Chapter Text
L’appel du vide – “The call of the void”, the instinctive urge to jump from high places.
He knows it’s upsetting John, this never-ending contest with Moriarty. Sherlock even concedes the doctor has a right to be upset; he was kidnapped by the man. But Sherlock can’t help himself. He’s spent his whole life looking for someone who could match him, and so far Mycroft’s the best (which is very sad for humanity in several different ways). Now he finally has a playmate – an equal. Someone who makes him think and always pushes him to do better, be quicker, more brilliant. If Sherlock could ever love something other than himself, it would be Moriarty’s brain.
Perhaps the danger helps. After all, Sherlock’s whole career is been based around using whatever small excitement he can find in solving crimes to break free of his perpetual boredom. He could have been a doctor curing diseases, or a scientist making new discoveries but he’d chosen to be a little of both and a detective to boot, and Moriarty plays nicely into that. Sherlock can feel himself being pulled into Jim’s vortex, wanting to sink all the way to the bottom and see every layer even if it kills him. He can see why John’s upset.
*****
Mamihlapinatapai - a look shared by two people with each wishing that the other will initiate something that both desire but which neither one wants to start.
Sherlock’s getting out of a cab in front of Baker Street when he feels someone watching him. He pauses on the doorstep, turns. Jim’s standing leisurely at the corner of an alley down the street. Sherlock doesn’t even think twice.
He strides over as if he’s enjoying a Sunday stroll. Jim steps back into the shadows as he approaches, forcing him to move faster to keep the criminal in sight. It’s barely dawn and there are still some homeless napping in the dark brick corners.
“Morning, Sherlock.”
“I take it you’re not here to ask me for breakfast.”
“Maybe I am.”
He closes the gap between them and stares down into those playful black eyes. Sherlock’s breath hisses through his teeth as he uses his extra height to squeeze even further into Moriarty’s personal space. The criminal’s face is uncharacteristically guarded for a moment; the wool of his coat soft under Sherlock’s fingers as the detective reaches out and carefully, deliberately wraps a hand around his waist. The sound of London waking up around them only makes the silence of the alley more distinct, like this moment is untouchable.
Jim’s blank mask drops with a flicker into a smile that may or may not be genuine.
“No going back, Sherlock.”
“Are you ready?”
*****
Xertz – to gulp down quickly and greedily.
Sherlock Holmes is no blushing virgin. He understands desire’s biological function, its social uses and connotations, its symptoms and causes. He dallied once or twice in university, just to add his own data before deciding it was unnecessary and draining. So like sleep and food, sex had been added to the list of things Sherlock didn’t waste his time on.
This is different. This is desire so consuming Sherlock sees everything else as the waste. His fingers are eager, desperate as they draw Jim closer. They smash a lamp; they break three hotel chairs. Sherlock is not satisfied no matter how long they stay in bed. He wants all of Moriarty, every thought and word and inch until Jim only exists within Sherlock. He wants him all to himself. Sherlock stops caring if he ever sees the sun again – he’d give it up for Jim.
*****
Jayus – A joke so poorly told and so unfunny that one cannot help but laugh.
It takes a lot less time than Sherlock had expected for John to find out – and a lot more. They never meet at Baker Street after that first time, and Jim is the very master of secrecy. So it makes sense that something stupid trips them up.
Sherlock meets him at a flat by the river. It stinks, rubbing some of the gloss off the luxurious minimalistic decor and the million-dollar view. But it’s far from John’s stomping ground and discreet, out of the eyes of Mycroft. Sherlock falls on him the second the door opens and Jim reacts like a cat being drowned, lashing out wildly in a struggle to be on top.
Afterwards Sherlock goes down to the street for a smoke, because Jim is very particular about the smell. He’s leaning back against the building watching the sparse traffic, when a stocky figure with his hands in his pockets walks past and stops.
“Sherlock?”
“John?”
“Are you smoking?” the doctor frowns.
“Never mind that. What are you doing here?”
“I had a seminar at a clinic nearby. Thought I’d take a walk before I head home.”
“Why?” Sherlock wrinkles his nose.
“I don’t mind the smell so much,” John shrugs, “What are you doing here?”
Sherlock has no excuse ready. What would he say? What could he tell John that would explain his presence but not make him more curious?
He’s seconds away from saying he’s checking on something for a new client, even though he knows the smoking is already making John too suspicious to fall for that. But then it doesn’t matter anymore, because Jim comes out through the front door and stops. John goes for his gun but a tall muscular blond steps out of nowhere and rests his pistol against the back of the ex-soldier’s head.
“Thank you, Sebastian. You could have warned me we had company before I came down.” Jim scowls.
“Why are you here? Because of him again?” John demands.
Sherlock shrugs. “Yes.”
“Sorry to let the cat out of the bag and leave, my dear, but I have places to be.”
Jim steps closer to Sherlock and John twitches, but the cold metal against his scalp stops him actually lunging for Moriarty’s throat. Jim presses a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek and climbs into a black car parked a few steps away. The blonde gunman lowers his weapon but keeps it out as he slides into the front seat next to the driver. They pull away and Sherlock stubs out his forgotten cigarette, shoving his hands in his pockets as he turns and starts walking.
“Sherlock? Sherlock, we’re going to talk about this. What the bloody hell was that?”
“Does it matter?”
“It very much matters, Sherlock! That was the most dangerous man I have ever met and you were smoking outside...his flat, I guess?”
“One of them.”
“Well, why!”
“Can’t help myself, I guess.”
And it’s not funny but he laughs and laughs, doubles over at the unfortunate truth.
Sherlock leaves the next day.
*****
Pune-ti pofta-n cui - to forget about getting something.
Sherlock never had a chance of being normal. He never could have stayed in 221B with John, living exactly as they had. He couldn’t have found some nice person to settle down with and be ordinary, but sometimes when Jim’s asleep and Sherlock’s not tired he sits up and thinks about it. Perhaps some small part of him always knew the course of average people’s lives and felt like he might want that, might even someday be able to have it. But he needs to put that small part behind him because it was utterly, utterly wrong.
It’s Vietnam tonight, the air oppressively hot because Jim wanted to ‘go local’ and attempt to blend in by forgoing his usual air-conditioned hotel suite. They’re in a cramped little inn with walls so thin the noise of the street completely drowns out Jim’s snoring, but at least it’s clean and no one complains about Sherlock’s violin.
They’re supposed to be meeting some opium growers tomorrow but Sherlock probably won’t bother. Let Jim and Moran handle the boring negotiations and he’d just concentrate on smuggling the goods out. That was far more of a challenge and involved much less unpleasant conversation.
Sometimes he misses the idea of Mycroft, but then they have to leave yet another apartment in the middle of the night and he gets over it.
*****
Ya’aburnee – “You bury me,” a declaration of one’s hope that they’ll die before another person because of how difficult it would be to live without them.
In North Africa Sherlock realises he’s learned how to love, and that he’ll never see England again. They have an appointment with some separatists that actually sparks his interest enough to attend, and then the leader pulls a rifle and things get dramatic. Moran lays down cover while Sherlock and Jim race to the jeep but it’s not enough to stop the groan of Moriarty taking a shot to the arm.
“You stupid berk!” Sherlock cusses as Moran whips the car over the dunes, tossing the two men around in the back while he’s trying to put pressure on the wound.
“Aww Sherlock, didn’t know you cared.” Jim chuckles.
But he does, and that’s scarier than the injury. It’s a clean through-and-through, nothing major and will heal fine provided they can get it stitched up soon. But Sherlock realising the rage he feels at Jim for getting hurt is not just rage. For a second he thought perhaps it was him dying.
Sherlock confiscates his laptop and phone and insists on handling everything until he’s not on so many painkillers. Jim coos and teases even worse but he is actually in too much pain to object. Sherlock takes to falling asleep in a chair so as not to accidentally press against his bad arm, and he knows he’s completely, totally, hopelessly committed to keeping Jim happy and safe as long as the smaller man will let him.
They arrange a very nasty explosion once Jim’s feeling better.