Disclaimer: No recognizable characters are mine. No money made.
Notes: Just something that occurred to me on this fine morning of the apocalypse. Warning that darkness is ahead in this little drabble of J. Moriarty. He can't get certain things out of his mind, he can't have what he thinks he wants, so he makes do. Too bad for people . . .
Enjoy.
Occasionally Jim hires prostitutes.
He finds heroin addicts work the best: tall, pale, slender to the point of bones easily felt through their skin. Many are too emaciated, no muscle mass at all, and that isn't right. They need to have some definition in their physique, or he can't unfocus his eyes enough and the makeshift illusion is lost. Hair is slightly less important; a wig can be provided but naturally dark curly hair earns the hooker an additional bonus in cash, or drugs, or both.
There aren't many who fit the description of what he needs. When he needs one, when he searches and searches with fire raging in his belly till he's most desperate and he'd almost, almost¸ settle for less—once or twice he found someone shorter, a bit stockier, who, once they'd been appropriately dressed in a button down shirt and jumper, was an adequate substitute for what he needed, for that immediate release—he'll move heaven and earth satisfy the infernal itch.
Once he found a man who could have been his brother. He lavished attention on him, gave him anything he asked for (more drugs, fast cars, faster women), kept him in high style.
He fucked him to bleeding every night.
The man cried out, as bid, that he loved it, that he loved Jim, that there was no one else for him, that Jim was his beginning and end.
Once the man bobbled the script and Jim beat him within an inch of his life. Broken and bloody, his face no longer chiseled into Grecian-esque contours but swollen now and mostly toothless, Jim made him repeat new words after him.
"Y-you're better than me, Jim," the man choked out, drooling blood clots over his lips as he tried to obey this newest order, "you've always been b-better . . . I- I would be noth-nothing without you—"
Jim killed him then, and then fucked his corpse.
His playthings never lasted long, no matter how much they physically resembled Sherlock Holmes. Jim only hoped that, once it came to pass, Sherlock would once again prove to be more than an average man.
fin.