Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he owns me.

A/N: This is a pure standalone, not part of the plot for Part III. It's canon to my story, but not essential to what's currently going on. This is a standalone moment in time, when James and Sherrinford change their relationship one Christmas Eve.

Don't worry all, next chapter drops before the New Year. Sherlock and John will be back!

This is dedicated to my dear friend, Silvereyedbitch. Merry Christmas, my love.

"A Holmes and Moriarty Christmas"

Amsterdam

Christmas Eve

A Lifetime Ago

"I'm going out for a walk," Jaime called out down the hall from where she was standing at the front door. "I'll be a few hours. Enjoy your guest, brother dear." She waited until he nodded briskly before slipping out the solid oak door, the soft click fading fast in the vast and otherwise empty house.

James Moriarty waited until he was sure his fifteen year old sister wouldn't return, and let out a deep exhale, shaking out his hands, nerves making his fingers tingle. Jaime couldn't be around when He came over. It wasn't safe. For anyone. Telling her to leave was always best. She was too deadly, too volatile, to have her anywhere near James' mentor, and his mentor may not be able to resist the allure that Jaime Moriarty might hold for him. She was beautiful, and his flavor of victim. By no means helpless, but those two souls in the same space could be combustible.

James spun on his heel, the polished dark wood floors slippery as his sock-clad feet carried him quickly down the hall, towards the rear garden. He moved through the large house in the dark, lights cold and the shadows clinging to the corners and ceiling, the deepening twilight leeching the remaining light from the evening air.

Night settled over the quiet street as James entered the rear garden, the winter air frosting as he exhaled a nervous breath, eyes darting along the rear fence line. The iron fence rose high, far enough to deter even the most precocious of burglars, and the spikes near the top were wicked spears that threatened painful lacerations to anyone foolish enough to try and climb over.

Usually the garden was dark and full of shifting shadows, the only light coming from the moon and stars overhead. It was dark know, but not for long. James had spent the thousands of euros he'd earned from organizing a bank job in Paris, and done something that was out of character, even for him. His sister, deprived of even the most basic of happy childhood memories, had asked him about why people decorated for Christmas.

James had stared at her a moment, as they walked along the canal, the waterway lined with lanterns and evergreens, sparkling silver and gold lights and red bows. Storefronts were lit up with treats and toys and decorations, gingerbread houses and frosted with fake snow and mannequins in tasteless jumpers. His sister, her long dark tresses cascading down her shoulders and back, covered up to her chin in a long black coat that framed her lovely face and dark eyes, had peered out at the world as if she couldn't comprehend the Christmas spirit, or a reason to celebrate. Part of him agreed with her, understood her apathy with the season. She barely recalled a time in their lives without abuse or pain, hunted by a monster who was meant to love and cherish them, but instead corrupted their innocence and destroyed their futures. Yet James could—he recalled warm and cheery mornings surrounded by love, his father and mother still alive, his infant sister in a cranberry red dress with a white bow in her curls.

"They decorate to celebrate life," James murmured, the words coming out of their own accord, even as he sneered at a happy family dressed for festivities walking by, children outfitted to impress. He had the usual contempt any hard-luck eighteen year old would have at such displays of sentimentality. "Though it's naught but a commercial excuse to celebrate greed now. My kind of holiday, actually."

Jaime had laughed softly, and wove her arm through his, her quick eyes watching the street ahead of them and to the side. They kept a low profile here in Amsterdam, taking jobs out of the city across Europe, an attempt to curtail anyone's attempt to track them back to where they lived. Amsterdam may not be Dublin, but it was home for now. Blackwood Manor had never been home, merely a prison.

"Celebrate a life dedicated to greed is more apt, my love," Jaime whispered, her eyes black pools, the shadows in them chased across the dark iris as they passed by lanterns lighting the canal. "I see no one worth celebrating, no one worth cherishing. Aside from you, Jimmy."

He picked her gloved hand up from his arm, and kissed her knuckles, making her lightning-quick smile flash before it was gone, her serene mask returned. His sister was beautiful, a treasure to watch, whether it was just for a stroll down the street or slicing through a compromised informant's neck. He placed her hand back on his arm, and navigated the holiday crowd out of the city center, towards home.

James pulled his memories away from the day before, and reached out to the wall, flipping the switch that illuminated the rear garden.

Lights exploded across the trees and dormant bushes, the evergreens glowing from within, starry drops glittering through the bare boughs. The meager snow reflected the lights, gold and whites and icy reds and blues hovering along the periphery of the garden.

James tucked his hands in his pockets, and walked down the path, to the rear fence and the wooden miniature garden shed hovered in the back corner near the gate. It was decorated at well, candle-like lights glowing from the windows, the doors outlined as well, every workable surface shining bright.

He paused near the gate, shivering, looking past the iron fence to the rear alley, but couldn't discern anything beyond a few feet. He sighed, and rubbed his arms, trying to keep warm. For a young man who's IQ was in the stratosphere, he didn't think things through sometimes. Impetuous, he remembered his mother calling him once.

"You must love her, to do all this," a voice called to him past the fence, the low timbre enough to make his heart jump hard in his chest. James turned fast on the path, startled, and slipped on the ice. He fell hard, landing on his rear, and heard a chuckle weave through the iron posts.

A figure melted out from the shadows, shockingly white skin catching the glow of the lights, violet eyes burning as brightly as the gaudy candles among the displays. Tall, lean, and with the grace of a hunter, a predator, Sherrinford Holmes was masculine beauty and lethality encapsulated in one seamless example of perfection. His intelligence left even James wary, and aroused. And his utter lack of morals and compassion excited James to a dangerous degree, drawing him in—James was a hopeless moth to the flame that was the most prolific and successful serial killer Europe had seen in generations.

Sherrinford walked up to the gate, and with a negligent push, sent it swinging silently inwards. Sherrin walked down the path, and James swallowed, staring up at the man who sent his body haywire with desire and fear. It wasn't often that Sherrin came to see him; perhaps once a month, mere moments of snatched time here in the garden before the elder would disappear. Most of the time James would ask him questions, seeking solutions to problems his vast intellect couldn't answer, lack of practical experience hampering him in his criminal pursuits. His education had stopped at the age of thirteen, the day he had his baby sister kill their stepfather, and the otherworldliness of the older man gave him insights he would be hard-pressed to learn on his own.

Sherrin offered him advice, and challenged him mentally in ways he couldn't get anywhere else. He feared mental stagnation and boredom, lack of stimuli leaving him fractious and explosive. Sherrin eased the rough edges, each encounter a soothing yet invigorating moment in James' life that left him inspired and sometimes….frustrated.

Sherrinford Holmes left him burning with desire, a sensation he wasn't prepared to feel, much less deal with. The abuses he'd suffered, while incomparable to his sister's, was enough to make him hesitate when it came to sexual relief and needs. Yet Sherrin, the tall, enigmatic and handsome killer, made his body burn, his heart race, and his cock impatient to feel those elegant hands. He never pressed his affections, an inner caution keeping him from making any advances. It wouldn't do to raise the ire of a man who was scoring his body counts around two hundred.

A hand came down towards him, and scooped him off the pavers, returning him to his feet. An arm snaked around his torso, pulling him close to the taller man, and James' hands rested on his chest. Firm muscles moved sedately with each measured breath, and the powerful hips of the monster that held him with such care pressed against his stomach. James tipped his head back, and gazed up at Sherrin, locking his dark eyes with the jewel-toned orbs of the man he'd pulled from the sea years before.

"Speechless, my dear boy? Whatever could be the matter?" Sherrin asked softly, his other hand coming up and his fingertips ghosting over James' cheek. He leaned into the touch, whimpering in dismay when the hand withdrew, teasing him with fleeting contact. The aroma of hot metal and seawater greeted his nose when he leaned into the man holding him so tightly, and his eyes drifted shut.

"Please…." He gasped, eyes shutting, hands sliding up Sherrin's hard pectorals, lacing behind his neck. He climbed to his toes, and pressed shaking lips to his mentor's neck, tasting skin for the first time.

Steel bands roped him in tightly, Sherrin shuddering as James licked delicately at the smooth skin of his neck, lathing the delicious expanse of flesh he encountered. James purred, and Sherrin held him closer, tighter, drawing in a breath and holding it.

"What do you want, my dear boy?" Sherrin asked him quietly, whispering in his ear, full lips caressing his skin. He shuddered, and whimpered again, nipping at the skin under his tongue.

"You. Only you," James answered, aching. He writhed in Sherrin's arms, undulating his hips against the hard shaft he could feel growing in the other man's trousers. "Please, I don't know what to do. Tell me what to do, I want you."

"I can certainly do that. Jump up," Sherrin ordered without hesitation, and James complied, jumping up, and hooking his legs around the taller man's waist. Sherrin adjusted his grip on him, and took the path toward the house.

James was lost in the taste of his soon-to-be-lover's skin, rubbing his eager cock on Sherrin's stomach. He felt the change in temperature as Sherrin entered the house, carrying through the kitchen and dining room, to the rear stairs, and taking the stairs one at a time at a fast clip, not once hesitating.

He saw the paintings and the tapestries on the walls flash by in brief glimpses as Sherrin took the top hallway to the end, and confidently entered James' bedroom, as if he'd always known the way. James smiled, thinking it may not be Sherrin's first time in his house. Jaime was unmolested and unharmed; he would argue the serial killer's presence in his home without his supervision later.

There was something he wanted. Someone he wanted, and thoughts of anything other than quenching his aching need fled fast. Sherrin dropped him flat on his bed, and James bounced a couple of times as he stared up at the older man, captivated and needy.

"Strip, boy," Sherrin told him, a black and white specter standing in the darkness at the foot of his bed.

James answered the steely command with alacrity, hands racing over his body, tearing at his simple trousers and jumper. He hurt himself yanking off his clothing, and he swore as his nails scratched skin and his feet got tangled in the legs of his trousers. His shirt hit the floor seconds before his trousers, and he scrambled to kick off his underwear and socks. At last he lay panting on the bed, naked, shaking from nerves and want. His cock jerked, growing harder under the sharp gaze of the man who watched him, face impassive.

"Come here," Sherrin ordered him, eyes boring hard into his own, and James slid off the bed, and stood before the other man, naked and exposed, his eyes missing nothing, examining him head to toe.

"Remove my clothing, boy."

James bit back an indignant gasp at the command, but his cock loved the idea, growing harder, the ache in his balls making his whole body quiver. He reached out with shaking hands, and carefully slid the heavy black coat from Sherrin's shoulders, off his arms. He folded it carefully, and draped it over the chair next to his bed. He went next for the suit jacket, sliding his hands under the lapels of the garment, pushing it back over the hot skin and muscles he could feel through the thin shirt.

Jacket gone, he folded it as well, aware that Sherrin followed every move he made silently, amethyst eyes taking in his naked body. James tried to breathe, to calm himself, but every breath of air he took merely pulled the other man's scent deep into his own body. Sherrin wasn't even moving, but for his eyes, and yet James felt like he was under the most personal examination he'd ever been subjected to, nothing hidden, all desires revealed.

The jacket joined the coat, and James lifted his hands to Sherrin's shirt. Hands shaking, fingers numb, James cursed under his breath at himself as he slowly managed to unbutton the silk shirt, his hands slipping on the smooth white fabric. He glanced at Sherrin's face, expecting to see condemnation for his childish nerves, but the fire in his jewel-tone eyes made him forget how to breathe, let alone think.

James tore his gaze away, and he heard a deep chuckle as a button gave him trouble near Sherrin's waistband. Long fingers gently moved over his, and disengaged the last button before falling away. James refused to look up, not wanting to see Sherrin laughing at him, and determinedly set his hands to the belt buckle of Sherrin's dress slacks. The black leather was nearly indistinguishable from the trousers in the low light, blending with the equally dark fabric of Sherrin's clothing and the shadows that hovered around them both.

He pulled the belt free, and tossed it aside, his impatience making him careless. Sherrin chuckled again, a deep sound that was almost impossible for James to hear past the blood rushing in his ears.

He pulled at the tail of the shirt, pulling out from under the tight waistband, and he was thankful Sherrin wasn't wearing cufflinks, as the shirt fell away easily. It fluttered to the floor, absorbed by the darkness that clung to the room, and James stilled. The expanse of silken skin and carved muscles that greeted his eyes seemed to be made of stone, finer than the smoothest marble statues in any art museum. The meager light that held the shadows at bay shimmered over his pale skin, and James felt his mouth begin to water, his fingers twitch, the need to touch and taste powerful.

James reached for the button and zipper, and with shaking hands undid them both. Black silk met the back of his fingers, and his whole body shook from the shock of that gentle contact. A noise came from Sherrin's chest, a deep purr and growl made in one, and James gasped. He found his courage in that sound and drew down the zipper, pulling back the folds and pushing the pants back off his hips.

James let go, fingers feeling scorched, and he slowly knelt, rubbing his palms down the iron columns of Sherrin's thighs, over his hard knees, along the sinewy strength of his calves. Simultaneously he worked at the thin shoelaces of Sherrin's fine Italian shoes, the black leather invisible in the deepening night. One by one he freed his feet, Sherrin stepping clear. He removed socks with them, until Sherrin stood nearly naked, trousers open decadently across his lean hips, underwear visible, feet and chest bare.

He stood, and Sherrin's gaze did things to his heart, his body, that left him unable to move. He waited, naked, vulnerable, in a state he'd never let anyone see in him in willingly. His body ached, and he put a hand on his cock, stroking, instinctively trying to ease the tight and hard flesh. His cock was dripping, leaking with need, and he groaned, meeting Sherrin's eyes boldly.

"Hands off, boy. That's mine now," Sherrin rasped, and James squeezed his cock in brief rebellion before dropping his hand away. A bigger, stronger hand took over, the rhythm hard and demanding.

James rocked forward on his toes, hands out for balance, as Sherrin worked his cock, making him cry out. His head feel back, lips parted, as another hand cupped his balls, tugging, nearly painful. He mewled, a soft pathetic noise torn from him at the harsh and powerful motions on his groin left him a mindless combination of lust and need.

"There's what I want," Sherrin whispered, and James' eyes flew open at the touch of the taller man's lips on his own. "Let me hear you."

Sherrin stroked faster, twisting his wrist, driving James to his tiptoes, grabbing at Sherrin's strong shoulders as the gentleman monster drove him to the point of orgasm with just his hands.

He came with a shout, fading to whimpers, crying out again and again, watching now as Sherrin caught his cum in one palm, milking it from his cock with firm strokes with the other hand. He held on to Sherrin, weak, mind shut down, whimpers spilling from his lips, legs shaking. At last Sherrin let him go, and James struggled to stay upright, his legs and feet numb, his cock still half-hard and twitching.

"On the bed. Get on your knees."

It was the order he wanted and feared, come at last. James turned, and with quivering limbs obeyed. He climbed onto his bed, and fell to his hands and knees on the edge of the mattress, the tick coverlet cushioning his knees.

A big, hot hand pressed between his shoulders, forcing his head and upper body down on the bed. He went unresisting, and groaned in weak objection as his wrists were pulled behind his back. He left them there, unrestrained, obeying the silent command to leave them there at the base of his spine.

He jumped, a tiny flutter of surprise, as a wet and slightly warm fluid found its way to his rear, dripping down his crack. He moaned as he realized what it was; Sherrin was using his own cum as lubricant.

"Have you been fucked before, boy?" Sherrin asked from the darkness, and hands gripped his hips, pulling his ass up to a better angle.

"No…no," James gasped out, tongue tick, lips barely able to form the words.

"That bastard of a stepfather never took your virginity?" A callous question asked as James could hear the final tug of a zipper, the rustle of fabric as Sherrin presumably removed the last of his clothing.

"He never touched me…there," James said, distracted by the fingers probing his ass, long and hard digits teasing his tight hole. His cum was still wet and warming again from contact with his skin, and James cried out as a finger pushed past the untried muscles of his ass. He bit at the coverlet, and sobbed at the first intrusion to that private place.

"Then this is mine, do you hear me? I own your ass," Sherrin told him with a dark laugh, thrusting his finger in fast and deep, making James cry out again. "Your body is mine, and only I will take you like this. Do hear me, boy?"

"Yes! Yes…only yours," James sobbed, as a second finger pushed inside him, working the tight muscle loose. Sherrin worked with purpose, without hesitation, stretching and filing James' ass thoroughly, one hand on his hip, holding him still. He could feel the other man's body heat against the back of his thighs, close to his ass, and James could see nothing, the light finally gone completely.

He was surrounded by Sherrin, the man's fingers in his body moving now with ease, the hand on his hip proclaiming ownership. He could hear Sherrin's murmurs of approval, humming in pleasure as James whimpered when he plunged his fingers deep, caressing the inner walls of James' virgin channel.

James cried out when the fingers inside touched on a spot that made white light flash behind his eyes. His prostate. Untouched, even by himself, and James couldn't process the sensation as Sherrin's fingers pegged it over and over. He sobbed, he struggled, and it took Sherrin's hand on his hip to hold him down on the bed. His cock refilled, painful so soon after his prior orgasm, growing hard faster than he would have thought possible even for a teenager of eighteen.

James gasped in shock and dismay as Sherrin pulled his fingers free from his grasping body. He tried to look, afraid Sherrin was leaving, but he was rudely pushed back down on the bed as his wrists were pinned together, and James recognized the supple bite of Sherrin's belt as he was tied. His hips were grabbed again, his ass positioned, and it was the only warning he got before he felt the broad and hot head of a cock pushing on his hole.

"This is mine. You are mine," Sherrin growled, and pushed in. James cried out, the cock invading his body thicker than the fingers that had loosened him. He bucked, and Sherrin growled, gripping him tighter, refusing to stop as James writhed under him.

"Please!" James begged, but for what he couldn't say. The hard, hot length slowly and ruthlessly filling him was too much, but not enough. He groaned as Sherrin bottomed out, balls pressed hard to his ass, his poor hole stretched wider than he felt was possible.

It hurt, it burned, and James bit his lip, trying to hold in his sobs. Sherrin wasn't moving, holding perfectly still, but he was so hard, so deep, James could feel the other's heartbeat throbbing in his ass. His cum let Sherrin slide in without dragging delicate tissues, and Sherrin had ended up lodged deeply inside of him, so deep James was afraid to breathe.

Hands rubbed his flanks, gentle slides that belied the ruthless taking of that first thrust. Carefully, with hitching whimpers, James began to relax, and with the first, tiny withdrawal of the cock inside him, James felt the painful burn evaporate. Liquid heat flooded his muscles, and James groaned. His ass lifted on its own, his body begging for more, and his fingers tangled together as he tried to push back on that hard cock, looking for more friction.

"There it is….." Sherrin sighed, and he pulled back, his cock gliding over his prostate as James groaned. "Let me hear you, James."

He complied, and as Sherrin withdrew to just the crown of his cock breaching his body, James sobbed in joyous frustration when he thrust back in. Over and over, Sherrin rode him, slow deep thrusts that made James' body comply with every demanding motion. Each inward thrust pegged his prostate, and James was subjected to a pleasure that was unbearable, making him cry, tears pooling before streaking down his flushed cheeks. He bit at the blankets, pulled on his restraints, and he bucked up his hips, trying to get Sherrin to move, to do something…harder.

He was wordlessly begging, but Sherrin denied him. The monster dominating his body moved with slow purpose, forcing James to feel every last centimeter of the large cock filling his body. Again and again Sherrin thrust as deeply as he could go, bottoming out, pausing before withdrawing, stretching his hole as the wide head of his shaft nudged at his entrance from inside.

James feel into a mindless rhythm. He sobbed as Sherrin withdrew, he moaned as Sherrin thrust back in, the fit almost too snug, the enormous piece of hot flesh fucking him a sensation he couldn't process. He sobbed and moaned, letting his new master in pleasure hear, know, exactly what each glide of his cock was doing to him.

When he came the second time it snuck up on him. He didn't know it was approaching, so when he came, he screamed in shock and pleasure. He pulsed, pumping out ropes of hot semen across the bed and his abdomen, and his body clenched tightly on the cock buried balls deep in his ass.

His body convulsed, and he went taut, body bowing as he fell into a soundless scream, lungs locked tight, and Sherrin gripped his tied wrists as his cock was caught fast. He was just coming down off the peak of his climax when Sherrin moaned, and wet heat filled his ass. Great pulses of liquid fire filled his tender channel, and James jerked as the sensation made him cum again, Sherrin's orgasm forcing him to have another. A deep, almost sharp pain flashed briefly as his balls emptied out on the bed, and he whimpered, his body milking Sherrin's cock in hard waves of clutching muscles.

He was falling. Mind spinning, muscles rendered limp and useless, and he could barely breathe. A heavy weight fell on his back, pressing him deeper in the soft bed, feeling the wet remains of his orgasm spread across his stomach and chest. Sherrin collapsed on him, his tall and muscular body holding him down. He didn't care if he couldn't breathe; he was content, and he was free. He soared, floating on a high he'd never felt before and never expected. He reveled in the weight of his lover, the sweat dampened flesh between them, and when Sherrin brushed his lips over his cheek James found the strength to offer a small smile in return.

Sometime later, the snapping of the fire woke him. He was in bed, the fireplace in his room lit, the warmth and light chasing away the shadows and the cold night air. He lifted his head, and was about to sit up, when a strong arm came out from the blankets, and pulled him down to lay on a hard chest.

He gasped, surprised, and looked up into the beautiful eyes of the man who'd taken his virginity. Fingers pushed his hair away from his eyes, and caressed the think skin under his lashes, before Sherrin cupped his face and lowered his lips to his. Sherrin kissed him, a gentle and unexpected connection building between them as James sighed his pleasure into the other man's mouth. The kiss deepened, and went from gentle and loving to hot and demanding in a flash.

James was rolled to his back, and he spread his legs, Sherrin settling between them. He groaned when he felt his lover's hard cock alongside his own, and James eagerly lost himself in his mentor's touch and body.

Christmas Morning

A hard knock on his door sounded off like a gunshot, and James sprang awake, sitting up fast. He blinked at the bright morning light as Jaime opened his door, and she smiled at him.

"Happy Christmas, brother. Coming down for breakfast?" She stayed in the hall, thankfully, and James tugged the sheets over his naked body so he didn't bother his sister's sensibilities. She was wary of nudity in men, even her brother.

James spared a quick glance around the room, and only the faint indentation on the other pillow and the delicious aches in his body gave testimony to the way he'd spent his night.

Sherrin was gone.

He felt a bitter pang, but he had only himself to blame. He'd made his wishes clear, years ago, that Sherrin never be around his sister. She would never know him, and time would fade away her only memories of helping James pull an injured and anonymous man from the sea. Once he's discovered how Sherrin spent his free time, James refused to let the serial killer spend any time with his sister, even chaperoned. He didn't think Sherrin would harm her, but he was a sociopath with a favorite flavor of victims, and he wasn't taking any chances.

A part of him was saddened though. Sherrin was merely following his wishes, but he was missed already. He wanted to wake in his lover's arms again. To touch, and be touched. To be held. And fucked, of course.

"Jimmy?"

He tore himself from his thoughts, and gave his sister a small smile, as she gazed at him in concern.

"I'll be down in few minutes. Shower first. Coffee started?" He asked, reaching for his robe that Sherrin must have placed there before slipping out while he slept.

"Tea's on, but I'll start the coffee. Maids made breakfast, hurry up. I want to open presents!" Jaime ordered him, her aristocratic profile relaxing as she winked at him, flashes of the young girl she should have been breaking through the hardened visage she carried like a shield. "Brush your hair, you look silly."

She disappeared, and James carefully pulled on the robe and slipped from bed. His whole body ached, and he flinched as his well-used ass complained at his movements. Sherrin had taken him a total of three times last night, before they passed out, exhausted, wrapped together under the warm blankets.

He walked across his room, tying the robe, when a box on his desk under the window caught his eye. He stopped, staring, wondering where it came from. It was a large and flat rectangular box, deep royal blue, with a silver bow on top and tied with a matching ribbon. He approached it, and gingerly picked up the small card that rested near the bow.

He opened it, and his heart jumped at the elegant script.

A boy no longer. Men of value dress their worth.

Merry Christmas James.

-SH

He put the card down, and untied the ribbon and bow, and lifted the lid. The tissue paper inside crinkled, and he saw a stylized 'W' embossed on the fine parchment. He carefully pulled back the paper, and he grinned wide in pleasure at the gorgeous suit in deep dove grey that was revealed. He reached in, and lifted the fine jacket, the matching tie falling to the desk.

James eyed the label, and read the designer's name.

Westwood

"Merry Christmas, Sherrinford Holmes," James Moriarty whispered.