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Hullo, my dear. It doesn’t really matter how this all started, so I’m not going to bore you with reams of dry and tedious reminiscence. I’ve shown you a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on, but nothing, really , of myself. Jim Moriarty may as well be Richard Brook, or Richard Bach, or Peter bloody Pan, for all you’ll ever get to him.
So, no, no, no. You will never know, really, who I am, and where I come from. As far as you are concerned, Sherlock, I arose, fully formed, from somewhere low, and vile, and full of the most dreadful stain of sin. The catechisms and rosaries and small mercies of my youth will never be your concern.
I knew that I was alone. Brilliant, gifted, a prodigy, if I’d let them see the half of what I was. But I didn’t want to. I was cut off from the ordinary ones, the little people. I was the wing'd-with-awe, inviolable. But, then, into the loneliness of being me, being unique, but unable to share it with any living being, came you.
Even as a child, Sherlock, you were beautiful. Tall, sublimely made, an Adonis of a man. Your hair, oh God, I now knew why those pre-Raphelite brothers had painted as they did. Rich, dark, curling locks, falling down over a perfectly chiselled face, lips to lose yourself in. I imagined them opening up and letting me in, and you devouring me, consuming me, burning the heart out of me. And, oh sweet Jesus, those eyes. Where did those eyes come from? I have never, before or since, seen eyes like that, eyes you want to fall into, lose yourself and drown in. I had found something I seemed to lose with my lost saints.
Whereas I, your intellectual superior... Yes, Sherlock, you disappointed me, you really did, you fell for some idiocy about music and rhythms and binary and silly distracting shit that I thought you’d see right through. I know you’re not exactly au fait with elementary science, but – come on!
Where was I? Oh, yes, I – small-ish, slight, decent-enough looking, but ordinary, the sort that makes a fleeting impression. As you know. Oh, I remedied it all as much as I could, with sharp suits, scathing wit and being the only consulting criminal in the world, but nothing I could do could ever hope to hold a light to your beauty.
I watched you, for years. But nothing could prepare me for meeting you. With that silly bitch Molly, and your pathetic, boring pet, hovering, I was drunk with sensation, breathing in your scent, intoxicated simply by being in your presence. Knocking the tray on the floor really wasn’t staged, you know. For once, I was totally flustered, totally overcome with emotion, totally enraptured. What was that film? Terrified... mortified... petrified... stupefied... by you. By you. Sherlock.
So. Here we are, now. I have at last got the upper hand. I am going to destroy you. I am going to prove myself the superior man. Your brilliance, your oh so easy physical beauty, even those ordinary little people who – apparently – love you. They mean nothing. I’ve beaten you, I’m the man with the crown, I'm the daddy. I’m Mr Sex.
Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.