A Moriarty Christmas

Jim Moriarty had stopped believing in Santa Claus when he was seven.

He had woken up one Christmas morning and rushed downstairs to check under the tree for his presents. The two he got were too small to have been the bike and the chemistry set he had asked for in his letter. Clearly something had gone wrong.

That Christmas day he composed a polite letter explaining the unfortunate circumstances that might have led Santa to confuse his presents with those for another Jim, one that liked thick woolly socks and race cars. He sent it the first day the post office was open, having made sure three times that his address and name had been written clearly this time.

He gave Santa the benefit of the doubt.

He didn't receive a reply, and during the year no one came to swap his socks and race car (which he had kept in their original package as best as he could and never used) for the presents he had asked for. Yet he still had hope.

The following Christmas his letter had a more urgent tone, but the mix-up repeated itself.

Then Jim decided that Santa mustn't have been real but a big fraud perpetrated by parents in order to make their children behave under the threat of clothing gifts and lumps of coal.

From that day he stopped trying to be good.

Now that he was thirty-four years old, Jim strolled through the streets of London, basking in the Christmas spirit, that unique blend of cheer, resignation, depression and greed he had later learned to appreciate.

In the past twenty-seven years he hadn't written another letter to Santa, but he had always obtained what he wanted anyway. (He had bribed, kidnapped, stolen, borrowed, purchased, tortured, seduced, killed, sold or found another way of getting it.)

This year getting what he wanted had proved much more difficult than he had originally planned.

He had schemed, had attempted flirting, then he had even given entertaining a shot. He had tried murdering, consulting and even kidnapping, but everything had failed so far.

(Even if there was a Santa Claus, he knew he'd have to get his present himself. He had been very, very naughty this year.)

He hadn't felt disappointed on Christmas morning since he had been seven, and he didn't want to start now.

He wanted Sherlock Holmes and he would get him, by all means necessary.

For a moment he had even entertained the idea of letting Mycroft capture him, but he discarded it because the man would have never let him see his little brother again.

He needed a good plan, something ingenious that no one had ever tried before.

Jim went to the British Library, 'borrowed' a book (in the most liberal sense of the word, he couldn't help himself) and went home. He made a simple white bookmark of cardstock with a calligraphy M and put it on the page with his favourite poem, gift wrapped the book, put it into a parcel and then went to the post office to mail it.

It was the first time he ever sent a present – well, one that didn't explode or contain a deadly toxin, at least.

Then he simply waited, trusting Sherlock's brilliance to do the deducing and his curiosity to do the rest.

The following day, midmorning, he went to the British Library to wait in the English Literature section. He grabbed a book from a shelf and sat to pass the time reading it.

Before midday Sherlock showed up and stopped in front of the empty place where the book he had in hand should have been. His eyes scanned the reading room and finally stopped on Moriarty. He graciously walked to the table and sat down in front of him.

"'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland' and 'Through the Looking Glass: and What Alice Found There'. You could have just texted me."

"I guess you haven't read it then," Jim replied, lowering the book in front of him, closing it and pushing it aside. Sherlock would have nothing less than his full attention.

"Have you put explosive in the basement?" Sherlock asked, cautiously looking around himself, trying to gauge the level of danger he was in.

"No, I want to be remembered, but not as the next Guy Fawkes. "

Sherlock didn't look convinced. He rested his chin on his joined hands and leaned forward. Their conversation consisted of intimate whispers. "So, why here?"

"Why not?" he shrugged and got up. "I couldn't very well invite you for dinner, you'd never show up. Or eat."

"Yes, being threatened with death once or twice makes you become slightly distrustful." He stood up as well, towering Jim by a few good inches, but Moriarty wasn't about to let himself be intimidated.

"And where would the fun be in killing the only worthy opponent I have?" He took a business card from his suit inside pocket and handed it to Sherlock, who hesitated for a second before taking it. "My favourite poem is the Jabberwocky. Have a merry Christmas," Jim called, waving as he left. "Call me when you get bored."

Sherlock looked at the business card. There were only a letter M and a phone number engraved on it.

This time, he put the number in his pocket.