Just a one shot. Should be working on other stuff, but that's okay. Inspiration is inspiration.
I don't own!
James Moriarty wasn't insane. He sat on the roof of Saint Bart's, his phone's feeble speakers trying to crank out Staying Alive as loud as they could without sounding tinny. It wasn't working particularly well, but that was hardly his phone's fault. He was the one with his music turned up all the way, after all.
This was it, the last encore of the Great Game; it ended here. James Moriarty wasn't a fool. He knew there was a possibility he wouldn't make it off the roof alive. He might loose. He liked to think he wouldn't, but even he wasn't that good. He was never one to underestimate an adversary.
He thought of what got him there. Many, many years ago when he was still a teenager, confused and muddled by the power he held over others. He lashed out at those who hurt him, like a wounded animal. That's what lead Carl Power's to his death. Jim had later gone to the funeral, and he saw the casket being lowered into the ground. For the first time in all his life, his mind was silent for a moment. Perhaps that's when he equated killing to distraction. It didn't matter. What really mattered was it was the first time he saw him. A young gangly boy hiding behind a tree, mouth twisted in distaste as the coffin was slowly, slowly covered with dirt and cut off from the living world forever. Just as quickly as it had stopped, Jim's mind had kick started again. This boy knew. And wasn't that a challenge if he ever saw one. Without knowing, Sherlock threw down the gauntlet. Jim was courteous enough to pick it back up.
Years later, Jim's mind struggled to equate what Sherlock was to him. A prize, a threat, a distraction, an adversary? He didn't know, and he didn't like not knowing. He stood in the shadows, watching as Sherlock grew up, went to college, rebelled, overdosed. Recovered. He waited until he made up his mind. Distraction. It seemed about right. Sherlock knew, Sherlock understood, Sherlock was relief and not ordinary and most importantly not boring. That was when Jim finally found it safe to step into the scrutinizing gaze of Sherlock Holmes for the first time since little Carl Powers died. Minor cases first, then that novelty with the cabbie. Finally, the Game. Millions of quid, months of planning, and finally they met. It was glorious. Jim's genius butted heads with Sherlock's so splendidly, it was as if they were meant to be. They were mirrors of one another, except Sherlock was on the side of the angels. Disappointing, but easy to overlook. He left him at the desolate pool with promises of violence and bloodshed (he always had a dramatic flare, he wouldn't deny it) and sweet, sweet distraction. The gnawing activity in his brain was satiated, for the moment.
And then, there was the fall. Mycroft Holmes caught him, tortured him, broke him until all Sherlock's genius and all Sherlock's Games couldn't put him back together again. His self control was shattered. He was consumed by his own savage, ravenous intelligence. He owed Sherlock a fall. They were mirrors after all, weren't they? If he had to fall from Grace, then so did Sherlock.
If Sherlock knew what had broken the inspired genius that was James Moriarty, he didn't speak of it.
"I owe you."
Sherlock didn't get it, why didn't he get it, why didn't he know they were one in the same? If Jim was broken inside, Sherlock had to be too, he had to… they were mirrors, they reflected one another.
James Moriarty may have been broken, but he was still too smart for his own good.
He played the Game too well. He lead Sherlock along a yellow brick road, he pulled out all the stops. He called on all favors he had collected; he spent all of his assets. He put himself directly in the firing line, and he still didn't get caught. Stupid ordinaries.
And now here he was, on the roof. Waiting for Sherlock, waiting for himself. Waiting for Sherlock to commit the ultimate fall, so they could be equals again. So he wouldn't be the only broken one. Why?
Sherlock was here. He was all nonchalant and confidence and genius. He looked at James Moriarty (not insane, not a fool) right in the eye and he saw the gaping nothingness where there used to be the spark of intelligence. He played the role Jim gave him. He climbed up onto the ledge. He looked down. Jim turned away. After all this, he couldn't watch. He felt sick and empty and horrible. He hoped idly he didn't look as horrible as he felt. Then Sherlock laughed. He almost laughed too, but not the same kind of laugh. Sherlock's laugh was smug. His would be shattered.
Sherlock thought he had something over him. He thought he could break what he had so meticulously built with just a bit of gall and devil may care. He was wrong.
Sherlock assured him he wasn't going to jump. He could get out of the trap as long as he had Jim.
Silly Sherlock. I'm not much use anymore.
James Moriarty was not a coward. He realized something (stupid, stupid, why didn't he see before?) they were mirrors. One reflected the other. Sherlock, a god, on the side of the angels. Always safe with his angels. Him, Moriarty, the damned, doomed to eternal Hell and torture with all of his demons.
James Moriarty took the gun out of his pocket (when did he put that there?) and shot himself.
We're mirrors. I killed myself. Now you have to kill yourself, angel, it's your turn. I win.
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11-28: There's a one shot I've made in the same verse as this... in Sherlock's point of view. If you're interested, it's called Through the Looking Glass.