Chapter 4
Brightly lit room, fluorescence burning. He looks down to find himself sitting at a desk, typing away at an out-of-date computer, the hum of the vents near constant. His arse is numb from the poor quality of the chair he sits on. His neck is sore from looking down while he watches himself type out each word, his inexperience betraying him. His eyes are watering from the brightness of the lights, and the strain of reading the dim screen. I need to hurry up and get these diagnostics to Mr.—
His thoughts are interrupted.
"You're ordinary. Boring. Look at you, not even fit to play your own games. You're nothing like me. You're common, painfully mediocre," drawls a voice to his right, but out of range of his periphery. He knows the voice. That voice with its deep and heavy sneer.
He feels panic. He types faster, not daring to turn his head, feeling the creeping urge to scream as he feels the presence of that voice move closer. The shift in the air around his right ear is noticeable, but there is no sound now, only muffled silence. Then it speaks again.
"What is…the point…of you?" The voice had whispered these words with such vehemence that it felt as though the question was echoing around in his brain. He had no answer for it. He was just Jim from IT who never went to office parties, and always parked on the second level, who chatted with Melanie from over his cubicle wall. He hadn't gotten a parking ticket since he was 18, or gotten fully drunk since 23. Why—? What—? What do you want? He found he couldn't speak, his mouth clenched shut with concentration, his fingers still typing out that same document.
"Ordinary, boring, tiresome Jim. Oh, what will I do with you now?" His entire body was shaking now, the fear was overwhelming. His eyes watched himself typing, missing the correct key, garbling the words. He felt tears sting his eyes. Then a figure appeared just at the corner of his right eye, its shape tall and tapered. Panic, panic, panic. It was circling now into his line of sight, the fluorescent lights giving it a halo, a halo which burned like an eclipse from around its head which was the blackest of shadows. An angel? A demon? Oh God…
"Don't fool yourself. There is nothing benign about me. The second option though…leaves so much room for mischief," said the voice with a malevolence that would have made flowers wither, if there had been anything but silk plants in the office.
The figure bent forwards, bringing its corona of light with it, blinding Jim with its brightness. He felt his eyes begin to sear with pain, and soon everything was white, an odd whooshing noise playing in his ears. His scream tore at his throat, as he felt blood trickle down his esophagus, choking him.
HELP ME, HELP ME, HE—
Dawn forced its way through the edges of the curtains of Jim's room; pointedly settling over his eyes as time went by, forcing him to wakefulness. His eyes snap open, and he lies still, getting his bearings, while his heart beat calms and the sweat on his body cools. His room, his bed. His walls with the expensive damask wallpaper that he got himself to mark the occasion of his first break-in to Baker Street. His hands are clenched in the expensive sage-green silk sheets, the joints feeling as if they will never release. Come now, Jim. Don't be so pathetic. With this thought his hands let go of the sheets, and the soreness of having them clenched for however long he was in the throes of that dream comes flooding into each delicate muscle and knuckle. His hands are shaking now, and not just with the recent return of feeling into them, but with the force of his own self-loathing for having the same dream 5 times in a row now. For feeling the same fear and panic, 5 times in a row. Jimmy Boy, we need to have a talk, he thinks to himself, knowing full well that Seb would be alarmed that Jim was thinking about himself as a second party to his own thoughts.
Ah, Seb. My rock in this sea of bullshit. He finds himself laughing at that thought, laughing more than he should. He's giggling in quiet hysterics, turning his face into his pillow to smother the odd gasping noise. He keeps his face pressed against the pillow, feeling himself get lightheaded with the effort of pulling in air through the dense pillow. He presses his face into it further, suffocating, an easy way to die. But that would be boring, ordinary. Seb would be pissed. He eases up on the pressure, feeling the air of the room find its way into his lungs, feeling cool and clean.
His face still in the pillow, he goes over the events of last night. Skip over the boring parts, sweetheart! Get to the good stuff! His mental replay of the events speeds through everything, finally playing in real-time. MUCH better. Now this is something to think over.
It's around 3 AM of the night when Johnny came to rescue his princess (he got a huge amount of joy from referring to Sherlock like this), and Jim and Seb had only been conscious for the past 2 hours. Seb had just fallen asleep, his large frame pinning Jim to the couch. Jim had reached, with a clever hand, for the remote which had fallen onto the couch from Seb's lap. Jim had taken a moment to look at the outline of the man whose head was resting on the back of the couch, his neck extended, his arms folded over his chest. Ah, the peace of sleep. Sebby, you can't pull off the look of innocence even in sleep. You have the word Killer etched into every angle of your face, and it's gorgeous! And only you, dearest, would DARE to fall asleep on me. Any other pitiful ape on this planet would be dead by now.
He'd given his sleeping…bodyguard? No, too impersonal. Friend? Not quite right. Calling him a Platonist would just be too wordy. Lover was an odd combination of the right terms but the wrong idea. The need to define things is just so horribly human. Can't we just AVOID the compulsive categorization for just a minute, boys and girls? He'd given his sleeping Seb one last smile before returning his gaze to the screen.
His deft hands had pulled up the video feed, selecting the camera in the living room. He'd fast forwarded until the moment when Seb had entered frame, carrying Jim's own slight body with him. The pained look on Seb's face was just precious. He watched himself being laid down on the couch, Seb disappearing back in the direction of the kitchen, only to return seconds later with paper towels and water. The near tenderness with which Seb tended him had made him chortle, his quiet laughter causing his flexing stomach to shift Seb, nearly rousing him from his sleep. Seb, the nurse, Seb the mother hen, Seb the savior.
His continued laughter had caused Seb to sit up angrily, groggily, complaining in a sleepy voice ("Lousy git."). Seb had then moved to the other end of the couch and laid his head on the arm, the couch just long enough that their feet didn't touch towards the middle. Jim had then felt the cool of the room descend upon his torso, pulling the pillow from under his head and clasping it to his middle. He'd turned off the TV moments later, standing in the near darkness, dropping the heavy pillow on Seb as he'd walked past, getting another vaguely foul-mouthed, slurred response.
He then returned to his roo— Blah, blah, blah, went to sleep, blah, had a nightmare, blah, wakens in a pitiful state.
AND HERE WE ARE! Now let's get on with it! He thinks this rather violently, adding some sort of mental flourish to the end of it. He propels himself off of his ridiculously expensive bed, the canopy open, as he'd left it last night. He hums The Thieving Magpie Overture as he makes his way into the master bathroom, doing a gentle side-to-side step. He's still wearing his undershirt and slacks, but manages to dance out of these as he makes his way over to the walk-in shower, clicking the remote that is in its holster on the outside of the door, turning on the hot water. Standing in only his boxer-briefs he turns to the floor length mirror that runs across one entire wall of the room, and lifts his arms skywards in a pose of victory. The climax of the Overture is playing in his head as he hums it, using its final dizzying barrage of notes to escort him into the door of the shower, the steam billowing around him as he slides out of the briefs and into the vaporous wonderland of a scalding shower.
The light shining through the fogged glass of the shower door shifted as the droplets that formed on the glass sent their shadows against the far wall of the tiled space, then made their merry dash downwards, dazzling him as he tied up the horrors of his dream, sticking it into some cold little metal locker in his mind. He continues to hum and step, even as he shampoos his hair, conditions, soaps himself. His mind is wired right now, as he tramples over his doubts, washing them down the drain, watching the bubbles get sucked into it like a whirlpool, whisking away all the self-loathing. He pictures himself to be some shining being, whose whim was law, was devastation. Not too far from reality, he thinks to himself with a grin that could turn blood cold.
With the World of Jim back to its normal setting of Overlord of All, he steps out of the shower, looks into the mirror, and sees the shining being. The coal black hair and eyebrows only enhance the effect, the light glinting and glaring off of him as the water continues to drip down his body. His eyes are chasms, their darkness and depth unfathomable. All is as it should be.
I am Death, and Life, and Despair, but not Hope. Never was there Hope for ye who cometh into my Dominion.
With this last sentiment fresh in his mind, he walks, feeling his body purr. His mind feels quick, his countenance showing every ounce of the rejuvenation that he was feeling. The raw power that he feels just under his skin is invigorating. I feel like breaking something valuable. Something precious. All in good time.
The towel that he drapes over his shoulders is his royal mantle. He is King. His thoughts deigned to ponder those under his rule. Their puny, pathetic minds, unable to even guess at who holds their lives in the palm of his haaaand. That is the true tragedy. Nothing I could ever do could amount to such horror. Such potential squandered on common things.
He towels himself dry, flinging the towel onto the wet tile, leaving it lying like the body of some wayward employee of his. Speaking of wayward employees…Jensen's failure is unacceptable. She must be taken care of. Oh the choices, choices, choices! I find myself favoring public assassination today, just to give my peasants a nice little scare. I can see the headlines now: RANDOM SHOOTING, NO SUSPECTS, NO ONE IS SAFE. Jim laughs at the irony of the last part. None of you are safe with me at the wheel, honey.
His web, his connections, his maze, so thick and twisting that no one was sure where any order originated. No one ever gets to me, no matter how obvious I make myself. I am untouchable.
He gives himself a small mental slap on the back of the head. He remembers noticing the signs, the messages that Sherlock had left him when he'd cracked cold cases that Jim's organizations had left in their wake. Sherlock had known he was behind it, but could never find any evidence to prove it, only ever managing to trace it back two or three layers. Jim's organization was infinitely layered, each order trickling down the proper channels quickly, but filtered enough to wipe out the original identity of whoever had given it.
With a begrudging smile he denies it no longer. Okay! So maybe Sherlock got to my doorstep, but I still got away with it. Sherlock had skipped from attempting to find information that no longer existed, straight to contacting Jim, something that had never happened before. Who would dare to suspect a rich, well known, remarkably intelligent young physics professor who'd retired early to write books on his studies? No one. Not the police, not Holmes the Older, not ANYONE.
With a deep breath inwards, he rolled his neck from side to side, stretching. His exhale brought another, more genuine smile to his lips. He sauntered over to his chest-of-drawers, selecting his clean briefs and dark grey jeans with short black socks, slipping into them, proceeding to his wardrobe with oiled joints, stalking with his easy grace. The clothes inside were all dry-cleaned, even his street clothes. He takes out a dark purple v-neck t-shirt, and a thin black zip-up jacket with a hood, each choice intentional to the extreme. Every color scheme had its own significance, each style its own intention. Despite over 75% of his wardrobe being suits, the rest was casual. He could blend so easily with the cattle when he chose.
Grey for deceit, purple for malevolence, black for death, the casual style to indicate that this was a personal matter, abandoning his businessman façade. No matter what I wear, I knock 'em dead, he thinks to himself with glee, laughing at his own pun, I'm Mr. Sex.
"Showtime, Mr. Sex. You're on in 5," he whispers to himself. He stands just in front of the door to his room, his fingers resting on the handles of the double doors. He counts down the five minutes, his eyes closed, his breathing steady. 3, 2, 1…
The doors part in front of his eyes, the long rectangle of space widening to reveal the room beyond. He steps out, his posture one of complete confidence as he strides into the living room where Seb is still asleep on the couch. Seb always insisted on sleeping on the couch rather than the guest-room-turned-hostage-chamber that Jim had prepared for him when he'd decided to get a live-in bodyguard. He remembered the auditions (it amused him to think of the trials like that) that he'd hosted for who would get the honor, and unsurprisingly, few volunteered. Of the small group that did, Seb was the only one who had enough skill to back up the audacity it took to volunteer. Perhaps Seb chose the couch because wanted to be closer to the front door in case someone broke in, or maybe he just wanted to be within shouting distance of Jim, just in case.
Jim creeps around the couch, leaning on the back, looking down at the sniper as he sleeps on. Seb's white-blond hair is still dark with blood, and he smells like he hasn't showered in a week. You must get all the ladies with that musk, am I right? Seb's face was covered in stubble, and his skin gold with a fading tan. He considers whether or not he should go back in his room and scream bloody murder just to see Seb rush in with fear in his eyes. Nah, I'll save that for a rainy day.
"Some bodyguard you are," he says loudly. Seb's hand shoots upwards, closing tightly Jim's throat before he had a chance to move.
"Knew you were up. I could hear you humming from out here, not to mention prancing around like an elephant." Jim would say that Seb's expression was gloating if he didn't know better. Jim lazily raises a hand and pries Seb's fingers off his neck.
"Careful, poppet, wouldn't want to damage the merchandise. The more marks, the less caaash." He draws out the last word as he straightens up, making a delightfully odd face as he does so. He goes into the kitchen, all of the appliances gleaming. Oh goodness me, look at how domestic I've gotten. Making breakfast and coffee for Seb. I feel like a housewife from the 50's, working tirelessly all day, only to have to fix tea and dinner once the family gets home.
His quick hands prepare the coffee, plucking an individual filter from the orderly stack that sits inside its plastic wrapping in the cupboard. He crosses to the coffee machine quickly, inserting the filter, and filling the water tank. Its shiny alloy outside reflects his face back at him as he put the grounds into the filter, and he gives himself a winning smile. He can feel Seb's eyes on him as he does these things.
"Go clean yourself up. You look like you've been trampled by a heard of bulls. You remember when we saw that old woman get gored in Mallorca? That's you, Seb." His tone was one of sickeningly sweet concern, paired with the glaring laughter that he held in his eyes.
"Sod off."
"Oh goody! Make sure to put your towel in the hamper like a dear! Come now, precious, don't give me that look." Seb's face was utterly devoid of amusement. Jim takes out his phone, goes to his contacts and selects Seb's name, and send him a text.
LOL. I used all the hot water.
-JM
He hears Seb's text alert go off from the bathroom near the guest room. He's laughing to himself as he continues about his business, waiting to hear Seb's outburst, when his own phone goes off.
Ha. Ha. Aren't you sweet. I've had worse.
Besides, I grabbed the sheet from
your bed for a towel.
-SM
Jim rolls his eyes, grabbing some eggs out of the fridge. He sets them on the counter, the better to text poutily.
Seb, you're no fun.
-JM
You don't pay me for fun the
last time I checked. I'm showering
now, so stop texting me.
-SM
:PPPPPPPPPPPP
-JM
Before Jim starts the real work, he goes into the living room and turns on his stereo-system, perusing through his music that has lots of bass. Hmm, Seven Nation Army, Glitch Mob Remix? Perfect. Once the song gets past the first few quiet seconds the volume of the bass and the piercing techno-esque noise fills the room, vibrating through Jim's socked feet and wherever else he touched the counters.
The song repeats 3 times before Seb finally emerges from the shower, his hair still damp and his clothes changed, indicating he'd managed to sneak out of the bathroom and reach his "closet" which was just down the hall from kitchen. By then, Jim has their food on the café counter, each plate set in front of one of the spinning seats.
"Busy day, Sebastian. Eat quickly." Jim is already halfway through his food, and has finished his coffee.
"What going on today?" Seb sits down, and starts in, his black coffee with two sugars was already waiting for him to drink. Jim pays attention to his Seb's preferences. He's never had anyone to do these little things for. Oh great, now I'm a hypocrite for mocking Sherlock about his attachment to John Boy. Jim goes pensive for a moment. Does this really count as attachment? I make him breakfast and let him move in— well fucking hell, I sound like the best spouse in the world right now.
"I'm going to set up a hit, and then we're going to drop by Baker Street for a little look-see. I'm in the mood to stir up trouble." Jim carries his plate to the stainless steel sink, each side of it large enough for an adult to take a bath in if the fancy struck them.
"Can't you take a day off? For the sake of the mundane?"
Jim goes silent, his body completely still. Even his breathing no longer makes a sound.
"We're going to drop by Baker Street. We're going to break in. And then the rest of the day is free." Jim continues on, ignoring Seb's interruption.
"Hmm, I'm not really liking the Baker Street bit. Considering last night, it won't be a good idea to clash with John and Holmes for at least another month." Seb, who is eating his food, doesn't notice the silence yet.
"We're going to drop by Baker Street." His voice brooks no argument, and the intensity of his gaze would cut diamonds if it was any sharper.
Seb finally looks up. Jim's face is like cut glass.
"Jim…." Seb's voice is quiet, unsure.
"Sebastian. Remember you place." Jim feels his voice go deadly quiet.
Jim's anger is filling inside him, the heat of it, leaving his skin aflame. The mention of "mundane" was setting him off, bringing back the dream which he'd so thoroughly washed away.
Seb sits back in his chair, staring Jim full in the face, unabashed by his fiery gaze.
"Jim, calm down. If I have to restrain you, you know I will." The idea of Seb holding him down, preventing him from exacting whatever horrifying act filled itself into the blank of "I Am Going To _ until you die a painful death" completely sent Jim wild. He stood, more than ready to feel and cause pain. When Seb refused to be coerced into fighting, Jim calmly walked to the cutlery drawer, pulling out a gun.
"Jim. Stop fucking about. Explain to me what's going on. If you want to go to Baker Street, fine." Seb's voice is placating, but doesn't reach Jim's ears. The gun is light as a feather in his hand, as if it was made of air, and he's not surprised when he aims a few feet to the left of Seb's head and fires. Seb's eyes never leave Jim's, even when the bullet passes his face. Seb doesn't even flinch at the report of the gun. Jim's hand is moving again, and this time he fires to the right of Seb's head. Nothing.
Seb's lack of fear or anger is tearing down Jim's cozy little bubble of psychotic-rage. In a moment of panic at his shell being torn down, Jim points the gun directly at Seb. This shot won't miss if Jim decides to pull the trigger.
"It was the dream again, wasn't it?" Seb's gruff voice has finally pierced the cloud layer separating Jim from the world. Jim's hands are shaking, and the gun is getting heavy. Seb stands slowly and moves around the counter. Jim's gun is still pointing straight ahead, at where Seb used to be, his eyes still staring along the barrel. Jim feels Seb's large hand encompass his, gently removing his finger from its precarious sanctuary that was the trigger guard, Jim's hands going limp as Seb moved in closer, Jim smelling his soap.
Jim heard Seb remove the last two bullets from their chambers, stashing them somewhere. Jim's eyes were still fixed in front of him as he tried to maintain the last of his cocoon, reality certainly being a most uninvited guest. He feels himself get lightheaded as his protection comes crashing down, his own body crashing down to its knees on the hard tile of the floor, his small figure hunched over in defeat.
Warmth against his left side, a large, warm hand on his back. A quiet voice.
"Jim. You are the singularly most unique and amazing person I know, and ever will know. Your legacy of terror will live on for centuries, if you want it to. You are the epitome of brilliance, undermining every government in the bloody world. You own the world. You are control, you are danger. Sherlock has nothing that you haven't got in ten-fold amounts. I was so alone and angry before I met you. I owe you so much. Just do this one last thing for me. Come back, Jim."
Jim finds himself kneeling on the floor, Seb kneeling next to him. And the King has returned.
"Were you afraid you'd lost me, Sebby?" He tries to sound innocent and joking , but his voice is husky and fading.
He knows he's said the wrong thing immediately, Seb's face going from concerned and sincere to his default Alert-Face. Shit, shit, shit, shit, fucked it up, always fucking it up. Seb stands up, walks away.
"What are you doing Seb? I'm…I'm sorry about the whole shooting at you bit! Come back!" He voice is rasping as loudly as it can. Not loud enough.
"I was collecting my duffel bag. You wanted to check out Baker Street, right?" Seb's face has a wicked grin on it. The bastard let me think I'd actually offended him. Oh you're good, Mr. Moran. Well played.
"You—are—such—a cunt!" Jim stands and moves to punch Seb's chest, but is easily deflected.
"Thanks for reminding me. Looks like this afternoon won't be free after all. That'll be when I give you your first Self Defense lesson." Seb laughed at the look on Jim's face.
"Fine, but I need to make a call first." Jim pulls out his phone, presses Speed-Dial 2.
"Darcy? Yes, it's Jim. Yes, that Jim. You owe me. Carrie Jensen. Yes. No later than 4:30 today. Look up the address yourself, I'm in a hurry." He turns to Seb, sighing like an old woman. "Let's get this over with."
A/N: I just wanted make sure that people noted that when Jim was having his "episode" or tantrum, or whatever you want to classify it as, that I didn't include his thoughts during that moment. There were no thoughts, he wasn't thinking. When he came back to his normal state of mind, the thoughts returned. Just something to think about. This is the first time we are truly seeing the "Psycho-Jim" come out to play. Oh, and please REVIEW. Did I do a good job with Jim's perspective?