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Ever since the pool, Sherlock had dreamt of deep waters that smelled of chlorine, but were rough and tumultuous. In those dreams, he plunged into the water, knowing full well that he jumped looking for something. Or rather someone. He imagined holding a deep breath and swimming down, searching out the criminal. He swam and swam sensing Jim getting near, until Moriarty finally reached out from the depths and Sherlock pulled him close. Except they’re sinking now. There was a tightening in Sherlock’s chest and a certain fizzling in his brain because he can’t breathe. But Jim had his arms looped tightly around the detective and Sherlock had never seen the value in oxygen anyway.
The first time he heard the whispers of Moriarty. The universe stilled. When they met faced to face, it was like being at the heart of a supernova.
But then Jim Moriarty walked out of the pool house and he didn’t come back; not how it could have ended, but Sherlock wondered. His inevitable confrontation with the enigmatic Moriarty concluded with an understanding and a mere warning. How could a few words of caution have been it?
The detective, of course, had no intention of backing off. Sherlock wanted this game of their’s to give way to something bigger. But more than that he wanted to see the criminal again. Soon. The first case he takes after the pool was almost like him lashing out blindly searching for any clever connections to Moriarty. But logically he knows that wouldn’t do to find the criminal.
So he refocused his energies and went back, thought of all the previous crimes he’s seen, heard of, consulted on, if any of them contained traces for this specter, but that’s all there ever are. Traces. Curves in the way that nobody but Moriarty thinks. The thing was Moriarty was elusive and so removed from his crimes. It wasn’t like the detective would just run into him or could even seek him out. Their meeting at the pool had almost been like the criminal deigning to give Sherlock an audience.
Which was ridiculous. He had gotten to Moriarty. Sherlock was the one who could see the criminal, when all the rest of the universe was blind to his genius. Surely that had to count for something? How could that not elevate him to a different plane? Still days passed and Sherlock started to think that he was the one that would need to take the initiative. What could Sherlock do to meet with the criminal again?
Truthfully, Sherlock didn’t care the price at which their next meeting would come. There would always be a danger that came with Moriarty; one that went beyond his crimes and snipers and the semtex that got strapped to people just so Jim can say ‘hi.’ After all, he knew Moriarty’s over-compensating for something. Why would he give him a clue? ‘We were made for each other,’ but then ‘back off?’ No, there was something more there. So, Sherlock does not go cold. Instead, he took his next case and there was still a thrill caught in his throat and he refused to choke on it. He needed to find James Moriarty.
Days pass and there was that number Moriarty gave him under the IT guise that was burning a hole in his pocket. He knew, Sherlock just knew the number was genuine. Still he hesitated to call. Instead he waited and twisted a few arms to help him locate where the mobile attached to the number might be. (He knew it was a mobile and not a ship’s call because of the beginning four numbers.) But it was to no success. It was either turned off or had some sort of location jammer. He would have to actually call the criminal and not show up one afternoon to spy on him.
Despite the risk Moriarty would be putting himself in by keeping it, something told Sherlock that Moriarty would not have discarded the device. He had wanted Sherlock to call earlier, before the detective knew who would be on the other end of the line.
Finally in a fit of reckless impatience, Sherlock called Moriarty up in Jim from IT’s mobile.
The conversation went as much as could be expected. In fact, Sherlock was annoyed at his own hesitation to call in the first place. They began communicating regularly.
He wondered why he thought it would be difficult.
“Getting any closer to finding Moriarty?” John asked one quiet afternoon weeks after the pool.
Sherlock looked up from a message he was just about to send off to Jim.
“It’s not about finding him, John. It’s about finding evidence to tie him to a crime. Obviously,” the detective sighed dramatically. “I should have thought even you would have realized that.”
John gave him a hard look, but didn’t reply.
Of course, Sherlock probably wouldn’t have had quite such a blasé attitude if he hadn’t already found Moriarty.
Frequent from the start, their communication preferably took the form of video calling, only falling back to simple audio when their cases took them to the further edges of the universe and out of quality picture transmission range. From what Sherlock had seen of Moriarty’s ship, which was admittedly not much, it wasn’t anything too remarkable. There were no identifying features to give away the make or model. Sherlock could only establish that Moriarty worked out of one ship. Jim always video called him from one specific room, barren save for its floor to ceiling window which showcased a magnificent view of where Jim’s illicit consultation had taken place.
When his shades were open, the stars seen through the window gave Sherlock hints to where the criminal’s cases took him. Still it took several days for Sherlock’s systems to search the universe records for matching cosmos and any other identifying features. While Moriarty was always long gone by the time he got a result, the detective would still run them; tracking where Jim went and then sifting through the local news for any strange happenings. He also checked the registered flight plans of the governing galaxy’s air traffic control for suspicious ships. Few warranted further investigation, and besides not everyone, but especially not Moriarty it seemed, cleared their flight plan with galactic air traffic. Months of this and he hadn’t even come close to finding Jim’s ship.
Sometimes the criminal had the shades drawn. Sherlock could only assume that was because he was in a nearby system. It was a precaution that the detective couldn’t blame Moriarty for taking. That or he was docked at a station and he didn’t want to look at the horrible duracrete.
This call, however, had been shorter than their others. They’d been talking about some new tech Lestrade’s team was using. Despite that conversation having been nothing too groundbreaking, Sherlock still remembered it with a clarity that he reserved almost exclusively for work. Which he could argue this was.
More importantly, this time the shades were thrown wide. It gave Sherlock a completely unappealing view of a duracrete wall. The detective didn’t think much of it till they were signing off and Jim leaned forward to give a dramatic faux kiss at Sherlock’s screen. The detective could, for a split second, see something new out the window behind the criminal, something he’d been blocking before - an only partially obscured view of the docking gate label. The sequence itself was unique and it wasn’t in standard, but an outer rim language, which narrowed the options of where Moriarty could be down considerably.
From there, it wasn’t hard to find out what ship had been docked there at that time and then find her tracking information.
Briefly the detective wondered if the revelation was an accident, but only for a second. Sherlock knew better than anyone that Jim Moriarty did not make mistakes. That was an invitation as one clearly stated.
They’d been in port for a week. Quietly docked at Baker Street, Sherlock had consulted on a couple small cases in London, though no one had requested his services outside the station. John was more pleased with this than the detective, for it had allowed him to procure a date for the evening.
He had proudly told Sherlock he arranged a date with Christy? Or Emma? Maybe it was Mary. The woman’s name was irrelevant. She wouldn’t last long. They never did.
It’s four months of catty back and forth before they meet again. Jim’s been busy and, at first, Sherlock hadn’t wanted to distract him if the criminal’s lack of attention meant the detective would get a good mystery out of it. As the weeks drag on, he was beginning to reassess that stance.
Then John said he was going to his sister’s for a holiday. In a sudden last ditch effort to have a buffer between him and Harry, John invited Sherlock along to meet her. The detective just knew John wants him along because if Sherlock came so does the 221b and John didn’t want to be dependent on public transport for an escape from family niceties.
Sherlock refused to be used for something so dull, besides the fact that he didn’t want to be around the doctor when he was that pissy.
Once he’s blessedly alone, Sherlock pulled up the criminal’s current coordinates and had to stare at the screen for several minutes. Somehow it turned out that he and Moriarty were both docked at the same station for the night.
They’d seen each other too many times to count on video monitors, watched the ticks, but there was something different about being able to see the other in the flesh, secreted away in the back room of some bar. Not awkward, but not comfortable either.
“Aren’t you going to ask what I told John?”
“John’s on holiday at his sister’s. And I don’t care what you tell Watson.”
“I know you do.”
“You’re projecting, darling,” Jim said with non-concealed amusement. It bit at Sherlock’s nerves. “I honestly don’t care what you tell your pet about us.”
“He’s not-”
“Whatever you want to think,” Jim said in a insultingly quelling tone. “But I also know you haven’t told him about us, so spare me any attempts to convince me he’s anything other than.”
Sherlock pursed his lips, gearing up to shoot back at Moriarty, when the criminal breezed on.
“You can, however, tell me about that frozen space walker you found last week.”
Through their conversations, Sherlock learned Jim had hobbies. He did things aside from tangling the threads of his web so that only the detective could trace them back to him. Aside from consulting criminal, Moriarty was a college professor. Which was to say he studied the universe on the university’s dime. He taught online courses and never ever came on campus.
The criminal was a legend in more ways than one. Explorer, professor, inventor, criminal mastermind, it was a miracle that he had any time for Sherlock. The detective reveled in the fact that Moriarty would put off whatever he happened to be working on at the moment to just indulge in a little word-play with him.
Turned out the name of John’s date was relevant, because the doctor went out with her again before they left port that week. He also immediately sought her out when they got back to Baker St. from the next case Sherlock took. And before long, John was insisting they meet.
The detective deflected, avoided, threw himself into research, and ignored John’s subtle hints which turn into pleas for them to meet. Sherlock thought he was being clever about it until he noted that John bought an extra ticket to the opera they were going to the following week. One that he really wanted to go to. There was only so much he was willing to sacrifice in order to avoid wasted platitudes toward a woman John wouldn’t speak to after they broke up, so after weeks of avoidance he acquiesces to meeting this woman.
John advised him not to fuck this up for him. Don’t talk about my past girlfriends. Don’t talk about me telling you not to talk about my past girlfriends, please. Also, don’t be ....that. John gestured vaguely towards Sherlock and the detective rolled his eyes. He was going to be himself and stuff John’s demands.
Mary was a brilliant firecracker and John had gotten really luckily this time. He found someone not scared off by the territorial Holmes, who despite having no claims in that department, for some reason still was. He did not follow John’s pleas for congeniality and was more caustic than his usual self. But Mary, she stood up for them, because suddenly John and Mary became them.
Even Mycroft could see it. Visiting days after the opera and when John still wasn’t speaking to him, the elder Holmes had the foresight to point out the doctor’s days trailing behind Sherlock were numbered. If the detective had been looking at the elder Holmes, he would see the glint in his eye that said he could change that, if Sherlock would only ask. But the detective didn’t look. And even if he did, he (probably) wouldn’t have. When Mycroft left Sherlock grudgingly agreed, wedding bells were approaching.
It was when Jim’s name starts circulating academia again, that Sherlock finally used the tracking information he had regarding Moriarty’s ship. They’d still been messaging each, exchanging audio calls, but there hadn’t been a clever crime in weeks and Sherlock needed to know if it was because he’s just that bored or what. Sherlock didn’t understand, what’s more the detective didn’t like the alternative. He couldn’t imagine Moriarty was giving up crime.
Jim came home that night after consulting for gods knew what on this backwater station to find Sherlock sitting there on his sofa. Jim estimated that the leather was no longer cold given how long the detective must have been sitting there.
“I could come to only two reasons for why there has been nothing from you for weeks,” Sherlock said.
“Then you haven’t been thinking hard enough,” Jim scoffed.
Sherlock frowned.
“Well, go on then,” Jim hung up his coat and went to sit opposite of the detective on the sofa.
“You’re giving up consulting-”
Jim barked a laugh. The detective’s frown deepened. “Oh, excuse me,” Moriarty straightened, schooling his features into something like seriousness. “Do continue.”
“You wanted to see what I would do.”
“That’s thinking awfully highly of yourself right there, babe,” Jim said, as harsh as Sherlock had heard him since the pool. “I’d get that swelling in your brain checked. It would be such a shame if you died of a cerebral edema.”
“Are you really trying to tell me that you haven’t taken a case in- what? Three weeks? -because you wanted to work out ‘why the stars are dying at a faster rate in the Arina galaxy?’”
“No cases interested me,” Jim said clearly peeved. “Doesn’t that happen to you?”
“Just recently, in fact,” Sherlock said snide.
“Well, you have your friends. I have my hobbies. You can’t fault me for that,” Jim returned, suddenly cold; words paired with a deadly look. “The universe doesn’t revolve around you, you know. Now get out.”
Sherlock matched the criminal’s stare. When he couldn’t find a crack in Jim’s resolve he walked out, got into his ship, and flew away.
It wasn’t like they’d talked about it. Sherlock had an inkling of suspicion though, now he had near verifiable proof. The correct word was jealousy. The detective could find signs of it in the strangest places within Jim that added up only to indicate one possible solution. James Moriarty was jealous of John Watson.
What the detective didn’t understand was why? Jim could have unfettered access to his mind, if he really wanted. Moriarty understood Sherlock in a way John had never even tried. They connected on a level the doctor could never hope to reach and yet Jim was still jealous?
Sherlock had always found it odd that Moriarty did not indulge in substances. To Sherlock’s knowledge, he had only gotten high once over the time they’d been in contact with each other. That, he was later assured, was a rare (rare) occasion. He only even knew about it because Jim had called his voicemail in the middle of the night. Pity he missed him, it would have been fascinating to talk to the criminal with his inhibitions lowered.
Jim did, however, hum half of a 19th century concerto in Sherlock’s mailbox. Even though the criminal was more than lackadaisical, Sherlock could have identified that piece anywhere. Back in uni, his services had been procured by a classmate for an odd intrigue. The student’s friends, who had been sitting nearby when he took the case, had decided to challenge the detective to listen to the concerto on loop until he had it solved. Sherlock won the bet but it had taken four days. The detective had declined to listen to that song since he closed that case.
Between the unmistakable notes of the concerto, Jim interrupted himself with rambles in Sougielian. Sherlock didn’t know the language and looking up practically every word was like a little puzzle. He soon figured out Moriarty had been bemoaning how he needed to do laundry soon, but had run out of detergent and was wondering what type the detective used because, and Sherlock checked the translation three times, “I want my sheets to smell like you.”
Sherlock messaged: I use Jounce.
Jim had been coughing on the screen in front of Sherlock for the past thirty minutes. They’d already been over the detective offering to bring him some medicine or soup or ice cream or something, since Jim wasn’t going to go to a medi-center to get this cleared up in a matter of hours. (Jim’s rebuttal to that had been that Sherlock wouldn’t have let them prod him either. He was right, of course. They were equally foolish and stubborn). The detective could tell Jim thinks he’s won when Sherlock didn’t press the issue further when the criminal says he’s got one of his droids picking up some antibiotics. They ended the call when Jim starts looking drowsy again and had promised the detective he will rest.
Once the criminal’s logged off, Sherlock plotted a course to the small planet Jim has docked his ship at, completely ignoring the criminal’s protestations that he might catch ‘this nasty bug’ if he does.
The detective was there before Jim woke from his nap with soup in hand. Jim sneezed at him and told Sherlock to go away before he too dies.
“You should be grateful that I care so much for your health that I’d put myself in danger,” Sherlock said. He meant it to sound sarcastic, but from the way Jim was glaring at him from his nest of blankets, the detective was certain he missed the mark. It’s not frightening though, because Jim really did look pathetic, eyes constantly running and every breath making him sound like a sleezestack.
“Please, I just don’t want to have to listen to you whinge about how you got sick on my account,” Jim said with a modicum of distaste, which might have been more believable if it wasn’t for the coughing fit it spurned and the glob of phlegm that he spit into a wad of tissues.
“Shut up and drink your Recataian broth,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“John’s seeing Mary again tonight. They’re getting pretty serious, apparently.”
Over the line, Sherlock sounded surprised even though Jim could have told him that was going to happen and he hadn’t even met Mary. So Jim didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to talk about John, not really. Watson’s attempts at attracting women were certainly comedic but he didn’t need to waste his time with Sherlock to hear about them. However, it was something that was clearly troubling the detective so if Sherlock wanted to talk about it, Jim would listen. Jim would even offer advice, if Sherlock wanted it. Until then he was content to let the detective vent.
“Well, you could always show your displeasure by disappearing for a couple days,” Jim threw out. There was a pause and Sherlock thought he’s going to change the subject. Then Jim offered, “Come, stay at my place.”
Sherlock thought about the possibility offered with that invitation. Thought he could go and-
But a visit was different from a stay. Sherlock declined.
Jim wasn’t deterred. He kept sending little messages to Sherlock. They went beyond: Entertain me. That was Sherlock’s forte. Instead Jim sent him: You’re seriously not thinking of taking this case, are you?
Sherlock would then spend the next five minutes attempting to trace how Jim always seemed to know what he was doing at any given moment, before texting back: Then give me something worth chewing on.
Often enough, Jim obliged. These cases would result in flurry bursts of activity that once solved would return Sherlock to lethargic empty days. The tedium of which might have led him back to drugs, if there weren’t a certain criminal just a comm call away.
They met when they could. And talked or texted when they could. Even when they are on opposite sides of the universe the conversation didn’t cease. But that was it; words and their brains desperately circling each other.
Mary’s making out the wedding invitations in 221b’s common room, when she asked Sherlock if he would like his invitation to be a plus one.
The detective apparently was not as successful at keeping the surprise off his face as he would have hoped, because Mary went on in a chiding tone:
“You don’t really think John hasn’t noticed you’re constantly messaging someone? Or you sneaking off?” Her features slipped into a knowing grin. “You should give him more credit.”
Sherlock supposed it might have been John’s common sense that told him the detective was in fact ‘seeing someone’ by societal standards. But the detective was inclined to blame Mycroft. Of course, it seemed his older brother had the sense not to tell the doctor exactly who Sherlock was involved with. But never-the-less, would be delighted at the waves he was causing in Sherlock’s other-wise neatly compartmentalized life and at the sight of the detective wiggling his way out of this one.
In short, Mycroft knew and did not approve.
Jim was out of video transmission range again.
Moriarty said the job needed to be directly oversaw by him. Sherlock got the idea, that it wasn’t so much the tenuous nature of his plan as the incompetence of his pawns, which forced him off to some undisclosed location. Sherlock wasn’t going to push and get involved while the crime was in progress. Especially not if Jim was, if not on site, then very nearby.
Jim’s quiet demeanor was clearly a mask which covered irritation. Though Moriarty worked as an independent contractor, certain jobs required him to be more of a manager than consultant. It was times like these when Jim had to deal with peons, that the detective was glad he rarely had to manage people or have people manage him.
Mary was now laying out the seating chart for their wedding reception. And then John stepped into the doorway to the galley and Sherlock had to give them an answer. Will he be bringing a date?
“No.”
Jim wouldn’t want to go anyways.
“New case?” Sherlock asked, his coat already on the hook and toeing off his shoes.
Jim was in his ship’s common room pouring over galactic charts. The criminal chuckled, glancing up from what looked like trade lines and shipping routes. Sherlock was attempting not to make it super obvious that he was trying not to look at the specifics.
“Yeah. It’s nothing for you though.”
“Oh?” Sherlock quips, barely resisting the urge of asking ‘what would the point be then?’
The detective spotted the slight smirk of Jim’s lips that suggested he knew what Sherlock was really thinking.
“Then,” Sherlock brushed on, “you have no reason not to tell me all about it.”
“I suppose,” Jim conceded, still smiling. “My clients, they want me to make a planet disappear.”
That was not what the detective had been expecting. Though he shouldn’t have been surprised. Moriarty could do that.
“And how,” Sherlock frowned. “Would you go about that?”
“Easier than you might think now, what with the Federation still having their fingers in everyone’s pies,” he shrugged. “I just hack them and work my way through the other data bases and such. Re-route trade flight plans...”
“That’s not really disappearing though,” Sherlock pointed out.
“Well, they wanted a disappearance, not a destruction. And it’s not like I’m gonna beam it to another dimension,” he glanced up from the charts. “Not for what they are paying me, at least.”
John was slightly nervous upon delivering the news that he and Mary had bought a planet in the Crateage galaxy. Or rather when he explained he would soon be moving out of the 221b.
The doctor delivered the news like a script he’d been running over in his head on the entire trip back from the solicitor. Not that Sherlock hadn’t noticed him subtly moving anything that might be considered his into his room for the last two weeks. He and Mary had only officially closed the transaction this morning though.
Or so he told Sherlock, before asking, “Is this fine?”
Sherlock refused to look up from his work, like any other time, “Of course.”
“So,” John was still suspicious, “we’re okay?”
“Of course,” Sherlock repeated, sighing dramatically and looking up before continuing wryly, “You really don’t think I expect you and Mary to live here with me, do you?”
It was only then that John breathed out an easy laugh and went to pack in earnest.
Sherlock thought about calling Moriarty.
It wasn’t surprising that as John started staying at Mary’s more, Sherlock took advantage of the leeway. He began to invite Jim over to the 221b almost as often as he wanted.
Inevitably, during one of these visits, Lestrade messaged him that there had been a murder and he wanted Sherlock to consult. But far from the detective letting Jim laze about in his ship while he went out for the consultation. The detective wanted to bring Moriarty along. A murder had been committed in the underbelly of the London space station and this would almost certainly be more fun with Jim along to play off of.
“How should I introduce you?” The detective asked, only voicing his query as they stepped out of the ship and towards the awaiting crime scene: a roped off area guarding authorized vehicles and a dead body.
“Tell him I’m the one that gave Frankison those quinilums two months ago,” Jim said, straightening his coat. The case of serial killer Frankison had been a particular sore point for the Yard and Lestrade, who’d been saddled with hunting down the killer. It hadn’t gone well. Sherlock had assisted in tracking him down, but not before he’d killed half a dozen more people and that wasn’t including the three officers who had been the first through threshold of Frankinson’s bolt hole.
Sherlock didn’t, of course. He couldn’t in his right mind and was left to stand mutely when they are stood before Lestrade and the detective still didn’t know how he should introduce the criminal.
“Who’s this?” the Inspector’s confusion was layered with shock. Sherlock always either came alone or with John, never with anyone else.
“Detective Inspector this is-”
“Jim,” the criminal said, with a benign smile and thrusting his hand at Lestrade.
Lestrade took Moriarty’s hand, giving it a quick pump, asking “Just Jim, then?”
The criminal shrugged. Moriarty had a feeling that he might be accompanying Sherlock on a number of other cases under Lestrade’s jurisdiction in the future. Best not to pick a persona he could easily tire of; because although something more elaborate would be entertaining now, the required repeat performances would be mind-numbing. Just Jim was terribly ambiguous and offered enough wiggle-room, if he ever wanted to get more creative.
Lestrade looked to Sherlock for elaboration, but the detective merely mirrored the shrug in an equally unhelpful fashion. The inspector glanced back to Jim and shrugged himself.
“Alright,” the inspector said turning and gesturing for the pair to follow. “The body’s this way.” He led them around the xenocide team’s tents and hovervans, to the actual crime scene.
“Third one like this we’ve found in a week,” Greg said gesturing to the mangled corpse.
“Why didn’t you call me sooner?” Sherlock demanded.
Lestrade rolled his eyes and handed him a datapad, “Here’s what we have so far.”
Sherlock didn’t spare it a second glance as he passed it over to Jim, pulling a pair of latex gloves from the deep pockets of his coat and crouching down to the corpse’s level.
“Hurm...”
“Yeah,” Lestrade agreed, standing back.
“What if-” Sherlock began.
“No, conflicts with the time of discovery,” Jim said, glancing up from the files. He stepped around, handing the datapad back over to the detective. Sherlock quickly skimmed through the information.
“Oh, right, of course not.”
“You saw-”
“Yes, interesting,” the detective agreed. “What do you make of the bruising here?’
“They think it could be post-morten.”
“Could be a sign of-”
“Not if you look at the-”
“Ah.”
“Then it’s pretty simple. Got it?”
“Fairly certain,” The detective, sighed. That had been unfortunately easy, all things considered. Moriarty stepped back to the other side of the body next to Sherlock.
“You might want to question her, but-”
“It was Mrs. Rancarket,” Jim finished.
“Neither of you said anything! ” Anderson blurted out in utter disbelief, staring at the two in exasperation.
It was obvious Lestrade wanted to press for more details, or at the very least, second Anderson’s confusion at the spectacle they had just put on.
“You can figure the rest of the evidence out from here, right?” Sherlock asks lightly, he can feel Jim shaking with smothered laughter next to him. Sherlock had to hide his own smirk.
The inspector took one look at the pair of them and shook his head warily.
Jim still made offers. They were no longer simply offers of refuge but job possibilities as well. Opportunities for collaboration Sherlock would otherwise kill for.
Sherlock discounted them.
A stay was different from a visit and they both knew it. Collaboration for a crime was ... brilliant, unthinkable. Sherlock kept thinking that if he said ‘no’ enough the criminal would stop tempting him (and really it’d start to sound desperate if they didn’t both know the detective already wanted to go).
But Moriarty didn’t stop. He just kept offering. And they were offers, Jim would never pressure Sherlock. Seemingly undeterred, he always brushed Sherlock’s rejection off like he was expecting it. Maybe at that point he was.
Of course, Sherlock thought, had they been in the same room Jim might have offered him something else. He wondered how their conversation would have progressed, the tension between them building on tension and sooner but more likely later one of them would break; give into it and then they’d be communicating in a way that their conversations through electronics could never hope to match. At least that’s what Sherlock thought. He always imagined Jim would be the one to make the first move. It’s probably to do with the way the criminal looked at him and how Sherlock wouldn’t go there .
Even if they talk everyday, Sherlock thought he might still miss Jim.
Sherlock should have known he would be miserable at this. He had anticipated it, but hadn’t done anything to compensate for it. Instead, he was watching John and Mary take their first dance as a married couple and he was bored out of his mind.
Which is precisely when he got a message from Jim.
How’s the wedding?
It was an innocent enough prompting but it was all Sherlock needed to put in an audio call to the criminal. As expected, Jim picked up after the second ring.
“That good, huh?”
“This is fast becoming an event I no longer wish to be at.”
“Surprised you made it this far, actually,” Jim said sounding only mildly distracted. “Was hoping you’d make me some credits...”
The song changed to a dance track with a loud bass. Sherlock decided now is the time to make his exit. He moved towards the main doors, but a swarm of guests blocked his way.
“What do you mean?” Sherlock’s annoyance at being forced to find another route out was only tempered by his curiosity.
“Well, Gregory and I had a bet going,” Jim said sounding not at all sheepish. “About how long you’d be able to stand it.”
“Oh?” Sherlock asked, pushing any uneasiness at Jim being on a betting basis with his oldest acquaintance aside. “How much longer do I have to stay for you to win?”
“You would have had to leave thirty minutes ago, actually,” Jim said blithely, before continuing, “Don’t worry about it, I only have to give him one of my new tracker droids.”
“It’s not about the concessions.” Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes.
Jim didn’t say he knows, instead: “Are you sure the Watsons won’t miss your presence?”
“Actually, they asked me if I wanted you to come,” the detective scoffed, while moving through the crowd toward a back hallway. “Well, a plus one, anyway, but they meant you.”
“Oh, really? I was never consulted.”
“No,” Sherlock said, something in Jim’s tone took him by surprise and he suddenly found himself reconsidering his actions. “I assumed it would bore you, among other things.”
“Probably,” Jim allowed. “But you went.”
“For morale support. John is my friend.”
“And yet, here you are bored and sneaking out.”
“And your presence would have prevented this, surely?” Sherlock asked, sarcastic.
“Obviously, I cannot see into another dimension where I was invited, but yes, it would have.”
“Doubtful,” Sherlock droned his levity arriving entirely too late to cover what he was really thinking.
“If you wanted me to come, I would have been there,” Moriarty sighs unexpectedly. “For future reference.”
Sherlock couldn’t say anything to that.
“Since you’re about to die of boredom,” Moriarty continued, before changing the subject. “Did you want to come with me?”
“Where are you going?”
“Faria. I have a job there two days from now.”
“And you want me to come?”
“Of course.”
“I’m not going to be in your way?”
“Please,” Jim drawled, sounding only too delighted. “I’m going to make you an instrument to my crime.”
Sherlock had reached the end of the hallway. He looked up at the glowing red exit sign and knew he was going to say ‘yes.’ He’d been waiting so long. He’d wanted to take Moriarty’s hand and run away together since the pool but somehow resisted the urge and for what? He could no longer recall why he’d declined offer after offer. Sherlock couldn’t imagine his reasoning was too important if it was so unmemorable.
It was their time now.
The detective took a breath and pushed through the side door of the hotel.
“When do we leave?” Sherlock asked, stepping out into the cooling night air. He relished how fresh it was in comparison to the stifling ballroom and noted the sky was a blaze of orange that could be seen through the gap of buildings forming the alleyway. The drone of the nearby main street was broken into by a delighted laugh, which seconds later Sherlock heard echoed over the phone.
“As soon as you get your ass off that step!” Jim said, his voice pitched from the driver’s seat of a dark charcoal automobile idling off to Sherlock’s right.
The detective could barely smother his grin as he all but skipped over to the car.
“I can’t believe you have one of these,” Sherlock stated as he hopped into the passenger seat of the convertible.
“Vintage, 2046. Don’t knock the classics.”
“In your presence?” Sherlock asked, looking over at Jim. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Jim smirked back and punched the accelerator.
Sherlock smoked sometimes. He enjoyed the burn in his lungs more than was good for him, a fact which John hadn’t failed to point out every time the detective even thought about lighting up. It was much the same with Mycroft. From the few times they’d met up on planet, Sherlock knew he could trust Jim never to give him an evil eye for smoking. In fact, the criminal might even take a drag on occasion.
Jim took him to a mid sector planet and parked his ship in the backyard of a rather run-down sprawling mansion.
Sherlock didn’t question the location, though he wondered what Jim could be preparing for from this location, rural as it is; they were the only ones around for miles. They hadn’t gotten into the specifics of Moriarty’s latest clients’ desires.
But being on planet is convenient enough for the detective. He smoked, actual tar filled cigarettes; the real ones from way back when. They were illegal now as the smoke didn’t play well with most air filtration systems on space stations, but one could still find them, if they knew where to look.
As Sherlock unpacked and settled for the next few days planet side, Jim had pulled out a tea service. They sat across from each other in the library, which coincidentally was the only room in the mansion that wasn’t coated with a layer of dust.
Silence spilled between them like a skein of yarn unspooling too rapidly to be caught or made right. Never had they been at a loss for words with each other, and yet here they had been sitting in quiet save for the clinking of china for nearly twenty minutes.
First cup done, the criminal had turned to the bowl of fruit. He picked up an obsidian globe and pulled out his knife. Jim had stared over at him as he cut off a piece of Guariuun fruit and put it in his mouth. His brown irises darkening and looking at Sherlock with such conviction. Intent.
Sherlock suddenly had the urge to fill his lungs with the blackest tar.
That in itself seemed like a good enough excuse for him to get out of enduring this preternatural silence, something Sherlock would have never thought to come between them, and go on a mundane search for a supplier, so he could blow through a pack as fast as he could suck them down. He’d grasped feebly on to the excuse to get cigarettes and all but power walked out of the room, leaving Jim behind again. Unimpressed, again.
In actuality, he’d fled. Out of the cottage, down the road, and halfway to civilization before Sherlock realized how ridiculous avoiding this between them was.
Attraction, desire, lust . That, in the plainest terms, was what was between them when they were in the same room as each other.
Sherlock had had sex before. After his (brief) period of exploration, he hadn’t felt the need to pursue the activity further. It was all fine, but he preferred to get his kicks in a different manner.
Still.
When he had met Moriarty, Sherlock would have been a fool to not have noticed the way Jim’s eyes lingered. The want they held, if Sherlock were a greater man it would have been humbling; to have the universe’s most brilliant criminal mastermind want to devour him. But Sherlock was not a great man and it was anything but humbling.
Except how he wanted Jim too. It was a point of absurd realization that had come to him in the midst of one of their many video conversations months ago, when Jim had jokingly made some innuendo. Sherlock had never thought much of Jim’s euphemisms, but that was the first time he noticed the humor didn’t reach the criminal’s eyes.
It was quite obvious where Jim’s desires lie and that got Sherlock thinking. Idly, at first, because surely they would never pursue such action. Well, he would never and the detective was certain that the criminal would not push him. Jim was absurdly accommodating, he seemed to know where Sherlock’s comfort zone stopped, and didn’t venture beyond it unless Sherlock himself led Jim there.
Which soon became a more reoccurring thought the detective had. One that was coming to a head; Sherlock was fairly certain that he wanted more from the criminal than this distance. They were alone here. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to explore a different aspect of their dynamic; yet unexplored and one that Sherlock often overlooked as common-place. Sex, he thought they should have it and with Jim’s insinuations as they were, the detective was fairly sure the criminal would be up for it.
A drop of water broke into Sherlock’s minor freak out. He glanced around, as a dull pitter-patter filled the air. Rain drops began to fall with increasing urgency. The detective turned on his heel and headed back towards the house, knowing what he wanted.
There was an audible click as Sherlock closed the library door.
“That was quick. I thought you went to town for a pack of cigarettes,” Jim said, bent over a holo, and wearing these ridiculous spectacles. Sherlock had seen him with them on a couple times before on comm calls, but never in person. The sight made the detective clench his hands into fists at his sides.
“I wanted to,” Sherlock allowed. “Then it started to rain and I realized...”
Jim didn’t look up when Sherlock trails off. Sherlock knew this is just Jim throwing himself into another project, just him brushing off Sherlock’s earlier rejection, focusing his efforts instead on something the detective would appreciate.
Sherlock pursed his lips.
Those glasses, Jim wore them like they were nothing, like he didn’t know what they were doing to Sherlock. He moved over to stand next to Jim and the holo.
“What are you working on?” Sherlock asked. Jim’s eyes were almost black in the dark of the room, perhaps grinning more because of it. The way they moved over him is almost like a caress. Sherlock’s distinctly aware that Jim was not touching him. His hands were resting on his knees, but then he licked his lips before he answerd and for the detective that was as good an indicator as any that Jim would prefer them to be doing something else, asking him something else.
Still he answered, something mildly clever that makes Sherlock want what is coming even more. “Queue preparatory montage,” Jim finished with wry amusement.
When Sherlock didn’t respond for several seconds, Jim turned to see him just staring at him with the most peculiar expression. Jim had never seen that emotion on Sherlock quite so unguarded. Jim hesitated to even believe what his eyes were telling him.
Sherlock could see the exact moment when the criminal noticed the change in him. Jim stood and his eyes glint before he affected a pretense of not knowing what Sherlock’s thinking, totally convincing if the detective hadn’t caught a glimpse of the realization and his half cocked smirk. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Sherlock had to hold back the immediate As if you don’t know exactly what I’m thinking in exchange for a more biting baited comment. Just to get back at him for that.
“I'm thinking about shoving you up against that bookcase,” Sherlock enunciated, words waited heavy not with desire so much as intent. “And making you scream my name.”
Sherlock has a brief moment of satisfaction as Jim audibly inhaled, teeth set on his bottom lip, before he dropped the act eyes black and lips drawn back into something hungry.
Sherlock crossed the scant space between them and reached out to Jim, running a hand up his arm and the other up his side. The criminal was staring up at him with those impossibly big amber eyes, his own hands hovering just over Sherlock’s chest. Poised like he was not sure if he was allowed to touch.
The detective couldn’t take this hesitance. He stepped further into Jim’s space, bumping into his hand, and letting his own arms close around Jim, before bending his head slightly to brush his lips with the criminal’s.
The briefest touch seemed to rouse Jim from his stupor and he pulled Sherlock in for another kiss, more involved to say the least and longer. His hands roamed the detective like he couldn’t decide what he wanted his hands on to first.
When Jim finally pulled back he was smiling, a soft serene, smile the detective had never seen before. Sherlock was bewitched. He wanted Jim to look at him like that always. Wryly, the detective thought, he was discovering a lot of things he wanted today.
“I believe you said something about shoving me up against a bookcase?” Jim asked, still slightly breathless.
Sherlock’s grin was something feral as he started backing Jim up against the books.
When they’ve made it back to Jim’s room and thoroughly exhausted themselves, Jim laid his head on Sherlock’s chest. The detective wondered why it had taken them so long to do this. Being with Jim was what he had been searching for without even knowing it.
It seemed that the criminal had been thinking the same, because Jim’s voice broke the din of the room, vibrating Sherlock’s chest with a disquietingly comforting purr.
“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?”
Sherlock didn’t know the specific length, but he could hazard an estimate. He was about to tell Jim this, was about to tell Jim how many times he thought of him when he was alone in his ship quarters.
“But I’m glad we waited,” Jim continued, before the detective voiced any of this, “till you were ready.”
Sherlock thought back to all those moments when something between them could have happened and how he’d thought of the world and them back then.
“Yeah, me too,” Sherlock agreed.
It was inevitable with all the time they spent together at the 221b, that Jim was formally introduced to Mrs. Hudson.
She later told the detective she found Jim charming. Sherlock breathed out a sigh of relief he hadn’t known he’d been holding, before she stated that she had no qualms with him moving into Sherlock’s ship.
“Oh, Sherlock! You should have told me you were dating someone new!” she gushed.
Sherlock blinked at the phrasing - were he and Jim really dating now? - but did not correct her.
The more time they spent together, the more it seemed that Jim was always eating something. Gummies, chocolate covered Andorian beans, lolipops, crystalized candied Luditrician fruit, and if they were on the criminal’s ship, it was always cereal.
Not just any plain willy nilly Oblution wheat would do, Jim only bought cereals marketed towards children, the ones with bright colors, alien shaped marshmallows and massive amounts of sugar.
Sherlock doesn’t really think too hard about it when those single serving variety packs of sugary cereals (because, Sherlock, freshness matters) end up on his own grocery list.
They try not to bring work home.
It wasn’t always easy, as their ships also served as transport to their work. Moriarty couldn’t very well do much of his cases with Sherlock sitting right there. Also, Sherlock was known to reside at Baker Station. It was important to his work that he stay there as the truly desperate clients liked to visit him in person. Subsequently, more often then not Moriarty stayed over at Baker Station.
They’d just gotten back from Felarr docked late at Baker Station the previous night, and practically collapsed on top of each other in exhaustion. Sherlock’s services having been sought by a solicitor who was falsely accused of murder. The detective had asked Jim to come along with him. Well, he didn’t so much as ask as it was understood between the two that Sherlock would prefer if Moriarty was on hand and Jim would prefer to accompany him, unless the criminal had his own work to attend to. Sherlock knew having Jim tag along on cases is more distracting than he would have allowed with anyone else. But oddly, Jim’s presence, which tended to split his attention, often made cases more interesting and challenging in the best way. Even more so when it was an already engaging case, like Felarr’s.
The next morning Sherlock rose to consciousness with the residual good mood of some surprisingly restful sleep, yesterday’s decent employment, and having a mind who could keep up with his at his side. He became aware that the criminal was staring from across the pillows, seemingly waiting for him to wake up. Sherlock allowed a sleepy smile to quirk his lips. They touched toes beneath the covers, before Jim was catching his lips.
“Good morning,” Jim said, sliding on top of the detective to kiss him more soundly. Sherlock’s fingers threaded through the criminal’s short hair and he pulled the criminal into an even deeper kiss.
The detective barely had time to think ‘this is the way to wake up’ before they heard the woosh of the ship’s main doors, footsteps, and a polite knock on Sherlock’s outer door. Mrs. Hudson announced that Sherlock had a client who insisted on being seen.
The detective ardently regretted not advising Mrs. Hudson to not bother them if they were still in bed, however awkward of a conversation that might have the possibility of being. It would have been worth the pleasure of having their mornings in bed undisturbed.
Sherlock managed to stifle his groan and pushed Jim off of him. He grabbed his robe off the hook, refusing to meet Jim’s evil eye.
“It’s not one of mine,” Jim said, as if that would stop Sherlock from leaving their room. It almost did, if the detective was being honest.
“How do you know?”
Jim’s frown deepened. “You better not take too long.”
Sherlock winked at him, just to be an ass, and swept into the ship’s common quarters.
The client, who introduced himself as Bonrue, had perched his hulking form on one of the designated client chairs as Sherlock took up his resident armchair, fully ready to enter consultant mode.
Bonrue thanked Sherlock for seeing him and eagerly started in on why he’s interrupted what could have been an otherwise perfect morning. But the prospective client’s words start to drift from Sherlock’s ears when Jim appeared from their room.
Jim was still in the clothes he put on last night after brushing his teeth. Morning shower yet to be had and his hair only slightly mussed, but still in a state which could aptly be called ‘bed head.’ Sherlock eyed it with an internal smirk. If this prospective client hadn’t shown up at just that moment, well Jim’s hair would have been in an even worse state. Jim wandered past into the galley.
“Mr. Holmes, I-” Sherlock’s thoughts snap back to the case at hand. Bonrue told his story like it was the biggest galactic crime since Kamoron not only took office, but was re-elected as the Federation’s senate speaker. His second pair of hands still clutched at his hat, while his upper arms gestured, illustrating his misfortune.
Sherlock was vaguely aware of Moriarty’s putzing around the cupboards, picking over their meager food selection. Jim reaching up, balanced on his tip-toes to see what was in the top of each cabinet, looking for something in particular.
Out of the corner of the detective’s eye, he saw Jim had finally found where Sherlock put the last unopened box of the criminal’s cereal. He opened it and poured it into a bowl, before looking for the milk.
Sherlock would not admit he was having difficulty paying attention to the client’s woes.
It had nothing to do with the snap, crackle and, pop of Jim’s cereal and everything to do with the way he had folded himself up on their galley counter, legs tucked up under him, crossed with his elbows on knees. Munching and, for all appearances, engrossed in the client’s complaint. He was wearing one of his many thin v-neck t-shirts that Jim had shuffled over to the 221b a couple weeks ago.
It was not nefarious. This was not mastermind behavior, except, it was exactly everything Jim could do to thoroughly distract him from the case at hand, baring actually going down on him.
Sherlock had all but given up trying to concentrate on the case when he had such a perfect view of the criminal’s adam’s apple. Every time he swallowed Jim called attention to his neck, which Sherlock wanted to-
“Sherlock,” The criminal’s voice broke him out of his reverie. Jim was looking at him expectantly, amusement burning in the depths of his shadowed eyes. “Bonrue wants to know if you’ll take the case?”
“It was your half-sister’s partner,” Sherlock said blithely turning back to the other being.
“Jerry?” Bonrue asked, sounding taken aback.
Sherlock shrugged. There was a scoff from the galley. The detective’s eyes snapped to Moriarty’s.
“But how did you-” Bonrue started.
“Out,” Sherlock dismissed the client.
The detective disn’t even spare the man a glance, as he hurried to leave, already crossing over to the counter with his eyes glued to Jim, as the criminal drags his tongue across his teeth and grins something awful. He’s already swung his legs off the counter and Sherlock stepped right between them.
Jim’s eyes are near black with want and Sherlock’s fingers were bruising as he pulled himself flush with the criminal. Sherlock has every intention of fucking the criminal right there on the kitchen counter.
It’s more inadvertently then by any calculated plan, but soon they are all but living together.
They went to sleep on each other at night.
Moriarty’s droids made them lunch.
Jim went with Sherlock when Lestrade asked the detective to consult on cases.
They sat across the table at breakfast. Jim was grading papers between bites of sweet fruit flavored ground-corn cereal, while Sherlock mocked the newsfeed he was scrolling through on his datapad.
Oddly, Sherlock didn’t bristle at the new found domesticity as much as Jim would have expected. He’d like to think that his presence tamped down on the detective’s restlessness. Sherlock’s certainly helped his own.
Sherlock was in the common room reading, when he heard a burst of glass accompanied by a pained cry come from the kitchen galley.
“What happened?” the detective asked pitching his voice to be heard across the ship.
“Don’t worry about it,” came the criminal’s irritable reply, but Sherlock was already up out of his chair and headed towards the galley. He leaned agains the door jam, surveying the wreckage; Jim on his bare tip toes leaning against the galley island, holding his hand while the floor surrounding him was covered in sharp shiny shards.
“I just broke a glass,” Jim said resignedly peering down at the cut.
Sherlock stepped over to Jim, brushing some of the shattered mess of glass aside with his foot.
“It looks like something to worry about,” Sherlock said grabbing Jim’s hand and pulling it up close to his face, his fingers on either side of the cut, pulling the bloody skin slightly apart, revealing the pink skin and meat of the muscle.
“That’s rather deep,” Sherlock said as mildly as he could.
“No shit,” Jim breathed out in a hiss. Sherlock glanced up. Jim was biting his lip, pain evident, staring at Sherlock hard through his eyelashes.
“It’s deep. But it didn’t hit anything vital.”
“I told you,” the criminal’s voice was low. Sherlock can feel Jim’s gaze on him calculating, always considering.
“We should disinfect it.”
“You don’t say.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and tugged on Jim’s hands towards the med-kit in the lavatory. Jim yanked him back.
“The glass.”
Sherlock glanced at the floor. He had pushed most of the big pieces aside, but there were still little shards catching the light.
“Do you even remember where you put the dustpan?” Jim teased. “It’s under the sink.”
“We’ll worry about that later,” Sherlock shook his head. “Can’t have you bleeding everywhere, while I’m trying to clean up.”
Jim scoffed, probably at the notion of the detective cleaning. Sherlock pursed his lips, he can clean. He had been know to clean from time to time.
As if in retaliation, he bent down and scooped Jim up off the ground bridal style. Jim gave a yelp of surprise, but clung to Sherlock as he carried him out of the galley.
Space was cold. Jim was always so cold when he came back from a deep space trip. It took him hours to warm back up properly.
Sometimes, Sherlock wanted to go along with him. Not even to watch his mind at work, though he’d appreciate that too. Sherlock wanted to follow Moriarty just to keep him warm.
It was a shift within himself he hadn’t been expecting.
It was little surprise when Sherlock came back from consulting for one of Lestrade’s on-planet cases, to find Jim standing, hands in pockets in 221c. They’d both been thinking the same thing for the passed few weeks; Sherlock wouldn’t move into the criminal’s ship, which in essence had turned into his office, but neither could Jim live in the 221b. They needed some place that was theirs.
Sherlock stepped into the ship’s main room, next to the criminal and it felt right.
It was settled.
The consultants quibbled over wallpaper patterns and decor for the remodeling of Mrs. Hudson’s least marketable ship.
Still through all the excitement and arranging, Sherlock could tell Jim is planning something big. The criminal was tired, took short two to three day trips out of the station, and tried not to sound almost dead when the detective calls. Sherlock didn’t bother pressing for details. All he would get was It would ruin the surprise and they both knew it.
It was annoying, to say the least. Sherlock had never been one for patience. But Jim had never let him down before. In two short months, the 221c, would be newly renovated with the criminal’s funds, would be their address. It was happening so fast and not fast enough for Sherlock.
So he waited. Sherlock waited for the renovations on their ship to be finished. He waited for Moriarty’s next big mystery. He waited for Jim to come home.
Even as the years had passed in such a fashion, Jim continued having the same dream he’s had since just after the pool, of falling. He always only remembered from the moment he sees a flash of that coat, he started running towards the edge of the cliff and then he was falling too. He was falling into Sherlock Holmes’ arms. The ground below them nearing as they continue to pick up velocity. He had dove off a cliff to die with him and Moriarty still can’t really say he’d change his mind if he were awake. He just watches the detective’s, pleased expression which says they are sharing a joke. With the reassuring knowledge that if he looks over Sherlock’s shoulder he can see the water and rocks getting closer and closer, Jim is at peace.