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The Breath On The Edge Of The Knife

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Jim smirked, that smirk that Sherlock so often longed to wipe off his face.

“You came alone?”

“Yes.” Sherlock didn’t move. “Like you said.”

The shorter man stepped closer to him. He could smell his aftershave, expensive and understated. Jim was short, and Sherlock could see over the top of his head. He tried not to flinch as Jim touched his face, sliding dry fingertips up to his hairline to sink in unruly black hair. The lapels of his suit brushed against his chest as Jim’s other hand slid downwards.

“Don’t get excited, dear.” he picked the phone out of Sherlock’s pocket. “Oh, what’s this?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock managed before Jim pulled his head downwards, forcing him to his knees with a fistful of curls.

“Don’t lie to me Sherlock.” Jim casually looked at the phone. “Oh, a call from our dear and oh-so-honest inspector. What shall we tell him, hmm?”

The phone buzzed. Jim pulled a face.

“I’d rather we weren’t disturbed, though.” he hurled the phone away, and it broke against the wall. He turned his attention back to Sherlock. “We haven’t really had a chance to get to know each other yet.”

Jim yanked Sherlock back, exposing his neck, and smiled, a slow curve of mouth. “And I’ve been thinking about getting to know you. Have you been thinking of me?” Sherlock didn’t say anything, just watched him. Jim shook him gently. “Don’t be sullen,” he said, and there was a dangerous edge. “I can’t abide rudeness.”

He brought Sherlock upright, and pushed him back into a chair. Sherlock took stock as Jim stepped back. Safest course of action: Comply, look for an opening. Hope against hope that someone would come.

“No one’s coming Sherlock.” Jim walked round the back of the chair, running fingertips across the back of Sherlock’s neck. “There’s no way out.” He came round the front, and opened a small penknife. Suddenly, he was straddling Sherlock.

“You see...” he laid the edge of the knife against his cheek, scraping it over fine stubble lovingly. “I think if we really got to know each other, we might be able to work out an accord.” The knife paused over the jugular, and Sherlock tensed. “And what better way of getting to know you than this?”

The knife moved to the first button of his shirt, and popped it off cleanly. Sherlock flinched again. “Stay still. The knife is very sharp.” Jim moved to the next button.

He could feel the smaller man’s growing arousal pressing against him and swallowed. On the third button, Jim folded back the shirt like he was presenting a jewel.

“Quite lovely,” he murmured, tracing fingers over delicate skin. Sherlock looked up at the ceiling like he was just so bored, and Jim grabbed his face back down, squeezing his mouth between finger and thumb. “Learn to take a compliment,” he scolded. He stood up for a moment, to strip off his jacket. The shirt underneath was tailored, twisting to show a lean body as he also tugged off a dark tie. Sherlock licked his lips. This time Jim did trace the knife down Sherlock’s skin, not quite drawing blood, tracing the outlines of his collarbone to the little hollow at the throat. He pressed gently, dimpling the skin, then pulled it back again.

“I do wonder what your skin would look like if I cut,” Jim remarked, tracing the other collarbone with as much care. “Dramatic, no doubt. I could have great fun licking the blood off you. Do you like the taste of blood?” He angled the knife, and Sherlock schooled his face blank. Even then, he couldn’t prevent a flinch when the cold metal touched him. Jim smiled. It was the reaction he wanted, not the blood. He folded the knife and put it in his pocket. Sherlock blurted,

“You have me now, keep your end of the bargain.”

Jim narrowed his eyes.

“Oh, you do like to ruin the mood with work, don’t you,” he growled. “And, no, I don’t think I will right now. I’ve got something far,” he leaned into Sherlock, pressing his chest against him “more,” he laid his hand on Sherlock’s waist. “Interesting,” Jim sighed into Sherlock’s mouth.

He didn’t kiss him though, not on the mouth. He instead used the lever of that thick hair to expose an unbroken line of neck. He traced his mouth down Sherlock’s jawline with butterfly kisses. Sherlock tried not to flinch, despite every part of him wanting to move away from the soft press of Jim’s mouth. Jim hmmed and started on his neck. It made him shiver, the small hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Jim smiled against his skin. He found Sherlock’s pulse, and licked it delicately, like a cat. Sherlock swallowed. Jim sucked, and Sherlock blew out a breath. Jim bit and Sherlock’s eyes closed, fluttering involuntarily. Jim bit harder, and Sherlock whimpered, hands suddenly clenching at the cheap plastic of the chair.

“No...” he breathed, trying to override his body’s reaction. Jim drew back, displeased, a flush high on his cheeks.

“You’re in no place to argue this.” he reminded Sherlock. “And anyway. You’re enjoying it.” He rolled his hips, grinding against Sherlock. “I can tell,” he was smiling again, dangerous. Sherlock wondered what he saw in his eyes. Fear? Anger? Lust? It must have pleased him though, since he lowered his head again.

“You have no idea how long I’ve thought about this.” He could feel Jim’s voice vibrating against his collarbone. The smaller man kissed his bare skin, licking along the jut of bone. Sherlock could feel himself flinching again as Jim grazed his teeth on his skin. His hands came up to rest on the other man’s legs, fine wool stretched because you’re not supposed to straddle another man in suit trousers. Jim responded by rolling his hips again. The friction caught Sherlock’s breath in his throat, letting it go in a long ‘haaa’ that caused Jim to bite down on his collarbone again. Sherlock tried not to respond, tried to resist his body as it put its hands on Jim’s waist, encouraging the smaller man.

Jim fumbled at the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt, working his way down his chest with fingers and tongue. He ran his lips and then his tongue over one of Sherlock’s nipples, before biting down. Sherlock scrabbled at his back, torn between lust and horror. He was hard, could feel himself pressed against Jim’s leg, but he didn’t want it, not like this. Jim looked up. His lips were swollen from kissing, and his pupils were blown. He slid his hands up Sherlock’s chest, and that shattered glass grin was still in place.

“Oh, you are gorgeous,” he sighed, and pulled the silk shirt off Sherlock’s shoulders, exposing more pale skin. He ran hands down wiry muscle. Sherlock’s skin raised goosebumps, and Jim smiled again, before dipping his head to kiss his bare shoulder, exploring him with lips and tongue and teeth. He found the edge of Sherlock’s ear and licked the curve of it. Sherlock stretched out so that Jim could get to it more easily, still on that edge of horror, but all he could really think about was teeth nipping his skin, one hand resting easily on his chest, other buried in the hair on the back of his neck as Jim pulled him down for a kiss, grinding into him through four layers of cloth. Sherlock squirmed and moaned as Jim bit on his bottom lip.

“S-stop...” he panted. “I don’t...”

Jim rolled his eyes, and that knife was suddenly back in his hand.

“Don’t be dull, Sherlock. I don’t like it when people are dull.” The knife trailed down his chest, paused over his belly-button and down further. Sherlock closed his eyes, still breathing hard. The fear was back now, and he swallowed twice, once for the terror and once for the lust. Jim looked up at him, on his knees in front of the chair, and his eyes glittered.

“Don’t look so worried, Sherlock, what on earth would I do?” The knife pressed down on the band of his trousers, and where the blade met the hilt Sherlock could feel it pressing into the head of his cock and he whimpered, all fear and arousal and disgust.

“That’s more like it,” Jim whispered, and with a deft movement, cut the top button off his trousers. Sherlock squirmed again, trying to get away and stay in one place all at once.

“Stay still. You wouldn’t want me to slip, would you?” Sherlock focussed on the knife, muscles straining with the effort of staying still. Jim pulled the zip down.

“Silk boxers, so decadent. Not that I expected anything less, of course.” Jim spread the front of the trousers, rubbed his face in the silk like a cat. Sherlock could feel his hair brush along his belly, every part of his skin electrified. He whimpered again, and this time there wasn’t any fear.

“Now...” Jim sighed, pulling the silk boxers and wool trousers down. Sherlock’s cock was hot and heavy against his thigh. The sight of his reaction made him look away again, ashamed this time. Jim reached up and grabbed his jaw, forcing his head back round, making him look.

“Come now, that’s certainly nothing to be ashamed of.”

Sherlock found his voice. “No...”

“I thought you liked it.” Jim pouted. “I would say, here is empirical proof you like it. And you like empirical proof, don’t you?”

Sherlock’s mouth went dry again and Jim curved a smile.

“That’s what I thought.”

He bent over Sherlock’s cock and licked across the head and Sherlock hissed out a long breath. Jim smiled, and this time, took the whole head into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the tight skin, sliding his lips down, past the point where he should have gagged, Sherlock almost noticed, but at that point Jim began to suck, in long, luxurious strokes that made Sherlock dig his nails into the arms of the chair and throw his head back with a sound that was almost like a sob. Jim drew back, and his voice was breathy.

“There, see? Doesn’t hurt at all. How long has it been, Sherlock? Too long, I’ll bet.”

“I...” Sherlock swallowed, tried to think. It was why he had never bothered with this, it was just too much, all round too much.

“I thought so.” Jim bent to his task again, licking a long line up Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock groaned. Jim swallowed him down again, squeezing deliciously as he did so. Sherlock didn’t want this, logically he knew he didn’t want this, but his body bucked and strained, every nerve ending crying out for touch, taste, anything. Jim was right, it had been too long. He was making urgent noises in the back of his throat, trying not to cry out. He felt like crying out would be giving in, and he mustn’t give in, even as warm lust pooled in his belly. His spine bowed, hips juddering in time to Jim’s movements, hands scratching at the leather on the chair, feet kicking spasmodically on the concrete floor as the pool in his belly spread up through every part of his body, filling him up like the noise of a busy shopping-centre, a white noise of sensation. Jim’s mouth was inexorable, warm, filling his world and mind till all he could concentrate on was the friction of the lips and teeth up and down his length. He bit his lip, keening as the pressure increased, every muscle knotted tight. He didn’t want to, it was bad, worse than wrong, but at the same time... Sherlock’s entire body jolted, he made a screaming noise in his throat as he came, shaking uncontrollably. Jim rode him out, gripping his legs with his mouth firmly round Sherlock’s cock, swallowing and swallowing. He looked up at Sherlock, moving his head in that lazy half-circle like he had a crick in his neck, wiping the side of his mouth and lazily sucking his finger.

“There, that wasn’t all bad, was it?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, his eyes half-lidded, chest heaving. He swallowed, but didn’t reply. Jim narrowed his eyes and gripped Sherlock’s knee, tight enough that it hurt.

“It’s rude not to answer.”

Sherlock kept his mouth shut, and concentrated on bringing his heart-rate back down. Jim squeezed harder, till Sherlock flinched.

“I can still hurt you, Sherlock. We were having such a lovely time as well...” The knife was back, pressed against his belly.

“Fine! Fine. It was fine.” There was no point in bleeding for pride. Sherlock had lost all his dignity in this round, that much was clear. Jim smiled, and there was something more than the usual triumph in it this time. He stood up, picking up his suit jacket from the table. “Well, this has been an educational trip.”

There was clattering from outside.

“And there’s your cavalry. I’d better be off. Cheerio.”

And he was gone. As John burst through the door, Sherlock remembered the spreading wet-patch on the front of Jim’s trousers. Educational indeed.