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Indispensable for Gossip

"Do you know yet why I kidnapped you?" Jim asked, standing in the doorway. I hadn't even heard the door open.

"Some weird spurned lover mess with Sherlock?" I asked off-handedly, running the end of my pencil against my bottom lip.

"No," he said, jumping up onto my desk, crumpling a few drawings in the process.

"Then what?" I asked, shading in the sidewalk of my drawing a little more.

"You're supposed to guess," he sung, swinging his feet back and forth.

"Okay, I did," I replied, wondering whether coloring just the hair of the man walking down the road would make it look less like the man sitting on my desk.

"It's to show Sherlock that he can't solve everything. When I feel he's been properly frustrated, I'll let you go again."

"That's pretty dumb," I replied, shifting in my seat, wondering where he was steering this conversation. Sometimes I felt like an equal in these random conversations he'd start—most likely in hopes of beginning some hilarious Stockholm syndrome chain of events—but there were other times, like now, when I realized he was every bit as intelligent as Sherlock. The difference was that Sherlock seemed to tell John what went through his head, even if John didn't get it. Jim just kept trucking.

He pouted. After all of those praising "oh so nefarious Jim" thoughts I had, he pouted like my two year old nephew.

"I thought it was especially clever in its simplicity."

"Is Sherlock not a believer in jealousy or Occam's razor?" I asked offhandedly, wondering if he'd go away so I could use more of my new supplies.

He was quiet, not moving or speaking. Strange, he usually had a reply within three seconds. I leafed through some of the new graphite pencils, looking for the lightest one. His hand slammed down on the pile of grey and black pencils.

"Why'd you say that?" he asked. I turned my head, eyes travelling up his arm to his shoulder and then face. I was expecting his face to be twisted into an expression that could rival the one on his face when he slapped me. Instead, his face was emotionless, eyes wide.

"Eeer, well, you're a three year old," I said, venturing into dangerous territory. If he slapped me again, I might react the right way, which would be the wrong way in a situation with Jim- stop thinking. "You're claiming the toy fire engine, you want to play with it and you don't want any of the other kids touching it. But then you see Sherlock, he's playing with a pirate or something. You don't care what it is, but because he has it, you want it. The teachers won't let you steal it from him. So when he puts it down, instead of being completely disinterested in it now that he doesn't have it, you're even more interested in how you can make him want it as much as you wanted it. But you've got to be sure the teachers don't let him steal it from you, either," I rambled, shoving my hands under the desk in the hopes of concealing their slight shake.

He narrowed his eyes, flicked them away from me, and straightened. Then he "Hmm"ed. And jumped off my desk and walked away.

A few weeks swam by, waving as they were carried downstream. I drew and painted and scrawled, my art taking a distinctly darker feel the longer I was caged in the mundane flat. I explored the room that was so lavishly adorned back when Jim was Jay. Felt inspired. Leaned against a wall. Drew.

But suddenly, it wasn't just a room, it was also a dragon. I had to start all over. I put the first drawing aside, taking a new sheet, sitting on the abandoned carpet that was the most comfortable floor covering I ever sat on. I hunched over the page on my lap, scratching lines, deepening lines, extending lines…

It was a zone I hadn't experienced since college.

"You finally wandered up here, hmm?" Jim asked, his voice far away. I "hmm"ed. He was rubbing off on me.

The lines weren't exactly right in the top right corner. They needed something. There was something missing. What was missing?

"I'm letting you leave."

My eyebrows touched over my nose. They shook hands, exchanged pleasantries… But this line…

"No party? I'm sorry. Should I have made the announcement a bigger deal? Thrown streamers?"

I swallowed and glanced up. I couldn't figure out what it was.

"You'll have to stay with Sherlock and his pet, because they'll be too afraid of me snatching you back up, but you'll be able to see that barista and your roommate. It'll just be for-"

"You're letting me go?" I let the pad fall from my lap as I stood. "But, I mean, is Sherlock—Wow!" Turning around, his face was slack. No expression, which was just weird—for Jay and Jim.

I bit my lip and dug my nails into my palms. Damn it, he was just getting your hopes up, Tavish, I scolded myself. But his face wasn't displaying usual malicious joy, like I'd expect...

"It's not a trick," he said, his voice deep. Did he know that his voice was most attractive at that octave? Even as I was celebrating my possible approaching freedom, it still reminded me of his kisses. "I think Sherlock's understood my point. There is no further purpose in keeping you here." He walked into the room, leaving the door frame, and walking around me in a semicircle.

"Great!" I exclaimed, clapping my hands and keeping them clasped in front of me. "So what now?"

He paused and looked at his shoes. They were shiny enough, I wanted to tell him. Just tell me what's next. "Welll. I guess we just say goodbye," he said, looking up and slowly raising his arms to his shoulders. "Unless you want to have break up sex," he offered, his arms falling.

"I'll pass," I replied, bending down to gather the papers. I straightened.

"Shame," he sang, leaning forward on his toes to tap his nose against mine. I winced, trying not to recoil, and tightened my grip on the sketchbook.

"So, bye?" I asked, crossing my right foot in front of my left.

"So eager," he chuckled, smiling down at his shoes again before raising his face to mine. "Yes, darling Elaine. Goodbye."

I forced the tips of my lips up, feeling, for some reason, that I owed the man this silent thanks. Maybe because he was letting me go, maybe because I was virtually unscathed. I didn't know why. But I turned and walked out of the door, stopping only at my personal cage to gather a few more paintings and drawings.

The sketch of the man who was undeniably Jim Moriarty walking down the road remained in the center of the desk that was no longer mine.

"Ella!" I called, flinging my apartment door open and dropping my papers on the table by the door. "I'm home!"

Scattering, clothes ruffling? A zip? Clearing of the throa-oooh hoo hoo….

"Is Miss Ella entertaining a male visitor?" I called, trying not to chuckle to myself in the hallway. I restrained myself from rushing into the living room to see just how far they were in their declothing.

"Well, no. We were just—watching a movie, you dirty bitch," Ella called, clearly uncomfortable.

I didn't stop my laughter this time. It felt so great. Being home. "John, do you want to call Sherlock? Jim said you guys wouldn't let me stay here, I want the official verdict."

"Yep—yeah, sure. No problem," came the reply. I smiled into my hand, leaning back against the wall of my very own flat.

It was a nice wall. All of the walls here were nice walls.

"Yes, she's staying here," John stated, standing over Sherlock, who was sprawled across a couch in his house coat. Sherlock's arms were crossed and his hair was askew. I wanted to draw. Ever since Jim's, I wanted to draw. I refrained. Like they needed to think I was any weirder. I could draw later.

"Okay," Sherlock agreed, although that was not the tune he'd been singing the past half hour. He swept himself up, standing very close to John and looking down. "She'll stay in your room. You've got the couch."

As he strode away, John rolled his eyes and plopped on the couch recently vacated. "I'm sorry," he said, staring pointedly at me. I felt taken aback.

"It's fine, Sherlock's a walk in the park—"

"Compared to Moriarty, yes, yes, I should've figured," John said, collapsing back on the couch. He groaned. "These past weeks have been hell. You have no idea how grumpy Sherlock gets when he doesn't figure things out."

Ella walked over from the door to perch on the edge of the couch by John. Her finger traced over his hand. "It's over," she stated. That seemed to deflate some of John's stress.

"I know, it just doesn't feel very over," he replied, sitting back up. "Come, Elaine. I'll show you to my room. It's a bit of a mess, I admit, but I'll try to tidy up a bit."

Jumpers, socks, trousers, and even a few ties sprinkled the room. The bed was unmade, but John gathered up the sheets and blankets anyway, throwing them on the heap of clothes that was slowly forming in the corner of the room. He walked past El and I, excusing himself.

Ell smooshed herself further into the door, watching John walk to a closet to grab some more sheets. Then she looked over at me and blinked. "Are you okay?" she asked for the first time. It was calm, quiet, and I knew I had all of her attention.

It was the strangest, most touching way I'd ever been asked that question.

I still lied. "Yeah, I'm fine," I said, slipping on a smile and patting the crook of her right elbow for a second. "He let me go, I'm very fine indeed." I tried to widen the smile, only to find I'd overestimated how widely I smiled to begin with. She had to know I was lying. Damn it.

She smiled back, a soft one, not too bright and overbearing, but just a smile. "I'm glad. I was so worried."

John bumbled back in, sheets, pillow cases and blankets in a ball just high enough to obscure his vision, knocking into the door frame and Ella and me all before finding his way to the bed. "Sorry," he said, dropping the sheets on the bed. "I was surprised to find Sherlock put away the laundry last time I asked him to. But I guess I should've suspected."

Ell just laughed and strode over to help John untangle the sheets. I watched them, wondering what it was like.