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Big Bad World
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A/N: First of, let me just say, I have never written a Sherlock fic before and while I was inspired to write this because I caught the tail-end of an episode, it's been a few months since I've actually watched the series, so it may not be entirely accurate. I just…couldn't get this out of my head and I tend to just go along with whatever my muse is urging me to write. I sort of set this as some sort of challenge to myself, so it's probably not very good and I also kind of wrote it in a rush, but I hope you enjoy this (one-shot?) all the same.
Disclaimer: none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language.
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The second their eyes meet all he cares to see is fear.
Those tiny beads of sweat forming on their forehead, hugely dilated pupils, that delightful bobbing of their throat as they nervously swallow, the spasms of facial muscles as they try to appear impassive - a pitiful attempt at most - and the way their jaws clamp together… just seconds before the shiver-inducing thrill of a bloodcurdling scream.
But the best part? The part that really gets his heart pumping…
That instant when their wild flailing turns to jerky movements and their eyes flatten with defeat as they recognise, without a doubt, that this is the end; When their screams taper off into gurgles as blood begins to surge upwards and outwards, trickles of intelligent red, and they gag and splutter while he watches.
Truly, there is nothing better than those final moments.
Predator and prey, the superior and the weak. Natural selection or detailed targeting?
'See you later,' he'll cry cheerfully, a last goodbye stolen from grieving families. But what does he care? These people were choking on borrowed breath anyway.
Delinquency is understandably tempting when you're safe in the knowledge that you won't face any repercussions - when you appreciate how easy it is to get off scot-free - and for Moriarty, it's like an addiction. An art, even. Innovative and electrifying and prosperous, all but drowning in riches.
He can choose not to live a life of crime, sure - but the problem is, he wants to. For Jim, it makes no difference who gets hurt in the process. As a matter of fact, the aftermath is generally more exhilarating than the wrongdoing or killing itself, although there is something remarkably tantalizing about holding the fate of someone's survival in your hands.
Moriarty ends lives for kicks whenever the notion strikes him, and he has no intentions of nipping this little habit in the bud any time soon.
Truth be told, the consulting criminal has killed a fair amount, too. More than any normal human being could possibly count, but then, he's not exactly normal, is he? He has a tally, he keeps score. No-one is exempt from his games. Rich or poor, alone or surrounded, happy or miserable, Moriarty will snatch them up and there will be revelry and laughter and blood - dripping from one city to another.
It's madness. It's daring. It never, ever lasts.
Certainly, at first, it is oh-so-new and exciting for someone who sometimes feels as if they've seen it all. Stimulus is very important, you know. And his schemes provide that, if nothing else. Presents some distractions until inevitably, he grows bored once again.
And make no mistake, it is only ever a matter of time before he grows bored once again.
Highs and lows, dipping between overindulgence, marvelling in the wonders of the world, and this intense hatred for virtually everything, lashing out if only to show he can.
All those years nurturing his ego, sauntering around in the most conceited and sardonic way imaginable.
Bankers, politicians, business men, even the most powerful world leaders - All playthings to which he is lethal.
Moriarty knows that no matter what he does, or how many a-holes he crosses, he can revel in the fact that essentially, he is untouchable.
Even when the great Sherlock Holmes began poking his nose into his business, Moriarty could only gasp in delight, grin wider than he ever remembered grinning before, and gladly rise to the challenge.
Finally, someone to match his vast intellect, someone who understood.
Harmless fun. Hide and seek.
An impish yell, 'Honey, I'm hooomme,' and aching, childish need.
He was simply bored; Sherlock knows the torture of boredom.
But this? This isn't what he wanted at all.
It was never Moriarty's plan to aim an unforgiving gun at a dark-haired, sniffling toddler, who was once the tall, lean consulting detective only minutes prior, - a plump, delectable little munchkin, really. Sweet enough to munch on - with a thoughtful finger idly massaging the trigger.
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It was unexpected. Entirely unexpected, which isn't very fair; Moriarty doesn't like surprises.
Oh, he loves giving surprises, but it's no fun when you're on the receiving end.
He was in the middle of a meeting with some burly simpletons - purely business, he can assure - and discussing the shipping of a new, untested drug he'd acquired through some of his more… scientific connections. The whacky, extremist kind, mostly. Though that's never bothered him. Moriarty has been positively dying to get his hands on their latest experiment.
Normally, he doesn't get so involved in such transactions, but the man felt this merited a more…personal touch. In other words, Jim was bored. He wasn't in the mood to hide behind smokescreens; he craved action and chaos, and he was looking forward to the opportunity to let off some steam and be a snarky son of a bitch.
It had been going so well - tediously well-executed, if he's sincere - when, all of a sudden, who should barge in but The Virgin and his earnest little sidekick. Apparently, they'd been tracking him ever since he'd left Naples two days ago.
How… wonderful. Someone's clearly getting sloppy.
There was a struggle, of course, and a few, minor casualties. Dead bodies and gushing red. Nothing too out of the ordinary.
Then, the biggest one, Alaric, he thinks, got a hold of the his pet detective - was so deliciously rough. However, being the Neanderthal meathead that he is, Alaric wasted no time jamming a needle into Sherlock's thigh, whilst another crony tied his soldier friend down and ducktaped his mouth.
It was all very unfortunate.
Do-gooder that he is, Moriarty did protest, but by then, it was too late.
The deed was done. And he stood back and stared as his only real rival began to shrink, feeling a cutting tightness around his chest as Moriarty realised with a start that he was all alone.
No more races to save innocents. No more games of cat and mouse.
Alone - one word he swore he would never, ever use. Certainly not aloud. Certainly never something he would confide in anyone else.
They were kindred spirits. They had something. Together. A connection. Bound by their unreachable intelligence.
But now the exceptional, mighty Sherlock has been reduced to a pathetic, drooling idiot of puerility. And he wonders what's the point.
Hence, the gun. His steely resolve. And an admittedly trigger-happy finger.
Usually, when he's wound up, Moriarty gets vengeance or plays a naughty, little prank, which may involve a touch of collateral damage - but that's not really an option now.
The John one is thrashing violently in the corner against his restraints and while vaguely amusing at first, this partnered with his muffled bellows is turning out to be rather irritating, grating on his sensitive eardrums. So irritating, in fact, that it is distracting him from his murderous intent.
"SHUT UP!" he finally roars, swivelling around with enraged eyes. "Just SHUT UP. Can't you see I am trying to think?!"
With noisy, clipped exhales, John gazes back at him, stunned.
Falling back on his heels, Moriarty shoves a hand through his slicked back hair, straightens his cuffs and subtly readjusts his tie, before breathing a slightly shaky sigh and saying blithely, "Now was that so hard?"
He doesn't answer. Of course, he doesn't.
But it angers him all the same. Striding forward, he crouches down in front of the other man, leans in uncomfortably close to face, and lowers his voice to a measured, menacing whisper, "I said... was that so hard?"
Without warning, he viciously rips off the tape.
Stifling a moan, John glares up at him, but says with admirable neutrality, "Please just let him go. He's only a kid. Sherlock isn't a threat to you anymore."
A deep, hearty chuckle erupts from Jim's chest. "Is this an attempt to appeal to my humanity, John Watson?" he questions, and as light-hearted and playful as it sounds on the surface, there is an undercurrent to his tone that is dangerously brittle. Especially as he thrusts the butt of the gun into the hollow of the man's throat.
John swallows thickly.
"Because, I assure you," he grins, "You'll be bitterly disappointed. If you're looking for guy-who-gives-a-damn-of-the-year, I'm hardly the perfect candidate. " Amusement flickers in his eyes.
"Spare him," John pleads, voice cracking. "Please. Let us leave and you'll never have to hear from either of us ever again, I promise. I am begging you, Moriarty - please don't hurt him."
The consulting criminal smirks cruelly.
Tilting his head to the side, he furrows his brows and sourly ponders, "But what if I don't want there to be a Sherlock that's not my Sherlock?"
John reels back in surprise, blurting, "What?"
Half-shrugging in an overly careless manner, he explains, "As you have so kindly pointed out, he's a child. A stupid, dependant child. He's of no use to me like this. And if I can't have him, well…" His voice takes on a colder note as his fixed stare hardens with a remorseless, almost voracious glint. "I think you get the picture."
"But he is still Sherlock," the other man argues desperately. "He's still as brilliant as he ever was. Nothing's changed!"
"Everything's changed," Moriarty snaps. Then he arranges a tight, little smile that's all barbed wire and pointed daggers. "So you see, I don't have a choice. I have to kill him."
At this point, he sounds almost apologetic, forehead crinkled in a way that is certainly not sincere, blinking guilelessly. "I apologise for whatever inconvenience or heartache this must cause you, Love Bug. But I simply cannot let him go."
And he isn't merely talking about literally setting him free.
"Please don't do this," John implores, giving his ropes another tug. "You don't have to do this." Risking a glance over at the miniature detective who is currently cramming a tiny, slobber-coated fist into his mouth and mindlessly chomping, he murmurs wistfully, "He won't let you do this."
"Oh, he won't let me, will he? That's interesting. Interesting choice of words there. What devious plan is the extraordinary Mr. Holmes concocting now, pray tell? Is he going to… what?" Moriarty pauses with a malicious sneer, waggling his brows. "Cry? Tell on me?" His eyebrows jump in patronizing alarm. "Throw a spectacularly trying tantrum? Gah," he cries theatrically, recoiling, "I can already taste defeat!"
Scarcely restraining himself from rolling his eyes, - as he would under any other circumstances, - John sighs.
Straightening, Moriarty grins a mischievous yet brutal grin and scoffs, nothing short of mocking, "Don't be silly, Doctor. I never figured you for the wishful type."
"You need him," John counters, confident and defiant, "You need him to win. This…this, right now, it isn't winning. He's not an opponent like this; even in this form Sherlock is still the only person that you can ever hope to compete with on your level. Neither of you have proved who's got the upper-hand, neither of you have been outdone. And if you kill him, you will always feel incomplete, forever wondering if you ever had a chance to begin with."
Nostrils flaring, Moriarty bites, furious, "You," he rams the gun closer, "Need to remember whom you're speaking to. Unbalanced psychopath with a gun, remember?" he sings. "So I would be careful, if I were you." The consulting criminal makes a sharp slashing gesture across his throat, lip curling. "Else you're toast."
John sets his jaw. "It only bothers you because it's the truth."
Jim sits back, considering this as he rubs his chin with the head of the gun, feeling the coolness press against his flesh, the weight of the weapon in his hands. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock. Wriggling bare toes and kicking out from a puddle of clothes. His lower lip is puckering in frustration while his watery eyes brim over, salty tears dripping down his face as he whimpers. And it hits him, suddenly. All at once.
He's bored. The child is... bored.
Moriarty narrows his eyes, clucks his tongue, hums a pleasant tune. He pensively smacks his lips, cocks his head, thinks it through.
He will not be alone.
He refused to be.
Suddenly throwing back his head, Moriarty groans loudly. "Ugh! Fine! Ruin all of my fun, why not? I don't even care anymore!"
John blinks, incredulous and cautiously optimistic. "Wh-what?"
"Don't sweat it, Johnny-boy. You didn't seriously think I was going to murder an itty bitty child, did you? I would never allow harm to come to a child," he says, as if scandalised. "Not least a charming little genius one. Honestly. Just look at those big blue eyes, John. Aren't they adorable? He's sooooo adorable, I think I might even hurl. Don't you just want to pick him up and squeeze him within an inch of his life, Dr. Watson?" Moriarty asks, rising to his feet. "So cuddly and cute and oh so innocent." He claps his hands together. "It's marvellous."
With a sinking feeling in his stomach, John coughs, "Uh, marvellous?"
"Oh, yes." He beams. "Very much so."
He steps towards the small bundle, gun clattering to the ground. Rosy cheeks and floppy, dark hair falling into large, inquisitive eyes.
"What-what are you doing?" the other man demands, panicked. "Stay away from him! Don't-don't you dare touch him!"
Ignoring him, Moriarty kneels down beside the little boy and trails his fingers lazily through the youngster's soft hair, lips twitching. Reaching for him under his armpits, he plucks him from the warm clothes pile and cradles the young child close (who is swathed in a large, crisp white shirt), pressing his forehead against the little one's and breathing in deeply. It is a heavy, musky scent, entwined with rust and damp. Across the boy's cheek there is a bright smear of blood, - residue from the fight, he's certain, - which Moriarty gently rubs away with his thumb.
"Good boy," he smiles, tweaking the toddler's nose.
Almost instinctively, Sherlock gives a tearful, sleepy snuffle and burrows his head into the man's chest, nuzzling into the crook of his neck and tiredly pushing his thumb between his lips as Moriarty soothingly pats his back.
There is an infinitesimal twitch in his cold, dead heart that he quickly dismisses as indigestion.
"Don't worry, lil' guy," he murmurs lowly, bouncing him lightly. "Daddy's got you now. I won't let anything happen to you."
Meanwhile, John all but gapes in shock, managing to unintelligibly splutter, "You can't seriously-Moriarty, don't-" But all of his objections fall on deaf ears - white noise against his quiet moment of truth.
This child is forever his to mould and shape. No-one can take him away from him now. No-one. Not ever.
"You're mine now, Sherlock. All," Moriarty smirks, makes a gleeful popping sound, "Mine."
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Thanks very much for reading. Please do let me know what you think.