Disclaimer: Nothing mine. A. N. This is the first tidbit of a (will be mixed fandoms) series inspired by prompts by the amazing notjustmom. I know, I know, I can't do things in order to save my life... so we start with prompt n. 24, "Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never tell."
― Joan Crawford
Hope you enjoy!
Conflagration
Jim has acquired a vast and eclectic amount of knowledge. Not all of it immediately concerns his role as a criminal mastermind. For one, you never know what you may end up needing. For another, Sherlock's usual spiel is obviously a lie anyway, or he would have deleted violin playing. Jim isn't as concerned with keeping up appearances - especially not to his own. He can always murder whoever witnessed something they shouldn't have, if they lose his trust.
So, he's not ashamed to admit that he's learned – from an old magazine in the attic of someone's grandma, and hey, he was bored, why not peruse? – a Joan Crawford quote. Or that it stuck with him all along.
Not that he thought likely it'd ever apply to him, unless one counts some of the roles he enjoys playing. Sure, most of the time he won't dirty his own hands. But occasionally, why not have fun? What's the point of being so powerful otherwise? He likes people going starry eyed for him. But reciprocating - honestly? Come on. He knows better than that.
Only he doesn't. It sneaked up on him. Nothing ever does, but this time – he'd been so good at duping everyone, that he's pulled the wool over his own eyes, too. Talked himself into not seeing the smoke for what it was. Fog? Cloud? So many reasonable alternatives. So many justifications that wouldn't lead to him having to worry.
Not literally, of course. He does have a working nose, and there's no way he'd be trapped in a fire by his own stupidity. But good ol' Jane wasn't completely wrong. Love is a fire. He thought that he was safe. He didn't have a live-in one. No chance to develop... undue attachments. It turns out that's not necessary. Really, there are enough boyfriends not yet living together with their other half that one'd think Jim would have got a clue.
But there's only so long that lying to oneself is practical. Sebby is not his best killer (well, he is, but it doesn't matter – he has plenty of those, and none is a stormtrooper). He's not a fuck-buddy (even when he is in Jim's bed, and most of the time one of them is tied up, because why waste such gorgeousness). He's not an occasional retainer (even if he's not above taking care of Jim if he gets a craving for one of the few recipes Seb could get a Michelin star for, or cleaning up the place while Jim sleeps their sex off).
It's when he's planning an assassination, and actually considers sending his second best sniper, because he doesn't want Seb to be at risk (he's not getting caught, Jim knows how to plan, but life is imponderable, and Mycroft Holmes in a mood) that it dawns on him. He's in too deep. He should concentrate on the job, not on keeping the man safe. Seb was a colonel, for God's sake. He would be outraged if he suspected Jim of mollycoddling him. And ramblings about Jim burning wouldn't help.
Or maybe he would understand? Who knows. Jim's not going to say a word. Not until he's figured things out. Especially because, whatever Joan said, he's pretty sure this is no kitchen hearth. The only question is how far their combined blaze will bear destruction upon. Not a measly house, surely. Personally, Jim would be happy to beat the 1666 record.
