Here's some fanfiction I guess...

Can we just talk about how cool it is that I got a grade for fanfic? Like this had to be the best way to cater to my hyperfixations. Anyway I've been obsessed with Sherlock forever and I don't know if said obsession is ever really going away...

So here's what I wrote...

Because I have no self control....

Um...

But first, to catch you up:

So, there’s this guy named Sherlock Holmes. You’ve probably heard of him? He’s the detective with the deerstalker cap and the pipe? Best friend is an army doctor who goes by Watson? Well, I’m writing from the perspective of James Moriarty from the BBC rendition. The build-up to this scene is simple (at least from Holmes’s point of view). James is a villain who wants to have fun, and stir up chaos, and Sherlock is the only guy in his way. The easy solution? Destroy the hero’s reputation! This scene is the climax of this road to complete destruction of the main character...I hope the story makes this paragraph make sense. Every dialogue line is from the script of the show.

It seems right to start with the fact that I am dead, at the time of writing this. Or, I will be. Am. Time is an irrelevant thing when you’re a dead man lingering in another man’s mind. It’s rather too intimate for time to matter. Even now, he’s staring at me. Though, John is making tea with a rather concerned look on his expression. The detective ought to stop staring and get back to the real world.

Ah, to be young, and unhealthily dependent on your flatmate.

But, that’s not what we’re here for, is it? You know why you’re here. You’re here for the truth, the absolute truth, and nothing but the truth. You’re here to know why your dear friend, not friend, unfortunate acquaintance Jimmy Moriarty is dead.

I want to know why Sherlock is still keeping me around in that little brain of his. Lord only knows why.

Allow me to illustrate the scene. I have, within the months of knowing him, have done quite the impressive number. I’ve strapped bombs to his best friend’s chest. I’ve sat with the Crown Jewels atop my head. I’ve walked free with rigged juries and fun little tips to the press. I’ve freed criminals of every variety, and helped quite a few disappear, or sell, or… anything really.

I’ve made a man into shoes.

But nothing quite intrigued me like William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

“The case that made me famous. Built my reputation with the press.”

He was always so quick to catch on. It got my heart racing every time. Though, he didn’t need to know that.

“That was the joke,” He continued, “Richard Brook. Reichenbach. The very painting I recovered.”

“I thought it had a certain...symmetry. Build you up then knock you down. Just trying to have some fun.” And it was quite fun.

“Plus…” He added with a narrow of his eyes, almost something annoyed, not quite disturbed. “I’ve got a pile of corpses building up on my doorstep.”

“I told all my clients, last one to get to Sherlock Holmes is a sissy.”

This was fun. I thought he liked it too. He appeared to. We had been dancing now, waltzing, for a few good years. Though, of course, he was a shade distracted at times. That’s what irked me. It was also his downfall. His friends. Lovers. However one sees them.

There was that stupid landlady, his practical mother. She was too blind for her own good. She was too nice. Then, there was the Detective Inspector. He was somehow both so necessary as a caretaker, and so unnecessary, as Sherlock never quite bothered to recall his first name.

And then there was John.

Sweet, lovable, murderous, John. Was that doctor really so much better than me? Was he? He killed that murderous cab driver, one of my employees, like he was a fly to be swatted at. All it took was one round from his gun to take him down.

Sherlock and John got Chinese together after that.

The hypocrisy was all rather… infuriating. Yet, like all inconsistencies, they are easy threads to pull from, stretch, and warp. I could finally end the game between the detective and myself. Sherlock was getting too close, and this sunny day on the rooftop was the time to end it. For good.

And, I’m afraid to say it made me...sad.

“All my life I’ve been searching for distractions.” I looked to him. “You were the best distraction and now I don’t even have you. Because I’ve beaten you. I’m disappointed in you. Ordinary, Sherlock!”

I remember his face well, because he too was upset with himself. His precious eyes, like stained glass, shattered with grim realization. There was no exit here. His friends would die, if he didn’t. My order was set, my guns were called. There was no escaping.

Oh, there was something murderous there.

“You’re insane.”

I had been hoisted to the edge of the roof, the wind to my back. His pale hands gripped me by the collar. Insane? If only he could see himself in the mirror. Perhaps, that’s what we were. Reflections. I am still in his mind after all.

“Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. There’s no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump.”

He had let me go. It was a shame he didn’t throw me. It would’ve been quite the flight.

“Complete your story…” His baritone voice trembled. “And… I die in disgrace.”

“You’ve got to admit that’s sexier.”

Because, oh must I say it? It was. Terribly so. The drama! The flair! The elegance!

And he missed every mark!

Until! Until…

Until he thought to best me, to see past my curtains and drag me from my control. It wasn’t until he looked at me with that dark glare only I could see that I knew. I knew he knew. I knew that we were one and the same, that one couldn’t exist without the other, that like Icarus to a flaming star he couldn’t help but burn to darkness and ash and shadow and all things he claimed only I was.

I wanted to shake his hand before I died. I knew I had to die to see this through, and he knew it too. I’m only disappointed that such circumstance demanded I shook his with my right hand instead of my left. It felt… ingenuine.

And I died, watching my reflection leave.

He jumped, though...I’m not sure how he survived. I suppose, in a way, I survived too.

What are you writing?

Hm?

James...I’ve a case to solve.

Oh. Is that right?

I can’t do with any more distractions. I’ve a case to solve by tonight.

Can’t this wait?

Continuing to lie?

I’m speaking the truth

Is anyone ever truthful?

I don’t know, have you told John about me?

Hesitance.

Ah. He left me to finish. Well, I suppose one could argue the grand adventures of Sherlock Holmes never tires. I suggest, Dear Reader, that you stick around to see it through. Perhaps the blue-eyed bastard will finally snap and we can enjoy the show together.

The grim truth in all of this?

He’s only a hero because of his friends.

But, he’ll never tell you that one, will he?

James. Out.

I’m an image of a dead man in your mind, Sherly. Are you forgetting that?