Why hello there. I want to let you know that this is my first published fic, and any comments or reviews would be beyond appreciated. Thank you so much for reading.
Almost forgot, I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters!
And No One Ever Will
They call you the Devil. Spider. The Napoleon of Crime. It's endearing, really. That they try and make you into something other than what you are. When it comes down to it, James Moriarty, you are a man. Superior in nearly every way but still, a thing of flesh and blood and bone. You are human, no matter what they'd rather tell themselves, nay, what you'd rather tell yourself. In that you are like them. You want desperately not to be, so you strive to set yourself apart in as many ways as you can. And they don't want you to be human, don't want to believe that a man, just one man, could do all this. They want to believe you a monster because it helps them sleep at night. Thinking perhaps they could never become like you, simply because you cannot possibly be human.
Maybe, just maybe, in some ways they're right. Maybe you aren't human so much as you are a cold blooded snake. You care nothing for the people in your path, not so much pawns as flecks of dust on the chessboard. You play the game, you bring whole governments to their knees just to have their leaders come begging for your help. It distracts you for a while, you're almost content.
But remember, Jim, you're human after all. Claim boredom all you want, but you know you seek out your greatest rival because you are alone. No one ever gets to you, and no one ever will. And that is what really gets you, doesn't it? You know that no one ever will, and yet you play this game. You call out Holmes because he is you, and of all people, he would have a chance.
You end as you began, a solitary creature. You fancy yourself a king, and you're more right than you know. Powerful beyond imagination, you have no equal. Even the detective turned out to be so painfully ordinary. He chose the angels, and a heart he didn't know he had. That is the problem. The Final Problem. Similar in so many ways, mirror images, almost. But Sherlock is not alone, and you always will be. It can't be allowed to continue. You're nothing if not selfish, and he has something you crave but can never have. It's petty and oh so human but for once, you're going to do what people do. Because this isn't enough for you anymore. The simple act of staying. Tedious.
It's a beautiful plan. The angel will fall or his friends will die. Elegant in its simplicity, it has you written all over it. And as for you, you've known of your end for some time now. From the moment Dr. Watson showed his hand at the pool, a hero, willing to die for his friend. You saw it all unfold before you, the threads you would pull and the pieces you would play, all leading you here, the Criminal and the Detective.
And at the end, at the very end you find that there is indeed something that connects you to Sherlock Holmes. You're both prepared to burn. And he, he was never really an angel and you, well, you were never really the Devil.
It isn't quite how you imagined it. Even with his hand in yours, you are still alone in your actions. You see, in those last seconds, not surprise on your enemy's face but a flash of understanding. He knew you would go this far. Perhaps he knows you better than you thought. It's a comforting notion.
Just before the roar of a bullet, before it all goes dark and silent, you think that you were wrong. He isn't ordinary, and maybe you were.