yeah a boyfriend sounds nice but a supreme enemy you can make out with sometimes in secret sounds a lot more hardcore
Reversed order = genius! Free hugs, all around!
I don’t know why this is so great, but it is.
OH GOD IT JUST LOOKS SO GENTLE
SHHH LET ME LOVE YOU
just look at Jim’s face omfg
"When you told me you wanted to role play, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind."
Jim Moriarty glowered at his character sheet, which stated ‘Filrock the Magnificent Elf Warrior”. Despite his character’s cheerful disposition and +3 sword, Jim was not a happy elf. John Watson, his partner, simply chuckled, glancing over his own sheet, which stated ‘Hiphip the Jolly Healer”.
The two men sat at odd ends of John’s bed, a 16-dided dive resting in the centre of the duvet. Their night had started off greatly: pizza, classic movies, and the promise of hardcore cosplay sex. Alas, the latter had proved to be misleading, and Jim had been pushed into playing a knock-off version of Dungeons and Dragons - ‘Caves and Unicorns’. John was loving every second, mainly due to Jim’s disappointment.
"I draw my sword and attack the devillish unicorn." John announced. "I need a 5 or higher to score." he rolled the dice.
Jim sighed deeply. “Who gives a-“
"Six!" John beamed. "Critical hit!"
"Your texts need to be clearer, John." Jim grumbled.
"I thought I made my point."
"No. Simply saying ‘do you want to play in my bedroom’ isn’t exactly transparent."
John laughed. “It’s your turn.”
Jim groaned. “Fine. What can I do?”
"You can finish off the unicorn by hitting it with your sword, or you can run away."
"Fuck that. Can I kill you?"
"Difficult shot. I have +7 armour. You’ll need a 15 to get me."
Jim picked up the dice and threw it at the wall. It rolled under the bed, out of sight. Jim launched across the bed and captured John in a sloppy, desperate kiss.
"I win." Jim smirked.
Don’t get attached to unpopular ships because you will run out of fic and die
imagine your otp caught in a sharknado
Thanks to insomniacsinthetardis for finding this and sharing it.
(I can’t remember what prompt that was because this question has been in my inbox for about ten years, but I feel like writing a prompt tonight so I hope this is okay!)
Jim Moriarty could never resist being the centre of attention. Hanging on the arm of his favourite sniper, Moran, he pranced down the aisle towards his groom, while trumpets sounded and confetti was thrown everywhere by relay systems in the walls of the registry office.
For someone that was usually so secretive, Jim loved to make a scene. John Watson, the criminal’s partner, had allowed it on condition that no semtex, bombs or weapons were to enter the building. Jim had reluctantly agreed. No-one sat in the seats. The minister, the couple and Moran were the only ones present at the tiny but extravagant wedding. They hadn’t needed guests, not really, since Jim had no real friends and John didn’t care. The latter stood at the altar, dressed in his finest outfit (an Armani suit that Jim had bought him for the occasion), simultaneously smiling and rolling his eyes as Jim strutted down the aisle.
“Hello, Johnny.” Jim purred as soon as he got to the altar. He let go of Moran and pulled John into an entirely inappropriate kiss, resisting the urge to rip the Armani off John’s skin.
The minister coughed quietly, waiting until the two men separated before he said: “Are you ready to proceed?”
“Sure. Make it quick.” Jim’s eyes roved over John’s body, as if the kiss hadn’t satiated his hunger for the man. John blushed a deep red, trying to avert his eyes from Jim and failing.
Outside, Sherlock Holmes prowled around the edges of the building, trying to see through the windows. He knew John was in there, but had missed the arrival of the other party through having to hide from a sniper on the roof. Now that that was dealt with, Sherlock peeked through the windows to try and get a good look at whoever John was marrying. His brain sorted through several options, but none of them matched the criteria. Apart from Mycroft, who else would have snipers at their wedding? Sherlock sincerely hoped John wasn’t getting married to Mycroft. Imagine the Christmas dinners.
Sherlock could clearly see into the main hall. John was holding a man’s hand, though the man had his back to the window. A tall blond was stood next to the window, scanning the perimeter like the sniper on the roof, and Sherlock had to duck down into the shadows to avoid his gaze. When it was safe to look, the ceremony had moved on, and the two men had rings firmly placed on their fingers. It was done. Sherlock wanted to yell out and stop… whatever this was, but he saw the gun on the blond’s hip and thought better of it. He also noticed that John’s face was flushed, and when John glanced at the man in front of him, his eyes sparkled with a passion and love that Sherlock had never seen before. Whoever John was marrying, he was truly in love with him. Sherlock felt a little - maybe more than a little - jealous.
On their cue, the two men kissed passionately, and the minister turned around to go back into his office. The blond by the window smirked as the kiss lasted for more than a moment. Sherlock felt tempted to check his watch. When they eventually parted, they turned around, and Sherlock saw the mystery groom’s face clearly for the first time. A chill slid down his back, and his blood ran cold.
Jim Moriarty and John Watson left the building hand-in-hand. Moran started the car, and they had one final kiss before going their separate ways. Sherlock watched from a distance as Moriarty drove off, and John started walking back home.
“Congratulations.” Sherlock called.
John whirled around, his eyes widening as he noticed his friend. “Sherlock!”
At John’s yelp, Sherlock’s anger and jealousy and betrayal rose to the surface. He had half a mind to run over and steal that gaudy ring off John’s finger. He could melt it down or throw it in the Thames, get rid of it in any way possible. But John was vulnerable right now; did Sherlock really want to hurt his friend? He wanted to hurt that bastard Moriarty, not John. If John was happy, then what purpose would petty theft have? They could deal with this later - they would deal with this later. Sherlock fought through the new feelings and steeled himself to run back into the shadows, leaving John stunned and confused on the pavement.
(You’re so adorable! Thank you darling! I’m so sorry this has taken so long - seriously it’s been months since I got this - but thank you for sending it!! I hope you like this!)
“Defense, call your witness.” the judge droned. He kept his eyes on the man in the grey suit on the bench, who was chewing gum and smirking at him.
The barrister defending James Moriarty stood up and said: “Defense now calls Doctor John Watson to the stand.”
John Watson’s eyes widened. He glanced over at Moriarty, who had slightly turned his head so that he could see John out of the corner of his eye. Moriarty grinned. He kept chewing his gum as he turned his gaze back to the judge.
“Doctor John Watson, please approach the stand.” the judge gestured to him.
John took a deep breath. He could feel everyone’s eyes staring at him. The journalists in the observation seats furiously scribbled notes down in their books - Dr John H. Watson, middle-aged, wearing a black suit and a profoundly aggravated expression, stands up and prepares to provide his account of the Moriarty crimes. Dr Watson is most well-known for his dubious relationship with Mr Sherlock Holmes… love or friendship?… this is sure to be the statement of the century… and even more bullshit. John stood on the podium, feeling very exposed despite the wooden shield between him and the gallery. The jury stared at him; the judge watched him and Moriarty closely; the barrister smiled almost kindly at him. Moriarty just grinned. He looked like a snake waiting to guzzle an innocent animal that had wandered into its path.
“Hello, Doctor.” the barrister smiled. “Let’s proceed. How long have you known James Moriarty?”
“I haven’t known him in the sense you mean.” John said. “We met last year, at St Bartholomew’s Hospital. I didn’t know who he was until we met for a second time, which was a few weeks after that.”
“And where did you meet him the second time?”
“By the pool.” John’s arms broke out into goosebumps. He felt a cold chill on his spine. “Moriarty drugged me and strapped me to a semtex bomb. He tried to kill me.”
“And this was the man who did all that?” the barrister pointed at Moriarty, who was still chewing his gum innocently.
“Yes, that’s him.”
“Doctor Watson, how would you describe James Moriarty?” the barrister asked.
“In a professional capacity, I’d say James Moriarty has a psychological condition. He’s obsessive - obsessed with Sherlock Holmes, in any case. He’s a murderer. He’s a kidnapper. He’s… he’s insane.”
“And those are your own words?”
“Mine and Sherlock’s.”
“Are you sure that this was the man that met you by the pool?” the barrister asked.
John frowned slightly. Where is this going? “I’m positive.”
“And there’s no chance that this man could have been a decoy? An actor? A man paid by Sherlock Holmes to pretend to kill you?”
“What? No! That’s Moriarty!” John’s voice rose nearly to a shout.
“It is true, is it not, that your relationship with Sherlock Holmes was influenced by the events of that night?” the barrister kept the smile on his face, though now it was more menacing.
“That has nothing to do with-“
“Your honour,” the barrister turned to the judge. “it is possible that Holmes staged the alleged ‘incident at the pool’ to become closer with Doctor Watson. This man,” he pointed at his client. “could merely have been a pawn in Holmes’s scheme.”
“No!” John barked. “You’re wrong!”
“Do you have any evidence, Doctor Watson, that this man is Moriarty? We have proof of Richard Brook’s background, but not Moriarty’s. No history, no past reported crimes. Richard Brook is real.” the barrister smiled triumphantly. “Moriarty is not.”
John’s jaw hung open. The reporters and journalists were in a frenzy, shouting and scribbling notes and trying to snap pictures of the flummoxed doctor. The judge banged his gavel on the table, crying for order. The barrister sat down, looking pleased with himself.
John looked over at Moriarty. The professor looked back at the doctor and smiled. He winked, forming a little heart shape with his fingers and thumbs. John glared at the man. He mouthed the words: you bastard, but Moriarty simply laughed and mouthed back: gotcha.
(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?"
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.
"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.