Author's Note: Oh my goodness, so useless trying to avoid writing for this fandom.

Basically, the summary says it all, this is going to be just a fun seven part fic which I plan on updating sporadically. I'm using this as a little venting tool for this plot bunny so I can try and concentrate on my other fics at the moment. No beta for this (or anything actually) so forgive any mistakes.

Please enjoy! (:

Chapter 1: A First Time for Everything

Jim Moriarty did not like disguises.

Why be someone else when your best character is yourself?

Plus, few outfits are as sexy as a well-cut Armani suit.

Yet, as with most things, Sherlock Holmes caused a bit of a change of heart. Nothing is as thrilling as standing within arm's reach of the consulting detective and him having naught the faintest idea. How easy it would be to slit his throat or count his eyelashes. How intoxicating.

That very thought sang in his veins, acting as the motivator to sit through an admittedly dreadful Sunday afternoon in Westminster. At this point, the cough which Jim had been perfecting was not entirely faked.

The master criminal resituated himself against the alley wall, doing his best to look sunken, dull, and miserable – most of London's beggars are. All normals are.

It had easily been a few weeks since the poolside incident and Jim had found himself severely missing Sherlock in between assassinations, terrorist threats, and generally running the criminal circuit.

Once again, Jim would owe the detective's loyal pet for their next meeting.

Doctor John Watson was right on time, his medical practitioner's bag in one hand and fistful of warm clothing in the other. Each and every Sunday, the good doctor went out to patch up the local homeless, undoubtedly his idea of penance and a long break of Sherlock's moods.

Jim coughed innocently.

"Well hello there."

Showtime.

John Watson crouched down beside him, jumper still damp from the finicky drizzle, doing his best to look kindly no doubt. Jim smiled back through his impressive beard – all human hair, Sebastian had assured him – and allowed himself to unfurl into character.

"Afternoon," Jim rasped, ducking his head in mock modesty. He pointedly shifted his body inward, tucking his left wrist protectively against his torso in a seemingly unconscious manner. John's eyes tracked the movement like a dog watching a bowl.

"May I see?" John was already reaching out for him.

What a good puppy, Jim smiled wickedly inward, as he presented his trembling arm.

Half the fun and all the importance of masquerading is details. One could flawlessly act out a character, but if they lack authenticity, then the illusion collapses. And Jim Moriarty was all about authenticity.

At least, that was what he'd told Sebastian, holding out his arm similarly to how he was doing for John. To his credit, the sniper had hesitated a solid moment before cleanly snapping his master's wrist. Jim had remained silent then.

Yet here, he feigned a moan of agony as John pushed up his tattered sleeve to reveal his painfully bruised and swollen hand. Angry purple blossoms of broken vessels decorated the pale underside of the joint and stretched into garish yellow splotches.

Gorgeous.

"It's broken," John's brows furrowed as he weighed his options. "Would you like to come back to my flat with me? I've got more supplies there and a pot of hot tea with our names on it."

Jim fidgeted skittishly, before locking gazes with the doctor.

"I would hate to impose." Cue the owlish blink.

"Nonsense," the doctor smiled again, reaching out a hand to help Jim to his feet. "It would be my pleasure."

. . . . .

221B Baker Street was so much better in person.

Moriarty had made it a point to have extensive pictures of the flat, but he'd never had the opportunity to personally tour it. Sherlock was all over the flat – it screamed Sherlock, from the strewn papers to the skull watching morbidly from the mantelpiece. It even smelled like him, faintly chemical yet with the overtones of some masculine soap.

Jim was flawlessly awkward, shuffling his feet at the doorway as John bustled about the kitchen.

"John!"

Electricity arched up Moriarty's spine as an all too familiar shape cut through the kitchen and into the living room. For one blissful second, Jim watched the angular back of Sherlock Holmes as he rifled through a stack of papers on the coffee table. One large hand swept through the unkempt locks as he stood there, breathing, thinking, completely oblivious to Jim's presence behind him.

"What?" John reentered the room, carrying a tray with three tea cups and a split-kit under his arm.

"Where are the papers on the Longaburgen case?" God, that voice. Most definitely the new sexy.

"How am I supposed to know?" John bristled, setting his load down on the desk. He shot an apologetic look toward Jim which finally caught the only attention Jim Moriarty ever actively sought.

Sherlock's sea-gray gaze pierced him, dissecting every minute detail and simultaneously attempting to strip Jim bare. It lasted for only one glorious moment before Sherlock turned back to John, back onto his previous query.

The doctor simply ignored him, picking up one saucer of tea and the kit before gesturing for Jim to take a seat on the couch.

"I don't know," John said finally, passing the tea to Jim. "Be polite, say hello to our guest."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but nonetheless stretched out a hand to Jim, who in turn offered his good hand.

"You're Sherlock Holmes," Jim drawled hoarsely, testing his grip on the other man's hand. "Name's Henry, pleasure to meet you."

"Cut nails, cleanly – intermittent tremor, strain fissures on the third dorsal tendon implies extensive years of playing piano. Clothes at least a decade old but maintained, recently purchased from second-hand clothing store. Beard growth spans longer than your time spent on the streets, so you had a job which required little or no code of dress prior. Musician, most likely, but passion for art and your passion for the drink don't mix. You've only been a vagrant for little over a year," Sherlock quirked a single brow as he released Jim's hand. "The pleasure is all mine."

John huffed and set to work on Jim's broken wrist, doing his best to be gentle. How boring, but Jim diligently winced each time, playing his part as the wounded beggar. His skin felt flayed under Sherlock's stare; he resisted the urge to giggle manically.

"There you go," John carefully turned his wrist enough to show Jim his work – the split was decent, clearly a well-practiced fix.

"Thank you so much, Doctor Watson," Jim gushed. This had been too easy, dangerously close to boring had it not been for Sherlock's presence. Briefly, Jim wondered if he could smuggle out one of Sherlock's petri-dishes as a little personal souvenir.

"Boys! Could one of you help with these boxes?"

Ah, the cleaning lady. Another one of Sherlock's weak spots. Jim's skin itched with a sense of possessiveness. How lovely it would be to cut her up, boil her, and send her bleached bones to Sherlock all wrapped up in box with a pretty bow on top.

"Coming Mrs. Hudson!" John turned to Sherlock as he got off the couch. "If you could see him out. Be careful with that splint, Henry, and if you need help, don't hesitate to come find me."

With the last sound of John's retreating footsteps, Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty were finally alone.

Jim wiped his hands on his ratty trousers and got up to stand, throwing in an extra sway just for effect. Sherlock's blue eyes followed each minute movement as he casually motioned for Jim to lead the way out.

If ever there was a moment to savor, it would be this. Sherlock only a few steps behind, blissfully ignorant to just who he'd let into his flat, and Jim being sent off, like some sort of old friend. Having Sebastian break his wrist was almost worth it.

Once they reached the foyer, Jim stopped at the stoop, Sherlock standing ramrod straight in the doorway.

"I haven't got any money to pay the good doctor," the master criminal mumbled, playing with the frayed hem of his shirt nervously. "Just tell him thanks, I guess. Wish I could do."

There was a moment where Moriarty saw how this would unfold, Sherlock would say something nonchalant and then shut the door of 221B Baker Street, never truly knowing the identity of the man who sat on his sofa, drank his tea, and used his loyal pet. It was a tad disappointing.

But Sherlock was ever a man of surprises.

The consulting detective took a step forward and leaned in closer, inclining his head until he was only inches from Moriarty.

"I will pass on your regards," One slender hand found Jim's broken wrist and encircled it lightly, as Sherlock angled to one side, his lips hot and harsh against Jim's ear. He gave a violent twist, grating the broken bones savagely, "James."

Moriarty's breath stuttered as his vision erupted in white pinpricks of agony, his senses overloaded by Sherlock's proximity and the pain echoing through his injured limb. A moan gathered in his throat he nearly failed to stifle.

Then, as quickly as he'd gotten close, the detective stepped back, leaving just cold air behind, and shut the door with a slam of finality.

And James Moriarty, shaken and bearded, smiled.

He would have to do make this a habit.