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Totally Burnt

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Jim Moriarty stands in front of her with an unforgettable grin on his face. That’s interesting, she smiles, and I would like to play with this one.
She knows she would never. Sherrinford is a chamber not for her, but for her mind – a mind she knows Mycroft is afraid of. Yet what people call miracles happen, and Moriarty standing in front of her, being so close that she can feel his breath, is one of them.
He talks about falling, about how he’s so desperate to prepare a fall for her dear brother. She listens with a heart full of jealousy and childish anger. Why Sherlock is out there and she is locked in the safest place in England? Why has he, the weakest of them three, received Jim Moriarty’s obsession?
The last she says out loud, and Jim Moriarty laughs.
“Look at you!” he screams in between laughing, and the smile on his face is filled with respect. It’s been a long time after anyone has looked at her like this.
“The monster with the sharpest teeth and claws who got them torn out, who still is sentimental about their captor. I would say, dear Eurus, that you look miserable.”
Miserable. This word feels like a sentence.
“And Sherlock doesn’t?”
“Sherlock is living,” he whispers right in her face, “and you are staying alive. Do you feel the difference?”
He also tries to hide his fear, she suddenly understands, and hides it in grotesque-like bravado. I’m disappointed, so disappointed…
“You won’t stand a single game against them both.”
“Want to hear a fairytale, dear?” Moriarty waltzes across the part of her room he’s permitted to enter. “Once upon a time there was a forest where lived two foxes and a magpie, and a magpie thought the foxes to be her friends. But the foxes wanted to eat, and so they tried to kill the little magpie. She mamaged to escape, but would never fly again.”
“And so the magpie climbed onto the tree near the enter to the forest and told all the strangers that nobody can defeat the two foxes. So no beast entered the forest anymore because they were afraid. But then in came little Jimmy with a gun of his father’s, and when the magpie warned him, he just walked and walked into the woods. Three days no beast heard anything… and on the fourth day little Jimmy came back, wearing a cloak o ftwo fox furs, and no one was eaten in the forest since then.”
No, he would never kill Mycroft, she whispers to herself, because the greatest torture the universe can offer him is boredom.
“Get your camera here, dear”, he smiles. “Mycroft gave us only five minutes, not eternity.”
“Jim Moriarty is dead.”
So says Mycroft when he comes to her to show her a few papers and maybe use her to find out about one more shooting by Twitter.
It has been less than three months since their meeting, and now he’s dead. Shot himself in the face under the eyes of her amused brother.
That’s right what they wanted, she smiles with grief, foolish Jim Moriarty, I’ve told you it’s going to be this way. And you didn’t listen.
Eurus Holmes is gone. A wonderful monster who managed to both amuse and be feared is gone – the only thing that is left is the sharp mind. The rest is burned out.
Jim Moriarty once said that he’ll burn the heart out of her brother. She doesn’t know if he succeeded, or maybe she did succeed in this, but her own heart is ashes in her chest.
Now she really is a miserable view even to herself. Seems like only Sherlock, the Sherlock she’s been jealous of, the Sherlock she was on to destroy – only he has some hope for her, nurturing her with the sounds of violin. Playing seems to be the only language she knows for now, and she waits only for Sherlock playing with her.
Mycroft seemed to forget her. Yesterday they were in her chamber and he didn’t say a word when she took Sherlock’s phone from his pocket without her noticing. I overdestimated you, he wrote on a piece of paper he gave her. This very moment she felt that the childish offence, which she has had since the Musgrave burning, has occupied her very being.
“You did well, the big brother can’t even suppose I’m alive. JM”
The only person with such initials that I knew has died six years ago, and so did the last person who could talk to Sherlock like this, Eurus whispers to herself, dropping the phone on the cold floor. Even Jim Moriarty can’t be this clever. Even he can’t know I’ve stolen Sherlock’s phone.
“Wrong Holmes. EH”
This can’t show even a tenth of her feelings, yet this is the biggest she can write. And Moriarty responds.
“No, I’m talking to the right Holmes. These two didn’t even check that I was dead, can you believe it? JM”
“Shock does a lot of things to people. EH”
“I’ve helped you, Eurus, when you asked me for help in the second act. So the third is on me, and I long to have a little help. JM”
What kind of help, she thinks alone in her chamber. Nevermind. I’m burnt out, and he can take over Mycroft.
“What exactly do you need? EH”
As an answer she receives a photo with a tabulature of some pop song. Moriarty has a wonderful taste in crimes and a terrible taste in music, she smiles.
“Play this to Sherlock when he comes to play the violin next time. Consider your part the first piece of the symphony I’m going to play. JM”
Next day Sherlock comes to her chamber with a violin in his hands as usual. Eurus waits; she starts playing when she hears him clutching down the stairs.
He stands still, not believing what is happening here. Eurus starts singing to the motif of the song. This pop of the 60s is primitive yet sticky.
“He is not dead,” Eurus can feel this amusement in his words – oh, Sherlock, you longed for this and now you finally get what you want! “How could I be so foolish? I couldn’t!”
He’s coming to get you, brother mine, she thinks, playing the chorus. And this time no one can stop you both – neither Mycroft nor me.