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Throughout my career, I have been nearly shot, stitched, throttled, threatened, kissed, fucked, adored, and strangely, even a combination of the above at the same time.
Yet I am still as clueless about his next moves as I was six years ago.
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James Moriarty. Just his name was enough to make people shudder. They all feared him. Ran away from his as far as their trembling legs could carry them, only to be mercilessly hunted and skinned. Brutal. He was so beautifully brutal.
It was absurd to think that this man, was once a terrified boy, pleading for his life at the feet of a nasty street thug. The boy only wanted to learn more, and nothing else.
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There is a certain freshness about him, about his twisted state of mind. I constantly felt like burning coal was placed on my open wounds, and then poured over with freezing ice when I was around him. So I stayed around, as his most trusted sniper.
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Nobody could keep up. At one point, he even started teaching empty walls in his classroom. No responses. Everybody was so stupid. So stupid.
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Death never affected me so much before. The nerve of that bastard.
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YOU ARE READING
The Adventures of James Moriarty
Short StoryShort stories that describe Moriarty's childhood, current life, and career. Different aspects and times of his life are covered. Note: I like to write in third person, and if ever in first person, then in most probably Sebastian Moran's POV, or so...
