Disclaimer: Characters do not belong to me. Pure fanciful fiction.

Jim Moriarty pushed his feet against the floor and sailed across his office as the wheels on his rich, soft, leather chair rolled smoothly along the polished wood floors. "Wheeeee …" he trilled softly to himself. He stuck out a foot to stop his trajectory and eased into a slow spin, looking at the photographs as he did so. The latest surveillance photos of his toy. The brightest and prettiest piece in his game. His solution to the final problem.

As a child, Jim was the sort of little boy who broke his toys. It wasn't because he wanted to know how they worked (thought that was sometimes an additional bonus) or that he played with them too hard. No, he broke his toys because he always felt compelled to see how much they could take before they fell to pieces. Everything had a breaking point. And so did everyone. When his toys broke, his parents bought him new ones. They'd broken, too, learning it was easier to just give in to his whims rather than face his wrath if they refused. Toys were always for sale. Even the ones that weren't. Everything had a price. And so did everyone. Jim considered these to be among the most important lessons everyone should learn. Only he had learned them best. Well, him and maybe one other person.

Sherlock. Gorgeous, scrumptious Sherlock Holmes. If Jim were capable of feeling, really feeling actual emotions, he would feel genuine regret at having to destroy such a magnificent creature as Sherlock. But since he didn't, the regret manifested itself as vague disappointment, because it had been this way for as long as he could remember. Everything was dull. Everything was boring. The world was simple — so frighteningly simple. Jim scoured it for any kind of distraction or challenge to temporarily lift the ennui. But inevitably anything or anyone he found who could actually pose a challenge to him, anyone who seemed even remotely able to rise (or lower, depending if you were on the side of the angels or the devil) to Jim's level usually also meant they were a threat to Jim's way of life. Which meant they had to be destroyed. He would brook no rivals and certainly no one who wished to impede him. Sherlock had to be stopped and so he would be. Oh, but then everything would be so dull again. Boring, boring, blah, blah-de-blah.

But goodness gracious, he was so thankful for that phone call at the pool, though. Thank goodness for that saucy little harlot, Irene. Saved him from blowing his wad there. Imagine — blowing Sherlock to bits or filling him full of bullets when there was still so much fun to be had! If Jim ever had to identify one of his own character flaws (not that he ever would, and anyone who dared to ask would find their jaw shattered before attempting another such question), he would say impatience.

Oh, he could be patient. He had trained himself to be. Every plan needed to be orchestrated and carried out in its own due course. Rushing was not an option. And he enjoyed savouring the results, so sticky-sweet and rich and filling. But it certainly wasn't his nature. Oh, he'd been an impetuous youth once. Whether it was burning ants with a magnifying glass, or finding out how much pressure it took to cut off air to his puppy's windpipe (not much at all, disappointing, but not surprising), it had been hard to control his impulses. But as he got older, he learned from his mistakes. Rushing during a plan resulted in mistakes and then mistakes resulted in messes and messes needed to be cleaned up and Jim prided himself on keeping distant from the messes. The problem with the messes is that they tended to draw him in. If a plan deviated from its course it usually resulted in a phone call, which triggered a web of communications that eventually reached him and, sigh, the panicky voices on the phone and the simpering, "We don't know what went wrong, Mr. Moriarty, it all happened so fast." Like a pathetic little script, only the words got changed around sometimes. Dull. Time to buy more bullets.

So he didn't rush. If he took his time and choreographed every step of the dance, he got the desired results. But Sherlock made him want to rush. He was Jim's best and most beautiful toy — just begging to be broken. His very existence made Jim salivate, made his teeth ache, like he needed to rip a piece right off the detective and feel the blood run hot down his chin. Oh, Sherlock. So tempting and so infuriating. His devotion to his little pet. The army doctor. So disappointing that Sherlock had come to need something so banal. The funny little man with his ordinary little mind and fuzzy little jumpers. He really was quite adorable, though. Jim really had to restrain himself the first time he snatched away Sherlock's plaything. Had his men dress him up in explosives and coloured wire and oh, it was so delightful! It was all he could do not to send the order to have the doctor strut up and down as if he were on a fashion runway. I'm a model, you know what I mean, and I do my little turn on the catwalk …

Jim giggled to himself. He should have done that. He really should have. Maybe he could again. It had been a fun game, in any case. Smelling John's fear, and the brief moment of confusion on Sherlock's face when for a moment — just a teensy moment — he wondered if he'd been had by the doctor. Laughable. Supposedly no one could put one over Sherlock and Jim had done it effortlessly. Boring. In the end it was all so boring.

But he was glad he had allowed the detective to live. Because he'd had so much more time to learn about him. Oh, he'd learned so very much. Catching the pearls of wisdom, one by one, as they dropped from the mouth of Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's story. Every childhood bump and scrape, every adolescent humiliation, every misstep and triumph. He had it all. In return he'd fed the fatter Holmes full of nutritious bullshit. Nothing useful, but all delivered in a way to make it seem utterly salient. He'd been released from custody and immediately he'd begun to plan.

Because, sadly, Sherlock did have to die soon. There was no escaping that. The wheels were already set in motion, but Sherlock didn't know that yet. No, but the master plan had been enacted. All of the cogs were working together in perfect harmony; he could almost set it to music. Like in the Bugs Bunny cartoons, that marvellous song, "Powerhouse." Jim loved that one. Not as much as the classical odes, but there was an energetic, workman-like quality to it. And Jim considered himself to be quite the powerhouse, oh yes. Do-do-dooo-do-leetle-lee-do-dooo …

He had time and energy to devote himself to another project, so he decided that he wanted to enjoy Sherlock for some of the time that remained before he was dismantled and crushed. The pristine virgin, so untouched in so many ways. Unused and fresh. Would be such a shame to see that go to waste. No, when Sherlock met his end, he would know what it was like to be used, to be possessed, and owned. He would have knowledge that had otherwise been denied to him, or that he'd been too stubborn to accrue himself. Unless he and the doctor … nawww.

Jim smacked his gum and chuckled aloud, swinging two well-shod feet up onto his desk while he played with his phone. Sherlock and the little doctor? Oh, sure, he'd seen the adorable puppy-love devotion between the two. Their willingness to die for one another, how touching. But he rather doubted that John Watson had even the first clue as to what a man like Sherlock Holmes really and truly needed. Important to make the distinction between need and want. Sherlock would certainly not want Jim to open his mind in the way he was planning to, but oh, he certainly needed it. And Jim would enjoy himself in uncovering that need. Grabbing it by the throat and pulling it out of the darkness to writhe and scream in the light.

Daddy's coming to get you … nowhere left to hide. Nowhere in the world is safe for you once I've decided that you are mine.

Watson was the key. Jim was loath to repeat himself, but the fact remained that there were few things that could be used as a bargaining chip and/or manipulation tool with Sherlock Holmes. He supposed he could shake it up and snatch up the old crone who kept their house or perhaps that delectable Lestrade …

You could have them both, said the dark voice that had been talking to him for as long as he could remember.

Both? Oooh, how decadent. Do I dare? No, I couldn't.

Sure you could. You want them.

Of course I want them. But no, I need to keep this streamlined. Besides, who will I amuse myself with once Sherlock is dead? I should save the detective inspector. For dessert.

If you say so.

It would be John. It had to be. Jim had witnessed enough to know that nothing got results out of Sherlock as quickly as a threat to his precious pet. Jim swept his thumb over the phone and blew a bubble as he started setting his plan in motion. It was like architecture. Or poetry. It was art. One had to have a knack for it and Jim was a master.