Jim returned just as the sun was setting, empty handed but with a certain skip to his gait said he was pleased with himself. This was the Jim that Richard remembered most fondly, full of himself, happy and content, Jim was much like a cat after a pleasant hunt. It was at times like this when he was most human, still far from it by most people's standards but the closest he ever seemed to make it.
Richard had been perusing a stack of magazines on the table, content to simply know that he was waiting for someone who was actually going to come home to him. Moran, as he had later introduced himself during RIchard's one attempt at conversation, was sitting on a bench on the impressive veranda.
Richard watched Jim as he jittered with barely constrained mirth, sliding onto the couch beside him and snuggling up against his side. It was an attempt to reconnect with their past, completely unneccessary as Moriarty alread had his full complicity. Smoothing a slender hand through his twin's wiry, black hair, Richard took it as the sign of affection Jim had wanted it to be. He turned back to his magazine, fiddling with Jim's hair as he read.
Only seconds passed before, with a contented yawn, Jim slapped the magazine out of Richard's hands, not so subtely demanding attention. Still he didn't speak, just hummed against Richard's neck, sighing occasionally.
"Why do you need my identity, Jim? Where do I fall in your schemes this time, luv?" The pet name was old, a selfish whim for him. If Jim could pick up where they left off, so would he. "I hope there's more I can do for you besides sit here an-"
Jim tilted his head up and press his lips hurredly against his brothers, teeth scraping against teeth in his haste. Richard shuddered, hands flexing convulsively but the indecision passed quickly. Sealing his mouth against its mirror, his last thoughts were of drowning and the hell that awaited him should he fail to resurface.
But hell could wait and, eager as he'd been at 15, Jim would not.
