This was written before the first of January, so I had really no idea what was going to happen in the end to Moriarty, Sherlock, John, etc. As such, this is a very large AU – and this is the best bit – written from Moriarty's POV.
I know what you're thinking. IT'S NOT THAT BAD. I'm not too good at whumping characters. But if you are already cringing and crying and trying not to puke all over your laptop, I suggest you close this window now. For those who like some angst, some nastiness, and some corruption of the mind, please stay and join me for tea :)
Written to "Remain Nameless" by Florence + The Machine. I harbor an unconditional love for ALL Florence's work, but this song? My God. She's angry and heartbroken and…well, this song just sort of gave me a direct tunnel into the mind of a psychopath. An overpowering sense of terrible beauty, that's this song.
Disclaimer: N'awww.
Warnings: Okay, people. I just want to tell you that I love you. Because this is going to get nasty. We've got violence, we've got drugs, we've got allusions to self-harm and suicide and – hell, you're reading a fic from MORIARTY'S POV. That is written in the second person, nonetheless.
They laughed.
Everybody laughed.
You knew one day that you would be able to stop them. Knew it and you told them so.
They laughed anyway.
And you did stop them laughing.
…
When you caught them, they asked you to stop. They begged. Pleaded. Groveled, cried. Did everything they could to try and make you listen. Try to make you stop. They'd do whatever you wanted, anything, everything you told them. Just stop.
And then it was your turn to laugh.
You never took words for proof. Words were pointless, vibrations of atoms in the air, so easily lost and forgotten. You did not work with words. You did your transactions in deeds and nothing less.
It was all very well. They could say they'd massacre sixteen thousand children for you. You wouldn't believe it until you watched.
…
Nobody was ever enough. They all failed you in the end. Nobody was strong enough, clever enough, to work with you in the way you needed.
People are your pawns. Figures, chess pieces in the game of life. When they fail you, you crack them. Slowly.
You want them to learn, you see. You want them to know, to realize where they went wrong. You want to help them, really you do.
But people are just so fragile.
Crack after crack crumbles the clay and eventually it breaks down. It always does. Your people, your field workers, they all break, one by one.
And you have no place in the game for broken toys, so you throw them away.
…
It gets so dull, working all on your own. You want someone to help you, someone to make things more interesting. You want a playmate, a partner, someone who can understand.
Somewhere there must be someone like you.
You want someone to understand. Someone who sees, no, not who sees, someone who KNOWS, what it is like inside you.
You want to tell them why you're this way. You want to tell them what made you, what broke you.
You want to tell them what happened.
…
You were brilliant. Special, Mum always said. "Someday, when you are older, everyone will know your name," she said. She promised you so many things. Things that didn't happen, things that never could happen.
You didn't mean to do it.
But you were special.
Even as you picked up the knife and drove it into her throat, even as you watched her die there on the floor in front of you, you knew you were special. Nobody else ever did things like that.
Nobody else ever stabbed their mother and felt nothing.
…
You thought, later on, that there must be somebody that knew what it was like. Everyone had their groups, everyone had their little lunch tables and people they called 'friends'. Everyone but you.
You were the freak, the outcast, the black mark on the school. Nobody knew exactly what you had done, or how, but you scared them anyway. Scared them all.
All except for Julia.
…
Julia saw what no one else did.
…
You and Julia sat together. Read together. Talked about anything and everything together. Did some coke, some weed, some crystal together. Did it all together.
You wondered if this was it. You wondered if Julia could be your partner, if she was the one you had waited for, if she was somebody you could finally work with. She was special, after all. She was brilliant. She was always trying to be stronger.
…
She cut too deep.
…
You found her note.
You cried at her funeral.
You wished she had told you.
You were angry.
You had wanted to go, too.
…
In the note she said that her feelings, her pain, made her stronger. You needed to be stronger. You weren't good enough yet, you couldn't do everything you needed to be able to do. So you cut, too.
You cut deeper and deeper, making scratches into scars, trying desperately to just feel. You wanted to be stronger. You needed to be stronger.
They caught you. Locked you up. Labeled you and put you in a cage.
You knew then that she was wrong.
You were numb.
You were brilliant.
You were good enough.