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Angels of 221B

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Sherlock wasn’t in the best of moods. Most people would say that was normal for him but for those that knew him, really knew him, knew that this mood was a lot darker than usual. Sherlock was sat on a bench in the sun that warmed Hyde Park, still trying to take in the unfortunate event of his mother’s death. Jim Moriarty was sat next to him, attempting to string a comforting sentence together for his ‘boyfriend’. ‘Boyfriend’ because Sherlock ever liked to label his and Jim’s relationship, more for the sake of the press and their reputation. Sherlock heaved a mournful sigh which was quickly followed up by another sigh of annoyance. He hated letting his feelings show. More to the point, he hated feeling all together.

Jim rested his hand on Sherlock’s thigh and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Oh Sherlock, I’m sorry your Mother is dead.”

Sherlock smiled briefly, a half-hearted smile that only just tugged at the corner of his lips. “I never introduced you to her. Apologies, Jim. I’m not and never have been one for family gatherings.”

“I suppose it’s not your fault.” Jim said airily.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “What isn’t my fault?”

Jim cleared his throat and changed his posture. “Hello. I’m William, Violet’s boy. I’m telling you my actual name because if I say Sherlock you’ll hear my sibilant ‘S’.”

“I do not have a sibilant ‘S’!” Sherlock snapped in defence, folding his arms much like an annoyed child.

“I don’t blame you!” Jim protested, smiling at Sherlock. “You’re ridiculous sometimes.”

Sherlock glared at Jim, adamant not to let a smile escape onto his lips. “Someone’s pissed off. Is your cat still missing?” The emphasis was of course intentional. Sherlock never had or never intended to care for the scrawny stray cat that Jim had decided to adopt of his own accord. It was annoying, pointless and in the way.

Jim clenched his jaw. “Yes, as a matter of fact, she is. I prefer her to you, by the way.” He muttered. A brief silence settled between them. “My poor baby…Lost on the streets…Cold and alone!”

“Oh please.” Sherlock scoffed. “That’s what happens when you insist on keeping rodents in the flat. He can stay out there for all I care. The flea-ridden thing sprayed my books. Leave him where he belongs.”

He was a female cat!” Jim huffed, sick and tired of having to tell Sherlock this every time it happened. “I told you Sherlock, names are important. If you call it Little Sheeba then you can’t expect it to stick around! You’re terrible at naming things. First Redbeard then Little Sheeba? Besides, it’s a dog’s name.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “Bring a ridiculous animal home and expect me to give it a ridiculous name.” He paused and thought for a second. “Hang on, I wanted a dog in the first place not a cat.” He complained. “Cats are stupid high-strung predators. Babylonians sealed them up in bricks. Dogs have brains.”

“The Egyptians didn’t seem to mind worshipping them! Cats have intuition. They know when there’s something wrong!”

“They only know that there’s something wrong if you stop feeding them.” Sherlock replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

Jim glared at Sherlock, eyes narrowing. “That’s why Sheeba left- because she knew.” Jim changed suddenly. He’d stopped being flamboyant and loud, his gaze had averted to the opposite direction to Sherlock and he was wringing his hands nervously in his lap.

“Knew what?” Sherlock questioned with a sigh. His tone was softer this time and he looked towards Jim. He was tired of this ridiculous debate over animals, it wasn’t important. Something was wrong with Jim. That was what was important.

Jim sighed heavily and tried to make a joke of the situation. He knew Sherlock had always hated it whenever Jim ever suggested the concept of the pair being a ‘normal’ domestic couple rather than a platonic relationship between a sociopath and a psychopath. “I did my best Shirley Booth this morning. Floppy slippers, housecoat, curlers, can of Little Friskies; ‘Come back, Little Sheeba! Come back!’ To no avail. Le chat, elle ne reviendra jamais, jamais…”

When Sherlock didn’t reply, both annoyed with Jim trying to make him laugh and confused at his sudden performance, Jim undid the buttons on the cuff of his sleeve and rolled it up. On the underside of his arm was a dark bruise near the shoulder. Sherlock knew that it could have meant a multitude of things so he didn’t want to rule anything out just yet. Sherlock did what he does best and assumed.

“It’s just a burst blood vessel, Jim.” His tone was calm and careful.

“Not according to the best medical authorities. Get your soldier on the phone if you want proof, Sherlock.” Jim’s eyes were cold and dark. Emotionless.

“What?” Sherlock pressed. “Tell me what it is.”

“K.S., baby. Lesion number one. The wine-dark kiss of the angel of death.”

Sherlock took hold of Jim’s arm gently and wrapped his fingers around Jim’s wrist. “God, no…Please.”

Jim began to ramble, his head overloaded with emotion. “I’m a lesionnaire. The Foreign Lesion. The American Lesion. Lesionnaire’s disease.”

Sherlock couldn’t take it. “Stop.”

“My troubles are Lesion.” Jim continued.

“Will you stop?”

“Don’t you think I’m handing this well? I’m going to die.”

Sherlock’s voice cracked slightly. “Shut up, Jim.

“Let go of my arm.” Jim complained, feeling Sherlock’s fingers press deeper into his wrist.

“No.”

“Let go.”

“No.” Sherlock enveloped Jim in his arms and buried his face into Jim’s neck.  Out of all the times Sherlock had nearly lost Jim and Jim had nearly lost Sherlock, Sherlock had never imagined a time where it would become real. Slowly, Sherlock began to regret every argument, every bicker they’d ever had and he hoped that that damned cat would reappear soon if only for Jim’s sake. He pulled Jim closer and squeezed him tight. This was never meant to happen.

Jim clung onto Sherlock and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I can’t find a way to spare you, Sherlock. No wall like the wall of hard scientific fact. K.S. Wham. Bang your head on that. I’m so sorry. I’d known since Sheeba ran away, I- I just didn’t want to worry you…”

Sherlock flew out of Jim’s arms and off the bench. “WELL I’M WORRIED NOW, JIM! YOU CAN’T JUST LEAVE LIKE THIS! YOU CAN’T LEAVE ME!” He cried. He ruffled his hair in anger and began to pace back and forth. He had to find an answer to this.

Jim rolled his eyes and watched Sherlock, not bothering to help him. “That’s what I like to hear, a mature reaction.” He tone dripped with sarcasm but Sherlock payed no attention.

“I’ll call John.” He started. “We can get you medication for the symptoms. Obviously it’s incurable but we can help you, alright? You’ll be okay.”

“You do that. Bad timing, your mother’s death and all, but I figured as long as we’re on the subject of death…”

“I have to go and see John.” Sherlock muttered more to himself and began to walk away without so much as a ‘goodbye’ to Jim.

“By darling.” Jim called after him, a sad smile on his face. “See you for dinner? Of course! I can order a Chinese, if you like? That’s how normal relationships end their conversations, so I’ve heard! Not ‘my boyfriend is dying but I’m going to go running to my brave little soldier to complain because I don’t have anyone else!’”

Sherlock span back around on his heels and promptly marched back towards Jim. He stood over him and pressed his forehead to Jim’s. “John has been nothing but good to me from the very beginning and while he has the authority to help you, I suggest you speak a little more kindly of him. I’m doing this for you.”

Jim locked eyes with Sherlock and smirked. “You’re sexy when you’re angry.” He murmured, leaning forward to peck Sherlock on the lips. “Will you come home when you’re done?”

“I’ll always come home.” Sherlock smiled and pressed a chaste kiss to Jim’s head before beginning his trek to John’s home in search for some answers and reassurance. “I’ll always come home.”