Welcome! If you are new here, go read A Debt To Be Repaid. Also, M rating as you can see. I will warn you when that comes about but be warned that throughout the story, you will see an increase in coarse language and themes and violence.


Part One: The Carver

The jacket hung alone away from the woman's clothing in the closet; it hung on the door frame as if its owner had often looked at it confused and perplexed during down time, and she often did. Why it came into her possession became a thought gnawing on her brain begging for an answer. It was an obsession that would often lead to screaming and shouting hoping the dead could talk.

Ginevra Lorraine often paced in front of this jacket thinking, trying to understand it, and she did understand it in every way a person could understand a single article of clothing.

Vivienne Westwood could be extreme in her designs, but sometimes she was subtle. In the case of suit that the jacket was paired with, she was subtle and elegant. The suit could range from 500-1500 quid, and the jacket itself could likely fetch a hundred or so. It had been bought as soon as the design was on the market and was tailored to fit perfectly. It was polished and refined; it was the small things that really made this suit stand out from its competition, and it was these things that caught James Moriarty's attention when he bought it not too long before his death.

After a hundred tests by numerous professionals, it was found to be nothing harmless but a jacket. It was made of a dark blue 100% virgin wool- whatever that meant. It was all useless information to her; it was all superfluous. She could tell you a million facts about this damn jacket, but she could not tell you why. Why had James Moriarty left her this jacket? No… perhaps that wasn't the question. Perhaps the question was: why had James Moriarty draped this damn jacket over her cold, unconscious form in some strange moment of humanity? What had triggered such an act? Why would he stop his game just to bring her into her flat out of the cold?

In retrospect, she mused, it shouldn't have mattered; it should have been just another item left by another dead man, but it wasn't. It had purpose though she couldn't say what. Moriarty knew that she would know that the Westwood jacket was his. When they first met, she straightened it for him as she threatened; he told Mrs. Hudson his name. He wanted her to know he left her that jacket. But why? That was the question! Why!?

It made no sense. Was he just trying to mock her? Was he just trying to confuse her? Was he just trying to drive her mental? No, no, he may have been a psychopath, but that man never did anything for the hell of it. He always had a grand purpose for this jacket and for her, or was she delusional?

But eventually, the days ran away from her and turned to weeks that then proceeded into months, and December of that year, her heater broke. She stumbled out of bed and grabbed the jacket before sliding it on to find some sort of comfort in the freezer that had become her room. It never stayed on its hanger after that.

She wore it in the fall, winter, spring, and even manage to in the summer. The few days she didn't wear it, it would lay draped over her chair in the flat. John didn't seem to notice it was Moriarty's jacket; who would? It was just a jacket, an insignificant article of clothing to most.

She found herself sliding her fingers down the jacket when she was in deep thought, and on rare days, she would remember sliding her fingers down the jacket and straightening it for James Moriarty, and she would seem to snap out of a trance and throw it off in disgust and disdain because of who it once belonged to. It wouldn't lie on the floor long. She would find herself feeling empty like something was missing before she would pick it back up, take it to the cleaners, and continue wearing it like it was part of her.

It had become her anchor, her lifeline, and despite everything she knew about this damn jacket, she couldn't tell you why.


A/N: This will be separated into three distinct parts. You know the name of the first one now, but I am being resistant into telling the names of the parts of the other.

Ready for insanity? I hate to be a troll (no I don't), but I have never written anything as dark and as twisted as this. I was laughing, crying, and panicking all at the same time when I wrote this. I broke my own heart and more than once my own jaw dropped at what was happening. So be ready readers! You're about to go on a roller coaster!