5 Times Moriarty's Tentacles Were Naughty, and 1 Time They Were Nice (Part 2)

[jessamygriffith]

Title: 5 Times Moriarty's Tentacles Were Naughty, and One Time They Were Nice, (But Not In Any Chronological Order.) PART TWO
Rating: Mature
Spoilers: Season 1
Warnings: Tentacles. Implied non-con. Abuse of seabirds. Crack nonetheless.
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock. Moriarty/Tentacles
Word Count: 12,000 for the entire fic
Disclaimer: Interpretation of characters is my own. Standard disclaimers apply.
Betas: None on this one, I just...did it, Before I had Betas.
Also Found Here: AO3
Summary: 5 part +1 series - Moriarty has eight tentacles along his back, which can retract into his body. Doesn't that sound all cool and villain-ish? Unfortunately for the Great Consulting Criminal, they have minds of their own...
Based on a kinkmeme prompt. One anon suggested that the tentacles were mostly autonomous and could do things without Jim's control, which led to much speculation on what they would get up to, which led inevitably to crack.
References to episodes abound. Spoiler-y for Season one.

PART ONE FOUND HERE.
PART THREE FOUND HERE.

~oOo~

Part 4

The Root of the Problem - Thailand, December 18th

Where the Trouble Began

‘It takes two to get one in trouble.’’

    Mae West

Thailand, December 18th

Jim Moriarty got out of the grid-locked fluorescent-pink taxi on New Petchburi road, sweat breaking out almost immediately. He viciously toed the mangy street-dog sniffing his Berluti shoes away and strode off, cranky. God... why he had agreed to meet his contact in this grotty section of Bangkok, he couldn't even guess, except that Chanarong Manit was supposed to be a genius at building computers of unprecedented capabilities from scavenged parts – fast, powerful and bespoke in the way that only illegal money could buy. Jim needed some new toys to keep track of his new heartthrob (my crush!/ so clever/ could keep my interest a long long time!) – a lanky, brilliant consultant in London who was proving to be very, very interesting. The smell of the city assailed him – the heat-baked concrete, the turbid canal over which he was crossing the bridge, lotus flowers piled on spirit-houses, dog shit. He pulled his immaculate kerchief from his pocket and blotted his brow. A decent Irish criminal mastermind shouldn't have to put up with this – the heat was intolerable even in December.

Ahead was the Pantip Plaza, Mecca in Thailand for those with interests in computing. He pushed his way past the red-faced tourists and lithe natives to a dingy building set behind the shopping mall anonymous and dirty. He was melting in his dark suit. Sweet Jesus... even on the third floor, it was intolerable. The building was stifling, crammed with electronics and piles of pirated CDs and Games. It was claustrophobic. He turned down a narrow corridor filled with posters and merchandise of a dubious nature, and was abruptly pulled to a halt. He looked over his shoulder in annoyance.

“What?”

No one was near him, but looking down, he saw that one of his grey, slick tentacles had slipped free of his clothes and was grasping a metal cart piled with Thai-dubbed Japanese hentai animation.

“Oh, for fuck's sake. Now is not the time... ”

A second tentacle reached forth and snatched a DVD and thrust it into his hands, vibrated its urgency and desire, and slid into hiding again. He squinted at the badly-printed case. The front depicted a busty frightened girl with improbably large eyes being strategically squeezed by tentacles, one of which had disappeared underneath the fringe of a skirt she wore. For fucks' sake...

“สาวเซ็กซี่ขลัง – Sexy Magical Girl?”

A man poked his head from a narrow shop front and saw him holding the case. “You want it? It's 70 Baht.”

“No, I don't want it,” said Moriarty crossly, flipping the DVD back into the bin and turning away.

“Two for 100 Baht! Good price!” said the man, and the tentacles squeezed against his back, urging him. Fuck this. He had better things to do.

“No,” snarled Moriarty, glaring, and walked away. Against his back, the tentacles quivered and stilled in disappointment.

~oOo~

Tokyo, February 26th

Jim should have known it would be a mistake going to Akihabara. Japan was after all, the historical home of tentacle erotica, and just yesterday his own slimy additions had forced him to buy a Hokusai print of a fisher-woman and an unlikely amorous octopus – bloody exorbitant! - by sliding his platinum card onto the counter while he was still talking with the Ginza shopkeeper about protection money. But dammit, he had contacts to meet, business to do, tributes to collect - not to mention the alliance with the Yamaguchi-gumi to maintain!

Moriarty jumped, and cursed under his breath. “Fucking stop pinching me, you shits!” he growled. A scrawny mouth-breather of a geek looked nervously away from the robot model he was contemplating, and edged away from the crazy foreigner.

All he'd wanted was to pick up some extra miniature listening devices. The ones in the morass of shops out the west exit of the station underneath the tracks had some beautiful ones, the size of grains of rice! Instead he'd been chivvied, through painful nips on his ass (left cheek - turn, right cheek - turn, both cheeks - straight ahead here FUCKING OW!) to the fourth floor of some sort of department store of small shops. Moran was trailing him idly like a dangerous shadow with incongruous shopping bags, carefully not smiling at his boss's strange twitches and curses.

Spread before him in all their doe-eyed resin plastic glory was a display of things called ElfDolls - rather well-painted, he noted absently, but still creepy in their blank-faced vacancy.

“This is what you got me here for? For dollies?” Moriarty hissed savagely under his breath. The tentacles stirred. Two crept up his collar, pinched his ears and turned his head sharply to the left.

He was looking at a large rack of doll clothing and…huh... parts. Heads, eyes, even breasts, all interchangeable, according to the sign. Jesus. What kind of freaks would want... ?

Another jerk on his ears turned his eyes to a glass display case full of dolls. Yeah. My freaks would want one... A tentacle flipped out and stuck slickly to the glass in front of a doll couple - a dark-haired effeminate schoolboy doll was shyly giving a note to a blushing schoolgirl doll in some out-dated looking sailor-style uniform. Two others joined the longing appendage, and made various obscene gestures concerning the plastic figures. Oh, ferchrissakes… no. NO WAY IN HELL. Sherlock will never be interested in a man who collects dolls!

“We are leaving now,” Jim said. Scarcely had the words left his mouth than his head whipped to the side with a *crack*. He reached up with a shaking hand and touched the red welt left on his cheek. “Excuse me? You just… you didn’t just... ?!”

He yipped at a particularly hard ass pinch. “Right! That is it! Daddy’s had enough of your fucking tantrums now!” He shouldered his way out of the shop past a bemused Moran and ran to the noisome single toilet stall.

“Uh, boss… don’t you maybe think you should…” Moran started, only to have Jim whirl on him, wrench open his jacket and wrestle the packet of salt Moran was required to carry these days from his inner pocket.

“Oh, you’re gonna get it, you slimy little fuc---hrghrrs!” Jim was abruptly pulled backwards by a tentacle wrapped around his neck into the W.C. Adding insult to injury, his expensively shod foot slipped into the squat toilet set in the floor. The door was flung shut with a slam.

Moran leaned back against the door with a sigh. Behind him, strange howls and curses emanated and violent thumps rattled the door. “Bad sushi,” he explained helpfully to a nervous couple waiting their turn. They nodded politely in puzzlement and moved off, possibly to call security.

Moran rapped softly on the door, behind which relative silence had fallen. “Boss?” he said softly. “We gotta split.” He eased the door open.

Moriarty was savagely biting a tentacle, holding it still for the salting, bubbling imprecations of revenge around it. Another, panicking, whacked futilely at his head. Two other appendages were frantically trying to brush the burning grains of salt from their slick surfaces and splashing water from the wash basin everywhere. The remaining four were frantically patting around the toilet set in the floor, seemingly looking for a pipe to wrench up and use to batter Moriarty. Jim’s suit looked like he’d been snowed on, paper was strewn everywhere and both bespoke shoes were soaked. His eyes, as he caught Moran’s, were crazed and furious.

Moran was careful not to let any reactions except smooth professionalism show on his face, but only by dint of biting the inside of his cheek until it hurt. He stretched out his hand for the salt packet. After a hesitation, Jim handed it over, brushed off his hands, and plucked forth a wad of toilet paper that was stuffed in an ear.

“Behave!” Moriarty snarled in a tone that would have done credit to Moran’s old harridan of a grandmother. The tentacles subsided and slowly withdrew, twitching in aggravation. Jim nodded grimly, dusted the salt from his shoulders and strode down the corridor, hands shaking with fury. Moran shrugged,  picked up the duty-free bags and moved to his place just behind the boss’s shoulder, eyes scanning for any trouble ahead.

Neither man noticed what the tentacles shoplifted and stuck into the carrier bags.

~oOo~

Luxembourg, March 6th

“Oooh, Christ,” Jim groaned. He squinted at his watch. 11:35 am local time. Bloody jet-lag. He straightened up with a whine from his sprawl on his desk. He couldn’t bloody believe it! He’d actually fallen asleep at his office here! Fecking melatonin – didn’t help at all. He reached out to the brown bottle of pills, squinted at the blurry label, shook it and tossed it in the bin. Useless.

He stood up, rolled his shoulders, and stretched. Christ, he needed a shower. And a change - he couldn’t believe he slept in his suit. Everything felt scratchy and ill-fitting.

“Good morning, boys!” he sang out. “Time to rise and shine! Insufficient unto the day is the evil thereof!” Immediately his jacket and shirt rucked up and six tentacles uncurled, stretching sluggishly. Jim grinned, and squeezed one affectionately. “You guys are jet-lagged worse than I am, huh? Well, let’s get some food in here.” He hitched at the waistband of his trousers - really, they were binding something fierce - and pressed the intercom. “Sebastian! You old wolfhound! You up? Can I get some coffee, and a sandwich in here? Something fast - just grab something from the cafe down the way.”

“Sure thing, boss,” came the hoarse reply.

“You all right? You sound like you’ve got a cold.”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I just... I’ll get you that coffee right away!” There was a clatter, and the line disconnected. Jim looked at the phone dubiously, then shrugged. He needed to take a piss.

“Right, back under!” His tentacles flipped him a rude gesture and slithered away.

Passing through the office space, Jim noticed the sidelong longs from his flunkies -  whispers behind hands, grins and even a couple of smothered sniggers. He slowed, and swept the room with his darkest look. “What is so fucking amusing? So I slept in my suit...yeah yeah. It’s not that funny, so get back to work. Or I’ll kill you later!” He tagged the last with his outrageous smirk, and was satisfied when people avoided his gaze and turned back their computers. A few more choked, but didn’t look up again. Jim grinned and went to the men’s room.

Humming a jaunty tune, he unzipped and reached down. The tune abruptly strangled in his throat, as his hands encountered... something not right. Instead of his silk-knit boxers, he was wearing... panties. PINK panties. Hipster cut, elasticized band,cotton some irrational part of his brain gibbered. With a white cat in a pink bow waving, with the message “TTYL ;)”

“What have you done?” he breathed. He thought back to Moran’s strained voice, the illegible bottle of pills on his desk, the amusement of the office staff. He couldn't remember falling asleep... why couldn't he remember? Oh, god. 

“What have you DONE?”

~oOo~

The secretary squawked something in German as he wrenched the rolling chair away from her PC. Scrabbling for the mouse, he opened the minimized window - Facebook. And there, in full horrible color was himself- lying on a floor in a suggestive pose, wearing a Japanese schoolgirl’s sailor uniform, with a grey, slick tentacle lifting his skirt and a second rubbing his (padded) chest. He groaned, and was only dimly aware of the abrupt exodus of the office staff, making good their escape before the boss had another little ‘moment’.

He dodged to another desk and looked. Another picture, this time face-down, skirt lifted and the panties half-tugged down, exposed a pearly white ass cheek. Tumblr, the photo being spread amongst the deviant population like wildfire. LiveJournal, a shot of him in the office chair, legs spread, tentacles wrapped around his arms and legs like bonds, another posed near his slack mouth. MySpace. And...

Oh shit oh fuck/ NO no NO/ NOT THERE/ What the fuck do I pay these assholes for/ Using the net like this on MY time!!/ Fuck/ Oh  god, I don’t ask for much/ PLEASE

Oh yes. A high-pitched noise come out of his mouth. 4chan. A full manga-style photo-spread. Of Jim Moriarty. Caption - “He did it, Faggot! Tentacle Gay Cross-dress Rape!”

A small part of his brain noted that the anonymous comments were complaining about it being too soft-porn. Another part of his brain said, ‘Oh... I look wonderful in a sea green wig - sets off my eyes!’ The remaining parts of his mind that hadn’t abruptly burned out were full of a searing horror and fury. A drop of blood from his nose splatted onto the keyboard, and he inhaled.

~oOo~

AAAAAAAAAaaaaaaOOOOOOoooooooooooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

~oOo~

“Merde! Quel est ce bruit?” said the smartly dressed barrista girl at the cafe. Moran joggled his paper cup, slopping the coffee.

“Christ,” he muttered. “That was the sound of a soul crying out in ultimate suffering,” he said to the barrista girl, taking his change, “and I’d better go take care of him.” He gave her a brief smile, and left. This fucking job...

~oOo~

It had taken several slaps, and handcuffing to an office chair before the hysterical Moriarty could see reason. The tentacles were prudently staying undercover. Jim’d come close to hyperventilating in panic, and could only keep repeating, “What if he sees it? What if Sherlock sees it? What will he think of me?” and generally carrying on like...well, like an overwrought Japanese teen girl. Not that he's ever, ever mention the comparison to Jim...

Moran gripped Jim’s head between his large hands and forced him to look up. “Boss. Listen. You know what to do, you always know. You are Jim fucking Moriarty, and this little thing ain’t gonna hold you back. Now. Get on the phone, and do what you gotta do.” He shook the smaller man slightly, until Jim’s eyes focused.

“All right. Okay. FUCK.... right. Put me on speaker phone. Dial the number. Mother shit FUCK...”

~oOo~

“‘Allo? Who is dis? Tabarnouche, it is 6 in ze fucking morning!”
“Gerard. This is Jim Moriarty.”
“ Monsieur Moriarty! My apologies. What is your... “
“Shut the fuck up, you poutine-sucking habitant. I want you to do it.”
“It?”
“Yes, ‘IT’ you numb-nut snowman! There’s an infection, and we have to stop it. Before Sher... before it spreads further. So - do it.”
“Yes, sir.”

~oOo~

In a small weathered house overlooking the Hamilton Sound in the village of Seldom-Come-By, a phone rings. A young woman in a plaid shirt and toque picks up the phone, smiles, and turns on her computer.

~oOo~

“Sherlock! That’s MY computer you are abusing!” John snatches the laptop away from Sherlock, who is curled up in his leather chair, and had just been slapping the side of the monitor as if he hoped to make candy drop out. “Hitting inanimate objects won’t help their function, I think you’ll find.”

Sherlock huffs, and flings his arms and legs out like some pyjama-ed starfish. “None of my message boards or forums are working. I can’t even access my own website! I’ve nothing to do, John. The tedium may make me... creative.”

“As in redecorating the flat with a different color paintball? No, thanks. Anyway I’m sure it’s... hmm.” John’s forehead crinkles, as he pecks away at the computer. “I can’t log into my blog. Or... Twitter. Or... ”

“None of the message board sites are up. I’ve checked.”

“Yahoo news is still working.”

“It would!”

“Yes, fine. It says...ah, here.  ‘Massive DDOS attacks take down social networking sites all over the world in a domino effect. Experts say the source of the attacks is from China. Other sites affected include Amazon, Sony’s online game servers, Disney, CNN, 4Chan and Etsy in this seemingly random hacker attack... “ John looks up with a faint smile. “I wonder who broke the Internet?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and slumps deeper into the chair. “Call Mycroft and ask him. I'm sure he is somehow responsible.”

~oOo~

Oh, Jimmy, what have you done?

~oOo~

Part Five

Playing the Game - England, April 6th

'Just have fun. Enjoy the game." Michael Jordan.

'You have to learn the rules of the game. And then you have to play better than anyone else.' Albert Einstein.

'It's not so important who starts the game but who finishes it." John Wooden

~oOo~

The tiny caravan had seen better days. The cracked Formica table, the bubbling printed-wood panelling on the walls, the faded 70's era fabric prints – normally it would make the fastidious Moriarty shudder, but somehow, he thought, somehow it made a fitting setting for his new toy. His puppet.

John Watson.

Kneeling on the nubby carpeting, hands swelling from the constraint of the cable tie holding them together behind his back, John looks straight ahead, lips firmly pressed into a thin line.. He doesn't speak. There is no need.

Oh, Johnny/ of course you know who I am/ obvious even to a dullard like you/ but still too stupid too see this coming mm?/ you're no fitting match for me/ not a match for HIM

It had been a simple matter to snatch John as he was on his way to see that boring little bitch. And now, now...

Why John why?/ when Sherlock is waiting for you at home/ you shouldn't do that to him/ anyway he will be MINE

Moriarty paces slowly around his prize. "Not much to look at, are you," he observes pleasantly. "I mean, for god's sake. You're not even forty yet, and you're wearing my granny's cardies! Have some fucking pride, man. You are in no way – mentally, physically or sartorially a match for him. And yet he keeps you near? What does he see in you?"

John doesn't reply, though the back of his neck under the sandy hair flushes slightly.

"Boring! Humane, mundane, inane, brain drain! And yet..." Moriarty pauses in front of John. "When I see you like this, it occurs to me that your mouth is not unattractive, even when you're pulling that face. I'd let you give me a bob or two."

John's eyes flash up him once, before he goes back to staring straight ahead. Ah. Moriarty grins his whitest smile. That one look... interesting. Mmm. It had clearly shown John's thoughts. Obvious, but interesting.

Try it on, was the message given in a searing glance. I'd love the chance to show you exactly what my mouth can do.

You won't like it.

"Oh, did I upset you?" carols Moriarty in mock surprise. He moves around behind John. "Too bad. You are so not my type. I prefer them tall, dark and oh! So toothsome, I could... just... bite!" He hisses the last word, as villains are wont to do, into John's ear, before straightening up.

"SEBASTIAN!"

There's a creak from behind, as Moran uncurls his long frame from the cramped bed. He pulls the curtain aside and glowers. "Boss. No need to shout, I can hear you perfectly well. From two meters away, even. Are we ready?"

"Yes, yes," Moriarty replies, flipping a hand carelessly. "Check the detonator on the vest, will you? Wouldn't want anything untoward to happen to our dear Sherlock by accident, would we?"

John tenses. He hadn't known that Sherlock was going to be there in person. Idiot.

Moriarty drops Moran a wink, and Moran nods in understanding, hunching back to rest a knee on the bed and see to the battery-powered LEDs and wires on the vest. Of course the detonator isn't rigged to explode, in spite of Moriarty's ardent wish to see the doctor out of the way. In pieces, preferably. Tonight, all bets are off. Moriarty doesn't want to place himself in actual danger.

"Do you really think this will work?" inquires John in a conversational way. "I mean, sociopath. Sherlock's not about to care that you've got his flatmate. He's a bit too involved in the game for that." His voice is a shade bitter.

"Nice try, Johnny, but we know that's not quite correct. You do matter to him, as irksome as that is to me. What better surprise? I can't wait to see his face!"

"He will beat you."

"No he won't!" lilts Moriarty. He is so happy.

"You'd better just kill me. If I get free, I will finish you. Whatever it takes."

Moran tsks disapprovingly from the bed area.

"Kill you? Not yet, I have uses for you." Moriarty drops to one knee behind John, close enough to feel the heat of the other man's body. He pulls the earpiece and wire from the pocket of his perfectly tailored suit, and clips the end to the back of John's hideous shirt. He strokes John's hair away from his ear really the man should get a haircut - no style at all! He rubs a thumb over the edge of John's ear in mock tenderness before working the ear piece in. "Now, you know what I expect, from the previous hostages. Once you're on, you no longer have a voice of your own. You are my very own little sound system, Johnny."

Moriarty's hands brush John's shoulders and fall away. He smiles at the back of the man's head. Oh, this will be so good. John stiffens, and then, unexpectedly leans back into Moriarty, slowly. His voice has dropped into a lower pitch.

"Thought I wasn't your type. Dull. Short. Mundane."

"You're not. Really." Christ. What is this? I AM good.

"Then. Get. Your fucking hands. Off. My ARSE!"

John snaps his head back, trying to break Moriarty's nose, and the criminal twists sideways just in time.

What in fuck? Moriarty looks down aghast to see two of his fecking tentacles have crept out and are caressing and squeezing the other man's cheeks in a considering way. He hisses and reaches, but has to dodge once more as John tries to throw himself backward again. "Oi!" yelps Moriarty. "What do you think you are doing?" He can't tell if he's talking to his tentacles or John.

The tentacles support the other man's body and push him upright between the shoulders. A third snaps out to goose John, hard.

John's shoulders are tense with fury. "Get your hands off the merchandise. Or I will find a way to cut them off. You fucking deviant."

Before he can even respond, the three tentacles writhe into a club and come down, hard. John's head snaps forward and he is knocked face-down on the grubby carpeting with a gasp, stunned. Ah... finally. Jim smiles softly, and strokes one tentacle in approval as they slip back under, tucking in his shirt on the way.

The tentacles are playing along. The doctor didn't see them, thank god... and at long last, we are working together in terrible harmony.

"Oh, nice try, Johnny boy!" Moriarty trills, getting to his feet. "I have so enjoyed our little moment together. But now... it's show-time!"

don't ever talk about us that way / Not a deviant / don't you threaten us / you with your small brain / you have no comprehension of what we can do / we will end you

Moran pushes past Moriarty, carrying the vest. Reaching down, he grasps the collar of John's shirt and drags him upright again with a certain rough sympathy. "C'mon, doctor. Time to get dressed."

~oOo~

"Ciao... Sherlock Holmes."

"Catch... you... later."

"No, you won't!" Moriarty sings out as he leaves, the feeling of danger from the gun that Sherlock trained on him making his skin crawl deliciously. You know you can't shoot me, I've got all my little people watching... The door closes behind and Moriarty twirls in happiness. YES.

OH. That went SO well.

Moriarty walks quickly up the corridor, away from the pool. So good. And finally, face to face with Sherlock! God, that man. Like a sex bomb. He giggles at the thought. Bomb. Can't wait to have him at my mercy...

Moriarty'd been a bit shocked when John had jumped on him, but really. Did they think he had only a lone gunman? He had several, and Moran waiting from a nearby vantage point with his air-gun, listening in.

Ah, Sherlock, my sweet / you should have realized one thing / when you play against me you play all my organization / how can one man keep up / my name is Jim fucking Legion Moriarty / you have no chance m'dear / we are many!

And now, Sherlock would know fear. It would undermine his every thought, his every action. Move against me again, and I'll take John. Nothing is sacred. Give up. You'll see my way of things eventually, and then you can give up that drab little doctor (you'd have to anyway I'd make you) and join Moriarty's side. Really, that unequal relationship had to be terminated. Quickly.

He skips a step in pleasure at the thought, and then pauses. Why not now?

Yes, why not just get the foreplay over and done with? Sherlock, get rid of that awful pet of yours, I don't want him about while we continue our courtship. And it is a courtship – gifts, letters, puzzles, mayhem. And Sherlock loves it, or he wouldn't be here. Plus, if snipers aren't scary enough – I've other resources.

Yes. Now.

The tentacles twitch angrily against his back, but Moriarty ignores them. He quickly relays the change of plan to Moran, ducks up another corridor and waits while the snipers pin Sherlock and John down and prevent them leaving. He rests his head against the metal door and smiles to himself.

One tentacle pushes out and waves for his attention.

"What? Little busy right now," he snarls. A second appendage joins the first and pokes him.

- Pay attention. Can we go swimming? We love fresh water – they mime.

"NO. For Christ's sake, no, you want everything! Dolls, porn - not everything is about you! Now get back under. I may need you."

The tentacles stiffen in affront and slither away. Moriarty shakes his head. Of all the times – Okay. Yes. Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock – this can't continue. It's not natural. He takes a deep breath, and pushes through.

~oOo~

"Sorry, boys, I'm SO changeable!"

Ah, he loved a good entrance. Moriarty spreads his arms out in a dramatic pose.

"It IS a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself – it is my only weakness."

John's face – that grimace. Lovely. Sherlock is turned away - oh, great backside! But not looking at Jim. That's not right. Need to catch his attention. Moriarty drops his voice to a cheerful threat and addresses them both.

"You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't." He shakes his head disapprovingly at John and Sherlock. Unbelievably, they are still ignoring him. The eye contact they have – no no, eye-fuck me, Sherlock, not that stupid John Watson!

"I would try to convince you, but - " Jim laughs a little. "Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind." He shrugs, and spreads his hands.

John gives an infinitesimal nod, and Sherlock squares his shoulders and turns to face Moriarty, face pale, gun pointed.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours," Sherlock replies, and the muzzle drops, points at the vest of Semtex.

Interesting.

The detective's face is tense, waiting for a response. John's eyes never leave Sherlock's face, but Sherlock doesn't glance down. His attention is all for Moriarty. Quite rightly.

At last. Would he really.. ? Oh, but wait, Sherlock!

Sherlock's eyes widen, then narrow. John's eyes flick from the gun, to the vest, then up to Moriarty and back to the vest. Then they lift again slowly to Moriarty. His eyes widen comically, and his mouth drops open slightly. His face is pale with shock.

recognize the threat I represent at last? / my uniqueness? / you have no chance, doctor.

Moriarty grins his most vulpine grin. Both men are looking thoroughly unnerved. He looks over his shoulder, to where two slick grey tentacles have slipped free of his shirt and are stretching out and up behind him. He shakes his head in mock reproof.

"Sherlock, Sherlock. You have no idea who... what... you are dealing with. Boys, come on out."

He slips off the beloved Westwood jacket and drapes it over his arm so it won't crease as the other six tentacles ruck up the back of his shirt and unfurl lazily.

"Boys, I'd like you to meet the great Sherlock Holmes!" he sings out. The tentacles scarcely acknowledge the stunned detective, flicking a brief hello before turning away. Moriarty frowns slightly. "No need to be shy here, we're going to be good friends. Well, I say friends, but obviously you, Doctor, are going to die... " He turns to John with an evil smile which dims when he sees that the tentacles are coyly waving at John, with a few making appreciative gestures concerning the doctor's fine arse. Christ, what awful taste in men they have...

John is flushing at the obscene gestures, the red creeping up over his collar. Sherlock's eyes are flicking between John and Moriarty, mouth slightly open, and the gun is wavering in his grasp. "John... ? What the hell?" he breathes. "Are you... Wait a moment. Moriarty - did you just introduce us... to yourself?"

"No, I introduced just YOU, Sherlock, to... well, us. Do lower the gun, we can all play nice, mmm?"

"Sherlock!" snaps John, recovering his composure. "Don't you fucking dare! Those... things practically sexually assaulted me earlier! Just shoot him already!" But Sherlock's arm has lowered, and his face has that bright glow that John has learned to distrust so well.

"Tentacles... " the detective breathes in amazement tinged with horror. "But how... ?"

"Christ... now is not the time, Sherlock," John groans. The laser dots are still dancing over Sherlock and himself, and John feels like he's wandered into a even more nightmarish version of Legend of the Overfiend. He's not sure what is going through Sherlock's head right now, but John is very certain that he does NOT want to be tentacle-raped and killed by his... admirers. Or killed, then raped by them. Or killed by Moriarty. Or raped by... Moriarty. Whatever.

Moriarty is thrilled at Sherlock's interest. Well. This could be even better than he'd hoped.

"Dearest Sherlock. We've had a good little time with our game, haven't we? We -" He stops and brushes away an annoying tentacle from his ear. "We are meant to be together, you and I. It's obvious -" He bats away another tentacle that is chiding him.

- no, not Sherlock, we like John's bottom and can we take him swimming? -

He pinches it fiercely, and it flinches back. "Fucking focus, guys! Do we need the salt again? Sheesh." The two men watch this odd exchange, dumbfounded.

"What was I saying? Ah yes. It's obvious that only I can think on your level, Sherlock. Not to mention that at least I have good taste in clothes. We'd be the perfect power couple! The only thing that stands between us is your little... what? What the fuck is so FUNNY?"

He shouts the last, because the detective's eyes are glistening strangely and he has an odd twitch at the corner of his mouth. Sherlock bites his lush lower lip hard. But it is of no use. John snorts a strangled laugh, and then he is howling with laughter, bending over and clutching his stomach. Sherlock's seldom-heard deep chuckle begins tentatively, and becomes louder, his face creased in incredulous amusement.

Moriarty clenches his fists and glances up. Of course. Bunny ears. Two tentacles are sticking up behind his head, twitching back and forth in a credible imitation. One bends and flops, then straightens. Moriarty drops the jacket and puts his hands on his hips petulantly. "Nice, guys. Retarded bunny? Thanks. I mean it. Thank you for your help. Thanks so much. Okay, so we're just playing for now – we can be playful, Sherlock, but we can be deadly too. Just you wait until I... Shut up! Shut UP! Doctor, if you don't shut the fuck up, I will KILL... "

But something else is wrong. The red laser dots of the sniper rifles, while never steady, are wavering and jerking and falling away from the detective and doctor, who are now utterly helpless. Sherlock is wiping tears away with the back of the hand still holding the gun, and John is making hiccup noises, practically sobbing with hilarity and relief. Howls of laughter can be heard distantly. The blood drains away from Moriarty's face, and with a sense of dread, his gaze lowers slowly.

One tentacle is waving rudely from between his legs.

- no, not like that, - one indicates. - shorter. MUCH shorter. -

- yes, yes, - waves another. - that's better. Itty bitty. -

- no, smaller! - laughs one.

Three others mime shaking their heads sadly, while the others snigger at the tentacle between his legs, which has only the tip poking out from his groin now.

- poor guy, - mimes one pityingly. - such a small head on his man-tacle. -

Moriarty tried to snatch at one, but they all whip away from his clutching fingers.

- unlike the head on his neck, - agrees another. - what is UP with that? -

- like a hard-fructose-sweet-thing-on-a-stick! -

- YES! -they all wave, and weave and dance away from Moriarty's frantic grabs.

"Damn it, guys... I promise I will get you the fucking dolly!"

- we have waited. Since before Christmas-gift-season we have waited.-

"Guys? Guys, come on..." Moriarty is reduced to pleading. In front of Sherlock. His Sherlock, who is bent over with his hands on his legs, trying to catch his breath between giggles. The doctor has slid sideways, supporting himself on one arm with the other holding his ribs.

- no doll, no Sherlock. You had your chance. And you said you would kill John. We like him. -

"No no NO. He has to go! It's not all about what you want. Oh COME ON! I will fucking SALT YOU AGAIN!"

With a whip-crack of motion, two tentacles bind Moriarty's arms behind him. He gasps. "What do you think you're doi - mmmpppghh!" Mouth abruptly gagged with grey, Moriarty squints his eyes and savagely bites down. The tentacle in his mouth squirms in pain, but stays put. The others shake sadly.

- Jim-host-Moriarty. You are wrong. It IS all about us. Both of you-us, but you are selfish. Now. LET'S SWIM, JIMMY. -

Shaking his head (no no nonono! no!) Moriarty digs in his heels, but the tentacles whip out, clutch the edge of the pool and begin pulling. Slowly, he is reeled across the slippery tiles, until with a muffled shriek he topples in.

~oOo~

From his hidden position in the viewing gallery of the pool, Moran covers his eyes. Oh, god. Jim. This is so far beyond bad, there isn't even a category for it. He heaves a gusty sigh, and looks down at the doubled over figures, the thrashing man in the water. To the rescue again. He touches his headset.

"Peters? Davis? Pull back your men. We're done for the night. No, you listen. Stop sniggering and do it now, or I will find you later. Yes, I thought that'd shut you up... Yes, the usual amount will be in your accounts, with a bonus paid in two months if you keep your fucking mouths shut. Got it? Good. Over and out."

Mouth grim, he flicks open his special case and pulls out the darts and the antidote. With practised movements, he loads his air rifle, takes aim at the blond-headed figure lying gasping unevenly on the tiles, and fires. John wheezes once last laugh and goes quiet. Quickly, Moran reloads and fires off a second shot. The tall figure of the detective wavers, goes to his knees like any large-game animal and then falls sideways. In a swift movement, Moran scoops up his case, and runs to the railing, swinging over and dropping to the pool level.

The tentacles have dunked the struggling Moriarty under water yet again, and wave a cheerful greeting at him.

- hi Sebastian! Don't worry, we've got this! -

He casts them a fulminating glance but strides past to check the doctor's pulse. It is beating strongly, but his breathing is stertorous. He pulls the cap from the syringe of antidote - better safe than sorry, tranqs were only really meant to be used on large animals. Even with the antidote, Sebastian and Jim would be long gone before these two woke up. Besides, he had no orders to kill them. Quickly he administers the drug to the doctor, then the detective. He straightens, walks to the side of the pool and looks down. "Boss?"

Moriarty is still gagged, and is looking wrecked. He's had another fucking nosebleed, and it looks like he's crying in fury - so hard he can scarcely draw breath. The tentacles are happily treading water, splashing for all the world like a fresh-water cephalopod. Moran chews the corner of his mouth a moment, and then snaps his fingers at the tentacles, pointing at his feet. Obligingly, they waft Moriarty to the pool's edge and heave him out with a soggy splat.

Moriarty is half-drowned, pissed and verging on hysterical. "Let him up," Moran sighs. The tentacles withdraw from Moriarty's mouth and hands sullenly, but he only lies there, tears and blood trickling down pathetically. His face is pressed to the tiles, looking at Sherlock's unconscious, still-smiling face.

"Oh god what did you do oh fuck me CHRIST why did you guys do that oh SHERLOCK fuck what did you DO..."

Christ, teenage girls have nothing on him, thinks Moran to himself morosely. He hated having to do it, but some things needed to be done. He takes the dart he had concealed in his palm, bends over and jabs it into the smaller man's bicep. Jim doesn't even flinch - the man is too far gone in his misery, and only relaxes, eyes slipping shut, mouth lolling against the floor.

The drugs don't work well on the tentacles - something in their strange anatomy makes them resistant - but Moran has a little time before he has to administer the antidote, and he is going to use it. He regards the tentacles with a thunderous look. "You. What did you think you were doing?"

The tentacles twitch at his tone. - you know. We wanted the doll. He never lets us... -

Moran cuts them short with a chop of his hand. "Never mind! I don't even care. Find some way to fix it. I'm getting tired of this shit."

The tentacles scuffle. - aw. We were just playing. Really. We didn't mean it. -

Moran groans. "Fuck. You guys deserve each other. I've never known two beings that behaved so fucking childishly. But this has gone far enough. Make it right with him, and it'll be all right with me. You want to make me angry?"

The tentacles droop. They consider. No, they do not want to make Sebastian angry.

- ...all right... - they mime.

Moran smiles the benign smile of a barracuda. "We understand each other then. Come on. You can help me shift him." He gives Moriarty his injection. The tentacles writhe around his limbs, two to each, and use Moriarty's own arms and legs to propel him to his feet like some peculiar marionette, his head drooping like a drunk's. Moran slings an arm around the boss's waist, and together all ten of them - tentacles, Jim and Sebastian - move toward the exit and the waiting car.

Go back to Part 1.
Go forward to Part 3.