I'm back
“Mr Moriarty, if you are requesting an invitation to join my club, you are more than welcome as long as you pay the membership fee and follow the rules. The Diogenes doesn’t judge the activities of its membership. If it did, we’d have to eject a good portion of those that enjoy our services.”
“ Me? I’m flattered. But no. Consider me an uninvited guest; I get the perks without the commitment. I won’t deny an invitation to Buckingham Palace. Heard they’re letting just about anyone in, nowadays. Is the dress code still lax ?”
// two word sentence | accepting
❝ There must be somethin’ wrong with the lock, boss, me tryin’ harder ain’t going to make the door magically open, yeah? I can find another way in. ❞
“ No, Sebastian, there must be somethin’ wrong with your head if you didn’t figure that out sooner. What are you standing around for? Go. You have thirty-two minutes, give or take twenty of those minutes, before I cut my losses and leave you as collateral. ”
“ I don’t know why you’re so keen on just standing there, “ he remarked, not turning around. he dropped his hand to his side, the bow in his hand remaining enclosed between seeminglyrelaxed fingers. “ sit down. have some tea. “
The deliberate drag of sable eyes captured first the descent of a bow, tracing upwards, and lastly landed upon the back of Sherlock’s head.
“Refreshments and entertainment, you’ve improved.” Needing no further encouragement, Jim sprawled himself upon the nearest surface, limbs casting possession upon contact. “Bruch No. 1.” It wasn’t a request, but an edict.
“I’m not a dog, Mr Moriarty, and even if I were, you are not my master. You can’t just instruct me to do tricks for you and expect me to obey.”
“Nah. You’re Parliament’s dog; can’t imagine they’d have you off leash and untrained. It’s been fun, really, but if I wanted to acquaint myself with fat men in suits lounging about, I would have gone to the Diogenes Club. Oh, wait .”
“Do you have a point to your words, or do you just want to disturb any possible peace that I manage to find?”
“Don’t f l a t t e r yourself. If I had known that you would be sitting around I wouldn’t waste my time -- but then, is anyone surprised? Go on then, entertain me-- roll over.”
「 ♚ ᴊ ɪ ᴍ ᴍ ᴏ ʀ ɪ ᴀ ʀ ᴛ ʏ 」
“What part of my current imagine makes you think that I’m not working, hm? Because I am. This is not what I look like when I am relaxing.”
“Aren’t you the cleverest, multitasking with a martini. The epitome of a hard worker. Her Majesty’s most glorified asset. You paint a pre-tty picture.”
“You almost take the f u n out of it .”
Heeding his instruction without so much as flinching, Irene took a seat opposite the man, smoothing her dress down as she did so. Her gaze momentarily flickered to the bottle in question before settling heavily upon him once again, crimson lips drawn together in a refined smile.
“ Oh not at all. I trust your judgement implicitly. ”
It was a layered statement, a double entendre that may as well have covered just about everything she expected they would discuss that evening. Let it be said that Irene did not often freely (let alone willingly) place her trust in the hands of others, no— not with the sheer gravity of the information she harboured. Her confidentiality was first and foremost her protection. Though, what the man sat before her could offer would mean far more than just indemnity. Her prevailing avaricious side dissipated any morals she may have (miraculously) had left.
“ Thank you for— ”
She paused, interrupted, as a young waiter moved towards their table, lifting the bottle between the pair with a look to Irene, a silent question as to whether he should begin pouring. Offering a curt nod in response without fully meeting his eyes, Irene waited until he had left before continuing, lifting the glass to her lips to take a sip before she began.
“ Thank you for agreeing to meet with me this evening, especially at such short notice. I do find emails to be so impersonal. Particularly in regards to a matter so delicate. ”
“Clever girl.” No further indication expelling the thinly veiled path of pertinence would await.
James’ tone eradicated the significance behind his lilted words, although Irene’s aptitude was not disputed for its matter; perhaps the only tangible corroboration of the fact was Jim’s presence as he remained seated, evaluating his company’s demeanour with diminutive regard for tact. It wasn’t needed, moreover, it was tenaciously omitted. He had her precisely where he wanted her and the lacking necessity for smoothing the edges of their exchange was meant to add insult to injury. No Adler’s astuteness wasn’t contentious, albeit the foundation behind her decision left much more to be desired, as far as Jim was concerned—frankly, that fact alone was disputed and thus limited the relevance of his minute contemplation.
Still, it persisted. His expression remained fixed on the finer lines of Irene’s countenance, dragging sharply along the edge of her mouth where rich pigment met alabaster skin. Impatience threatened to overshadow Jim’s selective tranquillity while the woman’s throat bobbed with the sip of her glass.
“Don’t thank me yet. We don’t know where you’ll end up by the time the night is through.” He raised his glass, took a sip of his own, and leaned into the silken tablecloth. “ You’re on a timer. And the countdown begins.”
It had begun well before they’d personally met, but, well. Irene never did ask.
“Now you’re just twisting my words-!”
“I could always twist something else.”
“If you flick my face, I will hurt you in return. Do not do it.”
“The Iceman, undone by a threat: A Flick to his Death. Could you imagine the headlines? I wonder how they’d embellish it; past experience considered,and all that.”
❝ ░ sherlock s3 / starter sentences. @governmentofficial
“…”
“… Does anybody ever say yes to that?”
“Corpses aren’t very efficient in communication. I wouldn’t know.”
“Do you think it’s made a difference? I’ll give you a hint: It hasn’t.”
Jim Moriarty (via incorrectbbcsherlockquotes)
He smirks. He’s a pretty fast runner so it shouldn’t be a problem. “You really wanna race me boss?” He can’t help but be skeptical, but intrigued on it too.
“ Don’t look so surprised, Sebastian; it isn’t very becoming on you. Put two and two together, Moron. I’m not going to race you on foot. I have an umbrella, and a ride, I intend to use both. Keep up. ”
Richard couldn’t hear it anymore, his mind was buzzing with Jim’s words, repeating them over and over again, like a broken record, not able to stop, going on and on, and he’d had enough. He covered his ears and shut his eyes as he yelled the only words that could come out of is mouth. “Stop it!” It was after a second or two that he realized what he’d done, what impulsive movement his leg had made. Oh god, oh god, oh god have mercy. He didn’t want to, no, he didn’t mean to, but he did. He kicked his brother with all his strength, his foot hit him under the knee and Richie suddenly jumped up and held out his hands in a defensive position. “No, wait! I-I-I didn’t…”
The occurrence was a rare treat; figuratively, it held the equivalence of indulging in a sugary confection composed of dark chocolate and fruit, although Jim would choose to describe his brother as the sybaritic entity, rather than himself. James was the enabler, and still, he would hold Richard accountable for extending his hand into the broad selection of instances where violence would apply. Refusal was not an option. Furthermore, the separate instances wherein Richard was bold—or inattentive— enough to bite into Jim’s hand would only serve as ammunition in the near future. Richard rarely held adequate audacity to strike back. The verbal aspect of lashing through words and denial transpired sufficiently often. His brother had a tendency to slur his arguments, intoxicated by fear or frustration; this was particularly the case upon confrontation, and had been since their youth. The novelty had long worn off but—this. A sharp, painful presence upon his shin caused Jim to redirect his attention from its wavering, where it had strayed to think about comparatively more important aspects, like tea, and back onto Richard. There was a flash, the sudden influx of heat traversing through the jolt of blood, before Jim allowed his own frame to straighten. A pulsing had developed in the affected area, serving a brief reminder: even mice have teeth. He would need to assess his brother’s conditioning. Clearly. “Did you just hit me, Richard?” The question held the added benefit of granting Richard a moment to ineffectively retract his foul play, whilst concurrently permitting the severity of his deprived decisions to catch up with the adrenaline. “Choose your next words ve-ry carefully.”
Molly hadn’t been with him very long, but his grasp on her was already quite damaging. What little confidence she once had in herself was fading; her smile stopped reaching her eyes as well. One could say love wasn’t a good look for her nowadays, but she didn’t say anything. There were no bruises on her body, just her ego. Whenever he’d speak this way, her eyes would glaze over. They used to water, but she just learned that he didn’t say these things to hurt her, but to help her; she needed to realize how lucky she was and admire his honesty.
At the very least, she thought to herself, he cares enough to stay.
She looked up from her hands to look at her boyfriend and gave him a weak smile, before speaking. “You’re right, love,” she moved a piece of hair behind her ear, “absolutely right.”
Jim cared about her, he just wanted her to have a realistic sense of self. She was always too optimistic, she supposed. It was nice to have someone to hold at the end of the day, even if his obsession with Sherlock was a bit concerning at times.
Were it not for the benefits directly allocated to maintaining a committed grip upon Molly’s demeanour—noxious, relentlessly insalubrious as it was—Jim might have lost interest long before she could place a delicate finger down, and assess where l o v e had gone wrong. At the very least, realise how deeply his integrity lacked within an ill fitted, unapologetic misrepresentation of it. Love did not exist, the fact that Jim was incapable of articulating any small measure of it was entirely beside the point. Whether or not it was he who stood in the place of a stern, authoritative figure mattered little when one considered Molly’s favour toward self-destruction. Applied, voluntary depreciation was a nasty habit, indeed. There was no skin off his back; the only avid involvement on his part was fuelling Molly’s established inclination for detrimental severity. Despite her best efforts, the woman’s disposition would always place another’s opinion above her own. This was particularly the case, Jim had realised with a small infliction of delight the very first time their exchange had occurred, when the person staking claims was palpably conditional. One of many, albeit this feat was most notably reflected in the presence of Molly’s perpetual fixation on Sher-lock. She was obedient, though. Knew when to keep her mouth shut, and learned to lick and appreciate the remnants of consideration where it was bestowed. Jim Moriarty’s attention was entirely dependent upon his toys’ value. As of then, Molly was a connection to the bigger picture; and he fancied a tasteful puzzle when it bared its appearance. The very moment she ceased her position as a crucial piece would draw an irreversible line between them. “Aren’t I just? Come, give us a kiss.” He wouldn’t normally make a request; fancied taking much more than asking. The only exceptions existed when a point was meant to be made.
