Disclaimer: Nothing mine.

A.N. Sorry about the overly long chapter, but Jim insisted that we go through this word for word, or as close to it as possible. God bless Ariane DeVere, thrice, for every transcription she did. Thirty three times, if I'm not wrong. This wouldn't be possible without her. As for the ridiculous bit that goes against canon, that's not mine but born from fanart by meetingyourmaker seen on Tumblr and I couldn't help but adopt it.

Jim literally and physically ached with the need for Sherlock's recognition. Sherly should be thinking about him. He should be grateful to him for all the entertainment Jim provided – and would continue to give. But first contact had to be special. Jim changed ideas often about how such an event should go. In the end, he decided to choose – all of them.

The preparations, of course, took a while. Everything needed to be in place. All had to be just perfect. The hardest part wasn't organizing things so they'd all come to fruition in the right window of time. No, instead, the hardest part was dating the little pathologist. It was not because she was already in love with someone else. Jim had the perfect mix between true genius (which he actually toned down a bit) and (fake) social awkwardness that made him so exactly her type that Molly never had a chance to resist him. 'Creating' an opening in Saint Bart's and getting hired – that was easy. And neither was it hard enduring long Glee marathons. Her obsession with felines, though, was almost more than Jim could handle. Thank God that her cat at least was 'uncharacteristically shy' towards him. The fur ball knew not to risk his life. It took a lot of patience but, in the end, Molly was acquired.

Big brother was conveniently distracted with that little matter of the Bruce-Partington plans, and wouldn't try to meddle in the game. Jim had a few consultations going that he could afford to lose without being too inconvenienced, varied enough to show off how extensive his expertise really was. Sherlock had nothing else to focus on (it wouldn't do to risk coming second in his priorities) and had to be unspeakably bored by now. It was time to play.

Jim's heart accelerated in response to the report of gunshots from 221B. Bored enough to shoot things? Sherly needed him. Needed him even if he didn't know it yet. It was to be the greatest game that they'd played yet. The explosion was a nice touch, Jim thought. Nothing said hello quite like destruction so close that you felt it. Sherlock felt the folds of destruction's skirt brush up against him but the explosion was far enough away, and so controlled that he never was in any real danger of being hurt. And the blown-up house was Jim's anyway (of course it was – well, of a shadow company). He needed a base next to Sherlock, and he'd spent long hours there, stalking him and wishing that the time was right to approach him.

The pink phone was a careful choice, too. With what Jim had planned for the end of this game, it would look like a nostalgic detail, contributing to make Sherlock doubt his new pet (oh, how Jim hated him). And since the pink seemed to call for a feminine touch, he didn't write the address on the envelope himself. He might have asked Geraldine, but she was a bit pouty and jealous seeing him all fired up about Sherlock. She wasn't Sebastian, who knew better than do that, and was starting to rapidly lose points. She'd pay for that, eventually. Instead, Jim asked it as a favour from one of his most recent client. Irene looked like someone who could prove entertaining past their business. She had half a brain, at least, and did this for him with wonderful calligraphy and without questions.

The moment the phone was finally in Sherlock's hands (of course the nice DI would deliver it) Jim, half jittery, sent the pips and the first photo. Round one began. Jim himself planted the evidence the day prior, in a moment when 221 was empty. The basement wasn't exactly Fort Knox. Nor was the house. Jim picked both locks easily, and left no trace. He was a professional, and couldn't show less prowess than Sherlock himself. Jim missed his trophy already, but it was worth giving it up for the sake of bringing Sherly on a trip down memory lane.

Now, if only the bitch he kidnapped wasn't so whiny. If Jim could talk to Sherlock in his own voice. But it wasn't yet time. And anyway, every game should have a reward. She was the prize, and they must know about it. Still, there very few worse ways to deliver, "Hello, sexy." Jim was miffed, but he ploughed on, "I've sent you a little puzzle, just to say hi."

Then he had to explain, because all that crying puzzled Sherlock, "I'm not crying." Jim shook his head even when Sherlock couldn't see him. "I'm typing and the stupid bitch is reading it out." Would it kill her to breathe normally for five minutes?

He didn't tell Sherlock who he was yet. It was much too soon. He set the rules. "Twelve hours, to solve my puzzle, Sherlock, or I'm going to be so naughty." He ended the call. No point in conversation, especially if it was so pitifully delivered. Twelve hours should be enough for him to remember. If it wasn't, Jim would be very disappointed.

He hoped Sherly appreciated the hint of sexual teasing. It was half a promise. It hadn't started like that, but he very much wouldn't mind helping Sherlock get rid of his virginity. Now if only it hadn't been delivered with so many tears maybe Sherly would have started to mull it over...Oh well. There'd be time to further his advances.

If Sherlock running around in a flurry of manic energy wasn't enough of a sight, he – naturally – brought his loot back to Bart's for analysis. And Jim could finally – finally (insert heavy sigh) – approach him. All his enduring of Molly's cats paid up now.

He'd like to dress up for such a momentous occasion, but he was Molly's Jim so he dressed the part. And behaved the part, too, making to retreat seeing that she was busy when all he wanted was to beeline towards Sherlock and madly wag a tail he didn't even have anymore. He was starting to feel a phantom limb for the first time in his life. As expected, Mols called him in and 'introduced' Sherlock. Jim could only exclaim wordlessly. It fit with his awkward persona, but words – once again – escaped him for a moment, overcome by emotion as he was.

Sadly, Sherlock wasn't alone. He brought along his new pet – Jim's replacement. Jim forced himself to be cordial, but dark satisfaction welled up at Molly forgetting the lackey's name, forcing John Watson to introduce himself. If he'd stood by Sherlock's side, she wouldn't have forgotten him. He dismissed John right away, returning to gaze in admiration and a bit of longing at Sherlock's back.

He tried for conversation that he knew would only irritate Sherlock, but he wanted his attention on himself, if for a moment. "So you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?"

Jim walked closer to Sherlock, like a needle met with a magnet, driving his replacement to move out of the way. Molly joined in the meaningless conversation, and he giggled with her at the appropriate time. His heart skipped a bit when Sherlock finally spared him a single glance before going back to his microscope. And deduced what Jim wanted him to deduce. "Gay."

But then things went wrong. Instead of really deducing him, Sherlock retracted behind a, "Nothing," and a false smile at Molly's shock. Jim didn't want that. He wanted the whole show. Maybe he wasn't direct enough? He couldn't help himself from constantly smiling adoringly after all this time waiting to meet him. He was awkward and clever all at the same time, upsetting things and leaving Sherlock his number. Not that Sherlock would call when he was focused on their other calls, but one never knew. His plans went perfectly, but the nervous arm-scratching of Jim was only half an act. He wasnervous. "Come on, notice me! Deduce me, do me, anything me! Please!" he mentally begged. Instead Sherlock only silently facepalmed at Jim's awkwardness (or at his boldness; or both).

And now Jim had really no reason to stay. He played the affectionate boyfriend for a moment more, then said goodbye to Sherlock with a, "It was nice to meet you," letting his eyes express all his wistfulness. Sherlock ignored him – of course, he was busy playing – and Watson, of all people, felt entitled to answer in lieu of his master, breaking the embarrassing silence that allowed Jim to stay a few seconds more, waiting for a reply. Jim blinked at him (he'd honestly forgotten the bloke was here) and left.

He didn't go far. He stopped just this side of the door. He couldn't make himself leave. So he heard Sherlock finally – finally! – deduce him, noticing everything, down to the brand of his underwear. Jim grinned, ecstatic. But why hadn't Sherlock done this when he was there? Was he becoming polite? Christ, he hoped not.

Jim barely had time to hid in a nearby supply closet when he deduced Mols would be storming away any moment. When she disappeared, upset, he went back to his place at the door. But he shouldn't have. Sherlock was prompting deductions out of John of all people, as if his input could ever be useful. Or as if Sherlock wanted – as if John deserved – for his assistant to be taught deductions. It was Jim's turn to storm away, upset.

Not long after that, the first round ended with a message on Sherlock's website. Found. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989). Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221B Baker Street. Jim called him right away through the bitch. "Well done, you." He very much meant that. "Come and get me," and he didn't only mean for them to collect their whiny reward. Not that she knew anything that could make them get Jim, the operation went without a hitch. Still, the challenge was a nice touch.

Now, don't go and think that Jim cheated in the game, because no, he didn't. He thought long and hard about how unsporting it was to install cameras of his own into New Scotland Yard. Then again, if they didn't notice, it wasn't his fault, was it? And he didn't put them everywhere. Lestrade's office, though, was definitely a yes. Sherly frequented it regularly, after all. And Jim had never been so happy to have them as when he saw Sherlock call his hard work elegant. It was why he did this, in the first place. Jim was giddy. He wanted champagne. Sherly understood. Only he did, of course, but that was rather the point.

"Oh, I can't be the only person in the world who gets bored," exclaimed Sherlock from the screen. " ' Course not, baby," Jim replied, even if he couldn't be heard. Bored again? Well, his next victim was all ready since half a hour ago. He might as well call.

Jim sent pips and photo, and made the young man (men were brought up not to cry at least) call the Yard. He frowned at Donovan announcing the call. Someday that girl would wake up without vocal cords, so she wouldn't be able to scream while Jim played with her internal organs. Not today though. Let Sherly feel the difference between the two of them and the rest of the world.

"It's ok that you've gone to the police, but don't rely on them." Half warning, half reassurance. Sherlock queried after his identity, surprised by the phone switch. Just a little display of knowledge, dear. Display of power. Doesn't it turn you on? Then, finally, time for reminiscing their good times together. "Clever you, guessing about Carl Powers. I never liked him. Carl laughed at me so I stopped him laughing."

"And you've stolen another voice, I presume," Sherly said. Jim almost replied, "Of course love, don't be daft," but something irked him in the sleuth's statement. They were talking, and Sherlock was worrying about his reward (not the victim, surely). Jim chastised him, "This is about you and me."

And didn't Sherlock have questions. About him, about ground noises...Jim ignored one (it'd be too easy if he answered, right?) and commented gaily about the other, "The sounds of life, Sherlock. But don't worry. I can soon fix them. You solved my last puzzle in nine hours, this time you have eight." It seemed fair, didn't it? Just a tiny challenge to surpass himself. Sherlock could do it.

Jim hacked the CCTV to follow Sherlock's investigations, and he got a true show. 'Bonding' with Mrs. Monkford was precious. Oh, Sherlock. There was hope for him yet. He could be like Jim if he got rid of the people who weighed him down. Such a performance deserved a special reward.

So, when Sherlock was at Bart's again, he called. "The clue is in the name. Janus cars." Ridiculously transparent, yes, but Jim would never advice a client against irony. Did Sherly get it, he wondered, or had he deleted all myths? With how bloody they were, hopefully not.

"Why would you give me a clue?" Sherlock queried.

"Why does anyone do anything? Because I'm bored!" There. Nice confirmation for Sherlock's earlier theory – and it was true that he was eager to get to bigger and better rounds. "We were made for each other, Sherlock," he revealed. Now he said it. After so long.

"Then talk to me in your own voice." Sherlock's voice was so soft. Did he long for this, too?

"Patience," Jim chided, before ending the call. It wouldn't do to rush things and ruin part of the fun. He'd regret it if he did, but he couldn't talk anymore lest Sherly convince him to do whatever he wanted.

Soon after, Sherlock's website read Congratulations to Ian Monkford on his relocation to Columbia. Jim wondered if Sherlock noticed his choice of words when he told them to fetch their reward. Did he think about it? About them? It was only a moment's wistfulness, though. The next second Jim was all, "Yay! Onto the next game!" Though he'd let Sherlock have a night of sleep first. He didn't want his detective to collapse.

Upping the ante, as always, Jim moved on to his third victim. The young man was better than the whiny bitch, and this one, this elderly one (for some reason, the more frail people were, the more others wanted to protect them) was destined to entice people to protect her with her obvious feebleness. Unless they were like Jim. But Sherlock had never been a bully, so...Jim pointed the quality of his reward out. "This one is a bit defective, sorry...she's blind. This is a funny one. I'll give you twelve hours." First Sherly would need to discover who Connie Prince was. He'd need more time than usual.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock inquired. His curiosity was piqued. That was good.

'For you' would be a good answer. Jim's fall back was true, too. "I like to watch you dance." So much. There was something artistic, in Sherlock's work. It left him breathless. Gave him Stendhal's syndrome.

Only a little later, at Bart's (of course Jim had eyes and ears everywhere), the DI was being his annoying self – but Sherlock's answers were so wonderful. Though he looked a little anxious when Lestrade asked why Jim did things, and didn't parrot his earlier answer. Instead, he vaguely answered, "Good Samaritan." Did he want out of the spotlight? Was he afraid that his colleagues would deem him responsible, even if indirectly, for what was happening? He should really relax. It was all Jim's doing after all. He'd take responsibility. But when Lestrade questioned the bomber's methods, Sherlock quipped, "Bad Samaritan." Jim giggled uncontrollably. He was so reusing that definition.

He'd barely caught his breath when the Inspector asked what they were dealing with. Sherlock's answer was important, and he didn't disappoint. "Something new." And how evident it was that he liked that 'something new'. Jim grinned. "Anything for you, Sherly," he murmured to the empty room.

Later, Jim had slipped in the house opposite 221B, hiding among the debris he hadn't ordered to remove, and enjoyed seeing Sherlock trying to deduce. He especially enjoyed lip reading him (one of Jim's many talents). When he saw Sherlock on the right track, wondering if Moriarty was simply showing off, Jim called him. Just a gentle tease and a casual reminder. "You're enjoying this, aren't you? Joining the dots. Three hours: boom boom." He'd talk more, but his borrowed voice had started sobbing, and that took all the fun out of it. Frustrated, he ended the call.

Not long (and a bit of Sherlock's buzzing busily around) after, the detective's website read the correct answer. Then things went out of Jim's control. Despite being warned that saying anything but what she was told would make her go boom, the dimwit granny decided to start a running commentary on Jim's performance. Even Sherlock knew instinctively that went against the rules. He tried valiantly but in vain to shut her up.

Well, what could Jim do? The only way to play is entirely seriously, or it's no fun. Jim nodded to Geraldine (his choice today since this round had such a feminine touch) and there was a beautiful explosion, which left him breathless for a moment. Sorry that Sherly couldn't get his reward despite having won, but the death was on the old woman's head, not Jim's or Gerry's. She talked. It was her fault. Her death and the others was due to her inability to stick to the rules. Surely Sherly would figure that out and not blame him.

Later on, Jim was again in the house facing 221B, lip reading Sherlock deduce Jim's business and remark, "Novel," and getting goosebumps from the pleasure of it. Then, Sherlock uttered, "I think he wants to be distracted," and Jim almost texted back Too true; want to distract you too, though. Which made John visibly upset and jealous, and that was good, because Jim was jealous and upset by the doctor's mere existence. Watson was in a veritable strop, but Sherlock didn't indulge him. He proclaimed that he wouldn't make the mistake to care for the victims (thank God he had his facts straight; Jim had been worried about it lately) and then warned his...companion that he was no hero. So it was that, half to reward him, half to prove him wrong, Jim sent the next message. Two pips and the Thames. Round four was about to begin. He grinned at Sherlock's evident happiness.

Things became seriously cute then. Sherlock was frustrated by Jim's lack of calls. He told the gallery agent that she should be impressed by him even. Jim thought about confirming that she really should as well, but then decided against it since working her into a tizzy would prove counterproductive in the end.

There was also Golem to keep track of. Seb called him with a, "You might want to hear this…" There Golem was, all sorry that he hadn't managed to kill the meddlers in the planetarium and saying that his employer had sent him there in hope that Jim would help. Miss Wenceslas wanted a clean job and Golem swore high and low that he wouldn't fail again. He had a reputation to defend too. He cared about maintaining his status as numero uno killer-for-hire. That was good. The fact that he thought that he could kill Sherlock mid-game, though, that was considerably less good. Let's just say that Golem wouldn't kill anyone anymore. The water boarding first was just to push him toward the other side of suffocation for an hour before mercifully ending him. Or was it seven? Who was counting anyway?

Sherlock must have missed his usual teasing (wasn't it lovely). When he was at the gallery and Jim made his silent call, he was clearly put out and tried to end the game without giving evidence. Without having understood the whys. No tiny details-firework deducing show. As if that could ever be acceptable. Obviously Jim couldn't allow that.

When Sherlock asked for more time, Jim gave him ten seconds because the answer was, after all, staring him in the face. Using the child sent everyone into a panic, like he expected it would, and Sherlock almost cheated but remembered in time what happened when people did. Jim would have been honestly disappointed if he hadn't, but then again, Sherlock was so sexy when he got desperate (of course Jim was in the gallery's CCTV system, enjoying the show). Sherlock won. (Jim had really thought that he was distraught enough that he'd lose this round). Jim felt the usual surge of admiration and love go through him. "Atta, boy!" he felt like shouting.

Next move went to Sherlock, and Jim wondered how long he'd take to realize that. Long enough, it seemed, but finally Sherly asked him on a date. At midnight. At the pool where their respective careers were sealed. If that wasn't romantic, Jim didn't know what was.

He collected his substitute – so useful that John ran all the errands. For an ex-military man he was pitifully easy to kidnap. Just like all his other mouthpieces, he fitted John with the appropriate vest and explosives. When the doctor woke up, Jim talked to him through the earpiece. "Welcome, Johnny boy. You should be honoured. You get to be part of the grand show."

"What?" John groaned.

"Oh don't be so slow. You behave, say what I tell you to when I'll send you out there, and maybe you won't explode in a million pieces. Do I have to explain after so long? Really?" Jim growled.

"You're Moriarty."

"Bingo Johnny boy! And you're mince meat unless you obey. The choice is yours, of course. Still feeling suicidal?"

"When...?"

"Don't play the fool. I know you, Johnny. Now, as I said, behave. Show time will be soon," Jim cut across the idiot's protests. Of course he's been suicidal in the past. Then again, who hasn't at some point?

Johnny had a double purpose. He was, of course, the most precious reward Jim could find for his game. But he was a test, too. If Jim hadn't renounced his place by Sherlock's side – if he'd been good enough to play him – what would happen?

It turned out that Sherlock wasn't enthusiastic and admiring. He looked shocked and desperately in denial. Jim couldn't keep up the ruse any longer, and showed off what a good dummy Johnny boy could be. Sherlock didn't like that, either. He was grumpy tonight. But he was still so cute, trying to pinpoint Jim when he menaced to stop Watson.

"I gave you my number. I thought you might call," Jim whined.

But Sherly only barked back, "Who are you?"

Finally, it was time to show himself after aching for it so long. Smartly dressed because, hey, it was a first date. "Is that a British Army Browning L91 in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?" he teased gently.

Sherlock's, "Both," sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine just like the gun trained on him. Not that he showed it.

He introduced himself then. "Jim Moriarty. Hi!" It figured that Sherlock had deleted Jim from IT, but whatever he claimed, Jim couldn't help but feel fleetingly disappointed.

Then it was Seb's turn to enter the show. From his hideout, of course. Sniping wasn't exactly made for the spotlight. But he didn't let Sherly dwell on that. Seb's red dots were enough to keep him focused on the important matters, like Jim.

"I'm a specialist, you see...like you." Very like you, dear. More than you believe.

And Sherlock understood. And loved it. Loved Jim. "Consulting criminal. Brilliant!" he breathed.

Jim grinned. His heart soared. "Isn't it? No one gets to me and no one ever will."

"I did," Sherlock remarked, cocking the gun. So utterly sexy. Jim could have snogged him right there and then, but it'd have ruined the moment.

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way." Lie. Jim's way was built to bring him to Sherly. But it wasn't the time to tell him, yet. Sherlock treated it as the compliment it would be if he was honest. That it still was, partly. Jim admitted to it.

"But the flirting is over." Well, Sherlock clearly wouldn't consent, not now, so it was useless anyway. "Daddy has had enough now!" It happened very rarely. Mummy was more the law enforcer, but when it did the Holmes boys scrambled to behave. Jim wondered airily if Sherlock felt the echo. And, if he did, did he dismiss it?

"I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all these people, all these little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play," Jim boasted. "So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off." How were they supposed to play again if they died here? He smiled. Confession time. "Although I have loved this – this little game of ours. Playing Jim from IT. Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

Sherlock's reply was very unexpected. And unflattering. "People have died."

"That's what people DO!" he screamed, because why was everyone with morals so hung up on that little detail? Dying wasn't even that bad. He should know.

" I will stop you," Sherly promised, oh-so-softly. Even the determined look was sexy on him. The sentence sounded more like sexual teasing than anything. Maybe Sherlock'd be interested in edging?

"No you won't," Jim bit back. How were they supposed to play again otherwise? Surely Sherlock would understand in the end?

Then Sherlock started worrying over his new pet and jealousy burned bright and hot in Jim's chest though he behaved like the experienced game master that he was. When the detective tried to buy back's John's life with the missile plans, Jim let his disdain show. Did Sherlock care that much for his replacement? But it did give Jim the occasion for physical contact – he kissed Sherlock's hand, and had to stop himself from lapping at it like old times. But the missile plans? "Boring," he sing-sang. "I could have gotten them anywhere." He tossed them away to be hopelessly ruined, disappointed that Sherlock could believe they were the point of the game. The game was the point of the game.

Then things brightened. Jim's (useless, idiotic) unworthy replacement tried to sacrifice his life to ensure Sherlock's escape, in vain, of course. Seb was there with Alice and a couple of friends and they already had countermeasures in ready. (It's not that they'd go through with shooting Sherly, but Watson didn't know such).

Jim laughed in sheer delight, identifying for once with his rival and appreciating him. When it looked like he was disparaging the doctor, he was simply talking, and so deep down memory lane that without his snipers' cue he might not have come back from it. "People get so sentimental about their pets." Didn't he know how much Sherlock had loved him? "They are so touchingly loyal." Didn't he run back to Sherlock even after death? He loved this part of the game. (Even if it ruined his attire. He'd dressed up for Sherlock, damn!)

Just to make sure his Sherlock knew the rules, Jim questioned him. As expected, the sleuth was under the gross misconception that Jim wanted to kill him. (How could they continue to play then?)

The criminal made a face. "N-no don't be obvious," he reproached. Then, to ensure his detective wouldn't relax too much and stop playing, he added, "I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway someday. I don't wanna rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special." Very special. After all, if it happened it would mean his death, too. "No no no no no...if you don't stop prying I'll burn you." It sounded nice didn't it? He let himself give Sherlock a quick once over. "I'll burn the heart out of you." Oh, but Jim was jealous. More than anything he wanted to be the only thing in Sherlock's devastated heart.

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one," the sleuth said, so very softly. Did this make him sad?

Jim would fix that too. Later. For now, he countered, "But we both know that's not quite true." He had the best proof about Sherly's heart than any other living soul – except maybe his replacement, distasteful as that was.

Jim smiled at his boy (still, always his boy). Then shrugged. Really nothing else for it. He wanted to stay. He wanted Sherlock to join him. But the detective wouldn't, not today. That much was obvious. Time to say goodbye, for now.

Sherlock threatened him then, and even if he'd had the gun fixed on Jim from the start, it was the first time – after the split second he drew it – that Jim suspected he might be serious about using it. "Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face. 'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock. Really I would." He grinned. Weren't they having such a great time together? Why end it? "And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long." Once Jim was dead, he wouldn't respond of Seb. Or Alice. But especially Seb. And of course he'd be disappointed. He thought Sherly felt their connection.

"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes." He unconcernedly walked away. It should scare him, but Sherlock following him to keep him in his sights sent only pleasure through him. It was a mating dance. If the detective followed him long enough...until they were alone...maybe...but no. Probably not.

"Catch you later," the sleuth rumbled.

"No you won't!" You won't want to. It'd end the game.

Freud was laughing at Jim from his place in heaven. Jim hadn't wanted to leave Sherlock – he never wanted to leave Sherlock – their play required it. He was a tiny bit distracted too, his mind divided between sexy thoughts and doubt whether Sherly would have really killed him. He thought about how his angel would have reacted to seeing him again. They were the only excuses for Jim entering the broom cupboard à la Inspector Clouseau. If Seb had noticed – and Jim bet on yes – he was laughing his ass off.

Jim waited a few seconds for them to leave and went back. And they were both still there. And looking like they could kiss any second, too.

"Sorry boys, I'm soooo changeable," the consulting criminal said with excessive cheerfulness to distract Sherly from wondering exactly why he was back. "It is a weakness with me, but to be fair, it is my only weakness." It certainly wouldn't do to appear more of a clumsy idiot than Jim from IT. The problem was that the only thing he could say that didn't make him appear like a doofus was, "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind." he wanted to believe that Sherlock could mind-read him, if (hopefully) partially. They were that in tune, surely?

Sherly acknowledged their connection, replying, "Probably my answer has crossed yours." Star-crossed lovers; telepathic soul mates; that's what they were, and even he knew. Sherlock readied to shoot.

Jim prayed fervently in his mind, Please, no. Not dying 'cause I'm an idiot – well, dying together with Sherly isn't so bad... but I'd die of shame before the explosion could get to me.

Jim's angel heard him - an incoming call on his mobile. He took it, with Sherlock's permission. They were gentlemen, after all. Irene had very juicy info. Normally he'd be very polite towards her; and although internally he was breathless with relief, due to Sherlock's presence he played the big bad wolf, yelling and threatening.

"I hope that whoever is on your end is suitably impressed, Mr. Moriarty, because I'm really not," Irene said in a clipped voice. Clever girl.

Well, Sherlock was. He was all wound up, adjusting his grip on the gun when Jim approached. Jim stopped next to the jacket. One chance to be killed if Sherlock got startled into shooting. He really couldn't help but tease Fate.

The consultant criminal gave himself a moment to look like he was mulling things over before announcing, "Sorry. Wrong day to die."

"Oh. Did you get a better offer?" Sherlock queried, acting all casual and as if his nerves weren't about to snap from sheer tension. Points to him for trying at least.

Jim looked at the phone like he'd just remembered its existence – hoping that the sleuth would understand that there couldn't possibly be a better offer than him – and moved to retreat. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock." It was the truest words Jim had ever uttered. He went back – making sure to get the correct door this time – keeping up his threatening act on the phone. On the other end, Irene just chuckled warmly.