He always looked so happy.

He was so cheerful.

We had a rule for when we were together and off work.

No mentions of our work.

It reduced us to what we were under the skin. It reduced us to exactly what we were underneath our cold shells.

It reduced us to children.

Happy children, content with being together.

We used to do stupid things, and laugh our asses off because we thought we'd never be able to be stupid again. Everyone around us would tell us that we were adults now, and we had to start acting like it. Not with us. No, never with Jim.

We'd draw fake tattoos on ourselves, we'd sing songs at the top of our lungs, we'd be idiots.

We'd walk the streets of whatever town or city we were in that time and make up stupidest stories to go along with the pedestrians.

"That one's sleeping with her brother AND sister, and enjoys taking long walks on the beach. She also wants to fuck you, Sebby!" Jim would sing as he fell against my side, clasping my hand and laughing with me.

"Well, unfortunately for her, I'm already owned!" I'd respond.

I'm owned. I'm always going to be owned.

The entire day and night I thought Jim, my Jim, was dead, I walked all the streets we walked together. I remembered every word he spoke. I transcribed our lives. I missed him completely.

"Sebastian!" Jim sang, "That one's looking at us and seeing how we're in love and now they are wondering… if they can watch us together!" I had laughed aloud.

"NO YOU CAN'T!" I'd shouted to the man. He looked us weird but he also seemed to be embarrassed by his own thoughts. Jim got it right, then!

"He…" I pointed to a man across the street, "is in love with his childhood nanny and occasionally sleeps with the next-door neighbor's… um…"

"Dog! He sleeps with his next-door neighbor's dog!" Jim laughed heartily.

I smiled at all the memories, but I couldn't take them anymore.

I sprinted back to our flat and poured myself a large glass of vodka, before deciding just to take the whole bottle.

I don't know how long I spent right there, just losing myself in the drink. It must've been hours, but it could have been days. It could have been years. I could be already dead.

Being dead might even be better. Who knows? It sounds rather nice.

Right as I was reaching for my pistol, just to make sure I was really dead, the door slammed open. Just like how Jim would come home after work.

I used to get so mad at him because it was so loud. But still, some days would go by when Jim wouldn't come home, and then when I heard that annoying noise, I felt better. I felt happy. And the only way I could convey that happiness would be to get mad at him. But it really made me fill with relief.

And now hearing that sound, that Godawful BAMBAM of the door hitting the wall and then slamming closed, it made me hopeful. For just a second, I had hope.

Then I heard Jim's same walk against the wood floor.

I heard the sound of Jim throwing his coat on a chair.

And then I heard something else.

"Sebastian! I'm home!"

James Moriarty, you little mother-