"How well do you remember your time in the military, Sebastian?"

"That's not a question," Sebastian Moran replied dully from where he stood at the stove in the dingy apartment kitchen. He was pushing eggs around in a pan, a cigarette hanging from his lips. The vent buzzing loudly over the stove sucked up the carcinogenic smoke, along with that coming from the bacon frying in the pan to Sebastian's left.

Sebastian was right, it wasn't a question. It wasn't a question if you already knew the answer. And it wasn't a question if you weren't really asking. Some people asked questions as a segway onto a topic, but Jim Moriarty didn't do segways. He didn't waste his breath. No, he said it just to get a reaction out of Sebastian.

"Did you ever build a fort?" Jim said, his tone high and innocent from his spot on the beat-up green and black marbled couch. Admittedly, this apartment was nicer than some of the other ones Jim had made Sebastian stay in with him, but Sebastian had still seen a roach earlier and threatened to put it in Jim's eggs. Jim had gladly accepted.

Sebastian grunted a response and turned over the sausages. Jim got up from the couch from where he was crocheting of all things, and sidled up to Sebastian. He leaned his hip against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. "Sebby, you know how I feel about you smoking."

Sebastian did know. He knew that Jim fucking hated it when he smoked. Jim would rip the cigarette out of Sebastian's mouth as soon as he saw him smoking, would give him an hour long earful about it, and had once put the cigarette out on Sebastian's forearm. He still had the scar to show for it.

He also knew that Jim fucking loved it when he smoked. Jim had walked into an alleyway once to find Sebastian smoking, and he was so turned on that he made Sebastian fuck him right then and there. Another time Jim had just sat and watched Sebastian smoke – made him smoke - for hours, eyes wide and brimming with light. And he hadn't even been on anything.

So, yes, to answer Jim's question, he knew how Jim felt about him smoking. He just didn't know how Jim felt about it right now.

This was a game, Sebastian knew. Because Jim always loved to play games. You were never safe from Jim's games, no matter how long you'd known him or how long you'd been fucking him. They were just different games, but you had just as much of a chance of dying because you'd guessed the wrong answer to one of Jim's questions as you were if you spit in his face.

Sebastian looked Jim over, as if he were trying to read him for the proper answer. But Sebastian wasn't stupid. That would be pointless. No one could read Jim Moriarty, besides, perhaps, that Sherlock Holmes twat. And even if Sebastian could read Jim, chances were that Jim was doing it on purpose as part of the game.

And there were other times, when Jim was playing a game within a game. Times when Jim wanted you to tell him how he was feeling. When he asked a question and you had the answers, not him.

Sebastian took another drag of his cigarette, inhaling deeply. He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Jim's, transferring the smoke, his tongue sliding over Jim's. Jim pulled away, his eyes rolling back in his head before fluttering closed. He moaned as he exhaled the smoke, as if he'd been overcome by an intense feeling of pleasure.

Sebastian cocked an eyebrow, but he couldn't ignore the shot of heat that went straight to his groin from the noises his boss was making. Jim's ravenous eyes landed on Sebastian's cigarette, looking as if he wanted to eat the damn thing. Sebastian quickly stamped it out, knowing that was exactly what Jim wanted to do.

And just like that the storm passed over and Jim was grinning that slightly manic, unhinged grin of his. "What's for breakfast?" he said. Before Sebastian could react, Jim was dipping his hand into the searing hot bacon fat. Like a cobra, he struck, reaching out for Sebastian's arm, and wiggling his fingers over it, making the fat drip onto Sebastian's skin. He watched it, mesmerized, as if he was Pablo Bloody Picasso and was painting a masterpiece.

Sebastian yanked his arm back, because he wasn't a fucking psychopath, and he could actually feel the bacon fat burning his skin. "Fuck," Sebastian grunted. "What the fuck." He glared up at his boss as he turned the tap to 'cold' and stuck his arm under.

Jim smiled serenely. "Sebby, you know how I feel about you smoking."

What'd you think so far? There will be one more part. Thanks for reading :)