After having gazed upon the sky outside after exiting the restaurant, Sherlock and Moriarty decided to get a cab back to Baker Street. They sat together in the back quietly, content on not talking and instead exchanging glances every so often. Once the cab had arrived at its intended destination – which, Jim thought, could have been made shorter if they had just taken that diversion – they got out of the back and Sherlock wordlessly gave the driver a twenty pound note before the doors were slammed shut and it was on its way.

Jim watched as the detective dug his key from his pocket and placed it in the lock before turning it and granting them access to the warmth that the inside of the house bestowed upon them, contrasting with the chilling cold from outside. 'I assume you plan on staying the night again?' he was asked.

'I find here to be so much more accommodating than my own little lodgings,' Jim replied, watching as Sherlock began to ascend the staircase to the rooms above. He followed suit, aged stairs creaking in protest under his feet as he moved.

'When will John be back?' he asked conversationally.

'Oh, sometime soon, I expect,' Sherlock replied as he entered the living room and began to disrobe his outer layers, taking off his scarf and coat. Jim surprised him then, by taking hold of his arm and swirling his around so they were facing, before pulling him a little bit closer and placing one hand on his waist. The other hand he moved so that he and Sherlock were palm to palm, the look of bewilderment on the detective's face making him chuckle to himself quietly.

'What?' came the question, sounding so simple-minded coming from such a smart man, because surely Jim had displayed all the needed signs for him to figure out what he wanted. What Jim wanted to do.

'Dance with me,' he whispered. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at the request but said nothing, relaxing instead into the touch, and Jim took that as consent to begin walking them around slowly in circles whilst a silent symphony played on around them. He led them around the apartment, through the kitchen and the hallway and the bathroom and the bedroom, spinning in small, tight circles with precise footing, sometimes toying with the danger of falling, tripping over an inconveniently placed chair or some other misplaced object. The danger, although small, sent small shivers up their spines, and millions of messages were conveyed through their actions that words would never fully enunciate.

They moved back into the living room again, careful to avoid tripping over the furniture, or the books that lay strewn around in organised disorder. Jim increased the speed, but Sherlock kept up, and they twirled around until both felt light in the head and they collapsed in a heap on the nearest piece of furniture, which happened to be the couch.

'What are we doing?' Sherlock asked inquisitively.

'Dancing.'

'Why?'

'Why not?' Jim shrugged as he sat up and made his vision focus on the pronounced features of the other man with him. 'Not everything requires an ulterior motive, my dear.'

'I suppose you're right,' Sherlock said, shifting so their legs were brushing together. 'But then, I supposed it was different for you.'

'It's different for both of us,' replied Jim. 'We're anomalies, Sherlock. We're meant for each other,' he said quietly, remembering some of the first words he had said to the detective, even though technically, it wasn't him saying it but someone he had strapped a bomb to and made read from a pager. But that was insignificant. He reached out tentatively to trace his finger gently over Sherlock's highly defined cheekbones before pulling back.

'We should dance again. I need practice for John and Mary's wedding.'

'The wedding,' Jim said, eyes fixed on his hands, which were now clasped on his lap.

'You should come,' Sherlock said abruptly. 'Even if only for one dance.'

'Maybe,' he shrugged. 'If Johnny-boy is willing to let it happen, then I could perhaps pop in.'

'I can arrange it with him,' Sherlock said. He moved even closer, until there was nothing separating them but the clothes upon their bodies, and pressed their lips together.

Jim never got tired of tasting the detective on his tongue, and accepted the kiss willingly, letting Sherlock have the control, even though they both knew it was him who was calling the shots. He was just trying to behave. For now.

The door slammed open, but neither of them pulled apart.

'Oh, bloody hell,' said John Watson. 'What's going on?'