Not even sorry
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@thespidermoriarty
Not even sorry
You have twitter running around saying , oh…that must mean Sherlock is gay, when it absolutely doesn’t.We are trivialising a serious subject…[Moffat]
Has Moriarty seductively lick the barrel of a gun whilst participating in eye sex with Sherlock Holmes. Reveals later that Sherlock’s mind conjured this whole scenario up.
What the fuck does that mean then Moffat…TELL ME!
crimescenesandviolins:
All Sherlock had to do was let go of the grip he held on Moriarty’s wrist and he’d be out of immediate danger, but it wasn’t immediate danger that he was scared for. It was losing his only leverage. It was what happened after he let go.
“No,” he replied through gritted teeth, as he needed all his strength to stop Moriarty from pulling him over the edge of St. Barts. “Not like this. I don’t want it to be over just yet.” All true, but not exactly what was going through his mind. Though these words were more likely to have the effect on Moriarty that he was going for.
He didn’t want to hear what Sherlock was saying, but he couldn’t deny that the sentiment got to him. He sometimes forgot not everyone felt the same way about living and dying. To him being alive was simply staying alive and if by dying he could create something fantastic, he would do so. But Sherlock wasn’t going to let him go. Sherlock didn’t think it was his day to die just yet, but then again, that was kind of the point here.
It was just a shame that he’d mentioned how he didn’t want it to be over--not just his life with John, but their games. But he couldn’t sacrifice this piece in the puzzle just to play on a little longer-- or maybe he could?
“We have to fall together, Sherlock,” he stated, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s. He was no longer pulling, but he wasn’t trying to get up either. “We’d look so good together. Such a sexy, tangled mess on the floor...” His gaze dropped and he smiled for a moment, but then his expression turned determined. “Pull me up, Sherlock.”
crimescenesandviolins:
If he let go, he’d lose his only clean way out. Then he’d have to make the jump and disappear off the face of the earth. He’d have to leave John behind for god knows how long and he wouldn’t see Baker Street again for months. His hand clenched tighter around Moriarty’s wrist, using all his strength to keep the man from falling, while simultaneously ensuring he wouldn’t be tugged over the edge with him.
He’d accounted for the gun. But not for this; Moriarty’s death wish. “Don’t let go,” he said again, forcefully, while never looking away from Moriarty’s eyes. He looked so ready to fall to his death that it made Sherlock sick. He’d thought about it on numerous occasions in his life–such a thing was only natural when you had too much time for too many a thought–but now was not the moment for it.
He had to say something to make Jim Moriarty change his mind. “The gun,” he stated. “Think.”
Jim didn’t want to think. His mind was made up. They were going over, together.
The gun. It had never gone off because Sherlock had expected it. Sherlock had rigged it, but when? How?
He put his feet against the wall and grabbed a firmer hold of Sherlock’s arm, but instead of climbing upwards, he pushed his feet against the building, making himself lean back, ready to pull Sherlock down with him. It wouldn’t take that much, would it?
The penny only fell later. His brain was being slow, probably because he was hanging down the side of a building. Sherlock had rigged the fall too.
“It won’t be ready if we fall now, together,” Moriarty spoke in a low tone, pushing backwards as hard as he could while still holding onto Sherlock as tightly as possible. He had to fall with him.
“Don’t you dare let go!”
“You’re me... Thank you, Sherlock Holmes, thank you... As long as I’m alive, you can save your friend. You’ve got a way out. Well, good luck with that.”
One move, the final move and all would be solved. He didn’t even think twice. This was what was supposed to happen. It was this or ending the game and that wasn’t an option, never an option.
The gun was in his mouth and his hand was in Sherlock’s.
He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He didn’t understand. Empty gun. The gun dropped.
He had been ready to give everything for Sherlock’s fall, anything at all. His life was meant to end when he pulled that trigger and yet it hadn’t. Adrenaline surged through him, but he didn’t use it to feel alive--no, he used it for the only other thing he could think of doing. Together, then.
He almost tackled Sherlock, but ensured they wouldn’t tumble over, not until they got to the edge. He shoved Sherlock towards the edge, beginning to shove him onto the ledge. It all went so quickly. They were fighting, Sherlock trying to save himself and Jim trying to kill them both. He pulled again, altered his weight to pull Sherlock over the edge. Just one step and they’d topple, one more ounce of weight towards the edge and--
Suddenly he was falling, his hands clenched around Sherlock’s arms in an attempt to pull him along, but the fall ended. He was hanging over the edge and his heart was racing. He was scared, he was determined. They had to die. Sherlock had to come too.
“Come over with me,” he spoke with difficulty, looking up at Sherlock with wide-eyes. He had accepted his fate when he’d stuck the gun in his mouth, he wasn’t going to turn back now.
hurt meme.
“ i got you. it’s gonna be okay, you’re going to be okay.”
“i feel like everyone’s miles away from me.”
“my mind is a dark place. you don’t want to be there.”
“i know this hurts, but you have to stay awake.”
“don’t close your eyes, please don’t close your eyes!”
“i just want to be numb, i don’t want to feel anything.”
“please don’t do this, don’t act like you care.”
“you don’t care, nobody cares, just leave.”
“you’re my friend, of course i fucking care.”
“i can’t give up on you, so please don’t give up on yourself.”
“i love you so much, i forgot what hating myself felt like.”
“i fucked up, why do you not care?”
“i can’t walk, just go on without me.”
“you have broken ribs, take it easy.”
“i have no idea how to do cpr.”
“whose blood is that?”
“apply pressure to the wound, don’t let go.”
“don’t you dare fucking let go!”
“what the hell happened to you?”
“are they dead? did you kill them?”
“do you know what you’ve done?”
“you’re either with me or against me.”
“who the hell did this to you?”
“are you alright? you hit your head pretty hard…”
“i can’t see!! what’s happening to me?”
“when was the last time you ate?”
“what do you mean you’re fine? you are not fine!”
“i’m fine, it’s just a flesh wound, i’ll be okay.”
“for how long? how long were you bottling this up?“
“there’s so much blood, you won’t last.”
“are you… throwing up in there?”
“why aren’t you eating?”
“just breathe… you’re okay, i promise, just breathe.”
“i can’t breathe, i can’t –”
“i woke up, & you were gone.”
“just tell me something, was it really worth it?”
“it’s okay to hurt & breakdown. you don’t have to be strong all the time.”
I want to break free I want to break free from your lies
London’s eyes narrowed like he was trying to remember the other’s face, rather than remember how he’d ended up in the gutter. That should already be a dead giveaway of his state of mind, his priorities were definitely messed up.
“Maybe,” he replied, trying to push himself up off the floor. He should probably get back home and sleep this off. “I think I know you from…” London began, but the sentence never went anywhere as getting up took all his focus. The world swayed once he was on his feet and it took a lot of willpower not to simply fall back down. “Something important.”
Jim helped the other stand up, grabbing hold of the man’s arms to keep him upright. He should probably be troubled by the guy’s words, but instead he was only intrigued. He’d been bored out of his mind on his way home and coming across a barely conscious body had seemed like fun. This could potentially get very interesting.
“Something important?” he inquired. “Not sure if I’ve ever been involved in something important,” he stated, before looking the other over. “You seem to be under the influence of something. Can you remember what you took?”
Trying to remember how he’d ended up here proved to be impossible. It wasn’t the first time this’d happened, but it had definitely been a while. “Yeah,” he replied unspecifically. London looked up and for the first time took a good look of the guy he was talking to. “Hey, don’t I know you?”
Jim pursed his lips and shook his head in response to the guy’s inquiry. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I don’t know you... I used to work in IT, at St. Bart’s... haven’t been doing much since.” He smiled at the other and looked him over to see if he was injured. He had no idea who this person was and his inquiry had seemed completely out of place. Nobody knew Jim if Jim didn’t know them, unless they worked for him and he’d forgotten their face, but it was unlikely that someone he didn’t seem to recognise at all would know his face. Those at the bottom usually didn’t.
“Do you think you can get up?”
“Do you remember anything?”
“Yes,” London began, looking rather dazed. “I remember– err… Actually I’m not sure.”
He hadn’t intended on getting involved in anything on his way back to his building, but on his walk he’d come across someone unconscious, or very close to it. His curiosity (not his good heart) got the better of him and he’d approached the person.
“Were you drinking? Taking anything? Hit your head?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes before looking back at Jim for what was possibly the first time that night. “Well, at least one of us is enjoying ourselves.”
Jim rolled his eyes back at how Sherlock sounded, before sighing. The news did many things to him and one of them was sadden him, but he’d been fed up with his disappointment in people long ago and instead of letting it get to him, he’d shut it out. He loved the news now, it was his entertainment. “Go on then, Sherlock, have a little rant,” he spoke belittlingly, but there was a tone of earnestness in his voice too.
“Worked up isn’t the right word,” Sherlock retorted, ignoring the other’s intense gaze as best he could. He hadn’t started this conversation to be judged for it, although it was an inevitable consequence to starting any conversation with Jim Moriarty. “You must be having the time of your life, no doubtfully.”
Jim pursed his lips and lifted up his hands. “Well, I don’t dislike it,” he replied, exaggerating his words. He moved to get more comfortable, but was still looking straight at Sherlock. “I find it desperately entertaining. I find you entertaining too.”
@thespidermoriarty
“Imagine if you’d really died. You would’ve missed the world ending. Wouldn’t that have been a shame?” Sherlock asked mockingly.
Jim lazily cast his glance aside at Sherlock and chuckled at Sherlock’s remark. “You get yourself so very worked up about these little people,” he replied, before pushing himself up a little to get a better look at Sherlock.
messier102:
Hugo was looking through the pictures that had been taken during those few seconds he had been shoved in front of the car. The figure had come out of nowhere, it seemed. Two arms had stretched out towards him and hence he had been shoved back onto the pavement. It gave him shivers just looking at the pictures, especially as his shoulders still felt icy cold where he’d been ‘touched’. “N-no,” Hugo replied, holding out the camera after having zoomed in on the face. If anything, it looked concerned.
“N-not go-good at ta-t– talking.”
He nodded a little when he saw the photos. “Then why was it so angry at me...?” he asked. Jealousy? Was it jealous that he couldn’t be close to Hugo? Was it angry because Jim hadn’t believed in it? What was it? He breathed in deeply.
“If you can hear us, knock on the bin twice,” he then said, looking at the other while waiting anxiously.
messier102:
Was that supposed to be at all comforting. The fact that they’d been followed all this way, despite of their running was already unnerving enough, without how cold he suddenly felt. He was trembling worse than before and he felt nauseous to his stomach.
“Y-y-you c-could’ve–” he started, but he figured they had no time to argue that. Nevertheless, he now had less trust in the other meaning well, as he had almost been run over by a car. There would’ve been no way the other could’ve known he would be saved by a ghost. “Wh-why would he w-w-w-ant to kill me?” Hugo asked, though he couldn’t deny that was the thought he’d had from the start. The only explanation he could give for that was that William was lonely and wanted Hugo’s company, but that didn’t explain why he’d been shoved out of the way of the car, when it would’ve been the perfect opportunity for their reunion.
If he was going to be given a hard time for trying something out, he was going to be annoyed. He’d just ensured that they had a piece of information they hadn’t had before. “I hardly know anything about you or him-- it-- do I? You might have been the reason he died, for all I know.” He was looking around the place, having no idea what to do. “Does he look as angry on those photos?” he asked, breathing out heavily, his heart racing.
“Maybe we should try to talk to it. We might figure something out that way.”
messier102:
Hugo didn’t know what to expect, as this whole situation was absolutely ridiculous and terrifying. He didn’t know what the other was planning, and so he was caught off guard when he was suddenly shoved into the street, especially as his thoughts had been elsewhere. He looked up at the speeding car and tried to rush out of the way, only to feel another shove that forced him in the other direction and back onto the pavement he’d just been shoved off.
He hadn’t seen it, because he’d been looking through the lens, through which he couldn’t actually see anything. But as he saw Hugo get shoved back towards the pavement, that was all the explanation they needed, right?
He lowered the camera and handed it to Hugo, so he could see the pictures himself. “It’s on your side, that much is clear,” he said. “Or it wants to kill you itself. Also a possibility.” Where was it now?