Eurus is gonna be a bit OOC in this because she got out of Sherrinford at an earlier age and isn't as... out of it.
Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it.
James Moriarty P.o.V
It wasn't that he hated Molly Hooper. He just hated Molly Hooper.
She insisted on making "small talk," as they call it, the whole time they worked on the essay.
"So, you're in grade 11?"
"Yes."
"Well... you must be smart, then."
"Yes."
"Are you just saying 'yes' to everything I say?"
She actually caught on. He was surprised.
"Yes," Jim sang.
Molly shook her head and wrote the last sentence down. They signed the paper and handed it in. Day 2 of the school year and he'd already killed someone. Okay, maybe he had killed Carl during summer school, but it made no difference.
School was boring. He hated it. The only interesting thing there was Sherlock Holmes, who was supposedly as smart as he was. He watched him. That was it. The rest was boring. Well, it would have been, if Sherlock hadn't brought his sister to school.
"Class, this is Eurus Holmes. She wasn't able to come here yesterday. Eurus, please state your name, grade, age, and three interesting things about yourself," Mrs. Hudson announced.
Eurus blinked. "Eurus Holmes. 14. Grade 11. The average human has about 9 pints of blood in their body. Humans are the only extant members of the subtribe Hominina. The human brain is capable of creating more ideas equivalent to that of the atoms of the universe."
"Right..." Mrs. Hudson stated. "Well, this year we are going to do projects based on the theme 'Anti-bullying'. Our first project will just be making posters to hang around the school. You can come up to get supplies."
Jim growled. What did she think they were, kindergarteners?
"Each grade will work on a poster. Grade 9 will be there, 10 there, 11 there, and 12 here. You may begin."
Jim rolled his eyes and walked over to the designated area. Sherlock and Eurus were already there.
"Gavin Lestrade is getting the supplies for... this," Sherlock said, gesturing to nowhere.
Jim nodded.
Lestrade came over and sat down with a box of pencils and markers and a sheet of poster board.
"So, um...," he said, coughing awkwardly.
"Grayson! You're the oldest. You're supposed to-"
"It's Greg, Sherlock! Greg! And I expect you genius kiddos to help out, because I have zero artistic talent."
Sherlock groaned and stared at the ceiling. Eurus stared at the wall. Greg looked as if he were about to explode.
Jim tried not to laugh.
The rest of that class was ancient history.
Their poster looked terrible.
Jim got home from school and threw his bag at the wall. He'd been homeless for years, and had more than a few accomplices. He refused to call them friends. He didn't have friends.
None of them knew what he could do, of course. He'd rather keep it that way.
He was rich for a homeless kid. He ran his own network of criminals and whatnot. It paid well.
His phone chimed. He picked it up.
You killed Carl Powers. -SH
Sherlock had caught him, then. He smiled. Sherlock wouldn't turn him in. He couldn't.
Yep. Proud of me? The botulinum poison worked wonderfully. -JM
He didn't receive a response to that.
Throwing his phone on his bed, he stared at the ceiling. Lifting his hand, he let the flames lick around his fingers. The fire cast an orange glow around the room. It was almost hypnotic.
His phone chimed again.
Proud? Of course not. The shoes are what gave you away. To me, at least. Everyone in the police force is an idiot. -SH
He smiled and typed,
To the victor goes the spoils. Carl had it coming. He laughed at me. -JM
P.o.V. - YOU
You creep along the side of the building, watching and waiting for your target to show himself. He does. You strike.
Catch them. Bind them. Blind them. Cut them.
It's how you work. It always will be.
This one struggles. You tie him to a telephone pole and proceed in your sacred process.
You caught him.
You bound him.
Now you gouge out his eyes.
He screams. They all do.
It gives you a rush of adrenaline. You love it.
Finally, your favorite part. You save the best for last. You are patient.
And it always pays off.
You take out your knife and drag it across his skin, watching as the blood seeps out of the cuts. It's beautiful.
It's art.
Finally, you slit the wrists and leave.
He will die on his own. Alone.
Just like you are.
Sherlock P.o.V.
"- a ghastly serial killer haunting the streets of London. He has struck three times now, his latest victim being 34 year old Frank Roswell. Police say that he tortures his victims by tying them up, blinding them, and then cutting them with a knife so that they bleed out. Officer Hopkins, who is in charge of the case, advises people not to go places alone, and-"
Mycroft turned off the TV and threw the remote on the sofa.
"I got your papers. You're legally free now," he said to Eurus. She nodded.
Sherlock stared at the television. "You think the serial-"
"You will not go looking for trouble, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped warningly.
Sherlock shrugged. "They made a mistake, though," he said.
"What's that?"
"They said 'he'," Eurus stated for him.
Sherlock nodded. "When tracking killers like this, they're supposed to think like the killer or the victim. They don't use 'he' or 'she'."
Mycroft rolled his eyes, probably humoring them. Sherlock hated it when he did that.
"What do they do, then?"
"They use 'I'," Eurus said, "Or-"
"You."
A/N: I finally get to add some plot! Yay!
Thanks for reading!
TW999