the life and lies of richard brook.
O.M.G…
brilliant! …… how have I not seen this before!
scRREECHING
Hee. 😀 A Piece of Theatre
It was hard, being brilliant. Sherlock tried not to whinge about it; it proved irritatingly distracting to those of lesser intellectual abundance. Sadly, however trite, it remained no less true that they weren’t equipped to understand.
It wasn’t enough to be merely good at something when you had it in you to be the best. When you were this brilliant, being the best at one thing wasn’t enough. You had to find out just how far you could go.
The problem was, he was too good.
It was John who’d first set him to thinking about it, with that conversation about the cabbie, before they’d known it was the cabbie. “Genius needs an audience,” Sherlock had told him, and then heard his own words in his head and realized just how truly he’d spoken.
He felt unappreciated. What was the point of reaching above and beyond if there was no one else to know?
Oh, Sherlock Holmes was fine. Everyone knew about him. Sherlock got his name in the papers. Sherlock solved impossible puzzles. Sherlock was a hero.
But his other consulting business? The hardship of being the world’s best criminal was that it meant no one ever heard of you. How the hell could his genius be appreciated when anonymity was one of the conditions of victory? Why, it’d take someone as smart as he was to even recognize his existence!
And that was how he had his epiphany.
He’d once crashed a murder mystery game after it turned into a real murder. It had struck him as one of the cleverer ideas he’d ever encountered; pity the execution had, in more than one sense, been so sloppy. Ever since, he’d wished for a chance to do it up right.
It was a matter of legerdemain. Performance art. It was a piece of interactive theatre, really, and he’d always loved theatre. Technology simplified the logistics. Hired assassins, pre-recorded messages, human sock puppets; telecommuting for the modern criminal. He forced himself not to sulk too much over the bombs. They were a necessary evil. Much as he loathed the idea of blowing up bits of his London, good sleight of hand needed proper misdirection.
He blamed those damned James Bond films John was so enamoured of. Popular media had murdered subtlety.
He blurred the lines between spectactor and participant. He led his audience on a whirlwind tour in the guise of a chase through ‘Moriarty’s’ empire. He introduced them to the mind of a criminal so ruthlessly intelligent that only Sherlock Holmes could defeat him. None of them spotted that it was his mind staring out at them through a fictional mask. (Oh, but John came close. “I hope you’re very happy together,” well done! If only Sherlock could tell him how proud he was.)
Poor, dear John. Sherlock hated to do it to him—his nightmares took enough out of him without providing him with more flashback-fodder—but the move was too elegantly symmetrical to resist. The perfect flourish; the perfect blind. The perfect distraction from the clues John came so near to picking up.
Sherlock had to comfort himself that John would appreciate the artistry if he only knew.
One day he’d stop. When they had seen enough to understand, Sherlock Holmes would put paid to ‘Moriarty’ and retire the devil back to the creative oblivion from which he’d sprung. Until then…
“I’m off to Sarah’s.”
See you in a few hours, John.