Jim was already perched on his favorite red armchair when Mycroft arrived back at their rather spacious home.
"Good evening, dear," Mycroft cooed, brushing a kiss onto Jim's cheek, and leaning lightly against the over-stuffed chair.
"Morning, dear," Jim corrected, gaze not wavering from his laptop, "it's 3:19."
"Ah," Mycroft replied distractedly.
"Well?"
"Well what, Jim?"
"How's catching me coming? I'll bet your team is getting really close at this point," the criminal could hardly suppress the smile that was tugging at his mouth.
"Oh yes, they have nearly got it: apparently you're somewhere in Cardiff," "Goodness, Mycroft, I think I might have to move my base of operations somewhere more secure! I'm just no match for the British government, am I?" Jim pronounced with mock fear, spoiling his tone a bit by giggling.
"Perhaps I'll smuggle you out of the country in my briefcase. If you're good, that is," Mycroft replied with a smirk, swinging himself around gracefully, until he as in front of the red chair, and staring directly at the smaller man.
He produced a remote from an inner pocket of his overcoat, and pointed it at a stereo that began to swell with Dean Martin's thick voice. Jim's eyes twitched upward, giving the older man a flat glare.
"Predictable."
"Dean Martin is a particular favorite of mine."
"Obviously." Jim drew out the first syllable, yawning in a decidedly feline manner.
"Obviously," Mycroft mimicked, "you have no appreciation for music, Mr. Moriarty,"
"That's not strictly true, Mr. Holmes, I simply have no appreciation for hearing Dean Martin day in, day out, that's all."
Mycroft smiled in that mischievous way that only he could manage, dipping his hand to place it on Jim's temple, and in the same swift motion, pressing the fingertips of his other hand to the laptop, snapping it shut, and quickly moving it to the small table next to the armchair.
"Mycroft-" Jim exclaimed in a tone of somewhat less-than-convincing irritation.
The older man traced his thumb over Jim's lower lip, before taking hold of the smaller man's tie and tugging him gently to his feet, all the while humming along to the music that flowed around the two men.
Mycroft was a graceful man by nature, and dancing came naturally to him (not to say that he hadn't dedicated a substantial amount of his time learning how to elegantly maneuver himself in time to music), and so it no longer surprised Jim when he was swept into a tango, or entwined in Mycroft's long arms and pulled into an impromptu waltz. Whether Jim would admit it or not, it was nights like this (well, mornings, technically), that he looked forward to. He might put on a front of peevishness, but there was never a time that Jim Moriarty felt more at home than when he was following Mycroft's lead, head resting on the taller man's shoulder, clasped against the rhythm of "Under the Bridges of Paris." Jim never did make any attempt to switch out the CD that always rested in the stereo, always ready for Mycroft's return.
