Jim Moriarty took his notebook full of Fiction and his pen lying on his messy bed before leaving the solitary of the building to the cold air of night. All the things heard along the dark road were the sound of his hopeless breathing and his futile footstep. Moriarty's heart was hurt, his heart was in agony. But that was before, because the feelings had disappeared, disappeared to nothingness.
Sherlock Holmes couldn't feel anything anymore right now. All the memories plays inside his brain like a mantra that corrodes his feelings, his emotions, his hopes, his dreams, his destiny and his life. He is not more than an empty can now. Nothing.
Jim smiles to himself, remembering the screams of pain from his victims, all the happy memories soon turned to pain in his heart. The sun doesn't shine for forever. His life shattered and the thunder started to pierce the blue cloud. Yet, he changed it. Why did he come to his life? Why did the man ever change his life like this?
Jim told him that's okay. He told him it's fine to love a boy when Sherlock doubt his own feelings. He used to be beside him when he is fragile, like an umbrella that gives him shelter. The voice of his vivid laughter had always blown the dark clouds away. The warmness of his little body is always a blanket to him. But where had all such things gone now?
Sherlock's step deadened when the road went into a halt in front wide gleaming sea. The place of nothingness. That guy used to like this beautiful scenery. He imagined that guy is here right now, stretching his hand while letting the wind blows his face, laughing serenely as he asked him to do the same. He did it. Like the guy ever ask him to. He doesn't mind. It's a fiction after all. And he'll always live in a fiction he made himself.
Jim's eyes closed and the images come. Those bad images come.
Sherlock closed his eyes as he thought of his life. The Memories.
For the one last page at the back of the notebook, Sherlock Holmes wrote his last fiction. The remaining words for him to end this endless fiction before he let the dark liquid ahead him embrace him with coldness and disappears into nothingness. 'We are born to live… until death I will always be with you.'
Jim Moriarty stared at the book as he wrote the last few sentence of the fiction. The words hurt to read, pained to hear yet Moriarty kept writing in hopes of it getting better. His heart was already cold… yet now it felt even colder as he wrote the last sentence. 'We are born to die… through life I will always be with you. '
Sherlock left the cemetery immediately, wishing if he ever could fix everything right. Moriarty walked into the Cemetery and bumped right into Sherlock. "Moriarty." Sherlock spoke as Jim said the others name. "Sherlock." Sherlock moves closer to him and he folded him into his arms, pressed his head against his strong, broad chest. Slowly as the wind blew the two of them disappeared.
Years it seemed but, John stood in front of Sherlock's and Moriarty's grave three weeks after their deaths. Their Notebooks lying against the tombstones. The Pages blew lightly in the wind as John knelt down and picked them up. Sitting down under a tree and opening them up. Entering Sherlock's and Moriarty's Fiction.
