Nicotine (Sheriarty)

43

Moriarty

Jim ran. He ran as fast as he could, apologising as he pushed his way past the people in his way. Apologising? That was new. Perhaps love had that effect on people. It was a good affect. Jim liked it.

~

Sherlock

The detective couldn't care less if it was New Years Eve or if the world was ending right outside his window, he missed Jim. Well, 'missed' was an understatement. Jim was all he thought about anymore.

Sherlock sat alone in his flat staring at the letter on his desk, debating whether or not to re-read it to see if he'd missed anything. Of course he hadn't. Don't be stupid. Jim Moriarty was gone. He left and he wasn't coming back. Plain and simple.

Watson nudged Sherlock's hand softly. Sherlock couldn't look after him on his own. This wasn't right. Jim was supposed to be there to feed him whilst Sherlock was on a case. Jim was supposed to be there with him to take Watson on long walks, holding his hand as they threw the ball for the dog to catch. Jim was supposed to be there to look after Watson.

Jim was supposed to be there to look after him.

~

Moriarty

Jim stopped to catch his breath for a second. He checked his watch: 11:49. Baker Street was 10 minutes away. He could make it.

He would make it.

~

Sherlock

Sherlock checked the clock on the wall: 11:54. The new year was 6 minutes away.

A new year = a new start.

A new start without Jim.

The thought made Sherlock feel sick. Sighing, Holmes stood up and headed outside. He needed some kind of pain relief.

~

Outside, the air was cold. He checked his phone for the time, 11:57, and pulled out a cigarette - something he hadn't done since Jim had texted him. He put it between his teeth and held the lighter to the end.

Before he had chance to burn the end he heard a familiar voice shout something even more familiar.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, honey." Sherlock turned his head towards the voice, "Don't you know that smoking is bad for you?"

There he was. Just stood there at the end of the empty street. Stood there as if he'd been there the whole time. The man he hoped to see more than anyone else. The man he had missed more than anything else. The man he loved more than anything else.

Jim.

As if it was a scene from a film, the men ran towards each other. This was right. This was supposed to happen.

Once they were within hugging distance, Sherlock pulled Jim into a tight embrace. He hugged him as tight as he could in case this was a dream. In case Jim would suddenly disappear and leave Sherlock alone once more.

"Sherlock..." Jim coughed, "I can't breathe."

Holmes let go, "Oh... Sorry."

Sherlock looked at the ground awkwardly. He'd done it wrong. He'd ruined it.

The men could suddenly hear the faint sound of Big Ben chiming followed by muffled firework explosions.

"Happy New Year, idiot." Jim whispered.

Sherlock was slightly offended for a moment until Jim's lips crashed against his for the first time in, what felt like, forever. Sherlock couldn't help thinking that this was how it was meant to be.

Sherlock and Jim.
Jim and Sherlock.

Together.

Then Sherlock decided he didn't want to think anymore. Just for once he wanted to live in the moment. He let himself sink into the kiss as the fireworks exploded overhead.

Jim was better than any cigarette.

Jim was worse than nicotine.