Title: Half a Partnership
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, just make them do things.
Spoilers: The Great Game and The Reichenbach Fall.
Pairings: You could read Anderson/Moriarty, if you want.
Rating: K+
Warnings: Mention of character death (but only the ones you expect).
Wordcount: 680
Summary: Anderson isn't who you think he is.
A/N: Here be much speculation on Anderson's life.
You meet Moriarty at uni. His name isn't Moriarty then, and yours isn't Anderson, either. No, the pseudonyms are how you celebrate your new-found partnership: the Criminal Duo, you declare, and Moriarty gazes back lazily, approval in his eyes. "Let's," he says. "You can be ordinary, and I'll be extraordinary."
You aren't offended at that. Disguise has always been your forte—it's somehow comforting to sink into a foreign persona and hide yourself where no one suspects. Moriarty delights in plotting, layering details over details like he's composing a symphony, while you breathe life into the plans and watch over the execution.
Before long it becomes routine: the crushing boredom in the interval between jobs; the faint tang of uncertainty as a new case is commissioned; the anticipatory thrill as you make the first move; and then the euphoric rush of getting away once more. You two rule London, the pulse of the city right underneath your fingertips, and it's exhilarating, breathtaking, intoxicating.
You never agree whether it's your fault or his, but someone makes a mistake. You aren't caught—of course not—but the escape is uncomfortably close. So you slip on a new life and face the inevitable: you join the Met.
You don't tamper with evidence or anything of the sort—that's too boring, too much like cheating. Instead you describe all the facts with almost insignificant twists, then gleefully watch as investigations collapse. You push yourself to dizzying heights of subtlety, relishing the havoc you can cause, and Jim thinks you're fantastic, but he's the only one.
That's enough for you.
New Scotland Yard is getting almost unbearably dull and you're thinking about moving on when you learn about Sherlock Holmes. He's someone new, someone clear-eyed enough to pick up your traces in the reports. So you meet him that first time with excitement coursing through your bloodstream, practically daring him to strip off your mask.
He doesn't give you a second look. You taste something like disappointment.
You tell Jim about him—about the letdown.
"Don't worry," he croons. "We'll be embarking on our greatest adventure soon. And then he won't matter anymore. None of them will."
So you smile at him and listen to the latest challenge, feeling gloriously alive again.
It begins, and you watch from afar as Holmes pulls out a phone from the envelope. (And he's already wrong; you're the one who addressed it, in one of your many handwritings.) He should have realized then—the doctor's blog isn't nearly detailed enough. It was you who slipped the original from its evidence bag and faithfully crafted the duplicate. You're rather proud of it, though no one notices. Not even Sherlock Holmes.
He casually dismisses the people around him, deeming them irrelevant: that's his biggest weakness.
You think—almost hopefully—he might catch on when you tell Jim to call the Yard. 'How does Jim know you're here, Holmes?' you want to ask. 'Who let him know?' But he doesn't even wonder, just takes the handset and starts talking, and that's when you let a sneer of contempt curl your lips.
He's not like Jim—he never sees the important things. It's a pity.
"The Final Problem," Jim dubs it, and you couldn't agree more. Only, it had started long before Holmes even suspects. You let him take back the painting, watch his star soar, and that makes it just that much more delightful when the first seed of doubt sprouts.
The girl screams. Donovan wonders.
"What if he's done this to us every time?" you suggest, then watch the uncertainty solidify into blame.
Sherlock Holmes is falling, and then it'll just be you and Jim, free to take London for yourselves.
"Moriarty is dead," they tell you, and you don't understand. That's just not possible, because Jim would have told you he'd planned something like that, Jim always tells you everything—
But you end up on that rooftop looking down at the body, and you discover what you should have guessed from the very beginning.
Jim chose Sherlock Holmes over you.
You're lost.
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