shinytoybox | Sherlock and Moriarty nonsense

[...He didn't answer the question. Filing that away, he's silent for a moment - rising just to get his drink, causing Abby to give a meow of protest - and silently pours a glass for his other half as well, setting it in front of him as he gives the other a level stare.]

I suppose it does - then again, it was the career we'd settled on before...

[He trails off, then takes a drink. Sherlock shouldn't need prompting to know what he's referring to.]

And? What of you? I imagine it's been somewhat dangerous, owing to that scar on your brow.

[He accepts the glass, noting how the other man noticed his lack of answer. He'll figure it out soon enough, his gloved fingers curling around the glass. At the mention of the scar, he gestures to it with a free hand]

Oh this? Ah, a would be from a run in with someone trying to silence me.

[Sherlock wasn't lying, he had been nosing around about one of the Honorable Lord's homes for wayward children and got a knife to the face for the trouble]

I tried my hand at journalism, unfortunately my stories were not the sort they want to publish.

A reporter, hm? I'm not surprised, considering your...aptitude for sticking your nose into things.

[He sighs, petting Abby - who's become quieter, though still distrustful of the stranger in her territory, eyes watching his every movement (and to see if he leaves any fish behind that she can snatch up).

Still...It's been years since then, and only now does he show up? No.

Deep in his soul, he knows why Sherlock is here, and there's no use in dancing around it.]

...Still. I assume you know about what happened at the museum earlier, then?

Unfortunately that didn't last - too many people have ways of keeping things out of print.

[Sherlock gave a long sigh, well but that was that life, his is a different track. His current one while not what he had set out to do did it's job, redirecting energies and keeping himself alive in a sense. And there was something enjoyable in executing his plots.]

Hm - rumors have certainly been flying about, they wouldn't bring you in for a run of the mill theft.

Hm, I'd assume so. After all, people never want their secrets uncovered - despite how much it deserves to be brought to light.

[...he's not certain yet - but hearing about that, well.

He knows.

After all, the extent of the crime had not been published yet, and he could have been in there for many different reasons other than theft, as the man in front of him very well knows.

So - he smiles.]

Oh? I never said it was theft, Sherlock. For all you know, I could have been investigating many other things.

...Unless, of course, you had some reason to believe it was a much grander theft?

[He realized just too late he had slipped out something he shouldn't. Perhaps he intended to on some level? Well, that's not important - it'll put an interesting edge if James did make the connections.]

Well, logically if there was a murder, the scene around the museum would be much busier, much more chaotic - gossip would've spread if there was a body involved. Theft is the likely crime in this case, and it would not have been a simple smash and grab affair. Even Scotland Yard could handle something like that.

[All which is true, and logical enough, but while some people will be satisfied by that answer, his other half - if he was properly his other half - would dig, or try to confirm his suspicions later on]

[Reasonable, yes - yet the gleam in his blue eyes should speak for him. The gleam of connecting, of figuring things out, biding his time to hold in the knowledge contained within.]

Ah, yes - That does make sense, doesn't it? Well then - in your opinion, what kind of crime would have occurred?

[He saw the gleam, it's one that was in his own eyes so often. He leans in, food finished, but drink mostly untouched now. There's a kind of thrum the air, he could almost feel his heart pulsing in his chest. The closeness just reminded him keenly of what they were, what they could've been.]

Well - let's see - a different sort of theft, vandalism, the assault upon a guard, the latter is less likely. Given the location, and that vandalism tends not to be very subtle - I would surmise it is that 'grander sort of theft' that you spoke of.

[He leans in as well, that same spell seeming to fall over him as he talks, excitedly.]

Indeed! And what kind of grand theft do you suppose happened? What would be enough to have caught the eye of Sherlock Holmes?

[...For a moment, it was as if -

They were the same person, talking about a case to themselves.]

[His breath catches, excitement buzzing in the back of his head replacing the faint, distant whispers. Sherlock felt hyper-aware of his tongue, pressing against his teeth and the roof his mouth, wanting to elucidate, to answer but he'd tip his hand, he wouldn't want to have the answers just handed over, unless it's by the unintentional slip up by his opponent]

Archival theft is one possibility, there are scores of works that are not available to the public eye, but it's no less valuable.

Hm, potentially - But let me tell you this! There was not a work out of place beyond one piece, and yet I still called it a grander theft.

What then, could it be?

[Leading him on - like he was teaching him, letting him come to the correct answer he'd learned, trembling almost faintly with that same excitement.

Though if Sherlock noticed, he might have felt those strands of web attaching to his face, pulling him in just the right way...]

How unusual, a theft where no item is missing...

[He knew the answer, he wanted to declare it, the instinct of the detective hasn't died in him, no matter how hard he tried to bury it. His vision seem to swim for the moment, almost seeing things crawling at the edge of a vision. Then the man shook his head, suddenly sitting up, blinking slowly as if he had awaken from an opium-induced dream.

What was he doing? He almost blurted the truth, as if the person who robbed the museum was a different person entirely that he was trying to track down! And if he hadn't come out of it - something else, something regretful may have happened]

You're certainly angling for a specific answer.

Edited 2019-06-08 03:42 (UTC)

[At the jerk -

it was like the tension, the spell between them...just broke, blinking and sitting upright himself.

Ah...what was he thinking? That - had been too dangerous, and he winces suddenly, his hand rising up to rub fitfully at his chest, just over his heart, where the Authority was branded into his flesh.]

...I suppose I merely wanted your thoughts on the matter. Now that I have them - well.

[He stops rubbing, suddenly locking eyes with Sherlock - and smiling.]

Such a shame that there's no evidence, hm? At least, not enough to bring down the Spider pulling the strings behind it.

['I know.']

[His breath had quickened, the thread of dread lacing down his spine at what almost happened. Yet, despite being aware that coming here was a terrible idea on a logical stand point, there was a flutter of excitement stirring within as those eyes locked onto him, azure meeting peridot.

The game has changed, new rules will have to be learned and exploited, weaving around the webs that his other will lay out for him.]

Indeed, it would be difficult to bring justice to someone that leaves no trace.

[As if remembering, he takes a long sip of his drink]

Indeed. Yet, I'm certain that they'll slip up.

['This is a bad idea', something deep inside him whispered.

Yet, like this, sitting at a table...

There was so much they could be, they could do. They could play a game all for them, dancing around the traps each other set.

Maybe...for a little while, it wouldn't be so bad. Until one or the other is inevitably trapped, strangled by those threads -

(The fate of a Beast like them, after all.)

He gives a loud yawn, before downing another swig of his drink.]

A criminal always does, somewhere along the line. Don't you agree?

[Games are never meant to last, they are by design meant to be just momentary distractions.

But it wouldn't hurt to push it a little more, to play another round.

To play, to dance, to weave and pounce, giving and taking.

(Snaring and Devouring)

His eyes slipped half-lidded, swirling the glass lightly]

Everyone does make mistakes it is part of existing - though while such flaws may expose a criminal, it does not always mean justice will be dealt to them before either time or the shadows of history takes them.

Edited 2019-06-08 04:47 (UTC)

Indeed, Sherlock. We'll have to see if this criminal slips into the shadows, uncaught - or if they'll eventually be collared by Scotland Yard or a detective of some renown.

[He gives a smile, and then -

shrugs.]

Time will tell, but it is good to see you again. I'm surprised you're still in london, personally.

Time will tell.

[A genuine smile actually crosses his lips at that, reaching into his eyes]

I had considered other places, but London seems to suit me better than anywhere else.

[Being around people was comforting in an odd way. There's so many thoughts and ideas flitting about, so many things to see and learn.]

It is a bustling place, true. I don't have any plans to move from the city, either - So I suppose we might see each other again, then.

[He chuckles.]

It seems I'll have to keep slicking back my hair in order to keep people from mistaking us for the other.

...Speaking of, I take it you're using a different name now?

That we might.

[He considered, and decided James would figure it out eventually, and there really wasn't much of a point]

And yes, I am - Arthur Gray.

Gray, hm? It's a good name.

[He takes another drink, noting there's only a sip or so left.]

As for myself, I'm asking those close to me to use 'James'. There's just something about the name I like.

[He nods, 'James' - he remembered liking that name. It sounds nice, and as the hour was getting late, he says his good-byes and withdraws, leaving just enough mackerel for Abby to steal.

It wouldn't be the last time they meet, not with the game they're playing. The Spider was not the remote spinner of webs, but the leaping hunter, but also on occasion the lurker inside a trap, drawing someone in before snapping them up.

He was careful, always so careful - a false front, crimes covering crimes, sometimes vanishing like a phantom, other times leaving evidence pointing towards another criminal trying to worm their way into his territory or made too much trouble, drawing too much attention near his havens.

Sometimes James wasn't called in at all, and it was disappointing, but when he was - he'd always watch from some remote place, to see him search and question, uncovering what he had hidden. Sometimes it gone as far as him finding one of his safe houses, which Gray would have stripped clean of the presence of any signs of his enterprise by the time police would arrive, leaving only bare rooms and wiped prints.

But much like the drugs, it wasn't enough to quell the screaming - it would be mutable for a while before roaring back louder and louder, taking more to make it silent again. As he upped the dosage, he also increased the complexity of his work, and the severity of it.

Some small part of him hated this, hated the thing he became, but the rest of him was too well-honed at this art, too dipped in blood and shadow to stop. He was constantly uncovering hidden things, forbidden things, loathsome knowledge was knowledge that appeased that hunger. Sometimes his hands were stained with blood when he wrest something new, and he noticed he was growing numb to the sight.

Gray knew that there was no happy ending for this game, but long as he kept playing - a worse one would be avoided, or so he tells himself. Though he could sense the change in James' demeanor as of late.

And the air around him just thrummed with a new kind of tension as he slips once more to that flat]

[At first, it had just been a fun game - between them, using lives in their wake, humans being destroyed or jailed or their fates irreparably changed. And he didn't notice - in the beginning, anyway, too focused on the webs they wove for each other.

But then - as if his eyes had forcibly been opened - he saw what they were doing to the world, to London.

And he knew they had to be stopped, no matter what.

He had played for too long - it only made sense, as Sherlock was the 'force' of the Beast, the driving intelligence behind them while he was their fangs - been too complacent. And he knew, without a doubt, the destruction they would bring if they were unchecked.

(Let it happen, his instincts whispered, but he forced it down)

So as Sherlock slips into his flat - the door purposefully unlocked, knowing the other man can't resist showing his face again, the pattern of their games familiar by now - James is waiting in a chair at his desk, facing towards the door to the study as Sherlock walks in.

His eyes are like ice as he speaks, his voice neutral.]

...The Game is over, Sherlock.

[He had been so absorbed, in the fun - one of the few pleasures he had left - and quieting the screaming that the game had spiraled, becoming instead of a means of preventing the Beast, it became the very thing that may draw them together once more.

(It would make it stop, it would make the screaming stop)

As he stood in the flat, the ice in the other man's eyes, the building tension. The declaration wasn't of the 'I know your tricks' variety.

There's a finality, especially the usage of that name]

Over...?

[His voice was cool, but he had been steadily growing cooler in expression and voice over the months, only growing animate when James confront him. But even as he questioned cool, he felt it - that hot flash of rage wanting to crawl out, indignant that their game was being declared over from the beast who had been fed by their play.

yet his shoulders dropped as if in relief]

Yes.

[He doesn't miss a single moment - the shoulders dropping, the faint flash of rage in his eyes. Of course, the Beast would be angry that the game was over, but -

It had to be done. For the sake of humanity, for those dear humans he loved so much. ]

...Monday, you and your gang will be caught by Scotland Yard. There will be no escape, nor any miraculous ways to wiggle out of it.

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