That unfortunately took longer than I had hoped! But hey, at least it's the longest chapter yet. Right?

Disclaimer: I own none of these lovely peeps. Although I would be willing to knife fight Moffat et. al. for rights. I'd lose, but I'd get to have "killed by Moffat" on my tombstone, like ALL MY OTHER FAVORITE CHARACTERS.

Warnings: MorMor, Johniarty, Sheriarty, Johnlock... pre-Johnlockiarty? Is there a better term for that? If yes please do let me know. (Pssst. Those are still all dudes, but if you weren't into that I guess you would't be in chapter four.) Umm... Other than that this chapter's pretty tame. Only some very mild (mostly implied) BDSM. And just the tiniest bit of fluff. . I'll go back to being bad soon, I promise.

Again, all the thanks to Vivi Vivacious, my beta / grammar Dalek. Way to try and reign in my adverbs.

All Apologies, Pt 4.

As the familiar melody of Caprice No. 16 began to degrade into a halting series of half connected notes, Jim Moriarty tightened his fingers in short blonde hair. His lean back arched as he forced himself against the back of the throat of the man below him. As the jarring, tinny music playing from the mobile stopped and Sherlock's familiar moaning commenced he came with a gasp, fingers finally relaxing their grip on his partner's scalp.

Casually, Jim reached over flicked his mobile off, stopping the moans and soft wet noises that echoed through the hotel room. The blonde pulled himself up the mattress, scarred shoulders flexing as he laid his head on the pillow next to the dark haired criminal. They lay together in silence for a comfortable moment before Jim sat bolt upright, clutching his mobile like it was made of platinum. Post sex glossiness fading from his eyes, his fingers furiously dancing across the screen.

"Well, that settles it. I'm staying here. Seb, you're going to Paris." Jim's lithe digits flew over his mobile as he presumably updated his itinerary. "Tell me, how do you feel about being me for a weekend?" His voice had the manic trill of hyperfocused, overexcited Jim rather than the particularly warm, singsong quality that Sebastian Moran had come to associate with contented, post coitial Jim. He grunted and rolled his cobalt eyes. Jim and his fucking projects.

"Boss. You're always like this when you get a new toy. Or toys. How long you think this pair'll last till they break?" If his voice was rough it was surely due to the nearly back to back, vigirous mouth fuckings Jim had given him. Both while watching that damnable video.

"Ooo-ooh Sebastian." The consulting criminal fixed his tiger with a piercing gaze, before breaking off into a fit of giggles. Still laughing, the madman snatched his cigarette case and lighter from the night stand. He lit one and took a deep drag, exhaling the smoke directly into Sebastian's face. "Jealous much?" His sniper responded by slapping Jim lightly on the thigh to distract him, then snatched the lit stick out of ivory fingers. He took a pointedly deep drag but didn't return Jim's gesture, instead blowing his smoke towards the ceiling.

"Really, Jim. Holmes I get. I'd love to know what that smart mouth of his feels like wrapped around my dick. See those blue eyes water as I thrust into his too-pretty face." Moran's voice was a deep, low rumble. Jim's left eye twitched imperceptibly; obviously his sniper had entertained thoughts of the great consulting detective before the current conversation.

"But Watson?" His tiger continued with a grimace. It took Jim a moment to identify it as an expression of distaste. "Isn't he a little... common?" The criminal snatched another cigarette from his case, grabbed Sebastian's wrist and used the lit tip of the other man's smoke to light his own. He exhaled the wispy blue strands of smoke along with a pornographic moan.

"At first blush, but underneath he's quite filthy." Feeling his sniper twitch beside him, Jim continued, keeping his voice low and husky. "Truly dirty mind on that one. I was actually surprised when he responded to the text he "intercepted"." He gestured wildly with his cigarette, causing embers to fall on the sheets. Sebastian dutifully pressed out the smoldering bits with his thumb, allowing his boss to continue his rant.

"Me! Surprised. By that doctor of all people. Well he made a proposition, and I thought to myself 'Moriarty, Jim, dear. This whole ordeal is just too utterly complicated and interesting to pass up.' Plus, Seb. Dirty pictures!" Bright black eyes sparkled down at Sebastian. The level of the smaller man's glee over his new pet project infuriated Seb to no end.

Jim almost bent down and bit his partner when he didn't see excitement mirrored in those blue eyes. But then he stopped, observing his partner instead of merely looking at him. Eyes no longer dilated. Nostrils flared, Nearly imperceptible lines around the mouth, lips compressed. Muscles in his hand tensed and ready to punch...

"Oh, I'm so-o-o-orry, Sebby dear." He let his voice dance around, elongating the syllables of sorry until his sarcasm was gratuitously obvious. "Was that the part where I was supposed to say that he's terribly dull when compared with you?" His tiger merely grunted in response, rolling over and grabbing his own mobile off the bedside table. In response, Jim laid back down, slithering up against the larger man's broad, knife scarred back. The dark eyed criminal let his long fingers run down a few marks he was particularly proud of; he had made those extra deep to cover up scars his tiger already had before Jim claimed him. He brought his rosebud pink lips up to Sebastian's ear.

"Nobody fucks me like you do, Sebastian." Jim made sure his voice was the particular combination of growl and whisper that the blonde loved. "Nobody else brings me presents like you do. Truthfully. Do you think that John Watson would bring me a teakettle full of severed fingers as foreplay?"

"I do want to fuck him though. And I will. And Sherlock too, while I'm at it. Again. Because I CAN. Are you worried?" He purred into the larger man's ear and smiled as he watched a shiver travel through his partner's taut body. "Well, Seb? Are you?"

"Mmmm... Not -ah- at all."

"You're right. I'll break them like I've broken all my other toys. All but you, Seb." With that the criminal pushed their mouths together. It was a ravenous embrace; all teeth and tongue and biting and swirling. Jim nipped at Sebastian's lower lip as he pulled back, black eyes boring into cobalt.

"Every." Moriarty lowered his head and laid another kiss in the middle of his sniper's chest before moving his mouth lower still, tracing his tongue down Sebastian's chest.

"Single." This time he kissed the puckered, star shaped scar on his tiger's abdomen; a souvenir from the war as Seb liked to call it. It was one of the few scars that the sniper had left from his previous life that Jim hadn't covered up with his own markings. Neither of them was entirely sure why, but the precocious madman seemed to find it fascinating. He swirled his tongue around the risen edges as his hands played over the long thin scars that outlined his tiger's lower ribs. He gave the bullet scar one more peck before moving further down his tiger's striped torso. After a few scant centimeters he reached the tip of his partner's erection.

"One." Jim let his lips hover tantalizingly above the head, watching in fascination as the length of his partner's cock twitched in time with his breath. Casting his eyes upwards he noticed that Sebastian still managed to look serene despite the betrayal of his body. Seb's face may not have showed it, but at least the sniper's dick was wild and trembling for him.

"Except for you." Pink lips parted and without any preamble, Jim wrapped his lips around Sebastian's cock and pushed himself downard, taking the sniper to the root. He hummed happily in the back of his throat as his tiger gasped and moaned. Dark eyes glanced upwards and the criminal admired the way that the muscles in Sebastian's abdomen flexed, adored the way one of the strong killer's hands wound itself up in the luxurious sheets while the other still held the remains of his earlier cigarette. Temporarily distracted, Jim reflected on what a good idea it had been to change hotel rooms from the dingy, cheap thing he had shared with Sherlock earlier. Somehow knowing that his tiger was clawing at expensive sheets made the action that much more erotic.

Seb groaned in the back of his throat and canted his hips into the heat and wetness of his mouth, urging Jim onward. He placed one hand on each curving hipbone and used all his strength to pin Sebastian to the bed. His sniper's entire body trembled as Jim hollowed his cheeks and sucked, beginning to pull back, tracing silken lips against the other man's length. Encouraged by his Seb's animalistic growls, the criminal pushed himself back down. Opening his throat and taking as much of his sniper's cock as he could get, he began alternately humming and swallowing around the thick length. Sebastian began to thrust into the heat of Moriartry's throat, but the dark haired man fastened deceptively strong fingers onto his partner's hipbones and held him down to the mattress, determined to force Seb to comply with his pace.

His tiger's low growls became barely contained roars of pleasure that reverberated through their hotel, and Jim had to suppress a smile (mouth being otherwise occupied, thank you!) knowing how uncomfortable they were likely making their neighbors. The criminal felt the familiar flutter of hip muscles under the pad of his fingertips, and knew that Sebastian was close. It was no wonder, really. After all, despite one wank and two terrific blow jobs, the mastermind hadn't bothered to get his partner off once.

"Jiiiiiim. Ah-ah... oh god Jim I'm gon..." The rest of his sniper's sentence dissolved into a wordless howl as Jim constricted his throat and sucked, ripping Sebastian' orgasm free. He dutifully swallowed, an uncommon gesture that for Jim was as close to an apology as possible.

Once Sebastian had stopped trembling the smaller man sat up, wiping his swollen lips on the back of one pale hand. Sebastian merely blinked at the ceiling for a few more seconds. Reflexively, one strong hand brought the cigarette he still held to his lips, and sucked. It had gone out, and Sebastian glowered before tossing the butt on the floor.

The taller man rolled onto his side, curling his muscled frame up around Jim's seated form. When he tried to reach past the smaller man to snatch the cigarette case and lighter from the table, his mastermind slapped his hands away.

"No! No time." His sniper gave him a heated glower, and dark eyes rolled as Jim relented. The madman found it quite difficult not to spoil Seb when he was being such a good pet. He picked up the case and freed a stick, lighting it and handing it off to his partner who gave him the barest hints of a grateful smile in return. They laid in silence for a few minutes, Jim furiously working at his mobile while Sebastian smoked. About two thirds of the way through the cigarette, Jim snatched it from his tiger's lips. He leaned down and drove an elbow into the taller man's side, none too gently urging him out of the bed.

"Enough! You're done. Now go go go go go! You have to get packed. And I need to figure out what to wear." And with that, the diminutive brunette took the remains of the cigarette into the bathroom. Sebastian considered following his partner, but stopped when he heard the telltale click of the lock on the door. Not that it could have kept him out if he had wanted in, but Jim had made his dismissal clear with the gesture. All that was left was for Sebastian to throw a few things in his duffel and catch a cab back to his flat to try and get some sleep before his flight.

Morning came far too early for John Watson's comfort. His shoulders were sore from the exertion of last night, and his lips felt so swollen he could have sworn he had been in a fight. After a moment of fitful blinking to adjust his eyes to the light, he realized that he was so dehydrated that he felt hungover. And he was also a bit sticky from the previous night's escapades. So, washing up and a drink of water were in order then.

There was just one problem. The world's greatest detective was sprawled across his chest, sound asleep. For someone so thin, the taller man was quite difficult to move when he was dead weight. Sherlock had thrown an arm and a leg over his doctor's body, his dark hair tickling John's chin and neck as he nuzzled up against his shoulder. Long violinists fingers gripped tightly to the smaller man's tanned, scarred shoulder, and the full weight of his body pressed down on top of John's other arm.

"Sherlock." He bent his head as much as he could and whispered the name into the detective's tangle of dark curls. No response. "Sherlock." A little louder. Still nothing. From the slightness of his breath and his unresponsiveness it would have been easy to mistake the long limbed man as comatose.

Ever so slowly, the doctor began trying to extract his good arm out from underneath his partner. It was a futile gesture; Sherlock had him completely pinned. He couldn't get up unless he wanted to risk waking the other man.

The doctor started to try and roll over, using the last remaining escape move in his arsenal. Sometimes Sherlock would simply slide off him to curl up around a John-shaped space in the bed. Not this time. Spidery fingers tightened on his shoulder, and he nearly had a heart attack as his detective's deep baritone rumbled through the room.

"Absolutely not, John." There had been no movement, no change in the taller man's breathing to indicate that he had woken. Had he been awake the whole time?

"Absolutely not what?"

"You are absolutely not getting up. Not at this ungodly hour." Craning his neck, John cast a glance at the clock on the table. 11:09 AM.

"Sherlock, it's..." His dark haired anchor snapped, cutting him off.

"Yes, yes. It's before noon. Which is why its criminal that you would even think of leaving."

"How did you? You know what, nevermind." John continued to try and roll out of Sherlock's spidery embrace, but the other man held fast. Well, not so much held as laid atop. It seemed the detective had calculated the exact way to lay so that he could keep his doctor pinned without having to move at all.

"Sherlock. I need to, ahem. You know."

"No John; I'm a genius. Not psychic. There's at least six different things you could need to do right now. Should I list them in order of probability and let you pick?"

" I have to use the bathroom, alright?" John's voice was frustrated but held no actual heat.

"Yes, that would have been the first item on the list. Probability-wise, that is." Despite his words, the taller man gave no indication that he was even thinking of moving.

"Well, you have to let go of me then."

"Thanks so much for clearing that up. I certainly wouldn't have thought of it on my own." Sherlock's voice was flat, but the words caused John to smile. Their usual banter always made him happy, even if he desperately need a drink of water and a piss.

"Sherlock!" Even though he couldn't see them, John knew that his partner rolled his piercing blue eyes behind closed lids.

"Fine, John. But you need to do one thing for me." Now it was the doctor's turn to roll his eyes.

"You haven't even gotten out of bed yet. You can't possibly need a pen, or your mobile, or..." His tirade cut off abruptly as Sherlock rolled off him and rose up on one elbow, lowering his face mere centimeters away from his doctor's. Aquamarine eyes held him captive. God, was anything better than waking up to those eyes?

"Shut up and kiss me, John Hamish Watson." Right. That. Kissing. Kissing was even better.

"Morning breath and all?" The question earned him another trademark flat glare. "Right then." He brought one strong hand to the back of Sherlock's raven haired head, and pulled the other man down to close the distance. The kiss was unlike anything they shared the prior night. Their mouths met gently, lips moving slowly against each other. Sherlock parted his lips, inviting John inside.

His doctor happily obliged, moving the very tip of his tongue against the detective's in slow gentle spirals, punctuated with short sweeps into the other man's mouth. John swept his tongue in Sherlock's mouth in brief intervals, enjoying the familiar textures between soft presses of their lips. Smooth teeth. Silken lips. Ridged roof. Strong tongue. He thought back to their first kiss and how surprised he was to find that tongue had no literal edge to go with the figurative sharpness. But the taller man's mouth was delightfully malleable then as now, lips currently yielding to John as he pulled back and traced them with the pad of his index finger.

"Much better." And with that, the long limbed detective rolled back over on his side and pulled the duvet up over his head.

"Are you seriously going back to sleep?" Sherlock's reply was less of a word and more of a grumble.

"Fine then. I shouldn't complain. You won't do it again for another week. I'm going to shower. Do you need the bathroom?" Another grumble, and no movement. John placed a quick kiss on the top of the lump that was Sherlock's buried head and rose, before grabbing some clothing from the closet and strolling off to their bathroom.

The heat of the shower worked life back into his muscles, and after a good scrubbing of both body and teeth John actually felt decent again. Rather than throwing on his robe, he dressed for going out in the clothing he had gathered from his closet; jeans, a light blue button down and a navy cardigan that Harry had gotten him for Christmas. It was likely that Sherlock would sleep through the rest of the day; one of the side effects of going so long without rest was that when his body finally did shut down it did so in 18 to 20 hour stretches. If anything interesting happened when he woke he'd be up for another 72 hours, only to repeat the cycle.

John winced to think about what the erratic schedule likely did to his detective's body, but there'd be no changing it. Sherlock was what he was. Infuriating but endearing in every way. But Sherlock being otherwise occupied gave John a chance to catch up on what the detective liked to refer to the "tedium of being ordinary". Shopping, bills, catching up with Harry... things that had been the fabric of his life before Baker street were now things he simply worked into the blank spaces not being occupied by his detective and The Work. It was too bad that today wasn't a clinic day; it would have been excellent to get through a shift without having to answer a thousand impatient texts from his bored companion.

Once out of the bathroom, the unmistakably acrid smell of cigarette smoke wafted up the stairs. Sherlock must be up already, then. Rolling his eyes in frustration, John descended the stairs and made his way into the kitchen.

"Sherlock. I've warned you about smoking, let alone in the flat," he announced as he turned the corner and entered the room. What greeted him had him reaching for a gun that he currently wasn't carrying. It wasn't Sherlock in the kitchen. The frame was wrong, too small. Once he realized who it was John's desire for his gun only slightly lessened.

England's (and likely the world's) most dangerous consulting criminal perched in one of the kitchen chairs, looking completely at home. Jim crouched in the chair, sitting on his heels while resting his arms on his knees. John observed him carefully, eyes raking over him half in appreciation and half to assess for hidden weapons. A surge of adrenaline rushed through the doctor's system, making him hyper aware of every sensation. The tick of the clock in the hallway. The smell of Jim's cigarette. The soft sound of the other man's breathing. The underlying hint of cologne and pheromones. Swimming in sensation, John could feel the lightest of flushes run up his neck. His collar felt too tight.

Jim's black suit jacket hung open, and John could see the tiny skull print across the chest of his gray button down shirt. There weren't any telltale bulges of guns or the familiar lines of a holster, and John allowed himself to relax just a hair. Strangely, the smaller man had removed his shoes and socks. Black eyes flashed as the brunette tilted his head and he gave John an almost-warm smile before quirking an impeccably manicured eyebrow and ashing on the tile floor.

"Oops!" he drawled, before taking another drag. "I can't break rules I don't know about, Doctor Watson. After all, despite our arrangement you've never asked me over. I'm positively wounded." Another flick of ash, and another inhale of smoke.

"Now I'm being bad. Maybe I'm hoping you'll scold me the way you scolded Sherlock last night." Dark eyes flashed, unreadable. Was that excitement, anger, lust? John simply crossed his arms in front of him and leaned against the door frame, giving the diminutive criminal his best stern gaze.

"Good Morning to you too, Jim. So, not in Prague I take it." In response, the criminal gave him another flashing smile and a little wave. John felt a familiar tightening in his gut as he watched the flutter of Jim's fingers.

"It occurred to me that I had better things to do in town." Something about the criminal's brogue made the sentence sound incredibly suggestive. That voice was fluid sexuality in its rawest form; there was no other way for him to describe it. The sound of his breathy lilt coursed through John's veins and sent suggestive pulses straight to his groin. Jim gave him a knowing smile and took another deep drag on his cigarette, blowing a cloud of blue smoke up at the ceiling. John grimaced. At least Sherlock had managed to dismantle all of the smoke detectors during the course of his last experiment.

"Put that out, would you?" The blonde doctor was pleased with the amount of force he was able to put into the words, when all he truly expected to come out was a pleading groan. Blue eyes focused on Moriarty's lips, and for a second John was lost, imagining their texture.

"Mmm... I think not. I really do want to see if last night's threat to turn me over your knee was an idle one," he purred. Spidery arms extended over his head as Jim stretched, sliding down into a more normal sitting position. Gazing up at John with a half smile on his face, he slouched a bit, letting his knees fall open some. His unoccupied hand fell to rest high up on his black clad thigh, fingers lightly tapping out a beat near the juncture of leg and groin. Slowly, he ran his tongue between his lips before bringing his cigarette up and taking another deep drag.

John swallowed noticeably. Amazingly, the dark haired criminal managed to be sex incarnate without being the slightest bit obscene. If Sherlock's charm rested in his casual disregard for his physical presence, Moriarty truly was the opposite; each carefully considered movement was fine tuned to drive home his intentions. It was easy to see how Sherlock became so enraptured with the man; his presence was unnerving and intoxicating all at once.

There was a palpable tension in the air as the two men stared at each other. It occurred to John that this was the first time he had been in a room with Moriarty since the start of their "agreement". For all the flirting, pictures, texts, and occasional phone sex, they hadn't actually touched since the pool. The feel of the criminal's body close to him flooded John's memory; he was acutely aware that when he had wrapped his arm around Jim's neck the smaller man had pushed back into him in the most suggestive way.

At the time he figured the move was simply meant to unnerve him, or Sherlock, or both. But now, as his steely blue eyes focused on Jim's long fingers brushing up against the inside of his own thigh, John began to wonder if that was really the case. His heart pounded faster as he remembered what Moriarty's forehead felt like pressed against his temple, what that pale throat felt like fitted into the crook of his elbow, the smell of the smaller man's cologne. Madmen have mad apatites. Noting the increase in his pulse and the slight flush in his cheeks Watson wondered if he wasn't the maddest of the three of them. Despite the Sherlock's impossible disposition and Moriarty's madness and murder he felt inexplicably drawn to them both.

The uninvited criminal in his kitchen continued to watch him with the same knowing expression that Sherlock often adopted when he "read" John. Something about the smugness of it made John want to pick up the smaller man, slam him down against the table and pin him there. To knock him down a few rungs, fill him with a temporary rush of helplessness as he crushed that lithe body beneath him. To kiss him roughly until those rosy lips were red and raw. To pull that neatly groomed dark hair until it was in total disarray, to steal the breath from him and withdraw once the criminal had given in to the sensation, making him ache for more. The thought of Jim writhing beneath him in helpless abandon pooled in John's abdomen like liquid fire. The need to make Moriarty beg tugged at his cock, making it hard to think.

Instead, John simply crossed the kitchen and snatched the cigarette out of Jim's hand as it moved back up to his tantalizing mouth. Offhandedly, the doctor flicked the butt into the sink and glared at the criminal. Best to start small. Just because Jim didn't have a gun on him didn't mean he wasn't armed. And for all that John suspected he knew the reason for the dark haired man being in the flat, he wasn't certain enough of the criminal's intentions to risk a knife in the gut. The unpredictability of the other man made his head swim; it felt almost like war again. The doctor's nerves thrummed as adrenaline soaked his brain, heightening each sensation and his general awareness.

"No smoking in the flat." Black eyes widened with rage, and Jim's expression transitioned from an amused grin to a feral snarl. Well shit. That was not quite the reaction he had hoped to produce. John quickly surveyed the area around him, seeking out anything that could be used as a weapon if the smaller man decided to attack.

"You fucking simpleton." Oh. Wait. He knew this one. The subtle mock indignation. The insult. It was exactly how Sherlock tested his limits. Funny how similar the two men were in intelligence and apatites. Well, Watson was practiced in how to manage an unruly genius. Oblivious to John's realization, Moriarty continued his rant. "If you ever so much as..."

Crack. The sound of John's open hand against the side of the criminal's face rang through the kitchen like a whip crack. It was a casual strike, not much force behind it. More to make a point than to hurt. But damn if it wasn't loud.

"I thought you wanted a little discipline, Jim." The ensuing silence lasted to an almost uncomfortable degree as the criminal stared at John, black eyes flat and unreadable. John held his ground, staring back into the black gaze with a heat of his own. Almost as if on a cue, a high pitched whistle pierced the quiet. Moriarty immediately burst into giggles.

"See, John? I'm not entirely without manners; I did put a kettle on." He stood up and waltzed over to the stovetop. Reaching up on tiptoes, stretching his body almost obscenely, the madman took teacups and saucers out from the cupboard. Dark eyes glanced back at the doctor over his shoulder. "Tea?"

"Two sugars, thanks. John, I see we have company." The blonde doctor nearly jumped out of his skin. He had been so focused on Moriarty that he hadn't noticed Sherlock arrive in the kitchen. His consulting detective filled the doorway, black hair elegantly mussed and dressed in nothing that John could see other than his navy dressing gown and a pair of well worn pyjama pants.

"I.. ah..." He stuttered, not quite sure how to proceed. There wasn't exactly a manual on etiquette for when your partner's criminally insane fuck buddy / nemesis broke into your kitchen. Introductions seemed right out. Thankfully, Jim glided over to the table with three cups on a tray, settling it on the table before sliding back into a chair.

"Well. It's about time. Good morning, sleepyhead!" he chirped, dark eyes glowing with lust as he raked them over Sherlock's form.

"I didn't know you were even capable of getting up before noon, Jim. And you're wearing your favorite McQueen. Special occasion?" If Sherlock was surprised at all by the scene in his kitchen his banal monotone did nothing to give it away. He strode in and settled himself on the last remaining chair, snatching a cup from the tray and sipping it fondly. The oddly domestic scene nearly made John choke on his own tea. Leave it to James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes to just act as if this was all a normal, everyday occurrence.

"Oh, unlike some people, I haven't slept yet," Jim quipped back, mischievous grin spreading across his fine boned face. "Slowing down, Sherlock?" The consulting detective humphed in response, devoting all his attention to his teacup as if it was the most interesting structure in the world. John leaned back and watched the two other men in rapt fascination. The energy that passed between the two geniuses made the air between them crackle. It was as if being around each other made both men shine just a bit brighter. Each word they spoke flared with passion; and John found himself unsurprisingly aroused by the display.

"Then again, I didn't get a terrific scolding from Doctor Watson last night. For all I know that'd put me right out too," the smaller man sang out in a sultry purr.

"Keep it up and you just might find out," Sherlock rumbled, arching one elegant eyebrow and assessing Moriarty's reaction. The criminal positively beamed in response.

"Threatening me on behalf of your paramore. Cute!" John was uncertain how someone could lean over a table suggestively, but Jim managed to ooze wantonness as he settled his forearms on the tabletop and leaned closer to Sherlock.

"Or would you like to see him try and take me?" His irish lilt had gone dark and low, voice a combination of whisper and growl that sent blood rushing to John's groin. Likely Sherlock's as well, if the slight coloring highlighting his cheekbones was any indication. Jim must have noticed, because in one serpentine motion he had exited his chair and wound himself around the tall detective's seated form. Pink lips pressed against the pale curve of Sherlock's ear, nearly hidden in dark curls, but it was John who gasped slightly at the sudden contact between the two men. Hypnotized by the scene unfolding, he took his breaths in shallow, rapid succession as he watched Jim press himself against Sherlock.

"Would that get under your skin, Detective? Do you want to watch me writhing against your dear doctor in your bed?" He kept his voice low, but still pitched so that John could hear. Each word sent a pang of lust through his abdomen, his groin tightening as he took in the scene in front of him. God. The sight of the world's only consulting criminal twined around the world's only consulting detective shouldn't have made his heart hammer and his blood sing. But for all it's wrongness, it most certainly did just that.

Sherlock, locked blue eyes with John for a moment, assessing his partner's state. He carefully noted the mere slivers of stormy blue iris still visible, the slight part of his lips, the speed and shallowness of his breaths. What he dutifully ignored was the brief stab of jealousy that surged through him. Good. It was good John was enjoying the show. He should pay it no mind that previously that lustful expression had been reserved solely for him. It didn't matter. This way there was no having to choose between his light and his shadow.

The lanky detective let his aquamarine eyes slide closed, giving in to the feel of Moriarty against him. It wasn't any different than any other time, he told himself. The sensations were the same, the distraction was the same. The overwhelming hunger was the same. Jim brought his well manicured hands up to Sherlock's throat, running his thumbs against either side of the taller man's windpipe before settling possessively around the base of his throat. Not too tight, but certainly enough to distract Sherlock from his momentary angst.

"Mmmhmmhmmm." The noise the criminal made was half chuckle, half lewd moan. "I can feel you getting hard just thinking about it, Sherly." Jim thrust himself against Sherlock's lap as if to emphasize his point.

"I bet you'd just love to touch yourself as you watched the good doctor here work me up into that carefully cultivated state of carnal desperation that drives you mad. All the while knowing exactly what it feels like, imagining me feeling it at his hands." Jim continued his rousing undulation against the taller man's lap as he spoke, smiling darkly at each twitch of the detective's growing erection. After a few more punctuated thrusts he swung himself easily off Sherlock's lap, looking down to admire his work.

Sherlock with bed head was always a delicious sight. Ordinarily he was so well put together, there was something indefinably alluring about seeing the man in a disheveled state. But Sherlock with bed head and tented pyjamas was even better. Mussed and aroused; Jim's favorite combination. His robe had come undone thanks to the smaller man's writhing, exposing the detective's leanly muscled chest. Leaning over, the dark haired criminal licked a line up from one curving, pale collar bone to the hollow between Sherlock's ear and jaw. He nipped at the sensitive skin there, pulling back with a smile as the detective hissed and threw his head back, allowing better exposure to his sensitive throat.

Instead of taking the invitation to pillage, Jim spun around to face doctor across the table. John was certainly enjoying the show; the criminal noted that his stormy eyes were fixed directly on Sherlock; his lips parted hungrily, strain beginning to show around the groin of his dark jeans. It was good to see the soldier at attention. But that attention could be better directed elsewhere.

As the detective moaned in protest at Jim's lack of contact and raised his head, the criminal strode around the table, light footsteps bringing him to rest behind John's chair. He wound his long arms around the blonde's strong torso, leaning over and nuzzling into the crook of his neck and shoulder. He lifted his dark eyes and gave Sherlock a challenging gaze as he ran his fingers through short blonde hair, then down John's chest. The detective's neck and cheeks took on the familiar flush of arousal as Moriarty began toying with the buttons on his doctor's cardigan.

"Whatdaya think, Johnny? Should we give our dear detective a show?" As he purred the words, he let his lips brush against the exposed skin just above John's collar. The slightest of moans escaped the doctor's lips as Moriarty's hands continued to travel over his be-cardiganed chest.

Two layers of fabric did nothing to dissipate the heat rolling off the seated doctor, and Jim allowed himself a small, self satisfied smile. If he ever needed proof that he was even better at sex than he was crime, this was it. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Both men he had threatened to kill, both men who tried to hunt him down and arrest him now sat spellbound; a testament to what Seb would call his "devilish charms", enhanced by the pair's well documented addiction to danger.

"You know, I've spent an awful lot of time thinking about you, doctor," he lilted. He brought lithe fingers up to the collar of John's shirt and started delicately working the buttons free. "I keep remembering what you felt like, pressed against me at the pool." He felt John's muscles tense at the mention of their rather unsexy, explosive laden first meeting. In response, Jim placed a series of small, sensual kisses on the doctor's jaw to soothe him.

"It's quite a feat to be so very attractive, even when strapped into that much semtex. But the way you took control sent shivers down my spine, John darrrrling." Once he had the first several buttons undone he slid his hands down the inside of the doctor's shirt, letting his smooth fingertips play against the ridges and plains of John's chest. The blonde curved his spine and pushed ever so slightly into Jim's touch. Slight wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. Jim wanted the good doctor to abandon control, wanted to make him so wild that he'd do things to Jim he had never even considered doing to his dear Sherlock. Somewhere inside that chiseled chest beat a monster's heart, and Moriarty wanted to unlock its cage and let the beast roam free.

"So what do you think? Care for a repeat? Maybe we'll actually get that explosion I was so looking forward to." Jim ran his willowy fingers back up, giving one of John's nipples an experimental tweak as he pulled his hands out of the doctor's shirt. That seemed to break down the restraints that kept John from unleashing his carnality.

The stocky blond stood up quickly, pushing the chair he had been seated it out of the way and grabbed Jim by his rather expensive lapels, pulling him closer. One strong hand came up between them, and John captured the underside of the criminal's chin between the webbing of his thumb and forefinger. He used his leverage to tilt the criminal's head back, forcing Moriarty up on his toes and into a kiss. The doctor tasted of tea and the slightest hints of mint toothpaste, and Jim drank in the sensation. For all his fevered imaginings of what John would feel like, reality was so much better.

John's tongue swept through the criminal's mouth, bold and firm. Had his lips not been otherwise occupied, Jim would have laughed. So forceful for such a gentle-seeming soul! The mastermind couldn't deny that the thought of what it might take to put the good doctor in a submissive position excited him. But for now, as the slightly taller man crushed their mouths together, he happily let John take the lead in hope of tempting out his inner brute. Well, mostly. Jim did make the other man fight for control of the kiss, pushing the doctor's advances back with his tongue and teeth. No sense in having the man feel like he hadn't earned it.

As a counter to Jim's move, John let go of his throat and wound his hand in the dark hair at the nape of the criminal's neck. The feeling was entirely different than when Sebastian did it. The sniper grasped his hair with hard, fast yanks meant to shock the system with lances of exquisite pain. These were strong, commanding tugs; forcefully but gently arching him back into a more vulnerable position. Before his quicksilver mind could quite grasp what was happening, the doctor had hooked his other arm around the criminal's narrow waist. Solid arms held Jim as John pushed him backwards slowly, until he no longer supported his own weight but instead was helplessly leaning back, suspended in the doctor's hold.

One broad palm pushed against the small of Jim's back, fingers splayed as the larger man used his leverage to force the criminal up into his embrace. The sudden rush of unsteadiness and lack of control stole the breath from him, and Jim's heart skipped a beat as his hands moved up to grasp desperately at John's biceps for some measure of equilibrium.

The stocky man merely tilted him back further, tongue still tangled in the criminal's mouth. A vague wave of dizziness washed over the dark haired man; some combination of breathlessness, imbalance, and the downward rush of his blood conspired to make him unnervingly pliant in the good doctor's arms. It was almost enough to send the smaller man into a panic. But a scant second before he started to fight the embrace John pulled him upright again, loosening his firm hold Jim's mouth as he pulled the smaller man to his feet.

Capable hands steadied the slender criminal as he rocked slightly, rediscovering his balance as his mind reeled. Damn. Well, it was certainly obvious why Sherly kept the man around. For all his commonplace habits and simple ways, Watson certainly did possess at least a few worthwhile talents.

A rumbling groan from across the table gathered both men's attentions as they separated. Sherlock laid back in the kitchen chair, robe flowing from his shoulders in navy waves as one hand worked rhymithly in his pyjama pants. Aquamarine eyes regarded both Jim and John with unabashed lust as the detective bucked up into his own grasp.

"Please," he gasped, tightening his fingers and increasing his tempo. "Don't stop on my account." Glancing up at John, Jim shrugged and smiled before reaching his hand up to the side of the doctor's face to pull him in for another kiss. John obliged, but instead of winding his arms around the criminal he brought them up to the other man's thin neck, fingers undoing the knot in his silk tie with a deftness Moriarty hadn't expected.

Once the tie was loosened, he pulled it free from collar of the criminal's shirt with a satisfying swish before breaking off the embrace with a wink, taking his prize and stalking over to Sherlock. Wordlessly, he looped the tie between both his hands and slipped the taut length behind the detective's neck, using the ligature as leverage to pull the taller man up into a kiss. Jim instantly saw the appeal of being the observer; the sight of Sherlock curving his body enticingly towards John with one hand still working between his long legs sent electric shivers down the criminal's spine.

John released the detective, who moaned and leveled the shorter man with a desperate, wanton gaze. The doctor merely put his hands on the insides of both Sherlock's elbows, pushing them back. Violinist's fingers released his throbbing member, and he gave a deep, ragged sigh as John pushed his arms behind his back.

The doctor gave his detective a quick peck on the nose before he circled around his seated form. With a practiced quickness, John twined the tie around Sherlock's angular wrists, securing them to the back of the chair. Jim regarded the two men with wide eyes and a slight tilt of his head. When John rose, it was easy for him to read the unspoken question on the criminal's mind.

"It did need to be done. You know how he is. Once he starts he can't help himself." Sherlock merely sighed and settled into his chair with as much stoicism as he could muster, given the ache in his woefully unattended cock. Jim sauntered over, circling the chair and nodding approvingly at John's work. When he had completed his circuit he leaned down, placing his face mere millimeters away from Sherlock's. He slid a refined hand over the outline of Sherlock's erection, causing the bound man to gasp and shudder. Jim continued to taunt the dark haired man with feather light teasing touches along his length as he leaned in and whispered against the other man's lips.

"Sherlock Holmes. All tied up and nowhere to go. Do you think you'll still be able to savor the presentation we're about to put on for you, Detective?"

"Oh GOD yes." The lanky detective's dulcet baritone was heavy with need. As he started to angle his hips to press himself up into Moriarty's hand the criminal withdrew. A few dancing steps carried his lithe form over to Watson. The lean criminal dropped to his knees as his fingers began to work at the doctor's fly. Cobalt eyes widened some in surprise, but the blonde offered no resistance. Instead, he ran one strong hand affectionately down the side of Moriarty's face, who leaned into the touch like a cat in heat. Wicked pink lips placed a kiss on the center of the doctor's retreating palm before he turned his head back to their captive detective, black eyes boring into Sherlock's electric blue with barely restrained hunger.

"Good boy," he murmured. "Enjoy the show, dear." Fluttering long, dark lashes, he turned his gaze up to John. "Enough with the games. Enough with the foreplay and the phone sex and the innuendos. Hurry up and FUCK ME ALREADY, Doctor." White hands flashed as he expertly freed John's thick length from his jeans, giving it a few firm pumps before positioning his mouth just above the crown. His tongue darted out from between his lips, caressing the tip to gather up the bead of precum that had gathered there. Theatrically rolling his head back and moaning in pleasure, he shot Sherlock a final smug gaze before exclaiming,

"Let the games begin!"

Aaaaaand. The longest chapter yet with no actual smexy smex, 'cept the MorMor at the beginning. I finished writing and I was all like "hey, who tried to put plot in my porn?" No me gusta. That was not intentional, I swear. Next chapter will be nothing but smuttiness, I promise.

Lurvs,

Mazi