(Thank you so much for the prompt! Haven’t written Johniarty in ages :D I hope you like it!
Based on: http://watson-and-the-oddly-specific.tumblr.com/post/42917707272/epicluna)

…

John cautiously looked around the flat. “Sherlock? Sherlock, are you home?”

No answer. He was alone, thank God. John collapsed into his armchair and pulled out his phone, clicking onto the “messages” icon.

Hello. Is this Louisa? It’s John Watson, we met earlier in that cafe across from the theatre. <SEND>

John took a deep, shuddery breath. Louisa From The Cafe had been beautiful - her soft brown eyes had instantly captured John the moment she’d looked up from her take-out latte. Her rosy lips had curved into a bright smile as John fumbled like an idiot with the change the vendor had given him, and then those lips laughed as he spilled his tea all over himself in his haste. John shut his eyes, just thinking.

His phone buzzed. John clicked the little envelope on-screen eagerly, but then he saw the message and his face fell. 

Sorry, Johnny boy. It’s Jim from IT. Remember me?

John glared at the screen. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the phone. Suddenly, he wished Sherlock was here - if not to protect him, but to offer some witty responses that he could text That Bastard back.

I get one number wrong and it’s you. Great.

The reply came almost immediately. A stroke of fate, one might call it. I would say the hand of God had some meddling but sadly I had no part in this. -JMxx

John might have laughed at that had he not been so annoyed (and hadn’t been talking to a maniac serial killer). What purpose could fate have? I thought I was texting a girl, thinking I’d be with her tonight.

So it’s sex you’re after, Doctor Watson? That can be arranged.

John felt an odd tingle on his spine. It’s not your business what I’m after, and I’m not arranging anything with you.

It would get quite the rise out of Sherlock, don’t you agree?

You can’t honestly see me agreeing to have sex with you! John did laugh at that. The idea was insane! But then John realised - Jim really was insane. He was fucking crazy. It really wouldn’t be out of character for him to do something like this - to arrange for them to… John hurriedly typed out another text: I like danger, but I’m not stupid.

Are you afraid you might hurt little Sherlie? Nonetheless, it is a proposition, and the offer is ALWAYS open. xxxxx

John felt sick. This has nothing to do with Sherlock, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention him. We’re two separate people. Oh God, what did he just send?! That was practically an invitation!

Then prove it to me, Doctor Watson. Show me you aren’t his little pet.

John could almost hear Moriarty’s drawling accent as he read those words. I am my own person. I don’t need to show you.

I think you forget who holds the bigger gun here, Doctor Watson.

John didn’t like Moriarty calling him that. Still, it was better than “Johnny boy”. He took a deep breath, then typed: Fine. When and where?

Again, John could almost hear the sneer in Moriarty’s reply: There will be a taxi outside your flat. If you tell Sherlock where you are going, he will be dead the second my name leaves your lips.

Downstairs, the front door slammed. John suspected it was one of Moriarty’s minions, but then Sherlock called “John?” and he felt safe again. He looked back at the text and typed out one last reply: I just marred a pleasant evening, didn’t I?

Sherlock was only halfway upstairs when John jogged past him, calling “I’ll be late home!” before disappearing into the night.

Moriarty, sat on his bed, grinned at the screen of his own phone. I look forward to seeing you. Don’t worry… it’ll be everything you want it to be.

(…then I shall write said drabble! Thank you very much - hope you like it!)

…

The living room was cold and the sofa wasn’t the most comfortable place, but Jim didn’t care as he brushed his lips against John’s, not kissing, just feeling. He trailed his hands under John’s shirt and dragged a cool finger up his spine, pressing on the grooves between the bumps and tracing lines beneath John’s shoulder blades. John made a delicious moaning noise; he pitched forward, kissing Jim forcefully on the lips.

“How long until Sherlie gets back?” Jim asked reluctantly.

“Not long.” John murmured back. “So hurry up.”

Jim grinned, moving his lips to John’s neck and sucking at the skin gently. He tore John’s shirt over his head before pushing the soldier down onto the arm of the sofa - John’s head nearly lolled off the side, and he grasped Jim’s bare shoulders tightly to keep himself balanced. Jim moved his head down, licking a long stripe along John’s belly before tugging the trousers down and mouthing against John’s pants bulge. John bucked up slightly, but Jim pushed him down, glaring up at his lover without removing his mouth.

John moaned. “Jim, just-“

The front door opened. “John? I’m back!”

“Shit!” John hissed. “Jim!”

Jim didn’t seem to notice. He kept working John’s bulge with his mouth, slipping his tongue between the fabric and the soft skin. John couldn’t help the throaty moan that escaped him - Jim had both his hands on John’s buttocks now, his cool fingers massaging them.

“Jim-” John choked.

Footsteps on the stairs made Jim pause for half a second before resuming - the living room door swung open, and everything dissolved into slow-motion. 

“John, what are you doing?” Sherlock’s voice trembled with something like anger.

“Um-” John gulped. He wished Jim would remove his mouth from his erection, but the consulting criminal was practically humming against it now.

“Moriarty?” Sherlock growled.

Jim finally sat up and wiped his mouth. “Hello, Sherlie. I hoped you’d be home in time.”

“In time for what?”

Jim grinned. “Would you like to find out?”

(JOHNIARTYYYY yesss :D thank you so much! I hope you like it!)

…

Jim glanced over the display case. Bright and sparkling jewels stared up at him, each one reflecting rainbows onto the glass of the case. Jim tapped his fingers on that same glass as he looked over the rings.

“Can I help you, sir?” a pretty shop assistant smiled warmly at Jim.

“I shouldn’t think so.” Jim murmured. He peered down into one of the cases - his eyes lit up. “Actually, you might as well be of use. Tell me how much that one costs.”

“The gold Tolkowsky?” the assistant beamed like the Cheshire Cat. “It’s just under £9000, but if you get the platinum bracelet to match-“

“He won’t like bracelets.” Jim waved away the offer. “So the Tolkowsky - carat?”

“Eighteen carat diamonds, twelve carat gold.”

“And how much is the insurance?”

“Upwards of £1000 - it depends on what you want it to cover. Theft, loss, damage…”

“I’ll take anything you got, all of it. Just make it safe.”

The assistant giggled. “Does he get into a lot of trouble?”

“You have no idea.” Jim smirked.

With the ring bought, Jim stepped out into the street feeling rather proud of himself. He dialled a number on his phone, called his driver, and sat on a bench to wait for his car. Jim glanced at the neat little bag in his hands - he wanted to look at the ring, to double-check that it was still in there, but he restrained himself. Why look at it now when he could look at it on John’s finger forever?

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

Jim looked up - a small, doddery old man was stood next to him, pointing shakily to the bench. Jim sighed. “No, go ahead.”

“Thank you so kindly, young man.” the old man beamed. He sat down heavily, shaking out his feet. “I’ve walked a very long way today - it’s so nice to sit down after a long and refreshing walk!”

Jim nodded slowly, turning his head to the road. He wished his driver would hurry up.

“Ooooh, a ring box!” the old man squealed. “Is it for a lady friend?”

“None of your business.” Jim scowled.

“Can I see it?”

“What? No!”

The old man laughed, suddenly sounding eighty years younger. He thrust out an arm and grabbed the bag from Jim’s hand, running totally unlike an old man down the street. Jim leapt up and pursued him, cursing everything - he recognised that fucking laugh! They ran through the London streets, pushing past civilians and darting into and out of shops, eventually ending up in a particularly grungy clothing store.

“Give it back, Sherlie!” Jim growled.

The old man ripped his wig off, revealing dark curly hair. “Who’s it for, Jim?”

“Why don’t you deduce that?” Jim lunged for the bag, but Sherlock held it above his head.

“Tell me!”

“If I told you, you’d try and stop me.” Jim smirked. “Figure it out, detective.”

Sherlock paused for a moment. His face went grey. “You can’t have him.”

“We’ll see about that. All he needs to do is say ‘yes’, Sherlie. One word, and Johnny is mine.” Jim’s voice slipped into a purr. He liked that word. Mine. 

(You haven’t been sending shitty prompts! :O I’m so sorry - I just haven’t gotten round to them yet! I’m writing this one right now - I’m so so sorry! I love you too!)

…

“No.”

John sighed. “It’s only for a week.”

“Yes. You’ll be spending a week alone in Paris with him.”

“Well spotted.”

Jim glared at John. “I forbid it. I absolutely forbid it!”

John sighed. He reclined back onto the bed’s headboard, shaking his head slowly as Jim Moriarty paced the bedroom floor, his arms crossed across his bare chest and a lit cigarette dangling in his fingers. He wore only his pajama trousers, and his eyes kept flicking to John to assess whether he’d changed his mind in the last two seconds. John himself was dressed only in his pants and jeans, and his mind was totally set.

“It’s not even that long.” John sighed. “One week, not even that. Sherlock will solve the case in a matter of days - you know him. I’ll text you, I’ll call you - Hell, you can even watch me on the CCTV.”

Jim stopped pacing. He took another long drag from his cigarette before crossing to the bed and stubbing it out on the end column of the four-poster. “You really think that’s enough?”

“Uh… I suppose…”

Jim crawled onto the bed, his eyes flashing. “That’s not enough, John.” he moved forwards until he was straddling the blond, running his hands through John’s hair and making his eyelids flutter. Jim’s voice deepened to a purr as he whispered: “I need to see you in the flesh. I need to kiss you. I need to touch your skin and taste you and make you mine…”

“Jim…”

Jim bent his neck and nipped at John’s lower lip, lightly flicking his tongue against John’s inner cheek. John moaned, grabbing Jim’s face and pulling him deeper, kissing the madman until they both ran out of air and pulled away. 

“Even now, John, I can’t get enough of you…” Jim continued, pecking kisses to John’s neck and face as he spoke. His voice went straight to John’s groin - he bucked his hips up, gripping Jim’s hair and guiding the criminal downwards.

“Do you ever stop talking?” John hissed through gritted teeth.

Jim chuckled, but there was no mirth in the sound. He went where John’s hand guided him, pulling back the thin material of John’s jeans and mouthing the fabric of his pants. He glanced up, and his dark eyes caught John’s blue ones. “Don’t leave…”

“I have to.” John drew in a shaky breath.

“Do you want to?”

“Not right now, no.” John grinned.

Jim grinned back. “Good.” he moved upwards, kissing and licking John’s chest. He loomed over John’s head, staring down somewhat menacingly. “I’ll give you three days. Then you’d better be back.”

“I promise.” John nodded.

“Ah, Johnny…” Jim tutted. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep…”

And with that, Jim lunged down again, kissing his lover within a tight and protective embrace.

(Second prompt of the day because I’m a lazy arse that has writers block. Oops. :D thank you so much - I hope you like it!!)

…

John groaned, the bright light hitting his brain badly as he opened his eyes. His head felt groggy, his limbs heavy, and he could smell a strong scent of chlorine wafting in the air. His hands were tied with a thick cable behind his back, and his chest felt compressed - a bomb jacket? Holy shit. The bomber. John tried to move his head, but his cheek connected with a cold metal blade - his eyes flicked up, and John’s blood ran cold as he saw a man standing before him, grinning manically. 

“Hello, Johnny boy.”

John groaned quietly. “Who are you?”

The man looked hurt. “I’m offended! You don’t remember me?”

John’s vision focussed - the man was dressed sharply, like the knife in his hand, his hair slicked back and his jacket perfectly tailored. His face was familiar, but John couldn’t place it - had he been at St Bart’s with him? He was about his age… older than Sherlock, but still looking quite young… John shook his head.

“Can’t remember you.”

The man sighed, dropping down to sit on his haunches. He lazily trailed the knife across John’s jacket, avoiding the ominous wires that poked out from the chest. “My name is Jim. Jim Moriarty.”

John blinked. “Jim from the hospital?”

Jim grinned. “There we go! Clever boy.”

John’s skin crawled at the lilting voice. He tried to stand up, but the knife was instantly at his throat.

“Stay down, boy.” Jim warned. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

“Where are we?” John ground his teeth.

“You hang around with Sherlock Holmes.” Jim smirked. “Can’t you deduce that?”

John rolled his eyes. “I hang out with him. I’m not actually him. Oh, and he’s going to be furious when he finds out where I am… wherever this is.”

Jim leaned forward, taking the knife away from John’s neck and slipping it into his pocket. “Do you know who Sherlock is? Really?”

“Yes.” John smiled. “He’s my friend.”

Jim’s mouth twitched into a genuine smile. “Oh, Johnny! You make me laugh.” he sat down properly, crossing his legs and facing John like a child staring at his teacher. “I could be your friend.”

“No chance.”

“Aw, you’re no fun.” Jim pouted. “At least let me try and persuade you.”

John smirked. “No thanks.”

Jim glanced at his watch. “We have about fifteen minutes before Sherlie comes to collect you. We might as well talk the minutes away.”

“There’s nothing to be said.”

Jim sighed, leaning back on his elbows. It was oddly sensual, the deep dark eyes glittering at John from a seductive vantage point. John gulped, glaring at the tiles on the floor. Jim smirked.

“Enjoying the view?”

“No.” John growled. 

Jim laughed, then turned serious. “You could join me, you know. Leave Sherlock. I’d like that, actually.” Jim mused. “A good marksman, and a good doctor too. You have heart, John Watson. A rare quality in people these days.” Jim sat up properly, his eyes boring into John’s skull. “Join me.”

“I’m not joining you!” John barked. “Get off your fucking high horse and leave me alone!”

Pause. Jim’s eyes stopped glittering - he crawled forwards, his top teeth bared like an angry dog. He pulled the knife out of his pocket. “You know, I’m used to getting what I want.” Jim sighed. “I always get what I want.”

“Is that why you kill people?” John asked quietly.

Jim smiled widely. “Only if they get in my way.”

(Smooth, Lucy, smooth ;) <3)

…

John wriggled in his sleeping bag, glaring up at the roof of the teepee. “Can we get out now? It’s boiling in here.”

Jim frowned. “No. You said you wanted to go camping.”

“Yeah, in the woods or something, not in the living room!” John rolled his eyes.

Jim chuckled, snuggled inside his own sleeping bag. “I’m hardly going to let you sleep in a forest, John. Besides, this is fun!”

“You forget that I was in the army. I’ve slept in worse places than a forest.”

Jim smiled. The two of them were silent a moment, listening to the silence of the safe-house. They lay in the middle of the rather small teepee, huddled in boiling hot sleeping bags, with two mugs of cold tea set at their feet. Jim wriggled closer to John, resting his head on John’s shoulder. 

“What are you doing?” John murmured.

“Going to sleep.”

“You never sleep before midnight. It’s ten now.”

Jim shrugged. “Maybe I’m tired.”

“No, you just want to lie on me.”

“Show me your proof.” Jim smirked, nuzzling John’s neck with his nose.

After a moment, Jim got bored. He unzipped John’s sleeping bag and exited his own, slipping in beside John and zipping the bag back up. They were squashed together, even when they both turned onto their sides and faced each other, Jim’s face squashed against John’s broad chest.

“This isn’t going to work.” John muttered sleepily.

Jim smiled into John’s shirt. He could just about feel John’s heartbeat on his cheek - it calmed him down, making him sleepier. “I dunno. I could do this all day.”

“It’s night-time.”

“Shut up, Red Pants.”

(Aww I love you so much! Thank you sweetie :3 This took about 2 re-writes before I was even happy with it :P I hope you like this!)

…

Sherlock stood at the door to 221 Baker Street, the cold night air seeping into his skin through his thick coat and scarf. He held his hand above the door-handle, wondering whether to use his key and go straight in or ring the doorbell and wait for Mrs Hudson to let him in. Sherlock let his hand drop. They might have changed the locks… but then again Mrs Hudson might be out…

“Well well well!”

Sherlock had the sudden urge to bash the door down, go upstairs and shoot the wall of his old flat. Instead, he slowly turned around, a snide smirk on his face. “Hello again.”

Jim Moriarty beamed at his old enemy. “Sherlie! Long time, no see. How apt that we should meet here again.”

Sherlock stepped away from the door and walked swiftly into the alleyway next to the house; Jim followed, his fox fur scarf protecting his neck from the harsh wind. The two geniuses faced each other, staring one another down until either of them spoke.

Sherlock went first. “Why are you here?”

“Can’t you deduce that?” Jim’s eyes sparkled, but there was no trace of amusement within them.

“I don’t have time for your games.” Sherlock snapped.

“Fine. I’m here to see Johnny.”

“What? Why? Why John?”

Jim raised an eyebrow. “Ooh, you don’t like that, do you?”

Sherlock stepped up to Moriarty, their noses almost touching. Jim tilted his chin up defiantly, while Sherlock scowled down. “What do you want with John?”

“I need to tell him something, that’s all.”

“So do I.” Sherlock glared at his nemesis. “What do you want to tell him?”

Jim cocked his head to one side. “Strange, isn’t it? How one can get so protective over one’s pets.”

Sherlock clenched his fists. “Why? Why are you-”

“I am you.” Jim interrupted, his eyes glinting darkly. “It’s appropriate that I should have the same tastes.”

Sherlock blinked, stepping back. “You… you like him too?”

Jim grinned. “You catch on quick.”

Sherlock saw red. “You can’t have him!”

“Why? Did you call dibs?”

“The first moment I saw him.” Sherlock smirked.

Jim laughed. “Oh, my dear. What a pretty pickle this is.”

“Shut up.” Sherlock snapped.

He strode to the door of 221, holding his hand out to press the doorbell – but the door swung open, revealing John Watson, who stared at Sherlock and Jim with a look of pure horror.

“What?!” John yelped.

Pause.

“I love you.”

gatissimo:

gatissimo:

I feel like Moriarty broke into 221B and stole John’s cardigan just as a little extra “fuck you”.

I’M SORRY BUT SOMETIMES I JUST THINK ABOUT HOW THEY HAVE THE SAME FUCKING CARDIGAN AND I GET FEELINGS WHICH I CANNOT DESCRIBE

(Of course! I’m so so sorry this is late – been so busy lately… anyway, thank you so much for the prompt, and I hope you like it!)

…

Jim sat silently on the kitchen table in Mrs Hudson’s flat, watching John put dirty clothes into the washing machine. His eyes roved hungrily over John’s back, flicking down to savour the curve of his arse before travelling back up to his neck. John finished putting in the clothes and stood up, stretching his arms – his polo shirt lifted up, revealing pale skin that didn’t match John’s face or hands. John turned round and jumped, startled, staring at Jim.

“How long have you been sat there?”

“A while.” Jim shrugged. He stood up and reached his hand out, trailing a line with his fingers along John’s collarbone.

John frowned. “Why are you here?”

“I was bored.” Jim smiled, running his fingers up John’s cheek and back down again, all the way to John’s shirt hem – quickly, he tugged John’s shirt over his head and tossed it into the washing machine. Jim grinned. “I thought you might be able to help.”

“I’m busy.” John sighed.

He closed the machine door and tried to walk away, but Jim shoved the blond backwards, making him slam into the washing machine. John winced – Jim grabbed hold of his arms, crushing their chests together.

“You’re not busy, I know it.” Jim said softly. He smoothed his hands over John’s chest, pressing gentle kisses to the soft flesh.

“This isn’t the time or place, Jim!” John moaned.

“I think this is the perfect place. Quiet, tidy… much better than that pig sty you call a flat.”

“Sherlock will be wondering where I am…” John murmured, ignoring Jim’s insult. “I have to go, Jim. He’ll be worried sick.”

Jim frowned. “Forget him.”

“I can’t. I live with him.” John chuckled.

He started to pull away again – but Jim suddenly lunged forward, biting his teeth into the fleshy part of John’s neck. John yelped, writhing under Jim’s grip. He kicked Jim’s shin, and the criminal finally let go, leaning back to admire the large red bruise on John’s neck. It was bleeding slightly, but not badly. John stared at Jim in horror.

“What was that for?!” John yelled.

“You’re mine, John. I own you.” Jim’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Don’t forget it.”

“What?! Since when have you owned me?!” John barked.

“Since the first day. I thought you were interesting – the little soldier, brave, with a big heart.” Jim closed his eyes briefly – for a moment, he looked almost human. Then he opened them again, and the familiar manic glint was back. “I wanted you from that moment. I needed you.” he leaned in again, catching John’s lips in a deep but quick kiss. “Sherlock can’t have you. I’m going to keep you, John. You’re mine.” he repeated.

John gulped. “Mrs Hudson will be back any-”

“Shhh.” Jim grinned. “Don’t think.” he touched his lips to John’s chest again, moving tantalisingly slowly downwards towards John’s trouser belt. Jim glanced up, meeting John’s eyes and making him shiver. “You’re mine, John. Say it.”

John sighed, finally submitting to Jim’s touch. He leaned forward, murmuring into Jim’s ear: “I’m yours.”

(This turned out to be a lot darker than I originally planned. I wanted to write a Johniarty that wasn’t a set-up for Johnlock, therefore – this. Thank you so much! I hope you like it!)

…

Sherlock Holmes watched John thoughtfully as the blond drained his beer bottle, coughing loudly when he finished the drink. He slammed the bottle onto the table with more force than necessary, staring at the thing as if it had personally offended him.

“Better?” Sherlock asked softly.

John said nothing, staring blankly at the table. Sherlock kept quiet and left John to his thoughts.

The two men were sat in a nearly empty pub – the stereotypical bartender cleaned glasses and watched the TV on a table, while the stereotypical banker tried to throw darts into a picture of his boss. Sherlock and John sat in a booth seat, the depressing Thursday night pub atmosphere seeping into their conversation (or lack thereof). To make it worse, the jukebox was playing such ironic songs as “Bleeding Love”, “Jar of Hearts” and “Slipped Away” - none of which were helping John’s mood.

John touched his beer bottle gently, sliding it slowly across the table – Sherlock caught it before it reached the edge, glancing over John cautiously.

“Are you alright, John?”

“What do you think?” John sighed. He was more depressed than angry – he clasped his hands under his legs, looking the picture of a bewildered child. “Jim was my first boyfriend, you know? To be honest… he was the best partner I’ve ever had. Not just sexually. He was…”

John trailed off, unable to find the right words to describe James Moriarty. Sherlock could think of several – psychopath, heart-breaker, deranged; because who wouldn’t want to love John? But he kept his mouth shut, patting John’s arm.

John continued: “He said it was over. Just like that. He said he didn’t need a- a pet any-more.” John was shaking – with anger or sadness, Sherlock couldn’t tell. “So he packed my stuff and shoved me out of the safehouse. When I went back an hour later, he’d gone, and Moran was there to tell me to fuck off.” pause. “I’ll probably never see him again.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true!” John sighed. “Jim was the best boy- well, not really. He was a psychotic lunatic. But I had the best time with him, and I was so sure that he loved me back… I guess I was wrong.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “James Moriarty isn’t capable of loving people. He denies his heart too much for that. What you two had was a physical relationship with emotional benefits. You needed each other for that time – but he moved on. Now it’s time for you to do the same.”

“But Sherlock, you don’t get it!” John met Sherlock’s eyes at last. “I will always need him!”

“Then maybe you should learn to need someone else.” Sherlock suggested.

John glared at him. “If you’re thinking that I’m just going to let him go like that, you’re on the wrong track.”

“John, he’s not dead. He broke up with you, he didn’t die.”

“Feels like he did.” John murmured glumly. “Feels like I’m dead.”

Sherlock ignored him. “Believe it or not, it is actually possible to move on from a relationship – you’ve done it before!”

“It wasn’t like this though!” John groaned. “This was the best-”

“Stop saying it was the best!” Sherlock growled.

“Why?”

“Because I thought you thought I was the best!”

John stared at his friend coldly. “Then maybe I was wrong.”

(Oooooh I love it!! ;) HAPPY RED PANTS MONDAY! Thank you so much – I hope you like it!)

…

Jim slowly opened his eyes, the quiet rumble of traffic filtering through the window. The room was dimly lit with grey light from the darkish sky above the building, and it was strangely warm for a British Autumn. Jim slowly came to terms with his surroundings – he was in John’s 221B bedroom, in bed, naked, with the covers pulled halfway up his chest. The best part of this? The also naked John, who was standing beside the bed, stretching his arms out calmly.

“Morning.” Jim mumbled with a smile.

John jumped and turned round, his face and muscles relaxing when he saw it was just Jim in the bed. “Morning.”

Jim sat up, reclining against the headboard. “What’s for breakfast?”

“No idea. Just woke up.” John shrugged. He made his way over to his chest of drawers, opening one of the compartments.

“I want eggs.” Jim announced.

“You can have them, if you make them yourself.”

Jim pouted. “Why can’t you make them?”

“Because I’m not your butler.” John rolled his eyes. He pulled out a pair of red pants from the drawer and slipped them on quickly before walking over to the wardrobe.

“But-” Jim paused. He felt his heart throb – that was unusual. His heart didn’t throb. Until recently he’d denied its very existence. But now it was definitely making some painful movements, and Jim knew exactly why.

John looked positively criminal in those pants.

Jim licked his lips, his head swaying as it was wont to do when he had a problem. John reached the wardrobe and swung the door open, his face screwing up as he considered his outfit for the day. Jim wasn’t looking at John’s face. He was staring at the outline of his member, the perfect curve of his arse, the waistband that looked just too easy to slip off… Jim leapt out of bed, his eyes fixed hungrily on John’s pants.

“Jim?” John frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Jim wasn’t listening. He slipped his hands around John’s back, pulling the man into a hug, then snaked his fingers into the waistband of John’s pants. John took in a deep breath.

“What are you doing?” he moaned.

“You are too delicious in this attire.” Jim purred like a lion seducing his prey.

“Jim, I have work today. I can’t-”

Jim grinned. “Cancel it.”

“I told you, I can’t-”

“Cancel it.” Jim’s voice became more forceful. He slipped his hands down further, making John arch against his chest.

“You’re mad.” John moaned breathlessly. “Completely and utterly mad…”

“You love it.” Jim hummed, tossing his lover back onto the bed.

(Awww, that’s adorable! Poor old Jim ;) thank you so much – I hope you like it!)

…

“Dad?”

John and Jim, sat in their respective chairs, both looked up at their ten year old son, Alex, who was standing in the doorway of the living room, wringing his hands nervously and shuffling his feet.

“Yes?” Jim frowned.

“Who’s Sherlock?”

Both men froze. Jim glanced at John – his face had turned grey, and he’d dropped his newspaper onto his lap. Jim’s insides squeezed painfully. He didn’t know what to say; it made him uncomfortable. After a moment, John coughed, breaking the silence.

“Alex, come here.” he patted the arm of his chair. Alex sat down obediently. “Do you know what I do, as a job?”

“You’re a doctor.”

“Yes. But before that, before I met your Dad, I was a detective.” John smiled. “Well, an assistant detective.”

Alex’s eyes shone. “Wow!”

John chuckled. “Yeah, it was pretty cool. I’d just come back from Af- a war. I was a soldier, you see, in the army.”

Jim’s eyes flicked to John’s shoulder, where his Afghanistan bullet wound still marked its spot. Alex nodded, urging John to continue.

“When I came back, I met a man named Sherlock Holmes.” John gulped, taking a deep breath. “He was brilliant.”

“Not that brilliant.” Jim muttered.

John shot him a look. “Sherlock was a detective, and he let me come with him on his cases. So I was his assistant, you see. And one day, Sherlock… he got a bit too big for his boots.” John closed his eyes for a moment – when he opened them, they were dark, shining with tears. “He died. He fell, from the roof of the hospital.”

Alex felt a chill of fear go down his spine. “I- I didn’t know. Sorry, Daddy.”

“It’s… it’s okay.” John nodded, looking away from his son, towards the floor. “He’s in a better place now.”

Jim bristled with something close to anger. “But that’s how we met!”

Alex and John looked at him, confused.

Jim coughed, straightening his tie. “After Holmes died, your Daddy and I got together. And we’re very happy, right John?” he stared intensely at his husband.

John nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“Tell me more about Sherlock!” Alex smiled.

John grinned, his eyes brightening. “Well, he was a genius. He was the smartest person in the world-”

“Second smartest.”

“Shut up, Jim. Sherlock was the greatest man I’ve ever known. He solved impossible cases – I remember once, when we went to a military base to investigate giant dogs.” John chuckled. “And that other time with Chinese acrobats! Oh, oh, and the engineer’s thumb!” John laughed out loud.

Alex grinned. John really came alive when he talked about this stuff! John wiped away a tear of laughter, his grin slipping a bit when he caught Jim glaring at him.

“Well.” John smiled sadly. “That’s all in the past now.”

“Do you miss him, Daddy?” Alex asked.

“Every day.” John nodded. He glanced at Jim with a genuine, proud smile. “But now I’ve found something better.”

Jim smiled back.

(Oooh, I love this one! I’m guessing it’s Johnlock and Johniarty? Thank you so much – I hope you like it!)

…

“Have you seen the new kid?”

Sherlock glared up at Jim. “Yes.”

Jim grinned. He was sat in the big oak tree at the side of the school, sharpening a twig into a stake with his pocket knife. Sherlock sat on the grass below, trying to read a chemistry book. School was dull – both boys had skipped class and found each other out here. They’d formed an unlikely alliance in the face of avoiding school-work.

“What do you think?”

Sherlock frowned. “About what?”

“The new kid!” Jim sighed impatiently.

Sherlock smiled. “He seems… smart. Quiet.”

Jim nodded. “He’s cute, too.”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his place. “I suppose…”

Jim glanced down from his branch – Sherlock was glaring at his book, his cheeks tinged with pink. Jim smirked, looking back up at the grey sky.

“I wonder if he has a girlfriend.” Jim continued.

“He doesn’t.”

“How do you know? Did you ask him?”

Sherlock grinned. “It was obvious. I’d have thought you’d have spotted it. Obviously I’m better at deducing than you…”

Jim snarled down at his enemy: “I don’t need stupid parlour tricks to get me by, Holmes. Mathmatics. Problems. Equations. Solutions. These are my forte, and they more important than your deductions.”

“Ah, but if you were able to deduce, you wouldn’t have asked such a stupid question.” Sherlock grinned, his face lit up with glee as he pretended to read his book.

Jim growled at the tree. The boys paused, trying to guess each other’s next move. Jim spoke first.

“So will you go for it?”

“Go for what?”

“Asking John out.” Jim grinned.

Sherlock coughed. “I wouldn’t-”

“You’re obviously attracted to him.” Jim carefully jumped down from his branch, landing on his feet like a cat in front of Sherlock. His eyes glowed. “Why not?”

“Because, I-”

“Fine.” Jim beamed, turning to walk away. “I’ll ask him first.”

Sherlock stepped in front of Jim as quick as lightning. “John is mine.”

Jim raised an eyebrow. “Is he now?”

“Yes.” Sherlock growled. “And if you touch one hair on his head, I will make you regret it.”

Jim grinned. “I look forward to it.”

And with that, Jim strode towards the school, hands in pockets, planning his next move. 

(This is such a good prompt! I actually went through 3 drafts of this – first I wrote about the lab, then another weird version of this one, and then I wrote something about a rubber duck. /ahem/ Anyway, thank you for the prompt, and I hope you like it!)

…

Jim Moriarty watched from the top floor window of Sarah’s house as John’s taxi pulled up outside. The little army doctor looked serene, handing a few notes at the driver before walking up the pathway and knocking politely on the door. Moriarty grinned, lolloping downstairs. He swung the door open.

“Hello!” he beamed.

John’s eyebrows twitched. “Who are you?”

“I’m Jim. Don’t you remember me?”

John’s lips twisted as he tried to think. “No, not really.”

“We met the other day, in the lab. I’m Molly’s boyfriend.” Jim’s smile faltered.

John nodded, his eyes brightening a bit. “Oh. Hello again.”

Jim glanced over the man. John’s eyes were wide, curious, wondering where Sarah was. His jacket looked warm, but the doctor was shivering – maybe he’d sensed that Jim wasn’t as harmless as he seemed. Jim was dressed in his best Westwood suit for the occasion. Moran was waiting in the lounge for his signal.

“Do you know where Sarah is?” John asked tentatively.

“Probably out.” Jim shrugged.

“Oh. Okay. I’ll come back later.” John turned to leave, but Jim grabbed his arm.

“No, stay!” Jim grinned. “I need to talk to you.”

John frowned. “I’d really better be going.”

“Oh Johnny. You’re not going anywhere. Not yet.”

Moran walked round the corner, leaning on his rifle. A sort of recognition flickered across John’s face, and he mouthed “Moran?” before the Tiger whacked him round the head with a handgun. John fell to the floor, his head lolling. Jim frowned.

“You could have knocked him out when we were in the living room! Now we’ll have to carry him!”

Moran shrugged and closed the front door. He started to pick the unconscious John up, but Jim stopped him and waved the sniper away. When Moran was gone, Jim stood over John, analysing and cataloguing his features. The slightly tanned skin on John’s face wasn’t matched by that of his chest and arms; the hair on his head was more yellow than golden in the hallway light; a slight trickle of blood had begun to run down the back of his head and down into his shirt collar. Jim smiled. So this was the man that Sherlock Holmes put his faith in. The faithful, the loyal, the brave little soldier.

To be honest, Jim could see exactly what Sherlock meant.  

(OHHHH John is in trouble!! Thank you so much – I hope you like this!!)

…

The pub was packed with patrons, most of them off their faces. In true Oktoberfest fashion, almost everyone had a mug of beer in their hand, and about half the customers were singing along to ‘Eye of the Tiger’. Scantily-clad waitresses with plaits and pigtails were circulating the bar, offering flagons to anyone who wasn’t utterly pissed yet.

John and Lestrade entered the fray, taking beers from the waitresses gratefully, and slid into an empty booth seat to survey the crowds. John’s feather boa tickled his nose as he took his first sip of beer.

“Happy Oktoberfest, mate!” Lestrade saluted John.

John nodded, grinning at Lestrade’s over-sized sunglasses, and they drank together. The song switched to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, and the two of them started to sing along rather badly.

“Mama… just killed a man… put a gun against his head… pulled the trigger, now he’s dead…”

Over at the bar, Jim Moriarty mused over how appropriate this song was. He had his eye carefully fixed on his mark – an overweight gambler with too much debt on Moriarty’s company – and he refused to drink while he was on a case. Several men gave him strange looks when he turned down yet another beer, but a sharp look from the consulting criminal made them look away rather quickly.

John looked around the bar and spotted the small individual in the white shirt and blue trousers. He glared down at his table.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” he growled.

“What’s wrong?” Lestrade slurred, already rather sloshed.

“My ex.” John groaned.

Lestrade turned round, looking blatantly around the room. “Which one? The blonde?”

John looked where Lestrade was pointing – a very pretty blonde woman with a prominent chest. He shook his head. “Guy. White shirt and blue trousers.”

Lestrade raised his eyebrows, but he looked anyway. He grinned and stood up. “Right!”

John’s jaw dropped. “What are you doing?”

“Just gonna talk to him.” Lestrade wobbled on his feet. “Just a sec.”

John watched in horror as the DI wandered over to Moriarty, the beer in his hand spilling slightly.

“’Scuse me?” Lestrade tapped Jim’s shoulder. “What’s your name?”

Jim glared at the man. “Richard.”

“R-R-R-Richard.” Lestrade rolled the ‘r’ on his tongue. “So you dated my friend John?”

Jim glanced over the drunk’s shoulder to see John with his head in his hands. Jim smiled. “Yes, I did.”

“Why are you not any more?”

“Pardon?”

“Why did you break up?”

Jim frowned. “I’m not sure I can tell you.” he glanced back to his mark, who was just getting up. Jim stood up too, gently touching the knife in his pocket. “Look, I have to go.”

“No! Stay!” Lestrade protested.

Jim laughed. “No, I really must go. Toodles!” he sprinted into the bathroom after his mark, pulling out his knife as he went.

Lestrade wobbled back to John, almost bumping into a waitress as he went. “Nice lad!” he called.

John nodded grimly. If only he knew…