The Statehouse Affairs

I Will Kill Your Friends And Family To Remind You Of My Love

The rain had just begun to pour as Moriarty ducked into the entry hall of the Pennsylvania State House. A drowsy man in a blue overcoat leapt from a bench that leaned crookedly against the wall. He was young, rubbing sleep out of his eyes- a poorly paid guard, Moriarty would wager.

"Good evening, sir, do you have identification? I'm afraid it's formality to keep out the Tories," the man explained sheepishly as he bit back a yawn.

Moriarty looked at him blankly for a fraction of a second, then allowed a slow grin to spread across his face. The picture of innocence.

"Oh, sure, Washington's orders," he said lazily, pulling a neatly folded scrap of parchment from his coat pocket.

Than man blinked in confusion at the Irish accent, but his tired eyes skimmed over the forged letter with little interest. It was impressive penmanship, expressly an imitation of Washington's hand, but its quality was not the convincing detail. As usual, human error was the key factor in Moriarty's success: Fatigue in the eyes of the reader. How quaint.

"Your credentials appear to be in order, please proceed," he said, stumbling back to the bench.

With the technicalities dealt with, Moriarty allowed the reason for his overseas venture to cloud his senses, his mind flooding with previously suppressed rage. It was the rage of a man cast down from a place of honor- the rage of a man whose home had been ripped from him. The force of it throbbed in his ears, as though the blood in his veins was the pounding of waves against the rocky shore of a storm-plagued sea.

Fists clenching, jaw tightening. These were the physical symptoms, nearly invisible to the average eye. The true signs were buried deep inside of his mind, behind an emotional floodgate that he rarely opened.

He hated Sherlock before, but not like this- he had hated him as a foil to his grand plans, but always with a grain of conciliatory admiration. This was a betrayal. And Moriarty was not a man to take betrayal lightly. He had never before been betrayed, as such a thing first required trust. As a child who scrapes his knee for the first time, the newness of it translated to a far rawer wound in the subjective perception of the mind.

If he was honest with himself, this godforsaken country was the last place he wanted to be. In a strangely unsurprising way, it hurt to be here chasing after Sherlock and, being unused to hurt, he shoved it away from all conscious thought.

---------------------------

George Washington was a man of the battlefield. He was a practical man who liked simple things- a good book, pleasant company, coffee in the morning, and- occasionally -a nice affair to give life some variety.

A government was certainly not a place for this type of man, and exhaustion scratched at his brain as he sat hunched over the written version of the 5-hour-and-counting speech currently being given by his obstinate protégé Alexander Hamilton.

"..The zeal for liberty became predominant and excessive. In forming our Confederation this passion alone seemed to actuate us, and we appear to have had no other view than to secure ourselves from despotism. The object certainly was a valuable one, and deserved our utmost attention. But, sir, there is another object equally important and which our enthusiasm rendered us little capable of regarding; I mean a principle of strength and stability in the organization of our government, and vigor in its operations. This purpose can never be accomplished but by the establishment..." Unlike every other person in the room, Hamilton continued as passionately as he had in the first 15 minutes, spending especial time in front of James Madison's desk.

The poor man, already frail of frame, seemed to physically shrink under Hamilton's gaze. However, he nodded along to the other man's words in careful consideration. Unusually enough, Hamilton briefly paused in his speech to exchange words with Madison in low tones, gesturing emphatically until Madison finally nodded in some sort of agreement. The rest of the room stirred hopefully at the sudden appearance of an ending, but sullenly fell silent as Hamilton took up his speech once more. Apparently satisfied with Madison, Hamilton moved on to the next desk- or, as Washington acutely observed, he moved on to his next victim.

Washington, a man of simple tastes, could not find it in himself to particularly care. Intimidation was not a favorite tactic of his, but Hamilton seemed to relish in it as much as a man of his small stature could. Despite his indifference to the younger man's controversial strategies, however, the hours of sitting still were taking a toll on even his stamina.

"Perhaps a recess is in order, Mr. Hamilton?" Washington posed it as a question but held up his hand in a commanding gesture, meeting Hamilton's indignant stutter with a slight head shake. This was not the time or place for a petty fight. Well, not another one.

Relieved, Madison rushed out of the hall as if he'd seen a ghost and Hamilton, throwing his hands up in disgust, quickly followed. As the ranks of wig-wearing politicians mumbled and grumbled their way out, Washington stood up from his seat of honor at the center and caught the eye of a dark-eyed man across the room. Profound anger radiated in every line of the man's body as he scanned the room. Had he slipped in just now, or had Washington simply not seen him earlier? Something about his intent eyes was intriguing.

If anyone looked less thrilled then James Madison to be here tonight, it was certainly this man, and that alone was an achievement of sorts.

Washington approached the man slowly, offering him a hand in greeting.

"George Washington. I do not believe we have met. What delegation are you a part of?" he asked.

"Ah- New York," replied the man with an easy grin, his anger immediately melting away, or appearing to, as he grasped his hand firmly. "James Moriarty, it is a pleasure to meet you, I have to say."

Even though the man's words were calm and his smile warm, the distinctly menacing aura about him drew Washington's attention on an instinctual level, more than the eloquence of Hamilton or Jefferson ever could. And his accent- was that Irish? The son of an immigrant, perhaps?

"Pardon my asking, but do you have a wife in New York?" Washington spoke innocently, his eyes slipping to the Irishman's lips by pure incident.

"Domesticity isn't my particular arena," he replied softy, and Washington, though almost a stranger, could almost picture the threads of an idea weaving together in the man's head. "And the women of New York have not been quite so conducive to my nature. I expect it is my lot as a country boy in the city."

"Well," Washington stepped forward, just barely and obliviously closer than was socially appropriate for a man of his standing, "I do hope you will attend the future meetings of this convention, Mr. Moriarty."

"Of course," Moriarty said silkily, "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

And surely it was an accident if his hand lightly touched Washington's arm as the older man brushed past him into the main hallway.

Moriarty remained in the now empty meeting chamber, considering its possibilities with the kind of apathy that often follows the brilliant but brief reign of anger. Sherlock's betrayal of their engagement was evident- obvious, even to the densest of fools. But a confrontation? As the initial step? No, Moriarty decided to allow himself a bit more finesse. Perhaps there was a subtler way- a method that could bring a shard of pain to Sherlock's icy heart in the same manner he had been injured.

Jealousy was, after all, a powerful tool for unveiling the heart's unspoken truths.