Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: I owe nought but the words. Alas, as stunning as the characters are, they belong to Mofftis and ACD – but he said we could do what we liked, so this is totally okay, right?

Distribution: Here, my Dreamwidth, if you want it, ASK ME. Or I'll turn you into shoes.

PS. Reviews are like crack - if you want more, you gotta ask for it! You want Sheriarty? Johnlock? Maybe even some femslash? I never write in this fandom; give me incentive!

"You love it", Jim smirked, biting his lip as eyes raked over Sherlock with a twisted curiosity, "You don't care about those mindless little playthings and their meaningless lives. You care about the game, the problem, proving to yourself you're smarter than little old me...This was never a fight, Sherlock, it was courtship."

Sherlock tensed slightly, lips drawn into a neat line; but he spoke in careless tones, "I admit your games have served as quite the respite from boredom."

They were sat in a room that rivalled 221B for mismatched decor and mess, some part of Moriarty's web of estates and favours that Sherlock was loathe to tell even John about. Mostly out of shame.

"We both know why you're here, Sherlock, so let's cut to the chase..." Jim climbed out of his armchair in a way that could only be described as predatory, muscles creeping smoothly, like a wildcat on the prowl. "You want me to be a good little boy and give up before the game gets interesting. You want to get down on your knees and beg me to stop so you don't have to risk that...thrill it gives you when you think you might just have found the person you'd let yourself loose to."

Sherlock stayed static, eyes locked to the psychopath advancing towards him with a self-satisfied smirk. "Wrong!" he sung with forced glee; studying his host furiously.

"Now, now, Sherlock, don't lie to me. You know how I feel about liars..." Sherlock watched Jim's gaze fall slowly downwards, land on his shoes, before lifting back to his.

"I'm not lying. What reason do I have to lie? I'm not here to ask you to stop because I know full well you'd never agree to it. I'm here to play a game. You do like games, don't you Jim?" He tilted his head, eyes narrowing in a silent dare. His smile was cold, but creeping warmth spread beneath Sherlock's skin.

He got no voiced reply, just a savage grin.

Sherlock forced himself to stand, staring into his nemeses eyes. "Let's play convince me. You have this whole network of murderers, thugs and liars who all follow you blindly. You must do something to keep them on such a tight leash. I don't doubt for a second the threats keep you on top, but what gets them sucked in in the first place? Now, I want to know what you do to make a genius fall at your feet. Convince me to join your cause. For kicks." The floor was tacky underfoot, like something had been spilled here. Washed meticulously, no stains, but the unmistakeable stickiness wouldn't diminish.

Jim chuckled. "I should've had more faith in you. You want to take a peek into my sexy little brain. Well, I say little..." They circled one another, like lions circle prey, both relentless, unfaltering; neither were prepared to lose the game. "The Woman was easy. Oh she didn't need money, she could get that all by herself. She didn't need threats, because pain was her pleasure. She didn't need a murder, or a favour." Jim turned away, wandering aimlessly around the dusty room without meeting Sherlock's eyes, "Oh, but she did like secrets. Knowledge is just so sexy, don't you think?" He threw a smile over his shoulder before the pacing began anew.

"You haven't answered my question."

"Patience, Sherlock. It's quite the virtue, y'know. Now, if I wanted you brother, the Most Powerful Man in England no less; that would be easy, too. I could show him every weak link in that government he holds so dear, make him watch as I corrupted every righteous soul in his beloved circle and then show him how his country would fall. Then I'd make him realise I was doing him a favour. Corruption may be a sin, but when the winning team is doing you more good than the supposed good guys, you learn to adapt."

Sherlock was struggling to hold his composure as Jim rambled on, waltzing around the room to a tune no one but he could hear. "Answer. My. Question."

"Ooh!" Moriarty cooed, turning abruptly to face his guest; grin wild. "So very desperate. How does John put up with this whining?"

Glaring, Sherlock muttered, "I make up for it in other ways."

"Oh I bet you do. And you really want to know how I'd corrupt you, the great Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes."

"And it would be so simple..."

"Tell me."

"See, the thing about you Sherlock, is that I wouldn't need to. It's not about corruption at all. I already told you this was never about the crimes." Jim moved closer and closer, backing Sherlock towards the bare-brick wall, breathing and speaking in a syncopated rhythm. "You're only interested in me because my puzzles make you think, think more and more each time. You crave the day I best you because you're an addict. And you'll never get enough." Sherlock felt his back greet the wall just as he felt the warm breaths on his neck. "I don't need to corrupt you because you're already corrupted." The room was swallowed by silence, no sound but breath, and Sherlock was swallowing air down like it might run out. Breathing shared air, chests touching, eyes locked, Jim pressed his lips to Sherlock's.

There wasn't any choice, then. He couldn't push Jim away, couldn't stop himself from succumbing, he could only drift away and let the sensations flood him. Sherlock felt his heart hammering, foreign needs and compulsions flooding him as Jim's tongue slipped inside his mouth. Licking, sucking, tasting - no, feasting felt more accurate. A predatory devouring of his mouth, Moriarty claiming it as his with every sweep of that tongue.

Sherlock felt lightheaded. This wasn't the chemical pleasure, the endorphin rush of sex other people seemed so preoccupied with. This was more like a power struggle. Moriarty bit down on his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth, and Sherlock wrapped his hands around Jim's neck, pulling him closer.

They stayed like that for a while, Sherlock resting his weight against the wall, Jim leaning heavily on him, all teeth and lips and tongues, until Jim came up for air.

"Told you it would be easy."

Sherlock forced himself away from the wall, pushing Moriarty away as he did. "You got a kiss. Everybody gets a kiss. What's so spectacular about that?"

"Because mine was the first kiss you wanted to continue." He moved in closer again, hands drifting over Sherlock's torso and relishing as muscles fluttered beneath. Biting his lip and glancing up at his prey through thick eyelashes, he began unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt.

"What -"

"Ah, ah, ah, Sherlock, the time for talking is over," he said, pulling the last button free, "mouths are far too busy for words."

Sherlock felt lips press against his throat, butterflies and something distinctly more pleasurable blooming in his stomach. Warm, soft lips mapped out his chest, sucking and biting in pre-planned destinations that had him straining hard against the confines of his trousers. That sinful mouth kept up pace, slipping lower and lower down until Sherlock could barely breathe. This wasn't right. This wasn't him. And still, with his head thrown back and resting against the cool brick wall and as Jim blew softly along the wet trails on his abdomen, it didn't matter who or what he was. The sensations demanded to take over, and he let them swallow him whole.

He could almost sense the hungry smile resting level with his flies, and if it weren't for the paralysis of desperation he would have urged that mouth closer. But Jim took his time, slowly unbuttoning the trousers and dragging them down his thighs, lightly teasing the skin they revealed until Sherlock's thighs quivered. He kissed along the angles of Sherlock's hips and massaged the muscular thighs, dragging out the process like a dentist pulls teeth. Slowly and brutally.

Sherlock muttered unintelligible commands, 'now's and 'more's. His back was arched viciously, fingers clawing at the rough brick wall. Cool rivulets of sweat ran down his spine as fingers slipped into the waistband of his boxers, freeing his aching cock.

Breath tickled at him, fingers dancing along hip bones and arse cheeks, and drumming along his cleft. An eternity of waiting, barely-there touches as he felt composure crumple.

"Please, Jim!" He breathed, voice thick with desperation. His shut-eyes forced their way open to look down on the man below.

Meeting his burning gaze, Jim leaned forward and wrapped his lips around Sherlock's cock.

It was too much to watch. The visual stimulation was as maddening and erotic as the feel of the tongue sweeping around the head of his cock. He watched Jim move forward, licking along the rigid veins as his hand gripped the base and Sherlock was truly at his mercy.

That dark head bobbed along his cock, tacking it inside, inch by inch until it was completely submerged. Then cheeks deflated around it, sucking furiously as Moriarty swallowed around him.

Throat muscles fluttered around his cock in a euphoric rhythm as one hand reached up to massage his balls. Sherlock felt his knees giving out, his throat moaning hoarsely. Nothing was like this. It never had been, never would again.

One hand grasped the bricks fruitlessly, seeking stability; whilst the other wound through Jim's hair, pulling his head closer. His hips were thrusting of their own accord, needing more motion, more friction, more anything, please God more.

Jim pulled his back until only the head of Sherlock's cock was between his lips. Eyes shining with a maniacal glee, he swirled his tongue around it, fast little thrusts in quick succession.

Sherlock felt it, then, the world disappearing and rushing quickly towards something awful, something brilliant... His balls tightened hard, and his eyes squeezed shut because they couldn't take the strain.

Jim surged forward and took the whole cock back in his mouth as Sherlock came, screaming, and pulsing down his nemeses throat.

He collapsed, back skimming painfully against the exposed bricks as he struggled to regain his breath. It took him a moment to remember himself. It took him a moment to remember anything.

When he opened his eyes, Jim was there, staring hard. Unthinking, he leant forward for a kiss (isn't that what people do after intercourse? Kiss and cuddle and fall asleep?), but found himself being pushed away.

He watched as Jim stood up, fixing his dishevelled suit until it regained its regulation neatness. "Do you see now, Sherlock? You let yourself fall, and only for me. I enjoyed the game, think we should play it again some time."

Jim threw him his shirt, a saddened glint in his eye, a forlornness to his gait. And Sherlock thought he knew why. "You want me to beg you to stay. To tell you I couldn't possibly live in a world that didn't have you and your brilliance in it, correct?"

"My, my, how impressive. Well?"

Sherlock jumped to his feet, pulling up his boxers and trousers in tandem before shrugging on his shirt. "A marvellous game. Quite the cure for boredom." He lifted his coat off the back of a hideously yellow armchair and his scarf from the side table and made his way towards the door, only turning to whisper; "I don't fall. I jump."

He shivered as the door slammed shut behind him, regret and pain a mingled jolt that shimmied up his spine. Sherlock allowed himself a moment to press his head against the wood and pretend this wouldn't end badly.

Then he swept off into the night, wondering how he'd explain his bleeding fingers to John.