Where there was another reality where Jim didn't wait after Carl was pronounced dead. He left because he had better things to do.
Where he turned thirteen and presented as an Alpha. Jim told his Ma that he was going to Dublin to collect his due.
"But it's going so well." Her hands were worn and cracked. She was skiving. For a Professor of Maths, but she was skiving.
He liked Professor Cotzard. He liked him enough not to kill him when he asked about Jim's Da, as if he was worthy to even say his Da's name. As if Da hadn't been the Brigadier, and so what if he'd used the sharp end of his belt. He'd been the top dog.
But enough about that. He took the congratulations from Da's old lieutenants as his due. As if it hadn't been a forgone conclusion he'd go Alpha. He offered Davie McGuire a job running errands for him in London, because by then he had errands. Davie was expendable - of course - but loyal. Oh, such a loyal Betty Bird Beta to Jim's big dog Alpha. His wings were clipped on a job in Dumfries. Didn't matter. There were always more.
He laughed and pulled the strings.
He gained years. Slipped them on one at a time. Had so many things going in the big bad world.
He studied the emptiness of things.
The vast emptiness of things.
Dead things spinning in space.
He acquired a degree or two.
He did crime. Something to do. Time to kill.
He wrote a book on the Dynamics of an Asteroid. He didn't include his proofs, because he didn't need them. Because anyone not smart enough to understand what he'd done didn't deserve to read his book. They pissed themselves over it.
He'd pissed his mark all over science, which was more fun than the time he did it on Moran to show him who was top dog. It certainly was not Moran. Fucking Betty.
He came to realize the world was divided into two types. The fakes set up like cardboard figures to fuck and die, and the real people, by which he meant himself.
He lived in a world of cardboard.
Oh, there was the occasional clever soul, but they didn't have the knot to be real.
It was so boring.
He thought Sherlock might be real for a time, but the Virgin didn't have the knot to put a bullet in an Alpha's brain. To put a knife in an Omega's heart. He was good for nothing but petty tricks and mewling in heat. A virgin in the only thing that mattered.
He felt the ripples of the Alpha Woman, Irene Adler, before he met her. Adder to his anaconda. They weren't really compatible. He wasn't interested in Alphas.
Still, they played. He'd send her little puzzles. Cats cradles. She'd play them out and send him his due. His tribute. It wasn't a cut. Cuts were for fodder. They were for sheep. This was tribute. Like a king would pay to Caesar of old. Due from one real person to another.
He lent Sherlock to Irene for a little while. A little something to buff his Omega up. Make him real. But no. Virgin was in love with a little Beta Doctor, and wasn't that just adorable. Wasn't that just sweet.
If he wanted something done, he'd just have to do it himself. Make the little wooden boy real. He'd have to burn the Virgin's heart out himself. He was so bored.
It was perfect. Sherlock threatened Jim and it was delicious and it was all he could have hoped for. But Jim had set a maze for the little wooden boy that there was no escaping from. Not with a dozen assassins waiting to kill everyone the Virgin cared about if Sherlock didn't jump. Jump. Jump. Jump.
Jim put his own gun in his mouth just to see Sherlock's expression.
Jim giggled as he pulled the trigger.
For that Professor Moriarty, it went that way.
Waking up in the empty white waiting room of eternity was a surprise, but he giggled thinking about the really real.