It had been nearly a year since the fall, and he was getting close.

He could feel it, taste it almost. Each link he broke was just a little bit closer to the spider at the centre of the web. Each one just that little bit more hopeful that they were important enough to be saved.

That just made it all the sweeter.

And tonight was just another night in this life, in what his life had become. Just another night in a darkened warehouse, or somewhere similar; the location didn’t matter. Nor did his company, not really. They were just one more casualty of this war.

Oh, and he knew all about war.

“Amazing how much damage you can do, with a good knowledge of human anatomy.” John Watson said in a calm sort of way as he stood over a nameless assassin. “For example, the wrists really are fascinating.”

He raised his foot to rest gently on the body part in question, still speaking in that neutral, detached voice. “They’ve evolved to be incredibly manoeuvrable, but at the cost of their durability.”

He leaned a little weight onto the foot pressed against the assassin’s wrist.

“Shocking, really, just how fragile they can be.”

He pressed the rest of his weight down, feeling and hearing a crack under his foot, and earning a groan of pain from his captive.

“See?” He asked coldly. “No effort at all. Now the ribs, on the other hand, very durable. They have to be, you see, if they’re going to protect the heart, and the lungs, and all the things that keep you alive. But that’s only the upper ribs. Because the lower ribs, they’re not really of any use. They can be a lot of hassle, really, if one of them breaks and punctures a lung.”

He aimed a sharp kick to the sniper’s side, the toe of his shoe slamming against the bone. Something dislodged, and the sniper choked out a pained cry. The blow came again, striking the same point repeatedly, until it suddenly just… stopped. The toe of the shoe rolled the bruised and winded assassin onto his stomach.

“But perhaps most interesting of all,” John mused quietly. “Is this point here.” He positioned the sole of his shoe on the sniper’s neck, just below the base of his skull. The man tensed. “Ah, you feel it, don’t you?” He asked the man cowering beneath him. “A terrifying thought, really. That small fused connection which supports the entire nerve centre of the body. Not a problem back when we had small brains.” His eyes became slightly distant as he spoke. “But when people started getting clever, that’s when the problems started. Their heads just got too big, you see. But they still thought they were untouchable.” He applied a small amount of pressure, eliciting a whimper from his victim. “But they were wrong.” He continued relentlessly. “Because that one little joint stayed constant. That one little scrap of bone, supporting that brilliant, untouchable mind. But who knows? One day, that little joint might just… snap.”

He forced his foot down and to the side, and a crack reverberated through the quiet warehouse.

“And then that brilliant mind will follow soon after.” He finished, picking up a small handgun from the sniper’s various belongings and slipping it into his belt.

“I’m coming for you, Moriarty.”

“Start running.”

The first time Jim Moriarty killed a man, it had been an accident.

He’d been fourteen at the time, and he’d been cultivating a dangerous habit for three years. At least once a week, he’d sneak out of the house, and find something to burn.

Jim Moriarty was a serial arsonist.

He didn’t like the term, personally. It made him sound like he had some kind of condition. Maybe he did, but it wasn’t fire he was addicted to.

It was danger.

Or, more accurately, the feelings brought on by danger.

You see, Jim Moriarty had understood for a long time that he was different. Because he had an uncanny ability to know things. Some people called it amazing, what he could do. Incredible. Brilliant.

But Jim Moriarty didn’t see it that way.

It wasn’t amazing, or incredible, or brilliant, or even astonishing.

It was hard.

It was hard to know the punchline to every joke before it was said. Hard, to know the secrets behind the magic tricks which fascinated all of his peers. Hard, to sit through endless lessons of the same work which he had understood the first time around, but which was being revisited to help the other students who couldn’t grasp the simple concept. To know how anybody would react to anything, because really, aren’t normal people just so predictable?

It was hard. And by the time he was eleven, Jim Moriarty felt numb. Nothing surprised him, because he saw it all coming miles beforehand. Emotions in general were weak and washed out, because everything was so pointlessly dull.

So he’d started a fire.

Fires were wonderful, in Jim’s mind. So chaotic and changeable and so gloriously unpredictable. This first fire had spread further than he had expected, to his delight. A passerby had seen. Police had been called, and Jim had run from them.

And after he’d escaped, a rush of feeling hit him. Adrenalin, possibly, but also fear and excitement so intense that it made him jittery.

For the first time in his life, Jim Moriarty could truly feel.

And he loved it.

And ever since that first time, he’d kept going back for more.

The fires had escalated, as he’d grown. From a few twigs and leaves in the woods near his home, to full trees, to entire fields. He’d treated himself to an old barn full of straw on his fourteenth birthday.

And soon, he found another. He set it alight with practiced ease, sitting back to watch the show and wait for the authorities.

Then he heard the shouts.

There was somebody trapped inside the barn.

He knew that there was no way that the doors would open - the heat would already have caused the metal hinges to warp and twist out of shape. Breaking a wall was out of the question too - the whole barn would collapse, tenuously balanced as it was. There were no windows.

Jim knew, by now, that whoever was trapped was as good as dead. That fact was proven seconds later, when, with a groaning splintering sound, the roof caved in.

The screaming stopped abruptly.

He simply stood and walked away. The sirens were further off than they usually were when he left a fire, but this was no ordinary night.

He made sure that his trail was unidentifiable - almost a reflex now, he was so used to it. As he walked, he catalogued the sweet rush of concentrated feelings surging through him. They seemed so much more powerful than usual - it was exhilarating. A smile grew on his face, and he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, basking in the pure, unadulterated sensation. There was a new one now, too. Sharper than the others. Slightly bitter and twisting like a snake as it coiled through him. He wasn’t sure what it could be, unfamiliar with emotions as he was, but it was a small price to pay for the concentrated burn of chaotic feeling shooting through him.

Jim Moriarty had just killed a man.

And he felt more alive than ever before.