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James Moriarty was looking up at the stars.
Now that he had no need for currency it seemed that they could live quite comfortably on Earth. The balcony's edge felt unnaturally perfect in its curve and design. Moriarty could feel no ridges nor cracks, no signs of failing or disrepair that frequently plagued his old lodgings.
He missed those slight flaws and imperfections because they felt real to him. When he first saw the stars from the window of that spaceship, he began to marvel at where he truly was. Who he truly could be. But now the stars were high above him. They began to make him feel small and when he felt like this his brain went to even smaller places. A grain of rice. A speck. His heart started to race.
"These are just the thoughts of humanity," he scoffed aloud. "Everyone from the working man to Copernicus, we all look up and wonder…"
But neither Copernicus nor the shoemaker had ever had to know that they were truly just a figment of someone's imagination. Never had it told to their face.
His mind was free, but was his body? He gripped the edge of the balcony. Smooth and perfect as the arch. He squeezed his eyes shut and begged: Let me be here. Let me really and truly be alive.
He opened his eyes slowly and the peaceful evening continued to revolve around him as if he were the center of the universe. His breathing eased a little. His fear would pass and the delights of the world would distract him once more.
Until the next time.
And the next time.