Chapter 3 Feeling Alive

True to Sherlock's prediction, Mycroft showed his albatross like self after few days. What Sherlock hadn't been able to predict was the way Mycroft held himself; his condescending and righteous expression was firmly attached to his face as usual, making Sherlock's fist itch, but Mycroft's complexion was on the side of a little too pale, and the distinct sings of uneasiness coloured his every behaviour. Sherlock could even see him suppressing a shiver.

"What did you do?" asked Sherlock after Mycroft's departure, with a touch of wonder. The meeting had been cut unusually short with Mycroft's barely trying to unravel whatever Sherlock had been up to. Since nothing like this ever had happened before, Sherlock reasonably assumed that it had something to do with James.

Me? Why, I have no idea what you are talking about, darling.

Sherlock was sure that if James had a physical body, he would have given Sherlock the most innocent and harmless expression. That was not particularly what Sherlock wanted to see, but still, it would have been better than having nothing to glare at when James annoyed him.

"Can you ever give a straight forward answer?" Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes.

What would be the fun in that?

Well, Sherlock at least had to concede to that.

James Moriarty was having the time of his life. The ironic thing was that he was not even physically alive. Oh, he still had his mind and spirit all right, but he had long shed his mortal body.

He looked down at the boy who was deep in thought with a cigarette held loosely on his hand. James knew that Sherlock would throw a hissy fit if he knew that he was being called as 'a boy', but that was what he truly was. For James, who had been forty-five before he died and endured many years after that as a ghost, that is. Sherlock looked like he was barely in his mid-twenties.

It was curious, how someone so young could make James feel this alive. No one had been able to do that.

I'll find you, Sherlock had said, after he realized that James had no intention of revealing his identity. James had felt thrill running up his now inexistent spine, lightening him up with excitement. He had heard that particular phrase from many people, from delusional one-nights to thoroughly tricked and thus dying enemies, but never had the thought of somebody actually succeeding in doing just that crossed his mind. When Sherlock had uttered those words, however, James knew thatthe boy would arrogantly tell him James Moriarty, I found you one day.

Sherlock would never know, but James spent many hours observing him in a close distance, wondering what made this boy so special. One of the benefits of being a ghost was that he could ignore the personal bubble and look intently at the subjects without them squirming away. Not that it wouldn't have been entertaining, but it would have ruined his inspection.

James held his hand close to the oblivious boy's cheek, creating the illusion of him caressing it. Sherlock, it seemed, was denser than most people when it came to feeling ghostly touch. Many people would suddenly feel cold and disoriented when he went near or through them, but Sherlock never felt any. Even when James had put his arm thorough Sherlock's torso and tickled his heart.

Perhaps it was lucky that James couldn't go through the objects and become solid at the same time, or he would have been sorely tempted to slowly squeeze the life out of that brilliant, brilliant boy's heart. He would have lost his playmate and maybe regretted that later, but seeing that ever changing eyes of his fading with hopelessness, hands grasping at nothing to prevent the invisible force, would have been too big an appeal for him to resist.

James sometimes wished that he could make Sherlock fidget in discomfort by merely going close to him like he could do to others, but maybe this way was better. Making Sherlock surprised or anxious was always fun, and James didn't want to make it a mundane thing. Not to mention, Sherlock's older brother had already gave him enough satisfaction in that area.

From the day Sherlock had revealed the fact that he had a brother, James had been anticipating the meeting with another Holmes. The meeting was not disappointing, to say the least. The man showed up with a black umbrella in the brilliantly sunny day, with a lofty expression that any aristocrats would have wanted to learn. Mycroft Holmes was the man who hid behind many masks; his little brother also did a good job in hiding his emotions, but he was no match for the older one.

The fun thing was that he was sensitive to ghosts, even more so than ordinary people.

James knew that Mycroft wouldn't have allowed himself to show discomposure in any other circumstances, so it was a treat to behold to watch that man silently struggling to stay still and turn pale in his presence. He crooned behind the usually stoic man, whispering your little brother is mine now, isn't that nice? in his deaf ear, and Mycroft's valiant but failed effort at suppressing the shiver caused James into a giggling fit.

He had never laughed so hard in his life, and he thought that maybe his life should be divided into two sections; Before Sherlock and After Sherlock. It was better than lame old BC and AC, for Sherlock was much entertaining than Jesus ever been to him anyway.

Before meeting Sherlock, James had thought that dying was mistake, because frankly speaking, he hadn't expected death to be so … mundane. And boring. That was an important factor, being boring. Fate was a bitch for sure, because the only reason he killed himself was to escape the utter ennui of the world, and look where he was. He should have known better than to believe the common people yapping about hell and eternal fire and devils. He thought he would thrive there, because at least in hell, people wouldn't be so painfully naive or foolish, right?

Wrong

Apparently, hell was where he had been all the time, with pedestrian and dull people uselessly filling the space. He had to entertain himself with painstakingly making himself become physical for a second, so he could move things around. The only good thing it did was spooking people or giving them a heart attack.

Oh how the mighty had fallen.

But now, this was much, much better, with Sherlock and his beautiful intelligence and with Mycroft ordering his men to dig dipper about Sherlock's life on his way out.

James' only regret was that he hadn't been able to meet them while he was still alive, making them dance with his web. It would have been nice; him, the mastermind behind all the crimes, and Holmes brothers, chasing after him with their lethal mind against him. He fantasized about it sometimes, and whenever he did that, he could feel the excitement at that mere thought, like toying with a deadly serpent. But that was just a fantasy, for the brothers probably wouldn't have been even born when James took the only option that would let him out of the never ending boredom.

Oh, well, he would just have to take whatever he could take.

Besides, it wasn't like Sherlock Holmes was going anywhere.

I died in an explosion, too.

One day, James casually threw down the personal information about himself. That was such an unprecedented and unexpected thing that Sherlock just stared at the monitor for a quite a while.

"What?"

Hello, can't you see the explosion? You were the one who turned on the telly. What did you do that for if you are not even going to properly watch it?

Indeed, there were smokes and fires going off on the telly. Sherlock faintly remembered being bored enough to resort to television, but had soon lost interest. Evidently, he didn't see anything to be fascinated about blue phone boxes and crappy looking aliens. He must have gone too deep into his thoughts to turn it off again, though.

"I have no idea," Sherlock just casually shrugged. "Not that it's important. Why are you suddenly telling me about your death?"

Just had to comment about it when they were showing me a piss poor excuse of an explosion. I'm telling you, explosions should be much more grand and epic than that. At least I died in the booming fireworks; it would have been embarrassing otherwise.

Well, if all he had to do to drag some information out of James was to show him a crappy TV show, Sherlock would have done it long time ago. It was almost anti-climatic. It also threw him off his guard (James was particularly talented in that area). Sherlock had never heard from the survivors of an explosion, but he was sure that how 'cool' the explosion had been would have been far from their mind. Especially when they were dying.

It seemed like Sherlock had underestimated the insanity of his flatmate. Well, but there would be nothing to be gained to argue with a mad man. Or a spirit, in this case.

"I would be sure to die in epic flames."

Be sure you do. Sherlock thought that James would have nodded gravely if he had a body.

The appalling insight to the ghost's sanity aside, that had been valuable information to dig into James' history. Sherlock searched for the explosions in the past, especially in London, and found the one that would have satisfied James in its scale.

June 15th, 1979

Sherlock didn't know exactly when James had been born, but from the general vibes he got while talking to James, he knew enough to conclude that he had been born in 20th century. Also, since James was hanging around the Montague Street of all the places, he must have been related to London. The more Sherlock thought about it, the surer he became of the idea that James died in that explosion.

But that utterly enraptured way James talked about the explosion…. there wasn't even a hint of trauma to be detected in him. Maybe that was because it had been such a long time since he died. Even so, that level of fascination was unnatural.

Could James himself have caused it?

That was certainly a new way to look at his ghost flatmate. Sherlock hadn't for once expected James to have been a good and kind person, (the way he laughed at Sherlock's drugged state was enough to tell this), but he never thought of him as a criminal, either. It seemed like the time to entertain the new idea have come, and Sherlock gladly latched onto the new target for his focus.

There was so much information to gather and to analyze. Sherlock could fell his brain whirling at its full speed. It was refreshing, better than any feeling that previous stimulants had given him, and Sherlock couldn't help himself grinning like mad.

Sherlock, was certain, that this was the feeling of being alive.

AN: Thanks to seikoxxx, akatsuki-tenshi-kitsune, Aeryn for reviewing. Reading you guys' responses made me smile XD

Apparently, I'm enjoying writing this fic too much to stop. I hope I didn't get too carried away and made the characters OOC.

So, what do you think? I love hearing from you guys :)