It took Sherlock forever to realise that Jim had fallen asleep.

He pulled away gently, cheeks still wet with his crocodile tears. The criminal's breathing was deep and regular, eyes closed shut. He looked young, untroubled, innocent; the creases of fear and worry on his face had smoothed out. He lay limply in the armchair, the armrest pressed against his back. The position must have been uncomfortable, but Sherlock guessed Jim had been too worn out by the crying to mind.

He felt another pang of shame.

I can't believe what I've done…

He stood up, briefly stretching out the muscles which had been curled around Moriarty's hunched figure. At a loss, he flitted through his options. One thing was clear: I can't just leave him here.

A deep, shuddering breath.

He needs rest. I made him suffer; he needs rest…

Heart hammering, he leaned over and – after more than just a moment's hesitation – softly snaked an arm behind Jim's back, placing the other beneath his knees. After checking Moriarty's breathing patterns remained unchanged, he slowly lifted him out of the chair.

Jim's sleeping face lolled to the side. He stirred a little, fingers twitching, but – mercifully – didn't wake.

Sherlock took several quick, shallow breaths, struggling feebly with the man's dead weight. Jim wasn't too heavy; it was surely enough for him to handle. This is the least I can do for him.

With uncertain, laborious steps, he began to carry Jim towards the bedroom, trying as hard as he could to make the transition gentle and without any sudden jolts. Every few seconds, he glanced down at his load, hardly believing what he was doing.

What am I doing? I've made a mistake. This will only make everything worse…

Streaks remained on Jim's gorgeous face from the tears he'd spilled. Looking at them hurt – which is why Sherlock forced himself to do just that, constantly reminding himself of the devastating crime he'd been about to commit.

He shifted uncomfortably to nudge the door open with his shoulder.

A square of light fell from the doorway upon his disorganised bed, sheets strewn everywhere. Dragging his feet through the gloom, he strengthened his hold on Moriarty's body before delicately lowering his opponent onto the soft mattress. After a pause, he tentatively extricated his arms from beneath him. Jim's eyes remained closed, his breathing steady.

Sherlock allowed himself a deep breath. There. I made it.

A sudden weariness and exhaustion rushed through him. He collapsed onto the edge of the bed, his eyes filled with Jim's form stretched out before him, somehow blissfully containing the turmoil within the criminal's mind.

His eyelids were heavy from his own crying; he rubbed at them, blinking hard. Don't fall asleep, he chastised himself. You don't deserve it.

One of Jim's legs stretched out as he subconsciously sunk deeper among the sheets, his bare foot brushing against Sherlock's thigh. The detective felt a jolt where it had touched him – but that was quickly smothered by the pure, throbbing guilt rising within him again.

I'm a monster. I'm no better than the rest of them.

That sickening rush he'd felt, that rage…

For the thousandth time, he mouthed his plea, face contorted in desperation –

Forgive me, Jim.

A sudden thought occurred to him. It was stupid, pathetic, and entirely futile – but now, he was beyond caring about all that.

He brought his shaking hands together and, for the first – and, probably, the last – time in his life, he looked up towards the heavens.

Religion is irrational. God was nothing more than a fantastical myth created by ignorant human beings as an excuse to divert blame from themselves and give them a false sense of control over their futures.

And yet – just this once – he allowed himself the benefit of the doubt.

God, I… I know I've never believed in you. And I still don't. He struggled to direct his thoughts towards the whimsical deity; this seemed pathetic, even to him, but… But if – by some bizarre, insane, impossible chance – you really are up there…

He swallowed hard, closing his eyes tight.

Do one thing for me, he silently begged – not caring who he was talking to anymore. Just one thing.

Reopening them, he glanced once more at Jim's sleeping figure in the dim light.

A shudder ran through him. The mere thought of his former blind rage filled him with horror. Moriarty's screams echoed through his mind – Stop it! Please STOP IT!

He squeezed his clasped, intertwining hands until his knuckles were white. His eyes snapped back closed.

Feverishly, he ended his frantic plea.

Please, whatever it takes, just let him forgive me. Don't let it end like this.

Let him forgive me…

"Sherlock."

The voice was soft and mild. Sherlock stirred a little, and then – with a jolt – his eyes shocked open.

It took him a moment to realise he was lying on the edge of the bed. He cursed himself. I must have fallen asleep…

His eyes flickered over to the voice's source – and he immediately jerked upright.

Jim's awake.

Moriarty sat cross-legged on the mattress before him, watching him; his face was unreadable. Sherlock's heart began to stutter.

This is it, he thought apprehensively, panic threatening to overcome him. This is where he either forgives, or forgets me.

His throat was a desert; he swallowed, but his voice remained hoarse. "Jim."

Their eyes met. Silence fell.

Sherlock felt the constant fear and guilt would tear his mind apart. "Jim, I'm sorry," he breathed, for the millionth time. "I'm so, so sorry. Say something."

The criminal took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. The waiting was killing Sherlock.

"Please, Jim." He sat up straighter, shifting his weight so he was kneeling facing Moriarty. "I can't believe what I almost did. I'll never… I…" He hung his head in shame. "I'll never, ever hurt you like that again. Ever."

"I know," Jim stated simply.

Sherlock raised his head sharply, pulse spiking. A tiny spark of hope lit up within him.

Jim reached out and placed a hand on his enemy's shoulder. Sherlock seemed to melt beneath his touch, visibly relaxing, an expression of both pain and anticipation flitting across his face.

Using the hand to pull him slightly closer, Jim leaned over and placed a kiss on Sherlock's lips.

It was fleeting, their lips only touching for the slightest second, but it was enough.

Immeasurable relief and joy crashed through Sherlock.

He's forgiven me.

Jim pressed their foreheads together, closing his eyes. Sherlock could feel his breath mingling with his own. It thrilled him. He's forgiven me – thank god! He's forgiven me…

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Moriarty murmured, his hand sliding upwards from the detective's shoulder to tenderly grasp his neck, just beneath his jawline. "I overreacted…"

"No," Sherlock whispered fiercely back. "Don't apologise. It's my fault. It was all my fault."

"You couldn't have known." Jim broke away a little, opening his eyes to meet Sherlock's again. They were full of tender compassion.

"Known what?" Sherlock asked timidly. His heart still raced with the relief and disbelief. He's giving me another chance I don't even deserve.

Jim turned his head a little to the side, his expression growing grim. Sherlock felt a stab of fear. Oh no. Have I done things wrong again?

"The thing is, Sherlock…" Jim sighed heavily, stalling. A slightly haunted look had crept into his dark eyes. He paused for the longest time, trying to put things into words; Sherlock leaned forwards attentively.

"You deserve to know," Moriarty decided at last, more to himself than to his opponent. Before he began, however, he flashed Sherlock a fearful glance. "But promise this won't change anything."

"Promise," Sherlock told him firmly, and waited.

Jim sighed again, running a hand through his messy bedhead. "I've been raped," he confessed bluntly.

Sherlock's eyes widened, his mouth forming an O of surprise.

His vocal chords automatically kicked in, warbling. "I'm – I'm so sorry–"

"Don't be," Jim cut him off. His voice was slack and deadened. "Let's say I… I didn't come from a… conventional family. We were never poor, but my father was…" He faltered a little, but forced himself to keep on going. "He was… an alcoholic. I was his youngest son."

"Your father," Sherlock gasped. Although he'd long suspected abuse in Jim's childhood, he couldn't begin to imagine how… horrifying that must have been.

Jim shrugged it away. "It was… once a month, perhaps twice. He wasn't home much."

Once a month?! "A-and for how long did this go on?"

Moriarty averted his gaze. Quietly, he revealed, "About nine years…"

"Nine years?!" Sherlock's voice rose in shock, but he quickly dimmed it down, aware of the criminal's distress. He couldn't fathom it. Raped for nine years. Jesus fucking Christ…

"I was young!" Jim added with a hint of desperation. "I was only seven, I didn't really… know what was going on."

Sherlock shook his head in sheer horror, his mind still struggling to process the information. A sick rage formed within him, towards the monster who could have done this to their own child. "Oh my god, Jim, I… I really am sorry."

"You couldn't have known!" Jim reassured him. "And I'm… I'm over it. Really." A small, half-hearted smile. "I've fucked Seb enough times for that."

Sherlock offered a mandatory, empty smile in return, but his guilt had simply intensified. "But I… what I did, did I…" He trailed off with a grimace.

"…Bring it all back?" Jim glanced down and away, shyly. "A… a little bit, yes."

Oh god no. "I'm so sorry–"

"I know you are, Sherlock." Jim met his gaze, which now brimmed with tears. "And that's why I forgive you."

Sherlock let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "…Really?"

"Of course." The hand on his neck squeezed lightly. "He never was. Sorry, I mean. You're nothing like him, and I know you didn't mean it. It was me – I go panicky when I get the flashbacks, I overreacted. So I forgive you." Before Sherlock could stammer out thanks, Moriarty's voice dipped a little lower. "And besides… I'd only resisted in the first place because… well." He shook his head slightly, with a sad little smile. "Because I didn't want you to regret anything."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock placed a hand onto the criminal's, rubbing his fingers over their slightly rougher surface.

"You're a virgin, Sherlock." Jim pointed out gently. "And that's important. That's something you shouldn't ever have ripped away from you. Not until it really matters."

Sherlock swallowed. "Why didn't you think it mattered?"

"You were so angry." Moriarty sighed deeply. "Even the kissing – it was all just to get back at me, wasn't it?"

It was more than that. But the detective couldn't deny that Jim was still partly right. He remained silent.

"Your objective was to shock me and be powerful for once." Jim pursed his lips. "That's never a good reason to throw that innocence away, and you would've regretted it when it was too late."

Sherlock watched him in the semi-darkness, his eyes following the curves of his toned figure; the man's touch on his neck felt electric. He lowered his own voice. "And what would be a… good reason?"

"Attraction. Lust. Mutual desire," Moriarty responded immediately.

Sherlock's gaze flickered to the man's plump, parted lips. He felt an odd rush in his ears, a thrill in the beating of his heart; a bizarre recklessness pumped through his veins. Attraction… desire…

He lifted his hands and, with incredible delicacy, positioned them on the criminal's jaw. Their eyes met. Sherlock steadied his breaths – he was nervous. Really nervous.

"Like this, then?" he whispered.

He brought his face closer and closer to Jim's until, finally, their lips actually met, light as feathers against each other before Sherlock gently began to increase pressure on them. He let Moriarty's mouth open on its own terms, letting his tongue dance lightly on the man's lower lip before carefully trailing in. With the utmost care, he slowly massaged his tongue against Jim's, letting the kiss stretch out long and tender. His eyes drifted closed; now, there was none of the heat, anger or desperation he had been surging with before – just the sweet, loving feeling of their mouths against one another. And as the sweet moments passed, Sherlock found a different kind of warmth filled him; a soft, satisfying warmth curling around his mind and heart, leading to a plethora of different sensations altogether.

And as he absorbed everything in, he thought to himself – I really do want this.

Eventually, they broke apart, eyes reopening to gaze into each other in an almost breathless wonder.

"Like that," Jim replied at last.

Sherlock kissed him again the same way, this time easing him down onto the mattress so that the detective was sitting on top of his stomach. Sherlock never shifted too much of his weight onto Jim, careful not to be forceful or in any way commanding – but in the end it didn't really matter. Moriarty stretched his arms around his back and enveloped him into a hug, pressing Sherlock's head to his chest; they huddled together, bodies pressed tightly against each other. Sherlock heard his opponent's heart beating fast and loud.

"Jim…" he murmured.

Jim placed a hand onto his curls, ruffling them slightly. His voice was husky. "…Sherlock?"

The detective closed his eyes. "Attraction," he repeated, dully.

Moriarty laughed softly, his hand caressing Sherlock's shoulder. "Yes," was all he said.

Another silence fell, filled with the rise and fall of Jim's chest beneath Sherlock.

"Jim… I want this," Sherlock finally confessed.

The caressing stopped. Sherlock struggled to lift himself up onto his shoulders so that their eyes could meet.

"I do," he insisted before the criminal could argue. "And it's not… anger. And it's not power."

"That doesn't mean you should, Sherlock." Jim's eyes were filled with uncertainty. "You have to wait for the right reason. For when it really matters."

Sherlock leaned over and kissed him again, briefly. He was undeniably aroused – they both were. But that had never mattered before. Now, for the first time, he felt certain of what he wanted – and wasn't afraid.

"And now, I think…" Sherlock ran his fingers lightly over Jim's cheek. "It really does matter."