A Less Permanent Destination - Sherlock - John/Moriarty
Title: A Less Permanent Destination
Pairing: John/Moriarty, hints of John/Sherlock
Word Count: 7400
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S2.
Summary: Moriarty finds the afterlife incredibly boring. After escaping from it, he remembers that life is incredibly boring as well.
Death is even more boring than life.
Moriarty had given a lot of thought to the afterlife while his heart had still been beating; he had considered pearly gates and eternal fire, before opting for cold, black nothing: an endless chasm to swallow him whole.
He hadn't imagined the monotony of darkness. He hadn't imagined an eternity with no company but his own disembodied thoughts.
No mere mortals to play with; no idiots to fool; no bystanders to murder.
It is, perhaps, an attempt to make him reflect upon his life and come to terms with his wrong-doings. He doesn't care; he think back over all the people that he has killed without a single twitch of remorse. He remembers Sherlock's horrified expression right before he pulled the trigger, and he would laugh if he could.
That's one thing that he misses in the disembodied darkness. Laughter. Speech. The sound of his own voice.
He swims through the tar-like blackness, feeling it clinging to his consciousness, slowly dragging him down. There isn't a single shard of light.
There's nothing.
He's bored.
And that means that he has to get out of here.
*
In John's flat, everything is quiet. The ticking of the clock deafening, counting away the seconds. John sits in his armchair, staring at a newspaper. He merely stares in blank thought, his face slack, his body lost.
He has been sitting, staring, for ten minutes. His mind is caught in a memory: his hand outstretched before him, the phone against his ear, Sherlock's voice along the line. He keeps seeing it before his eyes, the long fall, the blood, the body.
Sometimes he tries to think of what he could have done differently to change the outcome. There had been more going on than Sherlock had ever let on, the bastard. He'd been lying right up to the end, playing the hero while claiming they didn't exist.
Giving a long exhale, John closes the paper and looks around at his flat. It isn't Baker Street. The room is uncluttered with junk and there isn't a single skull in sight. It is impersonal to the point of banality. John can't stand the sight of it.
It's all that he can handle, however. Anything more than this makes him start to ache.
It's been months. His therapist tells him that these things take time to heal, but it is like there is an open wound in his chest. He would rather have been shot again.
He gets up from his chair and grabs his mug before he moves towards the kitchen, his gait stiff and awkward. Since his death, since his blasted funeral, his limp has been coming back day by day.
In the kitchen he fills the electric kettle and he grabs a tea-bag from the cupboard and the carton of milk from his fridge. The water churns as he waits, bubbling with heat as it begins to reach the boil. John stares out of the window, his thoughts far away from the flat.
Before the kettle can finish boiling, light flashes through the room like an electric shock. No sound accompanies it, only a sudden deafening silence. It flashes like lightning and the bulb in the ceiling blows with a silent crack.
John takes a stumbling step backwards and bashes into the kitchen counter. His eyes screw shut against the blinding light - and when he opens them again, he is no longer alone.
In the centre of the kitchen, Moriarty sways on his feet. His hair is a mess, still matted with blood, and his suit is irreparably crumpled. Other than the damage done to his appearance, he is in pristine condition. There isn't a single mark on him.
Wide-eyed, John stares. Moriarty is dead. His body had never been discovered, but there had been blood at the scene - his blood, and a lot of it.
"You're supposed to be dead," John says, stunned.
Moriarty looks up at him, his eyes glazed and distant for a few moments, before his gaze sharpens. He rakes his attention up and down John's body, before his lips spread into a stretched smile. He laughs.
Moriarty laughs, and John isn't quite sure what happens next.
The movement blurs. One moment he is listening to the monstrous sound of Moriarty's wild chuckles; the next he has surged forward; and the moment after that Moriarty is on the ground with a bleeding nose while John looms over him with aching knuckles.
"You've got one hell of a punch, Johnny Boy," Moriarty says gleefully, pushing himself into a sitting position. "You're welcome to try and kill me. I don't think it'll work."
"How are you here?" John demands. Moriarty starts to get back to his feet but John raises his fist again. With a grin, Moriarty settles back down, obeying as if it amuses him. "Why are you here, actually? What's going on?"
That makes the grin disappear, if only because Moriarty wants to roll his eyes dismissively. "Use your brain. You must have one in there." He stops talking in order to look down at his hands, having caught them out of his peripheral vision. The grin is back as he flexes his hands and and waggles his fingers. "It feels good to be back. You don't realise how much you enjoy having skin until it's gone."
For a moment, John can do nothing but stare down at him, trying to process what is going on. "I don't know what you're trying to do. It's not going to work, whatever it is."
"It worked," Moriarty says dismissively. His grin is bordering on psychotic. "I'm back. I'm alive. Oh, there are so many things I'm going to do now. I've had an eternity to plan."
He'd been mad before. John only had to spend a few terror-filled hours with him and a bomb to be able to recognise that. "Moriarty," he says, tension sparking through his voice. "I'm calling the police."
Moriarty responds with a laugh that ripples through the room like piano wire. "Do you really think that would help? Remember what happened last time?"
John clenches his jaw. "Either way you'll be locked away until the trial. That's good enough for me."
"What am I going to be charged with, exactly? Tell me, how did everything with Sherlock work out? You look like somebody's stolen your favourite teddy bear, so he must be dead. Did you ever manage to clear his name?" John can't hide the twitch of pain and irritation; it makes Moriarty crow with delight. "Oh, how very unfortunate. The lengths that men will go to for their egos... He took us all in, John. Even you."
"I know it's not true," John states. "He was real. Everything about him was real."
Moriarty studies him, his eyes curious and terrifying. "I'll never understand that, you know," he says. "That loyalty. Must be the military. Maybe I should start recruiting traumatised veterans too. Seems to be the best resource pool around these days."
"You don't understand." John recognises the clipped, short tone of his voice. He's had to hide behind that brittle shell so many times in his life. "Friendship. Emotions. They're not exactly your field."
Moriarty gives a half-shrug. "Emotions are exactly my field. I just don't deal with the warm-and-fuzzies. Can I get up yet without you waving your fists around? Having this conversation on the ground isn't exactly convenient."
"I'd hate to inconvenience you after you murdered my friend," John snaps, each word pulled from him like a tooth. He ought to march Moriarty up to the top of this building and then watch him make the same long fall as Sherlock had. An eye for an eye.
Moriarty watches him for a few moments, his clear gaze capable of seeing all. Whatever it is that he sees causes him to get to his feet, although he keeps his wary gaze on John at all times.
Once he's upright he seems to be much more confident. His shoulders straighten and he brushes his hands over his suit, wiping away imaginary dust. "How do I look?" he asks. "You can be honest, go on."
John blinks at him. He doesn't even try to come up with an answer.
His silence doesn't appear to bother Moriarty. "How long has it been since I died anyway? Time really has no meaning once you're dead. The appointment book just goes blank."
"You weren't dead," John states. "You're standing right here. You can't be dead."
Moriarty looks at him like he is an especially idiotic child. It's dismissive, but it isn't dangerous. From Moriarty, that is probably the most that John could ever hope for. "I'll see myself out, shall I?" Moriarty says, already walking towards the door.
John follows him. "We're not done here."
"I am." Moriarty doesn't stop or turn around to look at John. "You're welcome to stay here and debate the line between life and death all you like. Me, I've got to go and see how much of my empire is still standing."
John follows him out of the door, his leg aching, but he barely makes it two paces. Moriarty makes a dead stop at the top of the stairs, side-steps, and uses John's own momentum against him - with the faintest dodge, shove and well-placed foot, John goes tumbling down the stairs. His limbs fly askew and he pushes his hands out in front to catch his fall; a snap sounds when he hits the ground and pain fires through his world, red-hot and all-consuming. At the bottom of the stairs, his face pressed against the ground, he groans in open-mouthed pain as he tries to push himself upright. Fails.
Moriarty cheerfully walks down the steps behind him. "Looked like a nasty fall there, Johnny-Boy," he says as he reaches him and steps nimbly over John's body before John can catch him. "You might want to get that wrist looked at."
John groans and tries to get up again, but the pain in his wrist stops that from being a possibility. Moriarty walks away, humming to himself, before he leaves the building altogether - and there's nothing John can do to stop him, just as he hadn't been able to do anything before.
*
In all honesty, Moriarty's plans for escaping the afterlife hadn't stretched very far beyond the initial escape. He'd had few goals other than getting out of that dreary black mess. Now that he's back on Earth, he's quick to remember how dreary it is down here as well.
Needling Mycroft Holmes is no fun, and after his masterpiece manipulating Sherlock even crime doesn't seem interesting. Once one has broken into all of the most secure facilities in the land, what else is there to aim for?
Dull.
Dull, dull, dull, dull, dull.
To entertain himself, he makes his way back to John's flat. If nothing else, Sherlock's old fanboy is always good for tormenting. It's easy to let himself into the front door of the apartment block. No one gives him so much as a second glance on the stairs, largely because he's foregone the Westwood today and opted for civilian clothes. They feel all wrong on him, like he's dressed in sheep's clothing, but he's always had a knack for playing roles.
When he reaches John's front door it's tempting to pick the lock and waltz straight inside, but he knocks instead. Perfectly normal. That's sure to freak John out.
From inside, he hears the shuffling of John's footsteps - at home in the middle of the day, that's not a good sign. A little investigation has told him that all of Sherlock's estate had gone flying into John's bank account after his death. It's far from an inconsiderable sum, and that's not even counting how daddy Mycroft is keeping an eye on him like a benevolent overlord. Moriarty doubts that John even realises how very, very well looked after he is.
When John opens the door, there is a chain blocking it from opening all of the way. Moriarty smiles in amused disapproval at the sight of it; does such a little thing really make John feel safe?
It makes him feel safe enough to frown at Moriarty, in any case, but that isn't saying much. John has a natural tendency to frown at all times.
"What are you doing here?"
"I was bored," Moriarty says. "And rumour has it that you are exactly what is required to cure geniuses of their boredom."
John stares at him as if he's forgotten how to understand English. It would hardly be surprising, really; ordinary people have such tiny brains. It's a miracle they ever learn to speak in the first place.
"Go and find someone else to torment. I'm done."
John starts to close the door, but even with the chain in place it's easy to shove his foot into the gap. "What if I told you I could find Sherlock?"
"You're madder than usual."
"He's not dead." The flat statement is enough to make John stop trying to shove the door shut. Moriarty grins. "I could help you find him."
John's eyes narrow. "Why would you do that?"
"Because I can," Moriarty answers. "Do I need any more of a reason than that?"
"Yes."
"Because I'm bored; because he's interesting; because you're adorable when you're grumpy." Moriarty's grin widens while John's frown deepens. "He's out there. Without me, you'll never to find him."
"We buried him. There's a grave."
"And there's a very dead man in that grave, but it isn't Sherlock." Moriarty leans in. The chain dances across the middle of his face. "I'm not going to tell you to trust me. I'm going to ask you: what do you have to lose?"
John won't let him into his flat, but ten minutes later they are in a cafe down the road together. John orders lunch but Moriarty orders nothing. He sits across from John and watches him eat. It's better than eating for himself, even if John looks as if he's contemplating stabbing him through the hand with his cutlery.
"What now?" John asks. "Aren't you going to thrill me with your intellect?"
He sounds sarcastic. Moriarty would bet he never sounded like that when Sherlock performed his spinning deductions in front of him.
"That would be like trying to impress a dog. It's intellectually lacking," Moriarty sighs. "Besides, I don't need to do anything other than this. As soon as Sherlock hears that I'm back and I've got you, he'll come running to your rescue."
John shakes his head, a small stiff movement. "Who says he's even watching me if he's alive? I'm not even going to address the idea that you've 'got' me."
"He's not in the country, otherwise he would already know I'm back. He wouldn't let that go unchallenged. But you, you're his friend. He was willing to die for you, Johnny. God knows why, but he was. He wouldn't leave you unprotected, unwatched. He'll be here."
"And what are you going to do if he comes?" John asks. "I won't let you hurt him."
Moriarty gives a frustrated sigh. "You're getting it all wrong. Your stupid little brain... Why would I want to hurt him? Now? I'm bored - don't you get it? I want to play."
"You're going to hurt other people, then."
"Probably." Moriarty lets go of his frustration and abruptly smiles instead. "We're going to play another game. We're going to play them forever, because that's what we do, Sherlock and I. We're not like you people. We can't sit in the mud and be content with whatever it is that normal people do. Death is better than that."
"You mean that literally," John says, dead-pan in his disbelief. "You really think you died and came back."
Moriarty wonders how frustrating it must be, having to exist inside those limited little minds. They always seem so happy. They must not have the mental capacity to comprehend all that they're missing.
"I believe that I put a gun in my mouth and blew my own brains out, and yet now I'm sitting here watching you eat sub-standard Italian food. What does that tell you?"
John only shakes his head, and Moriarty supposes that that's the most he can hope for out of him. He wishes, stupidly, pointlessly, that he could get John to believe him. Sherlock held John's faith so effortlessly - despite all of Moriarty's attempts, he never managed to sway him from the truth. Always, always, John has looked at Sherlock and seen a god.
When he looks at Moriarty, he sees the devil. He sees lies.
In this instance, it's somewhat irritating.
"Eat your food," Moriarty instructs. "I want to get you home."
John eyes him suspiciously, but he bows his head and continues to eat. Bored, Moriarty mentally fast-forwards to the end of their evening.
*
Walking home with Moriarty at his side, John mostly finds himself surprised to still be alive and unharmed. Even when he had agreed to come out into the open with Moriarty, he had expected something to go badly; in the back of his mind, in the adrenaline-starved dangerous background, maybe he had hoped that something might happen to make him feel alive again.
They are making their way back to his flat, with Moriarty a silent, stealthy presence beside him. Even without the elegant cut of his usual suits, Moriarty walks as if he belongs somewhere else entirely. He's a swan among ducks.
"Stop," Moriarty instructs when they get close to John's apartment building. John listens and comes to a sharp halt, his shoulders straight, his muscles tense. Moriarty crowds in closer against him, but John retreats, taking a step backwards and then another until his back hits against the wall of the building. "Sherlock is going to hear that you were seen with me. What do you think would make him come running to your rescue even faster?"
John swallows. He wants so badly to believe in all of the possibilities that Moriarty is spinning for him - even if he knows, he knows that Moriarty lies. Yet now he has Moriarty pressed into his personal space, the pair of them breathing the same air. Moriarty's eyes are wide and excited. While one of his hands comes to rest on John's hip, the other traces the side of John's face. It's a caress gentle enough for a lover, although John knows all about the kind of damage that Moriarty can do.
"What are you doing?" John asks, without trying to break away. He doesn't even raise his voice.
Moriarty shifts even closer to him. John can feel the brush of Moriarty's mouth against his lips. There's no pressure behind it, just a tickle of touch and the warmth of Moriarty's breath. From this proximity, his view of Moriarty's face is fuzzy and faded, too close, too dangerous.
"Tell me to stop," Moriarty challenges, breathing the words against John's mouth. His fingers slide through the short strands of John's hair before his hand cups the back of John's head. "If you ask me to stop, I will."
John doesn't.
He allows his eyes to fall shut and he pushes forward, closing the negligible gap between their mouths. As he grabs hold of the front of Moriarty's t-shirt, Moriarty groans against his mouth, vibrating all the way through him. The fingers in his hair tense to cling onto him like he thinks John might try to slip away. Right now, John has no intention of doing so.
Pinned against the brick wall by Moriarty's slight weight, he parts his legs when Moriarty's thigh presses forward. Moriarty doesn't stop kissing him, instead rolling his thigh up against John's crotch as he thrusts his tongue forward, licking along John's closed lips until he opens up for him.
The world becomes a blur of soft, bright sensations; John loses track of the breeze against his skin and the wall against his back, forgets that they are out in public where anyone can see them. He even forgets that that is the point of this whole exercise. They need to be seen. He needs Sherlock to think he's in danger.
He needs Sherlock.
He turns his head and breaks away from Moriarty's demanding kiss, but in return Moriarty only transfers his attention to his jawline, his ear, his throat. Moriarty's mouth is heated and talented, his tongue like a branding iron. "Moriarty," John pants. With his eyes open, he can see the street around them - across the street, a lone man in a suit is walking as quickly as he can while staring at the pavement. "We need to go inside."
Moriarty hums against his neck, his fingers clenching and releasing in John's hair. "Alright," he agrees. "Alright, let's go."
It's one of the most foolish things that John has ever done, despite all of the dangerous situations he has walked into in the past. There is a part of him that knows that he should phone the police and have them take care of Moriarty as best they can, but he doesn't even want to. They can't do anything. Moriarty isn't like ordinary people.
Walking into his flat with Moriarty trailing him up the stairs, pressed close and eager, John feels like he's being hunted. As he fumbles with his key in the lock, Moriarty watching over his shoulder, he wonders what Moriarty would even do if he called this off; he wonders what the tantrum would look like.
Once they're inside, Moriarty immediately pushes him back against the wall once more, taking up his previous position. His leg pushes between John's thighs and John allows him to rut up against his hip. The heat of Moriarty's breath chokes him, they're so close, and John can't do anything but cling to him in shame.
He wishes he was a stronger person. He wishes he was a better person.
"There we are. Good boy," Moriarty murmurs as John's breath hitches. "Such a good boy, aren't you?"
Moriarty talks to him like he's a dog, a pet, and it's enough to get John to shove him away. He pushes him backwards, stalking after him while Moriarty grins - wild and dangerous. His eyes are darker than night and when he bumps into the armchair and sits down he gives a manic laugh. It's a laugh that fades to an impressed moan when John follows him onto the chair, into his lap, swallowing the sound with a harsh kiss.
He hates this man. Even as he allows Moriarty to touch him, as he allows his hands to grab and grope, he feels disgusted with Moriarty and horrified with himself What's wrong with him? His therapist would shake her head in disappointment. Self-destructive tendancies.
He loses track of what's happening, of who's touching who, of who's in control, until he feels Moriarty's hand down the back of his trousers, fingers pressing between his cheeks. Dry, Moriarty's forefinger pushes inside him - no teasing or drawing it out. Air leaves John's chest in an uncomfortable rush.
"You're very tight," Moriarty observes, a whisper by his ear. "Has anyone ever been inside you, John? Am I going to be your first?"
John grits his teeth but shakes his head. "Never taken it dry before," he says, as Moriarty chuckles and shoves a second finger into him.
"Don't worry, we can slick things along later. I wouldn't want to chafe myself," Moriarty says. It's not very reassuring, not when his dry fingers are stretching him open and playing with his arse. "It should still hurt for you, love. Isn't that good? Isn't that what you want?"
John screws his eyes shut and breathes through his nose. He can't send his thoughts away; the push of Moriarty's fingers inside him keep him grounded in the world. It's okay. It's good - he can't think at all, can't do anything but feel his body, feel the way his muscles are strained from holding himself up over Moriarty and his mouth hurts from Moriarty's assault. It's perfectly physical: nothing else exists, nothing else needs to exist.
He breathes shakily and allows himself to do nothing more than feel. Even listening to Moriarty's voice becomes secondary. Moriarty yanks their trousers down their thighs with one hand, his fingers still embedded inside John. There's hardly a moment to breathe, and he's given no time to collect himself or his thoughts before Moriarty pulls his fingers out and replaces them with something bigger and thicker, slicked only with the faintest sheen of saliva. Moriarty pushes up, his hands clinging to John's hips and pushing him downwards.
It's agony, and when John muffles a cry against Moriarty's shoulder it only makes him chuckle. "Come on, John," Moriarty says. "You don't want me to do all the work, do you?"
He pistons up into John, his length unforgiving, but when John begins to move with him he gives a long, satisfied groan as if he's been waiting his entire life for this. It's the only victory that John is ever likely to have over Moriarty. At this point, he'll take whatever he can get.
*
Moriarty has never felt anything as good as this. He spent his teenage years chasing sin after sin, allowing it all to spiral darker and messier as he searched for something that could truly thrill him. Nothing had worked but vibrant splashes of blood.
This works. John works.
He's almost painfully tight and torturously dry, the friction burning with every slamming thrust. The sounds that John makes go straight to Moriarty's cock; so pained, so distressed. It's the greatest aphrodisiac of all.
He gropes greedily at John's arse as he pushes up into him, orgasm shimmering on the horizon. "If you want to get off, do it quickly," he warns him. He has no intention of holding himself back or waiting, but when he sees John rushing to grab hold of his cock he can only groan at the sight of it.
John is Sherlock's property - and that's the sweetest thing about this, isn't it? He's touching what isn't his; Sherlock will be fuming with anger when he finds out. It's the most personal kind of theft.
Moriarty bites down on John's shoulder through layers of cloth and cardigan, clamping his teeth against flesh and hoping to leave a dark bruise behind. John groans and gasps in his lap, his hips grinding frantically; every sound is worth remembering, every wet hitch of breath and every tiny tremble. Moriarty is going to take it all.
John clenches around him, his entire body spasming as wet spunk splashes between them. It splatters onto Moriarty's t-shirt and that's enough to make him shove them both to the ground. His cock slips free from the tight clasp of John's ass but he pushes back inside, forcing the air from John's lungs. The carpet burns against his knees. Drops of sweat roll down from the back of his neck as he ruts into John, hunched over him with his hips lurching.
It's over too quickly. He spills into John with a long, satisfied groan, thrusting throughout orgasm to wring every second out. When he's done, he collapses on top of John, letting him bear all of his weight.
John takes no time before he dumps Moriarty to the side, both of them slumped on the carpet to catch their breath. They are stained with seed and flushed with exercion. Moriarty hasn't felt this alive since long before he died.
"You can leave now," John says, pushing himself into a sitting position and then shuffling to pull his trousers back up his hips.
With his cock still out, Moriarty lies on his back and watches him. "You don't want to cuddle?" he asks, splitting into a wide grin.
John scowls at him over his shoulder, before he gets to his feet and struggles to look presentable. It doesn't really work. Moriarty remains where he is with no desire to go anywhere, not yet, not for a while.
"I don't want you in here," John states.
It's beautifully blunt.
Moriarty thinks his very presence is upsetting John now. That's not an incentive to make him leave. Contrary to popular opinion, he is capable of being merciful - and, since he'd very much like to return and bend John over the nearest piece of furniture at some point in the near future, he decides to go quickly. The alternative is having to threaten John next time, and while fun that wouldn't have nearly the same corrosive appeal.
"I'd hate to outstay my welcome," he says with a chuckle as he gets up and makes only a half-hearted attempt at cleaning himself up. He's going to walk out in public with
John's seed painted across his chest. He challenges anyone to be shocked. "I'll come by again soon. I know you'll miss me."
His sarcastic drawl is enough to get under John's skin; he can see the way it makes his shoulders tense, his hands curl into fists. It's delicious.
It makes him want to stay and needle John for a little while longer. Yet he has not become the self-crowned king of crime by giving in to every minor impulse, so he flits from the apartment as delicately as he can, lingering only to nuzzle his lips against the side of John's mouth and taste his stern disapproval. Once he's down the stairs and back on the pavement, he has his phone out of his pocket and pressed against his ear in moments.
It's time to check every single strand of his delicate web. He has no doubt that, after their recent display, Sherlock will be sure to fall out of the woodwork.
*
It doesn't take long.
Within two days, Moriarty has a report of Sherlock's movements in Eastern Europe, moving closer and closer as the day goes by. He seems to be trying to keep a low profile; Moriarty's intel informs him of a wild variety of disguises. He does wish for photographic evidence of the fake moustache. It's such a shame to have missed it.
He gives him an extra few hours, and waits for the report of Sherlock stowing away on a cargo vessel to Scotland. Evidently he thinks planes are too conspicious. Moriarty is almost insulted. It's as if Sherlock has forgotten that he has eyes everywhere; he is the spider on the wall.
He also knows exactly where Sherlock is going. There is little need to track his exact route there.
That isn't enough to keep his curious gaze away from his SmartPhone. He checks it again and again as he has his driver take him to John's apartment. He had almost automatically asked to be taken to Baker Street; John and Sherlock still belong there, together. Moriarty wants the world back to how it had been before he died. He wants to bat Sherlock around like a cat with a toy.
He hops out of the car without a word to his driver when they reach the worn-out building that John currently lives in. If Sherlock won't bundle John back to Baker Street, perhaps Moriarty will arrange it for himself. It would make these sporadic visits far more enjoyable.
A pedestrian unlocks the door and allows himself into the hallway ahead of Moriarty, politely holding the door open for him after Moriarty fakes a half-jog to reach it. He does love people's manners. It makes life so much easier for him. With a polite smile, he nods his head. "Thank you," he says.
The stranger heads into one of the ground floor flats, which leaves Moriarty free to climb the stairs to John's apartment on the upper floors. A cheerful bounce marks each step; he feels good, unsurprisingly.
When he raps on the door, the rhythm is as light as he feels. Inside, John's footsteps shuffle.
He doesn't have the chain on the door when he answers this time.
Judging from the slight discolouration beneath his eyes and the wrinkles of his clothes, he hasn't managed to get any sleep. Who cares?
"Sherlock is on his way," Moriarty announces.
He's usually the bearer of bad news. It feels strange to be on the other side for once.
"And you're here to welcome him home?" John asks dubiously. "I don't believe any of this."
"I'd have thought you would be the first to leap onto any shard of hope. Do you not want him home?" Moriarty walks into John's little flat, his eyes lingering on the chair they'd stained together. "Is that it? You're having too much fun as a single man?"
"Moriarty..."
"It makes sense. He always was so reluctant to let you off your leash. You've got a taste of freedom. Are you sad that Daddy's coming home?"
"He's dead. I saw the body myself."
"'Dead' is a relative term." Moriarty gives a thoughtful half-shrug. "And a boring one."
John gives a groan as if Moriarty's mere presence causes him physical pain. Frustration isn't nearly as satisfying as agony or ecstacy, but Moriarty's willing to take it. From John, he might be willing to take anything.
"Give it an hour," Moriarty says. "He'll be here soon."
It's a gamble based off of what he knows about Sherlock's movements and his determined beeline back to London. He's coming for John - he's coming to sweep to the rescue even though John is in no danger. For now, Moriarty has no interest in seeing John dead. He's far more entertaining when he's alive.
John looks at his watch. "You'll leave at four o'clock?" he confirms. "That's one hour away."
Moriarty will leave whenever he wants to, but for the sake of a peaceful passage of time he shrugs and sits down in John's chair. It's the same chair they shared the day before, where John had gasped and shivered in his lap. Judging from the heat in John's cheeks, that's what he's thinking about too.
"I'll have some tea," he states.
With a roll of his eyes, John heads towards the kitchen.
*
This is insane. He is insane.
John boils the kettle and makes a pot of tea to share with a mass-murdering psychopath. He watches him cautiously as he carries a tray through to the living room.
It's obscene to have a man like that sitting in his flat drinking tea from a novelty mug.
It's simply wrong.
He watches Moriarty drink his tea and waits for him to talk. He expects Moriarty to taunt him at the very least, to prod at open wounds to watch him squirm. What he doesn't expect is for Moriarty to check his watch and say, "We could fuck again. It might pass the time."
For all that he sounds over-casual and nonchalant, there is an eagerly bright gleam in Moriarty's eyes. John frowns. "I don't think so," he says.
Moriarty tilts his head and watches him, working it out a moment at a time. John recognises that expression. How many times has he seen its softer twin on Sherlock's face?
"I don't want to sleep with you again," he says. Christ, this is more awkward than breaking up with any girl had ever been. "You're a murderer."
"That didn't bother you before. It's such a little thing to be concerned about. So normal. Are you worried about what Sherlock would think?" Moriarty smiles, thin-lipped and dangerous. "What do you think he's been doing all this time he's been away? I'm not the only one with blood on my hands."
John doesn't believe him, not for a second. Sherlock was many things while he was alive, including ruthless, but he had never been cold-blooded. He wouldn't kill for the sake of killing, or even for vengeance, but only as a last resort. Maybe that is a difference that Moriarty can't be expected to grasp.
"Have I shocked you?" Moriarty sounds giddy at the very suggestion. "Do you really doubt that he would be capable of that?"
"I know Sherlock. He's capable of anything." John doesn't hesitate. He's seen what Sherlock can do. He knows that a man like that has few limits, intellectual or moral. "But, no, I don't believe you. He believes in justice, not vigilantism. He believed in justice."
Moriarty gives a dramatic sigh and hangs his head back against the back of the armchair. "And we're onto that again. Take a leap of faith, Johnny Boy. Sherlock did."
"Because you made him." John can't keep the anger out of his voice, the barely restrained fury. He's killed for Sherlock before. At the thought of Moriarty's vulnerable throat beneath his hands, the promise of life choked from his body, John has no doubt that he would kill for him again. "You forced him to jump."
"Yes." Moriarty practically hisses the word in open delight, as if it is something to be proud of. Like an over-fed snake, he basks in the heat. "It was easy. I should have known he'd have a back-up plan. He's a slippery little fellow, isn't he?"
Eyes closed, with the sound of Moriarty's chuckles in his ears, he doesn't miss the turn of a key in the lock of the front door.
Opening his eyes, John looks towards the door - and Sherlock is there, in that same ridiculous coat and that same fashionable scarf. His face is flushed as if he's been running but other than that it is as if nothing has changed. No time has passed. Sherlock is there and he is alive and John simply has no way of processing this.
"Ah, Sherlock," Moriarty says. He places down his tea cup and gets smoothly to his feet, brushing away imaginary crumbs from the lapel of his suit jacket as he does. "You're late. I was beginning to think you weren't going to show."
"I was detained," Sherlock says. The sound of his voice alone is almost enough to make John need to lie down. "If you've harmed him - "
"Down, boy, I haven't touched a hair on his head," Moriarty says. He tilts his head thoughtfully. "Well, no, I've done plenty of touching. I haven't hurt him. Much. You really should keep a better eye on your pets if you don't want them to misbehave. It's irresponsible ownership to leave him this long."
"I'm back now."
"Are you?" John doesn't mean to ask, but the question slips from his lips. He sounds small and uncertain. He won't fall apart. He's been strong all the time - if Sherlock's death hadn't broken him, he won't allow his return to do so either.
Sherlock looks at him, really looks, before he nods. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. All John wants is to have him here and have him home. He also wants to punch the bastard in his stupid face for leaving in the first place, for hurting him like this, but that can wait.
Moriarty coos like he's never seen anything so adorable, but there is a mocking undertone that is nearly enough to make John flinch. Through stubborn effort, he is able to look away from Sherlock and back to the maniac in the room.
The maniac that has tried to kill Sherlock several times before.
"I should leave you two to it," Moriarty says. "I don't want to be here when the reunion gets too mushy. Not my style."
He moves towards the door and John tenses: something must be coming, he's sure of that. It can't be this simple.
"You're going to stay away from John," Sherlock states. "He's not part of the game."
Moriarty grins like a shark with its teeth on display. "You don't get it yet," he says in wonder. "John is the game - this time around, anyway. Are you having fun yet? I know I am."
He leaves with a bounce in his step and they don't even try to stop him. The door closes behind Moriarty with a gentle click.
"What did he mean?" John asks, light-headed and breathless as if they've been running for their lives. Sherlock is in the room with him. He's alive. It's a miracle that John can summon any words at all.
Sherlock shakes his head, paler than John remembers and awkward in his own body. It's strange to see Sherlock without a sense of utter self-possession.
"So," John whistles. "You're alive, then?"
"Of course I'm alive," Sherlock answers.
John thinks that his self-restraint in holding back a punch is admirable.
He doesn't know where they go from here.
*
Moriarty has always hated endings. It's so terribly boring to let go. It's terribly boring to carry on.
It isn't life that bores him. It isn't death. It's existance.
Leaving John's apartment, he thinks that he might settle for peaceful annihalation. To be nothing would be bliss. Yet he knows what the afterlife holds and he has no intention of ever returning to that blackness.
London's air hits him as he leaves the building and he takes a deep breath into his lungs as he thinks his next move over - his next six moves, always having to make sure that he is far, far ahead of his opponents. He's competing against the world. It's exhausting.
If life is dull and death is worse, he has to make his own entertainment.
Up in that apartment, he knows that John and Sherlock are having their heart-felt reunion. They'll shout and they'll cry and it will all be so horribly tender. He'll give them that. He'll let them have this moment.
Flagging down a taxi, he grins to himself. Reunion will make the fall all the sweeter.
Having put them back together, he can't wait to tear them apart.
Pairing: John/Moriarty, hints of John/Sherlock
Word Count: 7400
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S2.
Summary: Moriarty finds the afterlife incredibly boring. After escaping from it, he remembers that life is incredibly boring as well.
Death is even more boring than life.
Moriarty had given a lot of thought to the afterlife while his heart had still been beating; he had considered pearly gates and eternal fire, before opting for cold, black nothing: an endless chasm to swallow him whole.
He hadn't imagined the monotony of darkness. He hadn't imagined an eternity with no company but his own disembodied thoughts.
No mere mortals to play with; no idiots to fool; no bystanders to murder.
It is, perhaps, an attempt to make him reflect upon his life and come to terms with his wrong-doings. He doesn't care; he think back over all the people that he has killed without a single twitch of remorse. He remembers Sherlock's horrified expression right before he pulled the trigger, and he would laugh if he could.
That's one thing that he misses in the disembodied darkness. Laughter. Speech. The sound of his own voice.
He swims through the tar-like blackness, feeling it clinging to his consciousness, slowly dragging him down. There isn't a single shard of light.
There's nothing.
He's bored.
And that means that he has to get out of here.
*
In John's flat, everything is quiet. The ticking of the clock deafening, counting away the seconds. John sits in his armchair, staring at a newspaper. He merely stares in blank thought, his face slack, his body lost.
He has been sitting, staring, for ten minutes. His mind is caught in a memory: his hand outstretched before him, the phone against his ear, Sherlock's voice along the line. He keeps seeing it before his eyes, the long fall, the blood, the body.
Sometimes he tries to think of what he could have done differently to change the outcome. There had been more going on than Sherlock had ever let on, the bastard. He'd been lying right up to the end, playing the hero while claiming they didn't exist.
Giving a long exhale, John closes the paper and looks around at his flat. It isn't Baker Street. The room is uncluttered with junk and there isn't a single skull in sight. It is impersonal to the point of banality. John can't stand the sight of it.
It's all that he can handle, however. Anything more than this makes him start to ache.
It's been months. His therapist tells him that these things take time to heal, but it is like there is an open wound in his chest. He would rather have been shot again.
He gets up from his chair and grabs his mug before he moves towards the kitchen, his gait stiff and awkward. Since his death, since his blasted funeral, his limp has been coming back day by day.
In the kitchen he fills the electric kettle and he grabs a tea-bag from the cupboard and the carton of milk from his fridge. The water churns as he waits, bubbling with heat as it begins to reach the boil. John stares out of the window, his thoughts far away from the flat.
Before the kettle can finish boiling, light flashes through the room like an electric shock. No sound accompanies it, only a sudden deafening silence. It flashes like lightning and the bulb in the ceiling blows with a silent crack.
John takes a stumbling step backwards and bashes into the kitchen counter. His eyes screw shut against the blinding light - and when he opens them again, he is no longer alone.
In the centre of the kitchen, Moriarty sways on his feet. His hair is a mess, still matted with blood, and his suit is irreparably crumpled. Other than the damage done to his appearance, he is in pristine condition. There isn't a single mark on him.
Wide-eyed, John stares. Moriarty is dead. His body had never been discovered, but there had been blood at the scene - his blood, and a lot of it.
"You're supposed to be dead," John says, stunned.
Moriarty looks up at him, his eyes glazed and distant for a few moments, before his gaze sharpens. He rakes his attention up and down John's body, before his lips spread into a stretched smile. He laughs.
Moriarty laughs, and John isn't quite sure what happens next.
The movement blurs. One moment he is listening to the monstrous sound of Moriarty's wild chuckles; the next he has surged forward; and the moment after that Moriarty is on the ground with a bleeding nose while John looms over him with aching knuckles.
"You've got one hell of a punch, Johnny Boy," Moriarty says gleefully, pushing himself into a sitting position. "You're welcome to try and kill me. I don't think it'll work."
"How are you here?" John demands. Moriarty starts to get back to his feet but John raises his fist again. With a grin, Moriarty settles back down, obeying as if it amuses him. "Why are you here, actually? What's going on?"
That makes the grin disappear, if only because Moriarty wants to roll his eyes dismissively. "Use your brain. You must have one in there." He stops talking in order to look down at his hands, having caught them out of his peripheral vision. The grin is back as he flexes his hands and and waggles his fingers. "It feels good to be back. You don't realise how much you enjoy having skin until it's gone."
For a moment, John can do nothing but stare down at him, trying to process what is going on. "I don't know what you're trying to do. It's not going to work, whatever it is."
"It worked," Moriarty says dismissively. His grin is bordering on psychotic. "I'm back. I'm alive. Oh, there are so many things I'm going to do now. I've had an eternity to plan."
He'd been mad before. John only had to spend a few terror-filled hours with him and a bomb to be able to recognise that. "Moriarty," he says, tension sparking through his voice. "I'm calling the police."
Moriarty responds with a laugh that ripples through the room like piano wire. "Do you really think that would help? Remember what happened last time?"
John clenches his jaw. "Either way you'll be locked away until the trial. That's good enough for me."
"What am I going to be charged with, exactly? Tell me, how did everything with Sherlock work out? You look like somebody's stolen your favourite teddy bear, so he must be dead. Did you ever manage to clear his name?" John can't hide the twitch of pain and irritation; it makes Moriarty crow with delight. "Oh, how very unfortunate. The lengths that men will go to for their egos... He took us all in, John. Even you."
"I know it's not true," John states. "He was real. Everything about him was real."
Moriarty studies him, his eyes curious and terrifying. "I'll never understand that, you know," he says. "That loyalty. Must be the military. Maybe I should start recruiting traumatised veterans too. Seems to be the best resource pool around these days."
"You don't understand." John recognises the clipped, short tone of his voice. He's had to hide behind that brittle shell so many times in his life. "Friendship. Emotions. They're not exactly your field."
Moriarty gives a half-shrug. "Emotions are exactly my field. I just don't deal with the warm-and-fuzzies. Can I get up yet without you waving your fists around? Having this conversation on the ground isn't exactly convenient."
"I'd hate to inconvenience you after you murdered my friend," John snaps, each word pulled from him like a tooth. He ought to march Moriarty up to the top of this building and then watch him make the same long fall as Sherlock had. An eye for an eye.
Moriarty watches him for a few moments, his clear gaze capable of seeing all. Whatever it is that he sees causes him to get to his feet, although he keeps his wary gaze on John at all times.
Once he's upright he seems to be much more confident. His shoulders straighten and he brushes his hands over his suit, wiping away imaginary dust. "How do I look?" he asks. "You can be honest, go on."
John blinks at him. He doesn't even try to come up with an answer.
His silence doesn't appear to bother Moriarty. "How long has it been since I died anyway? Time really has no meaning once you're dead. The appointment book just goes blank."
"You weren't dead," John states. "You're standing right here. You can't be dead."
Moriarty looks at him like he is an especially idiotic child. It's dismissive, but it isn't dangerous. From Moriarty, that is probably the most that John could ever hope for. "I'll see myself out, shall I?" Moriarty says, already walking towards the door.
John follows him. "We're not done here."
"I am." Moriarty doesn't stop or turn around to look at John. "You're welcome to stay here and debate the line between life and death all you like. Me, I've got to go and see how much of my empire is still standing."
John follows him out of the door, his leg aching, but he barely makes it two paces. Moriarty makes a dead stop at the top of the stairs, side-steps, and uses John's own momentum against him - with the faintest dodge, shove and well-placed foot, John goes tumbling down the stairs. His limbs fly askew and he pushes his hands out in front to catch his fall; a snap sounds when he hits the ground and pain fires through his world, red-hot and all-consuming. At the bottom of the stairs, his face pressed against the ground, he groans in open-mouthed pain as he tries to push himself upright. Fails.
Moriarty cheerfully walks down the steps behind him. "Looked like a nasty fall there, Johnny-Boy," he says as he reaches him and steps nimbly over John's body before John can catch him. "You might want to get that wrist looked at."
John groans and tries to get up again, but the pain in his wrist stops that from being a possibility. Moriarty walks away, humming to himself, before he leaves the building altogether - and there's nothing John can do to stop him, just as he hadn't been able to do anything before.
*
In all honesty, Moriarty's plans for escaping the afterlife hadn't stretched very far beyond the initial escape. He'd had few goals other than getting out of that dreary black mess. Now that he's back on Earth, he's quick to remember how dreary it is down here as well.
Needling Mycroft Holmes is no fun, and after his masterpiece manipulating Sherlock even crime doesn't seem interesting. Once one has broken into all of the most secure facilities in the land, what else is there to aim for?
Dull.
Dull, dull, dull, dull, dull.
To entertain himself, he makes his way back to John's flat. If nothing else, Sherlock's old fanboy is always good for tormenting. It's easy to let himself into the front door of the apartment block. No one gives him so much as a second glance on the stairs, largely because he's foregone the Westwood today and opted for civilian clothes. They feel all wrong on him, like he's dressed in sheep's clothing, but he's always had a knack for playing roles.
When he reaches John's front door it's tempting to pick the lock and waltz straight inside, but he knocks instead. Perfectly normal. That's sure to freak John out.
From inside, he hears the shuffling of John's footsteps - at home in the middle of the day, that's not a good sign. A little investigation has told him that all of Sherlock's estate had gone flying into John's bank account after his death. It's far from an inconsiderable sum, and that's not even counting how daddy Mycroft is keeping an eye on him like a benevolent overlord. Moriarty doubts that John even realises how very, very well looked after he is.
When John opens the door, there is a chain blocking it from opening all of the way. Moriarty smiles in amused disapproval at the sight of it; does such a little thing really make John feel safe?
It makes him feel safe enough to frown at Moriarty, in any case, but that isn't saying much. John has a natural tendency to frown at all times.
"What are you doing here?"
"I was bored," Moriarty says. "And rumour has it that you are exactly what is required to cure geniuses of their boredom."
John stares at him as if he's forgotten how to understand English. It would hardly be surprising, really; ordinary people have such tiny brains. It's a miracle they ever learn to speak in the first place.
"Go and find someone else to torment. I'm done."
John starts to close the door, but even with the chain in place it's easy to shove his foot into the gap. "What if I told you I could find Sherlock?"
"You're madder than usual."
"He's not dead." The flat statement is enough to make John stop trying to shove the door shut. Moriarty grins. "I could help you find him."
John's eyes narrow. "Why would you do that?"
"Because I can," Moriarty answers. "Do I need any more of a reason than that?"
"Yes."
"Because I'm bored; because he's interesting; because you're adorable when you're grumpy." Moriarty's grin widens while John's frown deepens. "He's out there. Without me, you'll never to find him."
"We buried him. There's a grave."
"And there's a very dead man in that grave, but it isn't Sherlock." Moriarty leans in. The chain dances across the middle of his face. "I'm not going to tell you to trust me. I'm going to ask you: what do you have to lose?"
John won't let him into his flat, but ten minutes later they are in a cafe down the road together. John orders lunch but Moriarty orders nothing. He sits across from John and watches him eat. It's better than eating for himself, even if John looks as if he's contemplating stabbing him through the hand with his cutlery.
"What now?" John asks. "Aren't you going to thrill me with your intellect?"
He sounds sarcastic. Moriarty would bet he never sounded like that when Sherlock performed his spinning deductions in front of him.
"That would be like trying to impress a dog. It's intellectually lacking," Moriarty sighs. "Besides, I don't need to do anything other than this. As soon as Sherlock hears that I'm back and I've got you, he'll come running to your rescue."
John shakes his head, a small stiff movement. "Who says he's even watching me if he's alive? I'm not even going to address the idea that you've 'got' me."
"He's not in the country, otherwise he would already know I'm back. He wouldn't let that go unchallenged. But you, you're his friend. He was willing to die for you, Johnny. God knows why, but he was. He wouldn't leave you unprotected, unwatched. He'll be here."
"And what are you going to do if he comes?" John asks. "I won't let you hurt him."
Moriarty gives a frustrated sigh. "You're getting it all wrong. Your stupid little brain... Why would I want to hurt him? Now? I'm bored - don't you get it? I want to play."
"You're going to hurt other people, then."
"Probably." Moriarty lets go of his frustration and abruptly smiles instead. "We're going to play another game. We're going to play them forever, because that's what we do, Sherlock and I. We're not like you people. We can't sit in the mud and be content with whatever it is that normal people do. Death is better than that."
"You mean that literally," John says, dead-pan in his disbelief. "You really think you died and came back."
Moriarty wonders how frustrating it must be, having to exist inside those limited little minds. They always seem so happy. They must not have the mental capacity to comprehend all that they're missing.
"I believe that I put a gun in my mouth and blew my own brains out, and yet now I'm sitting here watching you eat sub-standard Italian food. What does that tell you?"
John only shakes his head, and Moriarty supposes that that's the most he can hope for out of him. He wishes, stupidly, pointlessly, that he could get John to believe him. Sherlock held John's faith so effortlessly - despite all of Moriarty's attempts, he never managed to sway him from the truth. Always, always, John has looked at Sherlock and seen a god.
When he looks at Moriarty, he sees the devil. He sees lies.
In this instance, it's somewhat irritating.
"Eat your food," Moriarty instructs. "I want to get you home."
John eyes him suspiciously, but he bows his head and continues to eat. Bored, Moriarty mentally fast-forwards to the end of their evening.
*
Walking home with Moriarty at his side, John mostly finds himself surprised to still be alive and unharmed. Even when he had agreed to come out into the open with Moriarty, he had expected something to go badly; in the back of his mind, in the adrenaline-starved dangerous background, maybe he had hoped that something might happen to make him feel alive again.
They are making their way back to his flat, with Moriarty a silent, stealthy presence beside him. Even without the elegant cut of his usual suits, Moriarty walks as if he belongs somewhere else entirely. He's a swan among ducks.
"Stop," Moriarty instructs when they get close to John's apartment building. John listens and comes to a sharp halt, his shoulders straight, his muscles tense. Moriarty crowds in closer against him, but John retreats, taking a step backwards and then another until his back hits against the wall of the building. "Sherlock is going to hear that you were seen with me. What do you think would make him come running to your rescue even faster?"
John swallows. He wants so badly to believe in all of the possibilities that Moriarty is spinning for him - even if he knows, he knows that Moriarty lies. Yet now he has Moriarty pressed into his personal space, the pair of them breathing the same air. Moriarty's eyes are wide and excited. While one of his hands comes to rest on John's hip, the other traces the side of John's face. It's a caress gentle enough for a lover, although John knows all about the kind of damage that Moriarty can do.
"What are you doing?" John asks, without trying to break away. He doesn't even raise his voice.
Moriarty shifts even closer to him. John can feel the brush of Moriarty's mouth against his lips. There's no pressure behind it, just a tickle of touch and the warmth of Moriarty's breath. From this proximity, his view of Moriarty's face is fuzzy and faded, too close, too dangerous.
"Tell me to stop," Moriarty challenges, breathing the words against John's mouth. His fingers slide through the short strands of John's hair before his hand cups the back of John's head. "If you ask me to stop, I will."
John doesn't.
He allows his eyes to fall shut and he pushes forward, closing the negligible gap between their mouths. As he grabs hold of the front of Moriarty's t-shirt, Moriarty groans against his mouth, vibrating all the way through him. The fingers in his hair tense to cling onto him like he thinks John might try to slip away. Right now, John has no intention of doing so.
Pinned against the brick wall by Moriarty's slight weight, he parts his legs when Moriarty's thigh presses forward. Moriarty doesn't stop kissing him, instead rolling his thigh up against John's crotch as he thrusts his tongue forward, licking along John's closed lips until he opens up for him.
The world becomes a blur of soft, bright sensations; John loses track of the breeze against his skin and the wall against his back, forgets that they are out in public where anyone can see them. He even forgets that that is the point of this whole exercise. They need to be seen. He needs Sherlock to think he's in danger.
He needs Sherlock.
He turns his head and breaks away from Moriarty's demanding kiss, but in return Moriarty only transfers his attention to his jawline, his ear, his throat. Moriarty's mouth is heated and talented, his tongue like a branding iron. "Moriarty," John pants. With his eyes open, he can see the street around them - across the street, a lone man in a suit is walking as quickly as he can while staring at the pavement. "We need to go inside."
Moriarty hums against his neck, his fingers clenching and releasing in John's hair. "Alright," he agrees. "Alright, let's go."
It's one of the most foolish things that John has ever done, despite all of the dangerous situations he has walked into in the past. There is a part of him that knows that he should phone the police and have them take care of Moriarty as best they can, but he doesn't even want to. They can't do anything. Moriarty isn't like ordinary people.
Walking into his flat with Moriarty trailing him up the stairs, pressed close and eager, John feels like he's being hunted. As he fumbles with his key in the lock, Moriarty watching over his shoulder, he wonders what Moriarty would even do if he called this off; he wonders what the tantrum would look like.
Once they're inside, Moriarty immediately pushes him back against the wall once more, taking up his previous position. His leg pushes between John's thighs and John allows him to rut up against his hip. The heat of Moriarty's breath chokes him, they're so close, and John can't do anything but cling to him in shame.
He wishes he was a stronger person. He wishes he was a better person.
"There we are. Good boy," Moriarty murmurs as John's breath hitches. "Such a good boy, aren't you?"
Moriarty talks to him like he's a dog, a pet, and it's enough to get John to shove him away. He pushes him backwards, stalking after him while Moriarty grins - wild and dangerous. His eyes are darker than night and when he bumps into the armchair and sits down he gives a manic laugh. It's a laugh that fades to an impressed moan when John follows him onto the chair, into his lap, swallowing the sound with a harsh kiss.
He hates this man. Even as he allows Moriarty to touch him, as he allows his hands to grab and grope, he feels disgusted with Moriarty and horrified with himself What's wrong with him? His therapist would shake her head in disappointment. Self-destructive tendancies.
He loses track of what's happening, of who's touching who, of who's in control, until he feels Moriarty's hand down the back of his trousers, fingers pressing between his cheeks. Dry, Moriarty's forefinger pushes inside him - no teasing or drawing it out. Air leaves John's chest in an uncomfortable rush.
"You're very tight," Moriarty observes, a whisper by his ear. "Has anyone ever been inside you, John? Am I going to be your first?"
John grits his teeth but shakes his head. "Never taken it dry before," he says, as Moriarty chuckles and shoves a second finger into him.
"Don't worry, we can slick things along later. I wouldn't want to chafe myself," Moriarty says. It's not very reassuring, not when his dry fingers are stretching him open and playing with his arse. "It should still hurt for you, love. Isn't that good? Isn't that what you want?"
John screws his eyes shut and breathes through his nose. He can't send his thoughts away; the push of Moriarty's fingers inside him keep him grounded in the world. It's okay. It's good - he can't think at all, can't do anything but feel his body, feel the way his muscles are strained from holding himself up over Moriarty and his mouth hurts from Moriarty's assault. It's perfectly physical: nothing else exists, nothing else needs to exist.
He breathes shakily and allows himself to do nothing more than feel. Even listening to Moriarty's voice becomes secondary. Moriarty yanks their trousers down their thighs with one hand, his fingers still embedded inside John. There's hardly a moment to breathe, and he's given no time to collect himself or his thoughts before Moriarty pulls his fingers out and replaces them with something bigger and thicker, slicked only with the faintest sheen of saliva. Moriarty pushes up, his hands clinging to John's hips and pushing him downwards.
It's agony, and when John muffles a cry against Moriarty's shoulder it only makes him chuckle. "Come on, John," Moriarty says. "You don't want me to do all the work, do you?"
He pistons up into John, his length unforgiving, but when John begins to move with him he gives a long, satisfied groan as if he's been waiting his entire life for this. It's the only victory that John is ever likely to have over Moriarty. At this point, he'll take whatever he can get.
*
Moriarty has never felt anything as good as this. He spent his teenage years chasing sin after sin, allowing it all to spiral darker and messier as he searched for something that could truly thrill him. Nothing had worked but vibrant splashes of blood.
This works. John works.
He's almost painfully tight and torturously dry, the friction burning with every slamming thrust. The sounds that John makes go straight to Moriarty's cock; so pained, so distressed. It's the greatest aphrodisiac of all.
He gropes greedily at John's arse as he pushes up into him, orgasm shimmering on the horizon. "If you want to get off, do it quickly," he warns him. He has no intention of holding himself back or waiting, but when he sees John rushing to grab hold of his cock he can only groan at the sight of it.
John is Sherlock's property - and that's the sweetest thing about this, isn't it? He's touching what isn't his; Sherlock will be fuming with anger when he finds out. It's the most personal kind of theft.
Moriarty bites down on John's shoulder through layers of cloth and cardigan, clamping his teeth against flesh and hoping to leave a dark bruise behind. John groans and gasps in his lap, his hips grinding frantically; every sound is worth remembering, every wet hitch of breath and every tiny tremble. Moriarty is going to take it all.
John clenches around him, his entire body spasming as wet spunk splashes between them. It splatters onto Moriarty's t-shirt and that's enough to make him shove them both to the ground. His cock slips free from the tight clasp of John's ass but he pushes back inside, forcing the air from John's lungs. The carpet burns against his knees. Drops of sweat roll down from the back of his neck as he ruts into John, hunched over him with his hips lurching.
It's over too quickly. He spills into John with a long, satisfied groan, thrusting throughout orgasm to wring every second out. When he's done, he collapses on top of John, letting him bear all of his weight.
John takes no time before he dumps Moriarty to the side, both of them slumped on the carpet to catch their breath. They are stained with seed and flushed with exercion. Moriarty hasn't felt this alive since long before he died.
"You can leave now," John says, pushing himself into a sitting position and then shuffling to pull his trousers back up his hips.
With his cock still out, Moriarty lies on his back and watches him. "You don't want to cuddle?" he asks, splitting into a wide grin.
John scowls at him over his shoulder, before he gets to his feet and struggles to look presentable. It doesn't really work. Moriarty remains where he is with no desire to go anywhere, not yet, not for a while.
"I don't want you in here," John states.
It's beautifully blunt.
Moriarty thinks his very presence is upsetting John now. That's not an incentive to make him leave. Contrary to popular opinion, he is capable of being merciful - and, since he'd very much like to return and bend John over the nearest piece of furniture at some point in the near future, he decides to go quickly. The alternative is having to threaten John next time, and while fun that wouldn't have nearly the same corrosive appeal.
"I'd hate to outstay my welcome," he says with a chuckle as he gets up and makes only a half-hearted attempt at cleaning himself up. He's going to walk out in public with
John's seed painted across his chest. He challenges anyone to be shocked. "I'll come by again soon. I know you'll miss me."
His sarcastic drawl is enough to get under John's skin; he can see the way it makes his shoulders tense, his hands curl into fists. It's delicious.
It makes him want to stay and needle John for a little while longer. Yet he has not become the self-crowned king of crime by giving in to every minor impulse, so he flits from the apartment as delicately as he can, lingering only to nuzzle his lips against the side of John's mouth and taste his stern disapproval. Once he's down the stairs and back on the pavement, he has his phone out of his pocket and pressed against his ear in moments.
It's time to check every single strand of his delicate web. He has no doubt that, after their recent display, Sherlock will be sure to fall out of the woodwork.
*
It doesn't take long.
Within two days, Moriarty has a report of Sherlock's movements in Eastern Europe, moving closer and closer as the day goes by. He seems to be trying to keep a low profile; Moriarty's intel informs him of a wild variety of disguises. He does wish for photographic evidence of the fake moustache. It's such a shame to have missed it.
He gives him an extra few hours, and waits for the report of Sherlock stowing away on a cargo vessel to Scotland. Evidently he thinks planes are too conspicious. Moriarty is almost insulted. It's as if Sherlock has forgotten that he has eyes everywhere; he is the spider on the wall.
He also knows exactly where Sherlock is going. There is little need to track his exact route there.
That isn't enough to keep his curious gaze away from his SmartPhone. He checks it again and again as he has his driver take him to John's apartment. He had almost automatically asked to be taken to Baker Street; John and Sherlock still belong there, together. Moriarty wants the world back to how it had been before he died. He wants to bat Sherlock around like a cat with a toy.
He hops out of the car without a word to his driver when they reach the worn-out building that John currently lives in. If Sherlock won't bundle John back to Baker Street, perhaps Moriarty will arrange it for himself. It would make these sporadic visits far more enjoyable.
A pedestrian unlocks the door and allows himself into the hallway ahead of Moriarty, politely holding the door open for him after Moriarty fakes a half-jog to reach it. He does love people's manners. It makes life so much easier for him. With a polite smile, he nods his head. "Thank you," he says.
The stranger heads into one of the ground floor flats, which leaves Moriarty free to climb the stairs to John's apartment on the upper floors. A cheerful bounce marks each step; he feels good, unsurprisingly.
When he raps on the door, the rhythm is as light as he feels. Inside, John's footsteps shuffle.
He doesn't have the chain on the door when he answers this time.
Judging from the slight discolouration beneath his eyes and the wrinkles of his clothes, he hasn't managed to get any sleep. Who cares?
"Sherlock is on his way," Moriarty announces.
He's usually the bearer of bad news. It feels strange to be on the other side for once.
"And you're here to welcome him home?" John asks dubiously. "I don't believe any of this."
"I'd have thought you would be the first to leap onto any shard of hope. Do you not want him home?" Moriarty walks into John's little flat, his eyes lingering on the chair they'd stained together. "Is that it? You're having too much fun as a single man?"
"Moriarty..."
"It makes sense. He always was so reluctant to let you off your leash. You've got a taste of freedom. Are you sad that Daddy's coming home?"
"He's dead. I saw the body myself."
"'Dead' is a relative term." Moriarty gives a thoughtful half-shrug. "And a boring one."
John gives a groan as if Moriarty's mere presence causes him physical pain. Frustration isn't nearly as satisfying as agony or ecstacy, but Moriarty's willing to take it. From John, he might be willing to take anything.
"Give it an hour," Moriarty says. "He'll be here soon."
It's a gamble based off of what he knows about Sherlock's movements and his determined beeline back to London. He's coming for John - he's coming to sweep to the rescue even though John is in no danger. For now, Moriarty has no interest in seeing John dead. He's far more entertaining when he's alive.
John looks at his watch. "You'll leave at four o'clock?" he confirms. "That's one hour away."
Moriarty will leave whenever he wants to, but for the sake of a peaceful passage of time he shrugs and sits down in John's chair. It's the same chair they shared the day before, where John had gasped and shivered in his lap. Judging from the heat in John's cheeks, that's what he's thinking about too.
"I'll have some tea," he states.
With a roll of his eyes, John heads towards the kitchen.
*
This is insane. He is insane.
John boils the kettle and makes a pot of tea to share with a mass-murdering psychopath. He watches him cautiously as he carries a tray through to the living room.
It's obscene to have a man like that sitting in his flat drinking tea from a novelty mug.
It's simply wrong.
He watches Moriarty drink his tea and waits for him to talk. He expects Moriarty to taunt him at the very least, to prod at open wounds to watch him squirm. What he doesn't expect is for Moriarty to check his watch and say, "We could fuck again. It might pass the time."
For all that he sounds over-casual and nonchalant, there is an eagerly bright gleam in Moriarty's eyes. John frowns. "I don't think so," he says.
Moriarty tilts his head and watches him, working it out a moment at a time. John recognises that expression. How many times has he seen its softer twin on Sherlock's face?
"I don't want to sleep with you again," he says. Christ, this is more awkward than breaking up with any girl had ever been. "You're a murderer."
"That didn't bother you before. It's such a little thing to be concerned about. So normal. Are you worried about what Sherlock would think?" Moriarty smiles, thin-lipped and dangerous. "What do you think he's been doing all this time he's been away? I'm not the only one with blood on my hands."
John doesn't believe him, not for a second. Sherlock was many things while he was alive, including ruthless, but he had never been cold-blooded. He wouldn't kill for the sake of killing, or even for vengeance, but only as a last resort. Maybe that is a difference that Moriarty can't be expected to grasp.
"Have I shocked you?" Moriarty sounds giddy at the very suggestion. "Do you really doubt that he would be capable of that?"
"I know Sherlock. He's capable of anything." John doesn't hesitate. He's seen what Sherlock can do. He knows that a man like that has few limits, intellectual or moral. "But, no, I don't believe you. He believes in justice, not vigilantism. He believed in justice."
Moriarty gives a dramatic sigh and hangs his head back against the back of the armchair. "And we're onto that again. Take a leap of faith, Johnny Boy. Sherlock did."
"Because you made him." John can't keep the anger out of his voice, the barely restrained fury. He's killed for Sherlock before. At the thought of Moriarty's vulnerable throat beneath his hands, the promise of life choked from his body, John has no doubt that he would kill for him again. "You forced him to jump."
"Yes." Moriarty practically hisses the word in open delight, as if it is something to be proud of. Like an over-fed snake, he basks in the heat. "It was easy. I should have known he'd have a back-up plan. He's a slippery little fellow, isn't he?"
Eyes closed, with the sound of Moriarty's chuckles in his ears, he doesn't miss the turn of a key in the lock of the front door.
Opening his eyes, John looks towards the door - and Sherlock is there, in that same ridiculous coat and that same fashionable scarf. His face is flushed as if he's been running but other than that it is as if nothing has changed. No time has passed. Sherlock is there and he is alive and John simply has no way of processing this.
"Ah, Sherlock," Moriarty says. He places down his tea cup and gets smoothly to his feet, brushing away imaginary crumbs from the lapel of his suit jacket as he does. "You're late. I was beginning to think you weren't going to show."
"I was detained," Sherlock says. The sound of his voice alone is almost enough to make John need to lie down. "If you've harmed him - "
"Down, boy, I haven't touched a hair on his head," Moriarty says. He tilts his head thoughtfully. "Well, no, I've done plenty of touching. I haven't hurt him. Much. You really should keep a better eye on your pets if you don't want them to misbehave. It's irresponsible ownership to leave him this long."
"I'm back now."
"Are you?" John doesn't mean to ask, but the question slips from his lips. He sounds small and uncertain. He won't fall apart. He's been strong all the time - if Sherlock's death hadn't broken him, he won't allow his return to do so either.
Sherlock looks at him, really looks, before he nods. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. All John wants is to have him here and have him home. He also wants to punch the bastard in his stupid face for leaving in the first place, for hurting him like this, but that can wait.
Moriarty coos like he's never seen anything so adorable, but there is a mocking undertone that is nearly enough to make John flinch. Through stubborn effort, he is able to look away from Sherlock and back to the maniac in the room.
The maniac that has tried to kill Sherlock several times before.
"I should leave you two to it," Moriarty says. "I don't want to be here when the reunion gets too mushy. Not my style."
He moves towards the door and John tenses: something must be coming, he's sure of that. It can't be this simple.
"You're going to stay away from John," Sherlock states. "He's not part of the game."
Moriarty grins like a shark with its teeth on display. "You don't get it yet," he says in wonder. "John is the game - this time around, anyway. Are you having fun yet? I know I am."
He leaves with a bounce in his step and they don't even try to stop him. The door closes behind Moriarty with a gentle click.
"What did he mean?" John asks, light-headed and breathless as if they've been running for their lives. Sherlock is in the room with him. He's alive. It's a miracle that John can summon any words at all.
Sherlock shakes his head, paler than John remembers and awkward in his own body. It's strange to see Sherlock without a sense of utter self-possession.
"So," John whistles. "You're alive, then?"
"Of course I'm alive," Sherlock answers.
John thinks that his self-restraint in holding back a punch is admirable.
He doesn't know where they go from here.
*
Moriarty has always hated endings. It's so terribly boring to let go. It's terribly boring to carry on.
It isn't life that bores him. It isn't death. It's existance.
Leaving John's apartment, he thinks that he might settle for peaceful annihalation. To be nothing would be bliss. Yet he knows what the afterlife holds and he has no intention of ever returning to that blackness.
London's air hits him as he leaves the building and he takes a deep breath into his lungs as he thinks his next move over - his next six moves, always having to make sure that he is far, far ahead of his opponents. He's competing against the world. It's exhausting.
If life is dull and death is worse, he has to make his own entertainment.
Up in that apartment, he knows that John and Sherlock are having their heart-felt reunion. They'll shout and they'll cry and it will all be so horribly tender. He'll give them that. He'll let them have this moment.
Flagging down a taxi, he grins to himself. Reunion will make the fall all the sweeter.
Having put them back together, he can't wait to tear them apart.