Author's Note: Be forewarned this chapter contains multiple counts of terrorism, cartel violence, kidnapping, civil disobedience, non-normative forms of depression, ptsd, and more suicide ideation. Applicable trigger warnings apply.

Jim tastes like a chase. And it's not recklessness, but calculated risk. And Sherlock revels in it. Because the criminal has just lit his mind on fire, again, and it still feels as good as the first time he heard the name Moriarty.

Crimes pop up all over the place and the detective scurries about, seeing Jim pulling the strings for each and being right. And it's like their cold case game only present tense; on a rolling basis. Sherlock gets really excited if the criminal disappears into his office for a couple hours, even more if it's a couple of days. While it's not the best for business, that has never been their main concern. (It's not like Sherlock's handing his findings over to the authorities anyway.)

There are the cases that he and Sherlock work on together and then there are the cases that he designs alone for the detective to solve. It keeps him occupied and Sherlock entertained, most of the time. It's fun and Jim still likes to watch the detective dance.

Jim tastes like ink. The theories that he has never mistaken and the tomes his name will never be printed in. The dry academics that have never accepted him. After days of pouring over his notations and when he's written on the windows again and added another notebook to his shelf; Jim tastes like rejection. Not rejection of Sherlock, but rejection of society. And there's commiseration there.

One day, Jim spends an hour on the balcony talking to a 'bird trainer.' That was all the detective caught of the conversation before the criminal slipped outside. When Sherlock tries to inquire further, Jim innocently feigns confusion.

A week later five locations (which have metal detectors and security, mind you) in greater Los Angeles are bombed. It's a mystery how the terrorists got the explosives in. That is till the injured wake up in hospital care, describing how birds were the bearers of the of destruction.

The newspapers catch on with that one: BIRDS WITH BOMBS! The sub-headline reads: An tragedy after Alfred Hitchcock's heart.

Jim sniffs over the declarations; lips curling in disgust as he groused how he hated that monstrosity of a film over their breakfast and Sherlock's sniggers.

Jim tastes like the sea. Salty, refreshed, and loose-limbed, because he swims so far from shore. And he's telling Sherlock that the water's warmer than last time because of the - El Niño, yes, the detective supplies. The criminal's grinning: Then come on. Luring the detective with him as he goes back to the water.

Sherlock is taking a bath. Earlier the criminal had shooed him off. ("Avert your eyes!" Jim's voice rose in tone of scandal, when Sherlock neared his desk. Clearly, he was working on a crime for the detective to solve and he demanded that Sherlock make himself scarce.)

So, the detective was taking the afternoon to sit in the water and smoke. He doesn't often take a bath, but it promised the relaxation he needed; because it's not like he's not happy Jim's planning some entertainment, but it's just so boring having to wait for it. (Sherlock wonders what it will be this time. He thinks back to his brief glance of Jim's desk and tries to remember just what those papers said. He'd been standing at a terrible angle to do any real recognizance, but he couldn't help that now. Still he turns over in his mind what the criminal's next mystery could be.) The time Jim takes was necessary to properly make the crime intricate enough, but everything was so dull in the mean time.

He's smoking and thinking (pointedly of other things).

Sherlock frowns when Jim wanders in and fusses, spreading the soap suds. The criminal leans on the edge of the tub, offering the detective the box of Lemon-heads he's holding. Sherlock, waves it away in dismissal. Jim's shrug says: your loss.

"All set then?"

"I'm fairly pleased with one. It's clean," Jim decides, still sucking on his candy. That sounded like a promise of a challenge. But Sherlock's thoughts were no longer plagued in wonder of criminal's conniving. Instead:

"How did we not meet sooner?"

"Wouldn't you like to know..." And he's walking two fingers along the edge of Sherlock's bath, with a goofy grin on his face. Sherlock catches those fingers in his own, forcing Jim's gaze, which instantly becomes calculating. And he can read it in Jim's eyes: What an interesting move.

But he never elaborates. Always slips out of reach. Sherlock keeps looking.

Some things will always be shrouded in mystery.

Jim tastes like nectarines. And the California air, the groves of decade old fruit trees, and the exhaust of the cars on the open highway up to Sonoma.

They stay in London for a while, but this is supposed to be freedom. Jim actually likes being a transitory phantom that disappears with the wind. All his whispers, smoke. So, they travel.

They walk through the Tate, the Lourve, the Gemaldiegalerie, the Guggenheim in Bilboa admiring the works. Discussing which displays were the real deal and which were replicas. (One time, Jim stage-whispered a detailed plan to steal this work they were admiring, when security were conveniently standing within earshot. Well, they legged it out of there so fast and had a good laugh about it later.)

They take more jobs. A year passes. More crimes and they are everywhere; murders in Milan, smuggling in Maine, a heist at the Cape of Good Hope, and somehow they are back in California. Then they are no where. Because Jim got this look in his eye; Sherlock would describe it as being along the lines of 'I want to fall into you and never get out' and well Sherlock wouldn't mind getting lost in the criminal either.

They decide that they will take a road trip and drop off the map for a bit. Jim threw his record player and half the collection of 45s in the back seat next to Sherlock's violin. They head up the coast in the criminal's charcoal Bentley convertible.

The consultants take the driving in turns, even though the roads are littered with day time drivers, idiots, and ordinary people. There's a reason why Jim normally hires a driver. Where Sherlock is quite meticulous in signaling, allowing the proper space between cars and always keeps his eyes on the road; the criminal drives like a maniac.

Jim refuses to stay within the lanes, let alone the speed limit. He swerves, cuts in front of other cars without notice, tailgates, and frequently stares into Sherlock's eyes. Of course, none of this leads the detective to worry for his safety. He's fully aware the criminal has it under control, for all his theatrics.

For every gas stop they need to make, Jim will go into the service station to pay with cash and come out bearing snacks but mostly candy. When they're back on the road, he'll talk around a mouthful of sour gummy worms as he says from the passenger seat: "I spied with my little eye something that begins with a S." He means the Santa Monica pier they passed about an hour ago. That was the most obvious one so far. All the little details Sherlock absorbed like a sponge whizzing past at high speeds was good, but the added challenge of having to keep all those features for hours on end? That spin made the game oh so much more fun.

And perhaps Jim's silliness brings out Sherlock's own because just outside of San Luis Obispo, the detective takes it upon himself to light them both cigarettes. A nice gesture, except he was driving at the time. Sherlock removes both hands from the wheel to go rooting around in the glove compartment. (His knees keeping the steering steady, he's not completely without sense.) Once the detective lit them between his lips, he passes one over to the criminal who accepts it; taking a drag as he leans his head back only to exhale in one long blow, watching as the smoke is carried off by the air speeding above.

They're just having some fun. It's a miracle they make it to the Bay area in one piece and with only one speeding ticket. (Tickets for other offenses, however, were unaccounted for.) Sherlock isn't sure how Jim came up with the birthplace of American vinting, as the criminal rarely drank the stuff, but it was a good choice.

Jim tastes like wine. His mouth is full of the age found in wine country and he's drunk and looking for something harder, thank you, please...

Sonoma is lovely this time of year and that's a lie. It's off-season and nobody else was staying at the winery they are. Apparently, a drought was underway.

In the evening, Jim sets up his record player. They listen to Pärt's Tabula Rasa. They speak of tintinnabuli, the minimalist compositional style created by the composer. Jim positively gushes at the intrinsic math that plays puppeteer to the flow of the notes. Sherlock agrees that it is a fascinating style, but then couldn't Jim find numbers in most compositions. True he can and has, the criminal grants. But he prefers the so called holy minimalism. Cleaner. Less notes. And oh, Sherlock gets it.

Their conversation naturally shifts into a discussion of Baroque works; of which as it so happens Jim knows a shocking amount, despite having never played an instrument. They talk about music into the early hours of the morning and then some.


After a few days on the vineyard, Jim wants to go into to town. They tour the shops and it's a tourist trap to the nth degree, but then they are tourists. Nothing was of any real interest until Jim drags the detective into a boutique toy shop.

Sherlock doesn't expect to be there long so he lingers near the front of the store, while the criminal wanders off. The detective pokes at the specialty hand-carved animals and the boxes of play sets for the would-be doctor, police man, or chemist.

"How much do you want for this?" Jim comes from the back of the store carrying an oversized box that advertised a build-it-yourself remote-control operated model airplane.

"It should have a tag on it," the clerk explained. The criminal turned the box over, looking, and then over again. "On the bottom?" Jim lifted it above his head, peering.

"I don't see any," he set it on the counter and considered the clerk, who was clearly the store-owner. "How about this: we flip for it." The criminal reached into his pocket, producing a shiny quarter and placed it on the counter between them. "Heads: I pay double whatever you say the price is. Tails: it's free."

The owner looked mildly amused:

"Now, why would I want to do that?"

"This is the slow season," Jim quirked a collusive smile. "You could do some excitement."

Sherlock stifles a sigh; the criminal was flirting. But apparently the clerk liked it, agreeing to the bet with a nod of the head.

The consultants walk out of the shop having paid for a three-hundred and sixty dollar toy plane.


Jim puts the plane together while Sherlock is composing a piece on his violin.

As he lets the glue dry, Jim'll listen to Sherlock compose and give him suggestions till the detective's irritated with him. He lets the paint dry. No rush.

When it's done, the criminal takes it out flying. He does approximately two fly-byes before he's back inside on his laptop making improvements on the schematics.

"Testing aerodynamics?" The detective asks between recording the notes on his music sheet. Jim makes a possibly face.


They get drunk and snog. (Practice, explore, improve.) As they get better, the more they want to take five-minutes (which becomes ten, fifteen, twenty) aside for a little make-out session. Which is weird and it pushes at their boundaries but in a good way.

But then nothing compares to a dialogue or an occasional discussion (conversations only qualified as such if they actually disagreed on something, and those instances were often far between). Sherlock can start sentences and Jim will finish them. Entire conversations fly between them with just a few words; that's mostly work and planning. Their conversation's word count increases with other specific topics.


It's sooner rather than later when things get too quiet for the consultants. The time in Sonoma was nice but they wanted the excitement of a chase again. Jim's dancing around because he has something in his brain that he thinks might stump the detective. Sherlock is determined to beat his record for solving one of the criminal's puzzles. Regardless, they are both eager to get back.

In the morning before they drive back, Jim flies his contraption out over the dry vines one last time. He's made some adjustments, on top of the adjustments he already made. Sherlock watches, standing next to the criminal as he handles the controls. It's hanging low over the rows of grapes, heavy with the load the criminal had rigged to it. He asks Sherlock what he thinks.

The detective makes a noncommittal noise; Jim would have known the plane wouldn't reach optimal height with whatever he put on it. So the criminal had some other purpose in mind, Sherlock would withhold judgement, thanks. Jim obliges, making the plane swerve down abruptly. He crashes it, and well it just so happens to burst into flames, that quickly spread through the parched landscape. He started a wildfire.

Whoops.

Just causing trouble.

Jim tastes like the night air. And there's a ring of indent around his eye from his telescope and there's the stars in their eyes again and the grit of decaying stone railing rubbed into his pants from where Sherlock pushed him against it, just like he pushed their lips together.

They're in the middle of the outback. New South Wales. Not a light on for miles and the stars are brighter than Sherlock has ever seen them.

Jim dragged them here to see the hyper-nova of a star and the birth of a black hole. When the criminal told him about this expedition, the detective noted that the Kielder Observatory said that would happen next year at the earliest.

"Well, they're wrong," Jim says, disinterested amidst his calculations. Sherlock has long since abandoned asking Jim why he won't share his genius with others.

Jim had planned to stop all work to devote his full attention to what was happening thirteen billion light-years away, but then Sherlock said he needed something to do while the criminal was puttering away on his astronomy. Of course, Sherlock had no intention of working on crimes when the star imploded. He was going to have Jim explain everything to him.

He knows Jim's eager to share his passion for the stars with him if he's really interested. And the detective is interested because Jim is interested. The criminal's study of the universe was one of the few things that Jim seemed to find any enjoyment in outside of work. Sherlock wanted to share in that with him.

So, they in the middle of the outback, with all of Jim's stargazing equipment laid out and properly set. He's set to record the event. While they're waiting for the hyper-nova to begin, Sherlock turns to the criminal:

"What's that there?" Sherlock's pointing to a slightly reddish cloud of dots. Jim looks to where the detective's pointed.

"Oh, that?" He asks as he turns back to Sherlock's curious expression, grinning. "That is Cygnus."

"Like the swan?"

"Uh-huh. Named after the a Greek myth. It's about four-thousand light-years away from us."

"What about that one?" Sherlock pointed again.

Jim tastes like sweat. And the criminal doesn't like to get his hands dirty. So he doesn't. But they can dance over keys just fine.

One time, when the criminal is listless, sitting on the couch repeatedly tapping a pen against the coffee-table; his mind wrapped around nothing and yet thinking non-stop all the same; Sherlock tells Jim he should learn the piano. The detective dances him around in an argument till he's convinced Jim that he doesn't believe the criminal could do it. (He can.)

Well, Jim takes that bet and he's playing Alkan before the month is out.

"Thought you didn't like melodies with too many notes?" Sherlock asks when he sees the music sheets.

"Oh, I picked this piece for you."

The detective's not sure if that was meant as a cut. But then the criminal starts to play.

Though Sherlock had appreciated the pianist's compositions before, he had never seen one preformed first hand. The concerto Jim had chosen, like a majority of Alkan's work, was manic in its pacing. The physicality that the piece required of the performer was exhausting. But like everything else the criminal did, he committed to the piece one-hundred percent.

There's perspiration dotting his brow by the end of the first movement; his features half strained with effort as he works up the frenzy of notes. And it's rare Sherlock's been so entranced by a song.

Jim tastes like coffee. And the tap of computer keys, the forty-nine hours he hasn't slept, and the arid air conditioning of his study. And down goes Facebook, the powers out in Phoenix, and the vaults are open in Zurich. He tastes like electricity.

It's winter in London.

"I keep having this dream."

"Humm," Jim encouraged, brushing back his hair. They're standing in the bathroom, Jim forever putting the final touches on today's ensemble. Sherlock always sitting on the edge of the bathtub watching the end of his primping.

"I wake up in our bed. But you're not there."

Jim glances over at the detective, because: how exactly is this different from most nights?

"That's what I think in the dream but then I remember why you're not there."

"I'm dead," Jim guesses.

Sherlock nods.

"Do you remember how?"

"You don't think it's prophetic?"

"Just curious," the criminal gives a light scoff.

"Suicide."

"Of course," Jim shrugs it off, pulling on his suit jacket. Sherlock watches the criminal, un-affected, smooth out the absent creases. But Jim knows the thought is still troubling the detective, he turns round, saying in what could only be considered a note above scolding reprimand: "I am not the flight risk as Sebastian would lead you to believe," Jim moves into the sphere of Sherlock's space, hovering just within reach, completely sober.

Sherlock keeps his hands on the lip of the tub. The detective knew that. Just offing himself in some London flat wasn't going to cut it; Jim's death needed to mean something to him. Sherlock knew all too well the number of times Jim probably thought to just end it. But he had waited, and Sherlock knew with the bile at the back of his throat that he felt gratitude for that restraint.

He believed Jim. And it's hard not to, when he's staring into those amber eyes that hold such conviction; but in the end it didn't really matter if the detective believed him. Sherlock subconscious still replayed Jim sticking the barrel of a gun in his mouth, the feeling of his hand being ripped from the detective's, his blood pooling on the concrete. Sherlock is haunted by these images.

Jim tastes like tea. And they've just finished with after-noon service and he's back to making the final adjustments to a semtex packed vest. There's the monitor feeding them live footage of a man nervously biting his nails in the room four doors down. And in a hour there's going to be a big boom in Marienplatz.

If anyone was doubting that Jim Moriarty could talk someone into to killing themselves to send a message and have them actually do it (precisely no one was wondering that), this was that case. The commission for a dozen suicide bombers in crowded locations across Europe. The art of the case was the persuasion of the bombers.

Later, after the message was delivered, they're sitting in this dumpy bar in Berlin (a safe distance away from mayhem); Jim watching the detective as he deduced facts and backstories about the other patrons.

"You see that lady in the corner?" Sherlock's voice was low, even though the hum of the lounge was not conducive to hushed conversations. He could have just raised his voice over the lull, instead the detective was leaned over the gap between them in their corner booth, hand resting on Jim's leg for balance and voice in his ear. "She is a regular here. And the bartender thinks he's in love with her. But he's never asked her out and- Why are you smiling?"

"Nothing," Jim's eyes still only on the detective, nursing his second kamikaze.

"Sure," Sherlock remained leaning, dubiously studying the criminal's peering visage. Sherlock could not read him. (Jim made certain of that.) But it was more fun to leave him guessing. The detective liked it better anyway.

"Fine, don't tell me," Sherlock sat back, with a subtle smile on his lips. "I'll figure it out eventually." The detective swirled his drink and watched the people, changing the topic: "You know, those train bombings in 2008?" Jim nodded, of course he did. They'd never talked about it previously but he'd been commissioned for that. "I knew that was you...Okay, I didn't know it was you at the time but, later, after the pool..."

"What makes you so certain that was my brain behind that architecture?" Jim scooted closer to the detective, setting his chin on the man's shoulder, exhaled words brushing Sherlock's ear in a bored drawl.

Sherlock began listing off every impressive aspect of the case in answer to Jim's query.

"Did you really think they were that spectacular? By the time they figured out what actually happened, I thought the whole affair was rather expected," Jim was morose at the prospect of his work being foreseeable.

"The orchestration was ingenious...though I do prefer your more recent work."

"I suppose I'll take that as a compliment."

Sherlock didn't even consider:

"You should. Absolutely."

Jim tastes like biscuits. It's mid-morning and they're in the park. And no, those are not the same ones they are feeding the pigeons. They are just causing trouble for the hell of it and oh, look the pigeons are dead.

It's spring and the consultants are feeding birds.

They're not in Geneva, but Como. And Jim's on a low.

They're supposed to be supervising the theft of a yacht but the criminal is just sitting on a stone wall overlooking the lake, throwing crumbs half-heartedly.

"We should go," Jim didn't mean leave Italy.

Sherlock took a breath and held it, as he sat next to Jim.

"We can do anything we want," the detective's tone was at once beseeching and yet completely understanding.

"That's what I was suggesting," Jim rolled his eyes.

"I don't to rush into it."

"Sure," Jim's lips thin into a line. He tries another route. "And your brother?" The criminal asks this like they haven't been over it before. Like they would't go over this again.

"My brother can wait. I want more time." Jim nods. Of course you do.

"Death offers nothing but time."

Sherlock watches the crease in the criminal's ease leaving a serene expression. He must be thinking of it (what comes after his end) and Sherlock doesn't (does) want to pull him out of that but he will; answering:

"Death offers no certainty either. And we can have time here. Now."

Jim's back to frowning at the birds. The detective reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a package of skittles. He puts them in the criminal's hand.

Jim stares at the package for a second before his lips turn in a grimace; as if candy would liven his mood.

"You want the red ones?" he asks as he rips it open and begins picking through, sorting them. "I never eat them."

Jim tastes like mint. It's the gum he's chewing on the way to a meet. And he's all nerves. Controlled, excited, buzzing, leg-bouncing of it's own accord nerves. Dauntless.

It's summer and they're back in LA.

The meet had been set for 5:30. Sherlock is standing over a boiling beaker. Boring. But then so is what Jim is doing. The detective's seen Valencia's men. He's heard Jim's Detroit. He's been to a trade off. He's seen all of that and he's not going, the detective tells the criminal for the second and the last time. And maybe it's the Detroit skin the criminal's slipped on (again) but Sherlock has a funny feeling about this.

And this meet couldn't have lasted more than a half hour and the detective still didn't get why Jim felt the need to go HIMSELF. But he should have been back by now and what? Sherlock was done with the experiment. He's calling Jim. Because he knows Jim won't mind. And really, where is he?

Jim tastes like metal. Like grease, like gunpowder, like high-carbon steel. Like a gun had been shoved in his mouth, because it had. And blood. And it's Jim's blood. And that wasn't supposed to happen. And he tastes like he might actually care if he had almost been killed by Mexican drug runners.

On the third ring, Jim picks up and Sherlock's all ready with this rather droll anecdote and- that's not Jim. It's Valencia on Jim's phone and he's talking, triumphant and quick (he doesn't want to be tracked, which means they are still near L.A.), in half english, half spanish. And the detective doesn't speak Spanish; he's only getting every other word. But he only needs every other.

Valencia's not giving any demands to be met to ensure Moriarty's safe return or return at all. Nope, he just wants the criminal dead; his empire in pieces is an added bonus.

"It's a very good thing you called, Mr. Holmes. This is Mr. Holmes, the man we had drinks with the day of Mr. Warner's untimely demise, is it not?"

"Yes," Sherlock swallowed.

"You are to receive a great windfall due to the passing of Mr. Moriarty here," there was a dark laugh. "He and I were just having a nice little chat and he told me so much about your organization."

Sherlock bites back an: I severely doubt that. Jim doesn't speak under torture. Instead, he says: "Oh, really?" Trying for ironic and barely hitting the mark.

The drug runner is talking too much. Rambling his mouth off like one of those stupid soap characters on John's telle. He's giving the detective all these important details. But just before he hangs up, Valencia answers the question Sherlock does not ask (because he knows the answer).

"No, it will not be quickly. It will be a slow and painful death. You have seen the chainsaw beheadings?" Valencia asks, "That was child's play compared to what I'm going to do to him." Sherlock can hear the sick man's grin over the phone and acid at the back of his throat.

He doesn't take a moment, not a single moment to dwell on the actual implications of this. The possibility of loosing Jim, again. No. He can't. He calls up Moran and with in two minutes they're out the door, they've got a lot of guns, and they're gone. They need to find where Valencia is keeping Jim and move as fast as humanly possible to get him back.

Sherlock thinks that their best bet for getting this information is using Jim's connections in the Korean mafia. If he speaks to the Los Angeles kkangpae, the detective knows he can spin this into a mess, not about Moriarty, but the Mexican cartel.

In the car he talks to Jim's contact in the tong and it takes a little bit to set up a meet. When he's finally seated with someone who knows the scope of the cartel's reach, Sherlock explains the threat of the cartel, what he needs and offers compensation for any specific information they might have (i.e. the location of M). Jim's contact takes one look at Sherlock, sees the value of what the detective's proposing, see he will get this done; (because this is Jim and Sherlock wants him back, now, and Sherlock is prepared to carry out any threats he makes himself) and well, they never liked the idea of the Mexican cartels crossing stateside quite so pervasively (sticking their fingers in what had traditionally been the tong's business; trying to eek them out).

Actually, they had been watching the cartel's expansion of power closely. They tell Sherlock what they know, where they think Valencia would probably be keeping Jim, who's Moriarty now. (But it doesn't really matter what Sherlock calls him; it's in his eyes.) They tell him because they've been itching to take the Millenio out, they just didn't want to risk an all out war with the other cartels they were allied with.

If the result of taking out the Millenio is war, it will be on Moriarty's enterprise, not their own. Perfect opportunity.

Moran sends out Moriarty's local lackeys to scope out this place the kkangpae tells them the Millenio's men have been frequenting. The tip is good. And the only return they demanded was that they crush them thoroughly and completely.

Well, there's no way Sherlock would not.

Jim tastes like cigarette smoke. And that part, at least, is Sherlock's fault, he'll admit.

"I wasn't worried," Jim pauses, voice not at all hoarse. Sherlock's face is awash with relief. Jim doesn't look at him though, instead he's addressing the extremely dubious glare Moran is giving him; across the room cleaning Valencia's blood off his knife with the drug runner's jacket. "He didn't even know when his men were his men. How could he know how to properly hide a drug warehouse?"

Sherlock gives a laugh-that's-not-really-a-laugh when he sees that Valencia had put a nail through Jim's right hand. He can brush it off as disbelief at the drug runner's stupidity because Jim is left handed after all, but that's not what it was.

The detective takes in the angle of the nail, so he can pull it out without inflicting more damage. And when he yanks the metal out of the table and Jim's hand, the criminal grimaces but he doesn't make a sound. He just holds his hand up making a mildly concerned face while looking through the hole in the center of it.

Sherlock lights another cigarette and Jim's still not looking at him.

The detective can't remember the last time he smoked so much in evening. When he does kiss Jim, that's all he can taste.

Smoke.

But it feels perfunctory on the criminal's part and it's over before it started. They're in the car and they don't say anything. Moran doesn't say anything either. He just drives them to a doctor.

Jim tastes like fear. And he's never tasted like that before. And he tastes like frail possibility of a life complete, a quite fleeting reverie that Sherlock almost lost. But the detective was fast enough. He was better and Jim is still here. That was all the that mattered.

Once they're home. Once Jim's taken a shower. Once he's sitting cross-legged on his bed, aimlessly flicking through his phone; Sherlock hovers at the door, watching the criminal.

"Would you mind opening those?" Jim asks, tilting his head towards the child-proof bottles of prescription pills. Sherlock realizes the silliness of situation; Jim can't even open the pills that are supposed to ease he's pain because of his injury. He wouldn't need any now, the detective had watched him down enough under the doctor's watchful eye, but later as the first-batch began to wear off he'd need them. Sherlock acquiesces, before sitting down on the bed, not quite knowing what to say.

"How's your hand?"

"I can barely feel it," Jim admits, tossing his phone out of reach. Sherlock scoots closer.

Jim rests his forehead on Sherlock's. He's looking at Sherlock now, really looking. The detective can't quite bring himself to relax enough to let his eyes fall shut (he's still riding out the adrenaline, the nicotine is wearing off, and the panic he had suppressed earlier was surfacing). Jim's fingers are gripping the detective's shoulders tight, like a reaffirmation.

And it's part apology, for going to the meet, for getting captured, for almost dying, for almost leaving Sherlock alone.

The criminal pushes their lips together for a second, two; before Sherlock's pushed him back on the bed and has pressed his ear against the criminal's chest. Jim intertwines his fingers with Sherlock's right hand, feeling his pulse ebb. Sherlock listens to the criminal's heartbeat.

Jim is alive. Jim is here. Jim is alive.

It's all Sherlock can do to grasp the shakiest, stuttering breath he's ever taken.

Jim tastes like Sherlock. And the sucking, sucking heat.

After that night, they fly back to London. It's not a retreat, because they won. But it is all the same.

If word spread around, it didn't matter, really. Valencia may have kidnapped a person with the name Moriarty, but in return the criminal's men desecrated the cartel. If anything, it served as a warning. And, of course, Moriarty never needed to be in a city for it to feel his presence.

Sherlock never really cared for L.A. anyway.

Jim tastes like chlorine. And no, they were most certainly not feeling nostalgic. No, absolutely not.

They don't speak about it. Or rather they don't need to speak about it. This is the first time in forever that Jim can remember not wanting to be in the ground. Be in the infinite space of nothing. To be dead. The first time in a so very long time. He knows it's not quite the same for Sherlock; the man was ...content with the doctor. Jim imagines the detective would have been content living out his days solving the mysterious M's crime, always getting closer but never meeting, and having tea and scones with the dear old doctor. Content, they were well beyond that now.

It's the best decision either one of them has ever made.

Jim tastes like all of these things. And all of these things taste like Jim. But they are not Jim. Not exactly. Jim can be any of these things and he might be none of them. Because these are all disguises, masks, and reflections of the criminal, the storyteller, Moriarty, or Jim (sometimes it is Jim). But Jim is really something else entirely.

The more time Sherlock and Jim spend time together, the more details the detective learns about the criminal. They are never details that Jim himself did not lay out for Sherlock to find, but they are often enlightening.

Sometimes, though, Jim may not challenge Sherlock. He won't put up five different fronts. He won't set a maze of intrigue in his mind for the detective to wander through. He may sit back and watch. He may be open as any book. He might drops his masks; readable on the surface as an ordinary person.

And this was not what Sherlock signed up for on the rooftop. He had wanted a sparing partner for life; constant challenge, constant change. Jim does constantly change but he can't always be scheming, even if he often is. Because, of course, Jim is human.

Sherlock knows that if he saw this side of the criminal before the Fall, he would not have appreciated it. He had only wanted the Game. He hadn't realized how close Jim was to stepping off the edge himself. Sherlock hadn't understood that the Game was merely a means to and end; an instrument to a larger purpose.

But when Sherlock tasted a life without the criminal, if only for a brief time, the detective was given a new appreciation of the criminal in his life. The fact of the matter is even when Jim isn't being deliberating clever, Sherlock still enjoys his company.

That wasn't a surprise. But their dynamic existing outside their Games was. It's only strange that they fell into this so easily when Sherlock thinks of it, because it was one of the easiest things in the world.

Jim tastes like Jim. And this is not something to mourn. Because nobody else in the world has ever or will ever see him. The criminal allows only Sherlock this privilege and it is a privilege. Jim is beautifully intricate, even at his most readable.

Sherlock can get restless. He frequently has in the past and though it has become a less common occurrence since the Fall; it still happens and Jim is there to pull him out of it. But Sherlock's agitation with boredom is not as big of a problem for them as Jim's depression in the face of boredom.

Despite the criminal's worry that they will figure each other out, it's Jim's despondency, Sherlock knows, that is really fueling his desire for the end. (But the two problems are tangled. The challenge that constantly rises between them; in which they always must exceed each other's expectations is the one thing that is sure to pull Jim out his despair; stems solely off the fact that they haven't yet figured the other out.)

The outside world creeps into their space; always without their permission; it muddies everything up and disappoints. It can't be helped.

It's not a big deal, until it is. Often enough, Jim's changeability plays a part in bringing it to the surface. A seemingly insignificant note in their morning paper could set him on a low. Though usually it's when he's done something clever and nobody seems to get it. The police are digging in the wrong trench and Sherlock's the only one who can see all the moving parts. Normally, the detective seeing is enough, but sometimes it just frustrates Jim. It's too easy, thus boring. The effort of fighting against the boredom wears on Jim and sometimes he can't.

On a low, he'll still work on cases but, ironically, at an almost lightening speed and with no enjoyment. When he finishes, Jim will sit, quiet and staring at nothing in particular, exhausted and ill-humored. He'll sit listless and Sherlock can see the cogs turning. He knows Jim, like himself, cannot shut off his mind. But it'll be for naught.

The detective wanted time. (The criminal wanted it too.) Time was expensive for Jim. With it came having to endure the tedium of existence. In his life, there were only two sure-fire ways he knew how to eradicate that boredom. One was interesting cases. The other was playing with the detective. (Often they went hand in hand. But Sherlock was an infinitely better distraction.)

During the times when even a clever crime is not enough to cheer Jim up; when even his distractions don't distract; Sherlock takes it upon himself to challenge Jim. (Perhaps, the one the thing the criminal ever got any comfort from.) Sometimes it's easy to pull him back. A distraction could be as simple as a game of chess, with a few unexpected moves thrown in by the detective. That could break Jim out of his mood.

Other times, he required a more calculated diversion. Sherlock has to be creative. He tries a variety of things till he finds that one thing that pulls Jim out of his funk. The detective just has to poses a challenge for the criminal and Jim will shift and react. Jim is still changeable. Mostly because Jim finds the most pleasure from Sherlock confirming to him that he is not alone. His best distraction, so when the detective puts an effort in to the divert the criminal, it generally works for the time.

Ultimately, Jim's boredom is beyond Sherlock's help. Staying alive is just staying. And even running with Sherlock Holmes can't change that by a large margin. The odd thing is the criminal tries to hide it from Sherlock. (As if it's a part of that time he's giving the detective and their compromise.) But the detective can see it sometimes. It hedges on the corners of Jim's being most days and the longer Sherlock waits, the more time he takes from Jim, the boredom seeps deeper. It's not like Jim hadn't dealt with this all his life. But there are times now, when it's worst that it was before, because Jim really wasn't kidding when he said that he had initially planned to die on the roof.

Because nothing. Nothing, not even Sherlock Holmes is ever going to be enough for Jim. Sherlock doesn't need to ask. And Jim doesn't need to tell him not to take it personally.

You've come the closest.

And before the Fall, the detective would have resented it and well, he still does, but not for the same reasons. (He knows that this is not something Jim is doing to him; it has nothing to do with Sherlock. This is something that is happening to the criminal. Something he should not have to deal with; but the despair at tedium comes as a side effect to his brilliance.)

Even if being someone's best distraction is a lot of responsibility, Sherlock is glad he can be there for Jim. (The criminal has never had someone to look out for him before.) It also didn't hurt that the detective loved challenging the criminal's expectations of him. Jim appreciates the detective's effort and it generally has the desired effect; but they both know that Jim will be back on a low in another month or three, if they are lucky.

Jim tastes like a debt. One that neither will ever be able to pay off. But they will try.

They're changing. Have changed. Become closer than they were before. Helped each other through more boredoms than they could count and Sherlock privately dreams of a different end. That they later buy some plot of land in Sussex where he might take up bee-keeping and Jim would write. Maybe take holidays in Geneva and London (alternating, of course). And every weekend they'd go into town and cause a little trouble.

He doesn't really want that. Not really. It would be too quiet. But with Jim, with Jim it would be enough.

Other times he entertains the notion of the two of them moving on to college property. Jim would take on the Dr. Moriarty persona again and he'd mentor post-graduates. The detective doesn't know what he would teach. But it doesn't matter because Jim would never go for it. He won't even print his own books, for god's-sake. The criminal could manipulate the media to make them best-sellers, but he doesn't. Jim doesn't want it.

He sees it every time he looks into the criminal's tired eyes and those undisclosed desires, fall like the tissue paper in the rain. They would never make it there if Jim had a say in it. And he does. Of course he does, despite giving Sherlock the final say on when they leave, Jim still has as much sway in the decision as Sherlock. Because the detective doesn't like it when Jim's in one of his moods, it kills him to see the most brilliant man he's ever known reduced to such despair. And the longer Sherlock waits the more frequent his bouts with boredom are and the less likely he will be able to pull the criminal out unscathed.

And before Sherlock knows it, they've been gone two years. Time has never passed like that for him before, save for his drug addled days and the doped up asylums.

Then three years.

It's four.

And now it's five. The best five years of their lives, frankly.

Are they ever going to burn England? The detective knows that Jim is waiting for Sherlock's green light.

Sherlock wants to. He's feels slightly complacent, not lighting that match he's been holding all this time. And really, Mycroft deserves it.

But he also wants to be here. Laying next to Jim as the sun begins to peak over the edge of the horizon barely casting light into their shadow filled bedroom. With Jim's arm draped over his chest and their feet tangled together. The criminal's sleeping (probably) face is turned toward him. Their world.

And he's selfish. Sherlock has always been selfish. He wants to keep on with this racket forever.

But five years is enough. They're forty now. An age Jim had never thought he'd live to. And Sherlock feels it coming. The criminal is twitching now at times he's so tired of living. He's getting progressively worse at hiding it. He tries (most of the time), but Sherlock can see through. He's restless. But Jim waits. He can wait for Sherlock. (He just doesn't like to.) And he's given Sherlock time and now, now it's the detective's turn to give the criminal death.

The next morning Sherlock's taken over the dining room table with plans and maps and an intention to bring down a country.