Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and Jim Moriarty belong to Conan Doyle. The vague mentions of plot belong to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

This was written before the second series came out, so is based upon the then common assumption that Sherlock does indeed shoot the bomb and blows them all up. As we all learned, assuming is the last thing you can do when it comes to the creations of Moffat and Gatiss. Therefore this deviates into AU.

WARNING: SLASH, LEMON in later chapter. Don't like it? Go away.

NOTE: EXPLICIT DETAIL HAS BEEN CENSORED due to fanfic regulations. You can find the full version on my LJ account, the link for which is at the bottom of my profile.

It wasn't a verbal thing. The cool, mocking voice swept over him but the words only registered on a basic level. Those dark, beautiful eyes said all they needed.

Sherlock wasn't one to pay heed to only words. People could be tricky with them. More often than not people said one thing but meant completely the opposite. Usually he didn't care to decipher their true meanings unless it was for a case, but today he did.

He could see in his peripheral vision, his only friend, John Watson. Sweat was beading on the man's brow as he tried to remain calm despite the bomb strapped to his chest. The serious eyes of a soldier in his element flickered to Sherlock's and then away. Most would think he was nervous, or scared. The consulting detective knew that the doctor was excited – body thrumming with adrenaline and serotonin. He practically vibrated with it. But it wasn't John's admittedly pleasing eyes that held his.

Brown was such an underrated colour. It was usually used to describe dull, average people. It was a colour that allowed people to blend in. How often had a witness been unable to recall the details of a brown haired, brown eyed man's appearance? It was undeniable that the usual slow witted people Sherlock had met tended to notice those with blonde or red hair much more so than brown.

But these brown eyes were anything but forgettable; sinfully dark, chaotic, a hint of inanity and glee making them gleam brightly. Piercingly intelligent, hopelessly bored. The eyes of a man who had been utterly broken and then sewn together again with anger and hate. Sherlock could imagine that they had once been sad, as his own had. But where Sherlock had tamed his sadness into scorn, Moriarty had tempered his into wickedness. Despite that, Holmes knew, they were more alike than anyone else each had met. It was somewhat... pleasant. Add in the guns, and the bomb, the perfectly tailored suit, the hint of an Irish accent and their slightly sinister if unconventional setting... well, pleasant became downright fun.

'I will burn the heart out of you.'

Said organ clenched uncharacteristically, and he glanced at Watson hoping it hadn't been somehow noticed. The soldier's eyes were averted, plotting away. So Sherlock turned his attention to the petite man before him and slightly, ever so slightly, smiled.

Those chaotic eyes blinked once out of rhythm and then a delighted grin blossomed. Moriarty took a short step forward; eyes blazingly warm and he discretely licked his lips. Sherlock followed the movement greedily and felt a startling flicker of arousal.

Their eyes clashed once more, one smug, the other considering. It was a game, just like everything else. But it was a game completely unlike any other. With a smirk the smaller, dangerous man left.

Common sense dictated that the rather anticlimactic exit wouldn't last. Quickly Sherlock stripped his closest friend of the bomb and threw it as far away as possible. As they swapped relieved banter the detective gave silent thanks that he hadn't lost quite possibly the only person in Britain that could put up with him on a daily basis.

Then, of course, Moriarty strode back in. So clever, Sherlock thought – the false relief made his return all the more horrifying. The consulting detective had to exert considerable effort to stop himself from laughing in delight. Here was a man who liked to be unpredictable and dramatic as much as he was brilliant. Sherlock could appreciate that. But two could play at that game.

The brown eyes locked with his taunted him: What are you going to do now?

Sherlock's eyes glittered with child like glee: I advise you to run.

Watson nodded at his inquiring glance, the Browning swung round, and Moriarty was already making a swift exit. His ecstatic grin was the last thing Sherlock saw before the report of a gunshot echoed round the room closely followed by an explosion.

A body slammed into his, carrying them both into the pool. A ball of orange flame swept over the surface of the water, the roar of the explosion muffled oddly. It didn't take long for the initial blast to cancel out, and the pair emerged from beneath the water with desperate gasps.

As they clambered out the pool and away from the crumbling inferno the building was rapidly becoming their gasps turned to laughter. John's was edged with relief and the rush that came with adrenaline. Sherlock's was simply brimming over with delight. He hadn't had such fun in years.

R&R