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Blink. Blink. Blink.
Sherlock stared at the cursor on his mobile’s screen, resting on the end of a single word.
Yes. -SH
But he couldn’t bring himself to send it. It’d been roughly three years since this conversation window had any further entries, the last only a grim reminder of what had occurred:
I’m waiting… -JM
The detective had been resigned that it would be the last scrap of communication with him. Perhaps the last message he’d sent to anyone. It felt daft to keep staring rather than attempt to test whether the number still worked — but tucked away in his room, laying on his bed, no one was watching.
Did you miss me? Sherlock had mulled the question over in his mind. It was a taunt to some, a serious question to others. Everything Jim Moriarty did was duplicitous in some way. The only real conundrum was on which side of the schism Sherlock decided to land.
“Yes” seemed such a paltry thing to say, but he wasn’t about to invest himself in a conversation that may or may not happen. Moriarty had put a bullet through the back of his skull, subsequently cracking his head on the pavement. Sherlock had seen it, no: been forced to watch it in all of its gored glory. Jim was definitely dead, no doubt about it.
Except there was doubt, and-
“Just send it.”
“Christ!” The phone leaps out of Sherlock’s hand, clattering to the floor. He scrambled up, half-sitting up to confirm what he’d heard.
Jim was leaning back against the wall, hugging himself, Westwood slightly out of order, “Watching you agonize over it, instead of trying to investigate this anomaly, is tedious.”
Sherlock swallowed, a lump quickly forming at the base of his throat, “You- you’re supposed to be locked up.”
“Your concentration is lacking.” Jim flicked a speck of dirt off his sleeve, eyes wandering around, “Mind is all jumbled, I’ve been let out to play… but I’m beginning to think that was intentional.” He grinned somberly, voice growing tired, “Send the text. Let me know if I can rest yet.”
Sherlock didn’t move, leaving his mobile defiantly on the ground, the light of the screen dimming down, “Go away.” Possibly the least effective thing he could’ve said, but he didn’t mean it.
“Poor detective, so afraid of possibilities. Of an open-ended reply.” Jim’s specter stood properly, dusting off his suit, which seemed to phase between navy to grey at will, “What’s the worst that could happen, hm?”
“I think you just said it.” He didn’t even bother to deny the oppressive hand of fear, paralyzing his attempts to verify any of it.
“What about no reply?” Jim suggested, pacing back and forth slowly, “Or a reply that could be from someone posing as me? Then you’ll need to go out and find the source… without brother dear knowing.”
“Complicates things.” Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms.
“Hm…” Jim’s feet stopped, thudding in front of the detective, “Something like Schrödinger’s paradox… As long as you don’t do anything, you can’t be sure either way.”
“Inaccurate, seeing as I’m not anywhere close to being in an equal state of belief and non.” Sherlock corrected, tenting his hands under his chin, looking up at the projection thoughtfully, “I’m sure he’d have been the same way, if he’d first-hand witnessed the cat shoot itself, point-blank, in the mouth, before being shoved in that box.”
“So balance the equation.” Jim scoffed, as if it were so simple.
“Right, right, just as soon as I figure out the variable one would associate with the probability of suicide being faked or authentic.”
“Let’s just call it ‘x.’” Jim said cheekily, shrugging minutely, “What would cast reasonable doubt on my death?”
“Your face appearing on every screen in the country, apparently.”
“But you’re not convinced.”
“It’s a difficult position to discount.”
“So text me.” He lightly kicked the phone, but his ghostly foot went straight through it, “What are you so scared of anyway? You could just as easily get an automated message that says the number has been disconnected…”
Sherlock winced.
“Ohh.” Jim singsonged, “Don’t want to open up old wounds?”
“I've already grieved.” The detective sighed, throwing his head back on the pillow, “To do so again- ”
“Not doing so is going to muck up your investigation… or have you gotten too sentimental to carry on the work?”
“Don’t.” Sherlock hissed. “It’s not my fault.”
“Never said it was.” Jim raised his hands in mock surrender, “You’re just ticked we never said a proper goodbye.”
“Exactly what part of, ‘don’t’ was unclear to you?” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “It was a crush, nothing more.”
“Mine or yours?”
Sherlock quirked a brow, “Don’t make jokes.”
“I’m just your subconscious capture of your nemesis…” Jim hopped onto the mattress, laying beside him on his side, arm holding up his head, “But. There was something there. You know it.”
The detective scowled, “And this is supposed to convince me to pick up the phone?”
“Pick up the phone. Send the text. Get up. Solve the mystery.” Jim listed off on his fingers, “Maybe eat once or twice this week.”
Sherlock shifted to face him, still faintly aware his companion wasn’t really there, “And what if there’s nothing?”
Jim offered a pained smile, “Then we’ll both be free.”