Moriarty/Sherlock : In The Game of Shadow and Blood.

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1 .One piece: The Last Voyage to Mordor.

2 .Spider-Verse: The Web of Deception

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Sherlock/ Moriarty: Blood and Shadows

London, 1888 – The Morning After the Hanging

A heavy rain drummed against the rooftops, turning the cobbled streets into rivers of filth. The city had awakened to yet another nobleman's corpse—this time, Lord Ashford, suspended from Blackfriars Bridge like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Sherlock Holmes stood beneath the bridge, his sharp eyes scanning the crime scene. The Thames carried away the last traces of blood, but the message had already been carved into London's memory.

A single symbol had been etched into Ashford's forehead.

"Another display," Watson muttered, pulling his coat tighter. "The newspapers will be in a frenzy."

Sherlock exhaled a thin stream of smoke from his pipe. "Exactly what Moriarty intended."

Inspector Lestrade approached, his face set in a grimace. "No sign of struggle. No witnesses. Whoever did this knew what they were doing."

Sherlock tapped his cane against the wooden planks of the bridge. "There are only three possibilities: Ashford was murdered elsewhere and moved here, he was forced into compliance, or he accepted his fate willingly."

Lestrade scoffed. "No man accepts his own hanging."

Sherlock's lips curled slightly. "Not unless they believe it is justice."

Lestrade fell silent. That was the unsettling part about these crimes—London's poor were not mourning. They were celebrating.

Moriarty's justice was far crueler than the law's, yet undeniably more effective.

But Sherlock Holmes did not believe in justice through crime.

He intended to expose Moriarty, no matter how clever the man thought he was.

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221B Baker Street – The Puzzle Takes Shape

Hours later, Sherlock sat at his desk, examining the case notes. Watson paced the room, frowning.

"You're certain it's Moriarty?" Watson asked.

Sherlock didn't look up. "The precision, the theatricality—who else could it be?"

Watson sighed. "If this is his work, what does he gain from it?"

Sherlock smirked. "Control."

By eliminating corrupt nobles, Moriarty wasn't just punishing them—he was reshaping London's power structure. The city was his chessboard, and he was removing pieces with calculated elegance.

But there was something else.

Something beneath the surface.

Sherlock picked up the crime scene reports again, tracing his fingers over the details.

"The wounds…" he muttered.

Watson paused. "What about them?"

Sherlock frowned. "They don't match Moriarty's previous executions."

Moriarty favored clean kills—poison, staged accidents, assassinations that looked like suicides. But Ashford… his body showed signs of prolonged suffering before death.

As if someone else had gotten to him first.

A third player was in the game.

And Sherlock intended to find out who.

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The Underbelly of London – A Meeting in the Dark

Beneath the gaslit streets, where the city's filth collected in forgotten alleyways, William Moriarty sat across from his most trusted informant—a man known only as "Crow."

Crow was a master of whispers, a man who could pluck secrets from the wind. And tonight, he brought unsettling news.

"There's talk of something… unnatural, Professor," Crow murmured.

Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "Define 'unnatural.'"

Crow hesitated. "Some of my men saw Ashford the night before his body was found."

Moriarty leaned forward. "And?"

Crow's voice dropped. "He was already dead."

A flicker of something dangerous passed through Moriarty's golden eyes.

"That," he said smoothly, "is impossible."

Crow swallowed hard. "And yet, Professor… they swear on their lives. They saw him—pale as a corpse, eyes vacant, walking the streets before dawn."

A cold silence settled between them.

Moriarty did not believe in ghosts.

But he did believe in anomalies.

And if something unnatural had entered his carefully woven world, he would uncover it.

Even if it meant facing the unknown.

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Whitechapel – The Predator Watches

In a dimly lit alley, a figure stood beneath the flickering gaslight, watching the city's chaos unfold.

The news of Ashford's death had spread like wildfire, and the pieces were moving exactly as he had predicted.

A grin split his sharp features.

So predictable. So fragile.

These men—Moriarty, Holmes—they thought they controlled London. They thought in terms of justice, logic, power.

But what was power compared to hunger?

Jack the Ripper tilted his head, listening to the sound of the rain, his eyes glinting like a predator's in the dark.

Moriarty believed himself to be the master of crime.

Sherlock believed in his own mind as the greatest weapon.

But neither of them had faced a force like him before.

Neither of them had faced death itself.

Jack chuckled, the sound lost in the storm.

Soon.

They would.

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To Be Continued...

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Please check my other works :

1. One Piece: The Last Voyage to Mordor.

2. Spider-Verse: The Web of Deception.

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