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For William James Moriarty, life was a straight line—unyielding and relentless.
A path with no intersection.
Just a thorny, linear track leading only to his end goal: instant death upon the success of his plan.
William had vowed to use his extraordinary intellect to create a better world for the less privileged and the weak. He was prepared to purge those who spread the infectious disease of classism, and nothing could divert him from this mission.
Even as a child, when the plan first took root in his mind, his only thought was to die once it was fulfilled—to destroy the corrupt system and eliminate the devils that plagued society.
His genius couldn’t erase the inevitability of this conclusion. He knew the weight of the plan he was crafting, the colossal burden that would press down upon him; his overwhelming sin. He knew the toll it would take on his soul—the stains it would leave in pursuit of that ideal world.
He understood the responsibility: the pain, the disgust, the crushing guilt that would become his constant companions.
And yet, his mind remained resolute, as if it had been programmed into him—flowing through his veins like the very blood that sustained him.
[A horse with blinders]
This rebellion against the caste system felt like his only purpose in life. As he continued to move forward, mission after mission, each success reaffirmed his belief that this linear track was the only path he could take. Every victory, every clever manipulation of events, boosted his determination. This was proof that he was right.
Perfection was non-negotiable. When it came to planning and execution, there was no room for error. Everything had to be elegant, theatric, flawless. His comrades—his family—always delivered. Louis, Albert, Moran, Fred, and the others (Money Penny, Paterson, and Herder)—each unique and equally brilliant—followed him on this miserable journey. Until now, he was still incredulous with how he was truly blessed to have them by his side.
With them, William believed he had all he needed.
An organization. A family. A bond that would never break, no matter the horrors they faced together.
That was enough.
Yet, despite sharing the same air with them, William couldn’t ignore the subtle shift that crept into his mind during a mission on a certain ship, meant to expose a nobleman's heinous deeds of human hunting.
And no, it wasn’t guilt that gnawed at him when Lord Enders met his end that caused this little change…
It happened when he crossed paths with a ponytailed man, surrounded by an obnoxious trio of women, who were betting on the man’s ability to deduce a stranger’s occupation from a single glance.
William was picked and soon, he was intrigued.
The man’s deductions were sharp, precise—delivered almost flippantly, as if seeking attention from anyone willing to listen.
William granted him that attention. Amusement stirred within him as he, too, made his own deductions about the man, ending with a simple statement: it wasn’t even a guess. He was merely stating facts.
A burst of boisterous laughter erupted, and in that instant, William felt the air around him shift. That handsome face smiled, clearly impressed by William’s insight, and something unsettling flickered in his own mind.
It was the joy.
Not the kind he felt with Louis or Albert—familial love, steady and comforting.
No, this was different. It was warm. It was strange. It was... addicting. A kind of joy he had never known, fleeting as it was. For a brief moment, it wrapped around him, familiar and yet foreign, leaving him almost unsettled when the man was abruptly dragged away by those irritating women. Almost like a kiss stolen from romantic prose, soft and melting, yet abruptly cut short—leaving parted lips yearning, seeking another chance to collide.
It was a joy that left a mark. A joy that made him question, for the first time, if that thorny, straight path was really all there was to life.
That encounter didn’t end there, as the ponytailed man seemed to feel the same pull, seeking out the blonde moments after disembarking.
He already knew that William would be able to keep up with his rants and deduction with regards to the bizarre case of Enders. Acknowledging this unspoken recognition of equality sparked something warm within William—what might have been a bit of fun, had it not been tinged with a slight sense of trepidation. The man had, after all, precisely deduced—despite the lack of evidence—that the entire conspiracy had been orchestrated by a mastermind. William couldn’t agree more that, at that moment, this nameless man was truly a force to reckon with. He's not to be ignored lest they weren't afraid to find themselves detected by this stranger who later on introduced himself as Sherlock Holmes, a freaking detective—this explains the keen blade that was his incredible mind.
After that conversation, William might be talking with his brothers about the success of the mission inside the carriage but his mind went to multitask, thinking about the detective as well all throughout the ride.
Ever since the night they met, a certain dark-haired man had never left William's mind palace.
Sherlock Holmes’ been there, ghosting him without end like an apparition he could see everywhere, even within his usually black dreams, the memory of first encounter will always flashed, playing as if it's a broken record.
There's no doubt William James Moriarty had already found his match. His only equal in the identity of a man who smelled smoke and chemicals.
Despite seeing him as his Achilles heel, William pressed forward with the idea of scrutinizing Holmes, justifying it as merely analyzing a potential threat to their plan. Everyone seemed to agree because with William’s words, they trust.
Thorough investigation of Sherlock Holmes had been implemented, and that includes knowing everything about him, such as his address, his image to the townsfolk or general behavior, his things, especially the covert ones like if he had a gun, his physical attributes even the size of his feet, his records, acquaintances, and his daily routine. It almost feels like William has become the detective's stalker when he decided to have a room rented on the building across Holmes’ residence just so Fred and the others could monitor his every move.
But to make his actions less disturbing for himself, he'd always convince his heart that this is fully objective, and will never be subjective at all cost.
“Where are you going brother?” Louis inquired, there's a tinge of concern in his soft tone. “Haven’t you just come back from your meeting with Hope? Did you forget to tell him something? You could always send Fred so you can rest—"
"There’s no need, Louis," William cut his beloved brother off, an assuring smile on his lips. "I haven’t forgotten to tell Hope anything. I’m just heading to our rented residence on Baker Street for a moment."
"Forgive me, brother, but I haven’t seen you take even the briefest rest since yesterday. You’ve already been out earlier to make arrangements with Hope about testing that man, Holmes. And now you’re off again to that building. Isn’t it troubling how frequently you go there, brother? What if that detective’s starting to notice? And, for heaven’s sake, surely you’re not planning to sleep there again. Fred still hasn’t properly cleaned that room—"
"Louis,"
Silence…
And much to his little brother's chagrin, William makes the same apologetic smile he'd always use whenever he can't grant Louis his wish.
"Stop worrying about me, I'll be fine. Everything is under control.”
Everything is under control — that Louis couldn't entirely believe now.
As stealthy as a thief, William James Moriarty had returned to this place once again, slumping beside the window of his quarters, merely to observe the man he intended to test. Tomorrow, everything will finally fall into place.
It was already late in the afternoon, and he noticed that Holmes was not in his flat. No doubt, he had gone out somewhere. Even so, William remained in his spot, choosing to read through the papers full of information from Fred. He had been reading for several minutes when his sharp hearing kicked in, and from the moment the door from the flat building on the other side of the narrow road creaked open, he knew the noisy detective had returned home.
Just as his scarlet eyes shifted outside his window—angled just right to observe Holmes’ flat without being detected—he caught sight of the detective’s irritated expression as he stood in front of the table facing the window. The table was cluttered with test tubes and glass chemical holders he used for his experiments. Sherlock was shouting, seemingly in conversation with his landlady once more. From the limited words William overheard, he gathered that they were arguing about rent payments. Holmes responded confidently, saying he had found a flatmate to resolve the issue—it was Stamford's friend, apparently, and he'll be coming by tomorrow morning.
Intrigued by what he heard, William's curiosity heightened knowing another person is coming into view, on the contrary, the blonde's mind wasn't all excited when suddenly he started to feel the familiar hands of drowsiness, pulling and forcing him to rest. Good thing, he had the bed prepared.
William awoke just before the stroke of midnight. His stomach was still empty, and it should have been grumbling by now from hunger, distressing his poor younger brother with just the mere idea. Yet once again, he seemed to lose all awareness of his physical needs as the detective’s violin played on from the building across the street.
In the four times he had slept in this room, he had heard Sherlock play on all four occasions. It was during these moments that he concluded Holmes was the kind of person who poured his emotions into his music. The first three times, it wasn’t exactly pleasant to listen to. Perhaps the result of deep frustration, brought on by the lack of challenging cases, or maybe simply irritation with his landlady, who seemed to play the role of his long-suffering elder sister.
But tonight was different. The melody of the violin was beautiful. And as William listened, he felt as if he could discern the detective’s very thoughts, laid bare through the melody. He could sense Sherlock’s relief, and William knew why—finally, someone would be sharing the burden of the rent. There was also a note of anticipation, a question hanging in the air like a held breath: Who will this new flatmate be? Will they be intriguing and sharp-witted like the genteel William of Noahtic? Or will they be disappointingly ordinary and tiresome? Oh, let’s hope not…
The detective’s music was enchanting tonight, but once again, unpredictability stirred within William.
Unlike the three previous occasions, tonight he did not wait until morning to slip away from this room.
Seven minutes after Sherlock Holmes had set his violin aside and turned in for the night, the detective fell into a deep sleep—blissfully unaware that the one person he so admired had already slipped out of the building across the road. Cloaked in black, William moved silently through the lonely night, while Holmes remained in the dark, unknowingly clueless that a certain pair of scarlet eyes had grown fond of observing him.