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The thing about Jim Moriarty is that he got under his skin.
At first Sherlock thought of him as a poison. Few drops – a negligible amount, as small as the time they spent together – in his blood, few drops capable of filling every single moment of his life with pain and suffering, few drops that would have lead to certain death.
Then his idea of him changed.
Jim Moriarty became nicotine, heroin, cocaine, whatever drug Sherlock craved in that specific moment. Always capable of destroying him, but in a way Sherlock would have greeted with a smile and outstretched fingers.
Now, as the bow moves on the violin strings and Jim Moriarty watches him with something between thirst and devotion in his eyes, Sherlock realizes he was wrong. Jim Moriarty isn't poison or smoke or drugs, he isn't any of these over-abused clichés writers love, no. Jim Moriarty is something more important, something that has always been part of him.
If he was romantic he would say Jim is part of his soul, but Sherlock Holmes is the only consulting detective in the world, is a man who lives thanks to his mind, a man that desperately tries to ignore his emotions and use only logic.
Sherlock Holmes is a scientist and for him Jim Moriarty is part of his DNA. A mutation that shouldn't exist, an error that has been there since the day he was born and that makes him the person he is. That makes him different.
Jim Moriarty is in his DNA and this is why only few weeks since the start of their "relationship" – Jim is the only one to use that word – Sherlock began to hum songs he didn't know before hearing the Napoleon of Crime sing in the shower. This is why sometimes he tilts his head in a way that John called, frowning and with confusion deposited on his glabella, "oddly familiar and disturbing". This is why, when he walks around London and Moriarty is nowhere to be found, busy with only God knows what, Sherlock sees Jim in the faces of strangers.
"Sherlock..."
Jim says his name slowly, he tastes it on his tongue. He gets up from his chair and he walks towards him and it's in the very moment the expensive leather shoes hit the floor that Sherlock realizes something is about to change. It happens every time. Jim has the need to destroy the balance Sherlock created – it doesn't matter how.
"You are good, you really are. I wonder, however, what else you can do with those fingers."
He tilts his head, a grin on his lips. It's the same expression he wears in the bedroom or with a gun to his head.
Sherlock closes his eyes to ignore any possible distraction. He keeps playing.
"Unfinished Melody". A (work in progress) composition he's writing just for Jim – the irony of the title made the criminal chuckle and Sherlock's chest suddenly felt warm. It's a fairly difficult piece, but he has played it so many times in the loneliness of his bedroom that he has no problem repeating the operation with his eyes closed.
"Oh, silly me!" Sherlock frowns at the sound of Jim hitting his own forehead with his hand. "I already know what you can do!"
Jim stops so close Sherlock can feel the heath radiating from him.
"You shoved your fingers in my mouth. Like this..."
The wet sounds that follow are more eloquent than any word.
Sherlock doesn't need to open his eyes to see Jim's middle and index fingers sliding rhythmically between his lips – he knows the corners are just slightly raised in a smile that is more vulgar than the action itself – or to feel his gaze. He doesn't need to because it happened so many times he lost count, because now Jim is moaning and fuck, his pants are a little tighter.
Despite everything, it's not about sex, not really.
It's a game. A game where Jim pushes his boundaries and Sherlock tries to resist even if he doesn't really want to, a game that Jim will always win – not that it really matters, because for once winning is less important than playing. Rivalry is what keeps them together. This is why they compete all the time for the most trivial and stupid things.
"Of course you didn't stop there. Your hands are beautiful and amazing, but you never finger me enough. You are always so rough..."
"Never heard you complaining."
Jim laughs.
"You are still playing and you didn't make a single mistake. I will fix it soon of course, but I have to admit I'm impressed. Bravo. Anyway, what I was talking about? Oh right, your hands."
The floor creaks, which means Jim moved. Sherlock expects fingers sliding on the expensive midnight blue shirt Jim bought him and reaching his trousers, expects hands playing with the button and caressing his thighs while ignoring the bulge between his legs. His predictions and deductions are rarely wrong, but this is one of those sporadic times. Jim moved yes, but he's not gonna touch him. In the back of his throat, Sherlock tastes something resembling disappointment.
"You know what is my favourite thing you can do with them? Choking me. Your hands on my neck, squeezing until I can't breathe anymore and then squeezing some more until I'm high from the lack of oxygen."
Sherlock loses the rhythm. He keeps playing, but the notes that linger in the air are now less melodious, different from what they are supposed to be. Both men notice it, but neither of them acknowledge it out loud.
"You always act like between us I'm the only one who is fucked up. My reaction to choking is pure biology" and here a little giggle escapes from Jim's lips "but you? You are turned on because you like hearing me struggling under you, because you like to pretend you would be able to kill me, because you know you are the only one who has ever had this power and---"
Sherlock misses a note. He stops playing.
In the darkness behind closed eyelids, the world has stopped. Or rather, it's not the world that is standing still, crystallized in an ice bubble – in the distance, Sherlock can hear the noise of cars and buses and people and life – but the microcosm of their living room.
Jim doesn't move. His breathing is so slow and quiet that doesn't make a sound, even if the inches that separate them can be counted on the fingers on one hand. Sherlock can't see him, but he's sure Jim is watching him carefully, blinking only when his eyes burn so he doesn't miss anything, not even a fraction of second.
Jim is waiting.
If someone else had left him with an erection between his legs and a defeat to admit, Sherlock would have been mortified. His ears would have been red, on his face would have appeared a childish blush that he would have tried to hide, turning abruptly and inventing excuses with fast and deep voice.
Jim Moriarty however, is not like everybody else. Everything is different with him.
Sherlock curls his lips in a hint of a smile, stoops to lay the violin on the floor and then gets up again. Only then he opens his eyes.
Jim Moriarty's face is surrounded by colourful spots dancing in the corners of his field of view. He looks like something out of a dream.
"So?"
"You won."
"And?"
"I need you."
Jim makes a half curtsy. Then, he kneels between his legs.