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“Please,” Moriarty had begged of him, “Sherlock Holmes.”
Moriarty had slipped in like rainwater into the cracks of the foundation of his life that was shattered by the ever-present longing—ragged desperation, fueled by sheer stubbornness, the determination and self-awareness that if he failed in reaching his dream, he’d remain floundering forever.
There had been an almost-enviable ease with which he conducted himself, a kind of confidence that you couldn’t teach to anyone. It radiated grace and spoke of an untouchable serenity. Moriarty was a man—even when he was barely half his height, petite and slim like bamboo shoots. And like bamboo, he had grown quickly. Like bamboo, he had pierced into the fortress that Sherlock had erected around himself. A wall of eccentricity, because he had no time for the common riffraff who couldn’t keep up with him.
Moriarty had been able to not only jump into his trains of thought, he’d even sometimes played as the conductor, the driver, the control station. Moriarty had always spoken to him with a brilliant smile, a teasing grin. Moriarty had always spoken to him in lighthearted words, never outright telling or asking him what to do. Moriarty had preferred to speak with him in a whirling dance where they parried and poked at each other, even if a lot of times there was always the impression that Moriarty was simply letting him think that he was the lead.
Never once had Moriarty plead at him. Never once had he begged. Never once had he addressed him so seriously, with the full breadth of his name.
So when Moriarty begged, “Please, Sherlock Holmes,” he knew that he would certainly grant his wish, no matter however much he disliked the outcome.
He told himself that it was simply part of the usual recovery process from a traumatic experience. The dull-eyed gaze, the leaden tone. He told himself that it was remorse and despair that drove Moriarty’s cooperative surrender to the police. He told himself that it was Moriarty’s way of forcing Moran to play his hand; even if he was the Mayor, it would be difficult for him harm his son while he was in constant surveillance in the juvenile detention center. He told himself that Moriarty didn’t mean it to become, “I am dangerous to be around everyone, so I need to be someplace where I can’t harm anyone else”.
He told himself he wasn’t worried. He told himself that it was not like they were best friends or something. He told himself so many things, but in the end, he still found himself willingly contacting Mycroft, the first time he had ever done so. Mycroft sneered at him in that usual way of his, dangled the chance to let him visit Moriarty in a private setting, in exchange for an investigation that he wanted done.
Sherlock found himself accepting even if his stomach overturned with disgust, told himself that he was only doing so because he wanted to wipe off the contemptuous smirk from his brother’s face.
“Please, Sherlock Holmes.”
Moriarty’s face flashed to the forefront of his mind.
With a heavy sigh followed by the grit of his teeth, he started to investigate the groundwork of Mycroft’s request.
It was not because he particularly missed Moriarty’s presence, he told himself.
Somehow, he had a feeling that he was lying to himself.
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