"Sherlock, why? Why wont you just wear what I want you to wear?"
"Because this is absurd, I'm not comfortable."
Jim pouts, but his eyes remain vague. "Let me dress you. I love figuring out what works best on your body."
Sherlock gives him a distasteful side glance and adjusts the collar of his blazer. He observes himself in the mirror, Jim behind him, about a head shorter and dressed to kill. Sherlock is aware that he must pick his battles with Jim. He is not interested in fighting this one.
"What would you like me to try on?"
Jim grins and rushes out of the fitting room. They are in some private tailor's shop. A well-known name. Sherlock could not be any less concerned.
He begins to undress. A year after falling for Jim and he is bored. This isn't fun anymore. When he really presses himself for an answer, he finds that it never was fun. He nearly forgets all the reasons that led him here. In his mind he thinks, I want to go home. In his mind he thinks, when will the right time be? I feel ready, but is it right?
Jim returns to a pale Sherlock standing in briefs, still observing himself. He is excited by the sight, but more excited to see how this particular suit will fit. It is a subdued blue, but not quite navy. Tight in all the right places.
"As usual. Perfect." Jim claps his hands and shakes his head, wide eyed. He begins to pet Sherlock and adjust him. "After this we'll go out to that restaurant I told you about. The beauty is, we won't even have to pay! Isn't it wonderful having international connections? Even after death." He laughs to himself. Sherlock forces a half smile. It is unconvincing.
Jim begins anew, adjusts his own collar. He is wearing the pale grey suit he decided on. Skinny tie and the cuffs tight. Shoes with a shine that could blind someone. The pants break just above the top of the shoe, exactly where they should. Fitting for this small but significant man with the name of Moriarty.
"You know, I've noticed you've been quiet lately. Quieter, ever since that phone conversation with Mycroft." He paces. "I wonder."
Sherlock turns to him. "If you think this is my best look, I'll take it."
Jim sighs. "I wonder if you miss him."
The tailor appears in the doorway to the fitting room, asks them how things are. Jim hands him several large notes and waves him off.
"Of course I miss him. He was my best friend. I don't expect you to understand that, but at any rate you know how much stock people put in sentiment. I have some… sentiment for John."
"It's been so long, though. I did hope you'd be over him by now. There's nothing left but you and I. Consulting criminal, consulting detective. The only pair in the world—now the only living dead."
Sherlock, for one surreal moment, is hit by immense pain. The appalling fact that he has allowed so much time to pass without seeing the face and hearing the voice of the only person who has ever moved him. Truly moved him. John is still alive out there, and he has wasted ayear without him.
"Jim, pick your battles." He checks his phone for the time. "We best be off now. Reservations, dear."
They ask to be seated outside, never entering the restaurant, the better for Sherlock's smoking. It is warm and bright and they are on a busy street. Everyone walking by is fashionably dressed and on a mission. Sherlock watches them with jealous eyes.
Jim talks on and on, as if he never had any concern about Sherlock's growing silence. Perhaps he is pretending the silence isn't there, isn't a sign meant for him. It is not strange for Sherlock to slip away, into his mind. What is strange, and what Jim will never realize, is how extroverted Sherlock always was with John. That is the missing link. The spark that ignited Sherlock intoxicated John, and Jim will never provide such a spark.
Their dishes arrive, steaming. Delicious food that Sherlock won't touch even half of. Wasted money, wasted resources. None of it bothers Jim. He will do whatever he can to keep Sherlock. He reaches for the elegant hand across the small square table and holds it, strokes it. Sherlock bears no reaction. It is callous and cold, but not new.
Presently, Jim is in the middle of a sentence about some unremarkable childhood trauma he suffered. He stops speaking, his gaze strays, his mouth hangs open. An exhausted man darts out the open door of the restaurant and heads for the street, followed by a thin, messy girl.
Jim looks at Sherlock, who is staring at him plainly. He is missing the action behind him. "What?"
Mary starts screaming. "JOHN."
Jim starts laughing. "This is unbelievable, Sherlock. It really is."
Sherlock stands up and turns around, just in time to see a black vehicle bring John's body violently down to the pavement.
"For God's sake, let me through! He's my friend."
Jim is bemused for a moment. John is sprawled sideways across the pavement, unconscious. Blood is pooling. The sloppy girl is moaning and screaming. Whatever she was thinking when she picked out that outfit, Jim doesn't know.
3 He cocks his head and shouts at her. "Oh, shut up! Do something useful at least. Call for help."
She stammers, hugs herself. "I don't—I don't know French."
Jim whips out his cell. "Daddy has to do everything around here, doesn't he?" He looks down and watches Sherlock, bent over the limp body, speaking to it in heated breaths. People gather around, the murmur of another language. Cars are confused, dart around the scene.
When he puts his cell back in his pocket, he folds his hands behind his back and waits calmly, like a man at a symphony. Sherlock looks up at him for a brief moment. John is unresponsive, thin and small, but still breathing. Jim doesn't remember him so small. Neither does Sherlock, which only brings him to a state of disquiet.
He stands up, hovering over john. Directed at Jim, he says, "I never expected him to show up this way. I never expected him to show up at all. Why is he here?"
Jim shrugs. "Mycroft?"
Sherlock considers this. "Cant be. Would have happened differently. He was… running purposefully into traffic, you said?"
"It did seem that way."
Mary is sniveling. She comes forward, tries to say something.
"Stay back!" Sherlock snaps this and looks her up and down. Her lack of sleep cannot be covered by makeup; she is only around twenty-five, but there are lines coming in around her mouth and brow. She is a smoker, then, lack of sleep would also suggest drug user. The state of her hair suggests narcotics, but if not sleeping, some type of amphetamine more likely. He observes her outfit. A red scarf tied tight around her neck, a yellow tee shirt with a sea-green vest over it, expensive ripped jeans and purple wedges, an imitation pink alligator skin purse. She thinks she looks good but clearly doesn't. Must be cocaine. He looks at her nose, bits of dried blood, very fine. Definitely, then. Ruining John completely. The state of John Watson indicates that well enough. Sherlock kicks himself. He should have known from the texts. John wasn't depressed, he was falling to rock bottom. So is this his dealer? His partner in crime? No, they wouldn't come to the city of love if they were just friends or just doing business. No. This is his girlfriend.
"Jim."
"Yes, honey?"
"Call the police and tell them we have a lucid addict here who pushed a man into oncoming traffic. Wait—tell them there was a bar fight that had been directed outside, and once outside she pushed him. Intent to kill. Tell them now."
Jim smiles and does as he is asked.
Mary hears this, moves closer to John. Sherlock holds up a hand. "I am warning you."
"Why'd you tell him to call the police! Who are you, anyway?"
"That's none of your concern. You have no business being here, you're well aware of that."
"But, he's my boyfriend. I came here with him! I need to go with him, make sure he's okay."
Jim's eyes are wide with pleasure. "There's no possible way Sherlock is going to let that happen."
"It has to happen, wait, Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?"
He rolls his eyes.
Jim claps his hands. "This is perfect! When they come to get her she'll start chattering on about some detective that's been dead for a year! Yes, she's convinced we've set her up. Paranoia." He turns to her, shakes his head. "No, they'll never let you go."
"This isn't funny, what are you doing here! I'm his girlfriend, I'm his—"
Sherlock snarls. "You are NOTHING! Not to him, not to me." He checks the time and looks to the body at his feet. "Could these idiots arrive any later."
"Ah, but here they are."