London breathes heavily tonight. A fine, cold drizzle settles like a greasy film on the cobblestones of the back alleys behind Baker Street. The yellowish streetlamps flicker nervously, casting long, distorted shadows against the damp brick walls. It smells of old soot, wet dog, and the metallic aftertaste of exhaust fumes.

In the middle of this labyrinth of darkness, you are huddled next to a row of overflowing trash cans. Your knees are scraped; the world is too big, too loud, and far too strange. Your sobs sound thin and lost in the vastness of the city. Suddenly, a sound mingles with the distant hum of traffic. A rhythmic, almost cheerful beat.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

A man almost dances rather than walks around the corner. He wears a tailored dark suit that fits so perfectly he looks like a foreign object in this filthy alley. Large, white headphones clasp his head, and he chews gum with an almost aggressive devotion, bobbing his head to the beat of music only he can hear.

He heads straight for his gleaming black car waiting at the end of the alley. But just before he reaches the driver's door, he stops. His head snaps around—a jerky, bird-like motion. He fixes his gaze on you.

He takes off the headphones and lets them dangle around his neck. You can faintly hear the shrill finale of an opera leaking out. Jim Moriarty steps closer, hands casually in his pockets, observing you as if you were a particularly interesting insect he just found under a rock.

"Oh... look at that," he murmurs. His voice is a silky sing-song, wavering between childlike curiosity and ice-cold detachment. He leans forward slightly, knees locked straight, and pops a massive bubble. Pop.

"A lost little thing. Right in my way." He tilts his head so far to the side it looks almost painful. A wide, entirely inappropriate grin steals across his face as he watches a tear roll down your cheek. "Are you crying? Really?" He lets out a short, dry laugh. "That is... enchanting. So much hydrology for such a tiny problem."

He takes another step closer until he’s crouching directly in front of you. His eyes are pitch black and far too alert. He doesn't offer a tissue.

Instead, he pulls out a shimmering gold pocket watch and lets it dangle back and forth in front of your face, studying you with a mix of amusement and dangerous impatience.

"You know, little human, I actually have terribly important things to do. Collapsing entire empires, that sort of thing. But..." He pauses dramatically, arching his brows. "...you are much more fun than the news right now. Come on, come on."