A/N: And… another one-shot… I hate this fandom… It's burrowed itself deep into my brain, refusing to release its hostage hold on my imagination. I both hate and love this fandom at the same time, though it is surprising how many storied I've been cranking out O.o (Moriarty is in my brain!)
Ok, I'm not insane, but this story kinda shows insanity. Hope you like it, and please review!
I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK
Conscience is the mirror of our souls, which represents the errors of our lives in their full shape.
George Bancroft
I practiced making faces in the mirror and it would drive my mother crazy. She used to scare me by saying that I was going to see the devil if I kept looking in the mirror. That fascinated me even more, of course.
Jim Carrey
The words swam through his head as he hid away in the bathroom of his school.
Freak, Psychopath, Freak, Psychopath, FREAK, PSYCHOPATH! They continued to get louder until he finally snapped.
"STOP IT!" He bellowed at the empty bathroom, sighing and curling up on the dirty floor that probably harbored hundreds of unique bacteria, native only to disgusting bathroom floors.
Suddenly, he had the feeling someone was watching him. His dark eyes looked up to see someone staring at him with cold, black eyes. He staggered a bit from where he was sitting, before he noticed that the man was in a mirror. That dead eyed boy staring at him was his reflection. Suddenly curious, he approached the mirror cautiously, staring at his reflection in the mirror for the first time.
Dark blue jeans, and a long sleeved white shirt that was loose, along with an old pair of tennis shoes that no longer fit quite as comfortably as they should have. But those eyes… Those horrifying and dark eyes that were boring into his own soul. Suddenly he understood why he was called a freak and a psychopath. Those eyes… They would not become normal until they saw blood… Suddenly frightened, he lashed out, and felt a burning pain before hearing the crash of the glass in the mirror, as It broke and cascaded down onto the floor around his feet, some pieces damp and reddened by his own blood. He cautiously picked up a piece and looked at his eyes in the reflection. Normal… Not insane, just, normal…
He let out a sigh of relief before he heard the door squeak open, to reveal a young girl about a year older than him. She had his eyes… The very same eyes as him, that now showed fear and confusion as she saw the young boy holding his hand to stanch the blood flow.
Sighing and weaving her way through the glass, like a butterfly would flit from flower to flower, she made her way towards him, before sitting next to him and hugging him as he let two single tears flow from his dark and depthless eyes.
"It's okay, Jim… It's okay…" She said, and Jim Moriarty hoped, for the last time in his life, for something better to come along.
Mirror, Mirror on the wall, who's the most dangerous of them all?
Jim Moriarty.
A/N: Okay, wow… That was pretty good, to me… Though I'm kinda scared about how well I can write Moriarty… Eh, can't be that creepy, can it? *reads it over* What the Hooper? Where did the blood come from? Okay, that was not planned. And at the end it gets sporadic, but that's just how Jim talks and thinks, in my mind. Hope you enjoyed.