The Transition Of Jim Moriarty To Richard Brook

Chapter 13: Holmes And Moriarty

"So, where should I start? A Study In Pink? Or a later case?" John said, propping himself up on his elbows. He'd discarded the scratchy black wool jumper and his grey shirt underneath was baggy, almost billowing, the sleeves rolled up along his forearms. He looked plain and straightforward, but to Richard, he looked gorgeous. The two of them were lying on John's bed. This change of location had come as a surprise to Richard, but he had learned it was because John's leg was 'playing up', apparently, it throbbed with pain, so he tried to rest it and keep it elevated. John had made tea for himself and hot chocolate for Richard, and the two of them had adjourned upstairs.

"I feel like I'm in an Agatha Christie novel," Richard said with a giggle, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. It was the perfect temperature, and he smiled gratefully at John.

"I'll start at the beginning, I guess. It all started with my discharge from the army, I'd taken a shot to the shoulder…"

As John spoke, time slipped by, and the room grew darker, the shadows thickened in the corners of the room. Richard was oblivious to this as he was fully immersed in John's story. He could picture John running along the streets of London with the pale, dark-haired Sherlock Holmes. John had described him as "Vampire-white, with a mass of black curls," although apparently his most striking feature were "his eyes- they were this indescribable colour. Blue and green and grey all at once, and they saw everything. They were like the shutter on a camera lens, taking in everything, and sealing it away." Sherlock had quite a clever tongue as well, and Richard had laughed himself silly at some of Sherlock's best lines, lovingly recounted by John. John's impression of Sherlock was hilarious as well, a deep, rumbling voice with an overly hoity-toity, clipped tone. He made him sound like royalty. John was finishing A Study In Pink, when he mentioned Sherlock's fan. Both John and Richard had relaxed as the story wore on, first sitting, then slouching and now, lying on the bed, facing each other, their heads propped up on their hands. It was rather intimate, Richard thought, but what John was saying couldn't constitute as pillow talk. Richard was desperate to know who the 'fan' was, the obsessive person who had sent Jeff Hope, the killer cab driver after Sherlock Holmes. Although John sometimes stumbled in his story-telling, thinking of the right word to use or not being able to remember some detail, the narrative was captivating and Richard was dying to know more.

When John said 'Moriarty', Richard frowned, feeling as if something clicked inside his brain. Like a cog turning, or a lever moving into a different position. And that's how he felt- different. Off-kilter. He laid his free hand on the dead space of mattress between them, dead man's land. It still felt intimate, lying here with John, but now he wasn't sure if he liked it, he felt oddly unclean, or out of step with John, and he didn't know why. John's hand somehow landed on top of Richard's, and they awkwardly stayed like that, while John began the next story.

Moriarty didn't feature in this one, but now, the story didn't feel quite as fun. Not with Richard's insides squirming as if some parasite had nested in his gut. The only good thing was that John didn't take his hand away from Richard's, and their fingers lazily entwined, the only point of connection between them. He wanted to know more about Moriarty, so he asked John straight out, just as John was explaining the book code to Richard.

"John…did you ever hear anything else about Moriarty?"

John blinked at the interruption, but he answered immediately, and Richard wondered if he was at all surprised. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. Sherlock and I met him a few times."

"It was a him?"

"Yes."

"What was he like?"

"Underwhelming. Looked a bit like a rat. Anyway, Sherlock realised the book the gang were using for their code, and all by chance-"

John continued the story without interruption. Unfortunately, he seemed to think that was a good place to stop, and concluded the re-telling for the night. He would tell Richard the rest the next night, he said. Richard was disappointed but he smiled and thanked John for taking the time to regale him with these adventures. John's smile in return had been small but sweet, sincere and pleased. Richard felt ridiculously proud for having made John happy in his own small way.

He went back to his own room, but after the warmth and company he'd just enjoyed, lying in this cold, hard bed was a dismal prospect. He dozed off anyway, and when his eyes opened, it was pitch black in the room, the whole flat was silent. Richard got up, accidentally stubbing his toe on one of the infernal cardboard boxes. He got himself a glass of water from the kitchen, and leaned against the counter mulling over all the things John had told him. Standing in a half-dark kitchen in the eerily silent flat, all the tales John had told him about killer taxi drivers and Chinese gangsters didn't seem as cartoonish and entertaining as they had seen John's room. Richard felt very small, clutching his glass, in a dressing gown. Why, there could be assassins and serial killers lurking outside at this very moment! Reaching a decision, he abandoned his beverage and crept upstairs, cracking John's bedroom door open an inch. John didn't stir. Carefully, Richard tiptoed into the room, feeling his way past furniture to slip between the sheets of the bed. Just for an hour, he told himself. He wouldn't spend the whole night here. But the bed, soft, unlike Sherlock's unused bed, was warm and comfortable, a thick, womb-like cocoon,, the heavy blankets blocking out the light from the hallway. with John's warm, relaxed body inches from his, Richard's eyes closed and he fell into a deep sleep.