When Mycroft Holmes returns to his flat tonight, he comes alone, barring his employees from following him by leaving them with a hundred little problems that would take him all of thirty seconds to clear up but will keep their average minds busy for a while. He does so out of no ill will, but necessity, because it is That Night again, and certain things are tradition.
At his door, while he unlocks it, he closes his eyes, counting off the seconds. At thirty, he enters the flat. He knows that he is expected to turn the lights on, so he leaves them off, instead opening his eyes which have adjusted to the darkness while he's held them closed.
This is the first victory of the night, declining to go along with the dramatic reveal, and he smirks, hanging up his overcoat and slipping off his shoes before maneuvering through the shadows into his kitchen, refusing to acknowledge the other presence in the room. He takes out a bottle of wine from the fridge, keeping his hand pressed to the sensor so the light remains darkened, and uncorks it deftly by feel. With a similar sixth sense he finds two wine glasses in his shelve, pouring the twin drinks out of politeness. This is the first loss of the night, the fact that he has bothered to pour a second.
He leans against his counter, sipping at the wine and denying the other presence. By sound, he has assumed that it is in the far chair of his sitting room, the leather recliner, across the bar, but to look would be another loss. So instead, he stands and he waits, the tension flowing around him and the dark blocking out his eyes.
After ten minutes, his adversary clears his throat, and Mycroft smirks into the glass. This is the second victory. Refusing to break the silence.
"Mr. Holmes." The voice says simply out of the shadows.
"Mr. Moriarty," He replies politely. "A tad dramatic with the chair, don't you think?"
"Hardly. Your furniture is so theatrical, I could have sat on the coffee table and looked a proper villain."
He allows an exhale of laughter at this mental image. "I admit you would have caught me off guard."
"You say that like it is difficult to do so, and yet I do it on a daily basis."
"Oh?"
There is a sweeping of fabric from the darkness, and then the presence is beside him, only a silhouette in the shadows, scooping up the twin wineglass with ease. Pity. If he had knocked it over it would have been another small victory.
"Don't play stupid, Mycroft. Surprisingly, it doesn't suit you."
The words don't have their usual bite, and Jim stays beside him. They stand there shoulder to shoulder, drinking in silence. Mycroft wonders who will be the first to turn the light back on. To do so would be a loss and he decides to leave it. After a moment Jim speaks up again, his lilting voice mirthful and close, "It would be so easy, you know."
Mycroft rolls his eyes at this, content that he's unseen. He doesn't have to ask, he has heard it before, but he asks anyways. "What would?"
"This. You. Me," The madman giggles softly at something unseen, trailing off for a moment into thought, "There's this game they all play where everything is so simple. This fairy tale where I'm the bad guy, and you're the good guy, and you stop me, and we all live happily ever after. The game!" His voice rises dangerously at the end, and after another sip of wine he's giggling again in a hushed way, calming his nerves, "It's so...stupid. But it would be so easy, Mycroft, to play their game. Don't you see it? All it would take was one phone call, and then..."
"And then we all live happily ever after." Mycroft finishes obediently. A loss. "I call my people, they arrest you, game over."
"So why don't you?" The mirth has been dropped, and the words are snapped effortlessly. Mycroft sighs at the question. Always the same questions, and always the same answers. A tradition. He wonders how Moriarty doesn't get bored of the same routine every time. Then again, it's never the same really, as he refuses to play into the script.
"You already know why I don't." He replies crisply, knowing full well that it's not what Jim wants him to say. The third victory. It's short-lived when Jim steps in front of him in the dark, his breathe ragged and aggravated at the nerve of someone to work against his plans. It is the ever present difference between Mycroft Holmes and every other person on the planet: he does not play by Jim's rules, and Jim does not play by his. Even Sherlock has enough respect to play his puzzles the way they are meant to be played, but the elder Holmes doesn't have the patience.
"Tell me anyways" Jim hisses in annoyance. The possibility of him being armed is high, but most likely not with a gun. A knife is more likely, and Mycroft watches the dim figure for a moment, deciding whether his subordination is worth the risk of Jim choosing tonight to hit his breaking point.
"Because it's not a fairy tale" He answers finally. No use being killed over a petty refusal to speak clearly. Jim's outline relaxes noticeably, "It's not that simple."
"No. No, it isn't, is it?" Jim wavers off, and the sound of fabric follows him before he holds something up. Without seeing it, Mycroft already knows that it's a package of cigarettes, "Smoke?"
He places his glass down, holds a hand out, and Jim passes him the package, obviously expecting to be served rather than simply getting his own. A punishment for derailing his meticulous train of thought and usurping his generous need for control. Dutifully, Mycroft removes two. One goes to his mouth, the other is held out to Jim, who takes it wordlessly. Mycroft finds a lighter in the folds of his suit, lighting his with a cupped hand, and after a moment doing the same to Jim's.
Not a loss, simply common courtesy. A simple inelegant showing of respect that they will deny to any outside this room on pain of death. He inhales the toxic smoke, the familiar feeling of chemical balance and destruction.
"You quit," Jim states plainly, The small ember of light dancing in the dark.
"I started again."
"Why?"
"You blew up an embassy."
There's a faint cough of a chuckle, but nothing outlandish.
"I may have had a hand in it," Jim admits with a puff of almost invisible smoke, "but I didn't do it. These things happen. They would keep happening, even without my help. You know that."
"If I didn't, you would be dead by now." It's an empty threat, and they both know it.
Jim can be seen grinning devilishly by the cigarette light, "No, I wouldn't be." and he knows it's true. For every government building he destroys, he has a hundred others that he protects with all the airs of a Minister. If he were to die, half the country would collapse spectacularly. The same can be said of the reverse, that if Mycroft were to perish, Jim would suddenly find himself holding the ruins of a country in his hands.
They've found themselves in the odd predicament of needing each other.
They smoke in silence for a long time, both drifting off into thought before Mycroft gets tired of the empty sounds of exhaling and inhaling. "Why tonight?"
He receives a heavy sigh of smoke in return, "That's not any way to treat a guest, Mycroft"
"You're not a guest."
"Am I not? I'm certainly not a resident. Common sense says I'm a guest."
"You are an intruder. Why tonight?"
There's the silence again, hanging between them as Jim carelessly drops his cigarette into his wine glass and breathes out one last cloud of smoke like a bright-eyed dragon in the dark of Mycroft's flat. He already knows the answer, but to say it would be admitting it, and a terrible loss. They will never say it out loud. Not really. Not so bluntly. That isn't how they play the game.
Instead they wait for the other to move, to decide how this will go. Adding up the losses and victories in their heads to see who has the upper hand. Mycroft does tonight, a rare occurrence. Something must be going wrong on Jim's end. Some unseen stress in his criminal empire. Mycroft puts out the cigarette, dropping it beside Jim's in the wineglass and returning them to darkness.
A surrender. This is the second loss of the night, that he is letting his guard down.
So, when hands come from the dim to grab on lapels, and Jim's invisible shape pulls him down roughly to the same level rather than go on tiptoe, he doesn't fight the kiss or the angle of being trapped against the counter. He allows the heat and the teeth and the tongue as they find his neck unguided and the power is balanced again. He closes his eyes at the feel of skin because this is the only way this will ever be a reality. This is the only way either of them can coexist. Finding themselves in the odd predicament of needing each other.
Letting Jim take control. This is the third and final loss of the night. Three losses to go with his three victories.
They're even.
Game over.