Music filled the opera hall, wafting up to where Moriarty and Moran sat in a high box seat, carefully hand in hand. Any fellow opera patron whose eyes might happen to stray from the lavish constumery on stage would not be able to discern anything out of the ordinary between the two men, but that was how they liked it: discreet, subtle.
As much as attending the opera had evolved from Moriarty’s habit to Moriarty and Moran’s habit, so had the act of holding hands. And even the spectacular singing regularly took a backseat to the simple thrill of two hands joined, a palm against a palm, fingertips against the back of each other’s hand. After a while, when the music began to fade into the background, it became the only reason they went.