“Sherlock!” Huffing in a breath, the Irishman pressed a hand to his lips as if he was truly shocked. “Civilised men discuss their plans and issues face to face,” he insisted, having no idea (or every idea) that he was mirroring the words spoken by Sherlock’s brother at right about that time. They had a good relationship, he and Big Brother. And little sister, incidentally, too. Oh, he did love the Holmeses so, but none quite as much as the man sitting in front of him.

Jim didn’t so much as touch Sherlock as he rose to his feet and titter-tottered over the cut in his head with a fawning sort of lack of compassion.

“Besides, I’ve wanted you over quite badly for forever, and here you are!” He turned, arms wide open, to indicate this shell of a room (for it was indeed a shell, not actually his place at all but a reconstruction of a living room of quite good taste thank you, in a warehouse with a lovely view of the city from the Southbank. “We shall have such a fun night, two of us!”