Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, created by Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I sadly own nothing.

So, I've decided to continue with this story. Chapter 1 was a bit of a test run, but I had a lot of fun writing it, so let's just see where this goes.

Thanks to everyone who alerted/favourited; it's great to know you like it :) However, it really would be helpful if you reviewed as well, because your feedback is what helps shape this story.

Enjoy!

Cursing, Jim shoved his bag away from him. This day could not get any worse. First that smug twat Sherlock, then the incident in class that had no doubt gone down on his record. He'd been content enough in the library until it was descended upon by a rabble of insufferable younger years, cursing and yelling whilst he was trying to study. Jim had left; he'd rather face the biting November cold than stay in a room with adolescents who were only questionably above apes in the evolutionary stakes. And now, just as the kicker, he'd forgotten his lunch. Terrific. Gently pushing himself back and forward on the swing, Moriarty sighed. It was enough to turn you into a misanthrope, it really was. Not that Jim was particularly fond of the human race on any given day. The only person he could truly abide was himself.

The playground was deserted; normally, there would be a huddle of sixth formers by the swings, furtively sharing one roll up between eight of them, bitching about their workload and how they couldn't get served anywhere. Carl Powers and his group. Neanderthals, the lot of them. The triviality of their conversations both amused and disgusted Jim; it was just another sign of how far removed he was from his peers, and that was how he liked it. Thankfully, the bitter weather seemed to have put the smokers off today, leaving Jim alone with just the wind and his thoughts.

Leaning back in the swing, Moriarty sighed, head tilted backwards. It was peaceful out here, away from the constant noise and mayhem; he could pretend that he was removed from it all, far away from their world of teenage hormones and angst. The future always seemed vague to Jim, like an unfocussed photograph. Oh, he would go to university, and come first in his class, naturally, gain a degree. But beyond that? He didn't know. Jim couldn't really see himself as holding down a conventional job. It would suffocate him. The 9 to 5 was one of his worst nightmares. No. He'd be... a chemical engineer. Brilliant, renowned. Jim closed his eyes, a small smile pulling at his lips. Yes. People would marvel at his intellect. He'd win awards. He'd be highly respected - travel the world, become fa-

The sound of footsteps jolted him out of his daydream, the ringing sound breaking his fragile imaginings. Jim's head snapped up. Whoever dared to intrude upon his solitude would be sorry. He wasn't particularly intimidating physically, but Jim Moriarty didn't rely on size. His methods were calculated, methodical, perfectly executed. There was something unhinged within him that, when he got especially worked up, had a tendency to snap. He couldn't count the hours he'd spent plotting, formulating, imagining the look of humiliation or terror on his chosen victim's face as he worked. Of course, these times had been few and far between; Jim wasn't irrational, even in revenge. His toleration of the idiots around him was testament to this restraint. But fuck it, he'd had an exceedingly bad day, and this bastard deserved what they had coming to them. He'd dream up something exquisitely complicated.

That was when he saw it. Some way down the path leading to the playground, strewn with skeletal leaves, was a rapidly retreating figure, dressed in a black woollen overcoat. They walked with purposeful stride, back straight, black hair unruly in the wind.

Jim gritted his teeth.

Sherlock fucking Holmes.

Snatching his bag up, Jim exited the park in a flurry of dead leaves, the gate banging shut behind him. Of all the people. Any idea of a strategic revenge had been abandoned the second he'd recognised Sherlock. Christ, even the way he carried himself was arrogant; the fluid grace of his walk simply screamed I am superior to you. No, this would require a face-on confrontation. He wouldn't give Holmes the satisfaction of ruining his afternoon as well as his morning. And Jim was sure he'd meant to ruin his daydream.

Keeping a safe distance behind, Moriarty followed Sherlock: a small, shadowy figure radiating hate. The taller boy seemed wholly unaware of his presence. Apparently, Sherlock's observational skills weren't infallible. Once or twice, he paused upon the path, and Jim's heart jack hammered in his chest. But Sherlock always continued onwards, and so Jim followed silently, intently. They were heading into the residential area now. Sherlock didn't seem to have a particular destination in mind; he strode ahead, navigating the endless roads in an unrecognisable pattern. Soon, Jim was helplessly lost.

Ahead of him, Sherlock turned down what seemed to be an alleyway. Jim stood for a minute, gaining his composure, venom surging through his veins. Getting lost in an unfamiliar part of town whilst pursuing Sherlock Holmes for revenge certainly hadn't been on today's agenda. Eyes narrowed, he made his way towards the alley. Fuck it. He'd come too far now. He'd have it out with the bastard, and then worry about wherever the hell he was. He'd get no relief until he'd finally knocked the smug twat down a peg or five.

Squaring his shoulders, and with a hissed intake of breath, Moriarty rounded the corner, only to find himself faced with a dead end. And, leaning against the bricked up exit, blank eyes coolly regarding him, a lean figure in a black overcoat. Sherlock Holmes.

"Jim Moriarty." The voice was flat, expressionless.

"You!" Jim bit out the word, fists clenched, lip curled.

Sherlock tilted his head, not a single emotion flickering in fathomless green eyes. "I'd presume since you followed me all the way here, you have an issue of greater importance concerning myself than your ability to use personal pronouns?" came the monotonous response.

Seething, Jim took a step forward, mere metres away from Sherlock. "Don't flatter yourself, you bastard. You think it's all about you, don't you? Because you're Sherlock Fuckin' Holmes." Jim accentuated each word by taking a step forward, until the two boys were nearly nose to nose. "Goddamn narcissist. I'm sick of your arrogance! You're trying to drive me insane, and you know what, genius? It's not going to work! I know your game, and I know you're nothing next to me. Nothing!" By this point, Jim was practically pressed to Holmes.

"For someone who claims to be sick of my persona, your obsession with me is mildly perplexing at the least." Sherlock's tone was bland, but Jim was sure he could detect a trace of amusement. "Staring at someone for a prolonged period of time or stalking them is usually atypical behaviour of infatuation, not hatred."

"Why, you!" Moriarty shoved Sherlock roughly in the chest, making him stagger slightly. "You just don't get it, do you, you fucking egomaniac? I. Hate. You. I have never come across anyone as infuriating, arrogant or repellent as you in my entire life. Tosser. Obsession? You sicken me, Holmes."

Slowly raising his head, Sherlock regarded Jim thoughtfully, something flashing in his eyes. "I sicken you?" He slowly advanced, an unfamiliar heat in his eyes. "I sicken you, and yet you spend each lesson watching my every move? You go out of your way to follow me, wasting time and energy on myself, whom you hate, because I sicken you? Is that what you're inferring, Moriarty?"

Jim blanched slightly, thrown off by the alien look on Holmes' face. "Shut up. You don't kno-"

Before Jim could even comprehend what was happening, before he could even finish his sentence, Sherlock had darted forward and seized him by the shoulders. Burning eyes bore down into his for a fleeting moment, their intensity paralyzing Jim, and then Sherlock's lips were on his.

It wasn't a soft or romantic; it was harsh, feral, wild with an emotion Jim never would've believed Sherlock was capable of. He could feel the tension in that kiss, the hatred, as Sherlock's chapped lips worked his in a way that made Moriarty's head spin. Yes, the hate was there; but there was lust too, a heat that threatened to melt him if only he'd let Sherlock. Biting Jim's bottom lip softly, Sherlock elicited a moan, causing him to chuckle softly at the smaller boy's reaction. Jim reached up, dizzied, to tangle his hands in those unruly ebony curls. He could feel himself growing pliable, helpless in a surprisingly strong hold as Sherlock's skilled lips devoured his.

After a lifetime, Sherlock released his hold on Jim and carefully stepped backwards, a small smile playing at his lips. Shocked, Moriarty slumped against the alley wall; the cool brick brought him painfully back to reality. Chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes glazed, he stared speechlessly at the taller boy.

Sherlock took a step towards him.

"Sherlock-"

He kissed him again, and his mind reeled.

Drawing back, Sherlock simply gazed at Moriarty. One long, tapered finger traced his cheekbone, lightly skimming across his skin in a way that made Jim's pulse race.

"Ever heard of the reptilian complex, Moriarty?"

With a small smile, Sherlock turned on his heel, and stalked back down the alleyway. Casting one last, final look back at Jim, he turned the corner and left, coat flaring out behind him.

A trembling hand rose to ghost over swollen lips.

Sherlock Holmes.