James Moriarty had never had a normal life, an exceptionally bright student who was bullied by the 'ordinary' children, as he used to call them. He never understood why he was here, even when he was very small. Never knew his parents, they had abandoned him shortly after he was born, given a name by a father who had taken him in, into the church on that dark night long ago. He didn't speak until he was five and even then he only muttered and stammered when it was absolutely necessary. His teachers knew of his genius, his knowledge was far beyond his years. But there was something cold about the little lithe boy with the jet black hair and pools of dark chocolate eyes to match. An Irish pixie, he would be described as by the nuns that took care of him.