It was a fairly quiet afternoon in Jim's little house in rural Ireland. It was a calm place. The wind blew softly through the grass and the trees ruffled close to silently. Clouds loomed over the town, but it wasn't humid like it sometimes was before it would rain. Just a little bit colder and darker, but nothing unpleasant. Yes, it was a quiet afternoon.

Well, almost quiet.

One noise burst through the house, and that was the noise of a barking dog. It was the neighbor's dog, Buster, a very old beagle coated in patterns of red and blacks and whites. The other noise interrupting the afternoon was the young boy sitting next to him, stomping his feet and shouting.

"That's enough! Stop barking! Why won't you stop barking!?" he shouted. The dog ignored him, laying down and staring into the distance, irritated by something and feeling the need to continually bark at it, "That's all you ever do, just barking and barking! Shut up!" the young boy snarled. He paused for a moment, taking in a long breath, "If you don't stop barking, I'll stop you barking," he warned.

"Jim!" a voice called from way far off, "Come in for dinner please!"

But Jim wasn't hungry.

He remembered how his mum and dad always complained about Buster and how he never stopped. He could fix it, his mum and dad would be so proud, he thought. He picked a rock up off the ground and raised it high above his head…

"Why did you kill that dog, Jim?" asked Jim's father. Jim stared out of the car window, watching the countryside pass away behind him. His mother was trying to stop crying, but she didn't stop. It was quiet, but he could still hear her. It was sort of funny the reasons other people cried, he was only trying to help her.

"He wouldn't stop barking, dad," Jim replied logically.

"Do you think that was good reason to…" his father swallowed. Jim thought he might cry too. How funny. "To kill him?"

"Well, I told him over and over to stop barking, but he never listened," Jim explained, not turning his eyes away from the window, "He was a stupid dog."

"Yes, well," his father continued, his voice cracking, "That was a very bad thing you did, Jim. And now we have to go very far away and leave home forever, do you understand why?"

"Yes, dad," Jim responded. He wondered if he felt guilty, but he couldn't feel anything. There was a slight dropping feeling in his stomach, he supposed, but he also hadn't eaten since breakfast, and that was more likely the reason.

"It's not right to kill things, Jim," his dad told him.

"But dad, you and mum kill bugs," he said, "You say the way they bite us is so annoying. You also said that Buster's barking was so annoying."

"No, Jim that's not-" but he kept going.

"I remember you said old mean Mr. Jergenson was really annoying too, the way he kept coming by and taking our money, taking advantage of our food. He was no good, you said. I was going to save him for Christmas."

"Save him, Jim, what on Earth could you be talking about?" his father asked. He was crying now too.

"I was going to smash his head in with a rock the way I did to Buster. That way he wouldn't come around and take our food and money no more, dad. I was gonna his him real hard and watch his blood and brains squish out across the grass the way Buster's did. Would that be bad, dad? He's not a dog, dad. He's a mean old man. Would that be very bad like you said?"

His mother broke into a fresh new batch of sobs, crying hysterically. His father shivered, starting to cry too. He said a swear to himself. Jim pouted. He didn't understand.

"Yes, Jim," he said, his voice shaking with tears, "That would be very very bad."

"Okay, dad," Jim said smiling, "That's okay. I'll get you something real special in the new place we're moving with all the money I've saved up, would that be good?"

His father swallowed, "Sure, Jim," he whispered fearfully, "That would be just fine." Jim giggled with satisfaction as he turned to the window. Perfect, he thought. They were moving to a new town. He thought it might have been because he wasn't supposed to kill Buster, but he wasn't completely sure. He thought it was pretty exciting. His parents kept on crying, though.

New kids usually weren't welcome at The Hall School in London, and certainly not ones that didn't fit in. And the new kid, Jim Moriarty, was pretty odd. Sure, he fit in basically. He had pretty good grades, a few friends, acted pretty much like a normal person. But still… first off, he had come out of pretty much nowhere. No one could figure out where he came from, why he moved to London. He just… came. Not to mention, even when he had friends and acted normally, sometimes things would slip. Creepy things. Things you couldn't exactly explain. Not… rationally. I mean, he never threatened to kill anyone, but… well, he once was taken out to a farm on a school field trip. Most people asked normal questions about how the crops were exported or how they cared for the animals. But Jim asked other questions. 'What do you use to slaughter the chickens?' 'Do they know it's coming?' 'Does it really feel like rubber?' He kept going until everyone went from laughing squirming, including the farmer, who was forced to answer the questions before he never called on Jim again. But the whole time, Jim just smiled, nodding in interest as though they were normal facts like you'd see in a National Geographic.

Either way, no matter how well or… not well, he fit in, new kids had always been the prey of the school. He was the bottom of the pyramid in less than a week.

"How do you like that, kid?!" Carl cried, his shadow casting over Jim. Jim wiped his mouth and looked at his hand. Blood. He was getting awfully sick of Carl Powers and his posse. But he just glared up at him. There was nothing he could do. Well, there was one thing…

No. The last thing he needed right now was to move again, not to mention get grounded for probably forever.

"Whatcha gonna do, freak? Gonna cut me open, freak? Gonna kill me?" the rest of them laughed as they gathered around. Jim winced as they kicked him at every angle, his body going numb. But still, he didn't speak. They'd go away eventually.

"Come on, freak, get up!" Carl insisted, grabbing his arm and harshly yanking him to his feet. He spun him around and held his arm behind him, pushing it into his back. Jim winced, his arm bending backwards and aching like it was already broken.

"Who's the best in the school, freak?" he asked him again. Jim should have just said it was Carl Powers, but he just wasn't in the mood for that today.

"That's enough, Carl- Agh!" he shouted in pain as he pushed his arm further into his back. It threatened to snap.

"Oh really? What are you gonna do about it?" he demanded with a smirk.

"Just stop! Ah!" he shouted louder, trying to pull away. Was that his arm breaking? He couldn't even tell.

"Or what?"

Jim couldn't take it any more. He longed to see Carl's blood run down the pavement and rush into the drain. His voice got dangerously soft. "If you don't stop, I'll stop you," he threatened quietly. Carl burst into laughter, throwing him to the ground. Jim hissed in pain. He gently rubbed his arm, hurting to the touch. Not quite broken, he thought, but it hurt like Hell.

"Ooh, I'm so scared! Little freak's gonna stop me!" Carl mocked. He and his group laughed. Jim looked back up at him. He should just forget it now, but he couldn't help himself. He was already looking for weaknesses.

Strong arms and legs, no weakness there, buff chest. Very few physical weaknesses. Emotional possessions: Hat - new, cheap, unimportant. Shirt - unimportant. Jeans - unimportant. Shoes -

"Freak," he scoffed, and kicked him in the side.

Jim grinned, looking back at the back of his shoes. Very old, constantly replaced shoelaces, commonly cleaned surface, old style, not just retro… some sort of cream on the inner tongue...

Perfect.

The pool was never one of Sherlock's favorite places. He figured his parents thought it was fun for him, and besides that Mycroft had to practice for his swim lessons. He offered to stay home, but apparently his parents were too afraid he would 'stick the phone in the microwave again like some sort of mad scientist'.

Psh. That was one time.

Okay, maybe twice.

Sherlock just sat on the edge of the pool, decked out in his swimsuit. He still had his shirt on, though. It didn't particularly bother him that everyone seemed to feel the organic need to say 'wow, you're so skinny!' and then proceed to count every single rib on him, but it was still annoying. He just didn't much want any attention at all.

It was a fairly busy day today, many people from his school having showed up. There was kelly and the other artsy kids in their strangely shaped bikinis floating along peacefully, there were Sarah and the other mean girls just sitting on the edge of the pool and clearly gossiping about him and the other kids, there was Carl and his group taking up most of the pool to splash each other, and a few other miscellaneous children. His friend Dave was there too. Well, friend is relative. Dave was blonde, not exactly fat but stout, and fairly desperate when it came to relationships. He was actually fairly popular, but when it came to attention, he would eat it up from anyone. Sherlock knew it was because of neglectful and possibly drug-abusing parents back home, but he didn't let him know that he knew that. So he sort of just talked to him. It was easier talking aloud and Dave was a lot less conspicuous than the pencil with the smiley face pencil cap eraser he sometimes talked to.

"Hi, Sherlock!" Dave said, collapsing next to Sherlock on the edge of the pool, sopping wet, "Aren't you going to get in?"

"No, don't think so," he responded.

"You haven't even taken off your shirt yet!" he said, ignoring his comment, "Come on, Sher, some guys would kill for your physique, man! No need to feel bad about it!" He punched him playfully. Dave was probably a very good friend, Sherlock knew. Too bad he wasn't interested in one.

"It's not that I feel bad about it, I'm just not in the mood for…" he trailed off, peering out into the pool. Something was off. The dynamic of the way the rougher boys played changed. It was so subtle Sherlock didn't even think that the boys there noticed, but suddenly it was ever so slightly more gentle, more one sided. What was it? Where was the weak link?
"Sherlock, you alright?" Dave asked him. Sherlock ignored him, turning his eyes to Carl Powers. He was faltering, his movements less controlled, his smile less wide, his muscles more pained. Something was happening to him. What was happening?

"Sherlock, what is it?" Dave insisted, trying intently to find what Sherlock was looking at.

"Sh," Sherlock hissed in a soft whisper, "Look at Carl."
"What about him?" Dave asked cluelessly.

"Doesn't he look wrong?" Dave looked for a good long while before turning back to Sherlock.

"Sort of… tired?" he offered.

"Mm," Sherlock agreed. But it was more than tired. He glanced towards his brother, who didn't seem to notice. He probably had noticed, just chose to do nothing about it, as was his style. Sherlock knew he couldn't count on his brother.

"Alright, I'm gonna go swim. See you, Sher!" Dave said, walking off and jumping back into the pool. Sherlock made a small noise of recognition but kept his eyes on Carl. His friend playfully laughed and pushed him under by his shoulders. He didn't push back up. There was thrashing underwater, nonsensical twitching. Not trying to get to the surface, muscular spasms. He kept going down and his friends hands were off his shoulders.

"Carl? What the Hell?" he demanded, concerned. Somebody must have called 911 because sirens were sounding outside and paramedics were rushing in. A woman sobbed off to the side of the pool, probably Carl's mother as the doctor's pulled him up. He was either unconscious or dead. Sherlock guessed dead.

Soon after his mother and father were gathered around with his brother off to the side.

"Let's go, Sherlock," his mother said nervously, and they all headed back to the locker rooms to change then back home. As Sherlock put his clothes back n, he glanced over at Carl Powers' things. One thing was missing, and it was by far the most important thing he had brought to the pool. The perfect evidence.

Sherlock sat in the living room that night watching the news. His parents shook their heads and Mycroft sat boredly in the living room, shaking his head. He was only in the house for a visit, he had long moved out and would leave as soon as he could. But the more Sherlock watched the news, the angrier he got.

"13 year old Carl Powers died today in a public pool during a tragic accident," the newsman said, "Doctors are saying he was tired from the day before and, after his friend was holding him under the surface, was unable to swim back up again and drowned in the pool. It happened in the view of a full room, and yet, nobody seemed to notice what was happening to him."

Sherlock got up and left. Just drowned?! Are they idiots?! Did they see him!? That wasn't just drowning, he couldn't get back up again, he got tired out of nowhere! It was poison! And what did they mean no one noticed?!

He got onto the computer. He knew that Dave would be on the chatroom at this time of day, when he was hiding in his room from his dysfunctional family and starting to get bored of whatever show he'd been watching or book he'd been reading. Just as he thought, as he logged on, it said Dave-The-Brave-123 is online. Furiously, Sherlock typed a message to him.

SH-2514 did you see the news?

Sherlock waited a couple seconds. Dave typed much slower than he did. Even after all this time he rolled his eyes at his username. So easy to guess, easy to hack into. He had to change the numbers on his constantly so that Mycroft wouldn't spy on him. Finally, Dave replied.

Dave-The-Brave-123 yeah. poor carl. :(

Sherlock growled slightly. Oh, not this.

SH-2514 no not that.

SH-2514 theyre saying he drowned.

Dave-The-Brave-123 he did drown.

SH-2514 didnt you see him? that was asphyxiation, it wasnt drowning. he was murdered.

Dave-The-Brave-123 dont mock him sherlock. he was a good friend of mine.

SH-2514 im not mocking him. didnt you see it? his muscles spasmed underwater, his face went limp, he got rapidly weaker to the point where he couldnt even get back up after his friend pushed him down. he was poisoned. plus, his shoes werent there.

Dave-The-Brave-123 wut?

Sherlock gave a heavy sigh. Ugh, normal people. It was so obvious.

SH-2514 carl powers! someone killed him!

He thought for a moment before typing.

SH-2514 im gonna go to the police.

Dave-The-Brave-123 the police already saw them and they said he drowned. cant you just leave it to the professionals?

SH-2514 the professionals are wrong!

A long moment passed before Dave replied, clearly thinking about what he wanted to say. Sherlock found his heart racing for some reason.

Dave-The-Brave-123 do whatever u want. just dont get me involved.

Sherlock put his fingers to the keyboard, beginning a response before the computer screen switched to saying Dave-The-Brave-123 is offline. Sherlock sighed, closing out of the chat room and leaning back in his chair. Carl Powers was killed. He knew it was true. It had to be.

Jim sat alone in his room after coming home from school. His body and hands still tingled after putting the poison disguised as his cream into his shoes. He looked his hands. There was no blood but they still felt warm.

It was an amazing feeling, watching somebody die and knowing it was you who did it. The power rising in your chest like you've been thrown up into the air, like you're flying. It's an addiction you forget about after a while. Like going so cold you go numb and then feeling the heat of a fire. And oh, he could feel the fire now. Lighting up a tension in his chest, boiling up inside him, warming his hands like dripping blood. He grinned. He knew he wasn't supposed to and it wouldn't take long before his parents found out what he had done and he had to move again. Still though. It was a feeling you could find in nothing else and twice as powerful in humans. He'd never killed humans before. He shut his eyes, thinking of Carl powers thrashing, sinking, dying… What his parents didn't understand was telling him not to take this power was like telling someone not to breathe. He had to. And he loved it.

He leaned back. "I told you I'd stop you…" he whispered softly.

Already his parents were screaming downstairs, probably having watched the news. They weren't dumb, they knew what he must have done. It was no coincidence that an accidental death just occurs as soon as they moved on. They screamed downstairs.

"It's entirely possible that he just drowned!" his father shouted.

"It's possible, but you know it's not true!" his mother shrieked back.

"There is nothing indicating this is his fault, what would he even have done, hmm? Willed him to drown?!"

"Well, I don't know, but you know what that boy is!"
"He's a kid!"

"He's a monster!"

"How could you say that about our son?!"

"Oh, don't act so noble, you know it's true! You know, ever since he was little he would laugh when he found an anthill because he got to crush the ants inside! He was never right in the head!"

"Nora-"

"And, now, we have to move again because of him! You know if it was up to me we would have just-" she stopped. A pause drifted in the air.

"What, what would you have done?!" his father demanded. She drew a heavy sigh.

"I would've put him up for adoption and never looked back!"

"How dare you say that, he is a child and we are his caretakers!" his father shouted, slamming his fist against the table.

"You know what, I can't." she said. Footsteps went across the floor. "Then, I guess we're just moving. That's the third time this year, James, but you're too afraid of change to do anything about this… this devil under our roof!"

"Nora-" The door shut and he stopped. He sighed. "Dammit…" he whispered.

Jim smiled, still totally unphased. He supposed all that probably would have permanently traumatized a normal kid. Well, he thought with a smile. He cast a glance at little Carl's shoes, sitting in the corner like a trophy. He wasn't exactly a normal kid, now was he?

The next day they broke it to him. It was the speech he'd heard many times before, only this time his mother wasn't only silent, but didn't show up at all. He figured she would probably be away a whole lot more. He didn't think of any ways he would miss her.

He pretty much tuned out as his father went through the whole spiel about how he needed to control this and go to a therapist and that now they had to move again and all that. It was always the same, only this time, it didn't affect him at all. Enough of the rules. Now he knew what ending human life felt like. He couldn't go back. He just couldn't. Yes, this time was ever so slightly from the many times in the past, because even as his father cried and screamed and scolded for what seemed like the whole morning…

He knew he would kill again.

Sherlock thought it all through. He would have to get to the police station and tell the police everything he saw. It was unlikely that they'd listen to him, but with the evidence he gave them he figured they may look over the fact that he was thirteen. Unfortunately, for the actual getting to the police station part, he needed a ride. And the only ride that would be willing to listen and knew his cause was…

"What do you need Sherlock?!" his brother called from behind his bedroom door. Well, it was the guest room, but he made it his soon enough. Very Mycroft.

"I just need a ride," Sherlock growled.

"Let me guess. The police station?" he asked, irritated. Sherlock was about to ask how he knew, but then he remembered he was Mycroft.

"You saw what happened to Carl Powers! We have to let out the truth!" Sherlock insisted.

"Why?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock opened his mouth, but Mycroft cut him off, "And don't say for the right of the people, because it's a lie. You've never done anything for the right of the people and you know it." Sherlock snapped his mouth shut. Well, so much for that clever lie.

He thought for a moment. He wasn't sure exactly why. He had this sudden urge for success, to solve the case. He found it wasn't about the truth getting out as much as him knowing it. Now that he thought about it, it was possible that Carl just drowned. He needed reassurance. And beyond that, who did it? Why did they do it? What poison did they use? The need for information, the thrill of the chase was like a need for air. But he couldn't exactly explain that to Mycroft, now could he?

"Can you just come out? Please?" he asked. A heavy sigh came from inside and the door opened, leaving his brother leaning irritated in the doorway. He raised his eyebrows in expectation, waiting for him to speak.

"Come on, you must have seen it too!" Sherlock insisted, "That wasn't drowning, that was asphyxiation. Nobody just gets tired like that, and those were muscle spasms! You know what it was."

"Of course I do," Mycroft told him. Sherlock sighed ever so slightly. At least he wasn't crazy, and Mycroft tended to be right. "But what exactly makes you believe they'll believe you? You're just a kid."

"I'll make my argument clear, tell them what I saw," Sherlock said, "I have more evidence than you think."

"Do you really think it'll work?"
"I think it's the best chance I've got."

Mycroft waited a little while, running it through his head before answering. He swung out of his room and headed towards the door.

"Alright," he said finally. Sherlock ran up after him to catch up.

"What, really?"

"Yes," Mycroft said, heading out the door as he tucked his hands in his pockets, "Give it your best shot. But I'm only doing this to teach you a lesson, Sherlock."

"What's that?" Sherlock asked.

"People don't listen to other people," he told him, "And certainly not other kids."

When they arrived at the police station, Sherlock was totally in the lead, his brother only following along, happy to be a spectator, as usual. He pulled the kid card for a little while, saying he always wanted to be a cop when he grew up and his older brother took him to see if he could look around the station. The person outside was happy to comply and introduce him to the police chief, sending him to his office. The chief was a stern looking man with a square face, graying hair, and muscular figure. As soon as the other person had left, the youthful wonder left Sherlock's eyes, his face falling totally serious.

"So you want to be a cop when you grow up?" he said with a white-toothed smile.

"Not particularly," Sherlock said officially, "Rather good way to get in here though. Now that I'm in here, let's start conversation. Let's talk about Carl Powers."

The officer's smile fell, glancing to Mycroft's brother and then back at Sherlock, knocked back a bit. Mycroft smiled slightly with something close to pride.

"What are you-?" the officer began with a questioning smile.

"Carl Powers. You all say he drowned but I have some further information to offer," Sherlock started.

"Wha-"

"For starters, I was on the edge of the pool at the time of the occurrence," Sherlock began. It felt good to spill the evidence aloud, like letting the river flow. He felt tremendously clever. "For several minutes before the incident he was playing with his friend. He was part of the football team, the most popular in it, actually, meaning he's very strong, more strong than his friend Jacob Yole, who plays baseball but had a pac-man swimsuit and no tan, meaning he spent more time inside gaming and other non-athletic activities. Jacob was the one holding him underwater. They spend much of their time together and were both laughing, meaning it's most likely that Carl was only staying underwater recreationally, for fun. He was confident that he could push up any time, because several minutes ago, he had. But before it happened his face went slightly slack, his motions were less controlled, splashing other people as well, feel free to ask them. After this behavior, his friend pushed him under, confident he'd come right back up. But he didn't. Why? He couldn't, his muscles had been too far weakened. Those frantic gestures weren't him trying to get to the surface, they were muscle spasms, the result of some forms of poison."

"Kid, you couldn't possibly-" the officer began, but Sherlock was on a roll.

"Not to mention his shoes. What? His shoes? Yes, his shoes. From several years ago, constantly cleaned, shoelaces repeatedly changed, not to mention he wore them every single day at school. They clearly meant a lot to him. He also wore some sort of foot cream, the perfect opportunity. The killer likely replaced the cream with some form of poison that could be ingested through the skin, putting it into the shoes. Either way, back to his shoes. As I was leaving, I saw they were gone from the locker room. All the other things he brought were his clothes and only his clothes, so why wouldn't he bring his shoes? Answer is: he would. The killer took them as a trophy. The shoes wouldn't just disappear, and someone so athletic and with so much stamina wouldn't just drown out of nowhere. His friend was clearly confused that he didn't come back up, the shoes were gone, Carl Powers was murdered. Am I wrong?"

"Listen, kid, we have finished the case!" The officer shouted back at him.

"Am I wrong?" Sherlock asked more sharply. The officer looked into his emotionless eyes, an intimidated look spreading across his face.

"Get out of my office," he said, "Who do you think you are, we're the police. Carl Powers drowned, there's nothing else to it!"

Sherlock gave a heavy sigh. How could ordinary people be so stupid?! "I just explained, he couldn't have drowned!"
"And you're what? In sixth grade? Seventh?"

"It's not important, I'm right!" Sherlock shouted back.

"Just leave it to the professionals, kid," he snarled, sitting back down at his desk.

"But-"

"Sherlock," his brother warned. Sherlock looked desperately up at Mycroft. He couldn't just give up. Why wasn't he listening? His argument was genius.

"Fine. I'll leave. But first, what was wrong?" Sherlock asked softly.

"Look kid,"

"My name's Sherlock!" he responded rapidly, getting sick of 'kid'.

"Fine, Sherlock," he responded, "I appreciate your enthusiasm, but just leave it up to the adults for now, alright?"
"I'm not wrong, am I?" Sherlock asked softly, marveling at the situation. He hadn't expected Mycroft to be so right. He wouldn't listen at all.

"That's enough, kid," he responded.

"It's Sher-!" Sherlock shouted at the top of his voice.

"Sherlock," Mycroft warned softly, grabbing his shoulder before he could step forward. Sherlock looked around, gained control of himself. He stepped back, un-balling his fists and letting out a breath. He scowled at the police chief one more time before turning on his heel and leaving the office.

"I told you, Sherlock," his brother said, his hands tucked in his pockets. "Ordinary people will always surprise and disappoint. They never listen. They don't have the mental capacity,"

"But I was right, all of that was right!" Sherlock said furiously, heading rapidly out of the police station and looking out at the road.

"Yes, it was," Mycroft responded, "But like I said, people don't ever listen."

"Yes, well, when I get older-" Sherlock began, but his brother interrupted.

"That doesn't matter all that much Sherlock," he said, "If it wasn't because of your age they'd find some other excuse. I'm twenty years old and working in government and people still don't know what I stand for."

Sherlock sighed, disappointment and frustration welling up in his chest. "I guess," he grumbled.

Mycroft started off towards the car. "Shall we?" he asked.

"Yes, sure," Sherlock said, starting to follow him. He walked over to the passenger side, placing his hand on the handle. Time seemed to slow as a car passed.

He looked into the darkened black window, a boy about his age sitting in the back, and even through the tinted window he could tell it was the new kid who had just come into school. He could tell by the heavy possessions filling up the trunk and the other seat of the back in trunks and suitcases that they wouldn't be coming back. There the new kid went, just as fast as he had come. Sherlock never even learned his name.

Their eyes locked as they passed. The boy, curled up in the back seat, gave Sherlock a wide, amused, insane smile through the dark window. Sherlock just watched him, giving him a taunting smile, laughing at him for going to the police for some reason. Something was wrong about him. But before he could place it, the car had driven off and time returned to normal speed. He found himself staring at the car as it went down the long road.

"Sherlock?" his brother asked.

"Yeah, coming…" Sherlock said, but he just kept staring at the road. The way he was driven to find those clues, how his boredom was put aside for just a few moments as a thrilling fire bubbled up inside him. The way he explained the clues, flowing off his tongue like candy. He knew he shouldn't be happy about a murder, it wasn't decent, but he couldn't help but feel like this was just a small taste of something much bigger, much more exciting. He wouldn't let this feeling go, he thought. It was like an addiction. He couldn't if he tried.

"Carl Powers…" he whispered softly to himself as he stared down the road. He'd remember the name.

After staring for just one more moment, he swung back into the passenger seat.

"Let's go," he said. And just as he said that, his brother drove him home.

Moriarty kept looking back at where Sherlock had been. Oh, that is good. Someone found out. I mean, not that it was him, but that it was no accident. He should have been scared, but all he felt was excitement. But… a certain kind he couldn't quite place. Oh, that's it.

Popularity.

He smiled, turning away from the back of the road and looking out into the city. Well, off they were again. He wondered what it would be like this time around. Would it be a city? A farm? A nice school? A bad one? Nice kids? Mean ones?
He positively shuddered with excitement. Whose life was going to end because of him next? So, without speaking a word to his parents for the whole drive, he pressed his forehead to the window and shut his eyes, thinking about the things he could do. Oh, the things he could do…

END