There they were- James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes- sat on the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Jim could feel the puddle he'd sat in beginning to seep through his coat and into his trousers, but he didn't care. He found he had a hard time caring about much when he was with the consulting detective. As he'd told the taller man before, Jim and Sherlock were made for each other. Like yin and yang, they belonged together. He listened to Sherlock's staged farewell to one Dr. John Watson and couldn't help but snicker. It was almost too much. Only an idiot would fall for such a ridiculous prank such as the one they were in the middle of, but John was certainly that idiot. Sherlock turned and shushed James and he tried to stifle his snickering by pursing his lips. Finally, Sherlock let the slap-dash dummy he had put together go. "Oh!" Jim couldn't help but laugh when he heard John's despairing cry of "Sherlock!" Chuckling, the consulting criminal turned to look at Sherlock who had starting laughing too. Oh, what a sound that was.
Moriarty's laughter faded as he met Sherlock's eyes. He'd never noticed exactly the colour of them. How blue they appeared in the faint sunlight of that cloudy afternoon, and, at the same time, how green. Mesmerising, hypnotic, stunning, breathtaking: all were words Jim could find to describe Sherlock's eyes, yet none of them did them any justice. His smile dropped into a thoughtful expression and he found himself staring at Sherlock's lips. How many nights had he stayed up wondering what that cupid's bow would taste like? Or how it would feel on every centimeter of James' flesh? The more Jim thought about it, the shorter his breath came until it was almost as if he weren't breathing at all. His heart began to race and he could hear the blood rushing in his ears.
Sherlock looked at Moriarty and saw him in a way he'd never really seen another person. He admired the way Jim's eyes crinkled when he smiled and laughed. The lilting giggles were a new sort of music and stirred butterflies in the detective's stomach that he didn't know it was possible to have. This was… attraction, he recognized. He thought briefly and realized that he had always found Jim to be at least objectively attractive with his charming grin and neat appearance. Further thought revealed that Sherlock had always found him attractive regardless of objectivity. Jim was an equal, even if on the opposite side of the same coin. His brain, his wit, his personality. If Sherlock didn't know better: he'd say James Moriarty was irresistible. At this point, he was beginning to think that maybe he didn't know better after all.
Dilated. Moriarty's pupils were unmistakably dilated, and Sherlock knew his own must be, too. He took note of his own elevated pulse and wondered if Jim's was too. The sleuth felt a tingle run down his spine when Jim stared at his lips. As if compelled by some invisible, surreal force, Sherlock glanced at Jim's lips and leaned in slowly.
Like moving through a dream, Moriarty moved in too, closing the distance between them. Their lips met almost timidly and Jim inhaled sharply. His mind stopped racing, stopped altogether. Instinctively, he pressed into the kiss more. His heart skipped a bet when he heard Sherlock exhale what sounded like a blissful sigh. Almost simultaneously, they pulled away with a bit of surprise. They studied each other's faces before diving back into the kiss. Hotter, this time, and more needy. Each man parted his lips and Jim coaxed Sherlock's tongue into his mouth with his own. Sherlock gave a small, almost grateful, moan and slid his tongue over the top of Jim's, earning a soft moan in return. Tongues dancing together turned into tongues battling for dominance and Sherlock shifted his weight, pushing Jim onto the concrete of the rooftop. The criminal's breath hitched and he clutched desperately to Sherlock's coat.
Hands fumbled, touching everywhere they could reach: grabbing hair, caressing exposed flesh, cupping an arse cheek or pinning a hip down, hard enough to bruise. When the need for air superseded the need for each other, they broke their kiss, breathing as heavily as if they had run a half-marathon together.
"Apparently the flirting isn't over," Sherlock teased breathlessly. "Unless 'Daddy' /has/ had enough now?"
"Oh, certainly not. And you are the one who said we had a 'special something'. Why don't we go back to my place and you can show me just how 'special'?" Jim smirked wickedly and leaned up to nip at Sherlock's bottom lip.
Sherlock bolted to his feet, yanking Jim with him and they bolted for the stairs to the hospital. Together, they wound through the flights of stairs and nearly scrambled out a back door. Jim opened the back door to his private car and slid in after Sherlock.
"Home," he growled at the driver. The car pulled away and it was Jim's turn to pounce. He pulled Sherlock under him on the back seat and licked his way into the detective's mouth.