Fic: The Old Wooden Box, Buried in Memories
Title: The Old Wooden Box, Buried in Memories
Author: the_improbable1
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: Jim Moriarty
Genre: character study
Rating: PG
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Words: ~400
Summary/Prompt: "Jim shifts the dirt out of the way until he reaches his goal: an old wooden box, unfinished, built of rough planks and an enthusiastic application of nails." Prompt from dailywritingprompts.
Notes: This was interesting to write. I'm not used to writing in such a minimalistic style-I have a bad habit of going into way too much detail in most things-so, uh, I hope there's enough information?
Jim shifts the dirt out of the way until he reaches his goal: an old wooden box, unfinished, built of rough planks and an enthusiastic application of nails. The latch on the front is simple, not even a lock; it falls open easily, and the lid lifts up with a creak.
He knows this box well-he built it, filled it, and buried it, after all-and his hands are gentle as he examines the contents. He traces the edge of the empty picture frame, flips through the old encyclopaedia of poisons, shuffles through the index cards of recipes-explosives, mostly, but he runs into one for chocolate biscuits and has to set everything down for a moment.
If Jim asked, Sebastian would come along. But that would defeat the purpose of the exercise, so he doesn't ask. No-one caught in his web is allowed anywhere close, on this day once a year. Even criminal masterminds need a day off, he jokes to Sebastian.
The stuffed bear is falling apart, so Jim handles it carefully before replacing it in the box. The old tea set is fragile; he barely touches it. The envelope full of photographs is starting to split at the edges-he'll have to replace it soon.
He remembers the day he made a digital backup of each and every photograph. He'd brought along a small, battery-powered scanner and put all the images onto a USB drive. The drive itself is sealed into a plastic bag far too big for it so it doesn't get lost.
Once Jim has finished examining each item, each remnant of his past-an old tie, a folder of papers covered in messy writing, an unraveling jumper, a blood-spattered handkerchief-he puts everything back into the box, closes the lid, lowers it back into the hold from whence it came, and starts piling dirt on top of it. Ordinarily, he doesn't like getting his hands dirty and leaves the manual labour to his minions, but today is an exception in many ways.
Once the gap in the earth has been filled, Jim gets to his feet and dusts off his clothes-simple, uncomplicated stuff, jeans and a t-shirt and jacket with a baseball cap. Half a smirk curls up one side of his face as he stuffs his hands in his pockets and turns to walk away.
On his way home, he's humming "Happy Birthday" under his breath.
Author: the_improbable1
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: Jim Moriarty
Genre: character study
Rating: PG
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Words: ~400
Summary/Prompt: "Jim shifts the dirt out of the way until he reaches his goal: an old wooden box, unfinished, built of rough planks and an enthusiastic application of nails." Prompt from dailywritingprompts.
Notes: This was interesting to write. I'm not used to writing in such a minimalistic style-I have a bad habit of going into way too much detail in most things-so, uh, I hope there's enough information?
Jim shifts the dirt out of the way until he reaches his goal: an old wooden box, unfinished, built of rough planks and an enthusiastic application of nails. The latch on the front is simple, not even a lock; it falls open easily, and the lid lifts up with a creak.
He knows this box well-he built it, filled it, and buried it, after all-and his hands are gentle as he examines the contents. He traces the edge of the empty picture frame, flips through the old encyclopaedia of poisons, shuffles through the index cards of recipes-explosives, mostly, but he runs into one for chocolate biscuits and has to set everything down for a moment.
If Jim asked, Sebastian would come along. But that would defeat the purpose of the exercise, so he doesn't ask. No-one caught in his web is allowed anywhere close, on this day once a year. Even criminal masterminds need a day off, he jokes to Sebastian.
The stuffed bear is falling apart, so Jim handles it carefully before replacing it in the box. The old tea set is fragile; he barely touches it. The envelope full of photographs is starting to split at the edges-he'll have to replace it soon.
He remembers the day he made a digital backup of each and every photograph. He'd brought along a small, battery-powered scanner and put all the images onto a USB drive. The drive itself is sealed into a plastic bag far too big for it so it doesn't get lost.
Once Jim has finished examining each item, each remnant of his past-an old tie, a folder of papers covered in messy writing, an unraveling jumper, a blood-spattered handkerchief-he puts everything back into the box, closes the lid, lowers it back into the hold from whence it came, and starts piling dirt on top of it. Ordinarily, he doesn't like getting his hands dirty and leaves the manual labour to his minions, but today is an exception in many ways.
Once the gap in the earth has been filled, Jim gets to his feet and dusts off his clothes-simple, uncomplicated stuff, jeans and a t-shirt and jacket with a baseball cap. Half a smirk curls up one side of his face as he stuffs his hands in his pockets and turns to walk away.
On his way home, he's humming "Happy Birthday" under his breath.