Sherlock Holmes will shoot the wall when bored (thinkitthrough) wrote in wariscoming, @ 2012-07-16 17:28:00 |
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Entry tags: | jim moriarty, sherlock holmes |
Who: Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes
What: Final Showdown
When: Midnight, the cusp of 16 July and 17 July
Where: Park of all the things. It's very poetic, you see.
Warnings: Smug Moriarty, violence, character death
Midnight. It was fitting, Sherlock supposed. Either way, tonight would be the end of it. Perhaps he should have called for backup. Inform the others that this was happening should something go wrong. But he didn’t. Part mania and the fact that in the end, this was all about the two of them. It always had been. Not to mention the fact that Moriarty had killed John. And in the days since they had returned, Sherlock had not slept and had not eaten. He was determined that Moriarty be killed before finding out that John was brought back. He wasn’t thinking about what had happened. The strange numbness and hollow feeling he had felt. The complete sense of loss. It wasn’t like when he had shown up here. No. John had been there. Disappeared and then reappeared. Death was permanent, not here but that didn’t matter. The implication remained the same. John had died and it was only this place and the oddities of it that allowed the war veteran to return to life. Though John had kept hugging him at random. Strange.
Even so, the detective had spent every waking hour combing over all of his cases, looking for the most miniscule of details to pinpoint a location. He kept an eye out for the taunting and finally it had. Of course Moriarty wanted to know what it felt. Of course he pushed for it. He might have had the satisfaction of killing John, of being there and seeing what it had done to Sherlock, something Sherlock still had yet to come to terms with, to process and understand. Because he had focused on the rage and determination.
With midnight fast approaching, Sherlock had taken John’s gun and left the complex. He knew the way to the park, it wasn’t that hard to find. As such, Sherlock walked through the park, his goal clear in his mind. Some might be wary, hesitant, facing a probable death. Sherlock though was calm. A storm brewing in his mind. One way or another. It ended tonight.
He’d already won. John Watson dead. He’d done what he’d promised to do back in that swimming pool where little Carl had died. He’d shown Sherlock that he did in fact have a heart. And he’d burned it out of him. One bullet at Niagara Falls, one simple bullet and he’d proved the point. John Watson had died and he’d seen the look on Sherlock’s face as the bullet had pierced the back of the man. Jim had laughed in elation the whole way back to Lawrence and to his fairytale. Planning for this. Because this, because killing him was all there was left. And what was it to kill a broken man. No one was left now for Sherlock. No one and nothing because Watson was the only one here who had gotten to him. Maybe the old woman, the detective, at a very great stretch maybe his little mouse. But beyond that...
When Sherlock arrived Jim looked up from the swing set where he’d perched himself. “Carl once said these were for girls, it was boring and stupid he said, but it was always freeing, even back then. I’d think about things, how spiders squirmed when you took their legs, how the cat stayed away from me no matter what...I suppose there were always signs, usually are. That’s what your brother always said, that I was incurable. Not that bright the Iceman, is he?”
He smiled a little too smugly and got to his feet affecting a mock bow. “And you you poor man, how have you been. Such a loss, how it must have affected you! I saw you. I did, you burned didn’t you! It hurt. It made you feel...and I loved every single second of it. And now...oh do you have a gun, do you have backup? Do you have a plan? Or is this just us. Like it ought to be. You and me Sherlock, it's why he died you know, to hurt you. I suppose you could have gone for Emma if you’d understood her importance to me, but you never bothered did you. Never saw it for what it was. Pity. It might have given her the push she needs. But I’ll get her there, once you’re dead.”
Jim didn’t like getting his hands dirty. But sometimes. Just sometimes. He was willing.
He was prepared for smug. Moriarty was always smug. Especially now. He had known he had been there even as everything had been a haze at Niagara. That the man had seen just what had happened even as Sherlock hadn’t realized it. He vaguely recalled telling John to stop being an idiot and wake up. Vaguely recalled being off to the side as Cara healed him. It didn’t matter now, though. John was alive and he would process that whole loss bit once Moriarty was dead and he didn’t have to worry about him killing John again.
“And that’s the difference between us, isn’t it.”
Because while Moriarty had gone for John, Sherlock hadn’t gone for Emma. Not the way Moriarty planned. Not through attacking her, through killing her. She had wanted him to kill Moriarty when she had gotten back from the future, but he hadn’t wanted to be found and so it had taken too long because no one bothered to remember he was still one man, that Moriarty planned for every possible obstacle to make it so he would be more difficult to be found. And because of that, he had gotten her back in his grasps and seemed to oddly care for her. Strange. Even so, Sherlock wouldn’t sink to such levels. Moriarty’s levels no matter what he wanted.
“It’s just us. The way it was always supposed to be.”
He’d know if there were others there. And undoubtedly, there was a sniper on hand, just in case. But for now, it was just them. The way Moriarty had always wanted it with the taunting and clues, the attempts to get Sherlock’s attention. The ‘games’ and deaths. Things he should have been killed for months ago and for whatever reason, it took Adler’s death to get people truly on the call, the semtexing. Easter should have been the realization but no. And they left it to him because it was supposed to be him.
“Right, differences. You’re just cold, not cruel, isn’t that how it works. You’re actually telling me you don’t revel in the clues I leave you? You kill me tonight Sherlock and what do you have? What’s left for you in a world without me? Not John Watson, he’ll eventually break whatever thrall you have him under and it’ll be just you, some woman will sweep him off his feet and all you’ll have is your skull and your cases and...you won’t even have me. And for a long time I was bored, I was so just...bored. But I found you, I found my fairytale too and now I have a story to tell. Her story. It’s going to be beautiful you know. It’s going to blaze across the world and burn long and bright. But its not going to be a happy story, d’ya know why?”
He paced a little, the gun in his hand in seemingly a short amount of time. It was a simple enough gun, nothing fancy for the man who prefered no weapons but what he needed to get the job done. “Seems a bit simple, just the park, but I realised its not about the where, its about the who. Its about what matters to you, its about how I win. And I already did. I won the second John Watson’s guts splattered across the ground. Why fight it anymore. Just pick up that gun you know you’re stashing and end it all. Save me the trouble of getting blood on my hands, or god forbid the suit.”
It was after all a very important one. And he had so many plans again, so many reasons to live. It was a strange feeling to have but he thought maybe he just might like it. Only Sherlock still needed to die. There was no two ways about it.
While Moriarty thought he could survive without Sherlock, that probably wasn’t the case. Because he would again get bored. Because he always got bored. Oh yes, the two completed one another in a twisted sense. Because there were clues and a chase involved in this. And he knew that people thought he had taken his time because of that. Perhaps on a subconscious level that had been the truth. At least at first. Before the deaths.
“Because you’re in it.”
It was a simple comment, but he had been asked why Emma’s story wouldn’t be a happy one and well, Moriarty was involved. How could that be happy when he would always focus on something, destroy someone. Sherlock was cold, calculating but never cruel. Well, not intentionally. He was told he was heartless plenty of times. That he was a cruel man who didn’t care about others. Because caring led to weaknesses. Like John. And Moriarty had exploited it as he exploited everyone.
“Did you win? Because that’s not how my memory recalls it. He died. Yes. But he didn’t stay dead.”
Raising the gun, Sherlock pointed it at Moriarty, eyes narrowed.
“But you are right. It will end and you won’t be killing anyone else.”
Didn’t stay dead? What the hell was he talking about, of course he was dead “Oh no no no, no non human interference, that’s the spell. That was my way around all those lovely powered types. I put a BULLET in his HEART.” he shouted, face twisted with fury at the thought that could possibly have been denied him and Watson hadn’t died. He’d died. He’d suffered and died and Sherlock would die alone. He’d burned the heart out of him and it was done. He pulled a gun from his own coat in a moment of madness. To hell with the sniper and to hell with not getting his hands dirty. For this he’d lower himself to a gun, for this...
“You’re not getting out of here alive, but maybe you’ve planned for that. Maybe this nonsense about John was supposed to throw me but it hasn’t. Of course it hasn’t. He is DEAD.”
And he was wrong about Emma. Emma would live in his world. She’d realise it was the only way forward and without Sherlock there, without his lies and his views Jim would need Emma by his side to keep him from getting bored. “So, how does this work, detective? Do I kill you? Do you kill me? Do we wait, and watch and wait until we know. Because I’ll know when you go to pull the trigger as much as I suspect you will. Who do you think the better shot is?”
“Do you. Think you. Can win?” he asked at an almost dance of a pace. This could only be the last game. If it was going to go that way then it had to be perfect. “Do you think I don’t have plans, I always have plans?”
And there was the rage. He was thrown. Oh he had planned for that, but it was still true. John was alive. And while Sherlock had indeed been there for his death, had seen it. He had also seen John brought back to life.
“I believe the person who did the reviving was in fact human.” Shrugging, the detective pulled out his phone.
“I could always call him if you like, prove he is, in fact, alive. Before killing you that is to ensure you don’t kill anyone else again.”
That was how it would work. Moriarty would die. One way or the other. Yes, he had indeed planned that he could die himself, that wasn’t the issue though. Because he would win. Moriarty thought it was his game to win, but no. Even if Sherlock died, he knew that Moriarty wouldn’t be that far behind him. Perhaps John. Perhaps Emma, perhaps someone no one expected. The call to arms had been sounded already, if it wasn’t him, it would be someone.
“I suppose time will tell. Now. Do I call him and prove you wrong that he is dead? Or do we do this now?”
It was a trap. It had to have been a trap. He’d use the distraction to place a well aimed bullet. But no, that wasn’t like him now was it. “Call him. Do it now if he really is alive but know that it’ll be the last thing he hears. A bullet in your heart just like the one I put in his. And I will wait till you’re dead. Even if you shoot me, even if you kill me. I will cling to life until you go just so I can make sure they can’t bring you back. I will watch. I will shoot you a dozen times just to make sure I win. Don’t you see? Even if I die, I win because...because...”
Did he? Without Watson had he really burned Sherlock?
“How did you feel though? When he died. You promised me you’d tell me, and I saw it in your eyes when you got here, you hurt from it. But you need to tell me how? You owe me that Sherlock Holmes. You owe me my reasons just like I owed you. But I paid it all back didn’t I? Every little bit of it, I paid it back. Give me my win. Give me this. Just this and then you can call him if you want. You can tell me he’s alive as long as I know you hurt.
It was maddening. And Sherlock knew him well, knew that Jim, well, he was insane as anyone had ever called him and probably more besides. He was a madman, what they called a criminally insane psychopath. And his games hadn’t played out like he’d intended. He hated it. It burned at him and no one had that right. No one. Especially not Sherlock. That was just...it wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
“Call him. Do it now. Say your goodbyes to your ghost.”
He knew that this was it. He knew that Moriarty would kill him, but he would kill Moriarty as well. But it didn’t matter because the man would die and it would end this madness. So he called, and even put the phone on speaker, because he knew that Moriarty wouldn’t believe him anyway. As John answered, Sherlock kept his eyes locked on Moriarty.
"Sherlock?"
Good old John, always answering. It would be his downfall, perhaps. But to prove a point it was good that he had answered.
"You're on speaker, John. He didn't believe you alive."
There was slight emotion, very slight in his voice. It was Sherlock. He was more comfortable with anger and rage. But this time there was even regret. Small. Miniscule. But it was there.
"Are you all right? Where are you? "
"You shouldn't have chased after him, you had to know it was a trap."
So to the admonishing. Because it was Sherlock speak for caring. Because he didn't know how to voice it any other way.
"I was trying to help. I can still help if you let me. Where are you?"
And John kept trying to get a location but that wasn’t part of the game. Not for Moriarty. He was too wound up now, and there was still much to say and no time to say it. So he went with one of the first things he had told John. They were coming in full circle now.
"I told you not to make me a hero, John. They don't exist and you just had to do it anyway."
Alive. How the hell dare he be alive. The moment of fury didn’t come in words. It came in a single bullet. A furious expression of rage and anger that he’d managed once again to be bested by this world he didn’t understand. He should have sent Katherine. He should have done so many things he didn’t think to do. But here it was. It wasn’t epic like he’d planned, no one would hate the memory of this man. Jim Moriarty, who had always so loved the show and the dramatics just wanted the man dead. He was dangerous. He was so dangerous. And all he could do now was lash out.
The bullet hit its target good enough. He wasn’t a perfect shot. His weapons were knives more than anything. But he did it. He took the shot and he knew, he just knew how good it was.
He’d won. He’d won, he’d done it and now all it would take was time.
""Sherlock you're scarring me." John clutched the phone a little tighter and chewed at his lip. For the longest time he just listened, emotion threatening to break through.
"You are, you're the real thing. Nobody could pretend to be that much of a dick without merit all the time." He couldn't stop the shaking in his voice. There was nothing Sherlock could say to make him think he was anything less than a hero. John didn't care.
The shot came just as he had expected and he hit the ground hard.
"Y...You'll have t..to find someth...ing else to..b..log about..."
As he said those words, Sherlock took aim and shot. Okay, so he’d been aiming for Moriarty’s head and instead got him in the stomach. Stomach shots could be fatal if left unattended for too long. It was the best he could do at the moment though.
"Stop talking like that. I'll find you. I'll bring healers, it'll be fine. Ju-just hold on. Please." John knew a gunshot when he heard one, he had to fight to maintain composure when he heard it strike him down.
“It’s v..ery c..c..old, John..” And it was. Sherlock was used to cold, but this was a different cold, the cold of losing your blood from a gun shot wound and knowing that your time was running out. And it was getting very difficult to stay conscious. He knew that John wanted him to. Knew that he needed to hold on but all he wanted to do was sleep. He knew the symptoms, he knew that he was dying and that no amount of holding on would make a difference. His breathing was getting more and more shallow, his awareness of his surroundings dimming. But he had shot Moriarty. He would die. They both would and perhaps, just perhaps, that was how it should be. One could not exist while the other lived but perhaps in that, neither could exist at all. If that was the price, so be it.
So for now, he’d just close his eyes and wait for the calm of death to take him. There was nothing after life, no heaven and no hell. He wasn’t an angel, he never had been. And while he’d been a great man, he certainly wasn’t a good one.
Moriarty had not expected the return shot. Not at all. When it came, he took the time to look more offended than anything else, slumping against the edge of the swingset and raising a hand to cover the wound. He’d managed a shot. Just one shot but Jim knew from years of, well...murder, that this was fatal. This would do to him what he wanted least of all. It would kill him eventually. But there was still time, there was still Katherine, and his fairytale. His Emma. He’d win in the end, he had to. there was no other option.
So he watched Sherlock die, grabbing his own phone to call for a driver and focusing on the pain so that he could conceal it. So that he could be seen as strong for the people around his organisation. They’d leap on weakness. And he couldn’t have that. He just couldn’t. Oh if he’d had Moran, if he’d had him he could have confided. He could have shown something. But none of them were him. He had to get back to Emma. He needed her to help him now. And then, more than anything. He needed Katherine. Car called he managed to struggle to the other man. Checking his pulse and feeling it weaken, and weaken.
“Do you think they’ll remember you? Do you think for a second that they’ll remember anything about you. Do you think they’ll remember us?” he asked as the pulse finally faded. Moriarty took the still warm hand of his enemy in his own just for a second and smiled. “I’ll see you in hell Sherlock Holmes. You and me, hm? Only I booked my ticket. When the time comes, I’ll be ready.”
He just hoped against hope this wasn’t his time. That would be too unfair.