(Sometimes NSFW.)

Me: Dr. Adder T. Morgue. Full-time monstrosity. 22, neutral pronouns preferred, but you'll see me referred to as "boyfriend" by my darling. Ace, demiromantic. Angry shouting about my mental health.

Content: not much, anymore. Decent-human-being sort of social justice stuff, meta, me making sad noises at Australian politics and mental health discussions nobody should really have to have. Hannibal art when I can find it. Original stuff a lot also. Sometimes science.

Addition: I draw for money but I'm terrible with colours. Sorry about that. I'm teaching myself, but bluh.

Perfection: My partner is Agent Sandy Quinn. She's wonderful.




This is more fic.

In which John Watson wasn’t the only one who received a letter.

In which Sebastian Moran’s letter was too little, too late.

In which James Moriarty had a penchant for hand-writing.

It’s three years later when a letter arrives for Sebastian. The handwriting is painfully familiar, and his heart lodges, for an instant, in his throat.

His address is there, and it says ‘Colonel S. Moran’ in emerald-coloured ink, but the return address is ‘Don’t get your hopes up’ and their London apartment.

The envelope itself is warped - it’s been wet. Droplets. Maybe tears - probably not. Probably just water splattering.

He gives himself ten minutes to stare mutely at it, and then he frowns, opens the envelope by carefully peeling it open, not tearing it. The paper feels crumbly, dusty - old.

"Tiger," it starts with, and Sebastian pauses, moves to make himself a drink, and sits.

"I left this with someone else, to send to you if I hadn’t resurfaced in a few years. …Get it? Because of the water - nevermind, you never were good at jokes against yourself, you’ll be worse with jokes against me.

I know you. I know you’ll be obsessing.

Stop that.

No, I MEAN it. You’re still alive. Have fun with that. I’ve left everything to you, and it’ll run without that much effort from you if you follow what I’ve written on the laptop. The ornithological paper 2001.pdf has your instructions on it. Also, some music to make you bawl about my itty bitty corpse, since I don’t want you to forget what an arsehole I was, hot stuff.

So this is my final request. Drop it. You can have a perfect life, without me. You’re at the head of an amazing empire.”

Sebastian pauses, turns the letter over, and finds a frayed bit of the paper, poking up.

It’s probably just water-damage, and he doesn’t want to ruin his last memento; there’s a crushing weight making it hard for him to breathe, an ache in his eyes and in his throat, and swallowing is difficult.

…But Jim was so clever, loved to show off. He grasps the corner, pulls it up, and finds it to be a papery sticker, more written beneath the adhesive.

"Just kidding, colonel. I know you better than that. I knew you well - you loved me, you poor mad bastard. And I got as close as I could to returning that, not that I’d tell you if I hadn’t corpsed it up -

So, since I can’t convince you not to, I want you to do one thing for me.

I don’t care if they live, hot stuff, but make them suffer.

Yours, even now,


Sebastian puts the letter down, looks to the wall, and sits there open-eyed and staring until his eyes are achingly, itchily dry, and his body aches from the silence of hours.


Later, cornered and only now beginning to feel as alone as he should have for years - no longer with the comfort of Jim’s ghost in small notes and orders, in faded photographs pinned to the wall and all the red marker lines going from victim to crime report scrubbed away - Sebastian stands, heavily restrained by the police, and Sherlock’s mouth is moving.

"This empty house is my tree," he says, and Sebastian lifts his head, movements treacle-slow, as if he’s deep underwater. "And you are my tiger!"

Something snaps. The ghost of Jim is dissolved by that sentence and Sebastian sees red, sees white, can think of nothing but Jim’s delicate fingers touching his throat, Jim’s black eyes, and the flat, mocking silver of Sherlock’s eyes tearing at him.

The sound he makes is inhuman; even under the taser-shots of four officers, he can feel himself, from a distance, can feel himself struggling, roaring, trying desperately to get free for long enough to crush the life out of Sherlock Holmes.

He tastes his own blood, and finally, after staggering into the taunting man, his vision goes from black to nonexistent.


When he wakes again, he is in a cell, and he has nothing in the world left to fight for, so he folds his hands on his stomach, closes his eyes, and stares at nothing.

"Sorry," he says, and then nothing more.

  1. madam--vastra reblogged this from addertwist
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    no it’s too late for me to hurt this way this is physically crippling
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