It’s a simple factual error on your part, Sebastian. An easy one to make, to be sure, and one that only a few have been allowed to reach the point of—but you see, it is, actually, a mistake. There’s a fine line that he draws in the sand, and you can cross it if you’d like to, but the only thing that will ever stem from that is pain.
You’re allowed many things, Colonel Moran…you’re allowed to kiss him occasionally, to take his orders, to sometimes, if you’re lucky, fuck him through the mattress into tomorrow, but there are a few things that he will never give you, and learning that early is only to your benefit. You’re his weapon, you’re his little soldier, you’re his employee, you’re his lover, you’re his live-in—but don’t for a second miss the commonality in all of those phrases: his. You are his. Jim Moriarty is like a drug, and you, Sebastian Moran, are addicted, and you belong to your addiction. He owns you, no matter how you conceal it with your words and the appearance of physical dominance—you. are. his. It’s that simple.
You’ve been caught in a trap that I’m afraid you can never be free of, a sweet-faced Irish trap that’s oh-so-changeable. Doesn’t matter what happens—if you die, you go with thoughts of him in your head and a wish for him on your tongue. If he dies, how would you survive? The thought is, for all intents and purposes, inconceivable to you. No one likes to think of a bad thing until it happens, but trust me, Colonel, if he dies before you, it will hurt like a bitch.
But you’re not in love, are you? This isn’t love. This is obsession. This is hideous and destructive, and how stupid would you have to be to fall in love with a man who could never return it? Of course you’re not in love, you’re not an idiot. Love is sweet and it’s pure, and it burns like the devil when it’s done wrong, but what you have with Jim is not love, because what you have with Jim is violent and selfish and it doesn’t hurt at all, it’s just empty, isn’t that right? Because he doesn’t possess the ability to return anything you would give him, even if he wanted to—which he doesn’t, and that’s an empty feeling too.
You see, Sebastian, it’s there that your mistake lies. Or could lie, if you made the entirely-too-easy misstep and crossed the line. The mistake would be to expect equality from him, fairness. Because while you are irrevocably his—he will never, ever be yours. It’s an easy mistake! And he doesn’t help it, does he? He lets you be so very close, cries your name and utters blasphemies for your sake and sometimes lets you fall asleep near him afterwards—lets you get a little possessive, a little jealous sometimes because he thinks it’s ‘just adorable’. But just because he lets you do so many things doesn’t mean he’s yours—he’s absolutely not.
In fact, if there are three parts of him; mind, body, and soul; the only one you even get close to calling your own is his body, and even that’s a hollow comfort, because that’s not really yours either. So you’re the person he allows intimacies with, so that’s you, you’re the one who touches him and he touches you too. So you’re the only person, in recent memory, to whom he’s given that privilege. What does that mean? Nothing. That could change at any second, should he so choose—his body is his, and he lets you have the use of it occasionally. His mind belongs to Sherlock Holmes—or, at the very least, it’s become so entangled with him that you could never separate it out. And soul? What soul?
If you cross that line, that line of thinking ‘he’s mine’, you can’t go back and you can’t go forward, not anymore…you’ll always be wrong. At least until he corrects you, violently, and don’t think he won’t. ‘He’s mine’ shatters a bit, doesn’t it, when he comes home babbling about his detective or smelling of Miss Hooper’s perfume? When it hurts, you’ll know you’ve made the mistake—you had no right, Sebastian.
Jim Moriarty belongs to no one but himself.
Not even a little bit, darling.
Which cause does that go with?
a) Because you don’t want me or b) because you’re not an idiot.
At the moment, both.
That means you’re going to get into the shower at t=29, aren’t you?
Damn it, boss.
#and here we have another prime example of pointless banter #which comprises moran sass #otherwise known as moran hilariousness #responded to with moriarty snark #like a boss #hah #this often results in moriarty planning or scheming something to spite the moran #the whole exchange then ends with the moran cursing and walking off #to think of a strategic way of avoiding whatever punishment he could find himself on the receiving end of
The beating heart of the nation. Londinium to the Romans. Lundenwic to the Saxons. Lundenburg to Alfred the Great. But to all generations since: London. Our London of today. London has known suffering…
But London always rises again. London is a monument; to the hard times, to the good. Celebration of what we have been, what we are today. London. Our heart, and our sinews, and our voice. Poetry, and prose. People, and places. London now throws open its doors to a new theatre of dreams. A city in waiting. A city on the move; humans on the move. Fascination with making the next step faster, stronger, and being the fastest and the strongest.
This… is London of the Olympic Games. And since this is our heart and our voice, London must feel and speak of romance, of love. London is ready- so take a deep breath… But not for long, for London is about to cry out… with heart and soul!
Let the games commence.” —Benedict Cumberbatch, London 2012 (via areyoutryingtodeduceme)