Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
He is unsure of his real name; it's been so long, he's forgotten it. Sometimes, he is Jim, other times, he is Moriarty, and quite recently, he's taken on the alias of Richard Brooke, adding to the repertoire of identities he holds, each one with a story he could recite without a single stumble of the tongue. But some days, when he is exhausted of his characters, the faces and names changing faster than traffic cues of this crushing city, he slips into someone he wishes he could be. And every time he does, he is wracked with foreign feelings of guilt and pride.
It is true when they say that Moriarty doesn't have a heart because he really doesn't. But he has Fiona, and some days, he feels she is the closest thing he will ever have that resembles a heart. She is the closest thing to a substitution for the absence in his own empty chest. He keeps her far away from London though, far away from his games where he can't hurt her, but every now and then, he will go to see her, to remind himself of his own humanity.
Like today. Today, his whims send him into the countryside in search of her company. A day's drive away from London, there is a secluded village where the residents are polite, but have learned not to ask too many questions. At the edge of the town is the house where she lives with the nanny he'd hired years ago. When he arrives, the town is silent, but he is barely aware, lost in his own labyrinth of dangerous thoughts. But he does notice that the shutters are closed when he exits his vehicle. He slams the door behind him, the sound offending the stillness of the night. Upstairs, a light turned on and the curtain in the window twitched. Checking his watch, it revealed the time to be after midnight. He is caught between the decision of leaving or continuing to stay where he is.
The front door opens and a woman stands there, peering anxiously out at him. "Come in, Mr. Moriarty. I didn't expect you at this late hour. I've just put the kettle on," she says when they are in the foyer.
He disregards her inane chatter with a wave of his hand. "Never mind, Miss Hartigan. I didn't come for tea," he says, irritated. If she wasn't so useful, he would have gotten rid of her a long time ago. Poison in her tea or strangulation with the cord from the telephone? He entertains himself with the image of her face just before death.
"Fiona's asleep. Poor thing had such a busy day. She's exhausted."
"That's fine," he says, turning away and already climbing the staircase where he knows where Fiona's bedroom is. A light spills out of the room from her lamp, creating a thin strip of illumination on the ugly carpet. Her fear of monsters in the dark only assuaged by the reassurance that she can see in the dark and she refuses to close her eyes without it, he recalls being told during the last visit. In the small bed, a small girl lay in deep sleep with her limbs flung out on the pillow. He can hear her breathing, the soft rhythm of inhale and exhale, as he approaches the bed, and reaches out to smooth her dark, mess hair. Sitting in the bedside chair that is usually reserved for Miss Hartigan when she reads stories, he watches her in silence. And for a moment, just for a moment, he feels at peace. No turbulent thoughts about death, no worries about how he would play the next step in this game with Sherlock, and none of the boredom that constantly gnaws at him. He wonders if she will ever be anything like him, and it sends a tremor of fear and happiness down his spine. But of course, it doesn't last for long, and he is reminded in a laughable way that fatherhood is meant to be selfless, and he is the epitome of selfishness.
He gets up abruptly to leave, his presence suddenly polluting the atmosphere in an inexplicable and suffocating way. He brushes past Miss Hartigan on the way out. "You're leaving already? Fiona will be so sad she missed you. What will I say to her?"
"Don't tell her I was here," he hisses to her, taking a satisfaction from her recoil of fear. Schooling his face into a mask of indiscernible features, he straightens out his clothing, and nods goodnight to the frightened woman before he is swallowed again by the night that is as black as his soul.
He doesn't have a heart. He has never had a one. But the girl sleeping in the tiny bed, unaware of her father's presence, does. She has a tiny, beating heart, and one day, if he becomes selfish enough, maybe he can share it with her, and it will be just enough to soothe the aching emptiness inside of him.
It's a little short, but it's just an idea that's been knocking around in my head for a while now. 3