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Being dead isn't everything Jim had hoped it would be.
After the dénouement of his elegantly constructed symphony, he’d been more than ready to sink quietly into the ether, to let the world to devour his carefully staged production and forget the name James Moriarty altogether. He’d been so very bored with everything he’d built that he’d very honestly considered truly tasting the bullet instead of just adding another layer of fabrication to the lie.
But when the time had come, he’d chosen to disappear into the underbelly of the city rather than the underworld, and he’d spent six months drifting like the ghost he should have been through countries that blurred together and nights that never seemed to end.
To his horror, he’d only discovered emotion. Loneliness, even more boredom, something like grief, and a foreign nostalgia. It was all wrong and inexplicable and unsettling and had sent him hurtling down many different paths that all seemed to end with him in this place, though he’s resisted the pull for months.
But it just doesn’t seem worth it anymore. He’s lost sight of all his carefully structured intentions and is left without anything to counteract the skittering claws of his frenetic mind, the charred bits of his heart, the aching pool of emptiness in his chest, and so, finally, he’s given in.
***
The locks of Sebastian’s cheap flat are easy enough to pick.
Jim doesn’t bother turning on any lights. The sickly burnt orange glow of east London seeps in from the street, illuminating the rooms well enough. The flat’s décor is barren and impersonal, littered with the corpses of cigarette packets, whiskey bottles, and mouldy take-away containers.
Jim curls his lip at the thought of living in such filth, and wonders if the lack of cleanliness is due to Sebastian being free to act like a bachelor again without Jim’s fastidious rules to temper the impulse.
More likely it’s the result of the apathy Jim had seen when he’d observed Sebastian earlier through the high-powered binoculars, the lack of expression and deadened eyes obvious even from across the chasm of the street between them. The kind of ennui that stems from the flip side of the coin, festers from feeling so deep that it’s all-consuming, from chaos that bleeds into everything until the only solution is to shut it all down.
Jim knows the two extremes well, they’ve stared back at him in turn from his reflection his entire life, and it’s almost flattering, honestly.
There’s a knife embedded deep in one of the walls, and really, Sebastian had always accused Jim of being the one prone to histrionics (which was true enough, but still). Jim wraps his fingers around the handle, one by one, bracing his other hand against the wall for leverage so he can pull it free—and then he smiles, because oh, the weight and feel of this one is familiar in his hand. He brings the steel up to his nose, inhaling slowly, imagining he can still smell the faint traces of Sebastian’s blood past the clean scent of steel. Perhaps it was that memory in particular that caused Sebastian to drive the knife through the defenceless plaster, or perhaps the wall just had it coming (Jim’s ego hopes for the former).
The bedroom is as devoid of personal touches as the rest of the flat, aside from the rumpled sheets and discarded clothes scattered across the floor. Jim recognizes the pair of threadbare denims and the ancient Clash tee Sebastian’s had since uni, the logo faded and tired, the sleeves fraying. The material is soft and familiar in Jim’s hands as he picks it up and brings it to his face. The scent of stale cologne, tobacco, and gun oil causes memory to slam into him like a bullet and Jim closes his eyes.
Slowly, silently, he shucks off his own clothes, leaving the plain shirt and cheap trousers to intermingle with Sebastian’s cast-offs. He feels a bit like Goldilocks as he slides between the sheets (the cots in India had been too hard, the mattresses in China too pliant, the beds in Rio too empty) and buries his nose in the pillow.
There’s more of the same scent, but stronger; spice and camphor and tobacco overlaid with musk, and again, memory rises without bidding. The slow curve of Sebastian’s back in sleep, the feel of calloused fingers against his chest, the taste of dark chocolate and copper shared between panting mouths.
***
He wakes at the loud click of a gun’s hammer being pulled, opens his eyes to find the barrel pointed right at his forehead. Jim lets his gaze linger hungrily over the man standing over him, features stark and unreadable, hand holding the Sig shaking almost imperceptibly.
The sudden harsh pounding in Jim’s chest has nothing to do with the gun and everything to do with the look in Sebastian’s eyes, wild and untamed and above all filled with pure unadulterated need, and Jim props himself up on an elbow, lets the sheets slide down to his waist.
Nostalgia seems far too weak a word when faced with the solid reality of the man who’s been haunting Jim since he died, and the vague realization of the depth of his own feelings flickers through him as an answering need flares beneath his skin, something that’s been gone for six months slipping forcefully into place as he and Sebastian lock eyes.
His throat is dry and he has to swallow twice before speaking.
“Hello tiger. Miss me?”