The aching of his body slowly faded as the boiling water fell over his skin numbing his senses, another day had begun, having no alternative and his humdrum routine started all over again. He turned the shower off when the red color of his skin was threatening enough for him to believe it would peel off his body and he moved to his walk-in wardrobe with a towel small enough to be considered obscene wrapped around his waist, ready to choose one of his perfectly fashionable outfits to wear for the day.
There was a time he actually found a little bit of joy out of picking his attire everyday, now it was just another step in his long list of things to do for the day. However he always managed to look absolutely stunning, everytime he glanced at himself in the mirror before he left his house. After all there was not one single piece of cloth in his wardrobe that wouldn't pass out a designer's check of approval, like his father used to say «the way you look on the outside is a reflection of what you are internally, wear rags and people shall treat you as the shit you really are». He couldn't recall a single time he had dressed poorly in front of his late father, and yet he also couldn't remember a single time his father had treated him any different to a homeless crossing him on the street.
Truth be told he was plenty sure his old father barely understood half of the rubbish that came out of his mouth, when he was alive. Like that quote for example, nice clothes had never changed the way he felt inside, how come all those designer attires could reflect all the actual bullshit he was inside? And then there was how people treated him, well dressed or not, it made no difference on how people addressed to him, either full of disdain, fear or complete hypocrisy, one hundred percent of the time.
He was no fool, he knew the few people he called friends, merely put up with him because he was rich and somewhat talented at what he did, not for one moment he thought their supposed affection came out of their altruistic selfless golden hearts. But he kept them around in case he could have some use out of them occasionally. Sebastian Moran was a good lay, for when he was in need of some mindless rough shag, no strings attached, just incredibly hot sex and nobody to worry about the next morning. Irene Addler, now she was one of the good ones, someone with an actual brain, always available when he was in need to bitch about Mr. stick in the arse Sherlock Holmes which was basically every single minute of every single day.
He snapped out of his thoughts when he was a block away from the Holmes Fine Arts academy and a navy blue Lamborghini came out of nowhere almost running over his motorcycle, forcing him to skid on te asphalt, making him end up inches away to be out of the road. He jumped off his bike when the car stopped after the driver slammed the breaks audibly behind him, he was ready to break the motherfucker's car lights with a kick, but when he saw the person climbing off the car he decided against it and go for his jaw instead.
"James!" Sherlock fucking Holmes breathed out running towards his bike with a worried expression taking over his features, "I swear I didn't see you, are you okay?"
"Do I seem okay? You could have killed me! Tell me something Holmes, is the stick up your arse too big to let you concentrate on the road or did you just overdo the heroin this morning?" Jim asked sarcastically, crossing his arms over his chest after taking off his helmet.
Sherlock just scanned his body up and down without an immediate response, as if he was trying to figure out any possible injuries he could be trying to hide, he then stepped forward pulled Jim's chin up with his index finger and leaned to whisper in his ear.
"Maybe when we get to the academy, if you still want to know, I can show you just how big it is James," Jim froze in the spot, from all possible answers, that was definitely the last he would have imagined Sherlock Holmes would give him, he was also the last person he thought could possibly get a reaction out of his body when using a blatant flirtatious tone on him, and yet he now could feel the blood running to his face and to his—. No! This was not an appropriated reaction for Jim Moriarty, specially not towards Sherlock Holmes, he refused with all his will to appear flustered in front of the brunette boy he hated with all his strengths, so he pushed Sherlock away from him and slammed his helmet once across his chest, before he put it on and jumped onto his bike again.
"In your dreams Holmes," he spit out taking a last glance at the taller boy.
"Wait, how did you know?" Sherlock asked faking surprise dramatically, before Jim could take off on his bike with a loud sound of the engine.
Jim stopped on his parking place at the academy underground car park two minutes after the incident and watched from there how the navy blue Lamborghini stopped a few parking spaces away from his position. He made his way rapidly to the lift but the god damned thing didn't arrive on time for him to avoid the unwanted company.
Eurus Holmes made it to his side first, he hadn't even noticed she was in the car during the incident.
"I think you are right brother dear, he is totally losing it for you," she commented when Sherlock made it to their side giving Jim a head to toe glance.
Jim had to bite his tongue, in order to avoid giving up to their provocations.
"If he only wasn't a stubborn little prick, I would have already taken him innumerable times in the School's bathroom stalls," Jim felt his neck flush and mentally cursed the lift for taking so much time to arrive. And as if someone up there was hearing his prayers, the doors in front of him opened and he was able to jump inside in an attempt to scape the inevitable conversation, that now would take place in a really reduced place with near to no personal space.
"Woah, I didn't need that much information," Eurus complained punching her brother playfully as the door closed behind her back enclosing the three of them for the next torturing minute.
"Is probably for the best, the way I would have made him scream—, Mycroft would probably have us both expelled of the Academy before I could have finished him off properly," Sherlock added.
How was this not descriptive enough for Eurus to complain again? Jim didn't care enough to give it a second thought, he just scoffed and lifted his gaze from his phone, where he was pretending to read some texts, not able to endure more of Sherlock's bullshit.
"Is that so Sherlock?" He started hitting Sherlock repeatedly with his index finger on the chest until he collided with the wall behind him, "care to explain me who gave you the wrong idea of me letting you top?"
"Okaaay, this is me, see you later brother mine, Jimmy—," Jim barely noticed Eurus saying, before she jumped off the lift the moment the doors opened in some random floor.
Sherlock didn't even look at his sister as she left the lift dragging both their violin cases and whoever was waiting for the lift outside the door with her, so the poor soul wouldn't get involved in what had quickly escalated to a really heated discussion.
"And you care to explain me who gave you the wrong idea that I was talking about you?" Sherlock asked softly holding Jim's fuming gaze.
"I KNOW YOU WERE!" Jim shouted basically pining Sherlock to that wall with the weight of his body.
"No I really wasn't," he said calmly, "but by all means James, just name the place and time and I'll let you top me," He blatantly said pushing his body even closer to Jim's, "now that we both know that you are dying to do it," he slithered his hand between them brushing it over the growing bulk in Jim's skinny trousers, shocking the boy long enough for him to squeeze himself out of his power position an quickly leave the lift when the doors opened at the end of the trajectory.
AN/: Truthfully guys I have no idea where this came from, but dear god I'm fucking enjoying it—, I hope you are too, if that's so please let me know if I should continue this. XOXO pick up your crowns and stay evil.