spicyhotchocolate

[spicyhotchocolate]

Chapters: 5/? Fandom: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Sebastian Moran & Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty Characters: Jim Moriarty, James Moriarty, Sebastian Moran, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Original Characters Additional Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Cocaine, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Baking, Domestic Fluff, at least for Moriarty it is, Cigarettes, Interior Decorating, Murder, POV Jim Moriarty, Gun Violence, Cookies, Recipes, Drugs, Psychotropic Drugs, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Romance, Moriarty is his own warning Summary:

Moriarty is bored with robbing this, burning that, threatening here, murdering there. He decides to take up a new, less deadly hobby. Do murder victims mind if you use their kitchen?

[spicyhotchocolate]

The Bored Baker Chapter One

He held the knife up to the white light that shone over the kitchen island, seeing a hospital room. His lips quirked upward, and he watched the knife intently as it lowered to operate. He plunged his other hand into the torn bag of cocaine on the far side of the counter, knocking it off in the process. White powder puffed into the air, and Moriarty took a deep breath, enjoying the small things in life. He idly reached out to wipe the excess cocaine on Seb's sleeve, eliciting a cry of annoyance.

"Hey! There's a towel right behind you. Oh fuck!" Sebastian ducked as a bullet shot right past his head, then raised his own gun and shot back into the living room. "This motherfucker doesn't quit does he?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder as he made his way into the living room. Jim ignored him, though. He was busy.

Focused, he splayed his dusted fingers out on the cookie dough and pressed down gently. The knife in his other hand moved (of its own accord, you understand) to trace the delicate shape of his hand into the dough. It was exhilarating, though he didn't know why, and-

"PLEASE! NO! Nonononono. I'll- I'll give you any-" A gunshot, then silence. Good. He was sick of the interruptions. Jim cracked his neck and got back to work.

Keeping his hand still took a lot of effort, but he knew that the knife wouldn't hesitate to cut him if he twitched, so he made sure that his hand was firmly planted before each trace. Eventually, he had about five hand cookies. The knife fell from his hand with a clatter, and he took it as a sign to start balling the dough back up. When the dough started sticking to his hands, he remembered the cocaine and walked around the kitchen island to cover them in the powder. Standing back up, he clapped his hands together and watched the snowflakes fall.

"You good?" asked Seb from the doorway, evidently alerted by the clap. His face was spattered with blood, and his suit covered in cocaine.

"Master bedroom," said Moriarty without turning around.

"Got it," he said, then left the kitchen.

Jim turned back to his surgery, really working to flatten the dough out as much as possible. He was getting better at tracing now, and with each new handprint the knife worked a little bit faster, the edge ghosting between his fingers. He heard distant screams from upstairs- probably another patient being operated on. When he was tracing his final handprint, his fellow doctor appeared behind him and looked over his shoulder. "The code is eight, three, one, uh... What are you doing?"

Jim turned to face Seb, reaching a hand up to smear the blood dripping from a cut on his cheek. "Get me a baking sheet," he said simply.

Seb hesitated, but went to search the cabinets nonetheless while Jim finished his last handprint. The blood on his finger turned the thumb of the cookie red, and this distracted him so much that the knife cut between his index and middle finger, staining the rest of the cookie crimson. Before he could get angry about it, Seb reappeared with the baking pan. "Is it non-stick?" he asked, applying pressure to his wrist and walking over to the kitchen sink.

"Uh, I think so."

"Good. Put the cookies on and pop 'em in the oven," he ordered, turning on the faucet to rinse off the blood and cocaine, Dye 40 and flour. He hoped they turned out well, not exactly sure about the recipe. It was a shame they had to kill the wife, too. She had been baking cookies in the wrong place at the wrong time, that was all. He dried his hand on a kitchen towel that read, "I'm not bossy! I just know what you should be doing." He smiled back at the wine-guzzling woman embroidered on the front before dropping the rag unceremoniously.

He stretched up into the air. It had been a long fucking day. First Sherlock had gotten one of his dealers arrested, then the traitorous cartel decided to turn on him. They threatened him for money, then they begged him for mercy, and on and on and on it went. It was boring. At least this time there were cookies.

Jim turned and smoothed his suit, satisfied that it was much cleaner than Sebastian's, then headed for the door. "Make sure you pour enough gasoline in the kitchen," he called. "We wouldn't want them under-cooked."