Hey, suddenly got this idea in a fit of "brilliance"… or maybe I'd just had a few too many cups of tea.
P.S. I don't own Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, anything recognisable or the #BelieveinSherlock Twitter… thing. (Don't know the correct terminology for Twitter sorry)
Anywhoo, I'm sorry if this makes no sense or if there are plot holes, inconsistencies or if it's OOC, it's mainly a crackfic and a bit of fun ;) Enjoy!
Harriet Watson swallowed the bile threatening to bubble up from the back of her throat, straightened herself up, and marched into the graveyard.
God, I need a drink… No! Don't think about that! John needs you now, even though he's not even answering your texts – stay sober for him, Harry. She sighed, she knew she wasn't good at emotional support or sympathy, but hell, if the only thing she could do for her brother now was to get sober, she would make him fucking proud.
She had never even met Sherlock Holmes, and now he was dead, leaving her brother John a complete mess. She'd only seen the guy through John's blog, the occasional newspaper and when she went to Moriarty's trial, but her brother was a good judge of character. If he believed in Sherlock Holmes, she did too. If he believed Moriarty was real, she did too.
Harry had even started a little movement on twitter called #BelieveinSherlock, it already had quite a few followers who seemed to actually believe Sherlock was real. Harry smiled to herself.
So here she was, meeting Sherlock Holmes for the first time, she spotted his grave a small distance away, right at the back of the cemetery, John's landlady, (Mrs. Hansen or something) had given her directions to find it. She stopped short when she saw the dark figure standing in front of the black marble tombstone. That wasn't John, or Mrs. Hansen… so who was it?
If there was one thing that could be said in Harriet Watson's favour, it was that she had very good hearing. Curious to hear what this hoodie-clad stranger had to say about Sherlock, she stood in front of some random nearby tombstone and stared at it while focusing all of her attention on hearing what they were saying.
'I know you're not really down there.'
Harry's eyes widened against her will, what was this guy saying?
'Wouldn't even kill yourself for your friends… I think we could get along…'
Harry wasn't even fully registering his words. Was she hearing things, or did this guy have a faint Irish accent, like Jim Moriarty?
'…and I thought it would be boring once I got rid of you, but the fun's only just begun. Told you I'd burn the heart out of you.'
"Got rid of you?!" What the hell?!
'So how about we play a little game? My rules, and I won't hurt Johnny or that DI of yours.' He said in a sing-song fashion that grated on her nerves, but she froze upon hearing her brother's name mentioned. She saw him drop a little pink phone in front of the grave, was this some kind of sick joke? Or… was this guy Moriarty? He sounded like him, kind of looked like him, and then there was his choice of words… Harry shuddered.
That was good enough for her, this man had killed her brother's flatmate and best friend, well now she wasn't so sure that Sherlock was actually dead, considering his earlier words - but that didn't matter. Even if he was only playing some sick-as-fuck joke on her, he had it coming. And if he was Moriarty, (and the odds were looking very good,) even better; this fucking psycho had ruined her brother's life. And you don't mess with The Watsons, not unless you want to invoke Harry's wrath.
Without thinking, Harry stormed up to Jim Moriarty from behind, who turned around on hearing her, putting on a sad face that almost convinced Harry that he was actually here to mourn Sherlock's death. "Almost" being the operative word.
She curled her hand into a fist, aiming a vicious right hook into his left eye. Caught unprepared for the sudden, surprisingly strong punch from the small blonde, he yelped and stumbled back, falling and hitting his head on the edge of Sherlock's tombstone with a sickening crack. Red blood leaked in thick rivulets down the black marble. Moriarty slumped into a sitting position on top of the grave, head lolling about until it slid slowly off the stone and hit the ground, leaving a thick trail of blood behind it.
Uh-oh, did she kill him? She'd only meant to knock him unconscious or something… teach him a lesson. She knelt down and pressed two fingers to his neck; she felt no pulse.
And that is how Harriet Watson, a recovering alcoholic and the younger sister of John Watson, had prevailed where The British Government, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, The Court System, and New Scotland Yard had all failed. She had killed Jim Moriarty.
And it felt bloody amazing.