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After they drove him from the airport to Mycroft’s offices, after they went over and over every detail of Moriarty’s transmission a hundred times and still came up with nothing more than the obvious, Sherlock finally slipped back to Baker St. Mycroft insisted on dropping him off.
“Oh come brother, haven’t we had enough touching scenes for one day?” he’d scoffed, but still found himself in a sleek government car next to his very silent sibling.
“You know, it’s so perfectly timed I’d almost think you had something to do with this.” He mused, looking out the window.
“You think I would fake the return of Jim Moriarty just to keep you in the country?” Mycroft smiled tightly.
“I think you might know he’s not really dead and keep it to yourself until the right moment, yes.”
“Why would I hide something like that?”
“To stop me jumping off any more roofs.”
Mycroft’s hand gripped on his umbrella. “Yes, well, as much as I wish this was a hoax or a plot on my part, it appears to be him or someone who certainly wants us to think it is. Perhaps we should be more concerned that it is an imposter merely trying to stop you leaving.”
“Perhaps.”
They pulled up outside and he climbed out. Mycroft rolled down the window and snagged his sleeve with his umbrella as Sherlock tried to walk away.
“Promise me right now that you will keep me informed if he makes any contact.”
“Why, want me to do the entire thing for you?”
“Promise, Sherlock, or I will assign you protection. I know how much you love being shadowed like a misbehaving schoolboy.”
“Fine,” Sherlock scowled, “But only if you promise that I’m to be kept up-to-date on everything you have.”
“Fine.”
He unhooked himself and took out his keys, heading for the steps.
“Oh and Sherlock? Whatever his reasons, I’m suddenly very glad he’s back.”
Sherlock scoffed and let himself in, hurrying up the stairs before Mrs Hudson could come out and make a scene. Lestrade would probably be trying to call, and Molly, but for the moment he just stood in the living room and looked at the place. When he left that morning it was with the almost certainty that he’d never see it again, and now suddenly the game was back on. The light seemed to take on a dream-like glow, dust hanging in the air, and he felt...alive for the first time in three and a half years.
He took off his coat and hung it up, unlaced his shoes and put them in his wardrobe. The detective very precisely and slowly went about making himself comfortable, prolonging the moment until eventually he opened his sock drawer and dug out the phone he’d hidden there so very long ago. Sherlock pulled up the number he’d never deleted and typed a new message.
Yes – SH
He wasn’t sure if he should expect an immediate answer or not. Moriarty was possibly waiting to see how long it would take him to make contact, eagerly checking for his text – or maybe he had better things to do. Maybe it was an imposter, and his text had spiralled off into some lost corner of the network, never to be read by anyone.
He lay back on his bed and closed his eyes, deducing how Jim had faked his death. Was there really a Rich Brook who had sacrificed himself for Sherlock’s benefit? He hadn’t exactly stopped to check the corpse, so special effects were still a possibility. How had he gotten off the roof and out of the hospital with dozens of Mycroft’s men around the place?
The silence was broken by a tinny “If I can’t have you, I don’t want nobody, baby.” Sherlock certainly hadn’t set that as Jim’s message tone. When exactly had the mastermind been sneaking around in his flat? He supposed there had been ample time for it while he was out of the country. He rubbed suddenly sweaty palms on his trousers and picked it up, opening the message.
Likewise, honey.
Just like that Sherlock’s heart rate doubled, his face breaking into a huge smile. It really was Jim. After all this time, after all the work he’d put into bringing him down and the heartache he’d put John through, Moriarty wasn’t even fazed. He had to laugh so he didn’t scream.
The phone chirped again. I heard the most interesting story about you, Sherlock. Big brother kept your name out of it but I could tell. It had all the hallmarks of my favourite sociopath.
Were you surprised?
The response was almost instantaneous. Only that it took you this long.
I’m not an angel, remember?
No, you’re not. You’re me.
Sherlock shook off the violent shudder that gripped his spine. Everything about that day was blazoned across his memory forever, even without the mind palace, but the one image he knew he would take to his own grave was Jim’s smile as he pulled the trigger.
Are you going to tell me why you waited this long without a peep and then stuck your head up so publicly?
Call it boredom.
You blow things up when you’re bored – you don’t show your face on national TV.
There was a pause for so long Sherlock went and turned the kettle on, thinking Jim wasn’t going to answer at all. He was sniffing the milk to check for fungal contamination when his phone interrupted.
They were taking you away, Sherly. I couldn’t have that.
He wasn’t sure what to say. Was Jim being honest? If so it was a huge admission for the man. After all, why should their game be limited by geography unless Moriarty wanted to see him in person?
Is this the part where we arrange our next showdown?
What do you say, honey? Me, you, another abandoned death trap?
I think I’d rather know what you’re planning beforehand this time. Charging in half-cocked hasn’t served me well in the past.
I’m not gonna make it that easy for you, Sherlock.
You do owe me a belated Christmas present.
You’re right. Happy New Year, Sherly.
A message came through with a picture of a window that could have been any nice hotel or apartment, the view outside tall office towers. There was no reflection, no distinctive furniture, no sign of the street but it was definitely London. Sherlock smiled. This was worth living for.
*****
“And you’ve had no word from him?” John frowned, “He hasn’t, I dunno, tried to taunt you again?”
“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “He’s been very quiet.”
“Doesn’t make sense. If he wanted to lie low he wouldn’t have aired that clip.” The doctor muttered into his tea cup.
“You’re much calmer about this than I expected.”
John shrugged. “We’ve faced him before and always come out okay.”
“Yes but you have a baby now.”
“And I’ve got an ex-assassin wife. I think between the two of us we can protect Seamus.”
Sherlock’s phone buzzed in his pocket and John raised his brows at the song.
“Bee Gees?”
“What can I say; I’ve been quite preoccupied with Jim lately.”
“Understandable,” John took another sip as Sherlock took the device out, “Anything from Mycroft on the subject?”
“Nooo...” Sherlock trailed off, eyes on the screen.
Intimidation is so boring, sweetheart. Daddy hates having to remind people why he’s in charge.
I highly doubt that.
“Anyway, I best be off. Got to pick up some groceries on the way home.” John stood.
“Right. Give my love to Mary and Seamus.”
“Will do.” The doctor waved a she headed for the stairs.
It’s tiresome teaching people what they should already know, especially when they’re so slow to learn the lesson.
My condolences.
So keep me entertained. What’s new with you?
He looked at the window, tapping the phone against the arm of his chair thoughtfully. What would Jim want to hear?
I had a dream last night. I think it was influenced by John’s continued attempts to force his inane pop culture on me, but I was in the Arkham Asylum from the Batman series. I assume you know it?
We’re not all as clueless as you, darling.
Lots of people I know were there. Lestrade was Commissioner Gordon, Kitty Riley was Catwoman and Molly was Harley Quinn.
Which madman was she in love with this time?
Sherlock smiled. Neither of us.
Was dear John there?
No.
Was I?
You were the Riddler.
Please don’t tell me your subconscious is that obvious.
I think it’s your penchant for suits, actually. You looked quite sharp in a bowler hat.
And who were you, Sherly, hmm? Batman himself? The city’s dark defender?
He sat back, not wanting to answer. Why did he even start telling this story in the first place? Evidently his silence is too pronounced because his phone chimed again.
Not the hero then...no, you wouldn’t think that about yourself, even in a dream. Perhaps Mr Freeze, cold on the outside yet hiding a tender heart?
He wished it was that simple.
The Clock King, robotic and wonderfully violent?
Sherlock closed his eyes and typed the reply.
I was Two-Face.
There was a hush through the flat, as if he could feel Jim holding his breath.
Oh Sherly. You have come out of your shell.
He threw the phone down on the table and walked into the kitchen, determined to ignore it for the rest of the day.
When a week passed with no further sign of Jim and no information from Mycroft, Sherlock moped around his flat with nothing to do. After Magnussen’s death he had been strictly forbidden from working cases with the Yard, and with John busy most days he couldn’t even get in some private clients. Well he could, but he was trying to keep his schedule free for whatever Moriarty had to be planning to celebrate his return.
It was sheer impatience that made him text the criminal again, hanging off the edge of the couch watching the rain run down his windows.
Would it be wrong of me to wish you’d hurry up and kill someone?
Definitely. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.
A second message came through right away.
It’s good to hear from you, Sherly. For a minute there I thought it was something I said.
Sherlock grimaced. It’s not your fault I’m a murderer.
Do you feel bad about it?
No. Magnussen deserved to die and no one else was going to do it.
You really should do something about that glaring weak spot, Sherlock. You won’t be able to save Johnny every time.
I might as well ask you to give up your consulting. John is as essential to me as the work. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to admit but Jim already knew anyway. Even the Jim in his head could see how far Sherlock Holmes would go for his blogger. It had brought him back from death, hadn’t it?
That, my dear, is the problem.
*****
After three weeks and nothing, Sherlock started to suspect Jim was intentionally trying to drive him mad. With no work and no stimulation he couldn’t stop thinking about the Irishman. Where was he? What was he doing? When would Sherlock find out? What did he think about the faked fall, what did he really think about Magnussen? Why show himself and then disappear again like a tease? Sherlock found his hands wandering towards his phone, half-heartedly thinking he’d send one text goading Jim about his inactivity and leave it at that. Let the criminal stew for once.
Instead he looked at the keys and knew it wasn’t enough. He needed Jim where the other man couldn’t hide, couldn’t take the time to craft his cryptic responses. He hit the call button and sat back, a hand over his eyes.
Jim answered on the seventh ring. “This is unusually bold for you, Sherlock.”
“I thought you might not answer.”
“How could I resist hearing that voice again?”
“Perhaps we should meet somewhere. It’s even better in person.”
Jim sighed, sounding disappointed. “Are we back to pistols at high noon again already?”
“No. It can be anywhere – bar, cafe, Hyde Park. The library at Bart’s maybe.”
“Sherlock, what are you expecting, darlin’?”
He frowned. “I don’t know. Conversation? Clues? Something that’s not as horribly dull as this waiting.”
“Well Daddy’s not interested in playing right now, Sherly. Stick with your angels where you belong.”
He hung up and Sherlock gaped at the phone. Jim never missed a chance to rib him. Maybe he was busy but he should still have leaped at the chance to show how clever he was with an artfully chosen meeting place and impose on his personal space a bit. What was he saying, that Sherlock was too much of a goody-goody to even talk to now?
Was Jim...was Jim implying Sherlock was boring?
That was just fucking unacceptable. Then Sherlock looked around his flat and realised he was sitting here alone, in silence, waiting for someone to report a murder or theft or kidnapping. God, maybe the criminal was right.
The brunette stood, grabbing his coat. If Jim didn’t care enough to talk, fine. He wasn’t going to wait around for the Irishman like some sad teenage girl hanging by the phone. Sherlock Holmes was going out to find his own fun.
He took a cab towards the East End, stopping at random on the other side of The City and walking until he found a bar that didn’t repulse him with its modernity. The wall sconces gave off a soft orange light and the chairs were old vanished wood, the gloss worn smooth by hundreds of other bums before him. He untied his scarf and shoved it in his pocket, hanging the coat off the back of the chair.
“Hi, what can I get ya?” the waitress said between snapping her gum.
“A gin and lime.”
“No worries.” She headed for the bar.
Sherlock’s eyes swept the room. It wasn’t terribly busy but it was loud, the patrons already loosening up. They were a mixture of low-level office workers who couldn’t afford anywhere better and scruffy types in bomber jackets and hoodies, their laughter too loud. Nobody really interesting but it was early yet. He sat back and waited for his drink, letting the observations come to him. Definitely more interesting than being at home.
The pub only got rowdier as time passed, and Sherlock let himself sip his drinks faster than normal. He had a soft buzz through his shoulders and arms, and the tangy bitter taste of gin on his tongue, and he felt...free. Like no one in the bar gave a damn about him and his brilliance, and he could just be Sherlock without anyone wanting anything.
There was a woman standing with a couple in the nearest corner. They were nuzzling noses and giggling together cutely, and she was holding her straw as she looked around like an awkward third wheel. Her eyes fell on Sherlock and she smiled, ducking her head. He supposed she was pretty, blonde hair pulled back in a long ponytail, dress a bit too tight around the hips but flattering for her chest and long legs. When she looked back up he made sure to return the friendly expression and beckoned with a crooked finger.
“I’ll just be a second.” He heard her tell her friends, though they were too wrapped up in each other to really notice. She drifted over to his table, still clutching her drink nervously.
“Hi.”
“Hello.”
“Do I know you?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Why did you call me over then?”
Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, voice dropping as he looked up at her. “Why did you come when I called?”
“Um, I dunno,” she blushed, flustered, “You’re here by yourself and you look interesting, I guess.”
“What’s your name?” he squinted at her, “Let me guess...Nicole.”
“Yes! Oh my god, how did you know that?”
“I’m good at guessing.”
“What’s yours?”
“Sherlock.”
“Odd name. Not like that guy in the papers?”
“Exactly like him.”
“Wow.”
He looked pointedly at her glass. “You seem to be running low. Shall I buy us another round?”
“Um,” Nicole glanced at her friends, “I’d like that.”
“Please, sit.” He raised his hand, signalling the waitress.
She took the chair opposite him, peeping through her lashes at the pale detective appreciatively.
“I will have another gin and lime, and Nicole here will take a mojito.”
She laughed incredulously. “Another good guess?”
“I have a positively endless supply,” he leaned in until their faces were next to each other, his mouth by her ear, “But do you know what I am extraordinarily good at?”
“Wh-what?” she asked.
He put his hand on her elbow very lightly, voice barely more than a murmur. “Knowing what people want in their darkest heart of hearts.”
The fire door crashed open against the bricks and Sherlock pulled Nicole through by the hand, the blonde giggling as she tripped over her heels a little.
“Sherlock, where are we going?”
He glanced around. No CCTV, no other buildings that opened onto this tiny courtyard. There were a couple of bins and someone’s motorbike and a small alcove that might have been a chimney once but had been half-demolished and used to fix a ladder up to a neighbouring roof. He squeezed her hand and tugged her into the nook, her back to the wall.
“This is so wicked.” Her eyes gleamed in the dark and he almost rolled his eyes, stopping himself in time.
Sherlock traced his thumb over her lower lip. “That’s what makes it so delicious.”
He kissed her and she gasped, holding onto his lapels as he pressed her back into the metal. It had been a long, long time since Sherlock had slept with anyone but Janine had been a good enough refresher and there was no awkwardness in the way he slid a hand down Nicole’s ribs, circling his fingers around her waist. She inhaled sharply and pulled away.
“My friends-”
“Relax, Nikki. We haven’t even left. They’ll still be there.”
She smiled, looking a bit dazzled by him, and Sherlock choked down his contempt long enough to purr out a compliment.
“And you’re so gorgeous I just can’t wait.”
Her legs shifted and he pressed himself between them, his thigh pinning her as Nicole’s fingers caught in his hair and she kissed him. He could taste the mint heavy on her breath, feel her breathing speed up as their chests connected. He wanted to sate himself on her and leave her begging. He snaked a hand up under the hem of her dress and pulled, tugging it up around her thighs.
“Oh god, don’t stop.” She kissed his neck.
Sherlock’s fingers brushed her underwear to one side and delved in against her folds, surprising a small whimper from her.
“You’re eager.” She grinned.
“Well, you never know who might decide to come out for a smoke.” He snickered, low and mocking.
His fingers pressed against her clit and she gasped, scrambling to undo his trousers. Her hands were clumsy, struggling with the fabric as he teased her, her breath coming out in pants and cries. Finally the woman got them open and stuck her hand in, the angle making her wrist catch awkwardly. She was determined though, feeling around for his hardening length and pulling it free. The cold was a shock against his skin but her fingers grasped him warmly and stroked, and Sherlock closed his eyes with a hiss.
“Have you got something?” she mumbled.
A ludicrous notion. Sherlock Holmes didn’t walk around expecting to get laid. He wasn’t John.
“No.”
“Hang on.” She swung her purse up, rifling through it as he kept going, the touch distracting her from her purpose. Nicole held up a condom triumphantly and kissed him.
“Looks like our lucky day.”
“Looks like.”
She unwrapped it and slid the tip over him, rolling it down. She’d barely finished before Sherlock had his tongue between her lips, a hand guiding his head against her entrance.
“Hold onto the rung.” He barked.
She reached up with one hand and gripped the bar above her head, the other on his back encouragingly. Sherlock lifted her, the blonde’s legs wrapping around him, and plunged her down on his shaft. She moaned and he waited, caught up in the fuzz of too many gins and a warm, wet tightness gripping him for the first time in years. When Nicole squeezed his shoulder he started moving, impatience spurring him on fast from the first thrust. Sherlock gripped her arse in his hands, grunting quietly as he moved, rough and selfish as he hurried on.
“Fuck, oh god, fuck.” She gasped out.
Sherlock wished she wasn’t so predictable but it didn’t matter at this point. Everyone was predictable. He vaguely wondered for half a second what it would have been like with The Woman. He had a feeling she wouldn’t mutter all the normal clichés.
But The Woman was only appealing because they’d never had sex, because the tension had never been broken. Nicole was very present and very real in his arms, and it didn’t matter if she was boring because her snatch definitely wasn’t.
She was lifting herself with the ladder, sinking down onto him so that their pelvises collided in a swirling, grinding impact with each stroke. He eyed her neck and thought about marking it, spoiling the pleasantly smooth skin with his teeth and his lips. Sherlock wanted others to see them and know he’d put them there, brutal and uncaring. But the idea of letting her think she was worth being claimed was laughable, and instead he rested his brow on her shoulder and fucked her harder.
He should probably have been making some attempt to make sure she was enjoying it, but with the general whimpering and heavy breathing he figured she was more than fine on her own. Sherlock slid faster, her walls fighting to grip and hold him there, the friction making his whole body feel overheated.
“Please, please.”
He sped up, snarling under his breath as his eyes clenched shut and his climax hit with sparks behind his eyes and a great white howl in his ears. There was a moment of blissful silence, no thoughts, no deductions, and then the sounds of Nicole’s breathing broke through it and he remembered where he was. She was gripping his arm anxiously, rubbing herself against him, and Sherlock pulled out, his thumb finding her button immediately. She came with a bird-like cry and he curled his lip, the motion unnoticed in the dark.
“Oh my god. Oh Jesus, oh that was amazing.”
He turned away, shedding the condom and knotting it off before tossing it into a bin. Sherlock tucked himself away and buttoned up, making sure he was presentable before he glanced at her.
“I assume you can find your own way back?”
He opened the fire door and headed straight for the bar, nodding to the bartender.
“Cigarettes.”
“What you want?”
“Anything.”
The man tossed a pack at him and he handed over his cash, striding out into the street. Sherlock fumbled with the wrapping, tearing the plastic off, and placed one between his lips. He searched his pockets for a lighter as he headed down the pavement, flicking it on and shielding the flame from the wind. There was a rush of new chemicals in his blood already and the second the nicotine hit he gave a long, loud groan. For one fleeting second he considered texting Jim, but he didn’t need to flaunt anything. What he did was none of the criminal’s business.
*****
The high from his orgasm and the alcohol and the cigarettes lasted eighteen hours. Eighteen hours and then Sherlock was pacing the flat again, tapping the empty packet against his leg before crumpling it and throwing it into the fireplace. His eyes flicked to his phone on the desk as they had every five minutes for the past hour, and once again he swore he wasn’t going to call Jim.
He could ask John and Mary over. It would be nice to see the baby, and they would keep him distracted for a little while at least. But Mary was too damn perceptive about him. She’d know exactly what was going on behind his blank expression and the last thing he needed was John poking his nose about.
Sherlock didn’t even wait for sunset, throwing on his coat and heading for the nearest pub. The clientele was scant, just a couple of labourers having a pint and yelling at the races on TV. Sherlock sat at the bar, leaning his elbows on the sticky surface.
“Right there mate?” the bartender asked.
“I’ll take a vodka on the rocks and a pack of the highest tar you’ve got.”
He sloshed something cheap and harsh into a glass and pushed it over the bar, taking the cigarettes from their case. Sherlock handed him the money and opened the pack, lighting up with a sigh of relief. The alcohol set the lining of his throat on fire but it was a good burn. It was something new to grab onto.
“Oi, mate. You mind putting that out?”
He turned to look at the speaker sidelong, arching a brow. “Yes, actually.”
The tradesman scowled, his friends hovering behind his shoulder. “You could at least move. There’s about twenty empty seats.”
“I like this one. It comes with such good company.” The brunette said mockingly.
“Listen, I’ve asked nicely. Don’t make me tell you again.”
Sherlock spun on his stool, setting the cigarette in an ash tray and looking the other man over critically. He was strong from lots of heavy lifting but he didn’t have the right posture to keep his balance, and he was no prize fighter.
“Why don’t you find something better to do, like shag one of your little pals there? Your squabbling is tiresome.”
The guy’s brows shot up, mouth hanging open. He looked at his companions as if he needed confirmation this waifish ponce had just insulted him, and they gave him a look asking what he was gonna do about it. The man set his beer on the counter and swung at Sherlock, and the detective moved backwards off the stool faster than he was expecting, whipping it into his side. The tradie went down, hand clutching at the bar, and his friends immediately rushed in. Sherlock was a storm of arms and legs, his punches connecting with just the right spots to drop his targets instantly. They huddled on the floor, clutching immobilised arms or knees or ribs, glaring up at him. A couple tried to get up again and he let them, relishing in the back and forth before he shoved them down again.
He heard talking behind him and looked up to find the bartender on the phone. Sherlock leaned over and yanked the cord out of the bottom.
“That won’t be necessary.”
He looked around at his groaning attackers on the floor and nodded in satisfaction. The first man got a kick in the ribs on Sherlock’s way past. He threw back the remainder of his drink and set the cigarette back between his lips, nodding to the bartender as he headed out.
“Sherlock, is there something you want to tell me?”
He lifted his head from the pillow reluctantly, running to squint up at Mycroft. His brother looked as put together as ever. It only irritated Sherlock more.
“Like what? That you’ve put on five pounds?”
“I was referring to the report I have in my hand of a bar fight starring you, little brother, in Shoreditch last night.” He dropped a thick stack of paper on the bed in front of him.
“Is that what your sources say?” Sherlock blinked, too hungover to deal with this.
“It is remarkable similar to several incidents that have crossed my desk in the past month.”
“Anything about Moriarty pass it, or just cake?”
“I manage to get you out of a murder charge you explicitly deserved, and you go on a rampage through the innocent citizens of London?”
“I get bored, Mycroft.”
“This is not an acceptable response.”
“Clearly, or else I wouldn’t be graced with your spectacular company. Now sod off.”
“Sherlock, I will not be able to hold the authorities at bay forever. As Moriarty has so far made no visible moves, you have not yet proved yourself useful. Eventually they will tire of having you free to cause trouble and getting nothing back.”
“Is it exciting, being you?” Sherlock snapped, “So worried about other people’s opinions all the time?”
Mycroft thrust his tongue in his cheek and smiled tightly. “It’s a living.”
He picked up the glass of water from the bedside table and threw it in Sherlock’s face, setting it down as the detective spluttered.
“Learn to contain yourself, brother.”
Mycroft swept out before he could react, the downstairs door slamming finitely. Sherlock fumed, getting up to dry his face in the bathroom. He wandered to the kitchen slowly, putting the kettle on and glancing at his coat abandoned over the table. Sherlock dug out his phone but there was only one message, from Mycroft, and he certainly wasn’t listening to that scolding twice. In an impulsive moment of irritation, he called Jim.
“Y’ello?”
“How much do you charge to arrange broken kneecaps?”
“Not enough to bother, usually. Feeling frisky, Sherlock?”
“Mycroft’s being a pain as usual.”
“Oh, you should have said. I’ll break the Iceman’s for free.”
Sherlock snorted. “I could do it myself but he’d only tell Mummy.”
“I’ve noticed you seem a bit freer with the punches these days.”
He looked up. “You’ve been checking up on me?”
“Just curious what my consulting detective’s up to.”
“I don’t need one babysitter, Jim, let alone two.”
“I’m not going to nag. I’ll even compliment you. You’re doing a marvellous job pretending to be the bad boy, Sherly.”
“Pretending?”
“Why don’t you give John a call? I’m sure he needs someone to go grocery shopping with and discuss the terrors of colic.”
“You can’t goad me.”
“Why would I want to? We both know you only do exactly what you please and it’s still never enough.”
“Do you have an alternative?”
“Not for you, darlin’. I’m still not sure you’ve got the attitude for my style of fun.”
He hung up and Sherlock seethed, almost throwing the phone across the kitchen. Attitude? Not enough? Who the fuck did Jim think he was? They both knew he could solve Sherlock’s boredom with one easy stroke and instead he was laughing at him. Well fuck the criminal. Sherlock had other sources of entertainment.
He wasn’t stupid enough to go back to the den. John had found him there once by accident; he wouldn’t hesitate to look again if he even suspected Sherlock of using. He shot up in his flat instead, hiding the evidence in case Mycroft got nosy, and started taking long walks so he wouldn’t run into anyone while he was floating around in his head. He eased up on the fighting and took to bringing more people home – men, women, it didn’t matter so long as they fucked him and got out afterwards. He didn’t even bother to learn half their names, and when they were gone their faces all ran together.
He was on his fourth whiskey, leaning over the rail at a club he normally wouldn’t have bothered with. But he’d been wandering and caught a whiff of something intriguing, letting the smell pull him in. Sherlock had completely forgotten what it was now. The drugs and the booze were like two battling fires in his veins, one making him itchy and restless, one telling him to let everything go and drift forever. Someone jostled him from behind and he slopped a bit of his drink over his fingers.
“God, I’m so sorry!”
Sherlock shook them dry with a shrug. “No harm done.”
The man was a bit shorter than him, slender, with a t-shirt and jeans so tight Sherlock could picture the skin underneath with perfect clarity. He had short brown hair and very dark eyes, and he was biting his lip with embarrassment.
“I feel like a total arse.”
“It’s nothing, really.”
“Let me buy you another.”
Sherlock’s lips curled up mischievously. “Ah, I see now. If you wanted to buy me a drink, you could have just asked.”
He laughed and after a second the other man joined in.
“David.”
“Sherlock.”
“How ‘bout that drink then?”
Sherlock set the glass down on the thin counter and leaned back, licking the corner of his mouth as he eyed David openly.
“How about we skip it and put the time to better use?”
“Alright then.”
As soon as they were in the cab Sherlock spit his address at the driver and launched himself at David. The other man took a moment to recover but then he was kissing back just as greedily, hands roaming over Sherlock’s back and thighs. They were an inch from dry humping when the cab stopped. Sherlock threw some cash at the driver and tumbled out, dragging the other man with him. He managed to get the door unlocked after a few tries, leading him up the stairs as quietly as possible in his current state.
David kissed him and Sherlock dropped his coat down his arms, stepping over it awkwardly as they walked backwards down the hall to his room. He kicked the door open wider and stripped off David’s jacket, throwing it to the side.
They shrugged off the rest of their clothes hastily, Sherlock ripping the seams on his shirt in his haste. He pushed David back on the bed and fell on him like a cat, nails dragging over his skin as he nipped his chest. The man giggling and gasped excitedly, hips twitching from side to side like a teenager, and Sherlock fought down the wave of hatred that threatened to overwhelm him. How dull. Lying there at Sherlock’s mercy and he still thinks this is all just a bit of fun, faking shock at his own willingness to go home with handsome strangers.
He decided not to care about David anymore after that. Fuck him, kick him out, shoot up again. In that order.
Sherlock reached for the lube on the bedside table, slicking up his hand. The other man pouted.
“Is this your idea of foreplay?”
“I’ve never had much time for the concept.”
His fingers breached David’s entrance gently and he groaned, head rolling back. The complaints stopped. Sherlock gave him maybe ten seconds to adjust before sticking them the rest of the way in, nails scraping his walls mercilessly.
“Oh, fuck!”
He didn’t intentionally go for the prostate, focusing instead on stretching the man out as quickly as possible, but a few rough thrusts brushed the gland and David shook beneath him. Sherlock was hard beyond belief, not so much with desire but just an aching need to get off. How that happened was less important than the sweet, blissful relief of the final moment.
He grabbed David’s hand, pulling it between his thighs. “Keep touching yourself.”
The gruff order only seems to excite him more, the man tentatively substituting his fingers for Sherlock’s while the detective rifled through his drawers for a condom. He rolled it on, hissing at the slippery feel of his hand on his straining member. Sherlock climbed back between David’s legs and batted his hand away, lining himself up. He pushed in, swearing at the tight fit.
“Oh honey, Jesus, you feel amazing.”
Sherlock wished he could gag him. He decided to shut him up some other way, his strokes fast from the get-go and punishing enough to make David’s head lurch against the pillows, teeth knocking together. He grasped and clung at Sherlock’s arms and the brunette growled low in his throat.
“Caveman!” he purred.
The thought’s in his head before he can really see where it came from. Would it be like this with Jim? Would he be cloying and desperate and unimpressive like all the others? Sherlock already knew the answer to that. Just the idea of Jim spread out beneath him was enough to make him whimper, running his tongue along his top teeth.
He looked down at David. He was similar to the consulting criminal in some ways, colouring, build, the basics. But the face was wrong. Sherlock pulled out and slapped his thigh.
“Roll over.”
He obeyed eagerly, another thing Jim wouldn’t do (and if he did? Sherlock almost came on the spot thinking about a pet Moriarty, ready to please). He pulled David’s hips up and plunged into him, driving faster and harder, the other man’s face in the sheets.
Would it be like this with Jim? Sherlock would like to top his rival, but maybe they could take turns. The idea of writhing in Jim’s lap, impaled on his cock…it wasn’t dull.
The more he thought about Jim, the more turned on he got. David’s body alone wasn’t anything special but it was there to vent his frustrations on, and Sherlock seized the chance. He bit the man’s back, hard, harder than was enjoyable from the outraged gasps and whining. His hips snapped against his arse with bruising force, his fingers curling in the nape of David’s hair and yanking until his neck was curved back unnaturally.
“Hey, watch it!”
Jim wouldn’t complain if he was rough. Sherlock rather thought he’d prefer it, beg for it. That he’d curse Sherlock out and tell him to stop being a pussy and fuck him. Jim understood the appeal in taking other humans apart.
“Stop it!”
Sherlock tried to ground himself in that vision of Jim, on his knees, lip split and eye blackened and still smirking as he waited for more. But with David wriggling under him and trying to sit up and generally yelling, the image slid away.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“So much.” Sherlock chuckled darkly.
“Get off me, bastard!”
The fire urging him to finish changed, twisting into anger. He was so fucking bored of people like this. He popped free of David’s body and the other man instantly turned over, scrambling up on his knees. He raised a hand to one of Sherlock’s bite and drew it back bloody, glaring at him.
“You’re a fucking arsehole.”
Sherlock hated his stupid face. The offended look was so annoyingly average. “You should count yourself lucky.”
“Lucky?”
“Yes. I’ve done worse.”
“God, you’re a psycho!” David slid off the bed, reaching for his pants, and the boredom and frustration Sherlock had been carrying around flooded him with not anger, but indifference. He looked at David and saw not a person, but a niggling little itch to be scratched.
The detective flew at him, hand slamming his head into the wall. David roared and reared up but Sherlock was a boxer and he knew where to hit, bigger too. He knew his own room. A foot swept David’s legs out from under him and then Sherlock was snapping the riding crop over his back, straddling his thighs.
“Help! Help! Get away from me!”
Sherlock rolled him over and gave his windpipe a hard strike with the crop, the words cut off abruptly. He dragged David into the bed by his hair, abandoning his weapon in favour of bare hands. David tried to shield his face but Sherlock was fast and savage, his knuckles splitting as he pounded them into his abdomen, not making a sound.
David’s cries turned to sobs and his body jerked with each new hit, until Sherlock’s fist clipped his jaw and his eyes rolled up, going completely limp. The detective kept going, taking out emotions he couldn’t even name on the unfortunate man.
His arms started to hurt first, his muscles tired from being tensed. Sherlock slowly caught his breath, slowing until he stopped completely, and looked down. David was definitely unconscious, his face mashed to pulp, blood thick around his mouth. It was all over the bedding and Sherlock, the room looking like a horror movie. But all Sherlock felt was a great sense of peace at first, sinking in the soothing quiet of his mind. Gradually, maybe as he sobered up a bit, he started to look a bit closer at the damage.
His hands shook so hard that blood fell in droplets on the sheets. What had he done? Brought a stranger into his home – his home – and lost control. It was exactly the sort of thing Donovan had always predicted. What was he going to do? He could clean up the evidence better than almost anyone alive, drop David at a hospital. But the man had seen his face, and while there were several things Sherlock could give him to erase those memories he couldn’t risk them with an unresponsive patient on God knows what else. The wrong combination of drugs could kill him.
And wasn’t that the solution to his problems? If he was dead, he’d be easy to dispose of, completely unable to rat Sherlock out. The detective didn’t even feel bad about the prospect – bad luck for David, but his life just wasn’t worth sweating over. But there were other factors: possible footage of them at the club, outside, in the taxi. The taxi driver, who would surely remember such rowdy passengers. He couldn’t do this by himself.
Sherlock wiped his hands clumsily on the sheet and grabbed his trousers, wriggling his phone out of the pockets.
“Sherllllllly. It’s late, my love.”
“I need your help.”
There was a beat. “With?”
“I can’t discuss it over the phone.”
“That’s not quite good enough.” But he could hear the curiosity in Jim’s voice.
“I’m in need of some removalists. Cleaners too.”
Jim made a sound like he was sucking on his teeth. “I’ll see what I can do. Just find something to entertain yourself and stay close to home in case we need to get hold of you.”
Sherlock nodded even though he couldn’t see it, sitting in a heap against the wall under his periodic table. He looked at the figure on the bed and felt nothing, no guilt, no anger, no sadness. He was a failed experiment, forgotten as soon as it was over, and now Sherlock felt nothing but tired as the drugs wore off.
He rested his forehead in his hands, trying not to fall asleep in case Jim called. He must have drifted in and out though, the light wavering, his head falling forward. The next thing he knew there were soft footsteps in the hall. He looked up as the door opened, Jim in a black suit with matching shirt and no tie for once, his eyes taking in the mess on the bed. He stared in wonder for a moment, fixing every little detail in his memory, and looked down at the genius.
“There’s my Sherlock.”
The detective took a breath and stood, oblivious to the fact he was still naked. Jim raised a brow, gaze raking over his bare torso and down, and Sherlock cleared his throat to redirect his attention.
“I got a tad carried away.”
“I can see that. My, what a temper you’ve got, my love,” Jim snickered under his breath and straightened, “What do you need from me?”
“I need you to make sure there’s no record of him coming home with me. No evidence in the flat, no video, no witnesses.”
“Easy enough. And what,” he clucked his tongue, drawing the sound out, “Are you going to do about him?”
Sherlock looked back at him deadpan. “What do you think I should do?”
Jim looked him over again, biting his lip. “What are you willing to do?”
“Whatever the logical choice is.”
“Fuck logic, Sherly,” Jim stepped closer, “What are you willing to do?”
“Anything.”
“Then you tell me how we should handle it.”
Sherlock kept his gaze for a moment and sat on the edge of the bed, clamping his fingers on David’s nose. He never took his eyes off Jim’s, hold firm, the criminal’s face lighting up a little more every second. By the time the man had stopped breathing the mastermind was practically licking his lips, and Sherlock held on another few minutes just to be sure. He pressed a finger to his neck and smiled to himself when there was no pulse.
“Think you can work with that?” he said, smugness thick in his tone.
Moriarty almost jumped into his lap, bowling Sherlock backwards onto the mattress. His lips sought the detective’s as his fingers twisted in the short brown curls, kissing him breathless. Sherlock held on, secretly thrilled at the idea of getting blood on Jim’s pristine suit. David’s body lay beside them, still and unseeing, and Jim was rubbing his groin up and down Sherlock’s thigh like a rabid dog, desperate and mad.
“Oh Christ, Sherly. You know how to push all my buttons.” He drawled, his lilt much more pronounced.
“As much as I’m enjoying this, we have some things to take care of?” Sherlock looked at the cadaver pointedly, “I have a rather nosy landlady and friends who like to drop by unannounced, one of whom is a Detective Inspector.”
“Oh don’t you worry, sweets. My people are already on their way. Get some clothes on and come with me – it’s better if they don’t see you.”
He stood, turning his back to the bed. Jim smoothed out his jacket and ran a hand over his hair as Sherlock pulled on some underwear and started looking for clothes without getting blood on anything.
“You shouldn’t have come. It incriminates you if I’m investigated.” He looked over his shoulder.
Jim scoffed. “Honey, there’s not going to be an investigation. I’m the best.”
He threw on his jacket and grabbed his phone from the bed, taking one last look. “Shall we?”
“Oh Sherly, I thought you’d never ask.”
Jim moved down the stairs like a ghost, avoiding the creaking step and gliding over the carpet. Sherlock was amazed he chose to keep his hands clean when he seemed so adept at getting them dirty. He followed Moriarty to a car parked around the corner and slid in when the other man held the door.
“By the time we get you home it will be like you never went out, sugar.” Jim fiddled with his phone, shooting off whatever orders he had to give.
Holmes turned his neck slowly on the headrest. “And what shall we do until then?”
Jim’s thumbs twitched on the keys, his gaze firmly on Sherlock even if his head was still tilted down. “What are you in the mood for? I doubt a cigarette is gonna cut it after that climax.”
Sherlock looked him over. It was no secret to either of them that Jim wanted him, had probably done so since the first moment they saw each other. But after the incident with David he knew he very much wanted Jim too. He leaned in until his mouth was almost touching Jim’s neck above his collar.
“I think we should finish what we started.”
Jim’s lips quirked up at the sides, his gaze steady on Sherlock’s. “Sounds amusing.”
His chuckle was dark and dangerous. “It will be much more than that.”
“Promise?” Jim leaned closer, cheeks almost touching.
“I swear it.” Sherlock captured his lips.
*****
They spent the rest of the drive with Jim in Sherlock’s lap, the two geniuses attached at the mouth as Sherlock’s huge hands swept over Jim’s jacket and the Irishman curled his fists in Sherlock’s lapels, plunging his tongue around the detective’s like they were duelling. The car pulled up at the kerb and Jim drew back, grinning.
“Ready for a peek behind the mask, Sherly?”
“You never wear a mask with me.” he said, knowing in that moment that it was true.
Jim laughed. “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”
“Oh you play your little parts and you keep up the calm, unshakable composure act, but you’ve never hid what you really are from me.”
“And what’s that?”
“An equal,” Sherlock nipped at his earlobe, “And a fan.”
Jim wrinkled his nose and opened the door. “I couldn’t help myself. You’re just so pretty.”
He climbed out and offered Sherlock his hand, leading him towards a sleek glass and chrome apartment building with lots of metal trim in a curly Art Nouveau style. It was an odd combination but Sherlock thought it suited the other man. They crossed a lobby done in copper, bronze and white marble to a huge lift. Jim took a key fob from his pocket and held it to the control panel, the doors sliding shut silently as they started moving.
“Very nice.”
“The perks of crime, darlin’. It really does pay.”
They stopped at what Sherlock estimated was the fifth floor, stepping into a hallway that looked like the lobby, the lights too bright to be comfortable as they reflected off all the shiny surfaces. Jim led him to a door near the fire stairs, unlocking it and waving him through with a bow.
“Welcome, Mr Holmes.”
“Thank you, Mr Moriarty.” He bit back a snicker as he walked in.
The flat was like the rest of the building, very monochrome, very minimalistic – except that every single surface and piece of sleek furniture was covered in stuff. Clothes that Sherlock guessed were Jim’s disguises, books, notepads, crumpled paper, maps, weapons, bottles of alcohol – it would have seemed as cluttered as Baker St if not for the simple feel of the decor. As it was the mess was just manageable, disordered rather than completely chaotic.
“Crime doesn’t pay for a housekeeper, apparently.”
“You should understand that genius works better with a bit of confusion, Sherly. I have seen the state of your flat, remember. Did John do all the tidying or has Mrs Hudson been too busy to drop by?”
“I prefer to keep it like that. Stops some of Mycroft’s prying if he has to work to find things.”
Jim laughed and Sherlock closed the gap between them, using his height to surround the other man. Jim hissed and propelled himself at Sherlock, hands on the back of his neck as he tugged the detective’s head down. The brunette walked forwards, backing Jim to the couch. But as he tried to tip the mastermind onto it, Jim grabbed his shoulder.
“Uh uh, hon. This isn’t some hasty tumble. Bedroom’s that way.”
Sherlock growled. He wanted to drag Jim’s trousers down and bury himself in the man now. Moriarty clucked his tongue, running a hand over his cheek.
“Hush, darlin’. I’m not rushing now I’ve finally got you.”
“I don’t like teasing.”
“Learn to.”
He skipped away into the bedroom and Sherlock had no choice but to follow. When he reached it Jim was already out of his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt. Sherlock stepped towards him and he raised a finger.
“Sit.”
The other man grumbled but perched on the edge of the bed. Jim continued undressing slowly, eyes on Sherlock the whole time. He toed off his shoes delicately and laid each piece of clothing over the dresser as he took them off. When he was completely bare he stood in front of Sherlock, eyes challenging.
“What do you think, Sherly? A good canvas for your brush?”
He bit his lip fiercely, looking up through his lashes. “How much blood can you afford to lose?”
“Shall we find out?”
Holmes dragged him onto the bed, rolling them so he straddled Jim’s thighs. His teeth attacked relentlessly, viciously hard as he marked the pale skin. Soon there was blood smeared over his neck and chest, and Sherlock spread it further with his tongue. He bit the sensitive spots under Jim’s ribs and in the hollows of his pelvis, ignoring the growing erection beneath.
“For someone who claims not to like foreplay, you’ve certainly grasped the purpose, Sherly.” Jim gasped.
“This isn’t foreplay.” Sherlock frowned. He wasn’t even really thinking about Jim, just the ways he could mould and stain him.
“It is for people like us, sexy.”
He stuck his lip out thoughtfully, dragging a hand down Jim’s thigh. Carefully, slowly, he wrapped his long fingers around Jim’s cock. The genius yelped and thrust his hips up, straining for more friction. Sherlock moved away again, delighting in the tiny hiss of disappointment that followed.
“You know, you might be right about that.” He grinned evilly.
His fist connected with Jim’s face and the criminal gasped. Sherlock’s open hand struck his other cheek, snapping his head to the side. Sherlock grabbed Jim’s shaft and started flicking his thumb over the tip, spreading the pearly liquid there until he could move up and down with ease, his other hand busy pinching and prodding every vulnerable spot he could find. Another slap split Jim’s lip, blood smearing over his teeth as he smiled, and it was as glorious as Sherlock had imagined.
“Oh fuck Jim.”
“Don’t stop, honey.”
He dug his nails into the other man’s arms and Jim responded in kind as Sherlock’s rough tugs sent shivers up his spine. He was hot and swollen in Sherlock’s hand, thigh muscles twitching in anticipation, desire thick on his tongue when Sherlock kissed him to taste that coppery red on his lips. He kissed Jim’s chest, lips leaving scarlet marks that almost made him laugh.
“Do you ever think of me like this?” Sherlock murmured.
“What do you think?” Jim chuckled and whined, “Do you ever think of having me at your mercy?”
“Since we met.”
He lowered his head between Jim’s thighs and licked a stripe up the ridge of his member, wallowing in the answering cry. He closed his mouth over the tip, sinking down with just enough teeth to hurt. Sherlock could feel every bright speck of pain in his own veins, his body mirroring Jim’s every reaction and whimper with another rush of adrenaline. He had the most dangerous man in Europe’s cock in his mouth. Sherlock could do whatever he wanted, crush Moriarty’s throat or bring him off so hard he screamed, and it would all be because of him. The surge of power made him dizzy and he sucked as hard as he could.
Jim was clawing at the sheets, his shoulders, his scalp; whatever he could get his hands on. Sherlock scraped his nails down the criminal’s thighs and licked the head like a lollipop, wet and swirling and torturous.
He glanced up at Jim with his very pale eyes gleaming like glass. “Who do you belong to?”
“Nobody, Sherly. Best you don’t make that mistake.”
He crawled back up Jim’s body, weight heavy on his thighs, grip still tight on his cock. He jerked his wrist and the other man groaned.
“Think very carefully, Jim. Who do you belong to right now?”
His other hand came up to lean on his windpipe and Jim’s eyes rolled up, clenching shut. “Oh Sherlyyyyyy, I’m all yours.”
He grinned spitefully and moved faster, hand slippery with spit and pre-cum as he shuttled back and forth. Jim tired to rise up but Sherlock held him down, his body spasming as he tried to ride out the waves and failed.
“SHERLOCK!” he yelled as he came, spurting over the detective’s hand in tepid splashes.
The detective bit back a triumphant laugh and brought his hand up to examine in the light, turning it at different angles before smearing the stickiness over Jim’s chest. He flinched as it touched his wounds but didn’t move.
“You’re such a beast, Sherly.”
“You wouldn’t want me if I were tamed.”
“Very true.”
Sherlock looked at the way the other man lay there limp and satisfied, covering in reminders of Holmes’ anger, and his own desire mounted to unsustainable levels. He stood and stripped off quickly, dropping his clothes on the floor by the bed.
“Are we eager, hmm?” Jim chuckled.
Sherlock slapped him, enjoying the way the skin reddened. “I think we just agreed you belong to me.”
He ditched the last fabric separating them and fell on top of Jim, letting the fluids that covered him rub off on Sherlock’s own pale chest and stomach. He felt like they were branded for each other, Jim’s blood and seed marking the pair as complementing halves of a whole. His body was fired up beyond help but his mind was at peace for the first time in years.
“Come on then Sherly. Take me like the brute you are.” Jim taunted.
He leaned over, still pinning Jim with his body as he opened a drawer and rifled through until he found a tube of lubricant. Sherlock sat back and quickly slathered it over his fingers, forcing them in mercilessly.
“Oh yes, Daddy likes that. Harder, Sherly.”
He slowed instead, smirking down at Jim as he stretched him out with deliberate but leisurely thrusts.
“Sherlyyyy.” Jim hissed out through his teeth.
“Patience, Jim, or I’ll have to teach you some.”
“And how would you do that?”
He looked away thoughtfully, eyes landing on Jim’s tie. “I’d lash you to that headboard and keep you there for days. Weeks even. No projects, no entertainment, just the constant sight of me on your prick and never getting to come.”
Jim shuddered, trying to press himself further down Sherlock’s fingers. “You pretty little monster.”
“You would deserve it.”
“No doubt.”
He suddenly grabbed Jim’s wrists in one hand, slamming them against the bed at a point that forced Jim to arch up slightly. His other hand abandoned Jim’s hole and worked on slicking up Sherlock with the rest of the lube, before he wrapped his slimy fingers over Jim’s hip and pressed in.
“Oh Jeeeeeeeesus.” Jim’s mouth fell open as Sherlock pushed all the way to the hilt. He was trapped between the man and the mattress, body curved a bit uncomfortably, stretched out and full.
“Fuck.” Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut.
“Everything you dreamed, dearest?”
“Better. Better than everything.”
He meant it. Deductions paled in the wake of this; drugs could never give him a high like it. Jim was the beginning and the end and he was constant, stirring stimulation. He made Sherlock feel more awake, his muscles humming with restrained motion.
“If your Johnny boy could see you now...” Jim shook his head.
“I’d let him watch,” Sherlock’s eyes flashed, “I’d make him listen to every filthy moan that escapes your mouth.”
Jim gasped at the image, the sound half-choked as Sherlock started rolling his hips.
“You’d let someone see you like this?”
“I’d broadcast it to the fucking world just so everyone knew you were mine.”
“Show me first. You haven’t won me yet, Sherlock.”
He pumped harder, flesh slapping against Jim’s. The smaller man tried to break the hold on his wrists but Sherlock was strong and he had the better angle to keep Jim down. He kissed him brutally, pounding his hips into the sheets, snickering internally as the force reopened Jim’s bites. The Irishman closed his legs around Sherlock’s back and kicked him with his heels, writhing under him. He tried to cry out but Sherlock was everywhere, filling his mouth and snatching his chance to catch breath and plunging into him ruthlessly. Jim was achingly hard again, dick bobbing between them as much as it could but Sherlock ignored it.
He could feel his release coming, spurred on as it was by his earlier denial with David and having Jim trapped beneath him and the endless blood that had flowed under his knuckles tonight. He thought of the man’s breaths stopping, of the way Jim’s could stop as easily, of the proud look the criminal had worn when he ended a stranger’s life. With a final thrust, Jim’s walls grasping at him, Sherlock fell over the edge with a ragged shout.
His body tensed and then relaxed, enough that Jim slipped one hand out of Sherlock’s punishing grip. His wrists were already bruising. He took himself in hand and jerked rapidly, panting until he finished with a groan. Sherlock was vaguely aware of something hitting his stomach as he returned to reality, thoughts blissfully banished off to less important corners of his brain.
Jim lay back with a sigh and Sherlock reached over the side of the bed for his coat, fishing out his cigarettes and lighting one. He offered the packet to Jim but the criminal shook his head as they moved up against the bedhead.
“I don’t smoke, honey.”
“I don’t suppose you have an ashtray then?”
“Top drawer. You think I’m going to let you ruin my $5000 sheets?”
Sherlock smirked and found it, letting the dish on his stomach. “I suppose I should thank you again for your help tonight.”
“You already made it up to me – with interest.”
“I’m surprised you even showed up. You’ve been fairly cold since your return.”
Jim laughed, flicking a stray speck of ash off the sheets. “Oh Sherly, did you really think that?”
He frowned. “What was I supposed to think? You barely responded, told me to go back to John...you seemed bored of me.”
“I wanted you to prove yourself. I knew if I teased you about being an angel you’d do as much as possible to show me you weren’t.”
“Why?” Sherlock sat up, “Do you enjoy watching my downward spiral?”
Jim looked away, eyes staring at something that wasn’t in the room. “Magnussen was...breathtaking. But you’ve always been a mostly well-behaved man and I had to make sure you weren’t going to relapse later.”
“Why should it matter to you if I did? You already know I’m willing to do whatever I have to. Our game wouldn’t be affected by any changes in my principles.”
“It’s not the game I’m thinking of now, Sherlock. I don’t want to fight you when you’ve finally realised all that you can be.”
“Then you wanted this.” Sherlock waved a hand at their nudity and the rumpled sheets.
“Well of course, but there’s much more to it than that. How would you like to work with me, Sherlock Holmes?”
He scoffed. “What?”
“Side by side consulting, creating more chaos than ever, and thumbing our noses at Mycroft. Hot, appallingly rough sex in our down time. Sound fun?”
“You think I want to be a criminal? I don’t hurt people.”
“I think we can say without a doubt that’s no longer the case, Sherly.”
He rubbed his thumb along his lower lip, cigarette still clutched between his fingers. “You think I’ll give up my cases for you?”
“I think your cases can’t hope to rival the work we can do together.”
“I like solving puzzles. Creating them isn’t half as fun.”
“You’re so wrong you don’t even know it, Sherly. What was your summons to meet at the pool if not a puzzle? What was your faked deal with Magnussen? What was the staged fall? I loved that, you know. It would have been no fun if you’d really been dead.”
Sherlock licked his lip and leaned back against the pillows. He’d killed Magnussen to keep Mary safe and John happy, yes. But that was really no different from John killing Jefferson Hope for him. What he’d done to David...that was senseless violence, no purpose other than to satisfy an urge, and he’d killed the man without a second thought to clean it up.
They could have drugged him. They could have left him at the hospital.
They hadn’t.
They hadn’t. Jim had watched him with an eager smile and never once objected to his actions. Moriarty, consulting criminal, thought he’d made the right choice. What did that really say about Sherlock?
But if he said yes, his whole life would be different. He could hide it from John and Mycroft for awhile but eventually they’d get antsy when Jim never reared his head. There would be a moment, maybe a year from now, maybe two or three, when Sherlock would have to leave them behind.
Sherlock never really had a problem breaking people’s hearts.
He glanced at the Irishman sidelong and exhaled coolly. “When do we start?”