A/N: This is sort of a random little drabble to satisfy my obsession with BBC's Sherlock. Moriarty has kidnapped or done something to Sherlock to incapacitate the consulting detective and these are Moriarty's thoughts as he dwells on what he's just done. I know it's short and sort of pointless but it felt like it needed to be written. This may become the prologue to a much longer and twisted story about Sherlock getting kidnapped by his arch enemy but for now it shall remain an unhealthy piece of literature to simply satisfy my Sherlock feels.
I do not own Sherlock. BBC does, damn it.
UNTOUCHABLE
The darkness was thick and tangible around me. Curling and and twitching and hovering around my body like overburdened smoke, pooling into corners of the room like spilled ink. I breathed it in. Inhaling shadows. The oily blackness seeped into the crevices of my heart, greasing the ticking gears and smoothing the excited pulse that thrummed there. Badump- badump- badump... So reliable. And nauseatingly predictable... Just like him. Exactly like him, actually.
He was lucky that I'd decided to add a little more excitement to his life, then. Otherwise his precious narcotics may have made another reappearance. Watching him relapse was entertaining, I'll admit. It was like watching a feather flutter to the ground, spiralling and spiralling and spiralling farther down until it finally scraped bottom. Watching him fall was fun. Exciting. Though it rather inconveniently put a dent in my schedule. Especially, when I myself got bored.
He hadn't relapsed for quite a while, I suddenly recalled. I knew the reason why, of course. The sudden adoption of his human pet had saved him. Saved everyone, apparently.
Damn you, John Watson, I cursed. Damn you.
I'd had everything planned. A consulting detective's death. Established. Set in stone. And then the army doctor had shown up. A factor not accounted for. A pickaxe. Shattering my smoothly polished, marble plan to rubble. I grimaced suddenly. What was that twinge? Disgust? Contempt? Hate? No I think it's... jealousy?
Surprise sparked, icy in the heat. Could I truly feel something so ordinary? Something so human? Me? Highly unlikely. But then again... He had made me feel things before. Emotions I'd previously thought had forever been abandoned. He'd made me feel alive. It was possible. He and his doctor could be responsible for the sudden spurt of hot fervor in my stomach. The one I'd diagnosed as jealously. Jealousy for John Watson and the position of attention he held. My attention. That was supposed to be my spotlight. But I didn't have to worry about that anymore, I recalled, an uncontainable grin shattering my face. The protagonist had been jerked offset by a large and rather unforgiving hook, spotlight gone. We were backstage now. Away from curious stares and distractions and John Watson. The curtain had fallen. Anything could happen now. And anything would happen now. This was unscripted. Unsupervised. Unrestricted... And he was no longer untouchable.
Welcome to your nightmares, Sherlock Holmes.