It was known throughout the London crime scene that the name James Moriarity was not to be spoken of lightly. Or even at all, to be perfectly frank. His was a taboo name- a god among men to be feared and worshipped. No one knew how much of the underworld his web encompassed, not even those who were close to him. It was some great secret that made it all the more threatening and mysterious. The one thing that had them truly in fear, however, was his infallibility. Everything he did ended in complete and utter success. Although his name was synonymous with death itself, people still talked with hushed voices tinged with awe as rumors flew about.
"He can't be one man," someone would hiss. "He simply can't."
"He's made by the government to keep us in check." Another nameless face whispered.
"Or he is one man, as they say. But not a man- a genius with no peer." Moriarity's plant would murmur.
The only thing known about him for sure was his nickname among the crime scene: The Devil in Westwood. Moriarity had no doubt come up with the name himself, but it still stuck with powerful imagery.
The shadow masses thought he was almost a man, like them. He must have weaknesses such as greed, lust, and power. If he didn't have them, then why was he even running an empire to begin with? It gave them comfort, in a sense, to presume to know such things; it made them fearful as well. If that were so, then this man's hunger was so great that nothing would ever stand in his way.
How could they know that none of these things mattered to the famed James Moriarity? He scoffed at these expected wants, holding in his mind the one weakness he had. It controlled him like a remote control plane, making him a Kamikaze of thought and deed. His whims turned with the drop of a hat; once he lost interest, he immediately changed his course to find a more worthy use of his time. He was able to jump around his web, from thread to thread, once he was done with his current position.
Everything about his empire was perfect and would last for decades- perhaps even for the rest of their lives. He was a creature without a face, and without a conscience. It surprised everyone when he began toying with the notorious consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.
He had run out of threads to spin- his web was complete. Nothing held his interest anymore. That was most likely the reason he went after the consulting detective- boredom. But it evolved into more than that. Much, much more. It evolved, in a sense. Boredom became challenge. Challenge became game. And now, the game had become a battle to the death. It was the most exciting thing he had ever experienced, and it exhilarated him beyond belief.
He was a runner on a high, continually pushing himself to keep going until one of the two collapsed from exhaustion. He could feel it was nearing an end- a distraction was necessary to keep Sherlock off his tail while he prepared the final showdown. His grand exit from the world. But what could he possible do to trip up a brilliant mind so like his own?
These were the thoughts that consumed him as he lounged in the leather chair of one of his many offices. This particular one was in a center of science, obviously illegal and off the record, hidden within London's streets. And he was waiting for news.
He had been waiting for a solid 30 minutes when a tentative knock came at the door.
"Come in." He drawled, putting on a convincing Texan accent.
The door opened slowly, and a sweating head popped in, bald and wrinkled.
"Mr. Lowell…" the man began hesitantly, more and more of his lab coated body coming into view.
The sound of shuffling papers could be heard, and he was indeed holding a stack of official looking documents in his hands.
Moriarity beckoned him in easily, his manner becoming much more relaxed and kingly, as opposed to his normal predatory demeanor. It was certainly more welcoming, and obviously put the scientist more at ease.
"Now Doctor Harrington," Morarity began, drawing himself up lazily. "I'm hoping you have good news for me?"
Dr. Harrington nodded, gaining confidence.
"Yes, sir. It seems that the test subject had positive results. It's everything we hoped for and more!"
Moriarity nodded distractedly, yet within he was alert as ever and practically singing with an untamed glee.
"Mayhaps I can have a vial of it. To take home with me. Study it further. Compounds and the like." Moriarity sniffed with authority.
Dr. Harrington's enthusiasm noticeably decreased.
"But…but sir. I don't think that would be wise at all. It's a very dangerous substance, and-"
"And I'm the man who's funding this entire little shindig of yours. So if want that funding, I'll have that vial."
The blunt way of speaking was certainly the opposite of Moriarity's own smooth purrs, but he still managed to make it just as deadly and persuasive as if he hadn't been Lowell at all.
Dr. Harrington seemed to freeze at that, a blow directly to where is hurt most.
He was obviously biting back a growl or some equally crude reply, choosing to turn his back on Moriarity instead.
"Fine." He reluctantly agreed. "But it's your funeral."
Moriarity simply chuckled, and motioned for Dr. Harrington to lead on. As he followed him deeper into the labs, one thought flickered across his mind.
Ah, there will indeed be a funeral. But not mine. Prepare yourself, Sherlock Holmes. This is the one thing that not even you could see coming.