Sherlock was unconscious for a bit less than a day, and James right with him. John felt a bit like an intruder in the room with the two Soulmates; even when recovering from a gunshot wound together, the aura that surrounded them was an intimate one. Both of their expressions exuded a tenderness that looked foreign on their usually contemplative faces.
John thought it worked. Never in his life would he have thought James Moriarty or Sherlock Holmes capable of true gentleness, and yet he'd seen more love in Jim's face, cradling Sherlock's body, than he'd seen on anyone; and he'd seen his share of men weeping over fallen mates during the war.
So it was that he stood over the consultants, perhaps almost indecently intertwined for their current location. The fact that they were in a double bed didn't help the feeling that they were actually home at Baker Street, and John was trying to wake them on a lazy Sunday morning.
Greg swung into the room as if they weren't even in a hospital, and the door shut loudly behind him. He didn't look the slightest bit sobered at the fact that their friend was lying unconscious in bed right before their eyes. Or, semi unconscious. The nurse had finally allowed them in now that the Soulmates were supposedly waking up.
"It's almost inappropriate," Lestrade shook his head, crossing his arms and throwing John a look that very clearly said, "What are we going to do with them?"
John raised his eyebrows, nodding, "I know."
Greg pulled out his phone, checked it, and shoved it back into his pocket, "Kitty might get off."
"I don't care about her," John muttered, "Are Sherlock and James going to be-?"
Lestrade grinned.
"No," John returned the expression, feeling like a massive weight was being lifted from his heart, "Really? You're kidding."
Lestrade shook his head, "Turns out the bastard has made a lot of enemies over the years. Surprise surprise, a lot of them are female, and Kitty's had no trouble telling them all this story. Everyone is so busy with the Magnussen scandal that no one gives a damn about Sherlock's love life, for once."
John shook his head, exasperated, "Thank God for Kitty Riley." Now that was a sentence he'd never thought would leave his lips.
The door crashed open behind them, and two more joined the party, Molly Hooper looking rather flustered and Sebastian Moran windswept and buzzing with energy. The former deposited a lovely lilac bouquet of flowers onto the small, overcrowded nightstand, having to take a moment to move another onto the floor to make room. Sebastian nonchalantly planted himself on the bed, sneezing as if all the pollen in the room had just hit his senses.
"Not going back, then?" John was unfazed, though he did appreciate the idea of the likely exhausted consultants waking up to a very hyper Sebastian sitting on their bed. "To America?"
Sebastian's eyes widened, "Oh, hell no. I'm going. But I had to make sure that…" he glanced at Jim, "…you know."
John still didn't know why the sniper would give a single damn about his boss when Jim had done nothing but instill fear in him for his entire employment, but perhaps it was just a testament to the true nature of his heart.
Perhaps he wasn't meant to be a killer. Perhaps Jim wasn't, either. Perhaps no one was.
Sherlock shifted, and an anticipatory hush fell over the room.
(o0o0o0o0)
Something tickled James's forehead when he came to. Slowly, then all at once, the events of the previous night flashed before his eyes. The excruciating pain he and Sherlock had shared after the detective had been shot, Sherlock closing his eyes, losing Sherlock, the only one who'd ever understood him, forever…
The criminal was dimly aware of someone listening with amusement to his thoughts, and suddenly, it clicked. The heat of the body he was intertwined with, the hum of the nerves in their Marks, the lack of pain in his chest, curls against his forehead…
Sherlock.
James opened his eyes to find two blue ones staring at him, glittering mischievously. A small smirk teased the detective's lips. The criminal slowly sat up, eyes wide. He hardly dared to speak the name.
"…Sherlock?" he breathed, hardly daring to believe it was true. Sherlock had been shot. Magnussen had been going to ruin them. Everything had gone down in flames. For a moment, there was no sound but that of their heartbeats. Finally, Sherlock opened his mouth.
"Took you long enough," he scoffed.
James studied the detective in silence for a matter of seconds before he attacked him, dragging all manner of machines attached to them both along for the ride. He hauled Sherlock up by the collar.
"Is this a joke to you?" he shrilled, shaking the mostly unfazed detective, "You could have died, you doofus! We could have died! Magnussen would have ruined all of this for us and…and…"
Sherlock's infuriatingly smug smile didn't budge, and James angrily pulled him into a deep kiss.
Time seemed to slow around them. Sherlock tasted just like he remembered; like midnight air and venom and antidote and home, all at the same time. James slipped his tongue into the detective's mouth, his heart swelling from the contact as warmth spread through his body. Sherlock pulled him in closer and James moved his hands from the detective's collar to his hair, lacing his fingers through the familiar softness as Sherlock's expression sobered against his mouth.
I hate you. I fucking hate you. Don't you ever do that to me again.
I love you.
I love you too.
James felt the wetness around his eyes before he realized he was crying. He kissed Sherlock deeper, inhaling the detective and wrapping his arms around him, feeling the lean muscle in his back. It wasn't until a throat was cleared, giving him a bit of a start, that they broke apart. Still, the consultants only had eyes for each other.
"Please," James breathed, "Never leave me again."
Sherlock planted a quick kiss on the criminal's lips.
I promise.
"Um, hello, yes," John Watson's voice made a slight blush creep onto the complexions of both consultants, "Still here, if you both were wondering. So if you're going to start taking clothes off, at least give a little bit of warning…"
James and Sherlock blushed even harder when they turned to see that John wasn't alone. Sebastian, Greg Lestrade, and Molly Hooper all were watching them with separate expressions of shock. Molly seemed mostly abashed, while Sebastion studied them with a look of almost fascination. Lestrade's jaw was practically on the floor.
"Sherlock, you dog!" the silver haired man was the first to speak, his initial shock starting to mirror Sebastian's fascination, with a hint of his own good natured amusement, "I wish my wife snogged me that way!" he turned to John, "They're almost cute together, don't you think?" The doctor laughed.
She doesn't snog him at all, the detective commented to James, ignoring everyone's infatuation with the concept of their love, for fear he might blush, They haven't had sex in exactly six months. Notice how Greg has begun removing his ring every now and again…
You're still in trouble.
Sherlock silently cursed, half wondering if he was about to face a situation similar to Greg's.
I don't know what I would do if I lost you, Sherlock.
James felt the detective take his hand and give it a squeeze.
Suppose I'll need to be a bit more careful.
Not so much, James squeezed back, that you get boring, he teased. Nothing with Sherlock could ever be truly boring.
I could never be boring.
Aren't you certain!
Because I'm always right, Sherlock smirked.
The criminal frowned, studying his unusually colorful surroundings. Who the hell had brought them all these flowers? The things had overtaken the bedside table and spread onto the floor and around the bed, engulfing the ordinarily drab hospital room in a world of color.
Sherlock sneezed, "Is this a hospital or a bloody garden?" We don't know this many people. He started to run off the names. Petunias, daisies, carnations….that color is surely artificial…
James silently agreed, forehead still creased in apparent contemplation, and turned to John, "Are these…" he shook his head in disbelief, "For us?" Surely not…
Shockingly, John nodded, "Yeah, actually. Magnussen's standing with the public really took a hit overnight."
"Everyone he's ever wronged is coming forward," Molly, for once, spoke without hesitation, and John continued afterwards.
"Yeah, you should see Kitty's room."
"Do they know about us?" Sherlock suddenly demanded, incredibly alarmed.
Lestrade winced, giving a noncommittal hand gesture, and John simply shrugged, shaking his head.
"Mycroft seems to have contained most of it; a few might have slipped through, though. Either way, seems they're on your side. They don't know enough not to be."
James gaped at John, "But…" he struggled to formulate words, "But we didn't do anything!" Not anything moral, for that matter.
The room fell silent, and the consultants assumed that everyone was considering the truth to this statement. That is, until Sebastian broke the silence, in a voice uncharacteristically quiet.
"I don't know," he said softly, staring James straight in the eyes, "Feels like you did something."
James started to shake his head, and Sherlock snorted, "I abandoned James so that I could murd-"
"Shh!" John and Lestrade hissed simultaneously, and Sherlock balked, mildly offended.
"Say that a little louder, why don't you?" Greg cringed, though there was a hint of jest in his demeanor. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Surely if Mycroft could fix the mess they'd just created with Magnussen, he could fix a little slip of the tongue, as well.
"I, um…" Sebastian coughed awkwardly, drawing all attention to himself once more, "I actually meant him."
It took a moment for James to realize that the sniper was, in fact, speaking of him. The criminal's forehead creased in confusion.
"I'm…?"
"You've done something."
James narrowed his eyes. What the hell did Sebastian know that he didn't?
"I agree."
The criminal's eyes snapped to John Watson, as if betrayed. He opened his mouth to speak, but soon Molly was nodding and even Lestrade gave a shrug of acknowledgement, leaving him confused and unsure where to turn. As was usually the case in these situations, he turned to Sherlock, who was studying him intently, as if analyzing and concluding something.
What?
They're right. You've done something.
Well there's no need to be unnecessarily cryptic! James was getting quite frustrated, Spit it out!
You're different.
James internally scoffed, I'm exactly the same—
As when you shook my hand?
Before James could deny it any further, memories flashed across his mind. A constant chill, inside and out, distance and desolation and a voice hoarse from disuse. Anger and bitterness and fear and regret, rotting him out from the inside. Blood and silver running down ceramic tile. Lies that he didn't love Sherlock. Lies that he was better off alone. Lies that dying was better than this.
Oh.
In spite of himself, James flushed, silently begging Sherlock to make a sarcastic comment to distract from this new revelation, but the detective made no move to relieve him.
And you still…?
Bloody hell, James. You're still everything I loved. Just less Moriarty.
James's heart caught in his throat, And you loved me? Me?
The past tense is inaccurate.
But you needed the high.
I know what I want now.
James was very quickly becoming overwhelmed. He glanced at the four people sharing the room with them, and it felt like he was surrounded by dozens of people.
So they—?
Sherlock pulled him into a kiss, silencing James's worry once and for all. The criminal breathed the detective in, feeling his problems melt away as his fear was replaced with certainty; a certainty that this was right, that there wasn't a catch this time. He was James Moriarty, and he was kissing someone just as brilliant as he was, and they were safe in a room full of people who wouldn't hurt them. Sherlock's hand was firm under his chin, tilting his face upwards, and James straightened up, burying his hands in the detective's curls once more and deepening the kiss.
Lestrade had to clear his throat three times before they broke apart, so that by the end of it, it sounded like the poor detective inspector was coughing up a lung. It was Sherlock's turn to blush.
James felt unusual, as if he was trying on his own skin for the first time. Perhaps he was a different person. The weight of the world was gone from his shoulders. More specifically, the weight of his world. His old world. He was an asteroid, finally caught in someone else's gravity. And they were free. They were safe, and surrounded by…good people. Good people that suddenly didn't seem so ordinary.
Loved. That's what the feeling was. Not unusual. Loved. And when love felt that good, there really was only one way to respond to it. James turned to Sherlock, blinking back tears, and a gleam of mischief showed in the detective's eyes once more.
"I love you," the words left James's mouth crisp and clear with absolute certainty. He didn't even need a response to know that it was reciprocated, and so the criminal's eyes glittered with mirth, knowing the response before he even got it.
"I know."
(o0o0o0o0)
John's voice still held a tinge of exasperation when they began preparing to leave, half an hour later.
"He bloody hated that movie when I made him watch it," he complained to James, who pursed his lips. Next to him, Sherlock frowned.
Never said I bloody hated it. I said that the science behind it made no sense. It's a valid criticism. How on earth would every planet in the galaxy have an atmosphere suitable for human lungs? It's completely—
Since when do you know a thing about astronomy?
Since you decided to pledge abstinence until I learned something.
Seems that did the trick.
"Mm, I believe he has potential. Perhaps I can knock a bit of culture into him," James smiled coyly at Sherlock.
Oh, I'll knock y—
Sherlock!
John gave James a hesitant grin, and the criminal studied it with new eyes, "Yeah, well, just so you know, I'll be moving in with Mary downstairs. As much as I love the both of you, I still mind the noise at night." The doctor shuddered.
The mood grew a tad more somber at the mention of Mary, who hadn't, along with Mycroft, been present earlier that morning. James opened his mouth to ask about her, but John spoke first.
"She was with Kitty," he said, "She seems pretty determined to have her revenge on Magnussen."
"Who?"
"Both of them."
James bit his lip, "John, you know I don't in any way resent-"
"No, I know," John cut him off, "But she resents you, James, for what you did. Just because Magnussen is gone doesn't mean everything is okay."
The criminal huffed, feeling Sherlock's hand in his.
"I know," he conceded, "I know, and I'm not expecting anything from anyone. I expect I would be a bit presumptuous if I did."
John narrowed his eyes, slowly nodding.
"She can hate me," James continued, "But she needn't fear me, I suppose. Do tell her that, won't you?"
"If it seems a fit time. Do you know what you're going to do, then? With the empire?"
James paused, thinking back to previous conversations with Sherlock. The sacrifice of giving up the game, the peace of mind and the danger that came with no longer controlling crime. In the end, there had seemed one obvious solution.
"The greatest trick the devil ever played," James recited, "was convincing the world he didn't exist. It'll take years, but…" he looked at Sherlock, "I've done this much. Someone else can rise to the occasion after I've disappeared. And I do fully intend to leave no trace."
"Is that even possible?" John marveled.
"Anything is possible, my dear Watson."
(o0o0o0o0)
After a brief conference with Sebastian, who was still headed to America in a few days, and who still couldn't believe how much "like a normal couple" they seemed, James and Sherlock sought out the one person the latter dreaded the most.
Mycroft Holmes watched them approach with his usual smirk and arrogant demeanor. And as much as it made Sherlock's blood boil to see his brother back to his unbearable self, he secretly preferred it to a Mycroft worried about Magnussen. At least this way, he could freely insult him and not feel badly about it.
"Just look at you two," Mycroft cooed, "It's almost like you're an ordinary couple."
James took Sherlock's hand without a word or even much of a thought, and the detective flushed.
Oh, Sherlock… the criminal sighed silently.
Can't help it. He assumed that there would come a time when the fire James brought out in him calmed to a steady blaze rather than the living thing it was now; an inferno, white hot and sparking and uncontainable. Someday James's love would start to feel like home instead of a new adventure, but for now, holding hands in front of Mycroft was enough to make him more than a bit bashful—not because of the act itself, but because of the naughty thoughts any contact with James always brought to him.
Because he knew it would worsen the situation, the criminal lightly stroked the detective's hand.
Christ, stop.
Eager, are we?
Now is not the time.
Oh, I think it's a perfect time.
Don't make me tear my hand away.
James smirked, and decided to spare Sherlock the embarrassment of becoming aroused in front of his brother.
"I assume you've been filled in on most of the current situation," he stated, looking from one consultant to the other.
"Yes," James confirmed, forcing himself to say the second part, "But I don't understand why people aren't digging more. Why doesn't anyone care about why we were there when Magnussen died?"
"Take a look for yourself," Mycroft handed James a cellphone, smiling somewhat slyly. On the screen was an article on the event, published two hours ago. Quickly, he and Sherlock skimmed the article. There was no mention of either of their names anywhere, or even the fact that they were present. James handed the phone back, confusion written everywhere on his face.
"Kitty saw us," he pointed out, frowning.
"And?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock huffed in impatience. He hated when anyone played dumb.
"And," Sherlock snapped, "She saw us there. It was clear from our discussion last night that I repel her, so why would she spare me the exposure? She had no issue with giving me media trouble, before."
Maybe she realized she was wrong. Jim felt an odd kinship to Kitty, in light of this theory.
"She's probably still afraid of James," Mycroft drawled, "Whatever her motives, it doesn't matter. She is not an immediate issue. The issue lies with what to do with your new…boyfriend," the elder Holmes smiled on this last word, a positively saccharine expression.
James hated this question, primarily because he knew what he wanted, and he knew just how difficult it would be to obtain.
"I can distance myself from the empire on my own," the criminal promised, "I don't expect any help."
Sherlock squeezed his hand, and James remembered to exhale.
"Oh, no, don't be silly!" Mycroft waved him off with a chuckle, but his smile didn't reach his eyes, "No," he sobered, "If something slips my way then obviously I can clear it up. With our dealings in the past it shouldn't be too controversial or difficult to keep hush hush. And since Sherlock obviously is such a wonderful influence on you…" he paused, suddenly dead serious, "But do not overlook the factor of safety."
James was surprised to hear such sentiment from Mycroft, the man who'd literally kidnapped and imprisoned his own younger brother.
"Yes, of course," the criminal nodded solemnly. Sherlock held back a smirk.
"I worry about him," Mycroft insisted, "constantly."
That makes two of us, James thought, giving Sherlock's hand a squeeze and vowing never to let the detective slip through his fingers.
(o0o0o0o0)
Sebastian was forcing the zipper on his suitcase shut when Jim knocked on his door. While seeing the criminal in anything other than a full Westwood suit used to feel like a rarity, the former sniper was already growing accustomed to the new routine of expensive sweaters and ruffled hair. The change made it easier to meet Jim's eyes; they seemed warmer now, their intelligence less of a threat and more a fact.
"Do you have a place to go when you get there?" Jim's Irish drawl was something Sebastian was starting to enjoy; he almost wished he still hated his former boss. The last thing he needed right now was a reason to be sad about leaving.
Sebastian nodded, back once more to struggling with his suitcase. Jim was leaning on the countertop, watching him with mild amusement. Finally, the zipper gave way, closing the bag shut, and the former sniper stood up and turned around.
"I, uh," he shrugged, bouncing on his heels, "I called my family."
Jim raised his eyebrows, "And?"
"They were…surprised."
Jim waited.
"My sister answered the phone," Sebastian's voice wavered, but he didn't bother trying to fix it.
Jim's brow creased, as though he'd never before seen someone upset, and found it fascinating. He didn't break Sebastian's gaze.
"Was she as," his voice was suddenly much softer, "dull as you remembered?"
For whatever reason, this question fucking got to Sebastian. It was as if all of the repressed pain of the past few years came rushing at him at once. Oh God. Fuck. Fucking shit. He was going to cry in front of Jim Moriarty. The waterworks were coming. Sebastian wished he could have at least tried to stop it, but before he'd known it, he'd let out a single sob, and had to stuff a fist in his mouth.
"Oh, Christ…" Jim muttered, clearly unsure what to do.
"No! No it's," Sebastian, horrifyingly, sniffed, "It was nice to talk to them all. Sorry for crying like a bitch."
Jim huffed a gentle laugh that didn't match the sneer on his face, "How," he shook his head in bewilderment, "How on Earth you ever ended up in my employ, Sebastian…" He studied the sniper a moment before continuing, his expression softening, as he looked Seb up and down, "But I suppose I'm happy you did."
Now it was Sebastian's turn to look confused. He was pretty sure that any job he'd done correctly for Jim at some point had been canceled out by another mistake he'd made.
As if reading his mind, Jim continued, smiling with his eyes, "I suppose I would have been a bit more bored without you."
"Oh," Sebastian scoffed, "Well as long as I'm good for something."
There was a long moment of silence, and then Jim held out his hand, glistening silver. Sebastian looked from the criminal's face to his palm, surprised by the gesture of respect and…fondness?
"Thank you, Sebastian," Jim said, suddenly sounding much older than he looked.
Sebastian gaped, "But…? Why…?"
"Tolerance, Moran," the criminal continued, voice steady and absolute, "You taught me tolerance."
Slowly, the former sniper took the hand offered him; it was cool and surprisingly soft. Sebastian remembered every terrible, very intolerant thing he'd ever thought around Jim. Suddenly, it seemed a relief to be leaving. To start over. Though he'd miss Molly. And he wished he'd known them all more. But…London was too grey for him, and he missed the green lawns and blue skies that American suburbia offered.
He could have mentioned any one of these thoughts, but instead he settled for a simple "You're welcome" before giving Jim's hand a quick shake and letting it go.
"This isn't for me," Sebastian said abruptly, looking around him as though just now deciding crime wasn't to his taste, like a bad choice of paint color. He hoisted his suitcase upright with ease, his gaze settling on Jim once more.
"I know," the criminal's smile was tight lipped and bittersweet.
Sebastian looked towards the door, "Tell the asshole I said bye."
Jim broke into a full on grin, "Of course."
(o0o0o0o0)
James tasted spring in the air when he went to find Sherlock, and upon meeting with the detective, noted that it had put an extra spring in his curls. It was almost as sweet on his tongue as Sherlock's lips when they met his. Their kiss was light and chaste, though as usual, the detective's thoughts were anything but sweet. When they pulled apart, both consultants found themselves studying their surroundings with brand new eyes. Christ. They actually were alone. Alone and safe. They were just another couple on the streets of London.
Somehow, the notion was quite freeing. The world was expanding, no longer a cage. It was easy on the eyes and warm on the skin and soft to the touch. Perhaps that was what love did to a person; softened them around the edges without dulling their shine, bringing peace rather than mere excitement.
"It's going to rain," James commented aloud, simply because he knew Sherlock had a fascination with his voice, and he might as well humor his interest.
"Mmhm." I know.
They fell into silence for a moment, mental and vocal, studying their surroundings with a twin frowns.
"It's different," Sherlock commented suddenly, earning him a confused look from James.
"You mean-?"
Sherlock turned towards his Soulmate with contemplative eyes, "It's more than bigger. It's the bloody glasses."
James's lips quirked up into a half smile, "Glasses?"
"The bloody red glasses John goes on about."
Rose colored glasses, dearest.
Do you understand…?
James took a quick look through Sherlock's thoughts, and he realized that he very much did. The game was exhilarating, fulfilling, and a perfect way to exercise and stretch the caged mind, but…they weren't caged anymore. They could bounce thoughts off one another all day if they wanted. There was no need for release if they weren't being strained in the first place, and it wasn't as if the game didn't bring any negative effects at all… With James distancing himself from crime, and the both of them feeling less like mental patients, they could actually find a bit of peace of mind. Sherlock loved his own work, but by God, that wasn't the only thing he cared about. It never really had been, but it had taken James to show him that.
"I do," the criminal finally answered, dimly wondering if the humidity in the air was curling his hair at all.
"'Bit," Sherlock answered the unspoken question, and James, sighing contentedly, held out his hand for the detective, who took it just as a stray raindrop hit him on the nose. He huffed, slightly disgruntled as James pulled him away with amusement. However, after a few minutes of walking, their steps slowed, and the criminal turned to look up at the only rooftop in London whose grey stood out from the rest.
Sherlock smirked. Good God. Tell me you don't want to kiss up there.
James balked. He hadn't been thinking of anything like that; at least, not seriously. Now that he considered it, he supposed it would be a perfect ending to the game. A passionate kiss right where it had all started, perhaps they would make love as the first rains of spring cooled their skin, Sherl reciting the names of every constellation James had so much as mentioned in his presence…
The two of them stood in silence as more raindrops started to fall, cooling the slight blush coloring Sherlock's skin and forcing their eyes to squint as they considered the roof.
Oh, but our clothes would get soaked, James decided. Tea at 221B sounded a bit more inviting. That was the most important rooftop in London now, and unlike the hospital, kept something James cared about underneath it.
Sherlock nodded. Fair enough. And if Kitty somehow got to it…
Mycroft would have a field day, Jim finished, cringing. Oh, yes. Tea sounded more appealing than cinematic rooftop sex. For today.
"You have an umbrella?" Sherlock inquired, actually almost concerned about the answer. Rain was falling faster now, and they were far from home. As much as James liked to believe that Kitty Riley cared more about destroying Magnussen than their love life, it still was likely a good idea to keep their heads down for a week or so. Which meant avoiding cabs, at least on the day after Magnussen died.
James smiled sheepishly. Yikes.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, unbuttoning his coat in a hurry as raindrops peppered the pavement around them. He shrugged out of one sleeve and threw that side of it over the top of James, who enjoyed the way Sherlock's familiar smell mingled with the petrichor in the air.
Shut up and start walking. This is wool, so if it gets soaked through—
It would have to be hung up to dry. Oh dear.
Imagine it was Westwood and walk faster.
Ooh, that a threat?
Possibly.
I'm quaking in my loafers—HEY!
Sherlock tore the coat from James's grip, exposing him to the downpour currently assaulting London.
Apologies, the detective teased a now soaking wet James, I hadn't noticed it had started to rain so much harder…oh, was that thunder?
SHERLOCK.
The detective snorted, dissolving into giggles. James crossed his arms, completely pokerfaced as rain continued to soak him through. This was not without effort, however, as Sherlock's laughter was like a feather in his ribcage.
I'm waiting.
"Your face…" Sherlock giggled, and James cocked an eyebrow, accidentally letting a smirk slip through. Upon seeing this, a victorious Sherlock offered half the coat once more, and James grinned as he snatched the entire thing for himself.
The detective was more than content to walk the rest of the way in the rain.