"....murdered?" "....don't know....it....together?" "No...not.....sleeping." "Sure?"

James moaned while he opened his eyes - and regretted it at the same moment. Quickly he closed it again.
"To. Much. Light!"

His mouth was as dry as the desert in Egypt. But as if his wish was heard, someone held him a glass at his mouth and fast he drank it empty.
After that, he tried to stand up but it didn't work. If it was the hand which was laying on his chest or if he was just too - a hand!?

Again he tried to open his eyes and this time it worked. His vision cleared and he turned his head to the hand.
Moran and Johnson were sitting next to his bed. Johnson with the empty glass and Moran with his hand on him.
"Boss." Moran started, even before Jim could speak. "We found you knocked out on the roof of the St. Barts. We brought you in one of your quarter. You have a broken rib, you have to stay here."

Jim nodded to his most loyal Henchmen.

He had one important question, but he wasn't sure if he should ask it.
„What happened to London's favourite detective?" he ask as inconspicuously as possible in his typical psycho-voice.
„Sir, he jumped, as you said."
Externally Jim laughed, but inwardly his heart contracted when he heard that.

„Good! Then both of you can go."
His henchmen stood up, said goodbye and left.

The CC sighed and rubbed his hands over his face.
Sherlock was dead.
His equal arch enemy. His Nemesis.
The only person he felt something for.

So much to Stayin Alive.

~Ω~

The years went by and the genius legends were slowly but surely forgotten.

Jim developed his network and now expanded to Europe.
Just nobody knew it was his name that committed their crimes.
Technically only Moran and Johnson knew it, because the risk of being busted otherwise would be too high.
Nevertheless, he continued and even traveled several times to other countries.
At this moment he was in Germany - he had to travel from Berlin to Cologne and back.
His professional obligation had been fulfilled already and he decided to take a little vacation in the capital of Germany.
More or less he'd also given his men a pause so they disappeared into the next pub.
Jim just rolled his eyes.
They could have been in the middle of nowhere - Moran and Johnson would have found some beer.

Somehow Berlin reminded him of London. The traffic, the people, the old buildings.
The Boredom.
He strolled trough the city, looked at some sight halfway enthusiastically and then it happened.
He wanted to pass the Brandenburg Gate but he saw him.

On the other side of the symbol he was standing, with his dark tousled Curls and his long grey coat.
He was speaking urgently into his phone, but when he saw the Napoleon of Crime, he briefly said something quiet to the person he was speaking to and hung up.
Slowly the both men started walking, until they met on the half, just half a meter away.

"You're not dead." Jim said monotonously.
"Obviously." Sherlock responded.

The criminal had a plan. He smiled.
"Why didn't you kill me?"
Both of them knew the answer, but James wanted to hear it.
Wanted to hear it from Sherlock.
Sherlock said nothing - he looked like he was thinking hardly.
Then he took a step closer and said: "It would have gotten boring by time."

The Consulting Criminal couldn't and wouldn't let him get away with this.
He also took a step closer, so their faces were just some inches away and whispered: "I am sure, next time I ask you, you will tell the truth, Sherlock Holmes. I'll make sure of that."
And with that he pressed his lips on the Consulting Detective's.