"Good thing this isn't a consultation then, because I don't talk to personal assistants. They tend to be petty and dull. No, I'd much rather get right to the source." Jim said with a quick smile in his natural Irish lilt.
He took in the appearance of the man in front of him. He'd done his research, of course. If anyone (particularly his primary sniper and occasional bed partner) on his payroll got a side job, James Moriarty was going to make damn sure that everything lined up, and that he wasn't being double crossed. Part of the meticulous crossing of t's and dotting of i's that he had become so accustomed to in his line of work. He'd been given a name and an address by Sebastian, and once he'd done a bit of research, he decided a personal visit to this "Sherlock Holmes" was the best course of action.
He'd taken the key to the Baker street flat out of Sebastian's pocket a week ago and had it pressed so that a copy could be made. The little dear didn't even know he'd done it, or that he'd been planning this little meeting from the moment Sebastian decided to take the job. Didn't even blink an eye when Jim sent him off to Spain for five days. The job required a day at maximum, and the target? No one of importance, just said one wrong thing to one wrong person years ago. Pity he had to pay the price now, but Jim needed Sebastian out of the way to get an accurate reading on this man.
As soon as he'd gotten the name, a bit of research showed the basic facts. Graduated designer of menswear from Central St. Martins, working on a womenswear concentration at Royal College of Art, model (in some interesting shows, Jim noted) perpetually on a bit of a gender fluid-androgynous kick not only in his design but in his personal fashion, gotten into a spot of trouble here and there, and a grieving fan of Alexander McQueen. Jim straightened his tie (he chose his favorite McQueen for this occasion) and observed to fill in the blanks.
At first glance, his posture showed a knowledge of dance and a slight effeminate grace, confidence, but also weakness. Weakness for what though? Not just drugs. It was more than that. His hands were slightly calloused in all the right places…violin player then. Perhaps viola…no violin. His hands were too large for the callouses to be where they were. Definitely violin. Given his idols and his fashion choices, the evidence pointed to homosexual. The confidence…that wasn't built that was thrust upon him. Distant parents, perhaps? There was someone who cared though…someone in power, or else he would have his weakness all over the news. Anyone in that much power, probability pointed to male; brother, then. The accent was mostly neutral but a slight drawl of 'consultation' and sharpness of 'PA' hinted at Sussex. Wealthy Sussex, to narrow it down more. Wealthy, distant parents, brother the main role model, brazen confidence that made risk taking something acceptable, desired, even…ah…that's why the drugs. That's why the extreme fashions and troublesome bouts. It was all an escape method…his weakness. Escape. Perhaps? Something to take note of. But throughout all of these observations, there was one thing that bothered Jim the most.
That was Sebastian's shirt.
Someone as fashion conscious as Sherlock Holmes would own plenty of shirts. Why use Sebastian's? Laundry not done? No. That would be easy enough to remedy. His type would buy a new shirt before being caught dead in someone else's. Especially someone so differently sized and with clothing so terribly worn as Sebastian's. But the only other rational explanation would be…sentiment? Impossible. Curious, though.
He cleared his throat, uncrossed his legs, and leaned forward.
"I think the proper thing to do, at this point, would be to offer me a cup of tea. The Earl Grey will be adequate for the time being. We have only just met, Mr. Holmes."
Jim smiled sweetly and raised his eyebrows, waiting to see what the man would do.
