His phone went off. The empty room, save for a bed, a messy desk, a chair and a shirtless man, was filled with the opening melody to 'stayin alive' which echoed off the derelict walls. Jim reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out the phone, its song suddenly appearing a lot more sinister in the scarily lifeless room. He ran his fingers through his hair before dragging his nails down one side of his neck across his chest leaving deep red marks where the skin had torn. He opened the text:
'Come and play. Bart's hospital rooftop. SH. P.S. Got something of yours you might want back.'
A maniacal smile spread across Jim's lips, his eyes scrunching up. He had almost won. He was about to beat Sherlock Holmes. The undefeated detective was about to fall into Jim's hands. But then he felt something heavy in his chest. The undeniable pleasure he had felt mere seconds before dissolved into the darkness that he so desperately tried not to succumb too. What now? The question brought emptiness and black. What could he possibly do that could one-up beating Sherlock Holmes? This had been one of the most beautifully delicious games that he had ever had the honour of playing in. From fooling Molly Hooper and endangering John Watson, which had antagonised a stunning reaction from the so-called emotionless and machine-like man, he had loved it. He had thought that it would have ended there but enrolling the use of Miss Adler- who had proven to be invaluable to a much greater extent than just playing around with the government's plans- had shown just how vulnerable and exposed Sherlock Holmes' heart was, if one knew where to strike. He remembered all the puzzles he had set up for Sherlock, who obediently solved them like a child trying to impress their parent, and all the lives he had snuffed out like candles suffocated by a fingertip. Meaningless, insignificant, ordinary lives.
Jim picked up a small penknife lying next to him on the unmade bed. He flicked it open and caressed the blade with his finger tip. He couldn't remember how long he had owned the knife, only his father had given it to him when he was young before he had disappeared. This knife was the only piece of his childhood left with him and it had been through thick and thin. As he took the blade and pressed it against his already scarred torso, he finally allowed his mind to relax and he bowed down to the darkness. He let the point press in next to one of his ribs. A thin trickle of blood made its way down his side, finding it hard to make a pathway over the memories of previous encounters with this blade. After Sherlock, what next? The blade pressed a little harder. What could he possibly do to entertain himself now, when he had above and beyond proven that he was far superior to those surrounding him? Jim gasped in pain and his right hand went to his side and came away shining with red blood. Sherlock still had time to prove himself, but so far he had blindly walked into all of Moriarty's traps. He was as good as dead. He was just like all the rest. He could have been great but like a foolish man, love, although he could not see it, was his downfall. What now could Jim possibly do to protect and distract himself from the darkness inside his own mind which was the only thing he truly feared? With that final thought, he tore the knife across his body with a strangled cry. The pain exquisitely blinded him from the burning in his mind for a few wonderful seconds. Because that's all there ever was with Jim. Pain. Physical pain to block out the mental torment when it got all got to be too much.
But it all ended too quickly and the initial ecstasy faded away. With a hint of a tear in his eye, he rested his face in his bloody hands and let his body shake until he could properly breathe again. And he tried his best to collect himself again, taking a bottle of water and rinsing his hands and face and pressing the already blood-stained bed sheets to his throbbing side. He waited for the bleeding to subside before patching himself up as best he could with the limited supplies available. Once he was sure he had quenched the bleeding, he put on a suit and black coat, in case the blood should seep through, his actions holding certain finality to them. He pushed his hair back and straightened his coat once more. And he shook no longer as he reached for an item in the top of his desk drawer, something he had not had to use recently, at least not him personally. He put it in his pocket and walked out of the door, finding a comfort in the weight of the gun and all it could bring.