moriarty_was_real

Jim couldn't really sleep. He couldn't really eat either. Dismantling the basement was paramount, and the clock was ticking down with no indication how much longer it would be before something horrible happened.

He had created a catapult to speed up the process of hurling glassware at the wall, dug out an acetylene torch to slice through large pieces of metal, and even ordered sledgehammers of a few sizes so that any of the three of them could smash cabinets at will.

Another day, maybe two, and Jim would be sure that he had removed every last trap. Until then he had to keep working. There were things only he could do, and he had no compunctions about working alone for a dozen hours straight.

This combination torture chamber, mad science laboratory, and machine shop was even more elaborately appointed than the one he had first woken up in. There was more room here, for one thing. For another, it seemed that he had built it first. The one he had already seen was more streamlined, efficient. This dungeon represented a wider range of interests, testing things out, prototypes created and torn down and rebuilt in more successful versions. The various customized torture devices that he had made and abandoned were significantly more primitive than the ones he had come across in the house. The old house, the old "safehouse," what sort of madman would he have to be to condemn himself to a lifetime of hiding from danger of his own creation?

It's quite possible that everything here could be repurposed, used for something constructive, given to schools short on power tools and glassware, but that was totally irrelevant in Jim's mind. These objects needed to be destroyed, not just because it was far safer and more efficient to do so but for the psychological impact it would have on him. The entire exercise was meant to affect his psychology, why sabotage the effort by trying to save that which should never have been there in the first place?

"Pandora, all of the glassware on this lab bench needs to be smashed. If you can aim it at the far wall and we all stay out of the yellow linoleum zone until you're done, it should be perfectly safe. We can clean it up when you're done." He had trouble sleeping, no surprise there, and spent a few hours disassembling things and setting up for his helpers.

"Jack, all the power tools on the table under the pegboard are perfectly normal power tools. Everything on the bare concrete floor is the machine shop. I've disabled all the traps and now everything just needs to be disassembled. Anything lighter than ten kilos is broken down far enough. If you could just heap it all together in a pile in the middle of the concrete that would be lovely." He'd already disposed of most of the chemicals and the rest were locked up, no real danger of someone tripping over them by accident.

"I'll be taking apart the wiring in Frankenstein's playhouse over here, if you need anything." Jim ran both hands through his hair, letting out a deep breath before picking up his tool box and heading into an area he had been avoiding up to now.

In his evil lair du jour, Jim Moriarty is wearing blue jeans and an old white T-shirt, comfortably settled at one of his workstations. Situated at a ninety degree angle from the intended position on an ordinary office swivel chair, the backs of his knees resting on one of the flimsy arm rests and his bare feet are propped on the adjoining dull gray desk surface, ankles crossed. With his mid-back leaning against the other arm rest, he had one elbow planted on the desk surface behind him. For certain kinds of work he preferred to have flat space available on three out of four sides. It reminded him, pleasantly, of a theatrical stage with himself as the star and sole on-stage performer, deftly manipulating the carefully chosen array of props around him, supported by a vast hidden stage crew and some occasional cameo voice acting for variety.

The main computer monitor behind him displays an amorphous blob of colour, shifting sluggishly in time to the orchestral music playing in the attached headphones. Moriarty's eyes are closed and he waves one hand lazily in the air, not mimicking a conductor's motions or playing any of the instruments, maybe he's just running his fingers through the air to feel the slight resistance of it.

Then, all at once, the music stops and the screensaver vanishes to display a simple line of text:

Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox.

Moriarty's eyes snap open and a gleeful smirk forms on his face. A few quick keystrokes and a ringtone chirps in one ear and the conversation he's having with his hostage in the other. "You're off the hook, dearie! Bye now, and give my best to the nice detectives!" A few seconds go by, and he tsks in an almost sympathetic way when he presses the Enter key.

The phone transmits only a soft ticking noise before the line goes dead in the explosion that turns the old biddy into charred paste. Moriarty hums idly and reaches for his keyboard, shutting down the entire system before tugging his headphones off and shifting into a normal seated position in his chair, then he spins lazily around to face the stranger that had somehow wandered into his modest London flat... who had just spelled the doom of at least ten bodyguards in the process of achieving that feat.

"And you are... ?"

Character name:James (Jim) Moriarty
Series: BBC Sherlock

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