Work Text:
There was something consoling about this moment together. They didn’t speak of it or even so much as hint towards it, as it was definitely something better left unsaid. No, the mere mention of comfort would set all the walls back in place. Right now what they both needed was to be as free as they possibly could be in each other’s presence. As alive as they could be in a world in which they were both dead.
There had been no forgiveness. There couldn’t be. All the hurt that Sherlock felt in this lonely retreat had all come at the hands of Jim Moriarty. Still, Sherlock had answered to the consulting criminal immediately after receiving word of him.
Jim Moriarty still alive? – Panic, anger, sadness, but finally that lasting relief. Jim Moriarty was alive. That meant that Sherlock no longer had to tread this strange world alone, in between death and living. More so, it meant that the man that had brought this upon him was still living proof of Sherlock’s sanity. Moriarty had existed, because he still did exist. The newspapers were wrong.
But they didn’t speak of such things, although Sherlock’s eyes had fallen on a copy of the disgraceful paperback that had been written in a weak attempt at making a sensation out of him. Well, it was perhaps a kinder twist than the brutal ‘truth’ that the newspapers fed the public with frightening ease.
Jim had stuffed the book beneath a pile of old newspapers, that in their turn got shoved to the corner of the desk and out of sight. It was symbolic, in a way. Jim put the fairytales away for tonight, so they wouldn’t have to be enemies in them. Now, it wasn’t quite so simple, but simple had never been their common ground.
The solution was presented by Jim, who took a wooden box and placed it on the coffee table before Sherlock who had been lazily spread on the couch. This place wasn’t by far the biggest of complexes that Jim Moriarty owned, but it served well as a hide-out for their ghostlike existence. No one would find them here. No one would come looking for them here. And Sherlock knew that before the end of the week, at the very latest, Jim Moriarty would offer him a permanent stay. The question already hung in the air.
It took less than a second for Sherlock to realize what the wooden box was for. Replace the fairytales with a different kind of story. Step out of the world that they didn’t belong in anymore and step into a fake one of a different kind. Only this one was substance induced.
Sherlock had always preferred cocaine, but when Jim offered him heroin he certainly didn’t complain. If John knew what Sherlock had been up to these past few weeks he would be more horrified than he already was. Sherlock forced the thoughts of John out of his mind. John wasn’t here. Jim was.
Sherlock took one of the syringes and stared at it for a moment, while Moriarty set to work. From the corner of his eye Sherlock kept a close look on the criminal. Just in case… But it was more by force of habit than it was by force of reason. Sherlock held out the syringe when Jim indicated to need it. There fingers brushed as Jim took the object from him and it caused slight hesitation, but like everything else tonight, it was left for what it was.
The detective leaned back, his head resting on the armrest of the couch, as he stared up at the ceiling. It was only when Jim moved to sit beside him on the edge of the couch that wasn’t occupied by Sherlock’s long limbs that his eyes turned to look at Jim once more.
“Your arm,” the criminal spoke, holding up the syringe. Sherlock held out his left arm, while he took the syringe in his right hand to look at the fluid, holding it up to the light. Jim pushed his sleeve up, but he paid it little mind as he observed the solution in the syringe.
Heroin, (diacetylmorphine or morphine diacetate,) also known as diamorphine. Narcotic powder, C 21 H 23 NO 5, derived from morphine.
He could feel Jim bind a rope around his upper arm and pulling it tight, so the veins would become more visible and aiming would be less of a hassle.
Jim took the needle from him and although Sherlock felt his heart rate increase at the knowledge of confiding this much trust in Jim, Sherlock didn’t move or flinch.
(5α ,6α )-7,8-didehydro-4,5-epoxy-17-methylmorphinan-3,6-diol diacetate
Her·o·in, a highly addictive analgesic drug.
He felt the soft sting of the needle, but didn’t care to look up. No, he’d made his choice now and he would have to stick to it. A soft warm tingle spread through his arm as the drug entered his bloodstream. Now there really was no way back, but through it.
“Well, you know what they say, never do it alone.” It was a mockery, really. Sherlock had been alone for years and done all sorts of things he shouldn’t have according to the general public. Jim laughed and their eyes met for a short second, before the criminal got up.
Sherlock watched as Jim injected himself with the second syringe he’d prepared.
“Oh, shouldn’t we know better? No, of course not…” Sherlock muttered, staring at the ceiling again, before he finally made an attempt at moving. His hands moved through his curls as he sat up on the couch, looking at his enemy.
“We’re dead now,” Moriarty spoke.
“Yes, we might as well die some more.”
But this wasn’t at all like dying. As the minutes passed and the drug was starting to take effect on them everything changed. Suddenly the room wasn’t as empty as it had been. The atmosphere turned from cold and lifeless to strangely sanctuary-like in which their distance from one another was suddenly too much, even though he felt warm. He didn’t feel quite warm enough.
“I missed this,” Jim spoke. It sounded a lot like a secret. It felt like a secret that Jim was admitting to, even though it was such a simple line.
“Yes,” Sherlock replied, as in their world of unspoken words he perfectly understood what Jim had missed. Not the drugs. This had never been about the drugs. Like the code that Jim Moriarty had planted in Sherlock’s mind, this was merely a means of sharing. The drugs were a pathway to what they both wanted, but hadn’t even dared to admit to themselves yet. It wouldn’t take long.
The detective’s eyes glanced over the criminal’s relaxed features. He had never seen him like this. This wasn’t Jim without a mask, for he never was fully without one. This was simply another version of him. Another version that Sherlock gladly accompanied. Another fascinating instalment of the consulting criminal’s brilliant mind.
“Aren’t our games endless, Sherlock?” Jim spoke, as if he had read Sherlock’s thoughts. “A billion good cards in an endless deck.” Sherlock had to laugh at that, but figured that was mostly substance induced too, as he couldn’t quite understand why he otherwise would think it so funny.
“Right now I’m not sure who’s winning.”
“Oh, we both are,” Jim replied. “We’re not playing each other. We’re playing the world, Sherlock.”
“Yes, I suppose right now we are.”
“Until we’re standing atop it again, we’re always fighting the world.”
“Atop…” Sherlock repeated, the images of St. Bart’s rooftop clear as daylight in his mind. But they didn’t bring the same pain. No, they were a strange consolation now. A mark of victory. “We did it before, we’ll do it again.”
“Tell me, detective,” Jim spoke and Sherlock became aware of the decreased distance between them as Jim was suddenly leaning over him, while he’d slipped back down to lying on the couch. “What is your deduction? Me, this place, us…”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he got asked the question. He looked Jim over. His hair was longer than it had been on the rooftop and over the past few hours it had lost it’s slickness as Jim hadn’t cared to redo it. His eyes were set differently, there was deep exhaustion behind them, but right now, at the very front, was euphoria. No, not quite euphoria yet, but the lust of it. “Lust sparked by the prospect of euphoria,” Sherlock spoke out loud, though he didn’t realize the whisper that had left his lips was audible for the criminal as well. It didn’t matter. “What will it be?” Sherlock asked, as if he was inquiring what offer he should make to satisfy Jim’s longing.
But his observations continued, as Jim didn’t answer. The room was darkened and Jim had been prepared for his arrival, the tidiness had said as much. Though the newspapers and the paperback and the very coat Jim had worn on the rooftop that had been flung over one of the chairs had all been obstructions. Obstructions to get a response out of Sherlock that Jim later realized he didn’t want. “So, you changed your plans…”
Sherlock’s eyes turned to look at the box, before he looked up at Jim again who was now even closer.
“Why?” Jim asked and he genuinely didn’t seem to know the answer.
“Why…?” Sherlock repeated thoughtfully, as he ran through the options. He was noticeably slower with the drugs taking effect and he couldn’t be certain of any answer, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t reply with logic, he replied with instinct. “You’re changeable, constantly fluctuating. That’s hard to keep track of without a mirror. You need a mirror. Otherwise you’ll forget what you are.”
His voice had decreased in volume as the lack of distance allowed him to whisper and still be perfectly audible. There was a slight hesitance in Jim’s advance as he took the answer in, but then he continued to move closer, which was akin to a confession.
“Perhaps I should keep you around then,” the criminal purred against the detective’s lips.
“Perhaps,” he replied, leaving the unasked question unanswered.