a/n; i don't even ship them, but this just kind of happened.
Days upon days of interrogation; of torture, of threats. All of which are met with the same horrifying silence and placid smile and usually a new engraving of sherlocksherlocksherlockall over the walls.
There's nothing to be done but to give him the one thing he wants- the information on Mycroft's own brother that this deranged man so craves.
So he gives it to him. Every piece of data that he wishes for- but apparently it's not enough. (What more could he want?) (Though what could Mycroft expect from a man like Jim Moriarty, really?)
Certainly not this.
When Moriarty's released and cleaned up once more and the guards have left, Moriarty presses him up against one of the scratched mirror walls, breathing down Mycroft's neck, one hand resting in the pocket of his newly purchased Westwood suit and whispers into his ear,
I've been thinking about you, Mr Holmes
Mycroft doesn't say anything, doesn't move.
Sherlock's old news. He's boring. He's sooo busy taking care of that little pet of his these days that he won't come out and play. But I bet you'd be fun, Mr Holmes. You and me- we could have a lot of fun, couldn't we now?
Surely he doesn't think Mycroft would do anything of the sort?
I've been watching you Mr Holmes, and I know you've been watching me too. You like what you see? Go on, take it. You can if you want to- and I bet you want to, Mr Holmes. I bet you want it.
Surely not. Because he wouldn't.
How would you take me, ice man? Would it be slow and sweet? Or would you let me feel the burn? Would you like seeing me squirm as you fuck me up against a wall? Would you like that, Mycroft? Would you?
(Oh, he would).
One minute Moriarty's leaning up against him, breathing peppermint into his face and whispering filthy nothings into his ear and the next he's underneath Mycroft, squirming as he's pressed face first against the ruined wall with his bizarre interpretation of art etched into it and Mycroft firmly behind him, cock hard and he's saying,
"Are you sure, Mr Moriarty? Wouldn't want to inconvenience you."
Oh, no. No bother at all Mr Holmes. No plans, I'm free all night.
Moriarty turns then, grabbing Mycroft and smashing their mouths together and entwining their tongues. They dance a strange dance; a tango on a tripwire. It's wreckless and wonderful andanything and everything bad could come of it, but for now it's just them as they kiss messily between groans and heavy breaths.
When Moriarty makes a move to push down Mycroft's trousers, Mycroft acts in kind and runs his hands down Moriarty's chest, unbuttoning slowly. He reaches the bottom, then moves around to squeeze Moriarty's tightly clothed arse, then back round to the front to find the button and succeeds in removing both trousers and pants.
They've been going a while now, and the air is filled with the musky, sweaty, oh-so-good scent of sex. But they're not done yet (they've barely even started).
As Mycroft slides his hands back around to Moriarty's now bare backside, Moriarty leans in and pants,
Fuck me, Mr Holmes. Do it.
That's all the invitation Mycroft needs before he's returning his fingers to his mouth and coating them as best he can in his own saliva before flipping Moriarty back over and running his slippery digits across the tight puckered hole of his arse.
Moriarty's making little noises of pleasure at this and wriggling like a mad thing, but when Mycroft inserts the first finger slowly, he hushes and relaxes against the wall.
You like that, do you?
Mr Holmes, oh, Mr Holmes.
He'll take that as a yes.
He works up to three fingers, and by then his straining cock is aching and Moriarty's gasping like a fish out of water and so he decides it's really about time they got down to business (they're both, after all, very professional men).
He straightens up and grasps his cock in one hand, and the other he leans against the wall as he lines himself up with Moriarty's entrance and presses in.
Mycroft sighs with relief and Moriarty lets loose a cry of pure ecstasy as Mycroft begins to move and he hits that sweet spot inside just so.
Minutes pass with nothing but the slick sound of skin against skin and the both of them panting filling the air, and Mycroft thinks about what exactly it is he's doing- he's buried to the fucking hilt in the most wanted man alive.
You're poison- acid; you're burning right through to my very bones (and you know, I've never felt so alive).
Mr Holmes, oh, Mr Holmes!
Mycroft picks up the speed, thrusting harder and faster into Moriarty as he clenches around his stiff cock as he reaches his climax, spilling across the wall and his own stomach. As Moriarty slumps forward, worn, Mycroft reaches completion and comes into his limp body with a growl, biting at Moriarty's neck as he rests his head in the juncture.
Later on, they clean themselves off and get dressed without speaking to one another. Mycroft escorts Moriarty out of the building and past workers pretending that what just happened definitely didn't (though it's unlikely he fooled anyone) and they still don't talk as a black car appears from nowhere and Moriarty gets in and it drives off into the night.
An hour later Mycroft's phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
See you around, Mr Holmes.
They both know that it'd never be the right circumstances, that it'd never last.
If only for a night (it was the best night of my life).