Sherliam Oneshots

REWRITING HISTORY

The sky of Durham was a deep dark blue, nearly the color of pitch black. Countless stars dotted across the dark expanse of the sky. The night was still. A few crickets chirped, and the occasional late-night carriage would roll through town, but it was relatively quiet.

Durham had a couple large manors, although only one of them was occupied. The other residents had died, and one was recent. However, not many people looked into that death, since it seemed that the man who died had just done something incorrectly regarding the prescription he was on.

In reality, however, that death was a murder. It was orchestrated by someone in Durham who was awake in his study, in the one large manor that held residents. He looked tired, and he was. Very much so. In front of him were various things, thoroughly crowding his desk that had been clean before he arrived and put all the papers on it.

There were tests he needed to grade. This man was a professor at a nearby prestigious university. There were also blueprints of a bridge above the River of Thames, as well as pieces upon pieces of paper. Some of them had writing on them, front to back. Some just contained ideas that had been jotted down. Others were filled with words until about halfway through the page, when they just stopped. Sometimes the words would stop mid-sentence.

However, this man wasn't focusing on any of those things.

All those papers—besides the tests he needed to grade—were there in preparation for the most monumental moment of his life that was coming up soon: his death. He knew he had to commit more murders before that was a possibility, or else his plan wouldn't work.

Even with something huge like that looming over him, that wasn't what was clouding his conscience at the moment. Instead, he was staring down at his desk, deep in thought. If someone were to walk in, it would look like he was in a trance from how intently he was staring off into nothingness.

If not his death, what in the world would he be thinking about? This man was already prepared for his death. He wanted it to happen in some regards. There were aspects of it that seemed daunting, but he wasn't going to back down from his indefinite demise.

However, there was something in his mind that even loomed over that thought. The thing that was clouding his brain was a certain detective, the one that he had chosen to exploit all the murders he had committed. This detective didn't know he was the one committing the murders, but he knew that his adversary had a strong suspicion that he was the culprit.

The man who was sitting at his desk, a hand mindlessly intertwined in his blonde hair, staring down at the papers he had, was named William James Moriarty. The world would soon know him as the Lord of Crime. Of course, along with the Lord of Crime, the world also knew his rival: Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective.

However, in reality, Sherlock and William didn't have any sort of negative emotions towards one another that conventional rivals do; they actually held each other in a higher regard than anyone else they knew. They both admired one another immensely.

That was William's problem, though. He had found out that he admired Sherlock a little too much. It was apparent to him that his feelings for the detective went far beyond anything he had ever experienced when Sherlock wouldn't get off his mind—much like currently—or when they saw one another. They were able to understand one another in a way that no one had understood them before, and William found that to be too endearing.

He knew that Sherlock likely didn't feel the same way about him. It wasn't normal for same-sex relationships to occur. He didn't understand his feelings himself. William hadn't really ever been interested in anyone romantically, but he knew that Sherlock was different than anyone he had ever met. No one had ever been able to keep up with William like Sherlock could intellectually. No one had ever appeared more charismatic to William. Everything about Sherlock was something that piqued his interest.