Come and play.
SH
A dubious invitation, indeed. Sent a week ago. No address, no specification—the message has an irrefutable air of impending misbehaviour, yet he knows exactly where he is expected. He clicks his heels together excitedly. Dark, full eyes flick to the screen of a watch. 1:10 AM. Sebastian isn't awake yet, the poor, overworked sod. He stops to think of him a moment—he is good, yes—but not exciting. No, Sherlock electrifies him. But a single thought could cross his mind and drive him off the wall. Oh—how easy he is to beckon to dance. Delightful. Ludicrous. Soon to be mine.
His very blood flickers in his veins, and restless fingers tap at a wicked pace on the armrest. The suede chair becomes a damper on his internal fires and he springs from it the instant the LCD declares 1:11 AM. He's already slunk from the apartment building and crept down the street before he takes another breath—the anticipation is too great. How long he's waited for this. Playing with him and his pet at the pool was just foreplay.
It has been going on for months, this subtlety. The furtive glances at the pool. The text messages. A little skip dances its way into his step as he smiles to himself, reminiscing. Oh, the chases. The close calls. Those infernal smirks that drive Jim to a lower state of consciousness—how easy it is to be lost in the folds on his face and those chaotic dark curls and that fucking voice—!
—And he arrives.
He doesn't stop at the familiar, easily unlocked doorway, not at the hall, nor the staircase—avoiding that fiendish step that creaks—but at the door to the flat. A tremble tickles its way up his spine. He almost berates himself for hesitating, and finds he's holding his breath again. He bites his lip. This meeting could very well be an elaborate hoax—set up over months of false attraction and charm—yet here he stands. He can play Sherlock just as good, yes. His fingers tremble with sheer, enigmatic delight as he reaches for the handle. And he lets himself in.
Oh—and there are the smells. A faint hit of sulphur, and residue of an experiment concerning carboxylic acid—intoxicating. Burnt toast. Stawbe—no, raspberry, jam. Dust. Old books. Ink. The vague scent of fresh paint...and gunpowder.
So he's bored, then.
Excellent.
With silent, calculated steps he works his way through the apartment. It hasn't changed much. It's dark, save for the lamplight seeping through the window curtains. He's absolutely exhilarated and the night hasn't even begun. Each stack of books is in its exact place, as are the various containers of body parts lovingly placed on the coffee table. He runs a finger on the leather arm of Sherlock's chair. It smells like him. He lets out a shuddery breath and turns on his heel for the hallway.
Ahead lie Sherlock's bedroom. Yet, something is amiss—the door is ajar. Jim draws in a breath and listens avariciously. No faint creak of bedsprings. No hint of Sherlock's scent. No sound of his breathing. He deflates at this revelation. He half expected to find him waiting in the front room, yet—oh. Too easy. He's upstairs, then. With his pet.
He slinks to the military man's door—also open. Wordlessly, soundlessly, he wraps his hand around the doorframe and leans in blank-faced. Jim's breath catches in his throat at the sight of him—curled around himself between blanched sheets on his pet's bed. His hair is mussed. His posture is…rather frigid. And he's wearing his silk bathrobe. Odd.
And next to him—what was his name? oh. right—John. He's facing away. His steady, boring breathing pattern and dull military-short hair and—ugh. Ordinary. Jim utters an involuntary huff of disgust and averts his eyes in favour of the tall, slender form closest to him and oh—
His eyes snap open.
The knot in Jim's chest twists in on itself. Every muscle stiffens under those manic, slate-coloured eyes giving him that get the fuck out look. Jim grins at him.
Those lovely thick brows furrow and he effortlessly slips off the bed. A practiced action. Like a predator guarding his mate he steps to the door and Jim finds himself involuntarily backing into the hall. The door clicks shut behind them.
"Evening," Jim chirps.
"You're late," states Sherlock, cocking an eyebrow. He's looking over him like he would a corpse. Flattering.
"At your request. And you haven't been on schedule for our other little get-togethers, have you?"
Sherlock's left brow rises to meet the other. He watches as Jim shifts his weight against the wall, how he hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his trousers. He folds his arms and rests against the wall opposite, eyes dipped down to match those round, black bulbs of Moriarty's.
And Jim can't keep his eyes off that fucking cupid's bow of his, how he wants to twist his hands through Sherlock's hair and smash their lips together and throw him down on the fucking carpet and fuck him senseless—
"Come to burn me, have you?"
Jim is silent a moment as he collects his thoughts.
"Rug burn, maybe." he chuckles.
Sherlock flashes one of those smirks at him. It's as fake as Connie Prince's face on the mortuary table, the thought of which both disgusts and pleases Jim. It's such an insubordinate, bitter gesture and it only makes Sherlock more attractive.
The detective takes a single, careful step towards the staircase, then turns his back to Moriarty. It's a little gesture that flatly says don't wake up John. Sherlock is still a moment, and Jim takes a step around him to lead him down the stairs.
Sherlock follows him to the living space. They are silent.
"You've made such a mess of the place, Sherlie." Jim coos, stepping over a stack of papers. "It's not becoming of you at all."
"You don't mind."
Jim shoves his hands in his pockets. "I find it rather welcoming, really."
"I know."
"Waiting for something?" Jim's voice turns seductive, sultry. "You're the one who wanted me here."
"Dilated pupils. Tired eyes. Perspiration. Slight tremble in your left hand. Inability to stay still. You haven't slept for two days," Sherlock tilts his chin up. "and you're excited."
"Doesn't take a right genius to figure that one out. Don't flatter yourself." But Jim's grinning. Oh god, yes. You could bloody well deduce the clothes off me.
"Then I could say you wanted to be here, as well."
"Good, very good." Jim nods. "But not for the same reasons as you."
Sherlock adjusts his posture. His perfect mouth is flat, expressionless. He runs a hand through that gorgeous head of hair—oh, how Jim wanted to replace that hand with his own—and forces a sigh. On purpose. And he rolls back on his heels and studies the floor a moment before locking those peculiar eyes on Moriarty yet again.
"And you haven't slept yet tonight, have you?" Jim teases, moving to lean on the hearth. "Is your poor, ordinary lover too dull for you?"
Something flickers in Sherlock's eyes—too quick to catch just what it was. Hurt? Possessiveness? Love? His silence beckons Jim to keep talking.
"My dear," Jim purrs, "are you ever bored."
"Obviously."
"And John isn't distraction enough, hmm?"
"So it seems."
"So here I am," Jim throws out his arms, as if to offer a bittersweet hug—which Sherlock refuses by staying still. "and it's not just because I'll fuck you until you cry."
"Doubtful."
"You're afraid of me." Jim smiles like he's solved a case himself.
Sherlock turns his head to one side. The look on his face says wrong but something in his eyes says yes, that's right. So easy. Jim watches those curls tickle Sherlock's ridiculous cheekbones and he licks his lips. He's tired of waiting. He motions for Sherlock to have a seat.
Jim keeps his eyes locked on him as he steps over and takes a seat in John's red chair, opposite to the one offered. Jim scrunches his nose at this. How familiar. Yet that chair smells of ordinary and not of Sherlock—but the real, breathing body has a stronger scent than refurbished leather. It will do.
And Sherlock's staring at him with those bloody wonderful eyes of his and Jim is absolutely elated. All of his attention is on him. Not on John, not on a case, but him. Perfect. So close to becoming mine.
He's slouching in the chair but his chin is held high, those great big hands hanging over the edge of the arms of the chair—oh god, his hands—the blue bathrobe draping his long legs and revealing his collarbone ever so slightly—Immaculate. Preposterous. Engaging. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches. His eyes say you like what you see, don't you with a hint of you're a fucking creep and Jim breathes a heavy, contented sigh. He takes a step in front of the chair.
The sneer on Jim's face may very well be permanent and his hand is quivering as he places it on Sherlock's wrist. Gripping too tightly and dragging his nails he slides his palm to his shoulder—yet Sherlock doesn't respond. Much. He is warm, oh, so fucking warm. He makes no move to touch him back. His eyes just follow Moriarty's. Mere centimetres from Sherlock's glorious mouth he pauses. His voice is like a growl.
"I will make you cry, Sherlock."
"Provide evidence."