True Love

1.

I have always liked Sherlock. I think he is quite an interesting character. It pains me to say this, but he can be quite boring at times. On the other hand, I think it's adorable when he is solving his crimes. His face gets so flustered when he can't solve the case, his eyes look saddened and his eyebrows change angles. I would kill for him to look at me the same way he looks at John. Ever so caring, so, protective.

John and I don't get along very well. Nor do I with Sherlock, but I wish we could. Last time I saw Sherlock, I was in his apartment. I love him ever so much and if only he knew this. I know he isn't very good at doing all those human things, but he could change, I could change him. If I could just get near him, near his soft face with those curls hanging in front of his dreamy eyes. If I could get near him, I would show him what real love is like, not the mushy stuff you watch in movies.

I, of course, have a plan, but it will never work. Sherlock will never agree to it, and I would have to get John on board with it too. I can try, but Sherlock will probably see right through it. I mean, a consulting detective on a date with a consulting criminal. That will never go down well. But I have to give it a shot. For the man of my dreams.

•••

"John.....John.....JOHN!?" I shouted, trying to get his attention. After a minute or two of his name being called, Doctor John Watson turned around, his eyes looking around for his caller. I took out my phone and gave him a text:

Meet me at your place. 8pm. Don't be late - JM

I waited and watched until he pulled his phone out, looking down at it then around him to find me. By this point I had walked into the shadows, out of sight from John. John looked confused, looking at every person in sight carefully. I should probably give you some background information.

•••

As you probably already know, I am Professor James Moriarty, the world's first consulting criminal, arch nemesis of Sherlock Holmes. A few years ago, Sherlock and I had a little, incident, shall I say, on top of a building in London. Sherlock faked his death after seeing me shooting myself in the head.

Of course, you probably have a few questions. "Are you okay?" "Why would you kill yourself?" and the obvious, "How the fuck did you survive a gunshot to the head?"
The answer is simple; that wasn't me on the roof. No. It was one of my criminals looking for a job. He, of course, put himself forward, said death was better than what was going on in his life. I let him take the job. We got some expert make up artists, mad him look exactly like me and he sounded a little like me so Sherlock didn't notice.

I had to disappear from the earth, pretend I was dead. So I spent three years in hiding. I never stopped thinking about Sherlock. Every second of every day, he was the only thing I thought about.

•••

There I was, standing outside of 221B Baker Street, waiting for Sherlock to leave. Lestrade had an interesting case for him, I made sure of it. The door opened and a tall, slim figure emerged, and everything seemed to freeze, and I had time to look at him in detail. Pale skin, so soft looking and pure, the bluest eyes hat seemed to sparkle. The cheekbones seemed so beautiful and outlined, truly one of his better features. His hair looked like it would bounce with every single step he took. I wished I was the driver of the cab he was about to get into, I wished to be that close to him again, sharing a room and filling it with casual conversation.

Time seemed to go quicker after my little daydream, and I realised I was a minute late for my meeting with John. I dashed through the door and up the stairs, then I made sure I looked okay, before knocking on the door to 'The Consulting Room', or more commonly known, the living room. 
"Come in!" John called, and very quickly I opened the door, before casually sauntering into the room. John stared at me, his eyes looking me up and down. I knew what he was doing. He was doing the same as everyone. Looking at me so carefully, trying to figure out I they could believe what they were seeing. The expression on John's face changed very quickly, from confused to angry, then before I knew what happened, he had grabbed me by the collar and was now pressing me against the wall.
"YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD!" he shouted, raising his other fist. His voice sounded tearful yet scary.
"Well this is cozy. Nice to see you John," I said calmly, although I was concerned about what the doctor would do next, considering his raised arm and the circumstances. Suddenly, I fell to the ground. I stumbled up onto my feet, sorting my suit out and brushing the dust off.

"You put Sherlock through hell you did. Not a day went past when he would tell me how much he missed your little riddles, how much he missed your conversations, how much he missed you."
I looked at John, slightly amazed. I can't believe Sherlock actually missed me. The other thing I couldn't believe was that John had gone off at me, even though Sherlock did the same thing to him for two years. Did he say the same things to Sherlock?

"If you don't mind, I will wait here for Sherlock to return, I believe your daughter may want to see you," I said to John, a small smirk forming as I looked into his eyes. A look of panic spread across his face and he raced out the door. I took a seat in John's seat, and waited for Sherlock's arrival.