Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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ִ ࣪𖤐 Thank you for reading this fic, I have made a playlist to go along with it as I often do. It's made to aid in the reading experience so feel free to listen while you read. Some of the songs may contain spoilers (if you know what you're looking for) but just ignore that for now haha. Enjoy! ִ ࣪𖤐

Symphony Of The Serpent Playlist

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┊         ┊       ┊   ┊    ┊        ┊  .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚   .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚  .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚  .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚  .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚  .𖥔 ݁ ⊹  ┊             ┊    ┊         ┊        ┊              
┊         ┊       ┊   ┊   ˚★⋆｡˚  ⋆                                                                                                        ˚★⋆｡˚  ⋆┊   ┊         ┊        ┊      
┊         ┊       ┊   ⋆                                                                                                                            ⋆   ┊          ┊        ┊     
┊         ┊       ★⋆                                                                                                                                  ★⋆         ┊        ┊   
┊ ◦      ┊                                                                                                                                                          ┊      ◦ ┊
★⋆      ┊ .  ˚                                                                                                                                                 ˚ . ┊      ⋆ ★
           ˚★⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀                                                                                                                                   ★˚⠀

Glistening sunlight burned through the sheer curtains like the flaming feathers of a Phoenix. It illuminated the dark velvet, gold, and crystal-draped parlour. Venus Flytraps danced in the streaming rays, perking their flat heads toward It's source. 

Jim Moriarty was lonely. He'd rather die than admit it, but on quiet mornings like this, the truth was inescapable. He was forced to acknowledge the curious prick in his skin. Was he alone in this world? That horrid question had made a home for itself in his unwelcoming mind. 

"What are you doing moping over there? Come eat the stew I made you," called Sebastian Moran, his clingy right-hand man. 

"I don't need your handouts."

His refusal was swiftly ignored, and soon Sebastian was before him, blowing on a spoonful as if he were a petty child. Jim curled into his ruby seat with a cold glare as it hovered in front of his lips. 

"Oh please, you're as thin as a sheet of parchment and by the looks of it you haven't left the house in weeks, what kind of friend would I be if I didn't try to force some food in ya'?" Soon, the spoon of cooled stew was shoved in his mouth. Jim, with much annoyance, swallowed. "There, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Okay, so maybe he was being a tad dramatic. He wasn't completely alone, Sebastian had made sure of that, but when it came to intellect, he had yet to meet his match. As much as he tried, Sebastian couldn't see the world he did. He listened to his ramblings with awe, not understanding. It didn't take long for the praise to get boring. 

"Why are you here, Seb? Like I said, I'm not sick, I'm not secretly dying, and I don't need any help. I just got a little caught up in my studies." 

"A little?" Sebastian raised a brow, "You have a solar system where the carpet used to be, and I found a dead Fox in your icebox. I am sure this place is riddled with rats by now." 

"And here we go again! I told you that Fox was an experiment." 

Sebastian stepped over the many books and notes scattered across his floor and tried to avoid stabbing himself in the foot with an abandoned quill. "I don't know how you can live like this."  

"It's all very important and organized, so don't touch anything."

He nodded lazily before plopping down on the loveseat and unfolding his newspaper, "Oh, I'm sure." 

Jim watched him quietly, the way his golden locks shone in the dampened sunlight like fallen autumn leaves, how his crooked teeth bit down on his bottom lip and rolled it between them. His eye caught a glimpse of a face plastered on the back of the newspaper he held. Its dark curls were like swirls in a Van Gogh. The man hadn't stuck around for a proper portrait, resulting in a crude sketch.

"Who's that?" 

Sebastian followed his gaze, "Hm? Oh, Sherlock Holmes. Calls himself a consulting detective." 

Birdsong echoed through whistling leaves and snuck through the open window. Jim, already bored with his inquiry, glanced outside. The singer was nowhere to be found, but a murder of cawing corvids perched on the branches of a large oak in the front lawn. They threw their angular beaks to the side to reveal strangely human eyes. Irises of blue, brown, and green. He watched them dig their inky talons into the roof and poke their beaks between the shingles. If he were any good with a paintbrush, he'd make stroke after stroke trying to emulate their otherworldly beauty. 

He envied their freedom. For if he had wings, he'd fly far away and find a comfortable place to rest for a while in the forests of old. That sounded peaceful.

Sebastian left not long after with an impolite chug of his tea as if it were cold whiskey. With him gone, Moriarty retreated to his bedroom. He collapsed into the warm sheets and allowed his headache to lull him into a deep sleep.

Tap...tap...tap...

Moriarty rubbed his face into the cold comfort of his silken pillows. His white blouse slipped off his shoulders as he pressed his body into the sheets and forced himself back into dreamland. 

Tap...tap...

"What!?" He roared, throwing his head toward the window in question. 

Another pebble hit its foggy exterior, and Moriarty finally got to his feet, propping open the window to peer down at his tormentor.

Sebastian dug his boots into the muddy grass with a smug grin, "Evening, care for a stroll?"

Sebastian led him through the empty midnight streets with the cheerfulness of a man with nothing to fear. Eventually, he was led to a small alcove overlooking the coast. The waves glistened under the moonlight with raw elegance. Sebastian brought his hand up to cup the one hugging his forearm, dragging his fingers over every bone and vein. Moriarty allowed the touch for a while, finding comfort in its gentle embrace, until finally he grasped the hand and hovered it before his lips, placing a gentle kiss to the cold skin.

He had the hands of a survivor, a soldier. It was a rare occurrence they sat still, and yet under his sole affection, the shaking slowed. After a moment, he dropped it and left their bubble of comfort to lean against the stone fence overlooking the water. He allowed the salty wind to brush past his face with a hesitant smile. 

"So, was it worth it?" 

He scoffed, "I suppose." 

Sebastian joined him by the edge and looked out at the sleepy seagulls, "I'm glad I could get you out of that damn house, it's eating you alive. A monster of your own creation, but a monster I'm willing to kill for you, just as I always have." 

His smile grew, "My brave knight. You don't always have to fight my battles for me." 

"You've fought enough." 

Tilting his head down, he caught a glimpse of the street directly below. There was a large group chatting under a solemn lightpost. He could feel the tension emanating from the scene. Eventually,  a stretcher was wheeled out of the darkness, holding a cloth-draped body. 

"See something interesting?" 

"Is that him? The detective from the paper." 

The two watched the mysterious figure as he examined the body. He brought his magnifying glass close to the victim's face with a scrunched nose and lifted its slack eyelids. 

"I'd assumed so," Sebastian began, "he sure has an odd way of doing things." 

In the glow of a smoking lantern, Moriarty caught a glimpse of the man's face again, when suddenly, nausea struck him. Somewhere in his mind, a lock snapped off, and a door to previously forgotten memories swung open. With a gasping breath, he stumbled back. Disbelief clouded his vision. It couldn't be, could it?

Sherlock...with his long overcoat and cool demeanour, that Sherlock, the Sherlock.

How...interesting.

Chapter Text

The stench of death and peroxide filled the dark morgue. Stone walls that held warmth like a tomb were their only solace as Mr.Hooper, previously known as Miss Hooper, worked tirelessly on the cadavers. One specifically was of interest tonight, being carted in by Scotland Yard late yesterday with a certain detective they had grown to know quite well by now. 

Mr. Sherlock Holmes. A sophisticated man in exterior only, often searching every inch of their cadavers with little shame or thought given to the social norms of England. If they hadn't known better, they would have said he was some strange foreigner, but alas, he was born here just as Mr.Hooper was. 

His odd way of dealing with the dead wasn't their only strife with the detective, as he seemed to be the only one to detect their female origins. Though he had never outed them to their colleagues he didn't mind poking fun at their fear of discovery, much to Hooper's annoyance. Though they were glad they could trust Mr.Holmes with that information, however against their will. 

Hooper was finishing the last touches on their notepad that late afternoon, scribbling their additions to what Mr.Holmes had observed with little of the reverence his yes-men had. He always seemed to enjoy that about Hooper, though, which only made them ruder.

As they were tapping the tip of their ink pen on the glass bottle, however, they heard a knock on the old wooden door. It was rare that one would approach the entrance of such a facility this late at night, usually, people thought this place a ghost party at this hour, which only led to one conclusion. It was either Mr.Holmes himself, his dog Watson, or someone equally as mad as the two of them. 

Hooper placed down their notepad and ink pen and walked toward the door, turning the rusted handle with a leather glove and swinging it open to see the owner of the knock. 

Surprisingly, it hadn't been their first two guesses, the third being more applicable to the young man before them, no older than themself. He had hair as black as the night among them and eyes as large and dark as a puppy. He would have looked rather unassuming if it weren't for the expensive-looking suit he wore. What a man of his supposed status wanted with a morgue in Central London in the dead of night was beyond Hooper. 

"You are a curious one, aren't you, miss. Or do you prefer mister?"

"How did you...how do you know who I am?" 

"Sorry, sorry, I am simply observant. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jim, I have recently graduated from Oxford with a degree in Biology, and I would love to study under you if you would allow my assistance." 

The man didn't look like one would imagine if his story were true. Sure, he had the outfit, he had the fresh-faced body of a new graduate and the trembling hands of a man asking for such a request, but something in his eyes didn't look right. Those dark disks stared up at Mr.Hooper a few steps above with a glistening curiosity, not for supposed experience, though, for their entire being. Jim looked at Mr.Hooper like they were something spectacular rather than an ordinary citizen just like everyone else. 

"Oh..." Mr.Hooper pushed their hair back and wiped the sweat from their exhausted brow, "I suppose I could use the help. I must ask, though, what interest do you have in a morgue of all places? It's hardly the place for an upcoming scientist." 

Jim laughed softly, bringing their attention to the man's mouth, which had been dappled with something sweet and red. He bit his bottom lip with a smile, "If I'm honest, I'm quite fascinated with the dead. Sure, the live specimens are fascinating, but there has always been something interesting about the former that I can't seem to shake. Must be my interest in Egyptology." 

"Well, that's certainly odd, but I won't deny a man of work when I'm so swamped. Come in." 

Hooper allowed Jim to step inside the small building and shut the door behind them. In the candlelight of the Morgue, they could see him far clearer. They ushered the man toward the body that had been rolled out yesterday evening. It lay bare on the cold slab next to an array of tools and notes. 

"A murder?" Jim asked, the paleness of the cadaver's complexion and the bullet hole between its eyes gave it away, "shot between the brows." 

Hooper smiled and gathered their papers from the stretcher, "It was brought in by Scotland Yard late last night, they suppose it was a hit. Well...one of them does."

"Mr.Holmes?" 

They glanced at Jim with an incredulous look in their eyes, "How did you-"

Jim smiled cheekily, "Observant."

They sighed, handed the stack of notes to him and leaned against the stretcher with pursed lips, "If you're so observant, then, tell me what you think." 

Jim eyed the words carefully, rubbing his thumb over the letters handwritten with a delicate caution. Mr.Holmes wrote with a certain realness that demanded respect from anyone who read it. As if he knew the answers to every question one could ask. He had to admit, though, the notes were surprisingly intelligent. He was able to gain so much information in such a short amount of time it was almost incredible. 

"He said the victim was killed in an act of robbery, but I'd say he was killed for a far simpler reason. He was a Napier." 

Hooper furrowed their brow, "What does that have to do with anything?" 

Jim smiled, "The Napiers recently alerted Scotland Yard to a Flashhouse in East London, they must have had a hit on their back ever since. It's possible they stole some of his riches, but that was definitely not the cause of this killing." 

He bit his tongue so as not to say too much in the way of his knowledge of London's Flashhouses and Hitmen. Judging by the look on Hooper's face, he assumed he hadn't blown his cover. Jim carefully placed the notes down and bit his lip again. 

"Fascinating...write that down below that section, it'll be a treat to see Holmes' face when he realizes he was wrong." They laughed, and Jim couldn't help but join, grabbing the ink pen from its holder and jotting down his thoughts below Holmes' writing. The first record of his existence in this cold morgue, an act which Jim hoped wouldn't be a mistake. 

Mr.Hooper sighed and pushed themselves off the metal stretcher, "Well, it's rather late now. If you come back in the morning, I might have some things to keep you busy, yeah?" 

Jim extended his hand for Hooper to grab and shake, "deal." 

And so he forced himself out on the streets again and promised to come back come morning light. Pressing his expensive boots into the wet cobblestone and walking his way home. 

The second Napier brother was killed that night. Lying dead before a smashed window, surrounded by a ring of glass and blood. A servant found him early the next morning, and the police arrived not long after. 

When Jim arrived at the Morgue, the body was lying on a cold metal slab in the middle, the centrepiece on a table of the dead. 
Pale complexion, tensed hands, open mouth. Shot in the chest. 

Hooper had been sitting on a small metal stool by the body, one leg over the other, tooth-biting bottom lip. The faint darkness under their eyes meant they hadn't slept much that night. Jim had to wonder when they arrived. 

"Will they ever let me sleep?" they sighed. 

Jim laughed softly, "Been here all night?" 

"Something like that." Hooper, or as Jim had found out, Molly stared silently at the body for a moment before speaking again, "They brought him in the dead of night, woke me up too. I was already down here, so I thought I might as well check it out." 

Jim approached and placed His fingers delicately against the cold slab, leaning over the body with a vacant look. "The second Napier brother. Two out of three, they've been quick." 

Molly looked up at him, "How did you...?" Jim simply smiled, and she decided his answer would probably be the same as last time, observant Jim, clever. Reminded her of a certain detective who-

The door suddenly slammed open and in charged a probably too-excited Sherlock Holmes, strutting into the morgue. John waved to the two by his side. 

"Ah, there he is. I see the family resemblance." Sherlock approached the cadaver and stood himself next to Jim, eyeing the man with a faint smile, "And who do we have here?" 

Jim smiled, his dark eyes vacant as ever as they stared back into Sherlock's own, "You must be Sherlock Holmes, I've heard all about you." He took a step toward the detective, "Jim. I will be working under Mr.Hooper from now on." 

Young, well-dressed, undoubtedly handsome. Judging by the smudges of ink on his left wrist and the circles under his eyes, he had been writing all night. Sherlock wondered if the two had stayed in the morgue since the body had been discovered. Besides his intriguing looks, nothing of note stood out to Sherlock, so he simply greeted him with a smile and returned his gaze to the cadaver. 

It was just as he had expected, the same wound in the same spot. He had taken the second, and the third was soon to come. Normally, Sherlock wouldn't involve himself in these sorts of cases, open and shut sorts, but it was clear to him now that the Napiers were being targeted due to their attack on a group's Flashhouse not long ago. But Sherlock had an inkling this was larger than originally anticipated. 

The crime group called themselves the Phantoms and operated in much of South London. If he could lead this back to them, he would be that much closer to cracking down on the group. 

"Do you have the bullet?" Sherlock asked, aiming his question at Jim, who still stood next to him. The man seemed startled at the sudden question, but quickly regained his composure and walked over to a small table where the bullet lay next to the surgical tools Molly had used to extract it. 

Jim carefully picked it up and brought it over to him. It was still slick with blood, some of which had dried into a crusty brown. The low-cut blouse he wore was thin and a bit oversized, leading it to fall down one of Jim's pale shoulders when he placed the bullet in Sherlock's palm. 

For a moment too long, his eyes lingered on that soft-looking skin before Sherlock blinked and returned his attention to the bullet. 
"5.77, we are dealing with a pistol here. They climbed onto the roof of the neighbour's house, so we are dealing with an agile young man and," Sherlock dragged his index finger along the black casing, feeling every groove and bump. A single hair stuck to his now blood-tainted finger, "a blonde." 

 
Jim's heart beat fast, faster than he had ever felt it. His mind drummed with each pulse. He was just as he had imagined him, tall, handsome, and clever. Brown ringlets like endless flowers, hands tense and angular, and those eyes...he couldn't remember if he had seen them before, but now he was sure, they stuck in his mind like an old memory worn with time. They were just as beautiful as they had been all those years ago. 

He stood still, painfully tense. It was as if this mysterious man was Medusa in disguise and cursed him to stone. He couldn't even focus on the evidence Sherlock picked with such fine precision.

Sherlock looked up from the bullet in his palm and gave Jim an incredulous look. His gaze trailed along the soft skin exposed against pale cotton and up his thin neck to see the man's large eyes, irises black, forever watching.

"Have we met before...Jim?" 

The man let out a soft laugh and swallowed. His hand, at first placed against the cold metal slab, fell into the other and rubbed them together. "I don't believe so." 

Sherlock bit his bottom lip. "Odd." 

Hooper approached the cadaver and began lifting the white sheet back over its still form, "Are you done here? I don't want you tampering with the body. The family has decided to take some photos before we bury him." 
Sherlock tsked, "Yes, yes. Do as you must, Hooper." 

He wandered over to John and placed the bullet back on the small table, "I think it best to stake out at the third Napier brother's residence. If we are lucky, he will be coming for him tonight, and we can catch him in the act. A Phantom will be hard to catch, slimy as a weasel, bring some protection." 

Jim perked up, "You think he's a Phantom?" 

The two looked back at Jim with parted lips, they hadn't expected him to have heard them, let alone know what they had been talking about. 
Hooper stepped in with a sly smirk and placed a hand on Jim's shoulder, "he's an 'observant' one. Put the flashhouse connection together as soon as he saw the corpse." 

Jim bit his lip and smiled awkwardly at the two.

Sherlock nodded, "Fascinating." He opened his mouth to speak again when he was interrupted by the door creaking open.

A tall man, strong and tense, welcomed himself inside and headed straight for Jim. He rustled his blonde hair and scowled, "You out of the house by noon and interacting with people? This is certainly a surprise. What the hell are you-"

Jim's eyes grew wide, and he quickly bombarded the man, placing two hands on his chest and pushing him away. "What are you doing here? Didn't you see my note, you absolute-" he stopped himself, sending a polite smile to the three staring at them, "I mean, what are you doing here...friend? Shouldn't you be sleeping?" He said with a thinly veiled threat.

"I was bringing you breakfast." Sebastian rolled his eyes and placed a jar of what looked like soup and a cloth-covered bun in his hands. "You're welcome!" 

Jim sighed and turned to the three, "Sorry, he usually doesn't burst in like this." 

Sherlock smirked and sent a look to John, who didn't seem to understand his meaning. He came closer to the two, leaving John behind. 
"How sweet." 

Jim quickly unwrapped the bun and shoved it in his mouth, taking a bite. "There! I ate some now get!" He pushed an annoyed Sebastian toward the door. 

Sebastian held it open for a moment, "Jim?" He raised his brows at the man, who simply rolled his eyes. He then turned his attention to Sherlock, "Make him eat that, will you? I don't want him passing out." 

Jim groaned something unintelligible before successfully forcing Sebastian out with a "goodbye!" 

Sherlock smirked at him as he leaned against the wall next to the door. He inquired about who the two were to each other, but of course wouldn't expose that information out loud. It only served to make an otherwise uninteresting man into something a little more intriguing, at least for a moment. 

"Quite a friend he is." Jim sighed and glared at Sherlock, who simply smiled, "Say, what is a man of your status doing in a place like this? Shouldn't you be in a university somewhere, discovering gravity?" 

The two stared at each other for a moment, and Jim looked behind him to see if John and Hooper were listening; luckily, they had joined in their own conversation. He brought his gaze back to Sherlock and came a little closer, "curious." 

Sherlock nodded and his smile widened, "I see, we are alike in that."

"We are alike in quite a few things, Mr.Holmes," Jim leaned in and brought his lips towards Sherlock's ear, "say...do you like to dance?" 

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He drew his black leather shoe against the marble flooring and tapped in place before bringing his hand out and looking down at the reflective surface. Sherlock stood tall as he slid his hand against Jim's waist, drawing his other toward where his lay outstretched and intertwining their fingers. He heard a scoff from behind him, John no doubt, but ignored it and began the waltz. Two steps to the right, then a spin to the left. Jim was clearly well-trained, whereas Sherlock had a bit of work to do, but he was quick to lead him to the next position.

As the music trilled, he stopped and lifted his and Sherlock's intertwined hands in the air, twirling beneath them. The few seconds the space between them closed seemed to draw on four hours as his large black eyes sank into Sherlock's own. He felt his breath catch as he watched him in awe.

The glint of the candlelight against his silver moon mask made him look paler than a swan feather with pupils and dark as the night sky, which never seemed to look away, always watching, always aware. Sherlock couldn't help but feel fascinated by him. He wanted to watch him for days on end and study those eyes like he was some exotic creature trapped in the smog of London rather than its native habitat.

The fast pace of the music chimed with the quickening beat of his heart, and soon enough, the dance was coming to an end. Jim moved with such elegance and grace that it caught him completely off guard to see him scurry up and close the gap between their chests. Arms nearly touching as they lay fully outstretched, their noses inches from each other.

Sherlock's lips parted ever so slightly with a cold breath. It felt far too easy to turn his head the smallest bit up and press his trembling lips against-

The music ended, and applause rippled throughout the crowd of people, calling out phrases Sherlock couldn't hope to understand in the moment. He released his hands from the embrace of Jim's and took a step back. After a hesitant bow, he slowly walked back to John on the sidelines. 

He wore an appalled grimace, clearly shocked at Sherlock's fascination. Only a face a non-scientist would wear, not aware of the specimen before them, and that's all he was tonight...a scientist. 

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'Dear,

I hope you aren't startled by my leave. If I could, I would spend the whole day in bed with you, but I cannot. I still have many questions, and I imagine you have demands, but let us leave those for another day. I won't tell your secret; you can trust me on that. I hope you grace me with your presence soon, I will be waiting. x

-S.H.'

It was rational. Perfectly rational, and yet that didn't make him feel any better. The letter with its ink etched, tear-soaked paper flesh sent nothing but horror through his core. Horror for his future, for their shared past, for everything. He should have been glad he had left; after all, Sherlock was nothing but a warm body to him. A mistake he had allowed to happen. He shouldn't have cared, yet here he was, piercing his teeth into his pink bottom lip, feeling it quiver as he forced his tears back inside. He wasn't a child, he had never been a child, and yet he was crying. Only children cried.

With a roar, the paper was sent flying, and his legs hit the hard floor. A surge of energy pulsed inside of him, aching to get out. An instinct was crawling through him. It escaped as he threw his arm against the floor. A sharp crack reverberated through his bones. Hardly a sob left his now bleeding lips.

"What are you doing!?"

Sebastian's voice cried out into the bed chamber. He sounded genuinely horrified, it was almost funny considering what he'd seen the man do. He heard his stomps approach and rip him from the ground.

His arm was limp in Sebastian's grasp; he could hardly feel it. Pain, all too familiar, pulsed gently under his skin. The indentations of his friend's digits sank into the beginnings of bruises, sending shockwaves up his system. He shivered fervently.

Sebastian was rambling on about taking him to a physician again. Did he ever stop? He just had to come and ruin his moment with sick sympathy.

His back hit the bed, and his arm was propped up. Head spinning, arm pulsing, lips twitching.

"Look what you've done, look at it!" Sebastian gestured to it but didn't dare touch the thing again, "You're ruining yourself!"

Moriarty mumbled out a moan and pressed his head against the pillow. A flicker of that horrible sympathy spread across Sebastian's face. He inched a little closer, "Just rest. I'll have a physician come at noon." Another moan and Sebastian responded with a growled sigh, "I have to get you help for this! Bruises are one thing, broken bones are-"

"It's just a fracture..."

He was disappointed, it was obvious by the way he dragged a hand down his face and pressed the bottom of his palm against his parting lips. Sebastian, despite all his years, was still so blind to the truth. None of this mattered. A fractured bone, a couple of bruises, a risky shag. It was all just pins in the storyboard. 

"You're mad!"

He could hardly hold back a laugh. "You're just getting that now?"

Sebastian inhaled a deep breath and leaned over him. He pressed their foreheads together, "Was it him? Is that why you did this?"

"I'm not heartbroken!"

He wanted that to sound more believable than it had. His angry barking had only made Moriarty feel more like a child, a thought that made him feel sick.

His sickness was cut short by a cold slap across the face: "Shut up!" His body shook from the impact. Seeing the mark left by his destructive hand, Sebastian relaxed, "As much as I appreciate your ability to act, you can be such a bloody liar sometimes. You're a softie for bad men. I've seen you do this a hundred times over. You fall for the danger of it, then end up an inch away from death at the edge of his bed. And who saves you? Who picks up your broken pieces and forces them back together again? I do!" His nose scrunched when he was mad. He always looked the same, giving this stupid speech, and he always caught himself just before going too far, "Now, will you just get some rest?"

With that, Sebastian left him alone in the bed, just like he was when he woke. At least he had the distraction of pain to keep him company this time.

"Jelly Baby!" 

Moriarty felt the strong arms of Lady Clymenestra wrap tightly around his shoulders. She was never one for subtlety, especially when reuniting with an old friend. Her dark lipstick left kiss marks along his pale cheeks as she greeted him, "Where have you been? The girls have missed you, haven't you, darlings?" 

A couple of sweet howls erupted from the surrounding crowd, which had stopped their usual tasks to say hello. He felt like a Gibson Girl surrounded by all these adoring women; he was the highest of the brothel nobility as far as they were concerned, only beaten by their Lady Clytemnestra. Back before she'd resigned to the position of manager, she'd been the greatest lady of the night this street had ever seen. Though Moriarty was glad she didn't need to sell herself for notoriety anymore, at least among the ladies. 

"Nice to see you too, Nellie. Unfortunately, I didn't just drop in for a quick visit." He grabbed her hand and led her to the furthest wall to gain them some privacy. Under the flickering lantern light, he rested his back against the wall and idly played with the fabric of his arm sling. "I need a favour." 

"Without you, I'd never have gotten this place running, anything you need, and I'll give it to you on a silver platter. " He hesitated but smiled anyway, formulating his thoughts. Lady Clymenstra brought her gaze down to his sling and broke the silence he had yet to fill, "Is it serious? You know..." She waved her hand about in a sympathetic manner. 

Moriarty shook his head, "No, no, nothing like that. I just got in an...accident." he sighed and forced a smile, "Have you heard of Sherlock Holmes?" 

The Temple Of Eros. It might have been the finest brothel Sherlock'd ever seen. It glowed like an ember among the dirty streets of lower London, vibrating with howling drunkards. A temple it was, and a glorious one at that.

Sherlock had never been one to judge those of the night or whatever escapades they got up to. Sure, he was never one to partake, but he wouldn't knock someone else's pleasure. Though he may have lost the privilege to separate himself from those thrusting away on this dirty street after last night. The man he used to be was sullied and stained now, no longer a virgin. He was always told that was what made a man, but he didn't feel like a man...he felt like an addict.

An addict unable to pull his thoughts away from that forbidden place. Once the door to those delights had been opened, there was no stopping it. Memories flickered through his mind like pages of some devilish book. His neck, his hips, his thighs. They consumed his thoughts until all he could do was stand here, lost in a daydream. He had a narcoleptic pull about him, one Sherlock was sure would draw in even the most innocent of men.  

He had been caught in such a daydream when Lestrade had arrived at the flat earlier that evening. The mysterious disappearance of a married couple was enough to break him free, and soon enough, he was pulling his coat over his shoulders and making for the door. Watson wanted to come along, but Sherlock had stopped him. This particular brothel in question, having been associated with the wife's probable affair, was affiliated with a gang of thieves and this particular gang of thieves was most likely associated with Moriarty. If there was any chance he was there waiting for him, Sherlock wanted to arrive alone. He didn't need any more hard-to-answer questions from John. 

So, having arrived less than a minute prior, he entered the drooling lips of the front door. Sherlock was immediately greeted by a young woman. She was sweet and perky, but obviously new to the business.

"Welcome, newcomer?"

He smiled tightly, "It's that obvious? I'm looking for the boss. "

She nodded politely, "That would be Madame Clymenestra, I'll fetch her for you."

She left for a moment and came back with a taller woman. Her black hair, too long to be comfortably fit into an updo, was draped along her gaudy dress, telling him a lot about her already, specifically her status. It was rare for a woman wearing such a finely made dress to be any less than a noblewoman by birth, but judging by calluses on her hands and the sweat along her brow, that wasn't the case.  

"Holmes, is it? I've been expecting you."

He frowned, "You have?"

She smiled, eerily knowing. "I believe you have an appointment. Follow me."

He was quite sure he'd never made an appointment, considering this was the first time he'd ever stepped foot in The Temple Of Eros, let alone a brothel to begin with, but he followed her anyway. To the furthest wall, down a thin corridor, and before one of the more infamous rooms. With a raised brow, Sherlock pressed his palm into the wooden door and creaked it open. She made her leave as he entered and caught sight of what was waiting for him inside.

On the bed of flower petals and patchwork sheets lay Moriarty. He wore a lace embroidered corset that was loosely done up and a long dress of a deep indigo. The various translucent lacey hems draped along his legs, a tantalizing reveal.

"Hello, sexy."

Before his heart could utter another hesitant beat, he grasped the door behind him and slammed it shut. Sherlock was awestruck, it was almost cute. At least Moriarty thought so as he relaxed into the bed like a sunbathing cat. "Oh, you didn't think I'd let you go that easily, did you? I don't do one-night shags honey, I just don't." 

Sherlock dragged a tense hand down his jaw-dropping expression and regained his composure. He tried to look away from the tantalizing sight before him, yet found it hard to look anywhere else. Those dark fluttering lashes called to him, revealing the deepest pupils he'd ever seen circled by the swirling abyss that were his irises. He rolled his teeth against each other as he took in what he'd said, "The note, right. You're little friend made me write that." 

Moriarty's brows tensed for a moment before seemingly letting go of whatever thought had troubled him. "Of course he did, he's so protective." Their smiles mirrored each other, and he rubbed the spot next to him for Sherlock to come and sit. Hesitantly, he did, about an inch away from the edge. 

"So, who is he then? I'd say a friend, but I find it hard to believe you have any of those." 

"Ah!" Moriarty mockily glared up at him, offended. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

Sherlock caught his tongue and raised his hands in defence, "I didn't mean-I-" 

Moriarty sat up and crawled his way onto Sherlock's lap, pressing his free hand into the man's chest and pinning him against the bed. His pleased smirk sent an electric shock through Sherlock's system. All the tension his daydreaming had built up came tumbling to a head, coursing through his veins. "What do you call us then?" 

He couldn't help but smile; it was such an innocent thought, and yet that's what people would call them, wouldn't they? Not lovers, enemies, but friends. How daft was that? "I don't do this with my friends." 

The man on top of him hummed as he settled his hips atop his and trailed his hand down Sherlock's chest, "I do." he leaned down so that his lips lay barely above Sherlock's ear, "What makes you think you're so special, Mr. Holmes?" 

He let a soft laugh escape him and daringly brought his hands up to frame Moriarty's hips. The delicate fabric of his dress was soft against his fingers as he slid them between the various lacy ruffles. "I'm dangerous." 

"Oh, I'm far more dangerous than you." 
"That you are, and yet..." Sherlock's smug expression struck accord in him, and Moriarty, in a thoughtless curiosity found only in the freest of moments, pouted down at him. "You haven't killed me. You could have me dead in a second, and you haven't even tried." He licked the point of his left canine tooth. "I want to know why." 

Moriarty sighed in a smile and stretched, pressing his thighs against Sherlock's abdomen. "Such a silly thing to ask." 
"And yet, you haven't answered."

He leaned down again, "Because you need me." The comfortable air that had formed around them was broken in an instant, and all that remained was the cold embrace of his pupils, those deep black spheres that had seen too much. "You need me or you're nothing. You need a villain to complete you're story. That's all we are after all, stories. Fate is just a script we follow," he extended his arm like the gesture of a bowing actor, "why haven't I killed you? Why have I come to you at all? I'm in your script, Mr. Holmes, and I must play my part. You need a villain." 

Sherlock took a slow breath and watched as he retreated to his previous position, leaning against his chest, playing with Sherlock's hair. "I'm not the only one who needs something, and a villain is not all I need." 

His expression reached something sincere, and Moriarty sat there for a moment, watching him cautiously. Sherlock wasn't sure if he was going to run, kill him, or kiss him, and truthfully, he would have accepted anything he cared to give him. 

"For a moment, I wondered if you were just playing me for a fool, but nobody talks that sweet unless they really like the target of their affection." 

Sherlock could nearly taste the batting of his lashes, and with nothing more to say, he pulled himself up to lock their lips. 

Chapter Text

Skin against skin, teeth biting into lips, hips grinding against eager hips. The atmosphere of a late-night brothel wasn't usually a place Sherlock enjoyed, but in this alcove they'd found themselves in, he found an odd comfort. As if it had been built just for them, just for this exact moment.

Watching him lie there against the silken pillows, his pitch hair sprawled in every direction, Sherlock couldn't deny the urge to kiss those soft lips and taste the sweetness, a sweetness he could no longer live without. To feel the body unlike anyone else's, that controlled him in a way no one else's ever had. He ravaged him with bloody devotion. And his prey in his palace of silk gave all of himself to Sherlock. It was as if his very presence sustained him, the finest meal he couldn't help but devour.

His trembling moans trickled down Sherlock's spine with each thrust. A hint of weakness added to his palette. As Sherlock had come to learn, Moriarty fed off the thrill of revealing himself. Knowing that kink was exclusive to him sent a flutter through his chest.

He had rarely allowed himself sexual pleasure, it was distracting to his work. Only now could he see how wrong he had been to deny himself such ecstasy. Though it was clear this feeling would never have erupted from just any affair. No one would ever please him the way Moriarty did, send ferocity through his bones, fire in his veins. If there truly was a divinity, be it of the darkest origin, it found a home in their sexual desire. The power of the pagan gods had drowned them in the deepest ring of Hades, torn them apart with kisses until they were nothing but hungry animals, feeding off of each other's lust. And for once, the shame that had followed his lonely soul all his life had dissipated. It held no power in the embrace of Moriarty, the embrace that would never end, would slither around his heart until there were no more ribs to contain it.

As his teeth nipped Moriarty's neck, a growling question escaped, "What spell have you placed upon me?"

A soft laugh and an eager kiss from his beloved reassured Sherlock of his magic. The answer that followed, however, only left him with more questions. "Have I bewitched you? I suppose it's only fair after what you did to me." His words vibrated against Sherlock's jaw. "Tell me, what does it feel like?"

His sensual thrusting had slowed to an uneven pace as his muscles tightened. Moriarty's hands had found themselves gripping Sherlock's back as he was brought closer and closer to climax. His body tensed as Sherlock pushed himself in as far as he could. Within seconds, he relaxed as a wave of pleasure overcame him. His teeth dug into Sherlock's trapezius as he took all he could. After the heat of the moment subsided, he replaced it with a kiss. 

"It feels like a wildfire." Sherlock let his hands slide into place along Moriarty's and led his arms up above his head, "and I'm...scared... that will burn forever, until it swallows my entire forest. Will I be left in the charred void you leave behind? A glowing ember never going out?" He hovered over him, leaving just enough room to meet his eyes. "Beyond even that, I'm afraid I'll let you."

The smile that looked up at him made him doubt his answer. Had he been too vulnerable?

"I like it when you're scared."

The snake that was Moriarty tightened its grip on his heart and harvested the blood that spilled, licking up every drop. He felt cold. The type of cold one feels pressing a needle against their vein, biting the belt and feeling that flutter in their stomach. When you know what you feel is ridiculous, childish, naive...and yet you fall for the wicked drug all over again.

He eyed Moriarty and leaned down to kiss his chest. He tasted the slick flesh with all the hunger he had before, trailed kisses down the sensitive flesh, feeling every bone he'd nip while tearing into his meat. There was something sacred in knowing the only thing stopping that urge was a loving submission. He'd leave only the softest of kisses and delight in the comfort it left his amour. He'd tame himself and hand Moriarty the leash.

In the heat of the moment, his dress had been ripped from him, leaving only a thin chemise whose top half had been torn to shreds. His corset was the first to go; Moriarty had carefully pulled the lace, teasing him with each grommet, a memory which would surely hang in the walls of his mind palace for eternity.

The frills of his chemise had fallen up to his hips, leaving his bottom half bare. Exhausted, he didn't even try to hide himself, allowing Sherlock to kiss every inch. From this angle, he resembled the queerest. Rather than repulsive as Sherlock had always been taught, he was...Beautiful. The ink etched into his hips befitting of a criminal, the sight of his manhood, the woman's chemise draped along prickly black stubble. Sherlock found pleasure in it all.

Against all instincts and his previous values, he found himself drawn down. With head between smiling thighs, the shell of his former self was shed, and his tongue slid along Moriarty's tip.

The moan he received filled Sherlock with adrenaline. So many paths to choose from, so many opportunities. He felt he had stumbled into another world between those thighs.

He took the head in his mouth and delighted in the taste. His heartbeat pulsed against his tongue, against trepidatious teeth. Once again, he trusted him. He felt the leash, the spell's magic slithering along his neck, and all Sherlock could do was smile. He felt rabid, a wild animal needing to be trained, and against all odds, all Moriarty had to do was to ask. To whisper in that addictive voice of his, and Sherlock would resist the urge to bite.

And yet, in all that domination, his pleasure betrays him. In the most fragile of voices, he called to Sherlock, "Please...please."

"What do you ask of me?"

An experimental lick up the side of his cock had Moriarty's thighs twitching, anticipation burning inside of him. "...Devour me."

The wet warmth of Sherlock's mouth set his heart aflame. The fire rippled through his veins. All he could respond with was a shaky breath escaping parted lips. For as inexperienced as Sherlock was, he knew how to tease.

Moriarty was filled with a primal desire. His hips took control of his mind and rolled themselves up to meet Sherlock with each suck. His thighs pressed against dark curls until Sherlock grabbed them and forced them back against the bed, eagerly pressing his fingertips into the soft skin.

His slit throbbed desperately against Sherlock's tongue. He grew weak with each tender kiss, lips pressing against his tip like the pillows pressed against his cheeks. With an uncontrollable concerto, he hit a second climax. As expected, Sherlock swallowed it eagerly.

Moriarty's head lost all ability to raise itself, and he succumbed to the mass of pillows. His hands, which had been clenching the blanket under him for dear life, landed on his face. As arousing as that had been, embarrassment flooded his system. If Sherlock were anyone else, he would have shot him before he even got a word out, but Sherlock being...Sherlock, he knew he couldn't.

"Fuck." he muttered under shielding hands.

"That was quick, is it usually that quick?"

He parted his fingers to stare at the man between his thighs, who was fixing himself with a grin. "Don't know what you're talking about."

Soon Sherlock had collapsed beside him, and seeing an opportunity, Moriarty nuzzled against his chest, letting his arm drape over his back. Sherlock sighed, "It's starting to get too late for any of my excuses."

Jim frowned, "You really shouldn't let your pet nag you like that."

"You should be careful who you dehumanize."

He tilted his head up to glare at Sherlock, "I'm sorry, who's the boss in this relationship again? Because a second ago-"

"A second ago, you sounded like a dog in heat." his glare was met with a certain slyness as Sherlock relaxed into the bed beneath them, "I think I preferred the yowling, it was a big improvement."

Moriarty brushed a few stray curls from his forehead. "If that were true, you'd be in bed with whichever girl threw herself at you first instead."

Sherlock hummed, "S'pose that's true." He felt the vibrations of the other's laughter under him. After a few moments of enjoying each other's company, Sherlock forced himself to bring the subject back up, "as much as I'd love to stay in bed with you forever-"

"Yes, yes, the very important not-pet Watson is waiting for you."

Moriarty let him sit up and crawled toward the rickety bedside table for a pipe and a matchbox while Sherlock searched for his shirt. He found it fallen to the floor and hesitantly tugged it back on, hoping this was a particularly clean brothel. "About this place," he began, catching the attention of a smoking Moriarty, "you don't have any..."

"Connection to it?" He watched him smirk as the smoke fell down his lips, "gone all detective on me, have you?"

Sherlock took the pipe as it was handed to him and took a slow drag. "It is my job," he said as he passed it back to Jim so he could finish doing up his trousers. "People are missing, I need something to bring home tonight."

A slow smile approached Jim's lips. He stared at him with sly fascination and crawled toward Sherlock, planting himself beside his lover. "Because this isn't exactly my business, I'll give you a hint. But no going after the brothel, yeah?" Sherlock nodded, and so he continued, "One of them isn't missing."

Sherlock's curious look turned uneasy. It was clear he found this subject amusing, but with a smile as addictive as his, he couldn't blame him. "I see."

"Clever Sherlock." Moriarty sang before placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. "Now, run home to Watson, I'm sure he's eager for Daddy's return."

He could almost see the look on John's face if he had heard that. "I know someone is." With that, he gave him a goodbye kiss and stood to his feet, "Tell your guard dog I said hello."

Before Moriarty could take another draw of his pipe, Sherlock was off. With his coat tugged on and collar flipped up, he hurried out of the brothel and into the chill streets, letting the night air nip his skin. He could feel the weight of reality pressing down on him again. Outside the warmth of their alcove, judgment would pick their bones clean, but he'd be a liar if he said he regretted it. 

Chapter Text

The moonlit street, with its deep-set puddles formed by hundreds of years of stomping boots, was all that awaited Sherlock. He had abandoned his duties for sweet temptation. As much as he wished to head home and collapse into bed, he should probably do his job.

He had already filled in most of the blanks using a bit of sense. People come to brothels for two things: sex and business. Now it's possible she was interested in joining the gang, but for a woman of her status, that was highly unlikely, and she didn't seem the rebellious type.

After visiting, it became clear which of the two it was. There were few spaces one could explore the more taboo parts of life, and The Temple Of Eros seemed one of them. Perhaps Watson would have deemed this conclusion ridiculous, but Watson was a straight-laced man; the existence of anything outside of his own experience would make his brain explode. Sherlock had to assume a romance between two women would not be so different from his own...escapades. The allure of her beloved could have easily drawn her from the safety of marriage. The question now, however, was what happened to her husband?

Sherlock stalked around the outside of the building. It reeked of piss and alcohol. He hoped the evidence hadn't already been washed away by this morning's rain, an unlikely wish.

He rounded the alleyway corner into a back street as something caught his eye. A brown rimmed hat lay in a mess of broken bottles. It was caked in grime and reeked like a wet dog. He hesitantly pinched the rim with gloved fingers and lifted it for a closer look. What had previously looked like the residue of a muddy puddle soaking into the hat's fibres revealed a darker consistency. A coppery smell hit his nose, and just as Sherlock was about to drop it, the substance along its rim began to pool, preparing to drip. In the faint light of a nearby window, he caught the smallest glimpse of the liquid's true colour.

"The Surname is etched into the interior fibres."

Lestrade flipped the hat over to check, and sure enough, Sherlock had been right. This was the husband's hat. "So who did it?"

The consultant detective couldn't have held back his sigh if he tried. Lestrade really could be thick sometimes, "Most likely his wife's companion. It's no use looking for them now, I imagine they're already halfway to Bohemia."

"Sherlock, I have to lock someone up. A man is dead here!"

He hadn't appreciated the parental tone in his voice. Though Lestrade had more than a few years on him, he wasn't some teenager, he was a grown man and might he add the only intelligent detective in this damn city. "If you want a dog, get a dog. I'm not going on a wild goose chase for this, it's hardly worth it. I solve nearly all of your cases, and what do I get in return? You want more."

The room grew quiet. Lestrade had little to argue with and so, tucking his tail between his legs, he retreated to his desk. John wasn't feeling so submissive.

"What's up with you? You're never like this."

His glare held a level of concern as it dragged across Sherlock's indifferent expression. Perhaps he was still upset about Sherlock leaving without him, or he had been dumped by yet another girl he'd been courting, but he refused to look away until his flatmate responded. "Like what?"

"Lost in your head. Usually, you're bouncing off the walls. This was the first time I'd seen you excited in the past two weeks, and that's the result? If I didn't know better, I'd say you were just itching to head to the brothel."

Anxiety's pinpricks crawled up his shoulders. He was always observant at the wrong time. "I solved the case, what more do you expect from me?" When John's confused-concerned look turned more accusatory than he would have liked, Sherlock felt the need to defend himself. "I quit that, relax."

Hoping to nip the conversation in the bud, he headed for the door. John scurried after him, "Are you hiding something from me?"

"No."

"Are you lying?"

His step faltered, and his eyes darted to John at his side, whose scowl had turned to an amused grin. "I'm a bloodhound on my last nerve, don't make me bite you."

He heard John laugh as the door was swung open. Sherlock let the cold breeze distract him for a moment before he was tugged back out of his head again by a chattering John, "Then people would really talk. Have you seen the paper yet? I was meaning to show you." He pulled a rolled-up newspaper from his coat pocket and pointed to the front page, "They've done another article on you, 'The Reichenbach Hero'." Sherlock groaned, "Everyone gets one, a paper nickname. I'm sure I'll get one soon."

Sherlock pointed to the bottom of the page, "There."

'Holmes and bachelor John Watson have been-'

"Bachelor? What the hell are they implying!"

Chapter Text

The tanned tree hide was folded with a perfectionist's delicate precision, making it all the more jarring to see the waxy imprint of a magpie soaking the centre. Sherlock slid his thumb under the finely pressed opening to snap the seal in half. He was only able to glance at the letter for a moment before John came bumbling down the stairs after him. Inky stationery, carefully practiced.

"Who was it, then?"

Sherlock spun on his heel and gave his friend a tight smile with the letter pressed against his back. "Just some kids. I saw them running down the road."

John tsked, "damn kids."

Sherlock was never the approachable type. No one ever bothered him as he walked down the streets of London, seeing the mild scowl of a man who would find no interest in what they had to say, most left him as he was. His gangly figure, draped in only the darkest of fabrics, gave off a reaper-like aura. This evening was a strange exception, he simply couldn't stop smiling. In a dreary city stuck inside a dreary age, he had found something to smile about, a rare feat. It was no surprise what it was, given how struck he had been with the man. Just one thought of him sent a flutter through Sherlock's ghostly heart. An invitation, now that was almost too much.

The opportunity to dance this dangerous waltz once more filled him with a satisfaction he could only describe as fateful.

In his childish excitement, he had even stopped at a cart to purchase a gift. A red rose whose velvety petals held that dark sheen, that bloody glint. He contemplated pricking his finger and letting the life force spill out, soaking them. That would surely prove his adoration, a gift in itself, he was sure his beloved craved.

As he approached the top of a park hill, he felt his pulse pick up. The swaying grass made the place seem oddly hypnotic. It was as if he could have fallen into a dream at any moment, and maybe he already had.

His eyes focused on a tree in the distance as one in a desert might a mirage. Not for its verdant beauty, overcome with English ivy, but for the figure sitting underneath its protective branches. His breath caught. Just as he was about to turn back, the figure's head turned. He was caught in those anodyne eyes.

Sherlock gave an awkward smile as he knelt beside him in the grass. There was a difficult silence. Eventually, Moriarty broke it with a cracked voice. "You came."

"You thought I wouldn't?" Their eyes met again, Sherlock's smug, Moriarty's intense. When the other didn't answer, Sherlock revealed the rose, "I got you this."
His hand slowly approached the gift as if it would bite him had he moved too quickly. His fingers slid against the stem where it lacked thorns. Once he had taken it from him, however, he gently poked them with his index finger.

"Thank you."

Sherlock had expected to see a smile with those words, but instead, his expression looked more solemn than ever. Eyes wide, lips so tight he looked as if he was resisting the urge to bite them, and a sick paleness to his palette. "Are you alright?"

Apprehension. He hardly even blinked as his pupils darted back to Sherlock like a captured predator. "I'm fine. Sorry, I-" He forced them to close and rubbed his forehead tenderly, "I like it. It's pretty."

He could have pushed, but decided against it. One had to be delicate with a man such as Moriarty and not forget who he was dealing with in his romantic delusions. Reality suddenly crumbled down onto Sherlock, and he had a moment of contemplation. This was stupid, all of this, really stupid. And yet, he couldn't find it in himself to care. Moriarty was a killer, but damned as he thought this, he was a beautiful one.

"You know, on the way here, I thought this fate. I think you might be making me mad."

He got a laugh out of him, and that tension from moments ago suddenly felt so far away. "I might be, because that is a foolish thought, to wander into a delightful valley and say, 'This is fate now because I wish it so.'" It was Sherlock's turn to laugh now. "Though sometimes a madman does speak the truth. I think if I went my whole life never meeting you, it would be a wasteful life."

"I find it hard to believe your life could be a waste. Had we been in a book, you'd surely be the character of interest, be you a villain or not."

He watched Sherlock for a moment, "With that mindset, you're definitely a fool."

"That implies a world in which I'm not."

Moriarty reached to his side and revealed a large picnic basket, placing it between them and flicking open the top. He took out two lidded wooden dishes with cutlery carefully balanced on top and dropped them in the grass before the two men. He pulled the lid off his dish to reveal mashed potatoes topped with an auburn sauce speckled with meat and greens."With a mind like yours, you could rule this city."

"You flatter me."

"Because, my dear detective, you are interesting." He stabbed a sauce covered morsel, "étudie ce qui t'intéresse, enfant de curiosité."

His French was reminiscent of a tired schoolboy—the memory of a former professor, no doubt. Even after many years, his Dublin accent was hardly noticeable as he rolled his R's like a Paris native. Sherlock could see him now, smoking a pipe under the smoggy skies of a snobby city, one leg over the other as he leaned against a chair of black metal.

"University?"

He laughed heartily, "That dreaded thing. It won't surprise you to know I attended. I even taught at Cambridge for five tiresome years; what a time that was. I'm no good at teaching."

"Why'd you quit?"

He smiled at Sherlock as if he were a child bombarding him with questions. For a moment, he felt as if he was, and straightened his back to regain that cool aura he liked to uphold. Moriarty sighed. "Boredom. That always seems to be the culprit with me. Boredom, boredom, bore--Oh, how I've grown to hate that word. But it seems I've strayed rather from the point. You, my dear, are the furthest thing from boring."

Sherlock laughed, a surprising response to his date, who glared at him pointedly. "Sorry, it's just...That's rather ridiculous coming from you, don't you think?"

Moriarty was puzzled, bordering on horrified. His eyes, glassy and intentful, examined every inch of Sherlock's face as if he hoped to find a sly smile, revealing that statement to have been a joke. But alas, he was completely serious.

He returned to his meal and popped a forkful into his mouth pensively. Sherlock watched as he waited for a response. It took him a few minutes, but after a heavy sigh, he responded, "I want to be honest with you." A cold solemness returned to him. His face was pale and unreadable as it spoke, carrying each word on a sea of tepid breath. "I know our time is running out. You have a home, one I do not plan to disrupt. If this is our last meeting, I don't want to leave with any regrets."

Sherlock's hand draped across his and held it gently. He wanted to continue this lover's charade, but he could not predict how he'd feel returning to John, once he had left this faerie realm. "If you are to tell me of the horrid things you've done, don't. I know who you are, I know this isn't pure or holy or whatever orderly word the judges of London would use. I don't care."

"No, you do not know!"

His voice was hoarse and strained. It rippled through the swaying grass like a banshee shriek. The depths of his pupils pulsed with the insanity of a beaten animal, stuck between the worlds of the civilized and the damned.

"I am a beast!" his inflection cracked with the beginnings of a sob, which he quickly beat out of himself. "How could you ever love something as cruel as I?"

The severity of his mental corruption became clear to Sherlock; the perfected image shattered under his salty tears. The dichotomy of the man who just moments ago was rambling on about universities and his past as a professor, and the man, or rather being, before him now. The chill breeze, which he had failed to notice before, had Sherlock shivering. It was as if the wind had somehow picked up at the faintest hint of his lover's discomfort.

He hesitantly grasped his shoulders, then pulled him into a hug. Eventually, that head of now unkept black hair was pressed against his chest, cursing violently.  Face hidden, the sobbing began, a weak and pained thing. It was almost too much to bear hearing. Moriarty's body shook violently like a man possessed, and for a moment Sherlock believed he was. Back curved to reveal the ridges of his skinny spine, hands clutching Sherlock's coat, his muffled voice rang out, "I am a dog, I am a dog..." he repeated this sentiment until it became unintelligible.

"Whose voice is that?"

His mad ramblings abruptly stopped. Slowly, he pulled his head up to face him, pale as a newborn ewe. By the look in his eyes, it was apparent whoever had first uttered those words, or a skewed version of them, was not someone he wanted to remember. The slight shake in his jaw made his skin crawl. He refused to speak, by choice or because he had been too choked up, Sherlock wasn't sure. Regardless, he let it be.

Sherlock's hands came up to cup his face. It was cold, too cold. In this state, he resembled a lost child. An image which would haunt Sherlock for as long as he lived. It slowed his heart to such a rate. Fear, empathy, pain, and finally contempt.

"Are you-"

"I'm fine," he ripped himself from Sherlock's grasp and pressed his back against the tree. The door left ajar for all to see was abruptly locked. It was the first time Sherlock had seriously pondered if he had some form of mental affliction beyond the broad term of psychopathy, of which he didn't truly believe either of them fit anymore. For as brilliant as he was, his mind was scarred like a man of war. Oddly enough, he and Watson had that in common.

After a moment of dreadful silence, he picked up the other's fork and scooped up some potato mash. Sherlock hovered it before his tensed lips, "Eat. You need it."

Moriarty's glare was ice cold. "You aren't my mother."

Despite this, he took the bite. Sherlock was satisfied and slid the wooden utensil into his hand. "Do you have family?"

"You really don't want to be asking that now."

He laughed. "Noting that response."

After glaring for a while, he decided to humour him. "Not in the way you do. I was the second child of three, the forgotten, the unloved, yada yada. My older brother was the favourite, a stationmaster, and the youngest was hardly any different. He was still quite young when I left home, haven't seen him since. In fact, I haven't seen any of them in well over a decade." He thought on this for a moment before continuing, "Doubt they care where I've ended up. My father, a man I hope you never have the displeasure of meeting, always thought I'd amount to nothing. He didn't care for books or brains the way we do, couldn't afford to. As far as he was concerned, he only ever had two sons."

Sherlock listened closely, eager to hear more. It was, unfortunately, exactly as he had expected, and yet still fascinating to hear nonetheless. "And your mother?"

His expression grew pale at the mention. "I didn't know her long. My father always said I resembled her." He tapped his knee shakily, "Lady loon of the moon." After a moment, he spun his head toward Sherlock with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, "Tell me about your family. I'm sure you and the Iceman were quite the sight as children."

Sherlock squinted, annoyed at his vagueness, but didn't pry. "Mycroft, the Iceman as you call him, was just as annoying as he is now. Pompous and fat." Moriarty couldn't help but laugh at that, "My parents seem ordinary, but they are quite smart, especially my mother. I think she'd like you."

His rambling seemed to bring a smile back to Moriarty's face. He was leaning in now, batting his lashes coyly. "Yeah?"

A lump caught in Sherlock's throat, "Yeah." His eyes darted to his half-eaten food, then back to him. He swore Moriarty had inched closer in those few seconds. "I take it you're done chatting."

His wide smile brought a flutter to Sherlock's heart. He hummed thoughtlessly, "I missed you." His fingers trailed gently along Sherlock's collar. "You and your posh voice, your warm hands," He sighed, "How did I ever stand living without you?"

Even after everything they'd done together, Moriarty never failed to make him nervous. He could feel his cheeks flushing an annoying red as his lips pecked them. "Oh, you dangerous man."

His hands, like the paws of a housecat, pressed into Sherlock's thighs, "Am I? I hadn't noticed." He whispered, pouting innocently and nuzzling against his neck. Soon enough, he was sitting on his lap, nipping at Sherlock's icy skin.

One arm wrapped around his waist while the other explored his chest. He undid the antler buttons of his black blouse and slid his palm against the warm skin underneath. His chest, bare and toned, felt like silk. On his left breast, a devil had been etched in ink. He ran his digits along it curiously. His red nipples hardened under Sherlock's eager touch. He circled them as their lips met. They parted with a moan from Moriarty, "If I'm so bad, why haven't I been punished?"

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. He supposed it wasn't unbelievable his lover had some odd tastes when it came to these things. "Because I've been too busy fucking you."

He laughed, then pulled Sherlock's hand away from his chest up to his neck. "You better get to it then."

After a moment of hesitation, he tightened his grip. The moan he received was music to his ears. All that frustration that burned inside of him crawled through his veins. Adrenaline, fear, excitement. Knowing he'd tell him if it was too much, Sherlock dug his nails into the delicate flesh.

Moriarty's heart beat fast, sending electric blood pulsing through his veins. He reeled in the feeling as he stared up at the darkening sky. The foggy clouds welcomed him into their astral domain.

He couldn't stop his hand from palming the hardened bulge in his trousers. It warmed his hand like a bonfire's aura.

Sherlock held him tightly with one arm, fingers rubbing the soft skin under his blouse. He examined it closely. Unhealed bruises painted the pale flesh in deep blues and purples. There was a beauty in his masochism that he couldn't shake. The urge to kiss the wounds or make them worse fought in his psyche. Eventually, he released his grip. Moriarty took in a deep gasp.

He turned to him, smiled, and nuzzled his head against Sherlock's shoulder. He bared his teeth and playfully nipped at the muscle before kissing it instead. "Now who's dangerous?"

They sat there for a long while, cuddling under the approaching nightfall. Sherlock made an effort to finish his meal and force Moriarty to eat most of his. When the last of the sun could be seen peering over the rolling verdant hills, they left. Moriarty had arranged a coach for them and ushered Sherlock inside. He had assumed it would bring them to 221B, but as the ride went on, he began to doubt that. It seemed to be heading further and further from the main city. Half an hour in, he turned to Moriarty, who had been cuddling into his side. "Where are you taking me?"

He glanced up at him with a coy smile and waited a few minutes before responding, "Let me tell you a story." Sherlock was puzzled by this, but humoured him. "Many years ago, there was a boy. This boy was a noble bastard. On his peasant side, he was regarded as a promising child; with strength and money, he could do anything. The other children sat sadly in his shadow. One of them, the smartest of them all, was his main target. The boy even brought it upon himself to point out the smart ones' disadvantages. He had a fighting chance, a life where rather than cleaning chimneys, he'd own them." His voice faltered suddenly. Forcing a smile, he continued, inflection a little shakier. "So when the boy was moved to a fancy boarding school in London, the smart one followed. He left his home, the chimneys, the dirty streets and hopped a train to Britain. But the boy didn't know he had been followed. He went out one morning to the beach outside the school to do some swimming. He wasn't aware that something had been done to his ointment. He swam and he swam until..." His eyes were wide, pensive. Still as a porcelain doll. "Until...he didn't anymore."

"...And the smart one?"

As if he had woken from a dream, his eyes darted back up to Sherlock, his smile returning. His lover didn't return the gesture. "He never stopped running."

The ocean lapped against the moonlit shores with a violent intensity. It was appropriate, given what had happened here so many years ago. Even now, aged as he was, it felt as if not a day had passed. Sherlock hadn't said a word since they arrived. A long trip would do that. After a while, it became clear he was waiting for Moriarty to speak first. He wasn't sure if he could do that, so instead, he walked. His legs, finding a mind of their own, walked until his shoes were filled with seawater. 

"You're gonna catch your death doing that."

He laughed. "Yeah."

Sherlock fell to the sand, hands in his hair. The groan that escaped him sent a shiver up Moriarty's back, but he ignored it, more interested in the rolling sea ahead. His head felt locked in place. TO look behind and see the result of his actions was too much to bear. Even after so much time, he hadn't gained the courage. Guilt, what a word. If he said it wasn't familiar, he'd be lying; then again, that was what he did best.

"So, this is where it happened. Carl Powers. I was always so fascinated by that case. They never did find a culprit, his parents still think it was an accident."

"Invisible, invisible. Always invisible."

They stood there for a long while, watching the waves rise and fall, the fish jump, and the birds call. When the feeling of wet cloth against his heels got too much, Moriarty ripped the shoes from his feet, taking his socks with them. Why stop there? He thought and snapped the buttons of his blouse from their openings, dropping the fabric to the sand. As he reached for his trousers, Sherlock stopped him. He pulled his hands from the zipper and held them tight to his chest. "Stop it, are you trying to get hypothermia?"

He leaned back and forth like a drunk, muttering feverishly, "Let go of me, I need to go, I need to-"

"Go where?! The only thing you'll find in that water is death!"

The scream that erupted from his shivering form startled Sherlock beyond belief. Gutteral and horrified. He scanned the area for anything that would have gotten that reaction out of him, but alas, the beach was completely empty. His voice cracked and died into a weak mumble, "Let me, please, let me. I deserve it, you know I do."

He struggled against Sherlock's grip. Luckily, he was in no state to fight. Sherlock dragged him from the water and threw him to the sand. He held his arms behind his back and dug Moriarty into the earth with his knee. "Calm down!"

His second bout of screaming was short-lived and eventually became pained mewls, then sobs. Sherlock's grip loosened, and he pulled the man into his arms. Soon, he was naught but a shivering mess cuddled against his chest. He held him until the feverish sobbing stopped. At that point, both had calmed enough to think clearly. A blessing and a curse, for horror spread itself across Sherlock's thoughts. It tasted like poison on his tongue. To add salt to the wound, Moriarty had found himself in a self-sabotaging mood.

"You should leave me. I deserve to die."

Guilt's vulture picked at his back, sharp talons stabbed into the vibrating flesh. He couldn't take it anymore. The pain was unbearable. How could he survive this? Why should he? In that moment, he truly wondered if his death would be a blessing. Would Sherlock forget about him? Go back to living with the ordinary people, find a wife, kids? The thought filled him with such bittersweet relief that he forgot it wasn't reality. 

His eyes fluttered closed as he swallowed, horrified to hear such words escape him. To think that a beautiful brain could even come up with such a thing, or that most would probably agree with it, was too terrible a thought. But not Sherlock, as idiotic as it was. He pressed his head against Moriarty's and let his tears soak into his jet hair.

"Shut up."

He let those words hang in the air for a moment. "You're only saying that because you know I'm right."

"I'm saying that because I..." They both knew what he would say, but neither finished the sentence. It was too horrible a truth to face. He couldn't even say 'no, you don't deserve to die' because who the hell was Sherlock to say that? He wasn't the victim, or the mother of that poor boy; he wasn't the one weighing his heart in the depths of the underworld. It was not his place to decide who deserved anything, but he would be a liar if he said he didn't want to be. Damned as he was, he couldn't sit there and let him end it all. 

At some point during his mental ramblings, Moriarty had sat up. Back was that all too innocent face. "I'm sorry." his voice was weak and gentle, sickeningly sincere.

All he could do was sigh. A heavy, exhausted sigh. Even after all that, he couldn't hate him. In that moment, he knew that face would be the death of him, and maybe, just as he'd feared, he'd let it.

Hesitant lips hovered over his. A last tear-soaked kiss before succumbing to exhaustion in the pit of his chest, curling in on himself like a burrowing animal. Sherlock followed soon after, letting his back fall to the sand as he held him close to his chest as stared up at the midnight sky. Maybe the night would be kind to their cursed souls, maybe, just maybe, it would treat them with a kindness he didn't believe they deserved. In that sand, stained and sullied, might they find a peace only the damned can touch.

Chapter Text

His soft mumbles woke Sherlock to full consciousness. "Awake?"

They turned to hums, and he relaxed further into his chest, "mmhm..." he craned his neck to look up at Sherlock, "was having a nice dream."

"Yeah?" Sherlock smiled lazily, "What about?"

The beach beneath them was surprisingly comfortable, except for the rising tide splashing their ankles, the sand having caved in under their weight. The beach, this beach, this dreaded fucking beach. The fact that they had been able to fall asleep in such a state seemed impossible to him now. All the anxiety he should have felt last night trampled Sherlock like a stampede of wild horses. They were lucky no one from the nearby boarding school had come out and found them.

"You and me and a great big apple tree." He sang.

Sherlock laughed softly and dropped his head back. He wondered how long ago that was, how long they'd been lying here like dead fish. "Discovering gravity?"

It was Moriarty's turn to laugh now. He sat up and straddled Sherlock. "Maybe. Slithering along the roots, eating forbidden apples." He leaned down to kiss his cheek, then forehead, then lips. "Oh, don't leave yet. Johnny boy gets all your time."

Sherlock grabbed his face and pressed their foreheads together, "Oh, but you get all my kisses."

His smile lowered to a contemptuous sadness. He gently kissed him once more. "That head of yours is filled with so much...emotion," Sherlock muttered as he watched him closely.

"Impractical."

"Exhausting?" Moriarty nodded, Sherlock hummed tenderly. "And yet you're still so clever."

Moriarty tapped his chest with a laugh and pulled away to run a hand through his hair, "Flattery won't save you from my wrath. Going home to another after such an evening, you're lucky I like you."

"Can't tame a tiger, I suppose." Moriarty got to his feet and fixed himself. Sherlock did the same, watching him closely. "You alright?"

Sincerity burned his tongue. The look he received had that dreaded anxiety pooling in his chest. Maybe it would've been best to leave it, pretend nothing had happened, but that expression, frightened by its own psyche, had struck something in Sherlock.

"I'm used to it. Just an episode, sorry you had to see it." His eyes looked glossy, fearful. The stains of tear-streaks still coated his cheeks.

Sherlock brushed down his suit and ran his fingers through his curls, "No, don't be. I don't like when you hide from me, you're too good an actor."

Moriarty's smile was coated in all that heavy emotion he tried to hide. He did just as Sherlock asked him not to, and yet it held a sweetness to it: an apology and a kiss wrapped in blood-soaked ribbon.

"And you're too good a detective."

In that tender, silent moment, all Moriarty could do was stare at the man before him. Brown hair that framed a face which rarely portrayed the emotion he kept locked inside. Pursed pink lips, deer-like eyes, angular stoicism. To imagine a world in which he wasn't there before him was a thought too horrible to face, and yet something within him felt it coming. A heavy storm was crawling over the forested hills.

They wandered toward the road, mumbling sweet nothings like lovestruck teenagers. When they found a coach, Moriarty handed them the necessary money, and the two got in. Side by side on the black leather seats. As it reached the pleasant landscape of Moriarty's home, that anxiety simmered within Sherlock. Spitting and boiling until he couldn't help but tap his digits along his knees. His elusive magpie would step out into the grass and escape him once again. How many episodes would he have before they saw each other again? Thrown through waves of chaos, struggling to get a grip. Maybe he was dulling him too much. Moriarty was a clever, adaptable survivor. He didn't need Sherlock's protection, and if he knew the thoughts running through his head, he'd surely prove that. A magpie? Or just wearing its skin?

As the coach approached, rocking with the potholes, Moriarty slid his hand free of Sherlock's. "Guess I better be off then."

"Wait."

Sherlock was possibly more surprised than him to hear those words come out of his mouth. His brain had taken hold of his tongue and spat them out before he had a chance to think about it. He hadn't even planned what he wanted to say next, just...wait. Don't go. Don't leave me here to wallow in the guilt of who I am while you saunter away and live your fascinating life. With no idea what to say, he leaned forward and tipped Moriarty's head up to meet his. Their lips brushed against one another, hesitant, quiet. A goodbye kiss soaked in last night's tears, still staining their skin. Gentle, ominously so.

He was welcomed home by the scent of Mrs.Hudson baking wafting through the thin stairwell. His shoes left sandy residue on the red carpet as he trudged up the steps. The door to the flat was left ajar, giving him a glimpse inside. John was sitting in his chair reading as he often did, a book in one hand, his pipe in the other. An ominous comfort filled his senses, returning to the small flat. It was homey and warm and far too Sherlock with hints of John sprinkled in. Gone was the danger, the adventure.

Sherlock dropped his coat to his elbows and pulled it off, hanging it on the hook. "Evening, John."

His companion glanced his way, head still halfway in a book, and mumbled a greeting. Must have been in a sour mood today, but that wasn't unusual for John. An old dog likes routine. Too much of Sherlock's chaos made him weary, and too little drove him insane; he was a hard man to please.

As Sherlock headed for the kitchen and began pouring himself a cup of tea, John finally snapped his book closed and spoke up. "So, where've you been?"

"Went out for some air."

It wasn't his best excuse, but truthfully, Sherlock couldn't care to come up with something more elaborate. John wasn't usually one to pry into his private affairs. If Sherlock said to drop it, he would.

"All night?" Sherlock dropped the kettle onto the stove and glanced back at him through the arched kitchen entrance, "You didn't come home."

Curiosity, Watson's greatest quality and his worst. As obedient as he usually was, if he worried for Sherlock's safety, nothing could stop him from discovering the truth, besides his intellect. He would bet good money his drawers had been messed with, his sock index destroyed. Privacy was apparently forgotten once you were deemed an addict. Damn Mycroft.

Sherlock wandered back into the living room and sat back in his chair across from John, placing one leg over the other with a petty smile. "It's flattering how much you worry, John, but I must insist you let this go."

John's expression, like a hardy rock, kept that concerned scowl. "If you'd just tell me, I would."

He took a deep sigh—the sort he reserved for exhausted nights, hunched over his newest interest. John was a gamble when it came to trust. He understood certain things and was willing to bend the law to an extent, but he was annoyingly loyal. Though maybe...just maybe, he would listen this once. A dangerous thought brewed in his mind, and without thinking too much, he let it slip.

"I met someone."

His chest contracted with a fury that knew no bounds. The ache in his head screamed 'bad idea, bad idea', but Sherlock was too lost in the haze of anxiety to care. John's expression immediately shifted. His eyebrows were high as he made an O with his mouth.

"I thought I'd never see the day. No wonder you've been so secretive! So, tell me about her."
Sherlock tenderly bit his lip and took another sip of his tea before slamming it down onto the armrest, "He, not she, and he's...interesting."

After a moment of shock, John laughed, "You talk about him like some sort of experiment." Sherlock was silent. He needed to be quiet about this. He shouldn't have said anything to begin with, but looking at him now...John's all too charming face, warm jumpers of only the blandest designs, and the way he always smelled of freshly baked goods. He softened the hard edges of his heart like no other. Those kind eyes pleaded for him to continue. "Tell me more."

Sherlock hesitantly smiled, "he's smart, like me. Strong and skilled. He has these eyes, big and black, sometimes I think he's staring right into my soul." John's smirk had grown annoyingly smug as he listened. It brought a pinkness to Sherlock's cheeks, which he promptly bit. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing! It's just odd hearing you talk like this. I didn't think you were capable." Sherlock let that jab pass and got to his feet. "What's his name then?"

"I think that's enough for now, don't you?"

After a couple of attempts to get him talking again, John accepted defeat. Then, just as Sherlock was about to head to his room, he barked out something that caught his attention. Lestrade had come by this morning. As exhausted as he was, the case didn't sound all too boring. Maybe a bit of routine would do him some good after all that chaos. So he grabbed his coat, ignored John's goodbyes, and headed down the stairs. It was then that he noticed a particular ginger aristocrat chatting to his landlady. His disappointment was immeasurable. Had Mycroft really cared enough to come down here? It was only drugs, which he wasn't even on, mind you. Then again, the second he reached John, the man would go chattering off about this. He sighed. That was the last thing he needed. If John was annoying about this, then Mycroft would be horrible. The weight of his impulsivity dragged his shoulders down to the carpet.

"Hello, brother dear." Mycroft began with that chummy pretentiousness.

"What are you doing here?"

He flashed him a false smile, "Just thought I'd pop in and see how things are going. Had a late night, did you?" He lowered his voice to an eerie mutter, "Out with that boy again?"

Sherlock's heart sank. Cold sweat trickled down his forearms and pooled in his palms. That boy, those words etched into his mind like a bad grade. How could he know? Really, how could he not know? Sherlock hadn't been as secretive as he should have. He always heard of love making you stupid--not that this was love, just...well, you know--but he never thought he'd be the victim of such a thing. Fear turned to anger, a boiling hot anger that swam up his throat like an electric eel, hitting every gag reflex. He spat the words sizzling on his tongue on his brother's shining shoes. "I'm not doing this."

Before Mycroft could get out another word, Sherlock was barreling past him into he street. He ran toward the closest coach and threw whatever he could find in his coat pocket at the driver's head, slamming the fragile door behind him. His vision grew blurry with frustration. The urge to claw at anything in his vicinity surged through him. How could he be so daft? He knew this would never last, but to crumble at his idiotic hands? It was a horrid reminder of all his failings, every bad test, every distraction, everything keeping him from being the man he was supposed to be. And once again, Mycroft had come to press his boot against his skull and remind him who was superior. You are weak, Sherlock. Emotional, pathetic.

Fear coated his teeth as they ground each other into dust. Fear not for himself, but for Jim. How long did he have? Was he already being carted off to the noose? How could he ever make this up to him?

He watched the road go on and on as fear swam through every thought filling his head. His mind palace was in shambles, every coping mechanism he'd ever developed destroyed, and if Mycroft had anything to do with it, the one person who could ever truly understand him, dead. Hung by a rope in town square while idiots cheered at his swinging blue body.

Chapter Text

Sherlock's fist slammed against the black door. He ignored the aching pain in his knuckles and hit the wood with full force until it opened. Sebastian greeted him with a scowl.

"They know, they're coming." He spat with a shaky breath.

His piercing gaze softened. With his guard down, Sherlock took the opportunity to push past him into the house. Its image sank through his skin as he fell into memory. Even the entrance pulsed with life, every inch having a story to tell. The thought that this story might be its last was too terrible to consider. He heard the oblivious Dublin drawl of Morarty in the distance and barrelled into he parlour to see him sipping from a teacup.

The words stuck in his throat, soaked in pre-grief molasses. "Get your things and leave! You aren't safe anymore-you aren't-"

In the few hours they had been apart, he had nearly forgotten the depths of his eyes. A fact that weighed on his chest. One day, would he forget those eyes one last time? Would they be a far-off memory he could never reach again?

Without hesitation, he pulled the seated Moriarty into his arms. Sherlock tucked his head between his shoulder and jaw and wrapped his arms around as much of him as he could. He smelled the same. It had become a comforting smell, the only aroma to calm his nerves. It made that sickening anxiety burn a cold blue as it streamed down his neck and pooled in his hands. He needed to let go.

His mutterings were soft, unbearably so. Sherlock could feel everything running through his mind by just the first inflection. "What did you do?"

A sob forced its way out. He felt utterly pathetic, crying in the arms of his victim, even when the whole world would see the opposite. What he did. A horrible mistake that would haunt him until he took his last breath.

Sebastian suddenly ripped Sherlock away and stole his lover from his arms, "They're coming, where are your things?" Sebastian muttered under his breath.

Moriarty blinked rapidly as he was jostled around. Finally, he shoved Sebastian off and ran up the stairs. Sherlock watched closely, utterly horrified. He ran a heavy hand across his face and rid it of any excess emotion. Soon Sebastian had begun manhandling him too, far more violently. First, a punch to the jaw. A coppery taste slid along his tongue until he spat it out onto the floor. Second, a kick to the stomach. His boot, still caked in mud, dug into his flesh, knocking the wind out of him.

Sherlock didn't fight back. He didn't even scrunch his nose or raise his hackles; what was the use of this dogfighting now? They needed to run, and he told Sebastian just that. Even though he disliked the man, he couldn't live with Moriarty losing the only two people he ever seemed to interact with in one day. After a heavy glare, he left too. Up the creaky stairs and down the hall, where he heard both of them stomping around.

After a few minutes of contemplative silence, they returned to the parlour with two bags strapped around them. Moriarty inched forward and draped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders. His eyes were glassy in the afternoon sun streaming through the curtains. He kissed him gently.

"I'm sorry. I...I never meant for this to happen," said Sherlock tenderly.

He swallowed as disappointment threatened to close his eyes. "It did." He took in a slow breath, "That's all that matters now." Sebastian was yelling something behind them, but neither cared to listen. The sound of horse hooves and cocking guns could be heard through the shielded window. As a tense fog engulfed the room, all Moriarty could focus on was the man before him. He examined every inch of his face, twirled his curls, and kissed his cheekbones. He wanted to frame this image in his mind and never let it go. "Bye, Sherlock Holmes. It was wonderful."

Sherlock's hands felt emptier than ever before as he pulled himself away. They ran out the back door as uniformed men burst through the front. A gun was propped against his temple. He was sure their yelling could be heard miles away. The officers asked him questions pulled from a bottomless pit of paperwork, but Sherlock didn't answer any. Only one word escaped his lips that afternoon.

"Bye."

Horses galloped behind them at a frightening speed. In their pulsing exhaustion, Sebastian pulled Moriarty tight to his chest and fired a shot. It wasn't his finest work, but it succeeded in gouging the officer's skull. forcing his body to collapse into the grass. This would be the hard part. With bullets firing past them in quick succession, Sebastian leaped onto the abandoned horse's saddle. His chest pressed against the leather, grip tight around the horse and Moriarty. It took all his strength to pull them up.

Moriarty held his back like a frightened cat whose claws needed cutting. As Sebastian controlled the horse, he took care of their pursuers. His aim wasn't as good, especially in this state, but he had enough muscle memory to shoot two--one in the neck, then skull, the other in the cheek. They both came crumbling down, soaking the wild grass.

The erratic galloping of the horse's hooves jostled him around. It made it hard to think, to focus. Surely those two weren't the only ones. They needed to lose their trail, so in a spur-of-the-moment decision, Sebastian guided the horse into the woodland. Speckled leaf light cooled their senses. The horse's gate was ever more jarring here as it hopped over fallen branches and boulders. He dug his head into Sebastian's back. It ached something awful.

"You can stay with me for a while, but sooner or later, we will both need to leave London, if we're smart, the whole island."

He didn't have the energy to speak; instead, he nodded against his back as his eyes fluttered closed. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't drift off and ignore the world around him. Soon enough, he would have to face the mess he created, but for now, in these few seconds of silence, he relaxed into the warmth of his friend.

His heartbeat was rapid, mimicking the foot of a frightened rabbit. He peered his eyes open to the woodland. It was beautiful out here, an easy place to forget one's problems. He didn't see any bunnies, or squirrels, or anything. Just green whipping past his face. There was no time to admire the scenery on the run. Survival of the fastest. If only losers admire, then what does that make him?

'Hopeful' echoed in his skull, reverberating off the grey matter of his brain. Hope is for dreamers, an identity that could never fit an insomniac like himself; nightmares left no room for the idea. Never in his life had he considered what he truly wanted. Everything was a need, a convenience, a gluttonous desire. But a true want? The word felt foreign. He didn't have a dream; he had a future, a dreary, desolate future. Moriarty was a man of the present. Where there was no future, there was no hope. And yet...there was that word. It repeated itself until he had forgotten the proper pronunciation.

He wanted Sherlock. He truly, with every fibre of his being, wanted him. Somehow, this realization didn't make him feel any lighter. Finally, he knew what he wanted, but just as he got the taste of hope on his tongue, it dissolved. Uncertainty replaced its warm embrace. It coiled around his heart and tightened until he felt blood spill over its metallic touch.

He left, and he can never come back. Sherlock is gone. Hope is gone.

"Bye."

Chapter Text

Sebastian had never been one for interior design. His house was small, dating back around a century. Its dreary walls were plastered in an ugly pale wallpaper that had been discoloured to a sickly blackened grey after years of smoke residue. Cobwebs had overtaken the corners of each room. Whenever the spiders responsible would poke their spindly legs out of the peeling plaster, Sebastian would chat to them like flatmates, asking how the children were getting on as if they'd answer. His maid Cordelia, a lovely woman with frizziest of hair, would kindly request to remove them, but Sebastian always refused. "What do you take me for, a colonist?" He'd say with the jaunty laugh of a foreigner.

His time in the Americas had given him a new outlook on the world. He'd only gone to see an old friend and explore the 'new' world as the salesmen called it, but being the man he was, he found himself in the bed of a Cree woman just as bold and outspoken as himself. Legend says her boot's still lodged up his ass to this day.

As much as Moriarty agreed with these sentiments, he refused to share a bedroom with a family of longlegs and silently had them rehomed when he moved into the main suite.

At first, he refused to take Sebastian's bed, but the soldier was too much of a gentleman for that. He resigned himself to the parlour instead. Despite this, Moriarty often convinced him to share the bed and leave his sad excuse for a cot to the spiders.

The house was lovely for what it was, and he was grateful for Sebastian's hospitality, but the longer he stayed, the worse he felt. Maybe it was the wallpaper, or the bugs, or the putrid tobacco wafting through the old hallways, but he couldn't get settled. His bones ached with a horrible dread. It shook him to the core, sloshing around like old tea forgotten on the bedside table until it finally spilled over the edge. He'd vomited an absurd amount for someone without a fever. He'd sit at the creaky table with a vigorous ambition just for the meal he'd worked so hard on to crawl out of his throat like prey running from a predator.

Sebastian tried to be positive, he really did, but there was only so much he could say. Eventually, he reduced his hopeful monologues to a simple concerned brow raise and a kiss to a tensed forehead. He'd formed a routine around pouring Moriarty cups of ginger tea, two in the morning, one in the evening. It was their sacred calendar. Whether it helped, neither of them knew, but it kept them busy.

Of course, they both knew the cause of this blight, but Moriarty hadn't the voice to bring it up, and Sebastian refused to start a discussion he had no right to. So it hung in the air like a horrible miasma, poisoning their comfortable domesticity.

In the late afternoon when Moriarty finished his last cup and retreated to the bed chamber, he'd plant his back on the mattress and stare up at the ceiling until colourful shapes clouded his vision. He'd thought enough in those days to rival the Greeks.

Despite their silence, the unspoken succeeded in invading his mind. No amount of distraction could stop it. He'd always find himself back in that parlour, face to face with his worst mistake. Blue irises in an almond cage.

The horse's heavy hooves, like pounding war drums, had crushed his beloved wildflowers. The noise stained his skull.

Was it dirt or gunpowder that veiled the blue bodies?

Memories of a doomsday he'd never witnessed deceived him. How true was the story of the old drunkard who'd cornered him in a pub years ago? The true events of the man's story he'd probably never know, but cruelty had a way of staining the mind, and some things could never be forgotten. Dirt or gunpowder? The man couldn't remember, and after a moment of contemplation, came to the conclusion it didn't matter. The soldiers were dead.

The details faded, but the facts remained; they were etched into his corneas. As much as Moriarty tried to understand this philosophy, his attention always drifted back to the blue bodies. As the man rambled on, he couldn't help but interrupt and ask the question again.

"But was it dirt or gunpowder?"

The man squinted and dropped his glass to the bar with a heavy groan. The dark alcohol swirled around, spilling over the edges of the clear glass, before settling to a slow rock. "You're avoiding the point, boy. They're dead. Gone, rotting." He coughed like an old chimney sweep, hacking up soot into a soiled handkerchief. "Dance around death like that and he'll start courting ya'."

Avoiding the point. Well, that summed up his life pretty well. Curiosity was his greatest strength and his greatest weakness. When all signs pointed south, he went north just for the hell of it. Rebellion was his mother tongue, a fact he embraced with a lust-filled laughter. If following the rules meant facing that horrid memory, he'd listen to the wildflower's screams all night long.

He had gotten off topic again. How very appropriate. That particular memory had a way of drawing him in, then kicking him out to another, hardly related memory. He wasn't sure how many times he'd gotten the courage to face it just to be drawn back into his childhood. The whole ordeal now reeked of potato soup.

Sebastian's tense mutterings became his mother's hushed whispers. The windy whistle of a bullet became the chorus of 'Arthur McBride'. Worst of all, the figure of interest, silhouetted in afternoon sun, had taken on a corpse-like stature. His salty tears left black trails as they slid down his shivering flesh. Moriarty could no longer tell where the tears ended and his sweat began, trickling down pallid skin, bathed in the stench of sun-soaked rot.

He groaned, writhing against the cold cotton blankets, and dug his nails into his forearm. Enough. No more. Stop it.

The horrid scent hung, daring him to sit up and spit the little food he'd managed to swallow into the fibres of Sebastian's bed. An awful emptiness had carved a hole in his chest. The warm flutter that had once filled him, kept him awake when all he wanted to do was sleep, had been ripped out with a gruesome fury. How could he go on without that warmth? Did he even want to? 

A life without...him, how bitter a thought.

"Glasgow's nice," Sebastian called through the thin wall separating the parlour and the kitchen, "Very green."

Moriarty sighed audibly as he tilted the kettle, watching the boiling water pour. He let the idea pass through his mind for a moment before discarding it.

"Edinburgh, Greenock? Ooh, what about Galway?" He heard footsteps approach as Sebastian sauntered into the kitchen. He wrapped his arms lazily around his middle, dropping his head to the other man's shoulder. "That's proper sea-land."

Moriarty glared at him as he brought the warm mug of ginger tea up to his lips. "If I'm going home, I'd rather Belfast."

Sebastian idly rubbed the hem of his collar. The silky fabric, black as night, held a tender warmth. "Why the north? Aren't you from Dublin?"

His breath caught for a moment, hackles raised. After a hesitant breath, he took a long drink of his tea. Sebastian watched every movement with a careful eye. "Irish is Irish."

Chapter Text

The aching hurt of a broken heart sinks into the hollowed home of a breathless ribcage. To Moriarty, a familiar caving in. It brings a taste to the tongue of spat copper and drooling saliva, sharp with sickness. Every bone feels fragile, every joint malleable, every blink strained. The entire body falls into an endless well. Spiralling down, down, down into a pit of hopelessness. Finds itself locked in the memories of a dead man. Sly smiles, gentle touches. A life gone to the pit, dead.

It can never be.

A loud chime reverberated through the house. It prickled his skin with metallic breath. Cordelia's quick steps tapped past them. The faint warmth of Sebastian's hands slid away as he retreated to the hallway, leaving him in the embrace of empty, yet fluid air.

He took in a large breath. In the split second where his thoughts had drifted away, he'd forgotten to breathe. His vision blurred around the edges. He threw his head to the side to rid himself of it, but that did little. The prickling sensation deepened. It dug into his skin with the pressure of a dull knife. His skin felt wet, uncomfortably sweaty.

He poured the last of his ginger tea into the bowl of his jaw and swallowed with a large gulp.

"Ducky?" Sebastian called from the entrance. Moriarty blinked himself back to full consciousness and slunk away from the kitchen. His tepid footsteps echoed through the thin hallway as he approached the door. Sebastian leaned against the frame with a large ceramic pot in his arms. "You're children have arrived."

He had sent one of his admirers, The Seadogs Pub's owner, to fetch them for him. It was too dangerous to go himself, but he couldn't bring himself to leave the beasties. Besides, they would probably haunt him had he let them shrivel.

His admirer wandered in under Sebastian's close eye and dropped a crateful beside the coatrack. Moriarty hastily grabbed the one out of Sebastian's hands and brought it to the sitting room. "Thank you, darling!" he called as he poured what was left of a forgotten glass into the pot. The roots sucked it up immediately.

"I didn't take you for a gardener," mused his admirer.

Moriarty glared at him, "I'm not."

Sebastian dropped onto a chair next to him and began lighting his pipe. "He prefers the term friend of Venus."

His eyes focused on Sebastian now, deepening in intensity. He didn't care to explain himself. Anyone who couldn't see the allure of these carnivorous photosynthesizers wasn't worth his breath.

He glanced down at the potted predator in his arms. Their smooth green fangs shielded a strawberry mouth, permanently grinning. He couldn't help but wish he could match their expression. The ends of his lips wavered, but never set in the upturned position, always falling hopelessly. It looked up at him like an eager child with murder on the mind. A true vessel of Venus, for what could be more beautiful than violence? In all its gory intensity. The taste of the kill on your tongue, the blood of unsheathed reality...it was enough to strike fear into the heart of any naive man.

He felt the phantom sensation of sand between his fingertips and the pulse of a heart against his cheek. A sigh escaped him. Her children needed tending.

After so many hours of avoidant thrill seeking stuck inside a cobweb-infested husk, exhaustion tends to take hold of the bones. Moriarty wasn't sure how much longer he could spend staring up at the ceiling of Sebastian's bedroom. Clopping hooves hung in the background of his internal dialogue like a screaming child. The whir of a flying bullet, a sweaty pistol, and the feeling of leaves whipping past his head sat beside him now, whispering cruel nothings along clammy skin.

Wet eyes pulsed in a fog of disintegrating memories.

A wound sat in the centre of his chest. It reeked of dust and silence. This wasn't the first time he'd felt its presence, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last. The first emotion to erupt from its bottomless pit was anger, whose fire roared against his skin, prodding at every weakness. It singed his eyelashes as it carved a ravine in his skull --- a divide between reason and fury.

How could he do this to me?

How could I do this to myself?

I am worthless

I am unlovable

I am weak

I am worthless

I am weak

I am unlovable

I need to kill

Chapter Text

The aching hurt of a broken heart sinks into the hollowed home of a breathless ribcage. A familiar caving in. It brings a taste to the tongue of spat copper and drooling saliva, sharp with sickness. Every bone feels fragile, every joint maliable, every blink strained. The entire body falls into an endless well. Spiralling down, down, down into the pit of hopeless existence. Finds itself locked in the memories of a dead man. Sly smiles, gentle touches. A life gone to the pit, dead.

It can never be.

A loud chime reverberated through the house. It pricked his skin with metallic breath. Cordelia's quick steps tapped past them. The faint warmth of Sebastian's hands slid away as he retreated to the hallway, leaving him in the embrace of empty, yet fluid air.

He took in a large breath. In the split second where his thoughts had drifted away, he'd forgotten to breathe. His vision blurred around the edges. He threw his head to the side to rid himself of it, but that did little. The prickling sensation deepened. It dug into his skin with the pressure of a dull knife. His skin felt wet, uncomfortably sweaty.

Moriarty poured the last of his ginger tea into the cup of his jaw and swallowed with a large gulp.

"Ducky?" Sebastian called from the entrance. Moriarty blinked himself back to full consciousness and slunk away from the kitchen. His tepid footsteps echoed through the thin hallway as he approached the door where Sebastian stood, leaning against the frame with a large plant pot in his arms. "You're children have arrived."

He had sent one of his admirers, The Seadogs Pub's owner, to fetch them for him. It was too dangerous to go himself, but he couldn't bring himself to leave them. The beasties would probably haunt him had he let them shrivel.

His admirer wandered in under Sebastian's close eye and dropped a crateful beside the coatrack. Moriarty hastily grabbed the one out of Sebastian's hands and brought it to the sitting room. "Thank you, darling!" he called as he poured what was left of a forgotten glass into he pot. The plant sucked up the water immediately.

"I didn't take you for a gardener," mused his admirer.

Moriarty glared at him, "I'm not."

Sebastian dropped onto a chair next to him and began lighting his pipe. "He prefers the term friend of Venus."

His eyes focused on Sebastian now, deepening in intensity. He didn't care to explain himself, though. Anyone who couldn't see the allure of these carnivorous photosynthesizers wasn't worth his breath.

He glanced down at the potted predator in his arms. Their smooth green fangs shielded a strawberry mouth, permanently grinning. He couldn't help but wish he could match their expression. The ends of his lips wavered, but never set in the upturned position, always falling again. It looked up at him like an eager child with murder on the mind. A true vessel of Venus, for what could be more beautiful than violence? In all its gory intensity. The taste of the kill on your tongue, the blood of unsheathed reality, it's enough to strike fear into the heart of any naive man.

He felt the phantom sensation of sand between his fingertips and the pulse of a heart against his cheek. A sigh escaped him. Her children needed tending.

After so many hours of avoidant thrill seeking stuck inside a cobweb-infested husk, exhaustion takes hold of the bones. Moriarty wasn't sure how much longer he could spend staring up at the ceiling of Sebastian's bedroom. Clopping hooves hung in the background of his internal dialogue like a child's screams. The whir of a flying bullet, a sweaty pistol, and the feeling of leaves whipping past his head sat beside him now, whispering cruel nothings along clammy skin.

Wet eyes pulse in a fog of disintegrating memories.

A wound sits in the centre of his chest. It reeks of dust and silence. This isn't the first time he's felt its presence, and he's sure it won't be the last. The first emotion to erupt from its bottomless pit is anger. A fire roars against his skin, prodding at every weakness. It singes his eyelashes as it carves a ravine in his skull-- a divide between reason and fury.

How could he do this to me?

How could I do this to myself?

I am worthless

I am unlovable

I am weak

I am worthless

I am weak

I am unlovable

A knock hit the door. The sound pulsed in his aching head.

"James?"

He hated when anyone called him that, but now, as it cut through his thoughts like a hot knife, it brought some comfort. It was Sebastian mumbling on the other side of that door. He could imagine his face, the way he bit his cheek when trying to hide whatever emotion forced its way to his expression. He waited for a moment before creaking the unlocked door open.

Jim tried his best to hide his face, sat up, facing the window. The pale drapes fluttered in the wind coming through the open hinge. He tried to focus on the delicacy of the fabric and allow his mind to calm. As soon as he heard those familiar footsteps, though, it all came crashing down again.

He forced his eyes shut. "I'm fine."

He wasn't sure who he was responding to, but Sebastian replied, exhaustion souring his tongue. "No, you're not." A desperate roar hung in his chest, but he held it back. Sebastian had been kind to him. He didn't deserve whatever pitiful wrath burned within him. "Be honest with me."

Honesty, how boring. The very thought made his skin crawl. "You know what happened. What do you want me to say?"

He cut in without giving Jim much time to finish his sentence, "I can tell you've been crying! Now, just tell me what to do. You want him dead? I'll make it bloody, just give me a damn target!"

Moriarty spun his head to face him. The absence of yelling left an emptiness in the air. He forced their eyes to meet, fury and determination pulsing through his irises. "Tower Bridge."

Chapter Text

Sherlock sat before the mantle, eyes piercing into the bricks. His pipe twirled between his fingers. He brought it to his lips before he could wear his fingers to exhaustion.

The creaking of John's bedroom door stung him. A dull cry. He prepared for their routine to begin again. They had gone nearly two weeks without speaking about it; he wasn't about to break that record. John's footsteps approached. They thumped against the wood in a tired rhythm. Sherlock took in a heavy breath as the steps finished crying.

"You don't look like you've moved all night."

"Nope."

John paused for a moment, examining the room. It hadn't changed a bit. As if approaching a jumpy animal, John wandered into the living space and dropped himself into the chair opposite Sherlock. He hesitated, only irritating his companion more. "Can we talk about it?"

Sherlock barely spared him a glare as he drew in another puff from his pipe. His lack of an answer was answer enough.

John bit his knuckle and reclined into his chair. "Can you at least respond?"

Sherlock turned to him with the precision of a predator. "And say what? You know what you need to!"

John's cheekbones pressed against his eyes as he sneered. He could be such a machine sometimes. Maybe he could explain why he chose, out of everyone in a world that bowed to his feet, Jim Moriarty? Ruthless crime consultant they had been chasing for months now. It was Sherlock who had done most of the chasing, but John had seen enough of it to know the type of man Jim Moriarty was. Violent, dangerously intelligent, and manipulative. If he had used such tactics on Sherlock, it would explain why he'd acted as he had. The only issue was getting Sherlock to admit such a thing. His ego would never allow him.

"I'll tell you what I told my dastardly brother...I'm not doing this."

That damn ego. John hated how much he cared. He was a selfish, rude, addict with no regard for how his actions affected everyone around him. Why he put up with the man, John couldn't say.

The wolf's silent smile watched him from the centre of the door. The rusted metal, having been exposed to London's infamous rainfall, gave it a fiery quality. Sherlock took in a shaky breath before sliding his hand under its chin and pounding the knocker piece of the ornament against the tall door.

He hadn't been expecting a response, but it felt wrong not to knock before entering such a place. It held a sacred quality. A ghost house trapped in their memories, flickering in the present sunlight.

When none came to greet him, Sherlock forced his way inside, half-pleased to find it unlocked. The ghostly exterior couldn't hope to compare to the inside. A knot began to form in his centre, tugging at every blood vessel and organ.

Still, he continued. Treking up the sacred mountain, searching for a god, only to find his temple in ruins. A hole where his face should lie. Once again, he had involved himself in others' affairs. Forgave another's killer with no right. Had he been that earthly god, trickster, child of the primordial goddess herself? Or someone corrupted, whose deformities had transformed him into a being of beauty, granted god status at the moment of death, bathed in the blood of his former kin.

Even in all his cleverness, Sherlock found himself in the hopeless devotee, weeping beneath the burning altar. That bed of silk. He had been so particular, giving the space a sacred air. Remembering that evening, he could see why. No other word did it justice.

He couldn't help but lean down and grasp the delicate fabric of the blanket. He slowly inhaled; it still smelled like him.

What had he done?

"Sherlock?"

He threw the blanket down and spun around to see his interrupter. John. "You followed me?"

He hadn't been standing there long, luckily for Sherlock, and didn't seem to understand the importance of the room he'd just entered. To avoid disturbing its peace and any uncomfortable explanations, Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and dragged him into the hall

"This place has already been ransacked, so I doubt you'll find anything Lestrade doesn't already have."

The ache in his centre deepened. He tried to avoid any feelings associated with that. "You shouldn't have followed me. Go home."

John frowned, "It's not like they're coming back any time soon! Now, can we please talk about this? It's obvious you miss-"

"John!"

His voice reverberated through the long hallway, raspy and strained. John, in all his years handling unstable, control-needy individuals, didn't allow himself to be phased. "You're addicted, Sherlock. Look at you! You hardly leave the house, you've spent every night this week solving cases you don't even care about just to keep yourself from thinking, from feeling a bloody emotion!" Sherlock pushed him away, charging down the hall, a fed-up John following suit. "He gave you a high, that's it. I mean, you can't really believe you-"

He came to a dead halt before the staircase. John nearly ran headfirst into him, hastily stopping a few inches away. The words hung in the air between them. Sherlock didn't dare say them out loud, instead opting for a gaze so intense, it might frighten John enough to never bring it up again.

After some trepidation, John muttered under his breath, "he's a murderer. A cold-blooded murderer."

Sherlock trudged down the steps without another word. By the time John approached the door, he had met him with a small potted plant. John didn't care to mention it, knowing he'd only be met with more silence, and followed him outside.

The scent of clean linen hummed along his face as it lay against the bed. Instinctively, Sherlock stretched his back before turning over and pressing it against the sheets. His eyes blinked open slowly. Light from the window streamed through, falling gracefully against his covered legs.

Getting up was always the hardest part of his morning. Why do so when your bed is so peaceful? If he lay too long, however, that peace would dissipate, and memory would take hold again. So, he sat himself upright and peeled the blankets from his numb form.

He stood to adjust the curtains and allow the sunlight to fill the room when he noticed a familiar look below. A brick wall just across from his bedroom had been painted. Deep reds sunk into the harsh ravines of the bricks, draping along an ivory silhouette. Moriarty, wearing a blood-soaked gown, with a chess piece trapped between his teeth.

The Queen.

Chapter Text

Scratch.

The thin stick hummed against the sandpaper like a cabbie on gravel. It sparked, then lit. A small bulb of fire danced on its tip.

His hand, shaky and pale, held it tight. Eyes boring into the sparkling flame as if it knew the destruction it was about to cause. The frightened mumblings of his onlooker stung. He had wanted him alive. Harmed, but not enough to stop him from leaving in time. He waited until he couldn't hear the fast-paced footsteps any longer.

Fear is such a horrible feeling.

He threw it to the ground before he could hesitate.

The dingy office stunk of the same cheap tobacco and dust it always did. After a long month of avoiding the station, Sherlock had finally been dragged back like a mangy dog to a bath.

He leaned against the back wall, taking shaky puffs from his pipe as he waited for the awkward silence to break. His jaw wore a less than favourable stubble that kept brushing against his knuckles. He'd kept telling himself he'd shave tomorrow, but that tomorrow kept evading him.

Lestrade, poised at his desk with folded arms, flashed him a sarcastic grin. "You're a sight for sore eyes, aren't you?"

"Cut to the chase, I don't have all day, Detective Inspector."

He and John exchanged concerned glances. Sherlock decided to ignore that for his pride's sake. "Terrorist attack. Tower Bridge. Left a big hole in the North tower. The suicide bomber left us a witness, Mr. Oswald; let him get away before it went off."

Sherlock carefully sucked air into his lungs, focusing on the way it straightened his back curiously. His eyes darted toward Lestrade, and in a split second, the strange air he'd cultivated died. "I assume he's already been brought in for questioning?"

Lestrade stood and wandered to the other side of his desk. He glanced back at Sherlock, hand pressed against the door, "Be kind, yeah? Poor blokes sobbing." He pushed it open and ushered them out.

Sherlock scoffed, following the D.I. into another room. Mr.Oswald sat at a table in the room's centre, shrouded in darkness. He was old, hysterical, a man of queen and country reduced to ruins by his loyalty.

Sherlock neared the seat opposite to him with a spring in his step, "So, what'd he look like?"

When the witness caught his eye, he slammed his spine against the bony seat. Mr.Oswald stared at him with such disgust and horror. The reaction sank into Sherlock's skin with a cold tug at his heart. Before he could defend himself, the man was screaming. The shrill voice pulsed in his head like windchimes in a storm. Sherlock was dragged out the door before he lost his hearing.

The last coals in the chamber of his pipe illuminated the blackened tobacco remains. He felt the residue coating his lungs, but was determined to suck the last of its intoxicating smoke, tapping his fingers along the wooden shank to rid his mind of any unhelpful thoughts.

There were only a handful of explanations, and each one reeked of a frame job. The question was easy to face; the answer was much harder. But how that mural could be any less than a threat was frankly absurd; It was the nail in the coffin he needed. Fuel to his frustration when everything within Sherlock told him to fight. He wasn't a coward, but he couldn't allow his anger to get the better of him. That was the desired reaction, and he'd rather ruin his reputation than follow this cruel story.

He could hear them muttering inside. It was only a matter of time until they came out to fetch him.

Decisions, decisions. That was what it always came down to, wasn't it? Both of them knew this couldn't last, that they'd come charging in to ruin it all one day. Sherlock didn't deserve scrutiny for his brother's actions. Damned by what he didn't do, damned by what he did, there was no winning anymore, only surviving.

Sherlock's eyes darted to an officer next to the door. He must have had the same idea, step out for some air before it all explodes. He stalked toward him with a faux smile. "Smoke break?"

He squinted before nodding. Sherlock kept his smile steady as his eyes wandered down the man's form. The officer followed his gaze back up, suddenly noticing a black mass now held in Sherlock's right hand.

"My gun!"

He flinched forward, but it was too late; it was already pointed straight at him. Sherlock reached his other arm out to gesture at his companion, "John! Follow me."

"What?" He grabbed Sherlock's arm and hid near his back as the main entrance creaked open. "What the hell are you doing?!"

The gun acted as an unbreakable barrier, blocking the two from Lestrade as he exited the station. In a split-second decision, Sherlock pressed the cold barrel against John's neck, grasping him tight. The cursing sang through his mind, fulfilling the prophecy of his nightmares.

They inched away slowly. "You know I'd appreciate it if you let me in on your plan before you go putting a gun to my head." Sherlock ignored John's whining and made a run for it.

"Sherlock!" John's voice rang through his mind in the same sharp tone as Mr. Oswald. He followed close behind to avoid Sherlock's tight grip on his arm, pulling it out of its socket. If it weren't for that, maybe he wouldn't have heeled to his side so fast. The only witness identified him as the suicide bomber. That was hard evidence to shake off, as implosiable as it seemed. But truthfully, he didn't know how much he could trust Sherlock these days. With eyes like opium puddles boring into him, lost in a distant haze, worshipping their mumbled memories. He was changed. "Can you please explain?"

His head swung back to glare. "Moriarty...he set me up." He inhaled sharply, "He wants me to play this silly game of his, and normally, I'd go along--"

"--Sherlock!!"

"But I refuse to dance in his dreamland any longer! I have softened my edges to their very limit just to--" he gasped in a breath, clenching his teeth as the cold air of the night trickled down his lungs, "I'm not doing this. Not for him."

They ducked into an alleyway, barrelling into each other to see if they'd lost their pursuers. The street behind was empty. Oh, bless these late nights.

As they caught their breath, however, spreading their tensed backs against the icy bricks, Sherlock noticed something on the adjacent wall. Arrows. More interestingly, arrows painted in the same off-white as the complexion of a certain criminal.

John choked in a gasp as he was tugged by his collar into yet another running spree. Sherlock dashed through the complex web of alleys. There had to be close to a hundred of them. Everywhere he turned, there they were, coaxing him away.

Around ten minutes, they finally stopped. The last messily painted arrow lay on the steps of the morgue. Except this wasn't some ordinary morgue anymore, was it? It was the morgue of all too innocent Jim, who conveniently only went by his first name. Where he chatted with a friendly stranger and swam into the net of a murderer by trade, succumbed to the primal nature he had tried so hard to burn, and in his arms, fell.

Only one person would be mad enough.

He broke down the door to a surprising lack of argument. Perhaps John had learned not to interrupt with his questions; more likely, he had begun to see the depths of his affliction, through a labyrinth of alleys, into the heart of his despair.

It was quiet, empty except for the lifeless bodies decorating each slab. Through the gaps of darkness, Sherlock tried to make out any living figures. He didn't hear any breathing. So, semi-confident he wasn't about to be jumped, he searched. It didn't take him long to spot a small envelope on the chest of a cadaver resting before the entrance. It was sealed with a magpie of red wax. It looked strangely familiar.

The peace that was John's silence had been short-lived: "What is it?"

Sherlock didn't grace that with an answer, shushing the man before placing the seal between his palms and shattering its smooth finish. A letter.

Dear Sherlock Holmes

Consulting Detective

Mara of my nightmares

What a mistake, so long ago, when I allowed your prying eyes to see. You hid under a warped mirror as you devoured my peace. When your lips kissed my neck, did they beg to bite?

I have allowed this destruction for far too long. I will let your fascination feast on the beast I have made you.

Dec 21 12:00 Genloe Falls, Ireland

Chapter Text

Beneath the Cadaver's slab were two suitcases, each holding a Passenger Steamboat ticket. Sherlock wrapped his palm around the leather handle of one and brought it to his side. Reasonably heavy, presumably holding all he'd need for a spontaneous trip. As he went to fumble with the latch, John, who had taken the letter in his distraction, spoke up. "You're not seriously going, are you?"

The detective swung his head toward John with a sneer. "Of course we are." He laughed at his shocked expression, "It's not like I can stay here, he's not an idiot, my reputation, if it isn't already, will be destroyed. He wants me in ruins. When a man like that puts you on his list, there is little point in being stubborn."

As Sherlock headed for the door, John stepped in front of him. "What? We?"

"Well, I had hoped you'd accompany me."

John's tight glare quivered under the eyes of his flatmate as they bore down into him. So rarely did he gather the courage to disobey him. Not out of some inherent dominance, but due to a magnetic chaos that emanated from Sherlock's every action. A chaos which lured him in, washed away all his responsibilities, and shot him full of adrenaline. A bit of chaos could be good sometimes, broke the monotony, but running away to Ireland was not that type of chaos. It included abandoning not just the monotony, but everything he knew. A danger so severe, it could change, if not end, his life. "Think about this for a minute, at least. This psychopath invites you somewhere, and you're gonna go? Just like that?"

"John." One gruff utterance of his name, and he felt his lips sewing themselves shut. He stared up at him, frustrated yet attentive regardless. "You saw what he did to me." His dominant tone settled into something softer, almost pleading. Sherlock was a master at keeping whatever emotions he did feel in check. Despite their relationship, John had barely caught a glimpse. But in this moment, under the dim moonlight streaming through the open door, he felt an ache seeping from Sherlock's very soul, one he could only describe as heartbreak. "I will take any chance I can get to see him again. I have to win."

He let his words hang in the air for a moment, his muscles tense with anticipation as he waited for a response. When it came, he felt a shiver crawl up his spine, screaming at him to run. "What will you do when you see him?"

Sherlock forced his gaze toward the door as the cold night air brushed down his form. He had spent so long avoiding this conversation. On one hand, he should have gotten it over with long before now; on the other, he felt as if a time when he could effectively explain what he'd been through would never come. Especially to John, who had grown so fond of his perfectly crafted reputation. To reveal the truth underneath felt impossible.

He wanted to stand there and pretend he didn't care whether John came with him or not, but he just couldn't. To leave him and all they'd done behind without so much as an explanation left a gory taste on his tongue. Strange how being surrounded by death rearranged one's priorities.

With a deep sigh, Sherlock swallowed his vulnerability and answered. "I'm going to prove myself."

John got his confirmation in the silence that followed. Heavy with grief and thick with a promise. You can trust me this time.

Making his decision, John grabbed his suitcase of choice and headed out the door, "We'd better be off then."

It was Sherlock who then lagged behind, mildly bewildered, but quick to regain his bearings and follow after him. And so, with the scent of midnight still fresh in the air, the two left with haste, hailing a carriage to the pier.

Sherlock let his gaze swim through the scene that whipped past the window. The route they had taken was far busier, packed with pubs and brothels, just as alive as the midday market. It was easy to forget the ordinary life outside one's chambers until faced with it directly. Among the many strangers, he searched for a face he knew he would not find. One that had built a home in his mind despite his eviction attempts.

How he had gotten to this state, he hadn't known. In rational thought, it shouldn't be this way. They had danced, embraced each other in sinful intimacy, only once. This grief held no reason, and yet despite that reminder, it remained. It filled Sherlock with a new shame. The shame of the rejected schoolboy, horrified he had ever admitted his affections, let alone felt them at all. It was one thing to embrace romance, and another for it to be known. He felt the vulnerability crawling under his skin. Though John hadn't mentioned it, they both knew what tension brewed between them. 

He felt the eyes of every passerby and wondered if they knew what he'd done, if they could smell that night on his clothes, if the embrace of another man was so pungent that it stayed with one forever.

Sherlock didn't believe in sin. Some amount of fear for that which he did not understand was reasonable, but the modern man's religion was anything but mysterious. He understood the worshipper's fear of eternal damnation, of judgement, but knew it held little weight. On these London streets, the truth was visible. For if humanity were of some grand moral design, there would be no child beggar, no miserable mother, and the modern man's religion would never have come to be.

These ordinary people were proof to him that there was no judgment on this earth but the judgment of humanity. Even in this understanding, however, he felt a fear far too similar to that of the worshipper invading his subconscious. Even knowing there was no point to this judgment, he succumbed to its will. He performed for their viewing pleasure.

Perhaps that was the purpose of his mental residence. A token of the freedom he seldom allowed himself. Of a man who cared not for the judgment of others, who would have danced with Sherlock in front of the whole world.

Was it really possible for a mere man to be so free?

Yet even in his inhuman freedom, he could not outrun cruelty. Human he was in the eternal torment bestowed upon him by the very community meant to nurture. A community which had brought the two together, only to sever their creation, ashamed of its existence. Not satisfied with their mere separation, though, it felt the need to consume Moriarty and twist his madness into a mirror of his oppressor.

Only to once again reunite them, it's bloodlust forever unsatisfied.

The carriage halted just before the dock, jolting them forward. Sherlock elegantly kicked the door open and stepped out as John gathered their luggage. With the sun still a few hours below the horizon, the pier was draped in a liminal darkness that hung over the water like billowing fog.

Noticing a worker standing before what he presumed to be their steamboat, Sherlock approached and held out their tickets. He heard John's familiar groan behind him as the luggage was dropped by his side.

"We'd like to get settled."

The man eyed them with a sneer as he took the tickets handed to him. After checking their information, he nodded and shoved the tickets in his coat pocket. "Bit early, isn't it? I just got here."

Sherlock smiled thinly, "Yes, well, we were very excited."

To avoid further questioning, he darted past and headed toward the entrance, John with a polite smile scurrying after him. The dock creaked beneath his shoes; only when boarding the steamboat could his footsteps be heard clearly. Spinning on his heel, he took in the view. The London he'd be leaving behind, of which he might never see again.

Fog seeped into the silhouetted buildings, blurring the flickering lights which shone like stars. He would miss London, even with all its flaws.

He made a note to remember this scene. A home full of memories that painted his mind like newspaper cuts slapped to a corkboard. Vivid yet faint in the details. The home where he'd kissed his demise. Once it had been set in motion, had there ever been a chance of his survival? If there had, he surely wouldn't know. Regardless, it didn't matter anymore. All he could do now was win…whatever means necessary.