#sherlock dr

Do you know what it's like to be reminded of the worst parts of yourself when you look in the mirror?

He haunts me. Like a cruel poltergeist tied to the scene of their biggest crime, he lingers around. Too close to be a memory, too far to live in the present. His presence makes itself known in every aspect of my life, like a vast web tying everything I love back to the one I hate the most. He truly has earned his title of the spider in the center of the web.

James Moriarty was a hard man. You could easily be lured into a false sense of security from his nonchalant demeanor, but once you drew close enough to see the malevolence in his eyes it would be far too late. A venomous snake, hiding beneath a disarming sheepskin. The Professor, they called him, though his lessons were taught far from any semblance of a classroom or lecture hall.

James Moriarty was the most dangerous man this side of hell . . . and I was his favorite son.

“Moriarty isn’t just a name, it’s a message,” I remember him telling me when I was young. I was barely six as I sat at his side, various business men approaching his dark mahogany desk with a sense of apprehension behind their wrinkled and worn faces. The dark eyed man known as Moran, my father’s right hand, led another out of the room as James turned to talk to me.

“This is your legacy, son mine,” he said, “And, I will pass it to you—if you prove that you can take it.”

Words I took to heart then and there that day, I didn’t even flinch the next time gunshots rang out. A Moriarty doesn’t flinch, I told myself, trying to set in some of the hardness that made grown men afraid. Though, it never came as easily to me as to him.

Still, I tried. I worked and trained and pushed myself harder than anyone else. By the time I was a teenager, I could defeat even the most experienced of father’s men in combat and had the aim that could shoot the head off a pin across the garden. I could slip into any disguise at any time, become whoever I wanted when I wanted. I could direct conversations to manipulate people into giving up their darkest secrets without them even realizing it.

I’d become everything he’d wanted me to be. And yet, it still wasn’t enough.

James couldn’t be satisfied with good, or even great. He spoke my name with pride to his allies in fancy suits while twirling a glass of champagne between his fingers. He gave me the most dangerous and important jobs, knowing I could take care of it. However, there was always something. Something for him to comment on, something that was never quite perfect. 

The shot wasn't clean enough. The response was too emotional. I let them get a hit in. I wasn’t quick enough. I wasn’t perfect enough.

It dawned on me when I turned sixteen. He wanted his flawless little heir, the one who could point and shoot without so much as a blink of a response. He wanted me to be him. And I wasn’t, not even close.

So, I left. Well, ran is a more apt word, I suppose.

But, even now, nearly three years later, I still feel his presence. His eye lingers over me, just as intense and watchful as when I was eight and not eighteen. I see him in everything I do. In the nonchalant demeanor I put on when interacting with people. In the way I immediately try to dissect them for weaknesses. Even in the way stray hairs fall over my dark eyes, shadowed with a noticeable darkness underneath. Even in the way my hand feels the most content with a gun in it.

People often say that you look like a parent as a compliment. As a cute thing to notice between a related pair. Like a spot the similarities game with features. For me, it's a shackle, a reminder. I can easily see his face in my own. It’s less so “what’s the similarity?” and more so “what’s the difference?”. I’ve tried to change my appearance, to rid myself of his influence in every way I can. I’ve grown my hair out, I cover my face with makeup and piercings, I practice my smile in the mirror to get rid of the old man who’s mannerisms I adopted at a young age from living at his side. 

Every attempt to cut away his mark leads to me screaming into my hands and ripping my hair out from my scalp.

What's worse now? I swear I saw him on the tube. I swear to whatever gods may be that I saw that familiar ghost haunting my ride home. But, when the vehicle passed, he was gone. Like he’d never been there at all.

I tried to dismiss it. But, then I saw him again, and again, and again. Not just his face, his influence. Crimes Sherlock and I are called into investigate have a distinct flair to them that I could recognize with my eyes closed. My flair.

Then, it grows more obvious. Irish words becoming part of integral clues. A brush with a man I’m almost certain was Sebastian Moran. A man on our client list with the last name Moriarty who never ended up showing at his appointment. An old sailor’s compass appearing on 221B’s doorstep. When Mariana brought it in, my hand instinctively moved to cover the tiny identical tattoo marked into my wrist, like a brand. Like a visible reminder of invisible stains on my hands.

It’s obvious. James Moriarty is trying to drive me insane. Unfortunately for me, I think it's working.

the bag herself! a thrifted purse that I completely ruined with chains, studs, pins and keychains. all buttons from local shops or found on the ground in some of the punk refuges I used to hang out in.

— BUTTONS INCLUDE: "be gay do crimes", "contains autism", "please don't interrupt me when I'm talking to myself", "detective pretty boy", and two science/bacteria puns.

— the eyeball keychain was made by my bestie and the teddy bear was me. I wanted another easily accessaible knife. hold habits die hard, I guess. sue me.

— also handcuffs... because I'm a detective.

THE THIN FRONT POCKET . . . FOR SMALL THINGS I ALWAYS REACH FOR

— my keyring including a carabiner from my butch friend, a keychain full of found shit, a knife key, and a key to my 221C flat.

— my pill box, containing extra meds and tylenol and ibuprofen

— a swiss army knife with morse code cheat sheet on the side. because of course another knife. but this one has tools!

WIDE FRONT POCKET . . . IMPORTANT SHIT THAT DOESN'T FIT IN THE OTHER

— a first aid kit tin for emergencies. including extra gauze and antiseptic and also just regular band-aids. they're crime tape band-aids. thank you sherlock.

— my vivienne westwood lighter I stole from my father when I disappeared. mostly just to spit him. it does make me smile to know I took something valuable from him

— same with my westwood wallet. its hardly petty, he deserves every thing I can take from him

— my tamagotchi!!! mari got john, sherlock, and I matching tamagotchis and somehow, I'm the only one who's managing to keep their alive

— mints in a piano tin, very necessary

— also a fish bottle opener. I don't know where it came from, honestly.

MAIN POCKET . . . THE MAJORITY OF MY SHIT

— my phone! an anatomy case that was a gift from john <33 he knows me so well

— also my earbuds in a heart case. I found it in a shop and immediately needed it

— a torch, just in case a case demands it. which is more likely than you'd think.

— a spiral notebook and a pen for taking notes during cases or scribbling out ciphers. also the pen has a knife in it. are you surprised.

— a burner phone. you know, like every good normal person has.

— extra bullets for my gun that's holstered at my hip. I will never be caught unprepared

— a more tactical knife for serious situations that I can't involve my gun with, to my dismay.

— assume everything westwood I have I stole from my father. these gloves included. this is just needed for a detective job.

— my "I like stupid thing" punch for any little things that might get lost in the bottom of my bag.

THE POUCH . . . FOR THE LITTLE THINGS

— another knife. this one in a comb. I have curly hair. this is not a good disguise.

— my burts tinted chapstick for my dry ass lips on the daily

— spare eyeliner because I'm naked without a wing

— another knife! in a lipstick tube! have I almost stabbed myself! yes! will I take it out! no!

— extra black nail polish, because I'm also naked without that

— black lipstick for more formal occasions . . . this is my way of dressing up an outfit, don't @ me

— loop earplugs that are lifesaving guys, trust me. a necessity for your neurodivergent bag.

— extra hair ties and bobby pins that will all be lost in a week. two weeks if we're optimistic.

— a 8-ball compact mirror! perfect for checking your face and also watching someone behind you