Quiet flooded every inch of the house. Of all the places in the world, never would Eobard have thought he'd spend it in another man's lodging, let alone walk around without his signature leather wrapping protectively around his shoulders. If he needed a quick getaway, he was at a disadvantage, perhaps minor but a detriment was a detriment no matter the size. He'd left his standard, black jacket draped over a chair in Sherlock's bedroom, now only sporting a plain grey t-shirt and jeans as he wandered the halls. His attention split between the hardwood flooring and the tablet in his hand.

Eobard veered around the corner, narrowly dodging the open cabinet and the man standing behind it, and made for the furthest corner of the kitchen. Tucked away, Eobard always felt the safest. In the shadows, out of sight, watching everything while no one watched him.

He lifted his tablet into a more secure position and leaned against the marble countertop. Every so often, he glanced up to view Sherlock's activity before, ultimately, returning to study his equations.

Every glance up, however, furrowed his brow even more. Something was off about the image, yet through the tizzy he was throwing his mind through, he hadn't enough attention leftover to solve that mystery, too.

On his fourth glance up, he held his gaze a second longer–

Around Sherlock's arms wrapped black leather, a silver zipper in front, extra padding striped around the elbows. It hung loosely on his wiry frame, wrinkles forming where muscles should have filled the fabric out.

"What are you wearing?" he frowned.

Without turning away from the cabinet or lowering his arm from reaching for the biscuit tin, Sherlock replied, "Your jacket."

"I know that. Why?" he demanded. What if he needed to suddenly break into the Speedforce? Was he supposed to purposefully set the few homebound, outfit items he had on fire just because the man he loved wanted to play pretend?

"It's comfortable," Sherlock responded.

"You have your own clothes."

Sherlock collected his limbs together, limbs falling to his side and biscuit tin brought to a halt in the air before him. "So?" he inquired, prying open the tine and grabbing one of the shortbreads.

"What's wrong your own?"

"Where's the fun in that?"

Eobard set the tablet behind him on the counter and crossed his arms, analysing Sherlock a few times over. Of the questions bubbling up in his brain, none of what was said in reply worked themselves into a satisfactory answer.

"Should it be fun? Not practical?"

"Of course, it should be fun. If it weren't fun, it isn't worth doing. Boredom is devastating. Do keep up."

Sherlock was an enigma, a puzzle which kept Eobard on his toes. Around every new corner, another facet of character was revealed, and the speedster was left to determine who he was all over again. As exhausting as it might sound to the immediate ear, when the challenges were placed before him, Eobard found it surprisingly gratifying to mull over. A genius mind needed a genius project. Every second of every day. The mystery of Holmes served him like all the mental sensations of running did without tapping into the Speedforce at all.

"Would you rather I take it off?"

"No."

Why, that came out a bit quick, he chided himself.

"I mean, whatever. I don't care," amended the Reverse, trailing in a mumble and grabbing for the tablet again. He buried his eyes into his suit schematics – improvements for a rainy day – but organised no further information as, around and around – a song on loop – his head played their last exchange, the spacing, the pacing, the tonality, the– No, stop. You don't do this sort of thing! He could feel his cheeks burning and hoped that by ducking his head to the blue glow in his hands he cultivated enough shadow to conceal the heat.

There was a clatter as Sherlock set the cookie tin on the protruding end of the counter.

A shift in light– a shadow swept across him.

The tablet was taken from his hands. It slid next to the discarded tin.

"I was working–!"

Close proximity stifled the rest of the words. His throat squeezed and relieved. He lifted his eyes, enraptured with all the intensity of a candle – deceptively hot, concentrated light –, until his stormy blues melded with the limitless sky of the detective's gaze. All air rushed from his chest. A cavern. A vacuum. A lick of the lips. And –damn, could Sherlock pull off leather.

Eobard's hands wrung around his waist.

"Keep it on," he said, his voice perpetuating a low intensity.

Sherlock's lips quirked up. "As I was planning to."

How just five seconds could become their own, private infinity.

One tug, and the gap between them closed.