"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 WILL BURN DOWN THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD UNTIL YOU HAVE NOWHERE TO TURN BUT MY ARMS."
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The death of Sherlock Holmes is the beginning of your happily ever after. It had always been planned that way. You have to practically peel Jim off the rooftop, so that his henchmen can come in and put a body there - one that looks identical to him, and you try very hard not to look at.
The whole time, you can't seem to quite take your hands off him. You had planned everything down to the tiniest detail, and yet, you had been so fearful. You were almost too good, really. He had looked dead, his eyes wide, glassy and unseeing as blood haloed his head.
He's more than willing to cling to you, too. His hands roam over your waist, your shoulders and your neck, like he, too, needs to desperately remind himself you're still here, by his side. And he does. Moriarty was a master manipulator, he always had been. He could break people down and reduce them to rubble exceptionally easily. And yet, he never quite knew what you wanted. Freedom was a vague concept, but one that he was charmed by.
This had been the culmination of a lifetime's worth of work, for him. Sherlock Holmes had been after him since his very first murder, and now he had just wiped Holmes off the map. Or, rather, you had done it for him.
He ushers you into the car - sleek and black and fast, one driven by the same chauffeur as earlier - and just keeps pressing his hands to your skin. He's desperate to feel you, just to remind himself you're real.
"You know, Cinderella, there aren't many things I'm afraid of." Moriarty says, cupping your jaw with his hand.
You just respond with a raised eyebrow, silently probing him, as you lean into his touch. All you want is to erase that image of him lying in a pool of his blood from your mind, but it seems to be emblazoned onto the back of your eyelids, plaguing you every time that you dare to close your eyes. It's the stuff of nightmares, of eternal torment.
"Mycroft Holmes and all of his little minions couldn't break me," He breathes out, gazing down at you. His dark eyes burn hot. "But I think that losing you might. If you decide that your freedom, your happy ever after, isn't with me, I will burn the whole fucking world down until you have nowhere to turn but my arms."
"You're all the freedom I need." You breathe out. You're practically caged between the car door, the leather seats, and Moriarty's body, his hand smoothing over your face.
His dark eyes are fixed on you, and your heart rate increases exponentially as he glances down at your lips. There's almost a bolt of electricity between you, a moment of absolute understanding. That you need to be closer. You fist your hands in his jacket, pulling him to you until he's half leaning over you, entrapping you with his arm, and your noses are almost touching.
