A/N: all characters belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and obviously Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own Sherlock.
This is my first fic and it feels a little unfinished but I thought I'd post it so I could get some feedback. Thanks for reading
It wouldn't usually impress him. The idea is, after all, incredibly simple. Any ordinary person could've conceived it. This knowledge doesn't stop him from being fascinated by her skill. It's obvious what she's doing from the moment he walks into the restaurant with another married woman on his arm. She may look as if she's just showing off holiday photos but her dinner companion is not nearly as talented at hiding his feelings as she is. Jim recognises the signs. He's seen them often enough on the faces of the women that he seduces. The shock and indignation of being photographed during what they consider to be a private moment followed by the fear induced by the realisation that this could tear their pathetic little lives to shreds. He is thrilled when their waiter seats them near enough to her table that he can watch her blackmail the man and settles down with anticipation to watch a job done well.
As he pulls out the chair for his date she finally looks up from her phone and her eyes quickly fix on the man who is currently being expertly blackmailed by the gorgeous woman in the short red dress. 'Sam, I thought you were at a business meeting.' Oh this is far too good. 'Sarah, I can explain.' Jim caught the eye of the woman still sat at the table where Sam, who he assumed was Sarah's husband if the outraged expressions on both his and her faces were anything to go by, and nodded towards the door. She grinned and stood up and they half-walked half-ran out of the restaurant whilst Sam and Sarah argued loudly, oblivious to the waiter's attempts to remove them and the fact that their dates had disappeared. Jim and the woman ran until they reached an alleyway. They both ran down it and leant, panting slightly, against opposite walls. 'Jim Moriarty.' He smiled as she bent down to remove her heels. 'Irene Adler.' She replied, a matching smirk adorning her undeniably lovely face.
They've changed a lot since then. She's the most successful dominatrix the world has ever seen and he's the consulting criminal. They've stayed in touch now and again though, sending each other bits and pieces of information and meeting up occasionally in hotel rooms. The sex is delightfully twistedly brilliant but neither of them ever stay the night. This time hasn't been any different. She called him and he came to the room at that hotel that she likes and she opened the door wearing nothing at all and pulled him onto the bed. He isn't offended when as soon as they've both recovered after the sex she brings up the code. It's all about the work after all. She's intrigued by his suggestion that they use the younger Holmes brother and when he's fascinated to know how she got the information she's only too happy to demonstrate, after all surely the lines between work and sex and pleasure and pain are already sufficiently blurred between them.
He enjoys watching her play the consulting detective. Reading her texts and commandeering CCTV cameras to watch it play out. He laughs out loud when she fakes her death so perfectly and helps her to find a body double, since she refuses to use Kate in spite of the similarity of their measurements. He takes pleasure in the tiny details that he's sure everyone, including the hopelessly infatuated Sherlock Holmes, has missed. He doesn't consider for a moment that an infatuation of his own might be blinding him from anything. After all, he'd have to be a man to feel such a thing and James Moriarty is simply the world's biggest spider.
6 months after Sherlock breaks her pass code Moriarty organises for his terrorist cell to capture and kill the dominatrix. He resolves to tell anyone who asks, which turns out to be only one person; an assistant whom the leader of the cell brings to their meeting (he dies in a car accident a week later), that it was because he did not tolerate people who lost. He decides that the reason her sentiment angers him is because it's a weakness on her part rather than, as one of his people had teased, it has induced in him a sort of jealousy (funny how this is the second person he's worked with who's died in a car accident this week. If it wasn't for the fact that the incidents occurred several thousand miles apart one might almost believe they were connected). Still, it's harder to come up with a reason for his growing regret over ordering her death. He eventually settles on her potential usefulness for his future plans to burn the detective. Although this manages to sound hollow even to himself and he's glad that no one forces him to say it out loud.
When he knocks at her door six weeks after everyone thinks that he's dead she's not as shocked as anyone else might have been. After all, she smirks to herself, she knows a thing or two about playing dead. She takes in his appearance through the peephole in the door. His hair is shorter and blond instead of the almost black that she's used to, his clothes are more casual than normal. None of this surprises her, she's known for some time that he's rather practiced at using disguises. None of it matters anyway, he's still him and everything that that involves for both of them even though he looks rather unfamiliar. As soon as she opens the door a question spills unbidden from her mouth. 'Moriarty, is he dead?'
Sherlock nods and the corners of his mouth turn up slightly. It's unexpectedly pleasant to share that news with someone else who understands, to share it with someone who has reason to be as pleased about it as he is. He wonders briefly whether some of his enjoyment of the situation is to do with the fact that he's seeing her again. They'd parted on largely good terms after Karachi and he had to admit that he was pleased to see her, that he'd missed her. All of this makes him even more surprised when, as he opens his mouth to speak, she slams the door in his face.
She feels as though she might faint. Jim. Her business partner and lover whom she had desired and detested in equal amounts. His warped imagination had far outstripped hers. She had enjoyed bringing pain to the people she had dominated, enjoyed humiliating them but James had revelled in it. He had loved the chaos and the blood and the anguish far more than he could've ever loved her. Not that she had wanted him to. She takes a deep breath to steady herself and opens the door. Sherlock is still stood there, looking slightly bemused. 'Sorry about that Mr Holmes, do come in'
He walks into her small but pristine flat and sits down on her couch. He looks exhausted, bruised and dirty and she tells herself that she'll explain later after he's showered and slept. That is if he hasn't worked it out already. That her and James had been both more and somehow less, if his not entirely kind behaviour leading up to her most recent "death" was any indication, than business partners. Her kind of man. 'Irene' she looked up to see Sherlock watching her from his position on the couch. 'The bathroom's just through there.' Her eyes follow him as he leaves watching the way he limps slightly and uses the doorframe to hold himself up and her heart aches at seeing him so vulnerable.
When he wakes up several hours later he sees her curled up on a chair by the window facing the bed that he's lying on. He sits up in the bed and watches her for a while until she begins to speak. 'Jim and I met years ago, trying to blackmail a married couple. After that we used to meet up every so often and share information, amongst other things ' Sherlock rubs his eyes before replying 'so you meant it when you said he was your kind of man.' He says the last part in an exaggerated mockery of her voice, managing to let some of the emotion (jealousy?) that he's feeling seep into his voice. She sighs. 'He was and he wasn't. It wasn't love Sherlock. It was just lust and a mutual desire for something other than endless boredom.'
She moves to sit on the bed beside him. He tenses reflexively as the bed dips under her weight and he curses himself for the physiological reaction that he's certain she'll have noticed. 'This. This isn't love either.' Sherlock's voice sticks slightly and he hates that she is able to do this to him. She leans towards him. 'Probably not.' He swallows as her hand reaches out to touch his face. 'But it's not just lust.' he knows it costs her to make that admission. That whatever it was that they had was something more, something deeper. Others before him had had her body but only Sherlock had come so close to having her heart. He doesn't know how to reply so he closes the gap between them and presses his lips to hers in a delicate kiss that still somehow manages to leave them both breathless.