Sherlock awoke with his right wrist throbbing. His eyes flew open and he sat up, gripping his wrist tightly. Sherlock stood and moved to the bathroom quickly; he ran warm water over his wrist, over the timer that was embedded into his pale skin. The timer served a useless purpose, at least in Sherlock's opinion, for it meant that he had a - he swallowed hard and narrowed his eyes at the thing - soul mate.
The word made him cringe because Sherlock had always, since the age of eleven, considered himself married to his work. Not a single person on this planet could ruin this for him; not a single person except his "soul mate". Perhaps he could figure out a way to avoid meeting this other being?? Maybe they had only given him a timer so he didn't feel so alone? Not likely, but even so, he hoped; they couldn't honestly believe that he would find someone who could match his intellect and skills?
"Ridiculously absurd," Sherlock muttered to himself as he wiped his timer with a dry towel. No, it wasn't something he looked forward to; in fact he was dreading it completely. Sherlock Holmes in love, a human being? "Preposterous," he said, lost in his thoughts as he wandered back into the bedroom.
He had never been one to socialize much, and even as he grew up, he distanced himself from Mycroft - his own brother. Sherlock was just too different to be around them, so he had moved on and moved out. Perhaps one day they could agree on something, but Sherlock knew better. The chances for that miracle were slim to none.
The timer throbbed again, and his eyes darted to it. The numbers began to flicker and change, counting down. Minutes before, it had read 60 days, 12 hours, 2 minutes. Now, the strange machine read 48 days, 7 hours, 0 minutes.
The way the timer worked still confused - no, not confused, intrigued - him, because how could a human tell when you would meet your "official significant other"? Let alone the technology created be these beings to do this job would, or should, be as useful as Anderson. How would they expect someone to build a thing like this, for this purpose? Then there was the issue of how they had managed, so brilliantly, to genetically compose them into the skin and have it withstand the "natural weather" of the homosapien's body.
These thoughts troubled him as he watched the numbers jump around once again. It seemed to double, then suddenly split again. This frustrated him further as he rubbed the timer with his thumb. Sherlock allowed a small sigh to escape his throat as the numbers finally settled to 0 days, 0 hours, 40 minutes.
Sherlock glanced at the clock by his bedside - 9:18 AM. His phone began ringing; odd that Lestrade would be calling quite so early. He allowed the voicemail to pick it up while he went to take a shower. Had it been an emergency, Lestrade would force Anderson to call him.
After his shower, he quickly got dressed and pocketed his phone, walking outside. Sherlock hailed a cab and when inside, sent Lestrade a text message. It read, "Meet me at the lab. -SH". A sinking feeling set in on his stomach; Lestrade had new people for him to meet, he just knew it, and most likely one of them was his "other half".
Chapter Two: The Brothers
"Just another case," Sam muttered to himself, searching through the local missing persons list. He sighed and took a swig off of an open beer next to him. Usually he didn't care much for drinking, but he and Dean had gotten into another fight, and he felt stressed out. They were staying in another hotel room and Dean had left earlier with the Impala; he needed some air, and Sam was kind of glad that he had left so he could cool down too. His eyes widened when Dean's porn collection file suddenly opened on the computer.
Sam had been going through the computer files to find music to listen to - he clicked the wrong file. Well, maybe while he was here... His hands slipped down to his jeans and unbuttoned them; he slid them and his briefs down to reveal his dick. He felt guilty about it, but pushed the thoughts away. After all, if Dean could have some "alone time", Sam could too.
He took his dick into his left hand, double clicking on one of the videos with his right; Sam could feel the blood rush to his face, causing his face to be warm and his cheeks to be red. It was too late to turn back now, as he started to masturbate and the girl in the video moaned. He had been turned on a little beforehand, but as the girl gave someone head, he could feel his dick harden more. Sam let the back of his head rest against the chair, closing his eyes and listening to the girl moaning; he let a quiet moan slip out, continuing to move his hand up and down slowly.
After he had released, he stripped down and took a shower. The guilt seeped back in, but he was pleased - both physically and emotionally. When Sam got out of the shower, a towel still wrapped around his waist, his eyes locked on to Dean sitting on the end of one of the beds. Dean gave him that smirk, and Sam dropped his eyes to the floor; he could feel his face get hot, and knew he was blushing.
"Did ya have fun," Dean asked sarcastically. Sam rolled his eyes at him and replied with, "Shut up, Dean," as he walked over to the other bed, getting dressed. Dean wasn't supposed to be here yet, he wasn't supposed to walk in on the porn still being up, he wasn't supposed to know that it happened. But he had, and now Sam was going to regret it in the first place because Dean would tease him about it.
Sam was only half dressed and was about to put his shirt on, when he felt Dean's arms coil around his torso from behind. He could feel Dean press his lips to his back lightly, and Sam closed his eyes. He was praying that Dean was drunk, and maybe he'd just tell him he was sorry and he was going to sleep. Dean's hands had slipped down without Sam noticing, until his fingers grazed against Sam's dick.
His eyes flew open and he dropped the shirt, grabbing Dean's wrists. "What the hell are you doing," Sam asked, his tone defensive. He could feel Dean smile a bit against his back, as he mumbled, "Sammy, all this hunting has us both in a bad position." Sam could feel his heart race as he said, "Dean, no. This isn't anything, all right? We're brothers, y'know, blood related? Please, tell me you're drunk, and that --"
The next second Sam was pushed onto the bed, and flipped over, with Dean leaning over him. Sam wasn't willing to hurt him, not unless it was necessary; he waited, and Dean rested his forehead against Sam's. Dean held Sam's arms down and pressed his lips against his; Sam turned his head away and broke the kiss, but Dean leaned down and kissed his neck. He bit his lower lip as he felt Dean's cool lips against his neck - he didn't want to, but he actually kind of found it as a guilty pleasure.
"D-Dean," he said as he felt Dean's fingers trace along his side lightly, leaving goose bumps behind. Dean kissed Sam's cheek and got up off of him, moving over to the laptop; he closed the porn and opened up the missing persons list that Sam had been looking at earlier. Sam sat up and looked at Dean, seeing the tension in his shoulders and body language. Maybe Dean needed this more than Sam had thought...maybe he couldn't focus on the cases because he was so "sexually frustrated", as Dean had put it once.
Despite that, Sam wondered if Dean had found out? He had worked to keep it a secret, to keep it hidden - but Sam found him attractive. He hated admitting it, especially to himself, but he really did have feelings for Dean. Often times, Sam wondered if maybe they weren't related at all...he often hoped they weren't, but he knew it was useless.
He moved to Dean and wrapped his arms around his neck gently. "Dean," he whispered, but Dean shook his head. He could tell Dean was regretting it, what had just happened. Sam could feel that Dean was trying to come up with a reason to go to bed early, or to work on the case and forget about it. Sam wouldn't have it.
He pulled Dean out of the chair and over to the bed, laying there with Dean on top of him. "Sam," Dean said, shaking his head as he tried to get off of him, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that in the first --" He was interrupted when Sam pressed his lips against his. Dean and Sam lay there, kissing softly for a few minutes, when the door was knocked on.
Dean crawled off of Sam to answer it, reluctantly. Sam quickly slid his shirt on and sat at the laptop, looking over the list once again. As Dean opened the door, he arched his eyebrows when it was a detective. "Greaaat," he thought to himself, "Just what we need right now." Dean settled things with the detective and closed the door, looking to Sam; he spoke quietly, "We need to go with him. Apparently, he's in need of our help."
Sam's eyebrows rose in concern, considering Dean never wanted to work with the police. They both spent a few minutes gathering their things, and went outside to meet the detective. Sam looked him over and then read his badge - Lestrade. Whatever Lestrade had said to Dean convinced him to come with him, so Dean must have some reason to trust him, but why? "You'll be meeting with another sort of detective of mine," Lestrade said, "A man named Sherlock Holmes."
Chapter Three: Holmes and the Winchesters
Sherlock was waiting in the lab for Lestrade, already conducting an experiment on the recent case they had been on. John Watson was sitting across the room, asleep on one of the lab tables, his forehead resting on his arms. Sherlock had only met him today, and now Lestrade wanted him to meet even more people. He wasn't too happy about this, but he dealt with it, knowing he must be patient as Lestrade tried to prove there were others as good as Sherlock.
Lestrade walked in with two males behind him, one tall with long medium brown hair, the other with short, darker, spiky hair and shorter in height. The shorter one hadn't shaved in perhaps a day and a half, leaving him with a little bit of stubble on his face, and he had bright emerald eyes; the male's eyes showed that he had seen horror beyond anyone's comprehension, perhaps something other-worldly, and the way he dressed made Sherlock assume he was going for the "bad boy type" with the horrible past. The way he stood, broad shoulders and straight, made him assume only that he was a fighter - physically and mentally, though not as much mentally - and that he was proud, maybe perhaps of how many people he'd beaten. He'd lost his mother at a young age, Sherlock could tell from the way he carried himself as he walked, and how he seemed distrusting of the people around him except the male he came in with; he knew he was distrusting also because of his eyes, which looked Sherlock over and stared at Lestrade, as they were narrowed a bit. The male also looked ready to pounce on either of them, his body was tense, in case they should try to harm him or the man he came in with, which meant the other male had sentimental value to him.
Sherlock's eyes flicked over to the taller man, examining his face; he was younger than the other male, shaved fresher than him as well, which led him to believe he had perhaps just taken a shower - that, and his hair was still damp. Examining his eyes, he could see that this man had faced probably the same troubles as the other; the only way this was possible is if they were traveling together, which meant they were most likely related or very close friends - judging by how similar their features were brought him closer to the deduction they were related, brothers would be the more likely answer. Sherlock noted that if they were brothers, he too would have lost his mother at a young age, though he was only a few years younger - this meant that he lost his mother around 6 months, judging the age distance between them by their physical traits. The way this one carried himself suggested perhaps law school, private school, religious, or maybe he was taught to stand more straight by his father - though the way the other stood, more protective towards this man, suggested perhaps their father wasn't around much in their life, or at least the younger brother's life.
This ruled out the father figure thought, and if he had gone to private school his hair would be shorter and better kept, considering the strictness of those types of school. This only left law school or religion, and although religion was strict at times as well, this male crossed one hand over the other in front of him, keeping his shoulders broad and body rigid. By this act, Sherlock ruled out religion and left law school; this man had gone to some sort of law school, where the "lawyer pose" was taking place on him. Sherlock could also see that he had gone to a law school because he looked ready to defend himself and his seemingly more dull-witted brother through intellectual battling, his physical state seemed perhaps slightly less than his brother's, and he looked confident - a key in being a lawyer was always confidence.
Sherlock had deduced these people in a matter of seconds from walking in the door, and Lestrade stood there a second before speaking. "This is Dean and Sam Winchester," Lestrade stated, "They may be able to help us on this case, or future cases." Sherlock couldn't help a tiny smirk that rose to his face as he said their last name - they were definitely related. He pushed the smile off his face quickly and replied, "I work alone, John being an exception; I've already made a big step for myself today, becoming flat mates with him."
He turned back to his experiment and heard Lestrade sigh. Dean and Sam shifted weight, obviously uncomfortable with how quickly they were turned down or with working with other people as well. "You have no choice, Sherlock," Lestrade said, "I've already put them in on the case as well. Play nice." With that, Lestrade walked out and left the Winchester brothers and Sherlock alone.
"Hey," Sam tried, "I'm Sam. What kind of a case are we working on?" He slowly moved to Sherlock and sat across from him, causing Sherlock's eyes to dart up to him. "My case," he replied, "Where you and your brother stand back and allow me to do my job, one of which I am more than classified to handle than the two of you put together." Sam's eyebrows arched a bit, surprised by the answer, and Dean chimed in now.
"Sherlock, right? Obviously that detective, who I'm assuming is your boss or something, thinks you need our help and that's why we're here. You may not like it, we may not like it, but we're here to do our job, not to be friends and drink tea with the Queen, or whatever you British people do." Sam tried not to smile at Dean's sarcasm, his eyes flicking back to Sherlock.
Sherlock closed his eyes and calmed himself before speaking, "Whether Lestrade thinks I need your help, or you think I need your help, I could care less. I don't need your help, I don't need anyone's help; I've been doing these jobs since I was eleven years old. So thank you for your input, now if you don't mind I'm working on something for this case, so leave. Get out. I need to go to my mind palace."
John had woken up at this point and was watching them argue. He spoke up with, "Uh, I'm John Watson. I've just started to work with Sherlock. I think we should go get some breakfast, leave him to do his work for a while." John stood and grabbed his coat, slipping it on as he moved across the room to the door.
Sam nodded and stood up, walking over to the door with John. They both looked back at Dean, who - when he was speaking to Sherlock - moved closer to him. Dean looked the man over once, wondering just who he thought he was; he couldn't honestly be The Sherlock Holmes, could he? He shook his head and walked out behind John and Sam, wondering what the guy's problem was.
Chapter Four: Watson, Winchesters, Trouble
John had taken the boys to a nearby restaurant, attempting to pass the time quickly, as well as get to know the people he'd be working with. He needed to know what they specialized in, and exactly how they acted together - apart from Sherlock, that is, since he seemed to antagonize everyone he worked with. John only had black coffee, but the boys ordered some breakfast for themselves; Dean was paying for them, so it was fine by John, since it allowed him to have a longer period of time to know them. Sam was eating slowly, thinking before speaking, though Dean seemed to stuff his face and talk with his mouth full at times.
"So you're brothers? Where are you from," John asked, trying to be as polite as he could. Sam answered all of his questions whilst Dean ate quickly, managing to be polite enough to at least wipe his face with a napkin. Maybe it was just because of how John grew up, and how he was taught; these boys didn't seem to really have any parenting figures in their lives, so he gave them a break. "Oh, Kansas. Interesting," John said, smiling as he took a sip of coffee.
"Our dad was in the military for a while," Dean said, shrugging as he took a bite of waffle. Sam rolled his eyes, taking a swig of his own coffee, as Dean took over answering questions. John's eyebrows arched a bit and he replied, "As was I. What branch was he in?" Sam spaced out of the conversation, eating slowly; he was curious about the case they were working, and just why the detective had decided to call them in?
As far as Sam knew, they didn't have a reputation, and the detective hadn't tried to arrest Dean for the murders he was framed for. So just how did Lestrande find them, and why, if not to arrest Dean? Sam's eyes locked on to his food as he pushed it around his plate for a second. They also hadn't used their real names at the hotel, like usual, so there was no way to track them down.
"Didn'tcha, Sammy?" Sam's eyes darted up and switched from John to Dean, back and forth slowly. "Wait, what? Didn't I what," Sam replied, looking at Dean confused. He only chuckled a bit as he repeated what he had said, "You went to law school for a while there. Didn't you, Sammy?" He nodded at Dean, his eyes meeting John's.
John smiled at him and said, "That's impressive, Sam. Honestly, I don't know where I would be right now if Sherlock hadn't decided to be flatmates and work together." Dean grinned at John and they continued their conversation, but Sam got up and pushed his chair in, sliding his coat on. "I'll meet you back at the lab, guys; I'm going to go and research something."
Dean nodded at Sam, worry flickering across his eyes. Sam ignored it and walked out, crossing the street. It didn't take him long to find a library, and he slipped inside, making his way to the computers at the back end. He ended up spending a few hours researching a name that had crossed his mind, but had stayed and eaten away at it; Jim Moriarty, of all the names, was stuck there and Sam had no idea where he picked it up from - maybe at the conversation Dean and John were having, or maybe it was his psychic abilities kicking in earlier than usual, and less painfully.
Like he promised, Sam met them all back at the lab, where Sherlock was running through the case with John and Dean. "So nice of you to finally join us," Sherlock mumbled as Sam entered, his eyes locking on to him. "Sorry...I told them I would meet them back here. I had some research to do, and I think it will help with the case. A single name popped into my mind, I guess from the conversation they were having at breakfast," Sam said cautiously, not letting either John or Sherlock in on his and Dean's paranormal world, "and I did my homework on him."
Sam set a folder down on the counter in front of Sherlock, which was packed with print out articles on Moriarty. As Sherlock opened it, his jaw slightly dropped then shut quickly; perhaps the work these boys did was needed, indeed. He picked up the folder and moved to a separate part of the lab, across the room, to look them over. Sam had seen his jaw drop a bit, and was pleased; he smiled a bit and looked at Dean, who shrugged and smiled back.
John looked at Sam, and then Dean; he watched Sherlock move across the room with the folder. He was confused a bit by this, since Sherlock seemed to be the most intelligent person he'd ever met, and now Sherlock was even slightly surprised by these two. What had Sam discovered that Sherlock couldn't already? Despite Sherlock hadn't ever seen, talked to, or heard of the man - at least that John knew of - what couldn't Sherlock find out about him? Had Sam discovered the next victim or something?
Chapter Five: Flatmates, Soul Mates, Awkward
Sherlock had been at work deducting the Moriarty files for hours; he decided to take a break, with a sigh, and pushed it aside for now. He was so close to breaking it, to finding out every little secret about his mind and how he worked, but for now he left it as a surprise. Sherlock became curious and pushed up his sleeve, staring at the timer on his wrist; his eyes widened a bit as it read 0 days, 0 hours, 0 minutes. Had one of the Winchesters been his - he shuddered at the word, once again - soul mate?
Or perhaps John had been, instead? These were the only people he had met in the last 24 hours, the only possible contestants there were. Sherlock had let it slip his mind, let the case take over when he came to the lab this morning. Now here it was, 10:30 PM and Sherlock was in the lab with one of his "possible soul mates".
Sherlock threw Dean out of the list, considering him too dull-witted to be linked with him. Sam and John were the only ones left, though he didn't understand how it could be them; Sam was intelligent and he seemed to do research well, though John had fought in the war and he could do better observations with Sherlock's help. He decided to conduct an experiment to figure out who he was tied to. Sherlock stood and walked out of the small room he had locked himself in, into the bigger lab where they had been all day; only John sat at the lab table, reading a book quietly with a cup of tea.
At Sherlock's presence, John raised his head and locked eyes with him. "Something wrong," he asked Sherlock quietly. "John, forgive me in advance and I do apologize ahead of time for something so blunt." With that, Sherlock had pressed his lips to John's without another word; John's eyes had widened a bit, though he couldn't help but kiss back.
They both broke the kiss and pulled up their sleeves as they heard beeping noises; their timers were going off, the zeros flashing on and off, and they looked at each other once again. John and Sherlock had found one another, found their soul mates. As Sherlock got a better look at John, he smiled, staring into his eyes; he couldn't help it, but at that very moment, he fell in love harder than he had with his work. The legends had said it would be magic, and though Sherlock particularly didn't believe in magic, he felt estatic being there in that small moment with John.
John stared back into his eyes, his jaw slackening a bit in shock. He smiled back, wondering if it was real, wondering if he had just fallen in love with the greatest intelligence on Earth. Suddenly he realized that it was more than intelligence; Sherlock was actually quite attractive, and though he was sarcastic, he was also blunt and truthful. That's all John had been looking for - someone honest, kind, and someone he would be willing to spend the rest of his life with.
They heard someone clear their throat, and Sherlock looked up as John turned to look over his shoulder. Dean and Sam were standing there, Sam looking off to his right and Dean staring at them. "Sorry to interrupt," Dean said, "But what do you have on the case so far, Sherlock?" He turned and walked into the smaller lab, grabbing the folder, and moved to Dean.
Dean took the folder from him and looked over the notes that Sherlock had scribbled off on a separate piece of notebook paper. He nodded, his eyebrows arching. Dean was pretty impressed with his work, given that they hadn't gotten off on the right foot earlier. "A few more deductions and I should be able to predict his next move; who it is, why, when, and how," Sherlock smiled faintly, taking the folder back.
John was sitting there awkwardly; he turned back to his tea and book, taking a sip, and finishing the paragraph he was on. Suddenly a thought occurred to him - did the Winchesters have timers as well, or only the people here, in England? John's eyes locked on to Sam, and he spoke quietly, "Sam, do you and your brother have timers as well?" Sam pulled up his wrist and showed his timer, which had reached zero a few years back, when he met Jessica.
Dean looked at Sam sadly, and then looked down at his timer, which was at 0 days, 1 hour, 20 minutes. His eyes widened a bit and he looked back up at Sammy, who looked at him confused. "I meet my soul mate at midnight," Dean said breathlessly. Unlike the others, Dean was actually kind of excited to meet his other half; he was curious as to what they'd act like, how they'd look, how they'd react to him and especially how they'd react to him being a hunter.
"You'd better stay up then," Sam said, smiling sadly at him. Sam wouldn't show he was upset, but the subject of Jessica was still too much for him to handle. He was happy for Dean, though he still couldn't help his feelings for him, as much as he wanted to. Dean was oblivious to Sam being upset, and grinned at him.
"Hell yeah I'm staying up. I think I'll go sit outside at midnight, or go for a walk," Dean shrugged as he replied. He paced the room for a minute before he decided to go work on the case with Sherlock in the little lab. He wanted to get it done, and see this guy at work. Dean wanted to know just how good he was at this job, and he also wanted to get the meeting off of his mind. Sam sighed and sat next to John, and they started talking and getting to know each other, as Dean and him had earlier.
Chapter Six: Guardian, Friend, Soul Mate
Dean had been working in the lab for the past hour and 15 minutes. He was anxious, and went outside for a walk for the last 5 minutes. Dean was drawn towards an alleyway, which usually he avoided at all costs to protect himself and Sammy, but he wandered down it for the last few minutes. The cold air was nipping at the back of his neck, and he popped his collar up to guard it from the wind. Suddenly a bright flash shot down in front of him, and he held his arms up in front of him to protect himself and his eyes, in case.
He could hear his timer beeping, feel the cold pavement against his ear, but everything was pitch black in front of him. Dean blinked a few times, and slowly his vision cleared up. There was a guy leaning over him with dark hair, what looked like a trench coat, and a bit of stubble along his face. The man smiled down at him, stroked his hair; Dean's mouth fell open a bit in surprise, and he rubbed his eyes, trying to figure out if it was a hallucination or not.
"My name is Castiel," he said to Dean softly, "You've been patient, haven't you? I wanted to see you sooner. I wanted to tell you it was okay, but they wouldn't allow it." His voice was silk against the noise of the city, which could barely break through Dean's trance right now. Dean could only nod a bit, staring up at him and studying Castiel's beautiful features.
"You're an angel," Dean whispered, blushing a bit because to anyone walking by it would seem like just a usual flirty conversation. He smiled up at Castiel, causing him to beam back at him. Really, just like Dean, he had been waiting forever for this as well - but just how long? Had they been together before Dean was brought to Earth?
Cas's lips were softly pressed against Dean's the next second, causing him to become slightly light headed. It had been forever since Dean felt his stomach fill up with butterflies, and his heart beat so irregularly - at least with joy. He felt like a kid at a playground who just got their first crush, and it was making him embarrassed - but still, Dean wouldn't trade it for the world. Castiel entwined their fingers gently, still stroking his hair with his other hand. They stayed like this for a while, in silence; Dean had closed his eyes, that smile still stuck to his lips.
"Your friends are waiting," Cas spoke quietly, breaking the silence between them, "Shall we head back?" Dean had completely forgotten about the lab, and the case. He opened his eyes and sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his head. Castiel wrapped his arms around his neck gently, kissing the top of his head; the next second, Dean found himself in the lab sitting on the floor with Cas.
"Who's that," Sam asked, staring at Castiel and wondering why the hell his brother was teleported into the room - which, thankfully, John hadn't noticed - as Dean and Cas stood. Sam gave Castiel an untrusting look, then looked to Dean for an explanation. His brother rolled up his sleeve and showed him the timer, which was at all zeros and had stopped beeping finally. Sam's jaw dropped, since he had been in an engaging conversation with John for the past hour and 30 minutes, forgetting about Dean's soul mate.
John turned and looked at them, smiling when he saw Dean holding up the timer on his wrist. "Congratulations," he cheered, chuckling quietly. Sam nodded, smiled - but honestly, he was still kind of hurt - though he'd never let them catch on. It was only for a moment, what had happened at the hotel, and it was Sam's turn to move on. He was supposed to be with Jessica right now wherever she was, he was supposed to die when she did, as the timer worked; die from heartbreak that his soul mate was dead, but even when he had, Sam was only revived.
Maybe Sam had done something to cause karma to bite him in the ass in this life, or maybe life was just one big pain in the ass, but one way or another Sam knew he wasn't supposed to be alive. His thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock, who came in from the small lab with the folder and dropped it on the counter loudly. He looked confident, and stared everyone in the face before saying, "I've figured it out. Tomorrow, we're going to find him and I will play my own little game with him." With that, everyone headed out of the lab and went to bed, planning a meeting at the lab around 10 AM once again - Sherlock with John back at 221B; Sam, Dean, and Castiel at a nearby hotel room.
Chapter Seven: Moriarty, Sir Troubled-Wanker
Moriarty was preparing his next few victims, playing mind games with them as he did best. He wanted to know the sort of people they were, how their mental stability was kept, and just how they thought. Most of all, what he really wanted to know, was how long until he could draw Sherlock Holmes out of his nest and into the game. Pulling him in was like winning the competition already; it was like winning the championship in a sport.
A smile spread across his face as he thought about it. How would he draw him out, what would really catch his attention? Then suddenly he knew. He knew as if he'd subconsciously had it planned the whole time; which, knowing how his mind worked, he probably did. Moriarty would use people as messengers; should Sherlock run out of time to find them and figure out the smaller games inside the bigger game, they would die - boom!
He chewed the bubble gum he had in his mouth slowly, thoughtfully. Moriarty had a team at his disposal already, so that part of the plan was already figured out. Now, he had to decide whether to leave a pattern or not for Sherlock. "Not," he said aloud, in a sing song voice. He could feel the excitement rising inside of him, as he thought of all the possibilities he had with this.
"What fun," he mumbled to himself happily, reading a text sent from a friend. He replied quickly and then left to have dinner at a nearby restaurant. As he ate, he thought heavily about how he would attach the bombs to the people. Moriarty could always have them knocked out, kidnapped, bombed, and put back - that was boring though.
No, he needed something better, something more entertaining. Moriarty also needed something that the police couldn't trace, which would be easy enough with his hacking abilities and his team. His trail was more difficult to hide from Sherlock, however. With that in mind, he ate a bit quicker and then went home; he needed a long period of time to plan this out carefully, intelligently, make it composed and yet so fun for him.
Moriarty snapped his fingers as a sudden thought occurred to him, a brilliant process in the plan. He would play someone innocent, pretend date someone close to Sherlock - he would play gay, making Sherlock shrug him off. Perhaps he would even slip Sherlock his number, partly because he'd enjoy the call; partly for fun; partly to push the thought he was gay. On top of it all, he wanted to know if Sherlock was as good as they say he is, and how his mind worked in order to slip around it, to make the game as fun as it could be. Moriarty only needed to find someone who was delicate; someone broken already and in need to impress or make Sherlock jealous, someone who wanted his attention, practically begged for it.
He dialed a number on his phone, pacing slowly in his apartment. Members of his team had already been slipping into where Holmes was doing a recent case; they would know who was at Sherlock's side a lot, and just who he could manipulate. It also may have helped that John Watson, an assistant of some sort, also ran a blog and didn't realize just how much he'd given away, due to Moriarty's hacking, and tracking, abilities. He spoke quickly to the person on the phone, asking for information files on the people who worked in the building who also worked with Sherlock; a few minutes later, he hung up, satisfied with the fact that by morning he would have everything he needed to play his game.