A/N: Hello my lovely readers! I would like to say a huge thank you to all of you who read and review my stories, it really does make my day! So to everyone reading this, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! I would like to write a special note for my parabati, Charlotte. Charlotte this one is for you, I hope you enjoy it and Merry Christmas!
It had been 6 months. 6 wonderful, astonishing, light, care-free months. 6 months since Jim Moriarty had come back from the dead.
Something was off. Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something was definitely off. He scoffed quietly to himself. God, what a pathetic, disappointing mess he made. What would Jim think of him? No! No, no, no, no. No more thoughts of HIM, he shouted in hi head. However his mind didn't seem to want to obey him, and without his permission hundreds of images of the consulting criminal flew across his mind. Unconsciously a lump formed in Sherlock's throat and he had to swallow and blink several times as his eyes turned glassy and tears threatened to spill out and betray him.
Sherlock shook his head to clear his thoughts and reached for the door knob – When had he gotten there? How long had he been standing in the doorway? - and he pushed his apartment door open.
Sherlock gave a strangled gasp as he stared at the face of a ghost …
Jim Moriarty stared right back, and it really was the same old Jim, with those seemingly endless, mesmerising, pitch black eyes that you could get lost in and that ever-present, infuriating, cocky smirk that Sherlock both loved and hated at the same time.
"Did you miss me?" said a cheeky, Irish drawl.
And all hell broke loose.
Sherlock let out an almost animalistic noise that could have been a sob or a snarl, and fisted his hand into Jim's ever-expensive Westwood suit, glaring furiously the detective pushed the smaller man roughly against the the wall. Sherlock knew that this was no time for a breakdown, he knows he should just end his nemesis then and there, Sherlock knows he should shove Jim away and abandon him for all the pain and suffering that the criminal had caused him. He doesn't, instead he leans forward and captures the other man's lips, causing Moriarty to let out a sound of surprise and pleasure at the back of his throat, in a blistering hot kiss that could have lasted for both a second and a century at once. Partly to convince himself that he wasn't dreaming and partly to tame the need and wanting that was roaring and festering inside him. And for the first time in his life Sherlock lets go completely and lets himself drown, immersed in his other half's smell and taste.
It feels exhilarating, like being high on drugs only ten times better and just so wonderfully and perfectly right.
Jim could sense the importance of this kiss. It was full of desperation, relief, pain and love. He knew because he felt the same way, so he conveyed what he felt but could never put into words by kissing back with equal force and wanting.
As they broke apart Sherlock suddenly felt tired and just so utterly broken that he simply collapsed into Jim's arms sobbing. He cried, letting loose all the emotion and heartbreak that he had felt and pent up over the last two years and just cried. He clung onto the criminal like a life line, with such a tight grip that his knuckles became white. But Jim's soothing words of "I know, love. I'm here now" and his warm hands rubbing slow, gentle circles into the detective's back soon calmed him down and Sherlock simply laid on Jim's chest, listening to his partner's heartbeat.
For the rest of the night the consulting criminal and the consulting detective lay wrapped in each other's arms, for the first time in two years. They talked to one another in hushed voices, continuously trying to get closer, trying to reassure each other that they were still there, as if afraid the other might dissolve into thin air at any moment.
And in the morning when Jim stands up and offers Sherlock his hand the words, "Join me?" sounding oddly vulnerable and unsure of themselves coming from the usually cocky and self-assured man's lips, Sherlock doesn't hesitate for even a moment. After all angels were getting quite a bit dull, it was about time he tried demons. He takes Jim's hand.
There were times, very rare and very brief times, when Sherlock would question his decision. But one soft, real smile from Jim, one look at his lover's eyes, twinkling and bright with genuine happiness and love banished any questioning thoughts from his mind immediately.
With Jim he could be himself, with Jim he felt alive, with Jim he could love.
And as a warm arm snakes around his waist and a face presses into his back, sighing contentedly Sherlock smiles. Yes, he thinks, this is just the right kind of wrong. After all, being bad couldn't be that wrong. Nothing that felt this right could ever be wrong.
A/N: It's Christmas, so pretty please review? *pulls puppy eyes*