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alias: Jessica
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Jamie Moriarty

Tomorrowland

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Apr 23 2017, 02:05 PM
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<div class="jmlyr1">are you surprised to learn</div>
<div class="jmlyr2">YOU'VE BEEN ON MY MIND?</div>
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<div class="jmmain">
<div class="jmpb"> Dear Miss Summers...<br><br>

The midday sun sent bars of light down through the diner's windows, crisscrossing the checkered floor. Jamie crossed her legs, leaning back into the material of her booth. Around her waitresses went back and forth but every time one hovered by her table she cast them away with a smile and a raised hand, before her eyes slowly realigned back to the middle horizon in front of her as if she had never been disturbed. It was, she thought as she glanced around, a pity there were no higher end places in town - somewhere more conducive to conversation. <br><br>

There is much in this town I consider anomalous. The nature of Storybrooke cannot be denied. <br><br>

But Jamie was prepared to make do. This diner was nowhere near the standard of the restaurants she frequented in New York and, indeed, elsewhere, but she would not go out further into Storybrooke if she did not have to. She had her health to think of..and the nature of her prey this hour. Subterfuge would point to trickery. As, of course, did a note left in plain sight, neatly packaged in an envelope. She had carefully written the woman's name in fine script, signed with a flourish. The spider could only hope it had been seen - and read. <br><br>

I, however, have heard of your expertise in the field of the unexplained and the inconceivable. You appear to have select experience. I will be at the diner at noon. Consider me a client, one whose reward for your services will prove handsome if an arrangement can be negotiated. <br><br>

It was not usual for her to wait on people. People waited for her, not the other way around. The blonde resisted the urge to tap her nails on the table, to fidget in her seat and to eye the blank space in front of her. Miss Summers would be here or she would not; she was, for the purposes of this, Schrödinger's cat in its most perfect form. Until then she could only wait, and order a cup of Earl Grey as the seconds continued to tick by. <br><br>

I shall remain in expectant anticipation...Jamie Moriarty. <br><br>

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<div class="jmbb">ADD.: Buffy Summers | WORDS: - | NOTES: SO SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT! </div>
</div>
<div class="tcred"><a href="http://shine.b1.jcink.com/index.php?showuser=1892" target="_blank">♛ Ames</a></div></center>[/dohtml]
Mar 31 2017, 02:48 PM
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<div class="jmlyr1">The woman is a riddle</div>
<div class="jmlyr2"> WRAPPED IN A MYSTERY INSIDE AN ENIGMA </div>
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<div class="jmpb"> The paint swirled on the palette. Reds spiralled into blues that spiralled into greens under Jamie’s careful watch as she twirled the brush, colours already thickly entwining themselves in the coarse camelhair. She took a quick swab at another daub across the palette and introduced another colour to the mix, twisting the brush until it was the exact shade she wanted. And then she returned to the canvas, the cloth bending under the bristles as she leant in close, her eyes crisscrossing the surface in measured observation. <br><br>

Art was not as abstract as people thought. Most people believed art to be intangible but yet it was clearly not so. Poetry was technical, music was mathematical and painting was a number of juxtapositions. Light, objects - it was geometry with colour, familiar shapes taking unfamiliar forms. That didn’t take away its worth; if anything it highlighted it as being of both technical beauty as well as aesthetic. For that it was only enhanced, and not stripped of, its natural value. But it was true that all art was, in the end, an equation. And the equation of this canvas in particular was simple: what she did not understood she painted. And this town was one of the few things she did not yet understand. <br><br>

She understood the basics of course, as the brush skimmed across the canvas in tiny strokes. Jamie was a master of empirical reasoning and she would not ignore what her eyes saw nor what she herself had experienced. As soon as she had left hospital she had started to take in what was going on around her - mostly by using the art supplies from the luggage she could recover from the crash. Picking her way through the smoky remains of the aircraft was not how she had wanted to spend her afternoon but spent it so she had, in order to retrieve the art supplies that had survived. <br><br>

And once more she was painting, putting down a permanent record of everything she saw and heard about this town. In this way she had observed enough to come to the conclusion that this was unlike everything she knew. But that was hardly a conclusion. That was not understanding, fell short of comprehension, and that was a different matter altogether. Storybrooke was full of a new kind of science and appeared to have beings in it that defied any sort of previous logic or sense - they were almost bordering on the fantastic. <br><br>

Jamie stood back, examining the portrait in its entirety. On canvas branches creaked in the wind, leaves rustling against one another in the breeze; the mansion that she had selected as a figurepoint lay in the middle, pride of place in impressionistic beauty. And, in the very paint, was opportunity. Opportunity for what the town stood for and what it had nestled inside it, if she could only grasp at it…. <br><br>

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<div class="jmbb">ADD.: - | WORDS: 487 | NOTES: Open! Imprimatura</div>
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<div class="tcred"><a href="http://shine.b1.jcink.com/index.php?showuser=1892" target="_blank">♛ Ames</a></div></center>[/dohtml]
Mar 26 2017, 01:36 PM
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<div class="jmlyr1">I'm drawn to things</div>
<div class="jmlyr2">I don't understand </div>
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<div class="jmmain">
<div class="jmpb"> The rattle of beds on wheels was what she heard first. It was enough to rouse her from sleep, and Jamie opened her eyes - only to immediately squint in the sharp glare. She worked with darkness, shade, with shadows draped over corners and light in the briefest of places. But here, as in any hospital, there remained nothing but white hot exposure. Slowly other sounds filtered into her consciousness. The bubble and burble of talk; voices over tannoys, nurses calling to each other in the code of their profession. Jamie had learnt it once. Patient has blood clot in left lung…patient not to be fed for twenty four hours… <br><br>

The hospital, despite being in a town that seemed to be bordering on the miraculous for a number of reasons, was exactly the same as any other. It seemed typically American, if anything - whether that was a critique or a compliment depended on your point of view. She had tried to ask questions about where she was, because she was sure she had never seen it on a map before, but the nurses had been a steady wall of opposition ever since she’d opened her eyes. Her questions, however slyly asked, were put to bed as much as she was. There were apparently countless explanations to what she had seen and innumerable people who wanted to tell her so. They were almost tripping over themselves to put her mind at rest - only to ultimately do the opposite. <br><br>

Only lies had detail.<br><br>

But as her condition stabilised and she could think clearly once again she had quickly come to a conclusion: the only place she’d be going if she carried on was the psychiatric ward. So she’d agreed with them. Yes - of course it had to be the dosage; she’d been very scared and very much in pain; it was natural for the brain to start panicking about where she was and how she was sure something odd had happened on that flight. A lot of nodding and smiling and they left her alone, and Jamie was left to muse. However much her body was in pain, her mind was still ticking away the hours. She wasn’t giving up; she was merely reconfiguring. It was time to find a new strategy. <br><br>

It looked like they were staying right now in Storybrooke. But Sherlock could could change his mind. As far as she knew Storybrooke still upheld the law. And although she was ill right now - too ill to travel - she wasn’t going to stay like that forever. It was the curse of having access to some of the best medical care in the northern hemisphere, she thought wryly. <br><br>

Either way she would be feeling better soon. That would take her away from both a site of intellectual value and also her first bid at freedom. The world was corrupt and it would always be so; she could be a free woman in Britain as easily as she could become a free woman here. But she was loath to leave this place until she knew why and how and what, and she didn’t fancy having to wait a few months at her Majesty’s Pleasure before that point. Besides, what if she couldn’t get into the town again? Storybrooke was protected and it would probably remain that way….<br><br>

The next mealtime she’d asked the nurse whether it was possible to go for a walk and find some plain clothes. <br><br>

She was lucky - if you could call being in a plane crash and going to hospital lucky. The hospital was ideal; it was in many ways a perfect sample of the population. If everyone was sick, something was wrong. If no one was sick, something else was also wrong. And what they were sick with would be indicative of what exactly was going on here in Storybrooke. Jamie had had the privilege of conducting no less than five murders in hospital situations and she liked to think she would spot an anomaly when she saw one. Hospitals were data, pure and simple: a discrepancy in the data was all she needed to wedge open the cracks in the story she had been told and prise open the truth. <br><br>

But she wasn’t well, and progress was, admittedly, slow in every respect. Her ribs still hurt. Nowhere near as much as they did before, of course, but just enough to still be tender in places. Jamie could walk well enough but there was a tension in her chest and she still had to move a little gingerly, not with the long strides she was used to. It made travelling around the hospital harder and more exhausting than she had thought possible. She was having to stop for little breaks by anonymous stairwells and down long nameless corridors. And for what? Her foray had not prompted anything more scary than occasionally having to lie about where she was going to an inquisitive nurse. There was nothing out of the ordinary. <br><br>

But it was pure mathematics: there were always more people dead than alive in hospitals. And if she couldn’t find anything strange in the people who were living she would look at who wasn’t. She was lucky - the little trips around the hospital were building up her stamina. Jamie followed the signs and was soon opening the door to the morgue, shivering a little at the temperatures. It was all steel down here, cold and distant. She thought quickly, walking over to what looked like a counter full of notes as her eyes crisscrossed over the data. <br><br>

If there was going to be anything wrong with the town, it was going to be somewhere here, hidden in the spiral of numbers and medical code in front of her. <br><br>

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<div class="jmbb">ADD.: Temperance Brennan | WORDS: 968 | NOTES: SORRY FOR BEING RAMBLY! MAQUETTE</div>
</div>
<div class="tcred"><a href="http://shine.b1.jcink.com/index.php?showuser=1892" target="_blank">♛ Ames</a></div></center>[/dohtml]
Mar 13 2017, 09:27 AM
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<div class="jmbox">
<div class="jmlyr1">I have reserves of creativity</div>
<div class="jmlyr2">I have not even begun to tap </div>
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<div class="jmmain">
<div class="jmpb"> The air had gone stale half an hour ago. <br><br>

The dull whine of the machinery was not in any way obscured by the tasteful camouflage of the upholstery - as surprisingly comfortable as it was, cushioning the curve of her spine. To her immediate right was the dim lights of the cabin; to her left was a thick window, full of stark sunlight and a floor of clouds stretching out in all directions. Jamie had put the visor down across the glass, giving her the shallow respite of shadow to see by. The hum of aeroplane engines rumbled on each and every side of her, hemming her into an enclosure of sound.<br><br>

It wasn’t the only enclosure she found herself in. The piercing light might not be shining her eyes anymore, but they were still glittering on her…bracelets. Barely a twitch and Jamie couild hear the clinking of them, the tiny metallic chime as the chain between them jangled in her lap. And very restrictive ones they were too, the cuffs closely circling her wrists and the delicate web of veins that lay beneath even more so than before. A smile curled on her lip. Someone’s been paying attention. <br><br>

Then again, he always was. <br><br>

She leant back in her chair, her blonde hair pooling over the antimacassar. It wasn’t embroidered with any airline sigil nor the one they were meant to be flying with. Everything about the cabin was blank - there was barely a logo in sight. Jamie doubted the other members of the city in the sky were even aware of their presence. They were beyond anonymous, guided by a pilot who had been security checked eight times and drug tested the other two; they would soar the skies namelessly, would land namelessly and would take off namelessly, bound for England; soon enough she’d be writing to Sherlock with an international post stamp. <br><br>

At least she was leaving this insipid country behind. The vulgarities of America were too loud, too bold, for her select tastes. The very soil screamed in the heat of the day. So did its people under her lieutenants, of course. The web had worked here just as it had in the UK and she had even let some of her adjutants make the journey across the Atlantic too, Gaskar being one of them. But that had been a…miscalculation. He always was ambitious. And they would continue to be, for as long as she was behind bars. Every day that went by her empire was slipping from her fingers, and Kayden had almost been a casualty of that. It couldn’t go on. But she would be a free woman soon enough, and then - then - the madness would stop. <br><br>

Or so she told herself. <br><br>

America may not have been to her tastes, but it had suited Sherlock. Moriarty let her gaze slide from the window to the man across the aisle. He was looking better every day, the substances loosening their grip on him every hour he refused to succumb. But it wasn’t just the drugs. It was the mascot, who wasn’t a mascot at all. Joan. Pity she would have to study her from afar now. A most interesting curiosity, of mental architecture even she failed to anticipate….her eyes closed, the thrum of engines lulling her to sleep. <br><br>

Jamie heard the creak first, a deep groan of alloys and metals and structural supports. She burst awake. The entire cylinder of the plane was twisting and turning in the air and suddenly all the lights went out, plunging the cabin into darkness. The pilot was shouting and she was shouting too, shouting for Sherlock as the cargo in the hold tumbled and slowly, millimetre by millimetre, the nose of the plane began to tip downwards…<br><br>

She was awake again, only engulfed in a haze of pain. The crackle of open flames, the death rattle of metal as it keeled over in the dirt, the distant sound of birdsong - it was all through the dull ache of pain. Jamie winced, squinting through half closed eyes at trees overhead. She went to move but cried out suddenly, gasping - only that made the pain even worse, her chest feeling almost aflame with pain. She squeezed her eyes shut again but her hand reached out, groping blindly. ”Sher - “ God, that hurt. She mustered up the courage and tried again. ”Sherlock?”

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<div class="jmbb">ADD.: Sherlock Holmes | WORDS: 736 | NOTES: </div>
</div>
<div class="tcred"><a href="http://shine.b1.jcink.com/index.php?showuser=1892" target="_blank">♛ Ames</a></div></center>[/dohtml]
Mar 5 2017, 01:55 PM
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<h1>jamie moriarty</h1>

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<h3>35 . professor moriarty . the adventures of sherlock holmes . natalie dormer .</h3>
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<h2>Personality</h2>
Jamie is first and foremost an artist. She sees great structures and brings them down to their basic shapes; she sees people and distills them into what is useful and what is not. Her plans are etched with the precision of a surgeon, but are coloured and touched with the rarest pigments like the work of a painter. Details, details, details. Jamie has a restless mind, too fitful and broken for the saturated outside world with its bright lights and sheer exposure, but one that stills at the sight of art. She can get lost in the artwork, and has an eye for the intricacies that come with every old canvas, with the works of the artists that frequently, back in London, she attempted to save from the ravages of overly zealous museum curators.
<P>
It could be said she was born in the wrong era. Something about her harks back to an earlier time, away from the visceral modern world and into somewhere softened by fog and mist and London streetlamps through the murk. She has no ties to any true location, no place to call home - instead she drifts, swapping guises and accents and voices for those who may…struggle with the concept of her gender. For all of the trappings of the modern world, prejudice remains, and Moriarty knows all too well that women are not welcome in crime. It doesn’t matter: she will make herself so.
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Because her crimes are rarely for anyone’s gain but her own. Ruling the world is outdated; she only seeks to get by in a way that matches her…intellectual needs. There’s no room for hasty decisions under her roof, no allowance for insanity - she is no destructive, chaotic force, instead composed, icy in its sheer cold rationale. There is no need to be outwardly imposing anyway - not when she has men, and women, at her disposal to do just that for her. Besides, threats become, like everything, meaningless if they occur often enough; Jamie is aware as an artist that art, and meaning, become so easily elusive. There’s no point repeating things. That’s just a game of diminishing returns, and it would never be the same. She approaches crime as she does everything else - with an understated, pleasant manner that seems to long preserve what remains of her enemies under the smell of rosewater.
<P>
And it is that same pleasant manner of speaking, doing and killing that defines Moriarty. As an artist, she knows beauty when she sees it. There’s no need to ruin something just because it’s there, is there? Jamie is calculating yet merciful on occasion to those who interest her. Chief amongst these was Sherlock, but she also cares for her own daughter, despite not being able to raise her herself due to her own dangerous lifestyle. The best way to describe her relationships is that she…appreciates people. Their beauty, their physical appearance, a trait or a quality that she thinks has to be kept alive, that sort of thing. She tends to view people as specimens - and some specimens are certainly better than others and ought to be kept around if for a marginally longer time than the others. Oh, she’ll hurt and she’ll maul and she’ll leave her victim gasping for air, but she won’t kill him. Not if he’s got more to give, and not when he’s down, certainly. Moriarty doesn’t see a point in being ruthless for no reason, and if she finds a worthy match in someone she would much prefer keeping them alive, if only to face her at another point later on. She is a preserver, not a revolutionary; although happy to look to the future in terms of the plots and plans that riddle the later years, Jamie has no lust for the world to come - only the world she’s leaving behind, second by second, in an ever present and increasing undercurrent of urgency.
<P>
Her connections are based on whatever counts as charisma in the criminal underworld, and she relies on every strand: maintenance of this vast criminal warren is her usual occupation and allows for her to, when she feels the need to strike, do so quickly and without hesitation. She is strictly and powerfully hierarchical: weaker intelligence must bow to better intelligence, that the battle of the fittest is the noblest battle of all. She places people into classes - and it only makes sense that her own society follows suit. After all, snipping and pruning must occur for the rest of the web to survive, and so must the adding of new threads where she can find them. In other words Jamie understands people’s motivations: her intelligence is functional and practical, and focuses on what people want as much as what they can give. Rarely does she get involved in the crimes she orchestrates, instead waiting behind the scenes with the patience of a spider sitting at the centre of a web. It’s easier that way, and it’s through coded text messages, anonymous voices and ciphers that she’s kept her throne. Too many criminal employers have made the work personal: Jamie has a habit of keeping it at bay.
<P>
Indeed, she isn’t just a criminal mastermind nor would she want to be necessarily considered just as such. She is an artist, a mother, a businesswoman and, occasionally, an arch nemesis. She was once an art restorer and there’s almost something righteous in the way she goes to save what she considers hers. She is keen on the idea of ownership...or at least responsibility. But she’s curious, too, and especially fascinated with things that she can’t understand. Moriarty can be too curious for her own good - a cat with nine lives, but still a cat. Her curiosity can lead her down roads of which there there can be no return. She doesn’t know when to stop, and can grow so fascinated with something that she doesn’t see the blade behind above her, ready to slice down...
<P>
There is no permanence in crime, anyway. She can manipulate the people under her command easily - yet she can only keep them for so long, because hungry dogs are never quite so loyal. They are tools to her and nothing more…and they consider her, too, a tool in her own way.
<P>
Because although she can understand so much, in regards to herself she knows very little. Arrogance allows her to dismiss people easily, to go on the gut feeling of her obviously superior mind than to bother to judge unlikely threats. And Jamie often finds it hard to decode her own feelings - although she has a heart, the way it twists and turns remains a mystery to her. Her own feelings are not stunted in any way, although her attempts to rationalise them, and to compartmentalise them, often are in vain - she is only left to feel and think endlessly about what it all means. She knows what she wants, what she needs, what she should be and must not - yet at the same time she knows enough to understand that she lags behind the rest of ‘them’ in her ignorance about base human nature. She knows about other people, but not herself. Although some individuals may grasp her attention she finds it hard to give out humanity to the rest of the people around her, struggling with empathy and the trappings of love. Is it possible to truly know another person? Is it even a worthwhile pursuit? Does she even truly understand beauty, or simply the symmetry that, after years of art tutelage, she is trained to see?
<h2>Powers/Abilities</h2>
Jamie comes from the same realm as Sherlock, and as such has no powers to call her own. Instead she relies on her intelligence - the ability to plot and scheme and to come up with plans which largely fund her lavish existence. She has a quick mind, an agile intellect and an ability to amass dozens of people under her command; a perfect mix that allowed her to rise to the top of the criminal underworld. She is organised, resourceful and highly capable, although she rarely goes out into the field herself. Her chief skill beyond her intelligence is patience. She specialises in crimes that were part of a long game, often operated through a web of agents and lesser criminals who don’t know who they were working for or what part they have to play in a much bigger picture.
<h2>History</h2>
Jamie Moriarty was born in Surrey, England. She had an ordinary childhood - easy, generally, as being born in a modestly affluent family in a nice neighbourhood meant there were few troubles for the girl. She was intelligent, and in an environment where this intelligence could shine - she had a naturally inquiring mind that leaned to mathematics, to figures and formulae. And, oddly, to art. As unlikely as it was that two such abstractly different subjects would be of equal interest to a little girl Jamie she was gifted in the arts, and showed interest in the canvas from an early age - especially the works of the Old Masters, the history of art just as much as the paint.
<P>
Yet despite her proclivities, her parents quickly noticed that their only daughter was…private. She kept diaries with padlocks on them, and although was pleasant to adults and fellow peers alike - or at least those that she could stand, for her parents noticed that she never seemed to want to bring anyone home after school - was almost reclusive in the way she would scurry up to her bedroom. She was never outwardly talkative, not the sort to be outgoing or to have lots of friends. She only had one best friend that her parents knew of - a girl similarly into art who drew with her several times, only to grow frustrated and leave her alone as little Jamie struggled to connect with her - or at least struggled to connect with her on a plane that mattered. Otherwise her childhood was lonely, although her bedroom walls were full of copies of famous paintings.
<P>
She never drew anything original, not without it being thrown in the bin.
<P>
There was little to suggest she was going to become anything more than a lawyer, or an entrepreneur, or perhaps some other career that would suit such an education, such a lifestyle. She was used to certain amounts of money coming in, after all. But to Jamie it was banal, it was mundane. From her teens onwards she began to investigate the society she lived in, hoping first to become a politician or something that was similarly different, unusual, could be used to shape the world around her. She wanted to bend the future, mould it as if it were out of clay. But politics was too transparent a career…too much accountability. Being in the public eye had never been in Jamie’s plan. And so, quietly, she enrolled for art college. And her parents received, every month, a stagnant update on how she was doing.
<P>
Moriarty did indeed go to art college, although she was far more interested in her extracurricular activities. Because slowly but surely she was being drawn to crime - to the delicious, heady mix of criminal activity that could so easily bend and twist under her fingertips. It was not a temptation lurking at the back of her mind: instead she was open to it from the start, instantly recognising its benefits...as well as its outlets. She wasn’t stupid - her proclivities would never mix well with an honest career, nor would she settle for anything less than what was best. Jamie knew her needs instinctively, and they would not be satisfied by what a legal life would offer. And a mentor was just another reason to start…dabbling.
<P>
And so she plunged into crime - soon independently, free of the trappings of a gang nor a stubborn partner to constantly manipulate and handle. If anything she soared higher than the likes of petty criminals could ever conceive. And if she were to do this, she was going to do this alone. She grew connections, those more likely to meet her needs; all the time she focused on her art, too, investing in crime not as an occupation but as a hobby. A fraud case here, theft here; where her art went the crime followed, and with each new location for her art as she went to various galleries and schools the criminals she knew began to grow.
<P>
Her criminal empire as a whole was growing by the day, a beast of a system that wormed into every city, every weakness in the security of the world. Her efficiency, her sheer genius and her ruthlessness had blazed a wildfire through the underground empires as more and more criminals slipped into her grasp - and in her payroll. One of these was Joshua Vikner. An...indiscretion aside, there was no need for her to be part of a group, not when she could take part in so much of the crime solo - and acting, naturally, through the orders she gave to others. She could paint her art and wait on the calls from her underlings. And slowly but surely the web became more and more of a labyrinth. More and more strands were added and as the years went by so did her influence.
<P>
Until Sherlock Holmes came into Jamie’s life. She heard of him in dribs and drabs at first, tiny whispers of a man who had managed to foil an assassination. It happened, occasionally; even she had not managed to obtain a 100% success rate at all occasions, and one man getting in the way of one operation was not necessarily anything worthwhile. But then the voices got louder and louder with every assassination he seemed to stop, every murder that somehow or other he managed to get mixed up with. To the new crimelord it was obvious what to do: kill him, and then move on, without an obstacle in her way. The murder would be quiet - discreet. It would look more of an accident than anything even resembling foul play. And then she could resume her normal way of living - the new balancing act between creative pursuits and the calls of the criminal underworld. He could be gone in an instant and snuffed out like a light at her beck and call -
<P>
But she hung back.
<P>
This man seemed...special. Unlike the others. And as Jamie did her research on this man she realised that something less...permanent had to happen. He could not be removed - not yet, not when he seemed so different and so new. And it was too fine a job for her lieutenants, too refined for any of her subordinates. They were just knives - accurate, but not accurate enough. A scalpel would have to be used, wielded with precision and the sharp needlepoint of logic. If this man was as the reports said, only the best would do. And so Jamie herself stepped into the field, shed her skin and became something new - Irene Adler, an American art restorer, the perfect way to spy on this Sherlock Holmes and to uncover his methods. And so she met him, and Jamie began to see into a mind so uncannily similar to her own. This was the first mind that seemed to be at one with hers on an intricate level, full of complexity and the kind of depth that she had never once before seen in another human being. He was unplumbed, undiscovered, so intrinsically new that she had to study him further. He became a pet project to Jamie, an investigation of the most unlikely nature.
<P>
But time went on, and Jamie’s other projects began to nag at her. The web would not maintain itself, and she soon learnt all she needed to know about the man who had so conveniently fallen in love with her. He was...not the threat he had been made out to be. An informant would pay for that, but Sherlock didn’t have to. No - instead of killing him Moriarty spared him a second time. He had too beautiful a mind to kill, and he had not flinched in his beauty even under the analysis that the intimacy of a romantic relationship could afford. He was still one of the most beautiful structures she had ever seen, exquisite in its cognition, its sheer power, its depths - and for that he was art. And Moriarty did not attempt to destroy art. So she faked her own death, mimicking the style of one of her own most trusted assassins. The only thing left of Irene was a puddle of blood on the floor as she boarded a plane to Morocco, bound for other adventures whilst she let Sherlock slip into spiralling grief.
<P>
And, slowly, she began to get back into her work. Jamie had other projects to be getting on with, and she retreated back into the shadows. Her journey out into the field was one that was not going to be repeated. Sherlock had been an anomaly, an exception to the rule, as well as a temporary distraction - and there was always more work to be done, more plans to be plotted. She continued her pursuits as she had before. But for one difference. She knew that there was someone out there that thought the same as she did, and she was no longer alone. The price of not killing Sherlock was vast. She could no longer operate as she had before - had to be more careful, work within a parameter because she knew he was still out there somewhere. But at the same time she had learned much and what she had discovered about the man lingered at the back of her mind as a year soon passed and things grew, as they always did, as tangled and complicated as they had been before.
<P>
It did not take long for word to reach her of Sherlock’s own descent into addiction. Her former lover who had been teetering on a knife’s edge - was he the same as her? Was he? - had finally fallen off the precipice and disappeared into a needle due to her ‘death’. Jamie, so far away in another part of the world, knew what she should have been feeling was, of course, contempt. He had been so like her and then he had fallen - as had everyone else who had ever tried to best her….and she did feel like that. Sherlock had finally proven that he was inferior to her, that his mind, despite being a thing of beauty, was so breakable that it wasn’t worth the skull it was sat in. Yet under that all she could feel was sadness, and a kind of emotion that she had not felt in a long time: concern. No, she rationalised. This was because he was so similar to her that she was affected. Obviously.
<P>
The mind, she knew, links and associates with what it believes to be like it to survive. That is how identity is formed, a differentiation and an individuation from everything else in the world - a sense of ‘I’ and ‘them’. That was it. Boiled down psychology, the likes of which even she could not instantly disperse.
<P>
But then Sherlock saw fit to interfere with one of her plans she stepped in herself - once again assuming the guise of Irene. Irene would live again, the puppet of her grander mistress. But this Irene was different; she was struggling with post traumatic stress disorder from her time in ‘captivity’. The mind of Irene had been warped by her treatment that was so psychologically advanced as to almost rob her of everything she had once been. Yet Sherlock was there to catch her as she fell, and cared for her - for Moriarty, too - with emotion she had never seen in him…almost like he had taken on a metamorphosis of his own. Jamie soon saw why. In the time she had been gone he had taken on a - a mascot, of sorts. There was some sort of strange arrangement where he allowed this woman to be like an assistant - or an instant crowd to see his achievements, perhape. Joan Watson, the perfect woman to follow him around and to hang onto his every word.
<p>
The perfect woman who had snared her, who lured her in on the premise of love, and emotion, and despair.
<P>
Jamie had never meant to show Sherlock her true self in such a harsh way as the manner of their first real meeting. Because clearly, she rationalised, Sherlock had never seen her before - only Irene, the art restorer with an inquiring mind and a love of travel. She hadn’t met Jamie. But Joan, Joan Watson…this woman who had stepped into the game had still landed the killing blow. She had unpicked Jamie, had taken her apart from the inside out and somehow…understood. This woman with a mind that she had so quickly dismissed as being superficial and emotional had somehow understood the maelstrom of emotions lingering in the crimelord that even Jamie had struggled to understand. Because Irene had been just a part of Jamie as Jamie was a part of Irene, and with those guises crossing over came love, of sorts, for Sherlock. For Sherlock, the most brilliant man who pretended to fall to pieces just to lure her in.
<P>
And for that her plans for Sherlock could not continue. Any thought of leaving the country with him grew into contempt as soon as she realised the truth, and she was quickly taken into custody. Favours were granted, of course, which made her stay more pleasant. A blacksite instead of a prison cell, art paints and supplies, the morning edition of the New York Ledger…but the days were still grey, and she had nothing else to do with her time but write to Sherlock. It was because of, and not in spite of, their shared mind and thoughts that had allowed Sherlock to imprison her that she found herself writing, sending letter after letter. They were still the same, despite his betrayal, and it was for the sake of that that she wrote - knowing, too, that he would have no choice but to inevitably reply. And reply he did, although still one thing remained.
<P>
Joan Watson.
<P>
Jamie never understood why Sherlock had taken on a mascot, and indeed how such a mascot had been able to weave her way into her far more superior mind. To her the idea seemed inconceivable but Joan, regardless, had…her own intelligence, a kind of intelligence that Jamie had not had to think about before. And with thinking came the inevitable obsession. Art had always cleared her head - so how else would she understand Joan but by painting portraiture of her?
<P>
But there was soon more on her mind than Sherlock’s little friend. The next time she heard of Sherlock was when the coils of history were ruffled, and a…mistake from her past came to light. The indiscretion with Vikner, for one - the daughter she had carried to term and had adopted to the Fuller family. Kayden, as she was known, had been living with no knowledge of her true family. Jamie checked up on the girl regularly but had no part in her life. There was no need, as she could easily be a mother in the shadows. Her true life would never work with a child in tow and the Fullers were good parents. Kayden’s life would never be interfered with.
<P>
Until now - until Jamie was behind bars. At that point some of her lieutenants decided to try their luck. They decided to bait their old leader, to capitalise on her recent incarceration…and to tamper with things that were not theirs to own. Incensed by the fact these people dared to go so far - dared to dice with the life of the daughter she had never met - led to Jamie cashing in her privileges, snapping onto every chance to be on the case and to work alongside Sherlock and Watson.
<P>
Yet outwardly she took the time to study Watson a few months on. Joan was still a source of interest still. Oh, she would get her daughter back - but until that point Moriarty could still relish her time out from behind bars, seeing Joan in her natural environment.
<P>
And then she was returned to her cell, the electric handcuffs that prevented her escape when out and about now a permanent addition to her incarceration. And that would not do. Her daughter was still out there. So Jamie fought her way out, slitting her own wrists in order to do so - but not killing anyone. Sherlock, she thought, would not have liked that…and she didn’t want to wander on why she suddenly cared.
<P>
When released her judgement was swift. She descended on the place where the men were holding her daughter and cut them down ruthlessly, pausing only to arrange another residence for Kayden before collapsing in a pool of blood - some of it hers, most of it others’. And that was where Sherlock found her, and that was where Moriarty wondered whether or not she could become like Sherlock, too. He was slipping away from her, becoming someone so like her but distorted - touched by the humanity they had spent so much time being superior to. She had no choice but to attempt to follow him…and to surrender herself to the police, weakened and knowing that, inevitably, at some point in the future, her incarceration would end.
<P>
After her escape, she was not to return to the blacksite. It was thought that as she had escaped once she would escape again, and word was already spreading on webs not dissimilar to her own across the Atlantic to her native England about what had so recently happened. The pressure MI6 had been putting on the CIA was enough to suggest that she be moved back to England. Sherlock was to travel with her to ensure that she would not escape, and so when she was packed up and travelled to Maine - the drop off point when the plane from England would come to pick her up - she was…accompanied. How delightful.
<P>
It was while going to Maine that the accident happened. The plane began to struggle and fail. The pilots tried to do their best to save the plane but soon enough it was headed into a nose dive what could only be described as some sort of portal...
<P>

<h2>RP Sample</h2>
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<h2>Jessica</h2>
<h3>gmt . zelena, sarah jane & aziraphale .</h3>


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