And so, the detective fell. They called him phony now, a fake, a fraud. So quickly you fall, and the fall won't stop before the great big SPLAT. None of them ever knew that he had not been the only man on the roof. Not the only man who had died.
Being dead suited Jim. He had always liked to be in the shadows, sort of watching the world from beyond. The people, all parts of his game, pawns on a board – toys. His own living, breathing toys. But for himself, being alive had never felt that interesting. It was all just everyday. So average. No. Being dead suited him. He was gone, not even a whisper anymore, and he was looking forward to see how he could exploit this deadness. A new game, new rules. The player from beneath the grave. Jim Moriarty. Richard Brook. Dead.
But even that could only keep him entertained for so long. Even being dead would get boring after a while. Luckily, he knew he wasn't the only dead man who'd get bored. His favourite pawn would come back into his reach, because he always came back. They were born to play this game, over and over again, all the way into oblivion.
Jim and Sherlock. Two dead men, rising again. Time for the second round.
