Sherlock walks back to the flat in silence. The night air is brisk and sharp and cold; a refreshing break from the hot, damp air of the club. The cold isolates him, helping his mind focus. Right now, he needs a distraction from Jim Moriarty.
Thank god for John Watson.
"Hey," John says, as soon as Sherlock walks in the door. He's still waiting up for him, even though it's 1:34 in the morning. "You were out late."
"And you're up late." Sherlock drops his coat carelessly on the floor and falls down onto the couch.
"Just… Typing," John sighs. Poor John, Sherlock thinks. He's so in love with me it almost hurts. "What were you out doing?"
"Case," Sherlock lies.
"Solved it?"
He smirks, closing his eyes. "Almost."
Sherlock starts seeing Jim everywhere. At crime scenes, restaurants, markets, shops, garages, and on the street. Jim is always disguised, of course. A true predator can always hide in plain sight.
One night, when John is sick, Jim joins Sherlock for dinner at Angelo's. Angelo brings them a candle for the table, and the whole thing would've been very romantic, providing that they weren't enemies.
They say nothing. They speak in stares, blinks, glimpses, and body language. Sherlock's mind races with information, reveling in the complex challenge Jim's very existence provides. Jim is a human puzzle, always changing, never staying the same.
"I'm so changeable!" Jim once said. How correct. What Jim doesn't know is, Sherlock is just the same.