Once upon a time there was a little boy named Moriarty.
Moriarty was clever and he was handsome but he was born of dirt and coal.
His mother was a whore and his father was a drunk. And Moriarty was cursed to never rise from his poverty no matter how hard he tired.
A prince in pauper's clothing. Trapped by circumstance.
Moriarty and his family lived in a dilapidated little house on the top of a hill. From his bedroom window, which he looked out of often wondering if he could fly, Moriarty could see a palace.
The palace. Moriarty dreamt of that palace and of sitting on the throne and of being someone. Anyone.
Within the palace lived a prince named Holmes.
Holmes was wicked and he was hideous but he was born of fire and diamonds.
His mother was the queen and his father was the king. And Holmes was gifted never to fall from his wealth no matter how little he tried.
A wolf in sheep's clothing. Elevated by circumstance.
Holmes and Moriarty did not know but their paths were destined to cross. Because little Moriarty, one day sitting on his hill, received a royal summons.
Moriarty had been given the chance to rise from his roots and he grabbed it with both hands. But he soon found that he was to make an enemy, in a prince whose pride made him believe Moriarty was not worthy.
Holmes and Moriarty were not polar opposites. In fact, they were both the same side of the magnet and it was their similarities- that intelligence- that repelled them so fiercely.
Holmes hated Moriarty and the way he trailed mud into his castle. Hated the way he did not bow to his authority like the rest of them. Moriarty had his own mind. And it allowed him to hate Holmes in turn. Because he could see the wolf that hid beneath the prince's skin.
And brave little Moriarty exposed Holmes for what he was, with clever words in front of the entire royal court. No one listened, of course they didn't because Moriarty was just the poor boy; no one listened but the prince.
Possessed by rage, Holmes sought Moriarty in his chambers, slipping through the door on the chime of midnight to muffle his sounds, and cornered the boy. Holmes snarled and bit but Moriarty did not shake. He was going to convince the kingdom that Holmes was corrupt if it took all he had.
So Holmes pulled a needle and thread from his pocket and he sewed the thread beneath the skin of Moriarty's hands and feet so he could never move himself again. And for safe measure, he sewed his lips together too.
And maybe, by now, you are expecting clever, brilliant Moriarty to cunningly escape and slay the wolf in the crown? But this is not a fairy-tale; it is a thinly disguised truth. And in real life the wolf will always win, even if he does not want to.
And in real life no one lives happily ever after.
Mycroft Holmes has never wanted to be the hero. He's selfish and he detests the people he would have to help; he is not cut from the fabric that makes a saviour. But he never thought he would be the villain.
(If Mycroft is the fairy tale villain, does that make Jim the hero of this twisted tale? God help them all if their hero is the boy that throws insults like knives and finds pleasure in his pain.)
He is the creature children see in their nightmares, the monster under their bed. The one that crept into a boy's room under the cover of night and stole his innocence then wanted to do it again.
And it makes him feel sick.
Every second from the moment he stepped from Jim's room that night passes in a painful kind of clarity.
His nights are plagued with Jim's face. He dreams of pinning him down and tearing at flesh with his teeth; just to taste the fear on his skin. He dreams of his own face too and the shadows he casts even in darkness and the savage, hungry eyes. Oh what creature is this that has replaced the proud almost- man that Mycroft used to be? Is it even human?
The dreams are not the things that wake him; his sobs do as they shake his body to consciousness. Mycroft does not cry when he is awake- he has not cried since he was eight years old when his mother slapped him across the face for showing her up at a dinner party- but in his sleep he has no control. And he wakes with salt water burning his face.
He wakes in a cold sweat and spends the rest of his nights bent over the toilet, attempting to purge himself of the sin within his body. It's never any good; he thinks he'll need an exorcist to rid himself of these demons.
But the tears and the sickness and the sleepless nights are not just guilt. Guilt alone could not drive Mycroft to this. They are the products of a man realising that he is a beast. Because for all his resentment for what he did to a sixteen year old boy he is more disgusted that he would do it again. That he wants to do it again.
So, he doesn't sleep properly for three days and it doesn't matter how tall he holds himself to make people think he is okay- he looks broken. The dark smudges beneath his eyes and the ghostly pale tone of his skin betray him perfectly. But life does not stop moving simply because Mycroft Holmes cannot stand it anymore. And he has to remember that he is still a leader; a dictator. And he still has puppets to make dance.
"What do you want us to do about Moriarty?" One of them asks in a thuggish tone on the second day.
"Nothing." Mycroft sighs. Nothing. Do nothing. I've done enough. Don't touch him. He's mine.
"Are you sure because-"
"LEAVE HIM ALONE." Mycroft snarls but is quick to reign himself in, "I've dealt with him already."
They don't ask how. And he's glad of it because he cannot think of a single lie to tell.
Mycroft makes a conscious effort to avoid Jim during the day because despite his promise that night he does not want to lay eyes on that boy again for fear of what he might do. Jim makes him afraid of himself.
He manages it for three days.
But St. Bart's is a small school and he is amazed their distance lasted that long.
Mycroft is waiting in an empty hallway when it happens, checking his phone and the ugly text that pretty girl he's fucking just sent.
He looks up and there he is; his living nightmare. Jim Moriarty looks like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Panic shines from his eyes but he seems fixed by Mycroft's gaze. Then he screw his eyes shut and he reminds Mycroft of a child trying to hide- if I can't see them then they can't see me.
Jim's bruises have faded, and his skin is painted summer colours- ironically enough-, yellows and greens, instead of the dark purples and blacks of three days earlier. Mycroft lets his eyes wander down Jim's slight frame- and he cannot help but do so possessively- and his eyes linger on the boy's waist. Are my fingertips still on his flesh? Can he feel me on his skin? Mycroft thinks. He hopes his marks are not there any longer but he's not sure if that's because he wants Jim to be healed- to ease his guilt- or because he wants to mark him all over again. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Jim opens his eyes and his fear is replaced by a cold mask. And Mycroft knows he deserves this- and more- but his jaw still sets into a stubborn line and he raises himself to his full height. Naturally defensive. The tension between them is tangible; it's heavy and uncomfortable and any moment one of them is going to try and break through it.
But then there are voices.
Voices murmuring from down the hall that cause Mycroft's tension to fizzle. Panic sets in. He can't be caught like this, standing across from- clearly in conflict with- the beaten boy who the teachers have started asking questions about. In a flash decision he grabs Jim's upper arm and pulls them into the nearest empty classroom, closing the door behind him.
Jim struggles and shrugs from his grip and he looks as if he is about to storm out or scream so Mycroft acts to counter both, standing in front of the door and covering Jim's mouth with a hand.
"Don't say a fucking word." He hisses under his breath and the voices get louder before they pass by altogether.
And then Jim and Mycroft are utterly alone in an abandoned classroom. And- oh- this was such a bad idea.
Let go of his face. Take your hand away. The rational part of his mind screams. Don't make this worse than it already is.
But it must be close to the full moon because Mycroft can feel the big bad wolf in his veins and his hand tightens around Jim's mouth instinctively, fingertips digging into flesh.
"Maybe we should talk." Mycroft says, and he means talk- just talk. He really does. But his voice suggests something else in that wolfish growl.
Jim's eyes dart up the moment he could hear the shrill calls of girls headed their way and before he can turn to walk away, the puppet master jerks a string hard and his arm is in an iron grip. He hasn't spoken in days and even as he opens his mouth now, no sound comes out.
Despite his struggle, fire beats wood, and Jim is pulled into a dark, empty classroom and gooseflesh runs up his back in terror, but his face is fucking set and he's not going to bend under the other's will easily. The puppet still had human thoughts and he was going to keep those his own no matter the physical cost.
The hand clasped on his mouth burned the wood of his skin, but Jim stopped fighting, staring dead into Mycroft Holmes' eyes without betraying his fear.
"Don't fucking say a word." Well, he hasn't. Not since the string was sewn into his throat.
The fingers grip tighter, despite Jim's compliance, and well, he should have anticipated that, shouldn't he? Mycroft lived off of other's pain—a parasite, and Jim was his host. But Jim's eyes didn't falter, fingers clenched in fists, breathing slowly in and out of his nose.
"Maybe we should talk." Even if Jim could find his voice, he wouldn't. But he sparks an idea and he knows it will cost him, but a part of him thinks it's worth it.
Jim gives a small nod, reaching up with his right hand, and gently pulling at Mycroft's wrist until the man released his grip.
Breath in.
Breathe out.
And while one hand still rested light and compliant on Mycroft's hand, the other drew back as fast as a snake and crossed over Mycroft's cheek. He avoided his nose and teeth—he didn't need that kind of damage-Just the swelling around the split of his cheek bone.
Jim doesn't even bother to brace himself for the retaliation, because nothing can stop the smile that formed on his muted lips.
