Moriarty stares at the paper in his hands.
It could work, this detailed plan he's spent the past few weeks making, or it could backfire. At this stage in the game he should be going with a more sure, absolute, method. But it all sounds so boring and juvenile.
End John with an untimely accident? A mugger? Even sending a staff member to beat him and send a message just seems so banal. He could do it himself, but then he'd be just another serial killer. Sure, he could just go around and shoot him, shoot them both, but that's unsatisfying. There is a lack of intimacy involved when all he does is apply 2 pounds of force to a trigger. He'd hear it, maybe bathe in an arterial spray if he's lucky, but he doesn't get the joy of swallowing someone's last breath or plunging a knife through their flesh.
He mixes things up. It's the reason he's so famous, so changeable. There are so many creative ways to kill someone. He owes it to everyone involved to keep it interesting. Why make it so quick when you can give someone the opportunity to submit to it, to fight then surrender, or to deny until there is nothing left? The way a person dies can tell Moriarty a lot more than the way they lived. The gratification he gets from that outweighs the small setbacks along the way.
"I'm just giving you what you need, Johnny boy, what you disserve."
It's true. John deserves more than a two-sentence obituary and Sherlock's mourning. John deserves the kind of death that would make urban legends.
But is it more punishing to give him that long drawn out death or to curse him with the mundane?
But cursing John with the mundane taints his hands with it.
…
"I came to pick you up for our date," Jim opens, and John makes a sound somewhere between frustrated and resigned.
"I wonder when our anniversary would be, I mean we've been dating so long now, darling." Jim coos in the car and John makes a face.
"Please stop." John shakes his head and Jim does because he doesn't want John to make a scene.
In the restaurant Jim asks why John is scared and John makes up excuses that Jim can destroy, but doesn't. Over their main course, Jim asks for a reason they shouldn't date, and John makes a good case, but delivers it with halfhearted conviction.
"I'll get the tab, honey." Jim smiles as he pays, the waitress smiles back, and John's face makes the transition from pale to pink.
"Are you going to make any more quips?" John asks in the car as he turns to Jim before exiting. Jim shakes his head no, reaches up, and gently presses his lips to John's. John doesn't make a sound.
…
John is projecting thoughts very loudly for someone who does not want to be deduced.
"I'm fine with your relationship with Jim. There are no girls running around the flat. It's quite enjoyable." Sherlock says out loud, disrupting John's train of thought.
"Surely you can't be serious." Sherlock narrows his eyes.
"Of course, I'm serious," he pauses "And don't call me Sherly." John watches his retreating back in absolute shock and disbelief.
But Sherlock isn't quite okay. He's never wanted a relationship, but he's missing what John gave him before Moriarty took it-before Jim took it.
That night, at 4 in the morning, he takes out his aggravation on the violin and wakes John up with his screeching. He can hear John toss to the other side to drown him out but he doesn't care. He needs to play.
Chaos: outside and in.