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moriartsy · 3 months

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beyond gilded chains

pairing: jim moriarty x fem!reader

warnings: toxic parents, anxiety attack, sexual tension

summary: what is the lesser of two evils? your father and his world of elites he wants to trap you in? or the overt yet unspoken reality of moriarty's darkness?

w/c: 1.7K

a/n: okay, i know this is kind of cliché, but i have an idea for a jim moriarty story and i have to warm up before i get into it. so i wrote this. i plan on writing a second part and possibly making it a series of oneshots / drabbles. but we'll see how it goes...you can send in requests if you want (and if there are any moriarty enthusiasts still)! thank you for reading !! <3

The grand ballroom of the opulent Ravenscroft Hall shimmered with a golden hue as crystal chandeliers bathed the room in a soft, ambient glow. A symphony of murmurs filled the air, blending seamlessly with the soothing melodies of a string quartet playing in the background. Lavish floral arrangements adorned each table, their fragrances intermingling with the scent of expensive perfumes a polished mahogany.

You stood at the periphery of the extravagant scene, your eyes wandering over the sea of elegantly dressed attendees, each adorned in designer gowns and tailored suits. You fidgeted with the hem of your own exquisite dress, a creation of silk and lace that clung to your figure with the same precision as the couturier's careful stitching.

Despite the expensive fabric enveloping your body, your mood was in a poor state. Honestly, you’d rather be at home, rewatching The Office for the millionth time, but your parents will never let you not attend these events. It's like a chore.

Your parents were proponents of social grace and high society and they had meticulously trained you to navigate such events with poise, concealing any trace of your true feelings beneath a veneer of practiced smiles and genteel conversation.

You sighed.

Suddenly, you felt a new presence at your side. Following the sound of slow footsteps, you found one of your father's associates wearing a smirk that mirrored the self-assured glint in his eyes, sauntering towards you with his hand in the pocket of his dark pants as the other held the fragile flute, a fizzy liquid swirling inside.

"I can see attending these social shindigs brings you such a genuine pleasure. A sheer joy is just radiating from your every pore.“ he said, his words dripping with sarcasm.

You forced a tight smile. "That would be an understatement, Moriarty."

You took a sip of your Dom Pérignon, the liquid gold sliding down your throat as Jim chuckled, unfazed by your icy demeanor.

"Is there something you want, Moriarty, or are you just here to grace me with your charming company?"

Moriarty grinned, "I'm just marveling at the spectacle, my dear. Your enthusiasm is truly contagious."

Rolling your eyes, you retorted, "If that's all, then kindly go and marvel elsewhere. Go strangle someone just because they looked at you the wrong way."

Moriarty feigned offense, placing a hand over his heart as his lips formed an 'O' and his brown eyes widened.

"Oh, (Y/N), don't be like that. I thought we were bonding over our shared love for wealth and excess this boring bunch put on display oh so exquisitely," he said as his hand, still occupied by the glass, swept over the room before facing you again with a knowing smile. "But just so you know. I just did." He added with mischief.

You honestly didn't know if he was joking just to entertain you or maybe intimidate you. Moriarty was capable of bringing all of those people to their knees right in that instance. Including you.

"Do you really want my father to come after you that much? He won't stand for anyone bothering his precious daughter, you know," you sassed with an ironic smile, bluffing your way through.

"Ah, the protective father card, awfully clever.“ He murmured, his eyebrows knitted together before his expression became serious again as he leaned in. His scent invaded your nostrils as you fought to maintain your composure. "But you and I both know, (Y/N), your dear father is at my beck and call. He wouldn't dare lift a finger against me, no matter how many threats you throw around."

You held his gaze, but as much as you tried to hide the signs of the turmoil he stirred within you, you cou+ldn’t help but grind your teeth together. You knew there was no point in attempting to deceive him. He was remarkably good at reading people and you couldn’t be more of an open book to him.

His eyes fell to your lips just for a millisecond before they bored into yours once again.

Suddenly, a clink of the glasses between your bodies made you jump and he smirked at that.

"Cheers," he said with his psychotically soft voice, taking a sip of his drink. With that, Jim turned around a walked away, disappearing into the sea of the richest.

You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. He seems to always find you at these events, making your blood boil every time.

Your solitude was short-lived, though, because soon enough, your father appeared at your side. He observed you with a scrutinizing gaze.

"(Y/N), my dear, what was that all about? What did that spider want?"

Always adept at concealing the complexities of your emotions, you responded with a nonchalant smile.

"Oh, nothing. Just a brief exchange of pleasantries."

He probed further. "Pleasantries? You seemed rather tense. Did he say anything about me? Any threats, perhaps?“

Your father was a man driven by self-interest and the desire to maintain his social standing. Moriarty was right, your father would be willing to sell you in pieces if it meant saving his own ass.

You shook your head, your expression composed. "No, Dad, nothing like that. Just some small talk."

Satisfied but still slightly suspicious, your father linked his arm with yours. "Well, let's not dwell on such matters. We're here to enjoy the evening, aren't we?"

He guided you through the lavish crowd, engaging you in conversations that held little interest for you. Stock portfolios, luxury vacations, and exclusive club memberships. You hear it all the time.

It didn't take long for your father to notice your disinterest, though, and it didn't make him happy.

"You should really take more interest in these matters. People talk, you know. It's essential for your future, especially in our circle.“ He hissed at you when he made sure nobody was paying attention, his words dripping with toxicity that echoed the unspoken expectations of your privileged world.

In that moment, you fought an overwhelming urge to snap back, to unleash the resentment that had long been bubbling beneath the surface. You just bit your lip, resisting the impulse.

"I'm sorry, I'm just tired is all," you said with a tight-lipped smile before putting on the aristocratic mask and this time truly engaging in the conversation.

But the air started to feel thick and your eyes started stinging. You couldn’t take a nice deep breath and your joints started to tingle. You quickly put the flute on the tray the passing hostess was holding to hide the slight tremor in your hands.

Fuck. Here we go again.

5 things I can see: chandeliers, flowers, couples dancing, gilded mirrors, candles.

4 things I can touch: my dress, the Champagne glass, smooth marble surfaces, my silver necklace.

3 things I can hear: string quartet melodies, hushed conversations, footsteps.

2 things I can smell: rich perfume, and leather shoes.

1 thing I can taste: bitter Champagne.

You'd fought this anxiety battle right in the middle of a circle of elites many times before and you'd always pushed through. And you always will.

As you finally managed to take a breath and your tears dissolved, you took a quick scan of the room, catching the sight of Moriarty as he watched you.

Great. I’ll never hear the end of this.

The circle of riches finally broke not long after your crisis, and you took that opportunity to excuse yourself from the suffocating atmosphere. The sound of your high heels echoed through your personal space as you headed toward the exit. Unbeknownst to you, on the other side of the room, Moriarty discreetly signaled to his bodyguard it was time to leave, making his exit too.

As he stepped into the darkness of the night, he unbuttoned his midnight blue suit jacket, his eyes scanning the grandiose driveway. He started descending down the grand staircase and as soon as he reached the bottom, he spotted you leaning against the newel post of the steps, your eyes closed and arms crossed over your rising chest.

Jim jerked his head at his bodyguard, who nodded and rushed away, leaving you and Jim alone.

"It's a shame for such a magnificent creature to be hiding out here." You opened your eyes, slightly turning your head to follow his nearing form. "I mean, can they even call themselves 'crème de la crème' when you're not around?" he asked with a furrowed brow as if it was a serious question.

"You're disgusting," you said and let your eyelids fall again, rolling your head back into its original position, the sturdy structure of the stone scratching the back of your head.

He was now right in front of you, and even though you couldn’t see him, you could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

„Your father certainly knows how to orchestrate an impressive show. How long are you planning to dance to his tune?“

You opened your eyes again, the cool darkness giving way to the silhouette of Jim Moriarty standing before you. As your gaze locked with his dark brown eyes, you felt a complex mix of emotions swirling within.

Everything about him was dark, a demon steeped in shadows, but as your eyes lingered on his, you couldn't shake the feeling that, in some inexplicable way, he appeared lighter than the suffocating life you led with your parents.

"Well, you know. It's a waltz I've mastered"

„Sure, sure. But I also know you can only twirl around the predictable steps for so long before the music changes.“

You studied each other in silence before your forms were illuminated by the headlights of a black SUV. He turned on his heels and headed towards the awaiting car, pulling a gum out of his pocket and popping it into his mouth. Once he reached the vehicle, he opened the back door and turned to you, tilting his head as he waited for you to make a decision.

There was no point in stalling, he knew what you were going to decide anyway. You pushed yourself off the hardness of the pillar and walked towards the car. Moriarty smirked as the two of you locked eyes, watching as you got in.

Before he followed your suit, he took a glance at the doors leading inside the manor, spotting your father as he watched the situation unfold with terror on his face. Jim’s smirk widened as his jaw worked the gum, savoring the flavor. Then he disappeared into the luxury of his SUV, and your father only watched as the car sped away, the tires screeching against the rubble of the driveway.

tbc.

oop👀

a/n2: thank you for making it this far! sorry for the pineapples.

#jim moriarty imagine #jim moriarty x reader #jim moriarty x you #moriarty x reader #moriarty x you #james moriarty x reader #james moriarty x you #james moriarty imagine #jim moriarty fanfiction #james moriarty fanfiction #jim moriarty #bbc sherlock #sherlock bbc #sherlock fanfiction #jim moriarty fluff

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cconsummatumestt · 3 years

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Hi I reality shift to a reality where I am MorMor’s child so here’s what it’s like to be raised by MorMor. (Ft: my twin brother in that reality who is my best friend in this one)

Sebastian Moran. Is. Fucking. Huge. Like. Holy shit. The man is 6’6 and nearly 250 pounds of raw muscle this man is HUGE.

I am a quaking 5’9 and 130 pounds, so he likes to pick me up and with one hand and my brother who is 5’5 and 145 lbs in the other this guy is STRONG holy SHIT man

Jim is actually taller than you��d think, he’s 5’11,

Also Sebastians cooking is *chefs kiss* AMAZING

Like honestly the man cooks better than most 5 star restaurants I swear

Jim, on the other hand, cannot cook to save his life.

I take after Jim a lot, the genius psychopathic tendencies, murder, being scary and dramatic, murder, etc.

Jasper (my twin) is more like Seb. As in, he’s pretty chill, he just likes guns, alcohol, and sports.

Anyway now that you have background here’s some actual info

Family game night is banned. The monopoly board stabbed into the wall with several bullet holes serves as a reminder.

Movie night is pretty chill. Like pick a spy movie and everyone is happy. Seb and Jas Because cool spy stuff, and me and Jim because we get to criticize everything the spies do

The family photo album has pictures like “baby’s first threat” and “baby’s first witness to murder” and “baby’s first murder”

Father-daughter bonding time is basically doing a murder and then going out for ice cream

Sibling bonding time is basically us either joining forces to go murdering or screaming at each other.

Everyone’s music taste is wildly different, but if you play Queen, everyone shuts up to vibe

Aunt Irene visits sometimes, she gets us gifts

All the grandparents hate me. But they’re also misogynists so no real loss there.

I AM, however, Uncle Sev’s favorite and I’ll always hold that over Jas’s head

Parent teacher conferences man

They’re a nightmare

Poor teachers meeting a scary big TANK of a human, and a smaller but even scarier looking human

Also getting bullied isn’t a problem

“If your son speaks or even breathes at my children again, I will turn him into shoes.”

“Jim we’re going to get another restraining order please.”

Chess. Oh god.

Jim is basically chess god, and Seb is also like really good

Jasper is not that good.

Ok, he kinda sucks.

But he is god tier at jenga and video games so

When I was younger, I hated my brother so much I tried to kill him in creative ways

For years

Years

Also we do stab/shoot/anything else each other

I have more bullet scars from him than anyone else

But he has more stab wounds from me so it’s pretty fair

Both of us did ballet when we were really little. Jas loved it. I did not love it as much.

Jas still does it, but I just do it at home for fun because I didn’t like the people at the dance studio

Jim homeschooled both of us until we were 10. For those years, I learned three dozen langues and 50 ways how to hide a body

Also coming out isn’t a problem

“Dads, I’m a lesbian”

“I told you so, Sebastian.” *looks at me* “He though you’d be bisexual”

“Dads I’m gay.”

“About time.”

Dating, on the other hand, is 😬😬

It’s a crazy murder is family but it’s so dope

Also it’s way more loving than my family in this reality so I mean 🤷🏻

#jim moriarty #mormor #sebastian moran #andrew scott #james moriarty #moran #reality shifting #Jim moriarty x daughter!reader

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mysteryartisticwriter · 6 years

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The Enemy’s “Daughter” // Jim Moriarty x DAUGHTER!Reader x Sherlock

A/N: Hello loves! This is my first ever official fan fiction so please don’t judge me too hard because I’m a weak person. Not to mention, this is my first ever Sherlock fan fiction, but I am determined to please you guys with a great fan fiction! But I’m gonna stop talking and let you enjoy the story! Also, I put in some Sherlock quotes and I think I will probably split this story into parts.

Requested: Nope

Warnings: Death but nothing really serious

Not my gif!! (Please tell me if you, the owner, would like me to take the gif down!)

He was your mission. He was your only hope.

Sherlock Holmes

A different symbol for everybody. Some for hope, some for who seeks out an adventure and for some even desperation. Although most would say he is a cold. heartless and lonely man, many would come to him out of desperation to solve their cases.

For you, Sherlock Holmes was the only way to represent and avenge your father. To give honor to his name, even in the afterlife, he would be remembered by many. To almost all. it would bring more spine tingles than a smile to one’s face.

Jim Moriarty

Yes, your father was the only and Jim Moriarty. Not by blood of course, but Jim had actually adopted you, a young and an intelligent girl, at 16 years old when you were living with your very abusive and drug addict mother. One of his assassins was ordered to take out your mother at your flat, that left you to hide in cupboard and leading to his assassin finding you and bringing him to Jim.

Jim, for some odd reason, saw something in you and wanted to keep you as “his daughter”, training you to become one of his top assets, teaching you many things and give you anything you wanted. Of course, not everything you got was for free and came with a price.

Many years later, you were in your late 20s and practicing in the training room in your usual training uniform, after getting back from a complete mission, when Jim and two of his guards came into the room.

“Hi (Y/n)!” Your adoptive father said, waving away the two guards, signaling them to leave you two alone.

“Hi Dad.” You laughed, stopping and taking a break from your training and walking over to him to give him a hug. It took you a while, but soon you found yourself comfortable with him enough to call him dad.

“Are you still playing that game with Sherlock?” You asked him, breaking apart from the hug.

You had always been curious about the man named Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective along with his best friend, Dr. John Watson.

“Of course I am, baby girl! The game is never over. But anyway, how’s my little assassin? I assume the mission went well.” Jim smiled down at you.

“It was a bit difficult, but nothing I hadn’t delt with before. I completed it between 3 hours!” You said, proudly.

“Great! That’s a new record! The last one was 3 and a half hours, correct?” You nodded and you both laughed, being the twisted human beings you were.

After a few seconds filled with laughter, Jim suddenly stopped laughing and looked down at you with a serious face, and you instantly stopped laughing and looked at him with the same face, but also confused. He was known to always have a sudden mood change in a conversation.

“(Y/n), I need you to listen to me. I have a very important mission for you and I know you just came back from one and you want to rest, but this is very important.” Jim said with a serious face but with a soft look in his eyes. You nodded once again and he sighed.

“I may be gone for a while and I need you to take over while I am gone. This is nothing like any other mission you’ve had but I believe you can still complete this for me.” He finished.

“How long will you be gone for?” There wasn’t a reply from him for a few seconds.

“I don’t know baby girl, but I will come back to you. Please, can you do this for me?” You hesitated but reluctantly agreed. Your father smiled at you and pulled you into another hug, this one tighter than before.

“Promise me you’ll come back at least? I don’t want to be stuck alone with these fools you call guards.” He laughed and let you go, looking you in the eyes.

“I promise.”

It wasn’t long before you were told the news about his death. You figured out about his plan on the rooftop, leading to his and Sherlock Holme’s ‘death’. After that day, you no longer laughed, you no longer joked (not that you did much before), you no longer smiled unless it was sarcastic or fake, and you no longer had that shine of softness in your eyes that your father, Jim Moriarty, had as well.

It was as if, when he died, a piece of you died with him.

Wanting to honor him, you planned and planned until you found the perfect plan to take down Sherlock Holmes. You stalked, you researched, and watched Sherlock’s daily life. It wasn’t until the whole thing after the whole ‘Sherlock’s sister had came back’ ordeal and Rosie being born, John Watson’s daughter that you had finally decided on revealing yourself and tell the world who you were.

And now here you were, in your bedroom wearing casual civilian clothing, in front of your fireplace, looking at a picture of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in one hand and Jim Moriarty’s picture in the other hand. You smiled down at your father’s picture and stuffed it into your pocket, while you threw the consulting detective’s and doctor’s picture into the fireplace.

“I promise you this, Sherlock Holmes, I will complete my father’s mission, bring honor to my father’s name and make sure to burn the heart of out of you.”

#sherlock #sherlock x reader #sherlock fandom #sherlock fanfictiction #sherlock x you #sherlock x y/n #bbc sherlock #moriarty #moriarty x reader #moriarty x daughter reader #jim moriarty #sherlock x reader x moriarty

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con-fection · 3 years

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ASHES TO ASHES | jim moriarty x reader | part 1/13

Summary:

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 meaningful way, you embody the story of Cinderella. Except, in your version, Cinderella murders her family and burns the house down. When Sherlock Holmes is assigned to find the killers of your step-family, he inadvertently becomes obsessed with you. And when Sherlock is obsessed, Jim Moriarty becomes a man intrigued.Word Count: 4k

Most fairy tales follow the same format. A lovely, picturesque life, subsequently followed by a tragedy, a period of hardship, all of which is solved by the power of love. The dashing prince saves the damsel in distress, and they remain happy and in love forever, having easily recovered from the trauma of the tragedy and hardship.

Originally, fairy tales did not end quite so nicely. They were macabre, morbid and horrifying. Just as real-life has a tendency to be. They weren't an idyllic escape from everyday life. They were nightmarish stories that reflected the fears of society.

By 1815, The Brothers Grimm had compiled several stories, among them The Frog Prince, Hansel and Gretel, Little Red Riding Hood, Rapunzel... and Cinderella.

The latter had always, always been your favourite. You had memorised every line, every word, every single mark of punctuation. You could recite every single version of the story off-by-heart. All of the variations sparked a deep-rooted curiosity in you.

How could the same story end so differently?

All that changed was the person reciting the story - and they would chip away at it, changing it piece by piece, passing it down orally, until it was barely recognisable. In some versions, the characters got their happy ending. Cinderella would marry her Prince Charming with the help of her Fairy Godmother. In others, they didn't. One of her vile step-sisters will hack off parts of their feet and marry Prince Charming, and Cinderella would be left alone.

Sometimes minor aspects of the story would change. Different variations would feature doves, her dead Mother, fairies, and occasionally, the glass slipper would be golden.

Your version was entirely different to anything imagined before.

...unbeknownst to you, however, was the fact that you weren't the only person that liked grim fairytales.

---

Your mother's battle with her myriad of diseases had been one that had defined your childhood. She had been ever-so frail, perpetually in and out of hospitals, constantly deteriorating. There was more than one occasion where you had watched her drop to the floor, her body entirely limp, and you had to be the one to call the ambulance. There were always, always, blood-soaked handkerchiefs strewn around the house.

She was plagued by illness, and in some ways you were suffering just as much as she was. Most children were afforded the luxury of not having to confront the idea of death - often they simply could not even comprehend it. You weren't so lucky as to experience that naivety.

There had been no play-dates for you, there was no time to entertain any other children when each moment had the potential to be her last. Every single waking moment was occupied with the crippling, gut-wrenching fear that one day she might fall down and that the paramedics wouldn't be able to find a pulse.

Every night you would go to bed praying that she would be there in the morning, that she would get her happy ending, that she could read your favourite fairy-tale to you night after night.

"And Cinderella and Prince Charming lived happily ever after, the end!" She would say, smiling brightly as if she hadn't read this to you so many times that she was bored of it. Your mother could probably recite it by heart now, too.

"Do we get a happily ever after, Mommy?" You had asked one night, right after your mother had set the book of fairy-tales down on your bedside table.

"If you pray, God will answer." She replied, ever-so-vaguely, fiddling with the little golden cross necklace dangling between her collarbones. Now you can recognise that she didn't look surprised by your question, rather, she was in the throes of longing for that happily ever after.

You liked 'happily ever after'. It was a comforting lie that you would willingly believe. In 'happily ever after' there was no pain - in your idea of a happy ending, your mother would recover and you wouldn't burst into tears the moment she staggered out of the room.

But 'happily ever after' had to come after years of torment and misery. It always did. There was no story in which the protagonist began happy and remained that way for all eternity. That would be dreadfully boring, and yet it was what you yearned for the most. Boring and happy would be good.

Her death was a mercy - quick and painless, in her sleep. Her funeral was equally as brief as her life, a bleak affair that you can hardly recall. You had been so, so young then, and the tears just wouldn't stop coming, rolling down your face as your chest wracked with sobs. You can't remember much about it, other than the feeling of your father's hand on your shoulder and the awful, almighty bitterness that threatened to send you to your knees.

Naturally, your mother's funeral had been one of the worst days of your life. She looked so small, so ashen in her casket. Her lips were completely unmoving, drawn into a thin line. Never again would she recite your favourite bedtime story. She didn't look like she was sleeping, not when all vibrancy had been removed from her skin, to the point where it was practically grey and she smelled like a chemical preservative that made you wrinkle your nose and sob even harder.

But, even worse than the funeral had been the wedding.

It had been horrifically easy for your father to move on, and to find comfort in your step-mother, Verona. You had only met her once before they were married.

"Honey, I want you to meet somebody." Your father had said. He looked so happy, smiling in a way that you hadn't seen him do since before your mother died, his lips curved upwards and a strange look in his eyes. "This is Verona, and she means a lot to me."

He looked at Verona the same way that you looked at your fairy-tales. They were an escape, a place where you could pretend that things were different and that you were happy. Verona, with her perfectly curled hair and pearly-white teeth, was his escape, his happy ending. You wanted so badly for her to be yours, as well. It wasn't to be.

"Hello," She cooed down at you. She could smile so sweetly, her peach-pink lips drawn upwards to reveal just a flash of white teeth. It was so saccharine, so lovely. Her voice could take on this mellow, melodic tone. It reminded you terribly of a siren's call - beautiful, and so, so alluring, but it wasn't something that you should put your trust in unless you wanted to drown. Verona always looked down at you - there never came a point where you were to be considered an equal. Never.

There was something about her that made your skin crawl. She was a vile lady, with a wicked grin, honey-blonde hair and long nails that looked like talons. To you as a child, you came to view her as practically a witch, clawing her way into your life just to destroy it for her own amusement. Your father was completely and utterly blind, incapable of seeing any flaw within her.

Now that you were older, you could see her as more than a one-dimensional figure that was simply labelled 'the villain'. She wasn't a nice person, not by your account, but she was complex. Verona was always distant from you, eternally glacial and condescending whenever nobody was watching. She wasn't like that to everybody, though.

Along with the step-mother came two of what you had assumed to be Satan's most accomplished demons. They had inherited a fascinating ability from their mother. The instant your father was in the room, all torment would cease. Whether it be pulling your hair, or vandalising your possessions, they had an innate ability to tell whenever your father was close by.

Verona loved them. It was the only time where she seemed to be genuine in her affection. She would dote on them constantly, cooing at them and reading them stories in the same way that your mother had once done for you. She could pretend to tolerate you in public, and at first, you had lapped it up, basking in her siren's call voice and gazing upon her like she could be your escape, too, like she was something to be cherished, to be worshipped.

She bombarded you with an eternal cycle of love - so much love that you couldn't even feel the pain of losing your mother. She would treat you like you were her own daughter. She would pat you on the head and speak to you so sweetly. And after, would always come the abuse. The screaming, the slapping, the hissed remarks, the threats.

It was hard to deify her after that. So, Verona became the villain, the terrible step-mother who was always there to hold you down.

The wedding itself had been hosted at the very same church your parents had been married in. Their vows were exchanged between what you remembered to be Verona's awful giggles, and you yourself had been a flower girl, along with your step-sisters.

Somehow you managed to feel even worse than you had at your mother's funeral. It wasn't really acceptable to scream and cry at a wedding, so you did your best to look at the very least neutral.

You had spent most of the day staring at the gaudy paper garlands strung from the ceiling, doing your best to avoid thinking about the three women joining the family.

Everybody seemed to adore your step-sisters. They were perfect when they had to be, blonde angels with blue eyes and the sweetest disposition. Aubrey and Alora - twins that were identical in every sense of the word. Your father loved these girls, and he loved his new wife. It was like his previous one, and his first, biological daughter had simply been discarded and pushed to the periphery.

There were no more blood-speckled handkerchiefs strewn about the house, no more pills stashed above the sink, and no more quick trips to the hospital. Instead, there were Verona's lipsticks, and your step-sisters' toys. Pictures of them dominated the mantle place. Their achievements were the ones to be celebrated.

"Well done, Alora. We're so proud of you."

"Oh, Aubrey, you're so smart!"

Any incidents of your step-family's cruelty that you did manage to complain to your father about were either dismissed as the lies of a girl acting out as a result of her grief, or as some minor sibling rivalry that you would get over in time. In fact, your father seemed delighted when he interpreted it as the latter. Sibling rivalry meant that you were coming to see each other as sisters.

"You know, one day, when you grow up, I bet you're doing to be so glad to have Aubrey and Alora. I know that you girls don't always get along, but this is a good thing. They're your sisters." Your father had said, so gently, so softly that you wished for a moment you could believe it - that it was true and you could bring yourself to be thankful.

It flooded you with some kind of resentment - that he could be so passive, so enchanted by Verona and her perfect daughters, that you could become practically irrelevant. That of all of them, your concerns were the ones to be disregarded.

That resentment didn't fade when he died.

It had been an accident - a car-crash. It hadn't even been his fault. He had been on his way home to you, and some maniac had run him off the road. It could have happened to anybody. It should have happened to somebody else. It should have been something you saw on the news and thought about briefly. Instead, you were left an orphan.

His body was far too mangled for any kind of open-casket funeral. By the age of twelve, you had been to two funerals - one for each parent. What most children would do is to hope they were happy together, reunited in heaven. That's what you should have hoped for. Instead, you would pray, over and over again, every single fucking night, that they were burning. That they were being roasted in the flames of hell, and that they were screaming out for your forgiveness.

God hadn't listened when you had asked for your mother to get well and recover from her illnesses, nor when you asked for her to come back to you. Life had been so cruel, and so, you reasoned that its creator must be cruel, too. Perhaps God would listen if you wanted to inflict pain, instead.

The resentment didn't fade - rather, it intensified. After that, you really didn't need anybody to read Cinderella to you.

You had lived it.

---

The first person to rise was always you. It had been that way for years, the beginning of your well-established daily routine.

It was so cold, down in the basement. It wasn't given the same insulation as the rest of the house - and why would it have been? Your parents had mostly used it for storage, primarily for things like your bike, tools, and those family picture albums that you couldn't even bring yourself to open. At the time, there was nothing down there that had really deserved to be kept warm.

It was in rather poor condition. The bricks that comprised the walls were all cracked, and the black paint covering them was chipped and unevenly applied, the shelves looked liable to fall down any minute, and there were piles and piles of things everywhere. There is a saw lying on the ground, next to a few planks of wood that your father had never had an opportunity to use for anything and a stack of cannisters of gasoline that you eye affectionately.

There was always a breeze blowing through the basement, too. Your parents had discarded what they didn't need and stored it in the basement, and once they were both dead and buried, your step-mother had done the same to you.

Your old bedroom, where your mother used to read you bedtime stories and you would fret over her health, had been stripped bare and subsequently turned into Verona's walk-in wardrobe. You had been relegated to the basement, left to freeze whilst fur-coats and cocktail dresses got to enjoy central heating.

To keep warm, you would bundle yourself up in whatever shoddy blankets you could find. They would scratch at your skin and you would shiver against them, grinding your teeth together and hissing at the cold, silently cursing at Verona. It wasn't entirely uncommon for you to wake up and discover your lips had turned blue. It would worry you sometimes, that if it got too cold, you would simply die in the night and there would be nobody to notice.

It was early enough that you could hear the birds cooing sweetly outside, singing to one another as they flit through the branches in the trees outside. It was such a lovely thing to watch, and even lovelier to hear. It's such a pretty sound. You're not entirely sure that your step-family have ever woken early enough to hear it. If they hadn't before, then by now they had certainly missed their chance.

This was meant to be when you would start your chores. Your step-mother had left you to take on a maid role in the house, cooking and cleaning for them, waiting on them hand and foot, scrubbing the floors and surfaces until they shined. It filled you with rage.

Of the four of you, you were by far the best in every measurable way. Verona and her daughters were harpies, beasts with perfect faces that managed to fool just about everybody they came into contact with. Your father had been just one of many that was too naive to see it. They didn't bother with the pretenses around you - you had always seen them for what they were.

By now, you should be starting to sweep the bottom floor of the house, and making breakfast. But today would be different.

You creep up the stairs, your eyes constantly darting around the house, searching for any sign of the other inhabitants. They aren't awake, and you don't expect them to be, but it's always good to check, just in case.

Verona's left her purse on the countertop, next to a wine glass with a pink smudge on its rim and a pair of black elbow-length gloves she'd worn to a dinner the night before. The mere sight of it makes your lips curve up into a sneer. It's the ugliest shade of pink lipstick - vibrant and bold in all the wrong ways, but she somehow makes it look good. Of course she does - it's a talent of hers, really, to make the worst things seem not simply palatable, but also tempting.

You leave the wine glass, there will be no need to clean it today. With a sharp intake of breath, you open the purse, snatching all the money you can from it. Fortunately, Verona likes to keep most of her money in cash, so there's a decent amount. There's enough, at the very least.

The kitchen is obsessively cleaned - every surface shines from your efforts. It's clinical, sterile even, and the smell of cleaning products still permeates the air. There's a broom in the parlour, but you won't be using it.

Never before had you done anything like this. Today was a day that you had fantasised about for years, exploring and navigating different variations of it before constructing the master plan. These steps you were taking had been carefully considered, each and every action poured over obsessively, to the point of madness. All aspects of the plan were to be treated with reverence - they had practically become holy, and you recited them more often than you would prayers.

Already, you were breathing too quickly. There was adrenaline in your system, and your hands were slightly clammy. Nerves - but you weren't nervous. Not really. This was a burning, scalding anticipation that writhed around in your gut and clawed at your insides.

You allow yourself a brief moment to try and relax, letting your eyes flutter shut and letting your shoulders drop. There is a need to be tense - everything hinges on today, on whether or not you accomplish the plan.

When your eyes open, you immediately gravitate towards the knives. Before you select one, you go for Verona's black silk gloves, putting them on and admiring the way they look against your skin, and how smooth they are. They're the kind that's awfully expensive, but they look glamorous. She had worn them just the night prior, when she went to some fancy dinner.

They're hauntingly elegant, a mark of sophistication that contrasts so nicely with what you're about to do. They're a rather lovely way of ensuring that there's no fingerprints left in the house.

It's then that you pick a knife - a weighty silver meat cleaver with dark grey indentations on the handle. They make it look almost porous, and you know that the knife had been part of a set, a gift from one of Verona's friends who was into the culinary arts.

It's heavy, and you test the weight, passing it between your hands, looking at it reverently. The birds are still singing, chirping in harmony, nature's soundtrack to what is about to become a horrific crime. Whether the birdsong will harmonise with screams has yet to be determined. It has the potential to sound like a symphony - a completely lovely cacophony of everything you enjoy.

The meat cleaver shines in the soft sunlight - simply holding it makes you feel assured.

---

You create your own version of Cinderella. One where the house burns down.

The evil step-mother and bratty step-sisters are already dead when the match hits the gasoline that's long-since soaked into the floors. They had been hacked to pieces, their throats split open, almost to the point of decapitation. The blood would seep from the gaping wounds, spilling onto the bed sheets and staining their blonde hair red. They had looked so human in their sleep, so unsuspecting.

There wasn't even any time for them to awake and feel terror, or shock. That, at the very least, is a mercy. You had never really intended for it to be - it was more of a practicality than a fantasy. In the fantasies, the executions had lasted far, far longer.

As a child, experiencing the pains of loss, you had prayed for your parents to burn, so that they may feel as much pain as you. There was no way of knowing whether or not God would come to answer your prayers, so you decide instead to burn the people you can reach.

The meat cleaver is placed back into the kitchen - there's a chance that the wooden knife block may burn and char it and obscure the fact that it was the murder weapon. You keep Verona's gloves and you keep the cash.

There's something so beautiful, so incredibly vindicating about watching it all go up in smoke.

The house burns so beautifully. Flames dance in the windows, consuming the lacey white curtains, creeping their way up the ceiling until the roof catches fire and slowly caves in on itself, the slate-grey tiles becoming charred, crumbling and sliding over one another.

The birds stop singing. They squawk in agitation, fleeing from the nearby trees and taking to the skies. They, much like you, evacuate and watch the show from afar. They start their birdsong afresh once they're out of danger, singing proudly.

Plumes of smoke take to the air, contaminating and invading the morning sky. It's so dark, so thick that it's liable to block out the sun. The smoke's descending to the ground, too, sweeping over the grass like a terrible, ominous fog, rolling over the street and barrelling towards you in waves.

Your eyes and throat burn - you can feel the heat, even from a distance. You're breathing in wisps of the smoke - it's so strong that you feel simultaneously feel like you're choking, juxtaposed with this great, overwhelming sense of freedom. It smells so horrible you want to gag - it's not like the comforting smell from whenever your father would barbeque. It's stifling, oppressive, even.

And yet, despite your eyes watering and the feeling of nausea that the smell inspires within you, you doubt there has ever been a sweeter smell.

The flames flicker so brightly, swaying in tandem in a variety of oranges, reds, yellows and even a flash of white. They're so bright you can see it reflected on your skin.

The plan has been completed. You're entirely satisfied, and yet you're left directionless. Everything has amounted to this moment - to the burning of the monsters. This is your happy ever after, you think.

You stand there, bathed in an orange hue, simply watching, for as long as you're able.

Inevitably, you have to leave. You're rather tempted to dash back across the street and take Verona's car, if only to steal away another thing she loved. Her daughters, her life, her car. But you don't, as much as you would like to. It's another whim, another fleeting fantasy that has to be sacrificed for the sake of your freedom. Perhaps the car would burn, too. It's relatively close to the house.

Getting caught would simply transfer you from one life of imprisonment to another. The inner city of London seems as good a destination as any - it's not too far, and there nobody will know your name.

#jim moriarty #jim moriarty x reader #bbc sherlock

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ebaeschnbliah · 4 years

Text

CHANGING OF THE GUARD

________________________________________________________________

A metaphorical reading of Sherlock BBC, The Sign of Three (and beyond)

The beginning of Sherlock BBC, The Sign of Three, really leaves no doubt what the theme of its story is about. When the eye of the camera zooms slowly in on Speedy’s and the famous black door with the number 221 in Baker Street, it seems to take it’s path right through a literal wood of pointy, black spears. Fences built of iron spears that guard the place..

It starts with a row of spears in the forground. When those get blurry, even more spears from midfield move into focus. Finally the camera reveals spears also in the background. That makes three levels of spears, one might say.

Three levels of spears stand like guardians in front of 221b Baker Street. Could those three levels symbolize the three stabbing victims of The Sign of Three? After all, each one of the three characters is depicted as guard, as protector ... and each one of them gets stabbed.

TBC below the cut ...

Stephen Bainbridge

He is a Private in the Household Guard of the Queen. The Grenadier Guards is an infantry regiment of the British Army. The current regiment is known as the 1st Regiment of Foot Guards … ’Every foot soldier bears the mark’ (Soo Lin, TBB). How surprising is it that the ‘East’ zooms in on Bainbridge before he gets stabbed by Jonathan Small?

Also … the gesture of the woman is interesting. Two Vs make a W (or a M … depends on the turning). It also lets me think of Culverton Smith’s W-gesture in TLD, in the short clip with the man disguised as cock (x).

Modern Grenadier Guardsmen wear a cap badge of a "grenade fired proper" with seventeen flames (x). Foot soldiers linked to exploding grenades … what a lovely coincidence, especially regarding the ‘passions’ grenade from TFP. :)

When the changing of the guards takes place, Bainbridge is already wounded and slowly dying. He got stabbed before the changing.

The name Stephen is of Greek origin and means ‘crown’ and ‘that which surrounds’. Saint Stephen was stoned to death and is regarded as the very first Christian martyr.

Another little detail caught my attention as well. Just a word used twice to describe a person.

SHERLOCK: “Elite Guard.” JOHN: Forty enlisted men and officers. SHERLOCK: Why this particular Grenadier? Curious.

And in TRF Sherlock sais:

SHERLOCK: This little boy; this particular little boy ... who reads all of those spy books. What would he do? JOHN: He’d leave a sign?

Max Bruhl left a sign. Stephen Bainbridge wrote a note. Not much of a difference, I think.

Guardsmen Max and Claudette

James Sholto

He is a retired Major of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and Captain John Watson’s old commanding officer. A decorated war hero but not to everyone. Something went wrong when he led a team of new recruits into battle. ‘They all died’ (just like AGRA). Major Sholto, badly wounded, was the only survivor. Press and families gave him hell. Deaththreats and hate almost turned him into a recluse, into a most unsociable man, who spends his retirement way out in the middle of nowhere.

I’m quite sure this has been mentioned before, the 5th Northumberland Regiment on Foot (’foot soldiers’ too) still uses their ancient badge … St George killing the dragon (x) Every quiver of his beating heart

‘He destroyed us all’ … somehow these words sound very similar to the one Sherlock uses in TFP, in a situation where he considers himself to be a soldier: ‘Five minutes. It took her just five minutes to do all of this to us. Well, not on my watch.’

As mentioned above, Mary’s dialogue in TST matches the description about the incident with Sholto’s recruits almost identically … ‘something went wrong’/’but it went wrong’ … ‘I was the only one who made it our’/’they all died; he was the only survivor’. And Mary considered AGRA to be her family ... ‘we were family’.

Major John Sholto is an original character from ACDs novel The Sign of Four. His sons are called Thaddeus and Bartholomew. The renaming of the Major’s first name - from John to James - must have been a deliberate choice. A choice which is reflected in the skip code of TEH ‘John or James Watson … saint or sinner ... James or John’, as well as in John Watson’s middle name … Hamish (Scottish for James).

Major Sholto’s room number is ‘two oh seven’. This reminds me of the ‘double oh seven’ codeword for the ‘flight of the dead’ in ASIB. Two and double …. both means 2. Sure, the number on the door reads 207 but then, it happens several times in this story, that things told and things shown are sometimes not quite the same or vis versa.

When the wedding guests leave the church and the reception takes place, Sholto is already wounded and slowly dying. He has been stabbed before.

Sherlock investigates the cases of both guardians

Bainbridge’s note reaches him sometime during the wedding preparations. John and Sherlock arrive just in time to save Private Bainbridge’s life. The case though remains unsolved.

Without knowing it at the time, Sherlock investigates Sholto’s case during John’s stag night. They call the investigation of the ghost-man the ‘Mayfly Man’ case. It remains also unsolved.

Sherlock includes both unsolved cases into his best man speech at John’s wedding and here at last, all the puzzle pieces fall into place and Sherlock is able to solve both cases, which are closely related. As a consequence Major Sholto’s life can be saved as well.

The person responsible for the attempts to kill Private Bainbridge and Major Sholto is:

Jonathan Small

‘Brilliant, ruthless, almost certainly a monomaniac - though, in fairness, his photographs are actually quite good’ … that’s how Sherlock describes the killer. Small’s motive is revenge. He is convinced that Major Sholto is responsible for the death of Small’s brother Peter, who had been among the killed recruits. It seems that Private Bainbridge merely had the misfortune and got randomly chosen for the rehearsal of Sholto’s murder. But ... why this particular 'foot soldier’? (I’ll come back to that question later)

Jonathan Small grins like Jim Moriarty and wears a checkered shirt like John. He is a brilliant, ruthless monomaniac and obviously also a womaniizer who has no problems to woo half a dozen women, almost at the same time, into telling him well-kept secrets. Basically … a perfect blend of Jim Moriarty and traditional John ‘three continents’ Watson.

Like Major Sholto, Jonathan Small too is an original character from ACDs novel The Sign of Four. His name has not been changed. Only together with his female and not-canon counterpart Janine, Mary’s bridesmaid, who seems to be a lovely blend of Irene and Jim, the name chosen for the antagonist of this episode, appears to gain a special significance.

Janine - deiminutive of Jeanne, female form of John … ‘little Johnny’

Jonathan - diminutives are Jon, Jonni ... though not related to ‘John’ regarding the meaning of the name, it can still be heard as … ‘little Jonny’ (’You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead.‘ Jim, TGG)

None other than ‘little Jo(h)nny’ (the H makes the difference) is responsible for the almost murder of Private Bainbridge and Major Sholto, the first two stabbing victims of this episode.

‘Little Johnny’ also happens to be another word for penis … the ‘meat dagger’.

Who’s the third ‘victim’ then?

Mary Elizabeth Morstan

She is a character full of surprises who starts as a simple nurse who marries John Watson in TSOT. Among Sherlock’s deduction-word-cloud in TEH the term ‘guardian’ can be found and only one episode after the ‘wedding’, Sherlock outs her as facade … his very own facade, because the Empty Houses in Leinster Gardens, on whose front walls Mary’s face is projected, are Sherlock’s property.

Mary Elizabeth Morstan isn’t her real name either. It’s the name of a stillborn child from a gravestone in Chiswick Cementry. This connects her character to the other stillborn child of this story ... Rachel Wilson, the pink lady’s daughter from ASIP. The initials A.G.R.A. stand for Mary’s true name, she tells later … but soon this turns out to be incorrect as well. A.G.R.A. was a group of four undercover agents who worked for the British Government. Prior to her ‘retirement’ Mary had been a member of that group. Sherlock describes her as ‘super-agent with a terrifying skill set’. Based on the current status, her two first names are Rosamund Mary … the family name is still unknown (if there even is one).

Why should Mary be the third stabbing victim?

Readers of my theories will probably know that I’m playing for a long time now with a mind palace scenario which stretches from the beginning, most likely in PILOT (or even before) to the end of S4 (x). Back then I wondered ...

Is it really so farfetched to consider the possibility that Sherlock tries to deduce and solve the mysteries and problems of his own live - and his falling in love with John - at first in his mind? Before he comes out?

Over decades - since ACD - the story of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson has been told by the famous 'unreliable narrator’. Could it be that this time - with Sherlock BBC - the world will get the true story? Finally told by Sherlock himself? By looking right into his heart and mind and soul? By showing how his brilliant mind works? How his heart and soul expand and grow?

Would TPTB do such a thing? Stay in Sherlock’s mind over the span of multiple episodes? Follow his train of thought … show his evolution … in such a way? I don’t know. But it sounds thrilling to me. (Nov 2016)

Based on those early ideas I gradually came to the conclusion that Sherlock BBC tells the story of how Sherlock Holmes deduced his own persona. He does this the same way he investigates his criminal cases … by setting up scenarios in his mind and repeating those until he has found the correct solution (The Stage is set). Investigating his own case - the pink one - in such a way, would mean that all the characters which appear on Sherlock’s ‘mind stage’ represent different aspects of himself. Some of them may be based on real life persons, most of them are probably entirely created by Sherlock’s imagination. I like to compaire this process to a ‘mind journey’ or to a long (dramatic) dialogue, Sherlock holds with himself. This propably doesn’t happen during a dream or in a state of coma, as I thought back in 2016. A lot of time and thinking has gone by since then. Nowadays I presume that a conscious thinking process would fit better with the literal character Sherlock Holmes, whose deductions are always built on facts, science, reason and logic. It would be rather OOC that a man like Holmes would base an important, life changing decision on anything else than his razor sharp mind. Anyway, it’s just one of many theories.

Mary now … ever since I noticed the lot of similarities this character shares with Sherlock (x) my view on her started to change considerably. To me she isn’t the woman anymore who comes between Sherlock and John but instead the facade Sherlock Holmes created and married to his traditional, eternal friendship with John Watson for the sole purpose, to hide his romantic feelings and his sexual desire for the friend behind this protective wall. Mary is Sherlock’s facade, his guardian, his firewall … because:

John can’t ever know that I lied to him. It would break him and I would lose him forever – and I will never let that happen. Please … understand. There is nothing in this world that I would not do to stop that happening.

In my opinion, these are Sherlock’s own words and they express his fear of what might happen to the uinque friendship he shares with John, if the friend ever discovers the true nature of his feelings for him. Sherlock would do anything to stop that happening, even if this means that he has to incarcerate his emotions inside a high-security facility, behind elephant glass and chain his sexuality with iron bonds to a wall in a padded cell, like a hound from hell.

The ‘meat dagger’ incident

Sherlock tells the wedding guests - Major Sholto sits among them - about the unsolved Bainbridge case and asks if any of them has got a theory how that guard might have been stabbed. What kind of murderer can walk through walls, which weapon can vanish? Molly’s fiancé Tom (both characters are mirrors for John and Sherlock) assumes it could be a case of ‘attempted suicice by meat dagger’ ... something that would have been self administered.

A lot has been written since then about the ‘meat dagger’ as a metaphor for 'penis’ …. for ‘little Johnny’. :)

Sherlock sees only one feature of interest in the whole case … while he tried to solve the mystery, the eternal friend saved the life of the guard. And just the same happens a little while later with Major Sholto, the other guardian. It turns out that both men - both guardians - have been stabbed by the same killer … Jonathan Small … little Jonny, the meat dagger ....

There’s only one other character in this episode who has been stabbed unknowingly as well. That’s Mary. And in her case it’s indeed … ‘stabbed by meat dagger’ because Sherlock deduces her pregnancy by the end of the episode. Or expressed in computer language: the firewall has been penetrated by the virus.

The ‘father’ might be John or David, Mary’s ex. It doesn’t matter if one views the story metaphorically where all characters represent aspects of Sherlock himself. Going by his looks, David is clearly a mirror for John, while his history regarding the constant online observation of Mary, connects him to Mycroft, the brain. David seems to be a ‘blended’ mirror like Jonathan Small (John/Jim) or Janine (Irene/Jim). A mirror who represents the ongoing interest of the brain in the feelings hidden behind the facade.

When Sherlock marries John and Mary, he puts a guardian in front of his true feelings for the friend. He tries to ‘downgrade’ those feelings. And yet, Sherlock allows three ‘social ancounters a year’ but ‘always in John’s - the traditional friendship’s presence’. That sounds very much like the ‘calculated risk’ Mycroft takes with Eurus. Both ‘brothers’ seem to be ‘love-addicts’ in need of a fix, once in a while … when the burden of ‘holding oneself to a higher standard’, of ‘keeping oneself right’ gets too heavy … or too boring. In that case it could propably happen that one takes the frustration out on the wall … then the wall has it coming … :)

The moment of revelation

When Sherlock is blinded by the flashlight of ‘little Jo(h)nni’s’ camera, he suddenly realizes that the cases of Bainbridge and Sholto are connected. That the stabber has to be the same person. It’s the moment when the first domino piece falls and knocks over the next, and the next, and the next …. leading to a chain reaction of revelations at the end of which Sherlock knows without any doubt that his new facade had been penetrated again … this time though by a ‘kill shot’. He’d been hit by AMO (the perfect ammonition), fired by the crack shot that is his eternal friend. The seed of love has been laid without Sherlock noticing the ‘chink in his armour’ through which Cupid’s arrow hit home. Now love has taken root behind his facade and is growing.

The name chosen for that love is Rosamund - Rose of the world, as the dialogue in TST confirms. There’s a real rose of that name - Rosa Mundi - an old rose depicted in a work of Sandro Botticelli “Virgin Adoring the Sleeping Christ Child”. This rose is also known by the synonym ‘rosa versicolor’ - which means ‘rose of many or changing colours ... iridiscent’.

The word iridescence is derived in part from the Greek word ἶρις îris , meaning rainbow, It is the phenomenon of certain surfaces that appear to gradually change color as the angle of view or the angle of illumination changes. (X)

Sherlock - the ‘virgin’ he is called in ASIB by Jim and Irene - announces the pregnancy of Mary (I still wonder if this means that he is the 'Gabriel’ of A.G.R.A. - the angel who announces virgin Mary’s pregnancy). And during the stag night, John is labeled with ‘Madonna’. Another name for Virgin Mary. This turns the eternal friend also into the ‘virgin’, just like Sherlock and Mary. Another ‘sign of three’ one could say.

Three virgins - three novices - who will now start a new journey on a way they have never travelled before. Sherlock will finally encounter romantic love and accept it ‘it is what it is’, the facade will ‘get retired in a pretty permanent sort of way’ as the brain blatantly puts it in TST and the traditional ‘eternal’ friendship will have to change into a romantic-sexuell relationship. A morphing together of friendship and sex - John and James - would be a quite logical consequence, I guess.

In TST the little baby is christened with the name Rosamund, a name that can be traced back to ‘rainbow’ … Rosie for short. And rosy=pink!

‘Oh, what a night! ... I was never gonna be the same … I felt a rush like a rollin' ball of thunder spinnin' my head around n' takin' my body under’

No wonder this song has been chosen by the creators to accompany this scene. Overwhelmed by emotions - surprise, confusion, amazement, shock, joy, panic, uncertainty, concern, fear - Sherlock isn’t able anymore to carry on with this ‘wedding’ .... with this renewed ‘changing of the guard’. He walks away alone into the night. The case is solved. Sherlock is aware of what happened. Now he has to deal with the consequences. Should he really replace his guardian again or should he finally stop pretending, stop lying, drop the facade and confess his deepest secret?

Because if you tell them and they decide they’d rather not know, you can’t take it back. You can’t unsay it. Once you’ve opened your heart, you can’t close it again.

This confrontation, Sherlock fights with himself, becomes the centrepiece of the following episode (HLV) where Sherlock is completely torn into. One half of his being, still protected by the facade, is at war with the ... ‘other one’, the slowly increasing emotional side of him. But somewhere deep inside his mind he probably knows already that this is a war ‘he must lose’. And so Sherlock has to go deeper ...

TAB doesn’t only take Sherlock back to his literal roots. In this episode Sherlock investigates again two of the main threads of the story and ties them together through the ‘bride’ … FALL and HOUND. Mary, the facade, feels already ‘left behind’ and John, who represents Sherlock’s now fully acknowledged, tender feelings, directed at his friend ... ‘does grow up so fast’. The episode ends with Sherlock, who throws himself into a torrent of water=emotions and follows Jim Moriarty, Mr Sex, down the Reichenbach Fall … right into the emotional rollercoaster that is Series Four.

Like the investigation in TAB, this series runs backwards as well. TST repeats the events of S2 and S3 while TLD zooms in on S1. I persume this happens because Sherlock applies an ability he describes to Dr. Watson as ... ‘reasoning backwards’:

“In solving a problem of this sort, the grand thing is to be able to reason backwards. That is a very useful accomplishment, and a very easy one, but people do not practise it much. In the every-day affairs of life it is more useful to reason forwards, and so the other comes to be neglected. There are fifty who can reason synthetically for one who can reason analytically…Let me see if I can make it clearer. Most people, if you describe a train of events to them, will tell you what the result would be. They can put those events together in their minds, and argue from them that something will come to pass. There are few people, however, who, if you told them a result, would be able to evolve from their own inner consciousness what the steps were which led up to that result. This power is what I mean when I talk of reasoning backwards, or analytically.” (ACD A Study in Scarlet, Conclusion)

There’s one important change though, which will alter everything. Sherlock now adds baby Rosie, the pink seed of love, the AMO-factor, to his equation. As a consequence his mask, his facade - that what ‘thatched’ and guarded him - crumbles and falls. And Sherlock accepts the change … It is what it is.

Then, in TFP, the third episode of S4, Sherlock puts the results of his deductions under the sharp lens of his emotional core, for the ultimate experiment … the final distillation … to produce at last a clear solution. Still missing is the chemical reaction that should follow the application of that solution, one might say. :)

Back to the three ‘guardians’

My husband is three people

During the wedding preparations, John tries to interst Sherlock for this curious case. John says the sentence ‘my husband is three people’ twice, interupted only by this short dialogue:

SHERLOCK: Major James Sholto. Who he? MARY: Oh, John’s old commanding officer.

Taking John’s words ‘my husband is three people’ literally, then he is talking about his own husband … which will soon be Mary. Husband, not wife, because Mary represents an aspect of Sherlock, his facade, his cover ... his ‘thatch’. As mentioned above, when Sherlock marries John to Mary, he puts a guardian in front of his true feelings for the friend … one could also say …. he places a commander at their/his side. And this is exactly what Mary does in later episodes. She decides who mowes the lawn, chooses the name of the baby and that it is her to take John home and not vis versa.

Husbands can be equated with facades, with commanders, with guards. All of them serve as protectors and defenders of Sherlock’s true feelings for the friend.

Who could have been the first ‘husband’ … the first facade, the first guardian?

Neither of us were the first

This is what Mary tells Sherlock, while John welcomes his ‘privious’ commander. Is she really talking about sexuell experiences of her brand-new husband with another man, just to taunt Sherlock? Viewing the Mary-character as an aspect of Sherlock himself and not as a real wife that comes between two men, I heavily doubt this. Applying a metaphorical reading to the story, wouldn’t it be much more likely that this conversation is about their - Mary’s and Sholto’s - assigned profession. Neither of us were the first … guardian.

Mary is the husband to be, the most recently chosen facade, John’s new commanding officer, an undercover agent of the government.

Major James Sholto is John’s old commanding officer, Sherlock’s previous facade, which turned out to be not strong enough.

The only other guard in this story is Stephen Bainbridge, Private in the Household Guard of the Queen. The foot soldier named after Saint Stephen, the first martyrer.

And isn’t there somthing strikingly similar regarding those three guards as well as a noticeable increase in drama and strength, which so often happens when sequences are repeated on Sherlock’s mind stage?

Private Bainbridge guards the Queens Palace. The ‘East’ zoomes in on him, then he get’s stabbed by ‘little Jonny’ - the meat dagger - without noticing it. A changing of the guard takes place. Bainbridge almost dies beneath a shower of water.

Major Sholto guards the Queens country. He fights on a battlefield in the East beneath a burning hot sun. Something goes wrong and all the recruits under his command die. Badly wounded himself, Sholto has to leave the service and change into retirement. He gets stabbed by ‘little Jonny’ - the meat dagger - and almost dies.

Mary secretly works for Mycroft, the government, the ‘queen’ - as an undercover ‘super-agent with a terrifying skill set’. Her last operation took place in the East. Something went wrong and a lot of people died. It first looked as if Mary had been the only surviver (like Sholto). She marries ‘Johnny-boy’ Watson, gets stabbed by his meat dagger, becomes pregnant and …. dies not long after ‘PINK-RAINBOW-ROSIES’ birth.

The Sign of Three is about the ‘changing of the guard’. It takes place inside Sherlock’s head. But the marriage of John and Mary, that Sherlock arranges so heartbreakingly beautiful (and so strikingly yellow), turns out to be utterly pointless. Because the bride, the husband, the new commander, the facade is already pregnant ... had been stabbed before the wedding ... before the changing of the guard.

The Yellow Face connection

This isn’t new. It has been discussed before in this interesting meta About Yellow Face by @darlingtonsubstitution (sadly the part below the cut is gone) from 2017. As mentioned in the comments there, the creators of Sherlock BBC once refered to their favourite ACD stories. Yellow Face was among them but ... they wouldn’t be able to adapt it, because of the sensitive content, they said. This isn’t quite true though, it seems. On the contrary, the colour yellow features most prominently in Sherlock BBC … and not just the colour itself.

It starts with Sherlock’s and John’s first date at Angelo’s. The whole scene is drenched in yellow. PILOT even more than ASIP.

A secret code of ancient cyphers, sprayed in yellow paint, leads to the Yellow Dragon Circus.

Golden cats and big ‘yellow’ felines - lions - roam the story.

Yellow is the colour of the smiley face on the wall of the 221b living room.

There’s an assassin who carries a yellow ladder and a yellow tool case with a gun in it.

A bright yellow mask has been placed inside a box, alongside a train, a phone, nicotin patches and a note.

The main colour of the wedding ... bright yellow. It’s the wedding that leads Sherlock to the revelation ... to his love deduction.

A canary trainer, a trainer of yellow birds, turns out to be the killer.

Norbury, the case of the Yellow Face from canon, plays a vital role in TST

The finish of a race is marked with a bright yellow band that floats slowly to the ground while a ‘confessing’ serial killer, who is a mirror for John, passes as winner, signaling a W with his fingers, while the fingers from the ‘East’,, next to Private Bainbridge, signal a double V.

Yellow is the colour of the sun, of fire, flames and explosions.

Yellowbeard ….

But one of the most important links to Yellow Face is the following one:

JOHN: Mary, I may not be a very good man, but I think I’m a bit better than you give me credit for, most of the time. (Sherlock BBC, TST) 'I am not a very good man, Effie, but I think that I am a better one than you have given me credit for being.' (Grant Munro, The Adventure of the Yellow Face)

This piece of dialogue connects John to Grant Munro, the husband of Effie, the woman who hides her secret child from a previous marriage behind a yellow mask. She doesn’t do it out of some dark or sinister motive as Sherlock Holmes is convinced at first. Her former marriage had been legal and she'd loved her late husband dearly. Lucy, her little girl, can truly be called a child of love. But Effie fears to reveal Lucy, because the girl is ‘different' and the mother is anxious to lose the man she loves now, because of this. She is torn into between the love for her child and the love for her husband.

She (Effie) drew a large silver locket from her bosom. 'You have never seen this open.'

'I understood that it did not open.'

She touched a spring, and the front hinged back. There was a portrait within of a man, strikingly handsome and intelligent, but bearing unmistakable signs upon his features of his African descent. (ACD, The Yellow Face)

ACDs Yellow Face is a case without crime, without any devious betrayal. Instead, it’s about love and the fear to lose love, because at that time in ACDs story, it’s about a love not accepted by many.

'That is John Hebron, of Atlanta,' said the Lady (Effie), 'and a nobler man never walked the earth. I cut myself off from my race in order to wed him; but never once while he lived did I for one instant regret it. It was our misfortune that our only child took after his people rather than mine. (ACD, The Yellow Face)

In ACDs Yellow Face, the ‘first husband’ is of ‘African descent’ … just like Private Bainbridge, who is the ‘first guardian’ - the first of the three ‘identical husbands’ - in Sherlock BBC, The Sign of Three. He is the one who represents Sherlock’s earliest facade … the guardian of the Queen’s Palace.

Just like @darlingtonsubstitution presumed more than two years ago, I’m now more convinced than ever, that Moffat and Gatiss did adapt ACDs Yellow Face and they not only included it in Sherlock BBC, they made it into the main theme of their story (beside ‘hound’, ‘fall’ and ‘scarlet/pink’). In their version though, the focus shifts from ‘unacceptable’ skin-colour to ‘unacceptable’ sexuality.

Sherlock BBCs baby ... Rosie ... Sherlock’s baby ... represents love. And this love is pink and has been given a name that can be traced back to ‘Rainbow’. The Sign of Three tells the story of the ‘changing of the guards’ and how Sherlock finally discovers the AMO-factor that will alter his life completely.

When I discoverd Sherlock BBC for the first time (back in 2011) I was thrilled by that fascinating crime drama and its two charismatic leads. Now, after 13 episodes, it has grown into so much more than just an excellent crime drama among others. The way I read it, Sherlock BBC is a wonderful and stunning story about equality. Inside Sherlock’s mind, the great detective doesn’t only solve the greatest secret of his life. No, the actors Sherlock chooses to represent the different aspects of his persona, are as diverse as the colours of the rainbow. They are old and young, male and female, beautiful and ugly, strong and weak, rich and poor. Neither gender, sexuality nor the shade of skin colour or from which corner on this planet someone comes, is of any importance. Anyone can be a part of this Sherlock Holmes. That’s what makes this adaptation so absolutely unique to me. Sherlock himself becomes the rainbow of his own story.

Thanks for reading to anyone who is still there. :)))) I leave you to your own deductions. And thanks @callie-ariane for your invaluable scripts.

December, 2019

________________________________________________________________

Episode spanning metaphorical reading of Sherlock BBC:

From PILOT to TGG …. About the meaning of S1

From ASIB to TEH …. The big question - what is the meaning of Reichenbach

#changing of the guard #sherlock bbc #metaphorical reading #the sign of three #guardians #commanders #husbands #edited pics

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lazydoodlesandfanfic · 5 years

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View (Moriarty X Teen!Reader) *PARENTAL

Characters: Moriarty X Teen!Reader

Universe: Sherlocks

Warnings: Neglectful parent

Request: Hello, I got excited when seeing that requests are open and I have one. For comforting me when I feel like dying again. So reader is maybe 17 or 18 and lives in the same building as Moriarty. And he notice's her often going up to the roof or staring at the ground from her window. And he comforts her maybe? Fatherfigure!Jim. And he maybe offers her to come with him?

Moriarty enjoyed the apartment space he’d bought in the recent months. It was luxurious but low profile- perfect for while he was laying low for the current moment while things calmed. The calmness after such chaos made him hyper aware of his surroundings. He noticed that the neighbours had a cat due to the often quiet meow behind the front door of a cat wanting to explore, he noticed the fashion designer above him that had dragged up several rolls of material every two weeks, and he of course noticed you.

You specifically caught his attention due to you not quite fitting into the scene. You were in your teenage years, and he’d bumped into you several times now, each time with you rushing up the stairs, calling an apology if you accidentally bumped him. Jim had found out who lived in the two final apartments above him- the designer and a retired banker, and he doubted you were the daughter of one of them- the banker was far to old and the designer wouldn’t have let you leave the apartment in average clothing. It peaked his interest and one day he decided to follow after you after you rushed past him.

He soon realised where you were going- the roof. He stood and waited at the exit as he watched you go to the railing, sitting on the lower rail with your arms and head on the next one up, letting your legs dangle while still being in relative safety. And you just sat there, looking over the busy roads. Moriarty left you to it, but soon found himself going back up there when he knew you’d be there, as if to check on you. You were such a mystery, he was worried that one day you’d not be on that railing and never be there again and he’d never know what was going on with you. That thought finally made him decide on something.

“So, what is it you do up here?” The voice made you jump and look back, seeing the man smiling at you, holding two drinks in his hand. “Sorry.”

“Um… it’s okay. I dunno, I just like to watch the world go by.” You said awkwardly. You recognised him- that being enough of a reason for you to not find the whole situation entirely creepy or strange or suspicious. You watched him, and he offered the coffee cup to you, and you hesitantly took it- quickly realising it was hot chocolate.

“Oh really? You come up here pretty often, and you do it just to see everything?” He asked, leaning on the top railing, and looking out over the buildings.

“Well, it never gets boring. Something’s always happening.” You said, taking a small sip from the gifted drink. Jim looked over to you.

“Like what?”

“Well, I know the regular cars that pass through here, and the people who walk the same route nearly everyday. But everyday is different. Sometimes you see fights nearly break out, sometimes you see street acts, one time I saw a flash mob.” You explained. “Also, it’s nice being up here, the noises, the movement… it’s soothing.”

Moriarty stayed up there for a good hour with you, just talking with you. You were quite the character- full of dreams of adventure but still had a mature head on your shoulder. While you showed interest in exploring the world, seeing all the beauty it offers, you also showed fear due to the knowledge of how cruel it can and will be- expressing how you’d never do it alone.

“You live here right? Who do you live with?” He asked.

“Just my mum. But she’s way to busy for some holiday, or for me.” You answered. “You don’t have to stay up here with me to keep me company if you don’t want to.”

“The question is, would you like me to? Have a little bit of company?” He offered. You glanced over at him, and your eyes practically screamed at him that the idea was deeply welcomed. And so it came to be that at least once a week, Moriarty would come join you on the rooftop.

He’d been doing this for weeks now, and he knew you in and out, and you did the same with him. You were a funny kid, and you sometimes reminded him of himself with your sarcasm and sass. The whole thing felt very normal for him, but in a way that fit well with him. It wasn’t conventional, but the bond you’d formed with him was nothing but parental. One time you explained the person with the cat had been pretty rude to you because you bumped into them, and Moriarty, knowing from experience that you had apologised and so did not deserve the hostility, may or may not have let the cat out and have it show up on your doorstep where you kept it safe till the person came back and had to apologise for their behaviour to get their cat back.

“I’ve got some work to do overseas, what are you going to do with yourself while I’m gone?” Jim asked one day on the rooftop, after deciding he needed to do some work and come out of hiding.

“Dunno, I might take up the hobby of spitting off of here, see if I can get anyone.” You commented, making Jim laugh. “Where you off to?”

“Italy.”

“Ooh, nice. If you see anything neat, take a picture for me.” You asked.

“Or you could take them yourself.” He offered, and he watched the cogs turn in your head before your head snapped to look at him, and he smirked.

“You can’t be serious. Are you serious? If so it’s gonna be hard explaining to my mum that I’m practically going on holiday with a full grown man she’s never met before.”

“I own my own businesses, I can say that I took interest in hiring you and this is part of it.” He explained. “I’m sure she’ll happily let you go then.”

“Oh really? What’s my job then?” Moriarty shrugged.

“I’ll come up with that later, but how about it? Want to go see Italy? I need to add that after that we’d need to go to Portugal and then possibly India, I’ll pay for everything… want to go see the world?” He offered. A smile soon spread across your lips, as you got up and hugged him.

Hope you like it! If you have any questions, please send them in!

*Not my gif

TAGS: @courtneychicken @graysonmalfoy @bellero @captain-peanut-at-your-service @likiyoshi-lijie @aesthetjic @originalpottervengerlock @supernatural-pan @esoltis280 @lena-stan-xavier @lady-of-lies @sebstanismylife @macbetheliza @mandywholock1980 @kleptomollyiac @cdwmtjb8 @caswinchester2000 @imbuckypositive @holy-tea-cup @waywardemo

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thecrewinthebluebox · 4 years

Text

Hello there ! We’re new on Tumblr !! We’re the TARDIS Crew, an endogenic system of 8 tulpas and their host. We are still a bit clueless about the app as we lost our first draft who took us one hour x)

So here is our presentation, I’m Reader, the host of the system ! I don’t really have anything to say about myself, I like to draw and I do enjoy watching tv shows and all. I’ve been knowing about tulpamancy since 2015 so I’m not new to this ! And we all get along very well. I go by she/her.

For the tulpas now ! Their presentation will mostly be on their appearance, they will be writing themselves after anyway so you will get to know them better after :

Stella (she/her), she is the first tulpa of the system ! She the one I created and she was born on the 23rd of October 2015. She looks like she is 18, and she is 5ft1 (1m55). She is blonde with a reverse ombré and has blue eyes. She also loves clothes with stars on them.

Kilgrave (he/him), he is the second tulpa of the system, he was brought by Stella on the 28th of January 2018. He is based off the character of Kilgrave from Jessica Jones. He looks like he is 43 and he is 6ft1 (1m85). He wears a lot of purple clothing. He considers me as his daughter and he is father figure for me. He dates Jessica who is also from our system.

Jim (he/him), he is the third tulpa, he is a walk-in. He was born on the 18th of July 2018. He was first based off Jim Moriarty from BBC’s Sherlock but he deviated to an appearance he preferred. He looks like Campbell Bain from Takin’ Over The Asylum now. He looks like he is 23 and he is 5ft7 (1m75). He won’t talk that much there as he is very shy.

Cale (he/him), he is the fourth tulpa, also a walk-in. He was born on the 18th of December 2018. He is based off the character of Cale Erendreich from Bad Samaritan. He looks like he is 49 and he is 6ft1 (1m85). He adopted Stella some time ago so she is his daughter. He doesn’t live with the rest of us. He also has a roommate, Castiel.

Castiel (he/him), he is the fifth tulpa, and also is a walk-in. He came around 2019. He is based off Castiel from Supernatural. He is an Angel with black wings. He looks like he is in his mid thirties and he is 5ft11 (1m80). He is always wearing a trench-coat. And he always try to watch over all the members of the system.

Crowley (he/him or they/them), he is the sixth and a walk-in. He came around in late 2019, he is based off Crowley from Good Omens. He is a Demon and can turn into a snake. He looks like he is in his mid fourties and he is 6ft1 (1m85). His snake form is a red bellied black snake mixed with a python. In human form he has yellow eyes with snake slitted pupils and can have black wings too.

Lucifer (he/him), he is the seventh and also a walk-in. He came in February/March 2020. He is based off Lucifer Morningstar from Lucifer. He looks like he is in his late thirties and he is 6ft3 (1m91). He is a fallen Angel (or the Devil ? We never know how to qualify his species but this isn’t really important). He considers Castiel as his Brother.

And the last one, Jessica (she/her) ! She is based off the character of Jessica Jones from Jessica Jones (I love saying this like that x) ). Her story is more complicated as she was first a NPC of the system. However she became more and more sentient with time and as Kilgrave was already dating her he didn’t want to lie to her about that anymore after one year of relationship so he told her about tulpas and all. So she became officially a tulpa in March 2020. She was born on the 15th of June 2018. She looks like she is 33 and she is 5ft7 (1m75).

So here are our presentations done !!

Here is a link where you can see pictures of everyone :

We really hope we will get to know new people here ! And hopefully become friends ! If you have questions or anything else don’t hesitate to ask us, we’ll gladly answer !

Thank you so much for reading our small presentation !

#tulpamancy #tulpa system #tulpa blog #tulpa #tulpae

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oneshots-imagines-and-that · 7 years

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Being Mycroft’s Daughter Would Include

Requested by anon

Baking him cakes, when he has time he sometimes, maybe helps you

Having a rebellious teenage phase because Mycroft wouldn’t know how to stop a teenage girl from not doing that. He’d have no idea what to do when you were a teenager (especially 14-17) so this would be the stage in your life when you were furthest apart.

Mycroft would forgive you for most of these rebellions, but if you ever smoked, he’d be furious, because he’d know how much that inconvenience’s people.

You’d be a complete smartass, just as smart as him. You’d remind Mycroft of Sherlock so you would occaisonally drive him mad. However, Mycroft would constantly worry you and him would become like Sherlock and Mycroft, and hardly ever talk, so for this reason he would try so hard with you.

“You’re acting like your Uncle. Stop it.” “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You’d be spoiled by your Grandparents, who assume that Mycroft, knowing him, doesn’t spoil you enough. In truth, he spoils you quite a bit.

When/if you started dating, Mycroft would be a very protective father, because no one was good enough for you in his eyes.

Sherlock would love you, although he hated you as a child. But once you grew up and he realised how intelligent and interesting you were, Sherlock would love you.

Obviously you’d help Sherlock on cases, because Mycroft often didn’t have time for you when you were older and you would get bored.

“Sherlock! She’s too young to be involved in your dangers.” “Oh and I suppose at her age we weren’t getting involved in dangerous activites at all.” “She’s my daughter!” “She’s my niece!” “Father trumps Uncle.”

When Moriarty came on the scene however, both Sherlock and Mycroft would agree that you had to stay out of it. Mycroft would even go as far as to employ bodyguards for you. You would inevitably escape these bodyguards however and because Mycroft had put so much protection on you, Moriarty would have got interested in you. This put you in a lot of danger.

Once you were safe, Mycroft would tell you how proud he was of you, and how much he worries about you. He’d tell you that he knows you’re older now, but he sometimes forget’s you’re not the little four-year-old dressed as a pirate princess anymore.

Masterlist

Moodboard for this post

#sherlock bbc #bbc sherlock #bbc #sherlock #Sherlock Holmes #William Sherlock Scott Holmes #mycroft #mycroft x reader #mycroft imagine #mycroft x daughter!reader #mycrofts daughter #sherlock x reader #moriarty x reader #jim moriarty x reader #sherlock bbc imagine #sherlock imagines #sherlock preference

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panic-in-the-multiverse · 3 years

Text

･*:.｡.─_*✧.｡.:*･# ﾟ𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎 ﾐ

This is a list of fandoms and characters that I write for, I might add more later or take away some, but for the moment I write for all of these

I will always write for Marvel, Superntaural and Star Wars

Requests are always open If you want to request you can either private message me or just write in my inbox

I write: teen!reader, gn!reader, platonic!reader, sister!reader, adopted!reader, brother!reader, son!reader, daughter!reader,

I also write for lgbtq+ so you can request with anything from that

I can also write romantic but I usually prefer platonic

I can write nearly everything except I do not write smut so if that’s what you want it’s better if you go somewhere else

*✧.｡.:*･# MARVEL ﾐ

— (overall all characters from marvel but below is the ones I prefer )

— avengers [ steve rogers, tony stark, clint barton, natasha romanoff, bruce banner, thor ]

— sam wilson

— bucky barnes

— baron zemo

— moon knight [ marc spector, steven grant, jake lockley, layla el-faouly, konshu ]

— kate bishop

— yelena belova

— loki

— guardians of the galaxy [ peter quill, gamora, rocket raccoon, drax, nebula, mantis, groot, yondu ]

— daredevil [ matt murdock, foggy nelson, karen page ]

— punisher [ frank castle, billy russo ]

— venom [ eddie brock, venom, anne weying ]

— miguel o’hara (spider-man 2099)

— jack russell/werewolf by night

— x-men [ logan howlett, erik lensherr, charles xaviar, deadpool, scott summers, alex summers, x-23, mystique, beast ]

— marvel cast [ all cast members from mcu ]

*✧.｡.:*･# SUPERNATURAL ﾐ

— castiel

— dean winchester

— sam winchester

— crowley

— lucifer

— jack kline

— gabriel

— the supernatural cast [ all cast members ]

*✧.｡.:*･# STAR WARS ﾐ

— prequel [ obi-wan kenobi, ahsoka tano, anakin skywalker, cody, rex, fives, fox, wolfee, waxer, boil, kit fisto, darth maul ]

— bad batch [ hunter, tech, crosshair, wrecker, omega, echo ]

— star wars rebels [ kanan, hera, sabine wren, ezra bridger, zebb ]

— reva sevander

— cassian andor

— mandalorian [ din djarin, grogu, bo katan ]

— the book of boba fett [ boba fett, fennec shand]

— sequel [ poe dameron, finn, bb-8 ]

— Pedro Pascal

— Oscar Isaac

*✧.｡.:*･# TOLKIEN ﾐ

— lord of the rings [ aragorn, legolas, faramir, meriadoc brandybuck, peregrin took, samwise gamgee, frodo baggins, boromir, gimli, elrond, gandalf ]

— hobbit [ bilbo baggins, thorin, kili, fili, bard, tauriel ]

*✧.｡.:*･# THE WALKING DEAD ﾐ

— rick grimes

— daryl dixon

— glenn rhee

— maggie rhee

— aaron

— gabriel stokes

— jesus

— mishonne

— carol peletier

— carl grimes

— judith grimes

— negan

*✧.｡.:*･# THE ROOKIE ﾐ (will come more soon)

— tim bradford

— lucy chen

— angela lopez

— wesley evers

— tamara collins

*✧.｡.:*･# CRIMINAL MINDS ﾐ

— aaron hotchner

— spencer reid

— derek morgan

— penelope garcia

— david rossi

— jennifer Jareau

— luke alvez

— emily prentiss

*✧.｡.:*･# HANNIBAL NBC ﾐ

— will graham <3

— hannibal lecter

*✧.｡.:*･# HARRY POTTER ﾐ

— golden trio era [ remus lupin, sirius black, harry potter, hermione granger, luna lovegood, fred weasley, george weasley, oliver wood, neville longbottom, draco malfoy ]

— fantastic beasts [ newt scamander, young albus dumbledore, gellert grindelwald, theseus scamander ]

*✧.｡.:*･# OUR FLAG MEANS DEATH ﾐ (will add more later)

— izzy hands <3

— jim jimenez

— edward

— frenchie

— stede

*✧.｡.:*･# SHERLOCK ﾐ (not taking requests for at the moment)

— greg lestrade

— sherlock holmes

— john watson

— mycroft

— moriarty

*✧.｡.:*･# THE UMBRELLA ACADEMY ﾐ

— diego hargreeves

— klaus hargreeves

— ben hargreeves

— viktor hargreeves

— number five

— luther hargreeves

— allison hargreeves

*✧.｡.:*･# HEARTSTOPPER ﾐ

— nick nelson

— charlie spring

— isaac henderson

— imogen heaney

— tao xu

— elle argent

— darcy olsson

— tara jones

*✧.｡.:*･# ARROWVERSE ﾐ

— arrow [ oliver queen, thea queen, roy harper, felicity smoak, john diggle, slade wilson ]

— flash [ barry allen, harry wells, harrison wells, HR, cisco ramon, caitlin snow, leonard snart, wally west, eddie thawne ]

— legends of tomorrow [ john constantine, sara lance, rip hunter, captain cold, nathan heywood ]

— john constantine

*✧.｡.:*･# GOTHAM ﾐ

— jim gordon

*✧.｡.:*･# THE SANDMAN ﾐ (not taking requests for at the moment)

— corinthian

— morpheus

*✧.｡.:*･# DOWNTON ABBEY ﾐ

— thomas barrow

— tom branson

— matthew crawley

— sybil crawley

-*✧.｡.:*･# DRAGON AGE ﾐ

— dragon age origin [ morrigan, alistair ]

— dragon age II [ hawke ]

— dragon age inquisition [ dorian pavus, cole, iron bull, sera, varric tethras, blackwall, vivienne, cullen rutherford, cassandra pentaghast, leliana, josephine montilyet, solas ]

*✧.｡.:*･# FATE: THE WINX SAGA ﾐ

— saul silva

— beatrix

— stella

— musa

— riven

— sky

— andreas

*✧.｡.:*･# ONCE UPON A TIME ﾐ

— killian jones

*✧.｡.:*･# PEAKY BLINDERS ﾐ

— alfie solomons

— thomas shelby

— ada thorne

— arthur shelby

— john shelby

— polly gray

— michael gray

*✧.｡.:*･# THE LAST OF US ﾐ (only platonic for now)

— Joel Miller

— Ellie Williams

— Pedro Pascal

-*✧.｡.:*･# NEW AMSTERDAM ﾐ (only platonic for now)

— Max Goodwin

*✧.｡.:*･# THE RESIDENT ﾐ (will be adding more)

— conrad hawkins

*✧.｡.:*･# WALKER ﾐ

— liam walker

— cordell walker

— stella walker

— august walker

— trey barnett

────────────────────────

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writings-of-a-british-fangirl · 7 years

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Being Sherlock’s Niece (Mycroft’s Daughter) And Meeting Moriarty Would Involve...

[MASTER LIST]

Being Sherlock’s niece (Mycroft’s daughter) and meeting Moriarty would involve:

While investigating a case involving part of Moriarty’s vast network, you would come across a contact that seemed relatively harmless- a man called Jim who worked with Molly.

Being friends with Molly and talking about him with her. She doesn’t give you much, but she does think he’s somewhat sweet and seems interested in her.

You’d be so confused by him.

Jim. Who seems so normal- no criminal record, nothing on his school record- hell, you even doubt he’s ever cursed. But, that’s what makes you dig for more, hunt for any sign of any little thing being out of place. And, being Mycroft’s daughter, and having Sherlock Holmes as an uncle certainly helped to building up your deduction and detective skills.

Lying about what you’re investigating to your dad and uncle.

They’d only try to stop you and you really don’t have time for anyone slowing you down right now. You’re close to discovering something, you can feel.

Finally working up the courage to meet with Jim, and him picking the unusual location of the London Eye. Not exactly the perfect place to interview someone ‘for an article’- that was your cover, a journalist.

He’d come across exactly as Molly described.

Except, you’d start to suspect something when no one else gets into the pod with you and Jim, and he starts to command himself in a different way as he walks over to the edge and stops, staring out on... his kingdom.

Moriarty.

It hits you like a tonne of bricks, and you’re now terrified but far too deep to turn back now.

He talks to you about Sherlock, about Mycroft, but mostly... about you. You’re surprised that he’s taken such an interest in you. Afterall, you don’t work for the British government, and you’re definitely not the world’s only consulting detective.

“Why are you so surprised? That I’ve taken an interest. Y/N, you’re fascinating. ...And, the sooner you realise that, the sooner you see your brilliance, the more the world will offer you.”

After, the event which ultimately leaves you confused but with no evidence it ever happened, you start to doubt its existence entirely...

But it happened: and he still is watching.

#connie writes stuff #connie talks #head canons #would involve #would involve weekend #sherlock BBC #sherlock bbc head canon #jim moriarty #jim moriarty headcanons #Sherlock Holmes #sherlock holmes head canons #mycroft holmes #mycroft holmes headcanon #sherlock x niece!reader #sherlock holmes x niece!reader #niece!reader #mycroft holmes x daughter!reader #mycroft x daughter!reader #daughter!reader

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tardisbluewritesstuff · 6 years

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Driven to Murder (Jim Moriarty x daughter!reader)

A/N: Thank you to YandereDev for inspiring me for this fic. Please go support his game in development, Yandere Simulator/Lovesick.

Summary: You are Jim Moriarty’s daughter that is in high school. You over hear a phone call about another girl you dislike having issues. So this gives you an idea.

You are Jim Moriarty’s daughter, prestigious and intelligent. Although he hasn’t been the best father, you still loved him unconditionally. At school, no one really noticed you or bothered to talk to you unless you wanted to talk to them.

Another morning came by and it was like any other morning for you. You went to the side of the door and took off your bag, thinking you forgot something when you heard a very familiar voice, Diane Velmowitz. The girl you hated, the girl that got away with anything.

“I though I said-!… for how much?… ok fine but after dinner, the date is done!…Ok, see you Soho around 7 tonight. Bye” she hung up “I can’t keep doing this” she sniffled. This is when you got an idea.

You watched her walk away and you did a double check, making sure you didn’t forget anything and then you wrote a note and slipped it in her locker and walked away to class.

A few hours later, you walked to the roof top which is very accessible to other students. Diane was looking around when you showed up. Diane looked surprised seeing you “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes. I heard about your compensated dating this morning on accident and I wanted to help you” You replied.

“You… heard about that? Did you tell anyone else?”

“No. I’m not the kind of person that spreads gossip. Maybe some reasoning would help. I want to help” You nodded.

“You see, my dad is in massive debt. They raise the intrest every week and he’s been struggling to pay them back. Death Threats come in if he doesn’t pay up. So I give all the money I earn to him to help pay for my tuition”

“A loan shark fits your father’s frustrations”

“Yea…”

“Do you know the company?” You asked crossing your arms.

“I believe it’s Frazier Loans” Diane nodded

“I’ll find a way to help him get out of debt” you said bluntly

“No please. I don’t want you to get hurt”

“Trust me Diane, I’ll be just fine” You insisted “I’ll give you a note when I have found something to meet me here again” You added

“Oh thank you so much” she replied in happiness.

“No problem” You walked away and bumped into a blonde haired boy on the way back to class.

“S-sorry” You apologized innocently.

“It’s no hassle. I’m Henry Frazier”

“Y/N Brooks” You faked your last name. It was always the name you went to not to rise any suspicion amongst the other students.

“Well I need to go… it was nice meeting you Y/N” He smiled and ran to class. You chuckled “Perfect… This gives me a great idea… I’ll tell her tomorrow” you talked to yourself before going to class.

Diane, the next day arrivied at your meeting spot and you stood there waiting.

“Anything new?” She asked.

“Well, the owner’s son, Henry comes here. I say we keep him hostage until his father cracks” you smiled.

“Y/N… y-you know that’s wrong” Diane shook her head.

“You want your dad to be free of debt or not?” You asked irritated.

“Ok… sorry” she looked down.

“Meet me at this location… at precisely 6pm tonight. I’ll have the hostage and everything. Just bring yourself” you smiled, giving her a slip of paper.

“Thank you again” she walked off.

Little did Diane or anyone know that your father was the Napeoleon of Crime, a psychopath. Although he wasn’t thrilled that he may have to pull your ass from jail if caught. He reluctanctly agreed to have his snipers help if needed.

That night, Diane did as she was told and was there at the warehouse “Y/N?” She asked.

“Right here. Let’s get this overwith” you entered the room with Henry tied up. You handed her a baseball bat and she took it from your gloved hands.

“That voice is familiar.... Diane, is that you?” Henry taunted. "Figures the skank of the school did this" he laughed.

“You don’t know anything!” Diane defended.

“Please, everyone knows that you date older guys for money” Henry laughed a bit.

“It’s only dinner” Diane growled quietly. You quietly left the scene and let it play out.

“Why would it only be that? Those huge boobs give you so much money I bet" he laughed.

"I have to give my dad the money I earn because our your dad's loans!" Diane shouted crying, and you started making your way out. You knew your work was done.

Henry started laughing hysterically " and thats my problem? Because your pathetic dad can't pay a dumb loan. He deserves what it coming to him" he taunted.

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!” Followed by a female scream and wood hit skin and bone.

Police sirens then sounded close by and you smirked as you dashed off. Diane looked for you fratically and in panic. She was covered in blood and Henry was dead.

The next day showed and You were sitting in the interoggation room, waiting patiently. You waited and the officers were chatting.

“Y/N, you’re ready to go” Lestrade walked into the room “Thank you for telling us all you know”

“No problem” You smiled as you stood and walked. You saw a very familiar figure, Sherlock. You waved to him as you walked out. He only gave a light grin in return. You smirked to yourself. You got away with the perfect murder and Sherlock didn’t even bat an eye. Idiot

#sherlock imagine #sherlock one shot #moriarty x reader #bbc sherlock #fandom imagine #fandom one shot

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thepokyone · 6 years

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1.5k Writing Challenge

So I’ve just about reached 1.5k! You guys are awesome, and I love all of you!

So to celebrate, instead of opening requests or anything like that, I’ll be having a writing challenge! There are a few rules, but it’s pretty straightforward. Just send me an ask with the character that you would like to write for (it must be one of the characters that I also write for), and I will respond with a situation and a prompt, taken from @of-badges-and-guns‘s two part drabble list.

(Rules below cut)

I’ll be using a randomizer so even I won’t know what prompts you’ll get! The rules are as follows:

You must write for one of the characters that I write for (full list at bottom).

You must be following me.

Your fic must be sent in by January 15, 2017. That is over a month from now, so you will have plenty of time!

You must tag me (@thepokyone) so that I am able to see it.

Use the tag #poky’s1.5kchallenge in one of the first 3 tags.

You must sent me an ask which includes the character you will be writing for. No messages or reblogs. The ask cannot be anon.

Your main pairing must be a character x reader, no ships. I don’t mind if you pair other characters together, as long as the character you have chosen to write for is an x reader.

Your fic doesn’t have to be strictly romantic - feel free to write platonic!reader, daughter/son!reader, sister/brother!reader, etc.

There is no minimum or maximum word limit. However, if your fic exceeds 500 words, please use the keep reading option, otherwise I will not reblog it until you fix it.

Feel free to make your prompt into a series, but only submit the first part for this challenge.

No smut, please. I respect that you write smut, however I do not read smut so writing it for this challenge would be defeating the purpose. Angst, fluff, humor, and the likes are all fine.

Use warnings if necessary.

If I haven’t liked your post within 48 hours, please send me a message. I get a fair amount of activity so I may have unknowingly missed it.

If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to ask. I want to make sure this is fun for everyone!

Thanks again for your continuing support, I love you guys! The characters you can request are listed below:

Supernatural: Dean, Sam, Castiel, Gabriel, Michael, Crowley, Balthazar

Criminal Minds: Hotch, Morgan, Reid

Sherlock: Sherlock, Moriarty, John

Marvel: Loki, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Thor, Clint Barton, Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Doctor Strange

Walking Dead: Rick, Daryl

Doctor Who: The Doctor (9th/10th/11th)

Harry Potter: Harry, Draco, Newt, Credence

Stranger Things: Jim Hopper, Steve Harrington, Jonathan Byers, Billy Hargrove

#1.5k followers #writing challenge #follower challenge #challenge #rules #supernatural #criminal minds #sherlock #marvel #walking dead #doctor who #harry potter #stranger things

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magicalthoughtsendinterriblefics · 7 years

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Sherlock Masterlist

**Unless it’s specified, these are all Character x fem!reader. **This will be in constant update. **If it doesn’t specify fluff, angst, smut, etc. consider it as a not-definable drabble.

LAST UPDATE: 21.08.2020

SHERLOCK

Sherlock Holmes

Expectant - Request (Fluff)

Abusive - Request (trigger warning: Abusive ex)

On Edge - Request (Smut) On Edge #2 - Request

The Woman - Request (fluff?) (Irene x Sherlock x reader)

Make Up - Request (Smut)

Listener - Request (fluff)

The Holmes - Request (Fluff)

Daughter mine - Request (Father!Sherlock x daughter!reader) (No incest) (fluff)

Old Friend - Request (Fluff & smut)

Shoe Deduction - Request (Fluff) (Drabble)

Waltz - Request (Fluff)

Tension - Request (Smut)

Enjoy the show, brother - Request (implied smut)

4Chips - Request (Fluff) (Triigger warning: Self-harm)

Needing For Attention - Request (Smut)

Long Day - Request (Fluff & smut)

Brother, Annoying Brother - Request (Fluff)

The Other Woman - Request (Irene x Sherlock x reader) (Smut)

Tipsy - Request (Funny fluff)

Sick - Request (Fluff)

☆The Impossible Duet - Request ☆(Artsy fluff)

Chemistry in the Shower - Request (Smut)

Secrets - Request (Fluff)

Certain things - Song-based Request (FLUFF)

Perfect - Request (fluff)

Regression - Request (Angsty fluff)

Enjoy the Silence - Request (Fluff) (Sherlock x mute!reader)

My Enemy's Woman - Request (Moriarty x reader x Sherlock)

Love Story Duet - Request (Fluff) The Pianist - Request (Sequel)

Beneath the surface - Request (Angst)

Little sister - Request (Little-sister!Reader x Sherlock) (No incest)

The Reichenbach Fall - Request (ANGST) (John x reader x Sherlock)

Thunderstorm and Birthday Cake - Request (fluff)

Jealous Brothers - Request (Sister!Reader x Sherlock & Mycroft)) (No incest)

That Boy Is Mine - Request (Trans!Boy Reader x Sherlock) (Fluff, bit of angst)

Oh, Daddy Dear - Request (Trigger Warning: Abusive Father) (Angst, Fluff-ish)

Smoking Partners - Request (Warning: Drug Consumption) (Friend!Reader x Sherlock)

Suspicious Room - Request (Smut)

Office Affair - Request (Implied Smut, Fluff-ish)

Fights And Cries - Request (angsty, Fluffy)

Domme - Request (Smut)

The Worse Week - Request (Fluff-ish)

Volleyball - Request (Fluffy smut)

My Woman’s Enemy - Request (Moriarty is here) (Fluff, smut & a bit of angst) **Side note: This may or not be considered a sequel to My Enemy’s Woman.

Pools and Cubes - Request (Soft Smut)

Withdrawal - Request (Angst)

The Final Problem - Request (Angst, bit of fluff)

Better Chance - Request (Angsty) (Fluffly) (Trigger Warning: Infertility)

Happy Birthday, Mr... Detective? - Request (Smut)

Beer me, I mean: Forgive me - Request (Angsty)

Pulled - Oneshot Request (Fluffy)

Series Curious Man Series (Drabble) (Fluff) Curious Man Curious Man #2 - Request

Worried (Fluff) Part 1 - Request Part 2 - Request Part 3 - Request

A Series of Experiments (Smut) (Fluff) Experiment #1- Request Experiment #2 - Request Experiment #3 - Request Experiment #4 - Request Experiment #5 - Request Experiment #6 - Request

New Family (Fluff) New Family - Request New Family - Part 2 - Request

Sherlock Spam: The First Time He Says “I Love You”

John Watson My Best Friend’s Sister - Request (fluff)

Confessions to a Consultant Detective - Request (Fluff)

Flashbacks - Request (Fluff)

Secrets - Request (Fluff)

Jim Moriarty Secrets - Request (Fluff)

Series Mad Love - Request (Fluff) Mad Love - Part 2 - Request (Smut) Mad Love - Part 3 - Request (Fluff)

BACK TO MASTERLIST.

#sherlock #bbc sherlock #sherlock fanfiction #sherlock x reader #watson x reader #john x reader #moriarty x reader #sherlock masterlist

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con-fection · 3 years

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ASHES TO ASHES | jim moriarty x reader | 5/13

Word count: 4.7k

Living with Moriarty is not for the faint of heart. He's a strange man - and you often find yourself becoming victim to moments of intrigue. There's something intrinsically dark within him, but you're currently inclined to believe that it was created out of a need for fun, for entertainment, and not out of hardship.

It was a frenzied moment in which you agreed to join him.

Truthfully, you had no idea what being a part of his game entailed. You had only seen bits and pieces on the news.

Moriarty had taken you to what was apparently a grandiose mansion. It was terribly grand - much larger, more airy and ornate than your house had been. Everything within it seems so fine, opulent, even.

It's never cold, which you're thankful for.

Moriarty leads you through a series of hallways, and down some winding, twisting stairway, and to his study. He seems fond of the finer things in life, decking out the mansion with what you assume are expensive pieces. You see a few men milling around, all dressed in suits. You think about calling out for them, getting their attention, but you quickly realise that these are men who follow Moriarty's orders.

He's got all of these people, these dark-looking, brawny bodyguards who do his bidding. They're just more puppets, and he's the one tugging on their strings. You have to wonder if they have a role in the plan, too. If they are pieces in the game - and if you're to become like them.

The worst part is probably that you don't know how - you have no idea how he's controlling them. Or why, for that matter. Really, you have so, so many questions, all revolving around Moriarty. Who he is, what he wants, why he wants it and how he plans to achieve it are all absolute mysteries.

His study is airy, with this large desk and leather chair behind it. There's bookshelves - none of them hold any books, though. Rather, they contain what, at first glance, you think are odd knick-knacks. There's all manner of things - shoes, a lipstick case, purses, wallets. They look rather out of place, considering the fancy, high-end decor of the rest of the house.

They're just random, every-day objects, but they're displayed in pride of place in his study.

Moriarty seems to catch your confused look at them, and he grins proudly. "Trophies." He says, by way of explanation.

"Oh?" You swallow, suddenly unable to tear your eyes from them.

You don't really need to be told the rest - they're trophies from people. Presumably, victims of his.

"Oh, come on." He scoffs, playfully. He stalks closer to you, closing the door to the study behind him. You still feel rather on edge, but some of that feralty and desperation has subsided.

You want to be free, no matter what. That's always going to remain the same. But for now, acceptance is best. Moriarty has all of this, all of those men on strings, and he's determined to play a game with Sherlock Holmes. All you have to do is play along until he gets bored and you can be cut loose. Hopefully, at least. That is the work of a whole host of assumptions.

Nothing is assured here.

Moriarty approaches you, looming over you. Almost tenderly, he places his hands on your shoulders, encouraging you to stumble backwards and perch on his desk. He's so close, and you have to suppress a shiver. Your legs hit the desk and you shimmy yourself up so you can sit on the very edge of the desk. You're torn between fixating on Moriarty and his dark eyes, or the rows of trophies.

His hands drop from your shoulders to your hands. He inspects them almost clinically, turning your slightly shaking hands over. It feels strangely thrilling to be touched like this - intimately, carefully. Like you're precious.

And yet, it contrasts with every scrap of information you've come to know about him. His fingers glide over yours - his skin is warm, and he feels rather human like this. Not vulnerable, no, but human. Flesh and bone.

"What were you thinking?" He asks, sounding rather stunned at the damage you've managed to do to your knuckles from punching the door. "That's rather self-destructive, Cinderella. Doesn't seem like you."

"Oh, really?" You ask.

"Oh, no." Moriarty says. "You're not self-destructive. You like to hurt others instead."

You recoil slightly and his hands drop from yours. "They deserved it."

He nods, looking amused. "Well, yes, they did. That much is obvious. But you enjoyed it, and that's what matters." Moriarty walks over to the other side of his desk, opening a drawer and emerging with some bandages and packet of anti-septic wipes, before he approaches you again. He rips the little package open with his teeth and shakes it until the white cloth falls into his hands.

Moriarty discards the packet, letting it rest on his desk. "If you were going to take a trophy, what would it have been?" He asks, taking your left hand first, and swiping the wipe over it.

You let out a tiny hiss - it stings. The cuts had been small, but that doesn't make it burn any less. The white anti-septic wipe comes away from your knuckles spotted with streaks of blood. "Their heads." You admit, clenching your jaw as he does the same to your other hand.

"Oooh, nice." He says, grinning. "But not that practical. They could always rot. Human decomposition isn't my favourite cell."

The anti-septic wipe makes contact with the deepest wound across your right knuckles and you have to bite your lip to stop yourself from letting out any pained noises. There is absolutely no desire within you to seem weak in front of somebody like him.

"Fucking taxidermy them, then." You retort, though your voice comes out somewhat strangled and pained.

His dark eyes dart up to meet yours. "Now that's lovely, Cinderella."

Despite his macabre line of work, Moriarty doesn't tend to meet people who are truly interesting very often. Even criminals can fall victim to being dull, and frequently they do. But you - you are lovely. He knows every single thing that has happened to you, and yet he's still intrigued by everything about you.

A silence befalls you as he begins to bandage your knuckles, expertly winding the gauze over your hands. It sits atop the wounds, cradling them in thin white strips. You don't allow yourself to relax - but it does feel somewhat comforting to be taken care of like this. Verona and her hellish daughters hadn't been the type to wrap your wounds or offer you support.

You hate the way he's so gentle. It makes you think, for just a moment, that under any other circumstances you would have welcomed and celebrated a touch so soft. In any other context, perhaps you could allow yourself to indulge in this - in him. But you can't, not when your life is veiled by a cloud of uncertainty that he is solely responsible for.

"So what now?" You ask, slightly more subdued now that your throbbing knuckles have been addressed. There's a deep curiosity within you now - perhaps this is an opportunity to obtain some answers for your many, many questions.

"Now we have a plan to fulfill." He sounds rather bored now, as he watches you. "There's so much that you don't know, and yet you've put your faith in me."

"I wouldn't say it was faith that compelled me to join your game."

He chuckles, sounding rather gleeful as he reminds you,"Our game, Cinderella. You're on my side now, and sweetheart, this isn't the side of the angels."

"No, I was never under the impression that it was." You retort.

"But then again, you seem to like a little hellfire, don't you?" Moriarty croons excitedly.

"Planning on telling me anything now that I've agreed?"

Moriarty raises an eyebrow. "Well, I wouldn't want to risk you getting bored. But, I'll let you on some things. After all, who would you tell?"

You wince at that, unwillingly reminded that freedom has come hand in hand with loneliness. Whilst half of London may have been aware of you - may have seen that years-old picture of you on TV or heard about you in the news, there is nobody, not a single soul that knows you in any way that matters.

And even now, when there's people milling about the mansion, you know that they'll never know you either. You don't think that any of them had even bothered to spare you a second glance.

In fact, Moriarty is the only person you have had a proper conversation with in days.

"I'm Jim Moriarty, the consulting criminal, and you're Y/N L/N, my Cinderella. And weeee, are going to destroy Sherlock Holmes."

"Well, that seems simple enough." You say, sarcastically.

He clicks his tongue, chiding you. "Noooo, not simple, Cinderella. Simple would be boring - and this, this is going to be exciting. It's what everything was leading up to, until you got in the way."

"I got in the way?"

"Oh, yes. Took up all of Sherlock's attention. Very naughty of you. But now, you're on my side, and we're a force united." He sounds rather inspired, enthralled by the prospect of it all. His dark eyes are blown wide as he looks down at you. You've noticed that Moriarty has a tendency to become almost reverent whenever he talks about either the two of you together, or your crimes.

Like he's in awe. Of you - and of the two of you together.

In some way, you had chosen him. As a pathway to freedom only.

"And so, the plan is..." You prompt him.

"Pfft, so impatient, aren't we, Cinderella?" Moriarty scoffs. "The plan, of course, is to get Sherlock to answer the question on everybody's mind."

"Which is?"

He rolls his dark eyes, before gazing down at you. "Well, isn't it obvious, Cinderella? Staying alive, of course."

You frown, your mind running over everything you have learnt about the two of them - Sherlock's a detective on your case, and Moriarty is now your abductor who wants you to become his partner in crime against the aforementioned detective. "You... want him to die?"

"I've always wanted him to die. He's in the way - all the time. I just want to have fun with it first." Moriarty shrugs nonchalantly. In all fairness, murder does seem to be trivial to him - though he does keep trophies, which suggests that on some occasions, it has been more than just something on his to do list. It tells you that sometimes, when he kills, it means something to him.

It was entirely plausible that something belonging to Sherlock Holmes could end up on that bookshelf, too.

"You said that I was in your way." You say, rather absently. "Do you intend for me to die, too?"

"You're not the one I'm asking the question to. For now, you're just my teammate in the game. You could get your freedom at the end." He says.

And there it is - the hope that you've been waiting to appear. The prospect that if you play along you could be free. Your heart leaps, and you lurch forward, almost tumbling off the desk.

"Ooh, you liked that, didn't you?" Moriarty teases, pouting at you mockingly.

"Well, let's play then." You say, with a renewed kind of vigour. You feel the beginnings of a plan beginning to form.

The last plan that you had concocted resulted in three women dead at your hands and a building going up in flames. This one had the potential to be more bloody. Moriarty would probably even encourage it.

There you are, feeling just as much a hostage here as you had when you were in your basement, in Moriarty's study. He grins down at you, bringing his hand up to cup your jaw, his forefinger under your chin and the pad of his thumb resting on your bottom lip.

It's so terribly soft, so gentle.

"That's the spirit."

---

And thus began a begrudging routine. This was an unsteady partnership, and Moriarty took great joy in reminding you of that, at first.

You were to be confined to the mansion, watched by a platoon of his men, until such a point when you were to be useful. Most of your time was simply to be spent with Moriarty, preparing aspects of the game - often at times researching macabre, morbid things that you didn't understand.

There would be no opportunity for escape. Your room was heavily guarded, there were no windows for you to break, and even if there were, you still had no idea where you were.

For the first few days, you had struggled to find your footing here. This was an entirely new situation, and you were just trying your hardest to survive, to get by. You were very much a prisoner, and yet, you weren't treated the way you had been back at home.

Verona would scream at you, perhaps even strike you if she was particularly enraged, whilst Aubrey and Alora would rush about the house, creating as much a mess as they were able, and then leave you to clean it up.

Moriarty was... not so bad.

That statement, in and of itself, made you wince. He was a murderer, that much you gathered, and from what you could deduce, also the head of a major criminal organisation. It was almost impressive, really.

He could plan so throughly that he almost reminded you of yourself, which was another thought that you absolutely detested. Moriarty had shared just fragments of his plan for Sherlock Holmes with you, and yet each piece was extremely detailed with each and every possible outcome being considered.

Moriarty had the ability to be frighteningly logical. And yet, it was really creativity and spontaneity that ruled him. Those were the things he found most appealing - the outcomes that he had never considered were the ones he found the most alluring.

A typical day for you normally began when you would wake up in that grandiose room. It was superior to your hotel room - it didn't smell of any chemicals, and you felt almost at peace there. From there, you would get dressed, be given breakfast and then make your way downstairs, accompanied by a gaggle of armed guards.

They weren't so friendly. Most of them refused to even speak to you, and the ones that did were curt at best. It was rather isolating, to be surrounded by so many people and yet constantly ignored.

Then, you would enter Moriarty's study. It was quickly becoming one of the places in the mansion you were most familiar with. There, the two of you would discuss tiny details of a larger plan. You couldn't really discern what anything was going to be used for, but he seemed to like bouncing ideas off you.

There was a lot that you had learnt about Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Theirs was a friendship, whilst your relationship with Moriarty was a difficult hostage and her seemingly bipolar abductor.

Today, as you entered, you found that he was already on the phone to somebody, and he looked enraged.

As always, he was dressed impeccably, sat at his desk, one hand holding his phone to his ear, the other clenched into a fist, resting on the wood, almost threateningly.

"I've already told you how to do it." He hisses, his voice low and venomous. He's scowling like you've never seen him do before, his lips curled into a sneer, and there's pure rage in his dark eyes.

You look awkwardly between him and your entourage, hovering in the doorway and observing him. Thus far, you haven't seen him interact with too many people, just yourself and a handful of henchmen. Even then, he seems to hold you in higher regard than he does them, so you've become somewhat assured that you're not going to become one of his little minions, running around and doing his bidding at a moment's notice.

"I can do things to you that you can't even imagine." He says, his jaw clenched. "I can have you torn to pieces and mailed back to your family in chunks. Maybe they'll get an eye first. Or a finger. I want you to remember that the next time you dare to forget what I want."

Moriarty's voice is so low, full of vitriol and as your eyes dart to his shelves of trophies from his kills, you know that he means every single word of it. The consulting criminal is simply beyond any body else's influence. You've come to understand that's how he operates. Everybody does as he says or they die in pain, begging for their lives to end.

You can't help but be transfixed by him when he's like this. In the very short time you've known him, you haven't seen Moriarty mad like this. He's jovial, mocking and excitable. It's been a while since he's even threatened you.

Anger is one of the emotions that are most familiar to you. It has shaped and forged you in ways that love never quite had the opportunity to.

You don't know Moriarty nearly well enough to determine whether it has been instrumental to his becoming, too. But you can guess that it has been. Nobody gets this far in such a bloody, vicious field - being a career criminal - without being subject to anger. You weren't naive enough to think that it drove him all the time, but it probably contributed.

In an instant, he's torn the phone away from his ear and ended the call. His dark gaze lands on you, and the fury in his eyes seems to lessen fragmentally.

"I'm guessing that didn't go to plan, then." You remark, sauntering away from the doorway to actually enter his study and approach him at his desk.

"It's not a part of our plan," He dismisses it easily, the tension in his shoulders beginning to lessen, and his fingers unfurling from where they had been clenched into a tight fist. "You know, they're still looking everywhere for you, Cinderella. Sherlock's driving himself mad trying to figure out which hotel you're staying in."

"Do you think he would have found me by now?" You ask.

Moriarty looks at you, studying you like you're some kind of puzzle that he can't figure out. "Sherlock would have found you yesterday at eleven am. He and John have already been in the hotel room that you stayed in."

Suddenly, it feels like your heart has dropped to your stomach. Yesterday at eleven am you had been researching the intricacies of mercury and lead poisoning - an effort that you were still collaborating on with Moriarty, though you had no idea what he intended to do with the information.

If not for him, you would have been in cuffs by now, awaiting trial, Sherlock's passing interest in you long gone, and you're left to rot in some cold little cell.

"Really?" Your voice comes out a whisper - vulnerable, raw, pitiful. You hate it more than anything.

"I'm not lying, Cinderella." He says with a minute shrug of his shoulders. "Do you think you'd know if I was?"

You feel all too much like you're drowning to even answer his question. There haven't been many points in your life during which you've felt this confused. The funerals and the wedding, probably - those were the days when you'd truly felt the loss of your parents the most, and the insidious arrival of a new one.

There's no way for you to really discern how this feels. It's like there's been a phenomenal, almost earth-shattering realisation on your part, and you're amazed that the world has kept turning. This feels like neither a loss, nor a gain. Perhaps, then, it was an exchange. Some part of yourself had been lost, cast aside the moment you discovered that by now, you would have lost any freedom at all, and exchanged for something that wasn't yours at all.

It felt like a part of you was now Moriarty. You were living as a slightly free woman on his time. There were limits to your freedom, but it was a warm mansion that was the polar opposite of that cold, rancid-smelling basement, and not a ten-by-ten cell.

"I don't - it'd be over by now?" You sound devastated.

"It would." Moriarty confirms, watching you closely, carefully.

The words are tumbling from your mouth before you can even comprehend them yourself. "Then, thank you. I don't, fuck, I don't like being locked up here, but thank you."

Your sincerity shocks even you, and Moriarty looks almost taken aback, his mouth hanging open slightly and his eyes widening.

"Cinderella, why don't you let me tell you about why mercury is a better poison than lead." He says, all falsely cheery. This time, you can see straight through him. There's not pure excitement in his eyes, burning like a wildfire. Rather, there's a shred of concern.

You don't know whether that's a good thing or not. All you know, is that some tiny, forsaken part of you is grateful to him.

"Did you know that lead poisoning is the most common environmental illness in children in California? I didn't." He says, off-handedly. Listening to his lilting voice is an effective distraction for your internal distress. "It can be attributed to paint. And that's boring - not to mention it would take the credit away from us."

You're willing to lean into any distraction he has to offer. You really, really do not want to think about the cell you would be in by now.

"And so mercury is better because...?"

"It's more deliberate," Moriarty stresses. "That at least will be recognised as our work. It's rare, and hard to treat. It can take up to eighteen years for the body to get rid of half a dose."

You nod easily. "And are you ever going to tell me who it's intended for?"

"You'll get to know that soon enough. I'm trying to build anticipation here." He sighs dramatically, reclining slightly in his chair. "I will, however, tell you that we're going to do something you'll like. It's very your style."

"How so?" You frown. "Arson, or...?" You trail off, unsure.

Moriarty grins wildly. "Oh, arson. What a lovely crime. Soooo fun, right? Unfortunately, no. What we're planning for is a recreation of a fairytale, with a different ending."

Immediately, your eyes widen. You're thrown back to the days of obsessively demanding your mother read Cinderella to you each and every night. She had even bought you a whole host of books, all different variations of the same familiar tale. You had loved each and every one of them uniquely, memorising all of their twists and turns, every letter, every dot of every 'i' and every cross of every 't'.

"Which one?" You ask. Really, he had thrown you off there. It hadn't been what you were expecting. But then again, Moriarty prided himself on subverting expectations and being changeable - a wild card.

"Guess, won't you?" He says, amusedly. He's smiling happily, like you're not discussing deadly poisons and off-handedly referencing your murders of your step-family.

Poison. You ponder over it for a moment, running a hand through your hair distractedly. "Snow White? Are we poisoning an apple?"

You freeze. It's so, so incredibly strange that you acknowledged it - that you said 'we' rather than 'he'. It's odd, terribly so, to realise that you've subconsciously accepted your place in this.

"Mmmh, no." Moriarty shakes his head. "Nice idea, though. Shame. We can use it another time. Guess again, Cinderella."

"I don't like it when you call me that."

He huffs. "Guess." He demands.

"Sleeping beauty? With the spindle?"

"No - but keep going. You've got some good ideas."

"Uh, Peter Pan?" You suggest, wincing. Rather quickly, you're running out of ideas.

Moriarty narrows his eyes at you. "There's no poison in Peter Pan."

"Yes there is," You retort hotly. "Captain Hook tries to poison Peter Pan, but Tinkerbell drinks it instead."

He scoffs at you, levelling you with an unimpressed, bored kind of look. "It's rather pathetic that you know that, don't you think?"

"No, no I really don't think so." You say, and you don't even know why you're getting quite so defensive, like he's touched a nerve just by challenging you on this.

"Any more guesses left, Cinderella?"

"The Riddle?" You guess, rather aimlessly.

Moriarty just looks rather confused. "Are you... making them up now? If you can't guess you can just concede."

"It's one of the Brothers Grimm ones. It's about a witch who poisons twelve people - but since you didn't even recognise the title I'm inclined to believe that's not it." You sigh, and you realise that you're rather...relaxed.

"It's Hansel and Gretel." Moriarty reveals, grinning. "Poison the sweets - "

"But Hansel and Gretel were kids," You frown. "You're not talking about doing something to kids are you? Oh god, you're not going to make somebody eat the kids?"

Moriarty looks mildly stunned. "Yet another brilliant idea. Oh, Cinderella. You're so good at this. Though, I do suppose you have experience with subverting fairy tales. We could make parents eat their own children - doesn't that sound fun? How long do you think they could hold out for if they were starving and their kid's bodies were their only source of food?"

Suddenly, you feel a little lightheaded. "No, no, that's not what - just tell me we're not doing anything with kids."

"Well why not?" He sounds affronted, like you've done something to offend him.

"They're innocent." You practically plead, clasping a hand over your mouth. This doesn't feel comforting at all - this is begging for somebody else's life and hoping he will take notice, that he will be compelled to spare them.

Moriarty raises an eyebrow at you, looking rather skeptical. "Were Aubrey and Alora innocent when they teased you mercilessly and encouraged their mother to hit you?"

You flounder for a response, your mouth opening and closing repeatedly, but you just can't seem to get any words out. "Kids are - kids are innocent." Is the retort that eventually tumbles from your lips, but you sound unconvinced, even to your own ears, and you just know that Moriarty knows that he's rattled you, that he's uncovered a nerve and he can now press on it for his own entertainment.

"Innocence is a big lie," Moriarty's voice raises incrementally, and you think that this may be the closest he's come to yelling at you. He sounds annoyed, like he's chastising a child - or rather, like he's disappointed in you and is irritated that he is being faced with the reality that you are not like him in every way.

"They haven't done anything, they shouldn't die." Your protest seems rather weak.

Still, he begrudgingly concedes. "I'll find the worst, meanest kids out there, and I'll just get them sick - they won't die, but they'll feel like they want to. How about that?" He suggests, his jaw clenched and his eyes dark.

"Why even listen to me in the first place? Why not just kill them anyway?"

"Beeeeecause, you're my partner in crime. You're a step above the rest of the people here, Cinderella. So, since I'm such a giving person, I'll let the kids live. For you."

For the second time that day, you find yourself thanking him.

You don't think to question why he's doing something you'd like. Jim knows the reason, though. It's because there's only one other person who knows your brilliant mind the way he does, the other man who is obsessed with finding you - Sherlock Holmes. It's with an almost burning, fevered desperation that he wants Sherlock to know that you belong to him.

This is a dedication - a brand of possession, if one were to be simple about it.

#Jim Moriarty #jim moriarty x reader #bbc sherlock #moriarty is alive #x reader

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