(no subject)

[notmydiagnosis]

[ Crane can't figure out Moriarty and that bothers him--bothers him a lot. It's the reason why he's up when he shouldn't be, sleep schedule messed, and it's the fourth or fifth time he's paced his own room that he fires a text off to one Jim Moriarty. ]

My place when you're available.

[ Nothing else. He's at least figured that no matter the circumstances Moriarty will come at his own leisure. The best he can do is wait. ]

Comments

[spider]

[The day rolls along as it should for average man, tucked away from the world to lie in ordinary pleasures. Sleeping. Eating. Television. Music.

But even now, in days that surrounding eyes are at their peak of attention, he is squirming in the skin of Richard Brook. As if sweating in it, eager to claw and peel away. Just dreadful, absolutely dreadful. It's moments like these he wants to go back to that moment. That laugh of Sherlock Holmes and their final problem—staying alive in this hell hole of disappointments.

Then he hears the chime; a message. Whether it be a gift from God or the Devil himself, he welcomed it. The glowing text is delivered as a blessing, smiling to himself before typing away:]

When am I not? Expect three knocks.

JM

[And by the prophecy of Jim Moriarty, there are three knocks. Tap. Tap. Tap. And if that door should open, Crane will be welcomed to a very peculiar appearance. Not the sharpness of a good suit, but Jim Moriarty in loose and comfortable fabric. That wasn't Jim Moriarty lurking through the halls, but Richard Brook. Just giving someone a friendly visit, that's all. Yet the reptilian movement of his neck is dead give away, tilting for better view. He's leaning against the wall by the door, patient and content.]

Hello.