Nicotine (Sheriarty)

18

Moriarty

The men spent the next few weeks travelling from hotel to hotel. City to City. Almost never pausing for breath. They eventually lost track of whether they were running towards something or simply running away.

Each and every day was perfect. The psychopath and the sociopath were more happy than they'd ever been. Well, that was until Jim looked away. When Sherlock thought he couldn't see.

Moriarty sometimes caught Sherlock in the corner of his eye looking sad and felt a twinge of guilt. He had done that. Sure, they loved each other but was that really worth the damage they had caused?

The criminal led in the bed next to the detective. Of course, the detective wasn't actually awake. Jim made sure of this before he checked the time on his watch: 2:37am.

He slid out of the sheets and silently walked over to the window. Jim lifted up the corner of the curtain to investigate the outside world. Raining. Great.

Jim looked over his shoulder to make sure he hadn't woken his lover. Luckily, he hadn't. He let out a shaky breath, which he didn't previously know he was holding in, and snuck out of the room.

He found a suit to wear from his suitcase, which led alongside the table, and put it on, admiring himself in the mirror as he did so. The suit felt wrong. It was no longer him. He'd left the killer behind on St Bart's rooftop.

Jim walked over to the door and thought through his plan. He tried to ignore his trembling hands as he reached for the door handle.

Don't worry my love,

I'm doing this for you.