Jim Moriarty's hands shook, pulling at his un-groomed hair; his legs were pulled up in a fetal position. Whispering harshly into the rough cloth of the tattered suit, his once well polished shoes tapped at the grimy floor of the vacant lot building.
"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.. SHIT!"
Echoing, Moriarty's voice carried against the cold, gray walls, an angry repetition of his emotions. Not even a week after Sherlock Holmes' suicide, and Moriarty had somehow fallen into an endless, unforgiving void of depression, hiding away from any other human contact.
It all went as wanted. With Moriarty's faked death, and Sherlock's suicide.. Moriarty, alive; Sherlock, dead.. he was supposed to win, right? But.. Why did he feel this way? Hadn't he won; wasn't this all that he wanted?
No.. instead of killing off his only enemy, Moriarty killed off the only person who looked at him as a.. normal human being. Though Sherlock despised Moriarty, and Moriarty thought he despised Sherlock, did he really? Or maybe.. Moriarty.. had loved Sherlock? Was the jolt of excitement that ran through Moriarty every time he saw Sherlock - hate, or something else?
Moriarty could not deny, though, how much he enjoyed to kill. Peoples lives were worthless to him, a mere distraction from his boredom. His family had rejected him, but why? Moriarty could never understand, he outsmarted them all, he outsmarted everyone. He could take the Crown Jewels with the click of a button. Moriarty knew he was better than all of them, and yet, they looked down on him. Moriarty could kill all of them, but they had the audacity to turn him away? They should have worshiped him; why spit upon the only success of the family? Only Sherlock had accepted him into his life, respected him, maybe even looked up to Moriarty.
It was okay, though, Moriarty knew was not sorry for making himself Sherlock's enemy; it was the only way for Sherlock to notice Moriarty. To talk to him. To focus on him. This.. obsession with Sherlock.. was it a desire to kill him.. or get closer to him? To enter Sherlock's life, to be part of it.. like.. family. Be someone that Moriarty never had, himself.
Sherlock, the only one who accepted Moriarty as.. ANYONE, really, was gone. Now, it finally hit Moriarty, that he was completely alone, once more, in a world of ordinary people; he had nothing except for the desolate pit of solitude he had jumped into.
Slowly, Moriarty lifted his Beretta 92FS Inox up to his mouth, the same gun that he had used to "kill" himself only a few days earlier. The muzzle clanked against his teeth sharply as his hand quivered. Cold metal pressed against his tongue, spreading the metallic taste over his taste buds. And, surprising himself, tears ran down Moriarty's dry cheeks and over his chapped lips, falling onto his knuckles which were white with the strain of his grasp. This time.. no fake blood, no stunts. Why live when the only thing worth living for, was gone?
"Don't."
Moriarty thew the gun aside, startled. That voice.. behind him.. was it..? Heart racing, breaking quickening, Moriarty struggled to turn around, and yet, he couldn't.
"Hello, Jim."