PLEASE READ IN 1/2 PAGE WIDTH, BUTTON LOCATED ON TOP RIGHT OF PAGE FORMAT OPTIONS- THIS STORY WAS WRITTEN IN 1/2 WIDTH, READING IT OTHERWISE MESSES WITH ORIGINAL SETTING AND FEEL.

There are things in this world that you don't know, Sherlock Holmes.

Like who stands on a street corner, watching you walk by.

Or the woman with the umbrella and the child in the stroll, with a dog on a leash, struggling to keep balance of the coffee cup in her only free hand, the one she doesn't regularly use- and you notice this, but you know nothing of the truth of it all.

Surely, yes, you can build an intricate story about her past and her present judging by the way her hair is styled, or how her make-up was spread. But you can't define the person behind the shades of colour that scream and cast a tale.
Sure her jumper is red, and her pencil skirt is black, and her shoes are flats which delimitates her as runny and too busy to put something together properly, but you aren't capable of seeing what lies under those shades.

And that is your greatest flaw, Sherlock. The incapability of knowing the genuine person under all the lights.

That's why you hit on truths but miss on character emotions, hone in on characteristics other than what's observed. That's why people find that it's easier to hate you than to appreciate your deductions, because you can't, under any circumstance, know who they are as a whole, until after you've sliced away at their ego to tear a piece for yourself, later to shred, finding no vigor in it after a few, mere seconds of bombarding them with callous words, that quite often don't bounce off them as they do with you.

That's your greatest flaw, dearest Sherlock. Your invalid strikes.

You see them like the floor to a pool, though the waters ripples, the cement is still below, cream colored and clear, with scraps of what not staring above at you, at your pale and decisive eyes that should be a mark of innocence, but are, instead, venomous.

It only struck me as odd when you decided to be humane, and completely regard the situation in a manner as if your little pet were threatening to bite your leg if you started your rounds of profiling my little joke of a character, Jim from IT, little gay Jim dating hopeless Molly Hooper, who had a thing for people who had '-opath' at the end of their personality type.

Of course you muttered it, but you didn't fire the bullet, just teased the trigger, maybe toyed with the safety, but the insides of that gun didn't even tremor.
And there I stood, and left, completely taken aback, insulted, feeling as though I wasn't good enough for your brilliant deductions, all the while aware that you weren't seeing me for who I truly was, just my water colours that would eventually wash off with your unknowing.

And that was the best part, watching the colour from your pallor face drain when you found the vital clue, the answer to all your mind enraging endless strands- me! Me me me, gay Jim from IT. That's when I realized that I was completely right- you fail to see under our skin, despite how well as you think you can.

Because honey, in this world everyone's a liar. We suck in that gut, we tidy our hair and face, as if all are destined for something big once we get out of bed- and you failed to see that as an entire portrait.

So dearest Sherlock, why do I find a most undefined interest in you? It's not sexual, it's hardly romantic, but it is obsessive. But why?
Why is it so, when I find that I'm more intelligent than you?- Very much so, in fact, making you prance around and frolic like a buffoon on heat. Oh never mind that, change of words- like a dance performance with such life and emotion, with frantic lands and jumps and swings and gasps.

But you're no grace Sherlock. You're no dancer. You're just a fool, and your mind if your owner.

Without it, I wonder who you'd be?

Just a pale man in tight suits and a black trench. Or maybe a scrap on the street. But who knows with your unbearable sibling.

So I stand today, across Baker, on a taller roof, standing sideways, my head slightly turned towards the lit windows, chin lightly raised as the brow facing away furrows and the one towards raises, lips lightly pursed at an angle as I contemplate the next move; a looming shadow and you're not even aware, not even sensing it.

"Aim for the head." I repeat, drawly without zeal, towards my accomplice who lays on his belly a few feet away, his hands holding the sniper that's propped on the roofs floor, the long barrel lightly poking over the edge, ready to fire whenever he who's doomed comes into view in the window. Until then we remain in silence, in our still positions, watching.

I wonder what the array of red will do to that nice grey pleather arm chair you claim as yours? The cheap oak table stand, -in between you and that hideous large bulky hardly elegant grandfather death armchair that belongs to your faithful pet-, seems to need a bit more shade to make the oak a nice touch of red mahogany wouldn't you say? And that union jack pillow is hardly fitting without a few strands of sangria wine.

But who's to say what is fitting in that room, with a poster of a skull that one would find in a teenage dorm room on one end, a yellow smile with bullet holes, a musical stand besides a bulky disarray of papers and a jackknife in the mantlepiece.

I wonder if you know that some of those forgotten unanswered letters that you decided to skewer were from some very powerful political leaders that needed your assistance after I completely derailed their pitiful lives?

There is a low intake of breath below me, and I don't realize that I've zoned out looking through your window without focus, my accomplice is steadying his breath lightly as he aims.

And there it is, the head, as I've instructed to be popped off and tossed about like confetti.

Low head on tense shoulders, frustrated features, unbelievable impatience sprawled against unsmooth features.

Oh, surely you didn't think I meant to shoot you, love? No no, I need you, not for long, but for now.

But it's night like these when I stroll around the streets like the free and untouchable man I will always be that I begin to think.

The thought is small, at first, so tiny, miniscule, and then it spreads, like the roots to a seed, gripping at the soil as it blossoms, and then there it stems and grows- only in my mind is works much faster as the neurons in my brain stem out new dendrites, shooting like the cocaine in your syringe under the myelin sheath, flooding through the axon as the nerve impulse shoots like a high off the end buttons of the neuron. And then I can't take it. That high is overbearing. So I call Seb and I ask him to join me on the roof, with the address across your flat, and we sit here, like most days, weighing our, or rather my, options.

Do I give the order and watch your friends head become a party basket? Watch your face as you approach the body, as you come to realize he's dead because of you? Or do I walk away and listen to mother patience in my head and wait another day?

"Sir?" Sebastian lets out his breath coolly, with such profession, addressing me as he would to his superior when he was a soldier in Afghanistan, ironically, in John's neighboring unit- Sebastian Moran, the greatest and most lethal of snipers gone rogue.

I look down to him, knowing that he's waiting for the order. I notice how he doesn't turn to look at me, laying still, staring through the scope with both eyes open, simply waiting.

What loyalty, I assess, but is it like yours and John's I wonder?
Surprisingly, that doesn't make me jealous, that makes me laugh boisterously in my head- only a silent smirk creeps onto my lips. And I realize, this curiosity, your questionability, is driving me insane, even more so than with anyone I have ever known.

Looking back towards your window I realize that John is still there, and it seems that you two are having a bit of a quarrel, domestic I wonder, how adorable.

Tomorrow however, all will be fine. You two will be having your tea, John his breakfast, and then lights will spark as my innocence is further enforced and I become Richard Brook.

I look to my shoes disapprovingly, as if I've just been scolded.

That's right, the plans I've set, the alias, the fraudulent past, the means of your destruction. I should really just wait and watch that unravel, right?

With a lost smile as if my world has been crushed, I waver lightly as I lift my head again to look down towards your window, and after a long pause, I turn my body towards the edge, facing your home now, as I approach Sebastian and kneel next to him, slowly position myself to lay on my stomach, mimicking my accomplice, my arms moving in a slow gracious manner, controlled from shaking in response to my anger, as I position them as if holding a sniper.

I see Sebastian glance towards me. But he knows me, as well as your John knows you, and he doesn't question me and my antics, much less my performances.
He never has, from the start, and now. He simply glances and looks passed them, either not able to be bothered, or care. I should define him as a friend rather than a tool then, huh, right, Sherlock?

But I have no friends, and neither a single one. I am me, and around me orbits no one but my assassins, sources and clients that lead to riches and ruin.

I close one eye, Sebastian looking through his scope beside me, waiting. I tilt my head lightly, looking through my invisible scope, and I can see my "scopes" hairlines targeting your incognizant friends graying head.

I grin, maliciously, waiting, steadying my breathing, waiting, watching, waiting, almost laughing. He's shouting, arguing, your responding, another day in your dulling life, and i'm here to severe it from continuation.

"POW!" I hiss, as if saying the words aloud would reach your ears even from this distance, pulling my invisible trigger as the bullet tears from beside me, and I lightly jolt in response.

I watch, and then pull my "sniper" away from me, raising my head to look into the window, watching the result.

Your pet shifts, as he shakes his head at your completely nuisance, and he walks away, hands out in defeat.

My grin drops, and now I'm glaring, lips slightly parted.

Sebastian lifts his head, and looks towards me. "Sir?" He addresses again, and I don't look to him as I push my body off the ground and come to a stand, lightly dusting my suit.

"Let's go." I simply say, voice hollow, as I turn towards the door in which we came from, ready to descend down the stairs, not bothering with the fire escape, those see through steps that disorientate me at this late hour.

I hear Sebastian unfasten his unused gun for the night and dismember it with such precision it almost makes me laugh at how proud I am for having such hired men and my heed, as he then stands and follows me quietly.

Tomorrow, Sherlock, I decide. Tomorrow you'll fall from grace.

Tonight John will live, or perhaps will live and suffer depending on the outcome of the following days.
For now I'll allow you to relish with what you have currently.

The walk is silent, we exchange no words, and I don't look back towards your window, as you live your unsuspecting mundane life with your John.

A/N- I find it so much easer to write in Moriarty's p.o.v or Mycroft's. Should I write an alternate ending? I'm really tempted. If this story proves pointless in regards to reviews and criticizes then I'll just get back to my studies and forget it ever existed lol, cause I'm already behind on my math.
As you can guess, the alternate ending would be/is super angsty and messy (in a good way).
So please review! You won't regret it (I don't think)