Chapter Text
Jim’s hands glided across the boy’s chest, taking in every crease and muscle—no, not a boy anymore, was he? His dearest Sherlock had grown into a man, taller than Jim himself.
Jim wasn’t bothered by the height difference, no, no. There was something exhilarating about having complete control over a taller man. He could have them kneel before him, pulling their strings from below. Oh, how he wanted to look down on the crown of Sherlock’s head.
The detective twitched as Jim’s right hand passed over his heart. Jim paused, letting his fingers linger, rubbing soft circles into the spot. The only answer was a timorous breath.
“Still so shy,” Jim whispered into his back. “I had hoped you’d welcome me more fully.”
He let the silence hang until Sherlock plucked up the courage to break it. “Were you expecting a hug?” The detective’s voice was small, breathy; Jim could feel it through his hands.
“Oh, Sherly,” Jim sighed. “You feel it now, don’t you? How we fit together so perfectly. How we belong as one.”
A shudder wracked the taller man. Jim held him firmly through it, grounding him until it passed.
“There, there,” Jim soothed, as if calming a flighty mare. “I’ve got you now.”
There was a change in the man then. He still trembled, but his shoulders straightened and his breath smoothed out. Jim could almost hear the cogs turning in Sherlock’s mind.
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “You do. After all these years, you finally got me. But why now…Jim? What were you waiting for?”
How…disappointing. It seemed his Sherly wasn’t as far along as he’d hoped. Such a waste of their time together.
“Oh, darling,” Jim said, his hands slinking away. He let his breath skim over Sherlock’s arm as he stepped around to face him. “I thought you were one of the smart ones.”
—
Sherlock took in a sharp breath. Jim looked nearly the same as he had fifteen years ago. A few more wrinkles around the eyes and forehead, but instantly recognisable: the same face that had lurked in his nightmares, the same one burnt beneath his eyelids.
There was something poetic about it—his monster hadn’t changed. Of course not; Jim had been waiting for him.
For some unfathomable reason, relief surged through him. Mixed with horror, sure, but the relief lingered nonetheless—as if part of him had craved their reunion, had longed for this moment.
“Is that a British Army L9A1 in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?” The man smirked, black eyes glittering.
Sherlock pulled out the gun. “Both.”
“Oh, good!” the man crowed, rubbing his hands. “Now we’re flirting!”
Sherlock didn’t have to raise the gun; Jim did it for him, grinning as he rested the barrel on his own forehead.
“Go ahead, dear,” Jim said. The gun didn’t seem to phase him, casual as he was. His only tensed muscles were in his smile. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Sherlock couldn’t move. What was wrong with him? The man who’d tried to kill him was right here, at his mercy! The ghost who’d haunted him half his life was in his grasp. If he could just pull the trigger…
“No?” Jim crooned. A shadow flickered across his face. “Well then, time’s up.”
Predictable as it was, Sherlock still couldn’t stop Jim from yanking the gun from his hands. The detective felt weak, like someone had drained all the fight from his limbs. For a moment, the other man fondled the weapon, before tossing it unceremoniously to the floor. In the space of a breath, Jim had Sherlock pressed against the tabletop, candles tumbling to the floor as hot wax stung his back. With the flames all but snuffed out, the last survivor lit the room in a dull, flickering glow.
Sherlock’s arms came up in defence, but Jim gripped them so fiercely he feared they might snap. The man pulled Sherlock’s arms over his head, hands banging into the table. At first, Sherlock thought they’d stay that way, Jim restraining him, locked in a stalemate. But with a few quick moves and a familiar click of metal, handcuffs closed around the detective’s wrists.
The wax cooled against his skin. Sherlock stared up at his attacker as if he were fifteen years old. Nothing had changed. Jim still towered above him, Sherlock pinned below. A knife in Jim’s hand. He hadn’t seen it come out, but it was a steak knife, difficult to hide, and identical to the one from their first encounter.
Jim’s eyes traced over the detective. Of all the survival instincts, Sherlock cursed himself for freezing. The edge of the wooden desk cut into his thighs as Jim lodged himself between them.
Fight back! His body wouldn’t respond. He tried to recall one of Mycroft’s mantras, the ones he’d worshipped all his life. But his mind felt hollow, filled only with blind terror. Fight back, damn you!
Sherlock wasn’t a child anymore—he was taller even than Jim. There was no reason to feel helpless. And yet—
Jim rubbed a thumb over his scar, precise even through the shirt. The knife glinted in his other hand, hovering as if poised to strike. “You can’t kill me, dear. Don’t beat yourself up over it. I know this because I am you. You are me.” He gave a wry chuckle, thumb pressing down. “And you wouldn’t kill yourself, would you now?”
Miraculously, Sherlock’s voice broke free: “Wouldn’t I?”
The smirk deepened. Jim’s free hand began unbuttoning the detective’s shirt. “No, no, not us,” he said at the third button. “We aren’t so…ungrateful, you and I.”
Through a shaky breath, Sherlock recited, “‘You and I are not snobs—we can never be born enough.’”
Jim’s face lit up. “Look who’s done his homework! My, my, I wasn’t sure you’d caught that one.” The buttons all undone, he pulled the shirt apart as if unveiling a statue. “Ahh,” he said, fingers finding Sherlock’s scar once more. “Truly a work of art.”
The knife came down slowly, not the plunge of their first meeting but something teasing, something lewd. It was enough to shake Sherlock from his trance, arms jerking up on autopilot to shield himself. But the cuffs held fast, secured to the table, and his hands fell back in resignation. Jim merely tsked, blade hesitating over skin, barely touching the pink line that marked his heart. It rose and fell with Sherlock’s breaths, not pressing, merely waiting.
“All this time,” Jim mused, voice husky. “You didn’t know why I came. I’m disappointed, Sherly, really I am. But you’ve worked hard, so I’ll tell you.”
The knife began to move, sliding over the scar, his abdomen, his pectorals. A shiver passed through him as Jim reached into his pocket. Whatever Sherlock expected, it wasn’t the little recording device Jim revealed. He pressed play as Sherlock stared.
“…Are you sure you wouldn’t like to take a look?” The tinny voice was almost familiar. “Most people prefer—”
Sherlock’s voice interrupted: “I am not mostpeople.”
There was a pause in the recording, as if he was waiting for the other person to leave. Then, in afterthought, his voice continued: “Am I…Jim?”
The recording clicked off.
“Do you remember now?” Jim asked, running the knife in a loop around Sherlock’s chest.
He did remember. It had been an undercover case a few months back, a missing person who tried to fake their own death—and this had been a private conversation in a bed and breakfast up in Hull. How could Jim have recorded it?
The shiver of metal against nipple shocked him back to the present.
“Don’t be so absentminded, dear,” Jim simpered, twirling the blade. The point pricked his skin, letting loose a dot of red. “You might injure yourself.”
Sherlock pulled his gaze from the knife, forcing himself to meet the night-like eyes above him. They drew him in like two black holes, merciless, unfeeling. “What about that made you so eager to say hello?”
“Silly boy.” Jim elongated the sounds, stretching them into something cartoonish. “You said my name at last. And I came running.” His hips rolled against Sherlock’s, eliciting another shiver.
Bewilderment threatened to rear its head, but Sherlock scrambled to remain stoic. At last? But that wasn’t the first time Sherlock had said Jim’s name… He’d said it before, many times over, trying to get used to it on his tongue. It had been years since the first time. He merely said it when he knew he was alone, when the crowds were too loud to hear a whisper, when the wind through the trees could whisk it away.
Well, well, Sherlock mused and the thought brazened him. Even a God like Moriarty makes mistakes.
The knife left a stinging nick on his abdomen.
“Aren’t you pleased?” Jim asked, free hand snaking up to Sherlock’s throat. He didn’t choke him, but his hand draped around his neck like it wanted to. “I did all this for you. The gifts, the messages, all to let you know I hadn’t forgotten. I’m keeping my promise. You finally realised we are one and the same, and now here I am, ready to swoop in and take you away.” His thumb climbed up to rub the detective’s jaw. “You need me, Sherlock. You’ve got no one else.”
At first, Sherlock merely smiled. Then, a laugh bubbled up, too deep to stop.
Jim’s eyes flashed, though he matched the smile. “Is something amusing?”
Another sting as the blade bit into his side. But the laughter kept coming, relieved and bitter. His head fell back until he could see the window behind them, smudged to the point of opacity. Still, the slush of waves told him they were up against the Thames, a room at the water’s edge. What would it be like, he wondered, to crash through the glass and sink into its depths? No more struggle, no more Jim.
The fingers around his neck twitched. “Don’t make me ask again, Sherly.”
The detective returned his gaze to the older man, laughter fading. “Oh, Jim. All this time, I thought I would end up losing to you. But you know what’s funny? I’ve already won.”
—
“This place? You sure?” Lestrade pulled up to the gate, peering at the warehouses within. He’d shut the headlights off as a precaution, but it seemed he needn’t have bothered.
Mycroft’s voice came through the phone. “Positive. My people will be there shortly. Until then…”
Lestrade put the car in park. “Don’t worry, Mycroft. We won’t leave your brother in danger. Find us inside when you get here.”
He was about to end the call when the other man added: “Be careful.” With that, Mycroft hung up.
Lestrade glanced to the passenger seat, where Dr. John Watson was giving him a weird look. “What?”
Watson shrugged, getting out of the car. “You seem close.”
Lestrade followed suit. “Well, we’re colleagues…of a sort.”
Watson raised a brow. “Are you?”
His tone was beginning to grate on the inspector, who strode toward the gate. “He pays me to keep an eye on his brother, alright? Don’t get uppity, Sherlock didn’t object. He said I couldn’t do much harm with my lack of observation skills anyway.”
After a moment of shock, Watson chuckled, but to Lestrade’s relief, he let the subject drop. Thanking his misspent youth, Lestrade scaled the fence with ease, a victory only slightly undermined by Watson’s own prowess.
“Let’s spread out,” the doctor said, already slinking off into shadows. “Signal if you find them.”
It wasn’t the smartest plan, but Lestrade had found there was no stopping the man when he’d made up his mind. His stubbornness could outmatch Sherlock’s.
As Watson slipped away, he pulled something dark from his waistband.
For a moment, Lestrade considered confiscating the gun. But with all that had happened that day, he let the moment pass and turned down a different row of buildings.
If anyone asked, his observation skills weren’t all that good anyway.
—
Pain flared through the left side of Sherlock’s torso as the blade thrust in, but it wasn’t the white-hot burn of his first stabbing. This was duller, less urgent—as if his body knew it wasn’t fatal. Just a flesh wound, he told himself. No need to panic.
“Don’t mock me, Sherlock,” Jim growled, twisting the knife. “I don’t take kindly to cruelty.” With that, he yanked the metal out.
Sherlock focused on his breathing, not letting panic nor pain overwhelm him. In the end, all he had was his mind; he must keep it clear. “You tried,” he gasped, “to isolate me, didn’t you? All these years, you’ve…had a hand in it. But…you missed the most obvious thing. I do have friends. Because those mostpeople you look down on so much…I’m one of them.”
With his free hand, Jim sunk his fingers into the wound, soaking up the blood. Sherlock writhed, clenching his jaw for control. The older man savoured his expression, almost fond, before removing the fingers and raising them to the detective’s face. The knife came to rest on a familiar spot on Sherlock’s neck.
“No, no, we are different,” Jim hissed. “We are revengers of cruelty, angels of death.” His fingers traced the detective’s features as if moulding them, staining the skin red. “We exact vengeance on those mostpeople, who deserve our wrath. We prune those branches of humanity which need pruning, such that the innocent may live in peace.” His thumb circled Sherlock’s lips as if applying a gloss. “You and I have been born again, darling. And never shall we part.”
Sherlock took a shuddering breath, Jim’s thumb still warm against his mouth. “No.”
The knife stung at his throat; a hand gripped his jaw.
“No?” Jim asked, his voice strained, distorted. “You can’t deny your desires, Sherly, not to me.” Releasing his face, Jim’s hand reached down between them, to a spot Sherlock jolted at. “You long for me,” he groaned, massaging between Sherlock’s thighs. “Even now.”
Sherlock struggled then, arching to throw the man off, but that only served to press them closer. “I do not,” he huffed, squirming his hips away, “long for you.”
The Irishman paused, though his hand did not withdraw. “Oh? Someone else?” He smiled daggers down at his prey. “It’s that doctor, isn’t it? Oh, Sherly, you’ve only known him a few weeks—but me, you’ve known half your life. What is it about him?”
The hand retreated, only to slither over his chest, squeezing at muscle.
“How he touches you, all gentle? How he listens?”
The knife joined in the dance, circling his clavicle before sliding over his sternum. The pressure was enough to draw blood.
“But, with all his heart and eagerness, he can’t give you what you truly need.”
“I don’t need anyone,” Sherlock snarled, eyes watering. With his defenses breached, the wound in his side burned with a vengeance and every slice of the blade stung like bees.
Jim’s gaze hardened. He pressed the knife into Sherlock’s scar, just enough to break skin. “You need me.”
Sherlock felt a tear escape the corner of his eye, sliding into his hairline. His shoulders ached. Don’t show weakness, he chanted. Don’t let him know your weakness.
“Maybe you’re right,” he breathed. “Maybe I do need you.”
Jim’s eyes sparkled, the smile creeping back.
“But I don’t want you.”
The words hung between them, only accompanied by the slosh of the Thames. Jim’s face had frozen where it was, half a smile caught in time. But, even frozen, madness mounted behind his eyes. This time, there was no warning.
Jim’s hand reared back, blood glinting off the knife.
Sherlock’s eyes squeezed shut.
—
The first gunshot nearly deafened him. But Sherlock didn’t open his eyes until the weight slid off him.
Jim had staggered back, knife slipping from his grasp. He frowned, then his gaze trailed down to the blood blossoming from his chest. The bullet had hit his heart, in the exact same spot as Sherlock’s.
Jim’s eyes found him, a hand reaching out. Blood dripped from trembling fingers. “Join me,” he rasped, liquid already pooling in his lungs.
The detective’s hand twitched. Whether he meant to reach out or move away, he could never be sure. For, at that moment, two more shots sounded, of which the first shattered the window behind Moriarty, and the second opened another hole in his chest.
The Irishman retreated a step, lips twitching into a smile, and fell backward into the Thames.
At the splash, Sherlock jerked ruthlessly at the cuffs. His mind burned—Jim couldn’t be gone; that was impossible. Ignoring his injuries, he rolled off the table, attached only by his wrists. From there, he yanked until the chain snapped.
Out the window, the Thames flowed by, calm and undisturbed. No one swam to shore. No boat sped past. It was too dark to see much else. Is he dead? Is Jim Moriarty truly gone?
“Sherlock? Sherlock!”
He didn’t turn, eyes locked on the waves. Lestrade’s voice drew nearer, exclaiming at the sight of him, reeling at the blood. Sherlock listened to none of it. All that mattered was Jim. He couldn’t let him escape.
A coat fell onto his shoulders and, at last, Sherlock looked up. “You shot him?”
Lestrade’s eyes flickered away. “I…yeah, I did.”
Sherlock stared at the man, trying to work out his lie.
“Bastard stabbed you!” Lestrade went on, glancing at the wound. “Had to do something.”
After some urging, Sherlock let Lestrade lead him away, back through the warehouse to the exit. There stood a man in silhouette, watching them.
Sherlock froze.
“I heard shots,” the man said, and the detective nearly collapsed in relief.
“John,” he said.
John stepped toward him. It was too dark to see his expression, but the line of his shoulders was tense. “You’re hurt,” he said, shortly. His hand reached up as if to touch the other man’s face, but he dropped it at the last second.
Sherlock’s shoulders began to shake. Then his breath hitched, and he was laughing.
“He’s gone mental,” Lestrade said, supporting the detective’s weight as he staggered.
John came to the other side, arm curling around his waist.
Sherlock kept laughing as they dragged him out into the moonlight. So that’s how it was? He’d smelt it on John’s fingers, the smoky scent of gunpowder. Not a trace had been on Lestrade. The good doctor had some secrets up his sleeve. Oh, Sherlock loved the complex ones.
The serenity of night was interrupted by lights and sirens. Police cars swerved up to them in chaos, littering the row with vehicles. At the head of the pack was a sleek black car.
Sherlock’s laughter fell away as his brother got out. Mycroft did so with grace, unflappable, as if his driver hadn’t been speeding a moment prior. Straightening his cuffs, he approached the trio.
“Brother,” he said, casual as ever. “Aren’t you a bit of a mess?”
Sherlock shrugged, wincing as the movement pulled his wound. “Aren’t you a bit late?”
Mycroft didn’t respond, his gaze sliding to Lestrade. “The body?”
Amidst Lestrade’s hesitation, Watson answered. “The Thames. Now if you don’t mind, I must tend to my patient.”
Mycroft gave a little wave of his fingers and, at the signal, police surged past into the warehouse.
Lestrade glanced at his charge. “Mind if I…?”
Sherlock waved him off, and Lestrade slipped from under his arm, heading to Mycroft’s side. They spoke low, heads bowed together, closer than most colleagues. Sherlock shook his head.
“This way,” John muttered, leading them through scattered cars. At the back of the queue, an ambulance sat, doors open and waiting.
“Your brother makes quite the fuss,” John said.
Sherlock snorted. “He’s very dramatic.”
“Thank God he’s on our side.”
Despite the pain, the blood loss, the terror of the last few hours, Sherlock found himself smiling. “Nice shot, by the way.”
John’s steps faltered. “Er…what shot?”
“All three, I’d say.” Sherlock smirked. “Even the second one wasn’t a miss, was it? You meant to break the glass.”
After a moment’s hesitation, John let out a chuckle. “Why I ever thought I could pull one over on you…”
“Madness,” Sherlock said as the EMTs rushed to meet them. “Never try it again.”
John grinned. “We’ll see.”
—
Sherlock was fussed over for a week, with everyone from Mrs. Hudson to even Anderson expressing their concern. It was all a bit much, but it did serve to remind him that he wasn’t short of allies. And perhaps a few friends.
John came round his place almost every day. They never discussed it, but it seemed the good doctor would be a permanent feature in Sherlock’s life moving forward. There was something comforting about the arrangement, as if John’s presence were replacing Jim’s. Whatever unresolved feelings he held for Moriarty, he could channel them into figuring out his new companion. What sort of life had made him this way? Why was his sense of loyalty so strong? Where did he learn to shoot like that?
It didn’t take long for his brother to stop by. Sherlock might’ve preferred a private audience, but John was in, making tea, and it’d be rude to kick him out.
Mycroft barely spared the doctor a glance, but there was something smug in his expression that put Sherlock on edge.
“We’ve dredged the area,” Mycroft said, getting straight to business.
“And?”
All noise in the kitchen paused, and Sherlock knew John was listening.
“We found him.” Mycroft folded his hands behind his back. “He’s dead.”
Sherlock took a hard look at his brother, then nodded. “Of course he is.”
At that moment, John came in with two cups of tea. He set the first by Sherlock, and the second he kept for himself, taking a seat on the couch. Mycroft stood in the middle of the room, looking decidedly awkward.
“Sorry,” John said. “Did you want…?”
“No, no need,” Mycroft said with a forced smile. “I had somewhere to be anyway.”
The child in Sherlock’s brain cheered at Mycroft’s embarrassment. But the adult in him stood and approached his brother. He held out a hand. “Thank you, Mycroft.”
The only show of surprise was a raised brow before accepting the handshake. “Try not to get yourself killed again,” Mycroft added, droll as ever, and strode out.
“That was big of you,” John said, sipping his tea.
Sherlock stared after his brother a moment longer. That action, folding his hands behind his back, was one of Mycroft’s tells. Sherlock’s mind nagged at him—it was a lie! Jim is alive!—but he pushed the thought down, and dismissed it from his life.
“Don’t worry,” Sherlock said, returning to his armchair. “It won’t happen again.”
Then he met John’s eyes, and smiled.