You Are My Dilemma, My Dear
by Paper Massacre
He would love him to be dead. But then, who would he love?
A/N Set right after season 1/episode 3, though the ending is changed ever so slightly. It just fit better for the one shot if the scene didn't continue on the way it did.
I just love the Moriarty character, especially Andrew Scott's Moriarty.
Jim Moriarty stepped into his quarters. Now finally alone, he could allow himself to slip deep into his thoughts.
As satisfying as it had been to watch his foes scramble to defeat him this past evening, he hadn't been expecting other feelings to come trailing in after it. Jealousy, for one. It reared it's ugly head repeatedly despite his almost constant attempts to dismiss it.
He had everything a man could ever desire in the world. What he didn't have, what others found impossible to aquire, he could easily obtain. Yet material happiness only extended so far. It could only satisfy him so much.
He wanted Sherlock. He could have him, sure. He could kill him in a variety of exciting ways. He could make it blunt and to the point, like a gun equipped with a silencer in the middle of a busy London high street. Or, he could use stealth and take him down in a way that would leave the coppers at Scotland Yard scratching their heads for decades. He really could go to great lengths just to be the one to destroy Sherlock Holmes.
But even though he desired it sometimes, he knew he couldn't do it either way.
He wanted Sherlock in a way that extended past just the physical. He wanted his emotional being, his soul. He wanted his heart so badly that it kept him up at night. He wanted the feel of his warm skin pressed against his own flesh. He wanted the caress of his hand where he'd so often imagined it slipping. He wanted to feel those dark intelligent eyes upon his own as they shared that intimate final moment.
More than anything, he just wanted Sherlock to look upon him in a way that made sure he knew John Watson was now only a fleeting memory.
He'd known for some time that Sherlock and John had become remarkably close. Sherlock was a complex man and not so easily befriended by any mere mortal. But John clearly had his allure and Sherlock had kept him like some little pathetic pet. Moriarty assumed it was merely a question of ego. Sherlock just needed his stroked now and again and John was clearly more than willing to oblige him. What had once seemed vaguely laughable, now appeared grotesque and wrong.
It made Morarity's stomach turn to think about the pair of them shacked up in that house together.
He could have the little pet destroyed easily, of course. It needed to be put out of it's misery anyhow, but that just wouldn't do. Sherlock needed to be on top of his game if he stood a chance at being Moriarty's playmate. A dented or disturbed Sherlock, which he would be after the loss of his beloved boy friend, would not do. So, disgusting and pathetic John, had to remain alive. For now.
Moriarty's mind recalled the events of the past evening as he poured himself his regular evening scotch.
He had loved the surprise on Sherlock's face when he'd seen just who Moriarty really was. Jim. The hopeless Jim who'd hit on him in the lab. The same, slightly ridiculous, Jim who had left him his number under a dish in the hopes he'd call him. The look on Sherlock's face as he had stepped into that pool area had been vaguely laughable and it had thrilled him in a strange way. He'd looked forward to where it all would lead from that point on.
Until John had got a hold of him, the bomb still strapped to his chest. John had put his life on the line for Sherlock's, effectively winning what little he still needed of Sherlock's hard to obtain affections. The stupid little pet. So ridiculously loyal.
It had long been expected that John would want to play Sherlock's hero on some level, though Moriarty had imagined that it would cause him to have a different reaction towards it. He despised the portion of himself that had been weak enough to feel otherwise. It just wouldn't do to behave in this manner from now on.
"Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone Sherlock? To you?"
"Oh, let me guess. I get killed."
"Kill you? Uh, no. Don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway some day. I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special."
Moriarty downed the scotch in one easy go. He ran one hand across as his mouth as he swallowed, recalling the look in Sherlock's eyes as he'd taken that in.
"No, no, no. If you don't stop prying, I will burn you. I will burn the heart outta' you."
"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."
"But we both know that's not true."
Then Sherlock had threatened to shoot him right there and then, and it had angered him more than he had let on. He had expected so much better of his foe. It was a weak man's choice of action to turn the gun on his enemy whenall the odds were against him, and he knew Sherlock could do so much better than that. After all, it would only result in a quick death for both men as soon as the sniper saw him drop. What would it matter if he saved John's life if it only existed for another thirty seconds?
John, with his pudgy face and needy personality, had clearly weakened the consulting detective. A weak enemy was one thing, it still had it's perks to drop them, but not this time. He needed Sherlock to be on the ball, to have that same level of intensity for catching him as he did for Sherlock. It had always turned him on to know Sherlock desperately sought him out as case upon case led him ever closer. Now, well now, he was just disappointed.
"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."
"Catch. You. Later."
"No you won't!"
And he'd left. He'd walked away without looking back at the chaos he'd left behind. He had wanted to return, of course he had wanted to. He had wanted to return just to demand everything from Sherlock right there and then, but he knew he couldn't force a man to change his ways. He could maim, destroy and kill a man, but he couldn't change where his heart lay.
Morarity just refused to come to terms with that. He sunk down onto the silk sheets of his king size bed and prepared for a long sleepless night ahead.
Paper Massacre