Andrew Scott's portrayal of Moriarty happens to be one of the scariest things I have ever seen on television. I have to say that I have enjoyed the new series Sherlock and watching that last scene and all of the many ways he fleshed out Jim Moriarty caused me to get an image in my head. Evil comes from somewhere, psychopaths don't grow on trees, judging from his slight build and high pitched voice I developed a theory about how this monster was made.
SPOILERS for The Great Game
I hope this is as frightening to you as it was to me.
All characters in the BBC series Sherlock are owned by BBC and their creators not me.
James, not Jimmy, not Jim...his name was James.
Of course that wasn't what the Brighton gang called him was it?
The little boy in the corner with the dark eyes and hair, the high pitched voice and the awkward manners, he just stared from the sidelines hoping they would pass him by, but they never did.
The pool...That was the worst.
"Hey Creep! Why don't you jump on in?"
"My Mum wrote a note...the teacher has it, I have a cold..."
"You don't have a cold I haven't even heard you sniff!"
"Leave me alone, Carl, please..."
"Say it again, Creep..."
"I said please..."
"Enjoy the drink, Creep."
"Look at 'em, he can't even swim!"
"Let him thrash ! He'll learn after a minute."
"Cor! He's sinking he is!"
"Get the coach!"
"I swear, Coach, Creep just fell in!"
"It's okay, Carl, go swim your laps, me and Jimmy need to have a chat."
The little boy sat trembling under the threadbare blanket, his dark hair stuck to his forehead, his dark eyes red-rimmed from tears or the Chlorine in the water. If the Coach had looked closer he would have seen those eyes tracking the tall powerful young man who had just dived into the pool with a predatory glint and a hatred so dark it would have haunted his nightmares.
"Alright there Jim, you're alright, it was just a harmless prank, no need to mention this to your mum, she's got enough to be going about..."
"He shoved me in, Coach, I could have drowned..."
"He's got a swim meet coming up, he has a good chance to be in the Olympics someday, you are just a very small boy, two grades above him and you don't even come up to his chest, what do you think will happen if you ruin his chances...I can't watch you all the time...and I don't plan on it."
The small boy's glittering eyes met the elder man's. "You're threatening me."
He shrugged. "There are realities to this world, you are a bright boy, far smarter than someone like Carl, take your lumps and let it make you stronger, he has his athleticism, but that's all he has, and this too shall pass."
With one last fatherly pat on his narrow back, the man stood and loped off calling for the boys in the water to change to the butterfly stroke and do ten laps.
He sat there shivering under the blanket, seeing disdainful glances from classmates, and tittering giggles from the girls who never stared his way but melted anytime Carl gave them a dimpled smile.
He closed his eyes, he was growing the botulism mould, it would be ready in two more days, Carl left his eczema cream unattended and he would be travelling to London soon, if it was placed in the bottle before he left in a small enough dose it should reach saturation in his blood stream by the time he hit the pool in front of everyone.
A young girl glanced over at the small boy on the bench, with his head bowed and eyes closed, she felt sorry for him but she was afraid to show it. Creep was not someone you wanted to associate with if you wanted to stay on the in.
However, she saw a smile touch his lips that would haunt her for years a sense of wrongness about him, of dark thoughts and things that slither and bump in the dark, his eyes opened and found hers, there was nothing human in those bright obsidian depths, and he watched her like she had seen a leopard at the zoo do one time when she visited.
Suddenly the look faded so quickly that she wondered if she was imagining it, and the trembling pitiful boy was back.
She moved on, but running her hands up and down her arms from the sudden goose pimples.
He sighed. "Almost got caught that time," he berated himself, "play the victim, James, don't let them see your true form, never let them know that they are sheep, never let them know the wolf is watching."
His eyes found Carl now kicking off from the wall for the next pass, and he covered his face in a towel nearby so they would not hear his laughter, because James was fairly certain it did not sound entirely sane.
All these years later, as he strolled out into the open, staring at his counterpart across yet another pool, the upstart Sherlock Holmes and his loyal lapdog, the big brash bullying arrogant prig, he thought:
They all think they are better than me, they all think they have a chance...
they're all so very wrong.
Disclaimer: I am no saying that all bullied children become killers and monsters, but there are direct correlations that are pretty clear. Nothing justifies killing another human being, however, nothing ever justifies letting this behavior go on, but we all know it happens everyday.
The question is not how is a Jim Moriarty created...the question is why aren't there more of them?