"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 LOVE NEWSPAPERS, FAIRYTALES. AND PRETTY GRIM ONES, TOO."
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St. Bartholomew's Hospital is a towering building. Its bricks are mostly white and smooth, occasionally disrupted by darker bricks that wrap around the first floor of the building, and accent the many windows. The hospital's name is inscribed on its side, the white walls weathered slightly due to the rain, stained from years upon years of water damage.
It's a historic building - which feels especially relevant considering the fact that today will be a historic day. The temporary fall of Moriarty, and the death of Sherlock Holmes.
You gaze up at the hospital through dark, tinted glass. The sleek, black car purrs as it stops directly outside the doors. The henchman who is acting as a chauffeur is probably parking illegally, but you're sure it's not the first crime he's performed on Moriarty's behalf, and it's probably one of the lesser ones.
Moriarty shifts next to you. He's been awfully changeable for the whole journey, his leg bouncing up and down rapidly. Occasionally, his dark eyes with dart to you, and he'll stare at you wordlessly, any emotion that dares enter his eyes is completely indecipherable.
"Are you ready?" You ask.
"Mmh, I'm always ready." Moriarty retorts, his lips curling upwards. "The final move - and then it would be all over."
"It's not the end, not for us."
Moriarty shakes his head. "You know, there was a time when I considered killing myself. The grand final move is my death, forcing Sherlock into his."
"But not anymore," You say hurriedly. Tentatively, you turn slightly, and rest your hand on his shoulder. The material of his jacket is, as to be expected, fine, soft and luxurious. But you're not interested whatsoever in the feeling of the material as you glide your palm over it. You're more interested in the shallow breath he takes in, and the way he looks at you in absolute awe.
It inspires some kind of pride in you - and prompts some painful pang in your stomach. Longing.
"No, not anymore." He says slowly. "Not when we have the whole world before us - ready for us to take it."
Your hand falls from his shoulder, and your lips part almost imperceptibly. You feel like all of the air has rushed from your lungs - you're utterly breathless, trapped in his gaze. "It's all I've ever wanted."
Moriarty's dark eyes dip down to your lips. He lifts his hand, letting his thumb skim your jaw, his fingers caressing you softly. His fingers are warm as they glide against your face, almost reverent in their feather-light strokes. He looks at you almost worshipfully, and you think, then, that perhaps Sherlock wasn't the only person that had been deified.
