Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. Happy St. Patrick's day from Jim Moriarty, who insisted he needed to play today. (Not Irish myself, but who am I to argue?)

Luck of the Irish

Generally speaking, Jim isn't really into anything that might be termed 'popular'. Not unless it's for a role he's playing. All too often, that adjective and 'quality' can't be applied to the same things, after all. And Jim has never, ever doubted that he deserves only the best.

On the other hand, Jim has never shied away from using any means to get what he wants. And if one popular event is not just a perfect excuse to get his tiger to be unprofessional (which, really, Jim only needs to bat his eyes for, really) but also to make him grin all through? He – they, really – deserve pleasure sprinkled with fun, too.

It's something private, though. Just the two of them, and whatever silly game they come up with. Until, of course the Holmes siblings decide to ruin the day. Because who else would come ringing the bell – would know what bell to ring, in the first place – and not let go?

"I can murder whoever it is, kitten," Seb rumbles.

"Nah." He has, after all, a pretty good idea of their guest.

Not Mycroft – he would either know better than to be this insistent, or he wouldn't ring the bell at all, but send a whole squad. Really, though, he knows better than to annoy him today. There's always a chance it could be Sherlock, if he's sufficiently bored, but he wouldn't unless John was away. Jim doesn't track the two of them as assiduously these days, but really, why would John disappear today of all days? He hasn't done anything to attract bad luck, though.

The third one, now. She's the last one that should be in London, but also the one who's never learned the word no.

Jim slams the door open, intending to spook her, but he's the one startled. It's not the first time that she's told him that the more outrageous the disguise, the less they're actually likely to pay attention to her, much less think she's a fugitive. He sees her point, even if he prefers a different approach. If he does bother with a great style, he's going to make sure they do pay attention to him. It would be a waste otherwise. If it's a simple cover, his style would be easy, too.

For someone who's not Irish (Jim would know, if they shared that), she's definitely made an effort. The wig (it's always wigs with her) is jungle green and spiky. But this time there are also jade contacts, a short dress in crocodile print (Jim assumes – actual crocodile couldn't be comfortable, could it?) and shamrock lipstick. Less ton sur ton and more eyesore, to be fully honest. He laughs, reckless, even while he steps aside for her to come in.

She strides in, a delicate eyebrow arched to judge everything. As if she could complain about the digs. When she's invited, Jim happily indulges their taste for luxury. Today was supposed to be a day with his tiger, and Seb will consider what's not strictly spartan as inexcusably sybaritic. Jim will stand his ground about the bed and the contents of the fridge (they need to keep their energy up), but besides that? He'll let his bit of rough have things as tough as he likes.

"Who is it, kitten?" Seb grumbles.

"Dunno. I mean, if she'd tried for more ethereal, maybe Aibell... But I'm not sure who this is supposed to be."

"Just someone who needs a boost of luck," she huffed.

"I thought you didn't need that, what with your brain."

"Are you arguing, kitten?" Eurus retorted, voice sharp as a blade.

"Hey. He's my kitten. Find your own pet names." Seb put himself between the two of them. As if she was a threat of a kind he could tackle. Or shoot. Jim sent a warning glare her way. He'd be very displeased if she tried anything.

She sighed. "And here I thought you would appreciate it. Oh well. I'm not going back unsatisfied. So long as I can get a bit of Irish in me I don't care. Just the once, even, I'll make you a deal. I deserve a treat too, don't I, deer?"

Jim giggled again. (It had nothing to do with the drink or two he'd had before being disturbed.) "And what should we call her, Seb? If we let her stay?"

I guess cougar doesn't really fit." Seb smirked.

"You don't happen to have a normal name, do you? Maybe a middle one? Cause I am kinda partial to margay," Jim purred.

"I can be a margay...for tonight. So long as you give me luck. And a drink," she agreed.

"Fine, yes, we can deliver that." Seb took the reins, which Jim always loved. He just wasn't sure how wise it was to let her know that. But what the hell. They lived dangerously anyway.

"We?" she asked, before smiling widely when Seb poured her one – without asking, just selecting whatever he felt like from Jim's well-stocked cabinet and offering it to her with a challenging look.

She gulped it down, before settling the empty glass on a nearby table. "Now, for that luck..."

"We're on it. But you'll want the bedroom, I guess, if it's only one round. Down to the left. We'll be there in a mo."

She tilted her head. "We?"

"Run along, margay, I promise you'll like your treat," Jim replied.

She threw him a glance that said "I better," before actually doing so.

"I'm not giving you up, kitten. Not for a minute. Not today," Seb declared, in that tone that usually would make Jim downright melt...unless he was assisting at an interrogation, and it wasn't directed at him. In which case, the melting could wait till later.

"You're not planning to dash on her, are you?"

"Not at all. Let's go. She can have all the Irish she wants... I'll even give it to her, just like I gave her that glass." Seb crowded him against the table said glass sat on.

"You -"

"Do you object to being the delicious meat in our best-not-touch-each-other-sandwich?" Seb asked. "Not at all," he shivered.

They stumbled to the bedroom – with a few stops when Seb decided to rid Jim of one item of his clothing...or another...or another, kissing him soundly and petting the new skin revealed like the kitten he was.

He entered the bedroom naked, with a fully clothed Seb behind him. Eurus had taken off just the wig, her natural hair flowing around her, and her panties, and was teasing herself, standing by the bedside. "I was about to come looking," she huffed. Her eyes narrowed at Seb.

"Hope you don't mind, margay, babe. It's a holiday! I don't really feel like doing the work. But, you know, that's why we have our tiger here. All that energy to exert." Jim rubbed himself against Seb's front, like a good kitty.

"He's going to listen," Eurus...demanded? announced?

"Yeah, and if you want, I'm not even going to look. I mean, I'm not really interested in anything...except being of service," Seb assured, bending to nuzzle him.

"I guess, then." Eurus shrugged off her dress, toed off her shoes, and settled on the bed – half-sitting, legs spread. She beckoned them with a finger.

Jim followed her, hips swaying, and threw a glance over his shoulder at his tiger...who was finally undressing too, as quickly as he could disassemble a gun, and eyes closed. For good measure. Jim giggled, and the sound was enough to guide his tiger when it pounced. Luckily, they'd already played today, quite extensively, so Jim needed only a quick preparation – and the swipe of Seb's tongue against his insides, just because they could – to be ready for his lover.

Eurus had watched, with that look of half-amusement half-impatience she often wore. When Seb pushed in – and Jim, pliant, followed suit – she didn't have any complaints, though. Just a breathy sigh.

This wasn't what Jim had planned for today, not exactly, but he didn't have any objections, either. Oh, he might whine – and Eurus, too, not long after – but it was the 'more' sort, high in his throat.

As always, Seb delivered. Steady and strong, hips rolling in a hypnotic rhythm. Mouth nibbling – always a biter – at shoulder blades, nape, neck. Jim keeping himself busy kissing and laving perked nipples, an equally hungry mouth. Every nerve sizzling with pleasure. And then –

Eurus came first, for once out of control – hers, or anyone's – with a wordless scream. Jim let himself follow suit, and bless her the way she'd wanted. Seb's hips pistoned thrice more, before he tugged Jim harder against himself and let go, with an almost subsonic growl.

Unrestrained, Jim curled up between his lovers. It was his turn to tug the tiger down to play heater. (Never let it be said that Seb wasn't multi-talented.) Luck of the Irish, indeed.

P.S. Irish mythology reference: Aibell is one of a number of Irish mythology creatures that uses music to defeat their enemies. A guardian of the Dál gCais (an Irish clan), Aibell is the Fairy Queen of Thomond. She lived on Craig Liath and played a magic harp. It is believed that whoever listened to her play would die rather sooner than later.