"I would have married her, you know." He murmured, a dwindling cigarette hanging from his lips. Chapped, Sherlock observed. Unkempt.
Truly, he was an unkempt man. Greasy hair limply drooped over his face, tumbling in tangled curls from his presumably equally greasy scalp. Fingers, set with browned nails, reached up to scratch uncomfortably at the mess, before he pulled back with a grimace and wiped his hands on stained jeans.
"Who." The word was simple, intrusive. An adder seeking its prey.
At that he arched a brow, almost amused.
"Who?" He echoed. "Oh, Sherlock. Think."
"Moriarty." Once again, a snappy reply. The famous Detective Holmes did not have time to mingle. With an opponent, nonetheless.
"I don't have time for this." He continued, his silky voice venomous.
"Oh, I'm sure." Moriarty smirked. "But it'll be no time at all for you to figure out something quite so simple."
"My downfall lies with not being able to figure you out, Jim Moriarty." He snarled, before stopping short as it clicked in his mind. "Molly."
"Yes, quite." He murmured, the light in his bloodshot eyes fading a little as he stamped on his now discarded cigar.
"I'm not one for discussing emotions; not to mention that it's love. Talk to someone stupid about trivialities like that."
"Is that so…" He absentmindedly remarked, before turning to trudge away, a humourless smirk hovering upon his lips. "Just thought you'd want to know."
"Not really." He shrugged indifferently, straightening his collar and heading in the opposite direction.
But as their shadows overlapped in the soft glare of the evening, he couldn't help but wonder if that was… some sort of clue. Shaking his head in dismissal, though it was rare of him to ignore a possibility, Sherlock just kept walking away.
