Hot blood and searing pain ripped through Sherlock's nerves, the right side of his face throbbing with worsening agony. A few drops of crimson blood were splattered up the cream-coloured wall. Through the pain, he heard Moriarty's drawl, a firm hand now pressing to his throat.

"Meddling. Every. Single. Day. A criminal simply can't get things done with you hanging around, huh? When are you going to stop? Hmm? Just. Stop."

The marble black eyes were staring into his blue ones, spiderish eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he tightened his grip on the detective's pale neck. Sherlock wanted to kick, to attack… but he knew there were people watching in through the window of a faraway building, preparing to signal and blow up half of Baker Street if anything went awry.

"For such a clever, clever man you do get yourself involved in sooooo many dangerous cases. Do you get off on danger, Sherlock? Are you liking this?" He hissed out the 's' like a snake, his eyes lighting up with anticipation. He had the beautiful, willowy genius exactly where he wanted him.

Sherlock feigned a kind of ignorance, pretending not to know what the hell Jim was talking about. He kept his eyes cast to the side now, trying to ignore the incessant gaze of the man in front of him. It was almost invasive.

"Ahh, the silent treatment. Not like little Johnny. He was a struggler, you know. And he spoke quite a lot – in ways I liked. Cute, isn't he? You would know."

Moriarty dropped the blade beside them on the floor, blood marking the carpet. He started to let his eyes travel over the taller man's body hungrily, as if undressing him with his gaze.

"Oh, look. Look at your buttons, Sherlock. Why are you shirts so tight? You'll start giving people the wrong impression."

"Shut up."

"Nah, I don't think so." Jim reached up and undid the buttons one by one as Sherlock let his eyes close of their own accord. He didn't care much for what was happening now. The pain in his face was a problem, yes. But the undoing of a shirt theoretically wasn't a harm in any way, shape or form. He heard Jim moving downwards and the clink of the metal blade being picked up again. As the master criminal was bringing himself up to full height once more, he let his hand trace up Sherlock's inner thigh. So close…

Sherlock swallowed and let his eyes flicker open. He had to work hard to suppress the moan of surprise when he felt himself being touched right there.

A disturbingly dark chuckle rose up from Moriarty's chest. "The virgin isn't so unfeeling after all…" He proceeded to manoeuvre his hand past Sherlock's belt and into his trousers. Sherlock flinched away but Moriarty had that warning look in his eyes and a sharp blade in his hand, not to mention a gang of watchers and snipers positioned across the road, watching through blinds, no doubt. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, looking over Moriarty's shoulder and out the window… trying to just see if there was actual evidence of someone watching. He had a plan. A plan that may not work… but a plan all the same.

Suddenly Sherlock's lips parted and he moaned vocally, being struck by a pleasure he had never felt before as his enemy's hand worked on his hardening length. Humiliated, but in need of it, Sherlock's conflicted emotions were obvious in his expression… and Moriarty was drinking it in, flicking his wrist at all the right moments – seeing that great mind come undone. This wasn't about sex or pleasure… it was about power and control. It was about getting one over on Sherlock Holmes. Teaching him a lesson once and for all. He had him right here, bleeding – red liquid spreading down his glorious cheekbones, his jaw and his neck. His neck, yes… it was exposed. He was leaning his head back against the wall, huffing in pleasure, his slim hips bucking forward every now and then. Moriarty took this opportunity to lean in, to lick up Sherlock's pale expanse of throat and then bite hard. A growl ripped up from Sherlock, his teeth grit together. Moriarty seemed otherwise occupied now, his grip on the now forgotten blade loosening. Ensuring the view of Jim's front was obscured from the buildings opposite, Sherlock hurriedly and skilfully snatched the knife and rammed it into Jim's stomach. Sherlock gasped loudly, acting as if it was him that had been stabbed. Both men collapsed behind the bed - rendered unseen by the spies.

Moriarty lay silently, his eyes wide, his hand reaching frantically for his phone or some other device. Sherlock hissed, pinning his nemesis down. His voice was low and silky. "You could have hurt me all you desired, Jim. You could have destroyed me in any way if you wanted. But when you hurt John… don't expect to get out of this unharmed."

Moriarty tried to choke out a reply, but found he couldn't. His body was becoming weaker, Sherlock could feel it.

The detective couldn't stand up now for fear of being seen from the window, so instead he crawled his way out of the room and then sprinted down the corridor.

…

Moriarty wouldn't die, no. He'd be fine eventually. There were curious snipers and spies on their way to see why the hell both Sherlock and Moriarty had disappeared from view.

Sherlock had evacuated 221B, however, before any of this had time to happen. Bomb disposal experts had been called a minute later.

The fight wasn't over, though – far from it. But Sherlock's now evident devotion to his friend gave both Sherlock and John a reason to keep fighting in the battlefield that was London.