A/N: Hey folks. Hope you enjoy this. I dedicate this chapter's inspiration to Revella, my own personal muse. Don't blame her for any typos or whatnot here, though, as real life has her in its clutches currently, so she couldn't proof this out for me. Oh well. Hopefully I won't disappoint! Let me know what you think. I tried to do a fine balance here of sex, angst, and quasi-fluff. LOL! It's hard to please everyone, because everybody has this preconceived notion of what it would be like for these guys. I can only follow the way I've had my characters develop, though, so please give me a pinch of interpretive leeway, if you could. ;)
"Now then," Sherlock smirked, "I seem to have caught myself a criminal….what shall I do with him?"
Water from the icy rivers of his homeland couldn't have tasted as sweet as the words Jim then stole from Sherlock's mouth. Perhaps the detective had been going to speak further…but no longer. Jim himself could barely breathe. How could anyone, after all these years, understand him so? He had searched his whole life for distractions…and here he had found not just a distraction, but a focal point for his entire being. His final problem fell away into a million grains of glittering sand as Sherlock's fingers resumed their work on the last of the buttons. What problem? He had every answer he would ever need right here in his arms, holding him in turn. It took a while for him to find his voice, but when he did, he remembered the detective's question.
And he answered…..definitively.
"Punish me," Jim gasped against their connected lips. And he felt a knee part his legs, allowing the taller man in closer still. Long artist's fingers slid along under his dress shirt as the last button was freed of its burden and those hands tugged at the plain white t-shirt beneath. The detective's cool touch against his feverish skin sent him into another fit of delicious shivering. Sherlock needed time to pull him apart? He could have it, all of it….all he had left. And he thought his mind might shut down when he heard the other respond to his request for punishment.
"Very well." And Sherlock slid two fingers down and around beneath the line of Jim's trousers at the front, pulling the criminal forward a bit while also flipping the buckle undone. Jim's mind was flashing alarms at him, blaring and urgent, warning him away from this interaction. But he turned them down, shut them off, and deleted them from his awareness, because this was…this was…. Oh… He felt the fabric shift and work its way down a few bare inches, just enough, and he was exposed to the detective's touch. The wild-haired man himself carefully disentangled Moriarty's fingers from his clothing, going down on his knees, and causing the criminal's own lower extremities to almost give out again at the sight of it. His breath becoming more ragged by the second, Jim observed every motion with the attention a condemned man gives the guillotine.
Sherlock gently wrapped his hand around the base of Jim's cock, stopping to look back up and be sure they were still okay. Jim's gaze locked with the lust-darkened one of the man on the ground before him. And the criminal recognized a beauty therein that he knew no other would ever know or appreciate; that they alone would always share and understand. And he spoke before thinking, running a hand lightly over curls and down across those angular features, swiping a thumb just above a cheek bone.
"Your eyes are the color of gravestones."
And then a moist heat enveloped the head of Jim's member, shocking him into throwing his head back with enough force to cause a minor concussion. But he didn't notice. He was beyond noticing anything but himself and Sherlock Holmes as the other man's tongue slid around and under, teasing a fire in his belly that had smoldered now for years. It took very little encouragement to fully ignite. Jim's hands found their way to the detective's hair, one holding tight, the other loose, as if he couldn't coordinate them properly. He almost lost all sense of what to do, what was right or wrong. With every passing minute, the man before him changed angles or pace or, or, something else wickedly frustrating but brilliantly sexual. The tempestuous murder being done to his cock by Holmes' sinfully talented tongue was bending him, breaking him…..and had to stop before….
Sherlock must have sensed it as well, as he performed one last devilish maneuver, fully settling the criminal's dick within his throat and then pulling back with a wet pop. Lips swollen from the vigorous activity, he steadied his balance with Jim's hips, and then unhurriedly stood, making sure that every available inch of himself was pulled against the other man as he did. He slid all the way upwards, knowing Jim could now feel just how aroused he himself had become from his little tease as his own burgeoning member made contact and friction against the criminal's thighs.
Upon reaching his full height, Sherlock ducked to claim the other man's mouth once more with his own, allowing Jim to taste a bit of his own pre-cum on the other's tongue. It was just the right kind of wrong, too, and the criminal moaned into the kiss. Jim reached his hand up to the detective's shirt collar, playfully fingering at the top button, and one of the men, maybe both, giggled at the seeming absurdity of their activity. Then James ripped his arm downwards, tearing the shirt in two places and scattering buttons everywhere. The detective grunted and looked at him in playful reproach; but the criminal just shrugged as if to ask, Really? You thought I wouldn't?
So Sherlock reached both arms down under James' backside and lifted him up to hold at waist level. The criminal's own legs reflexively arched around the taller man, and he smiled as his back bumped into the wall, and the detective's mouth found his throat once more, working its way down to his exposed clavicle. He gasped at the feeling. No one touched him! Oh, this was delicious…. He needed more. Much more…and he drug his nails across the other man's back in a plead for it. More more more…
He found himself suddenly grasped more tightly, and his back left the wall. His arms clung to the detective's shoulders as they began to move through the doorway and down the hall again, retracing earlier steps. He laughed as they passed one of his agents, sending the man a lascivious smirk. And when they reached his quarters, they discovered the door was shut. So Sherlock set them up against the wall to one side, reaching with one hand for the knob with straining legs beneath him. Jim turned his head to the side to stare into the face of yet another agent, this one positioned on the other side his bedroom door. The criminal ran a hand through those dark curls and pulled the detective's head back down to his neck. And through a haze of raging desire, Jim eyed the agent and mouthed the words, Leave. Now. And then he was too preoccupied with Sherlock's mouth to care.
The agent's shift was over quicker than a knife fight in a phone booth.
The door finally gave, and they passed through, Jim releasing his traveling mountain to place his feet on the floor and quickly lock the door behind them. The he turned to face Sherlock with a look of unimpeded heat and complete obsession, striding quickly back over to the taller man and seizing him by the shoulders. He pushed the other back into the bed, the detective almost falling but ultimately ending up merely sitting down fast. His hands clenched the coverlets in expectancy. Jim looked down at him, then gave an odd pirouette to the side, which ended up slipping his own dress shirt all the way off. His trousers still hanging loose about his waist, he gazed at Sherlock, feeling lightning building in his chest; and then shook his head. He almost laughed again.
"The shit you do to me, honey. I can't even…" His head shook side to side briefly, and then the criminal rushed the other man, knocking him back onto the mattress and leaving Jim straddling him from above. Sherlock's hands flew up to settle at the man's waist. The criminal breathed deeply and leaned back to trace a pattern only he could see upon that pale abdomen, contemplating the things he'd dreamt of for so long. He almost came just from the thought of them being made possible, made real. And he reached down to touch himself as he spoke once more, giving a light squeeze. "You really should see yourself." His other hand ran from the taller man's chest to crotch. "So beautiful…" he whispered. Then he looked up to meet the other's eyes, something else coming to rest behind his own, taking both hands and placing them on opposite sides of the man beneath him, and leaning down ever closer. "Can you make me like you, Sherlock? We're already so close…. Can you make me beautiful, too?"
Sherlock thought the words odd; but perhaps not, given the family history of the man before him. Self-worth was definitely not something cultivated within the Moriarty household. And the detective's arms came up around him, pulling him down, down, down, into an embrace. The taller man growled into Jim's neck as he held him firmly.
"Oh, Jim….but you are already. Your mind brings more intrigue and appreciation to my life than any aesthetic value ever could. You're like some fallen angel that I've managed to snare through trickery."
"Demon, more like," snorted James into dark curls. "You're the only one ever on the side of the angels here, my detective." And as if that statement reminded him of something, he sighed, seeming suddenly defeated. "I was never meant for such." His mind rebelled even as his heart grasped at smoke.
What am I doing?
I can't do this.
I can't do this.
Everything I touch, dies…
He'll see me for what I am.
Don't let him…
Sherlock tightened his grip suddenly, and flipped them, causing Jim's head to spin before he realized that it was now his back to the mattress, pinned. His wrists were held down by the detective's weight, but the smaller man had no fight in him. And Sherlock glared into the criminal's eyes, challenging him, daring him. He could sense the direction of Jim's thoughts, it seemed. Then, he let go the pressure on his wrists, and methodically worked the criminal's trousers and pants the rest of the way down, never breaking eye contact. He noted a slight tensing of musculature as he first began to remove the clothing, though. Fear? Insecurity? Of what? Hmmm….
Jim finished the job for him, agitatedly kicking them off and onto the ground. Then followed the white t-shirt. Here was his unveiling. Everything felt on display, not just his body. He'll see me for what I am… He shut his eyes at what he felt sure would be the last time Sherlock would ever want to have attempted this. How could he have forgotten his shame? It had been so long since he had had to remember this. Deal with this.
Jim's brother had left him with more than just psychological scars…
The body above him stilled, and Jim felt the fear well up. The rejection. The anger. But still he waited. Then he felt a gentle touch along his inner thigh. He knew the course it was traveling. Could predict it instantly. There was a light pink ridge that ran parallel for about eleven inches there. And others…so many others…
"Your brother?" Jim heard asked of him. And he nodded, eyes still closed as the fingers began to trace the many other paths and lines marked upon him like a sickening map of hatred. His past lying in stark contrast to his present. Always there, always waiting to reclaim him. He felt that soft touch pause at a slight indention just above his first two lower ribs. And Sherlock's voice registered once more. "This was…bad." Jim nodded.
"Mother took me to the hospital for that one. The only time I ever got to see a real doctor. My brother had wanted to see if his new knife could reach my heart." His fists tightened on the sheets under them. "It didn't. But it easily reached the first two lobes of my right lung." His eyes opened finally, staring at the detective above him as if challenging him to dispute his next words. "Better she had left me there on the road. She never said it, but it was there. In her eyes."
Sherlock had no idea what to say. The man beneath him was cruel and insane, and a murderer many times over. But also…he was…different… He was the detective's match intellectually, and in many other things as well. And while what they were sharing had to be so wrong on multiple levels, still….. Hadn't he heard once…something about the heart wanting what it wanted, or something…? Maybe that was what the saying had meant? He had thought it innocuous at the time, but it was becoming clearer now. Much so. He wanted this man in his arms. He didn't care about the past or any of his transgressions. They had all led to the creation of the person he now held so tenderly. And when he thought of it that way…he wouldn't change a thing. And he thought that that should probably worry him, but…no. He stroked a hand through Jim's already half-disheveled hair.
"All of this…" Sherlock gestured along the length of Jim's body, "…and all of this," he then tapped the criminal's forehead, "…is what makes you, you." He closed the distance and kissed the other man's temple, cheek, chin, and other cheek in turn. Then he pulled back to look him in the eyes again. "And though the rest of the world may have suffered as a result, I wouldn't change you…not. one. bit."
And Jim was speechless, motionless. Held captive by words he had never thought to hear, most especially not from the man who had uttered them. These scars, his stripes…only one other person had ever seen them. And even she had not understood. She had not made him feel any different for having them. But her eyes…her eyes held pity. And James Moriarty hated pity more than anything when it concerned his brother's tortures.
But here…looking up at the man on top of him, he found not pity….no… Sherlock looked down on his abused flesh as if were something to be worshipped. His long artist's fingers ran over the light ridges and indentations that lay scattered about him…exploring… Memorizing…the detective was memorizing him! Committing this to his memory forever. Because it wasn't horrible to him. It wasn't disgusting. And it wasn't to be pitied. No. If anything, Sherlock seemed fascinated as his hands traced over and over the lines marking Jim.
"Your body is like a crime scene…" whispered the detective, awe apparent within that light utterance. "One I could investigate…eternally." His hands alternated light and firm pressure over some few of the markings. "Beautiful. You…are my beautiful nightmare." Sherlock leaned down to hold his face within inches of Jim's own. "And I would dream you every night."
Jim surged up from under the detective and pulled him back down with him, crushing their mouths together with enough force to draw blood. Its metallic tang only added to the delicious fervor with which they seized at each other. Jim had no trouble ridding Sherlock of the garments covering his lower half, and the detective groaned as the last bit of clothing left his body. Never self-conscious, but certainly most eager to remove any and all barriers between them. They slid together perfectly in an embrace that held a world's worth of hurt and comfort, blessing and sin.
Sherlock's skilled hands made their way under and behind to Jim's shoulder blades while the other man's dug furrows along his back. Though the detective was by far the less experienced of the two, being what some would term a virgin, he seemed all the bolder as the sounds that Moriarty made at his points of contact ran through his blood like the sweetest of poisons. Jim, by contrast, was almost incapable of coherency in any form. He saw in Sherlock someone who saw him, saw him, and wasn't afraid. Wasn't disgusted. Didn't run away. Didn't leave. In fact, pulled him closer, ever closer. It was an impossibility made possible by the very man he had thought to kill so long ago.
There would never be another like this. Ever. Jim had loved Seraena, yes. But not like this…not like this. This was electric. It was explosive. It was…heh. It was dangerous…. And he loved it. Reveled in it, in what they had, what they shared. The detective's tongue ran along Jim's mouth once before retreating, and the criminal chased after it, instead nipping the lower lip it hid behind. He felt the smile that returned from that little flirt, and he smiled in turn.
Sherlock slowed a bit, pulling up for air to look Jim in the eye, communicating via an almost telepathic link that the detective had previously thought was only shared with Mycroft. But no, here it was also. Wait for it, wait for it… He continued to stare into those brown eyes until the understanding dawned in them.
"Oh… There." And a lazy gesture was made at the bedside table. The detective gave a quirky look of questioning as he reached across for the sought after item, and Jim merely shrugged. "Prepared for anything." Then he held up a hand in a time honored sign. "I'm like a naughty scout." Which earned him a much-deserved eye roll, his second of the day. Jim reached down to squeeze a pinch on the taller man's buttock. "I only allow insubordination from those who please me."
"Well then…I had better…please you…" came the reply as a trail of kisses began to wend their way down Jim's abdomen. His breath hitched when the other man reached the light beginnings of hair that led down, down, down…. Until suddenly those kisses began to work along his thighs, and Jim realized that Sherlock was tracing his scars by mouth. Heat flared within him at this, and his cock twitched beside the other's head, which earned it a mere ghost of a kiss itself. The detective leaned back with a smug look that reeked of "Look what I can do to you." And Jim hissed in frustration.
The detective's firm clench of the criminal's thighs brought him out of his disappointment, though, and Jim watched as Sherlock almost fell upon him, face to Jim's chest and then sucking hard at one nipple. A sharp gasp split the air as the taller man's tongue teased and flicked, while his grip on Jim's thighs tightened and became more insistent. The man had more self-control than Jim had imagined! As the criminal was almost undone by all of the actions, Sherlock just kept going, teasing and taunting with that wicked mouth. Who could have predicted that that sharp tongue could be so pleasing when put to other uses? But oh, God…it was….
The detective then released one thigh and reached to the side for the fallen tube, applying a bit to himself to rid the excess and then reaching for Jim. He may not be an experienced partner, but he had seen enough internet trash videos to have grasped that preparation was something that made these things somewhat more well-tolerated for the receiving party. However, he was halted by the criminal's hand, and a sharp look that told him to just stop.
"No, Sherlock." The criminal's voice was…indescribably dark. "I want it to hurt. I want it to burn me. I want you to burn me." And though the detective had no inclination towards causing pain to the other, the accented words left him no doubt as to their veracity. This was something that would take no arguments to the contrary. It was something needed…something…begged for. And so he obliged, but not quite in the violent manner that Jim was expecting.
The detective applied the lubricant the rest of the way to himself and then crawled slowly up to the other man's eye line, locking gazes as he calmly reached down and pushed Jim's legs apart a bit more and positioned himself accordingly. Once ready, Sherlock leaned down further and softly kissed his mortal enemy.
"If we are to burn tonight, then we should do so together." Then he resumed the kiss, and he pushed in…..ever, so, slowly.
James remained silent beneath him, eyes clenched shut as he found himself filled with the other man's presence even stronger than before. Was this what they meant all those times when he had heard fools utter such nonsense about finding completion and "being whole?" It must be. He felt himself reflexively start to breathe again once Sherlock stopped his forward motion deep within him. The kiss ended and the detective glided the tip of his nose over Jim's cheek, asking permission to continue. And Jim answered with no hesitation this time.
"Yes. God, yes."
And Sherlock moved within him. That was all Jim could think of to describe it. Sherlock Holmes had invaded him in every way a human could to another. And if he ever really considered it, he might become quite frightened at the prospect of it. So much power over him was held by this man above him. It would take so little to end him. End their game, if this even still counted as a game? He wasn't sure of anything anymore. Life itself was a game to James Moriarty. People, things, etc…all were just pieces on a board to him…except this… This made new rules. Changed the game. Nothing had ever changed the game before…
Sherlock held the criminal tightly as he found a steady rhythm that they both seemed able to handle with ease. The other man's breathing told him all he needed to know about the mindset of its owner. This man was truly defeated here; though, the detective was far from unaffected. His senses were aflame, and the hot, tight heat surrounding him had him biting back words that he had never thought to express before. It was…exhilarating. Intoxicating. Sweat had begun to run down his body…both their bodies. It caused their already feverish skin to slide along each other with a new urgency.
Sherlock smoothed back a sweat-slicked lock of Jim's hair that had fallen across his equally perspiring brow. God, the sight of the man! Had he no idea how stimulating, how intriguing, he was? It was almost inconceivable! But no. There had been no guile in Moriarty's eyes during this entire experience. Jim hated himself, truly hated himself. And it seemed that his genius mind could find no better outlet to lash out at than the world in general. That kind of darkness…it would never heal. Not completely. The twisted core would always be there, growing new roots. And suddenly, the detective felt a thrum of something hot and close blister through him. Oh….
Jim found himself suddenly pulled up awkwardly onto the detective's lap, and the taller man set one foot to the floor. And then the other. Oh God, what was he doing? And the criminal felt himself pulled up with Sherlock in an ungainly crouch that straightened and moved to the wall beside the mattress, where Jim's back smacked into it, causing the lamp on the bedside table to fall over and crash to the floor. It went unnoticed by the pair, who were now caught up in the feeling up Sherlock slamming up and into Jim as he pinned him against the wall.
Jim's mouth hung open, and he breathed hard and fast, never enough air to be sufficient for his needs. His back was pressed repetitively into the smooth surface behind him, as he sucked along the detective's neck, leaving a trail that might be very visible tomorrow. His fingers pulled hard at the taller man's backside, squeezing almost painfully and pulling the other man deeper and deeper still. He yelled out at the glorious sensations washing through him, unable to stifle the eruption. But so, too, did the detective who fucked him so vigorously call out.
Then Jim changed tactics, placing his hands behind him against the wall and pushing away, causing Sherlock to stumble. Then the detective growled and forced them back to the wall, this time a few feet to the side of where they had been. Jim's hands flung out as he crashed against the cool paint. And his fingers tangled into fabric from the curtains. Another hard thrust from Sherlock, and Jim accidentally yanked the curtains and rod down next to them. He would have laughed, but he felt. too. damn. good. He bit at the other man's throat, rasping his name once, twice, and then lost it as the third thrust came. He couldn't even speak his own name anymore, much less someone else's.
The detective sensed how close he was bringing the other, and himself as well. His eyes briefly searched and found a writing desk in the chamber, and he carried his lover over to it at once, laying him back and down onto it. Case files of Jim's own, foreign documents, and murder scene photos used as proof of a job well done were scattered and smashed as their tryst ended up on top of them all. Sherlock barely noticed a photo of the body of a man with a bullet hole in the right chest wall lying next to his hand as he pumped harder and harder into the criminal, becoming uncoordinated in the process of his own unraveling.
Jim attempted to reach up and grasp at something, anything, to keep a slight hold on reality, but all he managed was to send his laptop hurtling over the edge to the ground. No matter. Always a backup. He'd have a new one in the morning. His hands returned to their quest for flesh and found the taller man's chest to be adequate territory, sliding them over the sweat slick surface. He continued to breathe, at least he thought he did, and then gave a sharp noise of surprise when Sherlock changed angles on him.
The detective was going. Any time now. And he could see Jim was there, too. Just a little more then… The taller man reached down and grasped the straining cock that was throbbing against his belly and began to torture it with timed strokes that had the criminal clawing at him, moaning, and saying things in Irish that Sherlock was quite sure weren't even real curse words. He leaned in and licked the sinful words from those lips, couched on a mouth that had ordered murders of the blackest sort. Hands that had committed nearly every sin flew along the lines of his body, and Moriarty writhed with him.
One minute, they fought the climb into ecstasy…and then, like a happy accident, they fell over, together. A million and one stars couldn't have equaled the brilliant display of energy that released between them. There was no world existent except their own for quite some length of time as they plunged in tandem. Moriarty's hot cum splashed along their close-pressed bodies, smearing as they still moved together in the aftereffects. Sherlock's own seed spilled inside of the criminal's body, giving him the odd feel that a part of him would always be there inside the other.
And he was right…. Just not in the more literal sense of the meaning. Jim both cursed and praised this thing they had done together. More beautiful than any job he had ever created or completed. More captivating than any mathematical or scientific theory. And far, far more addictive than any substance that had ever been sold from the branches of his network. Sherlock Holmes had infected him, body, mind…heart? If he still was possessed of one, then surely. But sometimes, even he still couldn't tell. Though panting there with the detective collapsed against him, he could almost believe in those things. Almost see that he could have them, that he deserved them.
But no.
He didn't.
And this…he opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling…this was forbidden him. Absolutely. Every gentle tenderness done him here tonight was to be erased. Had to be. Else everything yet to come would only be made all the more difficult. So… He sighed and closed his eyes tightly, curling his fingers into the other's skin. He couldn't do it. Couldn't erase it. Couldn't… Or wouldn't? It hardly mattered. Apparently, his mind didn't care about the suffering of what was left of his heart. Damn.
Then he felt the detective's grip shift on him, scooping him back up into the other's arms to carry back to the bed. Jim might have cried out at the shock of Sherlock finally sliding out of him, but he was still so lost in the inundation of aftershocks that he couldn't figure how to set the sound free. And he shortly after felt his back hit the covers of the mattress, the detective leaving for just a short venture into a closet and re-emerging with cloths. He had already made a quick job of wiping himself down, and he then set to Jim's defenseless body. It was an altogether odd, but not totally displeasing, thing to have someone else do for you like this.
The criminal then watched the other man crawl in bed next to him, drawing Jim into his arms; and he returned the embrace, placing his head on the pale expanse of chest. Both were lost in thought apparently. The usually loquacious detective was silent. Jim couldn't see his eyes, but he could almost feel the other's mind working round and round, trying to make sense of the senseless.
Sherlock had never experienced this level of attachment to another before, and it…frightened him. Excited him. He wanted to explore every bit of it. Run down every available piece of information he had garnered. It was as if he had come upon mankind's greatest experiment and had been given his choice of research method. There was nothing more important to him at this moment in time than discovering more about this man he held in his arms now. He kissed the criminal's hair several times, slowly, as he rolled these thoughts over and over in his head. He didn't want to speak of it just yet, it was still too soon, too sacred to be broken by the harsh sound of a human voice. And so he remained silent, just feeling…holding. And he began to drift off in short order with his thoughts. Post-coital drowsiness, he brought up from his limited sexual information repertoire. Almost immediate onset of fatigue and the need to rest. Read about it once for the case with the lady of the ugly suits, she had only…one real chance…at an alibi...
He trailed off as he drifted. Sometimes resurfacing to his contemplations of Jim, and other times left him touching on almost any topic possible. One such surfacing had him wondering about human emotions. One in particular. Some would argue it the most complex of them all. The detective recognized certain signs and symptoms of the particular ailment, and he sized it up clinically. Being generally accepted as true by him, he held love and hate to be one and the same. And he could see evidence of one or the other throughout he and Moriarty's interactions since day one. Ah, but signs…symptoms… He pondered drowsily. Generally the subject would feel warm and comfortable. A certain lightheadedness was not uncommon. And then there was the strong sense of loyalty and the desire to be together, always. His eyes were getting heavier, mind slowing.
Jim felt warm and comfortable. And yet, he also had a certain giddiness, perhaps likened unto being lightheaded. And as he ran a hand smoothly over the rise of Sherlock's hip, he felt a fiercely loyal, almost possessive, emotion seize him. And as he gazed at the rising and falling chest before him, he knew he would give anything for them to be together, always. Though no amount of wishing could make it true, still, there it was. He could sense the other man's thought patterns as if they were his own. Jim felt Sherlock's grip loosen slightly as the other man began to drift off, and he felt the detective's breath move against his skin as the baritone rolled after it.
"Jim?" Silence greeted the detective, because the criminal anticipated the following words. "Jim…I've been thinking. Considering…paths, and choices…" There was a pause and a rustling of fabric as the detective pulled the coverlets a bit higher and tighter around them. "And, I think…after much consideration…..I think I could be…that is….that maybe..I lo…"
A finger was pressed up quickly over Sherlock's lips, effectively silencing the speech flowing from it. Jim closed his eyes. Sometimes he wished he weren't so good at reading people, especially this man. A solitary tear made its way down his cheek, out of the taller man's line of sight. Jim Moriarty did not cry. Had not cried since he was a very small child. He knew the detective probably had deduced this about him, and so he was glad the small tear went unheeded. Or did it? He had to wonder about the other man's knack for simply knowing things…so much like his own. He wriggled closer in to the detective, keeping his hand firmly where it was until the other's breathing changed. Love? Me? He almost shook. I've stolen this. Through drugs and…torture…and deception. All of this could be false. Based on the lies I've woven. He choked on his own thoughts. Running a hand down Sherlock's back, he thought, And the only way to know….. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, body tensing. Love? The criminal wrapped his arms tighter still, and whispered against the slumbering detective's chest.
"No….you don't."