silvermoonlight13

50. On top of the world Sebastian Moran feels in control when he puts a bullet through someone's head. But he only feels on top of the world when he holds the most dangerous man in London.

"Tell me." Sebastian looked over, confused. His boss sat on the couch, knees up to his chest and eyes hollow. He was so thin, so worn by the world. So amazing. Jim Moriarty was his angel with black wings, saving him from the ruins of the world with an offer of mischief. "Tell you what, boss?" Sebastian asked, cocking his head to the right slightly. The small, raven haired man looked helpless all of the sudden, brows slanting down. "Don't play coy with me, darling." He snapped, clenching his tiny fists. "You know what I want." Sebastian smiled. He seemed so human like this, angry, confused and needy. So... perfect. "Yeah. I know what y

4] Scary Jim Moriarty gets lost in his mind sometimes. There are just so many fucking rooms in his palace, sometimes the doors lock of their own accord and he'll be just sitting, watching the screen of his laptop, inputting binary code and suddenly he'll be trapped. Sometimes it's a pleasant escape, but most it's quite annoying. He's scared Sebastian quite a few times, though. Seemed to think he was never coming back. And maybe one day, he won't.

John twitched his fingers as he waited for the phone line to connect. Come on, come on- "Sherlock Holmes, hello?" a baritone voice answered, and it was so smooth and so familiar that John wanted to stretch himself the 5740 kilometers back to London; back home. Back to Sherlock. "Hey, Sherlock." "John," The voice said, sounding mutely happy. "How are you?" "I'm-I'm good, Sherlock. I'm good. Um..." John paused, looking out the plastic window of the tent. "I'm being discharged, Sherl." "Really?" There was excitement in the voice. "That's great, John!" "I've... been shot. In the shoulder. It's nothing serious-" There was a slight pause on

50] Winter It was the middle of winter when the heater in the flat of Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty went out. Jim's teeth chattered, and he was greatly tempted to go chop someone's tongue out to get the damn boiler fixed, but he knew it was slightly warmer in here than it was out there. So he pulled his knees up to his chest, gathering the blankets around himself and curling down into them. Sebastian was out doing a job, shooting someone between the eyes at his king's command. But really, Jim wanted him back at the flat so he could steal his body heat. Fishing his phone out of his pajama pant pocket, with shuddering fingers, he shot off

Jim stood from the bed, looking around in the darkness and down at Sebastian, who was laying sprawled out on the side of Jim's bed. He was asleep, blonde fauxhawk mussed and normally stoic blue eyes closed. Jim actually felt himself actually smile, in the dark, where no one could see him. He picked some clothes quietly out of his dresser, a simple pair of black shorts and and a cut top soft black shirt he had owned for god knows how long. He wandered into the bathroom, vaguely hearing Sebastian wake as he left the room, his partner sitting up in the bed. He closed the door to the bathroom behind him, flicking on the lights in the small, wh

It was September, on a cold, windy day in England. A pair of men walked down the sidewalk, gold and amber leaves crunching beneath their feet like a crackling fall fire. The shorter, blond man was dressed in nuetral colors; a brow jacket, brown pants, white shirt and black shoes, whilst the taller, skinnier man was dressed in a long black trench coat and a cobalt blue scarf. The taller man was talking, smiling slightly, looking around at the colors while the smaller one listened. The wind played with the skinnier man's black curls, cool and crisp and smelling of fall time rain. Beetle black cabs made their way down the street past the men,

If Sherlock Holmes were to write a book, he'd call it Yellow. Yellow because of John Watson. John Watson was yellow, happy, bright as the sun. John Watson was Sherlock's sun, his heart, his soul. John was his near, his far, his sky, his ground. John was the anchor that kept Sherlock Holmes grounded, kept him from falling apart like a piece of glass crunched beneath a combat boot. Because John was his best friend, his lover. John was like a something that Sherlock would like to take, examine and press between the pages of William Shakespeare's Othello. Because when John smiled, Sherlock felt yellow. He felt like it was filling him up w

Sherlock Holmes never truly understood why people fascinated the stars so much. They were simply balls of burning gas, provided light, and were interesting for studying. But for some reason, people found them... aesthetically pleasing. Sherlock stood from his desk in the flat, glancing over at John. "Hey, Sherlock?" John questioned, looking up from his laptop (probably posting about their most recent case on his blog). "Hmm?" Sherlock replied, taking a couple long strides over to his chair and sitting, curling his fingers under his chin and closing his eyes. "I have something I want to show you." John said with a smile, the kind of s

Sherlock sat, putting his hands over his eyes and sighing disgracefully. No cases. No cases, no murders, no attempted murders. He was  bored. So, utterly, completely bored, The boredom was deep, deep like a river coursing through his mind palace; ingraining itself in the walls and in the floors, leaving behind a dry texture and a dull sound. He leaned back on the couch, head against Watson's thigh, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "Bored, John." "I know, Sherlock... Why don't you go to sleep?" "Dull. Meaningless." Sherlock droned, sighing again. He seemed to be doing that quite a bit today. John sighed in response,