"He's beautiful," he comments, setting his scotch on the glass surface of the table.
He turns to glance at the newcomer, only to revert his attention back to the dance floor, deciding not to respond.
"You followed him here." It was a statement, a mere observation.
"What are you doing here?" he growls loudly over the music.
Moriarty chuckles. "Just enjoying the show."
John gazes at the criminal, eyebrows raised in confusion for a moment before noting that the "show" Jim is referring to is more than just the entire atmosphere of the club. Moriarty is talking about a specific man on the dance floor.
"He's plastered," Jim says as an uncharacteristically dull fact.
"I know," the doctor replies with a hard tone. "I watched him drink his way through five glasses of gin."
"And you think I wasn't watching too?"
John slams his empty glass on the table and turns in his chair to face Moriarty. "Why are you here?" he hisses.
"Same reason you are," he answers as he lifts the cup of golden liquid to his lips, eyes flicking over to the tall man swaying beneath the neon lights.
"Sherlock?" he asks for confirmation.
"No, the tooth fairy-yes, Sherlock!" Jim bites his lip as a reminder to keep himself sociable and leveled. Ignorant and repetitive people annoy him.
John and Moriarty say nothing more to each other, opting to listen to the bass of heavy music coursing through the thick air of the night club, drenched in sweat, sex, and lust. Everything is hot, with bright, colorful lights flashing around them. The myriad of people pushing and grinding against each other on the dance floor repulses Moriarty, but John finds a sort of comfort in the thought of being lost in the crowd. Jim finds the lights and beat too loud and frustrating while Watson feels pleasantly blissful and oblivious; however, both John and Moriarty find incredible interest in the lanky body absently swaying its hips to the hypnotic beat of the music. Jim notices John's obsession for Sherlock before the doctor does and decides to challenge it.
"So, you've been deducing shit with Holmes for a while now," Moriarty says, his soft voice making John tense up slightly. "Tell me, what can you deduce from our little friend over there?"
"What? You mean Sherlock?" he says incredulously.
Moriarty rolls his eyes and nods with an expression of plain ennui and annoyance on his face. "No, my good friend the tooth fairy! How does Sherlock put up with you stupid morons?" Jim's given up his amiable facade, too dumbfounded by Watson's repetitious responses.
Watson frowns and turns his head back to the dance floor. "Not interested. I don't deduce. That's Sherlock's job," he mutters.
"No, Sherlock's job is to entertain me," Jim corrects him with a smirk, "and he's doing quite well. Your job is being Sherlock's little protégé."
"I'm a doctor, not-"
"Oh, come on, Watson. We both know that's not true. You adore Sherlock just as much as I do-actually, you do admire him more than me." Jim's laugh sends a shiver down John's back.
"Fine," he snaps, looking Moriarty in the eyes. "What do you want to know?"
Moriarty ceases his cackling, a deep frown accentuated by his mustache stubbles replacing his mirthful grin. Leaning in closely, Watson can smell the mastermind. There's no perfume or cologne, no artificial scent on his body. Only the musky odor of his showered skin and the hint of rich Irish coffee beans are present to Watson. "Tell me," Moriarty nearly growls. "What do you see in Sherlock?"
John focuses his attention on Sherlock. The lean detective is deeply immersed in the music, the alcohol in his system making him act out of the norm. Slow, languid movements of his arms and hips mesmerize Watson. No long, dark coat is hanging on his broad shoulders to obscure his thin body; instead, it's cast aside on a chair near the bar where his abandoned drink also sits. His blue shirt is drenched in sweat, sticking to his slick skin. The top three buttons of his shirt is undone, his sweat-glistening chest exposed for the world to see.
John exhales before saying, "Well... His coat is missing, sitting by his drink, indicating he got hot, probably from all the alcohol he drank. He... umm... He's definitely drunk due to his stumbling and all... Uh..."
Moriarty rolls his eyes and groans, leaning back in his chair. "Tell me something I don't know!" he nearly screams.
Watson looks Moriarty straight in the eyes. Neither say a word as John watches Moriarty's dark eyes shine. Jim's not watching John. No. His eyes are on the dancing Sherlock, and Watson smirks.
"You're infatuated," he says plainly.
"Sorry? What?" Moriarty almost growls. "Infatuated?"
"Of course! You look at Sherlock like..." Watson pauses. "The way he looks... when he thinks about you."
Moriarty pauses. "What?"
"Sometimes, when he thinks I'm not looking, I see him... stare off. And he has a look in his eyes full of emotion and passion, frustration and... and hate, but also admiration and joy. And sometimes I think it's just him, staring off and being Sherlock. But then I call his name, and he looks at me, and all that emotion is gone. There's only boredom and discontent."
Jim chuckles lowly. "Quite an observation," he says.
"He has a heart, despite what everyone tells him," Watson adds, wringing his fingers together. "He's good. He's so emotional but he hides it all. There are no tangible traces of his kindness; but small things he says or does or suggests... It shows he cares."
Moriarty snickers quietly to himself. "That he does," Jim agrees. "What a moron..."
John stares Moriarty down, soft brown eyes piercing hardened dark ones. The mastermind tilts his head slightly, challenging Watson, but the doctor looks away self-consciously. Sitting back in his chair and folding his arms behind his head, the consulting criminal smiles widely, claiming his victory over Dr. John Watson.
Grabbing his coat and standing up, John walks over to Jim and bends down so that his lips touch the Irishman's ear, and he whispers, "You've not taken your eyes off Sherlock since you arrived and you've a raging hard-on in your pants. My deduction? You're in love with a moron."
Moriarty grinds his teeth and clenches his fists uncomfortably as Watson walks away, completely satisfied with his getting the last word. Just as John rounds the corner of the night club to disappear down the chilly streets of London, the lanky detective's eyes snap open and quickly scan around the club. He freezes as he makes eye contact with Jim, dark brown glaring at bright blue. Sherlock blinks twice before stumbling over to retrieve his coat, slipping his long arms through the sleeves. Moriarty laughs to himself when Sherlock's elbow gets caught. The bright neon flashes behind him like a radiant explosion of supernovae as he strolls past Moriarty.
The consulting criminal glances behind him to watch Sherlock leave, but the latter is frozen at the door frame, gazing longingly at Jim; and then he sees it. James Moriarty sees the conflicting emotions and passions in Sherlock's icy orbs-anger and kindness; love and hate; joy and sorrow; and everything in between. And Moriarty hates himself for what he thinks to himself next, biting his lip harshly and abruptly turning his head away from the detective, breaking the eye contact.
Sherlock leaves with a satisfied grin on his face as Moriarty is left with a burning blush on his cheeks. He knows Sherlock saw what the criminal was thinking. His dark eyes said it all.
I love you, Sherlock.
A/N: First Sherlock fic; kinda iffy about it, but I tried~ XD Would appreciate feedback! thanks! 3