Chapter 4 ('Whatever You Do, Avoid Blond Bartenders')

He woke up peeling himself off the side of a building and wondering where he went wrong. How was it possible for him to fuck up quite that badly? This was the kind of thing that happened to other people. Preferably Sherlock, wandering into a trap Jim would hypothetically set for him one day (he contemplated arranging something where Sherlock would come face to face with Shizuo, inevitably annoy him greatly with his deductions, then get beaten into pulp). That would be fun to watch. Right now everything hurt, except his right elbow – no, that hurt too. Everything hurt. Including his spleen, which he really, really wanted to vent right now at someone. He groaned, fell off the indent he'd made in the wall, and landing on top of an upturned vending machine.

On a scale of 1-10, how much of a mistake had he made?

27.

Or 28.

Possibly more. Definitely more. He should never have come to Ikebukuro. He'd been tricked by the urban legends and thought it might be a laugh. And it had been up until a certain point several minutes before, when he failed to obey a basic rule by complete 'accident'.

Whatever you do, avoid blond bartenders.

That had gone tits up, hadn't it?

As a rule, Jim prided himself on knowing when to pick his fights. On sticking to the shadows and staying out of the game when there was nothing to gain, not even amusement. But he'd had an idea, and it seemed to make sense at the time. So he'd rolled with it. Look – it was a calculated risk (at least he'd thought it was). There was someone of the calibre of Shizuo working downstairs? He hated Izaya, who was definitely hiding something. It was only natural for Moriarty to want to get him in on it. If he could employ Shizuo, even if only for this gig, he'd have a personal one man army. But he had to go about it the right way. No screwing around this time, fun though it might sound. The consequences could be severe.

Retrospectively, he really should have sent a proxy. What was it, why did he chose not to? He was fascinated. Ikebukuro was too exhilarating, that was the thing. He'd become drunk on its strangeness, enjoying himself too much; which he hadn't believed was possible, until the shit hit the fan – or until the vending machine hit him squarely in the stomach, sending him hurtling backwards and then it went black.

Then he woke up, peeling himself off a wall. He landed on the vending machine and shakily began to regain his balance.

Then he threw up.

There was a tall shadow approaching slowly, gradually, every ounce of fury a weight slowing it down. Slowly, instilling instinctive fear. Slowly, working up to something more. Jim looked up and saw the blond bartender, a wide, unhinged smile on his face. He thought about Izaya's grin, and how lethally friendly that had seemed at the time, then he looked up at this smile and by contrast it was hardly a smile at all, it made no pretences about friendliness or its owner's intentions. Instead, it was the look of a man who was beyond furious, veins pulsing visibly in his temples, the grin stretched wide across his face as he relished what was to come – that being, beating the shit out of poor little Jim.

"That fuckin' flea send you?" Shizuo's voice was barely restraining itself, only just holding back from pure unbridled rage. Flea – that had to be Izaya, of course. An apt description. An irritating itch that wouldn't go away. "Huh?!"

Of course. That was where he'd gone wrong. He'd mentioned Izaya by name. That was when Shizuo's expression had gone from mildly irked to wildly incensed instantly. Split-second. Without any warning, except perhaps a flickering tension of the eyebrows before this.

On his way outside, Jim had spotted the blond bartender (no, that was a misnomer, he wasn't actually a bartender was he?), walking with that co-worker of his, cigarette sticking out the corner of his mouth. And he'd made a split-second decision to ignore the warnings and talk to the tall man about it, make the offer, in an understated, subtle, totally non-objectionable way. He could do that. It'd be a piece of cake. Jim associated with all kinds of people, some of whom had impressive tempers. He'd be able to handle this one guy.

Wrong.

"Excuse me-" he'd begun, and the tall man had wheeled, regarding him disdainfully from behind blue sunglasses. In the background, Shizuo's dreadlocked companion was already taking steps back, his expression resigned. "I have a proposition for you." Shizuo cocked his head, confused. He didn't seem that menacing, but Moriarty knew better. He'd seen evidence of that. Appearances aside, Shizuo was not someone to be trifled with. "There's an item I happen to be looking for, and I'm certain it's in the possession of one Orihara Izaya. I hear you two have an impressive feu-"

Three things happened. Three deeply inevitable and not overly surprising things. One – the air changed. It became taut and unsettling, the scent of rain before a storm. Two – Shizuo snapped the cigarette in two and crushed it underfoot, swiftly and methodically, as though this were routine. And then he picked up the vending machine, a sudden roar breaking free. Which is roughly when Moriarty found himself reconsidering the whole trip, and seconds later found himself embedded in a wall.

And that was how he'd got here, the tall, lanky figure of Shizuo towering over him and glaring with a look that could have killed, to accompany the manic smile.

"No," Jim managed, backing away slowly, stumbling slightly as he did so. He heard an observer laugh. There were observers, some terrified, some seeming to be enjoying the show. "I have nothing to do with him-"

"Like hell you don't," Shizuo growled. "Why'd you mention him otherwise?"

Moriarty sensed an undercurrent of paranoia running through those words, that this guy was used to being pestered and followed and attacked, and that no doubt Izaya was behind some of them. His suspicion was justified.

Approaching him had been honestly, a terrible idea. Still. You never knew how badly you've cocked up until you tried, right?

"Look…" he fell into a coughing fit, his ribs aching. "I'm a…" What was the right word? He settled on one that did the job. "Consultant. I get hired to look into things. There's an item missing that some big important people want found...alright? They hired me. I suspect a certain info broker...knows more than he's letting on. That's all."

Not dying was a major priority right now. There were plenty of things he could say, but instead, he decided to play the hapless foreigner, amp up the fear, act scared so that maybe a) someone would intervene (if anyone could resolve this nightmare, that'd be just fine) or b) he'd worm his way out of it, the blond man would realise he'd made a mistake, that little Jimmy-boy was innocent and leave him alone. Either would be nice. Preferably the second option. That way Shizuo wouldn't end up dead, would remain a fixture of Ikebukuro and continue to make Izaya Orihara's life hell. Because the bastard sure as fuck deserved it.

"What item?"

Moriarty mulled over how much he wanted to admit to. He decided to tell the truth, and see how Shizuo reacted. If he delivered it with enough innocent, hapless fear, it would sell his story, right? "A...a head, alright?" Shizuo's expression darkened, the grin falling away as he pressed Jim into the wall, the bricks buckling where his hands dug in. He knows Celty. Jim continued babbling. "Something weird. I...I didn't ask questions! I don't ask questions, I just do what I'm told." Ahahahah LIES WERE FUN WEREN'T THEY. "Oh god, please don't kill me, I have someone waiting for me back home I want to get back safely please, please don't kill me."

"Shizuo!" the dreadlocked man yelled. "C'mon. We've got places to be."

Silence. The tall man turned away, letting Moriarty sink to the floor in an exceedingly melodramatic fashion, a crumpled heap, relieved, but also intrigued at what was about to happen next.

"Coming, Tom-san," Shizuo replied, his voice quieter, level and frankly, completely ordinary. He walked off to rejoin his co-worker and was gone. Just like that. It was over as suddenly as it had begun.

Moriarty caught his breath, pulled himself to his feet, and struggled off to his hotel room. He'd see a doctor when he got home. Right now he just wanted to sleep for as long as he could, dream away his gross miscalculation. He hated making mistakes, especially of that magnitude.

He slept.

'Whatever you do' he thought, before drifting off 'Avoid blond bartenders'.

Now that was advice he wished he'd taken.

As soon as he could, he was getting the hell out of there. And staying out. Leave the Ikebukuro business and the mess with the missing head to other people, underlings. Leave Izaya Orihara to get the shit beaten out of him as soon as possible, hopefully. Leave it all to people who gave a damn, i.e., not him.

He was going home.

And he would put this embarrassing mess behind him.

End of.

Maybe one day he would send Sherlock here. One day.

Or something like that, anyway. Something along those lines. Yeah. That. Definitely. It'd be a laugh, wouldn't it?

He'd call Nebula and explain he was so sorry, but he couldn't look into this matter personally for much longer, something had come up. Other people would deal with it.

And Jim would get the hell out of this city, stay gone, and leave it to others to find the missing head.

Leave it behind, and let the plot untangle itself…

And who knew what would happen next?