3potionproblem | Quidditch "Date"

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Quidditch "Date"

WHO: Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty
TONE: Tense to somewhat romantic
RATING: PG-13 [tw - talk of suicide]
WHEN: Sunday, November 25th
WHERE: The Quidditch stands
WHAT: Sherlock and Jim go on their Quidditch date.
STATUS: Completed
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Sherlock stood in the Ravenclaw Quidditch viewing box watching the crowd far more than he bothered to watch the game as he stood aside from the stands. It wouldn't do well to be stuck in the middle of that crowd. For one, they were very noisy. For another, he was supposed to be meeting someone and standing aside would make him a bit more obvious. Not that Jim really needed the help.

To pass the time he watched Greg and Tony above, comparing their performance and team management styles with what he knew of them. He followed Peter's broom now and then. Things moved too fast to really be all that interesting. Sherlock much preferred a game of whits to a game mostly of luck, chance, and physical skill.

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Moriarty had always had an uncanny ability to spot Sherlock out of crowds, he attributed it to the fact that they were rather close the previous years - that was something that seemed to be changing rather quickly. Of course, spotting Sherlock out and actually going to him are two very different things. As of late, Moriarty found the thought of the other male leaving a bad taste in his mouth. Sherlock's behavior was utterly disgusting; did he really think he was fooling anyone with the fake sociopath routine anymore? Or was his recent behavior simply him accepting that he was ordinary?

The Slytherin's jaw locked at the thought, lips pursing into a thin line as he filtered through the crowd. He finally decided to stop directly next to Sherlock and he did not laugh nor did he smile as he stood there silently watching the game everyone seemed to unfathomably invested in. Of course he did decide to speak up after a long moment of silence: "Kind of pitiful how something so meaningless could entertain so many normal people." There's something darker in the way he spoke, his typically playful tone replaced with something that would set red flags off in even the most vicious killers. There is a lack of observation on Moriarty's part; typically his coffee brown eyes would be watching Sherlock curiously. Not once did he spare the taller boy even the briefest of looks.

Sherlock looked down at him, eyes sharp with curiosity.

"The more people something is meant to entertain, the less complex it becomes. Simple nature of society. They're appealing to masses, not individuals. Just so happens we're apart from that."

He shrugged it off. There was no reason to be offended by Quiddich or the propensity to cater to the least among them. It was what it was. It made his job easier, really, for such patterns to exist.

"Are we?" It sounded more like a statement than a question. James continued to watch the game, his mind barely registering what was going on as he thought. "I have been thinking about ending my studies here once I turn seventeen. I have better things to do with my time." Statements like that were typically ones he used for observing reactions from Sherlock, not this time apparently. Really, he didn't seem to care.

Even something about the way Moriarty held himself was different. "Haven't decided yet."

"You probably could do better in an independent study type atmosphere," Sherlock admitted. "Any thought as to where you'll go?"

Sherlock wasn't going to pretend he wasn't a little pleased at the idea of Jim leaving. It would be an end to the tension that couldn't be avoided otherwise. Though he was very used to the other boy's presence. The lack of it would be something new. One way or another it brought up things he would rather ignored.

"No, not yet - as I said, I haven't decided," he replied idly, he wasn't making much of an effort conversation wise.

A mirthless smile appeared on his face but it was gone as quickly as it came. Moriarty rolled his neck to pop it as he thought. Dusky brown eyes finally landed on Sherlock, a mixture of irritation and boredom in them as he stared. It was disappointing really, how things were turning out. He was wrong to think that there'd ever be something to get rid of his boredom - the unrelenting tediousness of life.

"Well, still plenty of time to decide."

Sherlock leaned back and returned his eyes to the brooms above.

"Plenty of time," he all but growled the words out. "There is plenty of time, TOO MUCH TIME, SHERLOCK!" His yelling seemed to startle quite a few people around them. He was sick and tired of being frustrated and bored. For a second he wondered if he actually hated Sherlock.

It's painfully boring at the top of the food chain. "There's too much time and Sherlock Holmes is a fraud. Without me, you're alone with all these people that don't understand you. You're trying to find other people that will understand you, bless you," there was a pause as he seemed to wait for others to look away before adding, "This book is boring me."

“I’m not a—“ Sherlock scowled, jaw tight as the argument already started up again. “Very few people even know what a sociopath is. I’m hardly ruining your reputation by borrowing the word. You assume you understand me better than anyone else ever can so obviously my ‘fraudulent’ claim is not so different from the truth. You can hardly blame me now for a choice I made when I was a child. Does me admitting it make you happy, now? Yes, you’ve seen through me; Congratulations. I can see no reason to continue to bring it up.

And I’m not trying to do anything. I have my studies and that’s all. I have no interest in being like normal people outside the function of fitting in. So you can stop acting like I’m running around with a sign around my neck reading ‘Free to a Good Home’. I’m the same as I ever was. I don’t need or want companionship any more than you do.”

"No, you're not so different. You're correct." James shrugged as if it were the most meaningless topic he ever bothered to waste his time on, then he smiled, something of a more awkward look instead of his typical charming smile. "No, no, no, you're right. You're always right. Brilliant Sherlock." The shorter looked out past the game, that strange grin still plastered on his face.

There was only a minute of staring before he closed his eyes for a long moment and turned back to Sherlock. The look faded when he leaned up on the balls of his feet to get far closer to Sherlock's ear than he probably preferred. "Cute, it's cute, really, really cute," he whispered, only loud enough for him, it was only meant for him, to anyone else it would simply be a ghost of a conversation lost in the crowd. "Wolf."

There was no explanation, there didn't need to be one, not when one is amongst such genius. Though, in retrospect, his next actions were what explained everything. Moriarty slipped one of his hands down into his pocket, still staying oh-so close so no one else could see other than the intended one man audience. When he withdrew it he had a rather sharp looking knife. "I did warn you, didn't I?" Despite his words he brought the weapon to his own throat. His other hand grabbed Sherlock's arm, not allowing him to escape.

Sherlock’s eyes went wide, leaning back instinctually to avoid a spray of blood. “The hell are you doing?!”

"Do you want me to do it?" The question was asked so casually, as if he were asking for more sugar in his tea or whether or not his tie looked okay. "Because I can, we both know I can. So really, if I can do it and you don't want companionship, then why shouldn't I?"

“So you’re holding yourself hostage now until I say I want to be around you? I agreed to meet you today, didn’t I? I don’t understand why you act this way over these stupid trifles. Put the knife away, Jim.” Sherlock’s eyes darted to the side to see if anyone was paying them any attention.

He gave the other a perplexed look for a split second. "Holding myself hostage until you say you want to be around me? No, Sherlock. Nnno. Though that was a nice touch, admitting you do want to be. But I already knew that." He rolled his eyes, he was almost amused by the interpretation. "It takes less than five minutes to bleed out if you slit your throat. The utter lack of oxygen, funny, isn't it?" The amusement fell from his face, replaced by some ghosting of agitation.

"What do you want?"

"What do I want? A lot of things really. You know a lot of things I want. What I want right now? I don't want to be bored anymore. To see what your reaction would be. Maybe I even want to kill myself. I think I might."

Sherlock leaned in closer. "And this is less boring is it? Standing with a knife to your own throat? Do it, then. I doubt it will be quite as interesting as you're hoping for. And likely less than effective if you think the on field medic can't fly up here and fix you up in under five minutes."

"Who is going to call the medic? You?" Moriarty couldn't hide the grin that passed across his face as he tilted his head to the side a fraction of an inch. "You don't want me to and you don't think I will. Bad move, you know I love proving you wrong." He didn't even seem to wince as he pressed the blade into the flesh of his throat until it bit into his skin just enough to draw blood.

"Stop."

He glanced up again, looking for the nearest teacher.

An icy glare was shot in Sherlock's direction before he pulled the knife away, only slightly. "Why?"

"Because this is pointless and stupid."

And despite his best attempts to hide it, he was a little scared that Jim might actually do it.

There was a fondness in his eyes and the way his lips quirked up slightly. Most would find his observation menacing but he was fond of Sherlock. Moriarty was a shark and Sherlock his prey. It wasn't about killing, it wasn't about making the other suffer. He truly enjoyed it. The shimmer of entertainment in his life. He liked seeing the other boy content, wrapping his brain around things. It was a game, currently Sherlock was losing.

"You're afraid. For what?" It was his favourite game, forcing Sherlock to confess things they both knew but went unsaid. He leaned forward as his eyes flickered to a student that decided to take a sparing glance their way, hiding everything from view using his own shoulder and Sherlock's. It was the perfect place to do pull such a stunt; there were many people around, true, but their attention was on something else. Stay casual enough and no one would question anything.

“I don’t want to get dirty,” Sherlock said through a tense jaw. He should never have agreed to have met the Slytherin. Jim was unpredictable and completely crazy. Sherlock didn’t remember him being this way when they were younger. And a small part of him thought enough to wonder if perhaps he himself hadn’t played catalyst in some way.

"We both know that's not completely the truth." James chuckled before pulling the knife away completely. "I'm not going to do it, not yet anyway, but you have to admit, I had you going for a moment," Moriarty lilted like a songbird and shrugged. "You care, that's touching."

"Yes, fine, everyone's happy now." Sherlock exhaled the breath he hadn't meant to hold. "If there's nothing else, I think I've had enough fun and games for one day."

"I did stop, didn't I? I could have easily told you I'd have no issue leaving and killing myself then. You really could not have said your fear of getting dirty excuse would work there." He falls quiet for a moment.

"You're not happy."

"Gee, I wonder where you got that idea." Sherlock shouldered Moriarty aside and started down out of the stands.

"Sherlock." Moriarty followed after him, actually seeming somewhat disturbed by his reaction.

Sherlock had half a mind to ignore him completely.

Really, half a mind was all it was going to take.

And Moriarty had all a mind to grab Sherlock's arm after they managed to get away from the crowd. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock stopped, looking over his shoulder at him. "What do you want?"

He seemed disgusted by the question for a moment. "That's what I was going to ask you."

Sherlock shook his head. "What I want is for you to stop doing these stupid things that from what I can tell serve no purpose other than to prove that you will always be the one in control of everything we do. I don't have to play your games. So I'm not going to anymore. I'm going to my room. I have more than enough I could be doing instead of playing into your stupid scenarios."

"Alright, I'll stop. We'll stop, I'll stop. These trifling games, they're not amusing anymore anyway. Don't go." He doesn't release his grasp, but the offer sounds rather genuine.

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment before exhaling through his nose in defeat. “Alright.”

"Alright," he echoed as if sorting something out in his head. His gaze dropped to the ground as he released Sherlock, not in submission as most would take the reaction - he was thinking. If only Sherlock knew how to get into his head.

"I think there's something larger going on, and these strange events are the trickle down, which is why Snow and the Ministry doesn't seem to be doing anything, there's a possibility that they're trying to hide something bigger," he murmured loud enough for Sherlock - an offering of knowledge, of peace? "Scream fire and no one will notice you stealing amidst the chaos." Just like the little stunt he had just pulled, no one paid them any attention because there was something bigger to pay attention to.

“Certainly gave them enough reason to start searching student’s things. There’s not enough evidence to go off of yet, though. We’ll have to wait for another attack—likely at the Yule ball.” He leaned against the wall once his was released, taking a relaxed posture to try and relieve the tension in his bones.

"I doubt they actually think it's a student. They have the Trace after all," he continued as he watched the other, "I agree though, there isn't enough evidence yet. I don't know enough to make many assumptions." It was a little awkward, he hadn't done this in a long time - shared possible ideas with Sherlock. "Are you going?" The question was genuine curiosity.

“To the ball?” Sherlock shrugged. “If there’s likely to be more activity, certainly. Not like getting dressrobes is any hardship and I’m quite interested to see what the perpetrator does next.”

Moriarty nodded in response, staying silent as he did. "Yes, yes," he paused to rub at the injury on his throat idly, "I am too, rather interested." Change of topic in 3, 2, 1: "I don't care you know?" He smiled at him similar to one of the ones he had used a million times to charm other people, but not exactly - there was a seriousness to his expression - it was a shitty attempt if he was trying to woo the other in some way.

Sherlock arched his left brow. "Don't care about what?"

"That problem of yours that involves feelings." He shrugged and pursed his lips together. "I don't care. You're not ordinary, no, no you're not. I hate to sound fulsome, Sherlock, but I doubt there's a single derogatory thing I could say about you."

Sherlock continued to eye him, not quite certain where that had come from. "...Thank you," he settled on at last, looking down with light discomfort at the wall across from him. "I'm sure you could think of a few if you tried, though. Suppose I'm grateful I'm not worth that effort all the same."

James grinned and let out a small chuckle. "Perhaps your fashion sense could use some work. No, I'm being fictitious," he trailed off, almost thinking about going quiet but seeming to change his mind... "Don't mistake my respect for an offer of sympathy, I have no inclination to coddle you." The sharpness of his words didn't seem to reflect any malicious feelings. "You are Brilliant Sherlock after all, I'm not out to insult you."

"I never feared you'd coddle me. And the last thing I have ever wanted from anyone is sympathy. You're the last person I expect either from. S'what I like about you. When you're not being completely insane." He couldn't let the knife thing go that quickly. And if Jim expected him to, he was still quite loopy.

He didn't expect him to, but he had every intention to dilute the anger. "I know all of that." The reaction was a little touching though, he had to admit, he would do it again just to see the fear from Sherlock - the way he seemed to be able to breathe once Moriarty wasn't endangering his life. James stuffed his hands into his pockets and turned around as if he were going to leave, but after looking around he spun back around on his heel to face Sherlock. "I couldn't even in the odd possibility that I wanted to."

Sherlock nodded. He knew that. He'd done quite a bit of research on sociopathy in his free time years before. The things he hated were things Moriarty could never give him. It was one of the main benefits to having him as a friend. Someone who understood him, someone who understood what it was like to be different in more ways than just intelligence. Jim was perfect as a companion in many ways.

And in just as many he was somewhat unnerving to keep in close company.

James' face split into an impish grin before he raised his eyebrows and looked up to the sky. "I don't know about you, but I don't want to wait for them to make another move." When his gaze lowered again it was on Sherlock but he was smiling like he had just heard the funniest joke.

"There really isn't another choice. Not enough is known and I can't really set a trap if no one cares enough about what some kid says to take me seriously. Waiting is the only option until they strike again."

"A river Sherlock, cry me one." He can't help but roll his eyes at the woe is me I'm a kid and no one cares thing once again. "Unless someone forces their hand somehow."

"And what would you suggest?"

He stopped himself short of taking the opportunity to bring up the stupid knife-to-his-throat tactic used minutes before again.

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Quidditch "Date"

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