The Heart Of You ♚ Jim Moriarty

Five

A dreary month had passed and winter ran away with its tail between its legs as spring took its place. The warm weather was perfect for the wildflowers which popped up between the cracks of the old London streets. Jim was happy to be back in the city, his city. He had been traveling for the better part of four weeks, smuggling sensitive cargo into China, and he managed to make it home in one piece. The first thing he did when he got back was shower off all the grime, scrubbing his skin raw until he felt like himself again. He was covered in green and purple bruises, the result of contorting himself into a shipping box next to another grown man.

He referred to Marcel as the cargo and never used his real name when they travelled. That's all he was to Jim, and it was his job to make sure the cargo got to where it needed to be. It would have been understandable if Jim asked him few questions seeing as they were practically conjoined at the hip for days on end, but he wasn't interested in knowing why he was fleeing in such a hurry. There was a point when Marcel's muscles seized so bad he passed out, unfortunately soiling his pants. Jim didn't care how much he needed to pay the Captain of the ship they were stowed away on, he was getting out of that box.

He stood in the small kitchen of his hotel room, adjusting the buttons of his black suit in preparation for his evening. It was no coincidence he booked the same hotel John Watson was hosting a wedding party, and even less serendipitous was the fact Sherlock Holmes was a guaranteed guest. For months Jim watched the Consulting Detective, learning his habits and memorizing his routines. This evening he was set on making contact, if only to offer him an appetizer as he posed as one of the catering staff.

Dylan stood at the edge of the island holding his fists so tight behind his back they burned white. His curly hair was sticking to his pale forehead, he kept his lips tight in anticipation as to why Jim asked to see him privately. Tonight was Patton's shift, but when Dylan arrived to see no one was stationed at his hotel door his nervousness grew into sour burps.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Dylan said in a tough whisper.

Jim cracked his knotted neck and took out his ringing phone. He didn't look at Dylan in case he acted impulsively.

"There's a fox in my chicken coop." Jim said gliding his thumb over his phone. "Is there anything you want to tell me before I answer this?"

He kept his voice subtle and quiet but Dylan was familiar with this deceit.

"Wh-o is that?" Dylan took a step back, his subconscious trying to get his body moving.

Jim clicked his tongue and answered. There was a low murmer from the person on the other end. Dylan was getting light headed thinking of what they could possibly be saying. All the dirty secrets they were spilling. It wasn't true, Dylan did nothing wrong, they were feeding Jim lies.

"Thank you very much." He ended the call and tucked his phone in his pocket.

Anger bubbled in his stomach like a toxic lake, tightening his intestines until cramps shot through him like spears. Jim flipped the dining table by his hip, the glass shattered in a rain of diamonds. He stepped to his right and pulled down the bookshelf, its weight shook the floor and the guests below him considered calling the front desk. He slammed a mighty fist against the countertop convinced he could crack its shiny marble. With a brace of his hand he gave an eye popping yell. The counter twinkled pristine as ever and Jim swiped everything off. A wisk fell with a clatter, the coffee maker was ripped from its cord. An array of knives scattered in the mess.

"Boss," Dylan didn't mean to speak up, it slipped out as if it hadn't been his voice at all. He knew better than to speak when Moriarty was in one of his fits, and now Jim glared at him like an intruder, his nostrils flaring and his gaze damning.