Work Text:
« Bored. »
The voice comes out of his parted lips in a faint whisper, dim and light it fades in the silent room. Sherlock is lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling. All the criminals of London - or at least those worthy of being called such - seem to have gone on holiday, leaving him prey to the banality of a world that is moving too slowly.
« Bored. » Repeats.
He needs a cigarette. He just wants to fill his nostrils with smoke and hope that part of it somehow manages to fill the overwhelming void that he feels at chest height.
It is not only boredom, it is something more: a familiar feeling without a name, an existential malaise that accompanies the awareness of possessing a better brain, something that has followed him in the dark years of his life, when the drug was the only company. Living with John made it more bearable, easier and, in some way, better; yet there are nights where the predictability of the world strikes him with a force so strong that it takes his breath away.
A cigarette would help, if only John hadn't thrown away his apparently-not-so-secret stock only a few days before. Sherlock sits up, leaning against one of the sofa's arms with the knees to his chest. No cases, no smoke, no distractions. Nothing at all.
The phone vibrates, producing a muffled sound that tears him from his thoughts. The light gaze moves on the small object, while the identity of the sender quickly takes shape in his head - it could be only him.
The first thing he sees are the eyes, dark and deep, illuminated by a light that Sherlock doesn’t know if it's due to the genius or to the madness. The rest of the face immediately follows: lips parted in a smile sharper than any blade, pale skin and black hair, meticulously pulled back with an amount of product that is probably excessive. He can also almost smell the expensive cologne.
With a feline move he grabs the phone and his lips open into a smile of which is not really aware. However, the euphoria on his face has short life: as soon as he reads the two text lines, Sherlock raises his eyebrows, the mouth slightly ajar.
"It's a beautiful night to count shooting stars, Sherlock.
Want to join me? -JM "
Maybe it's a code to solve one of the old cases already archived by the police. Maybe it is a way to test him or to lure him in a specific place. The possibilities take an almost tangible form: they are an ordered set of images and letters that are moved, stored, deleted; all while his fingers move fast on the touchscreen.
"Counting shooting stars? James, you disappoint me. -SH"
"It's better than lying on the couch, Sherlock. -JM"
"Have you installed cameras in my house again? -SH"
"Maybe. -JM"
"Or maybe I know you too well, sweetheart. -JM"
"I never expected to be so predictable. -SH"
"It's not your fault, honey, do not be sad. I'm bored too. -JM"
"So come with me? -JM"
"To do what, look at the stars? As if in a metropolis like London is possible. -SH"
"I don't see any problem. -JM"
"So it's a yes? -JM"
"Maybe. -SH"
"Give me three seconds. -JM"
Sherlock counts loudly, bright eyes focused on the screen. The lamp turns off exactly when the word "three" leaves his lips. Probably a blackout. Given the dramatic nature of the criminal, Jim has probably cut the power to the entire city. For some reason, Sherlock finds the thing incredibly amusing.
"Problem solved. xxx-JM"
The phone lights up again. It shows an address.
******
What Sherlock sees as soon as he sets foot on the roof, the meeting place, is little more than a shadow.
There is a man sitting on the floor, about ten feet from him, he's turned back and stares at the sky, as if in search of something invisible to the normal human eye. The dim light of the crescent moon reflects in the whiteness of his shirt. Sherlock doesn't doubt even for a moment that the man is James Moriarty.
There's something in the air, when he and the criminal are in the same space: something palpable and invisible at the same time, a force that attracts them to each other - and no, it is not that feeling described in every romance books, no butterflies in the stomach or similar nonsense. It's more like the feeling of being on the edge of a precipice or the charm of the flames.
Jim does not move of an inch even when Sherlock briskly walks towards him and sits at his side. More interested in the face of his nemesis than in the starry sky, the detective's gaze slips on Moriarty: he observes his features, the marked circles that indicate a serious lack of sleep - insomnia? Nights spent in organizing crimes of which Sherlock is not aware of? - and the pallor accentuated by the light of the moon.
He decides to break the silence after few seconds.
"I expected at least a telescope."
"No toys this time." Jim finally turns to him, smiling. " By focusing on a specific point you are likely to lose sight of the big picture, Sherlock." He adds, before lying down and lifting his gaze again.
The fact that Jim is paying more attention to the sky than to his presence annoys him. When Moriarty raises his left hand and says something like "there's another one!", Sherlock cannot help but snort. The situation is absurd.
"I didn't think you cared about those things. They are so ordinary ... " The last sentence is a whisper, full of a disappointment that pushes Jim to seek the face of the detective with his eyes. James remains silent, he licks his lips and continues to stare at him, immersed in thoughts that Sherlock cannot predict in any way.
"The stars have interested me since I was a child." A little break before continuing. "The entire cosmos is ... incredibly fascinating.”
Jim continues to speak and his voice becomes a soft melody on which the thoughts of the detective move. He talks about astrophysics and mathematical theorems, he lists formulas and demonstrations that Sherlock has erased from his mind several years before, as unnecessary. Sometimes the meticulous scientific explanation is interrupted and leaves room to the old legends of the classical world: stories of heroes and lovers that have given their names to the constellations. Sometimes, instead, Jim stops in the middle of the sentence to indicate another shooting star, then he continues as nothing happened.
Sherlock listens to him without paying any real attention. The vastness of the cosmos looks incredibly boring and ordinary compared to James Moriarty.
Jim laughs, and for a man with a lot of blood on his hands, his laugh is incredibly crystalline and pure. It is so incompatible with the vision that Sherlock has of the criminal that he cannot help but wonder if the other is making fun of him.
Maybe the whole situation is a farce as Jim from IT, maybe it's the "consulting criminal" identity to be fictitious, an unrepresentative picture of the person who James is. Or maybe both the identities are real in the same way.
Jim is unpredictable, a living contradiction and the detective realizes how surprisingly little he knows about his past or his private life.
Not only does he not have any useful information of him, but he always considered Moriarty solely as a criminal. A figure complementary of his own who lives only in its function, more a game than a person.
Suddenly, he wants to know more. He wants to know how his interest in the cosmos was born, he wants to know how many sleepless nights he spent observing the sky and, despite the vision on certain topics has not changed, he wants to know why Jim is so fascinated by it.
"You're not listening!” The sudden change of tone brings Sherlock back to reality. Jim stares at him with a childish pout on his face. The face is so exaggerated that he can't figure out if Moriarty is making fun of him - likely - or if he is really offended - even more likely. "I won't let you read the book I wrote."
"Book?" He frowns.
"You weren't listening to me. Too late, honey.”
"Unpublished?"
"Well, of course." Jim sighs heavily, as if stating the obvious is something physically painful. "No one in the world could ever understand it." His lips are now a perfectly straight line. "No one." He remains silent for those that seem ages. The seconds flow, endless, and Jim's gaze becomes so unbearable that, for the first time since he's there, Sherlock observes the sky to be not forced to look into his eyes.
"Definitely not a person who was not aware of the heliocentric theory." Jim adds, opening his lips into a smile.
At those words Sherlock sighs in exasperation, receiving only a chuckle in response.
"Oh, come on. Even you read his bl-"He stops in the middle, giving him a look. "Forget it.” He doesn't want to discuss. "I'm still the only person smart enough to understand it."
"Mhhhh. I'm not convinced yet. But I want to give you the benefit of doubt." Jim suddenly grabs him by the shoulder. The grip is not strong, but it is enough to feel his fingers on the skin. It’s quite strange: they usually don't have much physical contact, a little because it isn't really necessary, a little because they spend more time parted that in the company of each other. It's weird, yes, but it isn't unpleasant. Sherlock lows slightly, allowing Jim's hand to lean against the back of the neck. His touch is lighter now.
"Let's play a game." Jim whispers, making him bend more and bringing him closer. Now they are so close that Sherlock can recognize the smell of the hair gel and the brand of chewing gum that he probably had in his mouth before he arrived. "You win if you see more shooting stars than me. The price is an autographed copy of my book."
"That's all?"
"That's all."
"Too easy." Sherlock grins, resting a hand on Jim's. He gently touches his knuckles with the tip of his fingertips before moving his hand from the base of neck. Without saying another word he lies on the floor, next to Moriarty.
"Won't you ask me what happens if I win?" Sherlock doesn't look at him, too busy observing the sky, but it can perceive the mocking smile in his voice.
"Why should I?"
"Because I do not want you to win. I'm still offended." Sherlock realizes that Jim is nearer only when he feels his breath on his skin.
"If I win, you come home with me."