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Sherlock looked up at Moriarty as he pointed his gun towards the bomb which lay on the floor. He desperately wanted to smirk at Moriarty, but he forced himself to keep his cool composure. His pulse was racing dangerously and his heart felt as if it were lodged deep in his throat. Electrodes were whizzing around his brain and his palms tingled, though they were slick with sweat. He was excited. For this is what he enjoyed, the chase, the game, the flurry of danger. Of course, the fun was winning, being spectacularly victorious, which this time it obviously would be.
Almost a month ago Sherlock Holmes had met James Moriarty in a chic bar in the centre of Mayfair. Both were impeccably dressed, excruciatingly handsome, and devilishly charming. It took less than three hours from their introduction for them to both be in Moriarty's plush apartment, fucking. It was after that, post-coitus, that Sherlock realised how brilliant James really was. He had a mind as beautiful as his body, intellect almost worthy of his own. He lapped it up hungrily; he planned to put it to his use. And of course James wanted in on the fun, because it was what they were both made of, fun, danger and destruction. They sat naked with each other all night long, hatching a wonderful plan to keep them both excited for many days to come. After they had planned, they fucked again, more violently, leaving marks Sherlock thought were sure to scar.
Now in the swimming pool filled with excitement and desire for the game, he suppressed the smile which threatened to dance across his lips. Because this was it, what it was all about. The game was the most exciting thing he had ever experienced.
Manipulation was Sherlock's forte, and as clever as Jim Moriarty was, he hadn't quite figured out he was neatly trapped in Sherlock's puppet strings. Either that or he secretly enjoyed being controlled. Sherlock never got his hands dirty; he saw no fun in that. The fun was manipulating people, playing games, making them think you are a god. The greatest game he had ever played began with the cab driver. A pathetic, lonely old man who thought himself a genius. At the time, the statement of intellect made Sherlock laugh out loud, a deep, silken laugh that made everyone around him tremble. He adored having that effect on humans. The miserable man was dying, defeated by a little old aneurysm. To Sherlock that made him even more delectable, even more willing to bend any way Sherlock wanted him to. So his elaborate plan began to form, and he sat in his room surrounded by his silken sheets and his expensive pillows, driving himself insane with lust and pride at himself. Moriarty became a loyal figureheads figurehead if you will, acting as this ringleader, when really he was just another pawn, only this pawn liked it. Of course the cab driver was offered ludicrous amounts of money for his participation in the game, and oh how Sherlock enjoyed it. He sat gleefully staring at his laptop, watching the CCTV as the pathetic individuals cried and took the wrong pill, painfully fading away from life. After each one Sherlock raced over to Moriarty's to have him, almost as if he was rewarding the Irishman for being a good boy. Then of course, came his favourite part. The police came knocking, begging for his assistance, begging for the exceptional consulting detectives to solve their crimes and heal their woes. He delighted in it, using his intellect once again to fool everyone, to make everyone around him dance without them even realising it. When he placed himself in the game, he had to stop himself giggling uncontrollably at how clever he really was, at how the incredibly stupid cabbie had no idea how he was being played. Sherlock took the right pill; of course he did, because he was superior to everyone.
There was an unexpected circumstance that night. For Sherlock had somehow gained a roommate. Upon first inspection he found John Watson intriguing, and he couldn't resist the idea of having him close, having him around to study. However for the first time in his life, John Watson surprised him, and he found that delectable. Doctor Watson, a man who entered his life less than twenty-four hours previously, had shot a man dead in an attempt to save Sherlock Holmes' life. It was then that Sherlock had considered involving John Watson in the plan, but not yet, not until he fully understood how the doctor really worked.
That night Sherlock didn't see Moriarty, instead he played the perfect flatmate, spending the night being friendly and sociable.
His next plan was incredibly devilish. Jim had been the one to have a fondness for smuggling; he had done it for years. But when Sherlock discovered a smuggler had ripped off Jim, he couldn't help but set his own plan in motion yet again. When the assassin had made his way to London, it was Sherlock who planted doubts in his mind about his sibling, warned him that the woman would be best disposed of. Again, he watched gleefully as humans were destroyed and as he played the clever part of the hero. However this time, John had disappointed his expectations, shunned his offer of friendship in front of an old associate of Sherlock's. If he were in a worse temper, he would have ordered Moriarty to dispose of Sebastian Wilkes, messily and with haste. He didn't understand the doctor, and he wondered if his study would soon come to an end. Although strangely he found no desire in wanting to kill John Watson, none at all.
The third game almost sent Sherlock mad with excitement. He and Jim role-played against each other, Jim the insane criminal, Sherlock the cunning hero. After every 'case' solved, they would both fuck brutally, lapping up their victory. For a while, nobody died, for the thrill of the game was enough for them both. But of course Sherlock got bored, Moriarty got bored, and a victim had to be disposed of to spice things up. It made the police frantic, it filled Jim with desire, and it made Sherlock's heart race.
He loved the game, it made his knees go weak and his head spin. He also loved something, someone else, but of course, embracing that was not an option for him. Doctor Watson wasn't the sort of man to play with him, and Sherlock didn't think life was any fun without games.
He let that trademark smile flicker across his face this time as he stared at Moriarty, his eyes full of excitement and danger, and he pulled the trigger.