Title: What is the What

Author: porpoise-song
Characters: Mainly just Moriarty, a glimpse of Sherlock, and BAMF!John/BAMF!Molly
Rating: PG, I think
Disclaimer: Unless I want Weeping Angels and the Crack to follow me (Steven Moffat), umbrella shaped bruises on me (Mark Gatiss), red coats storming my place (BBC), and a Victorian Age dressed zombie chasing me (Sir Author Conan Doyle), I need to say that I own absolutely nothing.
Summary: Moriarty is rather surprised when he finally bests and destroys Sherlock Holmes. He wasn't really expecting to win (or maybe he wasn't expecting himself to go through with it). He's even more surprised when he starts mourning for him.

Warnings: Major character death

A/N: Prompt from pogozebra at sherlockbbc_fic's Prompting XIV

It was an odd feeling, really. Not only killing your archenemy, but also, in addition, slowly watching the life drain out of his icy, but still burning eyes. He hadn't really expected to follow through on his threat of killing him. It was only an empty threat.

But, here he was. The great Sherlock Holmes dying at his feet, his blood forming a dull, red mirror. Sherlock had muttered, rather disdainfully and with a glimmer of hope at the end, that, "although I am dead...you, Moriarty, will be stopped."

He smirked, wildly amused at that, and couldn't help but ask, "And by whom, dear Sherlock?"

Sherlock drew in a ragged breath and muttered out, in a slow, wheezing voice, "My...friends...will...stop you. My dear—loyal...friends..."

"Instinct, Sherlock, is like a sense of duty—one can confuse it with loyalty very easily."

There was an upward curve on Sherlock's graying lips before he gasped out, with his last breath, "Then why is there fear in your eyes?"

And, then...he died. Moriarty stared down at Sherlock for a moment; stared down at and into his eyes. Moriarty knew that Sherlock was dead—could tell just by the eyes. When you stare at a picture of someone long enough, you know every inch and contour of their face, perhaps even more than they themselves do.

His eyes, although empty and blank, were still sharper and more intense than a normal living person's eyes. Pity that this brilliant man had to die. But, he did try to ruin and destroy Moriarty's empire. And, for that, he had to go. Moriarty heaved out a tired, contented sigh before closing Sherlock's eyes and leaving his body next to the Falls. They would find it soon enough.

Sherlock's final words never left Moriarty. His promises and vows that Moriarty will be stopped made sure that he kept surveillance on his friends, companions, colleagues, or whatever he had called them. All of them—pretty much only John, Molly, Mycroft, and Lestrade—gave Moriarty an odd effect of being children, lost in a strange town, without adult care when Moriarty looked at pictures of them or when he watched them going about their business. What had tethered these four people together had been snapped and, all of them, drifted away from each other, despite hasty and half-hearted attempts to keep themselves together.

Of course, there weresearches, manhunts, and efforts to find and capture Moriarty, but, alas, none of them yielded any fruitful results. But—really—who could stop him? There was nothing to stop him now.

He knew that Sherlock had an older, much smarter brother, but catching Moriarty required legwork, something that the eldest Holmes brother was infamousfor avoiding. Molly was too timid and empty-headed; Lestrade was too stupid to do it so that only left John...

"But, no, no", Moriarty thought to himself, looking out at the city of Florence, almost six months after Sherlock's untimely demise.

And, even with all of this promise and hope of creating unadulterated chaos and panic, Moriarty soon became bored. It had been a dull half a year, even by the standards of a normal,thickheaded person. He still took contracts, but, less frequently and unenthusiastically. He spent most of his days sitting in his plush, leather chair, staring at nothing in particular, with a glass of scotch in his hands, although he never drank it for it seemed to poison him.

He's depressed. That's what most of his men said when they thought that he wasn't within earshot. Of course, when the time was right, he had they ears and their lips ripped off as a message and for a bit of fun. It certainly did send a message, but, regrettably, he didn't feel that ting of glee he had always gotten before.

Before...

It was exactly six months, eleven days, three hours, and seven minutes since Sherlock Holmes died, when Moriarty, swishing his scotch around and sitting in his chair, felt something come to him and he, somehow, was waiting for it, confidently. What was it? He didn't know; it's too subtle and elusive to name. But he felt it, creeping out of the ceiling, reaching toward him.

He quickly stood and placed his scotch to his lips. It made its way down his throat and into his stomach, burning, and making his eyes water. He sighed and strolled about the room, noticing the wear and tear of the plush, green carpet where he had strolled many nights before.

And then, like a traitor out the window, it hit him—why he was feeling so depressed and unfocused. He had lost his fire! His spark...his drive! His one and invariable goal was to defeat Sherlock Holmes and, since he was dead, he didn't have a goal anymore. What had kept him energized was the threat and fear of Sherlock outsmarting him.

He needed a new enemy. A new constant challenge!

But, it seemed to him, as his face transformed into joy and delight, that he needed Sherlock back, not just another high-functioning sociopath. What Sherlock and he had was so right, so perfect that it would feel wrong if he got someone else to replace him.

Something was wedging out of his—what is it called?—heart and sowing itself in his mind. What was it? What had his mother constantly yell at him?

"Have you no—? Have you no—?"

"Dammit!" What was it? Moriarty slammed his glass down on his large, oak desk in frustration as he desperately searched through his head.

"Have you no... regret? Remorse?"

Yes, that was it. It was something that his mother always shrieked at him...also, the old lady he had killed earlier that day asked him the same thing too, but, mainly, his mother had asked him that when he did something particularly nasty.

But, why would he regret killing Sherlock? He had killed hundreds of people. Hell! Probably thousands. And half of them for reasons far less important than someone mucking about in his business.

No, no. Something was off, he thought. He didn't regret killing Sherlock because, hey, killing another living being is, like, totally wrong and stuff, but he regretted killing Sherlock because,now, he's bored and there's absolutely nothing to occupy his time and energy. No challenge, no game. Only monotony and tediousness awaited Moriarty now.

He felt like someone who had missed happiness by seconds at an appointed place as he gently knocked his head against the windowpane. "Why? Why? Why did I have to do something as bloody stupid like that? If only I had had this bloody epiphany before!"

Suddenly, his door slammed open and, as he turned around to see what he presumed to be his future murder victims, John and Molly stepped over the door's threshold, each carrying a gun and splattered with blood. John was carrying a shotgun and Molly was carrying a pistol. "Oh, this is definitely not the good death one always wished for."

"Oh...bollocks", Moriarty muttered out before John shot him out the window. This was the last chapter, and, in the last chapter, things always happened violently. Perhaps all life was like that—dull and then a heroic flurry at the end.

Well, if it's was any consolation, at least Moriarty didn't have to worry about being bored anymore.