Sorry for the wait!
And sorry to the reviews I didn't reply to!
Now...
Flashback chapter commence!
Water can be as passionate or as controlled as Fire.
Fire, however, never had Water's ability to sit still.
Once Fire stops dancing, it's dead.
There are many ways that Fire can die.
You can drown it.
You can blow it out.
You can smother it.
But there is only one way that Fire can live.
It needs to breathe.
Carl Powers had shook…
…seized…
…and sank.
Now he was flopping ( like a fish out of water), up on the tile poolside, crowd standing in shock around him as the lifeguard tried to get him to breathe again.
"No! No!" a woman was shouting, "My son! My son!"
And the other swimmers were just floating in the pool, watching, not sure what else to do.
"You're doing it wrong!" a man shouted, throwing people out of his way to get to the lifeguard kneeling by Carl, "It's not working!"
The circle broke to allow the man, accompanied by the woman, the parents to enter and sit on the damp floor by their son.
The room was voiceless, now.
Breathless.
Everyone was holding their breath quietly, staring down at Carl, expecting him at any moment to sputter, spit out some water, and just breathe, for god's sake, breathe.
But he didn't.
The lifeguard began the chest compressions again—
…1…2…3…4…
—trying CPR every thirty seconds.
And the room was still silent, still voiceless, still breathless…
…except for the barely audible sound only the undistracted ear (and mind) would register.
Jim Moriarty, standing and watching with the rest of the crowd, could hear the lifeguard humming something, under his breath, as he tried and tried and tried to get Car Powers to breathe again.
…Ah...ha...ha…ha…stayin' alive…
In school, Jim was a fish out of water.
And Carl Powers and his 'friends' (the richer boys he tried so hard to impress) would beat kids up for that.
But not Jim Moriarty.
Not Jim.
There was a boy, maybe a bit younger than them (smaller, easy target), shaking on the grass of the field behind the school.
The bruises hadn't formed yet, but the scrapes on his knees (pushed over while still on the sidewalk—he had crawled over to the grass) were fresh and dirtied with mud.
By now, this boy had stopped begging for the older, bigger boys around him to stop, please, for god's sake, just stop.
Instead of words, there was a pink sort of…foam…bubbling from his mouth.
Now, Carl was no genius but even he knew that flashing lights weren't the only way to induce seizures.
"Look at him dance!" he cackled as the boy below him convulsed.
His laughter was the loudest (forced?) and continued to grow as the laughs of the other boys circling around their injured classmate shrunk.
"Told you," Carl continued, glancing over at them, grin huge (forced?), "I told you I could make him do it! You all said you wanted to see him do it! You all said—"
But before he could finish, Carl's 'friends' (the richer boys who were so hard to impress but so easy disappoint) turn and ran, wordlessly, away from Carl and the boy on the ground, on some unspoken consensus that left Carl out of their in-group as much as it left the boy on the ground (and as much as it left Jim).
"Wait!" Carl called after them, but received no answer.
Even the boy on the ground was quiet, now, unconscious.
Carl kicked him once more, this time only very lightly, to turn him over on his side so that the vomit spilled from his lips onto the grass beside him.
At least he could breathe.
The field was silent…
…and then Carl heard clapping, slow, steady clapping.
He whirled around to find Jim Moriarty (that strange kid in his year) standing a few yards away from him, having somehow been able to sneak up on him.
"What are you doing?" Carl demanded.
"I'm applauding." Jim stated, smiling, "You put on a 'jolly good show' if I do say so myself."
"You were watching?" Carl exclaimed, glancing around to make sure no one else was there who might have seen.
"Of course." Jim shrugged, shoving his hands into his uniform pockets, "I like to watch. Don't you?"
"I—"
"I know you do. I see it in your eyes. You like to watch…but you love to do more. More than just watch. You love to hurt people, Carl. I see that in your eyes too."
Jim stared into Carl's blue eyes and Carl stared into Jim's.
They looked black.
Like black holes that could suck you in if you weren't careful and never ever spit you back out.
Carl looked away, down at the ground.
There was their fellow classmate, unconscious, smaller and younger, on the grass between them and Carl was thankful for this weak wall protecting him.
Jim wouldn't dare—
—oh, but he would.
And he did.
Jim started towards Carl, stepping over the boy on the ground, to stand so close to Carl that they could hear and feel each other's breathing.
Carl stepped backwards.
"What do you want…?" he questioned, eyeing Jim suspiciously while making sure neither his face nor his voice betrayed any fear.
"What I want…" Jim answered, "…is for you to hurt me, Carl, just like you did poor little whatever-his-name-is… I want you to do that to me."
"Why?" Carl asked, "Why would you want me to do that?"
"Why not?" Jim returned, casually, "Do you even need a reason? I know you like it, hurting people, love it…Why do you need an excuse to have fun?"
Carl stepped backwards again, catching himself before he tripped over the incline between grass and pavement.
"I'm not doing anything to you." he spat.
"Oh come on, Carly…" Jim groaned, "You're missing out…and I feel like I am too. I wanna know what it's like, getting hurt, getting hurt by you…I'll scream, if you want me to, I'll beg—or I can shut up, bite my tongue if that's how you'd like it…I can even hit you first, if you really need an excuse—"
"No."
"Please, Carl, please…I want you to hurt me, I need you to hurt me. Why won't you hurt me?"
"…Because…because you want me to….because you're different."
Jim raised his eyebrows at the word 'different'.
He stopped his approach, still on the grass, and separated by the change in terrain, as Carl was standing the sidewalk.
"Different." Jim repeated, "…What do you mean 'different'?"
"You're different." Carl restated, "You just are. You're not like the rest of us…"
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Jim inquired, genuinely seeking an answer.
"It's not either, it just is." Carl replied.
"Oh." Jim accepted, "…And because I'm different, you won't hurt me. You're not my enemy…so does that mean you're my friend?"
"No." Carl denied, "It just means you're different…and you're not my friend, you're not my enemy—"
"Then what am I to you?" Jim interrupted, shouting.
"Nothing." Carl said, "You're nothing."
(It was the answer Jim had been expecting, he just had to hear Carl say it himself.)
"You're nothing." Carl said again (and again, and again, and again), "Nothing! Nothing!"
And then he laughed.
It was nervous, forced laughter…but it was laughter all the same.
And that, really, was Carl's mistake.
Because the opposite of love is not hate, it is indifference.
Love and hate are passion; indifference is nothing.
And Jim Moriarty was tired of nothing.
Tired of indifference.
And that, really, was Carl's mistake.
Because the strongest love is unrequited love.
Sherlock had sat on the stands, idly watching the swimming tournament with half an eye, while the other three-quarters of his eyes kept a look out for his 'friend' (the nice older boy who agreed to do some 'business' with him here like proper businessmen).
It didn't take Sherlock long to realize that this meeting wasn't going to take place and he wasn't going to get the chemicals necessary for his experiment.
At this point, he would have gotten up and left—
(Wasn't he late for something, anyway?)
—but suddenly something interesting started to happen.
One of the swimmers in the competition was no longer swimming.
He was writhing in the water…and then he was sinking.
Sherlock heard the lifeguard blow his whistle and saw him dive into the pool, towards the boy.
He sat still as people jumped up from their seats in the balcony to hurry downstairs and over to the swimmer.
The lifeguard had dragged him out of the water and was now trying to revive the swimmer by the side of the pool.
Why was the lifeguard doing CPR? Sherlock wondered.
This boy obviously was already dead.
All his movements were just residual muscle spasms.
Besides, the boy hadn't even drowned.
That's why the chest compressions didn't push water out of his lungs; there wasn't any in there to begin with!
….God, these people were so stupid…
Sherlock finally stood when the crowd surrounding the dead swimmer blocked his view of the scene.
A woman was screaming and a man was shouting.
They must have been the parents since everyone gaping in horror at this sad event (gazing intently at this interesting event in their usually boring lives) let them through to kneel beside the boy.
The audience circled in closer—except for one person.
One boy, about Sherlock (and the swimmer's) age, backed away from the crowd and while they were all distracted by the death of a child, slipped away into the locker-room.
Sherlock followed him.
Sherlock deduced that Carl Powers had not drowned.
He was right.
Sherlock deduced that Carl Powers had been murdered.
He was right.
And Sherlock deduced that the murderer was the mysterious boy standing in front of the locker-room mirror trying to laugh.
He was right.
But none of that mattered.
Outside the building that the pool was located inside, there was the flashing lights of ambulances and police cars.
Paramedics were carrying the body of the dead swimmer—Carl Powers (Sherlock had just learned his name)—into the ambulance.
Why?
What was the point of rushing him to a hospital if he was already dead?
…Sherlock didn't understand….
There were police officers standing around, taking everyone's statements, surveying the area.
(And this made Sherlock hopeful—until they decided that Power's death hadn't been a murder.)
Why?
What was the point of calling the police, if the police weren't going to investigate?
…Sherlock didn't understand…
And neither did this stupid police officer, either, apparently.
He was young and so low-ranking (nervous—looking around the 'crime scene' (as it would be called if they were calling the death a crime) like he didn't know what to do with himself…maybe this was one of his first cases, even.
"I'm telling you," Sherlock told the officer (whatever-his-name-was), "That boy didn't drown. I know what drowning looks like—"
"And how do you know that, kid?" the officer laughed.
"I've read about." Sherlock stated, "And I saw it happen. I saw Carl Powers die and he didn't drown. He was murdered."
"Oh, really?" the officer patronized, "By who?"
"One of his classmates." Sherlock declared, "I saw him there in the locker room. He was laughing—at least he was pretending too."
"I don't know who you saw …" The officer responded, no longer laughing and now speaking very seriously, "…but you need to understand that grief affects everyone differently and the boy was probably just in shock at seeing his classmate die. You say he was pretending to laugh? He was probably just trying not to cry."
"He killed him. I know he did." Sherlock insisted, "Carl Powers, he was an athlete a swimmer and probably a runner, too. But this boy, the one I saw in the locker-room…he was not. Athletes normally verbally and physically abuse those who are not—those who're not like them. Powers probably did this to his classmates and now one of them has gotten their revenge."
"You don't have any evidence of that, kid." The police officer warned, holding up a finger sternly, "So you can't just be making accusations.
Oh, he thought he was so much older and wiser than Sherlock just because of his uniform.
The man was a bloody idiot!
Sherlock was debating internally whether to find this humorous or disgusting.
"Do you have a cigarette?" he asked.
If he couldn't have any other drugs, he at least deserved (and needed, desperately needed) some nicotine.
Besides, he was sure the police officer's reaction to his question would be interesting enough.
"What?" the police officer reacted.
"Do you have a cigarette?" Sherlock repeated, this time more slowly and with more emphasis.
"No!" the officer refused, "I don't—"
"Yes you do." Sherlock countered.
Obviously, the police officer was a smoker.
Sherlock could smell it on him; the scent was permanently sewn into his uniform no matter how many times he'd wash it.
The smell of smoke.
And where there's smoke, there's…
…cigarettes.
"No," the officer repeated, this time more slowly and with more emphasis, "I don't."
(And this time Sherlock believed him.
So that was why he'd been looking around nervously, earlier.)
"But you do smoke." Sherlock checked.
"That's not any of your business, kid," the police officer snapped, "and you shouldn't be smoking at your age. It's not healthy. How old are you, anyway?"
"Fourteen." Sherlock shrugged, "And smoking's not healthy at any age. But that hardly matters. The world's full of that can that can hurt you, that can kill you…they're inescapable. So what's the point of trying? I don't want to whither away into old age. Being that slow of body, slow of mind…that useless…it would be so boring I couldn't stand it. I won't let myself get like that! I want to die young. And before that, I want to really, really live."
"You're a strange kid." The officer chuckled, "…now why don't you run along now. Get home before it gets dark. I wouldn't want to have to call your parents."
"…fine." Sherlock acquiesced and after he had turned to leave, he added, "Good luck, then."
"What?" the officer inquired, raising an eyebrow as he watched him walk away, "With the case? I told you we're not ruling it a homicide so we're not investigating."
"No." Sherlock shook his head, looking back at him, "I mean with your girlfriend. You're going to propose to her tonight, aren't you?"
"Yes I—how did you know that?" the officer inquired, taken aback and completely confused.
"That's the ring box, there in your pocket." Sherlock explained, "I thought it was a half-empty pack of cigarettes but it wasn't. She must've asked you to quit."
And the police officer couldn't help but laugh at that, too, his awe and appreciation balanced by the fact that it was a child that had figured him out (not the detectives he worked for that were supposed to do this sort of thing) which was kind of funny because it was actually kind of cute.
"Could've been anything in my pocket, though." He considered, "So how did you know?"
"You looked nervous." Sherlock explained and finally allowed himself to smile (—even if only just a very little).
The school building was locked and dark, just like the sky above it.
And just like the sky above it, the field was decorated with tiny glowing dots of lights.
Stars.
Fire burning bright.
Candles.
"Why do you care so much about that Powers boy?" Victor asked, "You didn't know him. You didn't even go to this school. So why are we here?"
"We're here," Sherlock explained, "Because my brother already knows I'm interested the Carl Powers 'case'—or lack thereof—which is a logical reason for me to attend the candlelight vigil in his honor."
They were weaving their way through the rows of students, parents, teachers and other sympathetic community members that had gathered to mourn the death (which was not a murder. definitely not.) of Carl Powers.
"You mean a good excuse." Victor corrected, "But why are you so interested in this to begin with?"
"The same reason I'm interested in you." Sherlock stated, "Because I'm bored."
"Oh," Victor chuckled, stopping and turning to look his 'client' up and down, "So you're 'interested' in me now?"
He wondered if this strange (and beautiful), younger boy who had never had a girlfriend (or a boyfriend—and not for lack of 'interested' parties) was simply oblivious to the innuendo in his statement…
…or fully aware and just trying to mess with him.
"I'm interested in what you can give me." Sherlock clarified (although it didn't really help 'clean-up' the meaning), also stopping, but staring around at the crowd holding candles, rather than at upperclassman.
"I don't 'give'." Victor said, "I sell, I trade, I do business. Nothing is for free."
"I have the money." Sherlock replied, reaching into his jacket pocket.
"And I have what you want, too." Victor returned, "But before we do our 'business', I've got to know….why does a smart kid like you want to get high? You don't seem the type, really. You're not like other junkies—or even the ones who're just 'experimenting' or whatever, just trying to have some fun with it—no. you're not like anyone else, really. You're different…and so why, why would someone like you want to do this?"
"I told you." Sherlock groaned, "I'm bored…I just want to know what it feels like…now are you going to sell it to me or not?"
"Yeah, I am." Victor nodded, "But you sure picked an interesting place to do this, by the way. In front of all these…watchful eyes."
"They won't notice." Sherlock shrugged, "They could look right at us and still not know. People see…they just don't observe. They're so blind, so stupid, so—"
"Alright, alright!" Victor interrupted, laughing awkwardly, "People are stupid and you're so much smarter than everyone else. I get it!"
"No, you don't." Sherlock laughed, also, forced and bitterly, shaking his head, "My brother, on the other hand, does…He's a hawk and he sees everything. And he always knows, too. He's the reason you couldn't make it to our last meeting."
"I said I was sorry about that," Victor exclaimed, "I told you the train I was on got delayed. Track maintenance—"
"Mycroft." Sherlock corrected.
"Whatever." Victor conceded, sighing, "Let's just get this done."
Sherlock Holmes was normally a very quiet (and very pretty, as well) boy…but when he started talking he just didn't stop and all of it, all of it was in some incomprehensible language only he could understand.
(What the hell was a 'mycroft', anyway?)
Victor was tired of it.
He had met Sherlock in school because Sherlock, being the genius that he was, took all the upper level classes with the older kids, rather than with those in the same grade.
The only reason Sherlock hadn't skipped several years in school was because of math.
Sure, he'd aced every standardized test on mathematics, skewing all the other students' scores…
…but the actual classes he'd failed.
Just because he had decided the work was too easy and so too boring.
"Yes." Sherlock agreed, pulling out his wallet and the necessary amount of money.
Instead of reaching into his pocket, however, Victor reached into the waistband of his green underwear to pull out the small plastic bag.
(He'd learned well to keep his product protected from teachers, police officers, and security guards always asking him to 'turn out his pockets'.)
Victor handed Sherlock the baggy and Sherlock handed Victor the money.
They even shook on their deal like proper businessmen.
"Thank you." Sherlock thanked, politely but coldly.
"No, thank you." Victor thanked, mockingly but warmly.
And Sherlock raised neither eyebrow and took but one more glance at Victor (eyes and emotion indeterminable), before turning to leave.
"Wait." Victor called after him, catching his arm to turn him around.
"…What?" Sherlock asked, careful not to seem too angry (although he was clearly uncomfortable at being touched).
"It's your first time." Victor stated, "You shouldn't go off and do it alone. It's not safe. You need someone…more experienced to, you know, teach you…"
And Sherlock wondered if this scruffy (but gay), older boy who had never even been addicted to the drugs he sold to his fellow students (and their friends) was simply oblivious to the innuendo in his statement…
…or fully aware and just trying to make him equally as aware (and 'interested').
"It's not my first time, I don't need teachers to learn, and I work best on my own." Sherlock dismissed, wrenching himself free from Victor's grasp and turning around once more to leave.
This time, Victor watched Sherlock go in silence and couldn't help but laugh to himself as he disappeared into the candle-holding crowd.
The people were singing a song now; some sort of hymn or something.
Something about angels…
Jim stood on the edge of the crowd, watching them sway back and forth and sing in unison, shoulders touching.
He was away from and behind everyone else, alone…
…except for a few other boys, about his age, on the outskirts of the candlelight vigil.
Jim turned to watch them.
The three boys, some of Carl Powers' 'friends', still holding their candles, stood in a circle (triangle) surrounding something.
What was it?
In the darkness, Jim crept closer to get a better view.
"Where did you get it?" the first boy asked.
"Science lab." The second snickered, "Stole it this afternoon and kept it in my backpack all this time."
"This is gonna be good." The third smirked, bending down to grab for whatever was in the center of the three of them.
Now Jim could see that it was a paper-cup, turned upside down to cover something.
The third boy lifted it up to reveal what that something was.
A spider.
A tarantula that darted back in forth in the dark as soon as it was set free from its paper prison, the boys' feet stomping around it, trapping it between them inside their circle (triangle) of hell.
"That thing's huge!" the third boy exclaimed, jumping up and away from the spider, tripping backwards.
The paper-cup was thrown through the air during that commotion (so that the third boy could hold onto his candle as he tripped) and fell behind him, rolling across the grassy field until it landed almost at Jim's feet.
"Yeah I know." The second boy grinned, "It can eat a mouse."
"It could kill a man…" the third boy shuddered, rejoining the circle (triangle) quickly but tentatively, "…just look at those fangs…"
"Don't let it bite you." the first taunted, nudging the tarantula towards the third with his toe.
The third boy backed away.
"Don't let it escape!" the second boy snapped, moving close the gap between his and the other boys' feet.
Once again the spider was trapped in its 'play-pen'.
"Now…who's gonna go first?" the first boy inquired, looking at both of his friends in turn.
"I will." The third volunteered, "I hate spiders."
"It'll squeal, you know." The second squealed in delight, "Squeal in pain. They can feel pain, tarantulas, just like me and you…"
The third boy gulped.
The second boy laughed.
"Can't do it now, can you?"
"I can…and I will."
The third took a deep breath, steadied himself and readied his candle.
"Go on, then…" the second boy urged, still grinning.
The third boy began to lower himself towards the tarantula at his feet.
"Here we go…" the first boy acknowledged, already looking away.
Holding his breath and squinting his eyes shut, the third boy brought his burning candle closer and closer to the spider until…until…
"Excuse me." Sherlock grumbled, emerging from the crowd to bump into the three boys (and their spider).
He pushed sharply past them, parting their circle (triangle) as he strode away from the candlelight vigil and the crowd across the field.
"Watch where you're going!" the second boy shouted after Sherlock, shaking his fist after him.
(—once Sherlock was already a safe distance away, of course.)
He then turned back to his friends.
"Where is it?" he asked them, scanning the grass for a sign of the spider.
"I dunno…" the third boy answered, "I think it got away."
It was dark and difficult to see.
Already close to ground, he used his candle to illuminate the area as he and the other two searched.
And although they searched, the boys never found that spider.
"Whatever, let's just go." The first boy decided, finally giving and throwing his arms up towards the starry sky.
"Yeah." The other two boys agreed, nodding, "Let's go home…"
The three friends threw their candles to the grass and stepped on them as if they were cigarettes to put them out (oh, they were so cool), before walking away.
Jim Moriarty watched them go, holding a candle in one hand and a tarantula inside a paper-cup in the other.
"Do you know why you're here, Mr. James Moriarty?"
'Here', of course, was the old mansion restored and then converted into a 'safe place' for the pretty rich kids with problems.
"Jim. Call me Jim."
"Alright, Mr. Jim—"
"Just Jim. I'm just a child, after all. No need to waste formalities on someone like me."
"Alright, then, Jim…what are you here for?"
"A holiday."
"…really? So you consider an indefinite stay at our psychiatric hospital a 'holiday'?"
"Of course, I do. It's like staying in a hotel. I've got room service and the staff's all really nice."
And that was true.
It was like living in luxury here; everything was as comfortable as it was beautiful, decorated with (fake) 'antique' furniture to match the architecture.
(Except in the addition nobody sees from the outside. In the basement where the walls were white and the furniture is gray.)
And the doctors, nurses, counselors, and other employees were (fake) 'smiling' all the time, always very polite and helpful.
(Except in the addition nobody talks about on the outside. In the hell where the demons tortured the damned souls.)
"Well I'm glad that you find your accommodations here—"
"—accommodating?"
"Yes. And I'm glad you feel you're being treated well…but you need to understand, Jim, that this isn't a 'holiday'. This is serious, Jim, very serious. And you need to take this seriously."
"Oh, I am, doctor, I am. Very seriously."
"That's good, Jim, that's very good. Now can you tell me, 'very seriously', why you think you're here."
"I'm here because my brother's had me committed."
"And why did your brother have you committed, Jim?"
"My brother had me committed because he got tired of looking at me. He doesn't think I'm pretty and he doesn't love me anymore."
"I'm sorry you feel that way, Jim, but I'm sure that your brother doesn't think that about you at all. Your brother loves you very much, Jim, and that's why he sent you here. Because he wants to get you the help you need."
"Now can you tell me why I need help?"
"Well we're here to figure that out, Jim. I'm going to evaluate you today to see what—if any—psychological disorders you may have so that we can move forward with your treatment."
"You think I'm insane, don't you, doc?"
"I don't think anything about you, Jim. I'm not judging you at all. I'm only here to help you. Everyone wants to help you, Jim. And you should feel no shame about any diagnosis you receive, about any emotions you feel, about anything—"
"Good. Because I don't. I don't feel ashamed. I don't feel anything at all."
"Not anything?"
"No, nothing. I feel nothing."
"And how did you feel when your classmate Carl Powers tragically passed away two weeks ago?"
"I felt…I felt nothing."
"It's okay, Jim, you can tell me. It's okay to feel sad—even angry. Whatever you felt when you saw him drown…and then afterwards, all of those emotions, they're perfectly legitimate—and perfectly normal."
"I didn't feel anything!"
"Alright, Jim, that's okay. That's okay….And what you…what you didn't feel, did that…did that lead you to do what you did the night of the candlelight vigil in Carl's memory?"
"You mean setting the school on fire?"
"Yes, Jim. Can you explain to me why you did that?"
"Yes, doc. I did that because I wanted to see it burn..."
"And why did you want to burn down your school?"
"No! Not my school! The spider! I wanted to see the spider burn!"
"…the spider? So there was a spider there that night. Tell me about the spider, Jim."
"I stole it from the science lab in the school."
"So it was a real, actual spider, then?"
"Yes. A tarantula."
"And why did you steal it from the science lab in your school?"
"Because my friends asked me to—at least I think they're my friends. Carl was my friend…my only friend…but once he, um…died…I-I didn't have anybody else to talk to. And so when they asked me to bring them the spider I did..."
"..Mmhm..."
"And when they asked me to set it on fire…"
"What did you do then, Jim?"
"I—well, I tried. They told me it would squeal if I burned it. They said they wanted to hear it squeal. They said they wanted to see it burn. And so I...I tried to light it with my candle…but it got away and when I started to chase it across the field...it just—I just…"
"Go on, Jim."
"…I dropped my candle…"
"…And?"
"It landed on the school. My friends, they just ran away. Then everyone ran away. It all happened so fast I didn't know what was going on. I just—I mean I didn't mean to—I only wanted—"
"It's okay, Jim, it's alright. It's not your fault."
"…it's not?"
"No, Jim, it's not. And you don't need to feel ashamed about it, or bad. There wasn't even any real damage to the school building and no one was hurt…"
"…I know…brick, it doesn't catch on fire… but people…people can."
"Yes they can. But they didn't. You didn't catch anyone on fire, Jim."
"…no. I didn't."
"Thank god for that."
"Yes, thank god…You know, I learned about that in science class, that thing about what can burn and what can't. It's Chemistry…and the tarantula, I took it from my Biology class. I love Biology. Plants, animals, evolution, the ecosystem...the circle of life...Wanna know something I learned in Biology class, doctor?"
"Yes, Jim, I do. Please tell me."
"Everything is connected. Everything ends just how it began. It's all one big circle. In a way, you can never die. Because once you die, your body decomposes and then plants grow. And the plants, they're alive; they're living things, too. Animals eat them, and animals eat other animals. Humans are animals and we eat plants and animals, as well. It's all a circle, the circle of life. And so, in a way, we'll always be reborn no matter how many times we die."
"That's beautiful, Jim."
"Very beautiful?"
"Yes, Jim, 'very' beautiful."
Sherlock Holmes was a mess on the ground for his older brother Mycroft to clean up.
He was gazing up (eyes wide-open and dilated) at the burning sun as if he couldn't see it there.
"You honestly thought I wouldn't find you here, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, staring down at him, "It's a public park, for god's sake."
"Oh. You've found me. Congratulations, Mycroft." Sherlock grumbled, "I wasn't hiding. I just didn't think you'd waste your time looking. But now that you have…move. You're blocking my sunlight."
Sherlock attempted to shoo Mycroft away with a wave of his hand, but instead of getting out of the way, Mycroft bent down beside him.
"You could be arrested for public indecency." Mycroft warned, "…and that would be the least of the charges."
"I'm not naked." Sherlock countered, closing his eyes as soon as he saw Mycroft's face.
And it was true.
Sherlock was wearing underwear (although Mycroft wasn't sure that it was actually his…it was green…).
The rest of his clothing was strewn about the general vicinity of the hill they currently occupied.
"Still," Mycroft insisted, gesturing to the mess around him and to Sherlock himself, "This is completely indecent…what even happened here?"
"We were sunbathing." Sherlock stated, not opening his eyes "I'm trying to get a tan…"
" 'We'?" Mycroft repeated, "There's no one else here but you and I, Sherlock, and I assure you I am not 'sunbathing'."
"Oh, so Victor left…I didn't notice…" Sherlock figured, sitting up and opening his eyes so he could look around park.
Mycroft was beside him and about a quarter mile away there were two boys (one older, one younger—probably brothers) flying a kite high in the sky (—that momentarily blocked Sherlock's sun).
Mycroft stood up.
"And are those Victors?" he inquired, raising an eyebrow and eyeing Sherlock's choice of covering.
"Yes." Sherlock confirmed, with a brief, sarcastic laugh, "They are."
And they really were.
One of Sherlock's 'friends' (one of the very first members his Homeless Network) had warned him Mycroft was coming.
And Sherlock knew Mycroft would search anyone near Sherlock for drugs—so Victor had had to run off quickly.
They'd traded underwear so if Victor was caught later and searched nothing incriminating would be found on him.
Because Sherlock also that Mycroft would never search his underwear—even if he'd search stranger's underwear (not personally, of course, Mycroft had people for that).
"Really?" Mycroft replied, "Because I think you shouldn't be skipping school."
"It's June." Sherlock reminded, "Class doesn't begin again until August."
"Yes, for most students it doesn't." Mycroft agreed, "But you're in summer school, remember? Because you failed your spring semester."
"No, I don't remember." Sherlock shrugged, "Must've deleted that bit of useless information. No wonder I missed class today…"
"And yesterday, and the day before that…" Mycroft added, sighing, "Stand up, Sherlock, you should be ashamed of yourself."
"Why?" Sherlock scoffed, falling backwards into the grassy hill behind him instead of standing, "Because I don't waste my time on pointless activities like you do? Because I don't lie and pretend and smile everyone for no reason other than because it's what one's supposed to do according to the 'rules of life' that somebody somewhere so long ago just made up?"
"It's my job to do that." Mycroft corrected.
"Oh, yes, you're 'job'." Sherlock considered, "'Making nice' to consolidate your political power, rising to higher and higher level positions in the government—which in turn restricts the power you've worked so hard to gain. What a ridiculous waste of time. You're like a rat running on a wheel—"
"Even running in circles builds strength." Mycroft countered, folding his arms, "And you need some strength of will if you can't tolerate boredom."
"Fine!" Sherlock exclaimed, suddenly jumping up, "I'll go to class now, if you want me to! There's still time…just let me get my clothes on."
Sherlock dashed around the grass, lifting his shirt then his pants up from the ground and shaking the clumps of dirt and the wrinkles out of them.
"You can't go to class like this." Mycroft told him, "You're high."
"Yes." Sherlock affirmed, nodding as he pulled on his pants, "It makes the boring people and the boring things more… 'tolerable', as you put it. Makes me almost as stupid as them. I think that is called empathy…"
"You'll go to school tomorrow." Mycroft declared, "Today you're going home…and you're going to eat."
"I'm not hungry." Sherlock refused.
"You need to stop smoking, too, Sherlock." Mycroft chastised, "Nicotine may limit your feeling of hunger but it does not change your biological need to eat. There are some things that all human beings, even people like us, have in common. The basic necessities of life—"
"There are no 'basic necessities' to live." Sherlock interrupted, "Food, water, shelter…to 'need' any of those, first you have to want to live."
"Everyone wants to live." Mycroft stated.
"Not everyone." Sherlock disagreed, "Not me."
"You say that now…but you're just a child." Mycroft dismissed, "You won't realize how much you love your life until you feel it slipping away from you and you're helpless to stop it from going…"
"Is that a threat, Mycroft?" Sherlock tested, an eyebrow raised.
"It's a warning." Mycroft clarified, "You know as well as I do where distractions like these eventually lead. After awhile they're not just distractions anymore…they become your entire life. And your death."
"Death is preferable to boredom." Sherlock stated as he put on his shirt.
"You just need a hobby." Mycroft returned, "Something constructive to focus on…Do you have any more leads on that 'case' you were working on last year? The death of swimmer…I can get it re-opened for you, if you'd like."
"No thank you, Mycroft, I don't need your help." Sherlock dismissed, "I quit looking into the matter months ago. It got boring."
He picked up one of his shoes from the ground but before he could grab the other one, Mycroft lifted it from the grass and handed it over to him.
"Shame…" Mycroft sighed, "You were much…happier while you were playing detective. You're good at it, you know, much better than the men of Scotland Yard—no insult to them, at all. You've just got a gift. You could make an actual career out of the deductions you do. A life…That is, after you've gotten your education, of course."
"Of course." Sherlock repeated, smiling falsely and rolling his eyes, glancing up at Mycroft as he bent to tie his shoes.
"I mean it, Sherlock." Mycroft said, "I really do."
"At least someone appreciates my work, then." Sherlock accepted, "The parents never liked it…but then again, they never liked me. I wasn't the perfect son they wanted—and I didn't pretend to be, either. That's why they sent me to live in the city with you. Maybe they thought I would learn something…or maybe they just couldn't tolerate me any longer. I'm sorry for that, by the way, for wasting your time…"
Now dressed, Sherlock sat back down on the grass, resting his elbows on his knees.
"You shouldn't be." Mycroft countered, "Even someone like me needs a good distraction for my job. Besides, there is a reason why I don't go to visit our parents either."
And he—Mycroft Holmes ((soon to be) the British government)—too sat down on the grass, next to his little brother.
"They're just wasting away there…" Sherlock mused, "Sitting in that mansion, doing nothing, just breathing…"
"They see inherited wealth as an excuse not to work." Mycroft recounted, "To wile away the days with parties and without purpose…They don't care about us—or about themselves, even—only about appearances. And they don't understand. They don't understand the truth about life. That you need something to live for."
"…well then…" Sherlock finally sighed after a moment of silence, "…this has been… philosophical…"
"Isn't that what people do when they're high?" Mycroft chuckling, "Have philosophical discussions..."
"…and skip school…" Sherlock added, also chuckling.
"You do know you're going to get a sunburn, right..." Mycroft informed.
The mess had been cleaned up.
Again.
Once Jim had magically got himself declared 'sane' by the expert psychological evaluator (the overworked yet optimistic counselor that had to deal with all the 'troubled teens' to establish herself in the profession so that one day she could open a private practice), those records magically disappeared.
There was no police report, no newspaper article, no footage or photographs detailing the truth about the small, controlled and completely accidental fire that had occurred on the school campus the night of the candlelight vigil mourning the death (tragic accident) of Carl Powers.
And there was no police report, no newspaper article, no scandal regarding the third school Jim had been politely (and quietly) asked to un-enroll from (been kicked out of) due to a consensual—but coercive (with Jim being the one doing all the coercing (not that the school knew that))—affair with a teacher.
James had made sure of it.
(He had people for that, after all.)
"You do have a way with words, Jim." James admitted, sipping his coffee as he read the newspaper.
Sitting across the table from him was his younger brother, Jim, who was now living with him again (which he was definitely not annoyed about at all).
James didn't let sixteen year old 'little Jimmy' drink coffee.
Although James always had an interest in science, there were just some experiments he did not want to see attempted.
He feared what the caffeine would do to Jim and what it would help him to do.
"I'm a liar." Jim grinned, "And I learned from the best."
James rolled his eyes, turning the page of the newspaper to cover his face.
When he set it down on the table he could see Jim's face again and Jim was still grinning at him.
"Aren't you proud of me, brother?" Jim asked, smile falling and eyes widening to mock innocence.
He was sitting in the chair, clutching his feet and rocking back and forth playfully (but not absentmindedly—Jim knew exactly what he was doing…and so did James. Jim was trying to remind him of their mother. James wasn't going to take the bait).
James was careful and very thankful, very thankful that his chairs and table were metal folding chairs and table.
Every house, every apartment, every flat he occupied was always temporary, he could leave quickly (if he ever needed to).
Everything was cheap and easy to dispose of.
But none of it was flammable.
(Which took the light out of Jim's dark eyes and the fun out of his newfound hobby.)
"No, I'm not proud—and you shouldn't be either." He stated, "You have to learn, little brother, that you can't just talk your way out of all your problems. Problems start with actions, not words, and so they must be ended in the same way they're started."
"Oh, yes 'actions speak louder than words'..." Jim troped, "I've heard that one. So tell me why, James, is the pen 'mightier than the sword'?"
Jim smiled and stopped moving, looking across the table at James expectantly.
"I don't know what to do with you sometimes…" James sighed.
"Yes you do." Jim countered, "And so do I. You just don't want to do it…you can't do it. You can't kill me."
"And why would I want to kill you?"
"You'd don't. Didn't you hear what I just said? You don't want to kill me and so you can't. But why is that, brother?Why can't you kill me—I mean, it's not like you've got to do it yourself. I know you've got people for that. They can make itquickand they can make it clean…no mess and you won't have to clean up after me ever again…It would be perfect, wouldn't it? So why not, James, why not?"
And Jim started at James as if he had just won.
But James just shook his head, chuckling.
"Because I love you, dear brother." He sneered sweetly, "I've never denied that, annoyance though it may be."
Willingly admit an ugly truth and people will assume it's a lie.
James knew this.
Jim should have known this.
But he didn't (at least not in this particular situation).
And so he lost (at least in this particular situation).
…for now.
"You love me? Ah, how lovely." Jim replied, flatly, sinking into his chair, "I love me too."
"Now if that were true," James countered, "you wouldn't be throwing your life away like this. You're smart, Jim…but you're wasting yourself."
"You're right." Jim agreed, "I am wasting myself. I'm wasting my time, sitting here where you've trapped me, all day, everyday, doing nothing…just like you. What's the point of amassing wealth and power? It's boring. Life's too short to waste on such stupid, repetitive games with rules chaining you so tight you can't breathe. And it's all for nothing once you die…So I don't bother with all that. I just try to have my fun where I can, while I can."
"And what if one day your 'fun' gets you killed?" James inquired, eyebrow raised.
"Then it was fun while it lasted." Jim declared, "And I'd die happy."
"You say that now….but you're just a child." James laughed bitterly, shaking his head, "You know nothing."
"I 'know nothing'? Really?" Jim inquired, eyebrow raised, "…I know what happened to father and mother."
He'd tossed the words out of his mouth lightly, off-handedly.
And with true aim they pierced their target perfectly.
James was glad he hadn't had been drinking any of his coffee at the moment for he might have choked on it.
He set the mug down on the table.
"Oh?" he tested, tentatively.
"You tried to keep a secret from me, big brother, I don't like that." Jim chastised.
"It was never a secret." James scoffed, "It was all over the news, what our father did, they even had a little two sentence thing in the back of the paper about our mother."
"You didn't clean that mess up?" Jim asked.
"No need." James shrugged, "We haven't been connected to either of them since we left Ireland. And there's no record of us in that country."
"Burned the paper trail?" Jim chuckled, "But still couldn't change our names and just. That would've been so easy…and yet, it was too hard for you. You can't change your name and you can't kill me. You're so sentimental, brother, you care too much."
"That's what people do." James acquiesced, with another shrug, "I'm only human."
"And you tell me I'm 'wasting' myself." Jim groaned, rolling his eyes and leaning back in his chair, "I know you're just pretending. Pretending to care—"
"Like the way you pretend not to?" James returned.
"I don't." Jim insisted, "I really don't care. It's not like I choose it—although if caring was a choice I would choose to not care, rather than care. It is a waste of time, after all…"
"You're right." James agreed, "It is a waste of time and it's not a choice. Those are the rules of life. And there are rules, Jim, even for people like us."
"Oh?" Jim tested, tauntingly.
"You see," James began, "The difference between us and them…is that we allocate our resources a little better. Our minds we focus on more worthy pursuits—usually— than mindless day-to-day social dramas most people distract themselves with, simply because it's easier. And our hearts…well, people like us don't have them and we just don't care…until we do. Until we find something—or someone—that we do care about. And then, when people like us care...oh, do we care. We really, really care. And we can't stop."
"So why then…" Jim asked, "Did you neglect to tell me that our parents are dead?"
"Because I don't care." James answered, "And I didn't think you would either."
"Oh, but I do." Jim disagreed, "…and I'm happy. I feel happy…Good old dad lived his life a shadow. A nobody. No one even knew his name…overall, it was a worthless, boring existence our father had…but at least he 'went out with a bang' instead of withering away, wasting his time doing nothing. I'm proud of him…and of mum, too."
"…But do you why they did it?" James inquired.
"Because they finally got it?" Jim guessed.
"Oh, they've always 'got it'." James corrected, "They've always understood…but do you? Do you know the other rule?"
"'Rules are made to be broken'…" Jim said, because he had to say something.
And they both knew that then he was losing.
"The other rule to life is that you need something to live for." James stated, "Father had his 'war'…and mother had father. When both of those were gone, they had no reason to stay alive. Because what you live for, is also what you die for."
"And what do you live for, then, dear brother?" Jim smirked.
"For order." James said, "To put all the pieces in their proper places. To clean up messes and admire the shine. It's a difficult, never-ending job, and you may find it boring…but, to me, there's just something about fixing things that makes me happy…. More happy, I think, than even breaking things makes you."
Jim laughed at that, shaking his head.
"I don't live for 'breaking things'. That's just a distraction to keep me from getting bored, it's not a purpose…I don't live for anything—except myself."
(…And a boy.)
(A boy with blue eyes he'd seen in the reflection of a mirror once and had no idea the name of.)
"Proud of yourself, Mycroft?" Sherlock demanded.
There was no 'perfect' time to start a conversation (argument) about this and so Sherlock decided that breakfast, just before Mycroft went off to work (and he was supposed to go off to school) would do just fine.
Mycroft lowered the newspaper he was reading to eye Sherlock questioningly from across the wooden table.
He could tell that this wasn't going to be a pleasant chat.
"…What are you talking about?" he asked, carefully.
"Don't play dumb." Sherlock snapped, "it doesn't suit you and I'm not stupid enough to believe it."
"Sherlock—" Mycroft attempted.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about." Sherlock interrupted.
He stood, leaning across the table to smack paper down out of Mycroft's grasp and onto the table.
The two half-empty teacups also on the table shook, but didn't spill.
Sherlock's eyes gestured at the article on the open newspaper page.
Mycroft glanced down at it and then back up at Sherlock who glared at him expectantly.
"You know I had nothing to with the death—" he started.
"The murder." Sherlock corrected, sitting back into his cushioned chair.
Mycroft sighed.
"You know I had nothing to do with the 'murder' of your friend—" he restarted.
"He wasn't my friend." Sherlock said, "Victor wasn't my friend. He was just…"
"It doesn't matter what you called him." Mycroft dismissed, "It's obvious that you…cared for Victor. And caring is—"
"'Caring is not an advantage'." Sherlock finished, "I know that. You've told me that hundreds of times—"
"Then it's time you start listening." Mycroft declared, "You hear, but you don't listen. I try to teach you, but you don't learn. You never learn. And the only reason you're accusing me of this—"
"The reason I'm accusing you of this is because I know you did it!" Sherlock exclaimed, "I know you had Victor killed. I can't prove it, but I know it."
"You know nothing." Mycroft stated, evenly as possible.
He was angry, yes, but he wasn't going to have an outburst like his little brother was.
Still, he had to forgive Sherlock for this.
The boy was only sixteen and although he was smart, he'd had little experience dealing with emotions.
And emotions had that illogical power to defeat logic.
There was no reason why they should be able to do it and still they did.
"I know you had Victor killed." Sherlock insisted, anger subsiding to a low boil that bubbled beneath the surface (but still burned hot).
"…Why would I want to have your only friend killed?" Mycroft inquired, leaning back in his chair.
"Because he sold me drugs." Sherlock answered, plainly, "Simple as that."
"Victor was a drug dealer…and that earned him a death sentence?" Mycroft scoffed, "You may have failed your Government class, Sherlock, but I know you don't believe Great Britain is a police state."
"Victor wasn't 'a' drug dealer," Sherlock rephrased, "He was my drug dealer. And that's why he had to die."
"I wouldn't have anyone executed for selling illegal substances." Mycroft said, "Even to you. I don't have that kind of authority, anyway, officially or otherwise. Do you know how I dealt with your last drug dealer? I didn't have him killed. I paid him. I paid him never to sell you again. And he never did and so our 'business' was concluded and nobody 'had to die'."
"I know that." Sherlock told him, a bitter smirk and a teacup brought to his lips, "And that's why I chose Victor. He didn't want money. Yours or mine…he wanted me. And so you wouldn't have been able to pay him off to stop selling to me...which you, no doubt, tried to do and when he refused, you had him killed."
"For the last time—" Mycroft almost shouted, quickly calming himself, "I did not have your friend murdered."
"I know you did." Sherlock replied, coolly, taking a sip of tea.
"Think about this rationally." Mycroft reasoned, "If I was to have somebody killed…it would never be so messy."
"Normally no, you wouldn't." Sherlock agreed, "But this is a special 'case'. You knew I'd be looking into this. And so you disguised it as something you'd never be involved with. You brought in the extras, had them all killed as well, and everyone sodomized and then had the walls of that motel room painted with their blood…"
"I didn't—"
"No, really. It was brilliant show, Mycroft. You should be proud of yourself. It was almost perfect. But do you know what your mistake was?"
"Sher—"
"You had everyone in there high. Far past normal recreational use—which was fine for all the extras. They were all just junkies, I assume. Just like that poor, stupid addict you set up to get arrested for this."
"I—"
"…But Victor…Victor was a judge's son. And Victor wasn't a user. He sold but he didn't use. Except when I was there. And I wasn't there that night. Yet still, they found an excessive amount of stimulant in his system during the autopsy…why do you think that is, Mycroft?"
Sherlock set down the cup onto the table sharply.
Mycroft had never seen Sherlock this emotional before.
There were almost (…almost…) tears in his eyes, angry like hurricanes.
But Sherlock's face was expressionless and calm as the eye of a storm.
"…I'm sorry, Sherlock…" Mycroft sighed.
He knew there was no reasoning with Sherlock.
(He knew there was no reasoning with emotion.)
When tragedy struck it wasn't allowed to be random.
Someone had to take the blame—someone easily accessible.
(Someone like Mycroft Holmes, minor government official.)
"Is that an admission of guilt?" Sherlock questioned.
He was angry and he was sad.
But if he couldn't be happy…
…he still wanted to be right.
"No." Mycroft answered, "But still, I am sorry."
"Bullshit." Sherlock muttered.
He stood up from the table, chair screeching across the wood floors as he did.
Swiftly, he strode out of the room not looking back a Mycroft once.
"After you've thought about this logically you'll realize that I had nothing to do with this." Mycroft stated, also standing turning to watch him go, "After you've drained your mind of the sentiments clouding it—"
And Mycroft's words were cut off by the slam of the townhouse's front door Sherlock had just exited from.
Those words being the last he'd say to Sherlock for years afterwards and the back of Sherlock's school uniform being the last he'd see of him.
For years it would be only photographs and unanswered calls.
"You tried to keep a secret from me, big brother, I don't like that."
James stopped himself from cringing when he heard the sick, sing-song voice of his younger brother.
He also stopped himself from walking, turning around to se who he knew would be standing there behind him.
Jim was leaning against the brick wall of a building in the 'bad' part of the city.
It was dark.
The sparse streetlight and the full moonlight was not enough to illuminate whatever was making Jim's pajamas so wet.
It was, however, enough to spark a glint in his eyes.
"Found you, James." Jim smirked, starting towards his brother.
"I was looking everywhere for you!" James growled, careful not to shout.
There was no one else visible on the street, but that didn't mean there weren't eyes watching and ears listing.
"Looks like I've made it easier for you, then…"
"You make it anything but 'easy' for me, little brother, you know that."
Jim rolled his eyes.
"I wasn't hiding." He shrugged, "But you were. You were hiding. Hiding something from me…"
"I'm not obligated to tell you everything." James countered, "There are some things you're better off not knowing, for your own good…as well as others."
"Lying to me only makes it worse." Jim chirped, "….and why would you want to protect 'others' anyway?"
"To protect you." James stated.
"I'm not the one in danger, James." Jim snorted.
"Oh, but I think you are—"
"You know who the one is danger is. If you knew to look for me here, you know…So go on, say it. Say the name you never told me."
"I believe 'Victor' was his name, wasn't it? Or was it 'Vincent'? The drug dealer, whatever his name is—or was. You know who I mean—"
"And you know who I mean!"
James raised an eyebrow.
Jim rolled his eyes.
"Oh don't play dumb, you've always been terrible at acting…" he groaned, "You know who I mean. And I know his name. I finally, finally know his name."
"And who's name would that be?" James inquired.
"Why Vicky's favorite client, of course." Jim smiled, "…Sherlock Holmes."
(Jim loved the name. The uniqueness of it. The way it sounded. The way it felt to finally say it himself, out loud. It was unfair that Sherlock didn't know his name—except he did. But he didn't know Jim…)
"I don't know who—" James began.
"Yes. you. do." Jim interrupted, "You tutored him in math, remember?"
"You know better than to follow me." James snapped, "I told you not to leave the flat."
"There was a fire alarm," Jim explained, "I had to. The building got evacuated. So I took a walk. A long walk. It was a nice day…"
James sighed.
"And during the course of this 'long walk'," he guessed, "you 'just happened' to find me, follow me, and—"
"See my reflection in the window of a house in one of the 'good' neighborhoods," Jim confirmed, "taking math lessons from my older brother? Yes. I did."
"And how, exactly," James asked, "did all this culminate in the crime scene I just passed by no more than four blocks from here?...and more importantly, why?"
"Well, it's a long story…" Jim started, taking a deep breath.
"No stories, Jim." James warned, "I want the truth."
"Why?" Jim questioned, "Why do you want the truth? Why do people always want the 'truth'? Does knowing ever change anything?"
"Truth isn't as powerless as you think." James reminded, "If you confess your crime to the police, then justice can be done and you'll go to prison…"
"Yeah and if I confess my sins to a priest, then all will be forgiven and I'll go to heaven." Jim added, "Plus, the priest can't tell anybody, either so our little secret will be kept safe—"
"'Our little secret'?" James repeated.
"Yes, 'our'." Jim confirmed, "…unless, of course, you tell the police everything. But then you'd probably go to jail, too, so there'd be no reason for you to get rid of me that way…"
"I'm not telling anyone anything." James stated, "…and neither are you."
"Oh, I'll never tell." Jim promised, grinning, "I don't speak…I act."
"I know, I know…" James acknowledged, defeated, "But you can't do it here any longer."
"Where, then?" Jim chuckled, "…In hell?"
"I mean it, Jim." James responded, seriously, "I can't allow you to continue on the way you have been. Here. In this city."
"Why? Afraid one day I might burn it down…?"
"Yes."
Jim laughed.
James sighed.
"Oh, brother how I love you…" Jim smiled.
Arms wide open, he approached James to give him a hug.
A hug.
James stepped backwards.
He looked Jim up and down; the crazy look on his face and his soaked clothing.
"Don't—" he said.
"It's only water." Jim dismissed, "I took a shower with my clothes on…afterwards…"
And it was only water, too.
James felt it when Jim forced him into the 'brotherly' embrace (knowing full well James never let anyone touch him).
He pushed him off.
"I'm sending you away." James told Jim, "I know I can't stop you from…doing what you do. But I can make sure you don't do it in London."
"Where?" Jim asked again.
"Well, where do you want to—"
"Ireland."
"No."
"Aww, you're no fun…"
"You know that neither of us can go back there. Ever…So Ireland, England and anywhere else in Europe, the commonwealth—or the United States—is out of the question."
Jim grinned.
"Oh I see." He realized, "You want to ship me off to the third world…"
"Or the developing." James shrugged, "Your choice, really—within reason, of course."
"…Hmmm…" Jim considered, thinking for a few moments before he spoke, "…how about Dubai?"
"Alright." James accepted, "And you'll be changing countries again, each time you make a mess."
"Good, I've always wanted to travel…" Jim agreed, "…but don't think that means I won't be back here in London someday…back for Sherlock Holmes…"
Water doesn't have that weakness.
Water doesn't need to breathe.
Water lives forever.
Fire doesn't.
Water can kill Fire.
But Fire can't kill Water.
And so it was never really a fair fight to begin with…
And sorry for no Molly, also!
She'll be back next chapter...back for Jim Moriarty...
lol.
I crack myself up sometimes.
(And only myself lol.)
And yeah, people actually used to use 'Stayin Alive' as the metronome for CPR.
There is really no other reason for Jim to like the song other than the one I wrote.
...unless it's a plot device.
What happened the first time the song played on Sherlock?
Jim and Sherlock both stayed alive.
And then what happened the next time...?
lol.
Yeah, so I'm sure you all know this by now but since people have been worrying in their reviews...
...I'll quote my ever-so popular president, Barack Obama!
"Let
Me
Be
Clear"
Jim Moriarty is not going to die...at least not in my story (or the sequel).
lol.
Sometimes I crack myself up.
(And only myself lol.)
And you'll love how I save Jim's life.
It just cracks me up...