Moriarty's Heart
A/N:
All right folks, here we are again, Dark Magical Sorcres and Merdealors, with another not-all-too-serious story from the Sherlock Universe. This time our detective stumbles across a most determined woman who will stop at nothing to bring James Moriarty back from the other world. Unfortunately, Sherlock has just gone at great lengths to bring James just there. But what chance does the younger Holmes have, with all his smartness, against a woman who is, be it said in all modesty, the most powerful witch that ever lived?
Follow us through a twisted labyrinth of deceit and counter deceit that tries Sherlock and his friends to their limits on a quest for the most precious prize of all – Moriarty's heart.
Dark Magical Sorcres is responsible for the plot, as the great Jacqueline is her creation. I, Merdealors, will humbly assist her in writing parts of it.
Let us know what you think.
1. A witch's version of feeling sabishii
Jacqueline woke up and knew it was one of these days.
An aphasic day.
The sun was shining brightly but her mood was perfectly gloomy.
Her ears ached because some stupid birds were chirping.
Well, at least that was something she could change.
A blink of her eyes, a swirl of her lashes and a happily purring, drowsy tomcat was lifted from the garden's daffodil bed up to the tree.
The cat was surprised by the sudden change of scenery.
The birds were surprised by the sudden change of neighbourhood.
To Jacqueline's profound joy the cat recovered first. Munch-munch-munch the little velvet mouth made and the preposterous birds had entered ancient history. Well, as a tiny footnote, but still...
With a content little smile the sorceress-who-had-once-worked-as-a-waitress-because-the-world-was-too-stupid-to-appreciate-her-value fell back on her pillow, snuggled up under her bed cover and began to seriously analyse the underlying causes of her aggravation.
Had she had a bad dream? But no. She realized it wasn't a dream when she reached out for her lover's arm and it wasn't there.
Jim Moriarty, the first and only man who'd seen through her outer appearances and recognized her real qualities, her singularity, wasn't there.
Only now the previous night's events came back to Jacqueline's reluctant memory.
A few days ago Jim had told her he'd leave the country for a while. For Switzerland. Something to do with Sherlock Holmes. Again! Blast the man! Blast Baker Street, this idiotic doctor, the Secret Service imbecile and each and anyone else who had something to do with the self-styled Consulting Detective.
Last night Jacqueline had fallen prey to her loneliness and, yes, let's admit it, her curiosity.
She had looked into her crystal orb. Once and for all, she had a fuckin' right to know what was going on between the man she loved and that supercilious idiot from 221B.
Remembering what she had seen was painful, sickening. A premonition of Jim and Sherlock, clinging together, inseparably intertwined, falling, falling, falling...
Falling to their death.
Jacqueline looked at the picture on her bedside table. A picture of her and Jim.
Oh, the memory of the night he'd walked into her life to find love and eternal bliss – all right, so actually he had walked into her café because he'd been cold and in need of a caffeine shot but who gave a shit about such details – was still agonizingly fresh and clear.
They'd looked at each other, her green eyes, his dazzling black orbs had met for the first time and then he'd ordered an espresso. Spoken by this sensual voice of his, accompanied by a look ….. dear God, this look from two dark pools full of desire and promise ….. the word "espresso" had been the most erotic combination of syllables a human being could think of.
From this moment on, her life had changed course, had taken a road to adoration and fulfilment working its way up to the perfect climax of Jim Moriarty asking her to marry him.
Jacqueline's tear-filled gaze fell on the ring on her finger. She'd known falling for Jim would be dangerous but that had been part of the attraction. However, the pain she felt now...
Briefly the sorceress stared out of the window again – perhaps there were some other birds in reach? Some more feathery, innocent, lovable little creatures the cat might devour so that a horribly suffering woman might at least have some company in her misery?
Alas, the birds had taken their clue and vanished.
The cat was asleep.
Lucky him.
With a sigh, Jacqueline rose and walked over to the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her. A girl with brown hair; her eyes as green and as changeable as the sea in winter with all the sadness of a year's death.
She fought down another wave of tears. She knew Jim was dead. The magic, her magic, the magic she had shared with him willingly, which she had given to him as a protection in the cruel, unfeeling world out there with its childish rules and laws, unable to realise what a gift James Moriarty was – this magic kept flowing back into her since yesterday, robbed of its hold, of its sanctuary. Because this sanctuary was gone. Because he was gone!
Almost overwhelmed by a wave of sudden nausea she ran, stumbled, darted into the kitchen, grabbed Jim's black dressing gown and buried her face in it. Cool silk caressed her hot cheeks and a weak whiff of this smell stroked her trembling nostrils. This smell, his smell, the smell she would never forget...
All of a sudden another picture popped up in her mind, unwanted, uncalled for but unavoidable. A premonition of him, of the demon, the murderer of her life's happiness. A premonition of Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock, the man who should be lying dead on the ground of the Reichenbach Falls, side by side with the greatest man who'd ever lived, Sherlock Holmes was laughing, talking to his brother, in a restaurant in the London West End. Very, very much alive.
Jacqueline knew her magic. Knew that it wouldn't – actually couldn't – fool her on a thing like this.
For a second she sat motionless, utterly still. She drowned in the picture of the man she hated above all else. With painful fascination she explored the despicable vision of the killer enjoying himself at Jim's expense, enjoying his life...
Until she suddenly shot out of her seat and ran again. Ran through the house, searching, searching for hours on end. Until she found what she had been looking for. A book of spells.
The searching was renewed, she looked and read until her eyes got tired but finally she came across the perfect spell.
"How to bring a loved one back from the dead."
The spell was risky, she knew that, too. Risky for anyone involved. For the sorcerer, the person to be brought back but most of all for the most unwilling person of all who had to assist her in the experiment.
For she would need blood for the ritual.
Good news was, a few drops would suffice.
Bad news was, she couldn't use anyone's blood.
It had to be taken from the man who'd killed her loved one.
There were other conditions to be met. Some minor difficulties. Nothing she couldn't muster or conquer. So, all right, it included a dog's laughter, a cat's tears, pig's ears, a zombie in love with her and some mud from A REALLY HOLY GRAVE – on the latter the book was extremely adamant – but she could do it. She knew she could. Because she had to.
However, this blood thing...
The donor of the life's blood that should bring back James Moriarty from the dead had to be Sherlock Holmes.
Alive.
Conscious.
Unable to do anything about it.
So far, so good.
The question was – how on earth should she achieve that?
A/N: Sabishii is the Japanese word for melancholic, sad or being unhappy in a romantic, sensitive way. Like a cherry blossom falling from a tree, dandled by a soft breeze while at the same time killed by it.
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