A/N: Before this chapter starts I just want to warn you that I am trash and in a few seconds you're going to realize why. My only advice is don't fight it and please don't beat me up and throw me in a locker. ALSO maybe consider looking up the Glee performance of Valerie. Cause you know. Don't fight it.
Sebastian grabbed a handful of popcorn, eyes fixed on the screen, "I mean," he started, popping a piece into his mouth, "I get that they're trying to include everyone, but this is just too much."
Next to him on the couch, Molly nodded, "It does take a bit from the overall effect, doesn't it?"
"Well like," he ate another piece of popcorn, ready to rant about this, "Quinn can never compare to Rachel. I can see replacing Finn, but Rachel?"
The two were sprawled on Molly's sofa as per their new Friday night routine, a bowl of popcorn between them and Sebastian's arm finally around Molly's shoulders. His heart hammered in his chest, but it was still a calm enough beat that he could hold a simple conversation about Glee.
Which, it turned out, was slightly entertaining.
Not that he liked it. The sniper told himself that this was obviously just because he was with Molly. Honestly, what kind of man watched a show about a showchoir with not even half a heterosexual character roster? Not him!
"She is a bit conceited, though," Molly debated.
Sebastian scoffed, "And Santana's not? They just handed the lead to someone else conceited? Why not give it to Tina?"
Fuck, the sniper silently cursed. Alright, maybe he liked Glee a little bit. Or a lot. Maybe Molly just made it interesting. He didn't know. All he knew was, she brought color back into his life. Color he hadn't seen since before he'd gone off to war.
Molly giggled, "You wait and see what happens with Tina."
"Oh, no," Sebastian moaned, "What, does she start dating Emma or something?"
Molly got dangerously quiet, and the sniper looked in her direction just in time to have a small amount of popcorn thrown in his face.
"That was uncalled for," he grumbled, silently scolding himself.
"Don't push it," Molly said brightly, "Anyway, no, she doesn't. She just gets quite annoying and…changes."
"Huh," Sebastian brooded. He didn't have an interesting answer to that. Plus, Quinn and Sam's duet was over, and a much quicker beat was starting.
Well sometimes I go out by myself and I look across the water…
Sebastian blinked. Okay, this was a little catchy.
And I think of all the things, what you're doing, and in my head I paint a picture…
Okay, it was more than a little catchy. Sebastian had an urge to tap his foot that he violently repressed, until he noticed Molly bobbing hers.
"Santana's kind of owning it," the sniper commented, in awe.
Molly nodded, "Britney, too, I think. Look," she nodded towards the dancing blonde.
'Cause since I've come on home, well, my body's been a mess. And I've missed your ginger hair and the way you like to dress…
"She sure can dance. Her and Mike," Sebastian said coolly, shamelessly tapping his foot. It had been a long, long time since he'd danced. The last time he could remember was in the Army. Jeez, some of those were good memories, though…
Won't you come on over? Stop making a fool out of me…
Molly laughed nervously, "Um, are you…?"
"Oh, come on," Sebastian got up, pulling Molly to her feet with him, "I see you tapping your foot," he couldn't stop himself from positively beaming at her.
Why don't you come on over Valerie?
"Oh, no," Molly shook her head hurriedly, already on her feet, "Honestly, Seb-"
Her pleas turned into a delighted shriek when he dipped her to the floor.
Valerie, Valerie, Valerie…
Sebastian wasn't extremely surprised to find that he was a far better dancer than Molly—she'd always had a way about her that suggested shyness, even if most of it stemmed simply from second guessing herself. That didn't make it any less entrancing to move across the floor with her, dancing like a fool around the furniture.
Well sometimes I go out by myself, and I look across the water…
He spun Molly in a perfect twirl, but was two parts shocked and delighted when, upon facing him again, she returned the favor.
And I think of all the things, what you're doing, and in my head I paint a picture…
Molly almost knocked a vase off a nearby table, which Sebastian caught before it was even within inches of the floor. He set it back down, grinning arrogantly, and started to dance again.
'Cause since I've come on home, well, my body's been a mess. And I've missed your ginger hair and the way you like to dress…
Sebastian wasn't sure how this music was meant to be danced to, but he figured if the Glee cast was allowed to choreograph it to backflips, what he and Molly was doing wasn't such a crime. Even if their dancing was akin to that of a middle aged parent at a family barbeque.
Won't you come on over? Stop making a fool out of me…
Molly spun in a little circle again, this time her hair whipping Sebastian in the face.
"Oh, God, I'm sor-!"
The sniper just laughed, shaking it off, and they both continued to dance, even more mirthful than before.
Why don't you come on over Valerie?
Molly laced their fingers together, but the two never stopped moving their feet. Sebastian wondered if the neighbors were going to complain. He didn't care.
Valerie, Valerie, Valerie…
Sebastian spun Molly one more time, though he never fell out of synch with the music.
Why don't you come on over Valerie?
The last note spun out into the living room, followed by the artificial shrieks of an audience that didn't exist. Sebastian and Molly joined in, creating their own tiny round of applause as they caught their breath.
It may have been small, but it was real, and therefore of all the more significance. Sebastian noticed that Molly's curtains were still open, and he didn't care at all. He didn't care that it would have been easy for someone outside, under the night sky, to see them making complete fools of themselves. He didn't care if they'd seen Molly twirl him in a circle. Because for the first time since Sebastian could remember, he was as light as a cloud, without a care in the world about guilt or loneliness or criminal masterminds. Here, in this British girl's flat, dancing to Glee, he was happier than he'd been since the Army. Maybe even happier than he'd been while he'd been in the Army. Imagine that.
Dancing with Molly was a little more fun than sniping, he decided.
"Oh, no!" Molly fretted, gaping at the open curtains. Sebastian waved it off, eyes glittering at her.
"Honestly, we're having more fun than them, anyway."
"I know, I know," Molly rushed to close them, "I just worry about whether or not…I mean, what if someone like Sherlock had been outside and had seen-?"
Sebastian's face must have reflected how he suddenly felt, because realization dawned on Molly's face as she stopped talking midstatement.
Sherlock. Sherlock. Fucking Sherlock Holmes?
It was like he'd been punched in the stomach.
"Oh, Sebastian," Molly gave him a sympathetic, flighty look, eyes wide, "I…I didn't mean-"
"No," the sniper pushed down a little pang of anger, which was quickly replaced with disheartenment, "Don't…I just…him?"
"It's…" Molly stuttered, "It's not like that…" she bit at her hand nervously, not meeting Sebastian's eyes.
He may not have been a genius, but it was clear she was lying. He stared at her long enough that she finally snapped.
"Alright!" her voice escaped her in a very un-Molly-like way, cutting through the room like a knife. She muted the television. "Fine. I've had a…a thing for him for a long time. So if you're going to laugh at me, fine. But if you tell anyone-"
"Wait," Sebastian held up a hand, confused, "But, like, you know he's gay, right?"
Molly frowned, "What?" she shook her head, "No, he's not gay…"
"Yes," Sebastian pushed, convinced he was right, "He is. His Soulmate is literally a guy. So I'm pretty sure that means you're gay."
"I don't know what you mean," Molly seemed equally certain she was correct, "Sherlock doesn't have a Soulmate. And even if he did, the gender of your Soulmate doesn't determine your sexual orientation, so-"
"But he's dating Jim Moriarty!" Sebastian burst out.
The sniper felt a little bit sick as he watched the blood drain from Molly's face. She looked like a ghost in the dim light, her profile illuminated by the television screen.
"What?" her voice was barely a whisper, and suddenly Sebastian had the impression that he'd made a terrible, terrible mistake.
"Uh, maybe I'd better go-" he turned to leave, and was shocked and slightly terrified to find Molly block his way with blazing eyes.
"Oh, no you don't!" she said firmly, and Sebastian cowered, "Sherlock doesn't have a Soulmate! And even if he did, it would definitely not be Jim Moriarty! How do you even know that name? How would you know that Sherlock was his Soulmate? Not that he is, but still…"
Sebastian blinked, all the questions seeming to blend together into one general 'Molly is mad and I am afraid' idea.
"Um," he said weakly, "Could you repeat the quest-"
"Sherlock doesn't have a Soulmate!" Molly repeated, looking completely livid. Something suddenly dawned on Sebastian.
"Wait," the sniper said slowly, "How do you know Jim Moriarty?"
Now, Sebastian liked to think himself a good person. I mean, sure, he killed for a living, but he wouldn't be caught dead kicking a puppy or telling someone that, yes, they looked fat in that shirt. He was a good citizen, British or American, no matter how often he broke the law! That being said, he had to take a minute to reassess his view of himself when, just as Molly opened her mouth to explain, his phone started to ring.
(o0o0o0o0)
Earlier that day
John sighed, taking solace in the steam rising from his tea. It sometimes felt like tea was the only constant in his and Sherlock's lives these days. Although Sherlock had one other, more dangerous constant now.
"Who are we going to tell?" he wondered out loud, not really expecting an answer. Who could they tell? Mycroft would lock Jim up, which would make Sherlock unhappy, Lestrade would probably fire Sherlock and cut off all contact—he was too nice to arrest the detective, but no rational person could hire the Soulmate of an apparent psychopath to solve all their cases, no matter that Sherlock could still do it better than anyone else. It wasn't good for business.
Mrs. Hudson, maybe, but if anyone, namely Mycroft, ever got suspicious and tried to interrogate her about it, she'd crack like an egg.
So, he had Mary. But the pair of them had no one. And, even if they kept it a secret, Mary was still in more danger now than ever before. Jim had been furious enough initially to bury her alive. John couldn't imagine what his reaction would be if he found out now that she was still breathing. The criminal would eviscerate them both, at best.
John shook his head, deciding to voice his thoughts, "I suppose the only safe person would be Mrs. Hudson. If someone needs to find out. Sherlock, if the press gets ahold of this…"
The doctor continued to talk, but his words were nothing but a dull drone to the detective, who was sprawled in his chair a few feet away. Though for all he noticed his surroundings, he may as well have been on another planet. Sherlock had been ceaselessly and shamelessly thinking of Jim and only Jim since their last meeting, and he didn't intend to stop simply because John was, once again, panicking over their current situation.
It's true, the criminal drawled, If the press finds out, Lestrade's quick fixes won't matter anymore.
Sherlock was amused, Ah, but what about yours?
You think I'll save your reputation, if we get found out?
That makes it sound like we're having some sort of affair.
There was a brief pause, allowing both of the consultants time to consider the idea that this could develop into…that.
Are we? Jim finally thought. He didn't seem opposed to the idea. They'd already established that neither of them was. Which was quite strange to Sherlock considering the criminal's reaction after the night they'd slept together.
The truth was: Sherlock wasn't certain. Obviously, their dreams together pointed towards the 'yes' side of the debate. But he had to admit, despite previous half hearted experiments at university and the years afterward, he still hadn't the faintest clue about romance. He knew how to parrot it and pretend like he knew what he was doing, but the detective had never really gained any experience he'd thought was worth saving. Most of it was deleted shortly afterwards, save for a few of the basics. If he and Jim were having an 'affair', what did that even mean? Was that what he and Adler had had? He wasn't sure he wanted that again. As intoxicating as she was, most of that had consisted of John gaping at him and how fascinating it was that he could even have a heart at all.
It became evident to the detective that Jim was still listening, quietly and without comment.
God, but this was what perplexed him. Why was being so close to Jim so bloody pleasant all the time? He'd been repulsed when this whole Bond thing had started, so why was it suddenly so enjoyable? It wasn't that he was thinking of Jim as a different person—no, he was still completely aware that this was the brilliant mastermind who'd stolen the crown jewels for him, who'd fled across London just for Sherlock to chase him. Still half mad, still the man who'd strapped John to Semtex, still Moriarty.
This couldn't just be the hormones, could it? Sherlock still was capable of thinking rationally. He'd still been cautious when Jim had visited. Granted, a bit…jumpy, as the criminal had pointed out, but still himself.
The only other conclusion was that some of this had already been present. The detective couldn't deny that. He'd always found Jim fascinating. But now that that was combined with a strong urge to mash their lips together, fascination had evolved into full on obsession.
And…Sherlock was fine with that. More than fine with that. As much as Jim was physically intriguing, what really kept the detective mentally glued to his side was the mental aspect. The most brilliant case to ever cross Sherlock's path, and now he had access to every thought the criminal merely entertained? God, yes. It brought a whole meaning to the phrase 'married to the work'.
Slow down, Jim balked, secretly quite flattered, If you think for one moment I'd ever participate in a marriage with anyone, Sherlock-
It would, in that hypothetical situation, be with me? the detective finished before he could stop himself.
…Yes, true. Touché. But you had your chance on the rooftop.
I hardly think suicide is the same as marriage, Sherlock paused to think, Well, actually…
Ha!
"Sherlock, are you even listening to me?" John finally managed to get through to the detective, and, reluctantly, Sherlock put thoughts of Jim aside to speak to his roommate. He sighed deeply.
"Yes?"
"What did I just say?" John demanded, sounding like a primary school teacher.
"Something unimportant, I'm sure," Sherlock muttered, ensuring he butchered the words enough that only he and Jim understood them. The criminal silently huffed in amusement.
"What?"
"I said, I don't know," Sherlock snapped, closing his eyes, "I was talking to Jim."
"Talking to-?" John was, miraculously, still completely incredulous about the consultants' newly discovered situation, "And is this going to be a regular thing, now? Is it already a regular thing?"
"If you had someone inside your mind twenty four hours a day, even when you were sleeping, wouldn't you end up talking to them often? I don't plan on spending my life in a constant awkward silence." Though no silence, Sherlock thought, spent with Jim could ever be awkward.
In fact, now that he thought about it, he didn't think Jim had ever made him feel awkward. Even on the morning they'd woken up together, dazed and confused, he'd been more upset than uncomfortable. The closest he'd ever felt to awkward with Jim was when they'd first met, the criminal in disguise as Molly's boyfriend. And that wasn't even a true meeting.
"Sherlock, I don't know what to do about this, and I'm trying to keep people safe. Please, for the love of God-"
"The only person you need to worry about, if you want to keep people safe, is Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, sitting up straight to look at John, "He's ruthless, and he's not going to listen to anyone on this. He'll stop at nothing to capture Moriarty and as soon as he does, God knows what he'll-"
"Mycroft doesn't blow people up!"
"Oh, he certainly does, he's just not as flashy about it."
Are you saying I'm tacky, Sherlock Holmes?
John didn't seem to be able to deny Sherlock's argument, and the detective found himself triumphant. The room fell heavily silent.
"Sherlock?" John was looking at him very curiously, head cocked to the side like he was some sort of science experiment yielding unexpected results.
"What?" the detective sighed tiredly.
The doctor set his tea down, crossing his arms, "You actually care what happens to him, don't you?"
I should hope not, Jim mused quietly. Sherlock ignored him again. They all were, it seemed, running in circles.
"It's a waste," he said simply, not willing to offer any more comment. He wished that was his only reason. Sentiment undeniably and unfortunately also had a hand in it.
Sherlock wished John would stop staring at him.
"What's he saying now?" the doctor studied him.
Tell him I'm singing the Canadian national anthem, Jim snapped, just as irritated as Sherlock was that John was prying.
"He told me to say he's singing the Canadian national anthem," the detective relayed, raising an eyebrow, "John, I'm not going to-"
"No," John held up his hands, resigned, "You're right. Just try not to do anything too idiotic, alright?"
Sherlock watched the doctor abandon his tea and head towards the door, fully aware that John was, once again, pissed off at him. Probably going to meet with that girlfriend of his.
Maybe we should have a meeting, as well, Jim suggested, catching Sherlock off guard and making his heartbeat spike with interest.
What…kind of meeting? As much as the detective wanted to see Jim, suddenly the idea of another meeting, so soon, was just as nerve-wracking as it was exciting.
What would they even do? If this was going to turn sexual, Sherlock wasn't sure he wanted-
Are you going to let me finish? Jim snipped, I meant, at neither of our flats. Somewhere in London. To shake hands.
Sherlock blinked, caught off guard by the unusual yet intriguing request, Shake…hands?
Yes, the criminal only faltered slightly, Similar to the rooftop, only…
Doesn't result in a migraine, Sherlock finished, not in a jesting mood at all.
Hopefully, Jim thought softly, hesitantly.
So neither of them knew what they were doing, then. That was…refreshing.
You know this will never be the game, Sherlock said quickly, It's going to be different if it's just us and no competition. We've only known each other as adversaries-
And we've been talking for days, now that we know each other as otherwise, Jim seemed to be forcing the words out, willing himself to believe them. He was still pushing back unpleasant memories that Sherlock had yet to learn about.
What is it we know each other as now? Sherlock wasn't even sure he wanted to know the answer. This was all so new and strange.
Jim pondered the question, You'll always be Sherlock to me. Unless you prefer William.
Sherlock balked, How did you-?
Good God, Sherlock, I set up cameras in your flat. Do you honestly think I wouldn't find out your first name?
Hm, the detective felt invaded, Suppose not.
You can call me what you like, Jim continued.
You prefer James, Sherlock blurted out before he could think, and it was the criminal's turn to be caught off guard.
What makes you-?
Nothing. Bit of deduction.
Run through it for me. Bring it back! What makes you think I prefer-?
I'll tell you, Sherlock inwardly smirked, when we meet. Deal?
Jim returned the mental smirk, irritation morphing into renewed interest, Deal.
(o0o0o0o0)
When Jim set out that night, he hadn't spent quite so much time getting ready.
Before, he'd lingered on the tiny details, right down to the trivial matter of physical appearance. Now, he was so anxious to get started that he barely spared himself a glance before heading out the door.
Apprehensively, the criminal wondered what it was exactly they were 'starting.' He'd never felt nervous before meeting Sherlock before. Anticipation had always been abundant—Holmes had always excited him in a way no one else ever could, but this was something otherwise.
He had a terrible feeling that tonight was going to result in more than a handshake. After all, their last meeting had almost resulted in a kiss. Had Watson not decided to walk in at the worst and best possible moment, there was no doubt that he and Holmes's lips would have met.
The idea sent a nervous spark of electricity through him, warming his Marked hand and forcing his steps to slow slightly on the snowy pavement.
Of course they both were aware it had almost happened. But what were they supposed to say about it? That neither had any clue what they were doing or why they were doing it or how fucking long it was even supposed to last.
Jim both hoped this was nothing, and prayed that it was something more. It was useful sharing a mind on it, he supposed.
The criminal crossed the street, shoes scuffing on the pavement and breath fogging out in front of him as he entered the icy silence of Clearshore park. Everything was covered in a layer of snow, and there didn't seem to be anyone around, save for Jim. The thought eased his mind. As much as he wanted to be close to Sherlock tonight, it wouldn't do to have people watching.
For once, that bit of caution made Jim feel quite tired, rather than safe. It weighed on him like a rock on his back. How was it that safety could be such a burden?
Noise from traffic faded slightly as the criminal walked, hands in his pockets. He felt like he had the night of the pool, almost. Like he didn't have to be bored anymore.
Now, how absurd was that idea?
A distant siren echoed into the midnight sky as Jim turned on his heel, leaning against a tree and not really minding if he got snow on his coat. This one was almost similar to Sherlock's. He'd worn it on the rooftop, and if it was sturdy enough to survive a fall on concrete, it could stand a little bit of snow.
Jim was mildly amused by the thought. This was what Sherlock did to him. Throwing high fashion items around like they were rags.
Hardly, the detective's voice sounded distant, like he was murmuring the thought. Probably trying to find Jim.
Dimly, the criminal wondered if Sherlock could even find him. He'd offered no clues—the only way his location could be known was through those brief flashes of awareness through the Bond giving sights, sounds, or other senses that usually faded into the background. Sherlock would have to be listening closer than usual.
Oh, and if he had to listen, he was surely going to be a while.
Jim let his eyes wander upwards to the stars.
The sky was cloudy; and though he hadn't noticed it as he was walking, extremely fine flakes of snow were falling, making him blink more frequently to keep them out of his eyes.
In this weather, making out any actual constellations was an impossibility, but as Jim stared upwards, he felt like a prison cell was being unlocked. The criminal let out a deep sigh, one that seemed to make its way through his entire body and take three years off his age. He vaguely remembered mentioning astronomy to Sherlock when they'd been in that pub together, and wasn't sure how he felt about it. When he'd had no one else, the cosmos had still been there with their promise to take him away someday. How could he share that with anyone, even if they were his so called Soulmate?
"That's all very philosophical," a voice sounded from his left, making Jim turn to see Sherlock, coat and scarf and curly hair, making his way towards him. "But I've never been one for sentiment."
The criminal licked his lips, heart skipping a beat as he looked Sherlock up and down, "Neither have I," he drawled, waiting for Sherlock to finish his statement.
"And yet," the detective's toothy smirk was enough to make Jim go weak in the knees, "here we are."
Jim returned the smirk, his slightly softer as he got off the tree, starting towards Sherlock, "Here we are."
Sherlock was stoic again, "You didn't think I'd find you?" his tone was accusatory.
"It's not a popular park," Jim shrugged.
"I have all of London mapped out-"
"And," the criminal's steps slowed, the closer they got. God, they were completely in the open now. Perhaps they should have stayed in the shadows. "That's not going to do you any good at all if you don't know where in London I am."
"Hmph," Sherlock huffed, looking away. There was a pregnant pause.
"What were you doing," Jim inquired, heart hammering in his chest, "before John walked in?"
The criminal felt slightly guilty at the jolt of nerves the question sent through Sherlock, who played it off with a nervous laugh, "What I was doing-?"
Jim stared him down, eyes dark as the sky, "Yes. What were you doing?"
Sherlock didn't want to articulate himself aloud anymore, Perhaps a better question is what WE were doing.
Arms crossed for warmth, and so he wasn't so tempted to hold Sherlock's hands, Jim forced himself to continue to meet the detective's gaze.
"I don't know," he said quietly, perhaps more so than he'd intended, because the phrase did something strange to Sherlock's heart. "I'm glad Watson walked in."
Sherlock was actually hurt for a moment, before he saw Jim's thought process.
It has to be me, you know, the criminal explained, reluctantly letting Sherlock into a more sensitive part of his mind, I have to be the first.
The detective's brow furrowed in confusion for a moment as he searched Jim's face. First to…?
Sherlock, I need the control. Just that bit.
Sherlock's expression softened slightly in understanding, Ah…
It's foolish. I'd advise you not to pry.
Can only hope that you'll let me sometime.
Jim suddenly felt quite small. And very cold. He shivered, looking out over the snow. It was white as the hand he held out between them, glistening with silver and trembling slightly, not only from the chill. They were close enough that the criminal could feel the fabric of the detective's coat against his fingertips.
Sherlock wasn't very hesitant. He was careful, and he looked down to study the offering a moment before he moved a muscle, but when their palms met, Jim still felt a little caught off guard.
Again, the reaction that hit them was remarkably instantaneous. However, it was more enjoyable this time; the consultants no longer felt like all the air had been ripped from their lungs. Instead, this interaction was pleasant; chaste, subtle, and quiet. Jim didn't feel quite so afraid as he'd thought he would. The criminal was almost tranquil, though he couldn't apply the word with surety to himself, given that he wasn't sure entirely what calmness was supposed to feel like…
Twin sighs neither had realized they'd been carrying escaped them simultaneously, circling up towards the stars in clouds of vapor, and warmth spread through their veins like the most sinful drug.
But it wasn't sinful. Not in the slightest. In fact, this was the lightest Jim had ever felt. Though he still faced difficulty turning his head to look at Sherlock, rather than the surrounding area.
He studied the detective's scarf. Despite the fabric being centimeters from his eyes, he couldn't see it or process it at all; the only sensation he seemed able to focus on was Sherlock's palm against his. The world could have ended right then around them, and Jim was certain the two of them would have simply stayed in place, because for the first time in his life, the criminal's mind was completely silent.
And, for some odd reason, that silence seemed to be all he ever needed to resolve 'this'. This problem.
Jim shifted his palm grasped in Sherlock's, giving it a small, almost imperceptible squeeze, swallowing any last hesitance he might have had. Before he could turn back, he allowed his eyes to flutter shut, despite the fact that he felt as though he was preparing to jump off a cliff. Had this been how Sherlock had felt on the rooftop?
No. It couldn't be, because this time, Jim knew that someone was going to catch him. Every accelerated beat of Sherlock's heart was audible to him, more so even than the distant sounds of traffic. Despite their already close proximity, a combination of nerves and strange gentleness seemed to lengthen the distance between them, so much that it felt like forever before their lips finally met, cold and dry.
The kiss was just as terrible as Jim had predicted. Terrible and soft as the falling snow. It was barely a brush of the lips, the pressure almost nonexistent, and yet it was enough to stop the criminal's world from spinning. Either that, or enough to start it, because suddenly it felt like he was seeing every star that London's light pollution kept from him. Worlds were shifting, planets were colliding, and they were barely even touching.
Sherlock's lips were cold and chapped against his, and his palm, despite its contact with Jim's, was equally icy. But somehow, that bit of contact was enough to warm the criminal's chest and confirm for him the apocalyptic theory he'd been nursing for so long—he was, unfortunately, undeniably, fatally in love with Sherlock Holmes.
As they were breaking apart, bliss coursing through the detective, this confirmation seemed to hit Jim in its full, lethal form.
The criminal's mouth fell open, tingling from their kiss, and he stumbled back a few paces, gaping at Sherlock and suddenly finding it very difficult to breath.
In love with Sherlock Holmes In love with Sherlock Holmes In love with Sherlock Holmes Jesus fucking Christ you are in LOVE with Sherlock Holmes.
Meanwhile, Sherlock stood blinking, unable to so much as process his own name.
The criminal shook his head, turning to leave, the lengths of his strides twice their average length. He needed air. He needed to run away from this. He couldn't be in love with Sherlock. The game was so much safer, oh, why hadn't they just stuck with that? Why couldn't they have kept things from getting this messy? He was not willing to go through this entire, painful process of human emotion again. He'd had quite enough experience with that, thank you very much-
"James!"
Said consultant stopped in his tracks so abruptly that he almost slipped and fell backwards. Memories of Sherlock's earlier, strangely accurate deduction about his preferred name replaced the more traumatic ones he'd been pondering.
He couldn't turn around. He simply couldn't. It felt like the detective's eyes were burning a hole through his back.
What? Jim snapped, not turning around.
To his surprise, Sherlock offered nothing cryptic or sarcastic or even ominous. Nothing that he ordinarily would have resorted to in an attempt to get the last word. No, instead he simply showed Jim a quick snapshot from what felt like centuries ago.
"James Moriarty isn't a man at all-"
Jim felt a slight jolt at Holmes's use of his full name. Hm. That was odd. Sherlock did make this court ordeal slightly less boring. He couldn't wait to get to the real games…
The criminal wasn't sure what to think. Sherlock had been paying far more attention than he'd thought. How much prying through his old memories had he done? Jim had discarded that strange little reaction long ago as nothing other than a temporary lapse in life's tedium. How deep had Sherlock managed to dig through his psyche to find it?
The criminal spun around, ready to demand an answer. Instead he saw nothing but a set of footprints, quickly being filled in by the more quickly falling snow.
Oh, fuck!
So now Sherlock was going to leave him? After all that? Did he know how infuriating that was?
Something about the detective's current smugness said he knew exactly how Jim was feeling. And he was getting a kick out of it.
Jim glanced around rapidly, heart pounding with love and fear and fury. Hell, he could feel everything under the damn sun right now, and he hadn't the faintest clue what the fuck to do about it.
The criminal fumbled for his phone a moment, only half aware of what he was doing, and without decision dialed the only number he could bloody think of.
(o0o0o0o0)
Sebastian refused to look at the caller ID, but the prospect of meeting Molly's eyes was equally as terrifying. He feigned a sudden fascination with the wall to his right.
"Answer it," Molly hissed the demand. The sniper weighed whether she or Moriarty was more likely to kill him if he didn't answer. Either way, there seemed to be only one thing to do.
Slowly, he took it out of his pocket, but just as he was about to answer, it stopped ringing.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. At least until Molly spoke next, when oxygen suddenly seemed incompatible with his body again.
"Who," she narrowed her eyes at him, "Is 'Boss'?"
Sebastian swallowed, cursing himself out for not angling his screen more effectively, "Molly, I…"
"You don't…work for Moriarty, do you?" her voice was quite weak suddenly, barely leaving her in a whisper. It tugged at the sniper's heartstrings. He opened his mouth to answer her, to come clean to this first real companion he'd had for years, when she spoke again.
"And…what were you saying about him and Sherlock?"
A/N: Hope you all enjoyed! Leave me your thoughts!