Moriarteaze
The Consulting Criminal
Well this was about it.
Jim Moriarty was a man who had everything and nothing, at exactly the same time. Sitting in a secret and luxurious flat in the heart of Mayfair, he watched the television with a stone dead expression. The thing about the voices, as he had once tried to explain and describe to Tiger, was that it was not as if someone were speaking to you. It was not- it was so damned hard to impart to another person what it was like. It was indescribable, really, and he knew that much. The scotch and ice in his hand was long melted, and he set it down finally, untouched. The therapist all those years ago- at one of the forced sessions his mother had insisted on- had asked him if he were depressed, and then explained, in very technical and rather distressing terms, just precisely what clinical depression was. Young Jim had listened, and then finally merely shrugged. He had no real idea if he had this frightening thing or not. Was he sad at times, for no reason. No ... not for no reason. Savagely bullied and picked on for his small size and pretty face, Jim had had a rough go at school. But the sadness was there before the troubles.
Tonight, he was lonely. He had texted Sherlock back and forth endlessly, something he never did. Truth be told, he needed the contact. Sherlock was always happy to indulge, and at one point seemed concerned:
Sometimes it seems easier to just end the whole show. JM
Are you bluffing or for once, not gaming me? SH
If this were a game tonight I'd be in a better frame of mind. Forget it, Sherlock. JM
Are you actually reaching out for help? I am not mocking you. Tell me the truth, for once. SH
Jim didn't answer.
Instead he texted Mycroft. Mycroft was no fool, and the immediate response was: either submit yourself for help or there is nothing I can do. The offer is here, open and waiting. I could commit you against your will and you'd just break out. Waste of my time and energy. MH.
The loneliness bit at his heart, and Jim marveled at this a little. Most of the time he was detached from most everything. Nothing really ever felt real. He knew he was sick. But it was more than that. His soul yearned tonight, treacherous thing that it was, and all he wanted was someone's arms around him and words of kindness. Yet this made him blister inwardly in self loathing. The extent of weakness was disgusting now.
Give me a reason, he thought blankly. Give me a reason to exist at all.
Jim Moriarty was a man who had everything and nothing, at exactly the same time. Sitting in a secret and luxurious flat in the heart of Mayfair, he watched the television with a stone dead expression. The thing about the voices, as he had once tried to explain and describe to Tiger, was that it was not as if someone were speaking to you. It was not- it was so damned hard to impart to another person what it was like. It was indescribable, really, and he knew that much. The scotch and ice in his hand was long melted, and he set it down finally, untouched. The therapist all those years ago- at one of the forced sessions his mother had insisted on- had asked him if he were depressed, and then explained, in very technical and rather distressing terms, just precisely what clinical depression was. Young Jim had listened, and then finally merely shrugged. He had no real idea if he had this frightening thing or not. Was he sad at times, for no reason. No ... not for no reason. Savagely bullied and picked on for his small size and pretty face, Jim had had a rough go at school. But the sadness was there before the troubles.
Tonight, he was lonely. He had texted Sherlock back and forth endlessly, something he never did. Truth be told, he needed the contact. Sherlock was always happy to indulge, and at one point seemed concerned:
Sometimes it seems easier to just end the whole show. JM
Are you bluffing or for once, not gaming me? SH
If this were a game tonight I'd be in a better frame of mind. Forget it, Sherlock. JM
Are you actually reaching out for help? I am not mocking you. Tell me the truth, for once. SH
Jim didn't answer.
Instead he texted Mycroft. Mycroft was no fool, and the immediate response was: either submit yourself for help or there is nothing I can do. The offer is here, open and waiting. I could commit you against your will and you'd just break out. Waste of my time and energy. MH.
The loneliness bit at his heart, and Jim marveled at this a little. Most of the time he was detached from most everything. Nothing really ever felt real. He knew he was sick. But it was more than that. His soul yearned tonight, treacherous thing that it was, and all he wanted was someone's arms around him and words of kindness. Yet this made him blister inwardly in self loathing. The extent of weakness was disgusting now.
Give me a reason, he thought blankly. Give me a reason to exist at all.
