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The falls roar in his dreams.
Sherlock stands on a ledge above a swirling vortex of rock and water. His senses are muddled; he's aware of almost nothing besides the noise and the overwhelming sensation of a damp chill that seeps into every cell of his body. The air is cold, like a knife pressed to his skin, and flecks of foam fly upward to soak his face, hair, and coat. He tries to move, spin on his heels and face another direction, but no matter which way he turns all he can see is stone and the churning of the falls.
The water pounds with such force that the world beyond the rocks is shrouded by a thick veil of mist. Sherlock is aware of a vertical wall of rock just to his left: if he reaches out his hand, he can feel the droplets of condensation beading on its sheer surface. To his right is open air, concealed by the fog. In front of him, a quick plunge to his death.
Suddenly, a yell.
It's rough and desperate, ripped from someone's throat in a moment of pure instinct. It's coming from beneath Sherlock. The sound shoots a bullet of ice into Sherlock's heart, sending his pulse skyrocketing, and yet he feels as if he's received an injection of lead to his veins. It reverberates through the air, somehow cutting through the thundering of the water with such ease that Sherlock thinks it must've been heard around the world.
He takes a gentle step forward, legs unsteady. As he moves closer to the edge, the waterfall seems to coax him forward. He steadies himself against the rock wall and peers downwards.
Nothing but water.
The sound repeats, but it's not an echo. It's more ragged at the end this time, as if whoever's screaming has a sore throat. When it stops, Sherlock can feel himself beginning to come to his senses.
Reason tells him there must be a way to the bottom of the falls, to this other person: the water has to meet ground somewhere. Sherlock turns, and finally he's gained the autonomy to face away from the water. He makes the trek away from the cliff's edge carefully, slowing his pace when his shoes slip on the damp soil. He can't fall - he has to find whoever it is that's stuck here with him.
Time stretches, bends, contracts. In either hours or seconds, Sherlock is back on the ground at the foot of the trail. There's an entrance to another path, calling to him from just a few steps away. He allows himself to be pulled toward the trail, his body moving forward without a command from his mind.
Jim Moriarty is waiting for him at the end of the path.
At the sight of him, Sherlock feels the world's gravity shift.
Jim is curled in on himself, propped up against a wall of rock just beyond the reach of the water. His narrow suit is ripped in numerous places, revealing pale skin blotched with blood. His hair is matted and he holds one of his arms cradled to his chest, the other wrapped around his folded legs to draw them in closer. A stream of blood trickles down the side of his head and soaks into the collar of his shirt. Jim is a grotesque, gothic version of himself; he's like a minimalist painting, all red and white and black with sharp angles and heavy brushstrokes. There's none of the life or exuberance that usually oozes from him with every movement. His face, however, is unchanged.
He smiles the same crooked smile, the one that reveals his small, pointed teeth. His eyes are as intelligent and dark as ever. They flash when he sees Sherlock.
"Sherlock," he says, drawing out the word, tasting it. "How kind of you to join me."
Sherlock finds the strength to stumble forward and kneel in front of Jim. His mind is a hurricane. Thoughts of Jim, water, and guilt howl through his brain with such an intensity and fury that he longs to silence them at any cost.
"Jim," Sherlock whispers. His throat is raw, hardly able to formulate words. His entire body quakes.
"I've looked better, I know," Jim says. His voice pitches upwards and downwards, bouncing between the highs and lows that turn his sentences into lilting melodies. "But to be fair, my dear, this is of your doing."
Sherlock remembers all at once: the struggle, feet sliding on slick surfaces, hands on shoulders and fingers tangling in hair, the rough embrace born out of a mutual need and desire for destruction. He remembers the whistling of air as he falls and then the pain of his hands against sharp stones, hauling himself upwards as Jim plummets downwards. He remembers the water.
Jim coughs, but the smile doesn't disappear from his face.
Sherlock moves nearer, reaches out. Jim just barely leans into the touch, the first sign of his façade beginning to crack. The corners of his eyes tighten and wrinkle as he tries not to wince in pain.
"We've always been heading for this," Sherlock says. He cups the side of Jim's face, disrupting the flow of blood. Jim's blood soaks into his hand. The life line on Sherlock's palm is painted scarlet; he doubts that he'll ever be able to fully remove Jim from his skin. "There were never any other options, were there?"
Jim's smile, starting to fade, blazes to life momentarily. "You tell me," he says.
Sherlock stays and cradles Jim's head in his lap as he goes. He watches the mind wheeling behind Jim's eyes spin in rapid, tightening circles until it finally collapses inwards and ceases, a supernova that has reached its climax.
Sherlock stays as the mist reaches its grasping tendrils toward them. He stays until it engulfs them, bringing with it the sound of the water, louder than ever. The noise invades Sherlock's consciousness like a poisonous plant, taking hold of him with toxic roots. He stays until it overpowers him, until he's aware of nothing but the weight of Jim's head and the roaring of the falls.
Sherlock wakes with the knowledge that the falls and Jim Moriarty are inextricably entwined.
He emerges from the mist of his dream and lifts his head to look around the room. He's back in his bedroom at Baker Street, a world away from the unfamiliar waterfall to which he travels at night. The semi-darkness of the room tells Sherlock that it's just before dawn.
Everything about the dream is so familiar. It plays in his mind like a memory, but he starts anew every night, experiencing the guilt and loss for what feels like the first time. By now, he knows it intimately; he's memorized the path and the water and the way that Jim dies.
He sits upright and leans against the headboard of his bed, contemplating. The falls and Jim Moriarty: the one puzzle he can't solve.
Jim feels the cold rain kissing his skin and knows that he's falling.
He can feel himself tipping backwards, half-pushed and half-pulled by hands that he somehow knows belong to Sherlock. There are lips against his own and a sensation of weightlessness before he drops. Then he's drowning in pain, but he never allows it to surface. There were never any other options, were there? He's being held as the world darkens. You tell me. Everything stops.
It's the same every time. These - daydreams? fictional scenarios? - follow him everywhere, activating at the sound or touch of water. Jim thinks that these episodes are like some strange sort of PTSD, brought on by a nonexistent experience. He's learned not to question them.
They find each other out of desperation, curiosity, and a need to understand. They circle each other for months, playing their games and raising the stakes, before they finally give in.
It's raining when they meet. If Jim were given to self-pity, he'd say that the rain has been following him lately. He's standing beneath the overhang of a café, arms wrapped around himself. Rather than his usual suit, he's wearing a navy peacoat and a scarf. He stands close to the building, pretending to read a menu on the window. He watches Sherlock approach in the window's reflection.
"The coffee here is rather good," Jim says, lifting his gaze to make eye contact with Sherlock's reflection.
Sherlock joins Jim, hands tucked into his pockets. "A café - a busy one, considering the doormat, but the menu and the expression of the patron through window suggest nothing special. It doesn't strike me as an establishment you would frequent."
"I don't. I've been here once. The previous owner was a client of mine."
"Previous?"
"Do you remember the Abrams double-murder?"
Sherlock nods, but Lestrade hadn't been on that case, and therefore he hadn't been on that case. "Three years ago. Killer coated the inside of their kettle with poison." He pauses, narrowing his eyes. "There was never an arrest for that case."
Jim grins and raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. "There wasn't, was there?"
Once inside, they take the two remaining window seats. The café is open and airy, packed with customers longing for a warm drink on an exceedingly dreary day. They order coffees and Sherlock leaves to prowl for a basket of cream and sugars while they wait.
Their coffees arrive and Jim stares at the patchy fog that forms on the window above his cup. It momentarily blocks out the rain, which is beginning to fall harder now, coming down in white sheets. Jim concentrates on stirring his coffee, tearing his eyes away from the window to watch the cream erupt from the bottom of the cup and transform the dark liquid into something new. In the corner of his eye he sees that Sherlock takes his black, but he already knew that anyway.
They don't say much. During their interactions they've exchanged so many unspoken conversations that words almost feel unnecessary. They sip their coffees and occasionally make small talk, underlying meanings lacing every sentence. With Sherlock and Jim, there's always another layer: after all, they've never been about what's on the surface.
The one topic they avoid completely is the falls. Though they never speak of it, they're aware of it within each other. Sherlock notices the way Jim eyes the torrents of rain with a mixture of bitterness and acceptance, and Jim sees Sherlock squint at him from time to time as if drawing together pieces of evidence and formulating theories in his mind.
As the coffee gradually disappears from their cups, they drift closer together. They see themselves in the glass, shoulder to shoulder, and they're hardly surprised. Jim leans against Sherlock with just enough pressure that Sherlock can feel his warmth even through the layers of their coats. Sherlock, usually adverse to such contact, pushes back incrementally until they're both supported by each other's weight. Sherlock has never quite understood the significance of touch, but he's beginning to comprehend its meaning now.
When Jim's hand falls to rest on Sherlock's knee (Jim's face in the glass is stoic, never acknowledging the action), they both know that it was always coming to this.
The rain welcomes them when they leave. Jim hangs back, almost hesitant to leave the shelter of the overhanging. He glances at Sherlock - his eyes, his lips, his hands - and then at the rain.
Sherlock fixes him in a stare that hovers between softness and steeliness. He says, quietly, "There were never any other options, were there?"
Jim's head snaps upwards in a startlingly elastic movement. For a moment, they're living in an echo: they're not here, in the city, nor there, at the falls. They're in another universe altogether, a timeless place bridging the gap between their two realities.
"You tell me," Jim replies.
Their fingers mesh together as they step into the rain.
When they're together, the sound of the water increases in frequency until it becomes a constant hum. Over time, it weaves itself into the fabric of their relationship. It's there when they meet for dinner, play chess, or argue about a cold case from fifty years ago. It's there when they call each other, whether it's Sherlock saying that Jim's made a made a mistake this time, and he could so easily tell Lestrade (but he never will), or it's Jim giving a friendly hint as to the identity of the sniper who killed the visiting Latvian diplomat (the police can have him, as far as Jim's concerned, he was a lousy shot anyway). It's there when Jim bumps into Sherlock on the street and, in the voice that any stranger would use to apologize, says, "My place tonight."
Sherlock constantly dreams of the falls. He still wakes in the middle of the night, the sound of water echoing in his ears and the weight of Jim's head fading from his lap. He still ponders it all in the darkness, blindly feeling through the depths of his mind for an answer that's not there.
But now, when the mist lifts and he wakes, Jim is lying next to him. At the sight of him, a slow-burning fear in Sherlock's heart of which he hadn't been aware vanishes, extinguished by a wave of relief. Jim is curved into a crescent moon, fingers curled delicately against the pillows. His hair is tousled and his face is peaceful, lacking all of its regular theatrics. Jim looks small in sleep, so different from the broken version in Sherlock's dreams. Sherlock watches Jim's chest rising and falling and relishes every single breath that keeps that great mind alive.
Sherlock reaches out a hand and, with the lightest of touches, traces Jim's eyebrow. His fingers work down Jim's face, ghosting over his cheekbones and whispering across his jawline. Sherlock is still learning, but he's become much more adept in the art of physical interaction.
Jim stirs slightly. He opens his eyes, blinking a few times, and then immediately focuses on Sherlock. A wry smile twists his lips.
"Now, now," he says. "You've gone and woken me up, Sherlock."
The falls roar when Jim wraps an arm around Sherlock's waist and presses a sleepy kiss to his lips.
As time passes, it's becoming clear that they may never truly understand the waterfall or what it means to them. The explanation seems to be perpetually just out of reach, hidden in that transitory world between the falls and reality.
Sherlock has always hated not knowing all the answers, but to his surprise, he's finding that he's not so bothered by this particular unsolved puzzle. After all, the puzzle consists of two parts - the falls and Jim Moriarty - and Sherlock has nearly solved the half that matters most.