fic: goodnight, my friends
Title: goodnight, my friends
Rating: NC-17
Genre(s): gen
Word Count: ~750
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Jim
Warnings/Spoilers: graphic homosexual sex, death
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock
Summary: James Moriarty: boy, man, murderer. Written for thegameison_sh.
one.
He sees darkness. There is no blood, no stain, no hard evidence. Just endless darkness, the beautiful road of death.
“Did you see anything, Moriarty? If you did, you have to tell the truth. We need the truth.”
Jim stares at the head teacher. His eyes are blank, his face schooled into expressionless so well, only ten years old.
“No sir. I saw nothing, sir.”
six.
“Her death was so sudden,” his mother says over dinner. “Why would someone do that? Her poor parents.”
His father grunts, an acknowledgement that sounds more belittling than agreeable, as he turns the newspaper page. The dead girl’s face disappears.
Jim remains silent. His plate is clean and his homework is finished.
“Can I go to the cinema tonight please, Mum?”
She smiles. “Of course, sweetie. Here.” A crisp note is pressed into his palm. “Don’t get up to no good now, like the other teenagers that hang around our alleys. I don’t want my little boy ending up like them.” She looks at her husband, but he’s reading.
Jim tilts his head and blinks. “Don’t worry, Mum. I won’t.”
thirteen.
“Jim, there you are.”
He turns around and sees the boy jogging towards him, meeting him at his front door. He’s panting and flushed pink. “I’ve been looking all over campus for you and your phone’s off. Where’ve you been? Lectures ended hours ago.”
“Out. I... popped into town. Needed a few things.”
The boy loops his fingers into Jim’s jeans and pulls him forward with a lewd smirk. “Busy anymore?”
Jim cocks an eyebrow. His voice lilts with Irish accent. “For what, exactly?”
“Come now, Jim, don’t play coy,” the boy purrs. He tugs Jim closer, their lips ghosting together. “You know what I want. You want it too. We’re having a good time, aren’t we?”
Jim smirks. He leans up and kisses the boy, hard, but draws away in seconds to pull a bunch of keys from his jacket pocket. He unlocks the front door as the boy watches.
“After you,” Jim says. The boy grins and steps into the house.
Behind him, Jim brushes gunpowder off his sleeve, slips the weapon from his belt into his bag, and shuts the door behind him.
fourteen.
“Fuck, Jim, fuck,” the boy pants, thrusting wildly as Jim lies on all fours on his bed. “Jesus, I’m going to, oh fuck-”
“Yeah, come on, fuck yeah,” Jim bites out, face pressed into a pillow. “Fuck me, damn it, come on!”
The boy comes with a harsh cry, loud and animalistic. As he falls to the side, Jim takes his cock in hand and jerks himself into completion with grunts between grit teeth.
“Fucking hell,” the boy breathes heavily, lying on the bed and staring dazedly at the ceiling. “That was... incredible.”
Jim chuckles, low in his throat, as he climbs towards him. He has a glass of water in one hand, which he extends in offering.
“Thanks,” the boy says, and sips the drink.
Two minutes later, Jim rolls him off the bed, still wide-eyed and frothing at the mouth. Jim needs the space to sleep. He can deal with him in the morning.
thirty-five.
“How old are you?”
Jim casts his newest client a cursory glance.
“How is that relevant to our business?”
His client shrugs, casual, seemingly uncaring. “You look young, is all. Most people in your trade don’t look like they’re in their mid-twenties, that’s for sure.”
Jim’s lips twist into a sneer. “Looks can be deceptive.”
Suddenly, a body bag is thrown to the floor in the corner of the room. The client jumps in his chair.
“As you requested,” Jim drawls, standing up. “That’ll be two million pounds. Please.”
He leaves.
seventy-two.
“You have your orders,” Jim says. His voice is distorted through the microphone; he sounds like a woman in her forties, mature and intelligent.
He watches from afar - stares hard at the black and white images on the computer screen - as the victim is gassed to death, falling like a limp and broken puppet to the floor.
Jim taps the screen, and giggles.
one hundred and one.
Jim has the gun in his hand. He hasn’t held one for so long, he’s almost forgotten what it felt like.
“I can end it,” Jim singsongs, playful and taunting and Irish. “It’ll be over for Sherlock Holmes and his loyal dog.”
He is greeted with silence.
“Very well,” Jim says. He smiles. “Goodnight, my friends.”
Rating: NC-17
Genre(s): gen
Word Count: ~750
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Jim
Warnings/Spoilers: graphic homosexual sex, death
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock
Summary: James Moriarty: boy, man, murderer. Written for thegameison_sh.
one.
He sees darkness. There is no blood, no stain, no hard evidence. Just endless darkness, the beautiful road of death.
“Did you see anything, Moriarty? If you did, you have to tell the truth. We need the truth.”
Jim stares at the head teacher. His eyes are blank, his face schooled into expressionless so well, only ten years old.
“No sir. I saw nothing, sir.”
six.
“Her death was so sudden,” his mother says over dinner. “Why would someone do that? Her poor parents.”
His father grunts, an acknowledgement that sounds more belittling than agreeable, as he turns the newspaper page. The dead girl’s face disappears.
Jim remains silent. His plate is clean and his homework is finished.
“Can I go to the cinema tonight please, Mum?”
She smiles. “Of course, sweetie. Here.” A crisp note is pressed into his palm. “Don’t get up to no good now, like the other teenagers that hang around our alleys. I don’t want my little boy ending up like them.” She looks at her husband, but he’s reading.
Jim tilts his head and blinks. “Don’t worry, Mum. I won’t.”
thirteen.
“Jim, there you are.”
He turns around and sees the boy jogging towards him, meeting him at his front door. He’s panting and flushed pink. “I’ve been looking all over campus for you and your phone’s off. Where’ve you been? Lectures ended hours ago.”
“Out. I... popped into town. Needed a few things.”
The boy loops his fingers into Jim’s jeans and pulls him forward with a lewd smirk. “Busy anymore?”
Jim cocks an eyebrow. His voice lilts with Irish accent. “For what, exactly?”
“Come now, Jim, don’t play coy,” the boy purrs. He tugs Jim closer, their lips ghosting together. “You know what I want. You want it too. We’re having a good time, aren’t we?”
Jim smirks. He leans up and kisses the boy, hard, but draws away in seconds to pull a bunch of keys from his jacket pocket. He unlocks the front door as the boy watches.
“After you,” Jim says. The boy grins and steps into the house.
Behind him, Jim brushes gunpowder off his sleeve, slips the weapon from his belt into his bag, and shuts the door behind him.
fourteen.
“Fuck, Jim, fuck,” the boy pants, thrusting wildly as Jim lies on all fours on his bed. “Jesus, I’m going to, oh fuck-”
“Yeah, come on, fuck yeah,” Jim bites out, face pressed into a pillow. “Fuck me, damn it, come on!”
The boy comes with a harsh cry, loud and animalistic. As he falls to the side, Jim takes his cock in hand and jerks himself into completion with grunts between grit teeth.
“Fucking hell,” the boy breathes heavily, lying on the bed and staring dazedly at the ceiling. “That was... incredible.”
Jim chuckles, low in his throat, as he climbs towards him. He has a glass of water in one hand, which he extends in offering.
“Thanks,” the boy says, and sips the drink.
Two minutes later, Jim rolls him off the bed, still wide-eyed and frothing at the mouth. Jim needs the space to sleep. He can deal with him in the morning.
thirty-five.
“How old are you?”
Jim casts his newest client a cursory glance.
“How is that relevant to our business?”
His client shrugs, casual, seemingly uncaring. “You look young, is all. Most people in your trade don’t look like they’re in their mid-twenties, that’s for sure.”
Jim’s lips twist into a sneer. “Looks can be deceptive.”
Suddenly, a body bag is thrown to the floor in the corner of the room. The client jumps in his chair.
“As you requested,” Jim drawls, standing up. “That’ll be two million pounds. Please.”
He leaves.
seventy-two.
“You have your orders,” Jim says. His voice is distorted through the microphone; he sounds like a woman in her forties, mature and intelligent.
He watches from afar - stares hard at the black and white images on the computer screen - as the victim is gassed to death, falling like a limp and broken puppet to the floor.
Jim taps the screen, and giggles.
one hundred and one.
Jim has the gun in his hand. He hasn’t held one for so long, he’s almost forgotten what it felt like.
“I can end it,” Jim singsongs, playful and taunting and Irish. “It’ll be over for Sherlock Holmes and his loyal dog.”
He is greeted with silence.
“Very well,” Jim says. He smiles. “Goodnight, my friends.”