Goal: To humanize James Isaac (is that really his middle name?) Moriarty as much as possible, or at least as much as I can.
SHERLOCK BELONGS TO THE BBC, WHILE THE ORIGINAL IDEA CAME FROM SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE. THUS, I OWN NAUGHT BUT THIS THING BELOW
XXX
James Moriarty spent most of his short, miserable life utterly bored right out of his mind.
He felt it as his brain rots away inside out, completely useless as it sat there in his head, a raging war inside his mind.
Torrents of thoughts battled inside the constraining confines of himself – an incredible character living a story-less life. Different ideas swirled around and around in his head, all fighting for his attention at once with an almost beast-like hunger.
Sometimes he sleeps to escape dull, everyday life. And in those few, precious hours, he manages to tame his head – just a little bit. Sometimes he tries to find the perfect nonexistent stimulant that would keep his mind from eating itself away from the inside, at least for a little while. Sometimes he just lays there on the lonely, cold carpeted corner of his bedroom and just endured it as best as he can.
But mostly, he often thought about the best way to die.
He'll go out with a bang, Jim decided. He'll live before he died. It would be perfect – it would be flawless. His demise would be planned down to the last second, so even if he's dead, he'll make sure he's not defeated. No, he will never allow himself to lose.
Jim remembers thinking – thinking, and wondering. Why can't people just think? Why are they so stupid? Stupid, dull… he's been using those words an awful lot these days. And he never did find the answer to why people are so… boring.
He also remembers listening to muffled conversations outside of doors, peeking through open keyholes and around semi-closed doors. He remembers watching as the school therapist – what an idiot she had been; claiming to study the deep recesses of the mind when she herself was so narrow-minded and shallow – gingerly told his half-livid, half-sobbing mess of a mother that her son was 'mentally disturbed'. Hah! Just because he likes to think of different and creatively new ways to take a person's life and escaping the law in the process doesn't mean he's – you know.
Or maybe it does?
Duh, Jim raised an eyebrow at himself, completely uncaring if the people who saw him gave him odd looks in the process. Of course it does. He'd known and accepted that fact a long time ago – since he started thinking of the world as dull and mundane and repetitive and just plain boring.
So yes, Jim Moriarty is insane.
Just like those mindless buffoons liked to call him.
'Freak!' they shouted. 'A freak of nature, that's what you are! The only reason your mother haven't given you up yet is because she's afraid of what you'll do!' Even though Jim knew it was useless and probably pointless as well, that particular one couldn't seem to be deleted from that one file in the back of his head. Right up there with 'Why don't you just die?' and the common 'Psycho!' thrown in here and there.
Honestly, it's more endearing than anything else.
The only reason he'd actually care about any of them was the fact that not having friends – or at least mere colleagues worried his beloved mummy (he did care about her, actually. It was quite a surprisingly hard thought to think about – the possibility that James Moriarty could actually care about something that is not his organizations or his little 'pet projects' or simply his beloved pets, period).
No, his mother was the kind of woman you can't help but like. She was pretty, in a timid, non-overbearing way, though she seemed to be always tired and anxious about something. She always smelt like an odd musty mixture of cinnamon and parchment – something that shouldn't have worked but did anyways. She had the blackest shade of midnight hair and such bright eyes – so unlike his own, which she recounted fondly, came from his father. She was always just so really kind and quiet and soft yet still managing a firm grip on Jim's reigns, keeping him from veering just a bit too far from the track.
Perhaps that's why he lost his mind – just a little – when she died.
Before the wonderful plot twist that was the tall, gangly form of the infamous Recheinbach Hero, Jim tried everything to keep himself from falling into that place again. Alcohol, drugs, plotless one-hit kills. None of them really worked. None of them managed to prevent his magnificently complex mind from spiraling out of their hinges, out of control. That is, until he finally decided to come back to his roots – amuse those blundering morons who thought him a killer before he'd touched a single knife or gun.
Criminology it is then.
Of course Jim wouldn't really be doing the dirty work himself – no, much too obvious. He would rather be at the sidelines – watching, planning, controlling. He would be the puppeteer, working above all the others, tugging the strings this way and that from behind the shadows and making and watching and smiling at all those utterly brainless yet quite amusing puppets dance.
He started out small – organizing simple hit-and-run robberies and supposed street suicides that were – you guessed it! – actual assassinations. Jim progressed steadily in his creativity and unpredictability and ingenuity, until at last, after almost five years in the making, he found him.
The one person who could finally make him feel alive again.
Jim couldn't remember the last time he'd had a challenge. Around the time he was a toddler or a child, probably, struggling to do the simplest mathematical problems (at least, according to him) and getting his shoelaces in impossible knots because he told mummy he knew how to tie them properly when he didn't.
But this man – this puzzle – was one that wasn't so easily solved. Jim kept finding out new things all the time that made his earlier assumptions and theories rubbish – made him kept having to do over his idea of what a Sherlock Holmes is.
How dare he had the nerve to turn up in his radars one day, in a grand flourish of upturned coat collars and cheekbones and cutting remarks that only served to amuse Jim rather than anything else.
Consulting Detective, he called himself.
Well then, Jim would just have to become the devil to Sherlock's angels now wouldn't he?
Consulting Criminal does have a nice ring to it.
Yes, it was true that James Moriarty liked to think about the perfect way to kill oneself. That way, nobody would really have triumphed over him. Nobody would have the last word but himself. Moriarty would lose the great Game because he wanted to. He would be the one to defeat himself – nobody else.
Flashing back to the present, Jim looked around him at the bland, white, typical rectangular roof of St Bart's, with the fog-laden scenery of London peeking out from just atop a few of the more taller buildings surrounding this last place – the last battleground between him and his favorite opponent.
Right now, he was just waiting – waiting for the inevitable stomping of light feet and the swishing of a well-made tailored coat no doubt a gift from home – most probably his brother (that Mycroft was a rather interesting chap).
The cold air bit at his cheeks, tingeing them slightly pink as he swayed his head to the rhythm of seventy's disco blaring out from his handheld. His ears twitched a little but other than that, he didn't give an indication if he even heard Sherlock slam the door to the roof behind him.
"'Stayin' Alive'," he called out, eyes opened half-lidded lazily, head going still. "It's so… boring, isn't it?"
He danced around Sherlock during their verbal war, lashing out suddenly at times but just managing to reign himself in after.
The next few minutes were a blur to Moriarty. He remembered feeling excited and smug, then bored and disappointed, then excited again. Right now, it was mostly excited.
And why shouldn't he be? Jim's muddy-brown eyes stared into Sherlock's own beautiful blue-grey-green ones, which was flashing onyx black every now and then as if to prove just how pissed off he was at that moment. Despite their close proximity and the compromising loophole Sherlock had found and he apparently missed, Jim felt calm. Calmer than he had felt in years, actually.
The handgun he had bought with him weighed heavily inside his coat pocket, reminding him that all he had to do now was open up the [menu] and just click on the [EXIT] button, and the Game would finally be over.
Finally. Huh. That was weird.
If Sherlock saw the change in Jim's eyes as he zoned out and then came back to the world of the living, he didn't comment on it. It almost made Jim laugh.
Follow the script Jimmy, James reminded himself.
Delivering the final line, ("Well good luck with that!" he sing-sang giddily, his excitement for once not fake) Jim went through with the final closing act.
Smiling contently, James Moriarty pulled out the gun, put the barrel in his mouth, and pressed the trigger.
XXX
In case you're wondering, the name changes from Moriarty to James to Jim (in no particular order) is intentional… maybe. I haven't really decided yet.
Well, there you go! A challenge I put myself up to, to dispel some of my recent bout of writer's block and plain laziness.
Hope it was not too bad. Maybe I'll edit it some time later – add more to it. What do you guys think?
Reviews are always welcome!
…And flames will result in another bored Moriarty…