Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi

[deductives]

Who: Sherlock Holmes and whoever else!
When: Around noon, Sunday the 20th
Where: The Church of Jonova
Summary: Sherlock wants answers about the outbreak of the mysterious flu, and he's hoping this curious healing mass will provide a few clues.
Warnings: None as of now.

The epidemic had begun barely a week before, and already nearly half the city seemed to be in its thrall. Clearly, this wasn't an ordinary sickness. Despite its flu-like symptoms, it wasn't the proper season for incubating those kinds of contagions. Other than being contagious, there didn't seem to be a common thread among those who contracted it, except most young children were healthy. That didn't make sense; illnesses victimized those with weak immune systems, typically the very young and the very old. If it didn't have to do with immune systems, there had to be something more to this. The rumors of SERO's involvement needed to be taken with a grain of salt-- AGI would jump at any opportunity to smear them, though this did have the earmarks of something engineered.

What Sherlock decided was worth investigating was the Church of Jonova's mass healing prayer service. It looked fairly innocuous, but to him, it was rife with suspicion. Why, if the church wished to do the island a service, was it asking to gather all the sick in one place without a quarantine? It was just asking for farther spread of the disease. Ignorance was a possibility, but Sherlock decided to go regardless. If anything, he could maybe get a few leads from talking to the afflicted. So far he seemed to be immune.

The church itself didn't impress him. Despite the numerous deities-- self professed or otherwise-- that were part of the Newcomer community, the native world of Siren's Port had just as much evidence of a higher power as at home. Namely, none. However, the crowds at the church were more compelling. How many people were so desperate for a cure that they turned to faith over medicine? Or how many, like him, were just looking for answers?

Comments

[playthings]

Old Jim adjusts his cap at the odd look Sherlock gives him. interesting. Their exchange via text earlier was too intimate for him not to be able to see through a baseball cap and street clothes, for him not to know in an instant that he'd found his destined opponent in the game. Not even sickness could cloud a mind like Sherlock Holmes'. No, there was something else causing that trickle of confusion to play on his dear friend's expression.

The smile fades from his face but he remains with an all-together pleasant expression as he begins to part the crowd and journey towards Sherlock. How odd the two must seem in the sea of worshippers looking towards their salvation when they only see each other. The irony of it all is far too dramatic for Jim's tastes and he forces that loathsome thought far away from his mind as he does with so many other issues of the soul. This is precisely why distractions exist in the first place, precisely why the consulting criminal is a necessary facet of his life. Of his obsession.

It's not long before he reaches him, extending a friendly hand with that same pleasant, charming expression on his face. A stand-up bloke wanting to shake the hand of a passing acquaintance. But buried beneath the surface is a form that's far from friendly, eyes narrowed and trying to read everything he possibly could from his adversary. A hand is extended, palm facing outward for the other man's hand.

"Good turnout today, yeah?" he says conversationally with great ease.

[deductives]

Every soul in the cathedral was now little more than of ants in lieu of this confrontation. The investigation was suddenly on the backburner, though something in his fledgling conscience niggled at him for it. That feeling didn't last long; Jim Moriarty was more deadly than any virus, and there wasn't any cure for him. Certainly not the unreliable asylum, should he by some stroke of luck get shipped there.

Moriarty couldn't have taken more than ten seconds to sift through the crowd, but to Sherlock it was a small eternity in which his heart beat like a caged animal's at every nearing footstep. When Jim offers his hand, Sherlock's instinctually childish first thought is to flippantly put his hands in his pockets. He refrains for a change, because he promised that he would shake Moriarty's hand in hell, and despite the irony of their current location, Siren's Port was fairly close. His large hand clasps around Jim's, no expression on his face except a faint glitter of contempt in his eyes.

"Seems so. Even the devil must pay his dues."

[playthings]

"Just taking a look-see at the local folk," he says with a playfully lowbrow cadence. It's the last remnant of the guise he's put on, all illusion of Regular old Jim melting away to the wolf in sheep's clothing. "'Tis better to reign in heaven."

Jim give Sherlock's hand a gentle shake but keeps his grip intact with no intention of letting go. All the guise of pleasantry and charm leaves his expression, mirroring now the impassive sort look his good friend is giving him. But where Sherlock's eyes flicker with the glint of contempt Jim's burn with an inferno of it; If looks could consume then Moriarty's would devour the very soul of his, bones and all. With each passing moment Jim's grasp becomes tighter like a vise on the willingly offered hand.

It's bitterness manifesting. It's rage. It's the inability to leave that melody unfinished. Unperfected. It's needing to know why he used the past tense—But no, nonono, that can be pieced together. There are more pressing matters to tend to.

He shifts closer, hand still ever tightening on Sherlock's, and he lowers his voice to a quiet whisper barely audible against the crowd's yammering. "There's no finality for you to find sanctuary in. The playthings are a-plenty here, so you'll just have to wait your turn. My undivided attention will be all yours soon enough."

[deductives]

The lilt clears up any of the clouding around Jim's face. There was no mistaking that, not for even a second. Sherlock only matches the iron grip Moriarty locks on him, the shake becoming a rather mechanical overtone for them to try and break each other's hands.

Rather than the pain registering, Sherlock feels a blend of satisfaction at the pure hatred radiating from Jim at seeing him alive and a tint of fear. He knows that the stakes of surviving in this city and protecting the people he gave a damn about just became that much harder. Still, just standing here, both of them totally unaltered, is evidence of a failure on Moriarty's part, and he'd soak that in as long as he could.

"We'll see if you don't get distracted." Sherlock looks down at him with a look of mock sympathy. "Mozart never did finish his own requiem."

[playthings]

He tilts his head, eyes shrinking to narrow slits as he tries to discern every last muscle upon Sherlock's face. He's trying to inspect every crease as though all the secrets locked away beneath the demure facade could be read like lines of poetry upon his expression. Perhaps it doesn't reveal all the secrets of his adversary, but it does let him in on a tiny little tidbit of smugness that's been exalted in every word uttered Jim's direction since the moment he arrived. Dominance through assumption? Experience? Execution? The beretta hidden in his coat pocket (which Sherlock must have realized by now, how could he not?) is burning a hole through his psyche at the thought of it.

Rooftop plans need a second out. Jim doesn't normally carry a gun, doesn't like getting his hands dirty. No, that's what Sebastian and all the others were for. But Sherlock Holmes represents a special sort of circumstance. For he truly would rather reign in hell.

"I always make good on my promises," he says, newly found avarice tinging the chords of his unrepressed accent; It's a dark, smooth rhythm you'd expect from any proper villain. Sympathy meet unchecked sadism, for he truly would delight in all the ripping the very expression from Holmes' face, skin and sinew and all. "This wont be the first."

[deductives]

It's hard not to smile at having some information he knows Jim desperately wants and that he simply won't provide. A turn of the tables, but at the end of the day, just another childish game of keep away with a psychopath. In spite of this, Sherlock knows he'll need to gather his allies together soon. He doubts Richard Brook will make another appearance; Moriarty doesn't do repeat performances. That doesn't mean he won't need all the people he can trust behind him anyway. The last time Jim was here, he'd barely told a soul. He knows now that won't work if he wants to survive. If anyone does.

Several people have started to give them odd looks, so Sherlock finally releases Jim's hand, his own stinging from the pressure. He has noticed the gun, and he doubts Moriarty will pull it here, but he knows exactly what gun it is, and that it has yet to fulfill the purpose he saw for it.

"What are you doing here?"

He doesn't refute the promise. Sherlock knows the lengths to which Moriarty will go to keep his word, whether he liked it or not. It's best for now to focus on the present.

[playthings]

Jim ignores the pain coursing through his hand and just slips it back into his coat pocket as if nothing happened. It's all quid pro quo, all perfectly acceptable, required even, when he's playing at his little game with Sherlock. What's 30 million quid, what's a twenty odd ignored jobs, what's sending his henchmen all about London to entertain his plaything? A little hurt, a bullet or two here or there, a little wounded ego is worth it in the end. Preferred, really.

That little question is rather dumb though. STUPID Sherlock, don't play the moron. The mocking disappointment is written all over his face, shifting quickly away from the cartoonish maniacal villainy and on to the mask of a simple schoolyard bully missing a marble or two (for what else could describe Jim Moriarty?)

"Really? Are we asking idiotic questions again? I thought that phase had passed," could you really blame him for saying it giddily and grinning like a Cheshire cat at his good friend all the while. "To witness first hand the flock and their little game. Funny thing that all these people are magically cured by laying their sins bare. How biblical."

[deductives]

"I would have said you were investigating, but I wouldn't use my terms for your line of work." It's a dismissive tone. Like a banker talking to his cabbie. "But therapy to cure a virus. If only all neurological diseases worked this way."

There's no other explanation; even here, Sherlock falls back on the supernatural as a last resort. Even if this was some plague upon them, the effects were just as physiological as the common cold. Still, he honestly can't help the little jabs, cutting all the red wires attached to Jim's fuse for as long as he could. He's entitled to it. To everything, after what's been done to him.

"And fit as a fiddle, you are." Considering the prerequisites, entirely unsurprising. "Shame."

IGNORE THE MASSIVE HTMFAIL

[playthings]

"This is the disease of the soul my friend, no neurons necessary. Which out whole little flock are lacking anyway," his disgust with the people surrounding them is palpable, face screwed up in repulsion as he gets a good look at those flocked near them. "Ew indeed."

Those deep eyes narrow at Sherlock's little jab. His little carrot he's been hanging in front of Jim since the moment he's arrived. Things are in the works that will wipe that smug look off of Sherlock Holmes' face, he must have gathered as much. But all these secrets, secrets about him, he can't unlock just makes his blood boil. Didn't your mother ever tell you not to play with fire?

"That's where you're wrong," he says, dramatic bravado in his nearly whispered voice and impassive expression. "Shame is not something I possess."

With a bump of the shoulder Jim walks away past Sherlock, submerging once again into the myriad of loathsome sheep baaing at their false idols. But in his spot a black card flutters to the ground in front of Sherlock. "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

And if the consulting detective is curious enough to inspect the back of the card (and we all know he is) then he will find, crudely written and clearly in Jim's hand: Dial M For ... :)

I DIDN'T EVEN LOOK

[deductives]

Sherlock knows perfectly well Jim doesn't believe in anything like a soul. Even if he did, they could both be sure he didn't have one now. But perhaps the same was true of himself. Sherlock turns immediately to watch Moriarty leave. It would be a hazard to ever let him out of his sight while in the same room, and he glares all the way. Their meetings were always so brief, but they never failed to leave Sherlock charged with a raw, hateful sort of energy.

Of course he swoops down upon the card as soon as Jim is gone, scrutinizing every last centimeter of the paper. The skull is a gauche touch, but fairly typical. And the M-- it just serves as a reminder for where this all started. For what? Megalomania, madness, or things even more unspeakable? For a moment, Sherlock wonders what may have happened if he left this all alone. Would he and John still have come here in the states they did?

That little moment of doubt is the only push the virus needs. Sherlock files 'M' in his phone, and the nausea sets in. His mind is dragged back to attention to his body, and his face drains of color. Not now. The masses around him suddenly become landmines. He feels his breathing slow and quickly retreats into the shadows, racing through them to find somewhere he could suffer privately.