A/N: First, much love to Revella, who keeps me somewhat sane in my quest to type this despite feedback. Well, that's not entirely true. I do have some folks who review besides her, and I THANK YOU profusely. *kisses* So this chp will hopefully give some laughs and lighten things a bit after all the angsty pants crap I've dragged y'all through. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE writing angst and emotional boohoo shit. But every now and then….I need to bring back the light hilarity that the show also has to it. And so, here ya go, my pretties….
Sherlock watched as Jim made another lap around the great lawn before the main part of the estate. The other man's endurance was admirable, though the detective himself was not much of one for extended periods of activity just for the sake of besting a previous time or simply for the need of doing something. However, he did find that he could enjoy watching the criminal just for the sake of that: watching. Heh. Sometimes he surprised himself with how mundane he could be. But then, his subject was fairly unguarded during these times, so it was easier to study him.
This had become their morning routine over the last week since the…incident…with the criminal's brother. Jim ran, Sherlock watched. And then they played. Well, perhaps played wasn't quite the word one should use when describing the various activities that two geniuses could concoct between themselves, one a criminal mastermind and the other an inquisitive detective. Neither with very strong moral principles. Though, for some reason, Sherlock hadn't anticipated such camaraderie as they now seemed to share between them.
The detective was out of his depth in interpreting any response from the other man since the aftermath of James' killing. Certainly, he had deduced that the younger Moriarty had been the source of much of the trauma Jim had endured in his childhood, so he hadn't exactly expected grieving. Perhaps anger, joy, regret…something. But no. Nothing. The criminal carried on with no further comment on the matter than that his men had taken care of the body. Was there to be a retaliation from the younger sibling's own network? Jim had only smiled when he had been asked that, saying not to worry about such trivial problems; they had better things to do. Sherlock sighed. It was just so hard to gauge reactions in the morally vacillating madman.
Perhaps Jim seemed more…open? Readable? Human…? Sherlock couldn't place it exactly, but he knew it involved him and him alone, because Jim responded in the same manner as before to his employees. Cold, methodically unpredictable, cruel… But for Sherlock…there was a new depth. A new connection. The criminal seemed to be spending more and more time around him, no longer cutting out in midday to go "take care of some business matters." Now, Jim conducted his phone calls and computer-based operations right in the detective's presence, inviting commentary and participation as often as not. He even seemed to be creating things for them to do together so as to amuse the easily-bored Holmes. And, as ever, many of the other man's actions still remained a mystery in regard to his motives.
Sherlock smiled to himself as he thought over their, ahem, activities, in the past week. Those days were now fast becoming some of the most memorable in his life. It felt almost…like friendship. Close friendship. Something he had never experienced before. And he supposed they were…friends. Weren't they? Friends protected each other, looked out for one another, killed for one another, slept in the same bed with each other… Wait. Wait a minute. Well… So perhaps killing didn't exactly fit the quality measure here, he considered. Better to throw it out as a confounding variable. And the sleeping? That wasn't exactly, strictly, solely within the realm of friendship either. After all, he couldn't remember the last person he had slept in the same bed with. He thought on this a moment. It must have been when he was very young, and he left his room to creep into Mycroft's because he was afraid of some such odd thing or other. Back when he and his brother hadn't shared such a mutual dislike for being in each other's company.
Other than those very few instances, though, he could think of no other time when this had occurred. Yet there he had been, lying on the same mattress as Jim Moriarty. Night after night. And it wasn't as if they were doing anything other than sleeping. Just, it had been happening ever since that night when it had finally been confirmed to him that Jim was, in fact, sneaking into his room at night to sit on the edge of his bed. Just sitting, nothing else. Even an emotional dunce such as himself could see that something was clearly wrong with the other man, though. And so, with his defenses depleted from being only half awake, he had pulled the criminal down into the covers with him. And they had continued with a similar scenario every night since.
Sherlock would go to his room alone, and then some small time later, Jim would enter and stand at the foot of the bed, hushed, as if afraid to ask for something. The detective would then hide a smile and flip up one edge of the coverlets, allowing possibly the most dangerous man in the world to slide underneath them beside him. Neither would speak then, a silent agreement between them to not break the strange spell shared here with something as tragically inadequate as words. And though each night began with them lying separately, the morning would find them entwined in various positions which would lead to an extension of the silent truce. Though whether it was in fear of what this might symbolize between them, or embarrassment in showing such vulnerability, neither was quite sure.
The detective shook the internal examination of his bedfellows from his head and tried in vain to refocus on his original musings. After all, this was a topic he had already pondered several times and still had no answer for. Most likely, none would be forthcoming anytime soon either. So yes, the past week had brought something new to light for him. For both of them, he corrected, as he watched Jim pass by once more. And the whatever-it-was only grew stronger with every passing day, every single shared encounter. He leaned back, sliding his hands over the grass he sat upon. It had all started off in fair innocence…
7 days ago…
Jim yawned and stretched luxuriously as he tromped down the long hall in the early morning light. Not much was intimidating about him this early in the morning. Sherlock hadn't been there when he had woken, but he was only slightly concerned as to what that could mean. He was usually the first to wake, with the detective being more cat-like, stealing all the covers as soon as he was the sole occupant of the mattress and cocooning himself in them. It was…he would say "endearing," but really it was rather annoying. Especially if all you did was get up for a late night call to China, or God forbid, a bathroom run. Jim closed his eyes, slowing his steps as he did and running a hand through hair thoroughly bent on sticking up straight. He blindly entered the first of a series of rooms he had set up for his morning "business" rounds. And he would have walked straight into Sherlock if he hadn't decided to end the almost-sleep walk when he did.
As it was, he drew up short only to be brought face to face with the detective. Except the taller man's face was upside down…as was the rest of him…as he hung from his ankles by two lengths of cording run through a low hanging chandelier. The detective's slightly darkened coloring told the criminal just how long the other man had been there as of yet. Their eyes were about level with one another as Jim's went first wide, and then narrow in vexation. Then he sighed quite loudly, ducking his head as he pushed the hanging man to the side, starting a pendulum-like swaying of Sherlock's body on the ropes. The criminal called over his shoulder as he passed.
"You know you can die like that if done long enough? Just a thought for consideration." Jim stopped off at a computer desk and typed in a code to open his day's emails, grimacing at the amount displayed there. He had been a bit too preoccupied lately, apparently. He looked back up as the detective spoke.
"Yes, well. I could, ahem, use some, um, help…in that regard." It was almost comical to listen to the man say those words whilst swinging back and forth, spinning slowly clockwise. The shorter man held in his laughter, though. For now…
Jim typed a few lines and sent the first of several emails for the morning. Then he turned and walked briskly to another room adjacent to this one. Sherlock was only able to partially watch as he twisted on the lengths of cording. But he heard when Jim reentered the room, steps padding lightly over the carpeting. And as the detective's gaze finally came back around to face that of his one-time enemy, he quickly braced himself at what he saw.
Jim raised his arm up towards the ceiling, gun in hand. Two shots rang out, and the taller man fell to the ground with a whuuumph. And a few choice other noises, too, none of them dignified in the least. The criminal walked over to him, setting the gun on a side table as he did. Upon reaching the detective's crumpled form, he knelt down and spoke lightly.
"Now, what have we learned about upside down times?"
"Uunngghhh…." came the response from the disarray of tangled limbs.
"Goooood."
All of his emails were completed without further interruption that morning. Fancy that.
6 days ago…
The couch was just long enough for the lanky detective to stretch out on, and it had been dragged into this room especially for its more comfortable seating. The chamber they were located in itself was palatial in floor space, probably used for teleconferences prior to its hostile takeover. So it housed the largest screen in the building, which Jim thoroughly intended to put to use tonight. Even outlaws needed R&R time it seemed. And though Sherlock was not the movie watching type, he found he was surprisingly willing to do things out of his comfort zone that would seemingly please the other man.
Jim had just finished attaching the DVD player to the feed into the screen and had popped in the disk a minute or so ago. An agent (maybe Moran?) delivered a large bowl of, yes, popcorn. Theater grade. Nothing but the best for the consulting criminal, of course. The shorter man nodded acceptance of the bowl, dismissing the agent, and turned to couch, stopping with a frown of contemplation as he surveyed the much-occupied space along the couch's cushions.
Sherlock had sprawled every inch of his long frame lengthways on the cushions, leaving nowhere for a certain criminal mastermind to find a seat. Jim harrumphed aloud to no effect. Setting the bowl down at a table that had also been requisitioned for their movie viewing purposes, he stepped to face the couch, examining his options. Finding nothing easier, he simply lifted the detective's legs, sat down, and deposited the extremities onto his lap, reaching for the remote as he finished his arrangement.
Sherlock cracked an eye open at the hands placed upon his person, but slid it silently closed again as he guessed what was being done. He heard the whir of the DVD player and the shifting of objects as Jim placed the remote down and grabbed the bowl of popcorn. Honestly, the detective didn't know what to make of the sheer domesticity of this situation. He wasn't uncomfortable, no. But he was perplexed. Though this was a normal state of mind just about any time he tried to decipher the multilayered meanings behind Moriarty's actions or words.
Jim's hand was lightly stroking the top of his pajama clad leg, and though the detective didn't find it unpleasant, still he wondered at the reasoning behind it. Sleeping beside each other, the rare moments of their hands finding one another's while watching some particularly gruesome aspect of one of Jim's plans come to fruition, and the constant awareness of each other's location … Perhaps he is misplacing feelings for another on me? Or some other reasoning deep rooted within the madman's psyche? After all, the criminal had obviously been through such horrors as those rarely documented for public review. At some point in his life, Jim was bound to reach out to someone or something, seeking a connection to balance the darkness within himself. And why not another borderline sociopathic genius? The methods he had gone about it gaining such a personage were, well, disturbing…but still, here they were…
He was just about to relax and perhaps retreat to his Mind Palace when the first few strains of introductory music for the movie caught his attention. Was that…? Surely not? Oh, surely not?! His eyes both snapped open to take in the scene before him, and the first few minutes of the feature rolled by, along with the title. Sherlock was…he was…dumbfounded. Here he was, lying along a couch with his legs propped up on a madman, watching, of all things, The Little Mermaid with the same madman. Oh dear God, he had finally gone insane along with Jim. Lah-dee-dah.
Sherlock watched a few more minutes of the movie before he finally couldn't take it anymore. He pushed himself into a half-raised position on his elbows and spoke to Jim, whose eyes were trained on the screen.
"Little Mermaid? Hmm. Hans Christian Anderson's creation that was actually found later to be symbolic of his homosexuality. The mermaid, representing homosexuals, wants what she can't have, that being acceptance of loving and pining after the same gender, which is represented by the land and all of its human occupants. Tragic story really, I should think that…" His critical review was interrupted suddenly.
"Sherlock, really, will you just shut up?" Jim had turned his head to the taller man as he spoke. "Can't you not analyze everything?" A piece of popcorn flew at the taller man's head, sailing past. "Just watch something. Don't deduce it." The detective made a face at the other man, prepared to say something, but was beaten to it. "Anyways, I really just want to see the ending. I started this last week, but couldn't finish it because…well, I just couldn't. Things happened, you know. Anyway, just shut up. Here, eat some popcorn." The bowl was shoved in the general direction of the semi-reclining man as the criminal returned his gaze to the film. The cartoon Mergirl was upset over some kind of shipwreck with lots of useless things aboard it. It looked as if she might sing. Ghastly.
Sherlock took the bowl and set it on his legs instead, lying back against the seat cushions again and thinking. Jim had just been watching this last week? With who? And when? The detective had been fairly certain he had marked all of the criminal's movements within the house and without, as they had hardly been apart in the last couple weeks. The dark haired man glanced over at the stack of DVDs Jim had brought in to dig through for their current showing. All consisted of either children's films or something along a similar theme. Perhaps, the shorter man, having had his childhood stolen from him so violently…..maybe he was trying to reclaim some small part of it through watching these films?
"Jim…?"
"Yes," brown eyes kept their stare at the screen.
"Why do you have so many children's movies?" The criminal started slightly at the question, as if caught in a lie. Which was odd, since he hadn't actually said anything.
"Well, they aren't just for kids, you know?" He slapped at the long legs on his lap. "Adults watch them, too." But the detective continued to stare down his nemesis, forcing him to feel compelled to continue. "And, they aren't all children's movies. There's…there's, Shawshank Redemption! There's that in the pile." Jim fidgeted with his shirt tail, and the detective decided to drop it as it only seemed to be agitating the man. And the degree of agitation suggested strongly that it had something to do with his childhood most probably. Well. No need to open that door ever again. He readjusted his legs on the criminal's lap in a way that told the other man that the inquisition was over, and he meant no harm by it. Several more minutes went by as the cartoon continued, both men silent, but only one truly watching the movie. Then a piece of popcorn pinged off the side of Jim's face.
5 days ago…
Sherlock and Jim sat at the end of a long dining table, night having fallen quickly with the oncoming rainshower. Several dishes had been set out before them, though very little had been actually touched by either. They had sat in silence for the better part of the last ten minutes or so, earlier having covered some of the planning regarding their upcoming Co-Heist next week at the British Museum. Conversation had dropped off after that, with each seeming to be waiting for something to happen. Yes…their silence was somewhat filled with…expectation. And it was putting the three agents spaced round the large dining room on edge.
Suddenly, one of the agents clutched at his throat and toppled over, foam erupting from his mouth as he suffocated in a thrashing fit on the floor. The other two watched at first in shock, then one ran to the fallen man, trying to assess what exactly had happened. The other, Sebastian Moran by name, quickly recovered from the shock and looked to his employer for instructions. Jim merely shrugged and indicated with a hand to get rid of the man on the floor. How bothersome. The agent nodded in acceptance. Then the criminal turned to Sherlock with an inquisitive expression, and the detective answered it.
"Eleven minutes, seventeen seconds," he grumbled, sounding somewhat annoyed by the numbers. The criminal smiled.
"Ah. I believe that puts me right at thirty-seven seconds off, to your minute and a half?"
"I've never used these kinds of percentages before!" the detective said, frustrated. "How can I be expected to make a proper educated guess when you won't even let me test anything beforehand?!" Sherlock hated losing. But the criminal wasn't hearing it.
"Pay. Up." Jim tapped an index finger against the wood of the tabletop as he spoke. And slowly, reluctantly, the taller man reached out and sent his fruit dish sliding across to the shorter man, who stopped its progress with the same tapping finger. And smiled.
4 days ago…
Another food related incident occurred just the next morning as they sat at breakfast. Nothing fancy. Jim had simply grabbed two bowls of milk and brought cereal to the small breakfast nook by an eastern facing window. It was a fantastic view of the lawn and one of the gardens. But all Jim could focus on was how Sherlock just sat there stirring his milk around and around the bowl, never reaching for the cereal box.
"Sherlock."
"Hmmm…?" came the distracted reply.
"Sherlock, you've got to eat something."
"I ate yesterday."
"You ate about 5 noodles and a pear slice."
"As I said. I ate yesterday. But it is very nice, and strange, how you monitor my caloric intake so regularly."
They sat in silence for another few minutes, Jim crunching determinedly, and loudly, on purpose. His brown eyed gaze burned into the other man…or rather, it burned at him, as the detective didn't seem to notice it at all. Finally, though, Jim had had enough. He grabbed the box of cereal with its funny looking cartoon rabbit on the cover, dumped a portion of the cereal into Sherlock's milk, and slammed it back down beside the detective's hand.
"Sherlock. Eat. Now."
The blue-gray eyes looked up, and an exaggerated sigh followed. The taller man repositioned his spoon once more…and began to stir the little colored shapes of breakfast food around just as he had done to the milk. He spoke as he did this.
"Ridiculous cereal. Trix," he said with distaste. "Every commercial demonstrates a fine example of animal cruelty in removing a food source right from the rabbit's hands. However, I could almost say he deserved it, as he so stupidly fails in all of his disguises. And why, just why, does he simply not buy a box of the cereal he seems so enamored of? Or buy a different kind of cereal for which no one will tease him for trying to eat? Does he have no money? Because, if so, then this is really an even worse example of the poverty some…"
BANG!
The box of cereal exploded in a burst of colored fluff, the container lying dead on the floor below, a gaping hole in its center. Sherlock turned to look over his shoulder to where the bullet had entered the wall, causing several of the various shaped puffs to roll from his clothing to the floor in a rainbow cascade of destroyed breakfast. When he turned back, Jim placed the gun down on the tabletop and smiled as he gestured to the bowl before the other man.
"Now. Eat. Because that's the last bowl of cereal there is."
3 days ago…
They walked in a field full of wilted grass, brown from the cooling temperatures of the Fall weather. It crunched pleasantly underneath their shoes, like the bones of a conquered society. Their banter had no real purpose other than passing the time. Jim had tried discussing theories of cosmic structure and folded time at one point, but found an unexpected lack of informational input from the detective. He suspected the other man had been secretly embarrassed by this admission but didn't push. He thought it…cute?
No, certainly not. No.
They continued on for a ways, moving in a slow circle back to where they had started from. It suddenly occurred to Jim that he was famished. He looked to the man beside him, knowing the other would probably drop from hunger before ever admitting it and sighed internally. Well, he wasn't going to go without.
"Hungry?" Jim inquired softly, looking sideways at his taller companion.
"Mm," came the now-expected noncommittal response.
"Fine. We're getting Thai then, since you offered no input." Another generic noise of assent greeted this. Jim patted himself down for his phone. Where had he put it? "I'll just call the car back from town as soon as I find my mobile." His hands were still finding nothing, though. Hmmm. "Have you pickpocketed me, Sherlock Holmes?" he asked in amusement, but his question was met by confusion from the detective.
"No. Too easy," the other joked.
"Well, then, where can I have…?" Jim trailed off as they both had the same thought. And their eyes turned simultaneously to the extravagant housefire blazing about fifty yards to their right where the criminal had finished an "interrogation" twenty minutes before. Oh… Something in the back of the house sent out a particularly large gust of flames as they watched. Jim pursed his lips, then sighed, turning them to the road. Sherlock's phone would do them no good because it was programmed to only allow calls between himself and a few other key employees.
"Well," Jim said as he looked at the sky, "at least it's not raining."
They entered the town perhaps an hour later.
It started raining twenty minutes before they got there….
2 days ago….
Sherlock walked down the hallway of the mansion for the 3rd time that morning, for once having forgone watching Jim run the lawn. He had just felt a need to break the routine, be less predictable. He didn't know why, he just felt the urge…and so here he was. Slacks and a shirt that seemed to have been forgotten about wrapped his long and lean form as he continued on his way. The shirt tails fluttered as he walked, and he belatedly hoped that he wouldn't encounter any sharp objects as he had also forgotten shoes. He glanced down, thinking, Socks, though. Half the battle. All had been fairly silent and still thus far, with the occasional guard encountered. Quiet bunch, they never did anything but nod or give him a kind of look that he had labeled as a kind of distrustful "stink eye." He twitched one shirt cuff closed at the thought of the ignorant apes raking him over with their suspicious glares.
Suddenly, music erupted from his pocket, and Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" burst forth with epic loudness in the quiet environment. Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin as he slapped a hand to his hip to fish out the phone. He stared murder at the screen and huffed something that sounded like, "Really?" And he grimaced when the song was finally silenced. He swiped the screen and gazed at the message thereon, wondering what in the world Jim could have to tell him that was so important that the other man couldn't be bothered to wait another few minutes to say in person. The text message read:
Catch me… -JM
Sherlock wrinkled his brow and then looked up and down the length of hallway, then back down at the screen. He turned to face back the way he had come from, listening. Nothing. His eyes roved left to right, taking in the camera locations in this wing. Hmmmm… He pulled the phone back up to start texting, but another message came in. Thankfully, he was able to stop the song from making it to completion again. The second message read:
…if you can. –JM
He was about to shout up at the cameras when he heard the rhythmic slapping of shoes on hardwood coming behind him. He smiled, thinking something entirely different was going to happen…not that he was going to be clotheslined to the floor by Jim's outstretched arm. He fell with a grunt, and watched, partially from an upside down viewpoint, as the criminal spun at the end of the hall and whipped out his own phone, typing madly. Seconds later, the detective's mobile began to sing out. He grabbed it in annoyance and, with one last glare in Jim's direction, he opened the message.
Cops & Robbers, detective. Come get me. –JM
And with that, Sherlock heard a small chuckle as Jim took off down the side hall. The detective shoved himself up and stumbled slightly, as his socks didn't give great purchase on the slippery wood floors. But once he righted himself, he smirked, pocketed his phone, and took off after the other man.
He followed the path he thought most likely at first, bringing out a mental mapping of the room layout he had gathered from his morning rounds. And soon he heard something crash as he turned the corner into a large receiving room with a staircase leading on to one of the upper levels. Jim stood at the head of the staircase, a shattered vase lying on the floor below. He smiled and waved.
"Whoopsie!"
The criminal took off again, the detective gaining ground quickly with his long legs. However, Jim was technically in better shape, having run almost his entire life for one reason or another. And he was very, very, good at it. He dodged around large encased plants, over furniture, and around towering columns in rooms that Sherlock could only fathom the uses for. They circled the same rooms sometimes, seeming to be slowly widening their circle in the building, though. Jim used the largest halls to get distance, as he could break away and sprint through the open floor.
It was in one such room that the shorter man chose to stop, hiding himself behind a large column of worked marble. A ballroom perhaps? They had passed through it a couple times already, and he had chosen his stopping point wisely for its access to various escape routes. His breath puffed out in the manner of those accustomed to lengthy runs, a light perspiration dusting his features as he peered around his hiding spot. Nothing. Heh. Near him were three choice exits leading to portions of the second floor that had various twists and turns where he could maybe lose the detective in the details. He smiled and pulled his phone out again, typing.
Where. Are. You? –JM
Some distance away, he heard the song begin to play, and he smiled wider. Sherlock was on the far side of the room? Ha. No chance to catch him now. Maybe he should give him a hint? Yes. Jim flattened along the column, pressing himself against it, and then leaned out slightly to his left to peer around.
His grin faltered for just a second when his eyes met nothing but an empty room…with a discarded mobile lying on the floor against the far wall. Then he closed his eyes with a different kind of smile entirely as he heard the soft and swift stocking clad feet of the detective coming upon him. He laughed and set his arms up in the stereotypical "under arrest" surrender pose while still facing the marble column. Then he heard a muttered curse just before Sherlock Holmes' sliding feet sent the detective plowing into the back of the shorter man.
Jim's breath released in a whoof of uncomfortable pressure as he was rammed into the stonework. Sherlock grabbed around him for support to keep from falling and embarrassing himself even further. If that was even possible at this point. And no, it wasn't; but he managed.
The detective found himself then, pressed tightly up against his one-time enemy, arms now up above the other's head as if sheltering him from some unknown threat. He panted a bit harshly just behind the criminal's ear, elated success riding his tone.
"Caught you."
And Jim shivered at those words, his eyelids fluttering. He slid his palms slowly down the marble, catching on the detective's own hands as he did, and causing those long artist's fingers to slide down with his own. This ended with the detective's hands enveloping the criminal's as they came to rest at their sides. And they stood there, Jim's chest touching the cool stone, with his back flush against the taller man's sternum, hands entwined on either side. The now-captured man's soft Irish lilt began with an almost-chuckle and ended with a low whisper into the room, still empty but for themselves.
"Yes….. You have."
And internally…he begged for mercy…
1 day ago…
They sped along under the noonday sun in what had to be one of the most beautiful days of the year. The clouds had decided to part, the sun shone through merrily, sparkling off of the hood of the stolen car, and the wind blew enticingly through their hair as Jim and Sherlock blazed down a wide country highway. The criminal downshifted once more, grinding up the last bit of horsepower that could be mustered from the automobile. Glancing to his left, he was pleased to find the detective smiling for once. It was such a rare occurrence to catch unsuspecting upon the other man's lips. Perhaps it was the thrill of the theft? Or maybe the breakneck speed they traveled? Or, Jim twisted to check the road behind them, maybe it was the six squad cars in angry pursuit? He turned back around to face forward and adjusted the rearview mirror. Yeah, those probably had something more to do with it...
Jim pulled his mobile from his coat pocket, steering one-handed as he flicked through the screens, checking their positioning. Confirming their route, he replaced the phone and reached for his snow cone, sipping from the tiny straw as if it was the most distinguished of alcoholic beverages. Then he turned his attention once more to the detective as he spoke.
"Sherlock…. Do you know how to fly a plane by chance?" A slightly confused stare was given in answer before it made it into verbal communication.
"….no."
"Oh….well, then. Um, here." Jim pulled his phone out once more and unlocked the screen before tossing it into the other man's lap. "Pull up Youtube or something and see what you can find quickest about the smaller engine private planes. Crop dusters and such, I should think." The detective gave him another quizzical look before setting to, as the criminal finished with, "You've got about twelve, maybe fifteen, minutes. Don't waste them." And they sped onward down the highway, where, miles ahead lay a small private airfield.
Sherlock googled and watched and read, absorbing the information in his typical stoic fashion, completely immersed in the task as the car swayed from side to side. The squad cars had gained a bit when Jim had been looking at his phone, and now they had begun firing random shots. The criminal reached between the seats and pulled a .38 from where he had jammed it when they stole the car, one hand on the wheel and the other steadying its aim out behind him. He was doubly glad now that they had stolen a convertible. He got off two shots before he had to turn his focus back to driving. But it was enough to warn the pursuers back a bit.
They hit the paved beginning of the airfield minutes later, tires sliding as they cut the sharp turn through the gate. They had a good start on the pursuers, too. Perhaps over a minute, maybe two. A couple of the closest squad cars slid past the gate and missed, but the others made it through shortly after. Jim looked to Sherlock. They'd have very limited time to accomplish this. Better make it efficient.
"Well?"
"Yes?"
"Have you done it?"
"Yes."
"Are you doing it?"
"What?" A glare. "Yes!" Jim indicated the airfield before them when the detective's eyes left the screen at his annoyingly persistent questions.
"Which of these?" Jim yelled as he gestured towards the five or so small planes that were parked along the strip. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he compared them to what he had just studied, then his hand shot up to point at the one next to last on the left.
"Red and yellow one there."
"Alright. You ready?" The criminal glanced behind them. "Couple minutes is all we'll have. You got this?" He received only a smirk in reply.
They screeched to a halt, almost tumbling out of the car in their haste, both moving swiftly nonetheless to kick the wheel blocks out of the way. Jim leapt into the front seat of the small aircraft, snapping a belt over himself and placing the goggles hanging in front of him on his face. Sherlock followed suit seconds later, kicking the mounting ladder away from the craft. He sat and assimilated the controls before himself, adjusting his newfound knowledge to some of the unfamiliar panels that greeted his eyes. That is, he did until heard Jim mutter his name in annoyance as the other man watched the swiftly approaching police force. The detective grunted in his own fit of pique.
"Fine."
And the engine started, the propeller whirred to life, and moments later the small plane rolled forward from its motionless brethren. Sherlock picked up speed quickly, but it wasn't all that fast at this point, and the cars were almost upon them. Jim twisted round and fired another two shots off, actually hitting one of the officers driving a front running automobile. The car twisted and crashed into another, further slowing the pursuit. He smiled and sat back in his seat once more, feeling the wind pick up as they pulled round to the beginning of the runway.
Far off in the field, a man emerged from a shoddily maintained hangar of sorts, shouting who knew what kind of profanities at them. The owner, most probably. The man had made it out just in time to watch as the two thieves broke out down the runway, picking up further speed, bouncing a few times, and then finally maintaining air. It wasn't the prettiest of takeoffs, but for a new learner, it would do. The angle was a bit steep, and introduced a good bit of nausea into both of their constitutions, but otherwise they were fine.
The detective leveled the plane out at what he figured to be a safe enough altitude that he wouldn't hit any random trees or whatnot. The ride was still jerky and not entirely comfortable, but it would do. It seemed like something was pulling or tugging, which was probably the result of the taller man forgetting to adjust one of the smaller settings for the plane's wings. Jim turned back to him, intent on telling him…something. But his thought flew out of his head as the criminal witnessed what lay behind them… And he just laughed. True, unadulterated laughter that he could barely hold in, tears erupting from the strain and collecting in the bottoms of the goggles.
Sherlock frowned as he watched the madman seemingly turn even more mad right in front of him. Great. Perfect time for Jim to lose it. But he just had to see what the other man found so damn funny. Perhaps one of the pursuers' cars had exploded or some such thing? Yes, that would set the other man into giggles, he was sure. He turned slowly, trying not to knock the steering mechanism and rock them further. His eyes sought the escape route behind them…and found it there. And then he, too, let out a surprised laugh as he flew on. Streaming out behind them was a sign:
{Marry Me Suzie O'Brannon!}
Well then. That was… interesting. He watched as Jim finally got himself under control and began to search on his phone once more, occasionally having a tremor of chuckling roll over him. The criminal turned back to him and indicated a direction, which he adjusted to. The shorter man then made a series of hand gestures that the detective interpreted as being "fly this way for fifteen minutes and then we're landing." Sherlock nodded his understanding and then grabbed for his own phone, needing to communicate something but unsure how to pantomime it. His knees sufficed for steering while he typed quickly, sending at the end.
Jim looked down when he felt the phone vibrate against his chest. He pulled it up and swiped open the screen, reading the text Sherlock had sent. His face went a bit pale, and he turned to look back at the other man, who nodded as if to confirm that, yes, Jim had read it correctly. The shorter man turned back to face forward, his dramatic sigh going unheard over the roar of the engine and wind. Then his head fell forward, chin to chest, and his hand rose to massage his temple.
...
You only told me to learn how to fly, not to land. –SH
Present…
Sherlock came back to the present with a small half-smile resting on his face. He turned his gaze to the bleary morning sun. Was this what ordinary people meant about always needing to appreciate the small things? Interesting. But he quite enjoyed the "non" small things as well. In fact, he was just flat enjoying this time spent with his one-time enemy turned fri….end? Well, at least that. Surely. Certainly they were made to be together. Just, in what capacity?
Across the lawn, Jim had slowed to a walk to cool down from his run. Sherlock's eyes followed him, tracked him, marked him. His gaze had a weight to it that held an endless reel of questions. But when the criminal came around to where he was, offering a hand to help him up from the grass, he found he couldn't remember any of them. And what was more…he didn't care.