"Every new beginning comes from some other beginnings end."
There are some days that Richard loves his job as the storyteller. Seeing those happy children as they listen. Seeing their eyes light up and stare at him as if he is Santa Clause and the Easter Bunny combined is wonderful.
But then when his mother calls and starts screaming at him he hates his job.
"All those years of acting school." she is constantly screaming at him. "All those years and money! And you're doing this! Wasted! Perfectly good money wasted!"
The pay as a storyteller isn't that good but it does get him to make the ends meet. Occasionally he still performs; his favorite is when he is on stage in the theater. Especially those dramatic play which leaves the audience in tears.
His life isn't perfect but it is something that he enjoys. There are ups and downs to his job but in all honesty aren't that with all jobs?
It's not that Richard hates his life or anything silly like that.
It just he wished that sometimes something more would happen.
Richard was humming a tune that he heard some the new theme song they had made from work as he came home barely holding onto the groceries that he had just bought.
He noticed he had a new message on his answering machine and clicked play as he passed it towards the kitchen.
An unfamiliar deep voice came from the machine and at that moment Richards entire life turned upside down.
"Richard Brook?" the answering machine rang out. "My name is Sherlock Holmes and I have a job for you, one that will pay handsomely I assure you. If you are interested, and I know you are, then come to 221 Baker Street tomorrow at noon."
He wears his best suit, his Westwood one, and the one that he considers that brought him the most luck on interviews. He tucks his resume under his arm and walks out of his apartment onto the street to hail a cab.
A short ride later he finds himself outside of 221 Baker Street. He takes a deep breath and rings the doorbell.
Almost immediately the door opens to reveal a man. The man stared at Richard up and down before moving to the side and allowing Richard to enter the building. He nodded in slight approval.
"Follow me." the man said. His voice was the one Richard had heard.
They went upstairs into the man's apartment. He had tea set out already and with an almost impatient flicker of his hand he motioned to the other chair.
"Sherlock Holmes." the man, Sherlock, introduced himself.
Richard immediately held his hand out. "Richard Brook."
"I know." Sherlock said ignoring the extended hand. "I called you after all."
"How did you get my number out of curiosity?" Richard asked, taking his hand back and sitting in the chair.
"There is little that can hide from me in this city Richard." Sherlock said. He poured the both of them some tea. "I have a job for you."
Richard smiled. "Well I'll do my best to help you Mr. Holmes." he said. He then held out the folder containing his resume. "Do you wish to see my resume?"
Sherlock waved aside the resume. "I know everything about you; I don't need to see those pitiful things."
Richards smile almost faltered however he managed to keep it in place. "I don't understand. You said that you had a job for me but you don't want to see my experience?"
"I know everything about you, don't make me repeat myself." Sherlock almost snapped.
"I'm sorry." Richard said immediately. Five minutes in and he already insulted the man who was giving him his job. "I didn't mean to."
Sherlock sniffed lightly before he motioned with his head towards the folder that was sitting on the table next to Richards's tea cup.
"The information is in there." Sherlock said.
Richard picked the folder up and started to look through it. Within a few minutes he placed it down on his lap in confusion.
"I'm afraid I don't understand." Richard said frowning slightly.
"It's quite simple; I don't know what you don't understand." Sherlock said watching him closely. "I am a consulting detective, the only one in the world seeing as I have created the profession, and I have grown bored with the cases that London has been providing to me. So to mend my boredom I must create an adversary. An experiment if you will."
"An experiment for what?" Richard asked.
"How the whole of London will react." Sherlock said. "I need a counterpart."
"A counterpart." Richard repeated. "And you want me?"
Sherlock nodded. "Obviously seeing as you are here."
Richard peered into the folder once more. "Jim…Moriarty." he read out the name. "And who is this?"
"You." Sherlock said. "You will be Jim Moriarty. My counterpart and adversary. The criminal mastermind of London."
"I'm sorry, what?" Richard asked. "Criminal mastermind?"
"Yes." Sherlock said impatiently. "I will not repeat myself or anything that is already written in there."
"Mr. Holmes, I think you have the wrong man." Richard said. "I am an actor. I play characters. You are a consulting detective in the real world dealing with real people and real murders. I don't understand where I come in through all of this as a criminal mastermind. I don't think I've ever broken the law. Never even got a speeding ticket!"
"I don't make mistakes." Sherlock snapped at him. "I picked you because I know you will fit this role perfectly."
"You're asking me to play with people's minds." Richard said. "I don't think I can do that."
"And here I thought that an experienced actor can play any role given to them." Sherlock said.
"Don't try to trick me!" Richard exclaimed. "I know my abilities and I know I can do this role. If this was actually a role on stage or TV. I am not about to play with people's lives!"
"So you are going to go back to telling children the story of how the tortoise reigned victorious over the rabbit?" Sherlock asked. "How pitiful. Living each and every day of your life, squandering your talents, for something like that."
"Stop that." Richard said. "Stop that right now."
"And your mother, oh your mother." Sherlock continued. "How right she is. What a waste you have been. Not worth anything."
"I said stop that." Richard demanded as he fought the instinct to cover his ears.
"Of perhaps it has something to do with your father." Sherlock said as he ignored Richards's pleas. "Perhaps he didn't hit you hard enough with the belt. Perhaps you needed to be strangled a bit more."
"Enough!" Richard exclaimed.
"Always powerless. Never the one in control for your entire life." Sherlock commented. "And here I am, offering you power. You don't even need to work for that power; I am simply giving it to you."
Richard swallowed the lump in his throat. "I wouldn't know the first thing to do in this."
"I will instruct you on everything you need to know." Sherlock said, in his calm and deep voice. It lulled and pacified Richard slightly. "All you have to do is flesh out the character and give him life; I will take care of the rest."
"Will people get hurt from this?" Richard asked as he closed his eyes.
"No." Sherlock said.
"And of course." Sherlock added. "You will be paid very handsomely for this."
Richard was breathing deeply as he opened his eyes. "Why?"
Sherlock smirked. "Because I get bored."
Richard stared at himself with the mirror. Tired eyes with bags underneath them. A small frown on his face. Shoulders slumped forward and a habit of not meeting the eyes of people. A quiet and calm voice.
He glanced down at the notes for what seemed to be the thousandth time.
'Confident. Thinks highly of himself. Glowing and glittering eyes. Always smiling with an occasional smirk. Genius. Criminal mastermind. Consulting criminal.'
He glanced upwards at the mirror helplessly. No matter how many times he had tried he couldn't create this character.
And time was running out, he was performing soon for the first time.
Talk with a cabbie driver. A specific cabbie driver that was going to die soon and convince him to play a game involving pills. One pill was good
and the other was bad. The bad one would kill the person taking it.
But not really, Sherlock Holmes did give his word that no one was going to get hurt from this.
Richard took a deep breath and tried to change his face as he would for a different role. It still unnerved him how Sherlock had known all of those things about him.
He glanced down at the notes again.
'Constantly in suits unless blending into the crowd.'
Well he only had the one.
'One right-hand man whom he trusts with everything. Sebastian Moran.'
Strange last name but he doesn't judge. Sebastian Moran was Jim Moriartys right hand man and most trusted personal on his team.
And speaking of Moran he was supposed to meet him soon. In fact-
His thoughts were cut short as someone knocked on his door.
He hurried to the door and opened it to reveal a man who had an unlit cigarette in his mouth and what looked like a pistol not so carefully hidden in his pocket.
"Jim Moriarty?" the man asked.
Richard nodded as he remembered his character.
"Sebastian Moran as your service boss."
He didn't ask, although he dearly wanted to, whether or not Sebastian was also an actor Sherlock had brought into the play.
They, he and Sebastian, moved in together at a different apartment that Sherlock had provided for them. The entire time Sebastian would refer to him as either 'Jim' or 'boss'. It was slightly unnerving.
Not as unnerving as Richard would feel every time he apologized for minor things or do things that he didn't even realize he did or when he was quiet as a mouse. Sebastian would always raise an eyebrow however he never said anything.
Richard would lock himself in the bathroom at night after Sebastian would go to sleep and stare at himself in the mirror trying to find the character of Jim Moriarty inside of himself. He did so almost desperately, he needed to get the character before meeting with the cabbie.
'Criminal mastermind.'
Richard leaned closer to his reflection trying to will himself to find what made Jim, Jim.
'Consulting criminal.'
Think crime, he instructed himself. Think of all those gangster movies you watched. He closed his eyes.
'Confident.'
He would need to bring his shoulders down and his head up. Act more confident in yourself.
His mind started to make their own little notes as he started to create the character.
'Flamboyant.'
Stop all those little kind smiles and start with more sincere ones. The kind where you could be grinning at someone and then still grinning inform them that the cake they just ate had cyanide in it.
'A spider creating a web in order to manipulate the webs.'
Act more sly.
'Genius and ruling the underground world. Loving and hating the upper world at the same time.'
'Uncaring of others and who he hurts in his way.'
'Take delight in the downfall of others.'
'Manipulative. Obsessive.'
'And so the sly fox successfully tricked the innocent rabbit.'
Richard Brook opened his eyes and in the mirror Jim Moriarty stared back at him.
He was grinning as he slid into the taxi and barked out a destination to the cabbie. Jeff Hope his folder told him.
"So I hear you have a brain aneurysm." he said conversationally. He had never spoken to anyone in his life like that. With that level of confidence and sureness.
The cabbie froze for a moment before tightening his grip on the steering wheel and continuing to drive the car.
"And how did you come to that conclusion?" he asked his passenger.
The grin widened. "Oh I have my ways. Tell me, do your children know?"
If possible the cabbie froze more. "No. The ex doesn't allow me to talk wif them."
He pouted. "What a pity. And you as a cabbie. Doesn't really leave much for the little darlings now does it?"
"No, it doesn't." Jeff said. "What do you want?"
"I want you to play a little game." he said. "Involving other people. And every time you win you get money that will be sent to your children at your death."
"What's the game?" Jeff immediately asked staring at the passenger through the rearview mirror.
If possible the grin widened. "I'm going to give you two bottles of pills. One bottle is harmless and the other kills. You get a passenger, it doesn't matter who they are really, and you play a game with them. Take them somewhere, show the two bottles and they pick one. You then take a pill from the other bottle, no matter what, and the both of you swallow. And then one of you dies."
Jeff's faltered slightly. "You want me to play wif my life?"
"You're already dying." he pointed out. "In fact you can die at any time. Now even really."
"True." Jeff said. "And what do you get out of this."
"I need a certain someone's attention on me." he said. "Serial suicides are the best way to get his attention."
"Who?"
"Everything will be explained later." he said waving his hand. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a card. "However if you are interested, here's my number. So call me maybe."
Jeff took the card with steady hands without looking back.
"We're here." Jeff said as they reached his destination.
He paid Jeff and moved to step out of the car.
"And what's your name?" Jeff called out to him.
He his head back. "Jim Moriarty." he answered. "Looking forward to your call."
The next day when Jim goes out to meet with the cabbie once more he gives him the two bottles, a fake gun, and the rest of the instructions.
"His name is Sherlock Holmes." Jim said. "And you'll probably get his attention around the third person. And try not to tell my name, at least not until the very last possible second."
Jeff was staring at his new tools in his hands. "And every time, if I live, you'll send money to my kids?"
"Cross my heart and hope to die." Jim said making an x over his heart. "The moment you die they get the money straight to their homes."
Jeff nodded in satisfaction as he placed the bottles into his pocket and the gun into his jacket.
"Pleasure doing business with you." Jim said, giving a mock salute before turning and leaving.
The moment he entered the apartment Richard ignored Sebastian who was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and the newspaper and made a straight beeline towards the bathroom where he promptly threw up into the toilet.
There was no set script. It was all improvisation. That was something that was both wonderful and not wonderful.
He didn't like not having something to work with. Only having the setting and what is happening around him sometimes wasn't enough.
However on the other hand it meant it all rode on him and he owned the entire scene.
He just hoped that the curtain wasn't about to fall on him.
Then people were dying, almost one after the other. Suicides it claimed in the newspapers.
The money came then from Sherlock Holmes. More money than Richard could ever remember having from one job.
He put it all in the bank after paying for his real apartments rent and bills. The one he was staying at was all paid for by Sherlock Holmes.
After the fourth suicide Sebastian comes back to the apartment to find Richard slumped against the wall with a half empty bottle of whiskey clutched in his hand.
"He said that no one was going to get hurt." Richard whimpered.
Sebastian had wordlessly pried the bottle out of Richards hand and picked the smaller man up.
"Come on boss." he murmured. "Back to bed."
After their first meeting Richard never met with Sherlock again. Their first encounter was at the morgue where Jim was pretending to be Molly's boyfriend and then later at the pool.
After Sebastian, under Jims orders, had grabbed John Watson who had been living with Sherlock for some time and dressed him in bombs that were strapped to his chest.
"Now you'll listen to everything I will tell you." Jim almost purred at John as he clipped the ear piece into his ear. "Understand?"
John's look of utter hatred rang loud and clear.
He had met Molly, poor, innocent, cute Molly, and he had tricked her. He still remembered her hopeful smile and the way her eyes lit up at the attention Jim had given her.
Actually no, that was actually Richard. He wasn't playing at that moment. Richard had honestly liked her and wouldn't have minded to continue this relationship.
She was a nice and kind girl, one that his mother would like him to settle down with.
But she was in love with Sherlock Holmes, any fool could see that. Regardless of their three dates, the third ending with him kissing her on the cheek. A goodbye kiss although she didn't know it.
So Richard walked as Jim through the pool room.
"Jim Moriarty." he said. "Hi."
The bombs were real.
The sickening thought penetrated him to the core as he watched the news.
Oh dear lord the bombs had been real.
Sebastian, under his orders, had taken people right off the street and put bombs on them before putting them in different surroundings. Then Jim would make them call and he would tell them exactly what to say.
He had thought they were actors as well. Wonderful actors really, the way they presented those fears of the characters.
It wasn't acting. They were truly fearing for their lives.
People were dying and it's all because of him.
"That's what people DO!"
Richard jumped suddenly and twirled around in his room. The room was empty.
He shook his head and turned off the television.
"I mean people go on in their meaningless lives. Such boring little things they are really."
Richard was starting to shake. That wasn't a memory. The first one could be taken as a memory because he had said it.
Or was it really he who had said it?
"Oh come on Dick, don't be so boring like the others. You are slightly less boring than they are."
His mouth parted in realization.
Jim Moriarty was talking to him.
"I want out." Richard told Sherlock over the phone the next day. Apparently he wasn't home so Richard wasn't able to come to Baker Street.
"Completely out the question." Sherlock said immediately. "I have employed you and therefore you will continue to remain in my employment until such time that I desire."
"Then I quit." Richard said. "I'm not going to be your little doggy anymore."
"People have seen you." Sherlock said. "People know your face and who you are. If you do not wish to find yourself in prison I suggest you shut up and stop whining like a child."
He hung up then leaving Richard with a beeping phone and a feeling of hopelessness starting to curl in his chest.
"Feisty one, isn't he? Always makes me wonder just what is going on in that little head of his."
"I'm starting to get used to this." Sebastian said dryly as he once again pried the bottle of alcohol away from Richard and started to pick him up to take him to his room.
Once he placed Richard on the bed he turned to leave only for Richard to reach out and grab the end of his shirt.
"Don't leave." Richard slurred. "Please."
Sebastian didn't hesitate as he turned back and sat on the side of the bed next to Richard.
"Like a good little soldier. Or a pet really."
Richard closed his eyes and whimpered.
"Something wrong boss?" Sebastian asked.
"Don't." Richard said turning onto his stomach. "Don't call me that?"
"What's wrong?"
"Aw Sebby cares."
"I'm not…I'm not…" Richard choked out. "I'm not Moriarty! There is no Moriarty!"
Sebastian didn't answer however he did lie down next to Richard and started to pet his hair. Richard leaned into the touch and whimpered.
"I'm not Moriarty, Moriarty isn't real." he whispered.
"So who does that make me?"
He can't go to a therapist and even if he could he didn't even know how to explain just what is happening to him that wouldn't land him in an insane asylum.
Sebastian was his only source of real comfort. The man never said anything but he did listen. He listened patiently as Richard would scream and at times cry.
And they always slept in the same bed from then on. It helped Richard slightly.
"You are absolutely no fun."
He doesn't really care for Irene Adler or what she does or what she knows.
Or what happens to her if the information she has gets to certain people.
He really can't bring himself to care really.
But then he is taken by Mycroft Holmes and beaten. Tortured actually.
It was like a switch that he was able to turn on and off at will. He couldn't feel any of their punches.
However when Mycroft Holmes himself enters Richard feels himself have an out of body experience as he watches his body smirk at Mycroft.
Or rather when Jim smirks at Mycroft.
He knows that he is losing his mind to a character.
He can't be bothered anymore.
He just hopes that Sebastian will miss the real him.
It a moment of pure madness he allows himself, really himself Richard and not Jim, talk to a reporter who is now intrigued and promises to write his story for the entire world to know.
Moriarty isn't real.
Sherlock Holmes is a fake.
He feels relieved now. He truly believes that it's over. Jim will go away. Everyone will know the truth about Sherlock. Everything is going to be okay now.
Everything is going to be okay now.
Everything is not going to be okay now.
He's there. Sherlock Holmes is at the reporter's house and his eyes are glaring at Richards. He is angry. So very angry and he wants revenge against Richard for going out of their agreement.
So he runs away.
And unfortunately the part of him that is Jim, for he was there watching everything and laughing, makes a plan.
Unfortunate really.
The first thing he does is tell Sebastian his final job. Sebastian nods and takes the word final to mean that after this one they are to some other place in the world to continue their work.
Richard doesn't have the heart to correct him.
He also never notices when Richard manages to sneak out one of his hand guns that easily fit into his coat pocket.
He had always wished for more in his life.
His life was dull and boring. Telling children stories, it was pitiful really like his mother had said.
But after all has been said and done. Everything that he had done now and everything he had been through.
He would gladly take back that dull and boring life.
He just hopes that Sebastian will truly miss him.
And forgive him perhaps.
Sherlock is confused. That much is clear. Although he had called the meeting he had done so on different terms.
Perhaps even getting revenge for what Richard had done.
But he didn't expect any of this.
Three men, including Sebastian of course, that had been employed under him because of Sherlock Holmes now being used against him.
Three bullets. Three victims. His heart had hardened now to all the innocents.
"No one is really innocent after all."
For the first time ever Richard agreed with Jim.
And now. The grand finale to the play. He knew Sherlock would find a way to equalize him and his character. After all Jim Moriarty wasn't just a counterpart for Sherlock Holmes. He was him, just on a more open and different side.
His next actions are one of glee as he thanks Sherlock, both Jim and Richard, and he says his own goodbye as he takes the gun out of his pocket and places the barrel right in his mouth.
His mind is strangely clear and peaceful; the only image he sees is one of a curtain falling on the stage as he pulls the trigger.
"Watching a peaceful death of a human being reminds us of a falling star; one of a million lights in a vast sky that flares up for a brief moment only to disappear into the endless night forever."
I do not own Sherlock.