A man stands atop a large building, staring at a curious looking blood stain on the pavement below. He appears concerned by it for some reason, or perhaps confused. It was worth noting that this man was not an average member of society, or at least didn't seem like it.
This was evident in his appearance; a dark red overcoat worn over a brown vest and trousers with a black shirt and purple necktie. His right middle finger bore a metallic black ring that had a circular top, marked with an insignia made of a white triangle with three white lines coming from the base.
And while is odd apparel may not have be an immediate sign of just how different this man was from ordinary men, his concern with that bloodstain would turn a few heads. Mainly because of what made that stain.
"… Well, seems the son of a bitch made it." The man said to no one in particular. He turned and approached another figure on the roof with him; a dead body.
"Seems our little stunt didn't propel us as far as it should have. Sherlock Holmes lives to be a complete tosser another day." He spoke to the deceased man as if his corpse wasn't decaying with every word.
"But, I have to admit, you did a spectacular job." He continued to console the dead man. "He really believed you were me."
"In fact, I get the feeling that even you believed you were me. Sure, a steady supply of narcotics was enough to get you compliant, but I didn't think the psychological effects would go so deep… you were very good; did everything you were supposed to… I bet you even believed that gun was fake…" the man paused.
He turns away from the corpse, "Of course, you weren't perfect; far from it, in fact. You were a little too… I'd say camp, but that's not the right word. Ah well, the point is, the world thinks you're me, and that I'm dead, and that's right where I need to be."
The man steps on the corpse, pushing a bit more blood from the bullet wound in his head as he makes way for the lift.
"And worry not, dear friend of mine. Your sacrifice will not be in vane, I assure you. When the hero makes his dramatic return, I'll be there… kryptonite in hand. The epic conflict of Sherlock Holmes has only just begun, it seems." The man smiles at the thought. He picks a leather satchel up from the ground. On the seal of the bag, a bronze M marks over a green buckle.
So, you're all probably wondering what that was.
That was me venting. You see, I recently started watching BBC's Sherlock. I love the show, don't get me wrong, but I absolutely hate-HAAAATE the show's character for Moriarty. He's not funny, he's not threatening, and his voice makes me visibly upset. Any attempt the writers make at making him seem villainous seems forced and choppy. Maybe it's the writers fault, maybe the actor just wasn't meant for the part, or maybe it's a combination of the two. Whatever the issue was, I was angry at myself for being glad the he ended up killing himself. I'm sure everyone has their own 'he faked his death' theory, but I really just kind of hope that that wasn't the real Moriarty. The man in this story, if you haven't guessed already, is the man who I think should have played Moriarty. Because of the show's theme of downright implausible ideas occurring in real life, I suppose it made sense to me that the villain would read comic books, which is why he wears the Black Lantern ring and talks about Kypronite. Maybe you don't like it, and want to defend the Moriarty in the show. That's fine, but know your words fall in deaf ears.