready for that."

"…Shut up and pull over."

From the curve of the second floor, Magnussen watches him step out of the car. He watches the man stationed at the gate inspect him, and his driver.

The driver makes no attempt to get out of the car. This goes against his information. Every record he knows of, every account he's ever studied, tells him that Moriarty attends these high-level meetings with one of two bodyguards. Now, Magnussen won't dishonour the man by suggesting he might have underestimated his opponent. Certainly not. He simply reaches deeper into the file on James Gordon Moriarty and looks for other such anomalies.

And yes; buried behind a hidden doctorate, there is one notable exception to his rule.

Magnussen considers the possibility of being flattered, and then decides against it. What pride is there to take in being equated with one of Britannia's favourite sons? The elder Holmes was no challenge to him. The younger has yet to even pique his interest.

How sad. Moriarty has been years in coming. Of course, Magnussen will hear him out. He has deep-seated doubts over whether there will be anything of interest, but he will listen to every offer the man might wish to make. He will then state that he quite simply is not interested in the petty pickings-over of the junkie corpse.

Or, for that matter, in the affairs of the grubby, obsessive little creature himself.

With the slightest of sighs, he makes his way to the stairs. A slow pace, counted with the precision of a metronome, synchronizing his approach with Moriarty's.

This visit is an inconvenience to him. There are other things he could be doing. And just because Moriarty was expected does not mean that he is wanted. The man is detestable. A simplistic, madcap little thing. Like a dog, in many ways, chasing each fleeting thought as it crosses him, pursuing nothing more than a sadistic, hedonist amusement.

There are a bare few things remaining that can make Magnussen's skin creep. This particular brand of selfish lunacy at the very least comes close.

Halfway down the stairs he removes his dressing gown and hangs it over the rail.

Calculated nudity; the Catholic upbringing, the utter lack of any information on sexuality or romantic attachment, he is dressed precisely as he must be to unnerve.

Nods at his man to have the door open. Moriarty steps in, with a kind word to the butler. Pretence of gentility, recognition of the staff. A casualness about it, speaking like an equal. Magnussen rolls his eyes before his guest can look around at him. The Irish, he's found, are not so predictable as the British. The nouveau riche, on the other hand, the fraternity of the self-made man… He suspects that these have exhibited precisely the same patterns of behaviour since systems of ownership made them possible.

Sensing his host, Moriarty looks up. His eyes give the briefest flare of surprise… And then relax again. "Oi-oi," he murmurs. "Scandanavia doesn't disappoint, does it?" Jerks a thumb over his shoulder and says, "I can go out and come in again, y'know." But this all has the tone of a joke about it. The hand is swiftly stuck out to be shaken. Magnussen gladly takes it.

There is no response to the clamminess of his skin. Just momentarily, his teeth sit on edge. A pointless and demeaning reaction which he swiftly curbs. That doesn't change the fact that it happened.

Doesn't change the fact that Moriarty saw it. The gracious (and frankly very obvious, he's disappointed to say) host turns to guide him somewhere more comfortable. Moriarty grins at his back. He allows his eyes, with scalpel edges on them, to follow the determinedly-casual flick of Magnussen's hand dragging the dressing gown down to him again.

Thinks, Gotcha.

Thinks, as loudly as he dares, the tune of The Look of Love, without ever allowing himself to actually hum it. He's quite impressed with himself, actually, displaying that level of restraint.

He does not think about the slimy palm, and that he wants a shower, and that he's almost sure Magnussen's fingers brushed the cuff of his shirt, and now he'd like to burn it. He doesn't think any of that. He puts it away at the back of his mind, next to a mental note to cover the full-length mirror in his bathroom because he's seen quite enough of the male body for the next, oh, say month.

Magnussen, in turn, is aware of all this covering up. He begs pardon of himself for that pun, as he ties his robe. The desired effect, he knows, was had. But it was not exhibited. Such a cover-up is not generally possible.

Was this an error? Allowing Moriarty to come to him, rather than finding some way to infest his life, was he complacent?

He feels the eyes in his back and knows he shouldn't even dream these things in the homuncular presence.

Then comes what a lesser man might call a stroke of luck. Magnussen will concede that it is a relief, and no more, to hear the little flutter of weakness; a fleshy rattle as Moriarty tries to tease what he thinks is tinnitus out of one ear. "Can you hear something?" he murmurs. Magnussen pretends he didn't hear so much as that.

Time to regroup, and try again. "Please," he says, "Make yourself comfortable."

"Here's hoping you don't expect me to get as comfy as you."

Magnussen declines to answer, and waits for the guest to seat himself. The angle of his shoulders, the slightest extension of his fingers, the turn of a foot, these all are guiding Moriarty to one end of the low, leather couch. This, in turn, will enable Magnussen to sit, not in the armchair across from him, or even at the opposite end, but just that much too close. An uncomfortable guest is a pliant one.

Moriarty looks at him, raising one finger. As he begins to lower himself into the armchair; "You'll excuse me, but I never sit where I'm put. It tends to be the seat where the security services have the best shot at me."

Also, he thinks, glittering, this is your chair. Whatever Magnussen might truly be thinking or feeling, Moriarty spots the rage. Not much of it. Just a little twinkle. But that's how to dig up diamonds, is looking for little twinkles. There's so much more he could be reading and looking for right now, but he settles for that.

Vile, paranoid little man… This is the only rage that Magnussen is aware of. "I've been expecting you for quite some time."

"Oh, you were expecting me." Moriarty tips his head back, sighing at the ceiling on the edge of laughter, as though it is some higher power that has tricked him. "Christ, I only came here because I was bored of waiting for you. I thought you liked just, y'know, showing up. Somewhere unexpected. I went for extra lunches out and all, alone, because then I thought you could… Sorry, sorry. We've been at cross-purposes for weeks."

"More like months."

That gets him. Finally, that gets him. The discrepancy, the idea that he's been cowering so much longer than he could willingly admit, Moriarty draws back. Frowns, furrows his brow, "Beg pardon? Sorry, there's definitely something in my ear. You're sure you don't hear anything?"

"Jefferson Hope, I believe, was the name of your first earnest gambit. How long after that did you realize, you can't have one Holmes brother without the other?"

"…No. We're at cross-purpose again, I'm afraid. I'm not here about them. You don't get them. They're mine. Surely you know this. Everybody knows this and you know what everybody knows, do you not? The Holmes brothers? You think I need you to…?" He breaks off. One small, sick bark of laughter cuts out of him and ends all the talk. More follows, but he stifles it briefly against the back of his hand. Swallows, clears his throat… Loses control and almost laughs again. But then again, he's a guest here and that would be very gauche. Anyway, he still needs a favour. "Sorry, so sorry."

This could all stop now. They'll sit like gentlemen after this and start over. Moriarty will explain what he wants. In light of recent embarrassments, Magnussen will try to refuse. Moriarty will make an offer, and each of them walks away with what he wants.

But Magnussen is just looking at him. Dead, blank eyes. It occurs to Moriarty, slow and dark, You prick, you're still trying to read me.

Time to put him out of his misery. "Do you know why you hate me?" If Magnussen were the sort of man to engage with a toad like this, he could give him a short, elegantly composed essay on the topic. He is not that sort. The day he condescends to play along with a schoolyard game like this one will be the day he retires to a quiet little spin post in the Cabinet. He eyes the man across from him. The pasty head is too small for the too-narrow shoulders it turns on. It slides farther sideways than could really be comfortable. The crackle elicited from the vertebrae is meant to be intimidating and is not.

What idiotic little answer will he come off with? Twenty-four cross Magnussen's mind.

"Because you can't have me."

That was the first of them. Magnussen says, with the assurance of one who has never so much as suspected otherwise, "Everyone can be gotten to."

"Don't talk bollocks," Moriarty grins. And then he continues. He gives a secondary answer, in explanation of the first. The twenty-four options did not cover, did not so much as hover close to, "It's because I've got no shame. And that's the basis of your entire business."

"How did you find me, Mr Moriarty?"

"Aside from the giant greenhouse and you changing the subject? That's a silly thing to say even if you didn't already know. Irene Adler."

"Adler ought to know better than to cross me."

"Well, that would be why she called you not ten minutes after she broke and gave it up to my emissary. A matter of mere weeks ago, when I decided I needed you for something. I think this is about where the sensible conversation left off. Let's just pick up here."

Magnussen allows himself another edge of another tight, grim smile. "You seem to think you're in an excellent position."

"It's more the fact that what I'm asking ought to be a piece of piss for you." He rolls his eyes at the blatant attempt to make a challenge of this. Waves an open hand, inviting details. "I need you to fix a jury for me. I'd do it myself, but I'll be the defendant. I'm getting caught stealing the Crown Jewels about a week from now. I need unanimous Not-Guilty against the evidence in double-quick time." There is just a split second where Magnussen genuinely considers the potential of controlling twelve lives, from the moment they are selected for their duties to the moment they deliver their impossible verdict. There, as he stands on the very precipice of being able to enjoy it, "See? Piece of piss."

Moriarty picks a few specks of dust from his lapel. He got them from the lower edge of the car window just before they pulled up. Now he brushes them off his fingers and onto the pristine black leather of the armchair. Smiles to hear, "If it's so easy, why would it interest me?"

"Because it's going to be a truly glorious news story? Do a fella a good turn?" Neither of these gets any reaction. The smile gets harder to mask, starts to split across his teeth. Just the flash of an incisor; it's one of very few things Moriarty can't control, even when he's trying. But when it happens, oh, ladies and gents, it happens for him. "Or, if you must have a strict transaction, barter-and-trade, me-to-you-you-to-me… Well, I suppose I could always give you that other Charlie."

Milverton. Another petty crook like the one in the armchair, but Milverton. Charming, charismatic. He moves like liquid from one name and face to another, wearing identities like fresh shirts. A filthy way to do business, but effective. Magnussen has never tried to deny that Milverton is effective. Magnussen depends on those things which are already facts, realities. Milverton goes out and creates them. Milverton has been creating and pinching and scraping for a great many years now.

He has created a great many things that Magnussen would like to have access to. Not to mention, he doesn't like sharing the market with a lesser being.

"Never could pin him down, could you?" Moriarty adds, cementing his offer. "You need a definite human being to tag all the names onto. But you see, I drink with him. I know where he's really from. I know the name he was born with. I know the address of his dear white-haired grandmother. Though don't get any ideas; he'd sell her in a heartbeat for a shot at Cilla Black. Don't ask me what he's got against her; I let him keep that particular secret, thank you."

Magnussen sits forward. Now there's a light in his eyes. He makes no attempt to dull it. Let Moriarty see it. Let him think he's won. Look at him; human and disgusting. Still, from time to time, he jams the heel of his hand against his ear. It didn't make any difference the first half-dozen times and it doesn't now, except that he has to remember himself when Magnussen speaks. "What would the terms of this agreement be?"

"You honestly can't hear that?"

"Mr Moriarty, very few people ever succeed in getting my attention. Certainly not in a positive way. Do not waste this opportunity."

"Standard. I'll show you anything you care to name regarding our Charlie, prove I'm good for it. Then, the second I'm acquitted, I'll have everything you need to know brought to wherever you desire to have it brought."

Magnussen sits back. Puts his arms out across the back of the couch, feeling… expansive. The fingertips of his left hand are tickling the Old Bailey's balls, and the right is twisting tight the screws on those of Vauxhall Cross. He could almost, were he of a mood to really enjoy himself and were there still any impression left to be made on Moriarty, harden to the thought of Downing Street's head bobbing between his legs. He tips back his head, eyes blissfully shut. "And what if I were to suggest to you that you give me everything you have on Charles Milverton here and now, or I will personally see to it that no single member of that jury comes out of their seclusion calling for anything less than your hanging?"

"I'd ask you if you were sure you couldn't hear anything." No. But he feels something. A proximity, too close, too late to do anything about it, a cool, hard something in the air near his face. He opens his eyes, and finds himself staring up along the dark lines of a silencer. "I tried to tell you," Moriarty says. "I knew I could hear footsteps."

The man beyond the gun has a fine spatter spray on his dark t-shirt; kill shots. The guards around the house, the man at the gate. The butler, maybe, though there's a bruise where his wrist shows above his glove; he may just have knocked him out.

Somewhere beyond this, Moriarty murmurs something Magnussen almost misses, about those who try to steal what they can easily afford to buy. Waves a hand at the gunman, and the weapon is lowered. By now, Moriarty is out of his chair. He's straightened his jacket, and as he passes is almost standing over Magnussen. "Remember when you said everybody could be gotten to, and I told you not to talk bollocks? That was probably unfair. It's just there's exceptions. Like, we can get to you, like this. But you're not getting to me. And the Holmeses!" He laughs again at just the memory of this. Then drops close and hisses lethal, "Put that dream in a box, right? Put that box in a larger box. Seal that box with concrete. And put it at the bottom of a sea trench, because that's the sort of dream gets a man killed. Trust me on that."

"Jim," the gunman says, hanging in the doorway. A touch of warning.

He had flung himself close enough that Magnussen can watch the brutality gutter out like a candle. The mock-gentleman reasserts himself. Again, he holds out his hand.

Magnussen, fighting hard for the appearance of one who is unruffled, takes it. Tightly, so that the fingers are squeezed slipping out of his. But Moriarty grabs back, and with fresh grip helps him to sit up. "So we're all square then," he breezes, quite as though they have theatre tickets together. "I'll have something ready, some proof on Charlie. Get in touch. Next couple of days, preferably. Like I say, I've got a heist and a trial and the custody between to prepare for."

This time, as it lets go, Moriarty flicks his hand, flapping it dry. "I wasn't going to say anything," he mutters. "Seemed rude. But you know what's good for that? Botox. I'm not sure how it works. Freezes the glands or something."

[A/N - To all friends and followers - I'm now crossposting at A03, and freaking right the hell out about this horrible process of starting over in a scary new place. Come say hi? You'll find me under the same name. I'm not sure I could have done it otherwise!]