When it's four in the morning and you're crying over Jim Moriarty
*Its been established that he is the way he is because he’s sad and lonely.
*Its been established that if he’d met Sherlock earlier in life, he’d be a different person.
*That kind of loneliness is crushing. It’s no wonder he was suicidal. No one listened. No one cared.
*The only one who might have listened chose an abusive, homophobic, aphobic, temperamental blond doctor instead.
*One can only imagine the horrors he went through as a child. The bullying. Just as bad as what Sherlock went through if not worse.
*How disgusting is it that they chose to kill him in such a way instead of letting him live? He never would have gotten a redemption plot but he deserved better.
*He didn’t have to have a romantic or sexual relationship with Sherlock to be saved. Just a cup of coffee and to be heard. Listened to. Understood.
*A lot of the sadness I bring upon myself with my own headcanons: absent father, dead mother at young age, only remaining family is homophobic aunt, wa never wealthy and was very poor, books and pianos were his only friends, bullied for intelligence/skills as well as being Irish and a bit morbidly curious, etc
TL;DR: James Andrew Moriarty deserved/deserves better
I have reason to believe that, although pretending to be someone else, Eurus was in fact suicidal. Sherlock, while high off his ass, never makes wrong deductions. She may have pretended to be someone she’s not, but as Irene Adler once said, “it’s always a self portrait.” Broken, alone… suicidal. Who the hell knows about the paper and shit, but I think she went to her brother for last hope indeed. She spent time finding him and finding out about him. She, as we later find out, wants a game. Not only one to find out if Sherlock is smart the way she wants him to be, but too see if he was truly able to save her. If she found him and he wasn’t able to figure anything out about her “case” she would leave and probably commit suicide. She was in pain, she had no one to turn to. Except for the brother she always wanted as her bff. If he could help her “case,” he could help her. If not, she had no one left to save her and then she would exist no more. And even high-as-a-kite Sherlock can’t guess (most) things wrong. He said and did the right things. So on her game went.
(Also- “you’re suicidal, you’re allowed chips. Trust me, it’s about the only perk”?!?!?! Owww my heart it broke)
I O U: Ten Reasons Why John Watson is Actually Moriarty
(1) They already told us:
They’ve been telling us since Season 1:
(2) Are We Sure That Little Girl is Pointing At Sherlock. Are we sure. Are we positive.
(3) The Storyteller.
Who’s the storyteller of the Sherlock Holmes canon again?
Sherlock’s first introduction to John (and his subsequent deductions) is paralleled to his first introduction to Moriarty:
Of course Sherlock’s deductions about Moriarty are totally wrong, manipulated by fake characteristics that were planted to fool Sherlock into dismissing him.
But let’s face it -
faking an entirely psychosomatic limp that you can forget about half the time, offering a phone that’s been engraved with “clues,” and loudly declaring “different from back in my day” when you enter the room aren’t much more difficult than irritating one’s own eyes to suggest that you go clubbing and picking up a visible underwear brand.
I have a writing prompt book, and from now on I’m going to be posting what I’ve written for one prompt each day, as a way of practising and sharing my writing (and ensuring I actually stick to this). So today’s is:
Imagine a character at two very different ages, and describe his or her day at each age.
5 years old.
Jim’s face is unhealthily pale, like a sheet, his mother used to say. The rest of him is weedy and thin, a ragged mix of bones that stick out and ribs that sometimes show through his t-shirt. He has deep brown eyes that make people uncomfortable. This he knows because adults always fidget with their fingers and look away. Other children stare warily before turning their back.
But what he doesn’t understand, is why.
In fact, there’s not much he understands about the world that surrounds him. He doesn’t know why his mother is gone, and now that she is he misses her - with her mousy brown hair and faded smile - desperately. The memories he has are already starting to dissolve faster than he can stop them, cracking and deteriorating in his mind. Why wouldn’t she wake up that morning, with the glass bottle and collection of small white pills curled in her hand? And why was that hand stone cold?
He’ll never forget what that felt like.
But what’s most confusing is why she would leave him alone with father.
Because father is horrible.
Six feet tall, with greasy coal black hair and hunched shoulders, he’s a brute of a man. His eyes are a constant bloodshot red. Clouds of cigar smoke forever seem to shroud his face, cling to his beard. He shouts, never shaves, and almost always smells of whisky.
Jim’s not old enough to fully understand hatred yet, but he will. He’ll feel it tingling within every fibre of his being. Every minute of every day. It will burn within him like an unstoppable force, an untamable fire. Stronger than anything.
As the weeks slip by he starts to spend long days and sleepless nights staring out of the window in his bedroom, his big brown eyes dark and murky, longing to hug the woman he never really knew; to sink into her arms and cry as she cradles his head, just like she used to.
But he can’t hug her ever again, and as he grows older, he realises it was his own father who made sure of that.
And he’ll pay for it.
28 years old.
Jim Moriarty lets the chewing gum travel slowly to each corner of his mouth, pushing and easing it around with his tongue. He tilts his head back. Tonight is a good one. He’s lounging on the top of his very own apartment building, staring out across the purple tainted skyline, watching as the cool evening air settles over the city. Sorry, his city.
London hums quietly beneath him. The faint sound of buses trundling across bridges and people travelling back to their homes, disappearing through their various front doors and turning the key.
But there isn’t one of them he couldn’t unlock. Not a single person he doesn’t, or couldn’t, control.
He takes another slow drag of his cigarette and exhales slowly, thinking, watching as the smoke swirls high into the sky above.
He hates reminiscing about his childhood. It’s always a painful and predictable experience, but sometimes he forces himself to do it.
He can’t forget.
Because it’s good to remind himself exactly why he’s like this. Mad. Insane. Unstoppable. Smart. Intelligent like no one else is.
It’s better this way. He’s free from all the tiresome emotional baggage, from everything that could possibly make him vulnerable. He just has himself, the power of the world on his shoulders, and the occasional flashback.
I’m sorry she’s gone, Jim. I didn’t mean to hurt her. It was an accident, she killed herself. I won’t beat you again, I promise - please don’t -
They’re not traumatic though. Sometimes he just gets visions from the day that blood first stained his fingers. The sticky lukewarm liquid that wasn’t too dissimilar to his own, biologically of course.
Life ain’t too bad after all.
Finished. Did you like it? Did you get it? Was it clear enough? I know it’s all a bit of a mess sorry, that’s because I didn’t have very much space in the book and I tried not to change it too much for here, but again I enjoyed writing this a lot more than I expected. Any feedback at all would be welcome, even if it’s just giving this post a note. Thank you!
young jane moriarty growing up in catholic ireland, with big black eyes and a brain for math that everyone tries to dismiss
young jane moriarty who isn’t interested in boys and looks at pretty girls’ legs, but that gets a boyfriend every year few days before valentine’s day because she wants to receive chocolate and roses and because every year she wants to break the poor guy’s heart in a more painful and creative way
young jane moriarty who is also left handed and gets called “the devil’s daughter” and that talks about her childhood to the woman she loves, sherlock holmes. sherlock holmes who shakes her head, beautiful dark curls on pale skin and kisses her lips softly before whispering “you are not the devil’s daughter, you are satan itself”
9 Pop Culture Villains You’re Secretly Rooting For
You know that feeling when you realize you have a soft spot for the evil guy? For us, it started with THE YOUNG ELITES heroine Adelina, who, even though she’s descending into darkness, is totally awesome – and we have her back 100%. Sometimes you just have to accept that you’re secretly rooting for the bad guy and THAT’S OK. Read on for 9 we think deserve it!
1. Cersei from Game of Thrones
Ok yes, you certainly performed some questionable deeds but NO ONE deserves that infamous walk through town…
Getting to witness your old favorite Disney movie from the antagonist’s perspective is actually awesome, and we kinda feel like Malificent’s evilness is justified after getting to know her back story.
When you’ve been mistreated your whole life and it seems like everyone who likes you only likes you because of your dark powers, it TOTALLY makes sense that you’d want a little bit of revenge. Plus Adelina’s powers are out-of-this-world cool and even though we feel like cringing when she wields them, we can’t help but cheer her on.
4. The Penguin from Gotham
Why is it IMPOSSIBLE to tear our eyes away from someone with such sadistic inclinations masked by perfect politeness?
5. Tom Riddle/Voldemort from Harry Potter
Yes, Voldemort is the worst, but as the series go on and we get to know the boy who became a monster…feelings get complicated.
Moving asteroids, manipulating chemical structures, teleporting, and becoming invisible barely scrape the surface of your resume. We know where respect is due.
7. Benjamin Linus from Lost
So eerie, so methodical…you’re quite simply a maniac but for some reason you utterly captivate us.
8. Moriarty from Sherlock
We can’t help being a little obsessed with the character who completely overhauled our definition of creepy.
9. The Weeping Angels from Doctor Who
There’s something to be said for one of the most original monsters we’ve ever come across. Feeding off of the potential energy of someone’s life by sending them back in time?? Utterly terrifying, but kinda awesome.
My demands are simple: Molliarty, lemon tarts, with a hint of metaphorical lemon, some Meena. More than a prompt, it's a checklist, will that do?
I LAUGHED FOR TEN MINUTES, NO JOKE. It’s not what you were expecting, 100% but :)))))
Mycroft checked his watch for the hundredth time.
Every time a decision was made to meet somewhere, there were factors to consider. Every second spent being late was a calculated decision, a choice to make someone waste their time. Fifteen minutes being fashionably late was a lie – a manipulation, for status, for admiration, and even for the upper hand.
Mycroft knew this better than anyone else. Which was why he was deeply uncomfortable with Jim Moriarty choosing a bakery and being nearly half an hour late.
The Bun in the Oven. Clever name, thought Mycroft sourly, considering his stomach briefly. Anthea was convinced that a good diet would help it, but Mycroft personally preferred to put his faith in exercise. Avoiding unhealthy food became impossible in situations like these.
The door swung open, and the man in question entered.
“Impressive,” he said, taking off his sunglasses. “Sebby and I had a bet running that you wouldn’t last twenty minutes.”
Mycroft didn’t say anything. “Please,” he indicated towards a chair. “I wouldn’t want you feeling uncomfortable.”
Jim Moriarty collapsed on the chair with the grace of a teenager who had been scolded.
“Jenny!” he said to the girl behind the counter. “Lemon tarts, please?”
The girl nodded, smiling.
“So,” said Jim cheerfully. “What’s the dealio?”
Mycroft raised his eyebrows.
“It’s slang, you know. I’m well versed with the young ‘uns.”
“Regardless, Mr. Moriarty. We are here on matters of business.”
“I thought it was a little more about pleasure,” said Moriarty, relaxing on the chair. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he said to Jenny as she placed a plate of five lemon tarts in front of them.
“That depends. What is Molly Hooper to you?”
Moriarty took a lemon tart, deliberately eating it very slowly. He smiled at Mycroft again. “… A tart?”
Mycroft regarded Moriarty.
“How do you know I’m not just using her for sex?” asked Moriarty, dipping a finger into a tart, and carefully licking off the curd. “After all, she is just so tasty.”
“Whatever your business with her, you may consider her under my protection.”
“Did Sherlock send you?”
“He doesn’t know,” said Mycroft easily.
Jim Moriarty rose from the chair, placed both hands on the table, and leaned forward.
“And you may consider her under mine,” he said.
Well. That was surprising.
“Jenny? Could you pack up some lemon tarts for me?”
The girl nodded, and began to pack up what was asked for. Mycroft waited for the penny to drop, for Moriarty to say that he was not concerned for the girl – for Sherlock to factor into the equation. Anything.
“Try not to tell Sherly, would you?” he said finally. “I wouldn’t want him to worryabout your health. Cheerio, England.”