This Is War
The night smells wet and tastes of sex.
His body is a battlefield. Sometimes it's hard to breath in or out. Sometimes time is meant to stop. He is floating.
His hands don't tremble anymore. They have stopped, hours ago.
This is war. And he doesn't know whether he has won or lost the last battle.
He can't move. He will still be there when the sun rises. When anaemic light will drop through the windows and flood the empty flat. Revealing the name that he wrote across the walls and all over the floor. The name he scratched mirror-inverted on the window glass. His bruised fingers don't tremble anymore. He breathes in and dreams of violence.
He will burn this building. Until nothing is left but ash that still whispers his name.
He will throw the grey powder from a rooftop and whole London will whisper it, too.
Ash and his promise in the wind.
I will burn you.
Because you have set me ablaze. And this is what fire does.
---
One day earlier.
At sunrise the world's going down.
At forenoon there is deep growling thunder and a sky full of anthracite clouds. Then it rains. Hard and hot raindrops. Afterwards London remains warm and humid.
It makes Jim think of hot water around his body. He continues his walk through the muddy and deserted Green Park. Rainwater dropping from leaves, the scent of wet tulips.
It's pleasant, but he does not appreciate the mud on his trouser legs. Soon this will be dull and boring again. But he had to get out.
Eventually he stops at a bench and lays his hand on the wood. The texture is rough and wet. He lets his fingers glide over it. He could get hurt by a tiny piece of wood. Just now.
In the end it's all about keeping himself busy, bombs and murder – yes baby. He smiles.
Then he looks up and looks into wide blue-grey eyes. Irritation. He didn't hear him come.
A moment there is only silence.
Then regaining himself. Straightening. His smile spreads wider.
“Sherlock, darling. What a nice surprise.”
The detective's face is expressionless now, but he can still see a touch of irritation in his eyes. After all the planning, all the hide and seek now they meet in a park?
“Moriarty. Wasn't really expecting you here.” His voice is steady, cold, arrogant. But underneath he's exulting. Jim can hear it quite clearly.
“Would you join me, sweetheart?”
He is not prepared for this. And Sherlock is someone he needs to be prepared for. The only one, apparently. There is no danger of getting arrested – but when was he ever afraid of this?
Sherlock walks up to him, they continue together.
“Have you figured it out yet?”
“Our problem?”, Sherlock asks. Icy blue eyes meet his gaze. His own must be cold, too.
“Have you?”
“Yes I have”, says Sherlock and there is triumph in his smug smile.
“Any suggestions for a solution?” He stretches the words in his Irish accent.
“Plenty.”
“Which means as much as none at all. Don't try to fool me, Sherlock. I am not like your little pet, am I?”
“Certainly not.” A little bit unease here. “Now tell me what you are doing here – ruining your expensive clothes?”
“Why would I tell you?”
“Because I'm asking.”
Jim laughs.
“Maybe I was expecting to meet someone not boring.”
They look at each other. He knows Sherlock's reading him all over.
“Bad morning, no breakfast, yes, too less sleep, a meeting, lunch, another meeting, oh a bomb, coffee near the Buckingham Palace? Then the walk, am I right?”
“Very much so.”
A pause. “Come with me.”
They take a cab and it starts raining again. Hot and hard raindrops.
They don't talk until Jim gets out and swears when he gets wet. Then laughs.
A key, two stairs, a door. Once-yellow tape. The flat is empty.
Dust and rainwater on the parquet floor. Their breath is a pandemonium and hell is all they have. And where they can stay.
He is not prepared to fill this empty white room with blue-grey screaming Sherlock. Sherlock's mind, scent, voice and body. But he does.
“This reveals more of you than a fully decorated flat would.”
“SHUT UP!” He knows this. For a moment he's all fire and fury and if there had been something to throw he would have smashed it already. Yet there is nothing left to break.
“Jim look at me.” He can hear fear and anticipation.
“Tell me”, Jim says, “our problem. Prove me that you know.”
And for a second he wants to press his hands on Sherlock's mouth to stop him speaking. Maybe there is too much at stake.
“It is all about us. You. Me. Us. And whether we are –”
“Don't”, he interrupts. “Don't. I would kill you now if you were wrong.” He means it.
Sherlock smiles, than takes a step closer to Jim.
“You are afraid.” It's not a question. Sherlock smiles, feasting on his fear.
Oh no. That's not the way their game is played.
“I'm afraid to be disappointed. You know, I hate to be disappointed. To recognise you would be just as dull and boring as everyone else. So shut up, my dear.” He stretches the words and says the last ones in a low growl. Back to control.
“How are we supposed to have a proper chat here anyway? No tea, no couch, no anything. Not even electric light. ” They actually have electric light. But he likes the way only the car lights can paint their skin with white and ivory.
“Always complaining, are we?” It's his turn to step closer. “Even though I do so much to keep you entertained.” Sherlock does not step back. Instead he begins to laugh, deep and dark and so arrogant. They are close now. Jim has to look up to Sherlock.
“We play a different game today”, he says.
As long as it is dangerous and exciting – that's the answer he can read in Sherlock's eyes.
“Oh. It will be. I promise you that, Sherlock.”
“Go on, then.” Only a low growl. It sends shivers down his spine.
What is it he can see in Sherlock's eyes as he reaches for his scarf and softly says “Undress”?
Doubt – for a moment. But this is not what ordinary people do. He shows him by taking his jacket, blazer and shirt off. Now Sherlock understands. Yes, he does. Because he can see the long, faint lines that creep up Jim's arms. This is a revelation. And such things never come without a price. It's a game, after all. “Your turn.”
Sherlock does what he wants him to. Until Jim's gaze glides over white flesh and he lays his hand above it. Warmth. An increasing heartbeat.
“Chemistry. So treacherous”, Jim says.
“Show me your arms.” He does. Their skin touches again as Sherlock takes hold of him and reads the letters in his flesh. His eyes focused, a sharp inhale, then: “Turn around.”
Jim turns around. Sherlock's fingertips on his back, just so slightly touching to remember.
“Who did this?”
“Can't you tell?” He turns around again. “Now, let me see.” Sherlock hesitates, not very long.
In the crook of his arm there are tiny dots. Nobody else would have seen. But Jim knows what to look for.
“Don't we all try suicide?”, he says.
When they are naked Jim can feel a slight arousal. He looks up to the man who watches every move he makes carefully.
“Do you feel comfortable in your skin?”, he asks casually.
“I don't care so much. You do, though.” Sherlock, bolder now, touches his chest.
“I pretend. Just a shell, really.” He places his hand over Sherlock's, steps closer and takes Sherlock's other hand. Long, slim fingers. White porcelain that would shatter if he tried hard enough to break.
“How precise can you be with your fingers, Sherlock? Would you mind carving your name into my flesh?” He can feel how their breathing becomes faster. Jim lets him go and bends down to fetch the tie pin that lies on his neatly folded clothes.
“Wanna try?” He holds the pin up to him.
“You are not a masochist. Why would you want that?” Jim smiles all tooth.
“Just trying to help you make a point.”
He hisses when Sherlock rips his skin open. By now they are on the ground. After Sherlock had plucked the pin out of his fingers he had pushed him down.
Jim had laughed. Now Sherlock's laughing. It's low, hot and moist on Jim's bloody skin.
“Lick it dry”, Jim orders. And Sherlock does. He does it impatiently and roughly. Sherlock's tongue on his hips makes him not only shiver. Then again the detective laughs.
“Oh Jim! Human, after all, aren't you? So predictable, so very predictable.”
Sherlock lifts himself up on his knees, his lips still wet.
“You look bloody sexy, with your head down there, darling. Not my fault, you picked the area.”
Pain blasts through his hip as he moves to catch his trousers. He takes out some coins, cigarettes, a lighter.
“You don't smoke.”
“Nah. But you do.”
“Did.”
“Oh then it's really mean of daddy to tempt you, isn't it?”
He puts a cigarette between his lips, lightens it. Inhales, blows the smoke to Sherlock.
“So many fancy things you could use a cigarette for.” A second later it dawns Sherlock where the marks on Jim's back come from. Jim can tell from his widening eyes.
“Oh Jim, you're so broken.” A smug smile.
“Didn't I say we fit together?”
Then Sherlock is near, breathes the smoke from his lips.
“My turn, baby”, Jim whispers.
Jim turns on the gas stove in the otherwise empty kitchen.
He takes a gripper to hold the coin, while the hungry blue flame of the stove licks at the surface until it's glowing orange.
“One pound. 2001. Celtic cross.” Sherlock's breath in his neck, on his cheek as he leans forward.
“Yes. It's from North Ireland.”
Sherlock moans as he pushes the coin to the crook of his arms, just lightly. When he draws back, Sherlock looses a few particles of his skin.
The smell of metal and blood. The air is made of need and I want you and I will take what I want. The air is inside them and outside them and then they are kissing. The heat of their bodies on the cold and dirty floor. Maybe their blood mixes when Sherlock puts his arm around Jim's hip, wounds touching, his lips on Jim's thighs, maybe they are blood-brothers until the blood drops down, smears into a decade of dust.
His hands lay on Sherlock's cheeks and he wonders if he has lost this battle. He closes his eyes, he doesn't want to know. The scent of lavender that clings to Sherlock's body is pressed into his own like he pressed the coin to Sherlock's skin. His legs on either side of Sherlock. A moan is sucked from his lips and he feels him deep, deep inside.
All this is wrong. With him writhing underneath and moaning and whispering his name. And his thoughts being spit into the rain, outside, consumed and washed away. He is loosing himself.
They lie naked on the floor. They don't touch.
Eventually Jim gets up. His body sticky with sperm, blood and cold sweat.
He looks down to this man. His dark curls, the curve of his lips, his sharp cheekbones, his closed eyes only a fine line. And he wonders if he looks just as vulnerable as Sherlock does.
Then Sherlock opens his eyes and the storm-grey colour of his iris reminds him of a dress his mother once wore.
“Jim”, he says and that's all it takes to bring him down again.
The second time his back is pressed against the wall, his legs clinging around Sherlock's hip. One hand is between his legs, the other keeps touching his scars and the fresh wound, softly.
When has he stopped asking what he is doing? His hands entwined in these black curls, his lips at the splitting corner of Sherlock's mouth. It still feels wrong, but he would do it again.
Then they look at each other, heavily breathing and he knows. He knows Sherlock is just as vulnerable as he is. It makes him laugh. It's high and it breaks away just a second before Sherlock kisses him, forcefully.
He feels like there is nothing left, but plenty of that.
He stays naked while Sherlock gets dressed. In the corner of Sherlock's eyes he finds repentance, but for what he cannot say. And it is to late to ask, so he doesn't.
A last time he steps close to him and smiles. His hand on Sherlock's shoulder. They look at each other in silence, for a moment. Then he says: “Enjoy your fall.”
Sherlock doesn't reply. He turns around, then he is gone.
Jim walks to the bathroom and opens the tap. Cold waters runs into the bathtub.
---
The sun is rising a second time.
Or so someone would say who looks to the east and sees the red-golden shimmer behind the tall buildings, all glass and steal. Someone who does not see the flames blazing higher and eating the old little house from the inside out.
It doesn't make Jim feel better.
“Who lived in there?”, he hears Sebastian who is driving the car. He should know better than to ask. He doesn't answer him.
He thinks: You are fragile, too. And I will show you, Sherlock, I will show you.
He tilts his head to one side and thinks of cracking bones.
Soon he will know whether Sherlock understands. Truly understands. Their problem. The Final Problem. And if he does not, he will kill him with his own hands. Sherlock always was an exception. He would die as one, too.
His hip is still burning. He wonders whether the branding is hurting, too.
The memory of their kisses burns him from the inside out.
“Drive me to that journalist's house”, he says.
This is war. And the end is near.
