(no subject)
Title: Raindrops
Author: AnotherFnGrl
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Jim meets John one night in the rain.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Moriarty/John Watson
A/N: Apparently, I'm doing comment fic in pairings I'm totally against this week. Not sure why.
"Well, well, well, doggy's slipped the leash, has he?" Moriarty taunts, coming to a stop beside Dr. John Watson. The park has been abandoned due to the storm, and they're the only two people within the little bubble of light created by a nearby lamp post.
John Watson doesn't so much as flinch at the sudden intrusion. "Not tonight, Jim," he says tiredly. He's sitting with his face tilted up, allowing the water to run over his features, drenching him, almost like a benediction. Jim doesn't believe in salvation or give a damn about forgiveness, but there's something oddly captivating about the sight anyway.
Still, image must be maintained, so Moriarty raises an eyebrow, silently questioning the unusual use of his first name. He's not in the mood tonight to play a round of his game with Sherlock, but he wonders how the good doctor knows that- after the pool, he would have expected the other man to try to kill him on sight.
Living with one mad genius has prepared Watson for the other. He feels the silent command and says, "There's something fascinating about a really good storm- it's almost like it gets in you, and washes everything away, just for a little while." It's not an answer to the unspoken question, except that it really is.
"Just for tonight," Moriarty agrees, sitting down beside the doctor. He's never met someone else who reacts to storms the way he does, who is happy to sit and soak them up while those around them scurry for cover. He'd wondered if Sherlock would understand. He'd never have expected it of John. Maybe there's more to the doctor than he originally thought.
"Tonight, we aren't the sidekick and the villain in some ridiculous melodrama," Watson says, an edge in his voice that makes Jim wonder what their hero has done to anger him.
"We're just two men of the storm. A pair of raindrops temporarily sliding down the same path." Jim traces a drop's trail down the side of John's jaw as he speaks, wishing he could follow the droplet's journey with his tongue, wondering what rain tastes like mixed with John's skin.
Watson finally sits up and looks his companion in the eye. "I can't take you home with me, and you're certainly not going to bring me wherever you're hiding. Hotel, then?"
"Want out of the rain?" Moriarty asks, a touch sarcastic.
"I think we'll be able to make a storm of our own," Watson offers with a flash of a mischievous grin. It delights Jim, but he can't help cautioning the other man.
"Sherlock is going to know."
"Don't you want him to?" Watson challenges.
"I wouldn't think you did." It isn't judgement or accusation, just an observation, and Watson nods.
"I'm not actually his property. Just because he can deduce who I went to bed with doesn't mean he gets a say in the process," the doctor says, and there's a darkness in his voice that makes Jim shiver.
Moriarty used to think Sherlock Holmes was his missing half. An intellectual equal who would really understand him, down to the most basic level. Someone he could show his true self to, without holding back. He's beginning to think that what he needs isn't someone as smart as him, but rather someone who understands him on a different, more primal level. Someone like John Watson. It's a pity Sherlock found him first- Jim finds himself wondering if he could steal the doctor away, keep him for himself.
Jim forces himself to discontinue that line of thought. There's nothing to be gained from it. John isn't going to willingly join up with him, not in any permanent or real way, and an offer to do so would be seen as a way to get one over on Sherlock. Briefly, he wishes the detective weren't so stubborn- visions of the three of them, traipsing the globe solving fascinating riddles for the hell of it and always staying one step ahead of the rest of the word captivate him, but he knows these things will never come to be. All he has is tonight. He'd best make the most of it.
With that thought in mind, he rises and gives his hand to the doctor. "Shall we?" he offers, and the two men walk side by side out of the park, unconcerned with the rain or the darkness surrounding them, until they've vanished from the little pool of light, and passerby can't quite make out where the storm ends and the men begin.
Author: AnotherFnGrl
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Jim meets John one night in the rain.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Moriarty/John Watson
A/N: Apparently, I'm doing comment fic in pairings I'm totally against this week. Not sure why.
"Well, well, well, doggy's slipped the leash, has he?" Moriarty taunts, coming to a stop beside Dr. John Watson. The park has been abandoned due to the storm, and they're the only two people within the little bubble of light created by a nearby lamp post.
John Watson doesn't so much as flinch at the sudden intrusion. "Not tonight, Jim," he says tiredly. He's sitting with his face tilted up, allowing the water to run over his features, drenching him, almost like a benediction. Jim doesn't believe in salvation or give a damn about forgiveness, but there's something oddly captivating about the sight anyway.
Still, image must be maintained, so Moriarty raises an eyebrow, silently questioning the unusual use of his first name. He's not in the mood tonight to play a round of his game with Sherlock, but he wonders how the good doctor knows that- after the pool, he would have expected the other man to try to kill him on sight.
Living with one mad genius has prepared Watson for the other. He feels the silent command and says, "There's something fascinating about a really good storm- it's almost like it gets in you, and washes everything away, just for a little while." It's not an answer to the unspoken question, except that it really is.
"Just for tonight," Moriarty agrees, sitting down beside the doctor. He's never met someone else who reacts to storms the way he does, who is happy to sit and soak them up while those around them scurry for cover. He'd wondered if Sherlock would understand. He'd never have expected it of John. Maybe there's more to the doctor than he originally thought.
"Tonight, we aren't the sidekick and the villain in some ridiculous melodrama," Watson says, an edge in his voice that makes Jim wonder what their hero has done to anger him.
"We're just two men of the storm. A pair of raindrops temporarily sliding down the same path." Jim traces a drop's trail down the side of John's jaw as he speaks, wishing he could follow the droplet's journey with his tongue, wondering what rain tastes like mixed with John's skin.
Watson finally sits up and looks his companion in the eye. "I can't take you home with me, and you're certainly not going to bring me wherever you're hiding. Hotel, then?"
"Want out of the rain?" Moriarty asks, a touch sarcastic.
"I think we'll be able to make a storm of our own," Watson offers with a flash of a mischievous grin. It delights Jim, but he can't help cautioning the other man.
"Sherlock is going to know."
"Don't you want him to?" Watson challenges.
"I wouldn't think you did." It isn't judgement or accusation, just an observation, and Watson nods.
"I'm not actually his property. Just because he can deduce who I went to bed with doesn't mean he gets a say in the process," the doctor says, and there's a darkness in his voice that makes Jim shiver.
Moriarty used to think Sherlock Holmes was his missing half. An intellectual equal who would really understand him, down to the most basic level. Someone he could show his true self to, without holding back. He's beginning to think that what he needs isn't someone as smart as him, but rather someone who understands him on a different, more primal level. Someone like John Watson. It's a pity Sherlock found him first- Jim finds himself wondering if he could steal the doctor away, keep him for himself.
Jim forces himself to discontinue that line of thought. There's nothing to be gained from it. John isn't going to willingly join up with him, not in any permanent or real way, and an offer to do so would be seen as a way to get one over on Sherlock. Briefly, he wishes the detective weren't so stubborn- visions of the three of them, traipsing the globe solving fascinating riddles for the hell of it and always staying one step ahead of the rest of the word captivate him, but he knows these things will never come to be. All he has is tonight. He'd best make the most of it.
With that thought in mind, he rises and gives his hand to the doctor. "Shall we?" he offers, and the two men walk side by side out of the park, unconcerned with the rain or the darkness surrounding them, until they've vanished from the little pool of light, and passerby can't quite make out where the storm ends and the men begin.