Sherlock watched as Lestrade walked through the car park, searching for a lighter for the cigarette hanging out of his mouth. So the DI had picked up smoking again.
Though very aware of the stinging in his split lip from earlier, Sherlock still felt relieved to see a familiar face. "Those things will kill you," Sherlock said without much thought.
"Oi, you bastard!"
He turned without lighting his cigarette, as Sherlock emerged from the darkness. It wasn't what Sherlock had expected, but he continued as he stepped out.
"Time to come back. You've been letting things slide, Graham."
That probably wasn't his name, Sherlock thought. But whatever.
"Greg" Lestrade snapped, annoyed.
He was surprised but relieved to see Sherlock alive, after all this time, but still not chuffed that he had forgotten his name.
"Greg," Sherlock corrected himself.
Right.
He stopped in front of Greg and looked at him. It looked as if the man was going to hit him, and to be honest, Sherlock wouldn't have been surprised. Unintentionally, he braced himself.
Lestrade lunged, and swooped Sherlock into a massive hug, as warmth swelled though his heart at finally seeing his old friend, asshole as he was.
Sherlock stiffened under him, but softened a bit into the embrace after a moment. Unsure of what to do, Sherlock tentatively returned the hug, though it was a bit delayed.
The gesture had been so unexpected and it caught Sherlock off guard. Despite himself, the detective leaned into the hug a bit as Greg's grip tightened, paying no mind to the slight discomfort in his back. Lestrade pulled away first.
"So why did you do it?"
Sherlock didn't respond for a moment.
"Why did you fake your death? Dear god, Anderson is going to rub this in my face for three years."
Sherlock couldn't help but smirk slightly. Luckily, he thought that Greg hadn't seen it.
"It's a long story, and not very interesting."
Sherlock didn't want to talk about it. Last time he'd tried, he'd gotten his arse kicked three times.
"No, I want to know."
Reading Sherlock's mind a bit, Lestrade added after an uncomfortable pause
"I don't know how John will react, or if you've told him, but I'll try to understand, no matter what the reason. I mean, you tend to know best with these things."
Sherlock was taken aback by his kindness.
"I've already told John," Sherlock admitted, too tired and occupied to do anything other than tell the truth.
"It could have gone better," Sherlock continued, gesturing to his face absently. He still had his air of intelligence, but some of the arrogance was gone. Some. Lestrade noticed Sherlock's guard go down, however slightly, and decided to tread lightly.
"Oh, I'm sorry about that. I thought him, of all people would understand."
He avoided Sherlock's eyes, but assessed the damage on his face. John had been quite...thorough.
"He was, upset. To say the least. Surprisingly so. Anyway..."
The detective shifted a bit, keeping his back and shoulders as straight as possible. It had already been uncomfortable, but getting thrown around by an army doctor hadn't helped. Of course, John didn't know that, and Greg didn't either.
"Short version? Moriarty made it so I had to. He offed himself in front of me to make sure. I've been getting rid of his network."
"Oh. So he really is gone then? For sure?"
Lestrade eyed Sherlock, noticing how stiff he was. Well, he was always stiff, but more so than even normal for him.
"How bad did John beat you up? You seem in a lot more pain than a little face roughing."
"For the moment. Mary said something about talking him round..."
Sherlock trailed off as if he was thinking about something else.
"What? Oh, it's nothing." He glanced at the cigarette in the other man's hand.
"May I have one?"
Lestrade raised his eyebrows in surprise, but handed one to him anyway, offering his lighter as well.
"It's almost out. The lighter. I'll have to stop a get another one."
Sherlock's phone buzzed as he attempted to light the damp cigarette.
"And I meant is Moriarty really dead? Do you think it's possible he may have pulled off another trick? Faked his suicide, like you?"
For once, Sherlock ignored the buzzing in his pocket, finally managing to light the cigarette and taking a long drag and holding it before he answered. He needed to relax.
"He's dead," Sherlock said. He put it down to being tired and ignored it.
"The network is gone, too."
"That's a bloody relief, and I wouldn't believe it, from anybody but you."
Lestrade took his lighter and slipped it in his pocket. Sherlock's phone buzzed again. Lestrade eyed Sherlock's pocket, but said nothing as the dark man took another long, satisfied drag. Annoyed, Sherlock pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen.
He could barely keep from rolling his eyes before he put the phone back in his pocket, making sure to move just his arm and not his upper body.
"You were leaving. Don't let me hold you up," Sherlock said, letting out a breath.
"No, I wasn't. But I'll go if you have other...business."
Lestrade had an air of annoyance, but tried to cut the man some slack. He began walking to his car, and gave a wave without turning back. Sherlock watched him walk away, almost feeling bad, but not quite enough to call out to him.
He checked his phone again, debating whether to answer or not. Sherlock glanced from his phone to Lestrade who was walking away, managing to say a quiet "thank you" in his direction before looking at his phone and sighing. He tapped out a message.
What are you doing? We had an agreement. This isn't what I wanted, this was not the agreement. SH
He received an immediate reply
221b, now. I'll be there. JM
The detective could have yelled. Why did he always have to be everywhere?
Without replying, Sherlock walked out from under the car park and into the rain to hail a taxi. When he got in, he looked at the driver, just in case- and told himself he was being paranoid when he saw a normal man. Being careful not to lean back too quickly, Sherlock made his way to his old flat.
oOo
Moriarty paced the flat. He opened the curtains, moved the skull, switched the chairs places, scattered Sherlock's papers, and rearranged his books. He finally sat down; satisfied that Sherlock would be thoroughly annoyed. He went into Sherlock's room and changed into some of his pajamas. He then went back into the living room and turned on the telli, making himself comfortable in John's old chair.
oOo
Sherlock knew he wouldn't have to unlock the door. He opened it, and without a hello or anything, he spoke.
"We agreed to leave each other alone. I was all too happy to agree. Why can't you?"
Sherlock was tired. This whole thing had been both of their way out. No obligations. Sherlock couldn't even draw up enough to be annoyed at the state of his flat.
"You were the one that planned this, remember?"
Moriarty didn't look up.
"Shh! This is the best part."
He continued to watch the TV, as a serial killer in some crap show proceeded to kill a number of people in every possible gruesome fashion.
Sherlock slumped into his chair opposite of Moriarty, and waited for the show to end. He knew he wouldn't be able to get to him until it was over.
"Jim..." Sherlock said after a minute.
There was no answer.
Sherlock knew better than to fall asleep in his chair, so instead in a fit of utter indifference, he got up and walked out the door and down the stairs.
He had at least a half-hour until the show was over, and even then he wasn't sure if he'd go back in.
Sherlock walked, letting his feet take him anywhere, wanting to text John, but opting against it and texting Lestrade instead.
I'm insane SH
The response came after about three minutes. By then, Sherlock was sprinting who knows where, ignoring the looks he received. God knows he was used to that by now.
Why would you say that GL
Sherlock pushed out a breath, knowing he should probably tell someone, but also knowing it would violate the terms of the "death."
But that bastard had violated them too.
Eventually, Sherlock had to stop walking. His shoulders and back killed. Sitting on a bench, it was only drizzling now.
A multitude of reasons. Pick one. SH
I think that cigarette was a bad idea GL
Pretty sure it was a good idea. I need another one. SH
Do you need me to bring you one? I'm a bit tied up but I can come. Where are you? GL
Sherlock looked around.
A bench on near Wingmore St. If you've got pain tablets, bring those too. SH
a bench? okay. I'll be right there. And yes I have tablets how many, do you think? GL
All of them. SH
It was a bit of an exaggeration, and out of character, but Sherlock didn't care.
oookay. I'll be right there GL
Greg arrived with the tablets and cigarette about ten minutes later. By then, it was pouring. Lestrade didn't get out of his car, just opened the passenger door.
"Get in, you crazy bastard."
Sherlock smiled a bit and slid into the warm vehicle.
Greg handed him 3 pills and a Styrofoam cup of tea to swallow them with. The detective took them without any hesitation.
"What were you doing?"
Sherlock's hair and clothes were now sticking to him, and his face was controlled to hide the exhaustion and pain there. He was procrastinating going back.
"I'm..."
Sherlock debated telling him.
After a moment that was very definitely suspiciously long, he finally said
"I'm just trying to think. Couldn't in the flat. But I should...get back. Mrs. Hudson will worry."
Lestrade made a u-turn and began to head to 221B. Sherlock was on the verge of a breakdown. Well, at least for his standards.
He wasn't nearly put together enough for his own liking.
More than a few times, he glanced over at Greg worried, but only when he was sure Lestrade wouldn't see. Sherlock ran his hand through wet hair.
"Should I come in with you?" Lestrade asked.
"No," Sherlock almost shouted.
Lestrade glared at him suspiciously.
Sherlock sighed and pressed his fingers to his temples.
"No, it's- fine. Just drop me off please."
Lestrade said nothing, and stopped outside the flat.
Before he got out, Sherlock said,
"Please don't mention this evening, any of it, to anyone."
Lestrade just looked at Sherlock, concerned. He finally mumbled an "okay".
Sherlock went back into the flat and watched Greg drive away through the keyhole.
Pulling himself together, Sherlock walked back up the stairs, knowing it was useless to hope that he wasn't there.
Moriarty wasn't in the sitting room when Sherlock walked in.
The lights were off, but Sherlock's bedroom door was cracked open.
Slowly and quietly, he made his way into his room.
Moriarty was asleep in Sherlock's bed.
Sherlock scoffed, but too tired to care and to mentally exhausted to wonder if it was wrong, he crawled in beside Jim, keeping his distance, without changing and was instantly asleep.
oOo
When Sherlock woke to sunlight sifting through the curtains, he was aware suddenly of a body next to him in his bed.
It took a moment for the grogginess of the previous night to wear off and his mind to put together the jigsaw memories of the previous evening.
He turned his head slowly over his shoulder and saw the calm face of Jim Moriarty, breathing peacefully, his chest rising and falling slowly, as his eyes shifted rapidly under his eyelids, the victims of an RAM dream state. It was the most human picture he could have imagined, if only it hadn't been of James Moriarty.
Sherlock got swiftly but silently out of the bed, grabbed some comfortable clothes and went into the bathroom to change out of his suit, which he had slept in apparently.
He decided to shower first, as this practice tended to not only wash off the grime of the physical, but helped his voices calm and the tingling that came when a puzzle was not available to cease, for a while.
He heard the distinct sound of a tea kettle shriek, and jumped, nearly slipped, and regained his composure.
He had fallen asleep in the shower.
Standing still under the warm torrent of water, he gathered his thoughts, stepped out of the shower, dressed and braced himself for the inevitable.
oOo
"Do you take sugar?"
"Yes, two scoops please, and cream."
Moriarty poured the tea comfortably, still in Sherlock's pajamas, as if this was a perfectly normal occurrence.
All this placidity and calm was meant to unnerve Sherlock in the most obvious way, as Jim was sure the detective knew.
What Jim was also just as assured Sherlock did not know was that he planned to stay for more than a few months.
Sherlock watched scrupulously as Jim prepared the tea and sat in John's chair, which was still on Sherlock's side, facing the kitchen now.
He did not take his eyes off the man, and neither of them spoke for quite some time.
The shadows shifted as the earth moved.
Mrs. Hudson cleaned downstairs, unaware of the presence of an extra sociopath in the building.
A fly landed on one of the biscuits.
Dust settled.
"I think I'll have a shower now."
Jim got up and locked the bathroom door behind him, and five minutes later, Mrs. Hudson came up the stair with a few bags.
"A young man just dropped these off, Sherlock, I think they're suits. Did you order some new suits?"
Sherlock took them and begged her with his eyes to leave.
Mrs. Hudson had known Sherlock long enough to know that look, which he rarely gave, and at only his most vulnerable moments when he allowed emotion to seep through his barriers.
She decided not to ask about who was in the shower and closed the door quietly on her way out.
Sherlock hung the suits on the bathroom door, and in a few minutes the shower stopped, the door opened a crack, Jims hand came out, grabbed the suits, and retreated into the steamy room.
During this moment of privacy, Sherlock allowed himself to hunch over and rub his eyes with vigor, ruffle his hair, and make frustrated sounds that he had not administered at the proper moments when the frustrating action had been made toward him.
He did that sometimes- delayed response. It kept him sane.
He allowed himself only to react to stimuli that he wished to react to, if it served his purpose.
He reacted to all other stimuli much later, in the privacy of his room.
These spells had been a concern of Mrs. Hudson's for many months since he had moved in, as she would often find him sitting in his room, laughing bitterly, then grunting in an agreeing sort of way, then frowning, and so on, until she quietly let herself out with a shiver at his madness.
oOo
When Jim got out of the shower and had gotten his suits, which he knew would be there, he hung them in Sherlock's closet while he dried his hair nonchalantly with a towel, and decided to take the unnerving a step up a bit, as he was feeling refreshed and a bit tipsy from the whisky he had spiked his own tea with that morning.
He left Sherlock's bedroom and got some toast out of the cupboards, he fished jam out of the fridge, sorted out some butter amongst the various body parts and tubes and vials, sat in Sherlock's chair, and began to read.
Sherlock had watched him the whole time, his face blank, but astonishment, surprise and…yes, that was fascination in his eyes.
Jim shifted in his chair, his bare bum cold on the leather, but feeling rather triumphant at Sherlock's reaction to his exposure.
He knew he had just pulled an Adler, and was quite proud of himself.
He munched his toast and read Plato, naked in the flat of his most fearsome emissary, totally content and wondering when the detective would speak.
He didn't.
Sherlock simply went to his room, grabbed his third best dressing gown, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it in Moriarty's face.
"Don't be a whore. Or better yet, don't be obvious. This is the Woman all over again."
Jim smiled cheekily and wrapped himself in the robe, retreating into Sherlock's bedroom to finally get dressed.
oOo
When Jim came out of Sherlock's bedroom, properly clothed at last, he decided perhaps it was time to finally explain. This had been fun, but Sherlock needed to know the situation if everything was to work in his favor.
"Sherlock."
"Jim."
"You are wondering what I'm doing here."
"Besides borrowing my clothes, drinking my tea, and defiling my chair with your bare genitals, yes."
"Since you destroyed my network, the many people who would very much like to kill me have been, well, trying to kill me. I need a place to stay for a few months. I understand that our…relationship hasn't been very, shall I say, friendly. I don't want to be best mates, I know you've got your John for that."
At that last remark, Sherlock twitched a little and almost lost his composure.
Since Sherlock had found Jim in his flat the night before, he hadn't really had the time or privacy he would like to process Johns actions when he had surprised him and Mary at the restaurant.
Jim saw his vulnerability, and took advantage.
"Well, you DO still have John, don't you?"
His words were dripping with false concern, and Sherlock nearly floored him.
"I was considering getting a live in, but now that I see they're not quite as loyal as I had believed, perhaps I should reconsider."
Jim saw Sherlock almost lose it again, and damn he was loving this. But he needed to take it easy if he was ever going to get Sherlock to let him stay.
"So what do you want Jim. Because if we are done here I would very much appreciate it if you would leave now."
"Oh, but we both know that's not going to happen, Sherlock. I'm staying, you know that."
Sherlock knew he should call Lestrade and have Jim arrested on the spot. In fact, his hand was in his dressing-gown pocket now, fingering his mobile. Jim knew that too, but he also knew Sherlock, and he knew he wouldn't do it. Sherlock had become fascinated with Jim, due to the actions of the previous night and this morning. Jim knew that it would be enough to draw Sherlock in. He could see his mind evaluating, calculating and trying to classify Moriarty. A spider- yes. A madman? Obviously. But a man?
Perhaps.
Sherlock wanted to experiment. He wanted to know how Jim's mind worked, see what his everyday actions would tell of his innermost workings.
"John cannot know you are staying here."
Moriarty smiled; he had won, again.
"Of course not. I presume I'll be taking his room?"
Sherlock gave him a dangerous look that suggested great violence toward Jim might be imminent in the following moments, a glare that would become quite common between them in the following months.
"No, you'll have mine. I'll take his."
Sherlock was sick at the thought of this vermin lying in the same place John had: using John's toilet, sleeping with John's pillows, under John's sheets. So Jim would have his room. He'd rather have to disinfect his sheets then lose sleep over the knowledge of someone like Jim Moriarty even breathing in the room where John once slept.
Moriarty nodded, and Sherlock crossed his legs in John's chair, facing him. Jim had dressed casually in a generic tan tweed suit and a crème button up with no tie.
Registering Jims comfort around him, Sherlock gasped out an exasperated sigh.
"History only ever repeats itself."
Jim cocked his head.
"How do you mean?"
"First, the Woman in my bedroom, and now," Sherlock glared.
"…the Spider."