He needed to know where the line between extraordinary and ordinary sat; he needed to know when someone crossed that line, and Sherlock? Sherlock had always been his favourite toy. He'd always been so delightfully interesting: predictable, yes, but magnificent and brilliant too. He'd like to test him. He needed to know: when does madness start and sanity end? He needed to grasp the definition and understand.
The world very rarely offered something to keep his mind occupied, and Sherlock wasn't the only one who enjoyed little experiments. But this, no, this would be interesting and Jim Moriarty could almost taste the satisfaction of knowing. And normally the boredom pressed in on him until he thought it might suffocate him, until he thought his chest would explode with this frustration and need to find something more than the mundane. But, this time...
The back of his head was warm and wet with blood (not his blood, of course), but Jim Moriarty knew enough about London to know where to eat breakfast without being stared at. He didn't want to leave: as devoid of sentiment as he was, there was something in the air of London which made everything a little bit better – the rush of it, the hurry, the way it sprawled out from the centre and always seemed to be full and busy. London was the only place where his searching didn't seem pointless. He wouldn't leave.
The breakfast was shit, but he was starving so he ate in anyway. It had been while since he had eaten food, and now that the adrenaline was half gone he needed something to fill him. He was starving, in fact, thirsty for it to begin.
It was never about the fall, but the permanent destination.
It would have been almost a disappointment to Jim Moriarty if Sherlock had died, because Sherlock had been the most potent thing to stave away the boredom he'd ever found – and it wasn't like he hadn't been looking: always, he needed something. He'd spent most of his life manically searching for something to grip hold of through the inane and the mundane, and after sifting through mountains of the normal and the ordinary he'd managed to find an occupation which could fill up those lonely corners of his mind where everything happened – the problem solving. The game. Life and death, risk and finally, god, finally using his brain.
And if Sherlock thought that the fall reached its completion when he'd hit the ground then he was about to be solely disappointed, something which Jim Moriarty very much wished he could see.
It was never about death; there was nothing much to be feared from death, but life for people as extraordinary as people like them was full of endless hours.
The side of the angels. Well, angels fell and they didn't die. Death was easy, stagnant, flat (not that Jim Moriarty knew anything about dying, nor was he going to find out anything about dying). Angles were immortal. They lived on in hell.
And so, Moriarty had stripped away everything good about Sherlock's life – burnt it away. Without his little pet, without his games, without his dancing around mundane crimes Sherlock was him. The boredom. The staying.
No, it wasn't the end. The show was only just beginning.
I don't think I've ever written such a short prologue to anything in my life. Never mind, eh?