London Needs To Burn
London Needs To Burn
starlessnightly
Rating: Hard R
Warning: Violent themes; Character death; Swearing; This is my most twisted story ever. And that's saying something, because I can come up with some twisted shit.
Summery: Moriarty loses the only thing that was between him and the destruction of London.
You have been warned.
It was a mistake to bring Moran along. At the beginning, it had seemed like a wonderful idea, to have his right hand man there, an unwavering red dot over Sherlock Holmes's forehead. But he hadn't factored in the utter... devotion between Holmes and his little pet. The detective had blown the entire pool sky high. The explosion had torn through everything and it made the walkway above the pool collapse.
Moran had been on that walkway.
The dead henchmen around Moran were literally just burning stumps of torso and head; most of them had had their limbs blown off. Moriarty walked over them, not caring if he stepped on a half alive man and causing him pain. A piece of debris gone straight through the soft flesh of Moran's stomach, the same flesh that Moriarty had been marking with teeth and tongue that morning. He had knelt by Moran, pulling the soldier into his lap and stroking his hair. He didn't notice the tears going down his face until they landed on Moran's cheek.
Moran had smiled at him, blood bubbling up and over his lips as he coughed. Moriarty thought he was beautiful, and he told Moran so. That had earned him a weak laugh. Moran's fingers shook as he cupped Moriarty's jaw. He had croaked out a rough, 'I love you, James.' He was dying and he knew it, but he still pulled James down for a kiss.
He had died the moment Moriarty had pressed his lips to the sniper's.
The weeks after the pool had been living hell. Moriarty would come home, expecting to have things thrown at him for being late. But when nothing came flying his way, his heart would harden just a little bit more. There were still little things that would set Moriarty off either into a blind fit of rage or hysterical crying. The spotless British L96A1 leaning against Moran's armchair set him into the darkest of moods every time he saw it, but he didn't dare move it. He had buried Moran the day before, but it still felt like blasphemy to move Moran's favourite gun.
After a few days of moping around his far to empty flat, Moriarty realised that he should be getting revenge. It was entirely Holmes's fault for blowing the pool up and killing Moran. He had been the one who shot the bomb vest. It was his fault. Everything was his fault.
He'd kill every thing that Sherlock ever loved. He'd burn the detective's heart, just as he had promised.
At first, he couldn't chose who he wanted to kill first. There was always that Doctor that Sherlock lived with, but he wanted to save that for last. He wanted to make Sherlock kiss Watson before shooting Watson in the fucking head. There was always New Scotland Yard, but that wasn't enough. St. Barts was another place he could blow up, but he didn't think that the loss of a hospital would bother Sherlock that much.
What did Sherlock love enough to die for?
London. Sherlock Holmes loved London with all his heart. Holmes rarely left the city and only did if it was for a case. He had memorised the streets and had so deeply placed himself in it's grip that he practically lived off the energy alone.
London needed to burn.
Moriarty never really liked getting his hands dirty. But now that Moran was... Now that he was alone, he didn't trust anyone to do any of the really important jobs themselves. That was the only reason why he was here. Of course, he had brought henchmen with him, but he needed to be there to make sure everything went smoothly.
That was the only reason he was there at Waterloo Station, with a knapsack full of ammunition and a sub-machine gun tucked into the side of his trench coat.
He and his henchmen strolled right into Waterloo Station and started shooting. Men, woman and children were shot down. Not a soul was allowed to leave alive. After the first few shots, someone had started to scream, triggering mass panic. All the running and grouping only made it easier to shoot them.
It didn't last long, not more then ten minutes, but by the end of it bodies and spent ammunition littered the floor. Blood, guts and brain matter was everywhere. His followers had stopped to look at him. Moriarty had just turned to them and shot them all, letting them join the empty bodies on the floor.
It was ridiculously easy to flee. No one had survived long enough to call the police. All Moriarty had to do was walk out of Waterloo Station, and climb into his car. He was gone before the first wails of a siren started up in the distance.
The next place to be targeted was the business district of London. He sent five SUVs into the five most populated buildings; the drivers had the five most powerful bombs Moriarty had ever made strapped to their chests. He watched from the top floor of the tallest building near enough to see but far enough not to be caught in the blast. A cold sense of satisfaction ran through him as the first bomb went off, the flames tinting the lenses of his binoculars red.
He got a text nearly a half hour after the bombings.
Why?
SH
He glared at the screen of his phone before carefully tapping out his reply.
Think. M
His phone didn't chime again after that.
The third target was New Scotland Yard. The collapse of London depended on the fact that there would be no one there to stop the madness. The little policemen had been trying so hard to bring order back to the panicking streets of London. They had been doing an okay job but Moriarty needed it to stop.
There was also the bonus of the deaths of all of Sherlock favourite crime solving buddies.
All it took was a text. He had sent it to one of his moles in the force, telling him to pick up the package that was sitting on the corner of his desk and take it to Detective Inspector Lestrade.
He sat in the building across the street with an empty chair next to his. The table held two glasses of red wine but only one was being drunk. Moriarty gently tapped his glass against the untouched one the moment the bomb went off.
The next text he received was a little bit angry, a little bit distressed.
No one else needs to die. SH
Moriarty just smiled, stroking his thumb over the screen, almost as if he could caress the message.
No, I think they do. M
He leaned back and laughed. He would never admit that the tears sliding down his face were from anything but amusement.
Next was St. Bart's. Moriarty felt no remorse for blowing the hospital to kingdom come. He felt as if were an act of mercy. Only the dead and dying were there anyway. He didn't feel bad about Molly either. She had been annoying anyway.
He had stuffed explosives down the throat of one of his underlings, forcing him to swallow about a pound of C4. He let the man stumble his way to St. Bart's only for him to explode in the middle of a crowed emergency room.
Moriarty sat and watched the news that night, drinking his wine. He smiled as the woman behind the desk obviously trembled as she read the news off the prompter. They had been changed from the daily rounds of who had died, what had been bombed and a plea to please stop panicking and to please stop the violence to a message that Moriarty had written himself.
He watched the light from the television dance over the rifle and empty arm chair as the host of the nightly news talked.
"You know what's coming next. Your heart is burning but I still have so much more left. I took your brother, your co-workers, and your friends. All that's left is the thing you love most. I'm keeping my promise." She finished with a soft sob.
Moriarty reached across and stroked his fingers down the barrel of the riffle.
It ended at the pool. It was little more then rubble now, but the changing stations still stood and the pool was half filled with debris and water but it was still enough.
There were still some changes though. This time Dr. Watson wasn't strapped to a bomb, but kneeling on the floor blindfolded and beaten. Blood trickled from the wound on the side of his head and his lip was split. The ribs Moriarty had kicked at for the past hour must be broken by now, but that wouldn't matter in a little bit.
He pressed the gun to the back of the doctor's head a little harder.
Nothing mattered but this anymore. London was razed the ground. Almost everyone who had been living there three weeks before were either dead or the had fled. Buildings still burned, and the smoke had permanently changed the sky inky.
Sherlock stepped out of the shadows, cheek scraped and his own lip split. He wore jeans and boots, looking nothing like the put together professional that he actually was. He was dirty and his hair stuck up in every direction and a deep bruise was forming over his left temple.
Moriarty smiled and beckoned Sherlock over, who did so without a fight. He stood before Moriarty looking very much like a soldier in war. He kneeled in front of his doctor when he was told to.
Sherlock's eyes drifted over John, taking in and cataloguing every little detail, pulling stories from the details on his face. His grey eyes flicked up to Moriarty, a silent demand to get on with what he had planned.
Moriarty smirked, "Kiss him."
Sherlock leaned forward, cutting off Watson's pleas of 'Sherlock no,' and 'Don't' with the press of his lips on the doctors. His eyes slipped closed and Sherlock reached up to gently cradle Watson's jaw.
Moriarty shot John in the back of the head. The bullet ripped through the doctors head before Sherlock's. They fell to the ground, holding each other in death. Moriarty turned away, in what he told himself was disgust, not jealousy.
It took him a moment to realise that he had nothing left to burn.
starlessnightly
Rating: Hard R
Warning: Violent themes; Character death; Swearing; This is my most twisted story ever. And that's saying something, because I can come up with some twisted shit.
Summery: Moriarty loses the only thing that was between him and the destruction of London.
You have been warned.
It was a mistake to bring Moran along. At the beginning, it had seemed like a wonderful idea, to have his right hand man there, an unwavering red dot over Sherlock Holmes's forehead. But he hadn't factored in the utter... devotion between Holmes and his little pet. The detective had blown the entire pool sky high. The explosion had torn through everything and it made the walkway above the pool collapse.
Moran had been on that walkway.
The dead henchmen around Moran were literally just burning stumps of torso and head; most of them had had their limbs blown off. Moriarty walked over them, not caring if he stepped on a half alive man and causing him pain. A piece of debris gone straight through the soft flesh of Moran's stomach, the same flesh that Moriarty had been marking with teeth and tongue that morning. He had knelt by Moran, pulling the soldier into his lap and stroking his hair. He didn't notice the tears going down his face until they landed on Moran's cheek.
Moran had smiled at him, blood bubbling up and over his lips as he coughed. Moriarty thought he was beautiful, and he told Moran so. That had earned him a weak laugh. Moran's fingers shook as he cupped Moriarty's jaw. He had croaked out a rough, 'I love you, James.' He was dying and he knew it, but he still pulled James down for a kiss.
He had died the moment Moriarty had pressed his lips to the sniper's.
The weeks after the pool had been living hell. Moriarty would come home, expecting to have things thrown at him for being late. But when nothing came flying his way, his heart would harden just a little bit more. There were still little things that would set Moriarty off either into a blind fit of rage or hysterical crying. The spotless British L96A1 leaning against Moran's armchair set him into the darkest of moods every time he saw it, but he didn't dare move it. He had buried Moran the day before, but it still felt like blasphemy to move Moran's favourite gun.
After a few days of moping around his far to empty flat, Moriarty realised that he should be getting revenge. It was entirely Holmes's fault for blowing the pool up and killing Moran. He had been the one who shot the bomb vest. It was his fault. Everything was his fault.
He'd kill every thing that Sherlock ever loved. He'd burn the detective's heart, just as he had promised.
At first, he couldn't chose who he wanted to kill first. There was always that Doctor that Sherlock lived with, but he wanted to save that for last. He wanted to make Sherlock kiss Watson before shooting Watson in the fucking head. There was always New Scotland Yard, but that wasn't enough. St. Barts was another place he could blow up, but he didn't think that the loss of a hospital would bother Sherlock that much.
What did Sherlock love enough to die for?
London. Sherlock Holmes loved London with all his heart. Holmes rarely left the city and only did if it was for a case. He had memorised the streets and had so deeply placed himself in it's grip that he practically lived off the energy alone.
London needed to burn.
Moriarty never really liked getting his hands dirty. But now that Moran was... Now that he was alone, he didn't trust anyone to do any of the really important jobs themselves. That was the only reason why he was here. Of course, he had brought henchmen with him, but he needed to be there to make sure everything went smoothly.
That was the only reason he was there at Waterloo Station, with a knapsack full of ammunition and a sub-machine gun tucked into the side of his trench coat.
He and his henchmen strolled right into Waterloo Station and started shooting. Men, woman and children were shot down. Not a soul was allowed to leave alive. After the first few shots, someone had started to scream, triggering mass panic. All the running and grouping only made it easier to shoot them.
It didn't last long, not more then ten minutes, but by the end of it bodies and spent ammunition littered the floor. Blood, guts and brain matter was everywhere. His followers had stopped to look at him. Moriarty had just turned to them and shot them all, letting them join the empty bodies on the floor.
It was ridiculously easy to flee. No one had survived long enough to call the police. All Moriarty had to do was walk out of Waterloo Station, and climb into his car. He was gone before the first wails of a siren started up in the distance.
The next place to be targeted was the business district of London. He sent five SUVs into the five most populated buildings; the drivers had the five most powerful bombs Moriarty had ever made strapped to their chests. He watched from the top floor of the tallest building near enough to see but far enough not to be caught in the blast. A cold sense of satisfaction ran through him as the first bomb went off, the flames tinting the lenses of his binoculars red.
He got a text nearly a half hour after the bombings.
Why?
SH
He glared at the screen of his phone before carefully tapping out his reply.
Think. M
His phone didn't chime again after that.
The third target was New Scotland Yard. The collapse of London depended on the fact that there would be no one there to stop the madness. The little policemen had been trying so hard to bring order back to the panicking streets of London. They had been doing an okay job but Moriarty needed it to stop.
There was also the bonus of the deaths of all of Sherlock favourite crime solving buddies.
All it took was a text. He had sent it to one of his moles in the force, telling him to pick up the package that was sitting on the corner of his desk and take it to Detective Inspector Lestrade.
He sat in the building across the street with an empty chair next to his. The table held two glasses of red wine but only one was being drunk. Moriarty gently tapped his glass against the untouched one the moment the bomb went off.
The next text he received was a little bit angry, a little bit distressed.
No one else needs to die. SH
Moriarty just smiled, stroking his thumb over the screen, almost as if he could caress the message.
No, I think they do. M
He leaned back and laughed. He would never admit that the tears sliding down his face were from anything but amusement.
Next was St. Bart's. Moriarty felt no remorse for blowing the hospital to kingdom come. He felt as if were an act of mercy. Only the dead and dying were there anyway. He didn't feel bad about Molly either. She had been annoying anyway.
He had stuffed explosives down the throat of one of his underlings, forcing him to swallow about a pound of C4. He let the man stumble his way to St. Bart's only for him to explode in the middle of a crowed emergency room.
Moriarty sat and watched the news that night, drinking his wine. He smiled as the woman behind the desk obviously trembled as she read the news off the prompter. They had been changed from the daily rounds of who had died, what had been bombed and a plea to please stop panicking and to please stop the violence to a message that Moriarty had written himself.
He watched the light from the television dance over the rifle and empty arm chair as the host of the nightly news talked.
"You know what's coming next. Your heart is burning but I still have so much more left. I took your brother, your co-workers, and your friends. All that's left is the thing you love most. I'm keeping my promise." She finished with a soft sob.
Moriarty reached across and stroked his fingers down the barrel of the riffle.
It ended at the pool. It was little more then rubble now, but the changing stations still stood and the pool was half filled with debris and water but it was still enough.
There were still some changes though. This time Dr. Watson wasn't strapped to a bomb, but kneeling on the floor blindfolded and beaten. Blood trickled from the wound on the side of his head and his lip was split. The ribs Moriarty had kicked at for the past hour must be broken by now, but that wouldn't matter in a little bit.
He pressed the gun to the back of the doctor's head a little harder.
Nothing mattered but this anymore. London was razed the ground. Almost everyone who had been living there three weeks before were either dead or the had fled. Buildings still burned, and the smoke had permanently changed the sky inky.
Sherlock stepped out of the shadows, cheek scraped and his own lip split. He wore jeans and boots, looking nothing like the put together professional that he actually was. He was dirty and his hair stuck up in every direction and a deep bruise was forming over his left temple.
Moriarty smiled and beckoned Sherlock over, who did so without a fight. He stood before Moriarty looking very much like a soldier in war. He kneeled in front of his doctor when he was told to.
Sherlock's eyes drifted over John, taking in and cataloguing every little detail, pulling stories from the details on his face. His grey eyes flicked up to Moriarty, a silent demand to get on with what he had planned.
Moriarty smirked, "Kiss him."
Sherlock leaned forward, cutting off Watson's pleas of 'Sherlock no,' and 'Don't' with the press of his lips on the doctors. His eyes slipped closed and Sherlock reached up to gently cradle Watson's jaw.
Moriarty shot John in the back of the head. The bullet ripped through the doctors head before Sherlock's. They fell to the ground, holding each other in death. Moriarty turned away, in what he told himself was disgust, not jealousy.
It took him a moment to realise that he had nothing left to burn.