Of Soldiers and Madmen (Sherlock fic)
Title: Of Soldiers and Madmen
Author: Rae666
Word Count: 1,700
Summary: Missing scene - Great Game. Moriarty decides to have a chat with John. "We're not so different, you and I."
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Season 1
Disclaimer: I don’t own Sherlock, sadly. I’m not that lucky.
Author’s Notes: I really wanted an excuse to write Moriarty and well, had a few lines of conversation kicking about my head - thus, this was born.
----
John woke.
His head was fuzzy. His vision blurred. And his ears were ringing.
The last thing he remembered was leaving the flat, heading to Sarah’s and then… and then there was a big blank patch where a memory should have been. But, judging by the pain emanating from the back of his skull, he figured what must have happened. But the question was why? And the even bigger question was who?
“It’s good to see you’re awake, Dr. Watson.”
John blinked at the voice and took in his surroundings, even more confused than before. A pool? Why would anyone drag him to a pool? And why did his chest feel so tight? So damn heavy?
He looked down at himself. Oh… that was why. Which could only mean one thing. That voice…
Moriarty.
“Don’t look so surprised, Dr. Watson,” the voice rang out again. “You must have known this was coming. Oh, don’t tell me - Sherlock didn’t warn you?”
Pushing himself up so he was half-seated, half-leaning against one of the cubicles, his eyes found the owner of the voice - the light Irish tint covering the psychotic excitement that the owner’s eyes betrayed.
“Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes… and er, sorry?”
“John Watson. Hi.”
“Hi.”
Jim? Molly’s boyfriend?
“Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That’s how we met. Office romance.”
“Gay.”
“Sorry - what?”
“Nothing. Hey.”
Jim? The klutz with the hard on for Sherlock? Jim?
And John knew he must have hit his head pretty damn hard and was now hallucinating. That’s what this was, one big visual and audio hallucination… by a pool… with Molly’s boyfriend, Jim.
“I’m sorry, what?” he questioned, unsure of what else he could say. He winced and raised a hand to rub at the back of his head. Maybe he was brain damaged? No, that was just ridiculous. Wasn’t it?
“Pretty nasty bump you’ve got there - you should probably see someone about that.” Jim, looking nothing like the same man John had met before, moved closer. He strolled casually along the side of the pool toward John, hands dug deep into his pockets.
John glanced down at his chest again, taking in the bomb, before looking around for anyone else - anymore players, anymore pieces. A sniper, a henchman, someone who wasn’t Jim from I.T., Jim from the hospital. Finally, when he could see no one else, his eyes landed back on the suited man. His brow creased. “You’re Moriarty?”
Jim opened his mouth in mock shock, his eyes widening momentarily before his features fell perfectly back into place - twisted smile, eyes twinkling with something far more devious than mischief. “You got me. I have to say, I’m impressed - I thought I might have had to spell it out for you for a moment there. Though, I suppose the bomb is a bit of a giveaway.”
John was still having too much trouble grappling with the idea that Moriarty - the criminal mastermind behind the pips and the bombs and the ‘game’ he had been playing with Sherlock - was Jim, to notice the insult. Besides, he was used to hearing similar things from Sherlock - though, admittedly, they were usually unintentional and coated in much less venom.
He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, tongue snaking out to dampen his too dry lips. He tried again. “Why -” and stalled.
Why what exactly? Why was he here? Why did he have a bomb strapped to his chest? Why was Moriarty standing right. in. front. of him?
“Because I was bored,” was the response that sounded all too familiar in wording and yet so different in tone.
John found himself looking at the man, really looking at him, and found that he could no longer see Jim - his mind half wondering if he had imagined the whole meeting back at the lab. The man, no - the devil, was not Jim. He was most definitely Moriarty. And John could see it written clearly in those wild, glistening eyes, the madness behind it all.
After all, they did often say there was a fine line between genius and insanity. And Moriarty, he had well and truly crossed it.
“And this is normal for you?” John found himself asking. He pushed up from the floor, using the cubicle as leverage. His head spun, but he ignored it. “Strapping bombs to people? Killing them? Just because you’re bored?”
Moriarty, not Jim, scrunched up his features and shrugged his shoulders - the action exaggerated but unhindered by his hands still firmly in his pockets. “I wouldn’t normally be so showy about it.” He lowered his head but kept his eyes level with John. The man didn’t even blink. “But then I do enjoy a good game against someone as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes. And all of this-” he finally took a hand from his pocket and used it to motion toward the bomb, “wasn’t for me. This was for him. For Sherlock Holmes.”
And the way he said Sherlock’s name, it sounded like he was tasting it, allowing it to linger on his tongue.
John churned his face and looked away in disgust.
“You know,” Moriarty chimed. “We’re not so different, you and I.”
But John didn’t answer. He just remained stoically silent. Apparently though, Moriarty took that as an invitation to continue.
“We both share a mutual interest in Sherlock Holmes. We both enjoy watching him dance.”
Here, John’s eyes flickered back to the man, narrowed, a burning intensity hidden behind his blue orbs.
“Oh, don’t deny it, Johnny-boy. You think I haven’t been watching? You think I don’t know?” Moriarty inched closer, step by step, gaze never leaving John. “And how could you not enjoy it? He’s just so fascinating. The way he puts everything together. I can see why you follow him around - lost little soldier boy, looking for excitement. Betcha never saw this coming though. Is it exciting enough for you, Dr. Watson?”
John’s lips thinned into a tight smile, his jaw clenching. He shook his head. “You’ve killed innocent people. You’ve destroyed lives.”
“And yet,” Moriarty answered, cocking his head to the side slightly, his shrug barely even evident this time, half-hearted, as one corner of his mouth twisted upward into an expression of general disinterest, “I just can’t bring myself to care.”
“Of course not. You’re just a psychopathic killer with a bomb fetish.”
“Right now, I’m the psychopathic killer with a bomb fetish.” And the lack of a denial was what made it all the more disturbing for John - that and the fact that Moriarty was now mere feet away.
But, if he moved quickly, if he just waited for the madman to move that little closer… then maybe he could do something. Or, he thought as his gaze followed Moriarty’s to his chest, he could be killed before he even got the chance to breathe in the man’s direction. He watched, with a sickening dread, as the red dot danced over his heart.
“Play nice, Johnny,” Moriarty warned. “We wouldn’t want you to die before dear Sherlock arrives, would we?”
Sherlock? He was coming? Here, to the pool?
The thoughts must have been playing across his face because the man before him seemed even more amused.
“You shouldn’t get your hopes up, especially as he’s the one who arranged this little play date.” Moriarty chewed at his lip, excitement lighting up his features, hands finding their way back into his pockets. “And he thought he was being so clever, waiting until you had gone.”
“Why would he…?” John questioned, the words barely even audible, disappearing on his breath altogether before he could even finish thinking them.
“Well, I suspect,” Moriarty answered, tone condescending, speaking volumes about what he thought of John’s intelligence, “he plans to kill me - or catch me. But mostly he just wants to meet me. Me - the man that saved him from his boredom, if only for awhile.”
“By killing people,” John reminded him, feeling that it could not be pointed out enough.
“Oh don’t be so sanctimonious, Dr. Watson. Hypocrisy doesn’t suit you.” He raised his eyebrows at John. “Admit it - we’ve both killed for Sherlock Holmes and we both would do it again. You would kill me right now if you could.”
And that left John feeling like someone had just dropped a weight into his stomach, the implication hanging heavy on the air.
“You’re a killer,” Moriarty continued. “Just like me.”
“I’m nothing like you.” It didn’t need to be said and yet he said it all the same. It tasted strangely like a denial and he didn’t like that because John had nothing to deny. It just flat out wasn’t true. He was nothing like Moriarty. He had killed, but he would never define himself as a killer… would he?
“Well, not completely.” The man shrugged, his manner bored as he once more removed his hands from his pockets to dust off non-existent lint from his sleeves. He scrutinised a patch on his left arm before dismissing it. “I mean, you’re not exactly the sharpest needle in the hospital and you are frightfully pedestrian.”
“But then we can’t all be insane psychopaths, can we?” John gritted his teeth together, his fist clenching at his side. He didn’t add the ‘or high-functioning sociopaths’ that followed his line of thought.
“No, I don’t suppose we can.” Moriarty looked back up to him, a devilish grin splitting his face. “Still, I must admit, I have enjoyed our little chat. But now, it’s time for the adults to play.” He produced something that looked suspiciously like an earpiece from his pocket and closed the gap between them.
John stiffened but didn’t back away.
“I’m sure you know the rules, Johnny,” the madman said, attaching the earpiece with ease. “You just have to do exactly as I say or that little bomb on your chest becomes a pretty big problem in your life - in that it’ll mean you’ll no longer have one.”
He swallowed and looked away, his hands still clenched at his side.
“That’s a good pet,” Moriarty crooned, and he patted John on the side of the face before moving back. “Now, time to set the stage. This is gonna be one killer of a show.”
-----
Thank you for reading!
Author: Rae666
Word Count: 1,700
Summary: Missing scene - Great Game. Moriarty decides to have a chat with John. "We're not so different, you and I."
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Season 1
Disclaimer: I don’t own Sherlock, sadly. I’m not that lucky.
Author’s Notes: I really wanted an excuse to write Moriarty and well, had a few lines of conversation kicking about my head - thus, this was born.
----
John woke.
His head was fuzzy. His vision blurred. And his ears were ringing.
The last thing he remembered was leaving the flat, heading to Sarah’s and then… and then there was a big blank patch where a memory should have been. But, judging by the pain emanating from the back of his skull, he figured what must have happened. But the question was why? And the even bigger question was who?
“It’s good to see you’re awake, Dr. Watson.”
John blinked at the voice and took in his surroundings, even more confused than before. A pool? Why would anyone drag him to a pool? And why did his chest feel so tight? So damn heavy?
He looked down at himself. Oh… that was why. Which could only mean one thing. That voice…
Moriarty.
“Don’t look so surprised, Dr. Watson,” the voice rang out again. “You must have known this was coming. Oh, don’t tell me - Sherlock didn’t warn you?”
Pushing himself up so he was half-seated, half-leaning against one of the cubicles, his eyes found the owner of the voice - the light Irish tint covering the psychotic excitement that the owner’s eyes betrayed.
“Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes… and er, sorry?”
“John Watson. Hi.”
“Hi.”
Jim? Molly’s boyfriend?
“Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That’s how we met. Office romance.”
“Gay.”
“Sorry - what?”
“Nothing. Hey.”
Jim? The klutz with the hard on for Sherlock? Jim?
And John knew he must have hit his head pretty damn hard and was now hallucinating. That’s what this was, one big visual and audio hallucination… by a pool… with Molly’s boyfriend, Jim.
“I’m sorry, what?” he questioned, unsure of what else he could say. He winced and raised a hand to rub at the back of his head. Maybe he was brain damaged? No, that was just ridiculous. Wasn’t it?
“Pretty nasty bump you’ve got there - you should probably see someone about that.” Jim, looking nothing like the same man John had met before, moved closer. He strolled casually along the side of the pool toward John, hands dug deep into his pockets.
John glanced down at his chest again, taking in the bomb, before looking around for anyone else - anymore players, anymore pieces. A sniper, a henchman, someone who wasn’t Jim from I.T., Jim from the hospital. Finally, when he could see no one else, his eyes landed back on the suited man. His brow creased. “You’re Moriarty?”
Jim opened his mouth in mock shock, his eyes widening momentarily before his features fell perfectly back into place - twisted smile, eyes twinkling with something far more devious than mischief. “You got me. I have to say, I’m impressed - I thought I might have had to spell it out for you for a moment there. Though, I suppose the bomb is a bit of a giveaway.”
John was still having too much trouble grappling with the idea that Moriarty - the criminal mastermind behind the pips and the bombs and the ‘game’ he had been playing with Sherlock - was Jim, to notice the insult. Besides, he was used to hearing similar things from Sherlock - though, admittedly, they were usually unintentional and coated in much less venom.
He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, tongue snaking out to dampen his too dry lips. He tried again. “Why -” and stalled.
Why what exactly? Why was he here? Why did he have a bomb strapped to his chest? Why was Moriarty standing right. in. front. of him?
“Because I was bored,” was the response that sounded all too familiar in wording and yet so different in tone.
John found himself looking at the man, really looking at him, and found that he could no longer see Jim - his mind half wondering if he had imagined the whole meeting back at the lab. The man, no - the devil, was not Jim. He was most definitely Moriarty. And John could see it written clearly in those wild, glistening eyes, the madness behind it all.
After all, they did often say there was a fine line between genius and insanity. And Moriarty, he had well and truly crossed it.
“And this is normal for you?” John found himself asking. He pushed up from the floor, using the cubicle as leverage. His head spun, but he ignored it. “Strapping bombs to people? Killing them? Just because you’re bored?”
Moriarty, not Jim, scrunched up his features and shrugged his shoulders - the action exaggerated but unhindered by his hands still firmly in his pockets. “I wouldn’t normally be so showy about it.” He lowered his head but kept his eyes level with John. The man didn’t even blink. “But then I do enjoy a good game against someone as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes. And all of this-” he finally took a hand from his pocket and used it to motion toward the bomb, “wasn’t for me. This was for him. For Sherlock Holmes.”
And the way he said Sherlock’s name, it sounded like he was tasting it, allowing it to linger on his tongue.
John churned his face and looked away in disgust.
“You know,” Moriarty chimed. “We’re not so different, you and I.”
But John didn’t answer. He just remained stoically silent. Apparently though, Moriarty took that as an invitation to continue.
“We both share a mutual interest in Sherlock Holmes. We both enjoy watching him dance.”
Here, John’s eyes flickered back to the man, narrowed, a burning intensity hidden behind his blue orbs.
“Oh, don’t deny it, Johnny-boy. You think I haven’t been watching? You think I don’t know?” Moriarty inched closer, step by step, gaze never leaving John. “And how could you not enjoy it? He’s just so fascinating. The way he puts everything together. I can see why you follow him around - lost little soldier boy, looking for excitement. Betcha never saw this coming though. Is it exciting enough for you, Dr. Watson?”
John’s lips thinned into a tight smile, his jaw clenching. He shook his head. “You’ve killed innocent people. You’ve destroyed lives.”
“And yet,” Moriarty answered, cocking his head to the side slightly, his shrug barely even evident this time, half-hearted, as one corner of his mouth twisted upward into an expression of general disinterest, “I just can’t bring myself to care.”
“Of course not. You’re just a psychopathic killer with a bomb fetish.”
“Right now, I’m the psychopathic killer with a bomb fetish.” And the lack of a denial was what made it all the more disturbing for John - that and the fact that Moriarty was now mere feet away.
But, if he moved quickly, if he just waited for the madman to move that little closer… then maybe he could do something. Or, he thought as his gaze followed Moriarty’s to his chest, he could be killed before he even got the chance to breathe in the man’s direction. He watched, with a sickening dread, as the red dot danced over his heart.
“Play nice, Johnny,” Moriarty warned. “We wouldn’t want you to die before dear Sherlock arrives, would we?”
Sherlock? He was coming? Here, to the pool?
The thoughts must have been playing across his face because the man before him seemed even more amused.
“You shouldn’t get your hopes up, especially as he’s the one who arranged this little play date.” Moriarty chewed at his lip, excitement lighting up his features, hands finding their way back into his pockets. “And he thought he was being so clever, waiting until you had gone.”
“Why would he…?” John questioned, the words barely even audible, disappearing on his breath altogether before he could even finish thinking them.
“Well, I suspect,” Moriarty answered, tone condescending, speaking volumes about what he thought of John’s intelligence, “he plans to kill me - or catch me. But mostly he just wants to meet me. Me - the man that saved him from his boredom, if only for awhile.”
“By killing people,” John reminded him, feeling that it could not be pointed out enough.
“Oh don’t be so sanctimonious, Dr. Watson. Hypocrisy doesn’t suit you.” He raised his eyebrows at John. “Admit it - we’ve both killed for Sherlock Holmes and we both would do it again. You would kill me right now if you could.”
And that left John feeling like someone had just dropped a weight into his stomach, the implication hanging heavy on the air.
“You’re a killer,” Moriarty continued. “Just like me.”
“I’m nothing like you.” It didn’t need to be said and yet he said it all the same. It tasted strangely like a denial and he didn’t like that because John had nothing to deny. It just flat out wasn’t true. He was nothing like Moriarty. He had killed, but he would never define himself as a killer… would he?
“Well, not completely.” The man shrugged, his manner bored as he once more removed his hands from his pockets to dust off non-existent lint from his sleeves. He scrutinised a patch on his left arm before dismissing it. “I mean, you’re not exactly the sharpest needle in the hospital and you are frightfully pedestrian.”
“But then we can’t all be insane psychopaths, can we?” John gritted his teeth together, his fist clenching at his side. He didn’t add the ‘or high-functioning sociopaths’ that followed his line of thought.
“No, I don’t suppose we can.” Moriarty looked back up to him, a devilish grin splitting his face. “Still, I must admit, I have enjoyed our little chat. But now, it’s time for the adults to play.” He produced something that looked suspiciously like an earpiece from his pocket and closed the gap between them.
John stiffened but didn’t back away.
“I’m sure you know the rules, Johnny,” the madman said, attaching the earpiece with ease. “You just have to do exactly as I say or that little bomb on your chest becomes a pretty big problem in your life - in that it’ll mean you’ll no longer have one.”
He swallowed and looked away, his hands still clenched at his side.
“That’s a good pet,” Moriarty crooned, and he patted John on the side of the face before moving back. “Now, time to set the stage. This is gonna be one killer of a show.”
-----
Thank you for reading!