Pandora's Box

Summary: In which Moriarty has known John long before Sherlock, and had been infatuated with him for the same amount of time. He's interested in Sherlock, but it's only after he sees Sherlock with John that things starts to get personal. Sorta-AU.

Pairing: Sherlock/John, Moriarty/John (one-sided/unrequited)

A/N: This is the first part of the fic, and the fic will be completed in only two parts.

~PART ONE~

The first time Jim Moriarty had the thought of violence, he was fourteen years old. It wasn't to say that he hadn't ever thought about inflicting pain before, but they were just minor thoughts—stray plans in his head that formed quicker than he could stop them when he didn't get things the way he wanted. And it had only ever been shown through acts of terrorizing his household staff and destroying the things in his room by violent bursts of temper.

But he had never had the idea of hurting someone before. Really hurting someone—wanting to make them bleed, cry, and beg for sympathy which they don't deserve and would never get. He had never entertained the thought of just wrapping his hands around a person's neck and just squeeze and squeeze, until he could no longer feel the throbbing of veins and arteries beneath the person's skin, and gaining pleasure from the process of watching life slipping away so justifiably beneath his fingers, having pride in knowing that there will no longer be the rhythm of a thumping heart beneath the skin and bones.

No, Jim had never had these thought before.

But the first time he had them, the thrill and hatred coursed through his veins so swiftly that it made him feel both heated and ice-cold at the same time. It was so addictive, and for just one, small moment, Jim felt like he could do anything—could break anything through the sheer strength of willpower and intelligence and burning feelings alone. Jim would never forget that emotion ever again, and would never stop relishing in feeling it again, and again, and again.

To Jim, it was the moment that he found his true calling.

Ironically enough, it was also the first moment that he met John Watson.

He never could quite remember the details of that day, which was an anomaly, seeing that he could remember practically everything from his childhood. From the way his father's jaws would tighten in disapproval, to how his mother would always look at him with vacant eyes, as if he wasn't even there. He remembered how the children in his class would shun him, jeering at his tailored shirt and pants, and how they would throw insults at his back, not even bothering to hide their stares and whispers. They said that he's the odd one, a freak, a rich snobby kid, and reminded him just how much he didn't belong.

He used to mind those things that were said about him, when he was still young and without knowledge of just how much his brain and money could do. He would feel hurt, depressed, and just slightly vindictive and hateful against those people who made his everyday life a living hell.

But he never acted on those urges. He didn't dare. He still thought himself to be weaker and incapable of doing any retaliation at that time.

He knew better though, after that day.

What he did remember, were snatches of memories.

...Him, completing his first advanced calculus question.

...The empty smile that his mother gave him when he told her about it.

...The crispness of the air, as he snuck out of the void which could be called a home.

...Making his way to the park, the sound of leaves rustled by the wind giving him a false sense of peace.

...Bumping into them.

And then came the taunts, the insults, the pushing and punching. The words were all a blur; he supposed he must have tuned them out at some point.

However, he would never forget the sharp shout that sounded, the way they were pushed off him, the feeling of security at being held back behind a larger, taller form...

...And the way his heart literally skipped a beat for the first time when those blue eyes met with his.

Jim remembered, the way those eyes flashed—full of anger, defiance and yet so steady and strong—and it was the most gorgeous thing that he had ever seen. He had felt the most peculiar shiver running down his spine, and it was singularly the most intriguing and disorienting sensation that he had ever felt.

He had never seen the boy around before. Sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, older than him—possibly fifteen or sixteen—and wearing a striped jumper that should have looked ridiculous but didn't on the boy's body.

He must have missed something, too caught up in his observations, and the next moment, they were leaving, with looks of contempt and displeasure evident on their faces.

The boy turned to him them, and the smile that was directed at him stunned him for a moment. He had never had someone smiled at him like that before, and years later, he would still be learning how to smile the exact way, but it never worked, and seemed to unnerved his enemies even more.

John Watson, the boy had said, his hand extended as he waited for Jim to take it. His smile was contagious, and his presence soothing, as Jim found himself smiling back (a genuine smile, and he didn't know that his facial muscles were capable of producing such a thing) and reaching out to shake John's hand.

There was only one thought in his head.

John Watson. John Watson. John Watson.

What a glorious name.

"Hi, I'm Jim Mo—"

It was cut short, as John's eyes suddenly widened and he slumped forward. Jim reached out for him, and the sight before him made his eyes flashed red.

Their leader was standing behind John, a thick branch in his hand, looking smug as he stared down at Jim and an unconscious John.

His mouth opened, but Jim didn't register what was said. The palm he used to touched John's head came up smeared with blood, and Jim could still remember the way his whole body had shifted, as if it was trying to accommodate the sudden fury and hatred bubbling up from the pits of his stomach.

Again, there was only one thought in his head.

They hurt John. They hurt MY John.

He had lunged before he knew it. He never did remember what he did or how he did it, but he did remember the other things, things that would forever be ingrained inside of him, and which he will never tire of ever again.

The way how easily a neck could be snapped as long as you remember which place to twist it. The lovely sound of a skull cracking against pavement. The warm feeling of blood—on his hands, his arms, his feet—that made him just thirsting for more. The jubilant and exhilarating high of hearing a worthless scum pleading for his life. Voices, so full of terror, shrieking like a pig about to be slaughtered, and it was like fireworks, captivating and glorious.

The way his heart just went crazy as he used his pocketknife to stab into flesh—again, and again, and again. The thumping of blood coursing through his veins, his arteries, beneath his skin and flesh, and he had never felt so alive before.

It was utterly addictive.

Standing above the bloody, lifeless and disfigured bodies on the gravel, with his shirt torn, lip bleeding, eyes swollen, and possible injured in several places; he had clutched the knife in one hand, and the branch in the other, blood dripping from both—whether his or theirs, it's already mingled beyond distinction, all the same shade of red.

And then he had laughed, long and hard, and the sound was like the most melodious music as it rang through the darkened evening sky.

He had continued laughing, even when his nanny found him in the park, clutching John's unconscious form, a figure painted of blood, violence and terror. The nanny adored him, and was impossibly loyal to the family. She had simply wrapped Jim up in her coat, and sent them back to the mansion with the car she came in.

John was pried away from his arms the moment he stepped through the door. He had growled, spat and fought like an animal, but he was no match for the bodyguards holding him down. The last glimpse of blood-matted sandy blond hair was seen as their private doctor picked John up and brought him off.

Jim was later told that everything with John was settled, and that John had been safely sent back home. He had wanted to go and find John, something in his heart and mind just wanting and needing so much to see him again, but every attempt was thwarted as he was kept even more strictly under surveillance.

Jim didn't know what his father did, but when the news reported of the gruesome murder of four teenagers in the park, the police never found any evidence or eye witnesses that could lead them to the killer.

His parents had moved then, and that was that.

It was not for another nine years before he saw John Watson again.

As he grew older, Jim's thirst and craving for violence and terror did not subside. But the feeling of inflicting pain himself was getting more and more boring, and soon, Jim began to realize that he much more preferred to be planning out crimes, rather than carrying them out.

He planned a bank heist when he was sixteen, and told it to a bunch of men in a run-down pub just for the fun of it. Following his plan, the same group of men managed to pull of the same heist and got away with half a million pounds from the local bank. They were never caught.

A week later, he met an inebriated housewife in the same bar, vengeful and heartbroken that her husband had cheated on her. Three days later, George Douglas was found dead in an alley. The police suspected that it was a case of robbery gone wrong, and again, the killer was never found.

When he was eighteen, his parents died, very much conveniently in an accident on their way to a charity ball, and Jim inherited every single penny of his family's massive fortune.

With the amount of money he had, and the already impressive connection with the underworld at such a young age, it wasn't difficult to set up his own network of crime.

By twenty one, he was already a formidable figure. His competitors were being ruthlessly swept out one by one, and those who weren't, were rapidly taken in under his command.

Amidst all this, there wasn't a day when he didn't thought about the teenage boy who had so bravely stood out and protected him. There wasn't a day when he didn't thought about John Watson.

It was when he was twenty three, already secure in his position, and much, much more powerful than anyone could ever imagine, that Jim started his search for John.

It was easy to find out about him. Jim's web was wide and intrinsic, and there weren't many John Watsons that used to stay at his childhood hometown.

He took in the information like a parched man lost in the desert who had just found a source of water. He searched for everything he could, from the record of John winning a 100 meter dash in his high school days, to names of the people who got into a fight with John in a bar.

Of course, he had them all tortured and murdered as soon as he learned that they had put John into the hospital for a week. The police were in a right state during that time, thinking that it was the work of a serial killer.

He knew that John's older than him by two years, and that he was studying in St. Bart's to be a doctor. He knew where he lived in London, and the thrill at the thought—that they were so near, living in the same city—had Jim contemplating more than once to seek John out. And it would be easy to make it like a chance encounter, because he knew all the pubs and restaurants that John loved to go to, all the places that he went when he was free.

But he refrained, wanting to seek for the most special moment. He was old enough now, to recognize the feelings that he has for John Watson runs more complex than childhood adoration. In fact, it runs deeper than lust, runs darker than love even. He not only wants the man—and oh, how he wanted, after seeing what John had grown to become—he also needs John. He needs him with the burning intensity of a thousand suns, probably much more than that. He needs him in his life—his gentle smile, those strong blue eyes constantly looking at him, the presence of the man himself—he needs all of it. All of John.

He won't settle for less. It's like an ever growing obsession, a constant urge to possess and thoroughly own John Watson and to claim him as Jim Moriarty's possession. He wants, to the extent that anyone who sees John will immediately see Jim's imprint on him as well.

There are times when the desire gets to be too strong. Where he just wants to kidnap John, regardless of the consequences, and chain him by his side. But then there would be times where all he wants to do is hold the man tight in his arms, fingers running through the blond hair, so he could finally find out if John's hair is as soft as he imagined in his fantasies.

But it's this polarity of his thoughts, the extremity of it, that actually holds him back.

He can't afford to lose John. Can't even bear the thought of scaring John away.

So he waits. He waits and waits, until John turns twenty eight, and yet he is still searching for the perfect moment.

But he didn't know then, that this single decision would change both their fates yet again.

Because John was deployed to Afghanistan. Because he went and join the army, to be an army doctor, and despite his reach, Jim had no power to change that fact.

For the first time in many years, Jim killed a man with his own hands. It's one of the men that he had trailing John daily, one of those men who failed to inform him that John had went and enrolled himself in military, and he just locks both he and the man into a room and lashes out. He had only a knife, and the man was a trained bodyguard towering over him with both hands free, but he killed him in the end, with both his bare hands dripping with blood, squeezed tightly around the man's neck, the man's body and face slashed beyond recognition.

The months following John's leave were also one of the darkest times in London. Crime rates rose to nearly triple of the usual amount and even overseas countries saw a significant increase in underground movement.

It was eight years before he saw John again.

And coincidentally, it was in the third year since John left that Jim knew of Sherlock Holmes for the first time.

He had thrown himself into his job after John left, pursuing and advancing it with such a degree of ferocity, ruthlessness and determination that he looked like a man possessed. He wanted more power—no—needed more power.

He didn't ever want to realize that there were yet some things in the world that he couldn't change. He didn't ever want to lose John again. And to make sure of that, he required all the power he could get in the world.

His influence had extended until the whole of Europe, and even parts of Asia now, and Jim knew that it won't be long before he could preside over the whole world as the lord of crime.

When that happens, he would make sure that no one ever harms John Watson.

And then in the third year of John's absence, Jim received the news. He might be powerless to stop John from leaving, but he had spies everywhere, even in the military, and he knew John's location exactly every single time.

The news stated that the area John was currently in had been bombed, and there were currently no news on the survival of the army in that area.

Jim went berserk.

He started a mass murdering spree in London, provoking and cajoling every criminal around the area to wreak havoc. Because if John isn't alive, if he died as soldier serving his country, then Jim will damn well make sure that the country doesn't deserve John sacrifice. He would bring chaos to England, and he will never stop, because revenge for John would be everlasting.

Jim, in that period, danced around London like Lucifer himself reincarnated, bringing fear and terror with just the slightest involvement. He danced around in shadows, owning London's day and night, spreading his influence faster and fiercer than a bushfire.

Anyone who dared opposed him, anyone who dared thought him mad and incapable, were swiftly struck down. He handled those with a personal touch, making bombs and synthesizing poison of his own variety so that he could experience the thrill of killing.

It was only through killing that he could feel alive again. With no news of John's survival, Jim felt as if he died along with the man, and the feeling of despair and numbness was just too much agony to endure.

It was only when he knew that John was alive that Jim stopped.

The day he was elated that John was alive was also the day that Jim first heard of Sherlock Holmes.

A supposed consultant for the police force, and when Sherlock solved one of the cases Jim orchestrated, Jim knew that Sherlock was different from the others.

He also knew that he had lost control, and that was the only reason that Sherlock could so easily solve the crime, because he hadn't been careful. However, he also knew that there was no way any crime could be traced back to him, as he wasn't the one to commit them.

It was exciting though, to know that there was someone out there who could actually match up to his own brand of brilliance, and Jim decided that it would be fascinating to keep on playing with Sherlock.

Sherlock was very much different from John.

While Jim was also obsessed with the consulting detective, it was only because Sherlock was so similar to Jim, and yet so completely different at the same time. It was a shiver of excitement that he had never felt before, a thrill of finally, finally having someone who could match him equally on every single level of game, and yet not failing to deliver and giving a smashing performance at the same time. It was exhilarating, and Jim had never had a supposed playmate before, and he relished this sudden addition to his life.

John, however, was so much more than Sherlock.

While Sherlock could match him step by step, Jim knew that it was only John that could actually merge with him. The only one who could actually complete him. He and Sherlock are just too similar to be compatible, and John was the only person who could do that, the only person whom could truly be with Jim, and whom Jim could truly be with.

John might not know it yet though, but Jim was determined to make it so.

Because Jim knew that John belonged with him, and he was never wrong.

And before Jim could finally be content with John by his side, he supposed Sherlock would do as an adequate substitute for his attention for the time being, and he continued to specially plot out crimes that would intrigue Sherlock enough for him to take it.

And for five years, Jim played with Sherlock, never revealing that he was the one behind all those crimes, and Sherlock never knew that he was being played. It was frankly, a fulfilling pastime, and Jim knew that Sherlock will never be able to catch him, or even know about him, because Jim had no intention of revealing himself.

But then, Jim saw John together with Sherlock.

And he changed his mind.

~END PART ONE~

A/N: The next part should be up soon enough~ And first Sherlock fic, even thought the premise is a bit different than the norm, the idea was just stuck in my head and I had to write it. Do tell me what you think about it~! 3