Chapter Text
"Consulting criminal." Sherlock whispers in awe, "Brilliant."
"Awe" seemed almost too simplistic a word to describe the feelings he had toward the man preening before him. Finally. Finally. Sherlock had been able to put a face to the name "Moriarty," and he was not at all disappointed by what he found.
Standing there, in a freshly pressed Westwood suit, James Moriarty, Dear Jim, Moriarty, was clean, proper, confident, brilliant, and conflicted. Until now they had been bantering, discussing the smaller man's chosen profession, Jim making some overtly sexual references along the way (that didn't seem to bother the detective at all).
Sherlock could read volumes about him, but what fascinates him in this very moment is the feeling of completion he feels, being this close to his nemesis, Without your first case, I never would've had mine… Without you, I never would've began.
"Isn't it? No one ever gets to me." For an instant, Sherlock sees something cross the Irishman's brow — sadness? "And no one ever will."
"I did." The detective replies quickly. The fleeting moment of humanity betrayed the criminal — until that point, Sherlock had assumed Jim was just flirting to off-put him. But no, it's never that simple, is it? He grinned, He wasn't just looking for a game… he was looking for a playmate. Must've met his standards…
"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way."
"Thank you." Oh, we could definitely be close.
"Didn't mean it as a compliment."
"Yes, you did."
"Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting's over Sherlock," No it's not, he thinks as Moriarty's voice goes falsetto, "Daddy's had enough now!"
Enough? We've just begun. The sleuth thinks, quite pleased with himself, You're really quite cute, but your genius intellect far outshines anything looks could ever give me. Don't you think you're trying too hard just to ask me out? I wouldn't mind a date or two…
"I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play."
All quite lavish tokens of your affection… Sherlock muses, no longer listening to Jim's actual words, Most people just go with flowers. If you'd wanted me attention this badly, you could've just given me your number as you are now… But perhaps I needed this whole charade… No one has ever tickled my fancy this thoroughly...
"So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off." Jim had gone serious for a moment, as he seemed to phase between giddy and deadpan on the slightest whim.
Brilliant, charismatic, clearly playful… I doubt a few romantic overtures would complicate our adversarial relationship… I also can't help but notice that we've gradually been shuffling toward each other this whole conversation… like magnetism, really.
"Although I have loved this — this little game of ours." He shifts around in glee, moving forward the slightest bit, another change taking place, "Playing Jim from I.T., playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"
Suddenly, Sherlock burst into laughter, unable to stop. Jim cocked his head to the side, perplexed — there had been many different reactions to direct threats before. But never laughter, "Something funny?"
"Dear Jim, you are."
"What?"
"You say, 'playing' like you mean it."
"What? I — it was an act, Sherlock."
"Oh? Then why are your eyes dilated?"
"This is thrilling, nothing more." Jim blinks a few times, as if it'd correct his pupil size.
"That's not all your eyes tell me, you know." Sherlock takes a step forward, high on confidence, "You've given me a good look-over, several times now."
Unconsciously, Jim takes a step backward, the look in the detective's eyes pure predatory, "Sizing up my enemy."
"Pun intended?" He smirks wickedly.
"I… no, you're just doing this to unnerve me." Moriarty regains his footing, moving forward until their faces are almost touching. "Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?"
"We gonna kiss?"
Moriarty shivers, the words hitting every vertebra of his spinal column. For a moment, he begins to lean forward, but snaps out of it, "Dear me, all out of accusations? Can't find anymore 'evidence' to support your delirium?" Did I just consider kissing Sherlock? No! He's the enemy. I want him gone, not in my bed.
"Oh no, I was just beginning. At the hospital, after you took off, I noted your eyebrows were tinted, you style your hair meticulously, your skin had clearly been treated consistently to keep that delicious sheen you've got going, and now —" Sherlock reaches out and grabs Jim's wrist violently, "Your pulse is well above slightly elevated."
"I could kill you!" Moriarty jerked his hand away from Sherlock, suddenly very afraid of what the detective was saying. In the reflection of Jim's eyes (his beautiful, gold and brown eyes), he can see sniper lasers, focusing around his sternum, "I will burn the heart out of you!" James' voice turns harsh, but Sherlock chuckles, continuing as if he hadn't spoken.
"So I must draw the conclusion that either you're aware of your attraction, and denying it. Or somehow it must be that the great Moriarty is a fool in the matters of the heart. Which is it?"
"Neither! I don't —"
"Please, Jim, lying is so unnecessary." He lightly caresses the criminal's face, who was now too stunned to pull away, "Especially when it's clear the feelings are mutual."
At a loss for words, Moriarty retreated into his head, "I'm not gay, Sherlock."
"Neither am I. But I know a kindred spirit when I see one." Lifting Jim's chin gently, the taller man bends slightly to press a kiss to his nemesis' lips.
It's quick, too quick for Moriarty to stop. But as their mouths touch, he's no longer sure he wants to. It's soft. Warm. Intoxicating. Involuntarily, he parts his lips, allowing Sherlock's tongue to trace them. His pulse has given up being elevated, now viciously throttling.
Sherlock's free hand rests on Jim's hip, gripping slightly. Pulling them flush together, the pressure so delightfully tantalizing. James realizes how unbearably close he is to moaning pathetically.
He had never considered himself a sexual being, or even had sex, for that matter. Sex was a distraction from the work, and thus not worth his interests. But in this moment, Jim considers the idea that he might be attracted to Sherlock. The person who most represented his work. The first person who was ever on his level.
Suddenly, he remembers where he is, and who he's with, lips now fumbling together hopelessly. This was not at all how he wanted this to turn out. Twitching away, the look of pure horror on Moriarty's face is enough to give the detective pause.
"Well…" Jim is terrified, realizing his quivering hand had unconsciously risen to Sherlock's, "I'd better be off. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes." He disengaged as calmly as he could, walking away at a brisk pace, trying not to let the jelly in his legs show.
"Catch you later!" Sherlock calls out playfully, "I'll text you!"
"No, you won't!" Jim replies gruffly, frightened by the fact he hopes he will.