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Control is one of Jim’s main priorities, both in his work and in his personal life. Control is, after all, the key to success, and is tantamount to safety and security. The thought of what could happen if he were to lose that control drives him insane, and perhaps even frightens him little. He’s not quite sure where such a loss would leave him or, more importantly, who he would he would be without it.
He trusts Sherlock. Not in a conventional way, mind you, and certainly not on a professional level. From an official viewpoint, the two of them are sworn enemies, and if Jim gets careless he knows that Sherlock won't hesitate in handing him over to see him brought to justice. On a personal level, though, Jim trusts him implicitly, and not just with his life. He trusts him with what lies beneath the shell of the Consulting Criminal, behind the Psychopath Bullshit and the smile that never quite manages to reach his eyes. Jim trusts Sherlock with himself; with Jim Moriarty.
It ought to scare him more than it does. Jim is often afraid that he lets Sherlock see too much of the heart he claims not to have. At times, the mere thought of it makes him feel weak and pathetic and a just a little bit vulnerable. That being said, Jim is a killer. His heart was burned out a long time ago. He doesn’t do sentiment. He doesn’t do love. He doesn’t do any of it.
Unless he’s with Sherlock.
Jim's violent nature all too often gets the better of him. When aggression claws at his mind and frustration dominates his body, when the all-too-familiar sensation of psychosis looms in the corners of his conscious mind, he’ll take control. He’ll hold Sherlock down and fiercly shove his lips against his, press searing, bruising kisses to his throat and fuck him hard and fast. There’ll be blood; nails clawing at and lacerating skin while teeth bite into soft flesh. There’ll be harsh groans and sharp panting and Jim will howl when he comes.
On occassion, though, things are very different. Sherlock can always recognise the subtle shifts in Jim’s behavior, he’s learned to detect each and every one of the signs. During these times, a dull sort of numbness seems to wash over Jim and leave him strangely quiet, inside and out. Sherlock knows - or rather, they both know - the brutal truth of the situation. Jim doesn’t just want to feel, but needs to feel like someone out there genuinely cares. He wants to be held, to be touched, to feel safe for a little while because Jim’s never felt safe, not until he met Sherlock.
It’s twisted and disturbing and wrong because Jim is a vile monster and a cold, vicious lunatic who doesn’t deserve any of it. He’s slowly corrupting Sherlock and the part of him that’s still human hates it. Sherlock is the good one, he’s supposed to stay innocent and clean and pure and…
and…
And then he pushes Jim back against his bed whilst cradling his head and pressing soft, passion-filled kisses to his lips. He’s gentle, he’s always so gentle. He carefully removes Jim’s clothes and smoothes his warm hands over Jim’s body as if he’s made of glass. He moves against Jim, skin on skin, and it’s all so tender that Jim thinks he might just melt. He takes his time prepping Jim, making sure he’s relaxed and comfortable and ready before he finally pushes in, and even then, his movements are slow and sickeningly sweet. Jim’s tempted to think that the touches are loving, but he doesn’t dare consider love as a possibility. It’s a concept that he’s never quite understood, and one that has always frightened him.
Soft moans fill the room and Jim croons Sherlock’s name, curling his fingers into his back and closing his eyes, allowing himself to feel.
Sherlock leans down and touches his lips to Jim’s, gently teasing his tongue against them before slipping through and feeling the heat of Jim’s mouth against his own. Jim finds himself responding immediately, pulling the taller man closer and burying himself in the feeling of Sherlock all around him, from his warm touch to the smell of expensive cologne and old chemistry textbooks.
Sherlock has more self-restraint than Jim - he knows how to pace himself, how to put Jim’s pleasure before his own and time it just right so that they share the moment of climax. After which, he’ll pause for a bit and stare down at Jim as they both come down from the high of orgasm. He’ll stroke his forehead and press kisses to the edge of his mouth, and even though he's dying to know what's wrong, what's changed, what's different, he'll never ask.
They'll lay down together, and Sherlock will pull Jim’s body toward his own. Jim’ll rest his head on Sherlock’s chest, close his eyes and let himself be held. Sherlock will comb his fingers through Jim’s hair and whisper sweet nothings into his ear until he feels the smaller body relax against him, till he hears the gentle breathing even out as Jim drifts off.
The next morning, things will inevitably go back to normal. Jim will be his usual sassy, borderline-psychotic criminal bastard self, and Sherlock will match him as the cold, uncaring, sociopathic consulting detective. It will be almost as if the tender happenings of the night before never happened; as if they never shared those soft, tender, loving touches.
These nights are the very reason Jim dreads the day that their macabre little dance will come to an end. On that day, he and Sherlock will end up face to face, guns drawn and games lost. There will be no winners, though, no victory, as only the bitter taste of death will remain. One will die and the other will be left behind, alone, guilt-ridden and grieving.
The worst part of all is that Jim has long since accepted that he won’t be able to do it - he won’t be able to actually go through with killing Sherlock, no matter how many times he has threatened it. It's a lose-lose situation. It's his undeniable love for the man that will hold him back in the end. Jim’s love for Sherlock will render him incapable of pulling the final trigger. How could he?
All in all, the situation is out of Jim’s control.
Almost.