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               Sherlock’s breath burned his throat on the way in and out as he stumbled up the mountainside. It had to be at least twenty degrees below zero, there were two feet of snow on the ground that his muscles screamed to work against, and that number was bound to increase very soon, if the quickly approaching clouds were any indication.

               But there was a time and place to worry about approaching snowstorms, and this certainly wasn’t it, because in Sherlock’s sights was a building, and inside of that building was the very last thing he needed to finish off Moriarty’s empire once and for all.

               Leave the spider alive, and it would only construct another web. Of course, it hadn’t taken all that long to figure out that it would take more than a bullet to kill this particular spider. Jim had been as dead on the rooftop as Sherlock had been. Now, the last thread of Moriarty’s web that needed to be cut was his own lifeline, and Sherlock, after two harrowing years of deconstruction, was ready to put an end to his game, once and for all. Though a part of him did wonder what his life would become, without it. Perhaps by then he’d be ready to return to John.

               Sherlock wasn’t entirely certain that the pain in his chest that followed thinking of Watson was because of physical exertion, but now wasn’t the time for sentiment. The fortress towering over Sherlock now stuck out of the mountainside like a sore thumb, and yet, some trick of the light and the arrangement of the surrounding mountain range had allowed it to go almost completely unnoticed, save by those who knew it was there.

               The detective drew his gun and stuffed a fistful of snow into his mouth, waiting for it to melt. As daylight fell, the steam that was his breathing would become more and more of a liability, unless he kept his mouth cold. He swallowed, his throat completely raw from the frigid air, and hadn’t so much as set a single foot inside the looming doorway in front of him before a voice seemed to freeze his blood in his veins.

               “Please, step inside. See what happens.”

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sherlock whirled around in a spray of snow, gun perfectly level with the man’s forehead before his eyes had even registered the familiar, smug face of Jim Moriarty, the consulting criminal, though he would know that apathetic drawl anywhere.

               “And why,” the detective snarled, “would I do anything you say?” He was bloody freezing, and not exactly in the mood to play mental games with the only person who could hope to beat him at it. The truth was, even today, Jim Moriarty was a wild card in the mind of Sherlock Holmes, and it frustrated him to no end that the only person he couldn’t deduce couldn’t seem to stop “staying alive”. Jim made Sherlock feel…off, and he wasn’t entirely certain why.

               “Try it,” Jim spat, eyes glittering, “Please, my dear, take a step back,” he nodded towards the doorway behind Sherlock.

               “Took you a while to figure out I was alive,” Sherlock avoided the question. Jim’s cheeks were rosy from cold, his eyes black against the darkening sky.

               “I was watching the entire time. Did you actually think you were doing me damage?” the criminal countered smoothly, “Surely you aren’t so arrogant.”

               “Why throw me a bone at all?” Sherlock wasn’t eager to believe all his work unraveling the web was meaningless.

               Jim remained motionless, as though completely unaware of the tiny, needlelike crystals beginning to fall from the sky. It occurred to Sherlock that the criminal hadn’t blinked for a very long time. How did he do that?

               “You should know by now that I love watching you dance. I just sit back,” Jim eyed the darkening sky, “with a glass of Scotch and watch the texts come through.”

               “Loyalty through fear is fleeting. The moment word begins to spread that you’d let me take out your followers for your own amusement, they will find someone else to work for.”

               “You?” Jim raised his eyebrows in amusement.

               “I don’t know,” Sherlock snapped, recognizing Jim’s playful tone and wanting nothing less than to deal with it, “What matters,” he glanced at Jim’s lips and licked his own, “is what’s behind me.”

               “Aw,” Jim pouted, “Abandoned warehouse means more to you than I do? You wound me.”

               Sherlock cocked the gun in his hand, and Jim’s eyes darkened, as he realized his mistake.

               “I do,” he began, “Have people watching.”

               “Not enough,” Sherlock parried, snow crystalizing on his hair and even on his eyelashes, “Abandoned was the first word that came to mind and God knows you have the least filter when I’m around.”

               “Don’t look so proud,” Jim spat, face twisted.

               “I was doing you damage,” Sherlock confirmed, “If I hadn’t been, you’d have more people here. You’ve grown weak, and even as I point this gun at your forehead, for real this time, you feign nonchalance but really, your mask is slipping, and you’re losing.”

               Something flickered in Jim’s eyes, and he folded his hands behind his back, looking from his feet to Sherlock’s gaze once more.

               “Oh, Sherlock,” Jim shook his head sorrowfully, “I would have expected you of all people,” he looked at something over the detective’s shoulder, “to know a thing or two about losing.”

               Several things happened at once. Calloused hands seized Sherlock from behind just as the detective spun around and fired. The shot missed, naturally, pinging off of something metal and off into the snow. The unknown man (who, Sherlock quickly discovered, was built like a gorilla, taller than him, and most likely weighed more than he and Jim put together) attempted to cover Sherlock’s mouth with a sweet smelling cloth, but quickly stumbled away with a yowl when the detective bit him through it.

               Moriarty was already making a dash down the mountain, and Sherlock, tasting iron and only ever so slightly woozy, set off to follow him. It was only after stumbling several meters through the snow that a very, very important question occurred to him.

               Why hadn’t Jim run for the warehouse?

               As if in answer, a deep, ominous crack reverberated across the mountains. Sherlock whirled around.

               Layers and layers of snow were no match for a gunshot, it seemed. And the warehouse, a structure of largely timber that likely had already gone through several years of weather, would be no match for that snow.

               Sherlock started running before he heard it behind him. Evidently, Moriarty knew something he didn’t. There must be some kind of shelter here. Something Sherlock hadn’t seen on his way up. Something less conspicuous.

               Gravity aided his sprint, but also kept him falling over and over as his velocity increased too much for his drowsy limbs to keep up. Sherlock’s head was going foggy; he almost blacked out the next time he fell, but the noise was growing so loud that he forced himself to his feet, to fall again. He’d inhaled more of the drug than he’d thought.

               Moriarty was nowhere to be seen, but Sherlock dragged himself along as quickly as he could, following the criminal’s tracks. The ringing in his ears currently drowned out the roar of the snow that must have been seconds behind him.

               Dimly, just before he blacked out, Sherlock recognized the fact that arms were hoisting him up under the shoulders.

(o0o0o0o0)

               When Sherlock regained consciousness, the first thing he was aware of was the quiet. It was still absolutely frigid, though, strangely, there was no wind. Had John somehow followed him and brought him out of danger? Impossible. John still thought he was dead. He’d almost been correct. Almost being the key word as, at the moment, Sherlock most definitely did not think he was dead.

               The detective paused, listened to his heartbeat, and confirmed this as an undeniable fact.

               Mycroft, then. Big brother did have a habit of going through cases before Sherlock, just in case when the younger Holmes solved them, he got in enough trouble to need help. However, when the detective opened his eyes and sat up, the orbs he met were far, far too dark to belong to Mycroft.

               James Moriarty was sitting a few meters away from him on what appeared to be cobblestone…yes, cobblestone floor, his back against a wall of equally uneven rocks, and glaring at Sherlock. The detective shivered, wondering if this had been happening while he was unconscious. The room around them was pitch dark, save for a luminous glow that Sherlock assumed was from the torchlight on a cellphone, undoubtedly Jim’s.

               Sherlock opened his mouth to say something along the lines of, “did you fucking save me?” but Moriarty seemed to anticipate this and spoke first, standing up.

               “While you were dozing, I looked around. Don’t bother trying to get a signal, because there’s a metal in the stone that must be blocking it, or there’s too much snow on top of us. Take your pick.”

               He paused to let this register. They were snowed in, and at the moment, contacting help was impossible.

               “There is a latrine dug relatively deep in that room,” Jim pointed towards a small wooden door behind Sherlock, “So that shouldn’t be a problem. There is a fireplace, but the chimney is plugged up with snow.”

               Fantastic. They couldn’t start a fire without suffocating themselves.

               “There are two blankets. One wool, and one snow leopard pelt. The leopard is mine.”

               Sherlock frowned at the childish claim. Fine. He would take the wool. It would probably insulate against cold better, anyway.

               “There are precisely fifteen jars of fruit, preserves and such, one ten pound bag of grain, and four bags of dried meat.”

               Uh oh.

               Jim sat back down and pulled the leopard pelt onto himself—evidently that was going to he “his” corner.

               It appeared that he was being ignored now. A quick and futile check of his pockets confirmed that Moriarty had taken his gun while he was unconscious, though his cell phone remained. Despite what Jim had said, Sherlock got up and spent what must have been a good twenty minutes attempting to get a signal, tripping over broken, ancient wood furniture and sending debris skittering across the uneven floor in the darkness. Once, his foot crunched something that sounded suspiciously like bone. Small, that of a rat, but which nonetheless prompted thoughts of whether or not there would be much larger remains for someone to trip over in the future, depending on how long they were trapped here.

               Sherlock turned his phone off, horrid reality settling in the pit of his stomach. They were trapped here.

               He whirled on Moriarty, whose eyes glinted like an animal’s in the dim light.

               “How did you know this was here?”

               “How didn’t you?”

               “Shut up,” Sherlock snapped, “Why the bloody hell would you stay somewhere that was so susceptible to avalanche if you didn’t think I was smart enough to follow? What was the use of that risk?”    

               Jim shrugged, pulling a comical expression. There was nothing Sherlock felt like doing less, in that moment, than laughing.

               “We need to ration food,” Sherlock declared, “and then we have to find a way out.”

               “Oh?” Jim’s voice remained level and emotionless, “I was looking forward to a little alone time. This isn’t so bad, it’s almost like a holiday…”

               “Shut up,” Sherlock snapped again, stomach doing a flop, for some reason. The room they were trapped in seemed very small, suddenly. He took a step towards Jim, “I know you must have planned this, and I know you’re not just going to lie there, especially when you took the gun.”

               Jim was silent a moment before sighing irritably, “You saw the weather coming. We’re both exhausted, you’re still obviously tipsy from the chloroform, and we have a shelter, water, and food. Are you really so stupid as to leave, right this moment?”

               Sherlock scoffed obnoxiously, side eyeing Jim before walking towards the door. The criminal turned to look at him as he processed.

               Sherlock ran over every option mentally. Unfortunately, Jim was right. The best thing to do would be to rest. Yet obviously they couldn’t do that, because whoever slept first would die first. They were at a complete impasse and Sherlock’s pulse was racing and he was trapped with Moriarty.

               Biting his lip, he stalked back to where he’d originally been laid and sat down, never letting his eyes leave Jim. He supposed this was going to be a waiting game, then.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sherlock counted 6245 seconds before he truly began to notice a drop in temperature. He pulled his itchy blanket around himself, sitting on it and wrapping what was left around his shoulders, but despite its coverage, it did little to solve the fact that he was still covered in freezing, partially melted snow. He knew, logically, that he needed to get out of his soaking clothes if he was to avoid hypothermia, but an utterly imprudent, prideful part of himself reminded him that doing so would likely evoke a lewd comment or a teasing glance from Moriarty.

               The question was: would it be more unbearable to endure taking his clothes off in front of him, or to have the criminal know he was willing to catch hypothermia to save his pride?

               Sherlock side eyed Jim, who fisted his hands in the leopard pelt, giving the wall to his right a ferocious stare, as if baseless anger would somehow make the room warmer. Somehow, Sherlock thought that both John and Mycroft would rather take the hypothermia in this situation.

(o0o0o0o0)

               The room got darker. At one point, fed up and irritated that Jim had turned his phone off and didn’t bother to look for an alternate source of illumination, Sherlock got up, more to warm up his slightly trembling body than with the intention of actually lighting a torch.

               It was a bit alarming how difficult it was to steady his arm enough to open the first wooden cabinet above his head. Once his trembling hand closed around the handle, it took a worrying amount of brain power to pull back with this much force.

               There were the dusty jars of fruit Jim had promised.

               As his search continued, Sherlock grew more and more panicked. Or, that was his initial response. He allowed his panic to heat his body with anger, pulse thrumming in his ears as he violently pulled open cabinet after cabinet, his breath escaping him in angry puffs of smoke. Archaic silverware clattered to the ground, Sherlock was only further irritated to see that the few knives they had were indecently dull.

               When he finally whirled around to face Jim, Sherlock’s lips were curled in a snarl and his nails were digging into his palms. He was practically vibrating with fury and cold, which wasn’t helped by the fact that Jim was doing nothing but staring at him, his face unreadable, eyes two black marbles in the darkness.

               Can’t be bothered to look for a light, Sherlock fumed, stomping back to his corner, Fine. If he’s fine with pitch darkness, then so am I. I’ve never been afraid of the dark.

               Indeed, Sherlock never had been afraid of the dark, though he certainly was discomforted by anything he couldn’t explain. So, as what little light that filtered its way through the wall of snow outside the window waned, Sherlock found himself puzzling over what could possibly be causing the quiet, constant rattling he was now hearing. He prayed it wasn’t some kind of a rodent, eating their food supply, but in the pitch dark, he couldn’t exactly check.

               After 626 seconds, he realized that it was Jim’s teeth chattering.

(o0o0o0o0)

               After two days, Sherlock attempted to open the window. He wasn’t sure what had initially caused him to think it was a good idea, but it probably had something to do with the fact that he couldn’t feel his feet. This made it quite an endeavor to stumble his way over to the latch, so Sherlock more crashed into the window than stopped in front of it.

               Jim’s breath shook before he could spit a single, spiteful word out, “Don’t.”

               Sherlock’s head snapped back in his direction so quickly it made the detective dizzy. Was there food in here? He couldn’t remember. Had they been eating?

               “Make me,” he sneered, working more off watching his fingers fumble with the latch than the actual feeling of it.

               “Can hear the wind, still,” Jim slurred slightly, “It’s storming anyway.”

               Sherlock yanked the window open, assaulting both of their freezing ears with a hideous, metallic screech, and almost broke his arm trying to dive out into the snow. It was frozen solid.

               “No,” Sherlock breathed, his breath escaping him like a tiny ghost, “No…” He scrabbled at the snow turned ice with his fingers until the painful cold was blinding, at which point he picked up one of the butter knives that had clattered to the floor during his last panic, and lunged at the ice with it.

               It barely made a dent.

               “We’ll be stuck here until spring!” Sherlock roared, trying and failing to pull the knife free. As he braced a leg against the wall and pulled clumsily, it occurred to him that there would be even more threat of avalanches come spring, due to all the melting snow.

               “Do you ever say anything that isn’t so blatantly obvious?” Jim inquired coolly.

               Sherlock, giving up on the knife and once again wet and cold, stared at the wall of ice, something cold rearing its head inside his chest.

(o0o0o0o0)

               “No,” Sherlock said, voice disturbingly even, “Unlike you, when I’ve got a surprise, I leave it as one.” He turned around, and Jim vaguely recognized the look in his eyes.

               Does he understand he’s still so obvious? Jim wondered dimly.

               “That’s why,” Sherlock took a shaky step towards Jim, who just sat motionless, “No one can ever predict when I’m going to kill them!”              

               There was an animal behind Sherlock’s eyes as he closed the distance between them. Jim saw it when he felt himself hoisted up by his collar, then slammed against the wall. Unfortunately, he couldn’t feel entirely threatened by this, because the effort this took Sherlock caused the punch he threw at Jim’s face to fall rather weakly. The criminal doubted it would even bruise. The detective’s breath hit his face in heavy puffs, his pupils dilated with rage.

               Jim felt himself sliding back down the wall. Sherlock didn’t have the energy to finish the fight he’d started, but he still held fast to Jim’s collar, as though the threat of death was still just as real.

               The detective panted for a minute, then roared, “You ruined my life!” and gave Jim a shake, causing him to actually hit his head painfully against the stone wall behind him. The stars suddenly circling the room were quite a sight, he supposed.

               “At least,” Jim supposed, “I had the courtesy to end it as well.”

               Sherlock actually spat.

               “You should have had the courtesy to end your own,” Sherlock snarled.

               Jim stared. Did the fool not realize they were likely going to freeze to death in a matter of hours? None of this fucking mattered anymore. Soon they’d both get their way. Still, he loathed seeing Holmes act so terribly…childish. Blatant impulse, this was. Hypothermic delirium. He didn’t quite like the idea of Sherlock’s mind going before the detective himself did.

               “How’d you do it?” Sherlock demanded, giving Jim another shake. The criminal rather didn’t like that. He still was seeing stars, which couldn’t possibly be a good sign. “Hm?” Sherlock shook Jim again, “How the Hell did you fake i-?”

               “Just sit down,” Jim said, a bit more quietly than he’d intended, “And I’ll tell you.”

               Sherlock seemed like he tried to shove Jim away as he let go, but Jim couldn’t be sure. There was a possibility Sherlock had barely applied any force, and Jim was just oversensitive and dizzy.

               After a moment, they were back to their respective corners, but Sherlock still wore a vicious glare.

               “Well?” he demanded. It would have sounded more threatening if his shivering hadn’t made the word so choppy.       

               For whatever reason, Jim was strangely uncomfortable seeing Sherlock like this. He was almost irritated, as though by succumbing to the elements, Sherlock had less respect for Jim’s dedication to the game than Jim had for his. If Sherlock lost that mind of his, then Jim was lost with it. He’d tolerated the nothingness that was life for that small spark of interest that Sherlock could provoke, but losing Sherlock’s mind meant losing even that.

               Well, he was halfway there already. He supposed hypothermia would affect them similarly, at least. They could meet madness together, perhaps, before finally freezing.

               Or…he could shoot Sherlock, and off himself after. Jim supposed that would be dignified and clean. The gun still remained where he’d left it, on top of a low, exposed wooden beam in the ceiling.

               Jim leaned his head against the uneven wall, closing his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at Sherlock anymore. Clearly, they were on the same page, or Sherlock would have actually gone through with rationing food and proceeding to consume said rations. It was pleasing that Sherlock would rather die with him than live and return to Watson, and yet, Jim’s stomach turned when he saw the dark circles under the detective’s eyes and the disturbingly bluish tint in his skin.

               “You know,” Jim murmured, eyes still shut as he nodded to himself, “You already know.”

               He’d expected a scoff or other indicator of disdain, but got none.

               “Blank, coupled with a simultaneous sniper shot to the back of your head. Enough to bleed…how you did,” Sherlock’s teeth chattered, and Jim pretended the noise was merely his own.

               The criminal didn’t reply. He didn’t quite have the energy to. He barely had the energy to shiver.

               “Is that it?” Sherlock demanded, after a few moments of silence.

               “Hm,” Jim mumbled, “Was easier when you yelled. The shot hurt. Couldn’t keep completely silent.”

               He could picture Sherlock nodding to himself, almost feverishly, thinking yes, of course, of course, how clever. Jim would have strangled him if he’d had the energy. Everything always had to be so fucking clever, planned out, orchestrated, followed to a t. What would have happened if he’d merely told the detective he had poor karma and thus had failed miserably at shooting himself?

               “You’re welcome for that, then.”

               “Oh,” it hurt Jim’s chest to even give the ghost of a chuckle, “You knew it was fake. Why else would you have faked yours?”

               Jim couldn’t help the malice creeping into his voice at the end of his sentence. He knew why. The reason Sherlock had faked it was the same reason he was supposed to actually jump. Watson, Detective Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. He hadn’t wanted to continue the game for Jim’s sake. It was for theirs. He didn’t care about the game. For some fucking reason, Sherlock chose the ordinaries over him. For a moment, Jim wished he was locked in this bloody place alone. Maybe then he’d feel less lonely.

               “Why?” Sherlock posed it not as a clarification, but an entirely new question all together.

               “What?”

               “Why did you do it? Never…” Jim heard Sherlock give a rather violent shiver, “Never owed me anything.”

               Jim tightened his arms around himself, forehead furrowing as he turned his head to the ceiling. The gun was still there above his head, motionless and expectant.

               Some age old, festering wound inside of him smelled of a certain answer that he didn’t much care to confront. The fact that, absurdly, he’d never really thought of why, precisely, it had to be Sherlock. Why Sherlock was his victim. He was the one who’d come the closest to unraveling the web…but truly, there were others to play with, if Jim got bored. Magnussen, Irene, at least a dozen other brains to pick.

               It just wasn’t as fun with the others. None of them could bring the same satisfaction that Sherlock did, because from the very beginning, Sherlock had brought out a hideous, white hot fury in Jim that he’d never known existed inside of him. From Carl Powers, on.

               Something about Sherlock was so…unfair.

               Something in the way he talked, from the way he spent his days at 221B (which Jim had watched equal parts bloodthirsty and fascinated), from the way his eyes lit up at the morbid despite the reproach that John always fucking attempted to quell him with.

               There was a very quiet part of Jim that suspected that it wasn’t about needing to stretch his muscles, so to speak. It wasn’t about keeping Sherlock from tearing down the web, inconvenient as that would be. It wasn’t about vengeance on Sherlock personally.

               It was a vengeance on life for presenting him with someone so damn perfect that he could never, ever have.

               However, he’d never confront this suspicion. James Moriarty did not believe in…human connection. Not for himself. He’d given up on that a very long time ago.  And his pride would never let him acknowledge even the possibility with someone he was as endlessly angry at as Sherlock.

               So, rather than tell Sherlock the truth…or as close to the truth as he could get, Jim offered a twist of a grin and two words:

               “Why not?”

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sherlock knew they were dying. Another twelve hours passed, and he could tell his heartbeat was slowing. Not enough to be dangerous…not yet, but he kept catching himself forgetting where he was, why he was there, and who was turning blue across from him underneath a snow leopard pelt.

               What worried him most was that the pain was going away. They were moving to the apathetic stage, and that was not good. Their temperatures were going to start dropping very, very quickly, and currently, it didn’t look like rescue was something to count on. They were still buried underneath God knew how much ice and snow, and, while Sherlock couldn’t very well listen for howling wind at the moment, he didn’t like the odds of expending energy to dig their way out, only to walk straight out into a blizzard on an unfamiliar mountain.

               Oh, Christ, they were going to die. Starting any sort of fire would doubtless suffocate them, but…body heat was an option. Not an option Sherlock loved, but dammit, their clothes were still wet with slowly melting snow, and these blankets didn’t do much good when they didn’t have much body heat to guard in the first place. If they were going to survive this, then they would need to share their heat, and soon, before they were both too cold, weak, and confused to make use of it.

               Sherlock repressed a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. He’d become too weak to shiver hours ago.

               Lifting his eyes to Jim again, Sherlock broke the deathly quiet to make his proposition.

               “We have to share body heat.”

               No answer. Sherlock felt a pang of panic, wondering if Jim was perhaps already dead. He was smaller than the detective. His hands had been frigid on the rooftop; if he already ran cold, he was probably worse off than Sherlock was.

               “James,” Sherlock raised his voice slightly, “Did you hear me?”

               “N…n…y….es…” the criminal’s voice was smaller than Sherlock had ever heard it. He didn’t like it at all. Strangely, he missed deranged Jim Moriarty, now that he was faced with a half dead one.

               “We’re going to die if we don’t,” Sherlock continued, still watching Jim.

               “…S…c…ar…e…e…d?”

               Sherlock didn’t have the energy to argue. He had to save that for crawling towards Jim.

               “Meet me halfway.”

               For the first time, he felt Jim’s eyes on him, but Sherlock was already concentrating 100 percent of his energy on dragging himself and his blanket across the floor. The cobblestones were smooth underneath his hands…he knew they were cold, but he didn’t know for certain. His hands were still numb.

               After an agonizing 336 seconds, Sherlock broke down, panting, halfway to closing the distance between himself and Jim, who was still where he’d been when Sherlock had started. The detective raised his head expectantly, but Jim only stared back at Sherlock blankly before closing his eyes and leaning his head against the wall once more.

               “James.”

               Nothing.

               “Contrary to popular belief,” Sherlock snarled, unsure where he was getting the energy to actually be pissed from, “Hell is cold, not hot.” So don’t leave me here alone with your corpse.

               Thirty agonizing seconds later, Jim opened his mouth to speak. Five seconds after that, words came out. Or, what resembled them.

               Jim mumbled, “…h…hel…”

               The criminal, heavy lidded and (probably) half dead already, pulled himself away from the wall to start dragging himself towards Sherlock, the leopard pelt in one hand. It took the detective a moment before he realized that Jim hadn’t said “Hell”, but the beginnings of “help”, when the criminal extended his hand to Sherlock, still an arm’s length away.

               Breath stuttering, Sherlock grabbed hold of his nemesis and pulled as hard as he could, groaning, but successfully closing the distance between them. Jim collapsed on him, likely only half conscious, and it occurred to Sherlock, for the first time, that despite being used to lack of sleep, they had both gone without it for far too long, and it was probably doing nothing to help the exhaustion the cold was inflicting upon them.

               And the lack of food, on top of that. Why had they been so petty? John would be scolding him, right about now, if he were here, Sherlock thought with a twinge of pain.

               The detective didn’t know how he did it, but he spread the leopard pelt on the floor beneath them, furry side up. Then, wrapping the wool blanket around the both of them, he started to undo his own icy clothing, tossing them to the side without hesitation and leaving only his pants on. Jim, now mostly unconscious, proved to be a bit more of a challenge, but Sherlock managed, with fumbling hands and zero commentary, to reduce the criminal’s clothing to his pants, as well. It may have been his own numbness, but the lack of any expected, human warmth when Sherlock touched Jim’s skin was slightly terrifying. He felt like he was handling a corpse.

               Hopefully he wouldn’t be waking up next to one.

               Shuddering, Sherlock wrapped the scratchy wool blanket around them as best as he could, tucking the ends under their bodies so that they were in a sort of cocoon. He also grabbed what seemed to be the driest of their clothes to insulate the space around their heads a bit more, as that was how most heat escaped the human body.

               Finally, he wrapped an arm around his nemesis and yanked him in closer, not bothering to resist the survival instinct to entwine himself in every possible way with Jim. After entwining their legs, nestling Jim’s head in the crook between head and chest, and sidling up so close that their breaths would need to match to be comfortable, Sherlock had a momentary panic when he realized that the room felt too quiet because only one person was breathing in it.

               However, mere seconds after this thought crossed his mind, Jim inhaled weakly, and Sherlock allowed himself, finally, to succumb to the weakness that seemed to be pulling on his every muscle like an anchor dragging a body to the bottom of the ocean.

               He needed to stop thinking about bodies. He hadn’t died on the rooftop, he hadn’t died alone in a cottage with James Moriarty, and he certainly wasn’t going to die clutching the criminal’s near naked body to his own.

(o0o0o0o0)

               When Jim awoke, it was with a pounding headache and an all-encompassing, painful chill seeming to thrum through his entire body. However, this didn’t bother him nearly as much as the fact that he genuinely could not remember where he was, why he was there, or whose body was next to him.

               Everything hurt. Including his stomach. He was starving, and whoever was next to him smelled, strangely, like cigarettes. Disgusting habit. Why the Hell would he be (naked? no…surely not) this close with someone that smoked?

               A familiar baritone mumbled something incoherent, and everything came crashing back, all the pieces coming together to reveal the reality of what precisely had happened to put him naked, huddling for warmth, with Sherlock Fucking Holmes.

               His eyes snapped open in alarm and he sat up immediately, only to startle Sherlock, who immediately and roughly pulled him back to the ground.

               Jim shivered. Why the Hell didn’t he feel warmer next to Sherlock? Had he truly been that close to death when he’d fallen unconscious?

               To his utter incredulity, Sherlock just laid back down and pulled him closer, muttering something along the lines of, “Go back to sleep.”

               It was, actually, quite difficult not to simply comply. Sherlock was warm and the air around them was utterly frigid. The detective’s skin was soft, and they did fit together quite nicely, as far as bodies went.

               Jim swallowed, arranging his face into something resembling a threatening expression.

               “Holmes-”

               “If you are going to talk,” Sherlock interrupted, “Then do it closer.”

               Jim didn’t move, despite the fact that he still did feel fatigued, no doubt because he was still under a normal human body temperature. He’d survived this much, he could survive a bit longer without being locked in an embrace with Sherlock Holmes.

               The criminal licked his lips, “I don’t remember anything.”

               Sherlock, amazingly, didn’t even open his eyes to speak. Like this were a drowsy morning after and not a survival maneuver.

               “Nothing?”

               Jim studied him, wracking his brains for any sort of memory beyond the avalanche, and silence, and cold. He remembered hiding the gun. That was still an option.

               “You went to the window,” Jim said slowly, “You grabbed me, we fought…”

               Sherlock was silent, and so was Jim. Finally, the detective quirked an eyebrow.

               “That all?”

               Jim nodded, then, remembering that Sherlock couldn’t see him with his eyes closed, confirmed verbally.

               A deep sigh from Holmes.

               “You almost froze to death.”

               Jim took a moment to process this.

               “And you saved me?”

               “Call it,” Sherlock quipped, “An ‘I owe you’.”

               Of course. Jim had saved the detective from the avalanche; Sherlock had now saved Jim from the bitter cold. Jim thought of the symptoms of severe hypothermia: confusion, hallucinations, apathy. What had Sherlock seen of him before he’d dragged Jim into this little setup with him?

               Whatever it was, Jim didn’t like it. Slowly, he eased himself back down to the floor, using his arm as a pillow, and pretending that he wasn’t at all flustered at the amount of skin to skin contact he currently maintained with Sherlock. The detective may have always dismissed modesty as anything more than optional, but Jim always worked to ensure that he had control and distance between himself and anyone else he interacted with, especially Sherlock Holmes, and control began with image.

               Nonetheless, he allowed himself to take advantage of this singular instance of excusable intimacy, wrapping his other arm around Sherlock and fitting their bodies together again.

               “How much longer?” Jim mumbled, “Scientist.”

               Sherlock scoffed, and it was horribly gentle, “You tell me. Are you cold?”

               “Very.”

               “Good. You’re starting to come out of it, then. Warmth comes next.”

               Jim huffed, “Are we planning to eat something, once we’re certain I won’t keel over if I stand?”            

               “Dunno. Are you willing to risk what’s in that cupboard?”

               “Unless you’re willing to fight me for something fresher,” Jim purred sardonically, eyeing Sherlock’s collarbone.

               Sherlock laughed. A short, breathy thing that Jim could feel ghost across his skin.

               Jim closed his eyes for a moment, feeling weak. He didn’t know how much of that was due to the hypothermia, and how much was due to that little laugh. That barely there chuckle that hadn’t meant a damn thing to the detective.

               “I will never forgive you for this.”

               The words seemed to gain truth syllable by syllable as the criminal spoke them. It was one thing for your other half to work on the opposite side of the law that you did, and to be forced to exist knowing that the very systems that kept the world in order were dedicated to keeping you apart. It was another thing to be nearly naked next to that same person and only capable to entwine your bodies in the most clinical manner. There would be no fingers in hair, no excuse Jim could make to trace patterns on Sherlock’s back, to memorize the precise angles his bones made when they moved underneath his skin. It gave new meaning to the word torture, especially when he still was so desperate to believe that he didn’t want any of it.

               Hadn’t Holmes said that Hell was cold?

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sherlock scoffed at Jim’s presumptuousness. He didn’t need forgiveness for anything he did, much less from the man who’d done far worse to him than he’d ever be able to reciprocate.

               That was the end of that conversation. Sherlock swore he’d only planned to close his eyes for a moment (after all, soon Jim would be strong enough again to make good use of that gun he’d hidden), but when he opened them again, the room was dark, indicating that he’d probably slept for several hours.

               He was starving. They’d have to eat when it was light. For now, he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, Jim was breathing deeply against him, and there was a hardness pressing into his thigh that wasn’t very difficult to deduce.

               Sherlock cleared his throat loudly, and Jim mumbled something about “yes, send the next shipment to Ukraine”.

               The criminal actually was starting to radiate all the warmth of a healthy human body, which Sherlock supposed was a good sign. He didn’t have to worry about waking up with a corpse anymore. He did, however, have to worry about waking up with a fully functional James Moriarty.

               He gave the still snoring, still aroused criminal a vicious kick, which seemed much more effective at rendering him fully conscious. Jim started, sitting up slightly and glaring at Sherlock.

               “Ow!”

               Sherlock rather pointedly cleared his throat yet again, and Jim rolled his eyes

               “We’ve already,” he shifted his hips away from the detective, “established that I want you dead. Don’t worry.”

               “Why ever would I worry, at a time like this?”

               “I liked you better when you were asleep.”

               “Thought you hated me.”

               Jim huffed. Sherlock couldn’t tell if it was a laugh or not. “Said I wanted you dead.”

               Sherlock raised his eyebrows, rolling onto his back, “And one isn’t a guarantee of the other?”

               “Certainly not,” Jim said seriously, “If you snored, then I would hate you.”

               The detective cringed, “Don’t make jokes.”

               “Then go back to sleep.”

               Sherlock threw an arm up over his eyes, groaning, “Boring.” They’d slept so bloody much lately that, even had he been presented with a real bed that didn’t have his arch nemesis in it, Sherlock wasn’t certain that he would accept the offer. He couldn’t stand any more of this mental inactivity, and they couldn’t even eat to distract themselves until it was lighter outside.

               “Hm,” Jim hummed, “How about,” he lilted, “we play a game, then?”

               If Jim’s mood while he’d slept had been any indication of the sort of game they would be playing, Sherlock wasn’t certain he was interested. He was all too aware of the criminal’s warmth next to him, and for whatever reason it was making him strangely flustered. Likely, because he wasn’t used to being in such an intimate position with another person.

               Probably.

               Sherlock sighed resignedly, “Do tell.”

               “Surprise me.”

               The detective paused, “…is that it?”

               “Tell me something that surprises me,” Jim drawled, and Sherlock felt him roll over to face him, “And if you can, then I will…” he trailed off, thinking, “I’ll do one thing you ask. Anything.”

               Sherlock scoffed, “And I’m expected to trust your word? What prevents you from lying?”

               Jim sighed laboriously, “How boring of a game would that be, Sherlock? Besides, it works both ways. I’ll attempt to surprise you as well.”

               Sherlock breathed, staring up into the darkness and wishing, embarrassingly, that he hadn’t told Jim to move away. It was so much colder alone.

               “Fine. You start.”

               “Mmm…” Jim hummed, “Let’s see. Did you know, Sherlock, that dust is largely composed of human skin?”

               Sherlock was almost offended that Jim thought this kind of juvenile tidbit would be beyond his knowledge, and it showed in his voice, “Yes…”

               The criminal laughed, a quiet little “hm”, and rolled over, his bicep brushing against Sherlock’s skin. Skin…

               “No need to sound so offended. Just a little joke. Your turn.”

               Sherlock considered his play carefully, “Did you know,” he wracked his brains for an equivalently mundane fact, “That the dead can get goose pimples?”

               “Obviously,” Jim rolled his eyes, “Both of are technically dead, are we not?”

               “Corpses, Jim.”

               “Still unremarkable,” the criminal parried, “It’s merely muscle contraction. Unconscious. When a corpse starts talking, then I’ll be closer to surprised.”

               Sherlock thought of Irene, but quickly pushed those thoughts out of his mind. They were two of a kind, now. Well, including Jim, three.

               “Kitty Riley is gay.”

               Sherlock snorted in spite of himself, “After what she pulled at the courthouse, I somehow highly doubt that.”

               “Oh?”  Sherlock could picture Jim’s eyes lighting up with interest, “She made a move on you, then?” the criminal trailed off, “She’s very good at playing a part. We’re not unlike, she and I. But yes. Gay as all Hell. She made it adamantly clear when we first became involved.”

               “Involved in my ruin,” Sherlock added grimly.

               “Don’t dampen the mood, dear. And now, for my favor.”

               Sherlock frowned, “Beg pardon?” His voice indicated confusion, but internally he cursed himself for losing so quickly. He didn’t like the idea of owing Moriarty any favors.

               “Oh, come now, don’t play it like you don’t know when you’ve lost.”

               Sherlock didn’t like the wide array of contexts that quote could fit into, but perhaps if he played fairly and compliantly, then he could avoid making their current situation any more unpleasant.

               “Fine.”

               To Sherlock’s surprise, Jim didn’t have anything immediately lined up. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it certainly hadn’t been complete silence. It didn’t feel like Jim was thinking up something monstrous; his breathing was even, next to Sherlock, but not calculated. The criminal’s manner had nothing of the predatory grace that the detective had grown to expect. Humanity was…almost unnerving in the body of Jim Moriarty, and yet, the silence was almost pleasant. Poignant, which Sherlock would normally have hated, but pleasant.

               “Move as closely as you’d like to me,” Jim finally said, “As close as you’d really like.”

               Sherlock wasn’t sure what he’d expected the favor to be, but it certainly hadn’t been that. Even if, in some realm of possibility, he had expected that, he wouldn’t have expected it to be phrased in a way that gave Sherlock complete and utter control over his choice. He could move further away, if he wanted. This game wasn’t what he’d expected at all.

               How close did he want to move? He resented James, hated him for the Hell he’d caused over the past few months. Somehow, though, he still couldn’t seem to shake the bright eyed young genius at the pool from his mind. Sparkling eyes and mystery and utter innovation. He could hold that mind in his arms, if he wanted, unobstructed by clothing or any other real world limitations. Plus, it was freezing alone, and Jim’s skin was probably softer than this wool blanket was. It would give him a new texture to focus on.

               Slowly, his stomach in a twist and his pulse hammering (hopefully James didn’t think to take it), Sherlock rolled over and pulled James into him again, resting their heads together, wrapping an arm around the criminal’s back, and fitting their bodies together as close as was comfortable.

               He feared the capabilities of Moriarty’s mind, but there was something that felt undeniably right about allowing it to touch his own, like two puzzle pieces fitting together. Calming. Perhaps he was imagining things, but Jim’s breath seemed to catch when they made that contact.

               It felt good. Though there was no reason that fact ever needed to see the light of day, he could at least enjoy it for the time being, no matter how dangerous it was. He needed body heat, anyway.

               Jim sighed against him, almost imperceptibly, and Sherlock waited for some kind of quip about the change in position, but it never came.

               “Did you know,” Jim lowered his voice now that they were closer, and Sherlock hoped that the criminal wouldn’t over analyze the goose pimples it raised on his arms, “That I used to want to be a teacher?”

               Just like that, the game was no longer impersonal. Sherlock didn’t know how he felt about the change, but he did feel that there was something almost holy about the air the room now held, the only air on Earth to ever hear the private confessions of James Moriarty.

               It would be, probably, his one chance at intimacy with an equal. Even if that equal was also his enemy.

               “Doesn’t surprise me,” Sherlock murmured hoarsely, “The fragility of genius. Needs an audience. You’d love a chance to preach all day.”

               “Bonus points,” Jim cooed, “If you can deduce what subject.”

               “You’re a problem solver,” Sherlock thought aloud, “You calculate everything you do. The world is a series of equations, even variables can be estimated within reason to get reliable results every time. Must be…” the detective blinked, “maths.”

               “Bingo.”

               “Hm.” Sherlock was pleased with himself for getting it right, for just once being able to accurately pin down something about the mystery that was James Moriarty. Although, there was something that…tugged at something inside of him…something strangely effecting about the thought of a younger Moriarty not planning anyone’s death. A younger Moriarty that embraced his knowledge rather than resented it, who dreamed of sharing it with future generations. Sherlock couldn’t for the life of him imagine Jim Moriarty having the patience to sit down and explain anything to children.

               “Surprised?” Jim pushed.

               Sherlock considered the criminal’s tone before giving a firm, “No.” He felt the muscles in Jim’s back move, and forgot how to think for a moment. “Did you know that pinning a small object under one’s arm can stop the pulse that ordinarily would show in the wrist?”

               “Of course,” Jim replied dryly, “I did think you were going to check my body.”

               Sherlock frowned. Jim didn’t need to add the second part for him to know that he was being silently mocked. The criminal had planned for the bare minimum of suspicion on Sherlock’s part, and he hadn’t even provided that.

               Well, he couldn’t very well complain that Sherlock overanalyzed everything, and then get upset when he didn’t, for once. Sherlock wanted to keep up, truly, he did, but if he thought any harder about anything at the moment, he would be forced to confront the fact that Jim’s lips were centimeters away from his own.

               “Hmm…” Sherlock could feel Jim’s hum move through his body, throaty and low, “Did you know, one of the first things your brother told me about you was your dream to be a pirate.”

               Sherlock hated himself for blushing. Jim didn’t comment, but Sherlock could feel the criminal’s smirk, just from the way it un-tensed his forehead and shoulders.

               “Surprised?” Jim inquired gleefully.

               “No,” Sherlock growled, “It does not surprise me that my brother, even in the direst of circumstances, continues to be an insufferable arsehole.”

               “Hmph,” Jim laughed softly.

               “Did you know,” Sherlock asked suddenly, “That Molly was the key to faking it?”

               Jim’s eyebrows raised against Sherlock’s forehead, an unconscious response that he either forgot to control or didn’t care to. Whichever it was, it indicated Sherlock’s turn to smirk.

               “Gotcha.”

               “…Truly?” Sherlock could feel Jim looking at him, incredulous.

               “Indeed.”

               Jim fell silent, but just from his forehead Sherlock could tell he was frowning intensely. Never underestimate the 33 year old, single woman who watches Glee.

               “Fine, then,” Jim said stiffly, clearly displeased, “Your request?”

               Sherlock pondered for a moment, and for whatever reason, he settled on a question. Not on guaranteeing John or Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade safety. Not even to guarantee Irene safety. Nor to give a single nuclear code or a gram of Plutonium. No, he just wanted the answer to a simple, terrible question, since they were being intimate tonight.

               “You said on the rooftop,” Sherlock started, “That I’d chosen a good way to do it.”

               “Mmph,” Jim mumbled drowsily. With a pang of something he couldn’t pinpoint, low in his stomach, Sherlock realized that the criminal’s fingers were inching their way into his hair. Strangely, absurdly, Sherlock found himself liking it. Maybe because no one had ever done that before, he didn’t know. They were quite hesitant, almost virginal, but to the detective it was obvious that Jim was calculating every twitch, desperate to keep from breaking the spell they seemed to have fallen under.

               “If you had freedom to choose,” Sherlock continued, deciding to risk tilting his head a bit into Jim’s hand, to enthusiastic results, “How would you kill me?”

               Jim gently played with his curls, causing swoops in the detective’s stomach, “And your request is that I answer truthfully?”

               “Yes,” Sherlock breathed.

               Outside, the distant howling of the wind provided a backdrop to their measured breathing. Sherlock’s pulse hammered in his chest, his lungs screaming for air as Jim continued, curl by curl, to steal it from him.

               He wasn’t sure why they were being so adamant about protecting their pride, at this point. Here, winter was their only witness.

               “Exsanguination,” Jim finally answered resolutely, his voice strangely hollow.

               Sherlock’s breaths stilled in his chest.

“Describe,” he whispered. The detective could feel Jim’s breath, humid on his face. It was intoxicating.

“I would strap you down,” Jim began hoarsely, his voice strangely seeming to echo in the tiny room, “Somewhere sterile, medicinal. Next to something clear to put it in, a vat of some sort. Mirrors, if possible.” He paused, and Sherlock realized, with a pang, that he’d begun to tighten his grip on the criminal. He loosened it marginally, and Jim continued, “I’d take it by syringe. Bit by bit, just a bit too quickly for your body to make up the difference, and I’d put it next to you, for you to see. The process would take hours, maybe even days, and you’d be helpless but to watch and feel every bit as your organs slowly began to fail you, your body deteriorating before your very eyes. Breathe.”

Sherlock sucked in a gasping breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Have I frightened you?” Jim asked monotonously.

“…Yes,” the detective answered truthfully, his breaths starting to slow once more, “Well, disturbed, more than frightened.”

“Do I always frighten you?” Jim murmured.

               “Most beautiful things do.”

               Jim’s fingers stilled in Sherlock’s hair, tensing ever so slightly.

               “You would deserve every drop,” the criminal growled softly, something wavering in his voice, diluting the hostility of his words.

               There was a very pregnant pause. Neither of them breathed, nor moved. Even the wind seemed to have silenced itself, waiting for something that Sherlock, never in a thousand lifetimes, would have been able to hear without being rendered utterly breathless.

               “I could have loved you.”

               After yet again needing to manually remind himself to breathe, Sherlock’s first reaction was to brush it off. It must be a game, a play. His emotions were being toyed with because they were alone and Jim was bored and he saw all humans, including Sherlock, as disposable play things. The statement meant nothing.

               But Sherlock could feel Jim’s heartbeat from where his hand rested on the criminal’s back, and it, contrary to everything the detective had thought he’d known about James Moriarty, beat with the frequency of a nervous hummingbird’s wings.

               Pulling his arm away and bringing it back to himself, Sherlock frowned, raising an eyebrow, “You tried to kill me. You fantasize about draining my blood.”       

               “Deduce,” Jim said slowly, “it.”

               Sherlock had been under the impression that “love” meant not wanting any harm to come to someone. He hadn’t the faintest clue why Jim could feel such a violent resentment towards him unless…

               Could have.

               That was the key then, wasn’t it? And it was undeniably true, as much so as the fact that Jim’s hands in Sherlock’s hair made his stomach do flips. They could have loved one another, and the fact that they couldn’t was perhaps one of the cruelest jokes the Fates had ever played.

               “Oh…” Sherlock breathed, a cloud of steam quickly dissipating into the darkness.

               “I’ve surprised you again.”

               “You have,” Sherlock confirmed cautiously.

               “Then I want you to accept my apology,” Jim demanded.

               Sherlock almost snorted, “Apology?” Surely Jim didn’t expect that a simple “I’m sorry” could make up for the terrorism he’d engaged in over the past months, not only of Sherlock, but of Londonites that hadn’t done anything more than stroll by the wrong place at the wrong time…of people that had become a part of Sherlock’s life at the wrong time.

               “Not for that,” Jim, reading Sherlock’s tone, said with a twinge of impatience, “For this.”

               Before the detective could even remotely predict it, James Moriarty pressed their lips together with just a slight tilt of the head, Sherlock’s hair still entwined with his fingers.

               Time slowed to a screeching halt. All analysis stopped, even Sherlock’s breathing stopped, catching in his throat as though it, too, were absolutely stupefied by what had just happened. Or, what was currently happening. They were kissing, and the detective wasn’t repulsed or offended or afraid…he was simply…surprised. There was warmth pooling at the pit of his stomach and what he really wanted was to know why…and to tilt his head a bit more and deepen their contact. Not necessarily in that order.

               What was truly taking Sherlock aback by this wasn’t the implications behind the “could have” and the kiss…it was much more so the finer details of Moriarty that this revealed which he hadn’t seen before. Jim’s lips were a bit thinner than his, not very warm, despite the fact that the rest of his body was definitely back at a normal temperature, radiating heat against Sherlock. His face was slightly scruffy due to going multiple days without shaving, but then, so was Sherlock’s. What the detective couldn’t seem to wrap his head around was that Jim tasted and smelled and felt like a person and he had spent his entire life looking for just one person that could keep up, that could understand, and he may have just encountered that, his other half, in his arch enemy.

               Sherlock pulled away, drawing in a quick, ragged gasp for breath and staring, wide eyed, at the man he could have loved.

               He watched Jim’s chest move up and down, his dark eyes glimmering in the semi darkness. The sun was beginning to rise, and the tiniest bit of light could filter through the snow and ice down into their little haven.             

               The detective shook his head, still struggling to think straight in more ways than one.

               “I don’t know what to do with you,” the criminal despaired, sounding weaker than Sherlock had ever heard him, and somehow still angry.

               Sherlock furrowed his forehead, closing his eyes so he didn’t have to look at the hopelessness that was James Moriarty.

               “It can never be. It’s long too late. It was too late when you drowned that boy at 12 years old.”

               “Please, Sherlock.”

               It was the first time Jim had ever spoken his name like that. Sincerely. Sherlock felt like his heart truly was being burned out of his chest.

               “Please,” the command turned into a beg, “Once more.”

               Sherlock didn’t need to be asked twice. When their lips crashed together again, it had none of the gentle hesitance of the first kiss, only desperation. Sherlock rolled on top of Jim, feeling the criminal’s moan rumble in his chest as he deepened their kiss. Jim’s hands fumbled with and pulled at his hair and it occurred to him that perhaps neither of them really knew what they were doing. Sherlock lost track of how many seconds they did this, writhing and insatiably hungry for intimacy, trying to learn one another’s patterns in one sitting the way most lovers learned over months. It was only when Sherlock tasted something salty and wet on Jim’s face that he tried to pull away, sitting up.

               Jim gave a violent tug on his hair and growled, “Don’t stop.”

               Sherlock panted, and decided he’d have a go at Jim’s neck, eliciting an obscene groan from the criminal. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought it sounded agonized.

               “I think I fucking love you,” Jim said through gritted teeth.

               Oh.

               Sherlock intensified his onslaught on the criminal’s neck, “Don’t.”

               Jim’s nails were digging into Sherlock’s back now, and the detective wished he would moan louder so he could drown out his breaking heart.

               “It,” Sherlock nipped at Jim’s shoulders and the base of his neck, “can’t ever happen. Couldn’t ever have.”

               “It can happen here,” Jim pulled Sherlock’s face back to his, and drew him back into a terrible kiss, “Oh, and I’ll kill you intimately. Better than before.”

               A shiver ran up Sherlock’s spine when Jim ran his hands around the waistband of his pants, then rolled them over so that he was on top of the detective. Jim ground their hips together, and Sherlock was taken to another galaxy.

               “Please.”

               James Moriarty had a magic tongue that left Sherlock seeing spots the same as if he’d been outside to watch the sun rise red over the mountains. He felt like he was burning, like every touch was a lick of flame, scorching his skin, leaving trails of ashes spelling all the new names he could have known Moriarty by, had life been a bit less cruel and they a bit less headstrong. Jim, James, Love, Honey. Each was worse to think about than the rest.

               They danced together, over and over, until they physically could not anymore. It was only when their kisses descended into a tenderness unbearable for dead hearts that Sherlock actually pulled away.

               Jim watched him, eyes big and dark, pupils dilated with pleasure, and Sherlock felt something terrible and ugly rear its head inside of him.

               “Stop looking at me like that,” the detective spat, and, as if it had never been there to begin with, the warmth, the hesitance, the humanity in Jim’s eyes iced over, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared, so that yet again it felt like something other than Jim was peering out at him with dark pleasure.

               “Your wish is my command,” Moriarty purred, and Sherlock, for one, absurd moment, wondered if any of what had transpired had even been real. But to believe that would have been self-indulgent. The terrible reality was that it had happened, and it was because of this that Sherlock slipped back into his pants and his coat, pulled a rickety old chair towards where Jim’s original corner had been, and climbed onto it, retrieving his gun from where it resided on a very particular beam in the ceiling.

               Jim didn’t even appear surprised that he’d found it, which only enraged Sherlock more. The detective cocked the gun.

               “Weakness of sentiment,” Sherlock said cruelly, “While you were busy fellating, I saw where you’d hidden it.”

(o0o0o0o0)

               Jim watched Sherlock, a familiar, nauseating rage building in his stomach.

               Thank you for making this easier.

               He’d reached a point where kindness from Sherlock was more unbearable than cruelty was. Cruelty was familiar, a comfort, almost. He’d rather feel sick. It was what he knew. Any love offered him would serve more as a reminder of the fact that he was starving than a relief for his hunger.

               “Shoot me,” Jim cooed, truly not caring about whether Sherlock would go through with it. This would ruin him even if he didn’t shoot himself afterwards. It would consume him from the inside. Jim knew, because they were two halves of a whole, and he knew it was doing the very same thing to him, already.

               Sherlock’s arm trembled as he pointed the gun at Jim, half naked and ridiculous in his pants and coat, exposed and vulnerable like everything else Jim couldn’t have. The criminal wished he wouldn’t act so weak. Christ, this would be so much easier if Sherlock were cold.

               “I…” the detective’s voice wavered, and Jim found himself silently praying please that he would say it, just say it so he could pretend this had never been a possibility.

               “…hate you.”

               Thank you.

               “I know you won’t do it,” Jim glanced pointedly at the gun, “You’ve just laid yourself out on my table, Holmes, every vein exposed. I know the truth. Not only do you have a heart, but your mercy can be played against you no matter how nefarious your adversary.”

               “Care to test that theory?” Sherlock, bless him, was nearly crying. Granted, he also looked like he wanted to strangle Jim, which was good. The criminal hoped that anger would win out soon, because this was getting difficult to witness.

               Jim, slowly, without breaking eye contact with those hopelessly blue eyes, dressed himself and stood, slightly unsteady. He slowly began the walk towards the chimney.

               “Hell is cold, Holmes,” Jim said ominously, a hole in his chest, “Never forget that. I’m going to fucking,” to the criminal’s rage, his voice cracked, “drain you. Of every bit of warmth.”

               One way or another, it would happen. Whether it was the same way he’d originally planned, or because Jim got weak and decided to continue this affair. He’d drain Holmes the same way he did everyone else.

(o0o0o0o0)

               And just like that, James Moriarty climbed his fucking way out of the chimney, evidently managing, miraculously, to break through the snow that had previously clogged the top. Despite not eating for Sherlock had forgotten how long. He fucking climbed his way out, and Sherlock was left alone in the dark, cold Hell that the criminal had brought him to.

               Sherlock suppressed the sudden, violent urge to stuff the gun in his mouth and fire, and instead, after staring numbly at the place Moriarty had previously stood for a few hundred seconds, he began to climb out of the chimney.

               Perhaps it was a trick of the quickly fading light, but it didn’t look to Sherlock like there were any footprints on the vast plain of snow surrounding him. Not a flake was out of place.

               The detective turned the gun over in his hands, and it occurred to him that, once again, he’d been given two hypothetical ways out of the mess he was in.  Firing could mean another avalanche, and, consequently, death, or it could mean a chance at rescue.

               The silent message was clear. Moriarty wasn’t done playing until Sherlock was.

               The stars watched him expectantly, the mountains held their breath, and a hush fell over the snowscape as it waited impartially for an answer to the question that Sherlock himself had been asking quite a lot, lately: was he really willing to chance it?

               Having successfully evaded death twice in the last year, the detective turned the gun towards the cosmos and pulled the trigger.

(o0o0o0o0)

Ｅ  Ｐ  Ｉ  Ｌ  Ｏ  Ｇ  Ｕ  Ｅ

               Sherlock took a deep drag on his cigarette as he considered the invitation left by his other, perhaps more lethal, addiction.

               Ｍｉｓｓ  ｍｅ？

               Ｉ  ｋｎｏｗ  ｙｏｕ  ｄｉｄ．  Ｔｈａｔ  ｈｅａｒｔ  ｏｆ  ｙｏｕｒｓ  ｉｓ  ｌｅｓｓ  ｓｕｓｃｅｐｔｉｂｌｅ  ｔｏ  ｃｈｉｌｌ  ｔｈａｎ  Ｉ’ｄ  ｅｘｐｅｃｔｅｄ．  Ｐｅｒｈａｐｓ  Ｉ  ｓｈｏｕｌｄｎ’ｔ  ｂｅ  ｓｕｒｐｒｉｓｅｄ． 

               Ｍｅｅｔ  ｍｅ  ｙｏｕ－ｋｎｏｗ－ｗｈｅｒｅ  ａｔ  ３．  ＩＯＵ．             

               It was impossible not to notice the distinctive smudge of dirt left on the letter (grainy, loose—definitely from the graveyard), especially when it was complemented by a single, purple lily, eerily similar to the ones that had been left on his own grave after the funeral.

               He wouldn’t be surprised if Jim had taken it himself.

               The detective took another drag, trying to focus on the smell of smoke over the sweetness of Jim’s offer—what forbidden temptation looked like on the surface versus what it actually left in its wake.

               He understood, now, looking at the emptiness of the O. It wasn’t a thing in itself, rather it was an absence of things. A void where there should have been something definite, spinning things towards absolute entropy, exsanguination and enchantment both viable possibilities.

               John would never approve of him going out now, not after that little stunt with the television screens, but John’s priority now was Mary, anyway, and he didn’t need to know where Sherlock went at 3 am.

               Sherlock finished his cigarette and, after a moment of hesitation, shrugged into his coat. One more dose couldn’t hurt.