Disclaimer: I do not own this lovely, lovely series. I make no money from this, just satisfaction
My first finished work! Hooray!
Sherlock's a bit OOC, I"m sorry T_T
Reprise
Summary: The parallels between Sherlock and Moriarty were undeniable. Moriarty had Carl Powers. Sherlock had John Watson. Well, used to, anyway.
Sherlock was alone, and the unbearable silence ever persisted, drilling into his head the way the loudest noise never could.
But it wasn't just in his flat that he was alone- no, he'd been alone in every aspect of his life for- he briefly consulted his mental clock- 2 weeks, 3 days, and 18 hours. Ever since that bloody pool incident. Ever since he had lost his John…
He'd deleted most of his memories of that night- the explosion, the snipers, the pool, the blood…
…clutching John's bloody corpse desperately, the sound of sirens distant- why couldn't they have gotten there sooner?
During the first week, Sherlock even tried to delete John from his memory. Tried to delete his knowledge of all that he had lost in that one, jumper-clad man he'd come to call his best friend. But, as Sherlock soon found out, there was nothing he could do to relieve that gaping hole in his very being- he couldn't forget it, he couldn't ignore it, he couldn't heal it.
That gaping hole was where John used to be, before he was brutally taken away from him. That gaping hole was where his heart used to be, before Moriarty kept true to his word and burned it completely out of him.
Moriarty. The name was like acid on his tongue. His anger and hate for the man was indescribable.
"Hii!" came that stupid, high-pitched greeting from the doorway.
Speak of the bomb-happy devil…
Sherlock froze, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. What was that- that monster doing there in his flat?
"Aw, Sherlock- if you could see yourself right now. My dear, you look as if you just lost your best friend-" he gave a mocking gasp "-oh, wait." He gave a soft chuckle.
Sherlock refused to look at Moriarty- he didn't want to see that evil, taunting face. Instead, he remained in his position, sprawled across the sofa, acting as though a mass murderer whom he'd been plotting brutal revenge against hadn't just strolled into his flat.
He heard Moriarty walk over to him. Sherlock fought the urge to draw back in repulsion.
"I did it for you, you know. It was for your own good, Sherlock," Moriarty said quietly.
Sherlock finally turned his eyes to Moriarty, confusion and shock itching at him. Confusion because of the words Jim said. Shock because of how he'd said them.
He stared at Jim's face, the always cold, taunting exterior melted away and left the man looking completely serious and almost… sad? No, it couldn't be…
"I was a lot like you, once," Jim went on, "A young man with extraordinary talents- but I just couldn't figure out what to use them for."
Sherlock listened with intent to his arch nemesis, but he couldn't figure out where he was going with this narrative.
"Throughout the entirety of my life, I had just one friend. One great friend," his void, black eyes flashed with that almost-sadness for a second again, "You do remember Carl Powers, don't you? My once-best friend?"
Sherlock was only minutely aware of his mouth coming slightly ajar at the revelation. The two men locked gazes, staring intently into each other's souls for many long minutes.
Finally, Jim spoke again, "I'd just decided to go into the police-force- God knows they'd needed my kind of help-" he mused this briefly "But, then, I realized what a problem Carl had become. He gave me a heart- much like John gave you one. But, a heart gets in the way of intellect- emotions distracted me. He distracted me. He got in the way. Suddenly, I found myself feeling such resentment for him and- well, you know how it turned out." Jim smirked as he gave a pointed look at Sherlock.
"What does this have to do with me?" Sherlock asked him in a low voice.
Jim leaned in closer to Sherlock, "My first murder was such a wonderful, satisfying experience. And so, I found my place in this small world. But, after a while, it became so boring. The police were no match for me, so I could never show my true potential," he dropped his voice to a whisper, "And then, as luck would have it, I finally found someone else with extraordinary talent. My intellectual equal. Someone I could play these little games with. You, Sherlock."
Jim brought his voice back to normal, "The parallels between us were undeniable- I saw them straight away. So, I became quite concerned when this John Watson invaded your otherwise-properly friend-less life. I decided to take care of the matter."
Suddenly, Moriarty's face was clad in its usual vile coldness.
"I didn't want to lose my precious playmate, you see," he gave a skin-crawling smile, "You would never be able to reach your full potential with him around."
Lost for words, Sherlock sat there, rage bubbling up inside of him. He glared murderously at the selfish murderer.
"Really, Sherlock," Moriarty scoffed, offended, "You should be thanking me."
"Thanking you?" Sherlock seethed.
"Yes, and now that I've given you a proper explanation for everything, I shall be going," he all but skipped to the door, "I cannot wait to continue our game," he flashed a wink at the consulting the detective.
'Our game,' Sherlock thought to himself, 'can go to Hell.'
"Moriarty," Sherlock called.
The consulting criminal twirled around.
Sherlock looked up at him innocently, "I was wondering if you'd do me a favor," he said slowly.
Moriarty raised an eyebrow.
"If you really are anything like me, then Carl was probably the best thing that ever happened to you. Work things out with him, if you get the chance."
Before Moriarty could do anything, Sherlock whipped out a gun he'd had in his pocket. He did cherish the momentary look of surprise on the evil bastard's face before shooting him in the spot right between the eyes.
Sherlock took in the sight of the dead man on his floor, resisting the urge to spit on him.
Sherlock didn't move for a long time- his head swirled with memories, thoughts, and emotions.
He didn't fight the tears that leaked out of his eyes. He didn't fight the feeling of his chest collapsing. He didn't deny the feeling that his world had shattered to bits.
He'd gotten his revenge. It was over. Now, there was nothing left- life became an empty void without purpose, without reason, without John…
Finally, Sherlock turned the gun, and pointed it directly at himself.
His last thoughts were of John.
Woot, done! ^_^ Reviews are greatly appreciated.