Work Text:
It’s only soft after sex.
They are naked and tired and James Moriarty - consulting criminal, the spider at the centre of the web, the most dangerous man in the country and ten more epithets Sherlock uses to dehumanize him during work - is snuggling against him.
He. Is. Snuggling.
He’s snuggling and he looks so vulnerable, all messy hair and soft skin and lips just curled in a tiny smile and chest slowly raising and falling that Sherlock almost falls in love. Almost.
“Jim?”
The man doesn’t even bother to open his eyes. He hums, low and content, before placing a soft kiss on his chest, right next to a particularly purple hickey.
“Jim, tell me a secret.”
Jim furrows his brows.
“Secrets are meant to be kept, silly.”
“I know what secrets are.”
If the situation weren’t so peaceful, he would be offended. He’s not though, so he runs a hand in Jim’s hair, combing it back and tracing his scalp with the fingertips. He can’t help but think of when they took a bath together and washed each other’s hair. It’s a pleasant memory, it paints a soft smile on his lips.
“I just… I don’t know that much about you. I mean, i’m without any doubt the person who knows you b–”
“Of course you are.”
“Don’t interrupt me. You are annoy— and don’t bite. I was talking, if you didn’t notice.”
“You never mind me biting you, but whateverrr”
Sherlock rolls his eyes but doesn’t reply - Jim is right after all - and keeps talking, simply ignoring the remark.
“As I was saying, I don’t know much about you, but thanks to my brother you know everything about me. It’s not fair.”
He’s capable of connecting dots that other people can’t even see, he can link together crimes that happened at the same time in two different countries, he can see Moriarty’s touch with a single glance and yet, there are so many things he doesn’t know about the man himself.
He’s learning though.
He found out that he always hums the same song when he’s happy, a traditional irish melody Sherlock has memorized just for him, just to play it with his violin. He also makes terrible math jokes (”Why do they never serve beer at a math party? Because you can't drink and derive...”) and cooks wearing a terrible apron Sherlock hates. It has “kiss the cook” written on it and Jim always steals a kiss from him and laughs and Sherlock pouts.
When he’s sad - sad isn’t the right word, but is the word Sherlock uses, because he doesn’t want to admit the truth, because he’s pretending to not see the symptoms of bipolar disorder - he either talks about his work a lot or wants to have sex not-stop.
(Sometimes Jim doesn’t leave his room. He lays on the bed, with clothes that smell and dirty hair and Sherlock sits by his side and tries to take care of him and doesn’t know what to say and what to do and he wants to leave, because he’s uncomfortable. He did left once. When he came back home he had to force two fingers down Jim’s throat. Sherlock doesn’t like to think about it, though.)
So yes, he’s learning, but there are gaps that he can’t fill, no matter how much he observes Jim.
How is his family? Is he still in touch with his parents, are they even alive? What did he like when he was a child? Does he still like those things? Did he try to have friends? What exactly Carl did to him?
There are many other questions and Sherlock repeats them in his mind, as if doing that would help him find an answer.
“Life isn’t fair. But for you, I can make an exception.”
Jim opens his eyes and looks at him. He stays in silence for a couple of seconds - always dramatic - lips just parted and Sherlock can’t stop staring at his mouth, heart beating a little too fast.
“I sing Ke$ha in the shower.”
Sherlock wants to punch him.
“That’s not a secret.”
Jim laughs and Sherlock sits up. He wants it to be serious.
“I want something more important. More…” He stops a moment, trying to find the right word. “Personal.”
(I want to know you even more, thinks. We don’t have much time.)
Something shifts in Jim. His eyes are different.
He waits Sherlock, expectation and curiosity running in his veins. Jim moves and sits on his lap.
Sherlock doesn’t have the time to say anything, there are lips on his own, lips that kiss him roughly and there are hands on his shoulder that push him down on the mattress again.
After a while, Sherlock tries to break the kiss, but Jim doesn’t allow him, pulling him back on his mouth again. When Jim moves, Sherlock’s lungs hurt.
“I want you to be the cause of my death, someday. I love you.”