Jim's standing in front of the mirror of the bathroom deciding what tie to wear.
There was no food in the flat. It didn't matter anyway, Jim wanted to take Sherlock to waffles. If he did...would the detective eat ...today was a Friday, it was a possibility but not a guarantee. It's morning; before their appointment with the tailor and Sherlock's leaning against the slightly more than out of place claw-foot tub, reseting his wristwatch to Greenwich Mean Time. He hadn't remembered last night when they got in.
Without turning Jim asks Sherlock exactly what he plans to tell all the old fogies and ordinary people, who will ask how he is still alive, at Annora's funeral. The detective lets out a little scoff as he puts his watch back on. Jim's eyes glance up in the mirror to asses the detective, tying his tie.
"These are the newspaper reading sort. Gossip rags too."
"I won't say anything," the detective says simply.
"Right, the great Sherlock Holmes turned fraud has risen from the dead to attend the funeral of his mother: no comment."
"Fairytales?" Sherlock dismisses. Jim grins.
"Do you really think no one's going to ask?"
"I'm a confirmed killer." There he had a point. Who would want to approach him?
This fiasco would be mostly painless if their appearance didn't stir up a fuss. Jim is endeavoring to make it go as seamlessly as possible; so Sherlock gets his closure. So Jim can push players into motion. But all that is easier if they don't have to deal with ordinary people and their incessant whining about their own incomprehension. If the main problem with going, was the possibility of the wake getting crashed by police. Guests calling the sightings in; the animated corpses of a mass-murdering fraud and his two-bit actor accomplice. Jim giggles a little. It was an easy fix.
"I'll block cell-phone coverage and cut the land lines. Sound good?" The criminal asks coming to stand in front of Sherlock, dusting off his dark suit.
"Sounds perfect."
Sherlock is laying on the couch smoking a cigarette. Because it's the night before the funeral and tomorrow he will see John.
The detective had been thinking about what he will say to the doctor. He decided that it would be best if he just answers any questions John has and then tell him he will not be coming back. He'll say it and that will be it. John, I'm not coming back. He'll tell the doctor that but he knows for all it's simplicity John will not accept it.
Jim had been afraid he would go back; he shouldn't have been.
Jim had given the detective something, no one else even considered he might need. The criminal saw at a glance what was imperative to his survival and strove to give it to him.
Then there was John.
John had always there to catch him if he stepped out of line in daily life. A bit not good. Not enough compassion here, to much of a show-off there. And Mycroft was there to stop him if he stepped out on the bigger stuff. Drugs. Death. They thought he simply wanted it and sought to curb his desire. But it was an innate portion of his being, one that would not easily be eradicated. He would always be a fringe member of society, no matter if he solved the crimes or committed them. It was the work. All his life they had acted as restrictors and they would still see themselves as such; which was why neither the doctor nor his brother would be willing to accept his decision.
Sure they meant well, but they were attempting to contain the detective's nature. Jim would never do that. He facilitated it.
And Sherlock loved him for it.
Ding!
Think of the criminal and he shall appear. Jim stepped off the elevator. He'd left having to pick up the package of new lenses he'd ordered for his telescope at the front desk. Sherlock tracks Jim as he moves about the flat. He's wearing one of the suits they picked out earlier; the pin-stripes. Small ones, though not big. Large pin-stripes, Jim had said, were for gangster mob bosses from Hollywood. And that simply would not do.
The criminal ends his circuit of the apartment, having set down the box of lenses and striped his suit jacket, next to Sherlock, looking down at him. Then he climbs on top of the detective, so he's just lying on him. Belly of his slighter frame stretched out over the detective's own. This seems to be happening quite a bit lately, or at least since they got back from Montreal; there were several ways this had gone.
Jim might initiate a kiss. Passionate or meandering. He might kiss the detective for a few minutes or not even at all. A couple times, Jim had just laid on top of Sherlock. He would not talk. He would be listening, clearly for the detective's heartbeat. He seemed to be doing that now.
Sometimes, he'd ask Sherlock something. Something he knows would get the detective talking. And Jim would just have his head on Sherlock's chest, absorbing the vibrations of the detective's voice.
If the detective does not push him off...He's of half a mind to now. Sherlock imagines, this is what having a cat is like...It should be noted: he never intends to own a cat.
"I'm thinking," A level of irritability creeping on the edge of his voice.
"Well, so am I," the criminal's response is comfortable, too comfortable.
"Do you really need to do it on top of me? Now?" He takes a drag. "I'm trying to figure out exactly what I want to say to John."
"And you can't do that with me just lying here?"
"Your weight is oppressive."
"You should be used to it by now."
There's a lull. And Sherlock's too close to the end of this smoke for how immobile Jim has decided to be.
"If you're insisting on laying here, I'm going to need another cigarette."
Jim sighs, a short laugh. If that was all...
"Here," he said, fishing a fresh pack and a lighter our of his pocket. "Saw you were running out. Bopped into the lobby store while I was downstairs. Thought you might want another. "
"Lovely."
"I know."
Sherlock is fairly certain he's figured out why Jim is always touching him. The criminal needs confirmation that Sherlock is real. He spent all his life alone. Mostly desiring to be isolated from the world's stupidity; he achieved that. But isolation bred something else and Sherlock could see how on some subconscious level Jim may feel the need to make sure he didn't make the detective up out of loneliness. He could hardly blame the criminal for that.
However, Jim's reaching out was also the physical manifestation their connection. Which is why sometimes they just happened to be touching by the end of a trip in the car, when upon getting in they were clearly not. And why Sherlock frequently finds himself enabling the criminal by standing next to him or sitting too close, as if they were magnets. Touch was not something they had exactly encouraged with others before...Jim built his life to avoid coming in contact with ordinary minds and the everything attached to them and Sherlock had frowned on it always. So this between the consultants it was odd, but nice.
But the criminal laying on top of him did remind Sherlock of something...Jim's bed was pleasant. He is decidedly not thinking that had anything to do with the prevailing smell of Jim and entirely to do with the fact that it's a California king. (The criminal will only settle for the best.) Last night's rest was infinitely better than what passed as sleep on the jet. In fact he wouldn't mind sleeping there tonight. However, even if Jim did not sleep regularly, he still did sleep, and would likely need to be doing so tonight.
"You're not going fall asleep on me?"
"Would that really be a problem?"
"Just curious, you still only have one bed in here."
"Thank you, captain obvious."
"Well...there are two of us."
"Again, what's your point?"
"Where did you sleep last night?"
"I didn't. I distinctly remember going over this." Jim slapped his hand on the detective's forehead. "Are you feeling okay?"
"So, you'll be sleeping tonight?"
"Hurm, you do feel a little warm."
"And I want to sleep tonight."
"Maybe you-"
"Where should I sleep tonight?" Sherlock talking over the criminal.
"There are three choices, that I can see." Jim paused. "I'm sure you've thought of them. So this little round-about is all to achieve something else. Now, what could that be?"
"Just to compare notes: what three options do you see me having?"
"Well, there is the couch. You are sampling the fare at this very moment. Leather and with your temperature, you might stick. Eek. Maybe avoid that choice."
"The second?"
"Go down to the lobby. I'll phone them and you will be given a room. Of course, we are fully booked this evening and they will be forced to kick a guest out. Not that I mind. It's just a lot of effort. Might take a long time too. And I don't really want to talk to any ordinary people now..."
"So, the last option?"
"My bed."
"With you."
"Right." And that was what the detective was looking for after all, was it not? "...Made up your mind yet?" Jim, needles as he sits up, staring down quizzically at Sherlock, who is being equivocatory. "I'm not suggesting anything lewd. I swear I'll be good."
"There was no doubt in my mind that sleep was all you were offering."
"Good, because I am not that easy," the criminal gets off of Sherlock, tugging off his tie as disappears into his room.
He doesn't need ask Sherlock where he will be sleeping.