Fic: Villains Don't Have Happy Endings [BBC's Sherlock]
Title: Villains Don't Have Happy Endings
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Rating: PG
Warning(s): Minor character death, suicide,
Word Count: 5029
Summary: Jim never did see it coming, but that was the point, wasn't it? They would play their games, watching the tension build until they gave it one last parting kiss and watched it shatter apart. That was the fun; the tense, trembling moment before the climax.
Author Note: For the Sherlock Reverse Bang picture by creepylicious Thank-you to my beta angelichomicde and to my stunning friend Intempestivus, who held my hand and kept telling me that I could do this. This story is something that was highly inspired by limbo, a place near and dear to my heart that comes out in everything I write apparently. I'm not one for linear plots, or standard ideas. I generally go for what you're about to read, a bunch of scenes thrown together, hopefully making sense in the end. This is all that I have to offer and I hope that it's worthy of the art I wrote for.
Sometimes you get a story that wants to be told, but it fights you the entire time. This story did exactly that. It was a struggle to get anything past the first scene out. I spent months writing, scrapping and then rewriting again. It was an endless loop of frustration, but coming into the last moments of the SRBB, I knew that I didn't want to let myself down again. So I wrote and I wrote. This story is not my favourite piece and I doubt it will ever earn a place in my heart. What it is, is me showing myself that I can do this, that I can ignore my writers block and struggle under the words that give me such a hard time. I can accomplish something and that's something even better than love.
Villains Don't Have Happy Endings...
Jim lies down with the birds. It wasn't poetic symbolism or anything of the sorts. He’d never had time for poetry and he wasn’t going to start with it now. Well, he had had time, but it always seemed like an incredible bore. He knew how to use his tongue and that had been all the use for words that he had needed in life.
No, Jim lies down with the birds, in a field that stretches out until you can see nothing but grass. He lies down in the middle of it all and the birds come to him. He didn’t move, he didn’t breathe, he didn’t even think.
Hours pass and the birds must think that he was no threat to them, because they circle down from the pale blue sky, landing silently in the grass around him. Hundreds of the dark creatures, raspy caws and beady black eyes. The movement brings him back to himself, sucking in air like a drowning man.
He remained still for the most part, lets the rise and fall of his chest be the only sign of his wakefulness, because it sure isn’t life. The whirl of his thoughts is background noise, a low contented hum and no, that’s not right.
His head should be spinning, filled with noise and chaos and ideas; the way that it's always been. But it’s not; it’s filled with nothing but the awareness of his surroundings. Quiet, quiet and he can't remember a time that it's been this silent in his head, can't fathom when or where or what would bring this on.
He twisted his head to the side, looking at one of the birds that had landed right beside him. A rather large carrion crow from what he could tell. The bird watched him in turn, glossy black feathers ruffling in interest. It was large, it's wings tucked in, but it's body tense and ready to take flight.
Jim stretched out a hand, reaching for the bird, for no other reason than it all seemed so wrong. There was the briefest touch of feathers beneath the palm of his hand, but it all fell away before he could fully register it.
:: :: :: ::
James was sitting at the kitchen table, his hands folded in front of him as he watched his mother. She was perched on a stool across from him, her expression carefully blank as she studied him in turn. It was silent and James doesn't think that the house has been like this before. There was always noise, so much noise. His mother constantly speaking, never keeping her thoughts to herself, or his father muttering hatefully as he moved through the house.
There was none of it though. Nothing but the sound of the fridge humming and that was easily tuned out. It was as if she were waiting for something to break, for him to crumble and ask her just why she had called him down from his room in the middle of the night. He kept his mouth shut and continued to watch her with nothing showing on his face, because he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of watching him crack. She no longer had the power to make him break under her steely gaze, had lost it years ago.
He kept his questions to himself, even though his curiosity was scratching him up on the inside, begging him to open his mouth and ask. He could survive the mental wounds that his patience sometimes provoked, but the humiliation of losing to his mother was something that he would not afford.
He kept his mouth shut, ignoring the urge to speak, his thumb nail digging into the soft skin of his finger. He could keep the curiosity at bay, wait until the perfect moment to strike. He had learned from the best, had even became better than the best. And he watched his mother slip, watched her tremble and finally parted her lips to speak. She wasn’t as good as he was, not any more.
“You have to see,” she informed him and that wasn't nearly enough information to go on. He didn't move, waiting to see what she would do and knowing that his impassive state will only serve to aggravate her. She was just like him, never willing to lose, not after the buildup that caused their hearts to shudder in their chests.
They played their games, watching the tension build until they gave it one last parting kiss and watched it shatter apart. That was the fun; the tense, trembling moment before the climax.
“This was never something you would have seen coming, not as you are now. This is my last parting gift to you, my darling little boy.” She reached out a hand across the table and cupped his cheek. It wasn't a caring touch, but one that quieted the voices in his head so that she could finish. She smiled, sharp biting edges, as her thumb traced the line of his cheek.
She pulled back, smile on her face as she lifted something from her lap. It glittered under the kitchen light, silver and beautiful. James had seen it before, tucked away deep in a drawer, something that he wasn’t supposed to find.
She was right though, he never did expect this. The lift of a gun to her still smiling mouth and he wondered what it tasted like against her tongue. He never expected the pull of a trigger and the sharp sound that echoed around the sparse kitchen. He never expected the hole in his mother’s head as she fell back off her chair and to the hardwood floor. He never expected her blood to seep into the cracks of the wood, a stain that nothing would ever be able to remove.
He never did see it coming, but that was the point, wasn't it?
:: :: :: ::
The bird disintegrated underneath his hand as if it hadn't been there in the first place. It sunk into the ground, leaving no evidence and Jim wondered if he wasn't just imagining it all. This could all have been some figment of his imagination, of the turmoils of his mind and he wouldn't be the wiser.
He dug his fingers into the dirt where the bird had been, pressing them into the soft ground. Maybe he expected more from the earth, because when he pulled them free, he found himself disappointed with the outcome.
He gave up and looked upwards and the sky was so blue, so devoid of life; that was until he sat up and disturbed the birds. He wiped the dirt from his hand on his pant leg, flexing his fingers, before pushing himself up with a grunt at the slight effort that it took.
The birds took flight in surprise, afraid of the sudden, alien movement among them. The noise they made, with each flap of wings and brash caw crashed through his thoughts. He watched them take flight, let the noise wash over him, let it take him under.
:: :: :: ::
James watched from the crowds, cheering along with them and smiling. It had only been a week since he had put his mother in the ground, a few tossed flowers and a handful of dirt, before they locked her in her muddy prison.
It had been a small affair, lilies and white roses. He wasn't sure why his father had chosen those particular flowers, but James was sure that it had been to spite his mother's memory more than anything. Their neighbors had attended, along with two of his mother's co-workers. Seren Moriarty had never been well liked, but that was the way she had liked it when she had been alive.
Now here he was, standing beside a bunch of people who just didn't get it. His mother had understood it all, but now she was gone and she had labelled him the boy whose own mother hadn't loved him. He didn't deny that, because for everything his mother had been, she hadn't loved him. She was incapable of such things, just as he was. There had been a mutual respect between them, understanding that they were both meant for more, but this world, this stupid world held them back.
There wasn't a place here for true brilliance, because no one could keep up. No one was willing to try, to check to see if they were right. The constant 'you're wrong', 'you don't know what you're talking about' was what had really pushed his mother to shoot herself in the head. There was only so many times that you could scream 'check the answers, you'll see that I'm right!' before it drove you to the edge.
She shot herself to show him, to show him that this is what she had been driven to. That a bullet to the head had been the only way to avoid the insulting lack of intelligence in the world. That was why he had been allowed to watch, because he understood, he knew the cold dark creep of knowledge that made its way up their spines.
And he watched as the crowd choked in horror and froze in fear. And down Carl Power's went. The boy who had led the pack after James, when his mother had passed. The boy who never thought for a second that James' tears were lies and that he really just wanted to feel them punch quicker, kick harder. It had proven to James that he could survive, that he could prove them all wrong. That he could surpass his mother and show the world that they still had so far to go.
And he hid his smile behind his hands, watching through splayed fingers, a laugh tucked away deep in his throat as the other boy sunk down, with nothing anyone could do to save him. Because this was James' game and he didn't make mistakes.
:: :: :: ::
Jim pushed himself up into a crouch, working up the strength to stand. It took a moment, but he got it, standing and looking up at the sky. This place was too quiet, too devoid of life and distractions. He needed something to hold onto, to remind him that this wasn't everything, because the quiet can pull you under and leave you floundering.
He stood, tugging at the collar of his shirt and twitching his shoulders against the rough fabric touching the back of his neck. It clung to his skin, pulling away only after a tug and leaving him feeling disgusting. He touched the back of his neck, finger nails dragging across his sticky skin and coming away bloodied.
He picked the blood out from under his nail with his teeth, tacky copper against his tongue. It was a taste that he was familiar with and it told him that it really was blood. He wasn't sure what had caused it, but by the way his shirt clung to his back, there had been a lot of it.
And nothing hurt, so he wasn't sure if the blood was even his. His head spun, because that was relevant information, it wasn't something that he should have forgotten. By the way the taste of blood clung to the back of his mouth, he suspected that it was his own, but he just couldn't be sure.
:: :: :: ::
Jim reared forward, throwing his fist against a jaw and he knowing that it had to have fucking hurt the other man. He could see it in the way the man jerked back, reorienting himself, and then in the way he curled his shoulders inwards and swung out. He didn't miss, the crack of ribs sending the air rushing from Jim's lungs.
He danced back, ignoring the fire racing up his side. He's had worse injuries in his life.
"The fuck, mate." The man followed Jim's movement, taking another swing and trying to gain ground. Jim twisted, avoiding getting hit in the other side. He spun on nimble feet, darting out of the way with a humming breath.
He kept careful track of the other man’s expression, waiting for the precise moment when he focused fully on Jim, ignoring everything else. Jim grinned and fell still, a deceptive moment, because the other man took the bait and lunged forward. He caught Jim around the throat, pushing him back against a wall, pressing and pinning him.
"Do you usually go punching strangers or am I special?" The man hissed, his arm pressing harder against Jim's throat. His lip was split, blood dripping down his chin and collecting on Jim's shirt.
"Oh Sebastian, you're special, so very special." Jim choked out and felt the arm against his neck slacken enough that he could suck in a deep breath. He grinned, sharp teeth and a flick of tongue. He could feel a laugh bubbling in his throat, but he had something to say before he could release it. "I have an open position and you would fit perfectly. A job for a moral-less man and a quick draw with a gun."
There was a pause, a moment of silence, before the man spoke again. "What kind of job?" And Jim laughed and laughed.
:: :: :: ::
Jim bit his lip, teeth scraping across them as he stared at his fingers. The slight sheen of saliva, and remainders of flecked blood and dirt left behind. He reached behind him again, fingers running up through his hair and then back down his neck. He could feel the blood on his skin and this time he didn't bother looking at his hand when he pulled it away.
He was already moving on to other things, losing himself in the nothingness around him. He closed his eyes and pictured London in his head. He could see it, the place he would raze to the ground if he so desired it. He'd thought about it, striking a match and watching London fall, but it would have been to easy.
'Jim's got a match for every city. He's struck some, threw others away and even given a few to people. London though, he keeps hers in 'is pocket. He holds her closest, because she's gonna burn the hottest and he wants to save her for last. He's savin' her for when he's backed into a corner or bored and needs some remindin' of who he is. He'll burn this whole world to the ground and London'll be the one left, because she'll never be his home, but she'll always be his chess board.'
Sebastian, always thinking that he knew Jim, guessing and calculating, but not nearly as well as the man he liked to study. That though, was something that Sebastian had always been right about. Tea, jammy dodgers and jumpers. Back alley gun deals, black market trades and money exchanging dirtied hands. The city had two sides and Jim knew them both.
He wanted her back, because this desolate wasteland filled with birds and grass was what he would call hell. It wasn't what he wanted, would never be what he wanted.
:: :: :: ::
Jim shrugged his shoulders, tugging his arms and then letting them slump again. He sighed, his head lolling backwards until he was staring at the ceiling. He tapped his fingers against the back of his chair, waiting and hoping that something happened soon. He didn't know how much time had passed, but by the way his wrists burned, he knew that it had been a while.
The ropes were tight, tying him to the chair in the dank room. It smelled of oil and Jim wondered how many people had been kept here before him. There was a faint taste of blood on his tongue and it made him smile, because this was much more interesting than the week he originally had planned.
"Are you going to be cooperative?" A thick voice pulled his gaze down, until he was looking at a stick of a man. He was dressed in a nondescript black suit, that sagged from his shoulders. He looked the role of low life criminal, well, at least the ones they always depicted in film.
"No, I'm not. Are you going to untie me?" Jim asked, watching as the other man stalked forward. 'James, Patrick, Stuart.' Jim went through the names in his head as he waited for what was going to happen.
"Not for a while, we have a lot to discuss, Mr. Moriarty. The bindings will remain until I have what I want or I no longer have need of keeping you restrained." The man's name was eluding him, a piece of unimportant information that he'd dropped soon after learning it. He wasn't a man that Jim had met before, but he liked to know who was doing business in his city. 'Stefan, Selim, Sam.' The names warmed in his head and he knew that he was getting close.
"I'll scream," Jim knew the rules to these kinds of things, knew the words a victim would say and the pleas they would make. He knew what to say and when; he had always found it amusing how predictably these meetings could go. He lost the grin with a clack of teeth, relaxing back into the chair and ignoring the growing stiffness in his shoulders.
"That is of no matter." And really, how could people be so predictable? He had been hoping for something a little more original, but this man was living up to cheesy television standards. Jim kicked out his feet, crossing them at the ankles and knew that this wasn't nearly as exciting as he had initially hoped. The man was tensing ever so slightly, thrown off by just how at ease Jim was in the situation.
"Oh Samuel, I was hoping for something more along the lines of 'I was planning on it', or even a 'Let's see how loud you can get then, hm?'." Jim let the slight accent in the other man's speech slip off his tongue, liking the way it fell from his lips. "I shouldn't expect these things though, not from a man like you. I just get so helplessly excited that one of you might yet surprise me, but then you always disappoint. Have you ever thought of trying to come up with your own lines? The recycled television ones are getting boring."
"I thought that this could be some fun, but you know what, it really isn't. Hiding Sebastian's guns and making him go find them is more fun than this. He makes these stupid faces and it's easier to look at then yours." Jim cocked his head to the side, not a single emotion playing across his face.
Samuel stalked forward, his foul breath falling over Jim's face and his bony fingers digging into his neck. This man really was nothing, just some low level crime leader who thought that if he took down the whispered name of Moriarty, he might earn standing. Jim knew this, because Samuel hadn't been the first and as always, he wouldn't be the last.
A name whispered in nothing but fear was one that was coveted in their world. It was easily earned, or in Jim's case it had been. Not so many had the luxury of being brilliant and able to organize anything they set their mind to. Some had money, some had family footsteps to follow, but Jim came from nothing. He was a ghost that came from nowhere and that was what they feared. They feared a name that had no proper origin in their world. They feared the stories that were associated to the name, the tales of what it had been involved in.
And at the top of that name sat Jim, someone who made no sense and only did it because it was fun. Not many knew the king of the name, the ringleader, but those who did always attempted to take him down. Cut off the head of the snake and you killed the body, that was what they were all taught. It wasn't true in Jim's case, but they had a hard enough time trying to kill him that they didn't need to know that just yet.
"I'm done now," Jim snapped before Samuel could get out another word. It was quick, the door to the room being kicked open and Samuel being gunned down. For how fast it happened, it could have been mere seconds or a minute. If Jim had had the decency or patience to pay attention, he would have known the exact amount of time it took, but he really didn't care.
"I thought that it could be interesting, but Sebastian, he was so dull. He called me Mr. Moriarty. Out of everything he could have chosen, he had to call me Mr. Moriarty." Jim watched the puddle of blood spreading out beneath Samuel, spilling from a hole in the center of his forehead. "Perfect as always, but you took too long."
"Lukas took a wrong turn, ended up headin' the wrong way for a bit, before I noticed." Sebastian sauntered into the room, shoving his pistol into the back of his pants as he went to untie Jim. The ropes quickly fell away under his deft fingers, finally giving Jim the room to move his arms. He rolled his wrists, working his circulation back into them with a sigh of annoyance. "You haven't been here that long, time just passes faster in that head of yours."
Jim kicked Sebastian in the shin when he came to stand in front of him, hard enough to earn a hissed breath, but no reprimand. "You still took too long for my liking. Do we need to fire Lukas?"
"His first offense, so we don't need to kill him. We'll keep his bullet for the next mistake he makes. He's the one who made you eggs when I was in Moscow, you liked him." Sebastian rolled his eyes and pulled Jim from the chair, not caring that he was stepping in the pool of blood.
It wasn't Sebastian's sense of mercy that had him defending Lukas, because he wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet in the boys head if he so much as said anything out of line. He said the same thing whenever Jim suggested firing someone, because he said these kinds of things often enough that if Sebastian listened every time, Jim would have no one working under him. Except for Sebastian, but he didn't count.
"Fine, be that way." Jim pouted as he stretched and started out of the room, expecting Sebastian to clean up the room. "And I didn't like him, he just made good eggs. There's a difference!"
:: :: :: ::
Jim fully took in the area surrounding him; the dirt beneath his feet, the bird in the sky above and the utter lack of anything real. That was what was digging its claws into the back of his mind, what was trying to pull forgotten memories forth and bring everything clamoring down around him. There was nothing and it pushed him into motion, into realization.
It wasn't real.
The thrum of thoughts grew quickly until his head was pounding with it, splitting open and spilling forth. His hands clutched at his head, attempting to hold it all in, keep it together.
This world was so terribly wrong, too quiet, forgotten and empty. There were the birds and grass, but it wasn't London. Filthy disgusting, ready to burn London. That was where he had last been, standing above her and thinking that it was ‘all too fucking easy’.
You’re me, I’m you. It was so easy. I am the key, so good of you to notice. You never did see this one coming, for all the brains in your head, did you? Thought you had a plan, nah, time to come up with a new one. Oops, too late! Take five steps, because this is the last act. Take your bow as I have taken mine. We both know how this is going to end, at least until we start again. We’re both too smart for to let this be it.
He had been moving too fast, knowing what was to come, the smooth feel of metal in his hand. That had been it, hadn't it? The moment it all fell together and left him scrambling at the scattered thoughts. His moment to say 'This is what the world does to people like us. It doesn't understand that we are right, that we understand more than it does. It tells us that we're wrong, freaks and the sooner you learn that this world is not worthy of your help, the better.'
Sherlock, he had done it for Sherlock. Just as his mother had done for him when he had been nothing but a child. A gun and a fall. The final act.
That had been real, something that he had orchestrated. That was where he should be, not here. There was still so much to be done.
And the world trembled beneath his feet, the birds voices turning to screams. The world fell apart around him, grass bleeding into industrial thoughts and the sky falling in sharp pieces.
And when he opened his eyes, the field was filled with discarded remains, shards of glass and twisting pieces of metal. It was a destroyed landscape, torn apart by the unraveling seams of his mind. Jim tugged at his hair, fingernails digging into his scalp, because he couldn't stay here. It was too disjointed, too lost within memories and half formed thoughts.
He was caught and he didn’t know how to escape. He had thought that the moment he pulled the trigger that it would all have disappeared, but it hadn’t. There was still the constant noise and he’s still moving too fast for anyone to keep up to, for anyone to want to keep up. He sneered at the thought, dropping his hands to his side.
He inhaled deeply, pushing the slight panic growing in the back of his mind down, because he was better than that. The panic and agony was what had worn his mother down and he was not her. No matter how similar their paths had been, he was better than that.
He felt his breath hitch on the exhale and his hands spasmed at his side. The roar of his thoughts grew as his body betrayed him. He closed his eyes and collapsed to his knees as his hands scrabbled at his throat. Whatever this was, it wasn't lasting either and that was alright with Jim.
:: :: :: ::
Jim came alive on a choke, clawing at the air in front of him and pushing back blankets. He writhed where he lay on a bed, trying to escape his confines; stuck within thoughts of glass, metal and flesh. He pulled free, his hands finding their way to his face and pulling at tape.
The uncomfortable feel of something tracing down his throat gave him a start, but he didn't panic, immediately knowing what it was. A warm hand touched his, pushing it away from the tube in his mouth and back down onto the bed.
They removed the tape and then pulled the tube gently out on Jim's exhale. The minute it was free, his hand was back up at his face, covering his mouth as he took his first breath on a spluttered cough. It froze in his lungs, stretched them and pulled them tight on the quick exhale. His heart was thundering in his chest, competing with the speed that the machine by his side, was beeping at.
“Welcome back,” Jim turns his head, following the voice that flowed over the sound of a man blathering away on the television across the room. Sebastian stood there, an endotracheal tube in his hand. He dropped it to the floor, not caring where it landed. He was going for relaxed, but Jim could see the tense lines in his shoulders and the way his eyes were narrowed.
Jim opened his mouth to speak, but only a rasping sound escaped him. His mouth twisted in distaste, because now would have been a really good time to tell Moran to fuck off and get him a glass of water. Instead, Moran only smirks and quirked an eyebrow. “The Doc said not to bother, that you’d have a tough time speaking for a bit. Don’t strain yourself, you can tell me about your deathly experience later.”
“You’ve been gone for a while and a lot's changed. Not really though. It's been a bit, but not long. Would have been long for you though, always moving too fast. You ready for me to catch you up, because I’m only gonna do this once.” Moran drawled, not phrasing it as a question, but a statement. He was one of the few that never waited, that always took that first step and launched into it.
Jim relaxed back into the bed, breathing and listening to Sebastian. He listed off everything that had happened, from the insignificant, to the big. He pulled up a newspaper headlined with 'Consulting Detective; Fraud', showing Jim that it had all gone to plan while he had been asleep, dead, gone, whatever the state that he had been in.
He listed off what had happened in his own business, how they had disassembled the main crime rings that they ran. He explained which branches had been given new resources and just how far they now reached. And it truly showed Jim that he had been right, even without him, it would run and never stop.
The water could wait, because the information was more important to Jim. He's being told just where he can start and where his attention would be best held. Where the next game could happen and the first strings that would supply the fun. He smiled, letting Sebastian’s voice drown out the constant noise in his head, lets Sebastian fill it with new information, losing the unimportant.
And Moriarty organizes the all the new information between shards of glass and twisted metal pieces.
Until They Do.
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Rating: PG
Warning(s): Minor character death, suicide,
Word Count: 5029
Summary: Jim never did see it coming, but that was the point, wasn't it? They would play their games, watching the tension build until they gave it one last parting kiss and watched it shatter apart. That was the fun; the tense, trembling moment before the climax.
Author Note: For the Sherlock Reverse Bang picture by creepylicious Thank-you to my beta angelichomicde and to my stunning friend Intempestivus, who held my hand and kept telling me that I could do this. This story is something that was highly inspired by limbo, a place near and dear to my heart that comes out in everything I write apparently. I'm not one for linear plots, or standard ideas. I generally go for what you're about to read, a bunch of scenes thrown together, hopefully making sense in the end. This is all that I have to offer and I hope that it's worthy of the art I wrote for.
Sometimes you get a story that wants to be told, but it fights you the entire time. This story did exactly that. It was a struggle to get anything past the first scene out. I spent months writing, scrapping and then rewriting again. It was an endless loop of frustration, but coming into the last moments of the SRBB, I knew that I didn't want to let myself down again. So I wrote and I wrote. This story is not my favourite piece and I doubt it will ever earn a place in my heart. What it is, is me showing myself that I can do this, that I can ignore my writers block and struggle under the words that give me such a hard time. I can accomplish something and that's something even better than love.
Villains Don't Have Happy Endings...
Jim lies down with the birds. It wasn't poetic symbolism or anything of the sorts. He’d never had time for poetry and he wasn’t going to start with it now. Well, he had had time, but it always seemed like an incredible bore. He knew how to use his tongue and that had been all the use for words that he had needed in life.
No, Jim lies down with the birds, in a field that stretches out until you can see nothing but grass. He lies down in the middle of it all and the birds come to him. He didn’t move, he didn’t breathe, he didn’t even think.
Hours pass and the birds must think that he was no threat to them, because they circle down from the pale blue sky, landing silently in the grass around him. Hundreds of the dark creatures, raspy caws and beady black eyes. The movement brings him back to himself, sucking in air like a drowning man.
He remained still for the most part, lets the rise and fall of his chest be the only sign of his wakefulness, because it sure isn’t life. The whirl of his thoughts is background noise, a low contented hum and no, that’s not right.
His head should be spinning, filled with noise and chaos and ideas; the way that it's always been. But it’s not; it’s filled with nothing but the awareness of his surroundings. Quiet, quiet and he can't remember a time that it's been this silent in his head, can't fathom when or where or what would bring this on.
He twisted his head to the side, looking at one of the birds that had landed right beside him. A rather large carrion crow from what he could tell. The bird watched him in turn, glossy black feathers ruffling in interest. It was large, it's wings tucked in, but it's body tense and ready to take flight.
Jim stretched out a hand, reaching for the bird, for no other reason than it all seemed so wrong. There was the briefest touch of feathers beneath the palm of his hand, but it all fell away before he could fully register it.
:: :: :: ::
James was sitting at the kitchen table, his hands folded in front of him as he watched his mother. She was perched on a stool across from him, her expression carefully blank as she studied him in turn. It was silent and James doesn't think that the house has been like this before. There was always noise, so much noise. His mother constantly speaking, never keeping her thoughts to herself, or his father muttering hatefully as he moved through the house.
There was none of it though. Nothing but the sound of the fridge humming and that was easily tuned out. It was as if she were waiting for something to break, for him to crumble and ask her just why she had called him down from his room in the middle of the night. He kept his mouth shut and continued to watch her with nothing showing on his face, because he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of watching him crack. She no longer had the power to make him break under her steely gaze, had lost it years ago.
He kept his questions to himself, even though his curiosity was scratching him up on the inside, begging him to open his mouth and ask. He could survive the mental wounds that his patience sometimes provoked, but the humiliation of losing to his mother was something that he would not afford.
He kept his mouth shut, ignoring the urge to speak, his thumb nail digging into the soft skin of his finger. He could keep the curiosity at bay, wait until the perfect moment to strike. He had learned from the best, had even became better than the best. And he watched his mother slip, watched her tremble and finally parted her lips to speak. She wasn’t as good as he was, not any more.
“You have to see,” she informed him and that wasn't nearly enough information to go on. He didn't move, waiting to see what she would do and knowing that his impassive state will only serve to aggravate her. She was just like him, never willing to lose, not after the buildup that caused their hearts to shudder in their chests.
They played their games, watching the tension build until they gave it one last parting kiss and watched it shatter apart. That was the fun; the tense, trembling moment before the climax.
“This was never something you would have seen coming, not as you are now. This is my last parting gift to you, my darling little boy.” She reached out a hand across the table and cupped his cheek. It wasn't a caring touch, but one that quieted the voices in his head so that she could finish. She smiled, sharp biting edges, as her thumb traced the line of his cheek.
She pulled back, smile on her face as she lifted something from her lap. It glittered under the kitchen light, silver and beautiful. James had seen it before, tucked away deep in a drawer, something that he wasn’t supposed to find.
She was right though, he never did expect this. The lift of a gun to her still smiling mouth and he wondered what it tasted like against her tongue. He never expected the pull of a trigger and the sharp sound that echoed around the sparse kitchen. He never expected the hole in his mother’s head as she fell back off her chair and to the hardwood floor. He never expected her blood to seep into the cracks of the wood, a stain that nothing would ever be able to remove.
He never did see it coming, but that was the point, wasn't it?
:: :: :: ::
The bird disintegrated underneath his hand as if it hadn't been there in the first place. It sunk into the ground, leaving no evidence and Jim wondered if he wasn't just imagining it all. This could all have been some figment of his imagination, of the turmoils of his mind and he wouldn't be the wiser.
He dug his fingers into the dirt where the bird had been, pressing them into the soft ground. Maybe he expected more from the earth, because when he pulled them free, he found himself disappointed with the outcome.
He gave up and looked upwards and the sky was so blue, so devoid of life; that was until he sat up and disturbed the birds. He wiped the dirt from his hand on his pant leg, flexing his fingers, before pushing himself up with a grunt at the slight effort that it took.
The birds took flight in surprise, afraid of the sudden, alien movement among them. The noise they made, with each flap of wings and brash caw crashed through his thoughts. He watched them take flight, let the noise wash over him, let it take him under.
:: :: :: ::
James watched from the crowds, cheering along with them and smiling. It had only been a week since he had put his mother in the ground, a few tossed flowers and a handful of dirt, before they locked her in her muddy prison.
It had been a small affair, lilies and white roses. He wasn't sure why his father had chosen those particular flowers, but James was sure that it had been to spite his mother's memory more than anything. Their neighbors had attended, along with two of his mother's co-workers. Seren Moriarty had never been well liked, but that was the way she had liked it when she had been alive.
Now here he was, standing beside a bunch of people who just didn't get it. His mother had understood it all, but now she was gone and she had labelled him the boy whose own mother hadn't loved him. He didn't deny that, because for everything his mother had been, she hadn't loved him. She was incapable of such things, just as he was. There had been a mutual respect between them, understanding that they were both meant for more, but this world, this stupid world held them back.
There wasn't a place here for true brilliance, because no one could keep up. No one was willing to try, to check to see if they were right. The constant 'you're wrong', 'you don't know what you're talking about' was what had really pushed his mother to shoot herself in the head. There was only so many times that you could scream 'check the answers, you'll see that I'm right!' before it drove you to the edge.
She shot herself to show him, to show him that this is what she had been driven to. That a bullet to the head had been the only way to avoid the insulting lack of intelligence in the world. That was why he had been allowed to watch, because he understood, he knew the cold dark creep of knowledge that made its way up their spines.
And he watched as the crowd choked in horror and froze in fear. And down Carl Power's went. The boy who had led the pack after James, when his mother had passed. The boy who never thought for a second that James' tears were lies and that he really just wanted to feel them punch quicker, kick harder. It had proven to James that he could survive, that he could prove them all wrong. That he could surpass his mother and show the world that they still had so far to go.
And he hid his smile behind his hands, watching through splayed fingers, a laugh tucked away deep in his throat as the other boy sunk down, with nothing anyone could do to save him. Because this was James' game and he didn't make mistakes.
:: :: :: ::
Jim pushed himself up into a crouch, working up the strength to stand. It took a moment, but he got it, standing and looking up at the sky. This place was too quiet, too devoid of life and distractions. He needed something to hold onto, to remind him that this wasn't everything, because the quiet can pull you under and leave you floundering.
He stood, tugging at the collar of his shirt and twitching his shoulders against the rough fabric touching the back of his neck. It clung to his skin, pulling away only after a tug and leaving him feeling disgusting. He touched the back of his neck, finger nails dragging across his sticky skin and coming away bloodied.
He picked the blood out from under his nail with his teeth, tacky copper against his tongue. It was a taste that he was familiar with and it told him that it really was blood. He wasn't sure what had caused it, but by the way his shirt clung to his back, there had been a lot of it.
And nothing hurt, so he wasn't sure if the blood was even his. His head spun, because that was relevant information, it wasn't something that he should have forgotten. By the way the taste of blood clung to the back of his mouth, he suspected that it was his own, but he just couldn't be sure.
:: :: :: ::
Jim reared forward, throwing his fist against a jaw and he knowing that it had to have fucking hurt the other man. He could see it in the way the man jerked back, reorienting himself, and then in the way he curled his shoulders inwards and swung out. He didn't miss, the crack of ribs sending the air rushing from Jim's lungs.
He danced back, ignoring the fire racing up his side. He's had worse injuries in his life.
"The fuck, mate." The man followed Jim's movement, taking another swing and trying to gain ground. Jim twisted, avoiding getting hit in the other side. He spun on nimble feet, darting out of the way with a humming breath.
He kept careful track of the other man’s expression, waiting for the precise moment when he focused fully on Jim, ignoring everything else. Jim grinned and fell still, a deceptive moment, because the other man took the bait and lunged forward. He caught Jim around the throat, pushing him back against a wall, pressing and pinning him.
"Do you usually go punching strangers or am I special?" The man hissed, his arm pressing harder against Jim's throat. His lip was split, blood dripping down his chin and collecting on Jim's shirt.
"Oh Sebastian, you're special, so very special." Jim choked out and felt the arm against his neck slacken enough that he could suck in a deep breath. He grinned, sharp teeth and a flick of tongue. He could feel a laugh bubbling in his throat, but he had something to say before he could release it. "I have an open position and you would fit perfectly. A job for a moral-less man and a quick draw with a gun."
There was a pause, a moment of silence, before the man spoke again. "What kind of job?" And Jim laughed and laughed.
:: :: :: ::
Jim bit his lip, teeth scraping across them as he stared at his fingers. The slight sheen of saliva, and remainders of flecked blood and dirt left behind. He reached behind him again, fingers running up through his hair and then back down his neck. He could feel the blood on his skin and this time he didn't bother looking at his hand when he pulled it away.
He was already moving on to other things, losing himself in the nothingness around him. He closed his eyes and pictured London in his head. He could see it, the place he would raze to the ground if he so desired it. He'd thought about it, striking a match and watching London fall, but it would have been to easy.
'Jim's got a match for every city. He's struck some, threw others away and even given a few to people. London though, he keeps hers in 'is pocket. He holds her closest, because she's gonna burn the hottest and he wants to save her for last. He's savin' her for when he's backed into a corner or bored and needs some remindin' of who he is. He'll burn this whole world to the ground and London'll be the one left, because she'll never be his home, but she'll always be his chess board.'
Sebastian, always thinking that he knew Jim, guessing and calculating, but not nearly as well as the man he liked to study. That though, was something that Sebastian had always been right about. Tea, jammy dodgers and jumpers. Back alley gun deals, black market trades and money exchanging dirtied hands. The city had two sides and Jim knew them both.
He wanted her back, because this desolate wasteland filled with birds and grass was what he would call hell. It wasn't what he wanted, would never be what he wanted.
:: :: :: ::
Jim shrugged his shoulders, tugging his arms and then letting them slump again. He sighed, his head lolling backwards until he was staring at the ceiling. He tapped his fingers against the back of his chair, waiting and hoping that something happened soon. He didn't know how much time had passed, but by the way his wrists burned, he knew that it had been a while.
The ropes were tight, tying him to the chair in the dank room. It smelled of oil and Jim wondered how many people had been kept here before him. There was a faint taste of blood on his tongue and it made him smile, because this was much more interesting than the week he originally had planned.
"Are you going to be cooperative?" A thick voice pulled his gaze down, until he was looking at a stick of a man. He was dressed in a nondescript black suit, that sagged from his shoulders. He looked the role of low life criminal, well, at least the ones they always depicted in film.
"No, I'm not. Are you going to untie me?" Jim asked, watching as the other man stalked forward. 'James, Patrick, Stuart.' Jim went through the names in his head as he waited for what was going to happen.
"Not for a while, we have a lot to discuss, Mr. Moriarty. The bindings will remain until I have what I want or I no longer have need of keeping you restrained." The man's name was eluding him, a piece of unimportant information that he'd dropped soon after learning it. He wasn't a man that Jim had met before, but he liked to know who was doing business in his city. 'Stefan, Selim, Sam.' The names warmed in his head and he knew that he was getting close.
"I'll scream," Jim knew the rules to these kinds of things, knew the words a victim would say and the pleas they would make. He knew what to say and when; he had always found it amusing how predictably these meetings could go. He lost the grin with a clack of teeth, relaxing back into the chair and ignoring the growing stiffness in his shoulders.
"That is of no matter." And really, how could people be so predictable? He had been hoping for something a little more original, but this man was living up to cheesy television standards. Jim kicked out his feet, crossing them at the ankles and knew that this wasn't nearly as exciting as he had initially hoped. The man was tensing ever so slightly, thrown off by just how at ease Jim was in the situation.
"Oh Samuel, I was hoping for something more along the lines of 'I was planning on it', or even a 'Let's see how loud you can get then, hm?'." Jim let the slight accent in the other man's speech slip off his tongue, liking the way it fell from his lips. "I shouldn't expect these things though, not from a man like you. I just get so helplessly excited that one of you might yet surprise me, but then you always disappoint. Have you ever thought of trying to come up with your own lines? The recycled television ones are getting boring."
"I thought that this could be some fun, but you know what, it really isn't. Hiding Sebastian's guns and making him go find them is more fun than this. He makes these stupid faces and it's easier to look at then yours." Jim cocked his head to the side, not a single emotion playing across his face.
Samuel stalked forward, his foul breath falling over Jim's face and his bony fingers digging into his neck. This man really was nothing, just some low level crime leader who thought that if he took down the whispered name of Moriarty, he might earn standing. Jim knew this, because Samuel hadn't been the first and as always, he wouldn't be the last.
A name whispered in nothing but fear was one that was coveted in their world. It was easily earned, or in Jim's case it had been. Not so many had the luxury of being brilliant and able to organize anything they set their mind to. Some had money, some had family footsteps to follow, but Jim came from nothing. He was a ghost that came from nowhere and that was what they feared. They feared a name that had no proper origin in their world. They feared the stories that were associated to the name, the tales of what it had been involved in.
And at the top of that name sat Jim, someone who made no sense and only did it because it was fun. Not many knew the king of the name, the ringleader, but those who did always attempted to take him down. Cut off the head of the snake and you killed the body, that was what they were all taught. It wasn't true in Jim's case, but they had a hard enough time trying to kill him that they didn't need to know that just yet.
"I'm done now," Jim snapped before Samuel could get out another word. It was quick, the door to the room being kicked open and Samuel being gunned down. For how fast it happened, it could have been mere seconds or a minute. If Jim had had the decency or patience to pay attention, he would have known the exact amount of time it took, but he really didn't care.
"I thought that it could be interesting, but Sebastian, he was so dull. He called me Mr. Moriarty. Out of everything he could have chosen, he had to call me Mr. Moriarty." Jim watched the puddle of blood spreading out beneath Samuel, spilling from a hole in the center of his forehead. "Perfect as always, but you took too long."
"Lukas took a wrong turn, ended up headin' the wrong way for a bit, before I noticed." Sebastian sauntered into the room, shoving his pistol into the back of his pants as he went to untie Jim. The ropes quickly fell away under his deft fingers, finally giving Jim the room to move his arms. He rolled his wrists, working his circulation back into them with a sigh of annoyance. "You haven't been here that long, time just passes faster in that head of yours."
Jim kicked Sebastian in the shin when he came to stand in front of him, hard enough to earn a hissed breath, but no reprimand. "You still took too long for my liking. Do we need to fire Lukas?"
"His first offense, so we don't need to kill him. We'll keep his bullet for the next mistake he makes. He's the one who made you eggs when I was in Moscow, you liked him." Sebastian rolled his eyes and pulled Jim from the chair, not caring that he was stepping in the pool of blood.
It wasn't Sebastian's sense of mercy that had him defending Lukas, because he wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet in the boys head if he so much as said anything out of line. He said the same thing whenever Jim suggested firing someone, because he said these kinds of things often enough that if Sebastian listened every time, Jim would have no one working under him. Except for Sebastian, but he didn't count.
"Fine, be that way." Jim pouted as he stretched and started out of the room, expecting Sebastian to clean up the room. "And I didn't like him, he just made good eggs. There's a difference!"
:: :: :: ::
Jim fully took in the area surrounding him; the dirt beneath his feet, the bird in the sky above and the utter lack of anything real. That was what was digging its claws into the back of his mind, what was trying to pull forgotten memories forth and bring everything clamoring down around him. There was nothing and it pushed him into motion, into realization.
It wasn't real.
The thrum of thoughts grew quickly until his head was pounding with it, splitting open and spilling forth. His hands clutched at his head, attempting to hold it all in, keep it together.
This world was so terribly wrong, too quiet, forgotten and empty. There were the birds and grass, but it wasn't London. Filthy disgusting, ready to burn London. That was where he had last been, standing above her and thinking that it was ‘all too fucking easy’.
You’re me, I’m you. It was so easy. I am the key, so good of you to notice. You never did see this one coming, for all the brains in your head, did you? Thought you had a plan, nah, time to come up with a new one. Oops, too late! Take five steps, because this is the last act. Take your bow as I have taken mine. We both know how this is going to end, at least until we start again. We’re both too smart for to let this be it.
He had been moving too fast, knowing what was to come, the smooth feel of metal in his hand. That had been it, hadn't it? The moment it all fell together and left him scrambling at the scattered thoughts. His moment to say 'This is what the world does to people like us. It doesn't understand that we are right, that we understand more than it does. It tells us that we're wrong, freaks and the sooner you learn that this world is not worthy of your help, the better.'
Sherlock, he had done it for Sherlock. Just as his mother had done for him when he had been nothing but a child. A gun and a fall. The final act.
That had been real, something that he had orchestrated. That was where he should be, not here. There was still so much to be done.
And the world trembled beneath his feet, the birds voices turning to screams. The world fell apart around him, grass bleeding into industrial thoughts and the sky falling in sharp pieces.
And when he opened his eyes, the field was filled with discarded remains, shards of glass and twisting pieces of metal. It was a destroyed landscape, torn apart by the unraveling seams of his mind. Jim tugged at his hair, fingernails digging into his scalp, because he couldn't stay here. It was too disjointed, too lost within memories and half formed thoughts.
He was caught and he didn’t know how to escape. He had thought that the moment he pulled the trigger that it would all have disappeared, but it hadn’t. There was still the constant noise and he’s still moving too fast for anyone to keep up to, for anyone to want to keep up. He sneered at the thought, dropping his hands to his side.
He inhaled deeply, pushing the slight panic growing in the back of his mind down, because he was better than that. The panic and agony was what had worn his mother down and he was not her. No matter how similar their paths had been, he was better than that.
He felt his breath hitch on the exhale and his hands spasmed at his side. The roar of his thoughts grew as his body betrayed him. He closed his eyes and collapsed to his knees as his hands scrabbled at his throat. Whatever this was, it wasn't lasting either and that was alright with Jim.
:: :: :: ::
Jim came alive on a choke, clawing at the air in front of him and pushing back blankets. He writhed where he lay on a bed, trying to escape his confines; stuck within thoughts of glass, metal and flesh. He pulled free, his hands finding their way to his face and pulling at tape.
The uncomfortable feel of something tracing down his throat gave him a start, but he didn't panic, immediately knowing what it was. A warm hand touched his, pushing it away from the tube in his mouth and back down onto the bed.
They removed the tape and then pulled the tube gently out on Jim's exhale. The minute it was free, his hand was back up at his face, covering his mouth as he took his first breath on a spluttered cough. It froze in his lungs, stretched them and pulled them tight on the quick exhale. His heart was thundering in his chest, competing with the speed that the machine by his side, was beeping at.
“Welcome back,” Jim turns his head, following the voice that flowed over the sound of a man blathering away on the television across the room. Sebastian stood there, an endotracheal tube in his hand. He dropped it to the floor, not caring where it landed. He was going for relaxed, but Jim could see the tense lines in his shoulders and the way his eyes were narrowed.
Jim opened his mouth to speak, but only a rasping sound escaped him. His mouth twisted in distaste, because now would have been a really good time to tell Moran to fuck off and get him a glass of water. Instead, Moran only smirks and quirked an eyebrow. “The Doc said not to bother, that you’d have a tough time speaking for a bit. Don’t strain yourself, you can tell me about your deathly experience later.”
“You’ve been gone for a while and a lot's changed. Not really though. It's been a bit, but not long. Would have been long for you though, always moving too fast. You ready for me to catch you up, because I’m only gonna do this once.” Moran drawled, not phrasing it as a question, but a statement. He was one of the few that never waited, that always took that first step and launched into it.
Jim relaxed back into the bed, breathing and listening to Sebastian. He listed off everything that had happened, from the insignificant, to the big. He pulled up a newspaper headlined with 'Consulting Detective; Fraud', showing Jim that it had all gone to plan while he had been asleep, dead, gone, whatever the state that he had been in.
He listed off what had happened in his own business, how they had disassembled the main crime rings that they ran. He explained which branches had been given new resources and just how far they now reached. And it truly showed Jim that he had been right, even without him, it would run and never stop.
The water could wait, because the information was more important to Jim. He's being told just where he can start and where his attention would be best held. Where the next game could happen and the first strings that would supply the fun. He smiled, letting Sebastian’s voice drown out the constant noise in his head, lets Sebastian fill it with new information, losing the unimportant.
And Moriarty organizes the all the new information between shards of glass and twisted metal pieces.
Until They Do.