Jim Moriarty unlocked his front door.
But when he entered, he was not filled with a welcome silence, but with soft tones of a delicate melody.

There was only one person who could break into him and then play the violin.

Listening to the piece, careful not to make any further noise, he stepped through the hallway into the spacious living room and saw the only consulting detective worldwide standing at the extensive glass front, while he ran his bow fluently over the strings of the instrument.
It had been a long time since they met. And that was on a hospital roof when they'd both faked their deaths.

The Consulting Criminal sat down in an armchair and continued to quietly listen to the sounds. Almost silently he poured himself a glass of scotch, which stood on the glass coffee table next to the piece of furniture along with a glass carafe and another glass.

It was only when the tune subsided and Holmes turned to him that he spoke.
"What makes me the honor of your visit, Sherlock? After all these years." With the glass in hand, he motioned for the detective to sit down too. The latter complied with the silent request and took a seat on a second armchair. He carefully placed the violin and its bow next to the carafe. He also poured himself a glass with the gold-colored liquid and replied soberly: "I was bored."

The Consulting Criminal raised the corner of his mouth. "But we both know that's not true." He muttered; the glass to his lips. He took a sip and then asked: "Your own composition?" Sherlock didn't move, but made a sound of approval. He stared at James as if he was feverishly trying to find out what James was up to next.
James grinned. "Sherly, I don't want to disappoint you, but you won't find out what I'm planning until I want to. Not previously. And let's be honest, it would ruin everything if you knew beforehand what I'm up to and who I'm going to have killed. "
So they sat in silence for a while and sipped their drinks.

"Why did you stop playing?" Sherlock asked at some point.
Of course the detective had looked around his house. In doing so, sooner or later he must have stumbled upon the grand piano, which was in the room that James used the least and which was getting dusty.
"There's little time in my job, you should know that." James sounded tired and maybe melancholy.
"I really enjoyed playing, but at some point I just couldn't find the time or rest."
He attributed it to the second empty glass that he was so talkative to his archenemy.

"You're dead, you have time." Sherlock looked at him intently.
He sighed and got up. What was wrong with him today?
"Why not?"
He walked leisurely down the long hall and out the stairs, Sherlock close behind him; the violin in his hand.
When he got to the room, James pushed the door open and entered the room, which was darkened by heavy curtains.
He brushed the dust off the small bench in front of the grand piano and sat down.
He gently stroked the keys so that the dust would also disappear here before he began the first notes of an old melody.

His fingers moved as if by themselves and he closed his eyes.
It was like a long-forgotten longing that suddenly flared up again.
He'd forgotten the feel of his fingers on the keys and the music in his ears, but now that he connected them again, he knew he had to keep playing.
He couldn't help it.
Whenever he was sad as a child, he would sit down at his piano and play. Whenever he was bullied and beaten up. Whenever he didn't know why he was still walking on this earth at all.
It had made him stayin alive.

As the piece neared the end, he let the next one flow in so that it sounded like one.
The first few bars of River Flows in You began.
Then he heard the familiar melody, but different from how he played it.
He opened his eyes and saw Sherlock, who had picked up his violin and was now playing along.

They played and played.
It was getting dark outside.
The red of the evening disappeared behind the roofs, but James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes continued to play.
And every piece they played they looked each other in the eyes.
They exchanged so many words and yet their lips didn't move.

Because the music spoke for them.

And when the sun rose again and they stopped, there was a mute promise in the air.

They sealed this promise with a kiss bathed in golden light by the sun.