“I write differently from what I speak, I speak differently from what I think, I think differently from the way I ought to think, and so it all proceeds into deepest darkness.” — Franz Kafka, Letters
One final act.
On occasion, Sherlock Holmes sees the world as a carcass. Its skeleton, stinking of decay, is his playground; the only other occupants are protozoa littering its fly-stung flesh. On occasion, Sherlock grows ravenous, and he feels as if he might devour that world in its entirety. (Only the scavenger’s code of honor lies across his back.)
On occasion, Sherlock Holmes could be described as “imperious”: He sees the world as a frontier awaiting his colonization. Boundless lands of opportunity lie in store for him and him alone, entreating him, beckoning him, tantalizing. On occasion, he feels that only he is fit to inherit the earth.
On occasion, Sherlock Holmes sees the world as a treasure chest. Every dank back alley is a mine glittering with gold; every bridge thick with graffiti is a diamond arch carved with paradise’s tattoos.
Sherlock is not one to see the world in typical fashion. And he rarely sees it the same way twice.
The only constant in his skewed perception is James Moriarty.
On occasion, Jim is the scavenger’s rival, a carrion crow worrying at the flesh of the dead beast.
On occasion, Jim is the vast river keeping the frontier in the distance, a reminder that it is not one man’s place to inherit the earth, for he has duties elsewhere.
But mostly Jim Moriarty is the hand sent from God: he is sent to plant the gold in the mines; to carve the diamond arch; to ink paradise’s tattoos in place. He is sent to make beauty for Sherlock where there was only boredom. And he relishes his God-given task.
Jim Moriarty is Sherlock’s fascination. He is Sherlock’s temptation and his reconciliation; he is Sherlock’s pollution and his eventual ablution and his inevitable solution. He turns Sherlock’s world into a world for play, a world where cleverness is rewarded as it should be.
Jim Moriarty is Sherlock Holmes’s reflection. And his perfection.
you can’t kill an idea, can you? not once it’s made a home … there.
Inception AU: in which Moriarty utilizes more creative methods to insinuate doubt into the minds of Scotland Yard’s finest.
So you know how Moriarty is Irish and all?
Welp, my father, being the lovely Dublinese fellow he is, just revealed to me the Irish name that “Moriarty” comes from. (For those of you unfamiliar with Irish phonetics, oh boy, get ready.) Here it is:
If you’re interested, it’s roughly pronounced “oo-uh MWIR yar thig.” (The ‘yar’ rhymes with the first half of ‘barrel.’)
SO YEAH JIM YOU BETTER WORK ON THAT SPELLING.