Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXXXIII - King of the Castle

"You like stories, don't you, Ivan?"

His fingers pause, centimetres from the ivory hilt of his blade. He calculates rapidly; he can't stab this man where he stands, not without receiving a headful of lead, he can't get up and walk away, he can't give his opponent the advantage. If he wants to return to her alive, he'll have to play this game – and so it is with slow reluctance does he withdraw his hand.

He sits back, and folds his arms across his chest. He selects his smile.

The voice tuts disapprovingly.

"You've got twenty-four of the world's deadliest assassins pointing their rifles at your chest. I wouldn't look quite so smug."

He keeps his arms folded as the footsteps become a shadow, and the shadow becomes a man. There's a strange contrast in his features: he's impeccably well-groomed – his suit tailored, his tie pinned – but he looks worn; his skin is sallow, his jaw shadowed, and behind the black gloss of his irises there's an imperceptible movement, a hunger not quite satiated. It's unsettling to observe.

James Moriarty stands, his head to one side. There's a prolonged pause – and then he unbuttons his suit jacket and sits down, crossing his legs.

The distant whine of two dozen sniper rifles prevents the silence from settling.

"Did you know," he says, with an air of absent-minded nonchalance, "that the human heart beats for six seconds after its removal from the chest cavity?"

"I did not."

"I'd very much like to see if your pretty red heart lasts six seconds, Ivan."

He smiles his white smile. "I would offer you a demonstration, Mr Moriarty, but I am thinking I need to keep my heart where it is. I am using it."

"For now."

"да. For now."

Moriarty spends a moment studying him – a dark scrutiny that tests his control – and then sits back, holding out his hand.

"Do you mind?"

He does not move.

"The knife."

Slowly, and without blinking, he reaches into the internal pocket of his blazer. The blade is warm; heated against his skin. He places it in his palm.

Moriarty holds it up to the light. "This isn't the original."

"I have misplaced the first."

"It hasn't seen much action," he remarks. "The virgin blade."

"Not quite."

"Oh?" Moriarty angles the knife, tilting it from side to side. "You've polished it up something lovely. So white. We'll have to change that. Here," he says, pressing the tip to his thumb. "Consider this a gift."

He watches as the skin strains against pressure, then gives, pierced by polished dentine. A bead of dark blood collects on the surface. Moriarty lifts it to his mouth, and then very slowly, very deliberately, places his thumb – its red pearl held by a liquid casing – on his tongue. Neither man looks away. The blood collects on his bottom lip.

After a small eternity, he lowers his hand and pulls a face.

"It used to be sweeter." The blade is handed back. "I'm growing bitter, Ivan. Bitter and tired. I'm tired of our game of cat and mouse. I'm tired of you."

He shrugs, and pockets his knife. "I cannot intrigue everyone I meet."

"No. You can't." Moriarty reaches into his own pocket and retrieves a gun: it's compact, buffed silver, glinting dully in the blue light like steel. He observes the flinch in the man opposite him. "Something wrong?"