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Title: Stars
Rating: R
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters: Jim Moriarty
Summary: "Oh, I don't think that matters, do you?" A rather sinister look. "I know who you are, though."
Status: Incomplete - Chapter 1/?


Dragging himself out of the swivelly chair he'd been rather comfortable in, Jim headed towards the front door to answer it. There were two men - a policeman and a man in a suit.

"James Moriarty?" the suited man enquired as he flashed a police warrant card. Jim nodded and was about to reply when the other policeman grabbed his arms and started to handcuff him as the detective talked at him.


~~

The room spun as Jim opened his eyes and realised he had no idea where he was. He remembered the police car stopping and the officers being dragged out, then something blunt had hit him on the back of the head and everything had gone dark. Now it seemed he was in an empty, concrete room with one light hanging from the centre of the ceiling. He was on a chair and his hands were still cuffed together, but he wasn't attached to the chair in any way. He was about to stand up when the door creaked open.

"Thank you," the new arrival said to someone behind him, then closed the door behind him and positioned himself in the centre of the room. He was a tall man in a rather expensive-looking three piece suit, leaning on an umbrella as if it were a walking cane. "Now, what shall we do with you, then?"

Jim eyed him with suspicion. Have I just been kidnapped? "Who are you?"

"Oh, I don't think that matters, do you?" A rather sinister look. "I know who you are, though. Doctor Moriarty."

What the...? "What do you want from me?"

A raised eyebrow. "I think it's more about what you want from me. Us. Hacking is a very serious crime, you know. You're lucky my men arrived when they did - the police had enough evidence to send you down for a very long time."

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.


The man continued. "I've seen your academic record. Very impressive - a PhD by the age of twenty-three."

Jim assessed the situation. Running wasn't an option, not with the handcuffs on - even if he could get out of the room. Fighting wouldn't work either - this man was well over six feet tall and looked very strong. Jim was scrawny, weak - and at five foot eight, no match for his captor.

"So I'm clever, what's wrong with that?" he replied, glaring.

"Nothing is wrong. In fact, it's rather intriguing. Your skills could be of use to us. I might be willing to make a deal with you."

Eight minutes later, twenty-three-year-old Jim Moriarty had a job with the British Secret Service.

Chapter Two - Bodyguard

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