Step inside my story and see it's told in blood.

[willfixitforyou]

Who: Jim Moriarty- actually not anymore. Evelyn Carnahan- or what's left of her. Anyone else who feels like spotting a murder scene.
Where: The library.
When: July 5th, morning.
Rating: M for murder.
Summary: Since finding out Sherlock survived his Fall, Jim's been thinking he has to make good on what he said he'd do. Burn his heart. Here's a first.
The Story:

He thinks he's played nice for much too long, really. Richard Brook, such a kind, bumbling fellow, but now isn't the time for that, no no no no. Jim's had his mind set on evening the score, and his mind works with quick and vicious precision. On the hospital rooftop, it had just been a bluff - an arbitrary number of nonexistent gunmen, or if there had been gunmen, they had not been his - this did not excuse him from making good on his word.

Conveniently, he'd already taken careful note of dear Miss Carnahan's schedule. It was a matter of course, she was Sherlock's friend, she was a potential game piece, and now was the time for her to play her part as a liability for the first time. No matter if he didn't like getting his hands dirty. There was no-one to delegate this manner of work to, here.

The library, which she visited nearly every morning, was big enough for him to easily stay out of sight as she came in and settled down to study. Within a matter of minutes she was engrossed in her reading to the point of forgetting her surroundings, never hearing him approach her from behind.

And just like that it was over for her, really. Holding her head in place, pulled back by her hair to have easy access to her throat with his blade, and once that was done, a matter of barely more than a second, she was already no longer able to scream. A messy affair, blood on his hand, his arm, his shoes from the puddle quickly forming on the floor as he watched her first and last attempts of struggling with dispassionate indifference. Once that was over with, once she had gone still and the blood only quietly soaked the pages of her book, he dropped her to the floor and set to work - to the actual work, the point he was to make. Really, Sherlock, forcing his hand like this...



A few minutes later, anyone walking into or through the library will find the results of his work, but not him, naturally. Just Evie's body, opened up from the stomach with the heart not horribly cleanly removed. And blood, of course. Don't say I didn't warn you about the blood.

((ooc: feel free to thread amongst yourselves. Jim is nowhere to be found, Evie is very dead, but play with this scene as you'd like!))