The Adventures of James Moriarty

"I'd be lost without my sniper."

Jim Moriarty wasn't just a criminal. He was the veiled evil force behind every crime that happened in London. The very heartbeat of sin. 

To most criminals, 'Moriarty' was a feeling. An idea, because linking unseen presences to a living creature gives humans comfort. To others, Moriarty was the quintessence of cruelty. Nobody really knew the man, however. 

There were only two people who had willful contact with this man. One of them was none other than Sebastian Moran. The other was confidential, obviously.

The room that held this being was as quiet as its white color. A shrewd face that seemed alert but thoughtful. Coal black eyes stared down at the screen. Occasionally, they'd lift up, pause, pull a smile from the pink lips below and get back to the screen. 

Then, the sound of fingers typing rapidly on the keyboard would fill the room. This went on for a while. 

The bed smelled like sex and strawberry lube. It was the perfect working condition for this mastermind. 

"'Mornin', sunshine," mumbled a sleepy resonant voice from beside him. He spared a quick glance at his 'employee.'  

Was it morning already? Crime doesn't sleep. Turning back to the screen, he smiled mischievously and hit the 'return' key. The laptop snapped shut. 

"Good morning, princess," he replied finally, more under his breath than to the man who just woke up. He seemed deep in thought, and went through the routine of getting dressed, shrugging off the brown boss coat off his body. 

"Why don't you take Saturdays off?" grumbled the voice behind him, as the sheets shuffled. Jim could see from the mirror that Sebastian had covered himself up, like a sweet caterpillar. 

He finished buttoning up his shirt, and turned up the collar so he could do his tie neatly. Every time he heard his favorite voice, a warm smile finned his face. Sometimes it was frisky, sometimes brimmed with admiration. The latter was rare, impressing the king of crime was a big deal to most. 

"I take Wednesdays off," he said, tittering when Sebastian had said the same dialogue with him, in a more high pitched but groggy tone. A half-arsed mimicry. He raised a brow and turned around to the blanketed man. 

"Dear me, Basher," he started, tiptoeing towards the bed. Perhaps his approach was felt, and maybe even hoped for. The lilting predator cadence in his tone was powerful. If anybody else heard this, they'd shit their pants. 

Sebastian smiled into the pillow. 

"You're getting awfully naughty," he ended, pinching the fabric of the comforter, before swiftly shifting it into his fist to yank it off. 

Jim held his jaw up, somehow. But his eyes traced the beautiful scars all over again. They grew darker when his carved initials came into view, a fresh jagged mark at the lowest part of his back. His tone softened, mellowed down to the same feeling of the tips of his fingers tracing gently along the new scar. 

"Does it still hurt?" he asked, a faint and tender manner. Sometimes he'd forget he was talking to the most feared sniper, a world class assassin. 

Jim was quickly pulled into the other man's lap, who suddenly seemed wide awake, shaking his head vaguely. He let a look of mock surprise when his wrists were held. When he looked at Sebastian's face, he locked eyes, and a silent conversation happened. 

The kiss that followed was satisfying. They pulled apart, and Jim let out a soft growl that signaled the start of round three, tipping his weight forward. 

"I'll take this Saturday off."