James Moriarty - The Devil's Descendant

Chapter 9

Alina stood before him with her long, curly locks, those deep green eyes gazing into his so longingly it hurt. Inside of them, he saw the inner feelings whirring around like clockwork, they were not backwards, going the wrong way around time. Each and every motion of her hair floating in the breeze was indicative of her intent to be gracious and courteous towards James.

Even though he was entranced by her beauty, the thought of putting his gun down had never once crossed his mind.

"I am sure you are thinking of firing that gun, but you would be wrong to think it would do you any good," 

"And why would that be?" he took one step toward her, as if she was a bomb that was ticking, ready to blow. Nothing he had not seen before, for he was the greatest that ever existed. No one could stop or change his mind, just like Alina. She was hypnotic in her delicate ways, she was not manly, or rough, but her gentle nature made her true intents even more surprising to her victims. 

"You know me, James. Sherlock is someone we both cross from time to time, would you not want to mess with him all over again," she let him ponder the things he could do, it was almost ecstasy for his mind. "We both enjoy the thrill it brings to us, the adrenaline pumping through our veins."
"Adrenaline has been pumped from the tops of my kidneys since I was born, Alina. I am far too used to it by now."
"Do you still enjoy it?"

Stepping one foot forward again, he needed only one more for the gun to be touching her forehead, for the gun to stroke the skin. "Have you any reason to believe I don't?" 

Taking the last step, he smiled above her, breathing atop her head. Alina was shorter than he was, which made her all the more delicate, including her dark features that contrasted with her pale skin. 

When it touched her skin, a million sparks flew through her body. After being in Cudura, she had not been this close to anyone in forever, especially with Aella back on the scene, Moran had been taken away from her, no one explained to her what was going. Did she deserve an explanation? Maybe, maybe not. Nothing is ever certain unless you ask someone if it can be certain. Unfortunately, you cannot know everything, that is never the point. The point is, what you don't know won't hurt you. 

"Didn't think I did?" she grinned, putting her hand on the top of the gun, pushing it down out of the way. "You know I never had anything against you, or an intent to kill you, but I know someone who wants me dead."

"If it's not me, then who?"

Stopped. Ticking stopped. 

"Who?" he begged her to tell him, he hated not knowing. "Stop playing games, Alina! You know something I think I need to know, and if I don't know I might as well just kill you."

"No need, she's here!" 

Alina took off on her left foot, running toward the end of the road, darting to her left, running in between storage containers. She climbed up on some of them and jumped down to the other side. In all the excitement, James was far from noticing who it was she was running from. This madness had to stop, he needed answers. 

Whoever she was afraid of was coming for her any second, she knew where she was for her to have the desire to run away from a fight. From all the years of knowing the young Holmes sister, he had never known her to run away from an incident she could get bloody in, it never struck her as something she would never want to be a part in. 

Perhaps, for once, he was not supposed to know where she was supposed to be.

Walking away from the River Thames, he strode toward the road, his hands in his pocket. Wiping a slight water drop from the corner of his eyes, he snapped his hand across his face, growling at himself for showing any emotion. For feeling an emotion he had not felt in his life. Worry, concern, anxiety. Something he had not anticipated feeling. Feelings are powerful things that plague the mind whenever you least expect them, to creep up on you. Sometimes it takes a master to become the servant. 

"Where are you Aella?" he hushed under his voice walking down the road to his left. 

A figure walked toward him slowly, sluggishly and painfully. It was in agony. Broken. Why did he feel like running toward it? He did. He took his feet into a run, running toward the figure he deemed to be a girl. He needed to know if it was his daughter or not. Before he was able to reach her, she collapsed onto the pavement, her hand clutching her stomach, her hands covered in her own blood. 

In agony, she heaved her chest in and out, shrieking in pain. Almost too much to bear, the sheer sincere pain of the wound delivered to her stomach needed reparation. Sweat dripped from her forehead. Away from her wound, she took the other arm to wipe away the sweat and push herself up against the wall with all her might. Her hand latched onto her clothes, ripping the trouser leg as she pulled her hand away, her agony the sheer display of what it meant to be hurt, to be in pain.

Scarlet streams were being emancipated from her body. Moriarty had no idea why he cared, or why he was so drawn to her. The world around him was stopping as he took the pocket square from his suit to hold against the wound. 

"Stay with me," he pressed onto the wound as hard as he could, pressing to stop the bleeding. Her hand grasped onto the top of his shoulder, squeezing it tightly. It made him flinch when she grabbed his hand, pinching his skin. 

She held her head down, the black features hidden under her curtains. Everything she was feeling was nothing she wanted him to see, but why? Why did she not want him to see? Was it shame?

"Aella," his voice trailed off, holding his hand against her back, letting her head tilt forward to see her wound. "Who did this to you?"

No response. That was the way she wanted it to stay, for now, that was all she wanted. 

"Tell me. Who did this to you?" his temper was flaring, higher and higher. He did not long being ignored, his questions not answered, but he needed to know. After all, it was his daughter who he was supposed to take care of, protect from danger, stop her from ever experiencing the pain others go through. He wanted her to be free from the hands of those who want her to be dead rather than alive.

Unlike now, he would have had the answer tortured out of her. However, this was his daughter, this was his child. Although he enjoyed the sight of people being in pain, this was definitely something else, beyond his capabilities. His capabilities included wounding those to who he did not relate or have any connection. Which is why he hated seeing his daughter in this painful state.

"Stop shouting!" her face contorted, tilting it to face her father. The front strands of her hair were sodden in a mixture of blood and salty tears. All of it was dry elsewhere from the water she had swum in an hour earlier. "You never ever understand, no one ever does. You never will. You never can."

Trailing off into the midst of the air, she cried, grasping the wound tightly, filling the air with her shrieks to the moon. Its glistening showed her everything was far from being okay. Not anymore. 

"You never can, you never will. No one understands. No one ever understands, stop trying to understand,"

"I hav-"

"Stop trying to understand!" she shrieked in his face, grabbing her fathers shirt, pulling him toward her, then letting it go. "I'm sorry, so so sorry, please don't hurt me." 

"I wo-"
"Don't hurt me!" she wailed, crying heavily on her cheeks, calling out to the sky for advice or a reason, looking to the stars for help to escape her weakness. 

"In your weakness lies strength, Aella." 

Standing up, he brushed his back from the dirt off of the ground, starting to walk away. With her one good hand, she reached out and grasped his suit jacket, her eyes begging him not to leave her.

"In my weakness, you make me strong, Dad."

Weaknesses aren't problems they free you of most things,

Sometimes you need direction depending on your feeling,

Whatever it is you need to do,

Do it well so you will never fail, because she loves you.