"I will burn down the whole fucking world until you have nowhere to turn but my arms."
Jim Moriarty has always loved fairytales. In particular, grim, macabre ones that end in bloodshed. You've been abused by your step-family for years - in every me...
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"I BET YOU LOOKED SO PRETTY, STANDING THERE AND WATCHING THE FLAMES."
---
The case of the abducted, poisoned Bruhl children spells the beginning of the end for Sherlock Holmes. The second that Claudette screams at the mere sight of the Reichenbach Hero, a seed of doubt is planted in the mind of Sally Donovan. Sherlock was meant to be her saviour. He had cracked the case, saving the lives of both her and her little brother. They would face possible illness for years to come, stunted nerve growth, possibly seizures and the loss of some fine motor skills, but they would live.
She should be worshipping him, begging relentlessly for an autograph, or repeatedly telling him how thankful she is. Instead, Claudette screams bloody murder, a harsh, ear-splitting yell erupting from her throat the second she lays her eyes on him.
It doesn't take long for that tiny seed of doubt in Sally Donovan's mind to grow into something monstrous.
She had always thought there would come a point where Sherlock would crash and burn. Solving other people's mysteries would no longer fill the void, and he would have to create one of his own. He had enjoyed Cinderella so much - a girl who brutally killed her family and burnt the house down. She managed to evade him, and be became a man obsessed with finding her.
Perhaps, still riding on the thrill of not catching her, he creates himself a new fairytale. Hansel and Gretel. Except, he made an error. Claudette remembered him.
And so, Donovan goes to Lestrade with her theory. That monstrous, all-consuming doubt settles into him, too.
---
It's late at night when Moriarty returns. He strides through the house smiling serenely, practically waltzing passed his henchmen. They don't even bat an eye at his outlandish behaviour - they've probably learnt it's best not to.
"What time do you call this?" You say teasingly, though your grin falters when your eyes land on his attire. No Westwood today, apparently. Instead, he looks normal, which is disconcerting. It makes your stomach churn to see him look mundane. It's just not right - it's like seeing the sun at night.
Thankfully, he's not wearing the same tourist disguise that he had when he infiltrated the Tower of London, but he is wearing a dark jacket that you think is faux leather, and another stupid hat.
"More importantly... what are you wearing?" You ask, unable to keep the confusion out of your voice.
Moriarty scoffs, "Oh, trust me, I hate this just as much as you do. Today I was a cab driver. Quaint, don't you think?"
