The lovely idea came from Catherine Spark [check out her version here, it's pretty awesome!] and she then continued to poke and prod me until I wrote this; that Moriarty actually fell for Molly. ENJOY! (Loosely based on James Blunt's "Love, Love, Love")

It wasn't supposed to go like this. There was only supposed to The Game. The people used weren't supposed to mean a thing to him; they were just pawns, a nuisance, unneeded. And yet …

He looked down at the pale back that was muted by the darkness of the night. Tangled brown hair laid out on the pillow and soft snuffling snores slowly reached ears. Hard eyes glared at the back but there was no response. Heated anger flooded and pooled into the stomach and the dark purple duvet was thrown back, a bare arm clenched around the duvet covering the body. This made the anger flare even more.

After a few minutes of furious pacing and hard glares at the still sleeping form clothes were thrown on and the front door slammed shut. The sleeping figure only rolled over; the pink strap of the nightgown slid down her arm.

Breathing harshly through a stuffy nose Jim pulled at his black hair as he quickly walked away from the apartment covered in horrible shades of pink and that housed a cat that made his sinuses act up. Pulling out his cell phone he dialed one number from the two that were stored in it.

"Yes?" the static voice whispered.

"Have some Claritin out when I get there." With that simple command he hung up and walked as fast as he could to Baker Street and unlocked 223's door noiselessly. Climbing the stairs he threw open the door to flat B and flopped down to sulk in the conveniently placed couch. Before the couch sat a laptop, the screen divided into four screens, each screen switched images every minute. He leaned over and double clicked on one screen that showed a picture taken of the flat next door.

"Opened fire on the wall again sir." Jim glanced warily at the wall above him- the holes in it formed a smiley face. He grabbed the Claritin a manicured hand offered to him and downed the water like it was alcohol. "New bullets too, though evidence shows that he didn't go out and buy any." Jim raised an eyebrow at the slight woman before him; her grin mirrored his excited grin, one full of malice and excitement. "They're from that new flat mate." At his blank stare she continued, pushing her dark brown hair out of her face, "John Watson, Doctor John H. Watson." She walked over the dining table barely visible from the couch and came back; an inch thick manila folder was in her hands. "Army doctor returned home because he was wounded in the shoulder, scars on chest and leg due to a hostage situation, intermittent tremors in his left hand – they aren't there when he's under stress, believes he has a wounded leg and limps – truth is that it's psychosomatic, partially at least, muscle cramps up in wet weather. Says her-"

"Quite enough." Her mouth snapped shut and she held out the file to him, he batted it away. "Return it before he notices it's been gone from his desk, don't want questions now do we?" he gave her a thin, cheeky smile; rolling her eyes and shaking her head she smiled back. She placed it in a bag at the door and started putting her coat on as she glanced at her 'boss' out of the corner of her eye.

"It's not the 'damn cat' that's the problem you know." He scowled and sank into the couch, hands clenched into fists.

"Stay out of it." She looked at him strangely and was about to talk when her blackberry chirped. Hastily taking out her phone she muttered a curse under her breath.

"Have to get back to the office," she leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, "a war might break out if I don't. Moran's asleep, drank a bit too much." He could hear his sister's heels clumping down the stairs and her voice grew louder, "Don't booby trap his room again! Give him a break Jim!" the door slammed shut.

Finally. He curled into himself and turned his back to the open flat door.

But she was right, in a small way; it really wasn't the cat that got to him. It wasn't watching Glee either; the show actually did interest him. He found he could relate himself to the main girl. The decor, while a bit off and horrible, was tolerable. Acting was always a small joy he had when he was younger, when he was naive, so this whole charade was perfectly fine. In fact, he might've been enjoying it a bit too much.

No, what was really getting to him was her. It was the things that the girl was doing to him. Curling in on himself even more he clenched his head between his hands. The mousy girl was nothing special, just another piece in the grander scheme of things. Someone he had to use to get closer to what was rightfully his. He was only trying to play his cards right. She wouldn't let him though; she had to be emot- … no. No. God no! With the small epiphany his hands gripped his hair tighter, his fingertips went white and sharp pricks of pain dotted his scalp where his nails dug into the skin. His body gave a small twitch in the shoulders.

She cared for him. She honestly cared for him, she might even love him for all he knew; he shuddered at the idea. It seemed to make sense … no, no it actually didn't. Even if she did, heaven forbid, care for him he could ignore it, he could still use her, twist and manipulate her even more than he already had, much like Sherlock did. If it was all one-sided it wouldn't matter at all, if wouldn't be affecting him this much, it wouldn't be a damn problem!

Standing up suddenly he upset the laptop, causing it to crash to the ground. Eyes squeezed together tightly he pinched the bridge of his nose and started blindly pacing the flat. What had that girl done to him? Apparently even his damn sister knew. A low frustrated growl escaped his mouth. Not caring about a word his sister had said to him he stomped up the stairs and threw open the door to Moran's room.

"Get up!" With much groaning the body that had been lying horizontal jumped to its feet. The eyes, quickly going from sleepy and drunk to aware and alert, noticed his heavy breathing and the furious set to his mouth. The stance of the older man relaxed, a cocked hip rested on the edge of a nightstand and a slight smirk showed.

"Sorry but this one is a bit hard to decipher. Are you mad or aroused?" Jim continued the pacing he had taken up in front of the older man but still snarled at him.

"Shut it."

"Oooo, it's both isn't it! I love it when you're like this!" the man stepped into his path and grabbed his arm as he went to shove by. "Relax Jim. Everything is in place an-"

"It's nothing to do with that you imbecile! It's the damn girl." He tore his arm away and started to grip his head in clenching hands. Warm, calloused hands quickly wrapped around his hands that were trying to rip his hair out, slowly they worked the hands free and smoothed them flat.

"What is it this time? Too dumb, too clingy, to- oh, it's the damn cat isn't it?" his rough voice had taken on a gentle quality. Jim choked on a hysterical laugh and fell to the bed. Rolling his eyes the older man grabbed Jim's arm and slapped him. Jim immediately stopped laughing; there was now a fire in his eyes. "James, snap out of it. They just may be right, you are crazy." Jim's eyes narrowed until they were just slits.

"Shut up Moran, I could have you be the next clue for lovely little Sherlock." Moran scoffed, calling Jim's bluff.

"Like you would, you need me to do your dirty work. Or do you want to start getting your hands dirty?" Jim looked speculatively down at his hands.

"My hands are too pretty to get dirty. Talking about dirty hands, something interesting needs to happen, I'm bored. I think our Chinese friends should be informed that something special was nicked. Get them a green card will you? I don't like to do everything the illegal way."

"Of course," Moran nodded and went to leave the room. As he passed Jim he patted Jim's cheek, "dear."


"I gave you my number, I thought you might call." From the tiny space were Jim was hiding he could see Sherlock's head twitch in the direction of his voice but his eyes stayed locked on John Watson. Disgustingly normal, bland, dumb John Hamish Watson. Who gave their kid the middle name of Hamish anyway? He stepped out of his hiding spot and stood there staring at Sherlock as the man quickly looked him over in five seconds.

"Is that a British Army Browning L-A91 in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?" A small sneer, nearly invisible to someone who didn't know Sherlock like he did – so intimately –, fluttered on and off of Sherlock's face as he drew out said gun.

"Both." His arm held steady as he aimed it at Jim's head. With the gun pointed at his head Jim knew Moran's loyalty to letting Jim play with Sherlock was wearing thin. Sherlock's confusion, though he'd never admit to it, was also tangible to Jim.

"Jim Moriarty," a quick sneer at Sherlock's surprise," Hi!" his voice wavered like a pubescent boy, something he loved to do and get on people's nerves with. Sherlock's face showed no sign of emotion or recognisation, pity really. He slowly walked the perpendicular walkway to get closer to Sherlock. "Jim? Jim from the hospital?" he bit his lip in mock concentration. "Huh, did I really make such a fleeting impression? Then I suppose, that was rather the point." He stood at the end of the tiled walkway, hands in pockets and a small challenging grin in place. Sherlock's gaze quickly jumped from him to John Watson. "Don't be silly, someone else is holding the rifle." In fact, his trusty personal sniper was holding the rifle just waiting for the signal; he liked a man who knew how to do more than one thing. "I don't like getting my hands dirty." He had a small laugh stuck in his throat. It was exactly what he had told Moran those three and a half weeks ago. Honestly though, did Sherlock really expect that of him? He didn't seem as bright as he initiatively thought. He stuffed his hands into his pockets; an air of nonchalance surrounded him. "I've given you a glimpse Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got out there in the big bad world." He straightened himself a bit like a peacock showing off his feathers. "I'm a specialist," something else seemed to catch his attention before he looked back at Sherlock, a small smile that hinted that he knew something Sherlock didn't, which Jim knew drove Sherlock's mind a bit crazy in wonder. "Like you." A look of understanding crossed Sherlock's face, Jim brightened just a bit too.

"Dear Jim," he breathed, "Please will you fix it for me?" a hint of urgency pressed forward in Sherlock's voice, "To get rid of my lover's nasty sister?" his voice broke slightly Jim noted gleefully, his smile widened. "Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?" he had rushed on once the epiphany had truly dawned on him.

"Just so." Jim licked his lips, excited his play mate understood, excited that the game may just move on and continue, excited that someone may just be awed by his brilliance.

"Consulting criminal, brilliant." Jim basked in the awe that colored Sherlock's voice for just a second but the smile stayed in place.

"Isn't it?" He sighed, happy that Sherlock understood, that he was appreciated. It didn't matter that Sherlock called him a criminal; they just had different areas of … expertise. However … "No one ever gets to me and no one ever will." Even with Sherlock working next to him he'd always be alone, separated and distant – unattached.

"I did." Ah, the past tense. At least he didn't think himself still on top, still the intelligent man who started playing with him.

"You've come the closest," he admitted, a bit reluctant to admit the feeling of attachment to someone, "but now, you're in my way." He narrowed his eyes a bit at the unfazed 'detective'.

"Thank you." Sherlock shot back blankly, maybe he was the man he started playing 'Cat and Mouse' with.

"Didn't mean it as a compliment." He shot back.

"Yes you did." Though Sherlock didn't move an inch Jim could very well hear the raised eyebrow.

"Yeah okay I did." He shrugged and fixed Sherlock with an easy smile all evil intents and purposes very clear behind it. He trilled his voice once more, seeing how far he could push Sherlock. "But the flirting's over, Sherlock, daddy's had enough now~!" slowly, very slowly he started to move towards Sherlock, he could feel his snipers eyes follow him, watching his every move. "I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear." Five steps closer, five paces closer to Sherlock, less distance for Sherlock to miss his shot if he were to take it but Jim knew, knew he wouldn't take it. He wouldn't because Jim was the only one to understand him, to see the brilliance of what he did, Jim gave him a distraction from the dull normalcy of human kind, he gave him a release of his forever running mind. That wasn't his job though, it was just entertainment for when he was bored, not the other way around. "Back off." What he did with the Chinese, for people with problems was his job; it was the work that distracted his mind. Though dancing around Sherlock, just beyond his fat brother's reach and lie-detecting skills, had been fun it didn't take up all his brainpower. " Although I have enjoyed this game of ours. Playing Jim from IT." He took a few more steps closer. "Playing gay," he licked his lips as he sensed Sherlock disappointment in himself, "Did you like the touch with the underwear?"

"People have died." People, what people mattered? No one mattered. Not family that left you, who hurt you, who blamed you. And friends didn't matter either, not empty sacks of skin that lie, that leave you for empty words, who believe the conformity of society. And he had proved his strength and power to Carl when he had turned on him, he had proved that society doesn't matter, it doesn't come running to save you; it doesn't have loyalty, it only has lies and broken promises.

"That's what people DO!" a break of calm, of control when he remembered childhood, remembered being left behind, being left for the harsh hand and drunken roars. His scream bounced off the tiles for a shocked second and Sherlock's eyes bored into Jim, tried digging into him like they did to the brain dead people who walked around London in a daze. He narrowed his eyes, daring him to try; he licked his lips once more. Silence reigned for the second Jim's eyes continued to smolder with hate.

"I will stop you." Sherlock broke it with his almost whisper of a promise. Jim knew that he wouldn't be able to be kept, knew it for a fact.

"No you won't." the fury rolled off of him, left him smug once more. Sherlock gave him once last glance before his eyes moved away. Ah yes, John, his friend.

"You all right?" the gun didn't waver and Jim could so easily get it away from Sherlock but challenges were always so nice. Silence answered Sherlock's question, well how ru- ahh, a true military man. To obey orders even after the backup arrived. He strolled over to John and leaned his chin on his shoulder briefly.

"You can talk, Johnny boy, go ahead." John jerked away from his warm breath. He seemed to have a hatred for the nickname. Did he have a grandmother who called him that or was it his sister before she became the drunk she is now? The small jerk of the head seemed to placate Sherlock for the time being, Jim longed to know how Sherlock would react, if react at all, once he found what he had done to his precious pet.

"Take it."

"Huh?" Ahh, the pen drive that could send their lovely nation into war with their so-called Allies. If only Mycroft knew what his little brother was doing. "Oh, the missile plans." He snatched it from Sherlock's fingers and brought it to his lips, kept eye contact as he kissed the plastic that would never kiss back. His lips quirked upright into a smirk, " Booring~! I could've gotten them anywhere!" with a playful grin he tossed the little stick into the pool sizzling the data it held. In a flurry of motion he was grabbed from behind callused hands grabbed his neck painfully, air couldn't make it down his throat. His neck twisted and stung with pain and a clumsy arm with too much winter coat to properly put pressure on his wind pipe held him back enough so he couldn't reach out to Sherlock. Surprised Sherlock took a step back with wide eyes. One arm wrenched behind his back twisted enough to break, encased in a cast for almost two months; his shoulder bruised an ugly purple and yellow for two weeks John Hamish Watson shouted for Sherlock to run, Jim only laughed.

"Oh, oh, oh! GOOD! Very good!" John growled low in his throat and whispered angrily in his hear.

"Your sniper, if he pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up." Ever the gentleman, and army man – even in a hostage situation he tried to find a weakness and use it against his captor. How very dull, as if he hadn't planned for this. Though he could see Moran's laser trying to find a spot on John Watson that wasn't covered by Jim of Semtex, frantic to save his boss.

"Innit he sweet?" Jim cooed from John's arms, he glanced back over his shoulder at John, his face was contorted as he tried to keep his grip on Jim secure and pain inflicting – it wasn't working. "I can see why you like having him around; then again people do get so sentimental about their pets." John still wouldn't let go even after his ferocious sneer, jab at Sherlock and his supposed 'friendship'; he'd just have to jab a little deeper. "So touchingly loyal but WHOOPS!" he motioned to Moran with his captured arm, the laser winked winked out of existence and then focused on Sherlock's head, wavering between his forehead and temple. John froze behind him, his arms loosening; Jim allowed a proud smirk.

"You've rather shown your hand their Doctor Watson." He looked over his shoulder at John, his face was plastered with fear and worry, and Sherlock shook his head in Jim's peripherals. "Gotcha!" He sang as he broke John's hold on his arms, John backed away with his hands held up in surrender. Fixing his suit and getting off the dust from John's coat he smiled up at Sherlock, "Westwood." Sherlock stared back blankly. Licking his lips he fixed Sherlock with a stare he might give to a slow child. "Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone Sherlock? To you?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and readjusted his grip on the gun.

"Let me guess, I'll get killed." Jim pulled a face.

"Kill you? Um, no, don't be obvious." Sherlock was the one who helped alleviate his boredom, who understood his intelligence; he wouldn't kill his playmate. Well, not this one just yet. "I mean, I'm going to kill you someday but I don't want to rush it, I'm saving it for something special. No, no, no, no; if you don't stop prying I'll burn you." He looked at Sherlock with such fire, hatred for thinking he could just leave him, anger at being left behind once more, angry at Sherlock's stupidity and thinking he needed a friend. "I, will burn the heart," he paused to reel back the flowing anger and blinked rapidly at Sherlock, "out of you." He swallowed the words that wanted to pour out. Sherlock didn't seem fazed at all, just processing. Jim wanted to smile; it was just what he wanted.

"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one." Even Jim could see the slight pain in Sherlock at those words but what of that did it matter? Who cared what those dimwits think, they only needed each other but … Sherlock wasn't as great at Jim, he had the heart still inside, still beating.

"We both know that's not quite true." He gave Sherlock his all-knowing smirk, the skin around Sherlock's eyes tightened minutely as he narrowed his eyes that tiny bit. "Well! I better be off," he looked around, as if checking he did everything. Turning back to Sherlock he gave a small nod, "So nice to have a proper chat." He leaned to start walking away so Moran could take care of them but Sherlock shifted into his pathway.

"What if I were to shoot you now. Right now?" his finger drew closer, tighter around the trigger. Jim noticed this and the tightness of Sherlock's voice. If he didn't know better he'd think it was panic or worry.

"Then you'd be able to cherish the look of surprise on my face." He drew his features into a mock expression of surprise, mouth round and eyes big. "'Cause I'd be surprised Sherlock, really I would." He'd kill off his only friend, his only playmate? "You know, even a teensy bit … disappointed." Disappointed that he'd give into John's 'morals' and to the 'goodness' of society. "Then again, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long." He gave him a pointed look and Sherlock's gaze swept back to John, still standing behind Jim and covered in Semtex. "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes." He gave him a nasty smirk and slowly walked towards the exit door, his steps echoed around the poolroom.

"Catch, you … later." He could feel the point that the gun was trained on tingle but he knew he wouldn't be shot at tonight. He would be leaving alive and never have to deal with the meddlesome Holmes' ever again, especially if his assassin completed his job. He called playfully over his shoulder.

"No you won't!" The door slammed shut after him and he paged his men on the roof, "Keep guns trained but turn lasers off." He slowly walked to the outside doors but through the glass window he could see a familiar black car, one he had dodged so well – so far. He cursed and stepped back into the shadows before the large government man could spot him. There wasn't many ways out of this one. From his position he could just see out the window lights of police cars spin silently as they pulled up, an ambulance was probably in the mix too. He didn't even spare a thought for his sister and if she had been tortured for the information.

And his mind had to go back to Molly. The girl was most likely frantic that she couldn't reach him on his pager at work – he resigned yesterday – or that he wouldn't answer his cell – a fake he had tossed out yesterday as well – or that he wasn't answering her questions on her silly blog. If any of them died tonight – hopefully John Watson at least – their body would be delivered to Molly in the morgue. Who knew? If Sherlock survived he just might experiment with the body parts or flog the body with his riding crop. He knew for certain though, if Sherlock survived he'd hunt Jim down. Sherlock was a man to finish a puzzle to the very end, no matter what that meant for himself. Possibly a draw back to his character but it also was very valuable as well, a job would always be finished.

He also knew that Sherlock would continue to use Molly. Jim had done the same but it wasn't for personal things that could very easily be stolen, Jim hadn't dragged her around. He had, in his own terms, taken care of her – men watched to make sure she wasn't harassed at night and when she was at work he had expendables make sure her home was safe. He had been there for her in many ways, as her 'boyfriend' and as a friend. Those first few days he had played her they joked over coffee – his puny mortuary jokes had gotten her to laugh even if she hadn't slept in the last 24 hours or if Sherlock had played her a bit too much earlier that day. Then the first 'date' he had made sure that they said nothing work-related – mostly Sherlock-related really. There was a small carnival in town that they ended up going to and he played a game to win her a stuffed elephant, she proudly named in Jimmy – she insisted it wasn't after him. A girl so sweet, though occasionally annoying, and innocent shouldn't have to deal with a man like Sherlock, someone so demanding and pushing and intelligent.

The bottom of Jim's stomach felt as if was falling forever.

Because he was just the same.

He couldn't ever go back to Molly. Not to apologize, not to thank her for introducing him to Glee or the combination of ham and peanut butter. He could never see her eyes light up when he brought her coffee in the early hours of the morning just the way she liked it, some coffee with her sugar. He could never hear her soft gentle snores or her softly coo at the damn cat, at Toby. And if he couldn't have something so pure and graceful then Sherlock damn well couldn't either.

He circled around in the back hallways to an opposite door that lead to the pool and paged his snipers, "Turn on the lasers and stay steadily trained." He pushed the door out of the way. As he swept through the door and got a glimpse of the men's faces he gave a quick laugh.

"Sorry boys, I'm so changeable!" he gasped back a painful laugh, "It is a weakness of mine but to be frank with myself it is my only weakness." He gave Sherlock a tightlipped smile. "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't." A few more lasers focused on Sherlock and John, wavering on Sherlock's chest as he shifted minutely on his feet. "I would try to convince you but," he gave a real laugh this time, "Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind." His voiced wavered once more like an adolescent boy. Sherlock brought the gun up once more, aiming at Jim's head, his face and tone of voice completely blank.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours." Jim stared down the gun, head cocked to one side, considering the true possibility of Sherlock shooting him down. Slowly the gun lowered but Jim knew it wasn't truly over. Sherlock's eyes flickered down to the vest laying only a couple of meters away from Jim's feet. Ah, Sherlock always was so dramatic; of course he'd want to go in a big flare. He'd certainly give his brother a show. He could practically hear Moran biting on his lips to keep himself from screaming out, the shaking laser point right over John Watson's heart proved to it. Sherlock's finger tightened on the trigger and … Jim lifted a corner of his mouth into a smirk because really, Sherlock. As he would say, "Goodnight Vienna."


Because I have no clue. I'm going with what the amazing Moffatt and Gatiss gave us. Make up what you will and I hope you guys enjoyed. What I'd really love is if you'd click that little button right there. Yes! That's right, the green one, Come on, come on; don't you want to hear your mouse go 'click'?