James' New Toy

         Fat rain drops fall mercilessly to the ground. Their explosions upon the ground become the soundtrack to the dim grey skies that come on like waves in late English autumns. Car lights stroll along the streets below a single, unassuming balcony. Upon the balcony sits a stone table flanked by two black lawn chairs, shaped attractively in a gothic pattern.
         A short, loud buzz vibrates the stone table before a light emits from the front of palm-sized phone. The caller ID reveals only a string of numbers. The phone buzzes once more, before it is swept up into thin hands. One long finger strokes the side of the phone, raises itself, hovers above the surface, and then slowly lowers and swipes the screen. The hand then swiftly swings the phone up against the ear of James Moriarty.
         “Speak,” he says. His lips hang open in the air, awaiting the response from the other end.
         “Your delivery’s on its way,” spits a rough voice in return.
         A crooked smile creeps across Moriarty’s thin lips. “Good,” he says, looking up at the swelling clouds, threatening a prolonged downpour for the evening. “When shall I expect the arrival of my new toy?”
         “Quarter hour at most,” the man answers.
         “Right,” Moriarty mumbles as he pulls the phone from his ear. Pressing the side of the phone, the line clicks dead. “Hardly gives me time to tidy up.”
      James raises his eyes to the lamp mounted to the wall outside of this cozy flat – one of at least a dozen throughout London alone. He inspects the etching on the smoothed panels of glass. They form small, misted mountains, cresting at the lip of the glass. Pushing the door open, he slides his hand up the wall and feels for the light switch, flicking the light on. The light throws shadows across his deep-set coal black eyes before slipping inside and locking the door behind him.
      Turning around, James inspects the sitting room before him. To the right sits a charcoal and black Victorian loveseat; to the left, a matching decorative chair. A single box rests on the seat of the chair. James steps towards it, loosening the tie around his neck. He kneels in front of the chair, removing the top of the box. The contents of the box stare back at him: Four sets of leather straps, a box of screws, and a power drill. Fastening the battery pack to the bottom, James presses the trigger. A smile cracks along his face as the drill screeches to life.
         The next few minutes are filled with the task of installing the restraints. Two are placed at the foot of the front leg, and two fastened vertically along the back of the chair. This will make quite a playset, he thinks to himself. James raises his eyes to the clock on the wall to his right. Now, to wait for my doll.
         James stands, and as he makes his way to the tiny kitchen, the sound of cars passing by being his focus of attention. Once in the kitchen, he pulls a bottom out from a tin bowl filled with ice. Moriarty raises the neck of the bottle to his lips, using a canine to rip the foil seal on the bottle. He drags the foil for a centimeter or two, then pulls the rest off in one motion with his fingers. Taking two strides to the freezer, James opens it and retrieves two chilled champagne glasses.
         A pair of breaks squeal on the street below. A pause, followed by one door slamming and the angry sound of another door being ripped open. A scuffle of feet is heard as James pops open the bottle and pours the first glass of bubbly almost to the very top. Harsh stomps ascend the stairs up to the flat. James pours the second glass, setting the bottle back onto the ice just as the raps come on the door.
         James sets down his glass and holds one hand behind his back as he unlatches the door. A man with a patchy beard smiles at him. James scowls at the man, looks at the slumped figure with a trash bag for a face in between them, and suddenly perks up. “Do try to be a little more careful. This is a very delicate package…” The bearded man grunts, releases his grip on the slumped man and steps back, crossing his arms. James sweeps his hand firmly along the dark green sleeve of the slumped man, tracing down to his untailored cuffs. To the bearded man, he says, “Look in the box on the front of the door outside. Take the paper bag and go. It’s all there, big bills, like you asked.”
         The bearded man flashes a smile with a dingy glint of gold in a far corner before heading back down the stairs and into the darkening, wet evening.
         His hand still on the bag-faced man’s arm, James yanks the man inside the apartment before closing the door ever so gingerly, locking it promptly. Once inside, James pushes the masked man into the arm of the couch, forcing him to double over, his bottom in the air. James pulls from his pocket silver, custom detailed knife. Flicking it open, he presses himself against the slumped figure, yanking the blade through the man’s belt. The pressure releases and James leans back, grabbing the man’s pants at either side and tugs on them. The dark-hued denim slips off, finding the only resistance at the arm of the couch.
         James traces his hand up along the freshly ironed dress shirt, its deep chartreuse hues making his skin even more pale in comparison. Just then, he flexes his hands, recalling how cold his fingers had become. They grip on the fabric and seize the man up off of the couch before throwing him down into the chair. A small whimper and suckle for air escapes from beneath the bag.
         Becoming suddenly impatient, James slaps the back of his hand across the plastic-coated face. James quickly steps behind the chair and, wrestling the pair of hands into place, cooing every so often to keep them cooperative, straps them into the restraints. He moves to the front and repeats the process on the feet. There, on the floor, he looks up at the pant-less, heaving, vulnerable heap in the center of his drawing room.
         He draws in a sharp breath before standing up. Licking his lips, he speaks to his guest for the first time that evening.
         “I would ask if you knew why you’re here, but I doubt you’d be able to answer me coherently. A mumble comes from beneath the bag again. James reaches down and rips the tape that binds the plastic mask. He pulls it off, smiling to himself as the soft face emerges. “I’m quite glad you could make it tonight,” James says, bringing himself eye-to-eye with his new toy, “Doctor Watson.”
         John Watson’s green eyes flicker over the beads of onyx that currently have him in a chokehold. James rips off the tape that seals John’s mouth, and John spits out a roll of pantyhose out as soon as the way is clear.
         “Moriarty,” John says. “I don’t know where Sherlock’s gotten –”
         “Blah, blah, blah…” Moriarty interrupts. “Sherlock this, Sherlock that. Really, John,” he says, slithering up to a standing position. He retrieves his knife once more, this time cutting the buttons from John’s shirt. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. Always playing sidekick to mister Know-It-All. It must get tiring.” James places his hand on John’s shoulder and rubs his fingers deep into the muscle, attempting to loosen the tension. “And, do call me James.”
         John’s back stiffens as James sweeps his head up along John’s chin. “What – what do you want with me – James?” A lock of John’s hair falls from his part to in front of his forehead.
         James smiles widely, a ray of light stretching across his eye and twinkling like the edge of a black hole sucking in a neighboring star.
         “Oh, there are many things I want you for,” James says, lowering his eyelids as he pulls his tie completely free of his collar.