Author's Note: This is just a quick one-shot from Jim's point of view, set during the events of the show.
Warning! MAJOR spoilers for Series 1 and 2. DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVE NOT HAD THE PLEASURE OF WATCHING SHERLOCK SERIES 1 AND 2.
James Moriarty liked to play games. He liked the strategy, the moves, the adrenaline, the fear in his opponent's eyes. But the one thing that Jim liked more than games, was winning.
Jim liked new challenges. He liked new opponents. Jim Moriarty liked his newest opponent. Jim liked Sherlock Holmes. He liked him very much.
Sherlock Holmes was different. Jim liked different. Sherlock was a challenge, a real challenge. And Jim loved a challenge. He loved every second of this challenge. He loved playing games with Sherlock. He loved watching Sherlock playing opposite him. He loved watching Sherlock work. How he moved about the game board in that smooth way of his, his coat flowing out behind him. How Sherlock looked when he was thinking hard, his eyebrows drawn downward. Jim wanted to beat Sherlock, but Sherlock wasn't going to be easy.
Jim disliked John Watson. John was too close to Sherlock. He was always there by the detective's side. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. They were inseparable. John was always there for Sherlock, almost as if he was guarding him. While Sherlock played the game, John observed Sherlock. Watching, making sure that his friend was safe. Jim wanted to play with Sherlock. But John was getting in the way.
Jim always liked being spontaneous. He liked bending the rules. And he had bent them. Oh had he bent them. He knew that kidnapping John wasn't part of the game. Or was it? Perhaps John was the piece that Jim had needed to get Sherlock to play with him. His other plans had failed, not even the temptation of money had lured Sherlock into his game.
But then he had kidnapped John.
That was the defining move, check mate. Sherlock was in, he had to be. The detective couldn't leave his friend alone in the clutches of Jim Moriarty. Sherlock had begun to play, and Jim was going to enjoy every moment of it.
Sherlock Holmes could play the game. God could he play. Jim had never planned to end the game on their first meeting, but Sherlock had had other ideas. Threatening to blow them all up just to make sure that Jim couldn't get away, very nice move. But Jim had other players in his game, other pieces that he could move into the right position. Jim had Irene Adler, and he was moving her in for the kill.
Irene was just a part of the game, and she was just playing the game, or so Jim had thought. But Jim soon saw otherwise. She had fallen for Sherlock, let her guard down, and lost. She had lost the game. And then she was gone, beheaded, no longer among the living, no longer there to distract Sherlock. Jim was ready to make his next move, but then there was Mycroft Holmes.
Mycroft Holmes and captivity seemed to be a good pair. And Jim, Jim was stuck in the middle of that pair. Mycroft had ways of making people talk, but Jim had ways too, ways of getting what he wanted. And he got it. He got the information he wanted, the rules to the game were his, he could change them at will, make his opponent the enemy, the fake. He could do anything he wanted with Sherlock Holmes, that identity was his now, and he could change it at will.
Jim Moriarty got Sherlock to come and play again. Pulling the impossible was what it took. Then Sherlock was his. The game was nearing the end, Jim was planning his final move, and Sherlock was walking right into his trap.
Richard Brook was Jim Moriarty. They were one and the same. Richard was the good, and Jim was the bad. Richard was a storyteller, Jim was a killer. But the thing about Richard was that he didn't exist. Jim had made him up. An alter ego, a man to hide what Jim was really up to, to fool everyone into thinking that Sherlock was the mind behind it all.
Sherlock Holmes was a better player than Jim thought. He spotted a weak point in Jim's strategy. But Jim was prepared, ready to do anything, anything to win. He had grown bored of Sherlock, tired of his strategy, bored of him. Jim Moriarty was done playing; he was ready to win, to move on. Another game, another distraction. But Sherlock wasn't done, he wasn't going to go down easily. Sherlock was going to end the game his way, and Jim wasn't ready to let him.
Jim was going to win his way, not Sherlock's. He wasn't going to let the consulting detective ruin his plans. Life was all a big game. Thousands lost every day. He had watched those thousands lose, watched them give up; fade away into nothingness, reduced to blubbering shadows of themselves. Jim wasn't going to lose; he was going to go out with a bang. Moving his final piece into position, sacrificing his King. If life was a game, then dying was the end of it. But dying wasn't losing, it was merely another move.
Jim Moriarty had won. Sherlock had taken the bait and ended it. Ending the game. He had lost, lost everything. Jim had come out on top. He had won. Death was the game changer, and Jim had welcomed it.