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Who: Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty
What: The Final Problem
When: August 10th, 9:00 PM
Where: Community House 2, Room 21
Summary:
Rating: PG-13
This time, when Moriarty comes, it is under invitation from Sherlock Holmes.

The flat is done up so closely to Baker Street that one might, for a moment, think that Luceti was but a dream. But, no, it's quite real.

Sherlock stands at the window, watching the man approach from outside and turning only halfway when he hears the door open.

"Thank you," the politeness seems almost genuine, "for coming."

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The instant the base of the queen touches the board, James fixes it with such a look it's a wonder the piece doesn't spontaneously combust. "Do you?"

There is heat in his voice now. Hate. His ever-searching glare does not waver from Sherlock's as he dumps sugar into his tea.

"Do you really?"

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. Moriarty had played this game often enough with him: find the buttons, push liberally.

This was payback.

The consulting detective says nothing as he takes something else out of his pocket. A silver chain made up of little balls, with two circles the size of coins dangling down. There's something engraved on them, but even the distance between the two chairs makes that illegible.

It's a bluff, but his face remains completely impassive.

"I think so, yes."

His jaw works back and forth while the chain swings. It's familiar and another cube of refined sugar goes into his tea.

Moriarty sits back into his chair. Waits a moment. In this second not a part of him moves; he does not breath, he does not twitch. Nothing.

"There are times that I think so too." In speaking, he gives Sherlock an answer to his bluff.

Another lump of sugar

"Play the game," he says, coiling the chain around his fingers to close his hand around the tags, "and they're yours."

It was theatrical, but he would have sworn he felt the tags in his hand burning, the name on them-- John Watson-- leaving a scar on his flesh. They were the one personal item that had stayed. That hadn't vanished with John.

His jaw hurt just thinking about the punch he'd get if John knew how he was using them.

"If you win."

And you can't win.

"Oh, Sherlock. What makes you think I even want your little bauble, hm?"

He shakes his head. Acting for all the world as if Sherlock was being completely idiotic. His gaze dips down to his tea - really now starting to be more of a sludge than anything.

"Complicating things again, darling."

After all, winning meant being alive with his opposite dead. But for how long....a week? Then they'd just be doing this again. God that would get boring quickly.

"But, then again, you always did hate simplicity didn't you?"

"A week is a long time for people like us." He answers the implication, rather than the statement.

He could accomplish things in a week, he knew, that John couldn't have managed in a month. And John, at least, was fairly capable. Compared to someone truly average? A week for him or for James Moriarty was like a year.

Without another word, he puts the dogtags in his pocket, as if to say, Well, if you don't want them...

He hummed his response, neither confirming nor denying the fact that without an almost constant stream of stimulation - they might die of boredom. The thought brought a smile to his lips and he set his tea down.

"What would you do without me?"

And vice versa. James wasn't tired...just fed up. This game might be worth it after all. But he had no evidence of how good his odds were. If he chose wrong, would he die? Would he come back? Or be gone forever?

"Why don't we find out?"

It's not even a challenge. In a way, it's a confession. He doesn't know. He can't imagine not having Moriarty, not having that fight and that challenge. Not spending his nights looking at every little thing and wondering where it fell in the grand scheme. Not going over journals or newspapers. Or whatever he had to look through to find out what Moriarty's next move was. His life would be strangely quiet.

Quieter still when John isn't here.

Which puts the fire in Sherlock's pale eyes. The reckless, careless fire. That puts the thought in his head. That makes him smile just a little.

I have nothing left to lose.

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