Chapter Text
It’s dark when Sherlock finally arrives home. He’d been following a lead, or rather, following a crook. It had started off as a boring case regarding the production and sale of counterfeit passports. Hardly worth his time, until people started showing up with their hands, feet and head chopped off. Overall nasty business; the measures taken to hide the identity of a body can be truly gruesome. Thank God for DNA testing - half of the so-far-8 victims had been identified using it. That’s what you get for having a criminal record - you’re easily identifiable, dead or alive.
He tosses his coat and scarf over the back of John’s arm chair on his way to bed, too tired to bother with hanging it up. It’s the early hours of the morning and he hasn’t slept properly for a couple of days - it’s well and truly time to crash. He doesn’t turn the lights on as he strips, carelessly discarding his clothes in an untidy pile on the chair in the corner, before climbing into bed clad only in his boxers.
“Boo.”
Sherlock practically jumps out of his skin as he hears the voice beside him cut through the silence, shooting up in bed and turning to face the intruder, braced to defend himself.
“Christ, Jim?” He gasps, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. He curses under his breath as he lies back down, wondering just how Jim had managed to allude his attention. Perhaps he was off his game - he was tired, afterall - or maybe he was just losing his touch?
“Surprise!” Jim says playfully, a cheeky Cheshire cat grin on his face. He’s laying on his front at the other side of the bed, his arms crossed lazily under his head. “Did you miss me today? That’s alright, I know you did. I missed you too.”
“What are you doing here?” He inquires, growing considerably calmer as the shock of finding an uninvited guest in his bed begins to subside. He ought to be used to this by now.
“Tell me you missed me?” Jim whines, pulling a joke of a sad face and somewhat predictably ignoring Sherlock's question.
"Since when does your 'missing me' warrant a house call?" Sherlock shakes his head and, despite his initial irritation, finds a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Of course I missed you. Now, tell me why you’re here.”
“I just came to see my favourite consulting detective." He purrs as he rolls over and climbs on top of Sherlock. "I’ve been waiting for you to come home for hours.” He carefully manuevers himself so that he's sitting on Sherlock's hips, before leaning down to brush their lips together in a slow, chaste kiss as he feels Sherlock's hands slowly making their way up his thighs, heavy and warm, squeezing when they reach his arse. He's not really sure what he's doing or why he's doing it. He's too tired for sex, and he really ought to get Jim to leave because he knows the drill: He isn’t allowed in the flat - especially not when John is asleep right upstairs... But then Jim rolls his hips and lets out a delicious moan, and he really can’t help himself. Lifting his head off the bed, he forces his tongue into Jim’s mouth as he kisses him full on.
It’s hot and desperate. Jim is sucking on his tongue and rubbing himself against Sherlock like an animal in heat, all while making obscene little noises that seem to go right the way to Sherlock’s cock. His fingers are teasing the cool metal of Jim’s belt buckle, unhooking it and slipping it open before he moves his attention to his trousers. He’s just managed to get the button open and his fingers are on the zipper, when all of a sudden Jim pulls away. Within seconds, his hands are locked around Sherlock’s throat, squeezing tightly, the tips of his fingers digging in painfully.
Sherlock looks up at him and sees pure rage. The furious glint in Jim’s eyes borders on psychotic, and it scares Sherlock. His hands shift to Jim’s wrists on reflex, desperately trying to pry him off, digging his thumbs into all the right pressure points, but Jim doesn’t relent. He isn't quite sure what’s come over him, and he doesn’t have the faintest clue what the lunatic is thinking, but he does know that he’s in serious trouble.
His vision swims and he realises that he’s running out of time and oxygen. He twists a hand around one of Jim’s little fingers and slowly starts to bend it backwards, mouthing at him: ‘I will break it’.
As the pain starts to kick in, he gives up and loosens his grip just enough for Sherlock to draw in a lungful of air. Jim leans in closer. “I hate you.” He hisses through his teeth. “I hate you. I fucking hate you.” His words are raw and painful, bleeding with anger and sounding almost as if they were torn from his throat. What bothers Sherlock most of all is the desperate sadness that lurks behind Jim’s dark pupils. Looking into Jim’s eyes is like looking into an abyss - a cold, empty, never-ending abyss. It’s wrong and, oddly, just a little bit heartbreaking. It takes Sherlock a moment to register the tears in Jim’s eyes. The realisation doesn’t last long, however, as Jim’s fingers twitch, tightening once more.
Sherlock's survival instincts kick in at that point and, using the weight of Jim's own body against him, he flips them over, pinning the smaller man under him and looking directly into his eyes. He hadn’t thought Jim capable of crying, and for a moment it’s truly fascinating. He wants to taste them, he wants to bottle them and sell them on the black market. Tears of a psychopath, the impossible marvel. Come one, come all.
“Snap out of it." Sherlock demands, his voice somewhat hoarse from being half strangled. "What’s wrong with you?”
“You and John are fucking.” He replies coldly. It isn't an accusation so much as Jim stating a fact - he knows.
“So you thought you’d come in here and try to throttle me to death?” Sherlock near-growls, his fists bunched around Jim’s collar.
“I. Hate. You.” Jim snarls in response, each word dripping with its own share of venom. “And I’m going to burn you. I'm going to completely destroy you, Sherlock. I hate you.”
Sherlock loses his patience at that point, and before he realises what he’s doing, his knuckles collide with Jim’s jaw in a hard punch causing his head to snap violently to the side. When he turns back, his lips and teeth are stained with blood.
“I hate you.” He repeats, his anger morphing into something else entirely as his voice becomes unusually strained. “I hate you.”
The pity Sherlock feels for the man is surpassed only by his anger. How dare Jim try to make him feel guilty for this? He’s a criminal. He kills people. A murderer has no right to judge someone for acting on their feelings. He's well within his rights to do whatever he wants with whoever he wants. It’s none of Jim’s business.
“Poor little Jim…” Sherlock taunts, his voice a low, cruel whisper. He moves forward, leaning into Jim’s smaller frame as he speaks. “I bet you’re positively devastated about this. You must feel so very betrayed.”
Jim laughs, and it's a bitter, hollow sound that sends a shiver down Sherlock's spine. “You're still trying to humanise me. What a joke. It's adorable - really, it is. Tell me, is that how you justify this? Us?” Jim's demeanour shifts, his eyes narrowing into thin, furious slits. “Get off of me. Get away from me now.”
It takes all of Sherlock's will power and more for him not to move upon hearing that deep, demanding, dangerous tone. “I don’t think I will.” he breathes, before shoving him down harder. “What are you going to do?”
Jim responds by lashing out, scratching Sherlock in the struggle and managing to land a solid punch to his cheek. To his credit, he almost manages to throw the larger man off. The battle is lost when he finds himself with his arms pinned above his head, completely immobilised. It only takes one of Sherlock’s hands to hold both Jim’s wrists in place as the other snakes up his body and curls its way around his throat.
“We appear to have reversed our roles.” Sherlock emphasises his point with a gentle squeeze to Jim’s neck. “Look at you. How very pathetic you are. You're a criminal, a genius, and one of the most powerful men in London... But right here, right now, in this room, you’re just a frightened body trapped under mine. You need control - you crave it." He pauses to lick his lips, studying Jim intently. The ghost of fear in his eyes is positively delightful. "You must be terrified.”
Jim doesn't respond, merely opting to glare at his nemesis defiantly, teeth clenched as he tugs at his wrists. Jim's breathing is considerably faster than it ought to be, Sherlock notes as he observes the man's chest rising and falling rapidly. Jim Moriarty, afraid. How novel. He finds himself inching forward and touching his lips to Jim’s neck. It's an oddly intimate gesture, he thinks, the drum of Jim's pulse hard against his mouth. In a way, it's oddly satisfying to know that he can have such a profound effect on the criminal, who appears to have stopped struggling for the time being. He parts his lips and sucks the line of the smaller man's pulse softly, feeling the blood racing past his tongue.
He presses a gentle kiss to the hollow of his throat, before pulling back. “I thought as much. Tell me, Jim, are you frightened?”
Jim swallows and closes his eyes, the action causing a tear or two to slip through one of his eyelids and trickle down the side of his face, before settling uncomfortably in his hair. “Why are you doing this?” He asks, his voice cracked and broken and weak.
“Why am I doing this? You just tried to kill me!” Sherlock snaps as he tightens his hold on Jim, all but snarling in his face. “Or did you forget that part?”
“Get off of me. I’ve had enough of this. Just get off.” Jim squirms, shifting his body and resisting Sherlock's firm grip.
“Give me one reason why I should.”
Jim opens his eyes then, allowing Sherlock to see the raw emotion tucked away behind them. He waits a moment, letting it all sink in. He watches the detective's face as he registers what he is seeing - as he takes in the sheer pain that is written all over Jim’s face. He doesn't believe it. He doesn't believe Jim to be capable of sentiment of any description - the idea of him being hurt by it is a complete shock to the system, mostly because there's no way he could have been that wrong about Jim's character.
In a flash, any semblance of sadness is gone, replaced by a wicked, almost depraved smirk. "Oh, I can think of one reason." He draws in a long, deep breath, before shouting as loudly as his lungs will let him:
“JOHN!”