Hello people - I'm still alive. Doesn't seem like it I know, and I'm sorry, but this chaoter for one was really hard. So yeah. I can't really promise you the next one will come sooner, but I'll try.
Anyway, enjoy!
14th of May, 2013
The woman tries talking to me a few times, but I block every attempt by shaking my head roughly. The corner I'm sitting in feels reassuringly steady, a little constricting, but better than the now seemingly huge room around me.
It takes slightly over thirty minutes until the doorbell rings, a chippy little three tone melody. I stay sitting in my little corner as the woman walks to the door and opens it, says a few words and then waits for the person at the door to come in.
It's both of them, Andy and David, I'm pretty sure I can recognize them by footsteps alone. It might have been two years but I can't remember them. In my mind it's only been a few days.
I can hear them gasp and I look up. They look older, both of them. Andy's hair is a lot thinner and he is starting to have a bald patch, and he has a few more wrinkles, but he looks healthy. David's hair is almost completely grey now, and it suits him. Together with his dark skin it makes him look wise.
In this moment, now that I see them with a time gap of two years, I can see how old they really are. They never seemed that way, always seemed young and vibrant, but now I see their age. They are in their middle forties now, after all.
"Kiara?" Andy says, his voice almost giving out, and that breaks me out of my reverie.
Jumping up, I hurry closer to them, throwing myself into David's arms. It's not a conscious decision, not made of like or dislike, but he is physically closer. Right now they are the only thing that connect me to my past, and I need to feel their presence.
David hugs me, first slowly, shocked, but then his arms tighten and it is almost crushing me. I hold on, though. The force holds me together right now.
"Bring me home. Please, take me home." I cry, my shoulders already shaking from suppressed sobs.
Andy grips my shoulder tightly for a moment, almost as if to reassure himself that I am real, then turns around to the woman. I can hear a murmured thank you without any real explanation, then I am out like a light. The blackness is soothing.
When I wake up, I keep my eyes closed. I strain my ears in the hope to find out where Watson and Holmes are. It isn't hard, neither them nor the third man, who are in the living room, are quiet. They are arguing, and I smile widely. The third man is probably Lestrade, and he is - what did Watson say? - a good escape route.
Without making a sound, I get up and start looking through the drawers. Maybe Holmes, as I am pretty sure this is his room, has got something I can use. After all, he must have many enemies. And I am lucky – in the top drawer of his night stand is a small handgun with bullets. I put them in the gun and pick it up. It feels good in my hand, it isn't as big as the ones Father has and my hands are quite small. I might even keep this one.
I can still hear the arguing, especially the voice of Lestrade, so I grip the gun with both hands. When I kick the door open, everyone looks at me in surprise and I narrow my eyes even further.
"Hands up, now, and stand in a line!" I say loudly and point the gun at Watson. They comply slowly, Holmes' face completely closed off, Watson's and Lestrade's rather shocked.
"Thank you for your flattering view of my innocence, but it takes a lot more to knock me out for more than half an hour." Lestrade is looking from Sherlock to Watson and back, but they are both focused on me, not noticing his confusion.
"Hello, DI Lestrade, my name is Kiara Moriarty, daughter of Jim Moriarty. Not that it'll do you much good, having that knowledge." Silently thanking Father for his determination to make me learn shooting and his never ending lessons, which are mostly by Andy and David, but he also teaches me now and then when he has time, I don't have to aim for very long, I just fire two shots in very quick succession – and Holmes and Lestrade fall to the floor, shouting in pain, each clutching their bleeding thigh. It's good to know they're not in imminent danger, I know I haven't hit their main arteries, but I am sure it hurts like hell.
Watson twitches, I'm not sure whether to help them or to attack me, but I aim my gun at Holmes head.
"No, no, Dr Watson, I think neither of us want that, right?" He growls, anger obvious, and for a second I am glad I am not in his reach.
Switching the aim of the gun to Lestrade's head, I look straight into his eyes. Father was talking about it not long ago, he started including and teaching me about the web a few months ago, and I can see Lestrade is still caught up in the latest case Father had constructed – or rather which Moran had constructed. To Father's amusement and my surprise, Lestrade was doing rather well, following the right clues and interrogating the right persons.
"By the way, DI Lestrade, you were doing well." Narrowing his eyes, he slightly turns his head to the right, looking at me in bewilderment, still clutching his bleeding leg.
"Your case in the moment. It was the husband's father." Just as I speak the words, I can hear Watson's sharply indrawn breath and I'm sure now he realised what I am going to do.
People always say pulling the trigger is hard, the guilt after the first kill a horrible burden. I have not felt that way, even at the age of eight, but maybe Father had been a huge influence – while teaching me that killing without reason, be it money, ambition or revenge, was not a thing I was allowed to do, he also taught me to make myself the most important thing. He didn't completely succeed, he is more important to me than myself, but it showed me that it was me or them.
So just like seven years ago, pulling the trigger is not hard. The bullet shoots right through the forehead of the DI, slightly above his nose, and he slackens, falling to the ground. Blood is behind and around him, and there is a steadily growing puddle, but even better are the two shocked gasps I hear from Watson and Holmes, and then the shouts of Lestrade's name.
In less than a second, the aim of the gun is already on Holmes' forehead again, stopping Watson in his movement towards me. Holmes hasn't moved besides a small twitch, but I know he is surprised and in bad pain, even though his face betrays nothing. Watson on the other hand, is smiling in a way that makes me shiver.
"It doesn't matter whether I stand still or attack you, does it?" He says, and his voice is deadly calm.
"Our emergency contact will be here in ten minutes, minimum, and -" He is interrupted by the voice of a woman, probably at least twenty years older than Holmes and Watson, who is shouting up the stairs to us.
"Sherlock? Are you all right? If you're just bored and shooting the wall again, you'll be paying, dear!" she threatens, and I can't help but smirk. An old lady, telling Holmes what to do.
"Everything is fine, Mrs Hudson. And you're late for Mrs Turner." Holmes calls down, his voice steady and confident, and I recognize it as getting the old lady out of the way.
All of us are silent for a moment, listening to her quickly getting ready and then going out of the door, then I turn back to Watson.
"You just killed an officer of Scotland Yard. That is something not even your father can fix just like that!" He growls, looking to the limp body and the blood of the dead DI for less than a second.
"John, calm down." Holmes states calmly, and to my surprise, Watson looks at him for a moment, harshly breathing in and out twice, but finally nods.
"What do you want, Moriarty?" He asks, and I can see in his eyes that he is aware he called me differently than I told him - a fire I associate with him already, after simply hearing about him from Father and knowing him personally for less than an hour. "Why did you kill Detective Inspector Lestrade?"
For a moment, I find that blinking is a nice thing to do, especially as it gives me time to think about how exactly my response will be and how I'll continue.
Watson was wrong, it is simple for Father to get me off the grid and not persecuted for the murder of Lestrade – especially as I'm not in the system in any way. But what of his plans with Holmes and Watson?
I feel the cruel streak I only see in Father when he is doing his job in myself, and suddenly I know what I'm going to do. It's simple – if Holmes and Watson manage to restrain me, then I'm sure, with Holmes' intellect, not even Father would find my body.
"I don't want anything from you directly, Mr Holmes. I just want to be able to leave – and hostages aren't that bad either, with your contact coming." He frowns for a moment, but Watson already started shouting.
"This isn't a hostage situation, Moriarty! This is an execution!" For the first time, I can hear real fear in his voice, and for a moment I'm curious whether he fears for himself or Holmes.
"John." Holmes says again, his voice still as calm and steady as before, if not a bit more quietly, and a bit weaker – even his hold on his leg doesn't stop the blood from flowing.
"Your right, Dr Watson. This is an execution. But at least you don't have to watch your best friend dying." His eyes widen as soon as I finish the sentence, but before he can really react I lift the gun and fire.
It's almost in slow-motion, and as if someone had turned the sound off. Holmes just looks at Watson, and for the first time since I left his room, his mask really breaks. Surprise, worry, shock, fear, pain and anger flit across his face, but his eyes never leave Watson's face.
Watson himself slowly falls backwards, hitting the floor with a loud thump, and lies still, not noticing the rapidly spreading puddle of blood.
"John," Holmes whispers, and his voice breaks. And I know this is when he stops caring. He doesn't care that he'll most likely bleed to death if he lets go of the bullet-wound in his thigh. He doesn't care that I'm still in the room and can see him. He doesn't care I could shoot him any second now.
He only cares that his best friend is dead, and that the spreading blood was inside a living human being only seconds ago.
I lower the gun and watch him trying to get to Watson, watch him wince whenever he moves because of his leg, and see him break when he searches for a pulse and inevitably doesn't find one.
He slumps down, his back not straight any more, but curling in on himself, pulling Watson's head on his lap, not minding that his clothes are soaked with blood within seconds.
"John. John, wake up. John." His words are quiet, spoken only to his friend as he carefully touches the doctor's cheek, but I hear them anyway, and wait for him to look up into my face, with rage in his eyes.
It takes a few minutes, but finally he does. But instead of rage, I see defeat in his eyes. His mask is gone, and I can directly see that he's broken, that nothing I could do now could be worse than this, than holding Watson's head in his lap, carefully stroking the weathered cheek and the sandy, but greying hair, with the huge wound on the doctor's forehead.
"Why?" He whispers, and I'm sure he doesn't even realise there are tears in his eyes, one of them rolling down his cheek.
"Because I could." I answer, and step closer, pointing the gun at his forehead again, but he doesn't react. Almost as if he has not even seen it.
"And because Father promised to burn the heart out of you. Can you feel it, Mr Holmes? Moriarty always wins." I wait for a few seconds, wait for a reaction, but he barely even blinks. Just as I'm getting ready to shoot though, he opens his mouth.
"I know you don't care about what I want. I know you don't feel remorse for this, but grant me one thing." He stops to look at me, and I tilt my head. For some reason I want to know what he has to say.
"Do whatever you want want with the flat, my body, the gun you stole from me. But don't harm any more of my friends. Please, you've already won, so just leave them alone. And most importantly, leave John alone. Please." His voice sounds as if he's already given up, as if he's sure I'll say no, but somehow, his request impresses me.
Switching the gun to my left hand, I lean forward and offer him my hand to shake.
"I can't promise anything. But I'll ask Father to remember your request." After looking at me for a moment, he finally nods, knowing it's the best he'll get, and slowly takes my hand.
We shake once, and I can almost feel his grip weakening with the amount of blood he has already lost, which is now mixing with Watson's.
When I step back again, he touches Watson's cheek once, and whispers, "Wait for me, John.", before he looks up to me and nods.
I pull the trigger.
I sit up in the bed with a scream, tears running down my face even though I don't know why. I should be happy thinking about shooting the man responsible for Father's death, but here I am, crying desperately.
It's strange, when I think about shooting Holmes in another situation, I don't feel any of that sadness. There is mild apprehension and worry, but also excitement and joy. So where are the tears coming from?
The urge to get out of bed is like an itch, growing stronger and stronger and almost impossible to ignore, so I get up and walk out of the room.
The house I'm in is unfamiliar, I'm unsure where I am until I see a picture frame on the wall. In there is nothing really special, it isn't a photograph or anything, but a little sketch made by a little girl's hand. My hand.
In the second room I try I find Andy, and he doesn't mind me lying down next to him while he sits on the covers reading. Closing my eyes, I try to fall asleep again.
It's hard, my head won't shut up.
It tells me that I am lying next to the wrong person, though I can't figure out who I should be lying next to. It also tells me that the dream was familiar, that it happened before, though I can clearly remember not shooting neither Holmes, nor Watson nor Lestrade.
The last thought in my head before I fall asleep again is the question why I want to keep calling Holmes by his first name.