This came into being because a friend of mine wanted to know what happened in a rather steamy Moriarty sex dream I had. She knew it must have been good, because it's what made me come out of denial and proclaim my love for Moriarty from the rooftops.
There's a backstory to this, obviously. I'm going to write the backstories, as well as sequels, in separate fics to be published at a later date.
"Genevieve…I need you."
I rolled my eyes, tossing my bangs out of my face and continuing to walk down the street. I knew I shouldn't have answered my mobile. "What is it this time?"
"I have a problem I need you to…dispose of."
"You always have a problem for me to 'dispose of', Jim," I scoffed. I was more or less the consulting criminal's consulting nerd; I had no formal training in chemistry, but I knew enough of volatile chemicals to flawlessly erase any evidence of every last one of Jim Moriarty's "problems".
"Yes, but this one is more urgent than the others."
I arched an eyebrow. "Urgent?"
"You have ears, don't you? I'd appreciate it if you could attend to it immediately."
I huffed, approaching the corner. "Fine. Where did you leave it?"
"An abandoned warehouse. I've left all the supplies you may need there. I'll text you the address."
"Really? That's all you're giving me? I have no idea what I'm up against."
"The location is all you need know," he nearly growled, "and if you don't want to be your head to be fffflayed, you'll stop asking questions and do as I SAY!"
There's the Jim we all know and love, I thought, smiling sarcastically.
With that, he hung up. Moments later, I received his text, opening it as I rounded the corner—
—only to run smack into Detective Inspector Lestrade.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry!" I exclaimed, as my mobile clattered to the ground. Reflexively, my hand shot after it.
"No, allow me," Lestrade said, intercepting me and picking it up before I could reach it. Lifting it up, he looked at the screen.
"Thank you, Greg," I said sharply, snatching the device away from him.
"Who's 'Jim M.'?" he probed, smirking slightly.
"A friend," I replied coldly. Okay, so he read the name. I just hoped he hadn't read the address.
"And…why are you meeting him at that drafty old warehouse?" he persisted, eying me suspiciously.
"Uh…Dungeons and Dragons," I answered hastily, clearly flustered. "Good day, Greg."
Before he could respond, I hurried off, my heart pounding in my throat.
By the time I reached the warehouse, I had calmed down. It was a large, drafty, imposing, creepy building, and I frankly didn't feel quite comfortable there; it smelled of stale air and mildew.
I smiled faintly.
A great place for D&D…I just hope Lestrade doesn't show up with a 20-sided die and a 6-pack.
I scanned the room carefully, looking past all sort of rubble and debris, in search of any other human being. I found none. Jim had left me alone, again, to clean up his goddamn mess, and this time it was in the most terrifying building I had ever set foot in. Then, at the far back of the building, I saw what appeared to be a piece of paper taped on the wall next to a rusty metal staircase. As I approached it, I could see it was a note.
The little dilemma is waiting upstairs.
You'll find everything you need is there.
I stared stupidly at the note for what was easily two minutes, simply because I had never known Jim to say "please" in earnest; not even the first time I needed to dispose of something especially incriminating for him. Shaking my head, I tucked the note into my purse before heading up the stairs. They emptied into a room that must have been an office at one point in time, but now contained only a large double-basin sink by an old window, a sizable metal desk, a water cooler (probably just placed there earlier for my benefit), and an oversized burgundy chaise lounge. The floor was cold grey stone, and the walls were of the same reddish-brown brick as the rest of the building; despite this, it had a much more comforting aura about it than the rest of the building. In one basin of the sink, I saw containers full of the various chemicals I had used in the past. Atop the desk was a cardboard box, which had been opened and was currently empty. I looked around in confusion for whatever was originally in the box, until my eyes came to rest on something on the floor in front of the desk.
With a blinking red light.
"Jesus. Fucking. Christ!" I roared, yanking my mobile out of my purse and dialing Moriarty. Angrily, I mumbled, "Fucker just figures I'll blow my ass up and solve his fucking problems…we'll see about that."
Suddenly, I heard something directly behind me.
"Stayin' Alive" by the BeeGees.
"Well, hello sweetie," he said, a smirk audible in his voice. "Saved you a phone call."
"Jim, darling," I growled, turning slowly to glare at him. "So lovely to see you. Care to explain what you expect me to do with a live bomb?"
He was clad in an impeccable black suit, looking quite stylish as always, complete with a black tie decorated by tiny embroidered skulls. He raised his hands in a calming gesture. "Now, Genevieve, let me explain."
He seemed unusually stressed, so I cut him some slack. Crossing my arms across my black satin blouse, I (begrudgingly) said. "Fine. What did you do?"
"My my, aren't we testy today? An associate of mine sent me a prototype of his newest bomb to test out. I had him send it here, and I took it out and fiddled with it—"
"—and dropped it and activated it," I finished.
He scowled at me, his eyes darkening with what may have been anger.
I shrank back a bit (something I tried not to do with him; I figured the only way for me to hold my own around Jim Moriarty was to have confidence just as strong as his.) "How long until it goes off?"
"You might want to…" he looked down at my feet and pointed to them, then looked back to me, "…take off your shoes."
My eyes widened, and I carefully stepped out of my ebony stilettos. "Contact trigger?" If so, the vibrations from my unnecessarily high-heeled shoes could potentially have set it off.
He nodded, crouching down to grab my shoes and moving them out of the way. Standing back up, he queried, "Can you disarm it?"
I shrugged. "Maybe. Can you contact your associate?"
He frowned, shaking his head. "His number's been disconnected."
"Shit," I spat. Exhaling in aggravation, I offered, "I can try, but no promises."
"You'd better," he said, "or it shall be the last thing you ever do."
"You'd be blown up right with me. Now get me some tools."
Grumbling in utter annoyance, he tiptoed to the desk and fumbled through one of the drawers. Cautiously, I lowered myself to the floor to lie on my stomach.
I really didn't want to do this in a skirt.