(no subject)
Wrote a drabble today when I promised myself to read Walter Scot's Bride of Lammermoor. What a great student I must be XD Oh well, we've got a week to prepare. *fidgets* Or two? I think sir Ruiz'll move our report since classes were suspended last week.
Fairytale Ending
Jim does not want Sherlock, not in that sense anyway.
He doesn't want the physical and mental being that is Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't need that mind, no matter how gorgeous it is. He most certainly does not want that body; God knows (or rather, he knows) the places drowning in dirt, scum and life that Sherlock has plunged it into.
What he does want are the things that would.. unravel Sherlock. The things that make up Sherlock, things that, without them, Sherlock would shrivel into a small fetal position and not move for days. He enjoys that fleeting moment of panic in those eyes, before trying to push it down with a mask of indifference. He marvels at the number of signs the other man projects when he's starting to lose his grip.
In short, Jim Moriarty wants Sherlock's heart. All of it.
So, he steals them. All the things that make Sherlock work, tick, wind up, high. He steals them. One by one, he files them: in the corners of his mind, in the hard drive of his laptop (with three different back up copies, one of which is tucked in another continent) or, and this is his favorite, he leaves it out in the open for Sherlock to find.
For two and half glorious years (supposed to have finished nine months ago but, Jim has to admit, he should have calculated how long working against a genius like him should take), Jim coos at bits of Sherlock's heart and flicks them onto the ground, grinding them underneath the metaphorical heel of his Dolce and Gabbana.
It finally ends tonight. They face each other from across the room. Well, not really. They're both looking at John Watson, who is trapped in Jim's loving embrace, if you will ignore the fingers digging into the doctor's bruises.
The doctor has his eyes closed, face deformed and body bruised from a week spent being beaten up. Jim almost thought the doctor had died but, he managed to find a pulse. A weak pulse, but that was rather the point.
Jim was quite pleased. Sherlock looked quite silly; rage and anguish-- he didn't know which expression made Sherlock look more like an idiot.
What pleases him more is that he already knows the ending: one dead man, forever lost as he circles the city, as Jim kills the last, and most vital, piece of his heart in front of his very eyes.
It's going to be quite exquisite.
Fairytale Ending
Jim does not want Sherlock, not in that sense anyway.
He doesn't want the physical and mental being that is Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't need that mind, no matter how gorgeous it is. He most certainly does not want that body; God knows (or rather, he knows) the places drowning in dirt, scum and life that Sherlock has plunged it into.
What he does want are the things that would.. unravel Sherlock. The things that make up Sherlock, things that, without them, Sherlock would shrivel into a small fetal position and not move for days. He enjoys that fleeting moment of panic in those eyes, before trying to push it down with a mask of indifference. He marvels at the number of signs the other man projects when he's starting to lose his grip.
In short, Jim Moriarty wants Sherlock's heart. All of it.
So, he steals them. All the things that make Sherlock work, tick, wind up, high. He steals them. One by one, he files them: in the corners of his mind, in the hard drive of his laptop (with three different back up copies, one of which is tucked in another continent) or, and this is his favorite, he leaves it out in the open for Sherlock to find.
For two and half glorious years (supposed to have finished nine months ago but, Jim has to admit, he should have calculated how long working against a genius like him should take), Jim coos at bits of Sherlock's heart and flicks them onto the ground, grinding them underneath the metaphorical heel of his Dolce and Gabbana.
It finally ends tonight. They face each other from across the room. Well, not really. They're both looking at John Watson, who is trapped in Jim's loving embrace, if you will ignore the fingers digging into the doctor's bruises.
The doctor has his eyes closed, face deformed and body bruised from a week spent being beaten up. Jim almost thought the doctor had died but, he managed to find a pulse. A weak pulse, but that was rather the point.
Jim was quite pleased. Sherlock looked quite silly; rage and anguish-- he didn't know which expression made Sherlock look more like an idiot.
What pleases him more is that he already knows the ending: one dead man, forever lost as he circles the city, as Jim kills the last, and most vital, piece of his heart in front of his very eyes.
It's going to be quite exquisite.