Chapter Text
Jim Moriarty hated fairytales.
In all those fantastical tales of true love, of soulmates meeting despite all odds, they all had a happy ending. The hero (or, in his case, the adorable villain) overcame all odds, defying death to be with his princess, and then they spent the rest of their days deliriously in love.
Not a single story ended with the princess forgetting she’d fallen in love in the first place.
“Did you miss me?” Jim had asked, like a fool. How could Marianne miss someone she’d never even known?
Just because HE remembered falling in love with her in an alternate universe doesn’t mean she magically regained those memories, too. He really hadn’t thought through this whole ‘let’s travel to an alternate universe without knowing anything about it first.’
Oh, and apparently soulmates aren’t a thing in this alternate universe, so she thought he was a creepy stalker. Whoops.
Apparently, it wasn’t such a great idea to give that whole speech about how they’re destined for each other, and he’s her SOULMATE, damn it, so she should just check her soulmark.
“Um, I’m just going to go,” Marianne said awkwardly before scurrying off the rooftop as fast as her legs would take her.
Jim turned to Sherlock. “That didn’t go so well.”
“Don’t look at me, Moriarty, you’re the one who just had to make a grand romantic speech.”
“Well, Sherly, YOU’RE the one who thought it would be a good idea to tell her ‘you’re my reason for living’ while you’re standing on the edge of a tall building. You can’t blame her for thinking you were about to commit suicide and trying to phone the police.” Jim tossed his arms in the air in frustration. “Well, NOW what?”
“For starters, why don’t you call off the hits you put on John, Mrs. Hudson, and George?”
“Greg,” Jim corrected Sherlock automatically as he pulled out his phone. “Yeah, sort of forgot that I followed through and actually ordered hits on them in this universe.” He called Sebastian, putting it on speaker so Sherlock could hear. “Tiger, call off the hits.”
“What?” Sebastian exclaimed in shock. “Boss, he hasn’t jumped yet. Shoot unless he jumps; you were very clear about that.”
Jim rolled his eyes. “Arachnid.”
“Standing down now, Boss,” Sebastian replied briskly.
Jim hung up abruptly before tossing his phone in his pocket. “You better text Mycroft; let him know you’re still alive before his agents start swarming the building.”
Sherlock grimaced. “I never want to talk to the pompous, know-it-all arse again.”
“Yes, Sherly, I know he took out a hit on Marianne. Do you think I would have let him live if she hadn’t told me to? But if you don’t call off big brother, everyone in the building will be questioned, including our precious soulmate.”
Sherlock tilted his head, considering, then nodded. “Probably best to call instead of text; he won’t believe it unless he hears the words from my mouth.”
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Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
Mycroft’s pen flew across the paper, drafting a new proposal he was supposed to be working on, but his eyes kept drifting to his phone impatiently. No, not impatiently. He was Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman. He didn’t get impatient; instead, he bided his time, waiting for his plans to fall into place –
“What the bloody hell is taking him so long?” he muttered to himself as he checked the clock in his office again. The incessant ticking of the second hand served as proof that time had indeed not slowed down. “This is utterly ridiculous. Sherlock ought to have texted me one of the thirteen code words by now –”
Suddenly, his phone started ringing. Sherlock.
Mycroft snatched it. “Yes, brother mine?”
“I’m calling off the operation.”
Mycroft scoffed. “What, I’m suddenly supposed to believe that you and Moriarty are best friends now? That you had a heart-to-heart and decided to move in together, and are calling me to tell me I’ll be seeing him at family reunions? He’s a consulting criminal, Sherlock. He's killed hundreds of people.”
“Other people, sure,” Sherlock responded. “But not me. Not anymore.”
Ping!
Mycroft’s work laptop chimed with a notification. He frowned. He’d disabled the sound temporarily, and no one should be able to override that. He opened it, gasping at what he saw blazoned across the screen in blood-red letters.
Don’t worry, Iceman. Sherly has nothing to fear from me now. But I’d watch my back if I were you.
Love, Jim
P.S. I sent you a little gift.
Right on cue, his office door opened and Anthea entered, setting down a box on his desk. “This just came in for you, sir.”
He waved his hand at her, dismissing her anxiously. As the door shut behind her, he opened the box, only to leap back in disgust. It was the severed head of one of his agents, dripping blood onto his desk.
Shakily, he lifted his phone to his ear. “Sherlock, that man is dangerous. You need to get out of there as quickly as possible. Let me help.”
“What? Big, bad brother can’t handle a little blood?” Sherlock jeered. “Your hands are covered in blood; what makes this one so special?”
“He was one of my agents, Sherlock. Someone I trusted –”
“You really shouldn’t have. Jim said he sold information to the Serbians.”
“What, you’re on a first name basis with Moriarty now? The man is dangerous; he orders people killed for fun. It’s unwise to trust him, brother mine.”
“Whereas you order people killed out of cowardice. That makes you so much more trustworthy, brother mine,” Sherlock replied sarcastically. “Listen to me, brother: the East Wind is coming. No need to send your goons after me; I’m fine.”
Abruptly, the call ended. Mycroft stared at the phone in dismay. What was his little brother thinking?
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“I’m thinking we should stop by Angelo’s for lunch,” Sherlock said to Moriarty. “It’s been YEARS since I’ve eaten.”
“I would kill for some pizza right now,” Jim responded hungrily. “Only being able to smell it is torture. Hmm, that’s not a bad idea for a new torture technique,” he mused.
Out of nowhere, John burst out onto the rooftop, sweaty and out of breath. He leveled his gun at Jim. “I’ve got you now, Moriarty. I won’t let you get away with it.”
“Oh, really?” Jim replied, amused. “And what exactly is it you think I’m getting away with?”
“I’m not exactly sure, but you’re definitely up to no good.”
“Could you try and be less boring, John?” Sherlock said, stepping in front of Jim.
“Sherlock?” John replied uncertainly, his gaze flickering between his friend and Jim’s smirking face, partially hidden behind Sherlock’s back. “If he’s forcing you to do this…”
“As if Jim could force me to do something I didn’t want to do when I clearly have the superior intellect –”
“Oh really, Sherlock? Need I remind you of the easy stir-fry incident with the stove?” Jim gloated.
Sherlock sniffed. “It’s not my fault that I thought the stove was operated like a Bunsen burner; the instructions should have been more specific. And need I remind you of Dungeons and Dragons?”
“That was ONE time!” Jim shouted, outraged. “And ever since then, I’ve always factored ‘the evil mastermind falls in love’ into my evil schemes of world domination.”
John’s eyes flicked between the two of them uncertainly. “Sherlock?”
“I’m fine, John, obviously.”
“You made me so worried. I thought you were going to die!”
“I did.”
“Sorry, what?”
“I died,” Sherlock announced blithely.
“Me too!” Jim chimed in. “Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. Well, I don’t own the T-shirt yet, but I have a great idea for one…”
“Please tell me it’s not another terrible murder joke,” Sherlock groaned.
“Of course not! It’s a terrific murder joke!”