This Way Madness Lieth
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC 2010)
Rating: Gen
Characters: The City of London, Jim Moriarty
Warning: Mention of blood and death.
A/N: This goes slightly against what I wrote in "Odd..." but consider it an edit. For some reason, Moriarty demanded that "I tell his story right." Don't even ask me why.
The City woke and rose, its thoughts turning to crime and strife and trouble and, primarily, a feeling of imbalance. It asked its streets what was missing, what went wrong. They had no answer, except that there were names missing, Names gone wild, the Lost whispering, and its pretty self complained of needing to not be arguing with the Centre about petty things. The City grumbled and promised nothing and everything, and felt another small thing shift. The Lore would not be ignored, whispered Piccadilly. The Lore had to be kept, or the Underneath was waiting.
The City knew what this meant. As far as Cities could love, it loved its boys, the mad one, the Centre one, the wounded one, but love was not a part of this Lore. Love was important, yes, but more important was balance, the Universe being kept in order by the weaving of all tales into the great tapestry that was Time. London knew it was time.
Far away in emerald (for London’s reach, when it tried, was long, as long as the strands that tied the country together) there was a mind, a Name, ripe for the touch. Balance must be achieved. The madness crept in, and took over, and slowly London drew the nemesis to itself. Fleet Street chortled and the Tower took its blood and turned it into hate and Moriarty never knew what possessed him to move from Waterford to London and expand his mad genius into being.
The City fed him things, fed him mad things, fed him secret things. It rewoke its dungeons and its dangers and sent to him the desperate ones, the ones who would do anything to escape what they were running from. He laughed and killed and kept his hands lily white, though by proxy they should have been stained as red as the blood that fed the stones that still lay under the embalming asphalt. It forgot its love, in part, for a moment, fracturing itself back into its old ways, feeling the thrill as a cabbie (already closer to it than most) acted out his most secret desires on the whispers of the mad one, catching the attention of the those who guarded the City, those who served at its protectors. It felt balance begin to be restored, the delicate dance of light and dark (though here it was light and grey and dark and red, blood red, and an oddly luminescent blue) and through the pulling of subtle strings the events began to line up. Time stretched and shifted and pulled threads in and out and young boys died, and lives were changed. Things must always hang in the balance, whispered Downing, its posh accent sounding like a villain. Balance is all, said Ben, his chimes wavering in the newborn hours of the second day.
The City hated itself sometimes, yet it was the way it was. When it brought Cromwell out of the obscure Whitehall had shouted, scaring maids and causing there to be human rumours of ghosts. Something similar to this had happened in Scotland Yard when it gave to the Lore of the Ripper, and so the City resigned itself to weeks of unsettled feelings and major congestion. Balance must be brought, it sighed, and London must not fall into the Deep.
Rating: Gen
Characters: The City of London, Jim Moriarty
Warning: Mention of blood and death.
A/N: This goes slightly against what I wrote in "Odd..." but consider it an edit. For some reason, Moriarty demanded that "I tell his story right." Don't even ask me why.
The City woke and rose, its thoughts turning to crime and strife and trouble and, primarily, a feeling of imbalance. It asked its streets what was missing, what went wrong. They had no answer, except that there were names missing, Names gone wild, the Lost whispering, and its pretty self complained of needing to not be arguing with the Centre about petty things. The City grumbled and promised nothing and everything, and felt another small thing shift. The Lore would not be ignored, whispered Piccadilly. The Lore had to be kept, or the Underneath was waiting.
The City knew what this meant. As far as Cities could love, it loved its boys, the mad one, the Centre one, the wounded one, but love was not a part of this Lore. Love was important, yes, but more important was balance, the Universe being kept in order by the weaving of all tales into the great tapestry that was Time. London knew it was time.
Far away in emerald (for London’s reach, when it tried, was long, as long as the strands that tied the country together) there was a mind, a Name, ripe for the touch. Balance must be achieved. The madness crept in, and took over, and slowly London drew the nemesis to itself. Fleet Street chortled and the Tower took its blood and turned it into hate and Moriarty never knew what possessed him to move from Waterford to London and expand his mad genius into being.
The City fed him things, fed him mad things, fed him secret things. It rewoke its dungeons and its dangers and sent to him the desperate ones, the ones who would do anything to escape what they were running from. He laughed and killed and kept his hands lily white, though by proxy they should have been stained as red as the blood that fed the stones that still lay under the embalming asphalt. It forgot its love, in part, for a moment, fracturing itself back into its old ways, feeling the thrill as a cabbie (already closer to it than most) acted out his most secret desires on the whispers of the mad one, catching the attention of the those who guarded the City, those who served at its protectors. It felt balance begin to be restored, the delicate dance of light and dark (though here it was light and grey and dark and red, blood red, and an oddly luminescent blue) and through the pulling of subtle strings the events began to line up. Time stretched and shifted and pulled threads in and out and young boys died, and lives were changed. Things must always hang in the balance, whispered Downing, its posh accent sounding like a villain. Balance is all, said Ben, his chimes wavering in the newborn hours of the second day.
The City hated itself sometimes, yet it was the way it was. When it brought Cromwell out of the obscure Whitehall had shouted, scaring maids and causing there to be human rumours of ghosts. Something similar to this had happened in Scotland Yard when it gave to the Lore of the Ripper, and so the City resigned itself to weeks of unsettled feelings and major congestion. Balance must be brought, it sighed, and London must not fall into the Deep.