When he'd been alerted to Holmes's return to London, he knows he should have been frustrated. He should have been irritated, angered that he'd been tricked, that Holmes had wriggled away from him and managed to arrange this comeback. He isn't frustrated, though; he isn't frustrated at all because how boring would it have been for Holmes to fade away in an opium den? How unsatisfying?
This is far better. This is thrilling.
Moriarty had liked that about Moran. He would've been frustrated, but he would've been thrilled, too. Moran would've helped him see that this is really a blessing in disguise.
He mounts the stairs to this house with Moriarty on his mind; he's already sneering to himself, here in the dark, that in a moment he'll be putting a bullet through the head of Holmes's lover, and it will destroy him.
It will destroy him in the way that Moran's death wouldn't have destroyed Moriarty. Moriarty was too smart to let someone under his skin like that.
His hands don't shake anymore at that thought; there was a time when that had made him sick, when they were in the thick of things. Now... Now it doesn't bother him. (The truth is Moran is a man who feels, and that's a hurt he feels keenly; he's also a man of determination, and so pretends that he doesn't.)
Oh, but he will be happy to murder Watson and watch Holmes fall apart. Maybe he'll even convince Holmes to throw himself into the Thames. Maybe he'll be there to see it. That would be fitting, wouldn't it? Moriarty into Reichenbach, the falls so huge and majestic and terrifying and unfamiliar but beautiful; and Holmes into the Thames, so choked and polluted and so very London. It's where Holmes deserves to rot.
He sets up his gun, and his body hums with anticipation; his breath catches in his throat, his heart thuds with excitement. He's been held back from this kill for far, far too long. He puts the good doctor into his sights, and his sneer grows.
If Holmes and Moriarty are parallels, he can see the parallels between himself and this man, the faithful right-hand man, the one left behind to mourn. He deserves this, too. (For being loved, his mind does not add.)
He holds his breath, places his finger on the trigger, and waits one -- two -- three heartbeats, and before the fourth one settles, the gun makes its whisper, and across the street, a bullet tears through the glass of the window in Baker st., and it rips a hole into Dr. Watson's forehead.
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This is far better. This is thrilling.
Moriarty had liked that about Moran. He would've been frustrated, but he would've been thrilled, too. Moran would've helped him see that this is really a blessing in disguise.
He mounts the stairs to this house with Moriarty on his mind; he's already sneering to himself, here in the dark, that in a moment he'll be putting a bullet through the head of Holmes's lover, and it will destroy him.
It will destroy him in the way that Moran's death wouldn't have destroyed Moriarty. Moriarty was too smart to let someone under his skin like that.
His hands don't shake anymore at that thought; there was a time when that had made him sick, when they were in the thick of things. Now... Now it doesn't bother him. (The truth is Moran is a man who feels, and that's a hurt he feels keenly; he's also a man of determination, and so pretends that he doesn't.)
Oh, but he will be happy to murder Watson and watch Holmes fall apart. Maybe he'll even convince Holmes to throw himself into the Thames. Maybe he'll be there to see it. That would be fitting, wouldn't it? Moriarty into Reichenbach, the falls so huge and majestic and terrifying and unfamiliar but beautiful; and Holmes into the Thames, so choked and polluted and so very London. It's where Holmes deserves to rot.
He sets up his gun, and his body hums with anticipation; his breath catches in his throat, his heart thuds with excitement. He's been held back from this kill for far, far too long. He puts the good doctor into his sights, and his sneer grows.
If Holmes and Moriarty are parallels, he can see the parallels between himself and this man, the faithful right-hand man, the one left behind to mourn. He deserves this, too. (For being loved, his mind does not add.)
He holds his breath, places his finger on the trigger, and waits one -- two -- three heartbeats, and before the fourth one settles, the gun makes its whisper, and across the street, a bullet tears through the glass of the window in Baker st., and it rips a hole into Dr. Watson's forehead.