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The Jim Moriarty Continuum

We are fans of BBC “Sherlock’s” Jim Moriarty. In the event that the writers of the show do not bring him back, we want to host a community where the character can continue on forever through fan fiction and fan art. All submissions welcome! We will be posting monthly prompts.
We also exist on Tumblr and wish to see many of you join us in one or both platform!

Prompt #3 

The prompt for the month of July is:

“One of Jim Moriarty’s first crimes”

This prompt will end on July 31st, and we will announce a winner before August 7. The winner’s name, blog url, and links to their submission will be published on our Wall of Fame. Any sort of fan works are eligible: art, photomanips, graphics & gifs, fanfiction of any length, poetry, etc.

All submissions must be posted on the Livejournal or submitted on the Tumblr, and will then be approved by the managers. NSFW submissions are fine, but will be published with that warning. Submissions can be sent to the Tumblr through the submit option: http://moriarty-lives.tumblr.com/ The winner will be selected from the submissions sent to Tumblr and LJ.

We’re hoping you will all enjoy this prompt and can’t wait to read or see your works!

Cooking Clues
By Lethally

“Jim, what are you doing here?” Sebastian called out after he saw Jim’s Richard Brook denim jacket. “Aren’t you supposed to be at Ryley’s house?” The jacket was part of Richard’s wardrobe, which was intended to make him look… soft. After looking for Jim in the living room, Sebastian went to the kitchen to see if Jim had eaten all the microwave hamburgers again.

“Jim… What the hell happened to my kitchen?!”

There was flour glued to the floor by what seemed to be a mix of egg yolks and butter. The waste bin was full, and there were eggs shells all around it. Sebastian could see all that from the start of the hallway that led to the kitchen, and he could also smell far too many spices.

He walked toward the kitchen doorway to have a better look at the rest of the damage. There were cooking bowls with dough still in them, and one bowl even lay bottom-up on the white floor. It seemed that every table spoon they owned had been used, and the sink was full of dirty dishes. The refridgerator door was not entirely closed and a half-empty bottle of milk lay over on its side on the bottom shelf. Milk was dripping under the fridge toward the electric outlets.

Sebastian had only been gone two hours to discuss pay with some of Jim’s gunmen.

And Jim Moriarty, or really Richard Brook—for he was not wearing one of his usual suits but an old purple cardigan and a pair of jeans so used the colour had nearly faded to white—was sitting on a stool in the middle of this chaos with his laptop on the only clean spot of the kitchen table, likely hacking into some site.

“What the hell have you tried to cook?”

“I didn’t try, Seb, I baked perfect gingerbread men … thank you!”

Sebastian tried to get to the table in the middle of the kitchen without stepping in any of the stickiness on his normally spotless floor. When he managed to get close to the table, he was able to see inside the oven a tray of gingerbread men. They were starting to turn from a golden colour to dark brown.

On the oven control panel he could see that the oven had been running for 7 minutes at 240C so he quickly bent over the table to grab the oven door and open it. He looked down. His white shirt was now covered in dough and eggs yolk. He didn’t really care about the shirt, since he knew Jim would just buy him another. What he wanted was some thanks for saving the gingerbread men, but Jim only slammed his hands down on the table and yelled, “why did you open it? It’s not done yet, you idiot! Did you think that I can’t watch what I’m baking?”

“How the hell are you going to eat these? They’ll taste like charcoal!”

“It’s not made to be eaten you monkey, it’s a CLUE.” He stretched backward to close the oven’s door and restart the program.

“How many clues do you need anyway? You know we could eat the ones you don’t need, if they’re good.” He peered in through the glass oven door.

Jim kicked the table to draw Sebastian’s attention to him. “Seb, tell me, since when do people eat clues?”

“But these aren’t just clues, they’re food!”

“Tsssk! These particular clues aren’t edible!”

“Oh … so you’ve failed to bake decent gingerbread men, then, huh?”

“No I did NOT fail, I NEVER FAIL! They’re poisoned, you ass! Can’t you see?”

“Why poison them, though? If they’re half-burnt, who’s gonna eat them?”

“Haha! You never know, Seb! Say it’s the doctor puppet that finds it, and he’s stupid enough to eat it, then he deserves to die! If he used his brain, he wouldn’t eat it and wouldn’t die. It makes total sense.”

“Yeah, if you say so. You do know that you’ll pay for this mess right?”

“I can’t wait!”

Sebastian high-stepped to the cabinet where the blue medical shoe covers, normally used to avoid leaving shoes prints during murders, were kept. He slipped a pair over his classy shoes and, without hesitation, crossed the room until he was right behind Jim.

Jim had just finished logging off his laptop. He turned on his stool, crossed his legs around Sebastian’s legs, and slipped his arms around Sebastian’s neck. “Carry me Sebby. We’re heading to the bedroom!”

Jim Cooks

Posted by morriganmoran on 2012.06.30 at 23:03
Tags: , , , ,


 (by Pani Kulek, for the “Jim Moriarty Continuum” June prompt)


“This is such a bore,” Jim said.

Sebastian glanced up from the new issue of Field and Stream. “What are you on about?” He turned a page, leaned back in his chair, and sipped his coffee.

“It’s taking forever for them to start turning brown.”

The whole process had taken Jim forever; after all, he seldom cooked. Not only did he need to figure things out, like how to peel a potato, but he was fussy. The potatoes had to be sliced just so: the slices uniform in size and the edges perfectly squared, and he had to stack them evenly on the cutting board. His utensils had to be lined up, and all the labels in the array of spices had to face him.

And then there was the frequent hand-washing, particularly after he spattered a bit of oil on his fingers.  He seemed unconvinced that it was gone and repeatedly stopped what he was doing to scrub his hands again.  When all was finally ready and the deep oil in the pan was hot, he stood at an arm’s length and dropped the slices in one at a time.

That was ten minutes ago. “This is taking forever.” Jim paced a small circle.

“Fuck the weather.  We should have just gone to a chippy.”  Sebastian rested his folded arms on the table and resumed reading the article on how to correctly present a rubber worm to a bass.

“Well, I know what I’m going to do.” Jim bent and opened a cabinet.  After some clanging, he produced a large pot with a gauge on the cover.

“What’s that?” Again Sebastian glanced up.

“I think it’s a device to speed up cooking.”

“Uh-huh.” Sebastian found his place again and ignored the thumping and sizzling noises from the stove.  He frowned in concentration.  After it was cast into the water, a rubber worm should not be twitched but allowed to fall to the bottom before a fish could scrutinize it too carefully.  Translucent green or blue worms were best for clear water.  For dark water: opaque purples or black.  He studied a chart for when to use two-tone and metal flake worms. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jim back up a few steps and cock his head.

“The gauge ran out of numbers.”  Jim pointed to the stove.

“What do you mean?”  Sebastian looked to the big pot.  The needle on the gauge was all the way over to one side.  He squinted.  “’PSI’ means what, pounds of pressure per square inch, right?  I don’t think the needle is supposed to be in the red zone.”

“I think the spiggoty-looking thing is supposed to leak steam if there’s too much pressure.  But I don’t see any coming out.”

“Steam from what?  You’re frying with oil, right?”  He pushed to his feet.  “I don’t know, Jim … don’t the sides of that pot look like they’re bowing out a bit?  I didn’t know metal could act that way.”  He came up beside Jim, and they both stared at the pressure cooker.  “It doesn’t look right to me,” Sebastian said.  “Almost like a balloon being puffed up.”

Jim slapped him on the arm.  “Fucking run!”


That evening, they sat on a bench in the park. “I still have a taste for fish and chips,” Jim said.

“Good for you.”  Sebastian cocked an eyebrow and rubbed the goose-bumps on his arms.  He had managed to grab an umbrella on the way out of the flat, but the fireball that had followed them down the hall had made it impossible to take raincoats from the closet.

Of course, Jim was monopolizing most of the umbrella.  “Let’s go to that really good chippy in Brighton.  Hannah B’s.”

Rain ran down the back of Sebastian’s neck and into his tee shirt.  “Hope you have some cash, because we’ll have to take a fucking cab all the way out there.”  Both their cars had been parked in the underground garage, now under tons of rubble.  He fished his phone from his pocket and brought up Google.

“You have a better idea?”

“Yeah … next time you want to use a strange-looking pot, google it first.”  He held up his phone and pointed to the screen.  “See this sentence?  ‘A pressure cooker is NOT for deep-frying.’”

“You need to develop a sense of humor, Sebastian.”

“Yeah.” He thought of his gun collection, also somewhere in the rubble. “That’s just what I need.”


“Turn that up, would you?  I can’t quite reach it.”

Sebastian slammed his fork down and stood.  “Watch out.”  He nudged Jim aside and reached up to the television.  The other patrons at Hannah B’s stared when he cranked the volume but looked back to their dinners when he glowered.

A picture of the flattened building appeared behind the newscaster’s head. She read, “the London Bomber … back again? A block of flats was leveled today, burnt to the ground after a violent explosion.  According to police spokesman DI Lestrade, the destruction of the building is ‘reminiscent of the work of the Mystery London Bomber of some months ago.’”

“I wonder why,” Sebastian said.  He stabbed another piece of fish.

“I suppose Sherlock will be all over this.”  Jim snickered.

“Yeah, and I bet he figures out what happened because he probably fucking knows more about cooking than you do.”

Jim shrugged.  “The flat was ugly anyway.  I should have had the wallpaper done over when we moved in.  It was—”  He fluttered his fingers.  “Froofy.”

Sebastian finished his last chip and sipped his lager. “Well, that’s not a problem now, is it.”

Posted by morriganmoran on 2012.06.14 at 09:57
Tags: , , , ,

What are your ideas for the upcoming monthly prompts?

We already have a prompt in stock for July but we want your ideas on what would make an interesting prompt.

Please send us your ideas in the commentary on this post so that we can use them as monthly prompts.

Also don't forget this month's prompt is: How and why did Jim learn to cook?

You have until the First of July and any kind of work is eligible! You can submit on the Tumblr through the submit option or post on the LJ community!

Prompt #2

Posted by morriganmoran on 2012.06.04 at 10:39
Tags: , , ,

Hi everyone!

The prompt for the month of June is:

How and why did Jim learn to cook?

This prompt will end on July 1, and we will announce a winner before July 7. The winner’s name, blog url, and links to their submission will be published on our Wall of Fame. Any sort of fan works are eligible: art, photomanips, graphics & gifs, fanfiction of any length, poetry, etc.

All submissions must be sent through the submit option only, and must be approved by the managers before being published on “The Jim Moriarty Continuum” and on our LiveJournal community blog.  NSFW submissions are fine, but will be published with that warning.

Submissions can also be sent to the LJ community: http://moriarty-lives.tumblr.com/  The winner will be selected from the submissions sent to Tumblr and LJ.

We’re hoping you will all enjoy this prompt and can’t wait to read or see your works!

The Jim Moriarty Continuum Prompt #1, for May 2012, was:

Richard Brook during one of his numerous acting job had to fake his death at least once.

OUR WINNER IS: Moriarphine with the fanfiction: “Death of a Drama Student”


AND OUR RUNNER UP IS: Eriksselest with the fanfiction: “A Dustland Fairytale”




By moriarphine

Submisssion for the “Jim Moriarty Continuum” May prompt:  During his numerous acting jobs, Richard Brook had to fake his death at least once.

The Death of a Drama StudentCollapse )

Flyer by Lethally.

Ficlet by Pani Kulek. (http://archiveofourown.org/users/Pani_Kulek/pseuds/Pani_Kulek)

Julian Raley loved gardenias and always wore one in his buttonhole. His legion of fans idolized his every quirk, of course, and one of the first tasks on opening night was to clear a path backstage through masses of heavy-scented bouquets. Another task was to make certain Richard had been supplied with loratadine before the flowers arrived; otherwise, he would appear onstage as Hamlet red-eyed and sneezing.

“Emma!” The director whispered. “I’m tired of this shit. Get these fucking things gathered up. Send them to a hospital, throw them out, I don’t care what, just get them out of here.”

“I heard that.” Raley entered, removed his cloak, and tossed it to Emma. “I don’t care if the sniveling little weasel’s nose is running. My flowers will not be touched, or else my understudy can take my place tonight. Is that understood?” He plucked a particularly large blossom from a bouquet, examined the flower, flipped it onto the floor, selected a larger one, sniffed it, and tucked it in his buttonhole. “I said, is that understood?”

“Of course, Julian.” Freeman patted his arm. “Sorry. You know how opening night gets me tied in knots.”


The audience was ninety percent Raley fans; they oohed and aahed whenever he walked onstage. Their adoration crescendoed during the sword fight, and several women shrieked when he bared his burly chest to reveal the painted-on red mark where the point of the rapier had touched him. “Why, as a woodcock to mine own sponge, Osric.” His booming voice broke. “I am justly killed with mine own treachery.”

Richard whipped his rapier in the air. “The point envenomed too! Then, venom, to thy work.”

“Hamlet, thou art slain. No medicine in the world can do thee good. In thee there is not half an hour of life. The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, unbated and envenomed.” As he did at every performance, Raley tore loose the gardenia blossom he wore pinned to the front of his doublet. Just before his “death throes,” he would kiss the flower and clutch it. It would remain on his upturned palm when he “died.”

After the play ended with both men lying on their backs, bouquets of gardenias pummeled the stage, and Freeman frantically signaled for the curtain to be closed. Too late—Richard’s “corpse” sneezed, but the wildly applauding audience appeared not to notice or to care. Freeman smoothed his hair back and glanced to his watch. Best to give the audience at least five minutes to calm down before curtain calls began.

Richard came up beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Dom.” He pointed to Raley, who still lay stretched out on the floor.

“Julian,” Freeman called, but the audience drowned him out. What, was Raley taking a nap? He approached and shouted, “Julian! Wake up!”

Raley’s eyes were open, and his skin was an odd shade of blue. Frothy liquid had puddled from his mouth.

“Oh my god.” Freeman dropped to his knees beside him.


In the eerie silence of the empty theatre, the police quietly examined Raley’s body. A distant wail made Freeman glance toward the dressing rooms. Richard, far too sensitive to handle the concept of a real death, seemed inconsolable. He had been crying non-stop on Emma’s shoulder for close to an hour.

One officer stooped to gently pry the gardenia from Raley’s fingers. “Jesus shit!” He jumped to his feet. Raley’s hand thumped on the floor, and the flower fell loose. “Is that what I think it is?”

The rest of the police officers, along with Freeman and the remaining backstage crew, gathered around and tracked his point. On one of the petals of the gardenia was something dark brown. Something moving.

Another officer stepped closer and bent to look. “Shit. Get me a glass or something, so I can catch it. Hurry, before it takes off. That’s a false widow, I’m sure of it.”

“Not usually fatal, though,” another officer said. “He must have been allergic.”

Freeman nodded. “Yes, to insects … bees and wasps, so spiders as well, I imagine. Not many people knew he was allergic. He carried an EpiPen in his make-up kit in the event he might be stung by anything. The spider must have come in on the flowers.” He gestured to the wall of white bouquets. “Poor Jules. He loved gardenias so. Whoever would have thought they’d be the end of him?”

Richard’s muffled cries became an agonized howl. “Oh how, how could this have happened?

Title: A Dustland Fairytale
Genre: Gen
Author: [info]eriksselest
Word count: 516
Rating: G
Prompt: Meme #4 for [info]a_muse_meme  “On the road again” (1 - Hot, Desolate, 6 - Author’s Choice) and Prompt #1 at [info]moriarty_lives

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