Sherlock opens the door to 221B Baker Street more quietly than he ever has. Drawing in a breath of cool night air he holds it as he peeks his head inside, listening for the sounds of John or Mrs. Hudson.
It's eleven o'clock. Whether or not that's past either of their bedtimes depends on the night, their mood, and specific quantities of, respectively, beer or marijuana.
The flat is silent. But John could be reading. He does that: fills his head with useless fictions and petty politicking.
"Are you going to invite me in, sweetheart?" the serpent rocking on his heels one step below him croons. Sherlock shuts his eyes. He can't see the man, but he can still see that boyish, irritating smile the effect of which he's trying so hard to ignore.
"Shut up," he hisses, straightening to draw another breath of fresh air.
Baker Street stinks the stench of "should do," and "ought to" and "home."
"Oooooh," Moriarty moans, just behind him. "Do I not get to talk? You're a little freaky, aren't you?"
Sherlock swallows his words as Moriarty brushes around him, pushing open the door to the flat and crossing the threshold. The infuriating creature lets his head fall back and inhales deep in the recycled air.
He makes flirtatious eyes over his shoulder and lowers his sing-song voice to a whisper.
"Is it John you're worried about? Can't you put him in his kennel?"
Sherlock steps in behind him and turns the latch back on the door handle before slowly rolling it into place. Moriarty keeps grinning despite Sherlock's glare.
Sherlock couldn't dare mention the thousand and one things it's doing to the cock he's managed, so far in his life, to sorely neglect.
He regrets he's never invested in a pair of underwear.
It never seemed this relevant.
Sherlock takes extreme caution on the seventeen steps to the front rooms of 221B. He knows the location of the smallest creak and groan and is slightly worried how skillfully Moriarty steals up behind him.
Moriarty's been up to his room before. Maybe when he called on 221C; maybe not.
That's the one hundred and seventh indication that he should restrain the man and call the police and the one hundred-seventh time he's chosen not to.
A glance through the kitchen door tells him it's empty, the lights off. The plate glass doors have been closed but a lamp is on in the living room. He can't make out if John's in there from just that, but here's Moriarty making himself at home in the shadows of the kitchen, moving from surface to surface to catalog the little details of Sherlock and John's daily lives. Picking things up. Leaving fingerprints. The bastard.
(Proving he's left few enough of them other places to care if Scotland Yard has a set.)
Moriarty grasps a long necked flask, purses his lips, wags his brow, and makes suggestive hand motions along its neck. Sherlock's breath shudders. In his mind there's a cacophony of shattering glass as colliding bodies slam into the refrigerator. In his mind, the doors jump with the impact except the one Moriarty's thrown against. In his mind, they're kissing recklessly, unafraid if they bring the flat down.
Moriarty's hand halts its sliding. Moriarty winks.
Sherlock amasses enough self-control to crack the plate glass door. If he sees John, he'll smile, say goodnight, and duck out without showing his trousers.
There's an empty beer by a closed laptop and the lamp on beside it, but no John.
Moriarty's hand appears on the edge of the door, beneath his own, only Moriarty is pushing it wide open. Sherlock winces as the sounds of glass and wood rattle the silence.
"Isn't this so much more exciting than tacky tumble at a cheap hotel?" Moriarty exults, spinning with arms outstretched through the open air.
"I'm sure you're aware this flat is frequently under the surveillance of the SIS."
"Sherlock," Moriarty sighs, pulling a frown. "I'm so much better than that."
"…your fingerprints were everywhere before I ever let you in."
"You'd think I lived here, already!"
"You're never going to live here," Sherlock growls. This place is his and John's and damned if he knows why he brought Jim up.
Moriarty's eyes drop from Sherlock's face to his fly. His tongue glides between his thin lips under what never looks like more than a boyish attempt at a moustache.
"Not yet anyway. Just in and out, tonight."
Jim—He mustn't think of him as Jim; but it's too late.
Why shouldn't he think of him as Jim? They've spent two decades criss-crossing one another's paths. Mycroft would hardly believe it if Sherlock revealed he was capable of such an extended commitment.
(Unless Mycroft knows. Does he? Not the time to consider it.)
"You're over thinking this, lover," Jim whispers in the quiet of familiar 221B.
"We're here. I obviously haven't thought it through enough."
"Should I pour you a glass of something? Loosen you up? Beer? Whiskey and soda? Gin?"
Sherlock thinks what a slim little man Jim is and how much weight he has on him despite his own narrow build. He experiences it acutely when he drags Jim up to kiss him, digging wrinkles into today's ₤1,200 ensemble: suit, tie, dress shirt, and polished black shoes.
It'll be the green underwear, unless Jim's bought more from the brand just for him.
Sherlock takes pleasure in Jim's couple strangled choking sounds before he's got a hold on Sherlock's forearms and isn't held bodily off the ground. It takes Sherlock back to a very fine moment of John's when John was crushing Jim's throat in the crook of his arm.
(No thinking of John. Upstairs.)
Jim would have to slip shirt and coat to get free of Sherlock. His neatly trimmed nails could do Sherlock no injury even if he wasn't grasping sleeves. Nothing could be easier than to throttle him right now. Shaken baby-face syndrome.
He could. He won't. Jim tastes too sinfully sweet. Jim's been eating hazelnut chocolates. Jim's planned this all night – or even for days – long before the tense standoff that led to the recognition of their compelling mutual attraction.
What Sherlock lacks in skill and experience at kissing he compensates for with vigor, but it's Jim who's in the lead: sucking on Sherlock's lips, luring Sherlock's tongue into his mouth, tricking their tongues into sweeping alongside one another in broad, slippery strokes. Sherlock's sucking the chocolate from Jim's teeth. They're losing saliva: two sharply-dressed men in sports coats with spit dribbling down their chins.
Jim drops a hand from Sherlock's arms and where it cups him, where it gives that little lift, it sears him like a hot iron. Sherlock shoves him away – nearly sends Jim tumbling. Jim stumbles on the carpet and catches his footing just shy of crashing into the table.
Sherlock stands panting, their drool on his face. Jim wipes mouth and chin with the palm of his hand, dry fingertips lingering on his own wet, swollen lips.
"Naughty, naughty! You'll sound the alarm."
Sherlock unbuttons his blazer and pulls one arm out after the other. He throws it damn-it-all where. He's breathing like he's run a mile, and he can run a mile. Has done.
"That's a big package for little old me," Jim lilts with a pretty pout. His eyes turn predatory when they fall back to the same organ he's been eying all night – which has, admittedly, somewhat clearly shown its size. "You can put it anywhere you want. Up my arse. In my mouth. I'll lick the sweat off your balls – darling."
Sherlock begins self-consciously rubbing the spit off his chin, warily watching Jim.
"You don't know what to do, do you?" His voice plummets lower. "Do you need me to talk you through it, baby?"
"If two fumbling teenagers can figure it out I believe I can get by."
Jim just smacks his lips, widening his eyes.
"Careful not to blow your load. You're not eighteen, anymore."
"My bedroom is the other door on the landing. As I'm sure you know," Sherlock carefully digresses.
"Been there! Smelled the pillows! Took a few strands of your hair to remember you by!"
Jim's voice pipes higher and higher. Sherlock blows past him, snatching him by the wrist and dragging him out of the living room into the considerably lacking safety of his room. He gives Jim a shove toward the bed and turns to lock the door.
He stares down at the lock. Nothing John couldn't kick in. His heart is pounding bloodlessly in his chest.
The rhythmic sound of creaking bedsprings draws his frown and his attention. Jim's bouncing on the end of the bed, grinning like a loon, knees hanging off the edge a lewd distance apart.
Sherlock almost rebukes him except, still bouncing, just more quietly, Jim's loses his tie clip and starts taking off his tie. Sherlock stares transfixed by the triangle of skin revealed by his loosened collar, then looks away at his wreck of a room, instead, texts and notes and pictures of crimes and enough experiments that one or two have grown mold without John to toss them out.
The creaking bed stills.
"Look at me," Jim commands, though Sherlock doesn't, yet, brow tightening. "I don't like it when you. don't. look at me."
His voice crescendos and Sherlock is forced to return his attention to the sneering thing on his mattress awaiting his attention.
Jim promptly turns blissful.
"That's better. I specifically didn't kidnap John this time. There should really be no distractions."
For a black moment Sherlock's thoughts are clouded by the idea that Jim would dare make that move twice.
Doubt one-hundred and eight. It almost costs Jim his freedom, or maybe even his life.
Except, John's safely asleep upstairs—
…and that is exactly what makes this heinous trespass so irresistibly exciting.
Sherlock unbuttons the trailing buttons of his shirt. (He never fastens the two at the top.) At the same time Jim's stripping himself of his blazer.
Jim hasn't left Sherlock much to imagine after the size-too-small t-shirt he showed up in at their first meeting. His memory fills out the contours of his body still hidden by fabric: strong upper arms, a somewhat weak chest and a slight paunch to his lower belly.
Jim hasn't lost or gained any significant amount of weight since last they met, but then it's really the point of Jim to be able to pass by unremarked and unremarkable.
It little matters if he's a strapping physical specimen – or even that he has a lousy personality – because Sherlock's never met an intellect more attractive than Jim's. He's never met a man more dangerous, either – and that title once went to his own brother.
Sherlock can for once appreciate the desire to crawl over someone's naked body forcing little surrenders one at a time the way he's seen in the James Bond and other films John's been making him watch.
Sherlock is shirtless and Jim is doing away with the undershirt that he, like John, wears.
Underclothes seem like such a pointless waste of time.
Jim's bought another pair of expensive, fashionable, homosexual briefs for him, too. Sherlock honestly doubts Jim wears them on any other occasions.
Despite his earlier assurances to Jim, Sherlock faces uncertainty over exactly how to progress the situation.
Jim's looking him in the eyes when he says: "Come on, Holmes. Drop your trousers."
Sherlock steps out of his shoes, unbuttons, and unzips. He's fascinated that after all the lewd ogling Jim's authentically more interested in whether or not he'll have some emotional reaction to baring himself down to his watch and his socks.
He's interested to know, himself, so he lets his trousers fall and steps out of them.
The reaction is sheerly physical, but the shiver that shudders through him shakes his shoulders and hitches his breath. It's a combination of the cool air and the total uncertainty of what lies ahead for his naked body.
"That's pretty. Oh, it's so pretty," he fawns, seconds before he even bothers to look down Sherlock's nude body.
Sherlock sucks on his lower lip a moment and then approaches Jim, who's still sitting with knees spread wide enough for Sherlock to step in between them, feet warm with socks. Jim appears impressed with his initiative.
"You did say you'd put it in your mouth," Sherlock points out.
Jim has a hearty cackle even as he takes Sherlock's hips in his hands.
Sherlock doesn't care about that brief outburst of sound because Jim is guaranteed to be quieter, next.
Sherlock watches the brilliant little man as Jim makes some production out of examining his erection face to face like a gemologist without the optical magnifier. He gives him a little sniff.
Sherlock thinks he should be irritated but instead a funny kind of nausea is twisting itself over and over in his stomach, winding up like a coil.
He identifies it with arousal but he's never been aroused like this alone in his bed or the shower.
Jim looks up at him with doe eyes and drags his tongue against the peaked underside of his cock's damp, exposed head.
Sherlock gapes at the sensation, steadying himself with a hand in Jim's hair.
"Do it again," he demands, more taken by the activity than he expected.
(He doesn't know why he's thinking about John feet away upstairs now.)
Jim's more than willing to oblige. Soon he's licking in long strokes with the ragged touch of taste buds and soft, slick edges. Sherlock watches him with tilted head while unexpected shivers continue to weaken his legs.
It's fantastic. Like melting.
Heat pours through his cock. Which spasms.
His truly immense self control chokes off his orgasm.
"In your mouth," Sherlock reminds him, voice almost as hoarse as if he's been strangled.
He shuts his eyes when Jim's mouth so obediently closes over him. If only Jim was always this well behaved. An unspeakable surge of accomplishment rewards him for fully comprehending how close his cock is rubbing to Jim's incredible mind with Jim's mobile lips wrapped around it.
It's multiplicatively more delicious than Jim gliding over him like wet glass.
"I like you very much right now," Sherlock confesses.
He grins at Jim's muffled retort.
Jim pops off him; now also smacking his lips.
"I'm afraid that these briefs are becoming a real problem."
"The socks aren't," Sherlock flirts. He's positive he's flirting. Novel.
Amazing how brief a time it takes for the trousers and briefs and socks and watches to be done with. It's the burst of adrenaline. Time's speed up as if somebody's opened fire on them.
Sherlock's on top of Jim. Manhandled him further up the bed. On his face, even. It turns out he likes manhandling Jim. It sounds like Jim enjoys being manhandled.
It's not exactly that Jim's any more submissive. No. The situation is very threatening on both sides, despite Sherlock kissing Jim's back and teaching himself just what skin tastes like with his stronger arms holding Jim to the bed and Jim rubbing up on the never-made covers.
"Think about me crying out. Ohhhh, and your little pet comes running," Jim pants against the pillow half-suffocating him.
The adrenaline spikes. Sherlock's hands tighten forbiddingly on Jim's body – bruising. Sherlock knows exactly what leaves bruises.
Jim grunts. Not with pain. Sherlock's starting to wonder if there's an actual appeal or if Jim's pulling the wool on him.
Not that the concept of masochism is unfamiliar to him.
"And John sees you naked on top of me…You wicked boy," Jim slurs, more than half crushed into the bed.
Sherlock's teeth close on Jim's skin. Not kindly. Jim whimpers.
Not with pain.
Probably not faking it.
(What if John did see him? What if John watched him? What would he think? He didn't think like either of them, with his morals and his values. What would he do?)
Sherlock contemplates what Jim said earlier. In his mouth, or in his arse.
He wonders if there's equal merit to both propositions.
Jim is under his control, the invitation has been extended, and his cock is quite a lot bigger.
He pushes his finger in.
His eyes widen at the cry that's cut off as the world's only consulting criminal clamps down on his yelp.
"You. Are not. A blushing virgin," Jim snarls, his body shivering.
"Was that not right?"
Jim hisses as Sherlock removes his finger.
All seems rather unsanitary.
"People—" Jim explains at the fading edge of frustration. He moderates his tone: "People use some kind of lubrication,"
"I didn't think about it," Sherlock admits. He sits back on his knees to pull up some of the sheet and wipe his finger. Jim's quick to take advantage and wriggle right side up beneath him.
Sherlock makes note Jim's erection is as stiff as his own – and better note that Jim's body is flushed bright everywhere he's been in contact with the bed, face a half-moon.
"Doctor Watson and I agree on something. There are points on which you are mysteriously ignorant."
Sherlock darkens. One-hundred and nine. This time, Jim matches him glare for glare. The fierce heat of rage battles Sherlock's arousal.
"You don't get to tell me that."
"I just did."
Sherlock calculates the variety of consequences throwing a naked James Moriarty to the curb could incur. Some of them excite him, others are more ominous.
Jim derails him by taking hold of his cock.
(Admittedly a bad opening to leave in any fight and all the worse right now.)
"At least if John finds us naked and covered in blood I won't have as much to explain for."
Sherlock has reason to think the worst. They're both fuming. Both unlikely candidates to back down. As relatively certain as he is of winning a physical competition what comes before and after tastes more dangerous.
Jim's thumb begins to stroke the soft skin stretched across his erection.
Sherlock waits and fumes. Jim is far too clever to think that counts as a seduction, so more is invariably forthcoming.
"Do you know…how long I've been waiting for us to do this, sexy?"
Sherlock appreciates the creak he's put in Jim's voice. He does remember the first time Jim called him sexy – in the voice of a sobbing hostage. He's sure it's been much longer than that.
He's also relatively more immune to sentiment than the current prospect of violence.
A smile sneaks onto Jim's lips and his thumb continues to ply.
"And…admittedly…the number of times I've touched myself in a very lonely way since first having a picture." Jim makes that patented bashful shrug.
Sherlock can only imagine.
"I'm not going to ruin this by rushing your inevitable death," Jim continues, "And before you argue it isn't inevitable, think of how much more ambitious I'd be with the body. Yes, possibly in some perverse way, like, let's be honest, necrophilia, but also in terms of possible permanent art installations…Maybe in public places. Not like we don't share the same morbid fascinations. Museum Vrolik, am I right? Okay—see? Who else would know that'd make you laugh."
Sherlock does, in his own defense, pretend to cough, but it goes a little further than that and he presses the second knuckled of his index finger against his forehead to keep the rest from sputtering up, eyeing Jim with due credit.
"Off the beaten path. Finish this phrase: Musée…"
Sherlock sputters. Memories of weird anatomy rush to his mind.
"Right? And do either of us know all the bones of the foot? I tell you, sir: No."
Sherlock presses his fingers to his forehead instead of his knuckle, laughs, and sighs. He's starting to capitulate to the touch on his cock.
"How did we not cross each other in our wild early twenties?"
Sherlock rests a hand on Jim's stomach, his own thumb caressing the soft combination of muscle and excess. It's difficult not to play along, his own prompt forthcoming:
"And, following as a close second, only for the paucity of human specimens, Musée—"
"—Fragonard. Did anybody go to that cheap knock-off, Body Worlds?"
Sherlock pitches forward a little, Jim's stomach's shaking, there's laughter – somewhere in the shuffle, by mutual determination, somewhat by the whim of gravity, there's kissing—they're kissing.
Partially because flayed bodies and dead human children made both their travel itineraries – more to the point, because Sherlock is certain of all the things Jim has done in his life, many doubtlessly horrible, he's never found someone to have this conversation with or, if he has, not in bed, and Sherlock…
Sherlock admittedly visited Vrolik with his brother, but that was, if a fond memory, entirely different.
"You looked much like this one when you escaped the womb, Sherlock," Mycroft said, indicating one deformed child in a case of with the handle of his umbrella.
Sherlock discovers delight in having his nipples rubbed, moaning in a way that surprises himself and has Jim chuckling into his mouth. Jim's hands glide across his skin with the refinement of a practitioner. Sherlock runs his hands across the heat of Jim's skin in a slower, more exploratory manner.
(Sherlock wonders John's opinion on the anatomy museums treated more salaciously by the general public and if his opinion underwent any changes after the war. John's no doubt asleep above them, chest quietly rising and falling.)
"I know what you want~" Jim sings in falsetto as their lips part, making one of his ridiculous faces.
Sherlock watches him without expression, waiting to see if he does.
Jim's eyes dart quickly up and down the space between them.
"Why don't you climb up and hold onto the headboard, boyfriend, and put that back in my mouth?"
Of all the pet names Jim's tried out on him Sherlock decidedly enjoys 'boyfriend' the least.
The twinge in his cock makes it all too easy to forget about that, right now.
Jim's right – but then Jim, like Sherlock, is usually right.
"What about you?" he asks cautiously, not because he cares but because Jim's put him alert.
"Oh, don't worry about me, I'll find somewhere to put mine," Jim flirts with a quick side-to-side motion of his eyes and an unpromising grin.
That, too, bodes ill, but the best chance for this to end well for either of them is if they've satisfied one another.
Even then it probably won't.
Sherlock takes Jim's suggestion, though, and climbs up the bed to grasp the headboard, its edges digging into his hands. He stares at the wall in front of him, waiting. He doesn't have long to wait before Jim shoves covers aside and shimmies to an appropriate position.
Sherlock's cast iron will that can stave off the need for sleep or food for days at a time could, possibly, maintain his erection indefinitely, but Sherlock never wants to find out. His cock's beginning to ache and the cure promises to be something memorable.
Sherlock closes his eyes and listens to Jim push himself up on one elbow. The creak in the spring mattress is slight. Sherlock's hands tighten on the headboard and he gasps as, instead of whatever he expected, Jim's enthusiastic tongue licks the underside of his balls – a part of his body he's never paid any attention to except to wash.
Jim's mouthing him. Pulling a little. It's all Sherlock can do to put a hand beneath Jim's head as the knuckles still clasped against the head board whiten. With Sherlock to support him, Jim walks himself back on his elbows, tongue briskly coating veins and flushed skin with fresh spit. Jim reaches up to pull the tip of Sherlock's cock down; Sherlock tugs up on his head; Sherlock can't ask if he's going about it correctly because he's stuffed Jim's mouth with a thick lot of horny skin.
Not only is Jim lodging a verbal complaint a physical impossibility, but Jim won't complain by point of pride. Sherlock is free to thrust along the underside of that no-doubt racing mind while Jim dribbles saliva and gags to accommodate him.
Sherlock's fingers clasp at Jim's short, soft and product-free hair as he too-delightfully reduces the flow of oxygen to Jim's one, albeit perhaps perfect, weapon. Sherlock grins at the wallpaper, all too sure Jim can't see him. He draws a shaky breath; it's more than Jim's getting.
Jim's mouth is slick all around yet variegated in texture. Sherlock's pushing in and out of his throat with regularity and drowning in the spit-sloppy, sputtering sounds Jim's been reduced to.
Ohhhhhh, Sherlock thinks in mockery of Jim. What a situation you put yourself into…
It's a near thing when his cock first spasms that he doesn't keep thinking. No thinking. Just Jim's body in submission and Jim's beautiful mind resting in the palm of his hand and hot come rushing out of him, bliss roaring through his whole lanky body.
Sherlock drops Jim while he gasps for air, pressing his hand against the wall and slowly straightening upright. The sorry sounds coming out of Jim are considerably nearer to asphyxia.
Sherlock laughs – bathing in lingering pleasure.
"You're criminal," Jim croaks weakly, coughing to clear phlegm and spit from his esophagus.
Sherlock's bare arse drops down easily on the pillow beside him. He rests one long arm along the headboard and looks down at a red-faced Jim still struggling for air.
"You should see yourself. I've a camera, just over there."
"Only if you pose for me, pet," Jim breathes with his own criminal smile.
In perhaps his first wise decision of the evening, Sherlock decides the less physical evidence they can possibly create, the better.
"No. No…But a very near thing."
Sherlock glances down Jim's body where Jim's erection is still turgid despite the near-death experiences.
"So we're clear, turnabout is not fair play and that's not going near my mouth," he warns, though smiling.
All the tensions of his life, even the constant demands of his genius brain, have all been poured out into Jim – who deserves them, if they're catching. He's never been one for wasting time, while sober, but he's riding a high and could no doubt become engaged in something pointless like kissing Jim for hours.
It doesn't make him stupid.
"Don't be concerned on my behalf," Jim demurs. "I'd rather have a turn in your arse. Does anything in this room lubricate but not burn?"
Sherlock's sure something must, so he climbs off the bed – legs unsteady – and searches his various bottles (and jars) of fluid while Jim recuperates on the mattress, still keeping an eye on Jim. He'd watch Jim more closely if it wasn't implicit that any misbehavior would be damning to Jim's chances at getting off.
Sherlock picks up a bottle of yellow-green fluid with solid green flecks settled at the bottom. He pulls the stopper and sniffs to double-check.
"Here. This is olive oil. I just poured in a B.O.D. bottle after I mixed in the oregano."
(John wouldn't approve. John says things like, "Stop mixing the foodstuffs and your chemistry experiments. I just spent two hours vomiting. I could have died!")
If Sherlock is somewhat uncertain about giving Jim a ride, he's sure he enjoys watching Jim slather himself with olive oil while muttering pornographic things like, "Oh, baby, yeah."
In fact, they're laughing again.
If only it was this and Sherlock really cared and Jim wasn't completely insane.
Barring that, they could make a good run of it – if they were what John called "real" people with "real" lives.
(John's made Sherlock a part of his real life, hasn't he? Is it worth risking it all on this? Even when "this" only happened because it's risking it all?)
"Is this going to get gymnastic and complicated?" Sherlock wonders. Jim has demonstrated a real taste for orchestrating physically elaborate scenarios.
"If I wasn't still dizzy from you skullfucking me I might say yes," Jim drawls, sitting up on the bed for the first time since Sherlock allowed him to collapse. He bounces his hips a little, just enough to make sure Sherlock admires his incredibly shiny cock. It's not as big as Sherlock's but then Sherlock isn't sure how large he wants something that's going into his arse to be.
Sherlock adds Having "skullfucked" someone to his mental list of things to accomplish in his lifetime and promptly crosses it off.
Jim's in Sherlock's space and rolling him over onto his side with oil slippery hands – leaving a little oregano. Sherlock has no reason not to go along with him, curls falling on the pillow as his cheek rests against it. Jim pushes one of Sherlock's thighs up, hitching it over his own, and makes himself comfortable over the other, turning the B.O.D. bottle over against his thumb.
"This is…surprising, really," Sherlock says with an exhalation of unnecessary anticipation as Jim drags his thumb across Sherlock's anus, only softly pressing in.
Jim's eyebrows sneak up.
"I do have simple pleasures, Sherlock. They're few; but they're there." Jim licks his lips and looks down, one eyebrow quirking higher than the other. "One of them is deflowering you – as wild as you already are."
"If you're worrying you'll tax me: don't," Sherlock murmurs, with the same sticking point of pride.
His breath catches as something firm, slick, hot, and much larger than a thumb presses against the giving-point of his lower body.
Jim voice is uneven as his cock sinks into Sherlock.
"I haven't begun to tax you. It's only the first date."
Sherlock's face changes through alternating stages of concern and compensation, his body further relaxing at his behest every iteration. Sherlock can feel Jim's whole circumference in detail, and his body reacts to the deep intrusion with the occasional flinch and spasm. Except for a stray fleck of oregano Jim soon smears off with his thumb, Jim's foreskin gives the illusion of a soft touch to exceptionally stiff object. The first time Jim slides back and glides back in the combination of the shifting foreskin and the turnover of the tight but flexible skin that grips it throws Sherlock a curve. He reacts with a noise, pulling a handful of covers into his grasp.
"Shhhhhh," Jim soothes, the susurrus so intimate. Jim startles him by giving his arse a smack and makes his own pleased sound as Sherlock jumps around him. "Steady there, doll."
Sherlock swallows behind a forming frown. He's an eon away from being compromised the way he compromised Jim but likes it less because he's suspicious he has one coming, for it.
Jim rests a hand on Sherlock's raised knee and demonstrates how amazingly sensitive the skin beneath it is with the pad of his thumb. A flare of heat shoots through Sherlock's fading erection – but he won't allow that to crop up again even if or when he's recovered.
He really isn't eighteen anymore. But then, he hadn't had much interest in sex when he had been. Or maybe he never met the right man.
(Jim's the one thrusting through one of the two easily-sexual orifices nature gave him, so why is Sherlock thinking of John asleep and John's smile and sitting near John on the couch complaining James Bond is ridiculous but still watching it?)
"What are you thinking?" Jim purrs.
"You know. Are you angry?"
Sherlock doesn't want to deal with Jim's anger right now. He's too recently spent and Jim could really take it out on him from this position, too.
"Angry? Why would I be angry?" Jim snickers. There's no sarcasm in that voice. "Angry you're on the road to figuring out why it will always be you and me in the end no matter who we have our little affairs with?"
Jim's thrusting is putting real pressure on Sherlock's body and Sherlock doesn't know if he's enjoying himself or not.
He only knows he isn't bored.
No, being fucked on his own mattress by a man responsible for countless deaths and ruined lives who considers him a piece of his personal property really can't be boring.
"I will always take you back," Jim swears lowly. "And I'll be there when you come crawling to me begging for it to end." There's glee in Jim's low voice. Sherlock can't say that excitement is always synonymous with fun, despite his racing pulse. "I'll be here after John leaves you. And he will…He'll die, as happens, or there'll be a woman, or maybe it'll be because he hates you…"
Sherlock closes his eyes and closes the hand grasping the covers tight. This is what gets Jim off. Jim needs this. Jim wants to say these things with his cock jammed up his arse because that's who Jim is.
So why does Sherlock's chest have to sting?
"I mean really look at yourself," Jim continues, voice more and more breathless, hips more insistent and intrusive, both of them sweating, and the only respite that Jim is keeping his voice down. Sherlock feels like Jim's shoved a hot baking pin in him. Jim's cock looked nowhere near that big. "Look at yourself," Jim persists. "It wasn't exciting enough for John to be the first one to fuck you. Bo~~ring."
Sherlock's heated breathing makes the whole situation worse. He can feel Jim stuck inside him like a cancer as his breath rises and falls: Jim jammed against his hips, ramming it into him. How loud are the bed springs? It's starting to hurt because he's started clenching up on him. There's a fleck of oregano itching in his anus.
What can he do that wouldn't make it worse?
He hears Jim come with a groan and an exhalation; doesn't feel it. The small favors of chance can be the most valuable. It appears there are no nerve endings at whatever depths Jim's buried the head of his cock.
"Get out of my house," Sherlock growls through clenched teeth.
"Shouldn't I get out of your arse first?" Jim taunts.
He vacates that without a fight: shoving out, leaving Sherlock to sit up sore behind him and watch him find his briefs.
Sherlock thinks it's best he start dressing, too. He doesn't want to be too far from Jim until he has him out of the flat.
It's of no help at all.
Jim has on briefs and trousers, then socks and shoes. He's just pulled on his undershirt when, instead of his dress shirt, he's after a jar, and although Sherlock's quick to catch him Jim's quicker to send it flying to shatter in a wet mess on the wall.
The right cross dealt in fury that sends Jim sprawling on the floor does nothing to stop him from raising his voice: "God damn. Wasn't that fantastic?"
Sherlock stands over him, kitchen knife out of the mess on the dresser now in hand. It's particularly blunt from being used as a pry bar, but at this juncture it doesn't particularly matter.
"What makes you think you're leaving here alive?"
He can hear John's door open and brisk feet on the upstairs landing.
John probably has the pistol.
Jim smiles up at him with a bloody lip.
"Because I don't think you want to risk John getting killed in the middle of your oncoming domestic, and you don't know who I might have canvassing the building."
Sherlock tosses the knife aside somewhere toward the bed. He stands unmoving as Jim gets up. John's coming down the stairs.
Jim collects his coat and his tie, doesn't bother with the tie clip, leaving it glinting on the floor, moving easily despite Sherlock half-dressed and holding his own shirt in his hand, standing stiff feet away.
"Sherlock! What's going on in there?" John demands with raised voice through the door.
It's Jim who steps past Sherlock, flips back the lock, and opens the door, shirt, coat and tie hung over his forearm.
"John. How good to see you," he says despite the pistol so quickly brought to bear. "Beautiful evening, isn't it?"
Jim's walking right past John. John's covering him, but glancing from Jim, to Sherlock, and back. Sherlock can't stand the look coming over John's face so he stares at the carpet where Jim's left three shining droplets of blood sinking in, instead.
"Ta, boys!" Jim calls from the door.
Sherlock wishes John at least had the good sense to shoot him. But why would he? Guns got them nowhere last time. It would be stupid to shoot first and assess the situation later.
"Did he hurt you?" John asks, still holding the gun on the front door, which isn't locked.
"No," Sherlock confesses flatly.
"Did he—Did he threaten you?" John asks, sounding more uncertain now.
"Not that, either."
"He was in our house," John says, dumbly now, because it's coming to him even he's too good a man to let himself believe it.
"It seems that way."
John is a professional and doesn't lower his weapon even as, as Sherlock watches him from the corner of his eye, the confusion dissipates and his expression turns stony.
"He was in. our. house," John accuses – as black an accusation as anyone's ever painted Sherlock with.
"About two hours. Yes."
John says nothing for a moment, and then:
Sherlock stands where he is, but pulls on the shirt he's holding – doesn't bother to button it. He hears Mrs. Hudson call and ask if everything is alright and John assure her yes, yes, it is, because god knows John doesn't want Mrs. Hudson stepping out of her room if bullets come through the door.
When the door's locked, John returns up the stairs with a heavier footfall. He stands in Sherlock's doorway, not looking disappointed – not really looking anything at all.
John slams the door.
Sherlock doesn't think he's ever actually had his own door slammed on him. It's harder, too, when you have to pull it in. And—
John's gone into the living room. Sherlock can hear him. Sherlock approaches the door to listen close. John's shutting the curtains, pulling their rings along the bar, and closing the plate glass door to the kitchen. Coming around. Opening the refrigerator – but not in such a way that he crosses the kitchen window.
Opening a beer.
Sherlock steps backward until a calf hits the bed then lets himself fall, dropping his head, holding a fistful of curls in both hands.
He moderates his breathing. He has to, or else everything else in the room will be junked with the jar Jim threw and the duvet more or less ruined with olive oil.
No venturing out. Not until sunrise, if by sunrise. No going to the loo. No, John's desires are clear.
Stay in, not be shot, drink his beer, and not have to lay eyes on Sherlock.
Not bored now, are you, you idiot bastard? he chastises himself silently.
He can't let a depression come over him now. He'll lose John's company if he's an unbearable prick tomorrow.
He can't go to sleep, either. What if John tries to leave?
"I will burn the heart out of you."
…this is a good start. And just the bare start.
What is the impulse in him that makes him so eager to throw himself into so many recklessly stupid things?
As if John didn't already think he wasn't more interested in shagging Jim than seeing Jim arrested—
John's going to leave him.
John was ready to have a row over it before he'd been strapped with bombs and used as bait. Now it's well after, and if Sherlock had a moral compass it would have been clear to him that John would be unable to forgive Sherlock for actually shagging Jim.
How does one apologize for this? Sherlock thinks, even when it's obvious they don't. "People," in John's sense of the word – moral beings – aren't capable of transgressing like this in the first place.
There's nothing to be done tonight.
Sherlock lies back on the bed and folds his hands across his bare chest – remembers Jim sat in this same place, too, knees also hanging off – stares at the ceiling and tries to think like John would.
After an hour, that John would and does hate him is still all he can come up with.
John has the TV up in the living room. John can't sleep, either, or doesn't trust Sherlock enough to. John gets another beer around two am. Sherlock hears him do it. It's the third tonight and can't be a good sign—
No, at three-thirty it becomes apparent he got two from the fridge. Four beers. That's a bit much. Four pints. Not that Sherlock doesn't appreciate the desire to put one's life on mute with whatever chemical assistance is handy.
After some thought, Sherlock decides John wouldn't appreciate it if he offered him any of what he's holding all cleverly sewn up in the green chair, offering him the comfort of possibilities when he sits.
Sherlock is very short on possibilities, right now.
Around five am Sherlock is forced to slip up to the loo, if only because it's harder to endure a spat when he's holding his piss in, and no doubt that he's in for a spat.
At seven am Sherlock ventures into the living room where John, in his anger, is still watching the telly and has probably come down off tipsy.
"I think you should leave," John says, without looking at him.
This is new.
Sherlock wasn't expecting this.
He should leave? John's always the one storming out. Sherlock's suddenly more wary of John's level of aggression.
He sits down in the green chair.
"John…" he tries to start, but he never had come up with anything to say and it doesn't come to him now.
"I really think you should leave."
For the morning? For good? If he asks, will it tip John one way or the other?
How is he supposed to leave when he's only just realized it's John he wanted? Wants.
It's John he wants.
"John, I don't know what to do to make this better," he says. John knows how rotten he is with feelings.
"I don't think you can," John informs him.
Sherlock would like John to look angry, or frustrated, or disappointed, or sad, or at him – anything more like John Watson than the iron curtain he's faced with.
"Sherlock," John says without inflection. "There's nothing left to be said – and I don't see why I should give up a decent flat if I'll be able to work full time at the clinic, or even as a surgeon. Thank you for showing me the way out of my post-war stress, but now that I know the cause I'm sure I'll find a way to manage it."
"What if I go out – for the morning – and we talk about it at tea?" Sherlock tries, with little hope for success.
"No thank you."
"No thank you."
"I don't want Jim, John! He's insufferable! I made a mistake."
Sherlock didn't mean to raise his voice, but he did.
At least John turns off the television off, and at least John looks at him.
"He's not 'insufferable,' Sherlock. He's a murderer. The distinction, to you, may be subtle."
"He's—He was exciting, and I got carried away. I'd never had sex—"
"Oh. Oh, that's much better. That—That paints you in a much better light. You've been waiting until your thirties for Jim Moriarty. Oh, I really thought you couldn't make yourself look worse."
John sounds waspish. Waspish is good. Waspish is wonderful. Waspish is much more ordinary. John looks absolutely exasperated. Sherlock has never been happier to have someone furious at him.
"It was awful. Not at first, no, but I realized—…that it was awful. That I hadn't wanted to in the first place. It was—Yes, he's a murderer. And he wants to kill me. John, I'm not capable of making—I need you. I make terrible decisions."
John sighs. Now he looks sad. Tired, too. He has that glassy look from the alcohol that won't pass until a proper rest.
"I don't want to be responsible for you. I don't want to be responsible for the decisions you make. I don't want to be associated with you. I can't be. Because I'm a moral human being, and you're not. I thought we had reached a functioning equilibrium but it's obvious you just hadn't been presented with something you wanted more than our friendship."
"There's nothing I want more than our friendship."
Sherlock thought he said it properly, but from his white-knuckled grip on the arm of the chair and the silence in the room he realizes he shouted.
He can't dig a deeper grave.
Now he's up in a frenzy, throwing the chair cushion over, prying his fingers into the weak seam; tearing. He shoves his arm in and grasps around until he's found all three bags and flings them on the floor: his needles, his seven percent solution, the bottle bagged, and the stuff he hadn't dissolved yet.
John is, apparently, taken aback, or thinks Sherlock's gone raving mad, but anything and everything is better than before.
"Look! Throw it out! No—I'll throw it out. Look! I hate Jim and I certainly confirmed that by—You can't understand what it's like to be bored like me, but you don't have to, John. Just…don't make me leave. Don't leave. Just, please—let me try again."
John covers his face with his hand. It's obvious he doesn't want any of it. Not a full confession. Not the verging hysteria. Not ever to wake up and find Jim Moriarty in his house.
"Why are you so likeable," John spits. He spits it out in a way that doesn't make Sherlock sound likeable at all. He drops his hand from his face. Sherlock thinks John might cry.
He isn't sure what he should do.
"How did I get stuck in this codependent, abusive – and you are abusive – relationship with a sociopath?"
Sherlock drops the torn couch cushion back in the chair. The drug paraphernalia's still lying around on the floor but it doesn't seem very important to either of them so Sherlock looks for somewhere to sit down so he doesn't begin pacing. He chooses the chair by the computer desk…table…sort of desk.
"I care about you, John. More than anyone. I'm not even sure I do care about anyone else."
John looks desperate.
"You've made that perfectly obvious. This—It doesn't make it alright, if neither of us leaves. And don't you dare…Don't even dare try to tell me you think you're in love with me."
"I won't tell you," Sherlock promises.
No. That was wrong.
John throws a beer can at the fireplace and storms off upstairs.