The thing is, it’s all too smooth.
There are cracks in everything, that’s where the truth shines through, to misquote Cohen, and everything about Sherlock and Mycroft’s past is too shiny, too smooth. Too perfect.
So Jim digs. At first, there is, predictably, nothing. Whatever is hiding here is hidden deep. But that doesn’t matter, he is who he is, and he’ll get to this even if has to dig barehanded until his nails break off.
He digs some more. Still nothing. But interesting nothing. Cover-ups making way for fearful silence, meaningful gaps. And you can tell a lot about something by the shape they leave behind when they get ripped away.
He digs deeper. And deeper, and deeper, bribing and charming and killing his way to the secret because he’s damned if he’ll let them get away with this, whatever it is, he’ll be damned if he lets them have the upper hand so he keeps digging and digging and digging -
And when she finally pops up, he cackles for five minutes straight.
***
The first time they meet, they’re both in disguise. She’s good, guileless wide eyes, guileless soft voice, picture-perfect except for the smile, which shows just a little bit too much canine.
She notices him, that first time. Sees him. Not straight away of course, because she’s good but he’s better. But at some point in their conversation, there’s a stumble, a pause.
A crack.
She covers it up admirably, but he still see the sharpness in her eyes and this, this is going to be fun.
She asks for his number, blushing, and that’s impressive, because it’s hard to fake autonomous responses. But she does, she blushes at him and smiles, dimples showing, and somewhere behind that overly-cute exterior hides a shark and he can’t fucking wait to get his hands on that.
He gives her a fake number, blushes back at her, then stumbles his way to the exit.
The back of his neck burns as he leaves.
***
The night after they first meet, she shows up in his bedroom with a gun.
***
“Who are you?” she asks, and gone is the innocence of the girl she pretended to be.
“A friend of your brothers’,” Jim says, smoothly.
She takes a step closer, gun pointed unerringly at his chest. “Are you?” she says, eyes glittering with bloodlust.
“Well, I say friend, “ he adds, lazily, still watching her.
She smiles. It’s brittle, furious, slightly unhinged, and isn’t that interesting. A shards-of-glass smile, all broken and put back the wrong way.
The Iceman had her locked up in Baskerville for a while. Was that where she got smashed? Or did that happen before?
“You found me,” she says. “Means you’re not very fond of them, are you?”
“Does it?” he asks, widening his eyes in mock-surprise.
“Anything they want to keep hidden that badly - a friend would respect that.” Another smile, too-sharp, not real. “But an enemy would detect a weakness.”
“Tomato tomahto.” Jim gives her one of his own smiles back. “You’re much more than just an Achilles heel of some boring people.”
“Boring?” She raises her eyebrow.
She’s got the same eyes as both her brothers without the contacts in, blue so light it’s almost translucent. Unnerving, if employed right.
“Compared to you.”
“Who are you?” she asks, and no, he doesn’t miss that the gun is still trained on him, that it hasn’t dropped even a fraction of an inch since he woke up to her entrance.
“Jim Moriarty.” He smiles, broadly, feral, watches its reflection take shape on her face.
“And I think we’re going to be the best of friends.”