Sympathy 3000-21 [BBC Sherlock]

Hold

He had hoped to be decked out in Westwood, immaculate and intimidating. Instead, he was a mess, still dressed in Rich Brook's clothing, dried blood on his hands, his shirt. Hair sticking up every which way, looking positively drained.

The time it took for Sherlock Holmes to arrive clued Jim in that yes, Holmes had been in the building all this time.

"Staying Alive," Jim referenced the music. "It's so boring, isn't it?" He paused the music frustratedly. "It's just..." he held his hand out flat and moved it along, indicating a level journey. "Staying."

He sunk his face into his hands, trying to control himself. "All my life I've been searching for distractions." No distractions. Companionship. A like mind. "You were the best distraction, and I don't even have you."

Jim quieted, looking back up at Sherlock. "Spose I've got to go back to playing with ordinary people, and it turns out you're ordinary, just like all of them." I wanted you to understand me. I wanted. I hoped. But you don't, do you?

He dropped his face into his hands and breathed deeply, hyper-aware of Sherlock studying him.

"The journalist," Sherlock said. "You killed her."

"Wrong," Jim sing-songed, feeling light, numb, detached, ignoring the pain. He stood up, walking towards Sherlock, circling like a predator.

"You had her killed. Why the blood? Does it turn out that Moriarty does like to get his hands dirty?" Sherlock questioned.

" No," Jim barked. "You're wrong, Sherlock. You're so wrong." He could feel himself sneering, and he didn't really care what message he was sending to the detective with his words, his actions. What mattered was that Sherlock was wrong. He didn't want to kill Kitty, he didn't.

He looked at Sherlock and knew that the detective didn't understand that Jim hadn't wanted to hurt Kitty. The detective didn't know.

They fell into a dialogue. Back and forth, villain and hero, arguing about evil plans on a rooftop.

Sherlock thought he had it, thought he knew. Moriarty muttered, woebegone. Screamed, angry. All the while, Jim was hiding behind his face and hurting.

"Those digits are meaningless. They're utterly meaningless." Just like this stupid game. "Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach." ... "All it takes is some willing participants." ... "And pretty grim ones too."

The conversation went on and on, and Jim fell into its numb rhythm.

"Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort." Jim muttered the words wearily, and he believed every syllable. He watched Sherlock try to process, try to escape. "Go on," Jim goaded toxically. "For me? Pleeeease?" He squeals.

Sherlock grabbed him and swung him towards the edge of the roof suddenly. Jim wasn't scared. He didn't care anymore. His eyes presented a challenge. Do it, they said, locked on Sherlock's.

"You're insane," Sherlock breathed.

Jim blinked at him. "You're just getting that now?" He asked, almost as if it were a joke.

Sherlock pushed him further off the edge, and he flailed comically. But he wasn't scared. He didn't care. Throw me off, he thought. Go on. I wouldn't mind. "Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don't."

"John," Sherlock guessed immediately.

"Not just John. Everyone." Jim whispered the last word with a smile on his face. He wondered if Sherlock would throw him off now. He wouldn't blame him.