#jm.locked

[moriarty-uk]

Locked Entry: The one about wearing Sebastian Moran.

I don’t sleep well, but he does.  

What does he dream, I wonder? Have I ever wondered before?

It’s odd that sometimes you put your mouth on someone else’s mouth and suddenly you want to know eeeeevery siiiiingle last thing about them. 

Curious. 

It’s obsession for me on a level that’s impossible to describe, even to myself. When I try, I sound like Buffalo Bill from the Silence of the Lambs. 

Maybe that’s fitting. Would you fuck me? I’d fuck me...

Like a Symbiote, I want to crawl onto and into every inch of his skin, flex my fingers into his, breathe with his lungs, taste with his tongue. I want to settle in and feel the blood in our veins, feel the thrum of his pulse and the beat of his heart in our chest. I want to glare out at the world with his eyes so it knows I’m like a virus; in there so deep, it’s impossible to cure him. 

I carelessly own everyone of use to me -- pick and mix and throw them away. I don’t own Sebastian and I both admire that and feel driven insane by it. He doesn’t need me, he survived without me for five years, but he wants me (obviously) and he has a revenge hard on he still nurses every time Sherlock’s name comes up in conversation. He’s suave about it, however, that’s what makes him so gorgeously infuriating. He’s so fucking, deliciously suave. It manifests casually as a passing comment while he browses the papers. 

“I could just shoot him, you know, James.” 

“He has two ankles, I could just take out one.”

His voice is like posh British chocolate, deep, smooth and unhurried. He’ll card-count a man out of all his money and they’ll still line up to shake his hand at the end of the night. That’s the only kind of person that could continue to hold my attention. He will embrace you, knife you in the back and you’ll still thank him for it while he gently shushes you and lays you down. 

“Shh...”

That’s power. My favourite puppet. My favourite mask. My favourite sanctuary.

He’s the second most dangerous man in the UK and he’s mine. God help anyone that gets in our way.

[moriarty-uk]

Locked Entry: The one with Sebastian’s birthday.

I'm not a sentimental man. I don’t subscribe to testaments of “love”. I’ve been told most my life that love doesn’t touch me. I’m not benefitted by it’s proposed gifts. I’m not keen on meeting it, shaking it’s hand and settling in with it for tea.

Yet here I am, sitting next to a man on the couch, in comfortable silence while I do a bit of work. Sebastian entertains himself. He sustains himself, supports himself. He has investments and hobbies. He has a life, a house, his dogs. He is only here because I ask him to be, yes, but also simply because he wants to be. He doesn’t need me. That intrigues me, it fascinates me. He could walk away at any time and move on with his life. Part of me thinks he should. It’s a new feeling, I confess. Maybe it’s something like love that makes me feel that he’d be better off doing so. 

All the while I think things like that, though, my inherent and unrepentant selfishness is quietly appalled by it. I find myself worrying over his intentions. I find myself pondering the amount of me he can take before he feels like it isn’t worth it anymore. I ponder my reactions to what feels like that inevitability, both bad and worse.

The last time I felt true jealousy was over my brother’s nick name, Jamie. He went by Jamie, I went by James. But I became possessive over the name and it enraged me when anyone besides myself called him that. Because of that, he formally took up James and I took Jim. I’ve been Jim ever since. Jamie is too sacred for anyone but me to use, still to this day. And even then I pick and choose my moments to use it.

Do I love Sebastian Moran? What are my true, unselfish capabilities in that department. Infatuation, obsession, those can be mistaken for love -- they are all the time. But this feels different. He feels different. It could be lust, but even to me that word offends in regards to him. He is so much more than that. He’s more than I’m afraid I will never be ready to acknowledge, more than I’m ready to know. So instead, my life sits at an ever evolving crossroads. And instead of him being with me at every split in the road, he’s holding the street signs; one with him pointing to everything we’ve become comfortable with, and the other with him pointing into an unknown with fog so dense, I can’t see at all where the path leads.

I ask myself: What would I do?

I also ask: What would Sebastian do?

Sebastian would wink with his elegant, boysih grin before nodding to the hidden path. He would arch his brow in question and already I know my answer.

I’m lost without him. He’s my crutch. He’s my diametric. He’s the calm in my storm and the obsession I can no longer deny and shake off. 

And so into the unknown we go. I choose my path and with him in front of me, for once I follow, waiting for hell to swallow us whole. Here we are, he and I, always together, two devils in designer clothes, lighting cigarettes on the scalding hot sulfur flames.

He and I, in general. 

Us.

Would I take a bullet for you, Sebastian? We had the conversation once. I told you I didn’t want to know if you would, because I knew what it meant. You said to ask again if I ever want to know.

I want to know the answer now. 

I would fall with your knife, Sebastian. Happy Birthday. (I’m glad you liked the time piece. x )

[moriarty-uk]

LOCKED ENTRY: The one where Jim has feelings and HATES it.

Helloo, me, it’s me again. 

Isn’t that from a Megadeth song? I think it is, but I can’t be bothered to go look. In any event, it goes -- this is a private entry, after all, my eyes only.

My game with Sherlock has begun on two levels, I drop him bread crumbs here and there for a larger gamble but woven through them I’ve left him a bit of a tantalizing personal mystery to play with. He doesn’t know it has anything to do with me yet but he will, in time. He just has to be a tiny bit clever about names to figure that out. 

Sebastian is in on it, of course. Sebastian is in on everything, even if he has nothing to do with it. Sebastian is annoying in a way I don’t want to abide, but I find myself frustratingly helpless to it. He knows me. Sometimes I’m surprised by how much and I shouldn’t be because he’s been working with me for so long. But things are different now. After this weekend, things are bizarrely different. Intimately different. Contently different. 

I’m not someone who feels contentment. I’m not conventionally affectionate. When I’m outwardly quiet, my brain remains a cacophony of noise -- ideas, mischief, music, a hundred different thoughts in a hundred different voices.

So why does all that quiet when I see him first thing in the morning in his glasses, his eyes still tired, jaw darkly scruffy, while he fiddles with his stupid coffee machine? It’s disgusting. I hate it. I hate him and I hate myself and I hate everything to do with his gross hunting cabin and his disgustingly attractive sense of humor and his cool, calm, unimpeded confidence. 

He’s awful. 

Sebastian Moran is awful. I can’t abide it. And yet here I sit in my living room while he talks to a bookie and smokes a cigarette on the balcony of my flat. I can see him through the door and he’s got the look on his face that tells me he thinks the man on the other end of the line is full of shit. Instead of plotting something lucrative, I’m plotting to throw his contact lenses away like I’ve been doing for YEARS now, just so he has to put his glasses on.

We both pretend we don’t know how they disappear. But we both know exactly how they disappear! We know! I know he knows, and he knows I know he knows and we continue this contact lenses charade. 

Why do we do this?? It’s senseless. It’s bloody senseless.