He didn't know when it happened. They had been verbally sparring one minute, then the next – well here they were. He looked at the eyes that stared at him now. Crystal blue irises were barely visible behind blown out pupils. For once, there was no sign of interrogation in those eyes. Only desire. A hand snaked its way behind his head, trapping itself in his hair. The other hand found its way into his. The long, calloused, violin-playing fingers entwined in his own soft, smooth hand. His distaste for any sort of work showed in those hands, and he relished in the feel of the roughness now trapped against it. He allowed his other hand to drop to the detective's waist pulling him in for their first kiss. It was soft, yet electric. Simple, yet all-consuming. He could think of nothing better. When the two lips finally parted for air, their eyes locked again. It was a silent confirmation, a recognition that they both wanted this. That they had wanted it. That they were perfect for each other. They couldn't wait any longer. Sherlock pulled him close with a growl of want. As the mouth that knew only lies gave access to the tongue that told completely unfiltered truth, Jim Moriarty knew it was better to kiss than to bite.