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Because Tumblr askboxes are silly creatures.
This is from an RP where Moriarty was sucked into another dimension, and the... gentleman... he's interrupting in the middle of an assault is Alex de Large.
He’d been here over a month by his reckoning, but Moriarty still had no one to go to the shops for him. It was a depressing state of affairs. In fact, he was rather subdued of late, finding the process of reestablishing his tangled web of connexions harder than he’d expected, and even the project that had him most exercised was taking longer than he would like. True, as there didn’t seem to be a way out of here, maybe that was for the best. He didn’t want to show his hand too soon. Keep that poker face mask on, me boyo, you still need it. But that didn’t change the fact that he was feeling that restless impatient burn, the tickling on the balls of his feet. Well, until he found someone to do his errands for him- just a nice little lemming would do, he didn’t need Sebastian (so why did that thought pang so much)- the food wasn’t going to deliver itself, and Jim was hungry.
There was a little corner shop not far from his flat. Nothing was very far away here in Pandora, mind; it was nothing like London, all sprawling and crawling outwards like a living thing, although it did seem to be growing, somehow, as people kept arriving. Anyway, the relative compactness was convenient, but he was surprised at the miracle that he hadn’t yet run into the Virgin. What were the odds in a place this small? There’d been a couple close shaves, but so far he’d avoided detection with skill and a large dash of luck. Of course he’d like to claim all the credit, but what did it hurt his pride to admit that pure chance had been on his side? He could use all the allies he could get when his accustomed ones were lightyears away.
Jim strolled along the streets, quieter at this hour than some times. Everyone was probably already settling in to their dinners, fighting off the chill of winter with a hot meal. He couldn’t help but be envious. Back home in London, Seb would have- but Moran wasn’t here, was he. Moriarty’s eyes narrowed in self-disgust. This place must be getting to him. Those thoughts bordered on the grotesque and mawkish. He really needed to find a way to snap out of whatever strange mood had draped itself about his shoulders. If he didn’t look out, it was going to end up smothering him. Thankfully, at least he’d reached the shop. The need to pluck out the best of a bad lot would distract him for a little while.
The bell tinkled gaily as he pushed the door in, but it wasn’t nearly as musical to his ears as the unmistakable sound of a scuffle. Jim’s dark eyes flitted across the scene, drinking it in. There was the shopkeeper, pinned like a butterfly against his own shelves. All he needed was a finishing touch of formaldehyde to complete the picture. A fleeting grin of admiration for this stranger’s work tugged at the edges of Moriarty’s lips, then just as quickly faded as he made his way closer to the confrontation. He was all business now, yet still an air of casualness clung to him like an exotic perfume.
He surveyed the pair under half-hooded lids; the assailant now had his victim prostrate on the ground, laying into him with a... walking stick of some sort. Odd. Must be an affectation, an eccentric choice of weapon, since he looked too young to drink legally, let alone need a cane. Jim shrugged; in the criminal line of work, everybody had some kind of quirk. Without allowing a trace of emotion in his voice, he spoke above the simpering yelps of the shopkeeper. “I'd offer to help, but well, this is my only suit. Besides, it looks like you’ve got this well in hand.”
This is from an RP where Moriarty was sucked into another dimension, and the... gentleman... he's interrupting in the middle of an assault is Alex de Large.
He’d been here over a month by his reckoning, but Moriarty still had no one to go to the shops for him. It was a depressing state of affairs. In fact, he was rather subdued of late, finding the process of reestablishing his tangled web of connexions harder than he’d expected, and even the project that had him most exercised was taking longer than he would like. True, as there didn’t seem to be a way out of here, maybe that was for the best. He didn’t want to show his hand too soon. Keep that poker face mask on, me boyo, you still need it. But that didn’t change the fact that he was feeling that restless impatient burn, the tickling on the balls of his feet. Well, until he found someone to do his errands for him- just a nice little lemming would do, he didn’t need Sebastian (so why did that thought pang so much)- the food wasn’t going to deliver itself, and Jim was hungry.
There was a little corner shop not far from his flat. Nothing was very far away here in Pandora, mind; it was nothing like London, all sprawling and crawling outwards like a living thing, although it did seem to be growing, somehow, as people kept arriving. Anyway, the relative compactness was convenient, but he was surprised at the miracle that he hadn’t yet run into the Virgin. What were the odds in a place this small? There’d been a couple close shaves, but so far he’d avoided detection with skill and a large dash of luck. Of course he’d like to claim all the credit, but what did it hurt his pride to admit that pure chance had been on his side? He could use all the allies he could get when his accustomed ones were lightyears away.
Jim strolled along the streets, quieter at this hour than some times. Everyone was probably already settling in to their dinners, fighting off the chill of winter with a hot meal. He couldn’t help but be envious. Back home in London, Seb would have- but Moran wasn’t here, was he. Moriarty’s eyes narrowed in self-disgust. This place must be getting to him. Those thoughts bordered on the grotesque and mawkish. He really needed to find a way to snap out of whatever strange mood had draped itself about his shoulders. If he didn’t look out, it was going to end up smothering him. Thankfully, at least he’d reached the shop. The need to pluck out the best of a bad lot would distract him for a little while.
The bell tinkled gaily as he pushed the door in, but it wasn’t nearly as musical to his ears as the unmistakable sound of a scuffle. Jim’s dark eyes flitted across the scene, drinking it in. There was the shopkeeper, pinned like a butterfly against his own shelves. All he needed was a finishing touch of formaldehyde to complete the picture. A fleeting grin of admiration for this stranger’s work tugged at the edges of Moriarty’s lips, then just as quickly faded as he made his way closer to the confrontation. He was all business now, yet still an air of casualness clung to him like an exotic perfume.
He surveyed the pair under half-hooded lids; the assailant now had his victim prostrate on the ground, laying into him with a... walking stick of some sort. Odd. Must be an affectation, an eccentric choice of weapon, since he looked too young to drink legally, let alone need a cane. Jim shrugged; in the criminal line of work, everybody had some kind of quirk. Without allowing a trace of emotion in his voice, he spoke above the simpering yelps of the shopkeeper. “I'd offer to help, but well, this is my only suit. Besides, it looks like you’ve got this well in hand.”