Okay, this chapter is VERY VERY VERY intense. If you don't like intensity, don't read this. Seriously. It definitely deserves its M rating. You might not all like what happens, but, the damage is done. It's the biggest cliffhanger I've ever done lol. And if anyone wonders, no, it's not a dream. At first I thought that Jim seemed out of character in this chapter, but I guess he's really not. Sure, he's not acting like the sweet, carefree man that he was in the earlier chapters, but now he's just being evil, maniacal, psychotic Moriarty. This chapter is full of angst, just so you know!

Forget about tomorrow night.

Jim slammed his phone down on his dresser before turning around and throwing himself onto his bed. He really was being too kind. But why?

Because you killed his brother.

Yes…but why does that matter? I've killed thousands of people, whether by my own hand or by someone else's, and I've never blinked an eye about it. I like it. What makes this different?

Because you killed his brother. Not just anyone's. His.

Jim smirked. "Sherlock, darling, you must be so pissed right now." He laughed as a sudden, filthy thought entered his mind. "I wonder if you're an even better fuck when you're angry. I would love to find out. But, alas, not today." Jim rolled out of bed and pulled his hat snug onto his head. He went over to the door and pulled it open to find Moran standing right outside, his fist raised in preparation to knock.

"Hey," Moran said, looking Jim up and down. "You're wearing that?"

Jim crossed his arms and glared at the man. "Problem?"

"I'll say!" Moran said, smirking. "You look like a bloody teenager! Now come on, hurry up and get dressed. They won't be happy if they have to wait much longer."

"And since when have I given a damn about that, Moran ?"

Moran, frowning, crossed his arms sternly. "What the hell's the matter with you? Ever since the ordeal with Mycroft Holmes you've been bitchier than normal. Why is that, I wonder?"

Jim shook his head as his eyes narrowed menacingly. "Don't."

Moran ignored his warning. "I think you feel guilty. I never thought I'd see the day that you felt bad about killing somebody. Of course-"

"I'm warning you. Don't."

"-there is the little fact that you seem to be falling more and more for Sherlock Holmes with each passing day. I suppose it would make sense that you take away his closest-"

Moran didn't get a chance to finish his sentence. Jim felt around the waistband of his jeans and pulled out his revolver. He gripped it firmly and struck Moran across the face with as much force as he could muster. Moran stumbled back from the impact. As soon as he regained his footing, he reached up and clenched his nose, moaning. "Jesus, Jim! What the hell-"

Jim, again, didn't let him finish. He dropped his gun and grabbed Moran's collar, shoving him against the wall roughly. "Don't you ever talk to me like that again. It seems you've forgotten your place. I suggest you remember it soon, or I'll be forced to remind you. Now get out of my sight."

Moran didn't need to be told twice; as soon as Jim released him, he scrambled out of the room, both hands clutching at his face. Jim waited a few seconds, then he, too, left the room.

You're not mad because he said that, he told himself. You're made because you think he might be right.

No. He's not right. I'm not falling in love with Sherlock Holmes; that's ridiculous. It's a fascination, that's all. The man intrigues me.

Call it whatever you want, it's all really the same. You can't stop thinking about him. You nearly threw up when you saw him about to kiss John this morning. All signs point to complete and utter infatuation.

/break\

Moran, to Jim's delight, pulled him aside during the conference. Moran was no fool; he would never interrupt Jim unless it was something of incredible urgency. Jim had tried to pay attention to what his department heads and associates were briefing on, but he just hadn't been able to. His mind had been on one thing and one thing only-Sherlock Holmes.

"What is it?" Jim asked when they were standing side-by-side facing into the corner of the room. "It'd better be good."

He felt a slight pang of guilt when he looked at Moran's face; the man's nose was bandaged, and there was a dark red impression from where the gun had ripped across the flesh. No doubt, it would soon turn into a hideous bruise.

"You've got problems," Moran whispered hurriedly. "Mycroft Holmes isn't dead. He's at St. Thomas, expected to make a full recovery."

Jim felt as if a huge weight was lifted from his shoulders, and he sighed. "He won't expose me," he assured Moran. "He'll ask Sherlock about me, and Sherlock will explain the situation and tell him that the only way I can be stopped is through him. Don't worry about that. What else?"

Moran licked his lips nervously and looked at his feet. Jim cleared his throat. "Well?"

"I, um…I don't know how to tell you this." Moran looked up and locked eyes with Jim. "I was watching the tapes, from after you left his flat. He, uh…he…he told Watson that he was in love with him."

Jim's stomach clenched, and, for a moment, he thought he was going to collapse. He regained his composure immediately and shrugged. "Fine."

"Fine?"

"Yes," Jim snarled. "Fine. What did you expect? For me to start sniveling and sobbing like a child?" He leaned in closer to Moran, so that his lips were but an inch away from his chief's ear. "Despite your fantasies, I feel nothing for Sherlock Holmes, except hatred and provocation. So, please, keep that in mind the next time you interrupt my congress with 'important' news."

/break\

Sherlock and John returned to 221B at seven o'clock in the morning, and both went straight to bed. At eight o'clock, Jim was standing by John's bedside, his eyes narrowed as he watched the man snore softly. He smirked.

"You don't deserve him," Jim hissed at the sleeping figure. "No one does. Not even me."

Jim reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black box; he pried it open and removed a thin syringe with a capital 'J' marked on the front. He gently pulled the blanket away from John's arm, folding it on top of the sleeping man's chest, and slid the needle into the thin skin on the inside of his wrist, poking deep into one of the veins.

"You'll forgive me, of course. We're not really all that different-we both want the best for him. And since we know he's not going to make the correct choice on his own, we have to guide him in the right direction." Almost teasingly, Jim let his thumb slowly press down on the syringe, and the clear fluid inside was slowly injected into John's veins.

Jim returned the syringe to the black case after he covered John back up and left the room. He crept slowly up the steps and gently pushed Sherlock's bedroom door open. The man was sprawled out on his bed, on top of the covers, still fully clothed. He hadn't even removed his shoes.

"Such a long day, wasn't it, dear?" Jim said with a smile. "It was for me, too."

He grasped Sherlock's hand and ran his thumb over the sallow palm. He leaned down and, his lips brushing against the detective's ear, whispered, "Don't forget who you answer to."

Jim opened his black box again and pulled out another syringe, this one marked with a capital 'S'. "This should be just enough. Enough to ruin him…but not to ruin you." He unbuttoned Sherlock's sleeve and quickly pushed the syringe into his skin, then rammed the clear liquid, different from the substance that John received, into arm. After returning the syringe to his case and buttoning the shirtsleeve, Jim kissed Sherlock on the forehead and left.

/break\

"John! John, wake up! John, are you awake? Wake up, John! Hey! John! Hey, John! Wake up! Wake-"

John did, finally, wake up, and as he opened his eyes, his flat mate stopped babbling. As soon as his eyes were open, John felt a searing flash of pain in his head, and he closed his eyes and tried to fling his arm over his eyes, but, to his dismay, he could hardly lift his arm at all. It felt like it was made of cement.

"Sher-Sherlock," he managed to choke out, though his voice was raspy and soft, "what-what did you-"

John looked at Sherlock, but he couldn't make out anything but Sherlock's mop of curly dark hair and his white teeth flashing in a huge grin. The rest of the man just looked like a blur.

"Good morning!" Sherlock said loudly. At least, it seemed loud to John-Sherlock could have been talking in his normal volume and John was convinced that it would've seemed to be thunderingly loud.

"Shh!" John hissed. "Would you mind keep-keeping your voice…" John trailed off without finishing his request. Sherlock didn't seem to notice, which surprised John. What's the matter with him? What's the matter with me?

Sherlock chuckled. John's heart begin to pound faster when he felt Sherlock straddling him, his knees on either side of John's hips. John tried to ask him what he was doing, but he couldn't muster up the strength to vocalize the words. Instead he watched through half-closed lids as Sherlock leaned down and whispered in his ear, "You're phenomenal. Did you know that? Simply phenomenal, John."

Something is definitely…not…right. What…what is…

Not only was John's body failing him, but his mind was slowing, too. He couldn't think straight, and he couldn't seem to formulate any real questions, only words, like what and why.

"…Sher-Sherlock…"

"Shh," the detective purred, kissing John where his ear met the side of his face. "If you don't want this, tell me. You've had enough time to think about it, right? Right? If you don't want it let me know. John? Let me know."

The man was talking so fast, so urgently. John swallowed hard; his mouth and throat felt like sandpaper. He felt Sherlock firmly kissing his head again, moving towards his cheek. He tried to shake his head, but all that happened was that it flopped to the right.

"I…I d-"

That was it. He was finished. It was like whatever was doing this to him had had enough of his fighting, because his body suddenly seized up, and his voice along with it. John couldn't move, he couldn't speak; he could hardly think. His heart, though, was beating so fast that he was sure it would burst out of his chest at any moment and explode.

"I knew you did!" Sherlock said, staring at John with crinkled eyes and a wide smile. "I knew it! I didn't become a world-famous consulting detective for nothing, John!" He laughed and kissed John's forehead, massaging the man's temples gently with his pale fingertips. "You're going to love this. You're-You're just, you're going to love it. Love it. I'll be gentle; I promise. If-"

…Gentle? No…

"then I want you to tell me, okay? Don't-Don't be afraid to tell me. It's all right. I know it's your first time, and-"

First…first time…he can't…surely he's not…

And that was when John felt it. His mind had been so preoccupied with other things-Sherlock straddling him, Sherlock kissing him, Sherlock talking a hundred words a second, Sherlock whispering in his ear-that he hadn't noticed. There was something long and rock solid-Sherlock's erection, no doubt-pressing against John's crotch.

Oh no.

It all happened so fast. Sherlock was rocking his hips back and forth against John's, moaning appreciatively the whole time. He unbuttoned his trousers, slowly, and then pulled the zipper down. His eyes never left John's, and the smile never left his face.

"I can't begin to tell you how happy I am," he said as he moved his hands from his trousers to John's. "I've wanted this for so long, and it's finally happening."

John flinched inwardly when Sherlock finished unfastening his pants and pulled them down to his knees. John, now half-exposed, had never felt so helpless in his life. Here he was, laying on his bed, his best friend about to have his way with him, and he was totally incapable of stopping it. He tried to talk, to protest, but, as he'd expected, the words wouldn't come out.

Sherlock tenderly moved John's head so that it was straight, instead of being drooped onto his right shoulder. He brushed John's brown hair away from his forehead, rubbing it gently as he did so. "I love you."

Sherlock, please don't. PLEASE don't.

Sherlock, of course, couldn't hear his pleads, and even if he could, it was questionable whether he'd listen to them or not, with the state he himself was it. John felt Sherlock clenching his legs, right under his knees, and pulling him up to a more…accessible position.

The detective wasted no time in getting to the desired outcome. John gasped in both pain and shock as he felt Sherlock enter him, and none-to-slowly. The man hadn't even bother to put on lubricant-no doubt he was in such a hurry to do this thing that he, apparently, had been desiring for months.

Every thrust, every gyration, brought nothing but an extreme jolt of pain to John. Was this really happening? Was his best friend really raping him?

Dreaming, John told himself. You're…You're dreaming, John. That's all. It's-It's a dream. It-oh, fuck!

That thrust had gone even further inside him than the rest, and it had hurt like hell. John likened it to a hot, pointed stick being repeatedly shoved up his arse.

John closed his eyes and tried to let his mind wander, which was simply impossible. His thoughts were still jumbled, and he couldn't seem to think about anything other than what was happening to him right now. It was like his whole life up to this moment hadn't even been real.

He didn't know how long Sherlock plowed him; all he knew was that it hurt like hell, and it was bloody humiliating. His eyes were beginning to tear up, but whether it was from the pain or the embarrassment, he wasn't sure. He opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock, who was still staring at him and smiling.

"Sher…lock."

A single tear dripped out of John's eyes and trailed down his cheek. Sherlock's eyes were drawn to it immediately, and he watched, mesmerized, as it travel along John's face. He had stopped thrusting. He had stopped breathing. When the tear dropped to the bed, Sherlock jerked his eyes back to John's. The steel-gray eyes widened, and Sherlock's mouth dropped open. He placed shaking hands on John's hips and pulled out of the smaller man's body, slowly, gently. He covered John's exposed body with the blanket, then turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

R&R if you feel so inclined. But please, don't tell me what you hate what happens and that I shouldn't have written it like this because, like I said, it's already done. And don't worry, I have plans for it :)