James Moriarty isn’t a man at all. He’s a spider. A spider at the center of a web.
With foes ahead, behind us dread,
Beneath the sky shall be our bed,
Until at last our toil be passed,
Our journey done, our errand sped.
You’re the same as everyone else. Business here is done in a pub. It’s handshakes. It’s amateur — it’s amateur! And you like it. ‘Cos you know you can only be a big fish if you’re in a very, very small pond.
I’m too sick and too tired for quality, but at least I haven’t just let this drop.
Although there are a few coming that I just. Can’t. Cheating ahead, I think. Probably a lot of cheating.
Visual-attitude got me unstuck by suggesting they dress as each other.
Jim wakes up to two Morans in his kitchen.