Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, John or Moriarty, more's the pity. I make no profit from this, I write just for fun.
A/N: In the even that this story ends up being deleted from here, you will also find it (and all of my other stories) at yourfanfiction . com (without the spaces, same author name bloodsoakedleather).
The Doctor Will See You Now
Jim Moriarty was not a man who liked to get his hands dirty and in spite of his insanely high standards he was usually content to sit back and relax while his minions ran around London, and indeed sometimes the world, doing his bidding. Sometimes though, out of necessity rather than choice because the task at hand was a little too delicate or too important to be entrusted to anyone else, he would find himself in the position of having to do his own legwork. And sometimes, on very rare occasions, because devious criminal master plans didn't just fall into place in a single night you know, these things took time and he did so hate waiting, he would do it simply because he was bored. And there was nothing that relieved his boredom more effectively than playing games with Sherlock Holmes and his loyal pet Doctor John Watson.
He had been tailing the good doctor for three days now. The latest game being see how long it takes before dear John realises he's being followed and by who. If he hadn't noticed by the end of the week Jim decided, he would end this game and start another. If John had not noticed by the end of the week he would allow his surveillance to be discovered then sit back and watch while the detective and his pet ran themselves ragged trying to figure out what his latest, non existent, scheme was and how the doctor fitted into it. It would be so much fun.
Today was apparently John's day off so instead of the clinic, Jim had followed him through a series of really quite boring errands. He dropped off one of Sherlock's suits at the dry cleaners, bought a birthday card for his sister Harry, returned a library book without taking out another then went to the bank to withdraw the rent money for Mrs Hudson. Jim knew every little detail of John's ordinary little life and it gave it him a perverse thrill to know that the rare moments of real excitement were all related, either directly or indirectly, to him.
Disguised fairly simply beneath a wig just a few shades lighter than his own hair and an inch or so longer, because he didn't want to make it too easy for Johnny boy but he didn't want to make it too hard either, and wearing a pair of high street designer brand jeans and casual fitted shirt with the cuffs rolled up to the elbow, he sat with one foot resting heavily on his knee on the sofa reserved for customers waiting to see the manager or mortgage advisor or whomever else ordinary people made appointments to see in banks.
He peered discreetly over the top of his newspaper, chuckling softly to himself as he listened to John explaining to the lumpy, insipid blonde at the help desk just a few feet away, that the cash machine had eaten his card... again. Ah yes, cash machines, ordinary people relied on them so much, they trusted that their stupidly simplistic four digit pin codes were adequate to keep them safe from fraud or theft. Whatever would they think if they knew just how easy they were to hack, he wondered. Well, he'd had to do something to make things a little more interesting hadn't he?
Another chuckled bubbled in this throat. He was about to hear exactly what John Watson thought, and judging by the pink tinge that had crept up above his collar and was now making it's way up his neck to his very tightly clenched jaw, and the frustrated growl he was plainly finding it hard to contain, so were the rest of the banks customers. Clearly the good doctor did not actually have the patience of a saint after all. He'd have to remember that, for future reference.
Just as John was about to vent his considerable anger, something in the corner of Jim's eye caught his attention and he looked towards the door, temporarily forgetting about Doctor Watson.
Two men had just entered the bank. Both looking to be in their late twenties, both wearing the same style and colour of jacket with the hoods pulled up over their heads, both of them jumpy, movements erratic, possibly drunk, more than likely coming down from a high of some sort. Armed too if the bulges in their jacket pockets were any indication.
Ooooh. Really? Bank robbers? Amateurs obviously, no hope of succeeding in their little criminal endeavour but still, genuine, honest to goodness bank robbers.
Suddenly things had just got a whole lot more not ordinary.