This is basically just an AU plot bunny about what might have happened had Sherlock chosen not to side with the angels. I'm fairly new to the fandom and this is my first fic, so please review and tell me what you think!
And speaking of reviews, there's someone I need to thank for looking this fic over and staying up until two in the morning even when she had class in five hours and still had homework to do, just to read my fic. Thanks for agreeing to stick with me even if I paint a yellow smiley on my wall to use as target practice. You're brilliant ; )
Sherlock sneered from the top of a rooftop, his blonde locks falling just perfectly about his face as he watched the store below. He was watching as a black cab pulled up to the curb and two people stepped out. He was focused on the first of the men- a tall, lanky excuse for a man whom Sherlock had come to despise- Jim Moriarty.
He'd set this scene up for the detective, a test of sorts. Inside, he and his obedient lap dog John Watson were sniffing around for clues about the most recent victim of a string of "impossible" murders. He had not killed the girl, of course, he wasn't a killer. Merely a... sponsor, of sorts. Helping a poor, starving man find the money for a bit of food to eat. He should get an award, really. Sherlock smiled at that.
The hard truth, however, was he and Moriarty weren't so different. He could just as easily have joined the side of the angels, working cases with some army doctor fresh out of his first war, being at the beck and call of the police like some common pet. How boring. He liked being a criminal so much more, it was so vey much more interesting.
Bored now, he flew more than walked from rooftop to rooftop before coming to a stop at the house he was currently calling a home- a rather luxurious flat owned by a wealthy business man for use when he wasn't on business elsewhere in the world. With the man currently dealing stock in Thailand, Sherlock found it perfectly safe to put roots down here for a while. He hoped down off the roof onto the fire escape and through the open window into the flat, contemplating the problem named Jim Moriarty.
The detective was getting close to realizing Sherlock's existence- far too close for his liking. Soon, he knew it would be time to take action. He thought about all the ways he could get to Moriarty- he could kidnap a handful of people, play some mind games with him, see what he was made of, but Moriarty would probably just find it fun. No, he needed to strike where it would hurt him the most, the very heart of the consultant detective. He needed to ensure the detective would be too threatened to keep coming after him. In short, he needed to get to John Watson. He was sure John was the soft spot in the otherwise hardened exterior, having observed their relationship for quite some time now. The way they needn't talk at a crime scene, just exchanged looks that said exactly what they were thinking, the way they acted when no one else was around. If he had a weakness, it was John Watson. But how to get to him? Merely killing John wasn't enough, no, it would have to be something far worse. He would torture John, let Moriarty see John's pain then and let him get just close enough for him to think he would win, then kill John, letting him find only the dead body of the only friend he had.
Smiling suddenly as a plan formed in his head, Sherlock got up and grabbed his coat- he had some things he needed.