Part 1: The Groundwork

The sun shone bright and high in the middle of the sky, blazing mercilessly on their heads. Not a single cloud could be seen in the vast horizon.

Jim hadn't been pleased about coming in person to the poverty-stricken country, but incredibly enough, the place was the closest thing he had to a base of operations—when it came to arms dealing, anyway—and when something went wrong, he had to come and fix it himself. It was only natural.

His mood was sour for the entire flight, uncharacteristic in its consistency. He hated taking care of business personally. It made things, well, personal.

Sherlock watched the unfolding scene from where he had been leaning idly against their vehicle, hands in his pockets. His face was largely obscured by a pair of dark sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat—not a deerstalker, thank God.

Their rendezvous point was in the middle of nowhere, even by the standards of this hostile land. They were surrounded by vast oceans of hard sand and dry patches of vegetation. In the midst of all this was James Moriarty, sitting cross-legged on his throne.

The chair looked ludicrous enough, smack in the desert. It was a huge, gaudy thing. Its former owner was kneeling at Jim's feet, bleeding from a nasty cut on his head.

The man was the infamous dictator of the country. He was taken from his extravagant home (some would say "palace," but the man was no king), alongside his throne (actual, honest to Godthrone) in the dead of the night. Jim had specifically asked for the seat. Sherlock rather hoped he wouldn't start lugging the thing around with him wherever they went. It was really quite atrocious.

The sniveling creature kneeling at Jim's feet was responsible for numerous crimes against his people and beyond. But of course Jim cared very little about such things. The crime for which he will be punished today was losing millions of euros worth of weaponry, none of which bore the country's official COO, but that was beside the point. The weapons were intended to be sold to the governments of different conflicting nations. Jim thought that supplying both sides of the fight had been absolutely hilarious, even more so as none of the countries were at war. Officially.

As it happened, the supplies reached their targets successfully, avoiding customs laws beautifully, crates all accounted for but for the fact that every single unit was a dud. Seems there was a problem in the production line, repair being nigh impossible under those conditions. The worst one could do with the defective M16s would be to turn them into oddly shaped bats. Imagine Jim's embarrassment.

Well, embarrassment wasn't the word. Murderous rage, perhaps. The fact was: the entire supply line was DOA, a mix up that was, as far as Jim was concerned, entirely the fault of the hapless dictator…who technically wasthe supplier, and Jim's client. He hated when business partners didn't keep to their end of the bargain. It was completely unprofessional.

The dictator's tongue was cut off, and he was left to wander in the desert heat alone. Jim was gracious enough to leave him his throne. By nightfall, a new leader was announced from the ranks of the opposition. Riots had broken out before dawn.

"What did you think?" Jim asked Sherlock during the bumpy car ride back to the out-of-service airport, where a private plane was waiting for them ("out-of-service" meant very little these days). It was just the two of them in the dusty old jeep now.

Sherlock stared at the open expense of land through his window. He didn't bother turning to address the man. "Politics. Hmm, dull."

The other man rubbed his knee fondly. "Iknow," he intoned.

The car jumped violently, hitting yet another nasty bump in the poorly constructed road. Jim cursed colourfully, driving fast despite the horrid conditions. It was probably safer when they were out driving in the open desert.

Sherlock suddenly realised they were not where they were supposed to be. He'd glanced at the map before they arrived but even if he hadn't, judging by the position of the sun and the time of the day, he could tell they were not heading in the correct direction.

"Are you lost?" he asked.

"No," Jim answered, mouth twisting disdainfully around the word.

"Quite sure?"

"I know exactly where we are."

"So you'd know the airport is that way." Sherlock jerked his head in the opposite direction. "Or would you like to stop and ask for directions?" he said, motioning toward the ocean of sand surrounding the road.

They drove on for several more minutes, while Jim muttered heatedly under his breath. Eventually he slammed his foot down on the brakes.

"Fuck!" he screamed, and made a sharp U-turn. "If you say another word about this, I will smite you," Jim hissed.

Sherlock's lips quirked in amusement; he turned his face away so Jim wouldn't see, though he said nothing.

XXX

Sherlock curled sideways on an expensive, plump armchair. His long legs were dangling over one of the chair's armrests, head supported by the other. He was engrossed in the book in his hands, eyes following the script quite rapidly.

The door to the hotel suite was flung open with a bang.

"Where have you been?" a voice screeched from the doorway.

Sherlock calmly flipped a page in his book. He learned a long time ago not to react to Jim's little outbursts.

"Right here…?" he said, raising a single eyebrow.

"Don't pretend to be stupid, my love. It does not become you," Jim growled. "You weren't here from 15:43 to 15:58." He approached Sherlock's seat, and stood by the armrest, glaring down. He loved it so when Sherlock had to look up at him.

"Where were you?" Jim asked.

"Oh." Sherlock reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and produced a packet of gum. "Spying on me again, Jim?" he rolled his eyes when the man grabbed the packet from his hand, examining it suspiciously.

"I was just down by the hotel shop. I'm out of nicotine patches," Sherlock scowled, "They didn't have any."

Jim pulled out a piece of gum from the packet, and tossed it back to Sherlock. He seemed appeased, but then again, his sudden mood swings never last for very long anyway. He grimaced at the book in Sherlock's hands.

"And since when do you read Arabic?"

"I've had a few free afternoons," Sherlock replied.

He didn't respond when Jim grabbed the book from his hands, glanced at the contents briefly before throwing it uncaringly over one shoulder. Nor did he respond when his dressing gown was pulled open, Jim's smooth palms moving over the expanse of his skin. His head was tilted down to hang over the armrest, chin pointing to the ceiling. Jim bent down from the waist to press his lips against Sherlock's; their mouths moved opposite one another.

Jim drew back, thumb rubbing at Sherlock's wet lips before slipping inside his mouth, allowing Sherlock to suck on the digit.

"No teeth, now," Jim crooned, and replaced the thumb with his prick. He popped the gum into his mouth, and threw his head back in pleasure. He supported the back of Sherlock's neck with one hand, throat stretched taut to accept Jim's length at the odd angle.

Jim fucked his mouth enthusiastically, watching in fascination as Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed in time with each of his thrusts. He pressed his hand against Sherlock's throat so he could feel the movements under the skin, his thumb digging into pale flesh.

"Touch yourself, yes, that's it," he instructed, and Sherlock complied.

When it was over, Sherlock rinsed his mouth with mint-flavoured mouthwash, and then returned to his book. He learned to acquiesce to those kinds of demands a long time ago.

When the book was read and discarded he turned to the violin instead—always with him on these trips—drawing loud, inarticulate noises at random until Jim threw something his way and screamed at him to shut up.

Sherlock stopped. Eventually.

XXX

Once, early into their…association, Jim broke a glass bottle on Sherlock's head. The cut bled furiously, as head injuries are wont to do, and Jim had to bring in a professional to treat Sherlock's injury.

After his head was stitched, Jim pulled out a handgun and shot the good doctor straight in the eye, point blank.

Sherlock still has a scar that begins just above his eyebrow and disappears into his hairline.

XXX

Jim conducted most of his business out of sight, never making direct contact unless absolutely necessary.

That did not mean he stayed very far; on the contrary, they traveled more often than not (Jim rarely left Sherlock alone, and never unsupervised), yet Jim's clients hardly meet him in person. The ones who have never lived long enough to tell a soul. The outcome was about fifty-fifty for those who were lucky enough to only hear his voice.

Jim's public persona died when James Moriarty was erased from most governments' most wanted lists as some sort of hoax. They knew better, of course, but Jim had clients in very high places that were more than happy to pretend he never existed.

His name remained legendary; most of the people who knew of him before the whole trial fiasco were too paranoid to believe he truly did not exist, or that the person who supposedly used the name "Moriarty" as an alias, one Sherlock Holmes, was really dead and gone. No, Jim's face belonged to an unemployed actor by the name of Richard Brook now.

Despite it all, Jim had a group of business associates with whom he interacted on a more personal level. Those associates could be classified under one of two categories: his inner circle and outer circle.

His inner circle was a small collection of individuals, his "Made Men." Most of them had very little to do with one another. They came from all sorts of backgrounds, scattered in various parts of the globe. They were the heads of crime rings, informants, his most loyal henchmen, a number of gentlemen with regular, normal jobs (who were anything but) and, bizarrely, one surly young man in his teens. Jim said he had potential.

The second group was larger, and highly dispensable. Regular low-rate thugs to smarmy politicians, those were the people who hoped to move into Jim's inner circle. More often than not they stopped moving altogether.

Among his underlings, two men stood out the most: the first was Jim's own little brother, unbeknown to the rest of them. The name he used wasn't Moriarty, but his acting skills left much to be desired, hardly comparable to Jim's own. It took Sherlock less than a minute to deduce his true identity. Moriarty Junior was not pleased, but his older brother had been delighted. Sherlock was mostly disappointed.

The second man was a sniper for hire who went by code name "the Colonel" professionally (and Sherlock could not resist the urge to roll his eyes when the moniker was revealed. At times he felt like a character in one of those spy movies John enjoyed so much). Sebastian Moran was utterly, relentlessly loyal to James Moriarty. His genuine devotion earned him the second-best position in Jim's organization, at least until Sherlock came along.

The animosity between Sherlock and Sebastian was apparent from the day the two met. Jim was rather amused by their squabbles; he obviously thought they were fighting for his attention. In all honestly, Sherlock just missed having someone around to antagonize.

"Sebastian Moran, back from the killing fields. Target missed again, I presume?"

"Fuck you."

"As eloquent as always, Sebastian," Sherlock said with surprisingly little malice.

Their exchanges were always brief and haughty. Sherlock was honestly puzzled by the former military man, his reverence for his boss bordering on insanity in a man so absolutely grounded everywhere else.

It was his attraction to danger, Sherlock realised with a pang of wistfulness, which drew him in like a moth to a flame. And Jim Moriarty did indeed burn.

"Do you ever wonder what will happen when he gets bored of you?" Sebastian asked him once.

"Do you?" Sherlock answered.

The man scowled at Sherlock, "I'm useful to him."

"Until someone better comes along."

Sebastian smirked. "My thoughts exactly."

"You obviously don't know me very well, Sebastian," Sherlock told him, voice far away.

XXX

Jim was making popcorn, whistling cheerfully to himself. Sherlock could hear him from where he'd been sitting slumped in front of the television, the strong buttery smell assaulting his nose. The television was on, and Sherlock had been under strict orders not to change the channel. He listened to the news anchor drawl on, contemplating disobedience under the excuse of preserving his overall sanity, when a scrolling banner at the bottom of the screen caught his eye.

"Next: Richard Brook comes forward to battle fraud allegations made by the public • Police investigation into criminal activities of fake genius Sherlock Holmes continues."

Sherlock immediately sat up straighter, attention now fixed at the screen.

"Is it starting?" Jim chose that moment to appear, clutching a giant tube of popcorn to his chest. He shoved the tube at Sherlock and collapsed into the sofa, cuddling against Sherlock's side.

Jim shoved a fistful of the oily snack into his mouth, speaking around it, "Oh, wonderful."

"Sherlock Holmes: fraud or a misunderstood genius? Joining with us tonight is Richard Brook, who for the first time in almost two years has decided to come forward and share his own side of the story." The news anchor read out from her teleprompter.

The image of the conventionally attractive news anchor was replaced with Sherlock's own, face mostly obscured behind his coat collar and that damned hat.

"Almost two years ago today, the truly baffling case of Sherlock Holmes, self- proclaimed 'consulting detective,' came to an abrupt end when the so-called detective jumped to his death from the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's hospital. Holmes had resisted arrest earlier that day when it became known he had not only orchestrated his entire life's work, but was otherwise involved in serious criminal activities all over the world. Two years after the fact, the official investigation still continues, with new evidence coming up every day.

"To this day, some say that Holmes had been framed by the same criminal mastermind he had invented. James Moriarty, who police confirms does not exist. The most vocal supporter in Holmes' cause is Dr. John Watson, who was Holmes' partner in many of his investigations."

"Joining us tonight: Richard Brook, the very face behind James Moriarty, as created by Sherlock Holmes."

The camera panned back to reveal Jim himself sitting by the news anchor. He was dressed in a smart suit, not one of his usual overly priced ones, but not of bad quality. His hair was slicked back and his face was made up for the camera. Physically, he looked the same as always, but at the same time completely different. He smiled a little nervously, body language cautious and guarded.

"Thank you for coming." The news anchor smiled at him

"Thank you for having me," "Rich" said.

"Rich, you were the first person to come forward with concrete proof of the game Holmes had been playing with the public. Yourself being said proof, growing up with Sherlock Holmes, not to mention being hired to play the part of the arch-villain in the story," the reporter laughed a bit, "tell me, why did you wait so long to speak?"

"Rich" grimaced, and took a sip of water before replying. "I'm not proud of what I did. In the beginning I really thought it was just a harmless prank. It was an acting gig and I was desperate for work at the time. By the time I realised something was seriously off, I was already too far gone into the role to stop…That's the first reason, Anne. The second being I was simply afraid," he said.

"What made you change your mind?"

"People were seriously ending up hurt…I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if I hadn't."

"Can you say you are relived he's gone?" the reporter asked.

"I honestly didn't know Sherlock was going to go and kill himself," "Rich" said, "but even if I did, I'm not sure I would have done anything to stop him. That's a horrible thing to admit to, but yeah, the world's better off with him gone. He was always a little…out there. I can honestly say as time went by I was becoming more and more afraid for my life."

Jim began to rub his eyes, sniffing audibly, "I still am," he said in a cracking voice, "it hasn't gotten better since he died. There are still people out there that are looking for me, people that believe his stories."

"You are talking about the movement to clear Holmes' name?"

"Yeah, they're one of the reasons I had to keep a low profile ever since the truth came out. I've been getting death threats, hate mail…my mum keeps getting phone calls in the middle of the night." He wiped a tear from his face. "I have nothing against Dr. Watson. I think he's a good man who got caught up in Sherlock's game. Sherlock had this way about him, he could get you to believe whatever he wanted, I'm not surprised he's still got followers."

"What would you say to Dr. Watson if you could speak to him now?" the news anchor asked, her voice thick with undisguised sympathy.

"I'd tell him I'm sorry, I didn't mean for things to escalate the way they did…And to move on. Whatever they had going between them, Sherlock is gone now, he's not coming back...Ever," he said, looking straight at the camera.

XXX

Even Sherlock couldn't stay on his guard 24/7. Not when the other man was always close by.

Sherlock's role in Jim's organization was vague at best. In the beginning he kept to watching Jim work, and Jim was content in letting him. Sherlock could not deny being fascinated by Jim's mind, his weaving and plotting, aware of what buttons to push and whose strings needed pulling. Sherlock was looking at crime scenes in progress.

As time went by, Sherlock began to involve himself in Jim's plans. He argued with the man often, watched over Jim's shoulder while Jim's fingers danced over the keyboard, making comments and pointing out things Jim had missed.

Sometimes they even laughed together, appalled by the stupidity of the average person or simply by force of circumstance. It didn't matter the reason, Sherlock still felt the guilt after, worse than being forced to hurt another human or having to endure hurt to his own being. He felt the most guilty when he was comfortable around the other man.

These days, Sherlock didn't have to face Jim to know when the man was looking at him. He knew the adoring expression on the other man's face by heart. Whether it was genuine or make-believe, he still didn't know, stopped trying to gauge years ago. Half of him reckoned Jim was attempting to fool himself. Sherlock wondered if it worked.

One night as they lay in bed, Jim wriggled under Sherlock's arm to rest his cheek against the other's chest, Sherlock's heart thudding steadily in his ear.

"Say it," he told Sherlock.

"I'll be lying."

"Say it anyway," Jim insisted.

Sherlock said nothing, but he could not keep his heart from beating a little faster. Jim smiled in contentment, fingers ghosting on Sherlock's skin.

That night, Jim was gentle, his touch slow and careful, and all they did was exchange kisses.

Sherlock thought he didn't mind it all that much.

XXX

55° 45′ 6″ N, 37° 37′ 4″ E
55.751667, 37.617778
ETA 12:00 PM UTC+3
Explosives, precise location unknown.
Evacuate area.
[Msg. Received Tue. 23:04]

Acknowledged.
[Msg. Sent Tue. 23:07]

Your status?
[Msg. Sent Tue. 23:08]

Yellow.
[Msg. Received Tue. 23:15]

Extraction?
[Msg. Sent Tue. 23:17]

?
[Msg. Sent Tue. 23:54]

Not yet.
Stand by.
[Msg. Received Wed. 01:54]

A/N – This chapter was beta read by light_frost :)