A/N: All I've got to say here is: Thanks to Revella for being my cheerleader & proofer so I still feel compelled to push on, and…I'm so sorry, Jim, for what I'm about to show the readers in this chapter and the next..…
Jim wandered over to the lounging sofa that lay a few meters from the edge of his bed, nestled just under an open window. Leaden, life-dulling sunlight oozed through the portal, adding an air of depression to the criminal's chambers. He toed off his shoes and collapsed across the piece of furniture. His restlessness made it difficult to begin. He tossed first to his right side, then over on his left. Finally, he flung himself onto his back with an arm over his eyes, one knee bent up and hanging out. He never favored going past his Hall of Mirrors. The benefits were great, but the risk of actual dreaming was an ever present threat. And James Moriarty hadn't dreamt in over seven years, not since learning to conquer it, like all other bodily functions. And so, when he laid down to seek his rest every night, he found himself either floating in nothingness, or he dwelt within the Hall. Part of him understood that this had much to do with his mental instability, but the other part argued that the alternative was worse: opening himself to memories seeping through the seams of his slumbering visions…a return of the madness.
He slowed his breathing, concentrating on the silence of his surroundings to elevate him into the state of mental composure that allowed for control over autonomic functions. He would slow his heart, and then time his breaths with the beats. Expiration…thump, thump, thump, thump….inspiration…thump, thump, thump, thump…repeat. Claws of uncertainty caught beneath his ribs, as he hadn't attempted this in years, but he continued undeterred. It still took only a few minutes now where it had used to require hours back when he had first acquired the technique. His mind began to circle, seeking entrance, in quest of depths to himself that would terrify a cult of satanic monks. His arm began to slide off of his eyes as he slipped below simple wakeful consciousness. Not yet unaware, but progressing. It slowly fell to his chest as he felt himself let go finally, finding himself beside the grand burial mound at the outskirts of his mental fortress. Without preamble, he began moving, just passing through. He didn't pause to look over the vast greenery and rune covered stonework surrounding his tomb of secrets, the entrance of his Hall of Mirrors. He passed through and down the worked stone staircase through the blackness, emerging at the base to be immediately encased within the subtle un-light that barely allowed for distinguishable landmarks when one first entered. The silvery illumination permeated everything; even, seemingly, his body.
He pressed onward forcefully, quickly striding through the chambers and passages. He was of a mind for action at this moment, and so didn't pause at his usual respites, the very few and precious memories he had of a life before…reality. So few of those. And in truth, he wasn't sure that one or two of them weren't just fabricated by a hurt and lonely little boy's mind, seeking comfort. Those mirrors stood out with their polished surfaces and shimmering detail as he moved past, barely glancing to the side. They seemed to glow from within as he came near, flaring when he was closest, and then fading into normal tone when he was gone. He strode down and around, taking lefts and rights, and sometimes seeming to travel in a complete circle but always ending up exactly where he needed to be. He had built this place so long ago, and its foundations were marked indelibly within his brain. He could have walked the paths with eyes closed. Upside down. Under water.
Almost to his destination, he stopped, his attention diverted for just a second to a mirror that, while it did not shine with the polish of frequent use, neither did it look neglected. Rather, it had the appearance of something that was held in high regard but respected from a distance, never to touch. James stood facing down the hall, muscles tensing and relaxing alternately as he fought the urge to turn, to indulge on a whim. He huffed in annoyance at his own weakness. And a voice reached out to him…not detected within the fragile and often unreliable human organs of audition, but more felt from within and resounding outward from the many layers of his soul. James? Are you here again? Where are you?
And he sighed, turning to let the living memory view him, lifting the opaque grayness that hazed the mirror's surface and revealing…a young woman. She was in her late twenties, though at certain angles she seemed much younger. Shorter than he by a head, which was saying something, but standing straight-backed and inquisitive. Her eyes…those eyes…they were the color of moss on an oak tree growing alone in a sacred grove. Her skin was pale, though not so much as his, and dusted with a fine coat of freckles. How I loved to trace them all…he thought as he approached. Hair lay about her shoulders, extending just past, and was of a medium brown shade until she moved her head, revealing the warmth of a hearth on Christmas Eve in the red highlights scattered throughout. Heart shaped face set apart with those dazzling, almond shaped eyes, and a small frame graced with abundant curves. She had seemed his fairy tale pixie come to life within his arms long ago. So long ago…he almost mourned, locked within the vault of his thoughts for a moment at the sight of her.
James? You're doing it again. Come back to me. He blinked, his eyes clearing as he stared down at her reflection, her memory. What are you here for now? You hardly come anymore. For a mere memory, this shade pulled much of the fire from its original owner, like an eternal flame in a glass menagerie. After a moment's consideration, no sarcastic quips would come to his tongue, and so he merely confessed. A truth flowed easily from his lips, as if he never would have lied to her in the first place.
"I'm going through. I'm looking for something…something deep." He felt the urge to reach up and touch, but he gritted his teeth and held firm. That way led to nothing good. She looked at him quizzically, as if wondering at his body language.
Do you think it will hurt me? What you seek? And he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His voice seemed laden with more of the accent of his origins of a sudden. And it made him feel thick and slow of tongue.
"I don't know, I…I don't know. I just…I need to look at something from a different angle, a new perspective." She nodded, crossing her arms in front of her in surrender of the fact that he hadn't come to visit her specifically.
Then you must go, James. It's important. I feel it, and I'm just fragment of a reality. He laughed at his own mind's interpretation of what the real woman would have said. And he lifted a hand up in supplication as the mirror turned milky once more. His hand turned, lifting to his lips to touch, and then he lightly applied two fingertips of that same hand to the cool surface. He closed his eyes a moment to take a deep breath before pushing off with a whisper.
"I'm sorry, Seraena." And his footsteps quickened down the hallway as an answer chased his shadow.
Goodbye, James.
It took several more twists and turns, but he finally found himself at the edge of his manufactured reality. It was as if the Hall ended and…grayness began. Emptiness. Like everything was washed out of the world and slate left in its place. The depth of the singular color made it seem almost solid, with no discernable dimensions. An endless pewter nothingness. James glanced from side to side, checking his location, and then stepped off into the ether, feeling his control slip bit by bit the deeper he traveled. It didn't take long, because the veil between awareness and true sleep was thin. It was more a matter of finding a midpoint, a balance. On the far side of the direction he now faced rested the obscure oblivion of the realm of dreams, soft and black. Back the way he had come shone with the silver-white light of reality and control. Judging the place in between that had an equal amount of both was the key, and he took his time to measure it in his mind before setting his feet in the chosen place to begin his search. One side in the light, the other in the dark. The metaphor was not lost on him.
And it wasn't so much a 'search' as it was an introspective exploration of one's own mind, body, heart, and soul. Knowledge held, experience undergone, and the potential outcomes of the combinations of various possibilities could all coalesce for the disciplined mind's use here. Leading to revelations that one could never attain within the realm of consciousness alone. Controlling its flow was almost impossible, though; and holding onto the knowledge gained was even harder when one 'awoke' afterwards. Often, when he used to venture here more often, Jim would come back with only a vague sense of something being the right or wrong thing choice of action. Which often was enough to go on in its own right for him. But this situation…no. It needed concrete thoughts, conclusions, and a plan. 'Know thine enemy,' the old saying went. And so he would. Thoroughly. But first, he had to locate him.
His thoughts gathered themselves, spreading out through the ethereal realms beyond conscious thought. In the waking world, his body remained lax and sprawled. Here, he tensed as he felt the first tendrils of his seeking spirit brush against something. And he recoiled from it. Dirty, wicked, evil…but it had felt his coming. A voice, echoing hatred and laden with the promise of pain, drifted forth from the nothingness.
Jimmy…. His vicious younger brother's despised intonations reached his 'ears' as the flicker of a human figure appeared in Jim's periphery. Nebulous, yet threatening in its implications. There and gone. And then another flicker. Closer. And this time more cohesive. Jim held his ground, focusing harder on his true target. He had expected this; for the dreams that he had escaped years ago to come drifting out of their proper space, attracted to the vulnerability represented by the preoccupation of his thoughts. He ignored it, facing ahead, not deigning to turn his attention elsewhere. The figure flashed and reappeared right over his shoulder, sensing the obviousness of Jim ignoring its presence. An opaque shadow of a hand touched the criminal's arm, and he lashed out with his coiled anger, a wave of red hatred dissipating the thing before it gained too much influence over him. However, he knew that reacting to it was actually the last thing he should do. The more he interacted with the nightmares given form in here, the more influence they would gain over him, tempting him to drift off into the darker portion of his mind and eventually fall into the sphere of their existence. Where they held control. He would do better next time.
And he didn't have long to wait to test this newfound resolve. The next vision to approach him did so in a motley wave of angry colors and hues. Not everything here had a recognizable arrangement. This was more a tidal wave of visible emotion than anything else. Who knew what resided within its churning depths? Most likely it would cause a complete dissolution of sanity if permitted to make prolonged contact, leaving a nonfunctioning shell in its wake. The speed it came on with was difficult to judge in the grayed out land he currently resided within, so he braced himself early on. And then it loomed huge above him as it finally reached the destination it had been set on. Moriarty stood firm against its coming, closing his eyes as it reached him…and broke into shimmering particles over his slender figure. He shivered as its cold blanket slid over and down his skin and clothing into the 'ground' beneath his feet. Eyes opened once more, determined and hard. He was encountering these attacks sooner than he had thought he would, but he wasn't daunted. He had managed to keep these at bay for seven years, after all, and he could do it for many more still. It was all a matter of being aware of exactly what they were and that they couldn't hurt him unless he allowed them to.
His hands clenched into fists as he felt yet another attack arising somewhere in the distance. This was unacceptable! He tensed his shoulders and pushed outwards with his will, sending a wave of suppression shooting out from his location. And the whatever-it-was died away. Now then, he thought, redirecting his efforts once more. Where are you, Sherlock? His eyes traced the non-outline of the gray region where he stood. Where are you, my detective? He relaxed into his stance somewhat after an unknown amount of minutes, his senses heightening to an almost supernatural degree. It was only a matter of time, of waiting. Without having complete control, as in his Hall, he couldn't predict what kinds of ideas and presentations would come to him, and couldn't govern them either. In the end, it was a numbers game. Eventually, he would find what he sought and snatch it from the multitude of uselessness that paraded around him. He remained silent as further images ran before him. He ignored most, pondered the thoughts raised by others, and tried extensively to forget many.
Time flowed around him, but he did not seem to exist within its influence. It was an outside thing. A thing of mortals. And for now, in this intangible place, he was immortal. He was more. Connected with his being in a way few people ever realize is conceivable, much less achievable. His fingers stretched out in gentle petition of the knowledge he sought, lures for the information to latch onto. And he felt himself finally reach the brink of self-awareness…and pitch softly over its edge. Ah, he sighed internally. There you are. His eyes, almost lost in the gloom of this place, narrowed at the approach of what he knew without needing confirmation was the thing he sought. He could feel it. Like a flutter within his heart's chambers. This was part of him, and yet not. Something unexplored, unaccepted, un-validated. As yet to be incorporated into the miasma of strife that comprised the being of James Moriarty. This was what he had come for. And he watched it approach with anxiety-tinged anticipation. Back on the lounger, his heart sped up and his hands gripped the sides of the cushions, knuckles standing out like blades against his pale skin.
It came as more a feeling of pressure against his consciousness than anything he actually distinguished with sight; and the something came closer meticulously. Then one minute, nothing was there. The next, he felt an inward push on his mentally constructed body. It wasn't an attack, not exactly. But it was uncomfortable nonetheless. And he blinked, long and slow, as if it would clear the sensation pestilence crawling over his skin. And when his eyes slid open on the end of the blink, he gasped, surprised so thoroughly that even his true form took a quick inhalation back in his room.
Blue-green eyes sprinkled with a dusting of golden flecks poured liquid nitrogen into his soul as he stood nose to nose with Sherlock Holmes. Entire universes were born and died within the depths of those sparkling celestial orbs. And the endless night had never seemed so inviting. It may not have been the man himself, but the specter had every bit of the imposing detective's sheer presence. Jim was actually staggered at the clarity of representation here. He kept very little in his mind this clear cut and detailed that wasn't of potential use. Certainly, he had a memory like unto Sherlock's, recalling relevant facts easily and with striking attention to seeming minutia. However, things of little import, which was most everything, didn't generally secure such consideration as to give their shades an actual presence. Yet here, in front of him, stood the wild haired detective in all his essence. That arresting facial features were slack and relaxed, but the eyes eerily glimmered with an almost-awareness. As if it simply awaited the smallest whisper of provocation to awaken and begin functioning as its own entity.
James backed away cautiously a step, just in case it was another nightmare seeking to invest itself within his trust. But the man before him stayed put. The criminal reached out to touch the detective's sleeve, to cement the concept in his mind. But when his fingertips made contact, the other man shattered into a thousand scintillating fragments, tinkling down onto the ground at Jim's feet. He snatched his hand back, wary of the ever-present possibility of treachery from his own mind. None moved in after him, though, and so he found himself staring down at the heap that had been a representation of his most challenging enemy. His final problem.
No. This wasn't how it should go. It wasn't how the story ended. He focused once more on what he needed to accomplish here, extending a single arm down toward the shards of his once perfect recollection. Nothing happened for many seconds. But then…something stirred within the backdrop of his eyelids. It was almost like a low vibration of sound waves, just beyond the audible perception of human ears. The fragments before him shifted as though blown through by a sturdy wind. Tiny fractals rolled and loosened, only to disintegrate moments later into a shining silver sand: a mirror returning to its origins of silt and grit. He kept at it, willing it to return, willing him to return, and give him what he needed. After all, what else was James Moriarty but an accomplished dominator of will? And so, slowly, it responded to him. Lazy motes of ash drifted upwards at first, drunkenly swaying as if indecisive of their destination. Then more and more of the shimmering substance began to lift away from below, gathering instead at chest height with the criminal.
The grains began to melt and flow together, looking like nothing so much as slithering bands of mercury. And Jim watched, mesmerized now, as the remainder of the grains joined with the floating collection. It swirled together in harmony, in synchrony. Beautiful, thought Moriarty. One of the few times he had ever truly expressed appreciation at something other than his criminal games. And the slowly rotating mass began to branch out, taking the vague shape of a man suspended upright. The outline completed, and he could make out the general shape of his enemy once more. Fingers formed, then clothing solidified about the man-thing; color began to be applied to everything, pale skin coating the exposed areas like milk spilled across the counter. But last to form were the features, which remained clouded and blurred, as if it couldn't quite settle on the schematics.
James felt a sharp jolt of panic and shock when it chose to first display his own face over the detective's before reforming into Sherlock's familiar visage. He shook his head. Just his mind playing devious tricks on him again. And that. Was. All. He stepped up to the new form of his adversary as it hung suspended before him. The detective's shoes almost touched the ground by millimeters as Sherlock hung there, arms thrown out and head and chest tipped back as if the invisible thread holding him was connected to his sternum. Jim could walk around behind him, to where the dark curled head was tilted back, and look into his inverted visage. The criminal paced the detective, studying every available source of information that was apparent visually.
The sight of Sherlock alone didn't particularly set off any chimes of sudden revelation. Staring down into the other man's inanimate face didn't inspire anything specific other than memories of the two them at odds. A frown formed in the lines of Jim's forehead as he fought to understand. He leaned a bit more forward, intent on looking once more into those challenging eyes, the angle making it problematic. He lifted a hand to pull back an eyelid but stopped as the lids both raised abruptly, revealing the bejeweled tones beneath. A thrill that had nothing to do with fear or hate thrummed through the criminal's middle, and his hand remained poised there, just over the other man's brow. He hesitated a moment before lightly running a finger along the shadows of the foremost curls, a tingle of pleasure running up his arm at the contact, and he let the hand fall back to his side as he tried to think through his next move.
He eyed the floating apparition and held out a hand, bringing his fingers halfway together as if grasping something, and then twisted at the wrist. The response was immediate, with the man before him coming to rest in a loose stance, eyes open and vacant but still penetrating. Jim smiled and approached, reaching out to run a hand down the sleeved arm of the detective. His gaze ran all along the lines and planes of the man, angles and shadows, seeking discovery of the source of the strange orbital pull they seemed to have on one another, but finding no purchase. And he felt that tug, despite his adamant denial of its existence as anything more than a mere curiosity. It bent him, changed him, weakened him.
Abruptly, James backhanded Sherlock across the face, the criminal's features written over with a type of rage rooted in the grief of a soul's fears.
"What is it about you?! What hold do you have over me?!" he yelled into the uncomprehending face. The detective's form remained unreactive, having only stumbled and then recovered back into the original standing position. No retaliation would follow as this was only a representation of the man who so frustrated him. James spun in place and began pacing back and forth. This was pointless. He was learning nothing except that he needed to work out some pent up anger issues later. And how was that anything new? His failure so far was needling its way under his skin, making him feel an almost physical discomfort as a result of his ineptitude. His stomach boiled with impatience. Even though he understood the nature of these mental excursions, he still had been in denial about the amount of time it would take him to reach a conclusion. Now, he was faced with the possibility that he might have to stay here longer, exposing himself to things deeper than he desired.
His steps ceased, and he came back to the side of the other man, looking across those familiar features. From this angle, the color of Sherlock's eyes washed out into a uniform silver, like shining, mocking coins. Even in Jim's own mind, the detective seemed destined to frustrate his attempts at…well, at anything in general. Jim leaned closer, his incorporeal nose picking up the scent his mind had ascribed to the detective. Expensive silks and linen, cashmere and chocolate. Maybe a hint of a spicy aftershave? A little closer still, and yes. Aftershave. Not of any brand he could name. Closer still. And now he was almost flush to the other man's form, still unresponsive. He continued to breathe deeply, inundating his mouth and nose with this subtle part of the detective that he had never appreciated before. But it something underlying those manufactured scents that held him raptly attentive against that pale skin, his face having somehow found its way down and next to the sharp angle of the taller man's throat and shoulder. His eyes closed, and he felt himself falling…
Then he abruptly pulled his head away, eyes wide at the openness of his soul moments before. And all from the mere smell of another person? It was as if Sherlock gave off some kind of pheromones specifically designed to attract the crazies. A true shit magnet, if ever there was one. Jim chuckled softly to himself at this thought and tried to shake off the feeling of defeat that kept threatening to sneak up on him. He looked instead into the face of this most frustrating of human beings, thinking to himself that he needed a new vantage, a different perspective. Sherlock always reacted to situations honestly. Bluntly. And most times as rudely as possible. How then, do I interpret his actions concerning me?
He thought on Sherlock's behaviors, his words, his darkened looks and secret smiles that he thought James never noticed. The signs were all there for the shrewd observer to interpret. For all that the detective tried to project the air of an unemotional sociopathic savant, the only person intelligent enough to pierce that façade was doing so now. Sentiment, James thought with revulsion. He thinks I hold some type of fondness for him? Yes. It was brush-stroked across the colors of the other man's soul, painted blatantly in every interaction they had. Sherlock played the game, yes, but for higher stakes. Jim tilted his head as he considered the implications on himself. The detective was slowly molding to Jim's image as planned, yes, but…was the metamorphosis flowing in only one direction? Or did it reach across into the more profound realms of cause and effect? Had he, James Moriarty, changed? It took him very little time to answer that question. Images of entering Sherlock's room and wrapping himself around the detective on the floor that night filled him to bursting with indisputable proof; the voices of madness in his mind had ceased, totally, with the detective's presence. Other smaller, but no less poignant, instances crowded in, vying for inspection, for evaluation. And Jim began to understand. Further than curiosity, deeper than obsession, and stronger than hate… James could feel it, buried deep, but burning white hot…within himself…
No, he denied pitifully to himself. And then louder, to whatever other parts of himself were listening, "No!" He grabbed the front of Sherlock's suit jacket, ripping it down and away from those slender shoulders; then he tore the dress shirt aside, buttons pinging off to the ground, revealing the mark he had left upon the taller man's breast, just beneath the length of bone from his clavicle. "I marked you. You're mine! Not the other way around." He touched the mark on a whim, looking to the blank eyed stare that gazed back at him, and his eyes narrowed. Nodding to himself, he said aloud, "This is a lesson, Sherlock. And a test. One I've learned long ago, and passed." A woman's scream echoed, long and haunting, in the vast distance of night off to his side, where no stars had ever dwelt.
He stepped deliberately into an embrace with the detective, whose arms responded to the mental call of Jim's need. He was compelled to prove a point, to himself. "This…you think this will conquer me?" Jim asked as he pulled the other man closer to emphasize what he meant. He stared in angry disbelief at the body in his arms, and his face contorted in fury. "You. Are. Wrong." And he came in quickly, aggressively forcing his lips against Sherlock's, clashing teeth and tongues as the avatar responded to subconscious command, returning the kiss, but only just.
Then Jim pulled back. "This is nothing. Transient. Intemperate. False." Though inside, the criminal fought to dispel the set of fluttering things that their connection had set free, denying the heady sensation of falling that had swept over him. His eyes found those empty ones once more, and he fought to verbally wound an opponent of smoke and mirrors as his one-sided argument continued. His voice was low pitched, paced, and deliberate. "I see you…and feel nothing." He swiped his hand down in negation. "I touch you," his hand raised against the detective's cheek, stroking down with the back of his palm, "Nothing." He struck an insulting blow to the same cheek…rocking back as if he himself had just been hit, too. He blinked, applying a hand to the throbbing pain in his jaw. And still the feeling grew stronger, creeping like the slow death that claims all in the end. And it was gaining in volume, in resilience…a crescendo of raw emotion.
"This is wrong," Jim said, a bit hoarsely. It felt as if his chest would implode, taking all of who he was with it; and then he would be re-made and bonded to the heat of the detective's molten core. Spirit calling to spirit in a communion of souls. The other man's stability providing the foundation of the criminal's rebirth. He tried to push away from Sherlock, but the avatar's arms tightened about him…. And that…that single action, told James all he needed to know. It flooded his mind and senses, overwhelming defenses put in place years upon years ago. Here in this place out of time…where he was both creator and destroyer of this figure before him, where his mind was the director for its actions….Jim had tried to pull away…and it had pulled him closer… His own mind had just supplied him with the answer to his problem. And even though it left other questions in its destructive wake…he knew. He knew.
No! He struggled harder, almost reverting to childhood's wiles in order to increase the ferocity of the escape, but it only served to cause the figure of Sherlock to hold those arms more securely around him. He tried falling down, kicking, punching (which was quite ineffectual at such close quarters), and was about to begin using his teeth when…he felt a cool hand slide up the back of his neck as he was leaning as far back and away as possible…and the fight went out of him. The fingers stopped in the bottom of his hair, soft pressure on his nape, and slowly drew him forward until he was against the detective's shoulder. His own breathing was harsh, but calming. There was no magic in the contact. No special skill was employed to subvert another's actions. Just simple, human, touch…and the knowledge of who it was that offered it; or at least, who could be offering it, as this wasn't the true personage. Another scream sounded off to the side, within the darkness. Jim's eyes flicked up over Sherlock' shoulder. When did it get closer?
Jim lifted his head from the space where he had been cocooned against soft silken garments, a warm, beating heart beneath his ear. As he shifted his view, he felt something tumble away from his face. Looking down, he saw the crystalline tears that hadn't yet absorbed into Sherlock's jacket top. He stared at them in both wonder and horror. This was never meant to happen again. He had guarded well against it. Love, and caring, and all sentiment was a disease. Filthy and wrong. Pain was the only ending of such things. It gave hope only to grow it fat and then slaughter it. End it before it hurts you again, he thought to himself. But…came the onlyargument. No. A resigned nod followed, and he smiled through the shining patina of tears that he had learned to treat as poison.
Chocolate met deep turquoise as he stood up on his toes, seeking the lips of this phantom once more, One last time, curling one hand into the tattered shirt he had ruined to pull them tight. Eyes closed, and they connected. It was soft, and giving, and promised so much more than the physical realm could ever hope to offer. A match made of heaven and hell, with neither side predominant. Each complimenting the other and fortifying individual powers and strengths. Words couldn't convey what passed through their kiss; at least, none in his mind. And since it was truly not reality, James Moriarty let himself go for a moment, completely untethered, balancing on the edge of a great unknown divide. Eternity seemed below them, and above…everything. There was nothing he couldn't do with this man by his side.
James' eyes fell open before their lips parted, and they shared breath for a moment. His hand gripped ever tighter in the fabric, as if he could save himself from what was to come by mere strength of arm alone. His next blink sent a fresh cascade of diamonds falling down, down, down… And his eyes were sorrowful as he spoke in a harsh whisper.
"I always said I owed you a fall, Sherlock Holmes." He swallowed, eyes seeking understanding where there was nothing at all. "I just never thought it would be paid like this…" He inched upward once more to place a last chaste kiss on those smooth, cool lips…and drove the blade expertly underneath the sternum and through the detective's heart.
Blood gushed forth onto Jim's hand, hot and thick. The man before him gasped in wordless agony, faltering back, arms finally releasing their prisoner. Those wondrous, fascinating eyes rolled back and closed as the detective fell away from James to collapse boneless on the floor. The sanguine liquid began to slowly form a sickly halo around him as the criminal stared in disbelief at what he'd done. It was necessary, yes. He knew that. But as he looked upon the seeping and insidious stain that mocked him with its finality, he felt…something. His mouth turned down in a scowl as he tried to place what was distracting him. It felt like his heart was beating just a bit too hard... There it was again! His hand clapped across his chest as another thud of agony shot through it. What?! Being shot from behind surely felt better than this! Thud. Again! He grimaced, the breath rushing out of him and his eyes screwing shut as he tried to breathe through the wave of nauseating torment.
The next one brought him to his knees, feeling like thunder with no sound, pressure from within. When he opened his eyes again, he felt a kind of warm wetness under his hands. He lifted them from their position clutched against him, and saw the wound, mirrored of Sherlock's. And then Jim's blood began to pour forth; and with it, his life. His eyes found the detective as he pitched forward and rolled onto his side. That pale, angular face was so peaceful in its eternal slumber. Jim reached out with numb fingers that now had both of the men's blood on them, but he wasn't close enough. The hand fell. He hadn't the strength. Off to the side, he heard his brother laughing. He heard a woman's voice, desperately urgent, trying to wake him. And he heard the silken rustle of raven's wings as his eyes could no longer stay open. The darkness of his nightmares crept forth on tendrils of liquid smoke and barbed wire, encircling his form while the last of his consciousness was bled away. The world tilted, and then…nothing…