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turanteAnd here is my entry for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
thegameison_sh's first challenge: NEW, tweaked a bit.
Rating: Pg
Characters: Moriarty, Sherlock, (Mycroft)
Word count: 540
Warnings: implied character death
Summary: He had never liked comedies; his life was made for tragedies like those written by the great classic authors.
Title: All the World's a Stage
[An explosion. Exit Moriarty. Enters Mycroft with attendants. Exeunt, carrying the unconscious John and Sherlock]
It did not take long for Moriarty to realise his mistake. He hadn’t been a good director: he left the scene too early, didn’t make certain that the ending came to be the one he had written before the curtains closed.
It would have been his masterpiece; it contained all the elements of a great play: plot twists, betrayal, fights, love. It was the great tragedy of life played out for his entertainment on the great stage of London.
But the ending was wrong. The hecatomb he had planned had been ruined by a cheap plot device.
'Deus Ex Mycroft', his second had named the intervention of the elder Holmes.
A bloody nuisance, that’s what it was. All he knew was that he needed to rewrite the ending, to rewrite the play entirely, because he didn’t like repeat performances, not for what he felt was the last show.
He had never liked comedies; his life was made for tragedies like those written by the great classic authors. Didn’t he feel like Oedipus at times? Wasn’t he King Lear, on the run with his fool now? Didn’t he have the ambition and ruthlessness of Lady MacBeth? Didn’t he possess the cruelty of Medea?
Now Mycroft Holmes had ruined his play, stolen a costume and sneaked on the stage, changed the lines and played God in a place where only he, the scriptwriter, was supposed to.
Moriarty plotted vengeance like Hamlet, hidden in the shadow under the stage, prepared the perfect trap and set it. He knew what to use as bait, only needed to get it.
He wrote a new play, because he had another player now, an actor who didn’t know he was even playing his lines now, but who’d be much more interesting once he realised.
He had a fresh plan, and a new tragedy written only for him.
Mycroft Holmes.
The only one deserving to be his nemesis. And a good nemesis gets killed in the final act, not sooner.
Sherlock was not important anymore. He was expendable, and Jim had no more games to play with him.
The consultant detective could die, gloriously, in the third act, and his faithful pet along with him, to thicken the plot.
It was a brilliant play, the one he had written this time, perfect and complex. Now all that was left for him to do was to prepare the scenery and costumes.
[Enter Moriarty and Sherlock]
“This time there won’t be a chance for your brother to come and rescue you,” Moriarty said, playfully, as he and Sherlock cautiously circled each other.
“I took every precaution not to be followed by him,” Sherlock replied, calm and coldly calculating.
“How very foolish of you. But it’s good, because you’ll work better as bait if you’re dead,” Jim said, sweetly, getting closer and closer to him until they were inches apart.
“No explosions this time?” Sherlock asked, slowly reaching for the gun he had on him.
“I don’t like repeat performances,” he said, reaching for his own weapon. “Time to end the third act, Sherlock,” he announced, "sadly, you won't make it past the intermission."
[Exit Moriarty]
thegameison_sh's first challenge: NEW, tweaked a bit.Rating: Pg
Characters: Moriarty, Sherlock, (Mycroft)
Word count: 540
Warnings: implied character death
Summary: He had never liked comedies; his life was made for tragedies like those written by the great classic authors.
Title: All the World's a Stage
[An explosion. Exit Moriarty. Enters Mycroft with attendants. Exeunt, carrying the unconscious John and Sherlock]
It did not take long for Moriarty to realise his mistake. He hadn’t been a good director: he left the scene too early, didn’t make certain that the ending came to be the one he had written before the curtains closed.
It would have been his masterpiece; it contained all the elements of a great play: plot twists, betrayal, fights, love. It was the great tragedy of life played out for his entertainment on the great stage of London.
But the ending was wrong. The hecatomb he had planned had been ruined by a cheap plot device.
'Deus Ex Mycroft', his second had named the intervention of the elder Holmes.
A bloody nuisance, that’s what it was. All he knew was that he needed to rewrite the ending, to rewrite the play entirely, because he didn’t like repeat performances, not for what he felt was the last show.
He had never liked comedies; his life was made for tragedies like those written by the great classic authors. Didn’t he feel like Oedipus at times? Wasn’t he King Lear, on the run with his fool now? Didn’t he have the ambition and ruthlessness of Lady MacBeth? Didn’t he possess the cruelty of Medea?
Now Mycroft Holmes had ruined his play, stolen a costume and sneaked on the stage, changed the lines and played God in a place where only he, the scriptwriter, was supposed to.
Moriarty plotted vengeance like Hamlet, hidden in the shadow under the stage, prepared the perfect trap and set it. He knew what to use as bait, only needed to get it.
He wrote a new play, because he had another player now, an actor who didn’t know he was even playing his lines now, but who’d be much more interesting once he realised.
He had a fresh plan, and a new tragedy written only for him.
Mycroft Holmes.
The only one deserving to be his nemesis. And a good nemesis gets killed in the final act, not sooner.
Sherlock was not important anymore. He was expendable, and Jim had no more games to play with him.
The consultant detective could die, gloriously, in the third act, and his faithful pet along with him, to thicken the plot.
It was a brilliant play, the one he had written this time, perfect and complex. Now all that was left for him to do was to prepare the scenery and costumes.
[Enter Moriarty and Sherlock]
“This time there won’t be a chance for your brother to come and rescue you,” Moriarty said, playfully, as he and Sherlock cautiously circled each other.
“I took every precaution not to be followed by him,” Sherlock replied, calm and coldly calculating.
“How very foolish of you. But it’s good, because you’ll work better as bait if you’re dead,” Jim said, sweetly, getting closer and closer to him until they were inches apart.
“No explosions this time?” Sherlock asked, slowly reaching for the gun he had on him.
“I don’t like repeat performances,” he said, reaching for his own weapon. “Time to end the third act, Sherlock,” he announced, "sadly, you won't make it past the intermission."
[Exit Moriarty]
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no subject
Date: 01/02/2011 18:53 (UTC)OMG, we are brain twins! I had a very nearly, almost exactly similar line in my fic, which was also about Moriarty! (I knew there was a reason I liked you...) ;)
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Date: 01/02/2011 18:59 (UTC)Actually, there was a third Moriarty fic in there (by
Brain twins.
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Date: 01/02/2011 21:17 (UTC)well done you!
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Date: 01/02/2011 21:28 (UTC)I should probably stop abusing Sherlock, right?
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Date: 01/02/2011 21:30 (UTC)no subject
Date: 01/02/2011 21:31 (UTC)it may lead to disaster.
Or Anderson.
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Date: 01/02/2011 21:35 (UTC)*is impressed and slightly envious*
can we have some more of Anderson's diary please? I was mentioning it to
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Date: 01/02/2011 21:42 (UTC)Anderson is slashable... in an odd way. Still better than Dimmock in my head. And definitely better than Sebastian.
Churchill!icon is courtesy of
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Date: 01/02/2011 21:56 (UTC)*rushes off to steal yet more lovely icons*
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Date: 06/02/2011 06:44 (UTC)And now he's going to kill MY MYCROFT? NO!!!!!!!!! He will not prevail!
Enjoyed this tragedy very much!!
no subject
Date: 06/02/2011 19:05 (UTC)*offers shock blanket* I should have put them in the beginning...