A/N: Okay, I will try to get the next chapter out quickly. It is already halfway written, and I expect some folks are gonna be cursing me for the moment that I ended this chapter with. But it was just dragging out too long for one single chapter, so I have broken it in two. So for those who read to the bottom and just need reassurances…yes, it will happen…

They had entered the large estate and soon after gone their separate ways that morning. Jim to shower, and Sherlock to…well, to be Sherlock. The tall man soon found himself somewhat bored of the company of plants in the gardens and such, and so had taken to following the sentinel-like guards in such an obvious and intrusive manner that they were beginning to daydream about laser dots on his forehead. It was honestly like having a toddler trail behind you. An exceptionally rude and insulting toddler. Except that one could discipline a toddler. Whereas Moriarty's men had explicit orders that no one, no one, was to lay a hand on Sherlock Holmes but the criminal himself. And so, this went on past noon, with the detective wondering how they could all stand such horridly dull work, and them wondering just how much longer until their boss would occupy the annoying twit's time again.

Yet Sherlock was not truly focused on his subjects' total annoyance, otherwise they may have needed a debriefing at the end of their shift. No. His great and brilliant mind was filled with more intriguing matters. And these types of contemplations oftentimes were more thorough when the body was preoccupied so that the mind could fly free. And so it did. His body whiled away the hours in the relative safety of bothering the various suited men stationed throughout the grounds, while his brain slipped its tethers and traveled down paths of introspection both stimulating and uncomfortable in nature. But Holmes had never shied away from something simply due to a bit of discomfort. Therefore, he jumped in and fully submersed himself within his subject of study: Us.

Friend. Such a small word. Too small to encompass this, this…almost-obsession that he knew was mutually shared between them. But what, then, was further? He had no experience here, and no research on which to fall back on and study. Though in fact, he was quite certain he wouldn't believe any kind of publishing on this topic that labeled itself "research." Absurd. By what he could tell with his limited view, friendship was a personally developed and biased categorizing of one's emotions. Therefore, how can any one person's experience lead to an understanding of another's? Highly improbable, as all people were vastly different in their walks of life and emotional range. And then, there was the additional factor to be considered that neither he nor Jim could ever fit into what most would call "the norm." In fact, he was willing to bet that they would be excluded from any and all studies involving human behavior scales of any sort. That is, if the researcher had any sense of integrity at all. Well, then. Where did that leave him?

Though he could see the clear madness in the angle and trajectory of his thoughts' path, still he couldn't pull away from it either. Moriarty was always like a drug to him. Of the most potent kind. Ever stimulating, twisting his faculties in on themselves and causing him to have to rework many of his presumed rights and wrongs in order to reach the end of the maze. But he had come to know that it wasn't the ending that he sought. No. That was satisfying in itself, but…. But he remembered the in-between-times when he was waiting for the next move his nemesis would make…and that, that right there, underscored for him what was truly important. The chase. The pursuit. He craved it. He detoxed from it when there was none, just as in his junkie years. He would find himself scanning the papers for a hint, just a sliver of knowledge, that Jim was still out there, willing and able to create another challenge for him. Another crime. Another murder. His next fix…

And that couldn't be labeled as mere friendship. Not even back in the beginning. Especially not back then, when they seemed on the verge of killing each other at every turn. Sherlock suspected the criminal of craving the same high as he. Seeking the thrill of pursuit rather than the endpoint of success or failure. And now this, his current state…Jim had kidnapped him, and he was still unsure of why exactly. Those first few days were still very hazy to him. He remembered being drugged. A lot, and often. And he remembered various forms of torture, not much on the physical side, but more of the psychological nature. Certain medicines and drugs left the mind very open and vulnerable to attacks of that sort. And the detective had no doubt that Jim had used every ounce of knowledge at his disposal to wrench what he sought after from the arrangement. But what did he seek? Did he seek it still? Or had he…found it?

Everything was so different from "the before." When he thought of their interactions prior to his kidnapping, he could see the magnetism, the fascination…but he could also sense an undercurrent of fear. So strange. It was as if, when they met at the pool that night, Sherlock had been afraid for someone. Himself? No, he'd never bothered to be afraid for himself before. Was he afraid for Jim? Pah. Now that was just stupid. So maybe he had been afraid that they would end there, when they finally met for the first time? Afraid that the game might end, and then he would left to the ordinary once more? So many feelings ran together from that memory. The simultaneous pangs of fear, obsession, and a strong sense of loyalty confused him more than helped him when he thought of those times. He couldn't sort them, but they were all centered on Jim, who was the only other possible recipient in his memory. But how can you feel all of those things toward one person? It seemed too irrational. Unless…

He thought of his last stable memory of Jim before his kidnapping, when they had spoken over tea. Jim had arrived just after being cleared of all charges. They had sat, in Sherlock's own flat, and shared tea and veiled insults. It's going to begin very soon, Sherlock. The fall…. What had he meant? The fall? Metaphorical, physical…? Gah! So frustrating. He remembered very little about the time then leading up to his kidnapping. And he remembered nothing at all of the actual event itself. Had Jim been going to finally end it all between them? The game? Over? Horrifying to contemplate as it was, the detective thought he might be on to something. But then…wait…

Oh…

Everything. Everything came slamming into his mind at once concerning the criminal. All of his emotions that centered around the man. All of the games and challenges they posed to one another. The pursuit, the thrill of the chase, and the high of its completion… All of those things were done for Sherlock. Specifically for him alone. Jim had even brought them together in the spotlight in the court that day. Showing off…always…showing off…as if…courting… Oh… Oh… Was that…? Could it…? No…but… Yes… How else would individuals with their class of intelligence and lack of social niceties go about it? Normal people might receive a bouquet of flowers from a suitor. Jim sent dead bodies and blood spattered puzzles to solve. The ordinary person might string together a video asking "will you marry me" at a ballgame… Jim Moriarty brought you into a courtroom to testify against him in an airtight case that should lock him away forever…and then walked free to have tea with you later that same day.

Oh yes…this was something altogether different.

So, then… What to do? How to feel? The detective was so lost and out of his depth it felt alternately like drowning and being crushed inside a bucket of bent nails. Surely, before the kidnapping, he had been obsessed with Jim. Yes, he admitted that much. And after…well, at first he had spent his days confused and kind of semi-rebellious of anyone having control over him in such a way. It had been clear that the criminal had something planned for him, but…it had changed. Somehow. Something had happened during his stay with the other man. The climate between them now as compared to then was much altered. Not even comparable really. And in the last few weeks, Sherlock had found himself enjoying their time together more and more, though he had tried not to be very demonstrative of it. So….what?

Should he…try something? Dammit. He had never before been this timid and confused as to what his own actions should be. He was a child in this matter, floundering about and hoping to reach dry ground and a sane decision. He sighed. What did it matter anyway? He had never prided himself on sane decisions. Just ones that made sense to himself. And if he was truthful…careful, careful…then he would admit that this idea growing inside him did appeal on many levels. Where else would he ever find someone so understanding of his quirks, his habits, his flaws…? Nowhere. It was as if they shared the same wavelength of light, just with Jim at the darker end of the spectrum they ran through.

He came back to himself as he was about to pluck another hair off of the agent's chest who stood before him. They were all as bad as the guards at Buckingham, standing around so motionless and unresponsive. Ridiculous. He grabbed the man's hand and set the tweezers down in it, giving him a smile that the agent took in as being quite deranged, and then the detective set off to find Jim and…try something. He glanced at the sky, almost dark, and walked in the most likely direction to find the criminal.

On the other side of the vast array of hallways, rooms, and storage, during that same morning, Jim Moriarty had showered, called three business associates about the Museum Job tomorrow, and had sent out multiple emails to arrange for any and all occurrences at said job. Confident he was, but not stupidly so. Jim always planned for backup after backup. And he was not about to start taking chances now that things had become so…interesting between himself and the detective.

He found himself now in the mid-afternoon with nothing more to be done concerning the next day's job. It would go off, or they would just blow a lot of stuff up and have fun anyway. He clicked over some camera feeds and located Sherlock, who seemed to be intent on bursting the vein in one his agents' foreheads. He appeared to be questioning…no. Not questioning. Deducing. Ah, now the agent's advanced state of discomfort made sense. Well, if you can't handle having your own life reviewed, well then… He smiled and then turned to stand.

He made his way through another room and down the hallway to his main suite, his mind heavy with the subject of a certain gray eyed problem. Except it wasn't really a problem, more a decision. A terrifying one. One he had been putting off for days now. Jim crossed the room and set himself down upon a chaise lounge with a loud expulsion of breath. And after finding that it had not made anything feel any better, he closed his eyes and leaned back against the cushion, letting his thoughts drift along any route at first. Time passed until his mind found an acute focus for the problem at hand. A filter, of sorts. He didn't quite seek his Hall of Mirrors, though. He had no need to travel through all of those memories when he knew which specific one he needed right from the start. And that mirror's contents came to him now more as an insubstantial thought than any actual form behind his closed lids.

Seraena, he sent out, seeking.

Jim. You came back to me, came the warm answer, full of amusement.

I always have. Just not soon enough…

Don't do that, Jim, she responded with a touch of reproach.

Sorry.

No you're not, came amusement again.

No.

Well then, out with it. You wouldn't be here talking with a ghost in your own head if it wasn't important.

Maybe there's nothing, really. Maybe I just wanted to hear you once more. Maybe…

Jim.

…..

Jim, came her reprimand,somewhat firmer this time.

…yes?

Are you happy?

…I…astoundingly, yes…

Then you have your answer.

No. But it's not that easy. It's…complicated.

If it's worth it…if he's worth it…then of course it is.

But… How did you…? I just…

Jimmy…? What's the matter?

Nothing. Nevermind.

James Aeden…..Tell. Me.

…..

Time passed. And it seemed there would be no forthcoming answer on his side. But when the silence had finally drawn its line solid, the barest sliver of a whisper escaped him, laced with so much pain and despair that all the angels of hell seemed to weep through the words.

I'm so afraid…..

The admission seemed to echo and multiply a thousand times in his head and heart. Everything. All of this…could so easily end him. When had he become this vulnerable? This ordinary? It was so frustratingly inescapable, and he hated it, hated it, hated it, hated…no. No. He didn't. And that worried him even more. When had his obsession with the detective turned into…this? He just couldn't…

Jim?

Yes?

Do you love him?

…..

Jim's eyes snapped open, immediately scanning his surroundings and taking in the change in the lighting. Early evening, just falling dark. He'd had no idea he'd been down that long. It was almost unfathomable to him. Generally, he was always so in control of his little "mental excursions." Not like the detective, who could be lost in his own head for days. His mood shifted from despair and loneliness on to what was now beginning to burn over into anger. His fists clenched tightly.

His own thoughts were now turning against him! His own memories…betrayed him. It seemed no matter how he turned it in his mind, he was doomed to repeat his own history: to live in constant self-loathing and misery, until finding happiness, only to have it torn from him…by his own hands. No. He wouldn't allow it. Ever again. His own feelings in the matter didn't count. All that really counted was that what he valued, what he now held as everything, was protected. Even if there was the barest chance that he could..…

His thoughts ceased as he sensed another presence in the room with him. His eyes sought the room's darkest corners, seeking treachery. However, what he found was the detective's familiar form standing at the doorway, watching him. How had he missed him the first time he'd looked around? How long had he been there? Jim pulled himself up and looked quizzically at the other man. Sherlock straightened himself from where he leaned on the doorframe.

"You weren't at your desk. I found it odd for this time of day," the detective said with a shrug. The criminal glanced once more out the window, as if to confirm to himself once again that he had, in fact, been out of it for many hours. And when he looked back at the other man, he saw questions hanging within that angelic countenance. Damn. He shook his head ruefully, putting on an air of nonchalant nothing-is-wrong-or-odd-about-me. Then he hopped up from the lounger, stretching the kinks out from where he had been lying in one position for so extended a period, and buying himself time to plan his actions. He smiled at the taller man, deciding to play about as if nothing new had been decided upon. Nothing new had been developed or realized. It was so much safer that way... Distract him, he thought as he spoke finally.

"Did you miss me?" And Sherlock merely smirked in reply to this. Jim exaggerated a pout and strode over, tapping the other man on the shoulder as he passed. "Come on. I'm sure there's something around here to eat." The criminal clapped his hands together. "Ooooohh, and we can maybe watch another movie?" This earned him a full out eye roll as the taller man fell in beside him. Jim frowned. Well, they were definitely watching one now, the big git.

But before they made it through the second hallway, Jim felt a hand fall upon his elbow. He slowed and turned halfway to look. Sherlock had stopped a foot or so back, an expression upon his face that Jim thought at once he might die from. Aimed at the criminal's own gaze, it was a look of both deep concentration and introspection. Apparently, they had each done a bit of that today. But as the shorter man read the lines and planes of his face, the various subtle shifts, he saw that Sherlock had reached a very different conclusion from his own. He sighed internally and prepared himself to rebuff the other. Sure, the detective would find it odd, after Jim himself had been so forward in the past, but it was necessary. Not even a few weeks ago, the criminal would have never supposed this could have even been a possibility, a chink in his armor. His own Achilles' heel.

"Jim…?" came the soft inquiry, bringing him out of his thoughts. The criminal turned to fully face the other, keeping a blank look of disinterest across his features, hoping it would dispel the seeming courage that had taken hold of the detective. His face was set as it was when he met with clients. This was to be his own version of courage, and it entailed complete denial. Jim didn't need to answer the other man, as his expression asked 'what' for him. So Sherlock continued.

"There's something I…I mean…" Dark brows furrowed suddenly on the detective's pale features, as if he had lost the words. "I think…that is… I would like…to try something..." The blue-gray orbs stared earnestly across at him, and the taller man took a step closer, leaving only inches between them. Not intrusive, but well within their personal space boundaries.

"Sherlock…" Jim cautioned, his low voice a thundercloud of menace. He didn't want to deal with this now.

"No," the taller man replied, though he knew and recognized the warning for what it was. And realized also that Jim had already read him like no one else ever would be able to. The other man knew what Sherlock wanted but was set on pretending otherwise. He examined the criminal's face and body language, quickly reaching an interpretation. The shorter man knew what he wanted, yes…and feared it. Oh… Given what he had deduced about Jim's past, there was probably good reason for that…especially after having encountered his brother… Before, Jim's advances had been more about power and obsession…but now…now, there was something indefinable behind them. Something…more.

The detective reached out a hand to towards the other's face, and Jim turned away to try for an escape. The criminal thought if he was quick enough, perhaps this could drop, and then maybe the other would let it go. And he'd be safe…everything would be safe…

But Jim was stopped short by a firm hand on his shoulder that pulled him back to facing the detective, now with even fewer inches separating them, as the taller man had stepped forward to catch him. And the criminal despaired as he once again realized through that single casual touch that this man was the only person who could ever touch him without consequences. He remembered their words in the pool room so long ago.

No one ever gets to me….

I did.

Damn you, Sherlock Holmes, he thought, but without much force behind it now. This was his present, not his past. Focus. Don't react.

The detective tried again, lifting his hand slowly from its perch on the shoulder to hover right over the criminal's jawline, just out of contact. He spoke in a whisper, as if he would scare the other away with anything more forceful.

"Let me try…."

Jim heard the words as he stared into those celestial pools of eternity. He felt trapped in the gravity between their bodies, and it seemed to be growing stronger with each passing second, pulling them together. It felt inevitable. He had to get out of this. This wasn't safe any longer. It would only end badly. It would only hurt, and hurt, and hurt, and hurt… Something cool brushed against his cheek and came to rest beneath his jaw. His knees almost took him to the ground. Yessss…..

Oh, God…the fall…

It was nothing like what he had planned…..

Jim's eyes slid closed…..

…and he fell…

…..

Sherlock held all of the power in this one moment. Equal balances of creation and destruction rested just at his fingertips as they remained lightly under the criminal's jawline. He sensed it, and he knew the other had already acknowledged it…and surrendered to it. If he stopped now, then perhaps nothing would ever come of this. They would continue on, perhaps a bit awkwardly, but not fatally so. But…if…just if…he did…this… He brushed a finger back and forth, grazing the edge of Moriarty's throat, observing the affect he was having on the other as a flush came to the pale cheeks, and the pulse point in the neck beat faster. This could lead…somewhere new. Somewhere neither of them could have predicted or anticipated. And that, in itself, was amazing. And it was so, so…tempting…to try…

Just.

One.

More.

Touch.

And so he did, running his hand down along Jim's neck, earning a low, and surprisingly submissive, hum from the other man. Sherlock's vision drew down to one point, right there beside his fingers. Drawn to it as if he were a creature out of Moriarty's fairy tales, he leaned down, sliding the hand behind and into the shorter man's hairline, as the other hand moved to rest lightly on a hip. Jim held quiet beneath his touch as the detective's mouth came just over the tender length of skin along his collar. His breath warmed it, sending a thrill of electricity through the criminal's body as Sherlock spoke softly once more.

"Let me."

His lips closed over the chosen spot of Jim's neckline… And the criminal's previously thrumming body went still beneath him, like prey being taken by predator. But this prey welcomed the kill. And he hoped it would be oh, so bloody.

Sherlock's lips moved like silken sin along the column of Jim's neck. The man tasted of memories to the detective. Old and new. From their first teasing encounter, to the moments leading up to this. He even fancied he could taste the sunlight dancing along the shores of Ireland upon his tongue as it lathed its way up to the lone earlobe, which he took between his teeth and tugged softly, once, twice. Jim finally unfroze and brought his arms up to grip around the detective's waist tentatively, as if still fighting an internal battle of will. The hands slid around and pulled the taller man against him, unsure.

Sherlock released the earlobe and grazed his cheek against the other man's as he pulled back slowly. Jim's ever-present two-day stubble rasped against his own smooth features. And when he made contact with those teasingly honest brown eyes, he held motionless for a moment so that they breathed the same air, shared it, burned it. An invisible firestorm had erupted between them, an inferno fueled by endless passion and rage, the heat palpable in its intensity, threatening to burn them both if neither acted soon. And so they did, in tandem.

Jim's mouth crashed into Sherlock's as his previous paralysis seemed to lift, and his body was his own again. He grabbed at the detective's sides and pulled him harder against himself with an urgency that bespoke desperation and perhaps a touch of fear. The criminal then pushed him back against the wall of the hallway and began pawing at his jacket. But the detective caught his hands and tsked, pushing off and starting them moving towards one of the doorways, with Jim walking backwards, wrists held firmly by the other. His eyes were dark, so dark….

They crossed the border of the door and Sherlock tugged Jim sideways, catching him off balance. He stepped the smaller man softly to where his back was against the wall just inside the work room, then released his hold. The criminal was about to resume his previous attempt with the detective's jacket, but something in those blue-gray eyes held him static for a moment. Sherlock's hands both came up, with one to stop and rest over Jim's heart, and the other to his face.

Jim knew what the man before him was doing. He had watched it from afar as often as not. They had even played the game between them on purpose weeks ago. But for some reason, this time, when Sherlock Holmes stood so close, with his hands so gentle, and deduced him….he felt so utterly exposed. So filthy, so disgusting and unworthy, so…

The hands moved on his body once more, interrupting his tirade of shame. The one over his heart came to the opposite side of his face, and the detective shook his head so slightly that it may not have even happened at all. And that cupid's bow formed a soundless word, Stop. And Jim could have wept for the fool he was.

When Sherlock's lips met his again this time, it was soft and light, feather down and silk. A thumb smoothed its way back along Jim's cheek, and he sighed into the action. Sherlock may not know everything about him. But he knew more than anyone else now living. And here he was. Here they were. It was so ridiculously incongruous that they were doing this. So wonderfully chaotic. And the criminal's heart, usually neglected and dull, thrived under their shared actions. No, this didn't fix anything, but it was a start. It didn't erase the age old wounds that each of them shared, but it made them less noticeable. And it didn't change Jim's decision from a week ago…but it did reaffirm its necessity. He blinked his eyes open once, quickly, just to visualize his new world. This needed preserving, protecting…and there was only one way to accomplish that, he knew. And he would do it…but not today. Not tomorrow. But soon.

Jim brought his arms up to encircle the detective's shoulders and guide the kiss a bit more. The feel of even the fabric of the other man's clothing set his nerves to liquid, pulsing desire. And the need to tear at them and rend them from the skin beneath was almost overpowering. Jim had never felt this out of control. He, who prided himself on his ability to remain aloof and distant from anything he chose. He could stifle all feeling in an instant. And he did feel things, intensely. But unlike Sherlock, he chose to experience everything all at once, rather than to suppress it all. Thus, his unpredictability stemmed from the fact that he never knew which of the emotions would rise to the fore at any given time. It made for an interesting life.

But here and now, all of the waiting, the wanting, the hidden desires of his battered heart were revealed in all their ghostly relief. And he couldn't stop. It would have been smarter…safer. But he couldn't. This was beyond him; and his being, his very essence, lay in the hands of a man who had once been labeled an enemy. Now a…friend? Lover? No. Too paltry of words for what he felt here. He felt Sherlock's tongue sliding against his own. This was far too much for the idiocy of spoken words. The heat of their mouths and the all-encompassing knowledge and feel of another against himself burned his thoughts to ashes. Perhaps the gods, in their infinite wisdom and ultimate fallacy, would one day be able to place a label upon what passed between them here this night. As for Jim Moriarty, he no longer cared.

He grasped at the shoulders of Sherlock's jacket and had it slid halfway down the other's shoulders before he was once again stopped. And he growled at the interruption of his quest for what lay beneath that silken coat and shirt. But the removal of those lips from his own, and a hand to his sternum pressing him back, had him almost mewling in distress. He looked up in sudden terror that the detective had decided against this. But no. That look was still there, ever-present before, but so much clearer now. How had he ever missed that?

Jim saw the other man read the fear in his miniscule actions, and he tensed, defensive. But no, of course that wasn't necessary. Sherlock just looked down at him and slowly…carefully…removed his own jacket. Then he stepped against the criminal once more, reaching up to take his time in undoing the complex knot Jim had set his tie with. And as his fingers worked, every now and then brushing slightly against Moriarty's chest or neck, the deep baritone also flowed out of him. The detective kept his eyes on the knot as he spoke.

"James…" Jim winced at hearing his full first name. "No. Stop that, James. It's your name. Who you are." The tie slowly began to unravel beneath nimble fingers. "Stop rushing me…please. This is…something new to me. And…I think…to you, too. And therefore, it is special." Those glacial eyes jumped up to his own, sending a shiver of anticipation straight through Jim's chest. "You are special, James Moriarty. And you deserve so much better than a quick shag in a stolen home." The tie fell to the floor, and Sherlock started on the shirt buttons, with Jim mesmerized by his words, so unexpectedly kind. No one was ever kind... "But, as I have nowhere else to offer, we are stuck for location." A smile at this. "However," he continued, deeper this time, "I will not take you like some common whore." Those eyes burned through his own, leaving something molten and bright within James.

But still, the criminal balked at being someone's something special. Something treasured, something cherished. He knew himself, and he wasn't that, never to be that. He was dirty; a damned thing cut off from everything else whole and good in the world. Set to lashing out at anything that pretended otherwise. Because he had seen otherwise. He knew what happened when he cared, or was cared for in turn. And there was no recovering from the darkness that had settled within him from the first, and last, time this had happened. There was no bright and beckoning light for him at the end, only blood and burning, endless pain. And the hurt was only prolonged when you fought it.

He heard Sherlock's words echo round in his head. I will not take you like some common whore. But what if that was who he was…? All he was…? After all, he had started his life as a child whore, and people's life experiences molded who they eventually became. So then, was that what he would become? A whore again, just an older version? He felt like weeping, his denial at the detective's well-meaning words was breaking him. He couldn't take the silence in his head any longer, and so he spoke, seeking answers from someone else when he couldn't find them within.

"What if that's all I am? All I have?" Jim whispered, a world's suffering hanging within his words. And Sherlock saw it, caught it, and healed it. So simply. The taller man merely stared him down and then chuckled.

"You're an idiot, James." The criminal felt vibrations of the laughter roll out from the other man's chest, connected with his own now as the other closed the remaining inches. And the detective managed to fit a hand between them to settle just over Jim's straining heart, his deep voice flowing around them.

"No more pushing. We've all the time in the world...and I'll need it…" he motioned between them with his finger, tapping first his own chest and then back to Jim's, "…to pull you apart." Then he brought the same finger up under the shorter man's chin, leaving the last two buttons of the shirt tail forgotten. "Now then," Sherlock smirked, "I seem to have caught myself a criminal….what shall I do with him?"