Xenomorphic

by Ebyru

Moriarty could be considered a vesicant being, but he's often taken for an aphrodisiac instead. It is not his choice whether the fools fall prey or not, but his web is ever-ready all the same. Basically, it's a love triangle brought on by Moriarty.

Sherlock is pacing, his violin bow in one hand and his mobile in the other. John is off somewhere—wherever he goes during the time Sherlock thinks he's still in the flat—and it's not helping Sherlock to decide one bit.

Sherlock drops into his armchair, unceremoniously, lifting a hip to pull his violin out from under him. It seems—bent. Sherlock slides his bow across it gently and is greeted with an off-tune pitch that makes him wince. He'll need to have his violin repaired it seems. First time in years, too.

Mobile phone it is.

Sherlock searches through his desk drawer, under John's laptop, inside John's laptop—not the actual data, though he's cracked the new password out of habit—in the flower pots, under the skull, in the skull's eye, under his bed, in the closet, under the chairs, in the fridge, and he can't find it anywhere—

Sherlock digs in the pocket of his robe and whisks out the crumpled up piece of paper. He knew he hadn't thrown it away yet.

Jim and eleven curious digits are neatly written out on the paper. He would try to analyse the writing and see what it tells him, but Moriarty knows better. In character, most likely Moriarty's writing and mannerisms mold to shape the personality of the man. He's a terrific actor, insane, but terrific.

The number itself, though; could it be real?

Sherlock sits in his chair, avoiding the violin this time, and stares at the number. Jim slipped it quickly enough not to be noticed by the common folk—in this case Molly and John—but that didn't mean he wanted to hide it, it could just mean he wanted Sherlock to be curious about Jim. Sherlock would have been curious had Jim been more verbally satisfying, and less irritating. Instead, he was bothered by Molly's lack of observation and merely used Jim as proof for her to come to the realisation on her own. How could Jim not be gay with neon green underpants?

All of that is insignificant now. Moriarty is Jim. And he left a trail for Sherlock, who—surprisingly enough—did not smell the rat before he emerged. Sherlock tries to not let the thought bruise his ego. He fails.

Moriarty is twisted, inexplicably mad and hard to pin down. He does things for sheer pleasure, with no real purpose, and since he always has a backup—much like Sherlock—he's also without fear of consequence.

In that case, if Sherlock had been interested in Jim and had called, Moriarty would have been thrilled, perhaps would have revealed himself, falsely believing Sherlock was on his trail so quickly. Or perhaps he knew exactly which type of person Sherlock would ignore and forget, and left the trail of very palpable crumbs just to watch Sherlock's wide eyes when he found out what massive clue he'd skimmed over.

Either way, Sherlock has convinced himself, within a half hour that it is –really and truly—Moriarty's mobile number. The next decision is easier: does he text or does he throw the paper away?

Who is he fooling? He wouldn't have spent all that time ripping the house apart just to burn this tiny link to Moriarty.

Sherlock unlocks his phone and types: 'Why would you give me this, Jim? -S'

Someone like Moriarty would most likely answer immediately upon receiving a text from the person they most admire. Even Sherlock has to admit he answers as quickly as possible when he likes the sender in the slightest (which is something he would never say aloud). It shouldn't be long before Moriarty responds. Not long at all.

Two hours pass and John returns to find Sherlock locking and unlocking his mobile incessantly. Moriarty still has not answered.

"Are you expecting a call from a case?" John asks, curious.

"No," Sherlock locks his phone, putting it in his robe. "But that would be nice."

John nods, "Oh," he slips into the kitchen to put away the milk he bought.

"Can you give me the milk please, John?" Sherlock says from the comfort of his armchair.

"I just—" John sighs. Of course—of course—Sherlock is too lazy to get up or care to get to the fridge himself. He sets the milk carton in front of Sherlock and slips off to his own room.

Sherlock grunts inwardly over John not noticing or asking about the dent in his violin. Or maybe he's making unbecoming sounds about it being exactly two hours twelve minutes and forty-six seconds since he sent the text and still having not received a response.

Quite unlikely.

His rival, or fan, did not merit such a strong, vocal reaction from him as of yet.

Indeed Moriarty tried to blow up poor John, but he is overly dramatic and insane. Perhaps that is what he would consider a practical joke. In which case, Sherlock doesn't feel compelled to take it (or the man behind it) very seriously. Moriarty did say himself: he is changeable. It's to be expected. Sherlock isn't anxious about becoming his friend. He just dislikes being ignored. That's right. That must be it.

John would most likely call Sherlock insane for even considering this to be anything more than a natural, human response. Since when has Sherlock ever been 'natural' though?

John comes down a few hours later. He watches as Sherlock frowns at the ceiling, locking and unlocking his mobile, again. John fixes a sandwich for both of them, and Sherlock offers a smile when he rests it on the table next to him. The doctor sits across from Sherlock, mostly in silence, until the curiosity becomes too much to ignore.

"So who are you waiting for?"

"No one of importance," Sherlock says flatly. He's given himself away with the tone. Sherlock wonders if John will notice. Moriarty would notice.

"Mycroft?" John says after swallowing his mouthful.

Ha! Sherlock thinks. The wrong M name.

"Why, ha?" John says, brow creasing. Sherlock is acting just as he had when Irene was texting him. Could it be a woman again? Or The Woman?

Sherlock quirks a brow; did he say it aloud? No matter. It wasn't anything insulting for once, not that he'd care if it was in any case. John is used to that sort of thing.

"Indeed Mycroft is of no importance," Sherlock twirls his bow between his fingers, "but it isn't him."

John's brow creases and he nods, slowly, considering the other possibilities. "How long have you been waiting?"

Sherlock checks his watch, unnecessarily, just to hide the fact that he knows down the millisecond how long he's been waiting for this reply. "Roughly a few hours."

Six hours, forty-two minutes and thirty-eight seconds. Moriarty is either testing his patience to see if Sherlock will send another text, or it is—unexpectedly—a wrong number. Could Moriarty have thought Sherlock to be boring when he hadn't texted immediately upon receiving the number? Maybe his number has changed—

"Well, I'm off to bed," John announces, to what feels like an earless room. Sherlock is clearly in deep concentration. "Good night, Sherlock."

—Moriarty would be type to become agitated by the lack of acknowledgment wouldn't he? He needs to feel understood and be constantly pleased with himself. John is the only one who compliments Sherlock., really, and that does make him feel oddly satiated with solving cases—for a few moments at least.

"Good night, John," Sherlock answers, but John is already in his room.

Sherlock is sipping a cup of tea Mrs. Hudson made him—when he called for John ten times and she couldn't stand it anymore, 'I'm not your housekeeper'—still contemplating why it's taking Moriarty so long to reply. Surely he doesn't think Sherlock will comply and send him another text, because he won't.

First is for probing, the second is for answering, and so on. He doesn't speak to 'himself'. Well, not through writing. Maybe Sherlock's mistaken and it's a number that is out of service—

Sherlock's phone dings in his robe. He jumps out of his arm chair and wrestles his robe from the hook on the door, dropping it in a pile and smiling—smiling, why is he smiling?—over the robe's defeat. He unlocks his phone quickly and clicks open the received text.

Finally decided to put the number to use, I see.

Good, Sherlock. We can have more fun this way.

-M

Of course that's why Moriarty would do this. How could Sherlock be so naïve? This is part of the game, the warm-up most likely. He's been anxiously awaiting this message, this first contact. He's been dying to see Sherlock's curiosity get the best of him. Everything is relying on this moment. Now Moriarty can go through with his true plans—whatever they may be—and lead Sherlock on a merry hunt to try and solve it all.

Well then, let the games begin. Sherlock takes out John's gun and shoots through the wall (it feels more like the Olympics that way).

Did you just shoot through your wall?

I think you killed one of my men.

–M

Sherlock squints, rushing over to his window. Is he being watched? Or perhaps one of Moriarty's lapdogs reported back to their boss when they heard the shot. Either way, Moriarty is a very selfish, egocentric man; he won't let them do the dirty work of killing Sherlock. He will want to do it himself. Sherlock doesn't know if he should be flattered or not. He smirks.

I'm flattered that you're watching me so closely.

Doesn't it interfere with your daily schedule?

-S

Sherlock is reading the newspaper (scowling at it, and that stupid hat) when another ding interrupts his thought process. Could it be Moriarty again? They've been texting back and forth for hours already. Doesn't he have things he wants to do?

Why didn't you reply, sweetheart?

-M

Sherlock isn't going to admit he has been contemplating the exact words and phrasing to use to his rival in life, not even by text message. What has gotten into him? He should be finding a case, not chatting with a psychopathic killer who dresses surprisingly well. John needs to return from that clinic, or wherever he escapes off to, quickly. Sherlock doesn't want to think about Moriarty anymore.

I'm busy.

-S

It seems to have the intended effect since Moriarty isn't messaging anymore. Sherlock is on the verge of picking up a new habit (or twenty) to keep himself from asking what Moriarty is doing—not that he'd give a truthful answer, but still—and why he isn't busy planning his next great plot. Sherlock is bored, Moriarty needs to plan faster.

John returns when Sherlock is a second away from starting to bite his nails—the least destructive of the habits he'd wanted to pick up—and all is well in the world.

For a while.

Sherlock has one eye on the screen of his mobile, in hopes that Moriarty will finally answer with some personal (and interesting) information about himself, as his other eye is trying to concentrate on what John is telling him.

"Are you paying attention, Sherlock?" John frowns, crossing his arms in the small, rickety chair. It matches John quite well.

"I am," Sherlock says. As much as he needs to listen when he's already figured the case out, and is stalling to conduct his own experiment of whether John can solve it, too. With a few extra hints provided by yours truly.

Sherlock's mobile flashes and he grabs it at the speed of light.

Now why would I tell you what I've been up to today?

I might tell you if you admit you miss me.

-M

"Who is that person getting all of your attention?" John utters, more curious than jealous. Though there is jealousy in the intonation as well, some that even John isn't aware of. But Sherlock can hear it.

Sherlock types his reply of 'I would tell you, but you'd know it wasn't true –S', locking his phone and putting it on the table. "Just someone who can entertain me now and again."

That is too big of a clue. Moriarty and Irene are the only two (besides John) who can keep him amused for more than a few minutes, John should know that. And John believes Irene is dead—even if Sherlock knows better—so he should figure out the answer through the process of elimination. If it cannot be one, it is the other. But he doesn't use his brain like he should, isn't listening to all of the clues Sherlock (inadvertently) is leaving him. It's starting to depress him.

"I see," John says, obviously still curious, but trying to reign it in. "Well I'm glad someone can."

Silly John, you are one of the lucky people. You never see the things right under your nose.

Sherlock texts Moriarty—who he's begun to call Jim, at his rival's request—as soon as he wakes up with some mindless observation that he forgets on his way to the washroom. Unfortunately, in doing so, he misses the quiet 'ping' of Moriarty's phone when he enters Sherlock's flat.

Moriarty sits down for a moment, in Sherlock's chair, then moves to John's. It's more comfortable, which means John uses it more, has broken it in more. Sherlock is the type to pace and stand and sit and jump and wave his arms around with no real purpose. He hasn't molded his shape into his armchair enough; it makes Moriarty slightly disappointed. Oh well, he'll have to feel the warmth (or ice) and contour of Sherlock when they see each other face to face instead.

He picks up Sherlock's mobile when he spots it and plays with a few of the settings, escaping just in time to hear Sherlock flush and step out of the bathroom.

Sherlock notices right away that his teacup has been turned from what would be a right-handed person's to a left-handed one. Moriarty has been in the flat, and didn't stay for a friendly conversation. How rude of him. Maybe he's left a present instead. Sherlock hums, as he looks beneath his chair and around the room quickly. No sign of a change.

Sherlock's phone doesn't ding but plays a short bit of music instead when he receives a text.

Judas. Juda-ah-ah.

Why do people enjoy changing his ringtones so often? Sherlock slides his phone open and reads the message (always hearing it in Moriarty's sing-song voice).

Do you like it, love?

Now you can always know when it's me.

-M

Sherlock grumbles and answers immediately with 'Does that make me Jesus? -S'.

The one and only.

But you're much sexier.

-M

No-one except Lestrade recognises the voice of his ringtone when Sherlock is on a crime scene one day, secretly daydreaming about Moriarty blowing up a building and leaving him a trail to recover.

( "You a fan of Lady Gaga? She does seem sort of up your alley."

Anderson doesn't try to stifle his laugh.)

Sherlock does research on this Lady Gaga, finds her shocking for all of five minutes, then back to dull. She's ordinary. He opens his blog instead. The world needs to know that he is aware of Lady Gaga, but not a fan of hers. Just in case they have the same idea as Lestrade.

John returns from his work at the clinic, tired and sore (from the way he's leaning to the side as though his shoulder might dislocate).

"Long day, John?" Sherlock is watching some weird soap opera on television, nicking entire lines of dialogue to be able to 'blend in' more with 'society'—whoever those dull people are.

"Yeah," John turns his shoulder in small counter-clockwise circles. Sherlock smirks when he sees he was right. "Anything fun today?"

"The usual," Sherlock answers quickly. Moriarty is now fast becoming the usual part of his days, in spite of his vile ringtone that he cannot seem to un-program no matter what he tries. "Boring."

Judas. Juda-ah-ah.

Bollocks. Sherlock squints then irons out the wrinkles of his face when John gawks at him like Sherlock's just insulted his mother.

"What was that sound?"

"What sound?" Sherlock clears his throat, checking the text.

I see your pet is home.

Do tell him I say hi.

-M

Sherlock makes an unfamiliar, devolved humanoid sound, something like ugh, and answers 'I will certainly not, Jim. -S' (Jim. It feels so personal. He hasn't said it aloud yet, but he's excited to try it out the next time Jim pops in unexpected. If he does, that is.)

'When will I have the pleasure of you visiting again? –S'

Sherlock shouldn't ask. He knows he shouldn't. But he wants. He wants so bad to see Moriarty again and see the expression on that little, twisted man's face when he says it proudly. As though Sherlock gave him the name, like he owns his rival's flesh and blood and mind.

Are you getting excited?

I know you are.

You'll have to be patient, sweetheart.

-M

"It's not a lewd noise, so I know it isn't Irene," John utters softly, contemplating. "So who changed it this time?"

"Not sure," Sherlock says, slipping his mobile in his pocket.

Sherlock's so tempted to answer Moriarty with something lewd now that John has put the idea into his mind. He's so influenceable, he never realised. Maybe this is the effect of watching too much senseless television. He can't recall ever wanting to take people's advice or comments seriously in the past.

John wonders for a moment if Irene has returned from the dead, but pushes the thought aside when Sherlock answers the text promptly.

'My excitement is often short-lived. If you make me wait too long, perhaps I will find another villain to send messages to. –S'

It can't be Irene. Sherlock doesn't grin like that unless it involves a case—

Sherlock eyes John, noticing the darkening look on the doctor's face. Does he know? Did Sherlock leave too many hints?

Sherlock is in the middle of explaining how flowers remind him of cemeteries to Jim when Jim asks if he should bring some when he visits Sherlock's flat. Mrs. Hudson is in the flat, going through the fridge and removing the items—she believes, but knows nothing of—that shouldn't be alongside food. Sherlock jumps from his seat and rushes over to stop her from destroying his weeks of experiments finally coming to fruition.

John sees the phone on the table. It's unlocked, and the text is half composed. It's now or never. Sherlock will most likely keep hiding who the sender is until he is caught. John snatches the mobile and starts to climb up the stairs to his room with it to gain more time for investigations.

It's a fairly normal text—buying flowers for someone you're visiting is quite kind, if you're in a relationship—it's just the name that's shocking.

Moriarty. Whom, for some reason, Sherlock has begun to call Jim. John holds in the bile rising in his chest.

Sherlock dashes up the stairs to where John is standing in shock, and takes it back, not saying anything to John. What is there to say? Apologising is rubbish in most situations. It just makes the guilty party feel like they've been granted redemption. He goes to his room, erasing the previous message and sending something new.

'John just saw that I was texting you. I think I may be homeless soon. –S'

John scribbles down the numbers he memorised. But he's still missing two of them. If only he had Sherlock's mind for a moment. No, that's a horrible thing to wish. Sherlock is always tormented by boredom and aggravated by humanity and looking for challenges he shouldn't, and, more recently, keeping in contact with serial killers to pass the time. No, Sherlock's mind is not one he wants.

John goes back down into the living room to sit on the sofa. Sherlock isn't typing, but he's reading something on his phone, glancing over at John once in a while. John stands and pretends to stand next to the window, turning to look over Sherlock's shoulder at the numbers. Perhaps he could see the final two digits—

"John," Sherlock says, forceful in spite of being the one who should be in trouble. "I don't appreciate people breaching my privacy. Mycroft does it enough."

"You don't get privacy when you flirt with a murdering psychopath, Sherlock!" John snaps. He doesn't mean to, but it's the truth. If this is what happens when Sherlock has a bit too much time off, he can understand why Mycroft would keep a close eye on his brother. He would use all his resources as well.

Sherlock's eyes widen for a second then he blinks and locks his phone, pushing it in his pocket. "My apologies, John." He changes his mind, and rests his mobile on the table. He stands and goes into his bedroom, leaving it behind.

John watches him retreat like a teenager who's been caught hiding dirty magazines. It's not so far from the truth, really.

John is reading a newspaper article about Sherlock, comparing it with his (real) facts concerning the case they finished not long ago. Sherlock is out of country, in France with Mycroft—who refuses to tell John anything about their whereabouts as per usual—and it feels a bit peaceful, but entirely too quiet in the flat for John's liking. Thus, he's resorted to blogging about their cases.

He's just about finished typing his post when his phone vibrates—doesn't moan or sing like Sherlock's—and it means he's received a text. More often than not, it's some random and disconcerting message from Sherlock. This time it is, once again, disconcerting, but it's not Sherlock.

You could have just asked me, Johnny.

I would have given it willingly.

-M

John stares at it for fifteen minutes, deciding whether he should reply or not. He hadn't thought about what he would do once he uncovered the last two digits of Moriarty's mobile number. Perhaps just call him and threaten him—pointlessly—and tell him that he knew what was going on, what he's trying to do. Certainly he doesn't think John will just sit by while Moriarty tries to turn Sherlock into a likeness of him, or perhaps even against John. If that is what he's trying to accomplish. He'd only seen a few messages and they seemed relatively harmless, just as Irene's had.

'What are you saying to him?'

John doesn't sign his name, doesn't see the point. It's not a formal letter or even an email, it's a quick thought sent through the air and into someone else's pocket. John shudders at the thought of being anywhere near Moriarty's person.

Oh, come now.

I know you saw our love messages.

-M

John frowns and sends back, 'then why?'.

For fun.

This is thrilling, isn't it?

-M

John doesn't answer. He doesn't want to give in to this little game just as Sherlock has. But then again, Sherlock gives in to every game he can get his fingers on. He sighs and clicks 'post' on the entry he's finished. His phone vibrates again a few minutes later.

What are you wearing?

-M

John looks down, almost reflexively, then rolls his eyes. Why would he even consider telling—anyone for that matter—what he was wearing? It's the most cliché and ridiculous line ever used, and Moriarty probably had a feeling John would react this way. Even his girlfriends have never bothered asking something so childish before. Maybe that's why it worked.

Besides all that though—which is already a lot of things to digest—there is no way he's going to tell a man who tried to kill them both anything. Ever. He doesn't even deserve the snide remark John is trying to come up with.

John begins another post, one about a watch collector who broke into people's homes while they were asleep and stole their watches right off their wrists, as his irritation begins to surface.

He really wants to say something to Moriarty. That bastard needs to know a piece of his mind before he gives him the cold shoulder. But, then again, he's probably expecting that, waiting for it. John doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of being right. He'll have to be disappointed for a while longer. John's been in more difficult situations than this.

The only reason he'd ever contact Moriarty is to find out why, just why, he and Sherlock seem to be attracted to each other so strongly. It's not one-sided in the slightest, and it grates on John's nerves because he knows what that's like. It's like finding a part of yourself you didn't know was missing. But what part do they give each other? Perhaps Sherlock could tell him? No, Sherlock isn't good at speaking about feelings. Only Moriarty could tell John. And that's the only reason John hasn't told him to piss off and blocked his number yet.

John's not willing to give in, though, not right away. Moriarty needs to learn how much self-restraint a normal person has.

John successfully ignores Moriarty, but that doesn't mean the evil genius gives up. Not in the least.

John? Can you hear me?

It's God.

-M

John, I know how strong you are.

You can stop now.

-M

What if I tell Sherlock you're contacting me, too?

How surprised do you think he'd be?

-M

John, this isn't fun.

I know you want to play.

I can be nice. I can be very nice.

-M

John reads them all, but never replies with more than a huff or an eye roll. Even after a week, which is most surprising to John, he doesn't answer Moriarty's taunts, but Moriarty does not quit. Maybe he's trying to find the right button to push.

I'm in the bathtub, John.

There's a lot of room left for you.

Won't you join me?

-M

I promise I'll tell you where I am.

And all you have to do is fuck me once you arrive.

-M

Don't you want to know what a villain tastes like?

I bet you'll like it.

-M

John fixes his collar and deletes each new message, trying not to remember the exact words his eyes skimmed over. But they're so hard not to think about and keep in a little corner of his mind.

I will give you my home address.

You can sneak in the backdoor.

Then you can sneak in my backdoor.

And call the police if you like.

-M

I've never sucked anyone's cock before.

I'm willing to make an exception.

-M

John means to type 'cocktail' in his entry about a drug deal at a bar, but types 'cock' instead, and doesn't notice it until after he posts. He apologises to all his readers for the horrible mistake. It's the entry with the most hits by far. Thank you Moriarty once more, for ruining John's life.

It's time for bed, and John is comfortable and relaxed, and proud that he still hasn't replied to Moriarty. He's doing a far better job of avoiding serial killers than Sherlock is—obviously. Sherlock doesn't even think he's doing anything wrong; it's just another puzzle to solve—more elaborate, yes, because it involves figuring out a human's life, but it's a puzzle all the same.

John isn't going to spend any more time than is necessary contacting or seeing Moriarty. Was Sherlock meeting him in private on top of their daily chats? John frowns and turns over in bed. It's not like Sherlock would tell him about it. He's so stubborn and curious, and blind when he needs to see (like Sherlock tells everyone else to do).

Sleep. Sleep will do John some good.

John wakes in a room he doesn't recognise, bathed in sunlight. It's not frightening, it's unfamiliar. The light from the window is a soft orange shade, either sunrise or sunset, and frankly it doesn't really matter which to John because he feels content. He sits up in the bed, stretches, and the door creaks open, inch by eerie inch.

His heart should be pounding, he should be standing, he shouldn't just be staring in silence as someone creeps into the room he cannot remember entering. John stands, but doesn't do much else, except continue to stare as the door is pushed open.

"Good evening, John," Moriarty says cheerfully. "Did you have a nice rest? I've brought you a snack." He grins, "oh wait, it's just me."

John blinks, and, within that second, Moriarty crosses the room and stands before John, eyeing him hungrily. John wills his body to push the maniacal man away, but instead he draws him in, their breath battling for power over the other.

"Any pet of Sherlock's is a pet of mine, John," Moriarty whispers. "Don't you want to taste the rush a mass murdering genius can give you? Only I can do it, John. Even Sherlock is too innocent to provide you with what I have."

John's eyes are falling shut, but he can see that devious grin painted across Moriarty's face, like John has already said yes and planted the blade of a knife deep in Sherlock's back. Moriarty's lips brush against John's slightly parted ones, and the heaven John feels reminds him of destruction in Afghanistan. He might as well stab himself in the gut right now because he wants more of this, wants more of what Moriarty will give, wants more of Moriarty as a whole, and wants to give him all in return. It's sin at its purest form, and John is drowning in the delight it brings.

John heaves in a breath, his chest pressed so close to Moriarty's they're practically sharing air. Moriarty is slightly taller, so he tilts John's jaw barely, pressing a real kiss this time. And John is falling, to the floor, from the sky, from the clouds, from earth, down onto his bed. Moriarty follows, climbing over him and rubbing every inch of skin against John's until they're eye to eye again. John leans in this time for the kiss, and that's enough for Moriarty to throw all pretense far, far away. They are going to do much more than kiss. John grabs hold of the sheets, needing something to keep him grounded because he still feels like he's falling from too high up and about to splatter, but Moriarty just laughs and licks a warm, sensual stripe up John's neck. It ripples through his skin like poison. Moriarty is such a beautiful snake, John thinks.

Sherlock screams from down the hall at Mrs. Hudson for having thrown out his fingertips that he wasn't finished testing on, and John falls out of bed. His bed. His empty bed where Moriarty is not currently trying to force him into a corner until he prays for sudden death. John hasn't had a dream like that in ages. It's never been about a man—well, there was the one about Sherlock, that's true. It's never been about a man other than Sherlock.

This is not the path he wants to take. Sherlock is free to live his own mistakes, if that's what he wishes, but John knows better than to contact Moriarty. And more importantly, he knows the attraction is simply to the power Moriarty has over humanity and his resemblance to Sherlock (intellectually), and nothing more. He knows nothing else of the sick man (except that he looks good in Westwood).

John needs to stop him from texting somehow; he's dangerously close to Moriarty's fire now. It's not a game anymore once his emotions are implicated.

Did you dream of me?

-M

John doesn't breathe for a moment. Has Moriarty found a way to read people's minds now? 'Stop sending me messages', John types in quickly.

I don't like orders.

Especially not from regular people.

-M

John rolls his eyes and presses the keys down hard to relieve some frustration, 'stop please'.

May~~be.

-M

Sherlock walks past John's room, murmuring a quick 'morning', texting shamelessly (to Moriarty, no doubt). John can't do anything except let him. He's a grown man, mostly, and John is not his mother or his caregiver. He can take care of himself, and if John sees that he's changing or becoming obsessive about texting, then perhaps he'll step in. But for now, it just seems like a temporary addiction he's going through. Cases still distract him from texting at least.

He couldn't be so bad if Sherlock didn't start ignoring him. What is it about him that makes people want to know more and hear more? John needs to find out for himself. Sherlock wouldn't know the first thing about explaining the nature of their relationship.

'What do you usually talk about with Sherlock?' John presses send before he changes his mind. Why is he doing this again? That's right—to catch him through casual dialogue. He has to remind himself.

John, come on.

If I wanted to talk about Sherlock, I'd be speaking to him.

Which I do already.

-M

You know you'd rather talk about your dream.

The one I was in.

-M

John rubs his head; the beginnings of a migraine and he's just woken up. He's right though, about all of it.

'How did you know?' John replies before escaping to the washroom for a shower, and seeing Sherlock locking and unlocking his phone. Moriarty isn't answering him because he's writing John instead. John smiles at that, then remembers who he's dealing with: an expert at most things, including deceiving people.

When he returns, towel around his waist and one in hand to dry his hair, Sherlock is on the couch staring up at the ceiling. Moriarty still hasn't answered him. Perhaps he's busy planning his next big massacre or explosion. Does Sherlock know Moriarty has started speaking to John?

Lucky guess.

Sherlock isn't the only one who does it.

-M

John finds himself further intrigued. Even Sherlock's guesses were based off of a small hint that others (see: everyone) passed over. No harm in asking, 'what made you think that?'

Well for one, you don't usually fall out of bed.

It's not your style.

-M

John feels a wave of insecurity wash over him. Moriarty's watching their flat. Did Sherlock know? He had to know, even if Moriarty didn't openly tell him as he just did with John. This is much worse than he could have expected.

Don't worry, John.

I won't look when you're showering. Much.

-M

Moriarty was being patient, uncharacteristically so. And then, one happy day, Sherlock made all the time spent waiting worth it when he sent a cautious message in hopes that it was Moriarty.

Moriarty could not believe it was happening. His inspiration, his rival, his muse, had finally broken down and contacted him. It was a joyous day. He needed to celebrate.

Twelve failed, two successfully completed, five half-made bombs later, and Moriarty realised he forgot to reply to his dear, sweet, beautiful rival's message. Poor Sherlock, it probably did a number on his nerves. Oh well. He deserved it for making Moriarty wait so long for the first contact.

Once the first, simple message went from Moriarty's phone to Sherlock's he knew it would be the beginning of a wonderful love-hate relationship. Friendship is for ordinary people, and they, beyond a doubt, are anything but.

It was too easy to get him interested, make Sherlock believe he was in control, but aware of how fast he was clearly losing the upper hand. Certainly his main priority was getting Moriarty behind bars, but he was taking his sweet time—purposely—doing so, to enjoy the conversation of a kindred spirit. One that was connected to a certain sadistic and sociable psychopath named Moriarty. Moriarty loves his surname, but wanted Sherlock to feel the rush of being granted permission—special permission—to call him by his first name instead. Because Moriarty is not afraid to admit how truly special his rival is.

Sherlock makes Moriarty's skin itch and vibrate, wanting to be closer to his. He wants to dig deep, and deeper yet, to find all the secrets John would take years to uncover with his sub-level mind. How could Sherlock be this monstrosity and this angel at the same time?

Moriarty knows how Sherlock thinks, he knows what he thinks, but somehow Sherlock has found his anchor keeping him from acting on impulse. Not that Moriarty would ever want to keep his impulses under wraps, mind you.

Let it out, Sherlock. Moriarty screamed to himself one day when Sherlock refused to cross boundaries only he and Moriarty could see. Be a devil, Sherlock. Moriarty knows just how perfect Sherlock would be then, if only he'd let his clothes fall apart, and descend to Moriarty's level. If only.

Moriarty pushed further, pulled at the quickly unraveling strings of Sherlock's control, urging him to bend a rule, drawing him out with promises of intimate interaction and destruction (on Moriarty's part).

If you want to see me again, Sherlock,

I want to see just how much I mean to you.

-M

And then, perhaps due to his pet's influence or the speed at which his conscience was shrinking, Sherlock decided to play fewer games with Moriarty. And Moriarty does not enjoy being deprived of what he likes most. It's fairly reasonable since he's a man of few pleasures; bombs, characters, tricks, music, the main being the dashing Sherlock Holmes.

When his toy was taken away, he had to find another to replace him. Obviously it was one less mentally appealing and appetising, but interesting all the same. One John Watson, the man who constantly tries (and fails) to tame his best friend Sherlock.

It was delicious.

John wanted to play with Moriarty so much! Almost more than Sherlock did. All it took were flirtatious comments and bribery in the way of empty promises, hope. John really did like to cling to hope and pray to his angels and his god and whomever else would listen. Moriarty could see exactly just what Sherlock had seen in John. He was good, pure, without flaw or temptation. He'd be fun to break down, oh, that would be amazing.

He was so insistent at first, so convinced Moriarty was The Devil reincarnate. But, just as any other person would, he'd cracked. He'd slipped but for a moment, and Moriarty delved into the opening with claws and fangs and pulled him out of his shell, discarding it never to be used again. John would be his now, too.

Sherlock most likely didn't want to share Moriarty. But John hadn't told, and Moriarty certainly hadn't. It would be a wonderful surprise for his lover once he found out. The supposed one-way street Sherlock thought he was on would come to fork, and John would have to lower his eyes and bite his lip, and lie to precious Sherlock about his conversations with Moriarty.

Moriarty was salivating at the thought. To destroy his frenemy (more like two lions battling for a female, which, in this case, happened to also be the other) would be fun, but to destroy his friendship along the way would be even better.

Sherlock resumed his game when John stopped trying to make him feel guilty, of that Moriarty was certain. Their bond could be as strong as their weakest link, and Moriarty was weakening John by the second. It burned in his chest; he needed to see one of them, and soon.

Moriarty knows Sherlock is the least patient of them, and making him wait any longer would only ruin their growing attraction. He would have to be first.

Sherlock is answering another sensual (and pointless) message Moriarty has sent him when he does hear the low 'ding' of Moriarty's phone this time. Sherlock rushes into the kitchen to create distance before the smaller man steps into his home, and he glances at the numbers on his phone. John would be home in a few hours. They had time.

Sherlock makes a mental note of all the weapons he keeps around his home: the knife through his bills, John's spare gun in the drawer, his musket against the wall, his riding crop (could be deadly if handled correctly), etc.

Sherlock doesn't intend to use any of those weapons though; they're too obvious. Besides, his mind would be more than enough to keep Moriarty at bay.

Moriarty pushes the door open, and it creaks steadily, making Sherlock's heart throb painfully in his chest. He busies himself with filling the kettle with water, settling into the electricity bouncing off and through the walls and below his skin. Sherlock never thought he'd be able to feel a presence this strongly. But he also never fathomed a mind so likened to his own.

"Sherlock," Moriarty says, impressively soft, "I'd like some biscuits if you have any."

"I'm afraid I don't," Sherlock lies. They're John's, and he doesn't much care for doing grocery shopping, so he doesn't want to replenish the package. He's still withholding the urge to call him Jim. That will be for a more appreciated visit.

"I'll buy more if you like," Moriarty says, turning his head as he crosses the living room. He drops into Sherlock's chair like dead weight. "I forgot to eat lunch."

Sherlock watches quietly, concentrating on making his pulse slow down. "Alright." He doesn't look away as he opens the cupboard and brings the biscuits out, placing a few on a dish.

Moriarty beams, leaning back in the chair and crossing his legs, "Thank you, love."

How does he sit like that when his black, pinstripe suit looks like it's painted on? Sherlock clears his throat and fills both cups, adding them to a tray with the biscuits. Something about Moriarty's presence is making him feel self-conscious, anxious, seeking approval. It's ridiculous.

Sherlock smiles and Moriarty grins, watching him prepare their snack. Sherlock's nervous, the pretty bastard—all the better to crush him later on.

"Why did you decide on today?" Sherlock sips at his cup, leaning back in John's chair. They have exactly three hours before he returns from the clinic, unless it's a slow day, in which case they have less than that.

"I was in the neighbourhood," Moriarty wets his lips, leaning in for the cup. He watches Sherlock forcefully tear his eyes away from the dampened lips, and he curls them into a smirk, calling him to them. "I know you like surprises."

"Surprises," Sherlock snorts, "nothing can surprise me anymore."

"Except me," Moriarty chimes in. "And you like me very much."

Sherlock takes another sip, not bothering to answer that. It's obvious that there is something between them. More reckless energy brought on by boredom than an actual relationship like Sherlock has with John, but it's there nonetheless.

"I don't want you to compare me to regular people," Moriarty says pointedly, taking a biscuit between two fingers. "You and I cannot strive in their world. All we do is survive in it. I want to build my own world."

Sherlock tilts his head, gaze darting to where Moriarty is pressing the biscuit to his lips. A pink tongue darts out and licks the edge slowly. Sherlock feel his white collar tighten, but makes no move to adjust it.

"Won't you join my playground?" Moriarty murmurs, dark eyes focused and clear with intent. The intent to peel away every inch of clothing restricting Sherlock's body.

Sherlock places his cup down and grabs the bow of his violin instead. He could play the seduction game if he liked, too. Just because he hadn't wanted to, didn't mean he wasn't capable of winning. Sherlock strokes along the delicate string, slow and steady, eyes lidded for effect.

Moriarty bites into the biscuit to keep a whimper from slipping out. Sherlock has won this round, and he stands twirling the bow, happily—victory written across his pale skin that Moriarty desperately wants to feel and hurt. The smug genius. Luckily, he's a genius. Moriarty doesn't take this kind of behaviour from anyone else.

"Have you decided how you're going to burn me?" Sherlock says matter-of-factly, going into the kitchen to fetch more biscuits.

Moriarty stands, quiet. He's always been quiet when he tries to be, freakishly so. It used to frighten his mother. He grins, knowing Sherlock doesn't need to listen, just needs to look—the reflection on the fridge, the kettle, the stove, the shadow on the floor—he knows Moriarty is standing behind him.

"I have," Moriarty purrs, wrapping an arm low on Sherlock's waist. "Do you want to guess? But you won't be able."

Sherlock turns his head slightly, looking into those wells of darkness, intrigued by what they're hiding. He feels Moriarty slide out his mobile, purposely dragging his fingers along Sherlock's thigh, then slide it back in his pocket after openly tinkering with the settings.

"I believe I have an idea," Sherlock utters, turning quick enough to push Moriarty against the table and pin his wrist down. "Are samples allowed?"

Moriarty moans and Sherlock is certain he's winning. But Moriarty's pulse is normal. It's so incredibly normal that Sherlock feels his own speeding up instead. Moriarty grins, squeezing to prove his acknowledgment of it.

"You can have me anywhere you like, Sherly," Moriarty purrs, brushing past Sherlock as he leaves the kitchen. "I need to be off now, though," he calls from the front entrance. "See you soon, sweetheart."

Sherlock wonders if this is what sexual frustration is. Most likely it's just general frustration. He grumbles to himself about needing to show that mad man just what he's capable of.

John returns after a few hours, phone clutched tight in hand. Sherlock watches him slip his jacket off, still holding his phone firmly. As though it may run away and fall into the wrong hands if he doesn't take good care of it. Interesting.

While John is in the washroom (secretly typing a reply to Moriarty's 'what are you wearing, John?'), Sherlock rushes to throw away the plate of biscuits he'd forgotten to clean up. Evidence, just out in the open, and John is too busy grasping onto his phone for dear life to notice. Maybe he's found a new girlfriend. Unlikely after what happened with the last one—Jessica or Catherine or Stacey or whomever.

Sherlock has but one name on his mind, and it isn't that of a female's. Moriarty was so near, barely resisting the urge to close the distance between their mouths. Sherlock could practically hear the hinges of his restraint loosening and falling apart. Sherlock is already falling apart if he's reminiscing over the mouth of a criminal.

The cupboard is open, and Sherlock grabs the entire package of John's biscuit and throws them in the garbage. Anything to do with Moriarty's mouth needs to be disposed of, his antique cup included. Sherlock needs to find inner peace, and if this is what it will take, then everything shall have to go in the rubbish bin. And if Moriarty just so happens to keep his word and buy more when John wonders where his snacks have gone, then that would be an added bonus. (Sherlock is, of course, not throwing them away so that, indeed, Moriarty has no choice but to pass by with biscuits.)

John leaves the washroom, and considers whether he'd like to sit across from Sherlock while reading Moriarty's continuously dirty messages or find an excuse to go to his bedroom. He's never been good at hiding his reactions.

"I'm going up to my room for a while," John says, feigning a yawn. "I'll be back after a short nap."

Sherlock nods, narrowing his eyes when John turns away and climbs up the stairs. Could he have, truly, found a new girlfriend so quickly? There's usually a much longer mourning period between each boring, unmemorable woman. This one may be different.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson calls from the downstairs entrance, "there's a package here for you and John. Would you like me to bring it up?"

Biscuits.

Sherlock sighs, fingers thrumming over his (finally) repaired violin. "I'll be down in a moment," he answers, disappointment barely noticeable to even his closest friends.

Moriarty would not even follow along with Sherlock's plan, even simply to admit that he knew all about it. How unfortunate.

Sherlock rushes down the stairs with bow in hand, and grabs the box none-too-gently, running back to the sitting room. He shakes it—simple tea biscuits—and puts it in the cupboard where John had kept the previous pack. There's a note inside the box, he realises, and brings it all into his bedroom. (John's walking around in his room, which means he's about to come downstairs soon, but isn't sure if Sherlock is awake yet.)

Dear Sherly,

I had hoped I would have time to bring this personally, but my career got in the way.

Shall we meet for coffee instead? Your choice of time and place.

–M

Sherlock shreds the note faster than he had read it, and puts it into his recycling bin under pages and pages of limb research. Moriarty is only willing to concede control when he's the one controlling when he gives it up. Sherlock should have known better.

At least they could meet under more convenient circumstances, without the constant surveillance of Mycroft or the worry of not knowing when John may return.

Angelo hands Sherlock one menu, and he puts up two fingers, silently demanding a second one.

"A date?" Angelo's smile brightens, "Is John coming again?"

"No," Sherlock clears his throat, looking around the mostly empty restaurant. "This is a secret, Angelo. I'm on a case. He's a client."

"Oh, okay," Angelo makes a zipping gesture near his lips. "I'll bring you the other menu."

Moriarty is hardly recognisable (or dressed suitably) once he arrives. Grey jogging pants, a small gym bag and a sweaty t-shirt is what he's decided to wear on their—what is this? Moriarty's not an actual client. They've simply been speaking privately for weeks, and it's a restaurant. Sherlock's eyes widen as he continues to pretend he actually intends to order food for once. He looks up quickly, polite smile back in place.

"Jim," Sherlock says, looking back down at his menu like what he's said is nothing new.

It felt perfect. Saying those 3 letters, that one short sound, felt like Sherlock had finally been released from his self-inflicted mental chains. Moriarty seems impressed as he makes his way slowly to their dinner table.

"Sweetheart," Moriarty says when he sits down, "I know you're not actually looking at that. So why not look at me instead?"

Sherlock tilts the menu down enough to see Moriarty's eyes. They're dark, very much so, but not penetrating as usual. Moriarty's calm, he's relaxed. If this is a date to Sherlock's rival, then he might as well play along to prevent disappointment.

"Did you run here?"

"Do I seem like the type that would?" Jim answers, sipping his water. "It's warm."

"I've been waiting for thirty minutes," Sherlock answers dryly. He shouldn't be letting the irritation of waiting on his 'date' seep through so quickly, but it's beyond his control.

"I promise never to make you wait more than twenty-nine in the future," Moriarty grins, opening his menu.

What future? There are going to be more meetings? There really shouldn't be. Sherlock moves a stray curl out of his eyes, a nervous gesture more than anything else, but Moriarty can read through it.

"Sherlock, don't look at me like that. Of course we'll be seeing each other again soon," Moriarty adds, flipping the page of his menu. "And I don't only mean when we need to solve our problem."

Angelo comes to the table, and acts as professional as he can. No comments about dating or romance or any such thing he did with John when he first accompanied Sherlock.

Moriarty orders a large plate of pasta, two glasses of wine, and coffee for afterward. It's enough for two people, Sherlock notes. Then he realises; it is for two people. He's going to make Sherlock share with him.

The food arrives and Moriarty smiles up at the waiter, unravelling the napkin from around his utensils. He pushes the small candle in the middle of them to the side and slides his plate in its place. Moriarty reaches over, purposely brushing a hand against the back of Sherlock's as he unwraps his utensils.

"You need to eat, honey," Moriarty says, holding the container of Parmesan above the dish. He stops, "we're already here."

Sherlock sighs and throws his napkin on his lap. "Fine, just this once." He takes his fork in hand, "I don't like eating on Wednesdays." He tilts the container slightly. He does like a dash of Parmesan, though.

"I know," Moriarty says, pleased. He curls some spaghetti around his fork and pops it into his mouth, humming.

Sherlock isn't bothered by the looks they're getting from eating out of the same plate. He's always been the recipient of curious glances, murmurs behind his back, and from the looks of it, so has Moriarty. So has Jim. Because, genuinely, this is Jim he's eating messy pasta with, and not the consulting criminal named Moriarty.

For the most part, they eat in silence, and look up at each other. It's…comfortable. The silence that is, not the scenario, not their relationship. How could that ever be comfortable? Sherlock puts his fork down, dabbing the corner of his mouth.

"Can you play anything?" Sherlock asks, watching as Moriarty's lips curl at the question.

"No, but I could learn the violin," he replies. It could be easy for him, if he so chose to spend his time that way. But bothering Sherlock and his pet is so much more appealing. "Yours is a Stradivarius, right?"

"You didn't even see it," Sherlock tilts his head. How could he possibly know by seeing just the bow? Had he returned to the flat or had he sent one of his men?

"Oh, I don't know. Lucky guess?" Moriarty smirks, putting his fork down in favour of some wine.

Sherlock looks at him for the rest of their meal, not speaking, but thinking. Moriarty is doing much of the same, glancing up once every so often from his warm cup of coffee. They're practically reading each other's minds with no words needing to be uttered.

Moriarty pulls out his phone for a moment then pushes it back in his pocket. A black car pulls up outside the restaurant. He leans in slowly, a particular smile on his face. Particular in the way that it's new, Sherlock's never seen this one. Moriarty kisses Sherlock on the cheek, standing and dropping a folded up bill on the table.

Sherlock's gaze stays on Moriarty as he leaves, and his fingers come up to his face, dragging it along the area that was just kissed. It's damp, warm, lingering. It's not unpleasant. When Moriarty looks back to wave, Sherlock is opening up the folded bill and reading the small message of 'my turn next, sweetheart'. He looks up, and Moriarty is gone.

The next time they intend to see each other, Moriarty sends the same black car to pick up Sherlock. John thinks it's Mycroft, so he doesn't question Sherlock's disappearance. He does, however, contact his secret text-pal.

'Sherlock just left' is all he types out for Moriarty.

John's brow furrows, wondering why he would even say that much. It was like leaving him an open invitation. Oh, hey mister psychopath, my brilliant detective friend is away, please come by and scare the daylights out of me. John wonders if there's some way to retract sent messages, but logically he knows there isn't. He tries anyway, until his phone vibrates with a response.

I'm dropping by.

-M

John can't type fast enough suddenly, all typos and weird spaces that make him illegible, and when he's finally corrected all the mistakes to seem like a half-intelligent human being for one of the most exciting—exciting? No, no. Scary. He's scary—and brilliant people in the world, there's a knock at the door.

It doesn't take Sherlock's deductive skills to figure out who it is. But why is Moriarty knocking?

John takes a few deep breaths, grabs his gun from the drawer and pushes it in the back of his jeans. You never know where this could go. The last time he saw Moriarty he was drugged and wrapped in explosives. Not the best first impression, the runner-up for worst first impressions was clearly Sherlock.

"Are you going to let me in?" Moriarty says, low and casual. "And you won't be needing your gun, John. I'm just here for a visit."

John clicks the safety off, and opens the door, his heart threatening to give out any moment now. It's a rush of inexplicable emotions knowing a murderer who could (and would) break down or pick the lock of your door prefers to be let in.

"Hello, John," Moriarty smiles, walking past the doctor and standing a few paces behind him. "Are you happy to see me?"

John swallows, pushing the door closed, "Not particularly, Moriarty."

Moriarty giggles and sits on the sofa, his hand trailing over the robe (Sherlock's) thrown carelessly atop it.

"John, please," he glances down at the table, sees remnants of nicotine patch equipment. Sherlock is nervous. Nervous about their second date, probably. "I'm not just an-y-one. I can tell you are. And I'd prefer it if you called me Jim."

"Jim," John clears his throat, "why are you here?"

"Already told you that," Moriarty stands up, walking toward John who reflexively steps back. "I'm not going to hurt you, John. Unless you want me to."

"I don't," John takes a breath, "I don't understand why you'd come see me. Isn't it Sherlock you're interested in?"

"I'm interested in a few things," Moriarty replies, approaching the apprehensive doctor as he continues, "one of which is you."

John looks at Moriarty, then away, putting the safety back on his gun. Moriarty smirks and cups John's chin lightly. John thought he'd sent the signal to his body for it to move away, but it seems to have aborted the command mid-way.

"Isn't that better, John?" Moriarty leans in, breath ghosting over John's ear, "I'll send you a message next time so you can mentally prepare." He moves away and pats John's chest twice, on his way towards the door. "I'll be off now. Until next time, darling."

John's mouth hangs open as he tries to process all that just took place. Moriarty was in the flat. He was going to return. He touched John and John let him. What's going on? Is the world spinning out of control? This must be Sherlock's influence, his craving for complete understanding of the Irish man's mind. What else could it be? John doesn't associate himself with criminals, much less ones that have tried to kill him.

Moriarty sends Sherlock a text on his way down the stairs from 221b.

I won't be but a few minutes late.

Probably.

-M

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the message, sitting on the edge of the hotel room bed. Is that how dates went? First is a meal and the second is sex already? This is not a date, Sherlock corrects. He is most certainly not dating a psychopath who's on his way as we speak. He's researching him, learning all he can to make it easier to catch his mistakes in the future and have him arrested.

The door clicks open, and Moriarty chuckles when Sherlock stands promptly, wiping the creases from his dark suit. Sherlock looks absolutely edible as always. He is really wasting all his beauty by staying a virgin.

"Don't worry," Moriarty says, opening the buttons of his Gucci jacket, "I'm not going to rape you or anything."

"Then why are we here?" Sherlock leans against the wall, "because all I see is a bed and a bathtub."

"And you're free to use both, honey," Moriarty replies. "But I just like my privacy. I'm hardly ready to take you."

Sherlock narrows his eyes. Moriarty smirks, licking his lips, "I will take you. That I'm smaller means nothing."

"Then you intend to rape me, just not this moment?" Sherlock says, unamused. He crosses his arms to his chest.

"I didn't mean force you," Moriarty purses his lips. "How could you think me so cruel?"

"Why do you believe I will let you into my bed if even Miss Adler did not succeed?"

"Is this a test?" Moriarty smirks, sitting down on the bed. "You're trying to see if I've read you correctly?"

Sherlock looks away then shrugs a shoulder. His posture shows how tense he is, how worried he's becoming. He's afraid of having sex with Moriarty.

Moriarty drags a finger across his lips, "You're lazy. You don't want to be chased, but if someone persists enough you'll accept them into your life. And you do it to have something over them if they fail to keep your interest."

"Why do you like men more than women?" Sherlock cuts in, his arms uncross and he slips his hands in his pockets.

"Suppose I'm lazy like you," Moriarty looks around the room, "men are easier to bed. Save for you, of course. You're my exception to everything." He grins.

Sherlock's lips twitch into something that seems oddly like an actual smile. He catches himself and clears his throat, stepping away from the wall. If Moriarty wants to play games, then games they shall play.

"Are we going to talk or actually eat?" Sherlock says, sitting on the bed next to Moriarty, not looking at him.

"What would you like?" Moriarty slithers closer, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's waist. "You can pick my brain; I know that's your goal."

Sherlock turns, and Moriarty pushes forward, pressing his lips to Sherlock's. Sherlock's arm swings to push Moriarty away but it stops somewhere between the time his eyes fall closed and Moriarty's tongue slides across his lips. He pulls away when he feels something poke his thigh.

"Wait! I've forgotten if I've brushed my teeth this morning," Sherlock rubs the nape of his neck. He can feel the goose pimples spreading down across his back.

"You're worried about that?"

"I'm aware that hands are the filthier part, the part I should be concerned with," he blinks, "but I'm not going to put my hand down your throat. Now am I?"

"Why not?" Moriarty chuckles, leaning closer. "I'd let you do whatever you want, as long as I like the reasoning."

Sherlock stands, "I'm going to use the washroom."

"Don't be too long," Moriarty pouts, feeling playful, "I despise waiting."

Sherlock splashes water on his face, and grunts when he notices his hand shaking. How could intercourse, of all things, frighten him this much? He can't let Moriarty see this or he'd use it against him. Besides, Moriarty had said they could do what he wanted. But what if he suddenly decided he wanted to have sex? It's the most unexpected thing he could say. But Moriarty would know, could tell he is bluffing. It wouldn't work.

Sherlock slips out of the bathroom and finds but a note on the bed.

Sorry honey, I had to go again.

And always when it's getting good.

See you soon

–M

The relief practically makes Sherlock fall to his knees. Before the next time they see each other, he needs to do research, and vast amounts of it.

Sherlock rushes across the living room when he hears a notification chime on his phone. John looks up from his laptop and asks, "Is that Moriarty?"

"Yes," Sherlock answers, eyes scanning the message and thinking of a suitable reply. He changes his mind.

'John is asking about you again. Have you told him something? -S'

Why would I?

I only have eyes for you, love.

-M

Sherlock doesn't feel like questioning the lie because Moriarty would then require proof, and technically he has none—yet.

John's phone vibrates and he reads it quickly, turning it over without answering. He needs to finish this post; he can't let Moriarty distract him. It vibrates again, and Sherlock looks over at John. John rolls his shoulders and keeps typing. It vibrates again, and John is close to shutting it off. Sherlock's phone dings and John tries not to let the irritation overrun him. Did Moriarty have nothing better to do than message them both constantly?

When John finishes his post, he reads through the messages—properly this time.

John, I'm bored.

Entertain me.

-M

It's Jim again.

What are you doing?

Ignoring me? I see.

-M

If you don't answer, I will tell Sherlock.

-M

John's face pales at the last message. He looks over at Sherlock who is answering another text, and Sherlock glances up to smile at John then continues to type, "Something wrong, John?"

"No, nothing," John closes his laptop, going up to his room.

'Okay, I'm sorry. Did you tell him Jim?'

The message is answered immediately.

Not yet.

But I was very close, John.

I'm glad you're calling me Jim.

-M

'How can I be sure that you won't tell him?'

Meet me tomorrow.

I'll send you the address in the next message.

-M

John spends most of his time at the clinic trying to figure out a convincing excuse for going out. Sherlock will see right through it if he isn't careful. And then lying would only make things worse, and Sherlock would question him (like a criminal) until he told the truth. That is the last thing that needs to happen.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he slides it out quickly while his patient is leaving his office.

Sherlock is going out of country tonight.

He'll be back in a few days.

No need to worry, my pet.

-M

That's a load off, yes, but what did that mean for Moriarty? John is going to be alone, for days, in the flat with no one to protect him except for himself. And Moriarty has eyes everywhere. This does not sound too promising.

'What are we doing later?' No harm in asking and then attempting to see if it's a lie or not.

I can't tell you, John.

That would spoil the fun.

-M

It was worth a shot.

221b Baker Street is the address Moriarty leaves John in a text. He should have known.

John finishes at the clinic, climbing up the stairs with even less enthusiasm than usual. His keys fall before he manages to unlock the front door, but the door swings open.

"John!" Moriarty beams, pulling him in a tight hug and dragging him inside. "So glad you could make it."

"How did you—nevermind," John rubs his forehead, exasperated with all these geniuses.

"Don't be like that. I don't mind answering obvious questions if they're from you," Moriarty nudges John with his shoulder as he bounces off to the living room. He plops down in Sherlock's chair, and picks up his violin. "I can be your replacement Sherlock, except better."

John frowns, but shuffles over to his own chair, letting it soothe the aches of the day away. "So you're going to stay here until he returns?"

"For the most part," Moriarty places the violin below his chin and closes his eyes.

"You can play, too?" John asks, genuinely surprised. What didn't they have in common?

The sounds that Moriarty produces could hardly be called playing or music. John checks if his ears are bleeding, but stops when Moriarty—Jim, he prefers Jim—glares in his direction.

"I'm sorry for disappointing you," Moriarty says through his teeth, placing the violin down. "I can learn something in the next few days. What piece would you like?"

"I don't really know any," John says, leaning back in his chair. How does it feel so loose between them already?

"I'll think of something," Moriarty smiles, twirling the bow in his palms. He lets his head fall back against the chair, gazing up at the ceiling. "Work at the clinic went well."

"It did," John answers truthfully. He likes the ambience, the patients, and his coworkers are friendly.

"I wasn't really asking," Moriarty smirks, resting the bow against the couch. "Hungry?"

"Is that a question now?" John asks, brow creasing.

"It is," Moriarty leaps from the chair and dashes into the kitchen. "I brought something from my favourite restaurant."

John follows into the kitchen and sees Angelo's signature on the bill stapled to the bag. That has to be the same place Sherlock goes to. They're eerily similar.

They take the food into the living room—where Sherlock never eats but sulks or shoots the wall—and they sit with their shoulders almost touching as they share a polystyrene container full of warm, chicken Alfredo pasta. It's very close to being comfortable, except that John remembers Sherlock hardly ever eats, and he has not done this with him.

John mumbles without thinking, "I've never eaten a proper meal with Sherlock."

"I'm not Sherlock, John," Moriarty says with his mouth full, irritation clearly not far behind.

"Yes, right, I know," John answers quickly. Of all things, he should be careful not to make Moriarty angry at him, not when everything has been going so smoothly, not when his gun is across the room in the drawer.

Moriarty looks at the drawer like he knows exactly what is going through John's mind, "Is that because you're less afraid or you've forgotten?"

"Both?" John looks over at Moriarty, and he's grinning. There's a small bit of sauce near his mouth. John considers whether telling him or simply wiping it is more awkward. It's hard to know when the man in question could snap at the drop of a hat.

"You can lick it if you'd like," Moriarty mutters, his eyes darting to John's mouth. "Fingers work, too."

"How do I know you won't bite them off?" John replies, not sure why he's saying it, why he's being so bold asudden.

"Oh, John," Moriarty cackles, throwing his head back, "I really do see why Sherlock likes you. You have character." His tongue darts out to lick away the white sauce. "Too late, darling."

Moriarty stretches, throwing his jacket onto the arm of the chair. They're both satiated and slightly drowsy from the carbohydrates. John doesn't let his guard down, though. He can't. Just because Moriarty is acting like a cat, and practically purring, doesn't change the fact that he's a man with a million faces. Being changeable isn't a bad thing unless your name happens to be Jim Moriarty.

"What do normal people do after supper?" Moriarty yawns, leaning closer to John on the couch.

John looks around the room, "Watch the telly I guess."

"But it's SO far," Moriarty pouts, moving closer. "Can't I just lie down in your lap?"

John swallows the bulge in his throat. Is he serious? "I can turn it on if you want."

Moriarty makes a humming sound in contemplation, and shifts until his head is, ultimately, in John's lap. He closes his eyes and curls up until his legs fit onto the sofa. John opens his mouth to say something, but Moriarty shushes him before he does. "Just let me relax, Johnny."

And somehow it goes from oh, there's a murderer lying down in my lap, I should probably kill him while he's so vulnerable to oh, he's really warm, and his hair is soft, and his skin is divine, and I think I'm getting slightly tired. John closes his eyes and rests his hand on Moriarty's head, stroking through his hair lightly.

They fall asleep (or John does at least). But he wakes up to an empty flat the next morning. John goes into his room to change, and finds Moriarty sprawled across his bed, leg dangling over the edge and hair tussled beyond recognition. He almost looks peaceful. Moriarty grumbles something, and John swears he hears his name so he bends down to listen.

"Breakfast," Moriarty mutters, "can you make some, John?"

John moves away, and Moriarty catches his wrist, eyes wide—too wide for someone who was just in a deep sleep. He was pretending. John rolls his eyes and shakes off the hold, "What do you want, Jim?"

"I'd prefer you in bed, but how 'bout just breakfast?" Moriarty props up on an elbow, "unless you have to get ready for work—oh, in, thirty minutes?" he smirks, rolling onto his back.

"Bollocks," John says, rushing out of his own bedroom, only to remember that all his clothes are in there. He goes back in, and Moriarty is picking things out of drawers.

"Wear this, darling," Moriarty suggests (forcefully), "you'll look fabulous."

John frowns slightly, and Moriarty bats his eyes, twirling childishly, "For me?"

"Fine," John grabs the items and goes into the bathroom. Moriarty is nowhere to be found when he's locking up and on his way out. He's like a spirit, that one.

Returning to the sound of violin is something he'd overlooked after all the months spent living with Sherlock. But when you know your roommate is away, and there's a psychopath in his place, you don't expect the same soft sounds to be permeating the walls of your flat.

After but a few hours of practice, Moriarty has learned the first few bars of a haunting piece. John can't quite remember the title of it, but he knows it's by Mozart and that there should be vocals.

"Lacrimosa," Moriarty says, putting the violin down in favour of taking Sherlock's chair for the third time.

"Sorry?" John follows Moriarty over to the armchairs.

"The song I'm learning for you," Moriarty adds. "It's Mozart's Lacrimosa."

"It's wonderful," John says, earnest.

It's fascinating how people like Sherlock and Moriarty can quickly adapt and learn things, if they truly wish to. That is the key point; they do not change without wanting to, everything is controlled like substances in a laboratory.

"Glad you can appreciate it," Moriarty looks over at the bowl of fruit. "Would you?"

John is already standing before he realises. Sherlock has him so used to fetching things and slaving away for him that he does it without thinking. He chuckles, grabbing a red apple and throwing it to Moriarty. This is the beginning of the end, John tells himself.

"What's so funny? I like a good laugh," Moriarty pulls out a pocket knife and digs into the apple.

"Just how similar you two are," John says, shaking his head. "It's astounding, really."

"Does that mean I could be your friend as well?" Moriarty says, concentrating on his apple.

John gapes at Moriarty. Is he being serious? Sherlock has a tendency to keep in all his emotions and anything that could make him seem weak. But Moriarty, contrarily, lets them out easily, too easily, which makes it hard to tell when he's actually telling the truth.

Moriarty sighs and picks up the violin to continue practicing. John can see, just as he could see with Sherlock, that it means he's disappointed. But this isn't Sherlock, so how can he fix this? Why would he need to? They aren't friends, can't become friends, and John definitely doesn't trust Moriarty.

Moriarty stops playing to turn and look at John, "You'll come to see that I'm not so bad."

John gives up keeping a close eye on Moriarty—just in case he decides to poison John in his sleep—at midnight. He has to work again tomorrow, and he'd need to be up by nine. He yawns, and Moriarty carefully puts the violin back where it was.

"Bed time, John?" Moriarty slips out of his jacket, unbuttoning his dress shirt underneath.

"What are you doing?" John asks, brow raised as Moriarty continues to undress.

"Going to bed," Moriarty clicks his tongue. "Silly John, what did you think I was doing?" his eyes go dark for a moment, but John is too tired to notice.

"Well, I'll be upstairs," John says casually, like he would say to Sherlock. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

"I can't sleep with you?" Moriarty purses his lips, slipping his hands into his pockets. "I've been such a good boy today, John."

John sighs, "No, you can sleep in Sherlock's room."

"Doesn't he ever sleep with you?" Moriarty grins, stepping closer. "Or is that just a fantasy of yours?"

"We're not a couple, Jim," John says flatly, putting a hand out to stop Moriarty from getting closer.

"Riiiight," Moriarty rolls his eyes, "and I'm just a girl scout who happened to wander into your apartment." He cackles, stroking John's wrist lightly.

John recognises that look even through Moriarty's impeccable mask and demented laughter. There are streaks of jealousy, but mostly flashes of loneliness.

Sherlock always looked like that when John first moved in and didn't want to spend more time than necessary in the television room. After John noticed how hurt the man without a heart was, he started to stay with him longer, and eventually they only parted to sleep. They do everything else together, even now as they both contact Moriarty on a daily basis.

Sherlock is definitely still one of a kind (the closest copy being Moriarty), but he was lucky enough to have an older brother just as brilliant as he is to keep him on a straight path. Maybe if Moriarty had met them sooner, or had siblings (did he have any siblings?) of his own to encourage him to use his mind for good, he wouldn't be the criminal that he is today.

John scratches the nape of his neck. This is going to be a bad idea, "Fine, you can share my bed."

And that's how John ends up with a consulting criminal pressed to his spine, sleeping soundly, one leg thrown over John's in his unconscious state (or maybe he did it when he was awake?). Whenever John even tries to move further away, Moriarty either whimpers or grabs onto whatever part of John he can so roughly that John winces in pain and has to submit. Moriarty's insanely strong for someone with such a slight frame.

After two more days of sharing the flat with Moriarty, John doesn't even question it when Moriarty sneaks into bed next to him, or picks up Sherlock's violin, or gestures for an apple without more than an eyebrow wiggle.

One thing that John noticed early on is the way Moriarty deals with his boredom. He does fidget and pace about as Sherlock would, but instead of shooting rounds through their walls and scaring the neighbourhood, he takes off his shoes and throws them at the wall. It's almost endearing how infantile these so-called evolved creatures are (until Moriarty misses the wall and hits John 'by accident').

At the end of his stay, Moriarty plays the entire song he promised he'd learn for John, and it's breathtaking—not so much the song as the emotion on Moriarty's face as he carefully hits each note perfectly. John sucks in a breath when Moriarty's done and gives him a standing ovation. Moriarty smiles in a way John has never seen and his heart is torn.

Magnificent and terrible. Jim is terrible in ways that John doesn't want to think about.

Sherlock hadn't stopped sending messages to Moriarty while he was doing work for his brother, but Moriarty seemed busier than usual, answering only every few hours. It made Sherlock anxious to return to London and see his fascinating rival again. John will have to try and understand the situation because they aren't trying to kill each other, they're trying to get along and understand each other—as unlikely as that sounds.

John and Sherlock spend an entire day together just chatting and watching television. It's nice, and Sherlock missed John, but he's also getting bored again. John sighs and opens his laptop, asking for Sherlock to tell him everything that happened so he can blog about it. It manages to keep him entertained for another hour, but then Sherlock is pacing and pulling at his own curls.

"Have you touched my violin?"

John nearly says no until he remembers who did, "Yes. Is that alright?"

"Fine, it's fine," Sherlock picks up his violin and plays a bar of either Bach or someone else he admires. "I was just wondering why there were a fresh set of greasy fingerprints since I've been away the entire week."

Sherlock stops in the middle of a piece and takes out his phone instead, typing up something quickly and sending it to Moriarty. He resumes where he left off after reading the reply.

'When are we meeting again, Jim? -S'

Only a week's passed.

You missed me that much?

I'm touched.

-M

Moriarty is still playing emotional games that Sherlock doesn't appreciate. Indeed he has an attachment to certain people, but it doesn't mean they should continuously bring it up. It's pointless and vexing.

'I do not miss people. I am and have been perfectly fine on my own for years. -S'

Whatever you say, Sherly.

Same hotel as last time.

A car will come get you in two days.

-M

Sherlock smirks as he puts his phone back in his pocket. John pays it no mind, aware of all the things Moriarty could be telling Sherlock. Not that he'd ever smirk in such a ridiculous way about said things, but Sherlock is a strange bird.

John remembers the first time he saw Sherlock smirk like that. It was a dark and unusual case involving suicide and missing fingerprints. He was bursting with joy at the thought of someone being so evil and intelligent to force people into taking their own lives without using force.

Sherlock has always been too curious to be considered sane. He's often compared him—secretly—to a cat chasing a ball of yarn. The ball is often death or brilliant minds (or both since they go hand in hand). Sherlock's weaknesses are few but very significant: his inability to keep his thoughts to himself, his infatuation with the criminally insane and his lack of compassion. John would like to think he is also a weakness of Sherlock's, but he's too ashamed to ask.

Sherlock is slipping into his coat, and John desperately wants to advise Sherlock against seeing Moriarty. But how could he tell Sherlock not to be tempted when he now knows exactly what it's like to be charmed by a snake? It isn't healthy, for either of them, but it's too far gone to turn back. John goes up to his room with a book in hand, trying not to imagine just what their meetings consist of.

Moriarty is in a casual grey sweater, folding and unfolding his pocket knife when Sherlock arrives.

"Is that for me?" Sherlock says, pulling off his scarf.

"It could be," Moriarty smirks, pushing it into his pants pocket. "How was your trip?"

"Ask the person you hired to follow me," Sherlock replies flatly, pushing his bangs out of his eyes.

Moriarty stands, zigzagging his way to where Sherlock is planted like a statue, "Are you angry with me?"

"I don't see why I would be," Sherlock looks down into those dark eyes constantly daring him to look away if he can, if he has the restraint to do so. He tears his eyes away to scan the room. He's never been one to ignore a dare.

Moriarty blinks slowly, pushing his bottom lip out, fingers sliding down Sherlock's stiff arm. He doesn't say it, but Sherlock hears it. It's worse than being threatened with violence.

"I'm not angry, Jim," Sherlock sighs, moving away from the door to sit on the bed. Moriarty trails behind him, still touching his arm gingerly.

Moriarty sits down, his leg folded under him, his knee brushing against the side of Sherlock's leg. Sherlock would complain if he didn't find the gentle touch comforting. He'd missed Jim as much as he could miss someone he would end up killing one day. But that person would be Moriarty, not this man sitting next to Sherlock, reading his every thought.

Regular people would find it unnatural, but Sherlock finds it to be freeing, relaxing. He could finally get through entire conversations without having to explain a thing (or having to speak more than a few brief sentences).

Moriarty tilts his head like Sherlock has seen many times now, and all Sherlock needs to do is lean in slightly for Moriarty to know it's okay. Moriarty's lips brush against Sherlock's and, unlike the other times, Sherlock doesn't turn away to end it. He lets Moriarty—no, Jim—deepen the kiss and explore for as long as he wishes. Because Sherlock has missed him. He's missed this. And from the look on Moriarty's flushed face when he pulls away, he knows the truth, too.

They speak of music and imbecilic criminals and eat room service food, and Sherlock falls asleep with an arm around Moriarty's shoulders (after Jim initiated a very long, very arousing make-out session due to four glasses of red wine).

This happiness could only be temporary. Moriarty would see to that.

John is treating a patient for a broken wrist, but all he can think about is Moriarty's warm hands and how they felt wrapped around him. Could Sherlock be enjoying the same, privileged attention while John worked? Would Sherlock ever admit to needing Jim as much as he needs John in his life? Could John ever tell Sherlock that he is just as guilty? Sherlock is his very best friend, and most likely the last person on the planet who would judge someone's morals. So why does it feel so impossible?

'Ow' says John's patient when he bandages her arm too tightly.

It's turning into an obsession, an addiction, and John's never had to face this kind of situation. It's never been a problem for him to avoid things that would bring him down a questionable road. He served in the army for so many years and still he has no discipline?

Sherlock was the only thing that he considered the grey part of his world. And Sherlock, well, he is easily addicted to things, so it must be even worse for him since he's finally found a worthy opponent, someone who can take on his challenges, and challenge him in kind.

John is sending Moriarty a message before he can reconsider it. 'Can you meet me? I want to see you' is what it says. And the worst part is that he means every word of it. Every pathetic, needy, immoral word.

It's no longer about John biding his time until he can get Moriarty arrested anymore; it's about needing to feel the rush of not one, but two, geniuses enjoying his company. John is disgusted with himself for being so weak-willed around these astounding men.

I'll send a car to your work.

See you soon, darling. ;)

-M

John smiles when Moriarty stands to greet him in the hotel room, but it's not nearly enough. John has been fighting, has been waiting and struggling to keep everything locked inside a prison of logic. Jim probably knows how close John is to just letting it flood the gate.

The bastard grins, and John steps forward, lost in those eyes (that can't keep his surprise hidden very well). Jim's jacket is on the ground, and John is walking him back towards the bed, licking into his mouth, his cock harder than he's been for any of his recent girlfriends. What does that say about John's taste in people?

Jim smirks, but John can feel him shaking when they hit the bed, lips not leaving each other's for a second. He's been wanting this, surely, just as much—the villain. John presses into Jim's body completely, taking, taking, and taking until Jim is left with bruised hips and swollen lips. John is going to make Jim realise just how worthy normal people can be, how fantastic it can be to let them into their life.

And in return, John is going to steal whatever he can from Jim, learn his ways, maybe delve into that indescribable mind and, possibly, meet the level of perfection he and Sherlock have attained.

Maybe when he makes Jim moan enough, swallows his cock long enough, gets his hips to buck, his knees to tremble, his eyes to screw closed, his knuckles to whiten with the effort needed to keep on his elbows—

Maybe when John kisses him senseless, strokes him to an inch from climax then stops him, makes him scream his name if he wants to come, makes him acknowledge who exactly is in charge, makes him experience all that he's been overlooking—

Maybe when he grinds his hips in tandem, shares the ripple of lust and trust and affection, makes Jim cry out loud enough for the earth to quake with John's name hanging on his lips as he climaxes—

Maybe then Sherlock and Moriarty's brilliance could start to rub off, and the geniuses would gaze upon him in awe as he did them.

John is asleep with Moriarty leaning against his chest, drawing slow circles on his hip. John doesn't realise they already do watch him with admiration, with utmost respect. Moriarty places a kiss to John's temple and pulls the comforter over them.

You'll make us wanna die

I'll cut your name in my heart

We'll destroy this world for you

I know you want me to—

feel your pain

It's while sharing a bed with Sherlock again that Moriarty decides he needs to start the final phase of his plan; the dramatic ending.

Moriarty stops contacting both Sherlock and John after he leaves, and it's—truthfully—the hardest thing he's had to do as Jim. But Moriarty is the stronger, better part of himself. And it needs to be done in order for his plan to be put in motion.

More importantly, Moriarty is angry.

Not merely because of boredom, but because Sherlock has made him feel, actually feel, and that wasn't part of this plan. That was Jim's area, and Jim and Moriarty are not supposed to share anything except a knack for understanding and seeing everything.

If Moriarty's going to lose at long last, then someone is going to pay for getting him so attached to those fools, and making his heart desert his mind.

If he's lost control then by default Sherlock is on the verge of winning, but it's not going to end in a clean, fair way. Oh, no. That's not how things work in Moriarty's world. There are consequences to tampering with things that have been untouched for years. These feelings do not belong in their game. And a game could always be upended with a single, crucial move.

Sherlock is going to have to choose whether he will follow his soul-mate, his likeminded partner down into oblivion or whether his more-than-simply-a-friend John will follow Moriarty instead, leaving Sherlock ultimately alone. Either way, Moriarty is not going to be alone in Hell.

Sherlock is upset, but excited. He knows exactly what this means, and deep down, he knows John probably figured it out as well.

After a few weeks, Sherlock is called in to testify against Moriarty in court for breaking into three places at once. It's difficult for John to sit there and watch Moriarty—not Jim, not the man he'd grown to like—smirk and play his little role with Sherlock. The judge, the jury, the crowd, everyone, they are all just spectators to the grand exchange between feuding minds. They mean nothing and can do nothing to stop them.

John is stunned when Moriarty is found not guilty, but Sherlock doesn't seem fazed in the slightest. The game goes on.

Moriarty sends Sherlock one, last message, telling him if he doesn't want his precious doctor to die then he has to meet him on the roof.

Sherlock goes willingly, without telling John where he's escaped to. Moriarty is in full throttle, Jim but a distant memory at this point. He's sitting on the edge of the roof when Sherlock arrives, hands in the pockets of his overcoat.

"So this is it, friend?" Sherlock says, walking in a straight line slowly, his eyes straight ahead.

"We are MORE than friends, Sherlock," Moriarty scowls. His expression softens, "as you said, we shared a special something. Too bad those idiots didn't think you'd lie right on stand." He chuckles, "Five minutes? HiLArious. It was more like five minutes per day!"

"On average, yes," Sherlock smiles, but briefly. He gazes below, at the unsuspecting ordinary people going about their lives without the slightest clue as to what is out there lurking in the shadows. People like Moriarty. People like himself.

Moriarty stands, pacing over to Sherlock, "I'm tired of this game. I'm bored. I'm as bored as I've ever been, as I'll ever be." He drags a hand down the side of his face. "It's simple. You die, John doesn't. You don't die, John does."

Sherlock frowns, seeing a taxi pull up. How could John find him so quickly? Mycroft. He could never simply deal with his own life and stay out of Sherlock's. Damn him.

"Your pet's arrived," Moriarty guffaws, purposely louder than usual, to try and get John's attention. "Did you know he was seeing me in private?"

"Not at first," Sherlock admits, his tone soft. "But the violin gave it away. His pause was too long. I knew he was lying to cover up something. You."

"Did you know he gave himself to me willingly? I didn't even ask," Moriarty chides, leaning in, "he just took me in his mouth and swallowed it all down."

Sherlock closes his eyes, anger coursing through him. John trusts Moriarty, likes him. That much is obvious. But Sherlock hadn't known just how much. And for Moriarty to gloat, to use this in his game, just makes his value as a human being shrink in Sherlock's eyes.

But something doesn't feel right, he isn't seeing the whole picture. He's overlooked something.

"Are you going to shoot John yourself if I don't jump?" Sherlock asks, keeping his eyes on John down at street level.

"Silly. You already know I don't like getting dirty," Moriarty cackles, "or did you think because he made me come that I'd make an exception?"

"Something of the sort," Sherlock moves away from the edge, staring into those deep, fearless circles of darkness, those eyes that have made his heart stop on more than one occasion. "So your men, then?"

"Yes, Sherly," he slides a finger across Sherlock's cheekbone, "displeased?"

"Then John and I can both stay alive," Sherlock announces, keeping his gaze on Moriarty's confused expression. "By making you call him off."

"Making me? Please," Moriarty rubs the creases out of his jacket. "I never thought you'd try your hand at comedy."

"I've a few tricks up my sleeve, Jim," Sherlock relishes in the shiver it sends across Moriarty's skin as he feigns apathy at the use of such an intimate name. "I know what you're doing."

"What's that, sweetheart?" Moriarty steps closer, his eyes black as night, anger brimming on the edge of them. Sherlock is crossing territory he may not return from.

"I really don't want to be Romeo," Sherlock growls, "and you're certainly not a Juliet."

"Well," Moriarty scoffs, looking away, "I could be Romeo—"

Moriarty pulls out a gun to shoot himself, but Sherlock hits it away just in time for the shot to miss. The people below scream and run in terror at the loud sound. Moriarty scrambles towards it but Sherlock grabs him by the shoulders.

"I know, Jim," Sherlock says, words clipped, stern like a parent. "It doesn't have to end like this."

Sherlock knows there are no snipers. And if there are, there's no key word, no way for them to know if Sherlock has jumped or not because, most likely, they are elsewhere. Moriarty's bluffing to make himself into the perfect villain that he wants to be, the one that he needs to be in order for Sherlock to let Jim die.

Moriarty is looking down; he could still leap over the edge. He'll certainly die at this height. John is watching, too, that would hurt them both more. It's a lot messier than he likes, but Sherlock isn't giving him any other options. Not with the way he's looking at him to say Jim this isn't right, let's not do this. But Moriarty wants this; this is what's going to happen. Jim should fuck off and die.

Moriarty shifts to get out of the death grip, but Sherlock won't let go of him. And his hold tightens, and Moriarty wants to shout to get police to arrest Sherlock and take him away or just get him off, but then lips seal over his own. Sherlock is kissing Moriarty (or Jim more likely). And it's like the first time. It is the first time because Sherlock has never once started anything. He's always just gone along with whatever Jim wanted.

Moriarty's brow creases, but Sherlock refuses to let him go, lips pressed hard to the smaller man's. It's comical, the whole thing. Sherlock's acting as though they've been in love this entire time, like they are fucking Romeo & Juliet.

Sherlock pulls Moriarty in closer, "I won't let anyone else have you. Not even the police," he laughs, and it startles Moriarty. "I know how ridiculous that sounds. The police could never keep you."

"Is this submission, Sherlock?" Moriarty peers into the detective's eyes. Why is it all he sees is warmth?

"For the time being," Sherlock steps away, his hand trailing down Moriarty's arm. "And only if I can look forward to the next round." His lips curl into a challenging smile.

Moriarty glances at the gun, and back to Sherlock. Sherlock could keep it as a souvenir; Moriarty could buy another. He puts a hand out and Sherlock takes it quickly, continuing to eye him just in case it's another trick, "Agreed." Moriarty winks and pulls away.

Sherlock lets Moriarty leave once the exchange is over and he's convinced no one's life is danger. Their game is on hold, temporarily, because they've become too emotionally involved, both of them. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, but if both sides are overtaken by it, then how could a winner be proclaimed? They need time. They need to regain their composure so they can return to the starting point where it was just a game of cat and mouse.

Moriarty is undeniably pleased.

Sherlock has dropped the act, forgotten about his insistence upon pretending to be a robot. And he's done it for Jim's sake, to keep him among the living.

Sherlock hasn't told John he knows. And John refuses to tell Sherlock out of guilt. They're still keeping it from each other when they're both aware of the other's lies. They are so bound to Jim, and by association, Moriarty.

Maybe Moriarty could suffer through his indifference just a bit longer in order to challenge them further, bring them to the very edge of their sanity. Maybe Moriarty could find another game to play, and John could tag along pointlessly to help Sherlock solve it. Maybe Moriarty could break them apart, and then ensure their spirits followed along helplessly. So they can be just like him, and see why life isn't much more than breathing.

Regardless, he will savour this for another day—a day when they realise he's not someone you can love, but someone that eviscerates people's hearts for sheer pleasure.

The game is still worthy of playing when there are chess pieces remaining on the board.

Moriarty doesn't look back as he takes the exit, but Sherlock probably knows he's hiding a smirk. There's one more surprise in store for the delicate flower that is the consulting detective.

Moriarty calls off the sniper meant to kill John as he skips down the stairs. He knows Sherlock can just find a way to fake his own death. No point in thinking Sherlock will really kill himself; they both enjoy the chase far too much. No point in making sweet, oblivious John hate Jim either by making the sniper kill Sherlock. But there is one thing Moriarty can do so he can have the upper hand once more.

Moriarty dials his sniper's number and says 'non-lethal' then hangs up. He snickers, continuing down the stairs as he hears the shriek.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he slips it out.

'Jim, are you with Sherlock? What's going on? I need to speak to you.'

Moriarty's smile darkens as he sends his reply.

Where do we meet?

Everything is fine, honey.

-M

John will have to forgive his homicidal tendencies. It shouldn't be that difficult since he's already done it before.

A bullet pierces Sherlock's shoulder as he watches Moriarty stride down the stairs. It goes through and through without causing any damage to the nerves, muscles or bones. Sherlock has John to thank for being able to verify that on his own.

Even after the pain strikes him and he shouts in agony, his fingers stained with red droplets, Sherlock can't find it in himself to be angry. It certainly hurts, but somehow it feels like salvation. Moriarty is being kind.

As Moriarty mentioned, he's mutable. He's fickle. He could have decided he wanted Sherlock dead and kept John alone in the game instead. Or he could have killed them both.

Sherlock leans over to check that John is still alive and well, and he is.

Being shot by a rival's gunman didn't bother him all that much. People with a fraction of Moriarty's brilliance have hurt Sherlock less gravely, but made his blood boil. That they had needed to resort to such mockeries when they didn't have a mind that measured up to Sherlock's was unacceptable.

Sherlock presses his fingers to his wound again, watching the crimson liquid drip over them and he laughs. Moriarty was nice enough to have his man aim for the left side, knowing Sherlock is right handed. Or perhaps it is a warning for Sherlock to protect his heart better next time. He faintly remembers the words Jim had whispered into his ear one night.

Welcome to the dark side, Sherlock. I think you'll find it quite cozy here—

Sherlock's pocket vibrates, and he struggles to pull out his phone. It's a message from John.

'Are you alright? Did Moriarty hurt you? What's happening?'

'I'm fine. Don't worry. –S'

It's all part of the game after all. And Sherlock would happily lose to someone like Moriarty.

—winner takes all, loser takes the fall.