Starter for @darkestredemptives
Professor James Moriarty wore cardigans, disheveled shirts he had probably grabbed from the top of his laundry hamper, brown slacks, and old, worn-down brown loafers. James checked himself in the mirror. The Professor always had a perpetual five o'clock shadow, bags under his eyes as if the man couldn't sleep (a struggle Jim truly had), and his hair's mussed up as if he had just rolled out of bed.
James didn't normally take so much care of his looks as the professor. The point was to look like the tired academic—unassuming and harmless—but today was special. A sigh escapes as he exhales. He throws on a tie, the knot purposely sloppy.
He walks out of his room, and by the entryway leaning against the wall is Moran. The man looks fetching in a black trench coat, fitted black slacks, and stylish black boots. In contrast to him, Moran has clean-styled black hair and a freshly shaved face. When he spots Moriarty, he stands at attention. "Ready, boss?"
He waves at him dismissively. "Yes, yes. You've got your orders. Just be sure you're in place on time." Bastian nods, grabbing what looks like your typical briefcase by his feet, and leaves. Jim grabs his keys and locks up the flat.
The Professor takes public transport. It's around 7 AM, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, when he arrives at the building that his mark works out of. Oxford had contracts with the government, and it wasn't unusual for them to call someone from the mathematics department to do work for them. Lucky for him, one of his colleagues had taken ill, and he'd have to fill in for him. Placing his Airpods in, he speed dials Moran. "Boss, I have him in my sights. He's headed your way."
