Back from hell.

Days crept by slowly.
Too slow.
Every second in time seemed a lifetime, dwelling it.

Sherlock laid down on his bed, staring into oblivious. Ever since he had faked his own death he had been hiding away in the shadows. It had been two long years since he tossed himself off that roof. John's face, screams and words still coming to his mind as he thought about that fatal sunday morning. A long shiver ran down his spine and let goosebumps all over his body.

Only 2 people knew he was still around.

First there was Molly. If it weren't for her, Sherlock wouldn't even be here any more. She faked the whole thing, from papers to the actual deed. He couldn't be thankful enough, however he failed at expressing it to her.

The second one was his older brother Mycroft. He had to tell Mycroft. He needed a place to stay long enough until he could return. If he ever could do so in the first place. Mycroft kept him updated, about John most of the time. "He lost some serious weight." "He's limping again." "He avoids meeting up with others." Only a few examples of how broken up he had left his best friend.

On Moriarty's concerns, Sherlock had been trying to trace his network down. However, it seemed to have fallen apart. Cells has moved or seemed to be destroyed by the government already. At first Sherlock had considered the option that if he could fake his own death, so could his enemy. But nothing, not a single path led to that direction and eventually Sherlock got convinced the man was dead.

As he sank deeper into his thoughts, he thought it might be time to return to John. Moriarty was gone and so were his men. Was it finally save enough to show himself again? To face the man he had broke down completely? If so, would he even have the guts? Would John even want to see his face again after what he did?

With all these things on his mind, Sherlock drifted off and fell asleep.
Another day had passes.
Another day hiding away.
Another boring, lonely day was waiting for him to wake up again.

James Moriarty never made mistakes. His mind was far too complex and capable of mapping out everything that he planned. In fact, the last time someone accused Moriarty of making a mistake, he had the man shot by the end of the day. (It would've been a different story if the man hadn't accused him in front of a group of important clients.)

Lately, however, he had begun to have doubts about his track record. Moriarty found himself growing tired of the monotony of his life. Now that Sherlock Holmes had been taken care of, there was nothing for Moriarty to look forward to. No one to keep an eye on. No one to play with.

When it seemed that Moriarty couldn't take anymore of this dull lifestyle, whispers began to circulate that a man long thought dead was, in fact, not. He had a contact that worked close to Mycroft Holmes confirm the rumors.

Hearing this, Moriarty went into a blind rage, destroying almost everything valuable that was within his reach. The thought of being bested by Sherlock Holmes made him furious for days. Until one day, he woke up with a smile on his face.

It was fate. It had to be. Their fairytale was not done just yet, not by a long shot. It was time for a new game.

He planned a crime that would catch the attention of Sherlock Holmes, who was probably going insane with boredom like himself. Moriarty knew what the man wanted, what he needed. And he was going to give it to him.

The victim was insignificant. A useless piece of humanity that was better off dead. However, to make sure it was noticed, he chose Kitty Riley- the journalist who Moriarty stayed with as Richard Brook. And, as an extra bonus for the man, he had had the killer leave behind a book of fairytales that contained a single orange seed.

James Moriarty could only hope that Sherlock was still willing to play.

Sherlock woke up rather early that morning. It seemed like the sun had only just started to get up. His hand lazily grabbed his phone.

5.16AM; No new messages, again.

With a sigh Sherlock got up from his bed. After a quick shower he got dressed.
Not his formal way of dressing, just casual black jeans with a loose black sweater on top.
He had to go out, to get breakfast and some fresh air. It had been days since he last had breakfast, but it seemed like the perfect reason to leave his shelter. He was slowly going insane from staring at the same 4 walls all of the time.

As he walked outside, Sherlock inhaled deep. The morning air filling his lungs and making his brain calm down just a little. His head faced down, looking at his own feet as he draped his still wet curls with the cap of his jacket.

By now Sherlock could walk this same road with his eyes closed. He always attempted the same coffee bar only 2 streets away. They never recognized him, most likely because they had never heard his story.

As he ordered himself a coffee, he sat down far away from the window, the news paper of that day gripped between his fingers. Expecting the same old boring cover about economics or the aftermath of the queens jubilee, Sherlock unfolded it. His eyes widened drastically as he, surprisingly, saw something completely different.

Famous journalist Kitty R. Killed.

Sherlock's heart clenched in his chest as he started to read the article. Of course they mentioned his story. Some sourced even explained they think someone was avenging him. This wasn't good. It was far from. He needed attention on him to die, his story needed to be wiped away, not dug back up.

Sherlock left the café straight away, he needed to head back home, to think. Within minutes he found himself opening up his front door and as he walked back in, the expected visitor was already waiting for him.

"Mycroft." He said formal. "I presume you're here because of this." He said, holding out the news paper he had just been reading. "Yes. Sherlock." He said with his familiar distant tone. "There is something strange about it." He started. "Strange?" Sherlock scoffed as a reply. "You want me to have a look at you because police got stuck? Now that it's someone famous and concerning me? Sorry, Mycroft. Can't help. You were the one forbidding me to do any more cases after all." Sherlock snapped a little.

Annoyed his brother rolled his eyes and took out a small package out of his bad. "This was found next to the body. Recognize it? Does it mean anything?"

Sherlock accepted the package, opening it and widening his eyes once more. Of course he recognized it. How could he not? But that was impossible. That couldn't be. For the first time in 2 years something actually told him that Moriarty might still be around.

"No idea." Sherlock said confident just before sending Mycroft away.
If this was Moriarty, he didn't want to involve anyone. Not even his brother. He had to deal with this himself.

Once he was alone again, he opened up the book. A single seed fell out, an orange seed, something Sherlock couldn't straight away lie his finger on. This either came from someone as insane as Moriarty, trying to mirror his work, to be as successful and just get a bit of the attention Moriarty used to get.

Or this was actually him. But how? How could he still be around?

Grinning like a child at Christmas, Moriarty read the headline of the newspaper on the table in front of him. He was sitting next to the window in a cafe across the street from a coffee bar where one of his men said he'd seen a man fitting Sherlock's description. (Even though he was considered dead, Moriarty still had eyes everywhere.) He knew it was a risk to be out in public like this, but this was Sherlock Holmes. The man who plagued his thoughts for twenty years. He didn't trust anyone else with this assignment.

Scanning the crowd that walked the sidewalk, Moriarty began to grow impatient. (Not that he was a patient man in the first place.) Ready to call it a bust, something caught his eye. A tall man with a familiar walk. He couldn't stop the pleased chuckle that escaped from his lips as he hungrily eyed Sherlock Holmes entering the coffee bar.

The sight of the man made Moriarty's heart race. Finally, he could see an end to all the dull days he had imagined lay before him. This time Moriarty wouldn't kill the man. No, he wanted to show Sherlock how much they needed each other. He had only just realized it himself.

His inner musings were cut short as he saw Sherlock leave the cafe in a hurry with a newspaper in his hand. Good. The years hadn't dulled the man's brain. Oh, the glorious game had begun.

The next day, he had a man tail Sherlock to find out his schedule and ordered surveillance on him 24/7. He had planned on making this last, but two years of boredom had made Moriarty weary of waiting. He wanted- no, needed to talk to Sherlock face-to-face, to make him understand (exactly what he didn't know just yet).

After careful consideration, he decided to contact the man.

Has my absence driven you mad with boredom, my dear?

-X

Moriarty sent the text- a little disappointed that he wouldn't be able to see Sherlock's face as he read it.

Sherlock had read the whole book through in no time, trying to find any fairytale that included people coming back alive after that claimed to be death. Nothing was found and no matter how hard he racked his brain, it wouldn't come.

There wasn't much he could do at this moment. Going to look for Moriarty was an option, but he could be anywhere and knowing the man, he would be unfindable. All Sherlock could do was hope that for once on his life, he was wrong.

As the next day arrived Sherlock repeated his morning ritual. Lazily he grabbed his phone, expecting no messages at all. A frown crept on his face when he saw differently.

6.25AM; 1 New message.

Sherlock sat up straight in his bed, sliding his finger over the screen to unlock his keyboard.
His hearted seemed to throb in his throat as his eyes scanned over the message popping up. There was no doubt: Moriarty is back!

There were many things Sherlock wanted to say and ask his long lost enemy. However, he didn't want to come across vulnerable or interested at all. It took him a few minutes to come up with a decent answer.

"Boredom got the best of me. Your absence was more delightful.
-SH"

The reply angered him a little, which only intensified his need to see the man. Moriarty knew Sherlock was only goading him- and it had worked. Besides the anger growing inside of him, there was also excitement mixed with something else he couldn't describe. Not one to dwell on his emotions, he decided it wasn't important. He was only ruled by logic, not the useless vapors that ruled the rest of the ordinary people. (If he only knew how wrong he was.)

Don't lie to yourself. Tell me, did you like my present? She really was a dreadful woman. -X

Moriarty spent the rest of the day learning Sherlock's routine and familiarized himself with the security of the man's residence. It was laughable really. He would have figured Mycroft would've helped Sherlock more than this. Then again, he probably didn't want to draw attention to his little brother. (Mycroft Holmes always helped Moriarty in ways the older man could never conceive.)

He had decided that tonight would be the night. He would wait for Sherlock to leave and then break in to wait for him. It was early in the game, he knew this, but there was an urgency inside of himself that he couldn't understand. His hands almost trembled with it and he needed to get it out before something happened that was beyond his control.

So Moriarty hid in the dark and waited, knowing Sherlock Holmes would not disappoint him this time.

Sherlock impatiently stared at his phone. He expected an answer, Moriarty wasn't one to just stop responding after this kind of reply. His hand grabbed his phone as soon as he felt it buzzing on his knee. He scoffed slightly at Jim's words. So obvious and predictable, thinking Sherlock would just sit around and miss him all day.

There were certain things Sherlock had missed. Of course he missed John and everything coming along with him. But he also missed his job, showing off and proving people wrong all of the time. His missed someone who understood the level he was on, but he didn't missed Moriarty in particular. He was angry and bitter because the pain John had to go through just because the bastard made him "kill" himself.

On Kitty's concern, he felt nothing. He couldn't care less whether that woman was still alive writing her dreadful stories, or buried deep beneath the surface of this earth.

"How misplaced of you to think I'd be interested in such boring literature, I hoped you had a far more sophisticated taste."
-SH"

Sherlock waited for another reply, however nothing came through in the next hour. It concerned him more then anything. Moriarty wasn't one to just end a conversation like this and Sherlock just knew he had planned something bigger. This was just the prologue of his new written fairytale.

Sherlock was invited to have dinner with Mycroft to discuss whether or not it would be a good idea to inform John about the fact he wasn't death. It was tedious, boring and no possible solution had came out of it. "Leave it, Mycroft." Were Sherlock's last words before turning around and heading back to his home, the only safe place he still seemed to have with Moriarty back on the streets.

He entered the hallway, hanging up his coat and scarf before walking into the living room. Sherlock switched the lights on and headed straight for his violin standing next to the window. He didn't even look to the left corner of the room. Sherlock attached his violin to his chin and set in the first few notes, closing his eyes.

After watching Sherlock leave, Moriarty silently slipped into his apartment. His phone buzzed annoyingly in his pocket, but he ignored it. He knew who it was- Sebastian Moran. The man thought he was Moriarty's babysitter at times, and it drove him crazy. He had left a message for Moran, telling him what he was doing. The incessant buzzing of his phone told Moriarty exactly what Moran thought about it.

Moriarty walked slowly among Sherlock's possessions, tutting his head mostly at the man's taste in- well, everything. Sherlock had no flair, no appreciation for beautiful things. Not like Moriarty. It was another thing he would have to teach Sherlock Holmes about. Besides the dreariness, Moriarty noticed the whole place screamed of a lonely man. It was the lack of chairs that said it the most. There were only two. One, tucked away in a corner, while the other was positioned next to the window.

Choosing the chair in the dark corner, he sat down and waited for Sherlock Holmes to walk into his web. Twenty minutes later, he was rewarded. The door swung open, revealing an almost treasured sight.

Sherlock Holmes, back from the dead and in the flesh. Moriarty silently watched the man, unwilling to speak for fear he might ruin the moment. To his astonishment, the man didn't notice him. A grin spread on his face. So his text had upset him, it was nice to know Moriarty hadn't lost his touch.

The man began to play and Moriarty didn't want to interrupt him, but his phone buzzed again in his pocket and he rolled his eyes at it.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," Moriarty said softly from the dark corner, knowing the man would hear him. "Sherlock, my dear. It has been far too long."

Sherlock started playing a self composed song. Something he had written just after he had tossed himself off that roof. However he would never confess it, he had written it for John. Within seconds he found himself lost in thoughts, forgetting his miserable surroundings.

The conversation he and Mycroft just had was playing in loops inside of his head. Due to his older brother it should be safe enough to return now, but Sherlock knew better. Moriarty was clearly back and it would only be a matter of time before he would turn up, or lead Sherlock towards him. Not a single piece of him could even think about involving John or Mycroft once again, he'd deal with Moriarty him self.

As he played on, suddenly something seemed to disturb him. A high toned buzz from the other side of the room. Sherlock held his violin still, refusing to play another note. He wasn't alone and he knew exactly who was hiding in that left corner of his house.

His eyes kept shut as he heard the ever so familiar voice speaking up. It made him feel a lot of things at once. Mostly anger and bitterness, but he couldn't deny the little bit of excitement that rang trough.

A long, slow shiver hit his spine when he heard Moriarty say his name.
"It hasn't been long enough." Sherlock said cold, before putting his violin down and turning around. There he stood, staring into those dark brown eyes once more and facing what could be easily called the devil in disguise.

"I was expecting you." He commented. "You didn't answer my text, so it was only a matter of time for you to show yourself."

A pleasant, confusing thrill ran through Moriarty at the sound of Sherlock's voice. Smiling softly, he stood up and walked slowly over to him. He was silent as he looked the man over, noting everything about him. "You've lost weight," he said, cocking an eyebrow. "You look like death, my dear."

He circled Sherlock, a predator eying his prey. "Wasting away with the boredom, aren't you?" Moriarty asked the man softly, a note of understanding in his tone. "It's horrible, isn't it? The emptiness that enters your mind as the days pass. Mind-numbingly painful." Moriarty stopped in front of Sherlock, looking directly into his eyes.

Reaching a hand up, Moriarty brushed some nonexistent lint off Sherlock's shirt. He only wanted an excuse to touch him, just to make sure his mind hadn't finally snapped and conjured up this little fantasy to make life bearable. Satisfied that this was real, he let his hand drop to his side as he let some warmth enter his ice cold eyes.

"Look at you," he tsked. "You are still nothing without me. How can you not see that?"

Sherlock froze, pure ice running through his veins as he felt Moriarty's eyes lingering on his body. It was true, Sherlock had dropped a few pounds over the years. John would usually tell and force him to eat at decent times, but ever since he had been alone, he only ate when necessary to mind or body.

"I can't deny I'm not bored." Sherlock said, keeping his tone distant. His own eyes now staring into his enemy's. Moriarty was so close, too close to feel comfortable. "But I can't say I'm pleased to see you."

Sherlock's eyes shot down to Jim's hand. Unexpectedly his body responded to it. It felt as if he burned right through the fabric of his clothes, leaving a burned mark on his chest. Sherlock shivered once more, he felt the need to remove himself from this situation but his options were limited.

"You took away everything I had." Said Sherlock bitter. "You are the reason I'm nothing." He hissed. A strange kind of heat was bubbling up inside of his chest. He had tried to imagine this moments millions of times. The moment he'd stand eye to eye with this man once more.

"What is it you want now? I've got nothing left to give." Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes. "I refuse to be a source of entertainment to you." Sherlock knew Jim was just like him, slowly intoxicating his brain with boredom. But his pride was far too damaged by this man. He had hurt John as well, he had destroyed John. Sherlock just couldn't tolerate this.

What little warmth there was in Moriarty's eyes disappeared suddenly as a blank expression settled over his face. "I took away everything you had because you didn't need it. You only need one thing, Sherlock Holmes," he said in a monotone voice. "You only need me."

He turned from Sherlock and walked over to the window, sticking his hands in his pockets as he leaned against the frame and looked outside. "Look at it all," he spoke softly. "Disgustingly dull, isn't it? I tried, you know. I tried to be like them. Tried to shut my mind down. Be blissfully ignorant." Sneering to himself, Moriarty couldn't believe that he was being honest- possibly for the first time ever. "It lasted less than a day."

Turning his head slightly, he looked at Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes. "You're not a source of entertainment to me, my dear." Pausing, he considered his words. "Well, it's not the only thing you are to me. Besides, haven't I been a source of entertainment for you from time to time? You can't deny how much you enjoyed our games we played."

His phone went off again and he angrily pulled it out of his pocket, turning it off before he stuffed it back. Frustration boiled inside of him. Why couldn't this man see how much they needed each other? Was it because of the ordinary little doctor that followed Sherlock around like a puppy dog? That could be taken care of.

Sherlock's head automatically began to shake as he heard Moriarty's reply. How dare this man assume he didn't need anything but him? "I needed John." Sherlock brought out, admitting it for the first time in his life. He cleared his throat, everything he wanted to say seemed to be stuck in there.

The detective's eyes followed Jim as he gracefully turned away. The words Jim was speaking went through his bones. They came across so true, so understandable and real. He had never found any of this in his enemy before. A moment of weakness, something flattering about Jim that Sherlock couldn't quite explain. Words got missing and Sherlock just stood there, his eyes burning on Jim's back.

"What more am I?" Sherlock's voice filled with emotions, for the first time in the entire conversation. Not much and certainly not really audible. "Something to keep you from going insane?" Sherlock scoffed just after he had spoke. "You forced yourself on me, Jim. I had no choice but playing your sick little games. However..." Sherlock waited a few seconds, debating on his choice of words. "However they were great distraction." He admitted, letting emotions flow away.

As the room filled with the joyful tones of Staying Alive once more, Sherlock began to wonder. Who would need Moriarty this desperately? Any client would just leave a message.

His eyes lingered on Moriarty's, trying to figure out what it all meant. Why couldn't Jim just leave him alone? Or worse, why wasn't he able to cut Jim off? He could easily kill him, knowing the emergency gun was ready inside the drawer next to him. He could return to John and Jim wouldn't bother a soul any more. But Sherlock couldn't. His heart ached at the thought.

Moriarty sneered and turned toward Sherlock angrily. "John? That useless doctor? You could do better than that, Sherlock." He stopped himself from saying what he had only just recently realized. You belong with me. Those words burned at the back of his throat and it was all he could do to swallow them down, furious at himself for feeling something so weak as that.

He ran a hand through his hair, keeping his eyes down on the floor. It was easier than meeting the man's eyes. An irrational fear had seized him and he thought that if Sherlock looked into his eyes, then he'd see everything Moriarty was thinking. That couldn't be allowed to happen.

"You have to admit," he said, trying to keep his voice calm. "I helped you. I made your life interesting. You see that, don't you? I gave you something to live for." He felt safe enough to bring his eyes back up to Sherlock's. When their eyes met again, that odd thrill rushed through Moriarty's body once again and he hated himself for it. "You wouldn't have noticed me any other way, would you have?"

Raising his eyebrows at Sherlock, he stepped closer to him. "I know what you want. I know what you need. Your precious John can't even begin to understand you the way that I do."

Sherlock startled when Moriarty abtruptly turned to him, eyes widening for just a brief moment. His words made Sherlock angry, furious! "don't ever speak of John like he's nothing." Sherlock hissed dangerously. It was and probably always will be a sensitive snare to hit. Sherlock could bearly stand Hearing Moriarty speak his best friend's name with such disgust.

The little signs were easy readable, Moriarty avoided eyecontact, something very unusual for this man. The hand running through his hair, a sign of being desperate. What for though? To have Sherlock's attention? But then again he had that completely. What more could he want? Want more did he need?

"Yes, you made things interested. You made things irricistable, impossible for me to ignore any of it. " he began to admit, his eyes still fixed on Jim. If any one knew he'd let an opportunity like this slip, to have the chance and put an end to all this madness, but refused to, they'd found him even more insane then anyone ever had before.

Sherlock's heart beated faster once more when Jim walked up closer. The mention of John once more made his eyes turn viciously. "There's hardly a few things I need right now. I don't recall you being on that list. But try..." Sherlock's voice dip lower then ever and he was almost whispered when he spike the following words. " Try and prove you know." The one and only reason Sherlock said so, was because he longed to prove Jim wrong.

Letting out a low chuckle, Moriarty kept his gaze locked on Sherlock. "How frustrating is it when no one keeps up with you? How infuriating is it when you're the only one who knows, understands what's going on?" He began to gesture with his hands then, getting into the little speech he prepared while he was sitting in the dark. "I feel that everyday. Why can't they see? The patterns, the clues, the little things that mean everything- why can't they see any of it?"

Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to calm himself down, a faint smile appeared briefly on his lips. "I see the patterns. I see the clues. I see all the little things." Moriarty opened his eyes and this time, the small smile stayed.

"And so do you. I know what you need. You need excitement," he hissed the word out like a snake. "You need someone who keeps up with you- who understands that need to find out why." Moriarty lowered his voice and leaned in closer to Sherlock, only inches separating them. "You want someone who can keep you busy- always busy. I can give you that. Only I can give you mysteries, my dear."

Moriarty moved slightly to the side and leaned in to whisper in Sherlock's ear. "And I do so love watching you solve them. The way you dance is exquisite."

He pulled back, purposefully brushing his cheek with Sherlock's. "Can he do that?" he asked, keeping his face carefully clear of disgust at the mention of John. He didn't want to set Sherlock off again.

Sherlock's eyes scanned restlessly over Jim's face, taking in every little detail once again. His ears eager to hear what his nemesis had to say. Of course he already knew Jim could level his intellect and Sherlock got rather bored with the man's speech. "Oh please. You're pointing out the obvious." He scoffed.

With lips so close, whispering in his ear goosebumps come along. A slow and almost arousing shiver ran all the way down to his spine. His eyes closed and Sherlock had difficulties to keep his mind focussed. A loud and audible swallow follow when he felt their cheeks brush. What was happening?

His eyes opened abruptly when he noticed Jim had pulled away. Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to wipe away the emotion in both his voice and on his face. "No." Sherlock shook his head. "He can't." And that was the simple truth. John was human and he was as Moriarty would say; Like them. But John also was far from ordinary. He wasn't dull and he was something Sherlock could rely on. He shook the thoughts off. There was no point in starting to weep over John once again, not with the devil's eyes tearing him apart.

"Then what?" Sherlock asked, raising his voice as well as his eyebrow. "You'd just run around town, killing and torturing innocent people?" Asked he, sucking in his lower lip just a little. He couldn't let this happen, even if it meant being less bored. "And I don't dance." He added, almost snapping.

"I'm only pointing out the obvious because you can't see it," Jim snapped, his face twisting with frustration. "Imagine what would've happened if I didn't show up. Imagine how you would've slowly died on the inside day after day after day without me." He reached up, cupping Sherlock's face with both of his hands and tried to ignore the way his stomach clenched at the contact.

"The first case with John? I did that for you. I gave you that adventure, my dear. Wasn't it exhilarating? If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have what you have with him right now." He lowered his voice. "You had the right pill, you know. I watched you play that man beautifully."

Jim fell silent as his thumb gently caressed Sherlock's cheek. He could only look at the man with an intense questioning (almost desperate) expression. When he realized what he was doing, he snatched his hands away quickly, his face flushing.

He bowed his head, considering his next words carefully. "Innocent?" he mused. "There are no innocent people anymore, Sherlock. You know that. They've all done something to deserve whatever happens to them." He looked back up, a calculating look on his face. "If you want, I can conjure up mysteries without death. I'd do that for you."

Embarrassingly, his voice cracked and he blinked, trying to recover it but finding that he couldn't.

"I do see, just from a different point of view." Sherlock exclaimed, his pale fingers curling as he formed a fist. Sherlock was just about to give Moriarty a constructed answer as he felt his cheeks getting clenched between two warm hands. His heart must have skipped several beats as it sped up drastically.

Why can't I think straight? Why aren't my words coming out? Why is my body filling up with an unfamiliar kind of heat?

Confusion hit him like a ton of bricks. His mind said this was wrong, he needed to push Jim away, while his body offered no form of protest. On the contrary, it seemed to enjoy the friction. Jim's words came through, slowly processing in his distracted mind. For the first time ever Sherlock got approval to this. He had the right pill. "To me, John will always be the one who saved my life that day. You put it on the line. Figure yourself who has more value here." He hissed, trying to hide how affected he really was by this simple touch.

Sherlock's eyes fell down, watching Jim's thumbs move over his sharp cheekbones. No one had ever touched him like this, new senses were overwhelming him. When he felt them lifting up, colder air hit against his pale cheek. It felt like Jim's smaller hands were marked onto his cheeks.

His back arched a bit as he straightened his shoulders, trying to look more confident. With the same movement he shook his shivers off. He had to. This was Moriarty, the man couldn't be trusted. He was probably already playing with Sherlock's mind. But the red on the other's cheek was undeniable, a sign from the body, the betraying body.

"It doesn't matter what they've done." Said Sherlock, failing at keeping emotions distant from his now raw voice. "Torturing them isn't what I want. It would go against everything I worked for." Sherlock couldn't believe Moriarty was actually offering this. "Are you really this desperate, Jim?" He asked, now stepping a bit closer himself. " Are you really going to bed me to play with you? To be interested in your sick little mind games?"

Jim let out a growl of frustration. "Your life was never on the line that night. I had precautions set up just in case things went wrong. John didn't need to kill the cabbie, you know." He smirked, looking off into the distance. "I would never let anything hurt you, you know. Not now."

He closed his eyes, knowing how unbelievable it sounded. Jim had pushed the man to jump off a building, in fact. But he regretted it the instant it happened. If he could only make Sherlock see that. But at Sherlock's question, implying that Jim only wanted to bed him to play with him, his eyes flew open, denial on his tongue, ready to defend himself. He didn't want to bed him. (A lie. A big lie and Jim knew that. The knowledge only infuriated him.)

But seeing that Sherlock had stepped closer to him, all thoughts of denying it flew out of his mind and he smiled softly. He heard the emotion in the man's voice, saw the shivers he attempted to hide, had felt the man's pulse race. He put the clues together and was surprised that he was pleased with the conclusion.

Sherlock was fighting the attraction. Just like him. "I think you'd like that, wouldn't you? You're at least interested. Don't deny it, my dear." He closed the distance between them, leaving no space between their bodies. "I must admit. So am I."

(( LOOOOLL my 'bed' was supposed to be beg. Ha, stupid me! But we can keep it this way, it doesn't matter. ))

Sherlock snorted remarkably loud as he heard Jim say he wouldn't let anything hurt him. Evidence that he had thought different could be easily shown. Once Jim said he would burn Sherlock's heart out and it was exactly what he had done. There was little left inside of him. "Odd way of showing so." Sherlock pointed out.

Jim was as observant as Sherlock, the way his body had been responding had, without a doubt, caught his eye. There was no need to put up any kind if disguise and denying would only trigger Jim's senses even more.

"Wrong." Sherlock brought out, locking his eyes on Jim's as he stepped closer, their chests nearly pressing together. "My body is interested." He began to explain. "My mind is screaming to push you away. However, I can't find the strength to." His voice dipped lower. "But curiosity killed the cat." He commented, more to himself then to Jim. Sherlock wondered if this was a part of Jim's game or whether or not it was his own fault the tension between them built up like this.

((Lmao! It's all good. Might as well go with it, then. At least it's out in the open now. ))

"Like I said before, my dear," Jim said with a smile. "I am changeable. So changeable. But not anymore. Not after two years of nothing. Two years of mind-numbing boredom. Regret." He spat out the last word, disgust twisting his features.

He raised a hand to Sherlock's face and slowly traced the man's jawline with a finger. "Your mind would catch up to your body in time, trust me. Mine is already on its way," he said softly, unable to hide the desire on his face. "Curiosity might have killed the cat, Sherlock." Jim lingered on his name, drawing it out. "But satisfaction brought it back. And I could give you so much satisfaction. If you let me."

As he spoke, he slipped his other hand around Sherlock's waist, pulling him as close as he could.

Sherlock chin bowed down making himself feel as he towered over the smaller person in front of him. One word was looping in his head. Regret... Jim was regretting what he'd done to Sherlock? But why exactly? Because he got bored? Or because he actually cared for Sherlock's so called feelings.

His eyes tried to see Jim's finger travelling along his jaw. It left a trailing heat on were he'd been touch. "Jim." He whispered soft, his voice shaking as his eyes met Jim's once more. "I..." His voice got stuck and he inhaled deep, trying to calm himself down. The hand around his middle startled him. Unfamiliar with these kinds of touches he took in Jim's words.

Jim's eyes had nearly turned black as Sherlock witnessed his pupils dilating. Sherlock's mind failed to be coherent. His mouth opened, trying to say something, any thing, but words seemed to fail when he needed them most.

Jim's pulse raced as when he noticed Sherlock was at a loss for words. Now this was a first. In all the years he watched Sherlock, the man had never been at a loss for words. He had always had a quick, clever reply to everything. If anything, that made Jim's desire deepen, knowing that he had made Sherlock speechless. So, he took a chance. A calculated one, but still a chance.

His hand slowly moved to cup the back of Sherlock's neck and he pulled him down to his lips. For Jim, it was as if everything they had been through together was only leading up to this moment- as if this was supposed to happen. Not given to little fantasies like that, he wasn't sure how he felt about it. But, at the moment, he pushed those thoughts away and decided to live in the moment.

The touch of their lips felt like fire and Jim had to keep the kiss short. (He knew that if he didn't, then he wouldn't stop at just a kiss.) However, he couldn't stop himself from nipping at Sherlock's bottom lip as he pulled away. Jim looked into Sherlock's eyes and waited for him to say something, anything.

Sherlock felt Jim's hand travel back to his neck. He knew what was going to happen, he had saw it a million times in those horrendously boring films John used to watch on Saturday nights. His eyes already closed in anticipation. Just before their lips met, a switch inside Sherlock's mind got hit. Thoughts kept floating through, a stream of questions and doubts filled him up completely. But before he could do anything, he felt the soft flesh of Jim's lips pressing against his.

As fast as his previous thoughts came, as fast they seemed to went. For the brief moment their lips had collapsed together, time stood still. The world around Sherlock wasn't moving any more, in fact, it seemed to have disappeared.

It had been the first kiss Sherlock had ever received. He never could have imagined Jim Moriarty would be the one to give it to him though. As he felt Jim nipping on his lower lip when pulling away, his whole body filled with heat. Not the sort of anger heat he had felt before, this was different. Different to everything he had ever felt before.

Sherlock's tongue licked over his lips, Jim's taste still lingered on them. There were many things he'd like to ask Jim. Why now? How long has he felt this way about Sherlock and more importantly and perhaps all he wanted to know was how far he'd want to go.

"That.. I.. Jim." Sherlock stuttered, taking in a deep breath to steady himself. "I've never kissed anyone before." His cheeks quickly heating, turning red. What was one supposed to say or do right now? Should he take control and return the favour? Should he say how he felt, if not show it to Jim?

Sherlock's hand reached up, touching Moriarty for the first time as he placed it on Jim's lips. His tall, pale finger brushed softly over his lips, down to his cheek and neck. Sherlock left it there and leaned back in. Now he was bringing their faces together, close, very close, until their lips met once again.