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Whatever had possessed John? Why on earth did he think it was alright to go off to Spain for two weeks with Sarah and leave Sherlock at home? By the third day on his own, Sherlock had run out of experiments to amuse himself; Molly had no interesting corpses for him to look at and Lestrade hadn’t called with a new case for him. As tempted as he was to sit around in his pyjamas all day watching the crap telly John had introduced him to, he didn’t think he could stand it any more and he was sure it would lead to certain other temptations.

Having forced himself up out of John’s armchair and through to his room to dress, he decided it would probably be good to go out. After all, there were a couple of new exhibitions on at various museums – that would pass an hour or two, at least. In one of his usual suits, he walked back through to the hallway to get his coat. Just as he reached for it, the doorbell rang. 1pm, so not the postman. Not someone collecting for charity, odd time to try and catch people in. Not Mrs Hudson, she never forgets her keys. He had just reached the door and pulled it open when he stopped dead in his tracks. Moriarty.

This was only the third time he’d seen the consulting criminal since he had escaped from the pool in a cloud of tear gas. Now Sherlock was being pushed aside by the grinning Irishman, who seemed to be making a beeline straight for the stairs. Sherlock closed the door and hurried after him, not daring to check outside for any sign of back up – Moriarty alone in Sherlock’s flat could only end badly, so he had to follow him.

“Ooh, Sherlock, what a messy boy you are!” he heard from somewhere ahead of him, which could only mean that Moriarty was in the living room. Suddenly, Sherlock was beginning to regret admitting he was bored. “Aww, and aren’t your little experiments cute?” the commentary continued, with a giggle on the end. “But enough messing around. I know you’re bored...” Sherlock appeared in front of him as he spoke. “Poor little Sherlock, all by yourself while Johnny Boy is in Spain with his girlfriend. So, I thought I’d drop by and provide some entertainment.”

The glint in Moriarty’s eyes could almost be mistaken for the same one he’d had at the pool. It seemed rather gleeful, as if he enjoyed being completely mad, but on this occasion there was a difference. Oh. OH. Oh dear. Sherlock had spotted Moriarty’s rather obvious erection. This is not good. “What makes you think I’m remotely interested?”

“We-ell, I thought you might like to try out your riding crop on someone slightly more... alive.”

Sherlock swallowed. This is wrong, this is so wrong. But the idea was so, so right in his head. And he was very bored.

“Soooo... what do you think, my dear?”

“My bed. Clothes off. On all fours. Now.”

Moriarty giggled with delight and practically ran through to Sherlock’s room, indicating he’d been in there before. Sherlock didn’t even want to think about when it had been or what had happened. His shoes clicked on the floor as he double-checked the path to the bedroom for any kind of explosive device, then he picked up the riding crop from its place before entering the bedroom and letting the door slam shut behind him. “Moriarty...”

Moriarty was already partially undressed, having shown up in a more geek-chic casual outfit instead of the suit he’d worn last time they’d met. He’d also been working out – perhaps the skinny-fat geek look had been entirely intentional as part of his cover, as he seemed much more comfortable like this. With a smirk, he stopped unfastening his trousers to look right at Sherlock. “It’s Jim, sweetheart.

Something about the accent and the way he said it went straight to Sherlock’s groin, and he hissed, “Hurry up.” Jim giggled again and sped up, stepping out of his trousers and boxers. Now completely naked, he turned and approached the bed before crawling forwards onto it and stopping on all fours a comfortable distance from the edge. Sherlock swung the riding crop against one of the bed posts, both for practice and to hear the sound. After a deep breath to steady his voice, he spoke. “Count out loud. If you make any other sounds or fall, you’ll start again.”

The pause which followed seemed to stretch out for an eternity as Sherlock raised the riding crop up into the air. Eventually, he brought it down across Jim’s arse with a resounding crack, earning him a pained ONE from Jim, who arched his back, almost as if he was attempting both to push back into the touch and pull away from it. He repeated the action with the same slowness. TWO. THREE. FOUR.

The fifth strike was more vicious and resulted in a FUCK rather than the expected number. “Oh dear, Jim. You’re really not very good at this. Start again.”

ONE. TWO. THREE. FOUR. Sherlock sped up considerably, leading to FIVESIXSEVENEIGHT-FUCK.

“I think you’ll find that the number nine comes next. Start again.”


Sherlock watched as Jim moved with each strike. Jim voice sounded strained, almost like he was in great pain, but the ever-present erection told Sherlock otherwise. ELEVEN. TWELVE. THIRTEEN. F- One of Jim’s arms went from under him and his face made contact with the mattress beneath him.  

“You must try harder, Jim. Start again.”


Sherlock stopped and leaned forwards, one knee on the bed between Jim’s legs. Reaching a hand around, he gripped the base of Jim’s cock more than a little too firmly. “Not until I say so. Start again.” His own arousal was now obvious too and the fabric of his underwear brushed against him as he stood up, forcing him to bite back a moan.

ONE. TWO. THREE. A pause. A frustrated whimper from Jim. An almost cruel smirk on Sherlock’s lips. FOUR. FIVE. SIX. Another pause. Another whimper. SEVEN. EIGHT. NINE. A third pause. Sherlock gripped himself through his trousers and stroked from base to tip just once. Jim looked round just in time to see Sherlock closing his eyes and biting his lip. Catching Jim looking, Sherlock removed his hand and brought the riding crop down again. TEN. ELEVEN. TWELVE.

Every number sounded more and more desperate and had more of an effect on Sherlock. What he really wanted was to continue without pauses, knowing that the sound Jim would make as he came would be enough to drive Sherlock over the edge too. It took all his self-control to stop each time, but he wanted to get to a nice round number. THIRTEEN. FOURTEEN. FIFTEEN.

Jim could barely hold himself up and he was sweating from the effort, as well as the desperation. The tears streaming down his face were a mixture of pain, pleasure and exertion, though he was glad Sherlock couldn’t see this particular weakness. SIXTEEN. SEVENTEEN. Getting the words out at all was proving difficult now.

Sherlock brought the riding crop down three more times. EIGHTEEN. NINETEEN. TWENTY. “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asked, trying to sound as calm and uninterested as possible. He leaned forwards to his previous position again and kissed the raw skin of one of the welts on Jim’s arse. He grinned as he heard that pathetic little whimper again. “Turn over.”

Jim turned slowly and lowered himself to the bed, head turned slightly to hide the fresh tears which appeared as his red, damaged skin touched the covers. Sherlock, however, had crawled up over him and could see his face. “Look at me.” Reluctantly, Jim turned his head and found his own face only inches from the detective’s. “I want you to count again.” Looking down, he watched with anticipation as Sherlock unfastened his trousers and pulled his boxers down just enough. Jim chewed his lip at the sight and closed his eyes, trying to distract himself for a moment.

Sherlock reached up to the bedside table and picked up the bottle of lube he kept there – unlabelled, of course, so there was always a risk - and the handcuffs he'd taken from Lestrade's office. Luckily he’d chosen the correct bottle, he noticed as he poured some out onto his hand and began to stroke himself. He was sufficiently covered in a few strokes, he was pleased to note. Handcuffing one of Jim's wrists to one of the bars at the top of the bed, he smirked. "I'm not taking any chances." He then he reached one wet hand up to push Jim’s leg out of the way. There was no point in bothering with preparation as neither of them would last that long. With his other hand, he turned Jim’s hip and positioned himself. “Don’t forget to count.”

Pushing into Jim slowly, he watched as the criminal’s eyes fluttered open in surprise. A few more tears escaped, as he was stretched uncomfortably, but he pushed himself down onto Sherlock until they both reached a stop. Sherlock rocked his hips experimentally and both men moaned, Jim’s hand finding its way to Sherlock’s still-clothed arse as he moaned ONE in time to pull him in harder with the detective’s next thrust. TWO. Sherlock had one arm to the side of Jim’s body for support and used the other hand to brush away some of the tears. THREE. He had expected that, as with all humans, Jim would have a weakness. FOUR. The nature of the weakness had come as rather a surprise. FIVE.

Jim hooked one leg around one of Sherlock’s thighs and continued to rock back against him. SIX.  SEVEN. EIGHT. NINE. This was infinitely more exciting than anything else he’d done recently, knowing he was playing with his enemy’s weaknesses.

Each thrust made both men moan slightly louder, Jim’s choked numbers tagged onto the end. TEN. Sherlock reached his free hand between them and squeezed the head of Jim’s cock gently, before starting to stroke in time with his thrusts. ELEVEN. TWELVE. THIRTEEN. Jim wasn’t so much moaning now, as swearing. FOURTEEN. FIFTEEN. SIXTEEN. He had just managed to say SEVENTEEN out loud when his whole body tensed and he came hard with a groan which sounded like it could have been SHERLOCK. A couple of thrusts later and Sherlock joined him, arching his back and clinging tightly to the sheets with one hand. After a few gasped breaths, he allowed himself to collapse on Jim, resting his head on the smaller man’s chest.

Jim reached out a hand to stroke Sherlock’s hair. “You do realise you’ve got come in your hair now, right?” he asked, and they both laughed. Jim was right – and it was probably all down the front of Sherlock’s nice suit jacket and shirt now too, but Sherlock would deal with that later. For now, he was content to sleep here, even if he was on top of his mortal enemy. What harm could he possibly do in a few minutes, anyway?