Another small work of my tired mind. Reviews would be lovely. Wednesday night, 11:34 PM.
It was always Jim who apologized first.
He never spoke a word, never pleaded or admitted his faults. He never had to. He would just walk silently to the door of Sherlock's room and leave a pack of cigarettes with hearts drawn all over it and a "Forgive me, darling" written clumsily on the lid in a black sharpie. Or sometimes Sherlock would unlock the door to the flat they shared and hear some jazzy tune blasting from the kitchen where Jim would be waiting for him with a half-smile on his lips and a fancy dinner set for two. When the arguments were more serious and harsh words were spoken, leaving little room for Jim's romantic quirks, he would simply sit next to the detective on the couch, leaning his head on Sherlock's shoulder until the taller man gave him a quick glance or a small smile to acknowledge that he was forgiven. And then Jim would kiss him gently and wipe the last traces of a frown from his face.
There was only one instance when Sherlock was the one who felt the need to apologize after one of their fights. He dialed Jim's phone then and, after a prolonged silence, managed to whisper, "I'm a bloody idiot" as Jim began to chuckle on the other end.
This time, however, Sherlock did not apologize. But neither did Jim.
Frankly, Sherlock could no longer recall what their argument was about. It may have been about John with Jim accusing Sherlock of bringing his name up in their every conversation or spending too much time at 221B. It may also have been about one of Jim Moriarty's…jobs. Sherlock learned not to question what Jim did and how he did it, but sometimes, when he returned home covered in his own blood and Sherlock spent hours patching him up, the detective lost control.
What that argument was about did not even matter anymore. After all, it's been a month now. A month since Sherlock moved back to 221B.
Sherlock remembered how cold it was the morning after the fight. He remembered dragging himself down the stairs, feeling chills run up his spine as his feet touched the hardwood floor. He remembered the smell of black coffee. Jim was sitting at the head of the dining table with a mug of coffee. Jim was always up before Sherlock was. Jim was always waiting for him with a mug of coffee. Except on any other day, the mug in his hands would have read "Napoleon of Crime" – a silly present Sherlock ordered for him on Christmas, and there would be another mug, a plain purple mug with a broken handle, waiting for Sherlock on the table. That day, it was just Jim with a white mug he had undoubtedly dug out from one of the drawers and the empty table. Even the coffee pot was empty.
Sherlock remembered the silence of their flat that day, his phone laying quietly on the table beside him, not buzzing with flirty texts from Jim as it normally would have been. He remembered Jim returning later than usual, covered in his own blood. He rushed for the medical kit, as he usually would have, for the scissors and the bandages, ready to patch Jim up as he always did. But Jim did not wait for Sherlock with his stupid medical kit. He marched up the stairs and locked himself in the bathroom, alone. Much later, he came to the kitchen where Sherlock was waiting, drumming his fingers nervously and staring out into space, bearing a fresh scar on his left bicep and a bruise under his eye. His arm was all patched but clumsily for Jim was left-handed and it can't have been easy to put a needle through his own skin with his right hand. Jim poured himself coffee and drifted into the living room.
No words were spoken.
Jim did not leave a cigarette pack under his door the next day…or even the day after. He did not order a dinner for two. He did not sit with Sherlock on the couch. And Sherlock did not call him to apologize.
Sherlock could not remember now when it was exactly that the thought of leaving first occurred to him. It seemed absurd at the beginning – it was just a bloody fight after all. But days went by. New scars appeared on Jim's body every day. Sherlock's mug stood empty on the dishwasher rack every morning. The bedroom stood cold and lonesome as Jim snored on the living room couch and Sherlock sat in the armchair by the window, a nicotine patch on each of his arms, tears in his eyes.
After a while they got used to living like that. They learned to avoid each other. They learned to use the shower while the other was sleeping or working. They learned to have meals at different times of the day. Sherlock learned not to jump to his feet every night when Jim walked by leaving drops of blood on the floor. Jim learned not to reach for his phone to inform Sherlock about something amusing that happened during his day at work. Sherlock learned to sleep with his eyes completely dry, two nicotine patches on each of his arms.
Jim did not say a word when Sherlock began to pack his things. There were not many to pack. Sherlock was putting away his books, when Jim walked into their…Sherlock's bedroom, unlocked the top drawer of the night stand that used to belong to him and pulled out one of Sherlock's scarfs, carefully folded. Sherlock stared at him questioningly, but Jim dropped it onto Sherlock's bag and exited the room, leaving behind the cold and the smell of black coffee.
John didn't ask questions, when Sherlock walked into 221B one early January morning with a bag in his hand. John didn't ask questions, when Sherlock locked himself in his room for a week. John never asked questions anymore.
It was when the crimes stopped a week later that Sherlock began to worry. He had expected the crime rate to fly through the roof after he left their flat but instead all was quiet. For two weeks, there were no murders and no kidnappings.
Sherlock remembered rushing up the steps and unlocking the door to their flat. He remembered running from one room to another, searching for Jim. He remembered finding him in their bedroom. He was just sitting there. All Sherlock wanted was to sit down next to him, to hold him, to feel his body pressed against, to smell his cologne, the black coffee, and the blood. But instead he just nodded and began to mechanically go through his former drawers, as though looking for something important. He did find something of his – it was his skull. His precious skull that he would have killed for sometime ago, that was now sitting in the depth of the drawers of his desk. He picked it up and walked out of the flat, leaving the door wide open. The next day there was a double murder in London.
It was March when Sherlock went outside for the first time – not to solve a murder mystery or to visit the lab, but to simply be outside. He found himself in the park where he and Jim would often meet before they moved in together – not out of some misplaced sense of romanticism but because nobody would look for a criminal mastermind and a brilliant detective in the bloody park. Sherlock was puffing the smoke out of his lungs and watching it circle around his head and rise above the tree branches, when Jim Moriarty sat down on the bench next to him.
It was raining hard that day. It began around noon, when Sherlock was watching the smoke and Jim Moriarty was preparing to commit suicide.
Jim always came to that bench to think. There were no thoughts that day and no doubts. Jim just needed reassurance. No, he was not afraid to die. Death was the least of criminal's worries. But he needed to be assured that he was still alive before he went. And the only person who made him feel alive was Sherlock Holmes. Jim was not looking for Sherlock Holmes that day. He was just walking to the place where he was going to die and he sat down on that bench because it reminded him of Sherlock Holmes. He did not mind the man in the dark coat. The man in the dark coat did not mind him.
He laughs now as he remembers that day. How stupid of him to want to kill himself after a fight the reason for which none of them could remember. But there's always pain and bitterness hidden behind that laugh.
It was pouring that day. Sherlock was about to get up and walk to the nearest restaurant. Jim was about to get up and walk to die. And then they saw each other.
"Do you remember what that was about?" Jim asks now, leaning his head on Sherlock's shoulder.
"That happened two years, ago, Jimmy," Sherlock replies with a chuckle. "It does not matter now."
There was so much rain. Sherlock remembered asking Jim how he was. Asking Jim how he was – that was the first thing Sherlock had said to him in two months. Jim told him that he was all right. Then Jim told Sherlock that he wanted to die.
There were tears. Sherlock would never admit it, but the water streaming down his face that day was not rain.
There was screaming and shouting and more accusations made. There was embracing and whispering. There was a kiss that Jim stole as he rose to his feet to go to commit his suicide. There were bruises on Jim's wrists for two weeks afterwards, where Sherlock grabbed him and refused to let him go.
For a full week after Sherlock moved back to their flat, there were apologies. When Sherlock dropped Jim's "Napoleon of Crime" coffee mug and it shattered into hundreds of pieces, Sherlock apologized for 25 minutes and 13 seconds – Jim made it a point to count. When Sherlock forgot to lock the window at night and Jim woke up with a cold the next day, Sherlock apologized for 45 minutes and 56 seconds. And Jim laughed. He laughed and held Sherlock's hand and kissed his forehead. He stroked his hair and whispered that it was all right, that he was fine; really, that they could buy a new bloody mug and that his headache was really not that bad. And Sherlock sobbed and told him it was not all right, that he was sorry, so sorry for all the apologies that he never made.
"Jim," Sherlock turns his head to meet the smaller man's gaze now. "Would you have really done it then? Would you have taken your life?"
"That happened two years ago, darling," Jim replies with a small smile in the corner of his mouth. "It does not matter now."
Sherlock remembers now what their argument was about.
It was one of the most trivial arguments they have had up to that point.
There were many worse arguments to follow. There were words spoken and feelings hurt. There was smoke exhaled and nicotine patches wasted.
That argument, however, was the most important argument of their lives because it taught them to forgive…and to apologize.