Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The larger hands were back, struggling to free Sherlock's limbs of his heavy coat and pack, an awkward task with Moriarty curled at Sherlock’s side and Sherlock lying on the rocks like dead weight. Once Sherlock was free of his outer layers, he was wrapped quickly in a thick blanket and bundled up in strong arms. They were on the move again. Slim fingers caressed his hair and face as his head lolled back and forth.

Sherlock hovered on the edge of consciousness, jolted back into awareness every so often as the man carrying him put too much pressure on bruised flesh. He remembered the fall into the water and the sharp pain at his back and wondered vaguely how much bruising there would be if he survived this. He'd have to take notes for future reference.

The thought struck him as hysterically funny for some reason and he giggled under his breath.

A warm puff of air at his temple told him that someone else was laughing along with him.

Minutes later, maybe more, they were someplace warm, an enclosed environment. A vehicle of some sort, the rocking motion couldn't be mistaken. The change in the air temperature alone would not warm Sherlock's body. Moriarty must have been well aware of this, because Sherlock was unwrapped from the blanket and his clothes were peeled off piece by piece. A warm, dry body pressed up to him as this was done. Arms in soft fabric radiating heat wrapped around his bare chest until dry clothes, soft to the touch, could replace his frozen wet ones.

Moriarty seemed reluctant to let go, but eventually Sherlock was encased in a cocoon of fabric.

Sherlock was also reluctant to be separated from the warmth, instinctually clinging until he was pried loose. A sound of loss escaped his throat in a whimper and he burrowed into the layers that had been wrapped around him, trying to soak up and retain all the heat he could. His bones felt like they'd turned to ice, chilling him from the inside even though his surroundings had improved.

The arms were back around him as soon as the blankets were settled around his shoulders. They stayed that way for some time, until he was moved again. Briefly they passed through cool air and back into a heated environment.

He was able to recline back on what must have been leather seats or a sofa. A warm body settled behind him, taking his weight in its lap. His hair was dried. Warm air and the soft hum of a heater was set beside him.

A loud, thrumming engine started beneath them and they were moving again, gaining speed very quickly.

Sherlock was slowly regaining clarity as the danger of hypothermia faded and his body regained warmth. He still shivered now and again, but it was only the jitters of residual shock.

He opened his eyes and peered around the edges of the blanket. They were in a small jet, obviously modern but of undetermined make. The smaller presence had stayed close - not the same person who had pulled him from the river. Sherlock was assuming it was Moriarty, but he couldn't know for certain until he had clear visual confirmation.

"Hmm, you going to stay awake this time?" a soft voice whispered behind him. It was Moriarty. His fingers were warm as they stroked through Sherlock's hair. Jim was in a position with easy access. The motion was an almost thoughtless caress.

They were in the air now. The engines were quieter. The subtle sway of the plane indicated they'd reach maximum altitude.

"I'm awake now." Much as he wished otherwise at the moment. Moriarty's caring gestures were causing a cognitive dissonance, as far removed from the earlier vicious manipulation and killings as they could be. Everyone would assume that he was dead. It would cripple John and Mycroft, at the very least. Mrs. Hudson would grieve, he knew, and Lestrade... Well, he hadn't expected the look in the DI's eyes when he'd stepped onto the ledge.

"That was a gamble, between the drop and the cold and the risk of drowning."

"I'm a gambling kind of man. You ought to know that by now." Moriarty was smiling, Sherlock knew it even if he couldn't see it. "Did you really think you would die?"

"There was always a possibility. Complete safety is an illusion." Sherlock was hovering somewhere between grief and numbness, anger creeping up behind. "What happens now?"

"You're dead. It's time to start anew." The hand in Sherlock's hair ceased its caress and Moriarty's arms wrapped loosely around Sherlock's shoulders. The limbs were wrapped in the fittings of a finely tailored suit, except for the traces of gravel and wetness on one side. Jim had lain on the shore with Sherlock. He'd ruined his clothes.

"I'd say I feel it, but I imagine it would hurt less." Now that the adrenaline had worn off, he was beginning to feel every bit of the abuse he'd endured. "So much trouble just to have me as a toy. I expect the boy is gone now?"

Jim's head moved to the side, he must have been peering down at Sherlock. Curiosity, perhaps.

"The boy you’re referring to is back in London," Moriarty confirmed. "But I wonder if you've really grown up all that much?" He was smiling again, it could be heard in his words. He bent and rested his chin on Sherlock's shoulder.

"According my brother, no. But I didn't have much of a childhood either."

Sherlock was almost holding his breath. This was the closest the other man had ever gotten before - close enough that when Sherlock turned his head, he could see every small variation of brown in eyes so dark they appeared black from a distance. Another spike of adrenaline shot through him as he stared back in fascination. This was one of the many reasons detective work had held such appeal for him; the puzzle of the crime scene was complimented by the riddles of human psychology. Those who populated the fringes were remarkably interesting and also... beautiful, in a very particular sort of way.

Jim's eyes caught him watching. Side by side, angled in just enough to study the other, those brown eyes studied Sherlock back. They were cataloguing one another now, just the eyes. Only when hit by the sun did Jim's hold traces of a lighter brown, even a hint of green, colors that were never revealed until penetrated by direct light. Sherlock's cool grey turned bluer in the rays shining through the windows of the plane. His lashes were long and dark, each individually separated like they’d been brushed apart perfectly.

This intense study was an instinct they shared. Neither could help it. Usually their subjects weren't so willing to sit still for it either. It seemed natural that they should do this. It was another form of 'hello' between them.

This suited Jim better, if Sherlock was really seeing what was under all the previous affectations. The manic, melodramatic cheer and enthusiasm of Richard was gone, as were the lines it caused and the way it had shuttered the deeper emotions behind his eyes. Sherlock might as well have been brushing fingers over the most surface level of the man's mind, only to find answering fingers lace through his and return the touch. He was used to this from Mycroft, but this was far different than the connection he and his brother shared when reading each other. There was a dark undercurrent to this.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably under the blanket. With Jim this close and so willing to let himself be examined, Sherlock's first impulse was to touch his face and turn it so he could see all the angles.

Jim's arms slackened, falling to Sherlock's sides to loosen the blanket around him. The detective's skin was still too cold. His body temperature was only just regaining a healthy point. But, Moriarty saw the intention to move and he would not deny it to Sherlock. The criminal was careful with Sherlock's wounded back, the rubber bullet having caught him at the edge of his shoulder blade.

Sherlock ignored his muscles' protestations and seized the opportunity without thinking. His hands drifted up to frame Jim's face, turning his head as he continued his examination from different perspectives. There was little risk now, after all, no facades to maintain.

The skin was softer than expected, the lines more delicate, and a faint shadow under the eyes that spoke to greater stress than the man was admitting to. "You were worried."

A soft gasp parted Jim's lips; clearly he approved of the touch, but he made no other reaction to either encourage nor hinder the exploration.

"I was," he admitted. The bones of his jaw moved against Sherlock's fingers, the bob of his adam's apple brushing Sherlock's thumb where it rested on his neck. Moriarty was living skin under Sherlock's hands. His mind was buried somewhere beneath that bone and flesh, a mind that had done this to Sherlock. And then fretted over him.

Sherlock remembered then; his pale eyes shuttered and his hands withdrew with his core. He tucked himself back into the blanket and turned his head, not wanting to meet the man's eyes anymore.

The first wave of loss finally hit him and he shut his eyes, gritting his teeth against the pain. He wasn't going to give Jim the satisfaction of seeing just how much he'd managed to hurt him.

Jim's head slowly fell, long moments after Sherlock's hands had retracted. He breathed deeply, his chest rising and falling against Sherlock's shoulders.

"Your wounds will heal," Jim said softly. He did not attempt to touch Sherlock any more than they already were, but he made no move to disturb their comfortable position either. Instead, his hands remained neutrally over top of the blanket at Sherlock's sides.

"You'll forgive me if I'm not feeling particularly grateful or comforted, given the fact that you inflicted them," Sherlock grated. Things felt as unsteady as they had been when his Father had died, or when he'd dropped out of university in a spiteful fit of boredom and defiance. The supports of reality had been forcefully yanked out, and the world had reoriented in a dizzying tumble. He felt buried in the ruins and skeptical that this new life would be anything but a short period as a trophy. If he didn't escape, Moriarty would get bored when his fantasy version of Sherlock didn't match up with the reality, with a violent end being the likely conclusion to his existence.

"I did," Jim admitted this as well, "but we are more than our wounds."

Moriarty's heart beat solidly against Sherlock's back. It was steady, not quick, the drumbeat of Sherlock's march into the great unknown. The hands at Sherlock's sides remained motionless, but Moriarty's chin landed softly atop his shoulder once again. Jim rested his head there, watching the clouds go by out their window.

Sherlock took a deep breath. Pursuing certain lines of thought wouldn't help him now. He had to think. The heartbeat behind him was distracting - doubly so since the last person he'd held this close had been-

"...where are we going?" Sherlock finally asked.

"New York!" Jim replied in a suddenly cheerful manner. "A nice change from London, don't you think? It'll suit you. And I have business there." Jim tilted his head, resting it against the crook of Sherlock's neck. The corner of his smile tickled Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock tensed, trying not to squirm and let on how much it actually tickled. "You spent so much time focusing your attention on Britain I was beginning to wonder whether you were neglecting the rest of your network."

It was an educated guess. A man like James Moriarty, with the means that he seemed to have at his disposal, wouldn't just settle for a tiny handful of murder games every now and again to supplement the life of his cover persona. London had been a progression of events with an end goal. Moriarty believed he'd achieved his aim, and perhaps he had. Now was when things would get interesting, at least from the perspective of getting a personal look at how the man operated. Sherlock was getting forcibly dragged along on a backstage tour.

As it seemed, Jim's smile only widened. "It was worth it." That was all he would say for the moment. Jim could bend time when he needed to, and he had needed to in order to take on Richard Brook. Brook had to have been a near full time persona, which meant Jim would have either been MIA from business or that he had been able to work remotely. The latter was the more likely.

"Have you ever been ice skating?" Moriarty then asked in a complete non sequitur. "I would really like to take you to Rockefeller Center. Should be just cold enough."

That was an interesting question; it implied that Jim's knowledge of his past wasn't as comprehensive as he liked to imply it was. "I have, several times. I'm surprised you'd want to let me near a pair of blades so soon, but I won't turn down the offer." Sherlock smiled, the edges cold and brittle. "You just might regret it."

"Sherlock," Jim chided, his voice soft, affectionate even. "Have you forgotten already that I'm a gambling man? I'm willing to take a chance." He exhaled softly against Sherlock's neck, then added. "I might even like it."

"Ah," Sherlock breathed. Another small confirmation, another piece of data to file away. He'd had his suspicions, of course, but it was always better to have facts than to make assumptions. His neck tickled again as another breath washed over his skin; Jim was still so close, too close for comfort, hovering around him like an aura. "Convenient, because I might like to try."

Bravado, all of it. He wasn't completely unaware of the spectrum of human sexuality, but so much of it had seemed... unimportant. A distraction, an unnecessary risk, too much effort with mediocre minds for what appeared to be little payoff. There were quicker ways to wring pleasure from life, ways that seemed to last longer and didn't require one to play nice with others. Sherlock had retained what information had seemed useful for solving passion crimes and discarded the rest as useless trivia.

The chest behind Sherlock shook with contained laughter. "You don't have to be brave to please me, love. I can feel how tense you are." Moriarty let that linger for a moment. "But if you'd rather make an attempt on my life, well, then ice skates would be the way to go, now wouldn't they?"

Jim was like a tango, one step forward, one step back. He advanced and retreated, testing Sherlock's boundaries.

"It wouldn't be cliche, but it's not very stylish, now is it?" This dance was familiar, the thrust and parry of wits and words, but their current position still made Sherlock feel like a child. A helpless child. It wasn't a feeling he was very fond of. "If you had to choose, what would be your preference?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," then Moriarty paused thoughtfully, "but I'll make you a promise: I'll tell you someday." Something in their dance missed a beat and their rhythm faltered. Jim was too serious. He took a moment to let it pass. "I would ask the same of you, but I've already kind of decided that for you, haven't I?"

"First round, anyways. I'm still breathing, so that leaves room for choice." Sherlock let his attention be diverted for a moment, giving the question serious consideration.

"...I suppose I always expected that my work would end my life, but I wanted something novel. To be completely surprised, to have all the evidence supporting my conclusion and stand before the suspect I knew to be the right person, only for the real criminal to sneak up behind me and... not be so bloody predictable. Even the interesting cases were fairly straightforward once I puzzled them out."

It occurred to Sherlock that, in a way, he had almost gotten that wish. He hadn't accurately predicted the latest course of events.

Jim's chin dug into his shoulder in a nod. Sherlock was bored of being the best. "Orgasmic stratagems," he said simply.

It was a moment before Moriarty spoke again. "Life and all it has to offer in any regularity can be exceedingly dull. You make the same repetitive motions over and over and over…because that's aaaall you have to work with…" his syllables began to elongate in a musical quality, but his tone was flat. "No one can compare. The law is the worst, you know. When you lay it all out for them in one big, beautiful pattern…game, set, match…no one ever steps back to see the whole of what you've created. Such a tragedy, really. And you've depended on those people for so long."

"I don't understand how people stand it." Sherlock never had been able to fathom it, other than the idea that perhaps it was simply a matter of their minds not functioning properly, stripped of the double-edged components that caused brilliance and hellish boredom. Or perhaps the various trappings of society that they glutted themselves on were simply different, weaker substitutes for the drugs he'd indulged in - lesser medicine for a less serious disease. "So many of them don't see, don't live at all really. Space-filling units that occasionally move and consume resources, wearing their entire life and all of their thoughts on their sleeves."

"Living on the surface of things is not living. And if aaaaall the world lives there while we are submerged beneath the iceberg of knowledge, then why endure it at all?" Jim asked as though it had been a question he'd considered seriously himself. "I could change the world, yet I was unable to make anyone grasp that change to its fullest extent. And you…you could drown yourself in a wealth of deduction, philosophy, learning, but all the while the world goes by outside the door of your little flat without a care. The boredom comes from futility. Futility comes from impotency."

"I never much cared about changing the world. I would have preferred people learn to actually use their brains, but it wasn't required. Just disappointing." Sherlock paused, shifting as Jim's breath tickled over his neck again. "The end result never mattered. The challenge did. The newness. Most of society is mind-numbingly predictable but there are always a few with a mix of creativity and just enough cleverness to push the boundaries a little."

"Ahhh, now you're getting somewhere," Jim's voice was real again because this was about them. "And if it weren't for those few, rare souls…" and Moriarty's eyes turned on Sherlock, "the unknown that lies beyond living would be far preferable indeed." He gave a quick smile and then moved his gaze back to the window.

They were well over the Atlantic now. There would be no heading back.

Sherlock lost interest as Jim's eyes turned away and the conversation died. The man wasn't going to kill him anytime soon, and he was in no position to do anything at the moment.

Sherlock turned over and let himself drift towards sleep.

Roughly seven hours later, Jim was shaking him awake. "Landing in 30 minutes," he said when Sherlock's eyelids opened. "Time to wake up, sleepyhead." He was standing over Sherlock now, having left his spot behind the injured detective somewhere during the flight to change clothes. This time he wore a slim black suit with an open collared white shirt beneath. Casual, for Moriarty's tastes.

Sherlock blinked vacantly at him, his gaze sharpening as his mind fired back up. His eyes wandered despite himself; he had a taste for fine clothes and the outfit did flattering things to the man, no matter what Sherlock's personal feelings towards him happened to be.

"I'm guessing you brought clothing for me. I didn't exactly pack for a trip and I can't imagine you want me to wander New York in pyjamas." Sherlock wondered briefly what had happened to his bag. Most likely it was lost in the Thames, his stolen memento of John still tucked inside.

Moriarty grinned with a gleam in his eye just as the plane's door behind him opened and a blond head poked through. The man who owned it was not only tall, he was big. His figure was revealed when he opened the door fully upon seeing Sherlock awake and he and Moriarty conversing. He would have naturally been slim, but it was apparent from the muscles over his chest and arms that he had worked very hard to be otherwise. His face was angular, of Scandinavian descent, but was marred by deep scars. Some trailed beneath his collar.

"Sir," he said, addressing Moriarty. The word was a statement, but it's meaning was a question.

"Moran, get Sherlock's clothes," Moriarty said simply.

Given the calluses, the scars, the stance showing military training... this was the gunman that had taken down the string of officers for Moriarty. And from the look of his build, also the one with the strength to extract him from the river against the current. He clearly overpowered everyone in the room from sheer mass and muscle, but that wasn't the only way to take down an enemy.

Sherlock watched him disappear back through the door to fetch his clothes. "I see you found yourself a military man, as well. They're quite handy."

Moriarty let out a sharp laugh. "Quite. Did you hear that, Seb?" he called around the corner of the door.

'Seb' returned a moment later with a small pile of black silk fabric in his hands. He neither acknowledged, nor ignored Jim's clearly rhetorical question.

"Would you like to be my live-in?" Moriarty asked with a curl of his lip and a peculiar heightening of his brows that made him look absolutely insane. That comment was meant to cut, and it had done its job judging from the ever so subtle flinch at the corners of Moran's eyes. No one but Sherlock, and perhaps Moriarty, would have seen it. Unfortunately, they were the only two in the room. Jim looked very pointedly at Moran and then made a shooing motion with his hands. The man huffed and backed out of the room, giving Sherlock space.

Sherlock levered himself upright and padded over to the table where Seb had set the clothing, still clutching the blanket around himself with one hand. A quick investigation revealed black trousers that looked like they'd been tailored to fit. A matching silk shirt laid beside it. Sherlock didn't doubt that it would cling to his outlines just as much as the trousers.

He glanced up to find Jim watching him. "...so that's how it is?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Jim shrugged with a smile. Still, he wasn't going anywhere. "When you're well, you can pick out clothes for yourself. In the meantime, I thought I'd oblige." The jovial tone dropped as quickly as it came and Jim stepped closer. "And, I want to take a look at your back."

Sherlock huffed out a breath and dropped the blanket. He'd comply for the moment. It wasn't like he was particularly modest - John had seen him in varying states of undress, as had Mrs. Hudson, much to her flustered shock. It was different because Jim was plainly interested in more than just viewing, and at some point he intended to get what he wanted. That much was obvious, and it made Sherlock want to dig his heels in every chance he got.

The pyjama top was swiftly unbuttoned and joined the blanket on the floor.

Jim walked slowly up behind Sherlock and inspected the damage. The focal point of the wound was positioned at the innermost part of his shoulder blade. One of Jim's hands rested over the topmost thoracic vertebrae and trailed lower, edging the purple formation of a bruise. It would spread larger. Sherlock's whole left shoulder blade would turn colors in a few days. Other than that, relatively little lasting damage had been done. Jim couldn't help one more touch, his nimble fingers ghosting over the point of impact. The rubber bullet had lodged itself in Sherlock's skin when he was hit, but it had fallen away in the river. The surface of his skin was barely broken.

Sherlock stood still during the examination, refusing to flinch when fingertips softly brushed over tender skin. "Satisfied?"

Sherlock let his pyjama bottoms drop to the floor as soon as Jim's fingers left his back. He immediately snatched up the black trousers and began tugging them on.

"Very." Satisfaction dripped from Moriarty's tone, and whether he was referring to Sherlock's back or to the rest of the show was left ambiguous. He dropped into one leather chair and watched Sherlock continue. Hurried as his pace was, Jim could see the fatigue in the stiffness of his limbs and his body's denial of its full range of motion. It would take time before Sherlock's aches left him, but he seemed to be determined not to show it.

It was no matter. Jim was content to enjoy what he could.

Sherlock dressed with as much efficiency as he could muster. The trousers weren't a problem, but he quickly found that he wasn't as recovered as he'd thought when he got to fastening his shirt. The buttons were small and fine, and Sherlock's fingers trembled and slipped. He inhaled slowly, nose wrinkled in annoyance as he contemplated his still-bare chest and the loose fabric at his wrists.

"...I require your assistance," he rasped irritably.

Jim looked positively delighted. In one bound he was in front of Sherlock, grinning up at him. There was not a hint of mockery in Jim's smile, only pure and simple adoration. His quick hands found Sherlock's buttons, starting from the bottom and working their way up. He seemed to have no trouble doing this task backwards. When he reached the top, he left two undone and glanced up coyly through dark lashes to meet Sherlock's eyes. He was standing too close for this to be natural. One by one, he snagged Sherlock's wrists and pulled them to himself, fastening the cuffs comfortably against the detective's skin.

Jim leaned up on his toes. "You're most welcome," he said.

A knock came from their door. "Landing in ten," Moran called from the other side.

Sherlock stood perfectly still, barely breathing as he stared down at Jim. For all that Jim was quite a bit shorter, he projected a sense of power that made him seem to take up much more space than he actually did. The look he was giving Sherlock only added to the effect, making him somewhat hypnotic to observe.

One of Sherlock's feet stepped backward, trying to put a bit of distance between them, and still Jim's hands held onto his cuffs.

Jim smirked. "Best we sit down. Safety first."

Finally, with a little swing, Moriarty let Sherlock's arms free. He dropped into the chair he'd vacated, but neglected to put on the safety belt. Instead he looked out the window.

"You know there's one thing I don't think I'll ever get tired of. Looking down at the world," Jim said. They were lower in the air now and New York City was rapidly approaching. NYC was a magnificent city from many other vantage points, but there was none quite like the view from above. It was breathtaking at this distance.

Here with the time difference and the eight hour flight, the late afternoon was already fading. The sun was beginning its descent in the sky, and they had to look into it, squint just below its long rays to see the vast city shining below. Steel buildings were washed in the golden gleam.

Sherlock matched his gaze for a long moment, staring down at the glittering modern lines of the city's sprawl below them. It seemed familiar and alien all at once - a dense urban environment that held suggestions of home, but utterly foreign, without the familiar landmarks and street names, even the normal buildings towering far higher than what was standard for Britain.

Sherlock took a seat, picking the spot furthest away from Jim. "I didn't know you had a fondness for heights."

Jim's teeth gleamed white in the sunlight. His head rolled around to glance at Sherlock, smiling. "It's thrilling, don't you think?"

They were lowering quickly now, the land rushing toward them and the shining ocean beneath them fading away fast. The plane rocked as it touched down, then smoothed out into an easy landing. It was all over shortly, and they were rolling along the ground past the commercial planes.

Jim unbuckled and was out of his seat again before they'd even slowed. He'd apparently had enough of the experience.

"You're welcome to the bridge next time, then," Sherlock responded. He unlatched his own safety belt and stood once the plane came to a stop.

As resentful as he still was, Sherlock couldn't suppress a bit of curiosity about what was to come. He was going to get a backstage look at Moriarty's network, see what the man actually did before he narrowed his focus on obtaining Sherlock. It was the difference between tracking and observing sharks from a boat and being lowered into the ocean in a cage.

Moriarty ignored Sherlock and opened the door to the plane's cockpit. Moran was already getting ready, piling bags which may or may not have belonged to himself or Jim or even other smuggled items into the corridor. Their pilot was silently helping. Moran left him and opened the cabin door for Jim. The blond man was the first to step out into the cool air. Stair steps descended from the plane and Jim followed quickly after, passing Moran.

A sleek, black car was waiting for them on the tarmac. It could have been something sent from Mycroft for all its indistinct elegance. John F. Kennedy Airport sprawled around them. "Let's move!" Jim shouted from the ground, already in a hurry.

Sherlock shadowed along behind them as quickly as he could manage with his stiff muscles. There was nothing else for it - he couldn't hope to make a run for it at the moment. Even if he somehow managed to get away from Jim and Moran, he had no way of knowing what his legal situation was. Mycroft would try to help him, but there was only so much he could do if a situation got too public to alter or disappear without notice. If things were as dire as he thought, he'd just be escaping into a prison cell for life.

"Oh stop worrying," Jim said, slowing to match pace with Sherlock shoulder to shoulder. "I can hear you from here." He slipped into the car when they reached it and left the door open for Sherlock. He waved him in and patted the seat beside him.

Moran passed, expressionless, and went around the side to speak to the waiting driver. The luggage from the plane was placed in their trunk. Moran shook hands with the pilot, and then walked out of sight to see him off.

Sherlock watched Moran go out of the corner of his eye. It was unlikely the pilot was going to be left as an eyewitness, not unless he was a particularly trusted minion or someone on whom Jim had an unbreakable hold. Mycroft had always been particularly good at obtaining the latter with people, since he was loathe to have to clean up after a trail of dead bodies unless he had to. His brother's pretense at having some morals.

Sherlock wondered if he could test Jim's intimation at telepathy. He'd have to think of something suitably random, something that couldn't be easily predicted.

When they were all settled, the driver shut their door and they pulled out, passing the Transportation Security Administration like it was nothing. They took the JFK Expressway until they reached the highway and the low thrum of a motorcycle edged in on them from behind. It was Moran.

The denser the city, the more congested the traffic became. Even at this time of day, they slowed to a crawling pace just outside of downtown Brooklyn.

Jim seemed at ease once again, quietly pleased as the towering city passed by outside their dark windows. He rummaged through a mini fridge and uncorked a bottle of champagne, then handed Sherlock a glass.

Sherlock accepted, thinking Paleobiology as loudly as one could silently consider nouns in one's mind. It was childish and pointless, but he didn't much care. The more logical portion of his brain cautioned him that he should reign in his impulses to lash out; Jim had enough power over him at the moment without him handing over more.

"Where are we going?"

"Upper East Side, Central Park. For now. I have this suspicion you might like Greenwich Village, and you may need a new coat. Better place to find one." Jim smirked then narrowed his eyes. He looked up and down Sherlock's countenance. "Stop making that face. Whatever you're thinking, it's annoying."

They were passing over Brooklyn Bridge, and the view was spectacular.

Ornithomancy, Sherlock shot back silently, turning away to watch the buildings rushing by. He would concede the point; he did need a new coat. The cheap pleather monstrosity that the Met had lent him didn't do much for warmth and looked terrible besides. He already missed his Belstaff. Sherlock had never really considered himself to be a man that took pleasure from routine, but recent events had given him a new perspective on just how much he'd relied on small, reliable comforts.

They entered the thick of the city and again they slowed to a crawl. Half the city had foregone cars altogether and were taking things on foot. They passed St. Andrews Roman Catholic Church and the Supreme Court of NYC, even One Police Plaza, the headquarters of the New York City Police Department.

Jim couldn't resist a jibe at that. "Don't get any ideas," he said with a grin and a sip from his glass.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Jim. "I have no desire to be stuck in a cell for the rest of my days. As should be obvious by the fact I let you knock me off a bridge to avoid it."

The best he'd be able to do would be to draw his brother's attention in some way. If he wasn't publically arrested, Mycroft would be more successful in pulling off the backroom deals needed to clean up his record. The difficulty lay in trying to surreptitiously gain his notice without the rest of the authorities and the general public. Mycroft wasn't as close with the CIA and FBI as he wished to be, and by the time he got word of what was going on it was very likely that Sherlock would already have his face plastered over the American news channels.

They moved along through the city, out of the financial district, passing SoHo and Gramercy Park. Moriarty sipped his champagne and was content to leave Sherlock to his thoughts, but those dark eyes barely wavered from the detective.

When they passed Sutton Place, Moriarty downed the rest of his glass and put the bottle away. The Upper East Side was nestled between Central Park and the river, and consisted of sprawling, towering apartment complexes. The more conservative of the two sides, it held an unusually regal, quiet air about it - if there was ever a part of the city that could be considered quiet. Their car pulled up to the designated valet point, and before its passengers were ushered out, Moriarty turned to Sherlock. "Welcome home, dear."

Sherlock didn't know what he'd really expected - flats tucked away in one of the shadier portions of the city in an attempt to pass beneath notice, perhaps - but this hadn't been it. The shops and restaurants tucked along the streets all had a well-kept, fashionable look to them that indicated it was a neighborhood that attracted persons from the higher rungs of society. It was a pocket of affluence tucked into the metropolitan sprawl.

Upon further reflection, perhaps it was the perfect place to hide. People of wealth and status valued their privacy and understood the same of their peers. They noticed one another by inspecting the visual status symbols to ascertain that a stranger was a member of the club, tallying the unspoken signals and trappings that announced one's class and monetary status, but they didn't really look at who was attached to those symbols unless they had a reason to. Nobody knew him here; if he dressed the part, he'd disappear into whatever name Moriarty gave him.

Jim climbed out ahead of Sherlock and waited for him to follow. He took in a deep lungful of air. "Ahh, the great New York smog," he announced, but grinned down at Sherlock as he climbed out. Moran's motorcycle proved to be extremely useful navigating the busy streets. He'd pulled up right behind them and was taking care of their driver. Moriarty paid little attention. Instead, he held out a hand to Sherlock. "Come, come. Let me show you around."

Sherlock eyed the hand and decided to ignore it. He stepped out of the car and drew closer, indicating that he was willing to follow but not touch the other man. Already his eyes were darting around, his mind kicking into high gear as he took in their unfamiliar surroundings. He had a whole new city to learn from scratch.

Jim only shrugged and walked ahead. The doorman greeted Jim with a nod and they entered a lobby, unassuming from the exterior but undisputedly extravagant in its interior. White marble under their feet flowed into floor to ceiling mirrors that ran the length of the lobby, the space only broken up by equally white pillars cut like Grecian arches supporting the room. It was lit softly, not an easy task in a space made so light and expansive.

The man at the front desk nodded to them as they passed. "Mr. Anderson," he said congenially, and Moriarty lifted his head with a sharp smile in acknowledgement.

Sherlock wondered if those mirrors were merely opulent or whether they served another purpose. If the owners of the building were clever, they'd have made a few of the panels one-way mirrors and hidden cameras behind them. After the clutter of life in London, where space was expensive and even the roomiest homes tended to have a cluttered feel to them, the emptiness was mildly shocking. Given that New York couldn't be far behind London in terms of the price tag per square meter, Sherlock's estimation of the building and the neighborhood ratcheted up a few more notches. Affluent indeed.

They entered an elevator and Jim had to swipe a key card to begin its ascent. "You can trip the wire in this control panel if you ever find yourself without your card," he mentioned offhandedly. "But I have one for waiting for you. Do try not to lose it, they're a pain to get out of management."

The ride was long. Moriarty's flat was one nearest the top of the building, with only one or two floors between. Easy access to the roof, then, but not to the ground floor. That had to be a tactical move, which suggested that Jim might have means of transportation on hand that could reach the roof of a high rise more quickly than the street below - helicopter being the most likely.

It also made it more difficult to slip out unnoticed. Interestingly, Moriarty had indicated that Sherlock was going to be given his own key, which implied that he'd be allowed to wander outside the building without supervision. He wouldn't need his own key if he was always under the watchful eye of Jim or his bodyguard.

"Does that card come with a curfew?" Sherlock asked, mouth curving into a derisive smile.

"I don't anticipate the need of one," Moriarty replied, holding Sherlock's gaze in a manner that wasn’t quite a smile, yet exuded a certain warmth just the same. On women, it was called the "Mona Lisa smile". On Jim Moriarty…it was something else entirely.

Finally their elevator chimed and the doors opened. Jim broke the moment and stepped through without hesitation. The door opened directly into the apartment itself, and for one in more than a hundred floors in one of the most sought after neighborhoods in one of the largest cities in the world, it was spacious.

Sherlock's eyes widened despite himself as they stepped out. He'd been to the gilt-encrusted palaces and manors in and around London, as well as throughout France and Germany, but this wasn't Old World wealth. The sleek marble floor led up to giant windows that served as the outer walls, giving a spectacular view of the city. Area rugs that doubled as works of art were scattered among furnishings that bore the crisp lines of modernism while still managing to look comfortable.

Sherlock walked further into the living room, eyes following the track lighting and continuing up. The apartment took up two floors - there to his left was a staircase leading upward. One of the upstairs rooms had its own balcony, overlooking both the rest of the apartment, with its high ceiling, and the view of the skyline outside.

Jim followed him to the center of the living room and then stood back and watched Sherlock's progression through the rooms with smiling eyes. His hands lodged themselves in his trouser pockets and he leaned against one elegant column running up to the ceiling.

When Jim had had his fill of watching, he followed up the stairs to join Sherlock on the open balcony.

Turning left would have them facing Central Park, turning right would give them a decent floor plan of the apartment. Jim stood at Sherlock's side, hands still in his pockets but unable to fully wipe the smile from his lips as he watched the other man. He was obviously pleased with Sherlock's reaction.

Sherlock didn't want to admit it, but he was impressed. Moreover, he didn't need to say anything - Moriarty already knew. Sherlock tore his gaze away from the windows and turned to Jim, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. The stark contrast to his environment of the past few decades was making him feel even more lost and out of place, like he'd truly been transplanted into someone else's life in a completely different world.

"Where am I staying?" he asked quietly.

Jim inclined his head. "Here," he said, leading with his shoulders and moving backward through the upper floor of the apartment. A full set of rooms awaited him, a bedroom, a study, a bath. The study was the largest of the three and though it did not break from the luxurious theme of the apartment as a whole, it looked to be set up with function over form in mind. Work could be done in this room. A mess could be made there, and the sleek floors could be easily cleaned. The bedroom was a shade darker than the other rooms, set with a contrasting black and white bedspread and accented with dark leather furnishings.

All of it was untouched. Moriarty had either stripped his presence out of the rooms meticulously, or he had set them up specifically with Sherlock in mind.

The thoughtfulness didn't pass beneath Sherlock's notice. He'd been expecting Moriarty to try to keep him like a pet, forced to share space under constant watch. The fact was that the man had given him not only separate rooms to retreat to, but the unspoken permission to make it his own.

A splash of color in the bedroom caught his eye, sharp blue and white a stark contrast to the darker palette of the rest of the furnishings. The skull portrait from 221B was propped up against the nightstand, just waiting to be hung.

Sherlock turned to Jim and raised an eyebrow in question.

"Oh, yes… I brought a few things so you could feel more at home. There was one other…," Jim paused thoughtfully, rubbing his fingertips over his bottom lip. "though I may have misplaced it…. No matter. I have a feeling it will turn up somehow," he added dismissively with a wave of the hand. The exaggerated tone of his voice suggested there might be more to it than that, but Jim strode off down the stairs and gave it no further comment.

Sherlock stared hard at the empty space where Jim had been, then followed him back downstairs. "You did not misplace my watch," he snapped, irritated that the man had dropped that in his metaphorical lap before retreating. The way Jim was walking just aggravated him further, a sway that was more at home on a catwalk than a private apartment.

Jim turned on his heels, head cocked and brows quirked in confusion. "What, this?" He pulled one hand from his pocket and there, hooked on his finger with its long, golden chain, hung Sherlock's watch. He flicked it open and admired its face before snapping it shut and pocketing it once again. He gave Sherlock a toothy smile. "No, I keep this very close to me," he said, then spun back again and continued his walk to the kitchen, picking up his phone from the granite countertop on the way.

Something snapped in Sherlock, that tiny bit of added pressure cutting away the last bit of restraint he had over his temper. He stalked forward, closing the distance until he could seize a handful of Jim's suit. He spun the smaller man around and pressed him against the counter with a growl, using the extra leverage of height to pin him there. "Give. It. Back," Sherlock hissed. "Now."

Jim let out a tiny squeal at the demand and his hands flew up in mock surrender, but he was still smiling. "Whoa! Easy now." He tugged against Sherlock's hold but the detective didn't loosen his grip. Jim raised an eyebrow, a flirty glint in his eye. "No. I want to hold onto it a bit longer." His hands laid over Sherlock's fists in his coat, this time simply resting over them.

Sherlock did something too quick to follow - a flick of the wrists, a sweep against one ankle - and suddenly Jim was immobilized on the floor, legs entrapped by Sherlock's own and hands pinned to the ground. "I'm not playing games about this. You've ripped away everything else I've ever had." Sherlock leaned closer, a dangerous spark alit in his eyes. "Give it back."

"Fine!" Jim snarled back, his eyes going dark with an anger that nearly matched Sherlock's. "You can have it, but I come with it." He craned his head and shoulders up off the floor as much as his body would allow. His lips pulled back from his teeth like an animal, brows dipped into a low furrow.

Sherlock snarled back, his gaze drawn to Jim's mouth. He darted down without thinking, teeth sinking into the man's lower lip until he tasted copper. The muscles in his arm bunched and he clenched his hands in a bruising grip around Jim's wrists. Sherlock was angry and frustrated and he couldn't fix any of it, but he could dole out a portion of his rage on his captor and let Jim feel a bit of what he'd inflicted on him.

Jim cried out in pain, or surprise; it was difficult to tell. His voice was a sharp scream that echoed across the high walls and died out in a guttural groan. His hands clenched, his body stiffened. His legs jerked as if he were about to shove Sherlock off, but the attempt ever came. Instead, Jim bit back. His shoulders bunched as he lunged up to meet Sherlock's mouth. Jim's teeth gnashed into the detective's upper lip in return and they were suddenly caught like that, bleeding from their mouths and locked together.

Jim's eyes were wild, alight with something that looked like glee. His snarls came in bursts like laughter, euphoric laughter.

Sherlock grunted in pain as their blood mixed, anger filling his eyes. Jim had not only bit back, he was laughing at him.

Sherlock pulled back, crimson droplets falling from his mouth as he stared haughtily down at the madman beneath him. He was still laughing, still happy, and all that did was add fuel to the flames. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Jim's head turned slightly for a moment and he took the opening, latching teeth onto the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck.

That brought another screeching peal of broken laughter from Jim, who seemed to be having the time of his life. He was gasping and crying out in a mixture of pain and euphoria and if one hadn't known any better, it would have seemed as if here on a particularly bad trip.

The flesh under Sherlock's teeth was reddening. The tendons he had managed to snag were being smashed together under the power of his jaw. Jim's skin broke. If Sherlock's mouth had been wide enough to catch Jim's windpipe, it might have been over for the criminal.

Jim's face was red from the pain, or the sheer glee this was causing him. He wriggled underneath the detective, planting his feet on the floor and lifting his hips to press their bodies together where Sherlock was straddling him.

A warm hardness pressed against Sherlock's hip. It was enough to shock the detective out of his fury, his bloodied teeth suddenly releasing Moriarty's skin with a quiet gasp. Sherlock pulled back, confusion entering his gaze as he tried to connect all the disjointed pieces that had led to him pinning Moriarty on the floor and trying to tear his throat open. A trickle of blood escaped the corner of his mouth. Sherlock absently wiped at it with the back of his hand, staring at the red smudge it left across his knuckles.

He was abruptly on his feet and retreating back up the stairs, the watch forgotten.

Jim lay on the floor, alone, and groaned.

He sat up, slumped forward with a scowl, and just stayed that way. His lip was oozing blood; his neck was raw and sore with a few indentations that had broke the skin. Two drips had landed on the pristine white of his shirt. His jacket was horribly crumpled. He glared up to the second floor landing where Sherlock had disappeared. Jim’s tongue swiped over his bottom lip, feeling the damage. The scowl on his face deepened. He'd need stitches.

Sherlock, in fleeing to the bathroom that adjoined his private bedroom, shut the door and leaned against it. His breath came in short pants, his mind struggled to grasp exactly what had happened.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd physically attacked someone who'd made him angry. He certainly hadn't worried at them with his teeth like an animal, he knew that much. It had to be the stress. That was it, he was having a breakdown of some sort.

Crimson dripped onto the floor. Sherlock swiped his tongue across his lips and instantly regretted the sting it got him. He padded over to the mirror to take stock of the damage, wondering whether Jim carried any bloodborne diseases and he'd just unwittingly infected himself.

Eventually Jim pulled himself off the floor. He stretched his neck and felt pain shoot through his nerves. With his mind focused, it didn't bother him, and he was now focused on Sherlock. He dug out a towel from the kitchen, wetted it, and pressed it to his lip, then ventured up the stairs.

Sherlock's bathroom door was closed. Jim rolled his eyes and rapped the back of his knuckles against it. "Come ooooon, Sherlock. Time to see the doctor," his voice was back to its lilting, casual tone again, but muffled with the cloth pressed over half his mouth.

Sherlock, rinsing out his mouth in the sink, had heard Jim's footsteps approaching the door well before he finally knocked. He grabbed a towel for his mouth and took a deep breath before opening the door.

Jim mirrored him, with the exception of the ring of teeth marks and bloodstained collar. They stared at each other for a moment, rags pressed to their injured lips. Sherlock's eyes still held a spark of anger, but it was quickly drowning in melancholy.

Jim snorted, apparently finding humor in the situation. He finished punching something into his phone, and turned it off. "Downstairs. He'll be here in a minute," Jim said and turned.

Sure enough, the doors clicked open a moment later, which was a surprise in itself until Moran walked through. He carried a leather kit in one hand, reminiscent of an old fashioned doctor's bag. His movements were quick and angry even when seen from the second floor. His footsteps were heavy and punctuated on the floor until he wandered far enough to find Moriarty coming down the stairs. He was clearly frustrated about something. His posture broadcast 'I told you so', possibly indicative of a conversation they'd had prior to bringing Sherlock here. Jim only waved him off with one hand, passing into the kitchen to find a seat that wouldn't get blood all over the floor.

Sherlock hesitantly followed along behind Jim. He would have thought it odd for a marksman to also be skilled in the medical profession before he'd met John, but now the juxtaposition no longer surprised him. The thought sent another spike of grief through him; John was abandoned on the other side of the ocean while Moriarty had his own version tucked safely by his side.

Sherlock took a seat a short distance away from Jim, putting some space between them. He'd had enough close contact with the man.

"The fuck did you two do to each other?" Moran asked, all formality he'd had on the plane now gone.

Jim only rolled his eyes. "Can you patch us up, or not?" He was leaning sullenly in his seat against the island countertop, feet kicked up to perch on the chair next to him. Each of the men in the room were at opposite points of a very unhappy triangle: Sherlock bitter and homesick, Jim frustrated at having his moment taken away so abruptly and a nasty gash left behind, and Moran just angry that Jim had clearly not taken whatever advice he'd offered about Sherlock.

"Yeah, yeah…" Moran acquiesced and brought out sterilizer and the items needed for suture.

Sherlock watched out of the corner of his eye as Moran leaned forward to tend to Jim's wounds. There was something interesting there, hidden just beneath the surface; the bodyguard had an attentiveness that loyalty couldn't fully explain. Moran looked even bigger than he was when sitting next to Jim's smaller frame, and the touches weren't entirely clinical as the bodyguard-turned-doctor sterilized the cuts and tilted Jim's head so he could sew the gash closed.

Jim's eyes darted over to Sherlock, the rest of his body unmoving, and caught the detective watching. The corners of his eyes crinkled in a smile without the involvement of his mouth. There was no way Moran wouldn't have noticed. Still, he continued his work until Jim had three neat stitches in his lower lip. He took a thin cloth an wiped away the remaining blood and saliva with it wrapped around his thumb. When he was finished, Jim opened his mouth and worked it around, testing the pull, then tested it with his teeth.

"Don't chew on it," Moran said sourly.

Moriarty sighed, flopped forward and rested his elbows on the countertop, chin in his hands, and an expectant raise of his brows at the "doctor".

Finding it easier to leave Jim alone than engage him further, Moran cleaned his utensils and moved in front of Sherlock.

"You know, Jim," Sherlock began, his speech slightly muffled from the towel still clutched to his mouth. "You may find it easier to just get what you want from Moran. I don't think he'll object, which is more than you can say for me."

A muscle in Moran's jaw twitched. His mouth twisted into a frown. "Here. Let me help you with that," he said, reaching out to move the towel away and took hold of Sherlock's lip, pulling the detective forward with it. He wasn't gentle about it.

Jim looked on with a wince of sympathy. "Yeeeeouch. Not sure I'd put dear Sebastian off, if I were you. Makes for horrible bedside manners."

The way Sebastian was acting, it was quite possible he had never seen evidence of Jim’s sexuality in the entire time he'd worked for the man. Not anything besides the acts he played from day to day for unsuspecting pawns in his games. Not until now, when Moriarty's work with Sherlock had been building to a climax and the obsession had really shown through.

Hearing Sherlock confirm it aloud clearly made him obviously upset and uncomfortable.

Sherlock flinched as Moran pulled him forward but refused to make a sound. Grey-blue eyes stayed fixed on Sebastian's face as he stitched Sherlock up with far less tenderness than he’d shown towards Jim. Sherlock felt a vicious spike of satisfaction each time the needle jabbed through his lip; he'd hurt Jim's henchman. It wasn't as good as getting revenge on Jim himself, but it would have to do. Clearly the attempt to hurt him physically had backfired - Jim had enjoyed it too much.

Sherlock smiled when Moran finished, careful not to pull the thread. "Try biting him the next time you fancy a bit of attention," he advised the man. "It seemed to do the trick."

"Dearest Seb knows that's the quickest suicide he could ever attempt," Jim leaned across the table and whispered it in Moran's ear, making the man's eye twitch with tightly controlled humiliation, possibly anger. Then Jim slid off his seat and headed off to the living room. "I think that about does it, don't you, Moran?" he called over his shoulder.

Moran's shoulders eased the tiniest bit of their tension at the dismissal. A single bead of sweat trickled down his hairline. He had been afraid of Moriarty. He looked at Sherlock, the discomfort still evident in his posture, but if his gaze could be read, it seemed he understood why Sherlock had said what he'd said. The detective was trapped, here against his will, and Moran wasn’t stupid. He understood it as the lashing out it was.

Sherlock followed Moran's train of thought as if it was written above his head. Their eyes met and Sherlock gave the smallest twitch of a smile and a nod.

Moran was correct, but he wasn't going to get an apology. Sherlock hadn't quite figured out what had happened between him and Jim to generate such devotion, but Sebastian had made his choice and was here because he wished to be. Unless Sherlock saw an advantage in manipulating the man until Moran was in his good graces, there would be no love lost between them.

Sebastian cleaned his tools, packed up his things, and silently left. Once the door closed behind him, silence reigned.

The New York skyline twinkled outside one half of the apartment. At dusk, it was breathtaking.

High rises towered like columns of light around and below them. In the middle of it all Central Park sat like a black, square hole, punctuated only by street lamps far, far below. Off in the distance, the massive towers of downtown loomed.

In the living room, Jim sat in the dark, staring out at it.

Sherlock watched the sun set from the kitchen windows, the fiery colors gradually fading and the city lighting up below like so many scattered embers. Beautiful as it was, boredom tugged at him, pulling Sherlock to his feet until he found himself in the living room, staring at the outline of Jim sitting in the gloom. Sherlock wasn't afraid of the smaller man, but minutes passed before he ventured any closer.

"What did you misplace?" he asked softly; the hush in the apartment was such that Sherlock was reluctant to shatter it completely.

Jim rested his head back against the sofa. He closed his eyes for a moment and then looked up at Sherlock. He looked more closely. Jim must have found the subtle traces of Sherlock's restlessness. The return to their former conversation was also an indicator. Jim's composure lightened by several degrees. The detective's unremitting curiosity pleased him.

"Your head."

Sorrow flickered across Sherlock's face before being replaced by determination. "You wouldn't be so careless to actually lose him," he pointed out. "Which means that you've hidden him." His eyes narrowed. "What do I have to do before you'll tell me?" It was cruel, informing him that one remaining friend had been brought along, only to be used for blackmail, perhaps lost forever if the desired price wasn't paid.

Jim frowned at Sherlock. "Nothing. Because I won't tell you." He laid his head back against the cushion again, seemingly unhappy with the assumptions behind Sherlock's accusation. His eyes refocused out the window, somewhere far off across the park where the lights began to blur together there were so many.

Now that it was dark, their faces were bathed in the city’s hues. Sherlock was all soft blue on one side, but the shadows along his neck and up half his face were thick as ink. It gave Jim dark circles beneath his round eyes and heavy shadows under his brows, reminiscent of a cartoon burglar. "Why have you bothered so little with astronomy?" he asked abruptly.

"Because aside from the occasional eclipse throwing people into a panic, it really doesn't factor into everyday life. People don't make life-altering decisions based upon what orbits what, how much mass a particular star has, or the angle between two planets." Sherlock paused and reassessed. "...except for the occasional occultist, but those are easily recognizable and don't require any real knowledge of astronomy. It just..."

Sherlock gestured, frowned, sat down on the other end of the sofa. "It doesn't matter. Not for what I do."

"I would have liked to show you…" Moriarty said, "but with a canvass like this, it will have to wait for another time." He gestured to the sky over the city, dark and murky with smog and light pollution. Not a single star was visible, and suddenly Jim was unhappy with the city he'd been so proud of earlier. He sighed and dug his chin into his chest. "You are a master of facts, but your forte is people. You take them apart and find their raison d'etre. I give them one. I put them together, build them out of nothing." Moriarty's eyes hovered over the city. "…if you ask the pizza boy about your little dilemma, he might know a thing or two."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, watching Jim's expressions and body language shift in the dim light. The man was a puzzle, able to mask his core as well as Sherlock's own brother. But whereas Sherlock could still mostly read Mycroft because he knew his brother, knew his thoughts and personality from growing up together and speaking on levels deeper than words could sometimes express, Jim was an enigma. Sherlock had no way of knowing whether this was Jim with his guard down or yet another facade.

"Jim. I can call you that, can't I?" he asked, waiting for Moriarty to turn his attention from the window. "...I want a violin." He'd have to figure out later which pizza boy the man meant.

Jim looked up at that. "Done. Tomorrow we'll go out and find you one. And yes…I would like you to call me Jim." His moods were like the arc of a bouncing ball. The corners of his mouth pulled back, showing the smallest of smiles. His eyes traveled along Sherlock's frame, assessing, not leering. "You barely sleep, but you look tired. Today has taken its toll on you."

"You shouldn't be surprised by that." Sherlock was used to pushing himself to the limits, but having his entire life ripped away, only to be dropped into a new one not of his choosing, would cause anyone to start unraveling at the edges. Sleep wouldn't chase the shadows away.

"I'm not," Jim met his gaze boldly. "You were drowning in that life. I chose to take it from you. For some ungodly reason you wouldn't do it yourself." You could be so much more. You could do so much more. Those words were left unsaid, but clearly spoken in the silence between them.

Jim had known the amount of respect - no, disrespect, the Met afforded Sherlock. He had been completely aware of Sally's burgeoning paranoia about him and then used it to further his own plot. It was difficult to say whether he knew of Mycroft’s ever watchful eye.

"I was happy with how things were. It wasn't your right to choose for me." Just as it hadn't been his brother's right to forcibly drag him off the streets and keep him under house arrest until he was compliant and clean. It had worked out for the best, true, but Sherlock would never admit as much to Mycroft. He still hadn't forgiven him, and this... this was so much worse than what Mycroft had done.

Mycroft had threatened him with a number of consequences if he'd turned back to a life of addiction on the streets, but the option had always been left open to him - short of keeping him under house arrest forever, Mycroft had had no surefire way of preventing Sherlock from doing as he pleased. Jim had left him no openings at all.

Moriarty's head turned, looking up at Sherlock through slim, pointed lashes. Everything about him had a quality of sharpness, his brows, his teeth, his stare…his mind.

"It's not the right of a predator to kill its prey; it's not the right of the rich to dominate the poor; and it's not the right of the privileged to marginalize the non." Moriarty frowned, pouted really, and bent closer to the detective. His focus honed in on the man like a laser. "No…it was not my right to choose anything for you. But I did. I took it anyway. And that is the way the world works," he hissed. "No one gets a free ride." With a short breath through his nose like a miniature dragon, Jim was calm again. "If you truly detest the life you'll lead here, I trust you'll be smart enough to find a way out," he smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "And won't that be the battle of a lifetime."

Sherlock felt a cold fury grip him for the second time that day. He turned his head to regard Jim with an icy gaze. Dark thoughts rippled beneath the surface, though his expression never altered. "Yes, it will. I wonder," he murmured, smoothing his voice into something pleasant and warm. Sherlock leaned forward and began to slowly close the distance between them.

"I wonder," he continued. "If your motto remains the same when you're placed on the other side of the equation." Sherlock's hand shot up, fingers closing around Jim's neck. "Hmm?"

Jim's pulse quickened under Sherlock's hand, but it wasn't fear in the criminal's eyes. His smile widened, but it looked like he was fighting to pull the corners of his mouth into a frown.

It was an act.

He clearly knew what he was doing and he was letting himself grin in Sherlock's face. "Oh honey," he crooned, "I've already been there. And you know, youuu knooowwww," his tongue licked over his bottom lip, "that's why nobody ever gets to me."

Sherlock knew it was an act; he could see it from the look in Jim's eyes, the minute hesitation of his facial muscles as he wavered between a grin and a frown. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he watched the man's tongue trace a line over his stitches. "Because you think you can take a little pain, because you've done it before?" he asked, a slight smirk curling at one corner of his mouth.

Slowly, Jim shook his head. Yes, it was a bit of that, sure. But, that was not the heart of it. "You asked me on the plane how I wanted to die," he said softly, eyes unrelenting in their stare. "I've wanted to die for so long, Sherlock. You really…are the only one who could understand. For years I've wanted to end it, the monotony, and I was only getting older…closer to the real end of it all." Jim's mouth twisted down, smile gone. "And wouldn't that be the ultimate tragedy? Death by old age, when life in its horrible and mundane state decides it wants nothing to do with you anymore. Nothing much matters after the age of twelve, you know. Not for me, anyway." Jim sighed, closing his eyes and pressing his neck into Sherlock's hand. "I'd begun the plan, you know, to end it all. It would have been, had to have been, magnificent. Nothing less. I would have taken nations out with me. …and then you came back. You reappeared out of the darkness," Jim's eyes opened and his voice wavered in awe. "And you, you wade me want to live again."

Silence hung between them.

Jim's lips twitched into a cold, little smile. "So no, there is nothing you can do to me that would make me change my mind."

Sherlock stared, fascinated despite it all; the rage was still there, smoldering beneath the surface, but Jim was pliant beneath his hand. Willing. Had confessed that he'd wanted to die, was willing to go to his end if that's what the future had in store. Curiosity crept in at the edges of Sherlock's mind and his thumb absently stroked over the madman's jugular.

"Why twelve?" he asked.

Jim snorted. It was a small huff of air over Sherlock's wrist. "Because that was when the only real challenger left the arena. Before we even got started. That was really rude, by the way. They locked you up in that big house and told you to be normal and decent, and you never ever knew there was someone out there who could be just - like - you." He licked his lips again, the new swelling of it getting in the way of his speech. Jim pouted again, but this time there was a quality of sincerity in it. "That was all I had to live on for years. Nobody, not one, ever came close to seeing what I could do."

The movement of Jim's tongue was distracting, swiping over abused flesh and black lines and leaving them glistening. "I've never been normal and decent, not even when I was trying,” Sherlock admitted. “Mycroft isn't either, however much he pretends otherwise when he thinks he's being observed."

The lines of Jim's mouth were somehow more interesting than they should be. Sherlock had seen thousands in his life from observing both the living and the dead. There was nothing particularly unusual about it - perhaps it was a bit fuller and more delicate than men's lips tended to be on average, but nothing truly strange. Still, Sherlock found his gaze following the curves, watching them shift as Jim spoke. "What had you been hoping for?"

Those lips spread into a wide smile. The sutures tensed and pulled at Jim's delicate skin, but it did not hinder the man's movement. "Only for you to stop trying." Jim's eyes fell to Sherlock's hand at his throat. "You are so like me. …we are the same." His voice was reverent, bordering on quiet fanaticism. Jim's hands lifted to Sherlock's face. Slowly, gently, he cupped the detective's cheeks in his palms, a gesture so incongruent with Sherlock's own hand still wrapped around Jim's neck.

Sherlock started, eyes widening as his whole body tensed. He'd been distracted to the point that he hadn't noticed Jim's hands moving - how hadn't he noticed? He exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself. There wasn't a chance that Jim had missed seeing the way his pulse had jumped.

"I'm not certain that we are." Similar, perhaps, but not the same.

"And where do you see my miscalculation…?" Jim's tone calmed. His focus remained open as an unnatural stillness came over him. He held Sherlock's head carefully, both of them locked in the moment.

"I've never killed for enjoyment." That was the line, wasn't it? Sherlock had killed when he'd felt he'd had to, had used methods that could be labeled torture in order to gain information or take revenge... but neither had been an end in itself.

"And where, exactly, have you deduced that the act of the kill, and that alone, could ever be enough for me?" Jim whispered harshly. "People die every day, forgotten, boring. But put a man under stress and you will find his true nature. He'll reveal what matters most to him, and aaaaaaaall of his little tricks and disguises that he thinks will keep him safe every day will fall away, and what's underneath is left bare and open to the world. Not just to us, but for everyone to see. Nothing does the trick quite like a little killing. Fear makes us all. And a man without fear…well, that's something else."

That... that, Sherlock actually understood. A shiver passed through him. Jim's fingers would notice the minute trembling, without a doubt. Sherlock felt exposed, his own keen focus stolen by another and turned on him. He didn't know whether he should tighten his grip and end things right now or whether he should pull back and flee. Or both.

Jim's eyes crinkled at their corners, one side of his mouth pulled into a half grin. "And wouldn't it be wonderful if all the world could see what we see in people, exposed, and know that we had been right all along?"

One of his thumbs swept over Sherlock's cheekbone, a motion pronounced by the stillness they'd held for so long.

Sherlock had always been curious about the claimed phenomenon of hypnosis. He wondered whether this was what it felt like, suspended in a feeling of unreality, trapped between options without a sense of where to go. Everything felt muffled, and he couldn't think, and the sound of his own rapid heartbeat was filling his ears. A light touch on his cheek made him shiver again and start to pull away, but dark eyes held him in place. Sherlock stared into them and felt like he was being sucked into an abyss.

Think, he had to think.

Jim's eyes grew larger until it was revealed to be only an illusion; he had simply leaned closer. Sherlock's arm bent to accommodate the movement until they were face to face, inches apart. They really did have matching stitches now that they were comparable. Maybe they would have matching scars as well. Their breaths ghosted over one another's lips. Jim's eyes bore into Sherlock's like he was looking past them and into the man's brain. It was right there before him, the control station of Sherlock Holmes, as that of Jim Moriarty was before the detective.

Jim pressed his forehead to Sherlock's.

It was too much, too soon. Flight reflexes kicked in and Sherlock struggled to pull back, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. He couldn't even think clearly about what he was going to do, where he would go, he just needed to get away from the eyes and fingers burning holes in his psyche and pulling out all of the thoughts he kept locked away.

Jim's grip tightened. His upper body moved forward to keep the contact. His eyes fluttered shut, an expression of longing flashed across his features. Jim's fingers clung to the back of Sherlock's head, twisting into his dark curls of hair.

"No, don't…," Jim whispered softly, smoothly, hoping to settle the spooked Sherlock. "Stay."

Sherlock froze in the middle of pushing Jim away, his hand still on the other man's chest and forming a narrow wedge between them. He felt less threatened without Jim's intense scrutiny, but it was still far more physical contact than he was used to. Sherlock recalled the last person he'd touched to this degree, the way John's body had slotted neatly alongside his own, and Sherlock's stomach twisted.

"...no," he whispered brokenly.

Jim's eyes snapped open. All warmth in them had cooled to a dull anger. With a grunt he shoved Sherlock away, hard. Jim was on his feet in an instant. His hands fisted in his own hair, pulling it up until it nearly stood on end. He paced in a circle, quick steps and the rapid murmur of his voice, unintelligible to anyone outside his own head, meant that he was having a debate of sorts. With himself.

Suddenly, Jim stopped, pivoted, and looked at Sherlock. He'd come to a conclusion. "You have an aversion to physical contact. I suspected before…but," he shrugged as if it were that simple, "I'd never seen you with anyone worth touching, anyway. I wouldn't have blamed you."

Sherlock's heart was pounding as dark eyes fixed on him again; even with the space now between them, he felt nauseous. Part of his mind was screaming at him to run, get into the elevator and lose himself on the streets; he felt safer among the common predators.

"Not exactly." Lies between them would be worthless - they were both too good at what they did. Sherlock got to his feet and moved sideways, keeping an eye on Moriarty as he maneuvered towards a possible escape route.

Jim's head shot up. His eyes riveted on Sherlock. "Not exactly," he repeated, nearly spitting the words. "'Not exactly', indeed." And then he shot forward.

He was fast for his height. Jim darted around the couch and lunged for the taller man.

Sherlock's eyes widened and training overrode any lingering thoughts. He planted his feet in the ready position and brought his hands up, waiting for Jim to step within reach.

Jim was all wild black eyes and a grin that split his face mid leap when he saw that Sherlock was going to stay, fight and not flee. He ran at Sherlock, arms outstretched, open, far too open and leaving his body vulnerable.

Sherlock's hands moved quicker than Jim could react.

It was too easy, the way he'd launched himself with wild abandon, and Sherlock manipulated the momentum with minimal effort. Jim's body twisted as Sherlock stepped sideways and then he was pinned, face down to the floor, one arm wrenched behind him and one of Sherlock's knees digging into his spine.

A screeching, giddy laugh erupted from Jim's throat. "Aaaha! But this is contact you can take, is it!?" Jim twisted his head to the side as far as he could to look up at Sherlock behind him. His teeth gleamed in the light from the city. He was grinning so wide it looked like an animal's snarl. "What do you say, you want to pin me down for it? I can't say I've allowed the honor to anyone else."

Sherlock gritted his teeth in response and tightened his hold on Jim's arm; if the madman tried to attack him again, Sherlock was going to make damn sure he'd break his arm. The body beneath him was shaking of laughter, conjuring memories of the crack addicts he used to see on the streets, completely swallowed by their mania.

"Pin you down for what?" he asked in a near-shout.

That got another peel of laughter. "Really, Sherlock, you can be thick sometimes. No wonder why that peculiar flatmate of yours is a walking case of blue-balls." Jim stopped for a moment to get out a really good giggle. "You better make your move while you still have the chance, honey." He wiggled his spine, hips rocking back and forth as much as they could.

Sherlock paused for a moment, parsing Jim's words into something understandable. His lip curled as he realized what Jim was implying, what Jim wanted. What he might try to do given the opportunity. It should have been bloody obvious from the video, really.

Sherlock's free hand tangled in Jim's hair, pulled, then quickly shoved the man's head against the floor in an attempt to disorient him. Sherlock scrambled away from him and made a break for the elevator, clawing at the call button.

The button depressed, but it didn't light up no matter how many times Sherlock tried.

A pointed little cough from the other side of the apartment drew the detective's attention. Jim, a little woozy, had followed, was leaning against the wall of the vaulted ceiling with his mobile in hand and a piteous look on his face.

He shook the phone in his fingers as if it naturally explained why the elevator wasn't operational. "You left and I wasn't done flirting with you. That's a bit rude."

A rare flicker of fear passed across Sherlock's face. He hadn't considered the possibility that Moriarty had altered the building's elevator system. As high up as they were, without an outside fire escape, he was well and truly trapped. With a madman who wanted to have intimate relations of some kind and was unlikely to care whether they were consensual.

Sherlock let out a shaky breath and began calculating the possibility of reaching his room and securing the door before Jim caught up. Given how fast he'd seen the man move, luck was not on his side.

"Oh my god," Jim said haughtily and gave a huge roll of his eyes at Sherlock. "You are far too easy to work up." He held out his hands, the phone still clutched in one, and moved away from the wall. He stopped a good twenty feet away from the detective. "Look, no hands. I won't touch." He took a step closer, then two. "But you need to get over this."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously and his chin tilted in a classic expression of pure stubborn will. He was tired of being manipulated, tired of Jim getting his way, tired of the emotional rollercoaster he'd been chained to. "I need to 'get over this'? I don't recall ever agreeing to this," he hissed. "I don't do this. I'm not interested."

That received another eye roll.

"Don't be so dull, Sherlock. It's a waste of that great mind of yours, behaving like a poor, defenseless little thing." Jim sighed. "Now, I'm going to go to the kitchen," he pointed to the other room with both his forefingers, thumb swiping over the phone, "with my Frosted Flakes, and you can do what you like." As Jim twirled on one heel, the elevator's call button lit up behind Sherlock.

Sherlock stood quietly, gaze riveted on Jim as he disappeared into the other room. He didn't hesitate when the elevator door opened behind him. He stepped backward, pushing the button that would take him to the ground floor.

He'd agreed to die, in a sense, in order for John's life to be spared. Jim's physical designs on him hadn't been considered when the decision had been made. Given the choice, Sherlock preferred to take his chances on the streets.

Jim took a box of dry cereal from the pantry and flopped down on a stool in the kitchen. He set it on the countertop before him and glared at it. He wasn't hungry. Jim rarely was, and when he was his tastes usually ran higher.

He backhanded the box across the table, scattering the pristine floor in a shower of flakes. Chin in his palm, he let out a sigh and looked out at the city again.

This was expected, more than expected. Sherlock didn't see how close they were yet. But he couldn't help the dark edge of disappointment creeping in on his senses. At least, Jim was nothing if not patient.