Work Text:
Jim Moriarty paces through the flat, rehearsing the future as he goes.
This is the flat where they'll meet. It's small, mostly empty and nondescript, but with a few touches of Jim's life here and there. It's not Jim's home, of course; it's one of his favorite hideouts, one where he tends to spend quite a bit of time. The furniture is angular and modern, while the walls are scattered with antique maps and art. The flat walks the line between order and chaos, with meticulously organized collections of CDs and books occupying the same spaces as rumpled jackets and unwashed dishes. The flat looks gentle, yet the juxtapositions and dichotomies lend it a sinister air that's not noticed at first glance. Jim likes to think that it's symbolic.
There are bookshelves around the edges of the main room, thin and dark against bright walls. Volumes of mathematics and philosophy line the shelves, their spines cracked from use but their covers well cared for. Jim thinks that Sherlock's books of science and forensics will look quite nice stacked alongside his own collection. On the biggest shelf, Jim's McQueen tie is rolled into a coil with the end dangling haphazardly over the edge. The spot next to Jim's tie is where Sherlock's scarf - either the ratty navy one or the striped blue one, Jim never knows - will rest.
There's the squat black coffee table that's coated in old newspapers and stolen police reports. Sitting in a place of honor on top of everything else is the newspaper with the photo of Sherlock in that ridiculous hat, the one that Jim can't bring himself to throw away. He's kept it for months, never letting dust settle upon it. Jim wonders if Sherlock will resent it: something within him hopes that he will. Jim's kept other newspapers, ones with articles about some of his latest schemes; he enjoys keeping score too much to get rid of those. Some of the newspapers and police reports are covered in annotations and sticky notes (thoughts on how he can improve his performance next time), while others are decorated with coffee rings and burn marks. He likes to destroy the articles that give the credit for solving a case to that bumbling Detective Inspector. Sherlock will notice this but never say anything.
There's the couch where Sherlock will stretch out and take up all the space, leaving Jim the barest amount of room between his feet and the sofa's arm. It will annoy Jim at first, but he'll find that he doesn't particularly mind.
Here are the armchairs, where they'll sit and debate any topic that might cross their minds. Jim will take the chair closest to the window, and Sherlock will occupy the one directly opposite. They'll lean forward, elbows on knees, fingers steepled against chins. Conversations will be heated, calm, endless, and over too soon. They might go unfinished: they might argue into oblivion until one leaves, too frustrated to stay (usually Sherlock), or a conversation will stall when one reaches for the other (usually Jim). A majority of their conversations will end with Jim's hands on Sherlock's face and Sherlock's fingers grabbing at Jim's hair.
Here is the small kitchen where Jim will cook breakfast. It's a tiny space with just enough room for the refrigerator, stove, sink, and two people. Jim is the better cook between the two of them, and they'll both come to know this. Jim can throw together delightful dishes out of arbitrary ingredients salvaged from the depths of the fridge, while Sherlock can hardly be trusted with his own coffee. It's here where Sherlock will join Jim in the mornings and drape himself over the smaller man's back, pressing his face against Jim's. As Jim prepares breakfast, Sherlock will interrupt to complain that Jim needs to shave his face: his stubble is scratching at Sherlock's cheek. When Sherlock wanders off, Jim will put the finishing touches on breakfast and make their drinks. He'll make Sherlock's tea a bit too hot, just because.
Here's the kitchen table, where they'll dine around the microscope that will inevitably come to rest here. Jim keeps his on one of the shelves, but he knows that Sherlock will insist that it be more accessible. The table is small and square, the chairs just close enough to be considered either cozy or dangerous. They'll knock knees when they take their places at the table and pretend to be upset about the shortage of personal space. Here is where they'll read the daily papers together, a section at a time; Jim will indicate a murder with raised eyebrows, never saying but always implying. He's not one to brag when the newspaper are doing such a marvelous job at it already.
In the corner of the room is the desk, larger than the kitchen table, where Sherlock will toy with chemicals and where Jim will play with the beginnings of a bomb. Sometimes they'll both be on laptops, clicking away at the keys and stealing occasional glances at each other over the tops of their monitors. It will be embarrassingly ordinary, Jim thinks, but that doesn't mean he'll want it to stop.
Here's the window in front of which Sherlock will stand and play the violin in the evening, his body swaying gracefully with the sweeping melodies. Sometimes Jim will watch, eyes glued to the swift movements of Sherlock's arm as he arcs the bow over the strings. He'll consider Sherlock's silhouette, sharp against the fading light, and he won't dare to interfere. Other times Jim will interrupt Sherlock halfway through a song, yanking the violin away and placing his hands in Sherlock's. Slowly and quietly they'll waltz to the unfinished tune that hangs in the air like a brewing storm.
There's the thin hallway down which they'll stumble late at night. They won't pay much attention to this part of the flat.
Here's the bedroom at the end of the hall. There's an old cityscape painting on the wall and a globe sitting on the bedside table, pins marking locations where Jim has worked with clients. On the windowsill sits an empty vase, half-hidden by gray curtains. There's the closet, tucked into the wall, where Jim's suits hang neatly in a row. Jim will never notice these things when Sherlock enters the room.
Here's the bed, where Jim will trace secrets onto Sherlock's skin and whisper riddles against his ear. With his fingers he'll write the name of the poison he's going to use for his next job on Sherlock's shoulder blade, or he'll press the date of the next bombing he has planned into Sherlock's lower back. He'll never give anything away that will ruin the game - he will only give hints, tiny clues that will help to quicken the chase. Here is where Sherlock will gather all of the information that Jim will pass to him, pressing kisses to Jim's jaw and neck as he does so. Sherlock will catalogue all of the touches that make Jim's eyes flutter, running his hands experimentally up and down Jim's sides and caressing a scar on Jim's abdomen. Here is where Jim and Sherlock will curl underneath the thick duvet in the early hours of the morning, an inch of space serving as the barrier between them. They will realize simultaneously as they close the distance between them that they're not opposites, as they appear to be on the surface: instead, they are inverted versions of the same picture, the same figure reflected across an axis. Here is where Jim will forget the fear that's followed him throughout his life and understand that he's not the only one whose mind is gradually being suffocated; here is where Jim and Sherlock will cut through the haze of boredom that has plagued each of them and fill each other's worlds with color and meaning. Jim will think that it's nice not to feel so alone.
Back in the main room is the doorway where Jim will stand on his toes and kiss Sherlock goodbye. Sherlock will spend hours lazing on the couch and postponing his departure, but once he decides to go, he'll be out the door with a quick swish of his coat and the sound of fading footsteps. Once Sherlock has gone, Jim will notice with a satisfied smirk that his visits are increasing in frequency and duration.
This is the flat that Sherlock will leave (much too soon, in Jim's opinion), but this is the flat where Sherlock will always return.
The sound of the door opening breaks Jim out of his reverie. Without turning to face the door, he smiles.