#jm.main

[moriarty-uk]

He was soon borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance.

Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

[moriarty-uk]

Letters to Sebastian: So here we are.

Sebastian, 

It seems silly to write you a letter while I’m sitting next to you in bed, but you're asleep and I’m not, so here we are.

So here we are.

It sounds like the beginning of a book, doesn’t it? It also sounds like the ending of one. Maybe that’s exactly the sort of phrase we need to define whatever this is. The end of a book, the beginning of the sequel. For our sake, let’s hope the sequel is as good as the original. No, let’s be crazy, hm, and hope it’s better? No repeats. No botched deaths, no extra boring Sherlock, just time and mischief and cleverness as far as the eye can see. Let’s be kings, Sebastian, we could buy a castle and name it something convoluted and cheesy like Moriarty Manor. We could get a hairless cat and name it Beethoven von Vivaldi. We could do something no one expects; we could be in love.

You would smirk to know, Sebastian, that saying “we could be in love” makes the bile rise in the back of my throat while simultaneously making my mouth as dry as cotton. It’s the very definition of the word disgusting. I hate it, the word love. I hate the idea of love, I hate the assumption of love and yet I can think of no other bastarding word that suits the way I feel about you. Even right now, love feels too cheap. Love is February 14th, the single most repulsive and obnoxious holiday on the calendar. Love is Pretty In Pink at a drive in cinema. Love is cheap roses bought instead of a wild daisy picked. It’s too much money spent on perfect diamonds when all of the miracle resides in the pocks of their “imperfect” neighbors. Did you know, in every “imperfect” diamond, there's a piece of the ancient earth, trapped within the carbon? Normal people see imperfections, I see history. I see a hallowed glimpse of what once was. I see the planet. 

To see the planet is to see a galaxy.

To see a galaxy is to see the universe. 

Funny enough, I see the same things in you.

So here we are, imperfect diamonds. I recognize the cracks in you, you recognize the cracks in me and we coexist like binary stars. Is that love, Sebastian? Or is it science?

Or is it just.

Whatever it is, I’m in it with you, this mud that makes me want to strangle you when you’re sleeping. You look like an eagle -- you have that same reverence and dignity. I want to ruin it. I want to ruin you, paint you black and bury you in a basement. What makes you different is that I know I could never ruin you. You’d dig yourself out, the paint would wash off and there you’d be, good as new, your brow arched, giving me THAT look while you turn your attention back to your newspaper. 

“James, play your bloody piano,” you’d say and I would, because you’d know it was exactly what I needed to do. 

I hate you. 

You should balk at those words. You really should. However when I say I hate you, you know it’s with every fibre of my being and that it’s the highest compliment I know how to give.

So here we are.

Yours, James

[moriarty-uk]

Letters to Sebastian: Bleeding with you.

Sebastian,

It’s that time of night where you’re asleep and I’m not. To be fair, that’s every night, it’s just that some nights I’m more introspective than others. When I am, I think of things to tell you -- things I can’t tell you, things I don’t want to tell you. All of them are things I say in these letters because saying them out loud seems wrong. It seems cheap, letting these words disappear between us like the ghosts of our breath in a cold, early morning fog like they were as simple as “good morning”. They’re not, at least not for me.

You talk in your sleep sometimes. You grumble, you sigh. And then I sigh and instantly hate you. I hate when you make me sigh. I hate when you make me moan. I hate when your hand roughly pushes my face to the bed and holds it there while I growl my pent up spite back at you. I hate that you growl in return against the back of my ear, but there’s no spite there, just seduction and chocolate and velvet and chills and an ache that grabs the core of me and turns me inside out and melts me. 

You make me raw, you make a wound that never heals and the fact that it exists makes me feel more human and that terrifies me.

Some people call their sores their hearts but I know the truth. They’re wooounds. My heart is a raw, red, bleeding wound and you hold it, furiously beating in your big hands. Your fingers make a cage around it while my own claw and scratch and plead with your titanium knuckles to let me heal it... to let me destroy it. Because when I feel, I feel exposed.

But your fingers have become my ribs and they say, “your wound belongs to me”. 

I’m raw and beating beside you, Sebastian and you’re asleep. What do I do with this when you’re asleep? I want to tell you that when I’m with you and I feel... I don’t feel exposed, I feel hidden. I feel... untouchable.

So wake up with the sun, for just a moment, and read this and know...

I don’t mind when I bleed with you.

Yours, Jim

[moriarty-uk]

About love.

[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]

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On a gathering storm comes A tall handsome man In a dusty black coat with A red right hand

He'll wrap you in his arms, Tell you that you've been a good boy He'll rekindle all the dreams It took you a lifetime to destroy He'll reach deep into the hole Heal your shrinking soul But there won't be a single thing that you can do