All right, something that's been bothering me for a while, and now I've got it off my chest. I took the math professor aspect of Moriarty from the stories and decided it would be far more disturbing if he were an elementary school teacher. Because this Moriarty is all about the disturbing. :D

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, the BBC interpretation Sherlock, and all associated characters are not mine.

Chapter One

Jim Moriarty was one of those teachers who was more inspirational than most Robin Williams roles of the same vein. He rode into his school on his bike, with proper head gear and all, to impress on his students the importance of the environment and street safety at the same time. The kids loved him almost as much as he loved his job. Parents, when confronted by the unassuming Irish accent and his impeccable manner of dress, couldn't help but trust him.

How the world's most prolific criminal mastermind even found the time to be the finest schoolteacher on this side of the Isles was anyone's guess. It was the superlative case of compartmentalization at any rate. His two lives barely mixed. But when they did, he got angry.

"Why did you bring me here?" Moriarty said with barely restrained rage as two of his thugs finally came into the leaky warehouse. He thought wistfully to his abandoned night in, with the papers scattered all over the floor, the hot cocoa getting lukewarm on its handmade coaster, and In Bruges paused on the telly.

"We found the informant."

"What informant?" Jim asked, rubbing his face out of frustration. "In case you forgot, my organization is filled with fucking informants. It's one of the downfalls that comes with having a fucking organization of such fucking magnitude."

"Well, we have the Schelpps informant," said one of the men. It was incredible how Jim could turn great burly men twice the size of him into shuffling schoolboys with just a few harsh words.

"It's called a mobile phone. You use it when you think I might be too fucking occu... all right, bring him in, let's get this over with," Jim muttered.

A man, writhing and bloody was pulled in on one of the men's cue. He had had his arm broken, and several of his teeth were missing. Jim sighed.

"There's one punishment for traitors," said Moriarty, having the heart to look somewhat psychopathic and fearsome. "Throw him in the Thames. I'd normally think of something more creative, but it's a school night and I have papers to grade."

He wasn't even given an odd look by his men any more, who had by now grown used to their leader's eccentricities.

That night he curled up on his sofa grading papers and sipping a fresh cup of cocoa while Colin Farrell proved that he was just the most adorable piece of God-given talent on the planet.

Jim came to Anna-Lee Schwartz's book report, and set down his mug to pay special attention to this one. It was painfully apparent, at least to him, that Anna-Lee was consistently underachieving on her schoolwork, and he was still trying to discern why. He warranted boredom, but then reminded himself that not everyone was like him and Sherlock Holmes. Clearly, there was some other aspect that he was totally overlooking.

Maybe she didn't want the attention?

What an odd notion, but not one completely unknown to him. From Jim's years of dealing with children of this age, he knew that clever children did one of two things; they were either incredibly obnoxious about their talent through showboating or underachieving, or they became terribly withdrawn out of fear of their classmates. But this particular class showed an uncanny amount of tolerance to non-uniformity; there was a great deal of the laissez-faire naivete that children exhibited in younger grades.

So what oppressed Anna-Lee Schwartz?

"Oh," Jim murmured, his eyes widening in realization. He set the paper down, and continued to watch In Bruges, mind systematically ruling out all possibilities but one.

The next morning, he biked to his school same as always. Hooking up his bicycle to the rack, he tried not to notice Ms Llewellyn, who had been giving him the eye since he began work here.

"Hello, Jim," said she, using the voice that she reserved for schoolchildren and perspective crushes. "Nasty weather for the bicycle, yeah?"

Jim looked up absently. It was overcast and spitting a little, but hardly the worst weather he'd biked in. Ms Llewellyn redoubled her efforts.

"Marking papers last night, eh?" she said jovially. "Bless the little creatures, but sometimes they just write too much..."

"I think verbosity is something to be encouraged, Ms Llewellyn," Jim said with a laugh. "I found my kids' papers a joy to read."

"You're always so good about the children, it's admirable," she said. "But you mustn't call me Ms Llewellyn when there's nobody around. I'm Clarice to my colleagues."

"I will keep that in mind when I count you as my colleague, Ms Llewellyn," Jim said curtly. He usually would have tolerated this banter, but this morning he was cranky from having to leave his home in the middle of grading. He took his bag and marched to his classroom to get ready for the day.