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Night falls. And Jim Moriarty falls, too.
Falling is just like flying. Only with a more permanent destination. He already knows his destination. It's always the same.
The streets of London whisper his name and he wishes he could erase all whispers. Make the whole world mute. All the stupidity, all the senseless, nameless, boring, boring, boring humans making noises. Oh, just blow them all up.
He walks faster, approaching the old little house. Opening the door, ascending the stairway, breathing in dust and memories.
The flat is empty, he pulls away the aged warning tape and steps in. It stays empty because he pays for it. He pays for the light and the water, but he never switches on the light.
He closes the door behind him then lets his fingers caress the wall. Mould on the ceiling.
Then he screams and sinks to his knees. His fists hit the floor. They are so unbearably boring!
All the people crying: Oh why did this happen? Why her? Why him? She was so young. She was so old and lonely and now … The poor man, oh no no no no. Children, innocent children! Why do they care so much about children?
They must shut up or he will tear the world apart. He wants to. But he doesn't care, not like they do.
He breathes in laboured.
In the bath he lets the water flow in the bathtub. He needs to rest.
The room whispers a different name. Jim steps into the bathtub.
He can relax now. He can imagine someone so much like himself. The one who makes him forget. The one who understands that innocence and love and freedom does not matter.
He can let go.
The room whispers Sherlock Holmes.
My dear. Are you bored tonight? Do you already sleep?
Do you dream of me sometimes?
You know I would like that, haunting you in your dreams. Frightening you, thrilling you. Being a little bit too close to you. My breath and my touch inside your mind.
There is only a shade of glass between us.
And when you touch the glass so do I.
It feels cold on your fingertips, my darling. But that's just the glass.
He smiles. He finds back to himself. He is weightless in the water.
You do wonder. Don't you? What it would be like. To be me. Oh, you should wonder, because I do. What it would be like. To be you. But in the end, that's of no importance.
Nothing's of any importance, really. Nothing, except for the game to go on. Yes, this little game of ours, or rather: my game. You just play along. Though you play along wonderfully.
Dancing through half of London to solve my puzzles. And it pleases you and it satisfies you and you do love it. Because it leaves no time for boredom. I would do anything to end your boredom. I would do anything to make you come out and play.
Oh, Sherlock.
The water has become cold a while ago. Jim doesn't care. He lays in the bathtub with his clothes on. The suit trousers cling to his legs, cold. But all he can think is Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.
The door to the living-room is open. There are no curtains in front of the windows and the night lays deep and silent. The flat is empty, his head is full. He thinks, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.
Are you smart enough for me, my dear? Or are you just like them? Just boring. No. No, no, no, I don't think so. We are too much alike.
But you will prove that between you and me … there is just a shade of glass.
When he gets up, he shivers. As he peels his clothes off, the cold air is painful on his skin. Jim steps out of the bathtub, leaving wet footprints on the dusty floor.
He got used to feeling naked ever since Sherlock began taking his puzzles apart. Ever since they met at the pool. And it felt so good. So what does it matter now.
Cold, cold, cold and the room whispers Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.
The dust sticks to the soles of his feet. Like a second, dirty skin.
Jim walks to the windows, but doesn't look outside.
Slowly he touches the window, the cold glass. He feels calm now.
He closes his eyes and imagines Sherlock on the other side.
“Do you dream of me sometimes?”, he whispers and wonders.
He needs to go soon. He needs all his power for their next game. He needs to focus. But sometimes he just can't. Sometimes he needs the silence and emptiness and nudity.
And he imagines the glass breaking. Breaking his skin. The warmth of his body would flow out of him. And then Sherlock would put his hands over the wounds. Because they are just alike.
The world is silent now. Jim smiles, he is satisfied. It doesn't matter that he is shivering from the cold, it doesn't matter that it is long past midnight and he has a meeting at seven o'clock in the morning. Nothing really matters.
Except their game.
My dear. Are you bored tonight? Then let me watch you dance.