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It all started when he met a noble by the name of Albert James Moriarty.
The person who gave him the wealth to start his schemes of reforming the country. The person who gave him power. His name. The chances of him rising to be an infamous noble killer were farfetched without the brunette’s help.
He wasn’t stupid. Far from it, actually. He was regarded as a genius - the scarlet-eyed mathematics genius of Durham University. He was renowned around the area for being a kind-hearted noble who didn’t look down on commoners. Helped them, even. Yet, he was only noticed because of his status as a noble. No matter how intelligent he was, as a commoner, no one would ever notice him. Why would these snobbish, high-ranking nobles bat an eye to what they assume to be another measly orphan?
The answer was simple. They wouldn’t.
After all, they had no reason to. It wasn’t as if it was their job to pay any heed to what they saw as insignificant farm animals at their disposal. Sure, it may be basic human decency to at the very least treat these struggling people kindly but then again, when has humanity ever been kind?
To them, it didn’t matter what trials and tribulations those lower than them experienced. All that mattered was the fact that they were still living in a lavish mansion with everything within arms reach - something most would die for. This egoistic lifestyle haunted him. It made his blood boil with anger and his mind implode with annoyance at the sight of these pompous nobles walking past slums as though people weren’t dying and suffering there.
Then came Albert.
This kind, young nobleman who was willing to visit the orphanage daily. This, of course, led them to meet. Perhaps it had been fate. Perhaps not. The mathematics professor thought of this multiple times over - hundreds of times over - yet never found an answer. He supposes some things were left a mystery.
No matter the answer, it was simply by pure chance they had met. A one-in-a-million chance. And this chance - this completely improbable chance - changed his life. The emerald-eyed noble saw salvation in him. He saw a glance at what this nation could be: fair. He wasn’t even a teenager when Albert invited him to come live with his family with the promise of giving him power, wealth and influence. The promise to give him and Louis - his beloved, innocent younger brother - everything they needed, both in life and to create his ideal utopia.
A year of mistreatment and abuse both he and Louis had to endure. For the plan, he remembered when being whipped by Lady Moriarty - an ill-tempered woman. For the plan, he reminded himself when waking up with bandages on his arms and legs. For the plan, he repeated like a mantra. It was all for the plan. His life has been centred around this plan. This young boy was but an empty husk with the sole purpose of fulfilling his role as the big bad in this grand plan of his.
He looks at his ungloved hand, ignoring the flash of red that appeared on his palm to hold it up to the moonlight. Even with such little lighting, four short, white lines could still be seen just below his knuckles. A scar. One of many that had wormed its way into the blonde’s daily life.
More times than not, he would catch himself staring at the faint scar left by the real William James Moriarty. This only served as a reminder that he was pretending to be someone he was not. The true him was dead - roasted and burnt in the fire that happened years ago. Truly though, was he anyone to begin with?
He remembered it clear as day. The night his entire life flipped upside down into the alien pandemonium he knows as life today.
It was late into the night, a few days before William’s birthday. The oldest son of Moriarty had approached them, face hesitant yet determined all at the same time. Such contrasting emotions on the face of someone so young - emotions so foreign on a teenager’s face. The blonde attentively listened to Albert’s request, unsurprised and prepared with a plan.
He had seen the signs. The restlessness of his adopted older brother around his biological family. The contempt in his eyes at every crude remark they made during dinner about others - nobles and commoners alike. He could see it, the same hate he had. The same wish to abhor and punish those who would ever see commoners as stepping mats.
He knew that it was only a matter of time before it became too unbearable for the composed boy - the straw that broke the camel’s back. Just as expected, something did. He wasn’t aware of what it was but after the dinner before William’s birthday, he marched into the servant’s area where he and Louis were retiring for the night.
The blonde could not forget the look on his face. The look of determination and the fire that resided in his heart only seemed to burn hotter and hotter. And the person that stoked that fire to turn into a full explosion: himself.
Albert had asked the young genius once, in the chapel of the old orphanage, whether or not he was willing to kill for the sake of his ideals. At the time, he answered affirmatively. Yet he wasn’t sure then whether he truly was willing to go through with taking another’s life for the sake of an ideal.
When he plunged the sharp, wooden piece into William’s abdomen, he had his answer. He recalled Albert strangling his mother, leaving her unconscious to die in the fire. He, too, remembered the feeling of taking the life of not one, but multiple people in the same night. The blood on his hands: a testament to his new journey and a stain to the delicate, white petals of the lily in his soul. He may have put on a cool and indifferent front but deep down, a piece of his heart died. A piece of his humanity was lost, never to be recovered again.
Yet his stony expression did not waver. Albert came to him for help, for courage . He came to the younger as a pillar of support for the genocide that was about to happen. If he had wavered then, the brunette would surely go back on his decision. So against his younger self’s moral compass, he steeled himself - standing tall and brave in the face of the monster he had become. All he did while masking his heavy heart with a blank look.
That night, William James Moriarty died and was reborn.
Like a phoenix, he rose from the ashes of the burnt Moriarty mansion. His identity, the real him, was replaced with the empty husk of another. From then on, William had to act carefully. He had to act like he was depressed due to the sudden loss of his parents and home. He had to get into the role of the middle child of the Moriarty’s quickly. Albert and Louis had to focus as well.
They all quickly put on acts of despair at the loss of their seemingly picture-perfect family. Albert was quickly pushed into the spotlight. As the oldest, he now had to shoulder the heavy burden of being the head of the family - the same family he had hated to the bone and ended. He quickly grew accustomed to wearing a graceful and charming mask. As did William.
Louis was a different story. As the adopted sibling, he had to quickly adjust to that of a weeping child, mourning the loss of his newfound family who had treated him with ‘kindness’. The reality of the situation mattered not to the public eye. Louis was adopted from the streets. Louis had to be grateful lest he be looked down upon and shunned by society for his ungratefulness.
William was thankful that he had the least attention, leaving him with breathing room to master the new personality - the new him - he had to use. It wasn’t difficult to shape himself into another as he quickly grew familiar with the role of the middle child who lost everything a few days before his birthday.
Even then, it still wasn’t enough.
He had yet to make his debut in high society. Neither William nor Albert. Not to mention Louis. Albert quickly integrated after inheriting the title of head of house a few months after the fire. William followed suit shortly after. They quickly got into their roles, their acting as natural as breathing. Settling into the new Moriarty mansion in London, they were now fully pushed into the public eye. Whatever action they did, no matter how insignificant, would be seen. Greedy opportunistic nobles were constantly on the lookout for ways to bring others down.
How petulant.
After the incident died down, they started scheming. Gathering allies along the way, they discreetly drafted plans for the murder of multiple nobles. By day, they were simply King’s scholars. At night, however, they were planning for the future and plotting the downfall of the system.
Despite the multiple plans of genocide, they couldn’t go through with it. Not yet. Not with the deceased Moriarty family still fresh in their minds. Especially not when they were still the highlights in the black-and-white papers of the press.
So they waited. Patience was a virtue after all. During the wait for their adulthood, they didn’t sit still. How could they when the future of the nation was in their hands? So they quietly gathered information on each noble, creating a list of targets.
Turns out, there was more dirt under the mat than they expected. Various hunting grounds with a bloody history and black markets with pasts as dark as wars were quickly found through various less-than-conventional methods. It was only a matter of time before they uprooted these criminal syndicates.
Eventually, the day came for their plans to become actions. They were dormant for long enough. Together, they committed their first organized murder as a group.
Before they knew it, one murder became two, two became three and it only spiralled on from there. The more lives taken, the more pieces broke away from his heart. Until eventually there was nothing but shreds of it left. As for his humanity, he didn’t even know where to start. All he knew was that he couldn’t say there was any left. He was a monster. A vile beast whose only fate was his impending doom.
Despite his inner turmoil, he pushed his feelings to the side.
He wanted to change this society. He needed to. The blonde knew he was resilient and intelligent enough to pull it off. He had plans that were grand and extravagant - intricate details thought out to a tee. This was simply the price he had to pay for taking the lives of many. Yet this fact did nothing to deter him. Nothing would stop him, no one would stop him. Not if he could help it.
Then came the Noahtic case. The case that coloured his black-and-white world with beauty and light once again. This one event that proved him wrong. That proved that against all odds, he still had an identity. That he was still him.
That event was meeting Sherlock Holmes.
William could hardly wrap his head around the fact that by (once again) pure chance, he had met this brilliant, eccentric, funny… oh, how he could go on and on about him. The blonde wasn’t one to be easily swept off his feet, not when he had a clear goal in his head - one he thought of 24/7.
Yet meeting Sherlock Holmes was a breath of fresh air from the polluted stench of blood and guilt that constantly surrounded him. From the moment his eyes landed on this man, something in him changed. This change was minuscule at first, it was but a little flicker of excitement when William saw the detective deduce his occupation. It was excitement, he told himself. It was a simple yet plausible explanation.
The second time was when they met on a train. It was a coincidence, something he had not considered in the realm of possibilities. Only this time, William knew for certain that he was going to be meeting the consulting detective more often. After all, he played a key role in his master plan. He landed the role the moment he passed the audition in the Enoch Drebber case.
When he heard the boisterous call of his nickname, “Mr. Mathematician”, he couldn’t help but feel a small tug at his heartstrings. Once again, he dismissed it as surprise. Yes, surprise. It was a perfectly sensible and justifiable reason.
When questioned about his identity as the Lord of Crime, he simply smirked and taunted, “Catch me if you can, Mr. Holmes.”
William swore he saw the detective blush, his eyes widened with determination and surprise. He revelled in their light and playful banter - a contrast to the dark life he had led thus far. Yet again, he chose to ignore his racing heart and the reason it was going a million miles a minute in the first place.
Then, that small tug turned into a full-on jerk to his heart as they competed to solve the unexpected murder case that appeared on the train. He couldn’t help the small twitch of his lips as he watched with amusement the usually eccentric detective wrap up the case - his brows furrowed in concentration and his eyes fueled with familiar determination.
He also couldn’t help the flicker of disappointment that welled within him when the train arrived at the station, marking the end of their little escapade. But when Sherlock promised he would take the professor out to dinner sometime - a date - his heart raced with anticipation. Despite himself, his mind thought of this one line on loop until their next meeting. William chalked this feeling to excitement. He was simply excited to meet this detective who he had grown fond of due to his wit and personality.
The next time they met, the situation was more dire. With the life of Irene Adler on the line, the blonde knew the gravity of this matter was not one to underestimate. He sent Albert as the representative for the Lord of Crime to meet with the detective. William knew this was the right choice - the smart choice. Yet it didn’t make it any easier. His heart was screaming at him to go as himself, just so that he could see the ravenette again. That annoying noise was quickly squashed down by the logical reasoning coming from his brain. The mission comes first. It always has and always will. Yet his heart refused to back down without a fight - quickly invading his mind with thoughts he would rather not explore.
He paused.
Wait, since when could his heart do this?
Never in his life had his heart interfered with his head. The mere thought of this happening seemed so foreign, so bizarre , to him that it never crossed his mind. Throughout the course of his life, he relied heavily on his mind to survive - to dictate his actions. So the fact that his heart, his feelings of all things, affected his thinking elicited a small wave of panic and worry to course through him.
Even though the noise coming from his heart was but a small whisper - barely recognised by the complex notions in his mind - it was still present. It was still there. William saw this voice as an annoying pest to be terminated - an insignificant vermin that should not have any place in his mind.
He shook his head, ridding the ridiculous thoughts from his head. He had more pressing matters to handle and there was no time for such absurd ideas to take hold of his mind.
The third time they met was on their alleged date.
Prior to their little ‘date’, he had been thinking about him - about the bold detective who had asked him out on a date, in front of his brother no less. (He was rather amused at the little rant Louis gave him about said detective the moment they were in the safety of their mansion’s walls). He couldn’t help but ponder whether the detective would keep true to his word.
It had been a few months since their little promise and he had started losing faith. He thought himself a fool to think such a thing would happen. But when Sherlock surprised him during a math test at Durham University, he couldn’t ignore the little feeling of joy that came from his heart. Neither could he ignore the quick ‘thumps’ coming from his ribcage every time the detective called him ‘Liam’. What an endearing nickname.
True to Sherlock’s word, they had a meal together on campus. Throughout their entire meal, the ravenette simply rambled on and on about the Lord of Crime. Once again, he refused to acknowledge the childish glee he felt when he heard the man praise the criminal mastermind for being an absolute genius. To be recognised by someone, a man who holds the same genius as he, no less, was a compliment he refused to let by. He also chose to ignore the quizzical and curious looks of his students when both passed by them.
Yet the topic of the Lord of Crimes only reminded him that in the end, no matter how desperately William wanted to befriend the man, he couldn’t. His ideals simply wouldn’t allow it. He would be selfish to abandon his ideals for the sake of a man he barely knew but he just couldn’t help it. Not when he thought- he knew he had found his one true soulmate. Despite his aching heart, he pushed through with a straight face and masked his despair with a calm smile.
It’s alright, he thought. He’ll simply enjoy this fleeting moment while it lasts.
When it was time for Sherlock to depart, he couldn’t help the small frown that made its way onto his face. It had been fun, no, that wasn’t the right word. It had been perfect. In his eyes, Sherlock was the epitome of perfection.
…he didn’t know when he started to think of such silly things.
Not for the first time, he stomped down his fantasies and escorted Sherlock to the train station. Seeing the detective’s face, he couldn’t help but tease the manchild a little. With impeccable timing, he had called out the detective’s first name only for it to be covered by the whistle of the train.
It was worth it, he thought.
The surprise on Sherlock’s face was priceless - an image that was worth more than the Mona Lisa. And an image he would forever have locked away in the small folder of his mind next to celebrating his brothers’ birthdays and painting a colourful rainbow on the orphanage wall when they were younger.
Ah, fun times.
But those memorable times quickly ended when they met again. It wasn’t one as acquaintances or friends, but rather as enemies.
The Lord of Crime and London’s Greatest Detective.
It was all they should have been - black and white, good and evil, hero and villain. They were meant to be sworn enemies. Yet William toed between the thin line of enmity and love. And now, standing on the opposite side of Sherlock’s gun, he had to pay the price. There was not a shred of friendliness in the detective’s gaze and it pained him to have to return the gesture.
William knew from the start he shouldn’t have messed around. He should have known better than to let his curiosity take control over his urges. He thought he was strong enough, smart enough to break free from the chains of his own desires. Yet now, all he could see was a pitiful man who would be killed by the one he loved the most.
Truly ironic.
He watched as his Roman Empire crumbled in the fire that he lit himself. And the cigarette between his lips - ignited by the burning empire before him - withered his lungs to dust. Unbeknownst to the criminal mastermind, the cigarette on his beloved’s lips was also kindled by the flame he created to bring down the monsters of humanity with him to hell.
Now, as they both stood atop the burning bridge, he knew he could not deny his feelings any longer. Something in him snapped. Every time his heart would accelerate to a fast-paced song whenever he was around or the way his stomach seemed to dance to the rhythm of the eccentric detective’s actions. The times his heart would stumble only for it to be caught by the ravenette. Oh… how he wished it weren’t true.
He has fallen in love with one Sherlock Holmes.
And now, there stood Sherlock. Sherlock, the unfathomable - just this once, William looks up into the big night sky before he falls below. Just this once, he reaches to touch him. William’s body slackens, it crumbles under the unwavering grief and exhaustion.
Bloodied fingertips touch Sherlock's cheek gently. "Please, hurry- leave me," William whispers, a smile gracing his pain-adorned face.
The blood stays, it stains, it stings, like acid on William's trembling hands - the blood he has desperately tried to rid yet to no avail.
"No, no," Sherlock whispered desperately, breathing heavily. Leave? How could he dare to? The sun could blow and he would not step an inch away. He crushed the suggestion, shoved it deep into the endless void - such a notion did not deserve a place in his mind. The familiar stench of blood pries the hope out of his hands. He often disregarded the mortal ichor, for it surrounds his life.
But it had never felt so daunting. He had never felt so naked, so raw of his sorrow - the blood sticky and hot and real against his skin.
The metal-tasting hue the air contains floods his lungs. He couldn't breathe.
“I-I was wrong, Sherly,” William stuttered hoarsely, a forlorn smile on his lips, “There wasn’t anything after all-”
(There was. The blonde had just felt a little pitiful then - he could never be wrong. But look where that had gotten them.)
William smiled wistfully, as though he were staring into a universe where they could have just lived happily together as friends and in the haze of his mind, perhaps something more.
“Please, don’t say you love me.”
He looked at Sherlock’s crestfallen face, a twinge of guilt in the pit of his stomach. He should’ve known. He should’ve known better, he finds himself thinking again. The damage had been done. Nothing could possibly fix the countless lives he had taken and the hollow void in place of his heart. His humanity was nothing but a distant past that he refused to look back on.
He was too late. He had accepted the fact that he loved Sherlock too late. Not only that, but he was a coward. He knew what this strange sensation was yet he chose to ignore it. Now, he had no choice but to hate him. It should be simple. He has hated for all his life. He hated the corrupt system, he hated the nobles and he hated this cruel world.
Yet now, looking into the glassy dark blue eyes of his light, he couldn’t bring himself to hate him. He simply couldn’t. How could he when Sherlock was the person to have taught him the one thing he thought he could never do again?
Love.
It pained Liam to do this, to erase the memories they had created together for the sake of the justice he had sought for. His logical reasoning was screaming at him to go through with the plan - to take the last step. His heart, on the other hand, seemed to have finally managed to surpass that of his mind. He knew what a dangerous thing love could be. So wild and unexpected.
Yet now, cupping Sherlock’s cheeks in his bloody hands, he knew that it would have been worth it. He leaned in, his lips ghosting over the detective’s for just a moment. Before he could give time for the other to react, the blonde had already let him go - the missing warmth sending him plummeting back to the brutal reality of their situation.
He stares up at Sherlock, his falling frame limp in the air as he awaits his death. Liam could see a mixture of emotions flashing through the detective’s face. Pain, sorrow, fluster, annoyance, determination, love .
He doesn’t close his eyes as he plunges, wishing his last sight to be that of the man he loves. Liam smiles. He was content knowing he had done all he could to change the country. If only he could live with his soulmate. But now, he knows better. He knows that it was but a silly wish that his selfish self could never be granted.
He deserved this. This was his punishment.