III.

The smell of peppermint tea filled the room. Jim sat on a rather uncomfortable wooden chair and watched as Sherlock entered the room again with the tea.

"So here are we again", said Jim and smiled gleefully, Sherlock sat down.

"What do you want, Moriarty?"

"It's Jim. I just wanted to pay you a short visit, you know that 'I was in the area and wanted to say hello' thing." His smile spread wider.

"I sincerely doubt that."

"Yeah, OK and I wanted to make you a little present."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, but Jim just took the cup and slowly drank. Then he took a little piece of paper out of his suit jacket. It was a photograph.

"29 years old, probably a journalist, as every journalist out of money, left handed … who is he?"

"That, darling, is for you to find out. I'm sure it won't take you long."

Sherlock looked at him with a frown, then he leaned in closer.

"Give me a good reason why", he said, his blue eyes glistening in the dim light of the evening sun. His voice was only a whisper.

"Oh, we both know I don't need to. You were waiting for me to end your boredom, you're desperate to solve another of my little puzzles, aren't you?"

Sherlock's term to drink.

"Let's be honest to each other, shall we? You contacted me after my little love letter, you accepted our game before you even said so."

"Possibly."

"Very possibly! Sherlock, Sherlock, you are nothing anymore. Your whole identity has fallen apart. And as I said, in the end it was easy. Doesn't matter whether you really died or not. Well, except for me of course."

"It was not for you I survived."

"But it was for me you died." Now Jim leaned in, too, slowly sliding the photograph to Sherlock.

"Take it, honey. Do what Daddy wants you to."

Sherlock only looked at him, there were words on this tongue, but he didn't speak them, Jim could see. Instead he smiled. And it was this smile that made him feel high, made him light and heavy at the same time. To see Sherlock smile was like looking into a mirror.

There he was, all cold-eyes and dirty mouth. So exciting and so familiar.

"Make me do it", Sherlock whispered.

His dark and low voice sent a shiver down Jim's spine. These were the moments he was alive. The moments when Sherlock Holmes was close, was in reach. Then he reached out for him. He stood up and walked around the table. Sherlock didn't move. Did not even look up. The proud one, the greedy one.

It was breathtaking. It felt so different, when he put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. When he leaned down. When his lips nearly touched his ears as he hummed: "I am in the air now, I am in your lungs, I am written, I am spoked by a million flaming tongues. I am the sun before you see me rise, I burn still when you close your eyes. I am inside of you, in spite of you."

Then his lips finally touched Sherlock's ear and he could feel him shivering. And all the bliss he had felt on the roof came calling for him. His fingers tightened.

He could hear and feel Sherlock breathe in. The moment lingered on a heartbeat longer and they both knew: they stood on the edge together. Again the sun was going down. The air filled with dancing dust and the sound of them breathing out. And they stepped over the edge and fell when Sherlock rose from his chair.

All words were taken from their lips as Sherlock pushed him against the wall. The wall cold against his back and Sherlock's breathe hot on his face. He was hated and yearned for by this man. And he knew they would shake hands in hell.

"I promise you to kill all your boredom", he said. Then he pulled Sherlock closer.

Their kiss was wet and full of anger and need. It was not nearly enough. He wanted to devour this man completely, this mind, this life, all of him. Sherlock's body pressed against his own.

He could end this right here. But it was the second time in his life he wanted to die as much as he wanted to stay alive. Everything fell from him for a moment.

The room filled with whispering twilight, mixing with the scent of peppermint tea. And the shadows laughed at them.

Sherlock took a step back.

The detective stared at him as if Jim was the devil himself. And maybe he was.

"This is a game", Sherlock said coolly, yet searching for control. A flush on his cheeks.

"It always was", he replied and as he licked over his lips they tasted like Sherlock.

"Now, darling, do as I told you. Solve the puzzle and I'll pay you another visit."

He looked around in the room that was not unfamiliar to him. Still as untidy and chaotic as always. Even worse than it had been in 221B, now that the detective was on his own.

"Get out."

"No rush."

"Get out. Now."

Jim laughed and went to the door. He opened it, but turned around again. The look Sherlock gave him made him smile. So full of passionate anger. Lovely.

"You and me could write a bad romance", he said. His smile spreading to a grin. He was out before the cup crashed against the door.

The air outside was cold and fresh.

It made all that happened in Sherlock's apartment seem unreal, caught in dizzy heat.

The darkness engulfed him for a few precious seconds. His eyes closed he walked blinded. London's night around and the taste of Sherlock inside him.

He opened his eyes again.

Nothing will satisfy me, but your soul, he thought.

Back in his own apartment he sat down on the floor without turning on the light.

He felt vulnerable and fragile. Maybe he was. It was cold here, too. If he stood up and walked up to the window he could look over whole London. But what did London or the world mean to him.

Shatter me, he thought, or else I will shatter all of you.

I will tear you apart. Until nothing's left of you. And you're mine for the taking.

I will devour you completely.

He didn't go to bed. He laid himself to sleep on the cold floor. He hummed himself to sleep until he felt numb and silent and empty inside.

But the air and the floor and the room whispered: Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.