Fanon:The Moriarty Legacy Generation ONE
Overview[edit | edit source]
This page will contain all chapters written for the story: The Moriarty Legacy's first generation. Subsequent generations will be written on separate pages.
Chapter One: Here With You[edit | edit source]
James readjusts his backpack strap for the fifth time and stares at a world shrouded with mists and trees, the actual town itself hard to distinguish from the gray haze over it. Every step crunches under his feet; every step he cracks another stick or shreds another few leaves and it's noisy. If he ever became a spy, he'd be terrible at it.
"Well... remind me not to become a spy then..." James, with a bitter little sigh, fully steps out of the bright red convertible and pivots to slam the door shut behind him, staring up at the house with a feeling of utter dread. Oh, this house looked like something out of a horror movie, and the more James takes in the spires and the tiles and the little cracks in the sidewalk and flips his car keys through his fingers in an attempt to keep calm, he almost wants to turn around and go back. ... Almost being the key word here.
James pulls the pack completely onto both shoulders and starts his walk up the sidewalk towards the large, wooden front door, hand reached out in front of him so it can grasp a hold of the doorknob, the one that's a faded, strange off-shade of bronze. Fingers nimbly touch the handle, nails scrap against the metal...
... And his head suddenly feels like it's about to split open.
He slams his forehead into the door and squeezes his eyes shut in pain, and he almost misses the voice floating in his ears. Almost. There's that word again.
Hey Therie boy, long time no see.
"... W-What?" James mumbles, twisting his head around to look left, then right, then turns his entire body to look behind him to see nothing there. Nothing at all. Maybe he's tired, maybe's he's going a little nuts... reading your own eulogy in the newspaper can do that to a person.
No, not crazy. I'm here.
"Who the...?" James whirls back around and throws open the front door with a bang. No one there either.
You don't remember me, Therie? I'm that voice that came to you when you were little. I'm the girl at the beach.
"... I ... do..."
What was that, Therie?
"I do... You said things about a..." James snaps his fingers together repeatedly to jog his memory a bit better, eyes still closed but in an effect to recall a memory that didn't suck, and funnily enough, it's extremely hard to find. "Legacy? I'm supposed to start a legacy...?"
Exactly, Therie. I told you that in order to live to your fullest, you need to set your life in a new direction. You did with your suicide, and now I'm back. I'll guide you along, you know. I'll always be here for you, from now until you take your last breath, Therie.
"It's James." He balls up his fists (the keys dig into his palm but when you're miserable nothing hurts you physically anymore) and sighs through his nose, the usage of the old name sending shudders down his spine and that prickling feeling in his eyes that he hates. "... It - It's James... He's dead, remember...? I'm James. I ... I don't know who Therese is anymore."
That's a lie, because he doesn't totally want to let go of his younger self, specifically the seven-year-old who realized on a lonely summer night that his parents didn't truly love him and that he got more affection from a disembodied voice than the people who created him.
I'm not calling you James. I don't like it. It's Therese I met and Therese you still are, new name or not. But regardless of your "new" identity or not, you've got a future to start.
"..."
Gosh DARN it, Therie boy. Walk in the house alredy!
With his third sigh in ten minutes, this one being more exasperated than anything, he crosses the threshold into his new house, one step at a time until he's far enough in to spin around to push both hands against the (ridiculously) heavy door. It takes some time, enough to where he doesn't hear the footsteps behind him. He doesn't hear the intake of breath that didn't belong to him. He doesn't hear the rustling of fabric and the jingling of little bells.
He doesn't hear a thing until its arms are completely around him.