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Jim has ventured down only rarely since his birthday, and only then because there's a party on. He is liking Bar's decision to paint his face for the duration! It's fun!

And then he comes to the bar for lunch. His gentle internal wondering of why Sherlock wasn't in bed when he woke up this morning is answered when he's presented with a note.

Jim goes very still. He remains very still for a long time, the paper crumpling evvvvvvvver so slowly in his fingers, creases cracking like ice dropped into water. He's glad of the face paint for a whole different reason, because oh, he's proud of Sherlock, he's proud of him for this, but he's going to fucking kill him as well, and do it properly this time. The game plays on. Yes. Yes, it does, and thank God, because at least this proves they really will never be ordinary.

So he laughs. Loudly, and with a manic edge he doesn't even try to hide. Well done, Sherlock. You even left the note in the bar, rather than somewhere private. Well, then it deserves a public reaction. Jim shuts up and shakes his head, almost fond. He straightens his pristine jacket, and smooths his hair back.

Then he turns and picks up the nearest chair, swings it over his head and smashes it to pieces on the floor. He smashes it until he's left with nothing but a leg, which spins out from his hand across the room, whipping through the air.

Sorry if it bounces off you?

[OOC: Birthday link is lots of NSFW, natch. And it's probably obvious, but Jim's a tad erratic in this EP and may be prone to outbursts.)

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He looks her up and down, a sneer forming in one corner of his painted mouth. He saw a few things at that party.

'Want a drink?'

"Always."

She herself didn't see Jim at the party, but then she was busy with conversation and drinking. Whatever he saw, well, it was out in public.

It absolutely was, and it's none of his business anyway, plus the fact that literally anything could have happened recently and he wouldn't give a damn.

He snaps his fingers for a rat, and waves a hand to gesture that she should order what she wants. It gives him a minute or two to try and reign himself back in, though y'know, he doesn't try very hard.

"Apple cider and rum."

It was so good at the party and scotch all the time is getting boring.

He dismisses the rat without adding anything. He couldn't drink, and probably shouldn't be given glass. Besides, the note is still crumpled in his fist, and he's not about to let it go in case he reads it again.

Tess says nothing about his lack of order, though she does notice the piece of paper in his fist.

"Did he leave?"

'Mm.'

And it's fine! Good, even. But the manner in which he did it - the words he used - not great.

'Not surprisingly.'

Got something to say about it, Tess?

What, like good riddance? It's about time? You're better off?

She made a promise she wouldn't and she's not about to renege on it now, not when he's so volatile.

"You were expecting him to go?"

She is wise. It wouldn't be the best time. Granted, none of those things would ever find a good time to be said.

He swallows, and stretches his neck out again.

'No, not yet.'

Perhaps not at all. He's a convincing liar, Sherlock. Jim was never sure, and he preferred to believe he really was dead. It was a mistake, and not one he'll make again.

'But he'll be back.'

She's aware of that, too. That doesn't mean she can't think them.

She mulls what he says over for a moment.

"He went home, didn't he."

A pause.

"That means he's not dead."

Jim's cheek twitches under the paint, and his free fingers jerk involuntarily.

'Yep.'

It almost sounds flip. But not quite; it's a touch too sharp for that. He shrugs though (also sharp, also too quick)..

'But that was also a risk, and I don't hold it against him.'

He prepped for it. He half-expected it. He has left a trail behind him in the expectation of it.

Still, the moment of finding out is not pleasant.

"I'm sorry."

It's said softly and genuinely. She has no doubt Jim's prepared for this turn of events, but that doesn't mean he isn't hurt by it.

Hurt.

Hurt.

No, he wouldn't say hurt. Wouldn't admit to it, anyway. It's just that he could have let him know in a different way. And of course there's an element of annoyance at having a perfect, neat ending ruined, but the game plays on doesn't it, and that means there's always another chance to tie things off some other time.

'Don't be. He'll be having fun, out there destroying my work. We can't deny him that.'

Because of course that's what he meant by 'there's work to be done'. What else is there?

They could deny him that. She could at the very least.

And now the inner battle is to not say 'I told you so'. His schemes wouldn't last, no one would remember. All they'll remember now is that Sherlock was right.

She manages to hold her tongue.

"So what's the plan in the meantime, more furnituricide?"

But Jim knows there are always people who will never be fully convinced about Sherlock now. The British public doesn't forget that easily. And it's not going to be so easy to prove that Jim was ever real. Poor Richard is a thing that exists, in every way that matters.

'Who cares? There doesn't have to be a plan, any more.'

(There is a plan. But it won't hit until Sherlock thinks he's safe again, and that won't be for years.)

'I'm retired, darling. I can do what I want.'

"And I bet you will."

Retired or not, Tess doubt he'll ever not have a plan aboout something or other. It may not necessarily be about Sherlock, but she has the feeling there are people in the bar who'd best watch their step when it comes to James Moriarty.

Maybe she's one of them, but at the moment, she can't quite seem to care about down the road.

"Do you need anything for the time being?"

'Like what?'

He tilts his head to the side, and regards her sharply.

'What have you got that would help?'

(Of course there are people who need to watch their step. There always are. And there's always a plan.)

"I don't know, what do you want?"

She's still searching for islands with volcanoes on them.

He spreads his hands out and lets them drop to his sides, an exasperated sigh huffing out of him.

'Something that would surprise me. Something new.'

But even if she had that, he bets she wouldn't tell him or let him see. She doesn't trust him - which is sensible - but it's no help.

"Well, I do have this. It's not necessarily useful, but it's what you asked for."

She fishes a handkerchief out of her pants pocket and hands it over to him.

Wrapped carefully inside is a gold lapel pin, a fox sitting on a green stone at the top.

An eyebrow goes up. Okay. Possibly interesting.

'Is it what I think it is?'

He runs a thumb over the green stone.

"It's not an emerald."

And probably not available in his world, anywhere.

"I was going to have them change it to a demon bunny, but it was too late."

She kids, she kids.

He licks along his bottom lip, and tastes paint.

'Can I keep it?'

He likes the fox too. Pertinent to the fairytales he has been known to play by.

"It's yours. I had it made for you."

Which means of course he can keep it. It's not large enough to do any damage should he encounter a Kryptonian, except maybe give them a small wave of nausea. Otherwise, she wouldn't be giving it to him at all.

'Oh.'

He looks at it again. A gift, then. People give him gifts here, and it's weird.

'Thanks.'

He wraps it back up and slides it into his pocket. He'll make sure and tell Sherlock where he got it. Fan those newly-found jealousy flames, because the git deserves it right now. That aside, this calms enough to let him sit down, though he's restless in the chair and his eyes don't stop flicking around the room.

'Did I say I'd give you anything in return?'