James Moriarty - The Devil's Descendant

Chapter 6

James had stood against the counter, leaning his body against the marble, tapping his fingers against the wooden cupboards. Internal battles had never felt so painful, the thoughts inside of his head made him boil with frustration, cut with the anger of no longer being in control of himself.

When that song infiltrated his mind, he was unable to stop himself from being affected by the lyrics. Imagine your worst nightmare, you are sat peacefully, content with life, then something comes along to stop that peace from being permanent, from being a part of your life that you wish would stay forever. Forever never last for long, forever ends at some point, everything has to end at some point. You can challenge the basics and attack the weaknesses of society and never get anywhere. You stand above the world, you watch them fight each other, you keep out of the way. Someone pushes you, or they fall into you, not on purpose because they were fighting with someone else, and now you become involved. You are in a fight you were staying out of to maintain peace. That peace soon gets destroyed. Someone is always wanting to bring you into the issue so they do not feel alone in the world so imperfect. 

Moran tried his best to do what he could in order to keep him sane. Getting him cups of tea, finding cups that Sherlock had not used to do his own experiments, use the sugar from a fresh bag instead of from the little cup left on the side.

Even though he was a criminal, he was far from wanting to give Moriarty poison. Come to think of it, he seemed to not understand why he had not decided to poison Moriarty sooner.

"You need me," he sipped the hot tea, pursing his lips together as they touched the rim of the glass, blowing on the hot liquid below.

"What?"

"Usually polite people would say excuse me, but you have never been the type to enjoy being polite," Moran laughed, it made him smile to hear his sarcastic comments, despite how much they burned him sometimes. He was addicted to getting burnt. The hospital visits, not so much. "You need me to protect you, the big old world out there would love to bring back hangings and tie the noose around your neck and mine. Before that happens, you need me to keep your secrets safe."

"Why would I need that?"

James sipped his tea again, blowing at the boiling contents below. "Because I have the fear factor that you have never been able to achieve since waling this world. You never will."

He placed the cup in the sink, tipping it down the drain. Its contents swirling around the drain until it went down the silver lighting. Things were not so rosy anymore, things were no longer being viewed in rose-tinted glasses. Everything was harsh and brilliant in the light, so incredulously stupid and idiotic. 

Footsteps were making the steps creak as they inched toward the room. Someone Moriarty had been waiting for all day. Before they entered, he took a seat on the client's chair in good fashion. It made those who had sat in it look desperate and needy, clingy and disgusting.

As Sherlock entered with John, someone else was waiting outside with them. They refused to come in, and he knew exactly why. Still, being cocky and confident would not get him anywhere, even though it was his forte, just like murder.

James had the confidence to go places that no one else would go, he went through the danger he should not go through, which made him the one who never had anything to worry about. Some things come in waves with him: they start small, then they become medium. If they continue to push him, like the moon, they get so big they can drown you entirely and kill you eventually. Once you accept that it is going to happen, everything becomes slightly easier, you learn how to swim despite the difficulties that you are faced with. You learn to swim across a current rather than swimming against it or with it. Then life becomes easier.

That is what Moran had learnt. They had a best friend relationship none of them will ever admit to. 

"She was here, Sherlock,"

"Who?" the look of surprise on his face, when he entered the room, spoke volumes, there in his eyes lay happiness.

"Your sister!" John snapped throwing a pile of newspapers on the ground, looking between Sherlock and Moriarty as he grabbed his laptop. "I might call this one the Devil's Descendant."

"How did you know?" Sherlock looked at John in pure disgust, usually, he was the first person to spot these things. Right now, he was unable to understand how he was here, why she was here, and if she really was and John's deduction was wrong.

"Sometimes, you look with simple eyes instead of trying to be clever,"

In his hand, he held a little red envelope with 'Sherlock' written in calligraphy. It was very fancy, the envelope of a very expensive origin. Why was it that everyone came into Sherlock's apartment when he was out? Maybe because it was easier for them to find answers in his little man cave.

"I do like that title, John,"

"Since when were you, my friend?" John snarled, putting his laptop down and heading to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Sherlock had insisted that they stayed out for a while in case Aella showed up and that she did. James had not seen or spoken to her for a few days.

"I don't have friends, I have enemies. As you have discovered I have more than one."

John sniffed the air, something smelt gone off and disgusting, something Sherlock must have been experimenting on before they left. Taking body parts from the morgue was certainly getting a little too common, heads and feet in the fridge, hearts stored in the freezer, eyeballs in cups. fingers and toes in ziplock bags and the cereal boxes filled with all different experiments. The microwave was a different story.

"Just so you know, we found Aella, the girl that was on the television,"

"She's not just a girl, John," Sherlock was adamant he would get back his own level of confidence after John managed to outdo him. "She is Moriarty's daughter." he smiled, satisfied and contented.

"Isn't it a shame you didn't notice that Alina was here," James sat in John's chair realising how much more comfortable it was before John could even claim it again. "Looks like John is smarter than you think."

"Observant!" he shouted from the kitchen with a mouth stuffed with biscuits. "Get out of my chair." John was spraying biscuit crumbs allover Moriarty's hair, something he was never going to take kindly to

"Ew!" he brushed the crumbs off of the shoulders of his jacket, giving John a disgusted look. "Say it, don't spray it." shifting over to Sherlock's chair, he watched Sherlock pace around the room with the card in his hand. "I told you before Sherly, your sister is dangerous, and so is my daughter."

Sherlock's eyes snapped to Moriarty, his feet walking toward him. He took the clients seat and sat on it with his feet widely apart. "Your daughter has just left the building, and I know she is. Why do you think she was able to do what she did to those people in less than a minute? There was no hesitation."

"Truly, the Devil's Descendant," he picked up his laptop beginning to write the first part of the story.

In one flash, Moriarty stood, snatching the laptop from his hands and smashing it on the ground. Heat blazed to him faze like Aella and her whirlwinds. "You dare write anything about this and I promise us capturing you will be nothing less than the hell that some people believe. Did you ever think to believe that I own hell?"

Picking up the laptop from the ground, Sherlock started to read the card before he threw it out of the open window.

James Moriarty is a good friend of mine Sherlock, you are my brother. Maybe it's time that I return to cause you the pain I always wanted. We may have been okay at one point with me trying to kill you and Mycroft, but I am now going to play. As they always say, there's a fighter coming. - Alina

"So, she is back," he sighed, handing the letter to Moriarty who gave the laptop back to Sherlock.

"She was always back, Sherlock. You know you can never escape Alina Holmes."

When she cries and she bellows you will always know,

The fighter is coming no matter the rain or snow,

Sometimes it takes one hand to look at what she did,

To cry and sing and whither and look a how much you bid,