"Can't you tell I've come to burn you?" Jim said, grinning impishly.
Sherlock remained rooted in place, his face a mask of indifference; yet in his mind he was calculating: John would be back from the hospital in just a few minutes; how likely was it that Jim's plan involved hurting him? Could it be avoided? What was he thinking?
"Oh," Sherlock made his best ploy at indifference, shrugging nonchalantly and tugging his gloves off. It was warm in the flat and the heat made his great coat and gloves somewhat unbearable. "And how are you going to do that…?"
Jim's grin widened, and the cheerfulness in his black eyes twinkled. Whatever Sherlock was doing, he was evidently playing right into Moriarty's scrip, and the villain was effervescent with glee.
"You and I…we pretend we're infallible for each others sakes..." Jim edged closer to Sherlock, slithering closer with every step, staring as though he were hypnotized; boring into the detective's face. It took all of Sherlock's restraint not to step back, for fear of looking as though he were stepping away from the challenge.
In truth Sherlock did not want Jim anywhere near him. The man had a way of making him feel as though he was invading Sherlock's personal space from across the room; and then he would come closer.
"We pretend we're gods, or titans; giants of the mind: invincible, infallible, only a real challenge to each other." Jim said, his empty eyes flashing with dark lightning. "We play as though nothing can harm us, and nothing ever will. But for you at least, that's not true."
Sherlock scoffed at such an obvious ploy. If this was his way of scaring him into feeling doubt about his abilities, he had much still to wish for.
"Oh, don't fool yourself." Sherlock said haughtily. "Do you expect me to believe you're really that deluded? That you think you're more than human?"
Jim was close, too close. Sherlock could feel his hot breath condensing to his shirt. It disgusted him. He played with the thought of casually stepping back, but Jim made his most intimate advance yet. He reached out and grabbed Sherlock's elbows, tenderly caressing the sinewy limbs beneath the black coat.
"Ow." Sherlock felt a thin, sharp, stabbing pain where he was being gripped and he wrenched himself out of his nemesis' grasp with a muted horror. Nobody grabbed him, nobody touched him; ever!
"Are you mad?" He asked, beginning to sweat. It was warm inside the flat, too warm, much too warm for a day in September.
Jim didn't answer with words; he had hunched over, bent on himself and begun trembling with wild laughter. His laugh was low and screechy; his hair that had been slicked back carefully had come loose and hung in wet, oily, mottled vines.
Sherlock's face erupted in sweat. It was too hot; far too hot. The flat had never been this warm before. In agony, he peeled off his coat and cast it aside in a rumpled heap.
Sherlock backed himself against a wall and gasped for breath. The room seemed to have turned into a blazing jungle; each humid breath was so thick it died in his throat; he was suffocating.
The wall however, was cool to the touch, and he rubbed against it blissfully. It was like a cool cloth to his face and it became instantly evident that it wasn't the flat producing the heat, if it was, the walls would have been as unbearable as the air.
Sherlock glanced up, squinting as beads of sweat trickled into his eyes. He blinked away the tears and noticed Moriarty had recovered from his reverie and making his way, snake-like towards him again.
His skin was glowing, positively glowing with an orange light; he beamed with it. His eyes were no longer black, they were like scarab beetles, lit up in glittering shades of blue and green with flaming yellow patterns on their wings.
Jim made to talk, but instead his mouth erupted into a tongue of orange flame. He paused, pleased by the blazing outburst and then blew his dragon- fire out again and again.
Sherlock watched this development insensibly; his mind seemed to have left his body to fend for itself. Every muscle, every fiber of his being told him to flee, run away and hide somewhere, but he was completely frozen in the wake of the blistering bursts of flame that Jim was shooting at him.
He opened his own mouth to scream, but nothing came out but a hoarse, whining noise.
Jim stood beneath him, tongue of flame licking his glowing red lips, radiating a dizzying heat spell from every inch of his body. Sherlock felt his own body take a sudden fevered chill and he began to tremble wildly, sweat flying off of his body.
Now Jim, slowly, purposefully reached out to take Sherlock by the elbows again. Sherlock managed a weak shriek and threw himself against the wall, flattening his body away from the human inferno when he realized he had nowhere to run.
Jim's hands suddenly burst into a dazzling flower of yellow flames; his skin peeled away black and charred like burnt paper. His fingers had turned into golden claws of fire that gripped Sherlock's arms, searing away the suit cloth and the skin as they dug their way into his flesh.
Sherlock gasped in pain and disbelief, watching his arms develop red bubbling blisters that boiled and popped, oozing a clear or white liquid that ran down his hands and pool on the floor at his feet.
Jim spoke with a voice that was like crackling white logs in a campfire. "Am I burning you Sherlock? Are you invincible now? Am I more than human now?"
Sherlock screamed as the tongue of fire whipped out of Jim's searing mouth and rent his skin just as the flames had torn his hands. Suddenly the lips were peeled back, revealing a bright red gash that snarled with sizzling flames. Suddenly the scarab beetles in his eyes were melted and gone, and yellow blazes shot up his eyebrows, catching his hair and his face on fire.
Suddenly Jim Moriarty was no longer; the Flame Imp stood before him, burning him in its wretched clutches.
Sherlock, with a rush of fear and adrenaline reached out his hands and buried them deep into the heart of the fire, pushing with all of his might.
The Flame Imp soared across the flat like a stuttering firework, catching the couch and a small table in the blaze. With all the clutter it was only a matter of time before the entire building would become a lair for the burning villain.
Sherlock cradled both of his arms tenderly, nursing the burns and the wounds. He stumbled down the hallway into his room and slammed the door shut, propping his chair against the knob and effectively locking it.
As soon as the door was sealed, he heard the searing of burning wood accompanying the persistent thudding of a fist at his door.
"Open up Sherlock." The Flame Imp hissed.
Sherlock looked down at his arms, and marveled in the miracle that seemed to be occurring. His burns were already pink and shiny new flesh, the puncture wounds from the where golden fingers had dug into his flesh were mere bruises. The only thing that seemed to be a real problem was the irritating stabbing in his left arm.
He gazed carefully at his arm and reached out, caressing it gently, wincing when it hurt. There was something under the skin which was forcing it up. Sherlock grabbed the offending item and wrenched it out of his arm. He stared at it, unable to make up his mind as to the purpose of it, when he suddenly realized what it was and what it meant. He spat on his bedroom floor, cursed under his breath and let the syringe fall upon his nightstand.