He realized he wasn't feeling the cold that was actually in the air, he could have easily have gone out without his coat, his heart had suffered a big shot of adrenaline as soon as he got that text.
He didn't know why exactly, maybe because he didn't like Sherlock enjoying drugs rather than him. Or maybe he was just worried.
That last thought made him chuckle a little as he was driving his car to his most favorite less fancy flat in London.
Besides this could be a good way to restart the communication with each other.
He spent the short ride to 221 making up excuses of why he was actually going there, other than "worry" itself. He couldn't admit that just yet. Even when he could hear his own heart beating uncontrollably.
Jim parked on a quiet and dark street near the flat and walked from there.
Opening the front door was never a concern for him and to be honest he was a little surprised he never changed the lock, considering his past break-ins. Maybe he knew it was pointless when it came to the criminal, he wanted to smile but he was too nervous for that.
As soon as he got in the lobby he decided to calm down, being seen in that pathetic mess by Sherlock was unacceptable. Though Sherlock might not even be in a condition to observe his own shoes, but still, principles are principles.
He slowly and quietly walked up the stairs, it was a habit of him to do so, being subtle and cautious was the most important thing of his job and even personal life.
Opening the door of the flat was so easy that he found it a little offensive.
The flat was gloomy and chaotic. The only light in the room came from a little lamp near the sofa.
Nothing got his attention more than the figure that lay on that sofa, the detective's eyes were almost completely closed, he seemed to be passed out.
He stayed there in front of him for a couple of minutes, and relaxed a bit when he noticed the ups and downs of his chest.
Jim kept watching him silently, he looked beautiful even in that junkie mess he was at the moment. That was a sick thought, but oh well, he was going to hell.
He didn't actually think Sherlock would do this because of him, but still he felt responsible, for that and for ignoring the only person in his world that was worth everything.
"I'm sorry"
The words felt new in his mouth, it was probably the first time he had ever said them, at least honestly.
Consciousness was coming back again and as strong as ever, he knew that as soon as he opened his eyes he would feel sick and hurt. So he tried to postpone it a little more.
He was doing so until the memories of that night came with a rush into his head and he violently opened his eyes and with it came the annoying physical pain.
Moriarty?
Jim has been in there? He dismissed the idea immediately. Although little by little the memories became very realistic, to a point he sat up and observed the room.
Nobody was in there. That never happened, he convinced himself. Feeling what he felt for the criminal was enough, but seeing him? That was too much.
Standing up was a nightmare, his back was killing him. He went to check for the window, since it was as dark as before he fell asleep.
It was still very dark, must have been 2 or 3 AM.
He walked to his room deciding to get some sleep on a proper bed. When he entered he stayed still, clearly shocked.
James Moriarty was lying on his bed with a shirt –his coat was on a chair- and with his stupidly expensive shoes off. His arms on the back of his head and he appeared to be asleep.
Only appeared because a few seconds after Sherlock put a foot on his bedroom, the criminal opened his eyes and stared at him as if not really aware of that completely bizarre situation.
"Hello sexy, didn't expect you to wake up so soon" he said hoarsely as he rolled over to his side to observe him better.
Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but his mind was out of function.
"Don't tell me you're still thinking I'm not here" the criminal added to the awkward silence a little annoyed. "How are you feeling?"
Sherlock cleared his throat.
"I'm ahm, fine, good" he replied as much serious as he could get. Which wasn't enough.
"What a custom of you, never asking for invitations" he added recovering his confidence once again.
"There's no surprise in invitations, and you know I love surprises"
"So, you either are the least opportune for visits or you came for the obvious reason" he asked, not really expecting an answer.
"A little bit of both" he replied quickly. "You should rest, come" he added pointing to the other side of the bed not occupied by him.
Sherlock panicked for a second, the idea of being in the same bed as Moriarty did things to him.
"I won't bite Sherlock" he said and smirked playfully.
The detective tried very hard to hide the blushing on his cheeks as he slowly walked to the bed, took off his shoes and lay down.
He felt the criminal's stare entirely on him and suddenly became very aware of how interesting the stains on the ceiling were.
"You said you were sorry" he instantly remembered and it also came with the memory of Jim touching his hair and wished he could hide the elevated pulse on his neck.
"Yes"
"Why?"
"Do I have to say it?"
"So you did it on purpose, the 'Silent Treatment' " He said ironically and slightly pissed.
"I have the weirdest ways of having fun"
"Then why are you here?" he turned his head to look at him in the eye. It didn't make sense, he didn't care enough about him to speak to him but he did care to come here and doing… whatever it is he was doing.
Moriarty held his gaze and he was not playful anymore.
"Because I want to"
It was happening again, like in the pool, the black eyes were drowning him and that's why he flinched alarmed at the touch of Jim's fingers on the recent bruise on his arm, the left sleeve was still up, and the mark was available for the other to see and touch.
His fingers were cold and they felt comfortable on the warm bruise.
"It's a crime to humanity to numb your mind like that" Moriarty said pointing with his eyes to Sherlock's arm.
"Says the biggest criminal in England"
"Only England? Uhm I expected more…" he exclaimed acting offended.
Sherlock chuckled amused and so did Jim. The detective unconsciously placed his hand into the one Jim had on the bruise.
The dark eyes were absorbing him once again, he only realized he was so close from him when he could feel the other's breathings.
"This is crazy" the detective said in a murmur.
"Would we be here if it weren't?" the criminal whispered, looking at Sherlock's lips desperately.
Jim freed his hand from Sherlock's to place it in his neck as he finally reached for his lips.
It was so good, so intense that it hurt, it felt toxic, like it would kill them both in any minute, but it didn't matter.
The strong feeling made him dizzy with desire and he just got drowned in it, he placed his hand on Jim's hair, getting hold of it trying to keep him as near as possible, a futile try to not let him go away.
If there was a tiny place in their minds that still thought they didn't feel this way about each other, it disappeared for good in that moment.
They kissed for what seemed like a long time, their breathings were very irregular now, so, slowly they separated to catch for air.
"You really should rest Sherlock" Moriarty said breathlessly with glassy eyes.
The detective nodded, a bit disappointed that it finished but at the same time he was extremely exhausted and before he knew it he fell asleep with his hand still on the back of Jim's head.
Just to make sure he wouldn't go away.
