"I try to make it through these lies, and that's all I do."

-Apocalyptica, I Don't Care

-Chapter One-

Stupid. What had he been thinking?!

He'd swore to himself he wouldn't come back. He'd swore to him he wouldn't come back.

In hindsight, he should have known because this was far from the first time he'd done this. He'd claimed time and time again that he would not come back, that he could shake his addiction. Could shake him.

They both knew he couldn't. No matter how wrong it was.

So here they were, about to convince themselves it was down to the drinks when they spent the night completely absorbed in each other when, in reality, both were far more sober than they let on.

It wasn't right for them to be doing this. They knew that. They were meant to hate each other. Want the other dead.

And yet, they continued to go to this club on Friday evenings. They'd have a drink or two, separately. Then they'd 'stumble' towards the other and they'd spend the night at Jim's lovely flat on the outskirts of London.

In the morning they'd blame the drink, snap a few harsh words and then they'd go back to being enemies.

The Consulting Criminal and the Consulting Detective.

The first time they'd done this had been like any other one night stand and they were more intoxicated than usual. But not enough to be unaware of what they were doing. Sherlock hadn't even noticed Jim was in the club, at first.

Then the Irish man came and sat beside him. They acknowledged one another and Sherlock mentally prepared himself for escaping any attempt made to take his life.

Much to his surprise, and delight, Jim had leaned in and captured his lips with his own.

It had been a little awkward, their noses bumping a few times before they got used to kissing the other man. Sherlock's hand had been shaking as he raised it to Jim's jaw, his nerves running all over the shot.

After a few more heated kisses, they'd gone back to Jim's. Sherlock had shyly admitted that he hadn't done anything like this before and he was indeed a virgin. Jim had been understanding and they'd gone very slowly. Spent hours making sure Sherlock was ready, both physically and mentally.

Jim had been so gentle with Sherlock, treating him as if he may break. That was the first time Sherlock felt his heart squeeze with adoration for Jim.

He'd quickly pushed away that thought and focused on enjoying himself.

In the morning, Sherlock woke up alone. He'd been quick to gather his clothes and waddle out of the door. He'd then gone straight home and collapsed into his own bed, head lightly throbbing and his chest aching.

The following Friday, Sherlock had gone to the club again. Out of curiosity, if anything. Jim had been there again. He'd come and sat beside Sherlock and the night had followed in the same way.

Two months passed that way. 'Drunk' sex and Sherlock waking up alone in Jim's large bed.

When Jim had started staying in the bed during the mornings, both had been silent for the first two weeks as Sherlock gathered his clothes and left. On the third week, Jim had snapped at Sherlock to hurry up. From then on their Saturday mornings consisted on them exchanging heated words and glares.

Now, here Sherlock was again. Sat at the bar and sipping at his first drink.

He was keenly aware of Jim sitting in the corner of the room, slowly drinking his own drink. It felt so wrong, meeting up like this, and Sherlock was completely addicted to it.

It was getting to him though, crawling under his thick armour. His heart had begun to squeeze the way it had that first time just at the thought of Jim. Sherlock knew very well what was happening to him, emotionally.

He was falling for his enemy.

James Moriarty. His enemy. His lover.

As time progressed, Sherlock had just become increasingly aware of the fact that they were indeed made for each other. In a way, Sherlock was the only one to understand the consultant criminal. And Jim the only one to understand the detective.

There were times when Jim would look into Sherlock's eyes and for a moment, just a moment, Sherlock wouldn't be able to breath properly. His body would just stop completely for a second, he'd forget everything and just melt.

In those moments, Sherlock felt truly complete. Like he didn't need to search for a crime to solve or put poison in his body to stop his mind running wild. All he needed was Jim.

Jim was his drug now.

And Sherlock was addicted.

How can you sleep with someone so perfect for you for nearly six months and not start to feel something for them?

Fifteen minutes pass of him sitting at the bar, two drinks go down his neck, and then Sherlock makes his way over to Jim, sliding into his lap and attaching their lips forcefully, desperately trying to push away the feelings bubbling in his chest.

Even if this was more than sex to Jim (which Sherlock knew it wasn't) they could never be together.

It wasn't the way the world worked. They were meant to be enemies and even if changing that was what they desired most in the world, they couldn't.

-

"Yes, yes, Jim.. Mm.. Yes"

Sherlock's arms were in front of him, shaking in the effort of holding himself up, and his fingers had a death grip on the bedsheets as he arches closer, his bare back against Jim's equally bare muscular chest. Sherlock could feel the cool metal of Jim's necklace, highlighting how heated his skin was right now.

The other man's hips snapped as he pulled back to grip at Sherlock's hips and work faster. He could feel Sherlock's muscles beginning to contact and flutter around him.

They'd never bothered with condoms, knowing Jim was clean - as was Sherlock. Jim had always prided himself in knowing he was Sherlock's first and only.

Sherlock moans Jim's name again, always having been loud in bed. Another thing that Jim and he had been surprised about when they'd started this whole thing.

Jim runs a hand up Sherlock's back, fingers stretching and feeling as much as they can, before sliding it back down to Sherlock's hips. Quickly, Jim leans forward and presses a kiss to Sherlock's bare shoulder.

Jim was just as addicted to this as Sherlock.

"Jim.." Sherlock gasps in warning.

Another kiss is placed on Sherlock's shoulder as he becomes more forceful, reaching round to take hold of Sherlock's leaking erection. He pumps at a decidedly slower, almost teasing, pace in comparison to his thrusts.

Under a minute later, Sherlock's muscles flutter again and he spills over Jim's fist with a breathy moan. Two long drawn out yet powerful thrusts later and Jim was coming too, murmuring the detective's name and groaning right by Sherlock's ear.

Panting, Jim carefully pulls out but not before placing a final kiss just below Sherlock's ear.

-

"This can't and won't happen again" Sherlock says sternly, trying to convince himself as much as the man sat in bed smoking.

Jim just hums and waves Sherlock away like he was a bad smell.

A stab of pain rocked through Sherlock's chest at being so openly rejected after what they just shared. But being Sherlock, he easily kept his emotionless mask on as he finished getting dressed and left the room and house without looking back.

If he had looked back he'd see rapidly breaking man.

A man who'd spent most of his life pretending and just couldn't anymore. He'd see a man who wanted nothing more than to be like everyone else and just do as he pleased. He'd see an expression of longing and admiration and love.

But Sherlock didn't look back and he didn't see Jim's face...

He didn't see any of that. Only the door that had become blurred by the tears Sherlock refused to let fall.

He meant it this time.

He wouldn't be coming back.