Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3226550.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV), Sherlock_Holmes_&_Related_Fandoms
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/Jim_Moriarty, Sebastian_Moran/Jim_Moriarty, Sherlock
      Holmes/Sebastian_Moran, Sherlock_Holmes/Sebastian_Moran/Jim_Moriarty
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, Jim_Moriarty, Sebastian_Moran, Greg_Lestrade
  Additional Tags:
      Dubious_Consent, sexual_identity_issues, Ghosts, Supernatural_Elements,
      Canonical_Character_Death, Science, Mind_Palace, Underage_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-01-25 Completed: 2015-05-09 Chapters: 18/18 Words: 197750
****** In Spirit ******
by SilusLocke, x57
Summary
     Set just after Season 3. Jim is dead, but not gone. He's back and
     very, very angry about the last three years--and now has Sherlock
     alone set in his sights. Sherlock must do anything he can to prevent
     the malevolent spirit from killing him, including giving Jim exactly
     what he's always wanted.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
Sherlock knew something was wrong when the doorknocker rang out with three
precise, loud beats, each with a significant pause in between. Nobody knocked
like that outside of a horror film; normal clients tended to be anxious and
knock rapidly, while those who felt themselves members of the upper crust of
society knocked with a more staccato beat, almost stately. Even Mycroft, the
singular most dramatic individual Sherlock was acquainted with, wouldn't stoop
to this - he'd just let himself in, stand in the doorway with his irritatingly
smug smile while Sherlock pretended to ignore him to return the irritation.
Mrs. Hudson was out for the afternoon, luckily. A glance out the window didn't
show any visible form at the doorway, so Sherlock trampled down the stairs to
investigate. The peephole revealed nothing, and upon cracking open the door,
Sherlock's gaze settled upon a very plain, unmarked cardboard box. No postage.
No return address.
He shut the door and dashed up the stairs to retrieve his protective gear that
had coincidentally been given to him as a gift. Mycroft had insisted that if he
was courting infamy among the scoundrels of Britain, the very least he could do
was take adequate precautions. Of course, his precautions were never what
Mycroft would count as adequate, but Sherlock had to partially concede the
point: dying from a mail bomb or a tainted letter would be a dull way to go,
and he had no intention of expiring anytime soon. Certainly not while John and
Mary wanted him in their lives.
A half hour later, Sherlock grudgingly picked up his cell and texted Lestrade.
The contents of the box exceeded what he could safely and effectively analyze
in the comforts of his flat, and it was certainly tied to a murder.
The question was, whose remains were in the box, and when had they expired?
He didn't have to wait long for a reply. It came in the form of a call rather
than a return text. Ever since "Moriarty" had taken control of broadcast
television for a whole afternoon, he'd had Lestrade's full attention. He'd had
the entirety of the Met's full attention, in fact, but for days they had been
waiting with nothing but radio silence.
When Sherlock grudgingly picked up after the second ring, Lestrade's voice was
rushed. "What do you mean you've got body parts dropped off on your doorstep?
Sherlock, are you messing with me? Do I need to send forensics or the health
protection agency out there?"
"Whatever's decomposed the tissue samples in the box, it appears to be
contained for the moment. Two sets of interlocking airtight containers. The
refraction is such that I can barely make out the sample, but it's definitely
decomposing tissue. A hand, actually. I'm going to need access to a lab with
more sophisticated equipment than I can find at Bart's." Sherlock had little
fear that Lestrade would pry this case away from him. Everyone was on edge
after the rogue broadcast, and Sherlock was their greatest asset for tracking
down who was behind it. If the package was connected, as Sherlock suspected it
was, then the Met would merely be shooting themselves in the foot if they
confiscated the evidence and kept Sherlock in the dark. "This isn't
refrigerated, so I need prompt transportation."
"I'm on my way. And stay put," Lestrade warned though he hadn't needed to.
Sherlock wouldn't have listened if he'd intended to go anywhere else. Saying
these things simply made Lestrade feel better.
Lestrade arrived in under ten minutes. A new record.
Having left the door unlocked, heavy footfalls pounded up the stairs and within
moments Sherlock's sitting room was filled with forensics officers and one very
intense looking Gregory Lestrade.
Fortunately, they remembered to bring an ice box.
"Alright, show us what you've got."
Sherlock had gloves and plastic lab goggles on. The effect was slightly
ridiculous with his unruly hair. He tilted the cardboard box with a pair of
tongs. Something plastic thumped against the side. Another plastic capsule
could been seen just inside the first, and through the distortion of the
plastic there was... something. Sherlock tilted the lamp on the kitchen table
and Lestrade finally could make out what he'd seen.
A lump of flesh sat inside the second tube, alarmingly colored and slightly
liquefied. It was barely discernable as a human hand at all; it had already
reached the point where the outer layer of epidermis had begun to slide off. If
they didn't hurry to preserve it, the presumed victim's fingerprints would
vanish. "Bring the ice box over. It will have to do until we get to an
appropriate lab."
"Eugh," Lestrade stepped back and let a pair of officers dressed for the
situation step through. Carefully, they performed a visual inspection of the
casing and then, once pronounced safe, lifted the plastic container and
gingerly set it inside their frozen biohazard container. "Alright, let's move
out. Long as that's contained, we can get it to forensics, and yes, Sherlock,
you're coming, but you're gonna let our staff do the work. Was it like that
when you got it?' Lestrade asked, making a face that didn't require any of
Sherlock's considerable deductive skills to reason that he'd be skipping lunch
later.
"Yes, unfortunately. I answered the door promptly but didn't see who dropped it
off. You'll have to arrange for me to have access to the CCTV footage,"
Sherlock added. He was more than slightly put out that Lestrade was going to
let some dullard putter around with the sample, rather than giving him direct
access. The Met staff probably wouldn't destroy evidence, true, but they would
overlook things and stubbornly resist taking his directions. "We'll have to
wait to get a better look at the state of decomposition to have an idea of how
long ago that hand was removed and whether there was a delay in shipment."
More pressing yet, this was the first truly unusual event since the broadcast.
Sherlock remained skeptical that Jim was still alive; he'd been under a great
deal of stress on that rooftop, but not so much that he hadn't observed the
gore after the gunshot splattering the pavement beneath the criminal. No...
more likely, this was someone using Jim's name and image for their own
purposes. What purposes those were remained to be seen.
"Right then, let's get a move on." With a gesture, Lestrade cleared the room.
Sherlock was fast at his heels, allowing no room to be left behind.
They drove together, parting traffic like the red sea on their way to the Met's
forensics lab.
Just like old times. Old times when Sherlock didn't just grab the evidence and
take off on his own. So, not like old times.
"You think this is him?" Greg asked when they were five minutes away. He
couldn't hold it in any longer. Everyone in the room had been wondering the
same thing.
"I think there's a possibility this is him," Sherlock clarified. He remained
stiff-backed, unhappy that the tissue sample had been taken in another squad
car. Sherlock wasn't fond of letting others take his evidence. "If Moriarty was
behind the transmission, that was an announcement for more games to come, but
he wouldn't settle for something boring and commonplace. This is the first
unusual occurrence since the broadcast, and delivered right to my doorstep. If
it's not him, it's someone who is trying to mimic him."
"And you've no idea who that someone might be?" Greg asked.
They'd been over this. Thoroughly. Sherlock hadn't spent two years taking apart
Moriarty's network of principal criminals for nothing. And there had been the
year of silence after. It had been safe for him to re-enter the public eye.
Or so they had thought.
Lestrade changed tactics. "Your brother had the body. It's got to be a
copycat."
"Yes, it's incredibly unlikely that he had a body double. Or an exact twin that
also happened to be an extremely capable and dedicated actor." Sherlock
frowned. "Perhaps some remaining member of the network that I missed. Moriarty
commanded an unbelievably amount of loyalty. Even after his death was published
widely, his operatives mostly continued as they always had, rather than trying
to take over the resources for themselves, out of fear that he wasn't truly
dead."
Lestrade glanced over at Sherlock. That had to be a testament to either
Moriarty's madness or his brilliance. Definitely his unpredictability.
They arrived, evading the last of the traffic and maneuvering into an
underground parking ramp after the forensics vehicle, and there was no time to
comment on it further. Sherlock was already getting out of the car before Greg
had turned off the engine, and he had to hurry to follow.
"He's with me," Lestrade called to security before they'd even entered the
building. They all knew Sherlock here, and that wasn't a point in his favour.
Even with Lestrade's assurances, Sherlock still got held up briefly by security
and patted down. The detective's manner hadn't made him friends, and a number
of members on the force itched for a chance to find something. Drugs, an
illegal weapon without a license, anything to get a bit of revenge for the
insults and humiliation. When the pat down turned up nothing, Sherlock huffed
and straightened his coat, then rejoined Lestrade.
"Please tell me Anderson isn't on duty right now. I don't know if I could bear
it."
"He's not, far as I know. But try and keep a low profile for once and he won't
spontaneously drop by, huh?" Greg gave Sherlock a fake smile as they swept down
the corridors after the rest of his team. The lab was in the basement and
they'd been held up. By the time they arrived, the forensics staff had already
set up the hand inside a quarantined station, one that looked vaguely like a
plastic sand blaster, for analysis.
The lead doctor spotted them as they walked in. Fortunately, Sherlock had never
been on either her bad side, nor her good side as she had only joined the
department two years ago.
"This has got a very unusual rate of decomposition," she informed them, looking
through the glass as she worked to carefully remove the plastic casing.
“Sherlock, Dr. Kaplan. Dr. Kaplan, Sherlock,” Lestrade made the perfunctory
introduction.
Sherlock noted the ventilation hood above the station and nodded in rare
approval. He walked to the supply station and slipped on a mask and pair of
gloves before joining the doctor. "I'd noticed gloving had already begun, but
the flesh underneath still looked like it was relatively fresh, despite some of
the liquefaction. From what I could see through the container, at any rate.
Either it's been treated with a substance to speed decomposition, or there's
something else at play here."
"We're going to have to take a sample to see. It...looks like there's been
hemorrhaging beneath the skin. That might have something to do with the
unusually rapid state of decay. The muscle tissue itself doesn't look more than
a few days old at most." Using a scalpel and tray, she acquired a sample and
moved it to the other side of the chamber for closer inspection beneath a
microscope.
On the other side of the room, Lestrade shifted from foot to foot, no doubt
uncomfortable with Sherlock hovering over their new, relatively new, doctor's
shoulder at every step. One misstep on her part and the insults and impatience
would come out and Lestrade could only guess how long it would be before she
lost her temper.
"I'm presuming you have a DNA or RNA detection capability," Sherlock said. He
was frowning fixedly at the doctor's back. She hadn't taken that misstep yet,
not enough for Sherlock to criticize her, but he resented having to shadow
along behind her. He preferred to be hands-on with his work, and it was
difficult to accept someone else being the hands.
Sherlock absently wondered if John had felt a similar irritation, then
dismissed the thought. John understood him. Sherlock felt and lamented the
distinctive John-shaped emptiness beside him.
That lack had accompanied him during his years of rooting out Moriarty's
network, and he'd returned only to have it persist. John still accompanied him
at times, but he was married now, with a child on the way, and all of the
obligations and restraints that came with such things.
"Yes, a polymerase chain reaction, but it'll take some time." she responded
after a curious glance over her shoulder. She'd been warned about Sherlock
before, so Greg assumed she was making no further comment based on those
warnings alone. "Are you sure you want to wait here?" Then again, maybe not.
She glanced at Sherlock over her shoulder again, who was looking more impatient
the more she spoke.
"Only two to three hours, for standard PCR. That's assuming we begin right
away," Sherlock added dryly. "I have no pressing engagements. Waiting is a
trifle boring, though."
Sherlock glanced up and down at the doctor, clearly dismissing the idea of her
serving as adequate entertainment. His pale gaze slid to Greg. "...I'm sure you
have cases you could give me. Not up to my usual taste, of course, but you're
always buried in backlog of trivial things that shouldn't take more than an
hour to solve. Give me something."
Greg opened his mouth like he was about to argue, he didn't need Sherlock to
solve every case for him, but then thought again. Leaving Sherlock down here
and bored was not a good idea. And as much as Greg would have liked to deny it,
there were a few cases he would love to have Sherlock take a look at.
"Alright, fine. Up to my office." He dropped his hand mid gesture and gave a
nod to the doctor. "Give me a call when you find anything?"
Dr. Kaplan smiled and waved Greg out, no doubt a little relieved to be rid of
them.
Sherlock plastered on his best smile just until they were out of the doctor's
visual range. "Competent enough. She'll be able to process the samples for me
without needing dictated instructions. Unlike some of the staff. So." Sherlock
fixed his eyes on Greg while they walked. Impatience was still there,
skittering beneath his surface. The detective wanted the samples done now, and
knew that was an impossibility, but that wouldn't prevent him from making
everyone around him miserable once boredom set in and ruined his mood. "How
many folders are in the unsolved bin, currently?"
Greg turned to give him a look as they walked. "Uh, well. A...few." He was
scratching the back of his neck and pointedly watching the elevator light
descend while they waited. "Been pretty busy lately," he added with a note of
preemptive defensiveness. Still, Greg had learned long ago that a bruised ego
was not worth shutting Sherlock down when he was being helpful.
They spent the next two hours holed up in either Greg's office or the evidence
lockers, going over file after file, most of which Sherlock turned up his nose
at.
Sally caught sight of them once from across the department office and promptly
headed in the other direction, after which Greg felt a little guilty, but not
guilty enough to stop.
There was only so much Sherlock could do with lists and bits of evidence,
rather than inspecting the scenes himself to look for missed clues, but his
solve rate was still uncanny. Two hours later, Greg had a list of names for
warrants and short summaries for how to close seven cases. Seven. The spike
would mess with his team's averages, to be sure, and bruise a few more egos,
but it would be good for their careers. It was rare that Sherlock was in a good
enough mood to solve cases he normally disdained and hand them back without
taking a bit of credit.
"God, what is it like?" Sherlock muttered. "How do you not see these things?
What else do you miss, stumbling around through the world like this? The dental
assistant was obvious!"
Greg shrugged, sitting on his desk with half a cup of cold coffee in hand.
"Can't all live up to your fine standards. And I'll never know what else I
miss, cause I've missed it." He was smiling. Sherlock's insults rolled of his
back like water. This was practically civil conversation for them, and Greg had
gotten what he'd wanted and more.
It was at that moment his phone buzzed. He didn't need to tell Sherlock who it
was. "We're needed in the basement." That was what they'd affectionately taken
to calling the labs. It was certainly cold enough. "Pronto," Greg added as a
new text came in.
Sherlock was already on his feet and turning the door handle. Greg had to rush
to catch up with him while Sherlock swept off toward the elevators.
Some officers hadn't missed his way of dramatically rushing about and making
himself useful in the most obnoxious ways conceivable, but Greg had. Sherlock
had been, and was, more than a tool to close cases, and more than just a
friend.
They entered the elevator together. Sherlock looked disapprovingly at the
glowing floor display that slowly counted down while they descended.
Greg was silent next to him, shifting in place until the doors chimed and
Sherlock lurched out into the hall and Lestrade was once again following one
step behind.
They swept through the double doors like they were crashing a party, which
wouldn't be far from usual for Sherlock, only to find the doctor they left
whirling and rushing up to them with a tablet of her findings in hand. "You are
not going to believe this!" The dismembered hand was still in its quarantine
case. "It was decomposing so fast because it was infected. At first I thought
it was Ebola, but it doesn't look like it."
"None of the known five?" Sherlock's voice was steady, but he had paled. Ebola-
type viruses were nothing to fool around with. An epidemic in body-dense London
would be catastrophic, particularly in the poorer neighborhoods. "That would
explain the advanced tissue necrosis. If it isn't a documented Ebola virus,
what are the other options? We need to know what it is and how it's spread. The
message depends on it." Contagion by accident might make the hand a warning.
Purposeful contagion would likewise be a warning, but for something else: a
death threat, possibly an attempt to carry it out as well, with the hand's
former owner then a likely victim of murder instead of a mere victim of chance.
"I haven't seen anything like it before." She laid the tablet down on a table
for them to see, flipping through photographs from the microscope - cellular
structure, tissue damage, and the unmistakable rod-like structure of virus
particles. She'd begun to compare its RNA sequence against other known viral
agents in search of a match, and wasn't finding one. "From the hemorrhaging, I
thought it could be Ebola, but genetically it looks closer to the types of
viruses that cause rabies." Greg shot her a look of disbelief. "Either way,
it's infectious. Extremely so."
Sherlock's eyes went distant as she spoke. Something about what she'd said had
triggered a sense of recollection - some distant memory. "Give me a moment," he
murmured, then stepped away from Lestrade and the doctor, putting a bit of room
between them. He didn't want their prattle to interrupt.
He went down and in, hands raised while he resurfaced in the corridors of his
mind palace. Sherlock's footsteps echoed down the wood paneled hallways. He was
looking for a very particular room: the biology lab from his few years at
university. Or, more specifically, the data he'd stored in the file cabinets,
reams of data about biological functions and dangers.
Time stood still while he walked, and yet Sherlock thought he heard something.
The echoes of his footsteps were a bit off. Like an echo. As if a second pair
were following.
A chill prickled down the back of his neck, but when he turned to look, there
was nothing. Only the dull resonance of florescent lights in the familiar hall.
It wasn't often his mind palace held unexpected physical sensations in such a
setting, but Sherlock had not visited this lab in some time. When he turned to
walk again, the echo followed. A trick of the acoustics, perhaps. His
subconscious mind being distracted by Lestrade and Dr. Kaplan’s presence,
perhaps. The deeper he moved to his destination, however, the colder the
atmosphere became.
Sherlock wasn't in a rush. Time passed differently here; searching the room in
question would be a matter of seconds to a few minutes from the perspectives of
those around him.
Still, something was different. Sherlock reached the doorway and found that his
breath was misting slightly from cold. Even his skin felt chilled.
Very strange indeed.
Not even the portion of his palace that held bodies was so cold.
Sherlock turned the handle and let himself in. Everything was as he'd left it.
A rare patch of sunlight from the high and narrow windows gleamed across the
deserted classroom floor, full of empty lab tables and empty desks. A skeleton
stood propped in one corner, real human bone twined together with wires to
assist in anatomy lessons. Cabinets lined the room, and one door led off into
further storage.
Sherlock opened the first cabinet and got to work.
He'd skimmed through half of it as fast as John flipped through channels on the
telly before he heard another sound. Behind him, and just to the left. As he
turned there was suddenly a tingle of sensation between his shoulder blades,
skimming up the back of his neck as though someone were invading his personal
space, leaning too close while he wasn't watching.
And there was no one there. Just the empty room, as silent as it had been
before, still draped in soft shadows.
When Sherlock resumed his search, he went through half the cabinet before he
heard it again. This time, out of the corner of his eye, a shape, large and
dark and very, very fast, skittered just out of sight.
Sherlock felt a rare jolt of fear. His attention diverted from the files
towards what shouldn't have been there. Nothing was supposed to be in this
place that he hadn't put there himself. His palace held no surprises, only
memories.
Or so he thought.
Heavy silence fell, and try as he might, Sherlock could discern no further
movement. His eyes hesitantly turned back towards the pages in his hand. A
thought had occurred to speak, to question and seek a response from the
shadows, but that was foolishness. There was nothing there but himself.
The temperature had been slowly dropping. As cold as it was before, and even
with the sliver of sunlight cast down from above, the room now held a biting
chill. It shouldn't have been winter in this memory. And even if it were, the
cold should have been outside and kept at bay, touched only from a distance of
time and reminiscence, not the kind that felt like tiny icepicks glancing off
Sherlock's cheeks.
After another minute of searching, the sound came again and very suddenly. An
echoing click sounded on the floor and something scurried away, just out of
sight, just faster than Sherlock could turn his head.
He shivered and rushed to finish. He'd almost found what he was looking for -
memories of reports from years back, of a deadly virus that had mimicked
rabies, yet been a completely different strain. His fingers danced over the
edges of folders until he found the correct one.
2009. The Bas-Congo virus. Only two people had died from hemorrhagic fever due
to the swift actions taken by health officials, but the news had been full of
terror. The virus had been completely different from other known Ebola virus
types, yet had similar symptoms and killed in a similar manner. It more closely
resembled the viruses that caused Lassa fever... and rabies. The victims of the
infection had died two to three days after becoming ill, and the virus
disappeared before the authorities could determine for certain how it was
transmitted.
Sherlock clutched the file to his chest. Very suddenly every one of his senses
told him that something was directly behind him. He steeled himself and turned
as quickly as he could.
Only to be faced with the empty room.
Everything had been left as perfectly in its place as it had been when Sherlock
entered. The shadows on the corners, ever present whenever Sherlock had snuck
into this classroom in reality, the sliver of what should have been warm light
on the floor, the beakers and vials that lined the counter tops.
All but the skeleton, whose hand swung leisurely from side to side.
Sherlock bolted from the room.
He ran down the hallway, fixated on one repetitive thought: this shouldn't have
been possible. His mind had never done this before. It shouldn't have been
trying to frighten him. Having the rules of his mind palace change on him was
as disorienting as having the earth's gravitational pull suddenly change in the
waking world. His limbs felt too slow and his heart pounded in his throat.
Sherlock opened his eyes and centered himself. His breath came in short pants.
He could still feel his pulse racing. "...Bas-Congo. Do you have the data to
compare the sequence to the Bas-Congo virus?"
Lestrade and the doctor were both staring at him as though he were going into a
mild state of shock.
"Bas... Oh!" Dr. Kaplan shook herself. It had taken a moment to realize what
Sherlock was talking about, but she moved to her workstation, quickly pulling
up a search. "Let me look..."
Greg's hand shot out and gripped Sherlock's upper. The DI looked startled. "You
okay?"
"I'm... not certain." Greg's hands felt incredibly hot through the fabric of
Sherlock's shirt. It was only then that Sherlock realized he was shivering. The
cold he'd felt hadn't been entirely in his mind. "Normally it's not so trying
to retrieve information in that manner. Something was different this time."
Sherlock paused. Despite himself, his gaze flickered from side to side. The
wariness had stayed with him; his mind had connected the cold to what he'd seen
and was looking for shadows. "...it's normally this chilled in this lab?"
"We don't call it the basement for nothing," Lestrade gave him a smile, but he
still looked worried. Sherlock was already wearing what was normally a
perfectly warm winter coat. "Where'd you have to go to come up with Bas-Congo?
Antarctica?"
Sherlock had once upon a time explained to Lestrade the process of his mind
palace and how he could physically recall places and information, sometimes
like documents in a hard drive, sometimes in a real setting if Sherlock had
taken the time and care to construct it, but Lestrade had never really brought
it up before. It had never been an issue.
"No, one of the classrooms at my old university. It shouldn't have been cold,
and I've never had sensations from there follow me back. It's all memories. You
don't think back on all the times you've seen a candle burning and suddenly get
scorched fingers." The detective frowned, but he couldn't see anything out of
the ordinary.
The doctor's coworkers were moving about the floor as if everything were
routine, and none of them were dressed to combat a heavy chill. Whatever had
caused Sherlock's suddenly cold flash, it wasn't the result of entering an
environment too cold for his coat to combat it.
Another spike of fear shot through Sherlock. The casings around the
contaminated hand should have been sufficient protection, but what if they
weren't? Perhaps the case hadn't meant to shield from infection.
"It's a match." The doctor interrupted Sherlock's thoughts and Lestrade's
attention turned to her. "We've got a severed hand full of Bas-Congo virus."
The look on her face said that this was not good news.
"I want a report asap. We need to know how this thing spreads and how deadly it
is, what the symptoms are, if there have been any other cases reported.
Anything. Now," Lestrade latched onto the one solid fact they had and went with
it.
"On it.” Dr. Kaplan gave a quick nod.
And with that, Sherlock's unusual encounter in his memories was forgotten as
Lestrade moved on to the real work at hand.
Sherlock frowned. "We won't know for certain how it spreads. It was assumed to
be similar to Ebola virus types in being contagious via bodily fluids, but
airborne contagion wasn't ruled out among the cases when it surfaced." He had
made a number of enemies over the years, certainly quite a few that would want
him dead, but this event was an oddity. Why go to the trouble to find a rare,
dangerous virus and deliver it to his doorstep, sealed into containers to
protect him from contracting the virus? Why would the perpetrator risk
themselves in touching infected flesh at all? Whoever had dismembered the hand
had put themselves at risk just being that close to an infected corpse, much
less wielding a blade near it.
If it had been Moriarty, Sherlock would have taken it as a taunt - a taste of
an event yet to come, and a challenge to play the game with him.
That had been something Sherlock had missed, really. So many criminals he'd
taken down since Moriarty's death had been boring, petty, mundane - even those
who'd been a part of Moriarty's network. Moriarty had been an artist among a
sea of pre-school finger painters.
"So it's a warning, then?" Lestrade seemed to catch on. He and the doctor
glanced to the silent Sherlock, and they had to be thinking the same thing. If
it was anyone other than Moriarty after the show he made only days ago, it
would be a pretty high coincidence. "I'll get on the CCTV footage," Greg
sighed, knowing he was not looking forward to whatever was about to start.
"I've got to decide whether to inform the press."
To inform, or not inform, that was the question. Telling the press that a
severed hand filled with a highly dangerous virus would quickly throw the
public into a state of paranoia. Shoppers would rush to stock up on emergency
supplies and clinics and hospitals would get hit by an influx of people worried
that they'd contacted something more severe than the common cold. Holding the
information back was equally risky; if the virus escaped into the general
public and caused any fatalities, it wouldn’t be recognized for what it was.
And then the people would look for someone to hang as a scapegoat.
"At minimum, the HPA needs to be informed," Sherlock finally added. "They'll
have more extensive records on this virus and what we need to be looking for.
We may also want to consider informing MI6. If this is Moriarty, he's not
sloppy. Having the virus escape and kill civilians would just be a triviality.
Either there are specific targets he'd want to take out with this, or to infect
a very particular portion of the populace in order to embarrass and ruin
someone who will be held accountable for those resultant deaths."
Lestrade caught his eye. "Likeliest candidate so far is you." Moriarty had
tried to ruin Sherlock's name before. For the first part of the year he'd been
back, he'd kept under the radar, but that hadn't lasted long. "I'll warn the
HPA and put together something for the press. If there's any chance this could
spread to the general public, we've got to get the word out. I assume you can
inform your brother?" Greg raised an eyebrow. Something about Mycroft had
unsettled him the one time they’d met, and it showed.
"He likely already knows I've received a suspect package," Sherlock rolled his
eyes. "But yes, I'll inform him."
Lestrade knew that his brother was more than he claimed to be, which meant the
DI wasn't a complete fool, but Sherlock doubted he knew much more. An unusual
dynamic existed between the two. Mycroft claimed to watch him like a hawk out
of brotherly concern, which might be true, but Sherlock would stake his
reputation on the suspicion that Mycroft watched Lestrade for more reasons than
mere security matters. He doubted Lestrade knew about the cameras in his
office.
“Right then." Greg rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Let's just hope we don't
have an epidemic on our hands. I've got to get on the phone. If you find
anything else, you let me know." He pinned Sherlock under a familiar stare, one
that said he'd been given the slip by the consultant too many times and that
Sherlock had better keep the Met in the loop. If the threat was serious, it
could send the whole of London into panic.
Sherlock said nothing, and Greg finally turned to answer the call of Procedure.
Lestrade was bound by the rules of his position; Sherlock wasn't.
Sherlock turned back to the doctor. "Show me everything you've found. I'll also
need to look at the sample. I have to determine whether the limb was severed
post-mortem, and how." Details were everything.
"Alright, I wouldn't normally do this, but...." Dr. Kaplan knew Sherlock's
reputation and how often he wound up in the Met as practically one of the
staff. He was practically a consulting chemist as well. Sherlock was already
ahead of her moving back to the dismembered hand under observation. "All my
findings are here on the tablet. You can take a look at the sample if you
want..." He already was. "But nothing leaves this lab," she finished. "From the
rate of hemorrhaging, I'd guess the subject was infected to a fatal degree
before the hand was removed, but I can't tell whether the virus was the actual
cause of death."
"Without the rest of the body, it may prove very difficult to tell,” Sherlock
mumbled over his shoulder. “Contrary to popular belief, these sorts of viruses
don't kill by bleeding a victim out or liquefying flesh. Organ failure is
generally the cause of death. You'll want to have a battery of tests done -
anything showing impaired organ function, although some of that may not be
conclusive. Knowing that a victim died by asphyxiation wouldn't tell us whether
it was due to lung impairment or purposeful suffocation unless we found the
rest of the body."
Sherlock turned the contained sample over underneath the lab station's light.
His eyes narrowed. The wrist had been severed cleanly, without any damage to
the bone or ragged gashes. Which meant someone knew their anatomy, and the
victim hadn't struggled during the amputation. Hemorrhaging from the virus made
it incredibly difficult to tell whether it was a pre- or post-mortem wound, but
for the unusual texture on one side. The victim's hand had been palm-down
during amputation; blood seepage was more intense on one side, and the vessels
had contracted after severing. Without the heart pumping, bleeding had been
predominantly one-sided. "Regardless, the amputation was not the cause of
death."
They worked over the hand for the better part of the next two hours.
Dr. Kaplan had brought up what data she could about the known cases of Bas-
Congo virus. With her information combined with Sherlock's search of his own
mental database, they determined that an aerosol dispersant would likely
transmit the virus as well as contact with fluids, which only added a new level
of danger to the situation.
Lestrade called Sherlock back up to the offices to help find anything in the
CCTV footage they were missing. They'd caught the delivery on camera, but
couldn't follow the culprit after a series of taxi cab pickups. He looked to be
male, at least six feet, face obscured with a hoodie. Sherlock was able to
determine a possible military background from both the man's pace and stance
and the way observed his surroundings, but little else.
It was early evening by the time the call came in. Another package had arrived
in one of the outlying suburbs, this time without a plastic container.
"Quarantine whoever intercepted it," Sherlock ordered. "And check with Dr.
Kaplan. There aren't any official treatments in the case of infection, but she
should have access to reports of unofficial treatments that have been tried."
Surviving infection was rare, but not impossible. Containment was still the
primary concern. "Who was the target?"
"Just a family. Far as I can tell," Greg hung up his phone while members of the
Met dashed around them, following Sherlock's orders after only a cursory wave
from Lestrade to get them moving. He took to the halls with Sherlock fast at
his heels. "Guy's an insurance salesman, he's the one who picked up the box. No
ties to law enforcement, big business, government. We're checking on relatives,
but I think it'll come up clean. He's a nobody. Wife was home. Kid's at the
neighbor's. This was random."
They climbed into Lestrade's car and followed the sirens. Over the radio they
were notified the first responders had been informed and HPA was on their way.
Their destination lay in East Barnet.
Sherlock hadn't missed anything in his own box. Of this, he was certain. His
box was a warning, a declaration of intent. If this was Moriarty, the second
box wouldn't be truly random. Perhaps the victim would be, but there would be a
message, a puzzle. Moriarty understood the Game; an imposter wouldn't.
He wouldn't admit as much to anyone, but part of Sherlock hoped it wasn't an
imposter.
Moriarty had shown warning signs, but Sherlock hadn't really expected the
criminal to kill himself and leave Sherlock alone on the rooftop. He'd
outwitted the murder-suicide, just barely, but now was left with a conspicuous
absence on the other side of the chess board. No other opponent could match up.
"Another hand, or something different this time?"
"A foot," Greg cocked his head in distaste. "Makes you wonder if we're going to
keep getting body parts until they run out."
By the time they made it to the house the sky was darkening and clouds were
rolling in. Greg didn't know whether rain would interfere with their quarantine
efforts, but he still swore when he got out of the car.
HPA were already on the scene, setting up a taped off perimeter and trying to
determine whether the intended victim and his wife had been infected. The Met
officers were sectioned off from the scene and delegated to keeping watch.
Not Lestrade. "Let's see what's going on." They moved up the walkway, a little
wary of getting too close, before they were stopped by an HPA officer. Greg
flashed his badge and demanded to know how the situation looked.
"Too early to tell. We've taken their boy into custody to hand him off to
relatives. We won't know whether Mr. and Mrs. Forthert are infected until their
blood samples have finished processing." The HPA officer grimaced. "Nasty
stuff, this. We don't know much about this strain."
"Do you have the foot contained?" Sherlock interrupted. "I have to inspect the
crime scene. That includes the severed limb." Sherlock didn't doubt they only
had so much time before another piece was deposited on some poor sod's
doorstep, but even he wasn't so rash as to dash through the quarantine line and
infect himself.
"Yes, we've got it contained, but you'll have to suit up." The officer was
eyeing Sherlock up and down, no doubt trying to figure out who he was.
"We've got a hand," Greg interrupted, "Arrived around noon. We need to see if
they're a match."
The officer, looking much more mollified, gave them suits and gloves and face
masks, everything Sherlock usually did his best to avoid. There was no way
around it today, however.
Once properly suited up, they were let inside.
There on the dining table was the cardboard box, similar to the one that had
arrived on Baker Street. The foot itself had been moved into a plastic
container next to it and was being inspected by two HPA officers. A third and
fourth were checking over the Fortherts, sitting in the kitchen and looking
very pale.
Observing from behind thick plastic lenses and a mask was... less than optimal.
Sherlock wasn't going to fight over concerns about contamination and safety
this time, but it slowed down his process. He felt like he was moving too
slowly, and his breath fogged his protective eyewear slightly and sounded loud
to his own ears.
Nothing, absolutely nothing. The box was the same - same cardboard type,
dimensions, and construction, unmarked but likely to have been obtained from
the same source. No notes inside, and someone had already thought to dust for
prints. No one who knew they were working with deadly virus-infested tissue
would be so careless as to leave prints.
The foot sample was in the same state of decay, and of the right size to be a
possible match with the hand. Sherlock filed this note away and swept back out
to the front of the house to examine the doorstep. No trace pieces of evidence
that he could find, and CCTV cameras were much sparser in the suburbs. A quick
examination of the street turned up nothing; there'd be no video footage to
assist them here. They wouldn't even know if the same man had dropped the
package off.
Greg joined him on the porch, glad to get rid of his mask. "So do you think
they're a match?" he asked, but at the same time his phone went off. He had to
dig through layers of the hazmat suit and his jacket just to fish it out.
"What?" He turned away, face falling. Something else had happened. "Has the
Commissioner been notified? Yes. Alright."
When he hung up, Greg looked up at Sherlock with a pained expression. "Another
one's been found. Package left at the airport. Never made it onto a plane, but
they're shutting the place down. Don't think anyone's been in contact with it,
but..."
"He's getting quicker. Get us there, now." Sherlock stalked off towards the
squad car they'd arrived in, trailing a flustered DI behind him. "The victim is
likely to be the same, but a DNA test will have to confirm it. Or perhaps we'll
find enough boxes to put the entire jigsaw back together."
Sherlock got into the passenger side. Lestrade had just taken his seat at the
wheel when Sherlock's phone rang. A glance at the name on the caller ID made
his stomach clench, but for once he ignored the impulse to just let it go to
voicemail. "Yes?"
"Ah, answering for once. Good." Sherlock grimaced at the patronizing tone
filling his ears. "I thought it wise to inform you that I'll be increasing your
security detail. That plane that was supposed to send you to Eastern Europe? It
never would have made it if I hadn't recalled you. Someone tampered with the
wiring and would have forced a premature landing, if not caused a crash."
"Today is just full of good news, then. We've got a mailbomber who's decided
that the Bas-Congo virus makes for a more exciting weapon than regular
explosives." Sherlock felt a small bit of satisfaction at the silence that
followed. He'd surprised Mycroft. "The latest hit Heathrow airport. We're on
our way there."
Lestrade did a double take from the driver's seat before he realized who
Sherlock must be talking to. He stepped on the gas, putting on his lights and
passing traffic left and right.
"You are not to get yourself infected, do you h-" Sherlock switched his phone
off and dropped it in his pocket before his brother could finish nagging at him
to stay safe. He wasn't a child anymore, no matter what Mycroft might think.
It wasn't long before they encountered another detail of squad cars heading for
the airport. Lestrade wouldn't have control there, but he would at least be
able to get them in and on the scene.
Traffic was jammed. Pedestrians, airport security, travelers, and staff lined
the walkways after having been evacuated. They parked on the sidewalk and once
again Lestrade was tailing Sherlock as he jogged up on long legs to the third
gate, where the commotion seemed to be centered.
Sherlock disregarded the barriers that had been put up to keep people out and
made a beeline for the station supplying protective gear rather than where he
assumed the next sample was. He could hear Lestrade behind him, mollifying the
personnel he'd ran past and supplying his credentials.
By the time Greg finally caught up, Sherlock had on mask and gear. Lestrade
didn't even bother. "You check out the evidence, I'm going to see if they know
how this all played out." They needed to know at what time the box had been
dropped rather than the time it had been found and how that compared to the
time of the last drop. That might tell them how many players there were in on
this game. Lestrade wouldn't be able to tell one dismembered hand from another
anyway.
Thanks to him, the necessary excuses had at least been made for Sherlock's
involvement.
Sherlock brushed past the staff and finally got to the center of everyone's
attention.
The sight that greeted him nearly made him sigh in pleasure.
A severed head lay in a box. Glassy eyes were rolled up and the victim's tongue
was swollen and protruding slightly outside of the mouth. Her mouth. The victim
was a woman and, judging from the dried blood that had leaked out from various
orifices and the wounds around the stump of her neck, she had died from the
virus, rather than from the decapitation. Combined with the fingerprints they
could extract from the severed hand, the Met would be able to supply him with
the victim's name and personal data.
The woman was no one Sherlock recognized. Not unless she'd been a client that
he'd later deleted. If there was a reason she'd been targeted, it hadn't been
due to personal connections to him.
Lestrade was talking to another DI off in the distance, no doubt comparing
notes. Personnel moved mechanically around Sherlock as they inspected the
tissue of the head and its placement relative to the environment. They'd been
started scouring the cameras from the moment they'd discovered the head, but
from Lestrade's sour expression it didn't look like they'd found any more than
he and Sherlock already had. All in all, the head was far more interesting.
Just as he was staring into the woman's lifeless gaze, Sherlock felt a prickle
of cold run up his back.
He thought he saw something in her expression. He stooped and, despite every
instinct in him that told him to get away, leaned closer. There'd been
something in her eyes - a flicker, something that had caught the light.
He was only inches away when he saw it again. She’d had brown eyes, now glazed
over in death, but still they reflected slightly. Sherlock could see himself in
them and, just behind him, what looked like another face.
A face that shouldn't have been there.
Sherlock froze, and in that instant the head gurgled, enough for a sticky,
tarlike trickle of half-dried blood to make its way out of her mouth. The
detective jumped backwards as quickly as he could.
One of the specialists put out a hand to back the rest of the team away, just
until they were sure the trickle had stopped and nothing else was going to
spatter.
Lestrade, seeing the commotion from afar, dashed as close as he dared get.
"What happened!"
While Sherlock was getting his bearings, the team went back to work, unfazed. A
few of them glanced skeptically at the consulting detective.
Sherlock was already rising to his feet and dusting himself off. He could feel
his heartbeat in his throat. He took a couple of deep breaths to give his voice
time to resettle; he didn't want Lestrade to know he'd been shaken. "Nothing,
really. I thought something might have been lodged at the edge of the victim's
eye, something other than dried blood. I went to get a closer look and... well.
The rest of her passageways are clogged, apparently, so gas escaped from her
mouth and brought more blood with it. Nothing I haven't seen before, but I
haven't been so close to a serious bloodborne virus, either."
Lestrade nodded. That was a perfectly legitimate reason to get out of the way
when blood started flowing. He'd just never known Sherlock to be so jumpy.
"We've got an ID on her. Andrea Welsh. Doctor Andrea Welsh. Just so happened to
be one of the top researchers in virology in the city." Greg frowned down at
the head. "Needless to say, I don't think she did this to herself."
"No, certainly not." That explained where samples of the virus might have come
from, but not the motive or goal. "Any other disappearances around her?
Coworkers, family, friends. Someone who might have gained access to her
workplace by using her badge, or who already worked there with her. We're
looking for either someone who aided in the crime, or potential future
victims."
A secondary thought gripped Sherlock. "...I'll also need to know what she was
working on. Her research. Whether she specialized in particular strains. If
someone broke into her lab for dangerous pathogens to use as weapons, they
might have also been looking for information on how to utilize it in ways the
general public hasn't seen before."
"Finding out on the work situation now. Apparently she'd been out of touch for
a couple days, didn't show up to work, but nobody really noticed. Clinic was
used to working odd hours and such." Lestrade didn't look happy. It was going
to be hard to pin down a time of disappearance. "This is escalating. First a
house in the suburbs, then the airport. Our PR guy is on the news. We're going
public whether we like it or not." It was for the best, Lestrade knew, but they
were playing into the hands of whoever was behind this.
Greg took a moment to fix Sherlock in his gaze. "Does this look like him?"
Before Sherlock could open his mouth to answer, he could have sworn he heard a
low, sweet sound, the faintest whisper, as if floating in on a nonexistent
wind.
Sherlock's gaze shifted without thinking, leaving Greg's face to try to find
the source of the sound. As before, there was nothing. If Sherlock hadn't known
he was completely clean since his attempt to fool Magnusson, he might have
attributed all of this to withdrawal. Clearly, something was wrong and
tampering with his senses. He shouldn't have felt this unnerved.
"The rapid escalation is very much like Moriarty, but we still lack a message.
The body parts are similar to how he'd try to taunt me, but... Let's just say
I'm unconvinced. Starting fires just to watch people dance wouldn't be so
unusual if he was targeting someone else, but the first body part was sent to
me. If it was Moriarty, I think it would feel more... personal." Particularly
given their last encounter.
Lestrade opened his mouth to respond, but his phone buzzed again. He picked up
and ducked his head, trying to drown out the noise in the background. He nodded
and made noises of assent a couple times before his face turned pinched.
"Shit." He lowered the phone and turned to Sherlock. "One of her coworkers has
been missing from work for a week. Family can't get hold of him. Dr. Alex
Russell. Both worked at the MRC Medical Research center. He's got an apartment
near Brent Cross."
Just as Lestrade was turning away, something brushed up the back of Sherlock's
neck.
Sherlock shivered and reached to touch the spot. His gloved hands met plastic
covering. He was still decked out in protective gear, enough that he shouldn't
have felt anything.
Perhaps fear had caused him to perspire. The detective shook himself and
followed Lestrade away from the crime scene, ready to strip off their gear and
head out.
"Send someone to the MCR to pull security footage and check their inventory,”
Sherlock had to call over his shoulder while they were helped to undress. “I'll
need to know if their work overlapped on any significant projects, particularly
virus-related ones. We're going to Dr. Russell's apartment." Far more likely
for the man to be kidnapped close to home than directly outside a building with
a significant amount of security.
"Right." Lestrade grabbed a sergeant and went over the new plan while Sherlock
stepped out of the last of the safety gear. In five minutes they were back in
the car, making a hasty retreat through the congested traffic and the London
drizzle.
Once they escaped the airport, moving through the city with Lestrade's sirens
went more smoothly. Still, Sherlock could only stare out the window as they
headed north. Rain pattered down its side, painting streaks across his view and
dulling the buildings beyond. Lights were coming on, the nightlife just
beginning to wake up and move out onto the streets. His warm breath fogged the
scenery.
Minutes ticked by and soon Greg was parking. The neighborhood in Brent Cross
Dr. Russell had resided in looked modest but was well kept and firmly middle
class. Just as Sherlock was about to open the door, the air shifted. Something
changed, like an electricity spark, the crackle of lightning where there was
none.
Sherlock felt like he was being followed.
He had no idea if he was suffering from poor sleep, or an early-onset illness,
or perhaps just being on-edge since Moriarty’s video transmission. Waiting for
disaster to hit, something bigger than even would-be virus bombs. He was seeing
Moriarty where he couldn't possibly be, and a lack of him from where everyone
else suspected his hand.
Sherlock wondered if it was possible for two criminals to be stalking him at
once - one new one with an unknown motive, and Moriarty watching from the
shadows and gauging Sherlock’s performance. Waiting to see if he was still a
worthy adversary to play with.
Dr. Russell's front door was locked, but the back proved not to be. Sherlock
opened his magnifying glass and found subtle, telltale marks; the back door had
been picked, the alarm quickly turned off. Someone professional, then, who
hadn't wanted to draw attention to the break-in.
Lestrade and a pair of uniformed officers were reluctantly set behind him. They
didn't expect to run into trouble, but safety protocol said they should be the
first ones in the house. Sometimes, it was almost easier on Lestrade when
Sherlock went off and did these things without them. He never liked allowing
Sherlock in the lead.
A cursory shout for Dr. Russell told them no one was home, as they'd expected,
and once inside the officers moved from room to room in a sweeping search along
with Sherlock's warning not to disturb anything. As if they needed to be told.
The place was empty. And clean.
Too clean.
Sherlock slid into observational mode, deadpan as he stalked through the house
looking for clues. His posture contorted every so often as he bent to examine
things closer, or from different angles - a hawk pecking through debris, trying
to spot where his prey has disappeared to.
"The table's been moved." Sherlock's voice split the silence and startled the
nearest office. The detective pointed so Lestrade could get a better look.
"Scuff marks against the wall, recently cleaned off with formaldehyde-melamine-
sodium foam. It leaves a slight residue behind that you can spot if you look at
the right angle. The table was dusted before the items were replaced - the
surface is slightly cleaner than other ones in this room, suggests that someone
didn't want to leave signs that this had been disturbed by merely replacing the
objects on top and leaving dust streaks. The table also wasn't set back in
quite the same location. Someone vacuumed before they left to remove trace
evidence, but when a piece of furniture has resided in the same place for
years, the indentation it leaves cannot be removed with a few sessions of
vacuuming."
The other officers glanced at Sherlock with that all too common wide eyed look
of surprise. Lestrade was less phased.
"Sign enough of a struggle for me," Greg announced. "So if Russell's been
abducted, same as Welsh, where were they taken? Assuming it was their work that
allowed our suspect to get his hands on a virus like that, he'd have had to go
to their lab. Or send one of them to the lab." His phone was buzzing again and
he picked it up mid sentence. The call didn't take long. "Just confirmed with
the guys over at MCR, they've got samples missing."
Sherlock was moving from closet to closet. He finally located the vacuum
cleaner in question. "...bag's been removed. We're looking at a professional,
one who knew he'd have time to be methodical." The question was, why send
Sherlock a clue at all? He hadn't been targeted for primary infection, and the
corpse pieces had been dispersed at random, and quickly, in order to keep them
running and spark a public panic.
"...has anyone else not shown up for work? Other lab specialists. Not
necessarily from MCR, but other medical facilities." Sherlock began pacing. As
infectious as this type of virus was, airbourne infection wasn't a certainty.
If the culprit behind this wanted to weaponize it, he'd want a more failsafe
method of distribution. "...we're nearly to flu season, aren't we."
Lestrade blinked, not following. "...yeah?"
The two officers in the background meanwhile called in Sherlock's request,
trying to find out if anyone else was missing from the MCR lab first. It would
be a task to find out if there were workers missing from other labs; they'd
have to call one by one and hope that they hadn't missed any.
Sherlock looked like he was thinking at breakneck speed, eyes darting back and
forth, seeing something unfold in his mind that Greg couldn't yet.
"Spreading via the air isn't a certainty with this strain, because it's
unproven and doesn't hold true with better-known Ebola virus strains. Body
fluids are the major form of contamination, and thwarted by good quarantine
techniques. Even if the packaging technique infected a few people here or
there, it wouldn't be enough to cause an epidemic and it places the delivery
person at severe risk of being caught and allowing us to find who's behind it."
Sherlock met Greg's eyes. "Routine scheduled blood transfusions are rare, so
infecting blood bank supplies wouldn't be beneficial. But there's one major
event where, at least once a year, the majority of the populace follows the
recommendations of health professionals and allows a nurse to inject them with
a weakened or disabled form of a disease, trusting it to shield them from more
dangerous illness. Flu vaccines. With a few specialists who know how to
cultivate the right cells and create vaccines, one could simply make live,
injectable forms of the virus and mislabel them as influenza vaccines, then
distribute them to clinics. Widespread distribution, instant epidemic."
The room went silent. Greg swore under his breath. Sherlock had captured the
attention of every officer, their phones forgotten in their hands.
Lestrade was the first to into action, pointing at his team. "Find out if there
are any vaccine manufacturers nearby and get them on the phone now. We need to
find out if they've been contaminated."
The reply came quickly. "One in Sussex, two in Cambridge. And a few more
outside the area."
"Get somebody out to each, and warn them to shut down in the meantime. We're
heading to Cambridge. Let's move!" The team followed Greg swiftly back outside
and into the rain. It was coming steadily now and they all ducked, phoning in
to the station for help. Cambridge was their best bet, but it could be any
company nearby.
In the middle of the commotion, however, Sherlock's phone vibrated. A single
text popped up on the screen.
So did you... Miss me?
Sherlock glanced up. Greg was already moving ahead, the other officers in tow.
He had a few moments before they noticed he'd fallen back.
The text's number was blocked, no doubt rerouted in such a way to make it
untraceable, but Sherlock bet that he could send a text back. Surprised it took
this long. I would have thought you would miss the Game. You abandoned the
board and let me take all of your pawns.
The next text came in instantly. You can't fool me, Sherlock. You still don't
believe it's really me, do you? That's unfortunate. Up on that roof all those
years ago, do you remember? I told you we were the same and you agreed. You
told me you weren't on the side of the angels. And still you didn't complete my
story. I'd like to fix that now.
Lestrade and the other officers were shouting back and forth about something,
negotiating logistics just long enough to give Sherlock another moment's worth
of time.
Self-inflicted gunshot wounds to the head are rarely survivable. And yet, a
flicker of doubt passed through Sherlock. Unlikely as it was that Moriarty had
survived, much less survived and become high-functioning again, it wasn't
completely impossible. It would explain why Sherlock had been able to take down
the network unimpeded; if Moriarty had been trying to recover, he wouldn't have
been able to focus on anything else. Is that what this is, bitterness that we
both faked it?
Sherlock couldn't let Moriarty endanger everyone again.
If it was him, he wouldn't hesitate to rip apart everyone he knew Sherlock
cared about: Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft. His parents. John and Mary, and
their yet-unborn daughter. The thought of it sent tingles up Sherlock's spine.
He didn't feel anything for most people, but when he did, feelings tended to
run deep and were hard to root out again.
His phone chimed again. You were faking. I was faking. We could be suicide
buddies, don't you think? Come on Sherlock, don't you want to see me again?
Just for old time's sake?
The wind suddenly howled, blowing a gust against Sherlock's tall frame and
sending icy prickles through the opening of his coat collar. For a split second
he got that sense of a presence standing just behind him again, as though
someone were there looming just out of sight over his shoulder, but the violent
burst dissipated as quickly as it had come.
Sherlock thought quickly. Lestrade had finally paused at the car and looked up,
waiting for Sherlock to join them. He shook his head; Lestrade couldn't be
risked in this, and if he knew, he'd want to be there as backup.
"I have something to take care of first. Go," Sherlock shouted. He could only
hope Greg assumed he was delaying in order to meet with his brother and provide
further backup for containing the danger.
His hands moved quickly over his phone screen. Where?
61 Willow Walk, Tower Bridge. Come and get me.
Sherlock recognized the location, back in the heart of London, a self storage
business next to a complex of warehouses.
Lestrade shook his head in nervous irritation but climbed into the car with the
others. He couldn't afford to wait. Their lights came on and they drove away,
splashing water up onto the sidewalk as they went.
The sky was nearly black now and Lestrade’s car was just a beacon of flashing
lights down the road as they sped away.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Sherlock called a cab. His thoughts were a tangle while he waited. What if it
was Moriarty? No one else had been on the rooftop. No one else should have been
privy to their conversation. Moriarty hadn't called his snipers to tell them to
back off and, in the end, Mycroft's men had managed to take down each one who
was camped by their target.
Sherlock had been at a loss since he’d gotten back, truth be told. He'd had a
purpose when he'd gone underground, rooting out Moriarty's network so that the
people he cared about would be safe. And then he'd returned and John, his John,
had moved on. He'd found a delightful woman, and he was happy, and Sherlock
wouldn't destroy that happiness for the world, but nothing would ever be the
same again. Mary had made an effort to allow them time together, but things
hadn't reconnected in quite the same way. John was busier. John had other
priorities to think about. John couldn't risk himself in the same way anymore,
couldn't drop everything to play the Game whenever it arose, and this would
only become more true once their daughter was born. It was the end of an era.
That had been the reason Sherlock hadn't been overly distraught at the idea of
sacrificing his life in return for John Watson's safety and happiness. There
were things he couldn't get back again, and even Magnussen had proven a
disappointment.
"You were the best distraction, and now I don't even have you. Because I've
beaten you."
Sherlock could remember his adversary’s words clearly, as if the rooftop were
only yesterday.
He had to go. He had to see if Moriarty had truly survived.
When it came, Sherlock directed the cab back to Baker Street for a brief stop
before continuing on to Tower Bridge, not knowing what to expect when he
arrived.
They passed over darkened train tracks and streets deserted but for the
headlights of passing cars. The few pedestrians with umbrellas had faded away.
This wasn't an area of town that boasted much foot traffic, and few wanted to
be out and about in the weather besides.
Once the cab stopped, Sherlock found himself in front of a self storage
building and opposite a high backed stone wall. Of which on the other side he
knew lay several warehouses.
It was completely deserted.
His phone chimed again, just as the wind picked up, howling with an eerily high
pitch.
Ignore the storage. Once the cab leaves, climb the wall. I'll be waiting for
you on the other side.
Sherlock's gaze immediately went up, looking for a spotter in a window or on a
rooftop. No shadows were in sight to give away the presence of backup, even
though Moriarty undoubtedly would have some. Private security cameras, rather
than CCTV were hooked onto the storage building. Hacked, most likely, so he
could watch for Sherlock's arrival.
The detective waited until the cab pulled out of sight and no one else was in
view on the street. A running start got him partway up the wall, and scaling
the rest was a piece of cake.
The other side was just as deserted, but lined with expansive, unmarked
buildings and an access road between them. No sign of Moriarty in sight. When
no further instructions came via text, it was implied he had to be in one of
these buildings. Two of them looked to be storage facilities for public
transportation vehicles. Another two looked to be general machinery storage.
While Sherlock was deciding the temperature in the air was dropping. The wind
and the rain picked up and whipped his hair into his eyes. Droplets of water
began to sting as they fell.
From a short distance away came a loud crack, making Sherlock jump, but it was
nothing like the sound of a gun. The door to the machinery storage building
swung slowly open on its hinge.
Sherlock's hand went into his pocket. He'd acquired a gun in the interim time
since John had moved out. He wasn't the crack shot that the doctor was, but it
had seemed prudent to invest in some amount of lethal protection if he was no
longer going to be working with an assistant that doubled as a bodyguard.
This had to be a trap. Sherlock knew it, and he couldn't resist the draw, but
he wasn't going to be a complete fool.
The detective's heartbeat sped up and there, there was the rush he'd missed.
He'd forsaken drugs after being strongarmed into it by his brother and
Lestrade, and the thrill of the Game had served as their replacement. Except
there hadn't been a suitable game for a while now. Nothing that sharpened the
world like this and made time flow in odd little swirls. It made life worth
living by virtue of chasing the pain and ennui away.
Sherlock's feet carried him closer. He wiped the rain out of his eyes and
cautiously passed through the open doorway.
One glance down told him the bolt had been forced, but there was no sign of
anyone in sight. Contrary to what he'd expected of the environment, it was even
colder in there than it was outside. For one unnerving moment he remembered the
chill of his mind palace.
Sherlock's eyes were adjusting to the dark. What little light had been cast in
from the door illuminated only several rows of machinery and shelving.
There came a clang from above and that was his only warning. Something big and
hard and very alive slammed into him, taking him down to the ground.
His breath was knocked out of him. Time stood still.
He calculated the weight and estimated height of the person who'd jumped onto
him - too big, too heavy for it to be Moriarty. A henchman, then. Sherlock
sucked in a ragged breath and tried to jerk his elbow back, aiming for tender
spots on the torso of the man behind him, but a large hand caught his limb
before the blow could connect.
His gun fell. A heavy boot kicked it and sent it clattering somewhere on the
other side of the building.
Sherlock was forced down by the weight of the other man alone and a deep voice
growled in his ear. "You're going to pay, Sherlock Holmes. I am going to hunt
you down and I'm going to love it." And just when Sherlock thought he might be
able to get his elbow under the man's sternum, he was released and kicked back
down to the floor.
Everything was pitch black, but he'd felt something when they'd connected,
something strapped to the man's head. His pursuer could see and he could not.
"Better run," the voice sounded again.
Adrenaline spurred Sherlock into action. He scrambled blindly, trying to put
some distance between himself and the other man. His gun was a lost cause; he'd
have to find another weapon or risk circling back.
Moriarty wasn't here. Moriarty wouldn't have permitted a henchman to hunt and
kill him when he could have that pleasure himself. Somehow, this was an agent
he'd missed, one who'd been close enough on that fateful day to have overheard
their conversation on the rooftop. A fourth sniper, perhaps.
Sherlock didn't have time to reflect upon it. Survival was the concern of the
moment. It'd be a pitiful end indeed if he bested Moriarty and his network and
Magnussen only to have one overlooked henchman do him in on a revenge spree.
His footsteps echoed and Sherlock used some of the sound to help him navigate,
along with the drafts of cold air. He still couldn't see in the gloom and when
he did run into something, his hands only met solid metal framework that he
couldn't use: scaffolds, metal drums, large chains fixed to pulley systems
higher up. He could climb, but it would be slow and noisy and simply attract
the other man's attention. He'd be trapped on top of a structure with edges he
couldn't see.
"What's wrong, Sherlock?" the harsh voice shouted from somewhere far away,
echoing off the walls. "What's that famous brain of yours good for if you can't
figure out how to get to me?"
His pursuer was giving him a comfortable head start, just to lure Sherlock into
the illusion of hope. He could have killed Sherlock on the spot, stuck a knife
in his back or shot him the moment he entered the warehouse. Instead, he wanted
a chase. That said something about the man.
Personal, this had to be personal.
None of the others that Sherlock had tracked down had been like this. Loyal,
yes, but out of fear and a wish for prosperous times to continue. A note in
this man's voice spoke of old hurt; some sort of attachment.
Perhaps Moriarty hadn't been quite as alone in the world as Sherlock had
thought. Moriarty hadn't valued it enough to stay alive, though.
Sherlock kept low and moved as quietly as he could, searching for bits of
light. Warehouses were never boxes with only one way in or out. There had to be
other exits he could break through to escape. While he moved past a pile of
crates, Sherlock's hand touched something: a crowbar. He snatched it up. A
short piece of metal was a poor defense, but better than none.
As soon as he did, a smattering of lights came on high in the rafters. They
dispelled the complete darkness, but now everything was awash in shadow. The
building itself was expansive, and for the most part open, but there were
stacks of machinery everywhere. It looked to be mostly car parts and other
vehicles, construction and transportation equipment. A few low walls and
scaffoldings sectioned the interior space off, from what Sherlock could see of
it, and his pursuer was nowhere in sight.
And then the crack of a gunshot whizzed by him. It sent Sherlock to the ground
from the sound alone. His pursuer hadn't missed by accident.
"Come on Sherlock!" The voice echoed. The way he kept using Sherlock's name,
definitely personal. "Tell me, what was it like up there? In those final
moments. Did you see that coming, did you guess he'd kill himself? Just like
you 'had it all planned out'? I think that’s bullshit."
So he'd picked up on that point in Sherlock's story, but probably not from the
news. Sherlock had explained it to Anderson. Anderson had informed his little
fanclub. They had posted his interview to the web, but still, this man had been
watching him for some time.
The man laughed, turning from furious into nonchalant nearly as fast as Jim
once had. "Jeez it's cold in here, don't you think? Sure you don’t want to come
out?"
"No, I didn't see that coming," Sherlock shouted back. Although he should have.
Pieces of Moriarty's demeanor should have cued him in, things that he'd said.
Even his choice of music, at times. His disdain of staying alive hadn't been a
dig at Sherlock and his plans for him; ennui had begun eating Moriarty, in the
same way it had started to drive Sherlock mad years ago. Sherlock had been his
last toy, the companion he'd wanted to drag with him into the afterlife, if
there was such a thing.
Sherlock moved cautiously, ducking quickly from cover to cover, scanning the
room both for his adversary and possible routes of escape. There weren't any
good options. Windows and ventilation panels were too high up for him to reach,
much less open quickly before he'd get shot. One dock door was on the other
side of the warehouse but, from what Sherlock could see, well bolted.
He could try to move back the way he came. Right now, that was the only other
exit Sherlock could see. Presumably, the gunman was somewhere between himself
and that door. But there it was. Between a stack of metal shelves and boxes, he
could see it still open to the rain outside.
The only escape.
Just as his eyes fixed on it, the temperature dropped further. Sherlock's
breath became fog. And slowly, so slowly at first he thought it was a trick of
the eye, the door creaked. And then slammed.
It sent a bang through the building nearly as loud as his pursuer's shot had
been.
From his position below, Sherlock saw the gunman rise like a spring from his
hiding place atop a scaffolding, handgun raised and aimed at the door. Where no
one was.
Then the lights went out.
Sherlock moved for the doorway. It was his best chance with the gunman
distracted by this turn of events. He ducked and weaved through the piles of
machinery, doing his best not to trip. Chill lanced right through to his bones,
and he could feel his own misted breath hitting his face as he ran.
For once, Sherlock had no idea what was going on. Survival was all that
mattered. If he made it out of this, he could try to puzzle out what had
occurred later.
The lights flickered, all of them this time, and there were at least a dozen
throughout the warehouse. It turned into a strobe effect that set Sherlock's
trajectory off as he ran, sending the world into darkness in one moment and
illuminating it in the next. Something crashed behind him and the sound of
heavy footfalls followed it. The gunman had fallen from his ledge, but he was
in pursuit. A bullet flew over Sherlock's shoulder and above them one of the
lights burst. A howling wind circled Sherlock's legs and swept up his body like
a living thing before it dissipated.
Behind him, Sherlock heard the gunman shout. Another bullet fired, but it came
nowhere close to Sherlock's direction.
He couldn't afford to look back to see what had spooked his assailant. Only a
few more meters and he would reach the door.
The detective slammed into the metal panel and clawed at the handle. Despite
his best efforts, it refused to budge. He swept his hands over the surface,
feeling and looking for a lock or latch while the lights kept up their mad
flickering. He found nothing. The door should have opened, but it was as solid
as if it had been welded shut. Even prying at the seam with the crowbar didn't
make it budge a centimeter.
Crowbar in hand, Sherlock turned and braced himself for a dash back across the
warehouse.
The lights flashed and something flew at him. It nearly took off his head. And
then another something came, hard and fast and landing behind him with the
clang of metal. A pair of wrenches. He couldn't see where they were coming from
with the lights going haywire, and it made ducking impossibly difficult, but he
could tell from the groan on the other side of the makeshift hall that they
were not propelled by the gunman.
There was a dull thud of metal hitting flesh and the man let out a cry. Again
his gun fired. When Sherlock caught a glimpse, all he could see was the man
lying on the ground, rolling desperately away from something unseen, dark blond
hair matted with blood as he sprawled over, the night vision goggles lying
uselessly beside him on the concrete floor.
Sherlock felt another wave of fear roll over him. It was one thing to be in
mortal danger, and he'd experienced that many times before, but this... was a
complete loss of control. His mind couldn't make sense of this. Something
unseen had taken out a military-trained gunman, and something unseen had thrown
heavy pieces of metal at his head. There were no wires, no magnets. They hadn't
fallen off a scaffold.
The lights were blinding, and Sherlock didn't move quickly enough. Another
wrench arched toward him and collided with his shoulder, and he went down.
The howling wind picked up again, and nothing made sense. They were inside. The
door was locked shut. But then, the more Sherlock listened, the more he
realized that it wasn't the wind howling. There was a distinct sound in the
fury of it, whipping at his coat and hair and stinging at his injured shoulder,
and it was distinctly a human voice.
Across the concrete floor, the gunman was back on his feet, but just barely. He
stared at Sherlock with horror written into his features. He could hear it,
too.
When Sherlock concentrated through the haze of fear and confusion, he could
even vaguely recognize the voice. Gone were the soft, lilting qualities that
had been used to tease and subtly threaten. This was all spitfire rage, a
harshness he'd heard only a few times before when its owner’s temper flared
beyond tight, methodical control.
From the way he paled, the blond man on the other side of the room recognized
it as well. He and Sherlock stared at each other, wide-eyed and
uncomprehending.
The flashing lights began to burst, one after another, with the voice rising
higher and higher in an unintelligible, earsplitting cry. The man across from
Sherlock visibly ducked and flinched, throwing his arms over his head to block
out the sound, before the world went black and the maelstrom abruptly died.
With ears ringing Sherlock nearly missed it, but a clatter came from across the
hall, punctuated by heavy footfalls as the gunman retreated. Another crash told
Sherlock he was either running into things as he went or the terror was
starting up again. Either way, his pursuer was on the run.
Sherlock shakily rose to his feet, listening to the footfalls grow faint.
His entire world felt inverted. He knew, logically, that anyone else in his
position would describe he’d just witnessed as supernatural activity. He also
knew that to be impossible. Ghosts didn't exist, or he would have known about
them. Someone would have been able to gather scientific proof.
Sherlock's mental denials repeated themselves in a silent mantra while he
backed slowly towards the door that had been sealed. His enemy had gone in the
opposite direction, spooked, but perhaps not for long. He'd test the door to
see if the lock still held one last time before he'd risk following the gunman.
This time it swung open easily.
The rain still poured outside, coming more heavily than when he'd entered. The
breeze picked up again in a sudden rush, making him jump. Something cracked and
snapped behind him, and then clanged to the ground. When he turned to look, one
of the wire shelves had fallen. The wind sluggishly tapered off, clinging to
his coat as though trying to hold onto its fury. The voice was gone, if in fact
he had heard it at all.
Shock was slowing him down, but Sherlock realized that he was in the clear for
the moment. The door was open, the gunman nowhere in sight. He shelved his
curiosity about the man and he ran as quickly as he could manage with the
water-slick pavement and his own shaky legs.
Time dragged as he went. Sherlock felt unusually tired when he managed to get
to a street busy enough to flag a cab down. The driver looked at his soaked
form and pale face with no small amount of alarm, but responded well enough to
a generous amount of quid and a croaked address. The cab lurched into motion
and Sherlock slid down to rest against the worn seat.
He knew he should probably tell someone, but what was he going to say? Admit
that he went off on the off-chance, bordering on hope, that Moriarty was alive
and have to explain that impulse? Describe the gunman and have to put up with
limitations and posted guards watching his every move? Confess what he'd seen
and heard that had ended the encounter, and have his apartment searched again?
He'd only just gotten replacement stocks now that his brother, John, and
Lestrade had all relaxed and stopped scrutinizing his behavior. He wasn't going
to go through the embarrassment and violation of a search again, or questions
about why he'd obtained an emergency cache.
The cab stopped at the kerb just outside 221 Baker Street. Sherlock didn't
bother thanking the driver. He slowly made his way up the stairs and into his
flat, shedding wet garments as he went once he was behind closed doors. If the
gunman hadn't tried assassinating him in his flat before, he wouldn't try now.
Sherlock tumbled into bed, shivering and dragged down by a bone-deep weariness.
His breathing evened out as he fell into black unconsciousness.
After a period of time, his mind resurfaced to a set of familiar hallways.
He could access this space in his waking hours, but walking through his mind
palace in a dream-state lent it an extra sense of realism. There were no other
sights and sounds to be blocked out in order to anchor himself here. He simply
was.
Sherlock wandered, but found his feet pulled inexorably in one particular
direction, down and down and down, until he found himself outside one of the
doors he hesitated to open. He'd come here often enough anyways, when he'd been
undercover in the field, trying to ponder how his enemy had thought, but there
were no simple questions tonight.
Sherlock opened the bolted steel door and entered a quiet room that was all
soft, white padding. A form on the other side stirred, the thick chain that
connected his collar to the wall clanking when he lifted his head.
Jim Moriarty.
At least, the Jim Moriarty that Sherlock's subconscious could piece together
like clay in order to present something similar to the whole.
Oily black eyes blinked up at Sherlock in a manner more reptilian than human.
The creature cocked his head. They watched each other, watching back, and Jim
remained nestled on the floor where he'd made his own little well worn spot.
"Come to see me again, have you?" his voice was a little more human today, but
Moriarty sounded every bit as petulant as his words would have Sherlock
believe. "I wonder why? Losing your own marbles, maybe?"
Sherlock settled into a seat against the wall - a little bit closer, but not
enough that the madman could reach him. He knew the full extension of that
chain well, and Moriarty's hands were bound. Nothing in his mind could harm him
unless he permitted it. "I had a visit, today. From one of your old friends, I
think. Must have been a dear one. I wouldn't have thought you'd have that in
you, but this one was different. Fond of you, as well as afraid."
Moriarty was caught somewhere between laughter and a pitying expression. "You
have such little faith in me. Always have." Jim tsked and shook his head. "Why
couldn't you have just paid more attention? You might have noticed. You thought
you'd brought down my whole network, didn't you?" Jim tilted his head, and kept
tilting, and tilting, until he fell over and rolled onto his back. Still he
stared up at Sherlock. "How little you really saw me... such a shaaaame."
"I might have had the chance to see more if you hadn't foolishly pulled that
trigger." That was the shame, really. Such a gorgeous, if twisted, mind gone to
waste. Granted, Sherlock had to admit that others would comment the same about
some of his habits, but none of those had done permanent, much less terminal,
damage. "And why was that? Your strange notion of a lovers' murder-suicide? A
desperate bid for company, should there be an afterlife, when you'd already
decided you couldn't stomach living with the boredom anymore?"
Sherlock found himself unconsciously leaning closer. Something about Moriarty's
eyes drew him in. They didn't quite seem real, like a doll's eyes. Or a
shark's, set in a delicate, innocent face.
Jim was leaning in as well, imperceptibly until Sherlock noticed that he
couldn't have been covering that much distance alone. The chain at Moriarty's
neck snicked to a halt and Jim was left hanging in midair. A little smile
pulled up the corners of his lips. "Why?" he whispered, an eyebrow raise high,
"do you miss me?"
Teeth snapped, nearly catching Sherlock's nose.
"It's no wonder you can't understand me, Sherlock," Jim crowed softly. "I am,
after all, only a part of your imagination."
Sherlock shook his head. He wasn't going to answer the figment's question. He
barely understood the answer himself, even when he could admit it. "That's
true. You're not even close to a full reconstruction," he sighed. "You're the
product of a handful of encounters, deductions, and extrapolated guesswork. And
you were so erratic at times that I'm certain I've guessed some things wrong."
Sherlock got back to his feet, looking down at the form straining right in
front of him. Rigid at the end of the chain, clenched teeth and intense eyes.
Sherlock remembered that fire well enough, at least. "I guess I'm wasting my
time."
"That's all you ever do, Sherlock," Jim hissed back as Sherlock stepped away.
"Waste time."
The sounds of the chain clanking came as Jim rolled onto his back again, but
Sherlock couldn't see. The door, heavy iron on the outside, creaked back into
place and left him in silence.
Near silence.
There were times when the mind palace was made up of nothing, a certain kind of
limbo, and other times when Sherlock would flip through place to place or
object to object, each with its significant recollection, like pages in a
catalogue.
But he could hear something rustling on the edges of his senses, something just
out of his reach when he grasped for the memory of whatever was scratching at
the back of his mind.
Slowly, mercurial pools of inky black spread under his feet, loosening the
concrete of the floor and forming cracks in the very walls around him. It
spread like the virus he had left to Lestrade earlier, seeping from one point
to the next, converging around him until Sherlock could see that it wasn't just
black any longer.
Pinpricks filled the void until he could recognize them as…stars.
Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise, but not alarm. Strange things had happened
before when he'd come here while asleep instead of awake. Instead of retrieving
data like a computer search, it became more akin to meditation or lucid
dreaming. Just because he was in control didn't mean his subconscious couldn't
shift the dream world.
He took a hesitant step and found that he could walk through the star-flecked
darkness just fine. More disconcerting was the sound. It was vaguely like rats,
quietly scurrying about and gnawing at something, chewing holes in the woodwork
of his mind. Sherlock cocked his head and listened, then followed where he
thought it was coming from.
The ground below him gave way to nothingness, and gradually Sherlock wasn't
just walking through the void any longer, he was swimming through it. It became
thick and yet intangible. His feet didn't touch the ground and yet he moved
forward with every loping step.
He walked through a world of stars, hopping between galaxies in such a way that
would have taken lightyears in reality.
It was all very beautiful, even serene, in spite of the undercurrent of
scratching, until Sherlock realized with some surprise that the constellations
were accurate. As were the galaxies. The Milky Way floated to his far left
side, complete with star clusters, comets, and planets that Sherlock could not
remember studying before. And through it all, the rustling, scritch-scratching
sounds softened. They smoothed into one long, sighing note, as though the
universe were coming awake for the first time.
Sherlock paused to examine the patterns; they were more accurate than they
should have been. He supposed his mind could have made guesses about the
structure of the universe and filled in the gaps, but normally lack of
knowledge got translated into empty spaces. Astronomy had been one of a few
disciplines he had never seen the point of retaining data. It was all very
pretty and made for a lot of vapid quotes bordering on religiosity that were
much admired by the general public, but not very applicable in his line of
work. With only so much storage capacity, astronomical knowledge was regularly
trimmed back.
"See, John," he muttered to himself. "I bloody well remember the earth goes
around the sun."
The sound turned suddenly into a shrieking hiss. It wrapped violently around
Sherlock as though it were a physical thing, sending him to his knees. It
crescendoed rapidly, yet its presence was all too eerily familiar. Just like
wind in the warehouse, it sought to torture Sherlock, to drive him where it
willed. And it willed him to throw his hands over his ears and tremble at the
thought that his eardrums might burst even inside his own mind.
And then it faded in a heartbeat, leaving a very human, gasping voice crying
out the note's end.
And again, Sherlock recognized it. Just behind him. What once had been a cruel,
lilting, endlessly nuanced voice had sounded like a thousand nails streaking
down an endless blackboard. Until Sherlock turned and found nothing there.
Memories from earlier. Sherlock reasoned that that's what it had to be. He'd
been so spooked by the seemingly unnatural occurrences that day that his mind
had fixated on what he'd seen and heard. He rubbed at his ears, twisting and
turning around. Nothing but void greeted him.
"It's all coming back to you, isn't it?" Sherlock mused. "If you had one loyal
gunman, there might be others. You spread so deep I'll never pull all the roots
out." And, perhaps, he didn't want to. What would it be like, without any
challenges left? No more hidden mementos?
The air rustled around him, and Jim's voice, as if from a cavernous distance,
came with it. "You were supposed to die with me, Sherlock." Sherlock was
turning his head, straining to hear when suddenly it was right in his ear. "YOU
OWE ME. Sherlock. You owe me a fall."
And then the strings that held him up were gone. Sherlock's stomach lurched
into his chest as he dropped, careening through galaxies while the silence that
came after that voice rang in his ears.
The darkness was suddenly gone, a blindingly blue sky replaced it. Sherlock was
outside, but he was still falling, wind whipping at him as he fell.
The stone pavement of St. Bartholomew's Hospital sped at him.
Sherlock's limbs flailed, trying to find purchase where there was none. Panic
filled his mind until his arms instinctively shot forward, trying to keep the
ground away from himself. He jerked to a halt a few feet above the ground, then
slowly descended the rest of the way.
Sherlock knelt and tried to catch his breath. His heart was racing. Interesting
twists and turns had happened in his dreams before, but never here. Never in
his mind palace.
"...Jim Moriarty. Why aren't you in your room?" Constructed personas weren't
supposed to be uncontrollable. If not his own overactive mind, he had to be
hearing his construct, and yet he couldn't see him. For all Sherlock knew, he
was still safely chained and locked away in his cell. "I don't owe you
anything."
"You owe me everything, Sherlock." The voice was a whispered, sibilant hiss.
This time, when Sherlock's head whipped around, its owner was present.
A small figure stood in the blackened hall of Bart's entryway, staring with an
expression colder than Sherlock had ever seen directed at him before. The dead
man’s eyes were every bit as dark as Sherlock remembered. He had his hands
stuffed in his pockets and back slouched, and yet tension poured off him like a
tide. Every bone in Moriarty's body was rigid, and Sherlock could see it. He
was burning with cold hatred.
Moriarty had never looked at him that way before.
The dark figure stepped forward, but the shadows came with him, obscuring half
his face even in the brightest light of London day. He planted one foot in
front of the other like every one of them took effort until he stood in front
of Sherlock. When Moriarty tilted his head, looking down at where Sherlock
knelt, blood oozed out the back of his broken skull.
Sherlock's gaze flickered over the shorter man's face, taking in the bodily
trauma. More embellishment. He'd tried to keep his mental construction of
Moriarty neat and clean, more akin to when they'd had a social visit over tea,
but he'd had very little to build with. The criminal's madness and erratic
behavior had stuck in the forefront of Sherlock’s mind and gradually corrupted
the image until he'd been left with the vicious little thing he kept in the
padded room. Chained for safety. His own, and the construct's.
"I don't understand why you think I'm beholden to you. Why you ever did."
Sherlock searched Moriarty's face, trying to find some hint of what his own
subconscious was trying to tell him. "You weren't entitled to me merely by the
fact I existed, or because you wanted something from me. What was the point of
dying like that, after all?"
Moriarty's eyes shuttered in in cold fury. "You still don't understand?" he
hissed and took a breath, sucking the nonexistent air between his teeth and
trying to regain control of his composure. He looked about ready to explode.
"After EVERYTHING!" he shouted and breathed, closing his eyes. "You weren't
beholden to me then, but you are now," Jim hissed, "You stupid--," he kept
cutting himself off, so furious he could barely finish a sentence. "You played
the game with me, you chose to play that game, Sherlock, and then you chickened
out!" He stomped closer, getting right up in Sherlock's face all at once. "And
now I come to find that all along you understood nothing. I thought we were the
same! But you weren't, were you, you pathetic--. That was as good as it was
ever going to get, you know. Meeting you, I thought 'well, this is it'. And how
you really had me going. You must have loved it, me believing in you, and all
along you were just as mundane as the rest of them."
"Mundane, is it? Stupid?" Constructed memory or not, those words sparked a
smoldering anger in Sherlock. How many times had Mycroft looked down at him and
implied, or outright told him, the same things? That he was the stupid child,
the disappointment, the one who couldn't keep up with his brother. "I hardly
think those are the correct adjectives to use, considering I outsmarted you. I
had no desire to die just because the whim took you. Only a fool lets someone
else set all the rules and follows along, reacting after the fact instead of
playing proactively. I had no desire for your death, either. If we're going to
speak of choices, you were the one who chose nihilism. And what an utter waste
that was."
"Indeed, it turned out to be." Moriarty bared his teeth like he wanted to snap.
He was shaking he was so furious. If he had been any other man, he would have
taken a swing at Sherlock. And yet he still somehow kept himself in check. "And
what exactly have you gone on living for?" Jim's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Does the boredom still get to you? You 'died' for that doctor of yours and you
went away and you learned how to live day by day one little job after another
while the world ate at your soul and you still survived, and what did you come
home to find? That all the people you said you cared about moved on, and even
when you came back to them, they didn't come back to you. Not really." Finally,
some of the anger seeped out of Moriarty's slim shoulders. His voice softened
with an edge of tiredness. "Tell me, Sherlock. If you were to find the one
thing you've been searching for, wouldn't you end it, too? That's it. And then
you can stop. Let all the disappointment in this world fall away. You could
leave it all behind." Moriarty frowned, more to himself than to Sherlock. "But
how you failed me. You didn't seeeee," he drew out the last syllable in
desperation. "Do you even realize how you see me?"
The world of St. Bart's fell away, sucking them down ever deeper, pulling in
the pit of Sherlock's stomach, until they reached the depths of his mind
palace, just outside the door to the padded room.
"You're right, in that they didn't come back," Sherlock uttered in the quiet
hall. And what a bitter truth that was. Sherlock was happy to see John happy,
honestly. Happy to have him alive and relatively close, but there was a barrier
between them now, and that would only grow. Especially once there was a child
to care for. "But I don't see the point in extinguishing oneself just when you
finally obtain what you want. You never enjoy it, that way. That hardly seems a
reward for all that time spent unfulfilled."
Sherlock gestured at the steel door. "That's why I've put you here. You don't
make sense. I'm missing too many pieces to be able to construct what you were,
and I can't have you damaging the other rooms and files."
Jim started laughing. It came out as a little chuckle at first, until it began
bubbling up from his chest in dark, cynical bursts. He seemed to hate it as
much as he found it funny.
Something in the door crunched. The metal of the latch creaked and unlocked
itself before it swung open in a smooth arc.
There, inside, was another Jim Moriarty. He sat exactly the way Sherlock left
him - chained to the wall and crouched on the floor in the little indentation
he'd made for himself in the padding. His head snapped up and cocked at them,
curious. Delirious.
"That's how you see me?" The Moriarty at Sherlock's side hissed and strode
through.
Sherlock froze. His eyes darted between the two of them in confusion that was
slowly turning into fear. There shouldn't have been two Moriartys. Thought
constructs took some time and effort to create, and Sherlock had only made one
Moriarty. He'd assumed that his construct had escaped the locked room and come
to find him, perhaps due to the fact that his control had been so unbalanced
that day. Nothing else seemed like a possibility. Inside his own mind, the only
options were that he had slipped entirely into dreamstate, or that his
distraction had permitted his construct to roam free.
Something was terribly wrong.
The one he'd been speaking to turned tack to him with a smile. It was as
carefree as it was false, tossed at Sherlock for show while he grabbed the
other roughly by the hair with one hand. The grin vanished as he yanked,
pulling a cry of either pain or surprise from the Moriarty on the ground, who
looked up at his counterpart with awe, like he was as surprised as Sherlock to
encounter another. He didn’t even mind that his head was being wrenched at such
an angle.
Out of thin air a knife appeared in the standing Moriarty's hand and he grinned
again, eyes locked on Sherlock as he drew it down with one swift motion,
ripping through the flesh of the other's throat. Spurts of arterial blood
darkened the front of his pristine suit, while the one kneeling on the floor
only became filthier with it than he was before. His face froze in surprise,
gurgling unintelligibly before the anomalous Moriarty threw him to the ground.
When the knife wielding Moriarty turned, he stared back at Sherlock with
aggressive triumph as the tiny spark of intelligence that had remained among
the madness left his counterpart's eyes.
The corpse in the straightjacket sank to the floor. It stared dully for another
moment or two before turning to shadow began to overtake its body. It grew
dimmer, insubstantial, until it finally vanished completely.
Sherlock, pale and in shock, slowly lifted his gaze from where the body had
been to the new Moriarty standing in front of him. Moriarty with a knife,
spattered with his counterpart’s blood.
Cold fear filled Sherlock, reminiscent of earlier that day. This wasn't
supposed to be possible. Nothing should happen in his mind palace without his
consent and control, and he hadn't made a second Moriarty. Impossible as it
seemed, this wasn't his construct, which meant Sherlock no longer knew the
rules and could no longer take his own safety and comfort for granted. He
started backing out of the padded room, away from the madman and his dripping
knife.
For the first time this Moriarty's eyes glinted with something other than fury
and despair. Genuine amusement lit up his features as he began to laugh. At
Sherlock.
"Oh. Oh, honey. Who's going mad now?" Moriarty's face split into a grin as he
ate up Sherlock's panic. He took a step closer, darting forward with one swift
motion and shouted, eyes wild, "BOO!"
Sherlock turned and fled, instinct overriding the rational part of him that
told him that turning his back on a knife was a bad idea. He fled up the stairs
and down the hallways, hearing Moriarty's laughter echo behind him.
Laughter, and footsteps.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     Warning in this chapter for a (sort of) underage kiss. If you would
     rather avoid it, you can stop reading when Sherlock says: "...what do
     you want?", skip several paragraphs, and pick up again at: Jim's grin
     widened, making his eyes crinkle and his face split.
Sherlock darted into a room at random and shut the door as quietly as he could,
hoping that he'd been far enough ahead to be able to lose the spectre. Sunlight
streamed in through the windows and lit up a rather plain, wood-paneled
bedroom. Sherlock's room, back when he was a boy and his parents would take him
and Mycroft to a rented cottage by the seaside for the summer holidays. He
could even see the glint of the water through those windows, sparkling under a
rare clear patch of sky.
The whole place smelled the beach sea breeze, of sand and sea and the familiar,
comforting things Sherlock remembered.
He was able to rest there for several long moments and collect his bearings.
But then the atmosphere around him began to change.
As surely as he'd felt the presence of something stalking him in his mind
palace before, Sherlock felt it now. It permeated the air and turned its salty
tang sweet, but no more than that. Sherlock could recognize the presence now.
In the midst of Moriarty's fury, he'd felt it. And it seemed as though Jim had
paused, unseen, followed him here and yet stopped to take in the location. If
Sherlock pressed against the door, Moriarty would be just on the other side of
it.
Off in the distance bright laughter chimed through an open window. A child's
voice, playing on the beach.
Sherlock felt his perception shift, as it sometimes did when he visited much
older memories. The window was higher than the last time he'd looked. He
glanced out at the scenery outside, then nervously back at the door. The sense
of threat, of presence, was palpable. Sherlock went to the bed and quietly
tried to pull the sheets off. If Moriarty had figured out he'd ducked in
through this door, he didn't want to get trapped in this room.
He heard his pursuer’s voice before he saw any other sign of him. It rang out
like a great yawning thing through the door. "Sherrrrr-lock..." The handle
creaked and bent, turning centimeter by centimeter until it swung open with
Jim's hand attached to the other side. Like a prowling lizard his dark head
peered in until he locked on Sherlock in the corner.
Moriarty's eyes widened.
Sherlock's appearance had changed significantly to fit with his new
surroundings. He stood on the other side of his bed, mop of dark curls as
unruly as ever, but barely even half his usual height. The nervous, defiantly
clear eyes of a child stared back at Jim and the dead criminal's back
straightened with surprise. And with interest.
Sherlock had barely gotten the first sheet off the bed. There hadn't been time
to knot things together and try to climb out the window. His hands worked
quickly, tying one end of a sheet to the bedside table while his nervous gaze
stayed fixed on Moriarty, but he knew he was cornered. The room was too small
to duck around the man and be sure to get away, and he couldn't climb out the
window unassisted. Not without falling and breaking a limb, although that might
be preferable to facing a knife. Sherlock didn't know what damage in here would
do, and he wasn't keen on finding out. He bit the inside of his cheek and
wished he'd wake up.
Moriarty looked like he was recovering quickly from his surprise. He blinked
several times and his eyes widened for comic effect before proclaiming, "Now
this is brilliant. Apparently I've gone to heaven."
He turned to lock the door, even though there had been no lock there only a
second ago, and clapped his hands together before spreading them wide and
advancing. His smile only grew with every inch Sherlock unconsciously shrank
back. The knife was gone, but Jim himself looked just as sharp. "I saw you back
then, like this,” he gestured to emphasize Sherlock’s current state, “but you
never knew it, did you? When you were investigating, well 'investigating',"
Moriarty paused to make air quotes, "the death of Carl Powers. You had no idea
your murderer noticed you."
"Not then, no... though you gave me some idea later on." Sherlock's voice
wasn't his own - too high, too young, transported back in time to fit this
particular memory, the seaside trip when he had been eleven. He decided to risk
the danger of a bad knot and scrambled backwards through the window, hands
white-knuckled where they clutched the sheet serving as a rope. "This shouldn't
be happening. This isn't real. I have to wake up."
"No you don't!" Jim dashed forward, diving for Sherlock just as he began to
lower himself. There was no way Sherlock could have made it without dropping.
He was too slow. Jim's arms grabbed him around the middle and hoisted him back
inside, legs kicking, and the both of them tumbled down to the floor.
They grappled, but Jim was bigger now and he already had his arms around
Sherlock, enough to hold him down. Jim had begun to laugh again. It was high
and a little hysterical, until it wasn't. Until he had Sherlock well and pinned
and they went still.
Moriarty felt solid. Too solid, in a way different than any of the constructs
Sherlock had ever made. The man's body was warm, rather than neutral, and
Sherlock could feel warm breath on his neck while Moriarty laughed. His spine
stiffened in fear and his skin broke out into gooseflesh.
Sherlock didn't have any idea what to do. He'd never expected to really see his
rival again, much less get cornered. Much less get touched. Sherlock had lived
life thus far with most everyone at a distance, rarely laying a hand on one
another. Even John hadn't been much of an exception to that rule, and yet here
he was, Moriarty draped over him and holding him down.
"Let me go!"
Moriarty reacted by squeezing tighter, eyes squinting with delight so close and
so dark even with the sunlight shining in. "I blew my brains out for you,
honey, the least you could do is give me a little hug and make it all better,"
he cooed. Jim had been all fury and hatred in the other room and suddenly that
had changed. It had something to do with this setting, with Sherlock's change,
and Sherlock had no idea if Moriarty was even aware of it. "Promise you won't
run away," Jim whispered. His hand came up to pet at Sherlock's hair, for no
other reason it seemed than to touch it. He looked slightly enthralled.
Sherlock quivered slightly under Jim's hands. His own pupils were huge, dilated
from a rush of adrenaline, and fixed on Jim's face. The more he stared, the
more Sherlock realized that the unusual draw his old construct had had still
applied. Moriarty was almost hypnotic, like watching a poisonous snake swaying
within striking distance.
"...I don't understand how you're here," Sherlock whispered, voice far too
fragile.
The dark eyes only centimeters in front of him closed in a moment of
satisfaction that had nothing to do with what he said next. "You will." When
Jim's eyes opened a smile curved his mouth. "You're a clever boy."
They were curled near the foot of Sherlock's bed, lying uncomfortably against
the hardwood floor. The wound in the back of Jim's head continued to bleed,
forming a little pool of droplets beneath him and smearing whenever they
struggled.
But they weren't struggling now. Impossibly, this was a moment of standoff.
Jim swallowed, glancing down to Sherlock's lips, half distracted and half in
thought before his eyes darted back up. "Allow me just one thing before you go
off and wake up."
Sherlock watched the expressions flow across Jim's face with fascination. Most
of their interactions in life had been dominated by anger, or Jim manipulating
him towards particular ends. Studded throughout the encounters had been a
flirtatious thread that had put Sherlock on edge. John had had a bit of that as
well, but always firmly denied by the doctor. Always safe. Moriarty, by
contrast, was the sort of person who reached out and took what he wanted.
Sherlock had never had guarantees that the barrier he'd constructed around
himself would be respected.
Wary grey eyes searched Jim's face. "...what do you want?"
A playful smile lit up Jim's eyes. The anger may have melted away from him, but
the cunning hadn't. His brows raised by a fraction and he leaned closer,
towards Sherlock’s ear like he was about to tell a secret. His eyelids lowered,
black depths barely peeking out. His head tilted.
"A kiss."
Sherlock considered this for a moment. He wasn't comfortable with the idea. He
knew what was involved, having experienced a few with Janine and witnessed
others perform it in many variations, but kisses always seemed so... messy. And
pointless. Neither was there anything holding Moriarty to his word; giving him
this might just make him want more. Sherlock didn't have much leverage at the
moment to stop him and force him to honor the agreement.
Then again, Moriarty hadn't had to ask, either. He'd chosen to, or else this
was part of another game - one designed to make Sherlock think he had control.
The boy weighed his options and sighed. He doubted Moriarty would let him go
without punishment if he refused, and capitulation might be enough to buy his
freedom. Jim did have a tendency to keep his word. "...a-alright."
Jim's lips curled. Sherlock saw it just barely, the man so close it was almost
difficult. Just like he could see only slivers of those two black holes Jim
called eyes watching him between lowered lashes.
In that moment, Moriarty was a predator…. But a sweet one.
His touch was gentle as he bent forward, fingers dipping between Sherlock’s
shoulder blades, soft exhale warm over Sherlock's lips, and then his mouth
pressed to Sherlock's.
Jim was slow about it. His lips were soft and inviting. It was like he had
thought about this for a long, long time because his hands moved up Sherlock's
back and tangled in his hair without hesitation. Jim took a deep breath and
savoured the moment they were locked together.
Sherlock was rigid for a long while, barely daring even to breathe. The
sensation was much like he'd expected, and at the same time nothing that he
could have predicted. Warmth and pressure were there, and he could feel the
slide of Jim's mouth against his own and the arms circled underneath him, hands
gripping the back of his head. Jim's eyes were open and close enough that
Sherlock could see how they consisted of layers of dark brown, rather than
soulless black. Eyes that were fixed on him.
A peculiar feeling spread through Sherlock. Tingling from his lips and the
points of his scalp where Jim's fingers rested, trickling down his spine to
form an electric pool. Sherlock's skin suddenly felt too warm. Jim felt
heavier, or at least Sherlock became aware of his weight, of each point where
the man's body touched his own. He shifted uncomfortably, and the friction from
that made him pause.
Jim pulled back not more than a millimeter, just enough to grin. One of his
hands moved down to the small of Sherlock's back and pressed them together.
Suddenly there was more friction.
"I'd violate you if you'd let me." Jim's eyes were alight again.
He'd come into Sherlock's head with a whirlwind of rage and now he looked at
Sherlock like it was Christmas. It was amazing how thoroughly Jim was
distracted. Changeable, he'd said once. But he himself was…enthralling, too.
When Jim changed, he did his best to pull Sherlock along with him.
It took a moment for Sherlock to realize what Jim meant. The idea of sex, much
less sex like this, with his dead enemy somehow invaded his head and made
Sherlock pale. He vigorously shook his head. "No. No, I-... I can't let you do
that."
Sherlock knew how sex worked from various textbooks, and enough to help with
his deductions at crime scenes, but he'd never gone further. Something about
the discomfort it raised kept him away. It had never been relevant before
because no one suitable had presented themselves, anyway. His disgust for his
fans was tangible, and the only others he'd considered breaking his chosen
celibacy for were... otherwise unsuitable. They wouldn't have him, and so
Sherlock hadn't bothered exploring those avenues. "You said just a kiss."
Jim's grin widened, making his eyes crinkle and his face split. He didn't move,
his arms didn't loosen, he didn't look like he was ready to give in, but the
world was fading around them. Whatever sounds Sherlock had heard outside the
cabin were long gone. He could no longer smell the sea breeze. The walls were
losing their solidity and fading into the distance. Jim was fading. But all the
while his eyes remained locked on Sherlock, gleeful with the way he'd gotten
under Sherlock's skin, if not in the literal sense.
Sherlock bit his own lip and twisted, physically and otherwise. His half-dream
state snapped. He plunged into darkness and fell, only to jolt awake in his own
bed.
He rolled over. The sheets were a clammy tangle around his legs and he felt
damp all over, like he's just slept through a fever. A quick inspection of the
clock told him that he hadn't been asleep for more than an hour or two.
Sherlock levered himself out of bed and put the coffee pot on before making his
way to the shower. He needed to check in with Lestrade, and until he got a
better grip on reality Sherlock had no intention of going back to sleep.
Exhaustion clung to him through every step. Once the adrenaline wore off he
could feel it, his body wanting to bend down and down until he was sprawled on
the floor. He felt like a drained battery.
The shower was silent, all suspicious activity gone. The water came down and
pattered against the tub around him in a soothing rhythm, almost as soothing as
the heat of it. Hot as Jim's body had been against him. Smooth as Jim's lips.
Sherlock's disturbance at that thought was the one thing that kept him awake.
It was tempting to lay down in the tub and embrace the comfort, but for the
imagery of Jim in Sherlock's head and the likelihood that he'd fall asleep and
drown. He finished at a slow pace, unable to get his body to respond faster
than a crawl. It reminded him of a few times when he'd been sick, either from
conventional illnesses or chemical withdrawal.
When Sherlock finally redressed and made it back out to the kitchen, a full pot
of coffee waited for him. He poured himself a generous mug and dug out his
phone, fingers working at the buttons to text Lestrade. Find anything?
He had to wait several long minutes for the reply, which meant Lestrade had his
hands full. When it finally chimed, at least part of Sherlock's sanity was
validated.
You were right. Vaccines contaminated at Genocea Bioscience and immBio in
Cambridge. No others, yet. Both vaccine developers, both not far from the city.
Need you up here.
Sherlock groaned and passed a hand over his face. There was work to be done in
order to dismantle whatever Moriarty's old ally had put together. Sherlock
would have to pull himself together. Cab fare would be too significant to get
all the way to Cambridge; he'd have to take another form of transportation. He
took a sip of coffee and began typing. Will be there as soon as I can.
Arranging transport.
Sherlock knew he'd have to tell the DI he'd spotted the ringleader behind all
of this, clearly, but he had no idea what to tell Lestrade. He had no
explanation for what had happened in the warehouse. Neither did he have any for
the other strange occurrences earlier in the day. Combined with his odd dreams,
the sweat-stained sheets, and his current fatigue, all Sherlock could think was
that he'd caught some sort of illness. Not the ebola-like strain, or he'd have
different symptoms, but an illness nonetheless.
No time. Sending a car. We need to find this guy.
Looked like Sherlock would have to hurry. Lestrade had been getting pushier the
more cases Sherlock offered to help with, even though this one was more than
understandable. Their suspect had hostages and posed an immediate threat to
public health. Still, without John Sherlock was less prone to going off on his
own, and he more often told Greg all about whatever he was doing when he came
back, simply because the DI was the only one he could talk to.
Sherlock's expression soured. Whoever Lestrade was sending, they wouldn't be
happy to see him, even if he was helping them fight a serious health threat.
Sherlock finished his mug of coffee and poured the rest of the pot into a
travel case. The coffee thus far hadn't taken the edge off his fatigue like
he'd thought it would, but Sherlock wasn't about to permit himself to doze off.
Perhaps more would help.
A squad car showed up outside the flat in record time. Sherlock pulled on his
coat and raced down the stairs. He'd have the rest of the trip to Cambridge to
ponder what he was going to tell Lestrade and plan their next moves.
As late as it already was, Lestrade probably thought he was going to make
Sherlock pull an all nighter, and that didn't bode well for anyone, as common
an occurrence as it was.
His driver was a rookie Sherlock recognized as Jerry or Frank or something
equally dull. He was at least someone who still had an unhealthy amount of awe
over Sherlock, both his stints in the media and his deductive abilities.
It was a long drive with him rattling off pointless comments, anecdotes, and
questions just to fill the silence.
Sherlock finally snapped at the man to get him to quiet. The atmosphere in the
car didn't improve, but the silence eased Sherlock's aching head. He sipped at
the coffee from his travel mug and reminded himself that he'd suffered much
worse during his days of addiction.
He tried to concentrate, now that he no longer had to put up with his driver's
inane prattling, and found his thoughts being derailed. Thinking about the
gunman in the warehouse only reminded him of the voice he thought he'd heard on
the wind, which summoned another memory: Jim holding him down, kissing him,
telling Sherlock what else he'd like to do.
Sherlock's skin prickled.
He heard it like a breath on the air of the wind and rain rushing past them,
pattering on the windows of the car. "I knew you missed me."
It was so quiet, it could have been Frank who'd muttered something. One look at
the man told Sherlock he hadn't. His eyes were fixed on the road and Sherlock
could clearly see his profile. He hadn't moved in the slightest.
Sherlock stilled. His hands turned white-knuckled around the travel canister.
He took a deep breath and began to silently reason with himself. This isn't
real. I'm sick, and I'm hallucinating. It's a scientific impossibility for
ghosts to exist, much less invade one's dreams and throw objects around a room.
My brain simply fixated on the possibility that Moriarty might have faked his
death and is drawing on old data to create fever hallucinations. None of this
is real.
Whatever he'd heard did not come again.
They arrived at immBio, its campus a single modern glass building that would
have looked quite sterile and peaceful had it not been for the semicircle of
police vans and HPA vehicles in its driveway, all with lights flashing.
Jerry or whatever his name was stepped out, phoning Lestrade and ignoring the
drizzle while Sherlock followed him to the building. They didn't get far before
Greg's familiar shape came out the front doors, grey overcoat flapping in the
wind.
"It was just like you thought," the DI shouted across the lawn before they even
met. Definitely in a hurry. He led them inside and out of the cold as he
talked. "Nobody knows how it happened. None of the staff have gone missing.
Contaminated product has been here for at least a couple days, and nobody knew
what they had on their hands."
Sherlock nodded. Greg would be able to follow up on whatever other mundane
threads needed to be tied up. He was here to spot if there were any other
dangers they needed to find and any evidence to lead them to the culprit, not
to walk Lestrade through containment plans. "I followed a side trail and saw
the man who's likely behind this. Tall man, close-cropped blond hair, blue
eyes, likely ex-military, several facial scars that suggest an animal attack.
He's either an ex-associate of Moriarty's or, if the man is still alive,
working under him."
Greg's steps faltered as they walked and he had to catch up with Sherlock. "You
did what?" he stammered, "What happened? You lost him? How did you find him?
And where? Why the hell didn't you tell me sooner?" Lestrade looked like he was
about to lose it and still they all just kept walking. Sherlock could see where
the center of activity was swelling, around the front desk and the labs,
officers no doubt checking security tapes, log in checkpoints, and shipments.
"I got a text that contained information only Moriarty would know, or so I
thought. I was redirected to a warehouse, but when I arrived, this other man
was there. He seemed intent on blaming me for Moriarty's death and punishing me
for it. It's possible he was being manipulated, but more likely that he's been
the one mimicking his former associate this entire time in a sort of revenge
campaign." Sherlock's gaze passed over the busy officers and resettled on
Lestrade. "I escaped when the warehouse had an electrical problem, but I was
close enough that I got a good look at him."
"Shit Sherlock!" Greg threw up his hands. "If this guy's after you, you are not
safe at home. I'm sending security to watch your flat. You aren't going
anywhere alone, you got that?" He fixed Sherlock with a hard stare, brown eyed
like.... No, not like Jim. Jim's eyes were bigger, darker. It was just that for
a second that 'do not contradict me' look was offputting.
They were drawing attention, arguing in the middle of the front office.
"You are not putting me under house arrest, Lestrade." Particularly not now.
Not when he was feeling under the weather and might do something suspicious.
Not while he had stashes in the flat. Search warrant or no, some of the
officers were bitter enough to poke around whenever he wasn't looking on the
hope they might find something embarrassing or incriminating. "If he was trying
to outright murder me, he would have already done something, not play
convoluted games like dropping off infected tissue in a case that keeps me
safe. My flat already has extra security. I will be fine."
That stopped Greg, remembering Mycroft. Having Sherlock confirm his brother was
in fact using his considerable influence to watch Sherlock's flat was a relief.
And possibly the explanation for why said killer hadn't attacked Sherlock there
in the first place. "Alright," he groused, "But if I wake up tomorrow and hear
anything's happened to you..."
Lestrade had been a little more blatant about this kind of thing ever since
Sherlock came back.
Next to them, there was a small commotion at the desk monitors. Sherlock bent
to look. "That's the courier? Different one than last time, new?"
The receptionist peered at the camera. "I think so. I usually see just three
guys."
Sherlock pushed his way through the crowd to get a better view of the monitor.
Closer to the screen, he had security rewind the footage back to the start.
A man roughly Sherlock’s height got out of the driver's seat of the delivery
truck, digital signature pad in hand. His cap was pulled low over his face
while he impatiently waited for someone to sign for the delivery, but the
stance and movements were the same. Military, trying to be fluid and relaxed
and more like a regular civilian, and not quite managing.
The courier made the mistake of lifting his head a touch too high, and that was
enough.
"That's him. That's who I ran into at the warehouse," Sherlock asserted. Which
meant that it was very likely this man was working alone. Why else would the
ringleader risk himself like this?
"Get that to digital," Lestrade ordered. "I want to find out who this guy is,
where he lives, what he does, and how the hell we can find him."
One of the officers began asking the receptionist questions, walking her
through the encounter. The courier had a cart of supplies to drop off and she
had had to badge him through the doors, after which she'd walked with him to
the storage area and showed him where to put everything. Once he'd taken her
signature, he'd asked the way to the restroom and that was it. She'd lost him
for a good five minutes. The cameras, however, had picked him up making a stop
in one of the treatment labs on the way, no less than thirty seconds, and then
he'd finished up and gone right out the front door again.
Sherlock's eyes were glued to the screen. The gunman had been convincing, and
careful. "You'll be looking for someone with specialized training. Not a common
soldier. Someone noted for skilled marksmanship, infiltration." The real
question was not only who the man was, but what his connection to Moriarty had
been that provoked this amount of rage. A skilled criminal that had known that
the shark higher up the chain was gone would just take advantage of the empty
space and continue business as usual.
Lestrade shook his head. "I'll contact special forces, but if he was ever
related to any of the higher ups, you know your brother is going to be our best
contact. They don't tell me shit, even when public safety's on the line." He
wiped a hand over his face. "We've got every vaccine company in the country
warned now. He won't be trying this route again, but that doesn't mean we're in
the clear. Not with body parts showing up on doorsteps. And if we take away too
many of his options, he's going to get rid of Dr. Russell."
Sherlock's eyes turned distant while he thought. Tracing the man by his
military record would inevitably yield some information; he'd wring the data
out of Mycroft one way or another, national security be damned. He could also
alert his homeless network. As notable as the man's physical features were and
as much as he wanted to keep out of sight, there were only so many places in
London to hide, and there were eyes everywhere, both electronic and organic.
"With the public notified, the chances of an idiot opening suspect packages are
minimized."
They were going to run out of time. With the plan foiled, and multiple people
having seen his face, the gunman now had a captive that was a major liability.
The logical thing for him to do would be to kill the doctor in order to ease
his own disappearance now that the mission had failed. By the time they traced
the gunman's name and likely whereabouts, they could be looking at another dead
body.
"Excuse me for a moment," Sherlock muttered and pushed back through the crowd.
He saw Lestrade eye him suspiciously, so Sherlock made a straight line for the
nearest restroom as a pretense. His hand slipped into his coat pocket to
retrieve his phone. The earlier text was still there, giving him a route to
send a new one. Do you still have Dr. Russell?
The door banged shut behind Sherlock, leaving him in stillness that was a sharp
contrast to the foyer outside. It took a few minutes of impatient waiting, but
he finally received a reply.
Yes.
And as it came, the air grew thicker. It was just the subtlest sense that
something might have changed. Sherlock felt a familiar icy trickle down the
back of his neck.
He moved into a stall, just in case Lestrade got any bright ideas and tried to
follow him. Release him and we'll talk. But without the attempted murder this
time.
Sherlock's curiosity had been piqued. None of Moriarty's other network
operatives had been like this man, which meant that they'd had a different
relationship. He wanted to know more.
As far as bargaining went, and as long as the man didn't have an escape route
out of England planned - which in spite of his special forces training was
unlikely - Sherlock technically had the upper hand. This man's plan rested on
getting rid of Sherlock in that warehouse. He'd have gotten his revenge on both
Sherlock and the country in one fell swoop. Lestrade and the Met would not have
connected the dots in time to stop the contaminated vaccinations from
spreading.
What could you possibly have to say to me, Sherlock Holmes?
And that sealed it. He was stalling, trying to gather more information because
he didn't have a next step other than to run. And he'd been on the run for
three years already.
I think we'd both like to figure out what happened in that warehouse, beyond
your failed assassination. It had happened to both of them at once, or the
gunman wouldn't have failed. Sherlock wasn't the only one who had been
startled. Release the doctor, unharmed, and we'll arrange for a meeting. No
tricks, not a sting operation. Just you and me.
Not a chance. I'd kill you.
And yet there was no way this man couldn't be just as curious. He'd been
dripping blood by the time he'd run off. He'd fired at thin air multiple times.
He had to be either spooked out of his mind or convinced that somehow Sherlock
had done it. And that was a theory that didn't stand up.
Somehow, I think that's a bad idea, considering what happened when you tried.
Somewhat of a bluff, but perhaps it would make the man pause. I think you want
to figure out what happened as much as I do. If you want to continue your quest
for revenge, or whatever this is afterwards? So be it.
Sherlock had to wait a long time for the next text. So long he almost thought
the man had cut communication and given up. But at the very last moment,
Sherlock's phone chimed again.
I set the location, and you come now. If Sherlock had been planning to double
cross him, it wouldn't give him much time.
Sherlock nearly mistyped in his rush to reply. Deal, but I'll need travel time.
I'm not currently in London. Lestrade would be furious when he found out
Sherlock had gone off into danger again and withheld information. If he got
answers out of this, Sherlock was willing to weather the DI's ire. Angry as
Lestrade might get, his assistance was too valuable for him to be barred from
cases for too long.
I can guess where you are. Somehow he'd intercepted the news the Met were
essentially raiding vaccine companies then, but his wording indicated he didn't
know which Sherlock had visited. That meant he either had a contact inside or
he was monitoring police communications. Either would be just as likely. Let's
make a show of it, then. Meet me at Charing Cross. You've got an hour. Better
hurry.
Sherlock pocketed his phone and made his way out of the room. Luckily, Greg was
busy with the facility security, gathering data and making calls. Sherlock
snuck out the way he'd come. Taking one of the trains would set him back by too
much time to make the connection, which meant he needed another option.
A handful of minutes later, Sherlock was racing down the roads at well over the
speed limit in a commandeered squad car. Lestrade would definitely be pissed,
maybe even enough to arrest him, but Sherlock had spent the night in a cell for
far less worthy causes.
Traffic slowed him down once he entered the city, but not for long. The lights
and the sirens made sure of that.
Charing Cross, public as it was, would give his mysterious opponent plenty of
ways out. Four directions he could escape by car alone, not to mention
Trafalgar Square. On foot, he could be lost within seconds in the crowd, the
underground, or any of the nearby buildings if he had access. If the man had
been close to Moriarty, chances were he had ‘access' to most of London.
Sherlock ditched the squad car on the side of the road and made his way into
Charing Cross station on foot. He walked up and down the long hall, searching
this way and that around arrival terminals and the shops. He scanned the crowd
as well as above it. It was unlikely that the gunman would be sitting in one of
the windows that looked out under the roof covering or the scaffolding above
the shop fronts, but one never knew. CCTV cameras were all over the area,
turning back and forth as they monitored the crowd.
It wasn't until he reached the other side that he felt he’d found the perfect
spot, a section where the walkway narrowed and the crowd thickened, shops on
either side yet many spaces in between, difficult to see from above. And not a
moment later, the scarred man from the warehouse came sweeping out of the crowd
and effortlessly took up a casual stroll beside Sherlock.
"Holmes," the man all but growled.
"Admirable choice of location, except for the cameras." Either they had been
temporarily disabled, or the gunman didn't mind being caught on tape.
Sherlock's gaze swept over the man quickly now that they were closer and in
steady lighting. The blond radiated a barely suppressed fury, hands clenching
slightly. His clothing hung slightly heavier in some places. Concealed weapons,
most likely. "We need to talk, and we don't have much time before the Met find
the car I took and start combing the area for me. I need to know if you did
anything to the warehouse before bringing me there, anything that would explain
part of what happened."
Ice blue eyes darted Sherlock's way before the man's gaze fixed on where they
were headed. "No." His voice was deep, but Sherlock could tell not naturally
this aggressive. This meeting with Sherlock, Sherlock being alive, was deeply
upsetting him and it showed. His entire frame was tense. Had they not been in a
public place, Sherlock may very well have had to worry for his life. And yet
this man had chosen the location, knowing he would have to restrain himself.
"And I know you didn't either, unless you're ten times more resourceful than
even Jim knew." His words cut off sharply, Moriarty's name spoken in
bitterness.
The criminal's first name rolled easily off this man's tongue, but for an
emotional catch. That and the brief microexpression on the other man's face
told Sherlock the reason behind his anger. This wasn't revenge for losing a
boss or business partner. This was personal. Sherlock watched the gunman out of
the corner of his eye and wondered, yet again, what it was that drew people
together. He hadn't known Moriarty well enough to guess what would have
attracted him, apart from the barely-contained violence and the challenge.
"No, I didn't," Sherlock quietly agreed. "And I wouldn't have had time to set
anything up. The lights, by themselves, could have been explained by bad wiring
or other mundane causes. I haven't been able to figure out the rest." The wind,
the voice. The locked doors and thrown tools.
The man stopped, all pretense dropping from his shoulders as he squared to face
Sherlock. He didn't care if he was seen. He must have known they'd already had
or soon would find him on camera if they'd found the vaccine labs. Hiding his
face after that was pointless. He was probably already planning to run again
after this encounter.
"It doesn't matter, does it?" The man's jaw set, one deep scar moving visibly
over the indent of his teeth. "For whatever reason, you got lucky." Sherlock
got the feeling this man would have told him he wasn't one to hold on hope. And
yet, he was here, meeting with Sherlock and risking his life just to hear that
Sherlock didn't know any more than he did.
"It matters because we're both rational men, and from what I can see of you,
you shouldn't have missed your mark. Something frightened both of us, enough
for your aim to falter. Enough for me to risk giving you another shot in order
to find answers. Enough for you to risk meeting me rather than immediately
fleeing the country now that your plan’s been derailed." Sherlock tensed, ready
to jump back should the other man decide to try to snap his neck before
running. "We both heard him. I keep seeing him in places he cannot possibly be.
I need to find out what's going on."
Blue eyes narrowed. A muscle in the man's jaw jumped when he took a barely
restrained breath. He hadn't liked Sherlock mentioning what they'd heard, but
there was now no denying that he'd heard it, too.
"Sounds like you've got a problem, Mr. Holmes," the man leaned in ever so
slightly, posture challenging, everything in his stance calling on Sherlock's
instincts to either fight or run. This man felt most comfortable in a fight,
and it was showing. "Cause whatever happened, that was the one time I've seen
it. I'd get your head scanned if I were you."
Threatening Sherlock was always the wrong thing to do. Even when he knew he was
outmatched, his reaction was to dig his heels in and fight. Repetitive
disappointments and challenges, both in his childhood and later in life, had
solidified this tendency to the point of fault. "There's a problem, but it's
not only mine. If it was just me, you wouldn't have missed." Sherlock
straightened, not letting the other man intimidate him into putting space
between them. "Which means we're not done. If something is happening with me
that involves Moriarty, you won't be able to stay away and stay out of it.
Whatever he was to you, your attachment is going to draw you back."
"He is dead." The man snapped. He rushed Sherlock. All his weight went into it.
They collided with the wall, one of his forearms at Sherlock's throat. But the
man was fighting with himself. They couldn't make a scene here. He had to get
away and yet he could barely restrain his own fury. His clenched teeth and
flashing eyes told Sherlock he would have loved to rip out the detective's
throat right there on the spot, but then he was pushing away, turning, heading
swiftly through the crowd.
Sherlock went after him, making good headway; the gunman was bulky enough that
he couldn't easily weave through the crowd and left a small wake behind him
before the people closed up again. Sherlock's throat ached in a way that told
him he'd have a vivid bruise in a few minutes.
He couldn't leave anything alone. That'd been the story of Sherlock's life:
whether it was missing shoes or clever thefts, Sherlock needed puzzles to throw
himself into. He couldn't live a mundane life, no matter how much he irritated
his brother, worried his parents, or watched John Watson slip away from him
into domesticity. Asking uncomfortable questions and putting himself into
dangerous situations was what he had.
Unfortunately, the man had gone straight for the nearest exit possible, and
once they were outside everything was up in the air. Sherlock was fast, he knew
every street and every alley, but this man could give him a good run. And once
they were alone....
"Either way, you're gonna lose him," a voice came from the back of Sherlock's
mind. It may have sounded suspiciously like Jim, but that was quite normal
after having made the construct who eventually turned insane. Sherlock had
needed someone to talk to, and this familiar voice was giving him an extra
nudge.
As fast as he was, he couldn't make it in time. The blond man caught the
sliding doors and the moment his foot hit stone steps, he was sprinting.
Things became trickier once they were out on the streets. They were both of an
equal height, long-legged, but Sherlock spent long periods in-between cases
lounging around and working in his makeshift laboratory. The gunman clearly was
not just muscle for show; Sherlock might be able to match him in stride length
and speed, but clearly couldn't match him in sheer endurance. The blond wove
through the crowd and didn't spare any dirty tricks, toppling pedestrians and
street debris to slow Sherlock down.
The moment they entered an alleyway, the moment they reached a blind spot
between two CCTV cameras, it happened.
The man was a good twenty yards ahead of Sherlock and he went down. He didn't
lose his footing. He hadn't been looking back. He hadn't hit anything. One
moment his feet were connected with the pavement and the next they were not and
he was sprawling forward until he hit the ground.
Sherlock could see the surprise on his face as he tumbled and strained to get
back on his feet.
"Sebastian!" Sherlock shouted, without having meant to. The man's steps
faltered. "Don't you walk away from me."
It was Sherlock's turn for surprise. One of his hands flew to his throat, as if
in denial that those words had come from his own vocal chords.
Sebastian must have been the man's name, from the way he looked at Sherlock as
he turned. Sherlock could have deduced any number of things about the blond's
tastes and habits, his past history, but he'd never summoned a name out of thin
air before. "That... wasn't me."
"Fuck you." The man's jaw set in anger, thinking Sherlock was trying to play
him, surmising that Sherlock must have somehow found out his name. His heel
scratched the ground as he spun, ready to bolt, but then Sherlock spoke again.
"Do you want to know how Jim died?" The man hesitated. Sherlock's voice was
mocking, and again he couldn't stop. "You were there of course. You saw, you
heard, but you didn't hear all, oh no. You didn't hear what he whispered to me
before he went down, how pitiful he sounded..."
Something was clearly wrong. The blond looked back at Sherlock only to find
that the mocking, almost lilting voice matched up to a horrified face.
Sherlock's hand was at his throat again, eyes wide in disbelief that he could
feel vibration. That this was issuing from his own lungs. He tried to raise his
hand to muffle his own speech only for the limb to jerk to a halt just short of
his mouth.
Sebastian stalked toward Sherlock, fury in every step even if the slightest
hint of confusion danced in his eyes.
"That's right, Seb. Make me pay, Your dear old boss died because of me. I might
as well have pulled the trigger myself. I sure would have liked to - "
Sebastian's teeth pulled back in rage. His steps quickened. The tables had
turned and Sebastian was ready to kill.
Sherlock knew he had no time to figure out what was going on. One look at
Sebastian's face and he knew there's be no reasoning with him. Sherlock turned
and fled back the way he'd come as fast as he could go, hoping that he wouldn't
trip. Hoping that his legs wouldn't give out; he could feel another spike of
fatigue traveling through him, much like he'd felt earlier in the day. Like his
body was a vehicle running off a tank of energy, and someone kept siphoning
everything it out when he wasn't looking, leaving him running on fumes.
The man was at his heels until they reached the street, but Sherlock burst out
into the open world and he didn't follow. He didn't dare. Instead, he reached
into his jacket, brought out a P7 Heckler and Koch and aimed it at the back of
Sherlock's head. The bullet whizzed by Sherlock's ear so close he was nearly
knocked down from the shock of it.
Sherlock ducked low and raced around the corner for cover as quickly as he
could. He was fairly certain that the gunman wouldn't follow him and
assassinate him at point-blank range in the middle of a public street, but he
was also a man with little left to lose. Sherlock stumbled and kept going, his
vision swimming and his balance thrown off. He felt ill, like he was stumbling
around in a fever dream.
After a few minutes with no further incident, Sherlock realized that his neck
felt damp. Fingertips went to his ear and came away with a red streak; The
bullet had grazed the edge, just enough for a slow trickle to ooze its way down
the side of his head. Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder, saw nothing, and
stepped out to the kerb to flag down a cab.
The several minutes he waited were spent looking over his shoulder. Every
passerby heading to and from the station or having crossed from Trafalgar
Square was potentially the gunman come to shoot him down. Relief came with a
dusty black cab, pulling up in front of him and barely unlocking the door
before Sherlock was climbing in.
"Where to?" the elderly cabbie asked, just as the temperature began dropping
again.
"221 Baker Street, next to Regent's Park." Sherlock wasn't feeling up to going
anywhere else. Cold settled into his bones next to the lethargy, and he
shivered. He could patch up his own ear with his limited medical supplies, but
he didn't know how to fix the greater problem. A skilled assassin was angrier
than ever and still looking for the chance to murder him, and Sherlock still
had no idea what was going on. All he knew was that either he'd stumbled into
something few people had encountered before, or he truly was losing his grip on
reality, as the constructed Moriarty in his head had taunted him so many times.
Reaching back into his head to search for that Moriarty was futile. The more
Sherlock reached the more he realized that that Moriarty simply wasn't there
any longer. In his place roamed a seething, pulsing, vicious presence that
Sherlock could do no more than feel without coming away with beads of sweat
prickling at his temples and dread pooling in his stomach.
Sherlock turned his head to watch London roll by on the other side of the
window. His phone was silent, but Lestrade had to have long known by now that
he'd illegally borrowed the squad car to come back to the city. It was only a
matter of time before he asked questions, perhaps in person.
The cab pulled to a halt in front of his flat and Sherlock paid the man before
stumbling towards the front door. His legs felt leaden, and every step was a
struggle, but he made it in and up the stairs, crawling instead of taking the
flight in a dignified posture. He paused once he reached the safety and
solitude of 221B.
Impossibilities aside, what if it had been real? If the events of the past
several hours had actually occurred, rather than being a bizarre fever dream
and shared hallucination, Sherlock dreaded what would happen if he fell asleep
again.
Feeling like he was half-mad, Sherlock shuffled his way into the kitchen and
put the kettle on. "...what do you want from me?" he whispered.
He hadn't expected an answer. But he got one.
"I want you dead." was the whisper in his ear just as he was reaching to turn
on the tap. It was so close it could have been rattling inside his own head,
and yet he felt it like breath against the shell of his ear.
Sherlock's hand froze in mid-air. He was still but for his breathing for a few
heartbeats, trying to determine whether he'd really heard what he thought he
had.
He'd already started down this route by speaking aloud. He might as well
continue exploring this delusion to the end, or so he reasoned. "...but why? To
get even? To finish what you'd attempted? I never wanted for you to die, and I
don't want to die now."
"I died. You lived." The echo of Moriarty's voice sounded as exhausted as
Sherlock was, but there was a clear undercurrent of rage there, fiery in tone
and yet cold as ice just under Sherlock's skin.
In fact, that feeling was spreading. Sherlock had experienced, or come close to
experiencing, frostbite in his life, and that was what it felt like. Starting
in his chest, working over his torso, the cold he'd felt before was now inside
him.
"So you'll try to sabotage my life and rob me of sleep until I commit suicide
and join you?" The cold was more than uncomfortable; it was actually alarming.
Sherlock left the electric kettle to handle itself and started to drag himself
towards the bathroom, intent on using the water to warm himself up. If all of
this was shock from nearly being shot, he could deal with it. He'd dealt with
worse in the last two years. "I'm not known for being tactful. It doesn't
matter if I start muttering gibberish so long as I can still solve cases.
Lestrade will keep me on, and John and Mary will forgive me."
The oddest half rushing wind, half human vocalization of rage split Sherlock's
head until the kitchen light burst, raining sparks down onto Sherlock's
leftover experiments.
"You are pathetic. I don't know how I could have ever thought we were the
same." It was Moriarty's voice, loud and clear, but it came in gasps. His
truncations of words sounded like he were fighting the same exhaustion Sherlock
was feeling. "Your friends can't save you…from me."
"Friends..." Sherlock's voice trailed off into quiet laughter and he shook his
head. That ended up being a bad impulse; his vision swam for a few seconds
afterwards. It didn't seem odd to him that the light had burst, just like the
ones in the warehouse. He was stuck in a mad half-dream that reminded of his
old days on opiates. "I don't have friends. I had one. Had."
Sherlock's thoughts diverted to John for a few moments while he turned the
shower taps and started the water heating up. 243 hours had passed since John
had last called, give or take a few handfuls of minutes. A week and a half by
common reckoning. He'd been counting, and the sting had only increased as the
gap had grown.
He shrugged out of his shirt and began working on his trouser fastenings.
"And yet look at you, clinging to them."
The delusion in Sherlock's head went silent as he undressed, like Moriarty were
trying to catch his breath while he could. When Sherlock stepped under the
spray it was nearly scalding since his skin had already been so cold and he
could hear the faintest sense of chuckling in the back of his mind.
"You tried to do the same, in your own way." Sherlock leaned against the tile
and sighed. The water was helping, but he still felt frozen somewhere in his
core, like his stomach was filled with ice and chilling all the organs and
blood around it. "You didn't want to be alone, and when we were playing, for a
brief time you weren't, because someone met you halfway. I never expected to
ever stop being alone, but then I had an assistant, and later a friend. I'm not
certain what he is now, because clearly I'm alone again." Solitude was no
longer protective when it became a loss.
Moriarty had gone suddenly quiet. Time stretched out and the coldness in the
very pit of Sherlock's body seemed to lessen.
Minutes ticked by.
Until the cold returned. In full force. But it wasn't just cold this time.
Sherlock's chest tightened painfully, a pressure that lasted and only
increased. It spread outward over his back, down his arms, leaving him short of
breath and lightheaded.
Sherlock's mind raced; he knew this. He'd studied it - not just the signs, but
the aftereffects. He stumbled out of the shower and out of the bathroom,
shivering from cold as damp skin hit the cool air of the flat. He had
nitroglycerine with the rest of his lab supplies. If he could just get to it in
time...
Pressure increased again and made Sherlock reel. His fingers felt numb and
weren't moving correctly. He was having trouble sorting through the bottles in
the lower cabinets where he kept his supplies, and he felt like he wasn't
getting enough air. "...stop," Sherlock whispered. When the vice in his chest
didn't give up, he tried again. "...Jim, stop. Please."
"You left me alone, to rot, for three years." Jim might as well have been
whispering right against his temple. Throughout the pain, Sherlock could feel
the phantom brush of icy lips. "What have you got to live for?" Sherlock was
dropping, the pressure was pulling him in, sinking into that inky darkness Jim
seemed to be made of in his dreams. "Come away with me, Sherlock."
Sherlock couldn't read the labels in front of him anymore. Black was creeping
into the corners of his vision. If this didn't stop, Sherlock was fairly
certain he'd never be waking up again. "...I want..." To live. "...make a deal.
Stop..." He could hear the kettle whistling from a great distance away, echoing
down a long hallway despite the fact it was only a meter or two from himself.
"The only thing you can give me, Sherlock..." Jim's voice was breathless with
the effort he was exerting. His presence wrapped around Sherlock like a
blanket, struggling to pull him under. Jim had once said they were one. He was
making good on that statement now. If one of them were dead, so would the other
be. "...is you."
"Yes, but..." Sherlock's breathing was too fast, too short. He felt like he was
suffocating, barely able to whisper. "...not like this." Synapses were firing
randomly, flashing a confused tangle of memories through his head. Images from
hours ago surfaced: the glitter of the sea through a window, and a presence
pinning him down.
Sherlock's decision was made in a split second; his desire to survive trumped
his fear and revulsion of any other possibilities. "...violate..."
Seconds passed. The pressure eased.
It left Sherlock choking on the floor, gasping for breath, clutching at his
chest as Jim slunk back to wherever he'd come.
The room was still icy. Sherlock was lying naked on the kitchen floor in a
puddle of water, and Jim, Sherlock could feel those dead eyes on him, even if
there was no one in the room.
Though it came as a relief, the silence was almost as unnerving as Moriarty's
rage.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Sherlock shut his eyes and tried to just concentrate on breathing while the
numbness left his limbs. A splitting headache replaced the pain in his chest,
but he thought the price was well worth it. He was still alive, and the pain
was proof of that. Eventually he rolled over and got back upright, bracing
himself against the wall with one hand and returning to the bathroom to take
the chill off again. The eerie sensation of being watched followed him.
Now that he was out of immediate danger and had time to consider, the full
implications of what he'd said were beginning to dawn on him. If this was real,
he'd just agreed to something he'd always found unthinkable in exchange for his
own life.
And still for all he'd just been through, Moriarty remained silent. He was a
prickle at the edge of Sherlock's senses, spewing neither rage nor taunts nor
advances. Nothing.
Sherlock's bones were warming. But the room remained cold. For whatever reason,
Moriarty had released his hold.
Maybe he'd been as surprised as Sherlock was now. Maybe he'd been affronted.
Maybe he'd been interested. Maybe Sherlock had done something Moriarty had
loved about Sherlock since the very beginning - maybe Sherlock had done
something unexpected.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, then through his hair. When he felt
sufficiently thawed out he turned the water off and began to dry off and dress,
hoping that he would get to keep his body heat this time. Or at least die in
dignity, rather than being found naked in a messy pile of chemical supplies. He
added extra layers, just in case.
The silent presence followed him back out to the kitchen, where his kettle was
still whistling. He set a cup of tea to brewing and leaned against the counter,
head bowed. "...say something." Anything would be better than this unnerving
quiet, like a monster was hiding in a corner of the room, waiting for the right
moment to leap out and sink teeth in.
Nothing answered. The presence slunk back until Sherlock was alone. Or he
thought he was.
"Is this really what we've come to?" Jim's was silken smooth against Sherlock's
ear. He'd lost most of his breathlessness, but it was still faint. Like he'd
worked himself too hard. "I'm dead and you're ready to fuck."
If Sherlock didn't know better, Moriarty's tone held a note of despair.
Sherlock was quiet for a long moment. He retrieved the teabag from the mug and
binned it, then sat at the kitchen table. He warmed his hands with the mug,
ignoring the chemistry paraphernalia that flanked him on either side. "...not
as if I have much of a choice. I don't want you to kill me, and there's little
else I can offer that you seem interested in."
Sherlock felt mad, talking to an impossibility, but he had no other explanation
for this. Not now. "I'm not ready for anything." Certainly not whatever
Moriarty might have in mind. "...but I'd survive it."
"How do you know that?" Moriarty taunted, seemingly unable to resist the jibe.
But he went silent after. Both threats hung in the air between Sherlock and the
great void of nothing he was speaking to. Sherlock could be pretty certain
Moriarty wanted him dead. But he'd stopped. And it was difficult to tell if
Sherlock's entreaty had done it or whether there was something else.
"...I'm hedging my bets that it's not something you'll want once and then never
again." Sherlock himself wasn't certain he could really go through with it; sex
had always been something intimidating, out of the reach of understanding,
something that could be observed to cloud minds. And that required an
extraordinary amount of trust in another person, something Sherlock had rarely
been able to bring himself to do.
Various people were attractive, of course. Sherlock wasn't blind to such
things, but he'd trained himself to overlook it in order to make it easier to
suppress any desire for more, or reflect on loneliness. John had held
potential, as someone both attractive and trustworthy who'd also miraculously
been able to tolerate Sherlock's personality and behaviors, but when the doctor
had held fast to the belief that he truly was exclusively heterosexual, the
wall had gone back up.
Sherlock heard low breaths of laughter between his ears. "Oh Sherlock," Jim
lilted, "I could never quite fathom what it was like before, being in your
head. How sweet you really are. It's tempting. So, so tempting..." The voice
became closer somehow, slithering down Sherlock's spine like warm oil. "How
funny it is," Jim continued smoothly, "that you should find yourself just as
alone as I am. After allll the trouble you went to..."
Sherlock's spine stiffened. He didn't take defeat well, or the implication of
it. Neither did he care to be painted as sweet and innocent; it was too close
to the way Mycroft had always mocked him for not having a stomach for
particular things. "Yes, well. We all do foolish things every now and again. I
knew caring wasn't an advantage, and being alone secured the avoidance of pain,
and I tried anyways." He was happy John was happy, truly, but that didn't mean
he wasn't simultaneously bitter and angry about being pushed aside and
forgotten.
Jim groaned, aggravation turning into something less...stable, cutting through
the air in a sharp cry. "I don't care about your star crossed love for an
emotionally stunted flatmate, Sherlock. I'd have shot him dead on the spot had
I known you'd survive the fall." Jim sounded jealous maybe, bitter definitely.
"One more word and you're as dead as I am." His voice turned into a snarl, and
that was the first time Sherlock felt something, something not cold but not
quite warm either, press against his chest, like a palm over his sternum.
It wasn't threatening, exactly. It was...possessive.
Sherlock opened his mouth, thought the better of it, and closed it again. His
voice was silent, but his thoughts weren't. A jolt of fear lanced through him
at the threat and touch, but the rest of him was trying to untangle too many
threads at once: what Jim wanted, where this might go, how to keep everyone
else out of it.
It only stood to reason that if Moriarty could attack his heart, he could do
the same to any other living person that took his fancy.
"Go lie down, Sherlock," Jim whispered. "You don't look so good." The pressure
on his chest eased, becoming delicate, alighting up his collarbone and sweeping
across his shoulder in the direction of the bedroom. Though Sherlock still
couldn't see anything, he could feel the presence moving away from him like Jim
were beckoning him to follow.
Sherlock glanced down at his rapidly-cooling tea. He didn't have the stomach
for it. His plan upon arriving home had been to warm up and avoid drifting off
to sleep, under the theory that if his experiences with Moriarty were real,
that he might have limited reach and power while Sherlock was awake. Clearly
this wasn't the case, and there wasn't much point in putting off the
inevitable. He'd just worry until he finally reached the point of collapse, and
that was if his avoidance didn't piss Jim off.
Sherlock abandoned the mug on the table and made his way back into the bedroom.
The sheets were still a tangle from a few hours ago. He disrobed, painfully
self-conscious for once. He slid underneath the covers and wrapped them tightly
around himself, as if warding off the cold and Jim were the same thing.
"That's it, that's better," the voice came again, unnaturally soothing this
time, like Jim would be petting Sherlock's hair and cradling his head if he
could. It was an entirely transparent sense of security he was expressing, but
at least it wasn’t outright malice. "Now close your eyes and think of...me."
Jim might as well have said England. His sudden mood shift was the opposite of
comforting, but Sherlock complied. It didn't matter whether his eyes were open
or not - he couldn't see the man anyway.
Sherlock started breathing in cycles, counting as he inhaled and exhaled. The
exercises were normally soothing, as a way of quieting his thoughts, but it
didn't dissolve the dread that had pooled in his stomach.
Despite that, Sherlock started to doze off. He hadn't slept well when he'd
collapsed earlier, and Jim's actions had left him feeling terribly drained, not
just in terms of raw energy, but from stress.
Darkness swallowed him before he realized it.
He opened his eyes to a void. It was the pinpricked blackness of space again,
but this time it was all in the distance. There were no galaxies hovering light
years away but seeming just overhead. There were no comets, no suns, just stars
in the far off edges of Sherlock's vision.
And as he turned, there was Jim, standing with his hands in his pockets and the
same serene smile on his face Sherlock remembered when they'd met face to face.
And just as he'd done by the poolside years ago, Jim put one foot in front of
the other and slowly, casually sauntered Sherlock's way.
Sherlock backed up slowly, all wariness. The void surrounding them was
disorienting, and no sooner had he thought as much then his heels stepped onto
carpet. A brief glance behind himself told Sherlock that he'd managed to
juxtapose whatever Jim's space was with a piece of his own mind palace.
Jim didn't seem upset by the change of scenery. His smile didn't falter, but
Sherlock knew better than to trust that the man's expression matched his
feelings.
Jim glanced down, his head cocking, considering. Considering that Sherlock was
just as capable of calling up the familiar spaces of his mind palace.
Specifically, a long hall. Carved wood paneling. ...Classic. Jim's gaze swept
back up to Sherlock.
"Feeling a little 'out of place', are we?" Moriarty began his advance again.
Sherlock felt only marginally more secure in this environment. It reinforced
the fact that he was in his own mind and had some measure of control. "...I
prefer manmade surroundings. Space has its own aesthetics, but is also
disorienting and uninviting." Sherlock's back hit one of the doors scattered
around the hallways, which branched off into several directions. His heart was
pounding in his chest, but there was nowhere to go - not really. Jim would just
chase him around his own mind until he got what he wanted, or until Sherlock
woke up and was punished for thwarting him.
Dark lashes lowered as Jim rolled his head slowly in an unusual yet strikingly
familiar motion. Sherlock had seen him do it before. When he was alive.
Moriarty was getting well within Sherlock's space now, as slow as ever, until
his head tilted back and he was up on his tiptoes and his chest pressed against
Sherlock's chest. Jim's gaze dissected him on the spot. Every microexpression
Sherlock couldn't hold in, the beat of his heart, the stiffness in his limbs,
until one side of Jim's mouth was curling in a half smile.
"Come down here," he purred.
Sherlock frowned.
He didn't understand quite what Jim meant by that. He wasn't standing on
anything elevated, and he didn't think the smaller man would immediately jump
to... other things. Sherlock swallowed and a blush crept into his cheeks;
suddenly all of the times he'd teased Donovan weren't so funny.
Deciding that Jim must have been referencing the differences in their
respective heights, Sherlock slouched awkwardly, bending slightly at the knees
and curving his spine until they were eye-level with one another. "...better?"
Moriarty's face split into a grin.
Sherlock must have looked just as awkward as he felt, but Jim's eyes were
dancing over his face, taking in every pore and lash and eating it all up. It
was odd that he should still look at Sherlock that way, if he were in fact
dead. It was odd that he should have such base human desires at all. But the
next thing Sherlock knew, Jim was moving in and there was a warm mouth pressed
against his own.
Jim pushed. Sherlock's back hit the wall. The little criminal growled, some of
his camouflaged anger showing through, but he didn't let go.
Sherlock stayed tense for a few moments. His mind began hysterically
cataloguing sensations and extraneous data while he was still and unresponsive,
just letting Jim kiss him.
Jim's growl hummed into his mouth. It sent a tingle up Sherlock's spine, and
part of him just... stopped. His lips moved before he was aware of his own
response, shyly pressing back.
The sensation brought back memories of their earlier kiss. Sherlock wondered
what it said about him that his first real kiss was not only with the man who
had been his mortal enemy, but who was also dead.
Jim wasn't content for long. His eyes closed. His hands palmed up Sherlock's
chest, up his neck, until Jim caught him by the hair and held him there. One of
Jim's thighs raised, wedging in between Sherlock's, and his hips bucked forward
and suddenly there was quite a lot of very direct friction between them. Until
Jim tossed his head back, breaking the kiss with a breath, but easing off
nowhere else.
Sherlock was the epitome of a deer caught in the headlights. Still flushed from
the kiss, he didn't know how to react to this - long habit told him to run, to
put distance between himself and anyone else. Jim's fingers tightened in his
hair, and there was no question of escaping.
Sherlock found that his body, long neglected, was reacting regardless of
whatever his wishes might be. Touch from another person was very different than
touching oneself.
Jim's eyes crinkled with a smile, obviously enjoying the look. "Oh Sherlock,"
he breathed, pitch and tone changing yet again from where he'd been before. "If
you died, how would I ever torment you so?" He sounded almost nostalgic, like
Sherlock was some ephemeral thing. And, perhaps, now he was. To Moriarty at
least. Which posed an odd paradox in the dead criminal. Moriarty was angry
enough to want to end Sherlock's life, and yet...
And yet.
"Is that what you're aiming for, torment?" Sherlock was doing his best to stay
as composed as he could, but even he couldn't suppress automatic reactions. His
eyes had grown dark, and Jim's targeted friction was causing a predictable
reaction. "I'm just a toy to break, in death or some other manner?"
"Don't be simple, Sherlock," Jim hissed with a press of his thigh. "As much as
I want to break you, you're all I have left." Jim's head rolled. He didn't shy
away from that statement, that weakness. It was a cutting remark, just as Jim
had so often thrown at Sherlock in life. Then again, Jim had been despondent
enough in life to give up everything he had, including whatever he thought
Sherlock was to him, for his story. For the Game. For the final escape.
Jim was close enough to feel Sherlock's body tense at that additional pressure.
An odd light flickered through the detective's eyes at Jim's words. He was
remembering some of his speculation and some of the stilted conversations he'd
had with his constructed, false Moriarty.
Backed into a corner like this, Sherlock reasoned that he didn't have much to
lose in trying to test his hypothesis; Jim was unlikely to kill him in
retaliation. With that thought in mind, Sherlock's hands finally rose from
where they'd been splayed against the wall behind him. One arm circled around
Jim's waist, while the other hand drifted to the smaller man's neck.
Jim's eyes widened and followed Sherlock's hands to his own body.
Sherlock had obviously done something unexpected...but it didn't seem to be
unwelcome. Not from the way Jim sagged against him slightly. Jim found Sherlock
watching him just as intently when their eyes met again. One slender eyebrow
arched.
"Know what you're doing?" Jim asked, but there was no spite in it. Rather, it
was a challenge.
"Not really." Seeing things done and having done them oneself weren't quite the
same. Sherlock had observed many different types of ways that affection was
physically expressed, but hadn't tried them much. Not beyond what had been
required to put up a front and get himself into Magnussen's office. Sherlock
knew he couldn't adopt such an obvious persona; Jim would see right through it.
Eyes wary, Sherlock decided to try something he'd seen that looked simple
enough. He pulled Jim closer but turned aside at the last moment, touching his
lips to the criminal's neck.
"Oooh, Sherlock. Aren't you the precocious one?" Jim teased, but Sherlock could
feel Moriarty shiver. They were pressed that close. Jim didn't rebuff his
advance either. In fact he tilted his head to invite Sherlock to more skin and
even rewarded him with the slow slide of hip and thigh.
Jim had not agreed upon any terms to this little game of theirs. They were both
aware of this. There was no guarantee he would stop tormenting Sherlock if they
went through with this, in fact it was very unlikely. It was, however, more
likely that Jim would be less inclined to stop Sherlock’s heart. Jim's body
language was also encouraging, but his words had the opposite effect. Sherlock
was doing this out of a mix of self-preservation and curiosity about what made
the smaller man tick. He was painfully aware of the fact that he had no
experience, and being teased didn't help his confidence when he'd been teased
about this particular area of his life a little too often.
Sherlock frowned and, in a fit of spite, bit Jim. The smaller man cried out,
jerking against Sherlock, but a second later Jim was laughing.
He shoved into Sherlock and Sherlock shoved him back, holding on until Jim's
hand came up to the back of Sherlock's neck and held him there, right where he
was. Like Jim didn't mind being bitten. Like any passionate reaction out of
Sherlock was good in his mind.
Pale skin broke and Jim hissed, but Sherlock couldn't tell whether in pleasure
or in pain because Jim's knee was between them again and their hips were
slotted back together and Jim hitched himself up on his toes to get the perfect
angle...
Sherlock groaned, but it wasn't from the friction. He'd bitten Jim too hard,
and a coppery tang hit his tongue. His hold on the smaller man immediately
tightened, locking him in place so he couldn't pull away.
Finally Sherlock pulled back just enough to look at his handiwork. He hadn't
done much damage, but a few puncture marks dotted Jim's skin, bright crimson
welling to the surface.
Sherlock's breathing hitched.
Black eyes darted to his face. The rest of Jim didn't move, but slowly, ever so
slowly, something dawned in that gaze. Sherlock could see it happen, the way
Jim's eyes focused, grew a little wider, the way his mouth turned up at the
corner. Jim was still leaking muddy fluid from the back of his head, but what
was left on his neck and Sherlock's lips was bright red.
Jim reached up and touched his fingers to the wound. They came away smeared.
Knowingly, he met Sherlock's gaze and licked one. "I think I found something
Sherlock likes after all," he hummed to himself.
Sherlock quivered, his eyes flickering back and forth between Jim's face and
the digit he'd just licked clean. He hadn't expected ghosts to bleed - not like
this, at any rate.
The rest of Jim's fingertips were still coated, held up between them. Jim moved
his hand as if to clean another finger off and Sherlock caught his wrist.
Slowly, not quite looking at the criminal, he pulled it toward his own mouth.
His lips closed around one stained digit and he sucked it clean.
Jim's own mouth turned into a small oval of something Sherlock might not have
wanted to analyse, but his mind was fast and Jim's surprise and lust were
broadcasting clear.
The fingers at the back of Sherlock's neck scratched against his scalp,
gripping his hair, but neither pulled nor pushed Sherlock away. It was merely a
sign of how intensely Jim was thrumming with focus on those full, wet lips
around his finger.
When Sherlock pulled off, Jim collected himself a little, but he was still
breathing with an open mouth.
"I'm dead, Sherlock. You can take more." Jim's smile curled like the devil
himself.
Sherlock looked back in a daze. His hurt was still there, right alongside his
confusion, embarrassment, and anger at being trapped in this situation upon
pain of death, but there was something else: hunger. Jim might have a confident
smile now, but Sherlock hadn't missed the look his smirk had replaced.
He cleaned off the rest of Jim's hand, watching intently. Sherlock's tongue
flicked across the pad of one finger, and the little expression that caused
made Sherlock's mouth curl into a smirk of his own.
When there was no more to be gained from Jim's hand, Sherlock turned his
attention back to the man's neck. Crimson lines marked his skin from where the
blood had run, and Sherlock followed them with his tongue.
Jim's arms wound around Sherlock and the man gasped like it was the best thing
he'd ever felt. He was practically purring with every swipe of Sherlock's
tongue over such a vulnerable spot.
It posed a new question. If Jim was already dead, could he die again? More
permanently? He could feel, they'd established that. He could even feel pain
when Sherlock surprised him. But could he be snuffed out of existence?
From what Jim had alluded in his invitation, he didn't believe so, but had he
tested it?
Sherlock wondered, and he waited. Jim had always been overly reckless, but he
was practically melting at the moment, head tilted to give Sherlock access.
Sherlock moved when he thought Jim was thoroughly distracted. His judo training
kicked in, and he swept Jim's legs out from under him and pushed forward into a
controlled fall. Jim hit the ground beneath him and was promptly pinned down.
Jim's eyes went wide and he gave a startled yelp, but it devolved into a fit of
laughs. This time it at least didn't seem to be at Sherlock himself, rather at
having Sherlock where Jim wanted him, doing what he wanted.
With Jim underneath Sherlock like that it was easy for him to spread his legs,
lift his hips, and grind invitingly against Sherlock above him. His arms locked
around Sherlock's back and his body writhed, holding Sherlock down as much as
he was pinning Jim. Every move Jim made was calculated to entice Sherlock
further, even if they were still fully clothed and Jim's once pristine suit was
now rumpled and scratchy. Even when he left lengthy trails of dull red against
the carpet wherever the back of his head swiped.
Sherlock's hand curled around Jim's throat and squeezed until his laughs cut
off. Jim wasn't struggling so much as squirming up against him, trying to make
Sherlock do more. Or, at least, react the way Jim wanted him to.
Sherlock reminded himself that his body was just transport, that it could be
ignored, but it was easier to ignore hunger and other natural impulses when
alone, without another person pushing the issue.
Jim's motions were getting slower and weaker with his breathing cut off, but
his dark eyes never left Sherlock's face. They were more intense than the
construct he'd been visiting for the past two years, full of something Sherlock
had not been able to replicate.
Disgust and shame were making Sherlock's skin crawl, but he couldn't go through
with it.
He struggled out of Jim's weakened arms and pushed away, leaving Jim gasping on
the floor.
Jim's arms flailed out, his mouth opened and closed and his lungs heaved. For a
few moments he was even coughing. But he didn't make an attempt to get up, not
until the fit had subsided and he rolled over to face Sherlock. He looked at
Sherlock like he was staring not through him, but right down into his soul,
sussing out Sherlock's thoughts....until, again, Jim's mouth curled into a
grin.
"Kinky, Sherlock." He lifted himself on one forearm, draped across the floor
now almost seductively. "Don't you want some more?"
Sherlock stared back at Jim. Normally people were predictable - or, perhaps it
was more accurate to say that normal people were predictable. Jim's mind was a
puzzle, one Sherlock didn't understand and hadn't the slightest idea how to
crack. Mysteries always drew him in, but the criminal's behaviors and attitudes
simultaneously repelled him. Sherlock was, for once, at a loss for what to do.
"No," he finally rasped, but an idea had taken hold. He'd changed their
surroundings once before. This was his mind, which meant he should have the
upper hand. Sherlock concentrated, much like he had when building the rooms in
this place, and restraints appeared. Shackles snapped into place around Jim's
feet and chained him to the floor.
Jim's eyes widened, but the smile didn't fade. "No?" he shot back with a huff
of a laugh. "This doesn't look like a 'no'."
Jim tested one of the shackles, chain rattling as it moved and pulled taut
against his shiny leather shoe. He lay on his back, head turned, watching
Sherlock all the while. He spread the shackles, and his legs, wider. His hands
trailed up the rumpled white of his shirt from groin to sternum, jacket button
having long become undone in their scuffling.
"You certainly have a thing for me in chains."
"You've proven too dangerous and unpredictable when I've let you move freely.
Whether it was truly you or a poor copy." Sherlock calmed somewhat. The chains
had held; he hadn't lost complete control. Jim's body language was still
disturbing, but that was alright. What mattered was that he wasn't going to be
pushed up against a wall and touched against his will.
Sherlock stepped a little closer. He could still see dots of fresh blood on the
bite wound he'd left. Jim noticed his gaze and tilted his head to give Sherlock
a better look. "...why are you like this?" Sherlock asked quietly.
One sharp eyebrow raised. "Why do I want you? Or why am I dead? You know the
the latter. Or do you simply mean 'what makes Jim Moriarty tick', hm?" Jim's
tone hadn't lost its lilting quality, but his eyes gained a sharper edge and
his movements slowed, more focused on Sherlock and his curiosity.
Jim was, in a way, welcoming. Not fighting his bonds, but waiting with
anticipation for Sherlock to come nearer.
"The first and the last," Sherlock admitted quietly. When his confidence rose,
Sherlock moved a little closer yet, stopping and crouching just short of
Moriarty's reach. Even still and chained, the shorter man radiated an elegant
sort of menace, like a tiger whose owner only thought it was leashed. "If you
knew me even half as well as you claim, you'd know this isn't the strategy to
take in order to get me. I don't think we understand each other at all."
Jim gave a conciliatory shrug of his shoulders, just for show. "Maybe not," he
admitted. "...maybe you just don't know how good it can be. Or maybe what makes
me ‘me’ simply won’t allow me to make that concession. We could get to know
each other. Very well." Jim's thumb trailed back down the line of his chest.
But when he spoke again, his tone dropped to a whisper, secretive, yet for the
first time a little more serious than Sherlock had ever seen from him in life.
"I've invested too much of myself in you. As you can no doubt see. I have very
little left to lose."
Sherlock didn't ask why Jim was overinvested. He knew, on some level. If not
the same, they at least had a similar fascination with one another. Even
Sherlock had stopped telling himself that he'd reconstructed his adversary
merely to gain insight on how to take down his network. The other Jim had been
for remembrance and for company.
Sherlock's pale eyes followed the path of Jim's thumb before returning to his
face. "Still, little left to lose means that those few things are more
precious. I would think you'd be more motivated to keep what you have and
secure something more."
"Or end it all, end you. Again." Jim's eyes shuttered. It was like Moriarty
couldn't stand the thought of Sherlock being alive while he was dead. Perhaps
to Jim, that was an unforgivable insult. The shackles creaked and split open.
Jim lunged forward, catching Sherlock by the back of the head in surprise. Jim
wrenched himself closer, seething through clenched teeth. "If I were to destroy
you, what’s to say I wouldn't still remain, stuck in this monotonous limbo.
It's worse than life, Sherlock. It really is."
Sherlock struggled, but Jim had already put him off-balance and tipped him
over. His feet were tucked beneath him and useless for leverage, and Jim
quickly pinned both of his hands. For all that the criminal was shorter, he'd
never been weaker. Sheer emotion seemed to lend disproportional strength to his
smaller frame, and Sherlock had never been one for lifting weights.
The detective was left staring up into dark eyes again, tossed right back into
the pool of fear he'd only just climbed out of. "If you destroyed me, then
you'd truly be alone," Sherlock pointed out.
"If I can't also destroy myself, yes," Jim whispered, bending down to Sherlock
so that he was speaking right against Sherlock's mouth. "Not so different from
when I was alive though." Jim hissed a laugh, turning bitterness to humour.
Jim laid his body down on top of Sherlock, feet digging into the carpet to
prevent Sherlock from throwing him off. They pressed together in all the right
places again, but this time Jim didn't dare let Sherlock's hands go in order
for his own to wander. Instead, he bared his teeth and latched on to the side
of Sherlock's neck in mirror to what Sherlock had done before.
Sherlock's eyes closed and he grimaced, struggling even when he knew it
wouldn't do any good. He'd taken enough Judo to be keenly aware of leverage
points, and right now he had none. Unless and until Jim moved and gave him
control of his arms and legs, he was pinned.
Sherlock cried out when pressure at his neck turned into sharp pain, and he
felt an answering drip of warmth.
Jim's familiar laughter never came.
Instead, Sherlock heard a low, almost purring, moan from the other man, muffled
by Sherlock's own skin. He felt Jim's tongue lick over the split skin under his
closed mouth, and then smear it with a shake of his head.
Jim lifted, coming back into view. His mouth was painted red. By the amount of
it, Sherlock was sure to have a very angry looking wound on the side of his
throat.
Jim dove down and kissed him, taste sharp with Sherlock's own blood.
Sherlock was torn by several conflicting emotions. He wanted to pull away, back
into the safety of empty space, where he couldn't be hurt because no one and
nothing could touch him. He was aware of the stinging, sharp pain at the side
of his neck and the fact that Jim had put that wound there.
Another part of him tasted blood and opened on instinct. Jim didn't hesitate to
take advantage. A strange tongue slid into his mouth, hot and unfamiliar, and
Sherlock went still. The taste of blood was even stronger like this, and
Sherlock opened his eyes only to find the same dark eyes that had haunted his
thoughts staring back, closer than they'd ever gotten before.
Jim drew their arms down without breaking the kiss. His grip was still sure,
but it was a more comfortable position for both of them. Even though they were
lined up right where Jim needed them to be, he didn't grind his hips down. His
weight alone was enough to create subtle friction between them. Jim hummed into
Sherlock's mouth, dark eyelashes lowering, but never closing.
Finally, he broke away. He didn't go far, giving Sherlock just the barest hint
of space. "If I let go, think you can manage not to run?"
"...that depends on what you're going to do." Sherlock was reeling, but he
hadn't forgotten what had happened thus far. Jim's moods were extremely
changeable. Just because the kiss had been admittedly pleasant didn't mean Jim
wouldn't decide to go back to grinding against him, or biting, or even murder.
Things with Janine had never gone past this point, even at the height of the
charade. His false girlfriend had been willing to take no for an answer.
Sherlock wasn't at all certain that Jim would stop if asked.
"Just a little of what you so graciously offered," Jim whispered back. One side
of his mouth curled. He dared to let one of Sherlock's wrists free in order to
run his hand down Sherlock's arm, over his shoulder, and down his side before
reaching back up again. "You're so nervous," Jim said softly, "Make me happy,
Sherlock, I haven't been happy in such a long time." His words were pleading
and his eyes as soft as any of his sweet personas, but his lips were smiling.
Sherlock took a shuddering breath. His skin tingled all over. His chances of
survival increased the happier Jim was, and the chain experiment proved that he
didn't have complete control. He couldn't just trick Jim into a trap and keep
him locked somewhere in here. The criminal would break out, find him in the
waking world, and squeeze his heart until he was dead.
"Of course I'm bloody well nervous," Sherlock retorted once he’d gotten his
bearings. He hadn't done this before, had walled off any inclination for it,
and now he was stuck dealing with a devil who might demand anything.
Jim's smile broke into a grin and any innocence that had been in his eyes
before was gone. "Then let's start small, shall we?" He kissed Sherlock's lips
and raised himself up. Seeing that Sherlock wasn't immediately throwing him
off, he settled his weight over Sherlock's hips. Hands trailing down Sherlock's
long torso, Jim bit his lower lip in what looked more like a tease than any
nervousness on his part. With careful pressure, Jim rolled his own hips, and
there was that friction again, scratchy through their clothes now for all the
long minutes they'd been doing this. But still....
Sherlock quivered underneath Jim's body, but he didn’t fight back. Not yet. The
feeling was different than anything he'd encountered before. Janine had sat on
his lap as part of the play at dating, of course, but she hadn't pushed the
issue, and Sherlock had never been hard when it happened. He was rarely hard,
period. Sherlock had considered it a blessing and a testament to his power of
will that, after a brief awkward period during his adolescence, he'd managed to
shut such impulses away.
Jim leaned closer again and touched their lips together, and Sherlock had to
admit that…these things hadn't been as firmly walled off as he'd thought.
Sounds of their breathing filled the air. Sherlock could feel Jim smiling
against him as their mouths met, and the slippery slide of skin on skin, hot
and wet, was a subtle reminder that he could be asking Sherlock to do far more.
Yet Jim kept their rocking slow and left his hands out of it, instead
entangling them in Sherlock's hair until one of them slipped down to press over
Sherlock's heart. Jim was timing his pulse. Sherlock's heartbeat was rapid,
but…not entirely from fear.
Jim was dangerous, and highly intelligent, and Sherlock had always found both
of those qualities attractive. A glance told him that Jim had already figured
out as much; his smile had taken on a sly curve again.
Eventually Sherlock flinched, and it had nothing to do with fear. The friction
from their clothing had persisted long enough to be uncomfortable without
something to ease it.
Jim pulled away and lifted his hips up. Reaching one hand down between them, he
rested his palm over Sherlock's groin. He didn't have to rub. Just pressure was
enough, dark eyes locked on Sherlock's face all the while. And then that hand
crept up, unfastened the button at Sherlock's flies, pulled the zipper down,
and slipped inside.
Jim seemed to drink in the mix of emotions radiating from Sherlock. The unease,
the fear, the conflicting desire. Like it was all flowing into him, he
shuddered when his palm met the hardness of Sherlock's erection through one
last slim layer of fabric.
Sherlock gasped, and his hips jerked up in spite of himself.
Touch was markedly different when it wasn't from his own hand. His mind didn't
know what to expect or when, and this was doubly true for Jim. The criminal
might decide to give only pleasure, or suddenly inflict pain. It wouldn't take
much effort, not with such vulnerable parts of Sherlock’s body.
Jim nuzzled his nose into Sherlock's neck, carefully avoiding the bite until he
licked softly over it with the flat of his tongue. It stung, but only a little,
as though Jim had heard Sherlock's thoughts. He had in the waking world, but
their conversations here indicated that he was no longer able to.
Perhaps in Sherlock's mind, they were on more equal footing. Even if it was
Sherlock's mind.
Jim came up to look into Sherlock's eyes again, and that was when he could tell
Jim meant to take this further. His hand slipped free of Sherlock's underwear,
but Jim leaned down, spit into his palm, and then his hand was back, this time
slipping under the waistband and meeting flesh.
Sherlock jerked like he'd been shocked with electricity. His hands
automatically rose to push Jim off of him, but instead of shoving, they grabbed
handfuls of the man's shirt. Sherlock was wide-eyed and, if he had to be honest
with himself, frightened, but this wasn't too far yet. He could weather this if
that's what it took to survive.
Jim's hand tightened and slid, and a whimper escaped Sherlock's throat. Jim's
eyes, his whole expression, widened with delight, Sherlock's reaction lighting
him up from inside. "Oh yes...." Jim whispered. "That's it."
Sherlock strained against him, gripping hard to his shirt and ensuring that Jim
couldn't move if he'd wanted to, neither closer nor farther away. Sherlock's
breath came in shaky hitches now and Jim bent down as close as Sherlock’s hands
would allow to Sherlock's cheek, just to hear it better. His rhythm was slow
and strong, covering every inch of Sherlock, up and down, methodically undoing
him.
Sherlock couldn't think, and that was exactly what terrified him about this. He
was putting himself entirely at the mercy of another person, trusting Jim not
just with his physical health, but not to tear him apart from the inside out
after shutting his brain down.
Letting someone close was everything he'd been taught against, not just in
words but through experiences. He'd stifled the need for release, the need for
another person, and rerouted that energy into more constructive things. Drugs.
Murder. Things that left him in control.
"Ssss..." Sherlock wanted Jim to stop. He couldn't keep doing this. The thought
of coming apart in front of anyone was terrifying, but especially this man. Jim
would laugh and then rip his heart out.
"Shhhh," Jim whispered, chest pressing into Sherlock's hands to get that much
closer. "It's okay, shh." He sounded so pleasant, even used his free hand to
stroke against Sherlock's temple. Jim was so good at it, he might have fooled
anyone else. Eyes soft and promising everything would be okay if Sherlock just
let himself slip away into the rushing pleasure, that he would be here, safe
and sound when it was all over. Jim's lips pressed against Sherlock's cheek on
one side and his fingers stroked errant strands on the other while his palm
sped up below.
Sherlock's body was quickly overriding his mind. His breathing came in pants.
Not even Jim's presence at his side was dissuading anymore; Sherlock knew he
couldn't believe Jim's expression or words, knew that a monster had him in its
claws even as it was murmuring sweet reassurances, and even the fear that
provoked was not enough to jolt him into action. Heat pooled at the base of his
spine, and when Jim's hand twisted, Sherlock arched and started to climax.
His mouth fell open and Jim was suddenly there, covering it with his own and
taking the cry that came muffled between them. His hand didn't stop. Sherlock's
hips jerked. His stomach tightened. Jim flattened his body over Sherlock's just
to feel him lose control, but he never released his hold. He was a dark and
looming presence every time Sherlock's eyes opened, hovering right there.
With Jim swallowing his cries and pressed against him like that, Sherlock felt
like the man was trying to eat his soul, or at least a piece of it.
Jim coaxed him through it all the way to the end, and beyond. Sherlock's
stomach felt hot and sticky, and lethargy invaded his limbs, and suddenly
everything became exquisitely oversensitive to the touch. Jim's hand hadn't
stopped its motions yet, and Sherlock began crying out and jerking in earnest.
He felt Jim's lips curl against his mouth until the man atop him finally
stilled his rhythm. He only moved his hand away after one last squeeze, sending
Sherlock's eyes wincing shut.
When he opened them again, Jim had pulled back just enough to bring the hand up
between them, its fingers painted with creamy fluid. With the light dancing in
his eyes, he drew one into his mouth, letting his tongue slide visibly up the
side.
Sherlock watched in horrified fascination. He couldn't imagine why anyone would
want to do that. From everything he'd heard, the taste wasn't pleasant, and the
act of consumption was typically associated with humiliation and submission by
the general public. Jim was clearly neither.
Warmth had sunk into Sherlock's bones. He vaguely remembered this from his
younger days when he'd briefly experimented with himself. Sherlock knew that
the concept of virginity was meaningless beyond societal constructs, but he was
still a bit disturbed that this was what constituted his first time with
another person. A first time he'd never expected to have.
When Jim was finished with his little show, he reached down, tucked Sherlock
back into his trousers and zipped them up as good as new. He was methodical
about it, each step as deliberate as the last, leaving time for Sherlock to
both catch his breath and wonder what was to come next.
Jim curled up still half atop him, looking very pleased with himself. "There
now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"
Color lit up Sherlock's cheeks. Jim had to be mad. He'd nearly killed him out
of spite and jealousy for managing to survive, bit him, made him think that the
price for living was to endure rape... and then proceeded to pleasure only
Sherlock and ingest the results. Sherlock had seen some of the results of
deviant sexual interests, but he hadn't expected Jim to be satisfied with this.
"...that was it, that was what you wanted?"
Jim's eyes glittered in the light of the hallway. His smile lengthened, just
waiting for Sherlock's disbelief to falter, to feel him grow tense beneath Jim
again.
"Well, apart from a little reciprocation, yes." Jim's forefinger, now clean,
drew a line down Sherlock's cheek, eyes lowering to watch it move as if he were
imagining Sherlock's mouth in quite another way. "I think we could use a little
change of scenery, don't you?" The hallway was suddenly gone, washed away by
white sheets and a bed spread out beneath them. From the look of the room,
Sherlock could have guessed they were in an upscale London town home, yet the
details were bare.
Sherlock's eyes darted around the room, cataloguing what was there. Nothing
that was useable to escape or fight back, but thankfully neither were there any
obvious instruments for torture. It was utterly normal, if richer than what
Sherlock was used to. Much richer; his body was sinking into the mattress
beneath him in a way that his bed in 221B could never match.
"Reciprocation?" Sherlock imagined that this meant Jim wanted... to be touched.
Sherlock tried to hide the images and emotions that thought summoned. He was,
on the whole, far more willing to touch Jim with his hands than to be touched,
and still extremely curious. Just not curious enough to want to replicate the
way Jim had cleaned his hand off.
"Yes Sherlock," Jim indulged him without comment on how Sherlock had just made
him repeat himself. His finger ended its trail and Jim moved to flop down on
the bed next to Sherlock's lankier frame. One of Jim's legs was still tangled
in Sherlock’s though, and Jim didn't seem very keen on allowing him any more
space than he'd gotten thus far.
Jim tucked an arm behind his head and spread his legs, a very unsubtle hint at
what he expected.
Sherlock was familiar with the human body, but mostly in terms of dead
specimens. Corpses generally weren't the sort of things one caressed for
pleasure, not unless someone was unusually wired for that sort of thing.
Sherlock had a general idea of where the pleasurable nerve endings in the body
were and, at the very least, could simply mimic what had been done to him.
He didn't meet Jim's eyes. He didn't want the man to guess that he'd thought
about something like this before. Not quite this, exactly, but the chance to
examine Jim closer. The body often gave clues about the mind, and Sherlock had
been curious ever since Moriarty had stepped into the spotlight as himself.
Sherlock swallowed.
Rather than immediately seeking the fastenings of Jim's trousers, he turned his
attention upward. His fingertips began tracing the edges of Jim's face,
pressing lightly to relax the muscles beneath Jim’s eyes and across his brow,
to create pleasure. Sherlock’s eyes followed his hands, absorbing as many fine
details as he could. Jim's dark eyelashes lowered, but never quite closed.
As dead as he was, he was anything but a corpse.
A small smile played over Jim’s mouth and he lifted his head for Sherlock's
touch, subtly leaning into it like Sherlock needed encouragement. Jim's
shoulders shifted, burrowing down into the soft covers to make himself
comfortable. He radiated satisfaction.
His skin was warm. The steady beat of his pulse thrummed beneath it. He was by
no means a muscular man, but he had a certain leanness to his body, even under
the rumpled suit. Sherlock could also tell that underneath all those layers,
Jim was still as aroused as he had been when they'd begun this endeavour.
Sherlock touched every inch of Jim's face, then trailed down to his neck,
pausing for a moment to feel his pulse. Jim was still content and pliant, and
Sherlock wondered just how many people had seen the man like this before. He
couldn't imagine many. Not who survived afterward, at any rate.
Sherlock stroked his fingers through Jim's hair, then turned his gaze
thoughtfully downward. His hands drifted to the buttons of Jim's shirt and
began to undo them. Jim hadn't disrobed him this much, but Sherlock doubted
he'd object.
From the tugging at the corners of Jim's mouth, he didn't. He even lifted
himself up enough to help Sherlock remove his jacket and the rest of his shirt,
leaving him bare from the waist up. Sherlock's assumption had been correct. Jim
was thin, but not unhealthily so, which was a miracle in itself. It might have
been attributed to whether he was able to alter his appearance in this state
had Sherlock not remembered the footage of Jim smashing through security to get
at the royal crown in nothing more than a tshirt and jeans.
Jim laid himself back down and shimmied his hips suggestively.
"We'll get to that." If Sherlock was going to be given free rein to explore
without violent repercussions, he was going to take advantage of it. His hands
swept over Jim's shoulders, then down his arms one at a time before turning his
attention to Jim's chest. The smaller man was trim and smooth, not overly
muscular but not soft either. A few scars marked his skin here and there, pale
and nearly invisible but for the change in texture. One gave Sherlock pause,
and his fingers traced over a familiar line.
"What did you get into?" Sherlock knew, of course, who'd inflicted this mark.
Or thought he knew. He'd seen it's like before.
Jim followed Sherlock's line of sight thoughtfully, as though he had to
remember.
"Ah that. Your brother dearest."
Jim didn't sound disturbed. Rather, somewhat aloof, but Sherlock could tell it
was intentional. Very similar to the tone Mycroft often took with him, in fact.
"You remember, though I don't think you were ever privy to the details. He and
I had such good times together down in that little bunker of his, top secret of
course."
Sherlock's eyes shuttered, and he nodded. If Jim didn't already know, he wasn't
going to enlighten him.
Sherlock rubbed his thumb over the scar one last time before continuing. He
stroked down Jim's sides and came to a rest at the small furrows on either side
of his hips.
Jim's interest was still very much present, straining against the restrictive
fabric of his trousers. Sherlock glanced up to find himself being watched
intently. Jim's small smile was back.
Sherlock took a deep breath and started on the fastenings.
Jim bit his lip. His hips gave another little shimmy of interest, but he
stilled them before it startled Sherlock away. With Sherlock bending over him
like he was, avoiding more contact than necessary through his position at Jim's
side, Jim was very nearly like a slab of meat on a table. Except that every
inch of him was thrumming way with life. What they were doing could at least be
termed an experiment, however.
Jim's eyes fell to Sherlock's hands, watching his trousers slowly open.
Sherlock tugged them down, then hooked his fingers around the waistband of
Jim's pants and pulled on them. Flushed pink flesh sprang free and came to a
rest against Jim's stomach. The trail of dark hair running down from his navel
only served to highlight it more.
Sherlock froze for a moment. He knew he had to keep going, but he'd never done
this to another person before, and his own self-focused experience was
extremely sparse. He felt nervous again, for some reason he couldn't quite
fathom, but he licked his lips and tried to concentrate. Sherlock's hand
reached forward and wrapped around Jim's cock, and he risked a glance upward.
Jim's eyes had turned to black slits, but they were still watching him. His
mouth now formed a little ring of arousal. Jim was obviously trying to restrain
himself from moving his hips again, wanting instead to see what Sherlock would
do. There was, however, one thing he insisted upon. Reaching out, Jim tugged at
Sherlock's waist and arm, moving him from Jim's side to instead sit atop Jim's
thighs. From that position the hard flesh in Sherlock's hand hardened further,
and he could feel it.
Sherlock's gaze hadn't fixed on Jim's cock, but his face. He could feel Jim's
interest spike as soon as he was sitting atop the smaller man, but his
expression was far more interesting. There was a chance he was faking some of
his reactions, but Sherlock again doubted it, and that made him wonder. His
fingers tightened and he slowly stroked from base to tip, watching Jim
intently.
Jim's head fell back. A breath of air left his chest like he'd been punched.
Sherlock felt Jim's hips pump up into his hand, seeking more. Hands fell to
grip at Sherlock's knees and he could see the flex of sinew in Jim's shoulders
as he held on. Dark eyes opened, looking up to meet Sherlock's calculating ones
and Jim broadcast his desires without words.
More.
Sherlock paused to take in the sight. After a moment he released Jim and spit
into his hand, mimicking what Jim had done earlier. The tactile sensation was
pleasant enough, warm and silken, but having another man's cock in his hand
wasn't titillating. What was was the way Jim reacted.
His fingers wrapped around Jim again and he watched the smaller man tilt his
hips up to meet him. The hands clutching at his legs tightened and Jim's lips
parted. For some reason, that gap was fascinating, creating a combination of
lines that drew Sherlock's eye like a fine painting.
He wondered whether Jim was truly losing control, or if this was merely show.
"I can see you watching me, you know," Jim breathed. As though Sherlock could
have forgotten. But that statement didn't diminish any of the pleasure washing
over Jim's features. Even his voice had gone thick with the sensation. He made
a point of rocking his hips into Sherlock's hand, up on the down stroke,
causing his eyes to flutter and for the spike of pleasure to part his lips just
a little farther. It was real. But that didn't mean Jim wasn't putting on a
show.
"I know." The idea that this was at least partially false diminished the power
of it a bit, but certain physical phenomena couldn't be faked. Not without
chemical assistance, at any rate, and those were beyond reach.
Sherlock had seen this before. Not participated, of course, but it was easy
enough to find videos of practically anything on the internet, and some of his
visits to various dens of inequity had involved ignoring activities going on in
convenient shadowy nooks. He'd never found it interesting before. Perhaps
because it had never been someone he had a connection with, if one could call
it that.
Sherlock's hand tightened and he stroked a little faster. He wanted to see Jim
lose control. Not a false pretense at it, but for real.
Another shaky breath drew from Jim's lips and his head fell back to the pillow.
"Oh Sherlock, we should have really done this when I was alive. I never
expected you to be so enthusiastic." That wasn’t true. Jim had orchestrated
this situation, after all, and Sherlock was nowhere near as enthusiastic as a
lover should be, but it did indicate that Jim could tell he wasn't completely
repulsed either.
The lean muscles in Jim's stomach began to tighten with the pleasure, arching
his hips for the perfect angle in Sherlock's grip, and once again Jim began to
bite his lower lip.
"I might be more, if you could take it upon yourself to stop putting on a false
act." Reactions were what interested Sherlock. Anything that gave him more
information and insight into how Moriarty worked. His current act was
interesting, but too laced with coy positioning and paper-thin provocations.
The facade was undoubtedly effective against people Jim might have encountered
before, but it was a manipulation while hiding all of himself behind a
character. Sherlock couldn't trust any of the data he was getting in return.
His hand slowed. He could tease just as well as Jim could.
Jim's teeth bared at the pace, but his eyes sharpened at Sherlock's request.
"You don't want an act? Then get down here." His lips curled malevolently and
he was lifting himself up, grabbing Sherlock by the front of his shirt, and
jerking him down to hunch over Jim. He had to all but lay atop the criminal and
his hand had to shift in order not to twist the wrong way, which Jim didn't
seem to care about because he still slid himself through Sherlock's hand with a
buck of his hips. Jim's mouth met Sherlock's and Jim’s hands with sharp nails
clung to Sherlock's back.
This both was and wasn't what Sherlock had wanted. It gave him improved
insight, but at a cost.
Sherlock flinched when Jim's nails dug through the fabric of his shirt.
Jim had dropped one control for another. Instead of a pretty act, Sherlock got
aggression and a show of dominance instead. Sherlock felt Jim's hips thrust
upwards and try to take control of the rhythm. He made a noise of protest
against Jim's mouth. His hand loosened so the smaller man had little friction
to work with.
Jim hissed a growl between them, arm tightening around the back of Sherlock's
neck so he couldn't move away. "What's the matter, don't like what you see?"
His words were spoken into Sherlock's mouth. "I don't open up for just anyone
you know. I need a little incentive."
Sherlock could feel Jim's ankles twining with his own to lock them together
just a little bit more. Jim's eyes flashed up at him and there was a spark of
anger in them.
Sherlock was still angry, too, and bitter about being forced into this, but
Jim's reciprocal anger gave him a theory. Nothing very solid, just the vaguest
whispers of an idea, but it was something to test. Jim's anger was more solid,
more authentic, more real than the coquette persona, and real was always
preferable.
Jim wouldn't be fooled by a mask, even if it had equaled his own.
Sherlock searched for something he could use, something true that he could
dangle in front of the other man. He latched onto the emotions that were tied
into several older memories - the despair when he'd been undercover that had
turned to loneliness, sending him back into his mind palace again and again,
not just to watch the construct of John that he'd kept safely hidden away in
221B, but the man whose work he had been trying to unravel. The chained
construct he'd sat and conversed with for hours, out of need, then curiosity,
and later a twisted sort of comfort. The false Moriarty had always been glad to
see him and emotive of such in his own way.
Sherlock dragged that loneliness, curiosity, and compassion to the surface,
putting himself back into the state of mind that dominated him when he'd still
been undercover. He slid his free hand beneath Jim's neck, ignoring the
congealed stickiness from his persistent wound, and paused just long enough to
let Jim have a good look. When he leaned down to touch their mouths together
again. His hand started to stroke a little faster.
Jim stilled for a second. Sherlock could feel him stiffen, see his eyes widen.
He hadn't expected Sherlock to look at him like that. Sherlock had successfully
thrown him off guard, and that in itself said something of how invested Jim
Moriarty truly was in him. If haunting him beyond the grave wasn’t enough
already.
When the attentions Sherlock gave him didn't stop, Jim pulled him away by the
back of his hair. Not far, just enough to look at Sherlock a little longer,
trying to decide what had changed, if the intimacy Sherlock was projecting was
real. In that moment, Jim looked more haunted than Sherlock had ever seen him
before, even as Richard Brook.
"What's the matter, don't like what you see?" Sherlock wasn't above a bit of
pettiness, but his parroting of Jim's words didn't have quite the same sting.
He couldn't mock like this, not if he hoped to retain his hold on the emotions
he'd pulled from old memories. His eyes searched Jim's face, drinking in his
reaction and trying to deduce what had caused it.
Jim refused to let go of him and break the stillness they'd found.
"You've never looked at me like this before, Sherlock," he whispered,
challenging Sherlock to either admit to what he was projecting as a newfound
appreciation for Jim, or deny it. It was obvious that Jim was having trouble
telling whether it was an act or not. Sherlock's memories and experiences with
the Moriarty he'd created were real, which meant he had, in a way, become
somewhat invested in Jim, too. Back when they'd played the game, Jim had
suspected it as well, but events had moved too fast to be sure, and Sherlock
had found a way out.
"You were too busy doing things that pushed me away." Sherlock wasn't quite
able to hold back a surge of anger, but it didn't destroy the rest of the
emotions he was projecting. It merely gave them a heated, bitter edge. "I never
got the chance to know you any better, because you threatened the small bit of
happiness I'd found in the world when the game just wasn't enough. And then you
died. And all I had left was guesswork. Not even enough to make a poor, stable
copy, but that simulacrum was all that I had. The only real company I had for
two years, if such things count as real."
Hardness crept back into Jim's gaze. "Life isn't easy." Jim's lip curled,
finding a source of bitter humour. "Even when you're dead."
Some of Jim's wall had come back up, but he paused to just look at Sherlock
again, to trail his hand through the back of Sherlock's hair. He gave off the
sense, however, that in spite of his words, Jim would have never allowed this
much of himself to slip through in life. It was...difficult to say. He'd come
close in the end, on that roof, to being open with Sherlock, and then he'd
abruptly put that to an end.
Sherlock's eyes searched him and Jim's lowered, focus briefly turning inward.
"Come now, what would you have done with another boring little friend? I could
never have been that for you, anyway."
"I don't think you could be categorized as ‘boring’ by any stretch of the
imagination," Sherlock replied flatly. "I'm not certain what one does with
friends, or people in general. I've only ever had the one." Even John, in the
end, hadn't stayed. They were still friends, but it was different. Part of his
life truly had ended on that rooftop - he'd come back a different person, and
John hadn't quite come back at all.
"I have little-to-no experience with people other than on a functional basis.
They provide food, transport, and other services, and occasionally some of them
try to be clever and I get a distraction for a while. It's a bit futile to try
to guess what you could have been, because that's impossible to know now."
Sherlock paused, a bit of caution creeping into his gaze. "More pertinent is
what you could be now. Much of which depends on your choices."
"Ah yes," Jim hissed, "because you and I both are so good at these things." A
dark humor was beginning to take him. "We'll make a truce, you and I. They’ll
call you Mad Holmes, living up in that flat all alone, muttering to yourself on
cases, and I'll be the chipper little helper no one else can see. I should have
used that for Richard's Story Time. It's rather good." Jim's grip around the
back of Sherlock's neck suddenly tightened. "But I believe you have something
to finish, first." He canted his hips.
Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. Anger wouldn't help him in this. Jim was
trying to get a rise out of him, and responding to it would only make things
worse. He ignored the insistent slide against his palm for a moment and tried
reaching backwards again. Back to older emotions.
When Sherlock opened his eyes again, he wasn't permitting himself to think of
the threats Moriarty held over him, or the way he'd been backed into a corner
and touched against his will. He remembered bizarre conversations held in a
Russian safehouse, tucked into the back room of an Egyptian hammam, or freezing
stowed away in a cargo hold. He spit into his hand again and resumed his
stroking.
Less than a minute later Jim was panting. Sherlock had not retreated back into
himself, and Jim noticed. Like the way he'd met and matched, not mimicked,
Sherlock's anger before, Sherlock's genuine interest was now tugging at him,
keeping Jim from trying to lure Sherlock in with teases and taunts.
After another minute, it became obvious that Sherlock would have never seen him
like this in life. Jim clung to Sherlock now as literally as he clung to him in
spirit.
Sherlock understood now, in a way, that Jim was wounded. Not physically, but in
ways that had him striking out, taunting, and being as barbed as possible so
that no one could get close. It was an attitude Sherlock could understand very
well, but not the cause. He himself had simply chosen a different way of
achieving the same end.
If this wasn't all a delusion from illness, they were stuck together, for
better or worse. They could either learn to come to terms with the situation
and make the most of it, or they'd come to a messy end, which would likely be
Sherlock's death by Jim's hand. It was with this in mind that Sherlock looked
down, saw portions of Jim reaching back, and felt a glimmer of a connection.
His hand sped up.
Jim gasped. His grip in Sherlock's hair nearly faltered, so his other hand came
up as well, grounding him with Sherlock, and finally, finally he seemed to be
letting go.
He was there with Sherlock, the Sherlock he had built up in his imagination
just as Sherlock was there with the Jim he'd built in return, neither of them
having known each other long enough in real life to manage any better, all
deductive skills aside. Sherlock could tell that had been what Jim wanted at
the end of his life, but it was something he would have never been able to
have.
'Moriarty' was more important.
"I'd never thought to have a partner before," Jim whispered. It wouldn't work,
even if he had wanted it, they both knew it. But Jim had nothing left now.
Jim's honest admission was enough to get a smile from Sherlock. A weak one,
barely there, but a smile nonetheless.
He'd tried having a partner before, and it hadn't worked, but in many ways John
hadn't been able to match Sherlock. He’d been strong enough, solid enough, but
in different ways. He'd wanted danger paired with the trappings of an ordinary
life, and that was something Sherlock could not give him.
Now he was left with Jim, creatures ill fit to the world as it stood,
attempting to fit each other.
Sherlock leaned in and kissed Jim again. If this truce was to work, they'd both
have to try, and he wanted to ensure Jim had sufficient motivation.
He felt Jim return it, felt the man's hips begin to buck harder with more
focused thrusts. As much as they'd lowered their guards for this encounter, it
was difficult to say whether a truce between them could in reality last. Jim
wanted Sherlock, that was obvious, but whether he trusted Sherlock was another
matter, and the same vice versa. Jim had been out of control with rage and
spite when Sherlock first found him. He at least seemed to have a better grip
on himself now.
Jim's legs parted. His hands roamed down to Sherlock's back and pulled him
closer, enough so that they were pressed flush together and Sherlock had to
lean a little to still be able to stroke. Jim's breath was hitching.
Sherlock was still entirely clothed, but he didn't feel more powerful. He felt
like he needed barriers to even begin to approach being on an equal playing
field. He could feel the heat from his body through the layers, pressed
together as they were. Jim's hips canted again, and Sherlock was mortified to
realize his own body was responding again.
Jim must have felt it, too, because the mouth against Sherlock's suddenly
gasped and pulled into a smile. One of his hands reached down between them,
catching on Sherlock's wrist and stilling it, staving off the impending release
long enough for Jim to grapple with the flies of Sherlock's trousers and worm
his own hand inside. Dark eyes and a sickly sweet smile met Sherlock's.
Jim didn't say anything, but he began stroking.
Sherlock's gaze turned away and his cheeks flushed. His self-enforced celibacy
now forced into termination, his body seemed intent on releasing years of pent-
up frustration. His mind didn't want to follow. Sherlock knew there was nothing
wrong with sex, per se, but he'd spent so long convincing himself that he
couldn't and shouldn't have it, didn't want it, that getting touched like that
made him want to shy away. Particularly when it was accompanied by a predator's
smile. "I thought this time was reciprocation," he murmured.
"And this isn't?" Jim whispered, chasing Sherlock's eyes. Predatory was Jim's
natural state it seemed. In spite of Sherlock's reluctance, he was quickly
hardening in Jim's hand and it wasn't long before Jim guided Sherlock's hand
back to his own erection with his other. Both of them worked together, Jim
pausing only to wet his fingers and make the slide easier on Sherlock. His
other hand drew beads of sweat from Sherlock's temple and smiled at his
handiwork.
Sherlock's own breathing started to grow ragged. He still refused to meet Jim's
eyes. Hypocritical, perhaps, given how he'd entreated the other man to open up
to him, but his comfort level just wasn't there. Sherlock opened his mouth,
intending to protest that he'd thought he'd be safe from being touched any more
that night, then shut it again once he realized that Jim might decide to take
offense. He rephrased. "...I thought it meant taking turns."
"Oh no, much better like this," Jim huffed. His words were disjointed,
interspersed with breaths and hitches and pants. Sherlock could feel Jim's body
straining against him, muscles tightening, hips beginning to jerk a frantic
rhythm.
Jim was coming apart. Just as Sherlock wanted.
If he didn't look, he wasn't going to get to see it. And Jim wanted him to,
pulling on Sherlock's hair to wrench him to meet Jim's gaze.
Sherlock had stared down murderers. Serial murderers, even. He'd dealt with
corpses in various states of dismemberment and decomposition, trod in dangerous
places, even jumped off a building. Looking at one's sexual partner shouldn't
have been a daunting task, but tension crept through Sherlock's limbs. Jim
surely felt it, just as he saw Sherlock swallow hard. Jim's fingers tugged on
his hair again, and Sherlock reluctantly looked up.
Jim's pupils were blown so wide Sherlock couldn't distinguish them from his
irises. His mouth had fallen open. His head had tipped back, but he was
fighting to stay upright enough to really look at Sherlock in return.
Their eyes met, and Jim's hand clenched.
Suddenly hot liquid coated Sherlock's fingers, slickening the way and Jim
jerked in his grasp, never breaking contact, barely losing his own rhythm, but
the look on his face.... It was like he'd burned the image of this moment, of
Sherlock hovering over him, looking down in fear and lust combined with the
pulsing sensation of climax. Jim looked like he’d scorched the moment forever
in his mind.
Jim had always been striking, but he was gorgeous like this, ethereal and
fallen. Sherlock was riveted in place, unable to look away. He barely even
minded the mess coating his hand.
A shiver ran up his spine. Jim's eyes reminded him of a void, an endless
blackness that consumed everything within reach, everything that it could draw
into itself. Sherlock wondered if that was his inevitable end.
With the way Jim clutched at his hair and the way the pace of his hand sped up,
it was very likely he intended it to be. He was gasping, trying to catch his
breath and still not lose his hold on Sherlock. His teeth clicked together and
he growled, bringing Sherlock down to meet him, as close as they could get. He
nuzzled Sherlock's nose, breathed into his mouth, mapped every color in his
eyes and hair of his brows and demanded that Sherlock do the same for him in
return.
Sherlock was panting, quivering until the assault, but he couldn't seem to
reach the edge. His arm finally gave out and he rested completely atop Jim,
trying to catch his breath. "...I can't. It's too soon," he groaned. Jim's hand
hadn't paused and it was driving him mad, friction building up pressure that
didn't seem to have any options for release. "I can't."
Jim pressed at his shoulder. At first it seemed like Jim was trying to push him
off, but then he rolled himself with Sherlock, the sheets tangling beneath
them, the cushions sinking below, until Sherlock was lying on his back and Jim
was the one above him. He didn't stay there for long.
After giving Sherlock a wicked little grin, he slid down, and down even
farther, until he was positioned right over Sherlock's arousal. The grin never
left his face, even when Jim's pink tongue darted out to lick at the tip.
Sherlock's cry caught in his throat. The jolt of pleasure from Jim's tongue was
accompanied by an even larger amount of fear. Somehow it seemed more dangerous
to have the teeth of a changeable madman near his cock than near his jugular.
Jim did it again and Sherlock nearly scooted away from him, trying to crawl
backwards only to have the shorter man pin his hips back down.
"Shhh," Jim admonished. "I'm not going to hurt you." Even though he said it
with a devil's smile. When Sherlock was still just long enough, one of Jim's
hands moved back to continue its stroking rhythm, his mouth lingering just
behind the head of Sherlock's cock. He licked again, his time from the base up.
Sherlock quivered underneath Jim's hands, wide-eyed and gasping. Clearly,
whatever he'd expected this particular activity to feel like was far off the
mark. His pupils were completely blown and fixed on Jim's face, and Sherlock
braced himself every time he saw Jim open his mouth for another lick. After a
few moments Jim's hand tilted his cock and the man's lips closed around the
tip. The look of sheer disbelief on Sherlock's face prompted Jim to grin again.
Sherlock's voice was so strained and breathy that it was barely audible.
"...oh..."
It wasn’t immediately obvious Jim was grinning, but Sherlock could see the
smile in every inch of his body if not his mouth. His mouth that was currently
sinking, sucking, a slow and excruciating heat, down over Sherlock's cock. It
took Jim a long time to break eye contact, but when he finally did, he set to
his task.
Beneath his closed mouth, his tongue slid up the underside. He pulled up,
gripping with one hand at the base and giving a little twist of suction at the
tip, and seemed wholeheartedly bent on driving Sherlock mad.
Sherlock struggled to keep his eyes focused on Jim. It seemed beyond dangerous
to let him out of his sight, even when all his eyes wanted to do was close
against the sensation.
It only increased the torment to watch. Dark fringe trailed down over Jim's
forehead, drawing even more attention to the rest of his delicate features and
giving him an almost boyish cast. Sherlock watched himself disappear between
Jim's lips and found that his higher level thinking was, to his horror,
shutting down again. His hands bunched in the covers and he tried to remember
to breathe.
Nails clawed at Sherlock’s hips, digging into the supple flesh just below. He
could feel it even through the fabric of his trousers and especially where they
had pulled down just enough for Jim's fingertips to catch. His whole body moved
into it, shimmying up almost on his knees to keep hold of Sherlock's legs,
trapping them under him. The more he took, the more he seemed in control,
wringing pleasure out of Sherlock. Consuming him. Like the very predator
Sherlock had likened him to all night.
Sherlock's hips tilted up on instinct. He didn't get very far, not with Jim
holding him down, but the smaller man certainly noticed. Jim's muffled laugh
turned into torturous vibration. Sherlock's eyes finally closed and his head
fell back against the mattress.
Sherlock felt like he was drowning, or getting eaten alive. Perhaps both at
once. Shocks of pleasure ran through him and gave him a new insight as to why
people indulged in sexual behaviors and decisions he'd previously only vaguely
understood.
His shirt was jerked up and away from his hips and one of Jim's hands slid up
his side, thumb digging in along the way just to feel the quiver of Sherlock's
flesh. Jim never relented. Every stroke he squeezed just a little too much,
just a little like he wanted to suck the very life out of Sherlock. The swirl
of his tongue on the end made obscene sounds. Jim was wet and hot and alive,
even though it was impossible. The underside of his teeth dragged lightly up
the bottom of Sherlock's cock, just to bring him back to Jim again.
Sherlock's focus narrowed down. He lost track of the details of their mundane
surroundings, or the truth of where they actually were. His body was perched
right on the edge of torment, so close to completion, yet held back by
lingering fatigue from earlier and the rough hints of violence Jim insisted on
displaying. Every time a dissonant threat of pain rippled through him, Sherlock
was reminded of just what was happening and who was between his legs. Both a
person and an activity he'd never imagined permitting.
One of Sherlock's hands lifted itself from the bedside covers and tangled
fingers into dark hair.
Equally dark lashes raised and Jim met his gaze. Something about Sherlock must
have caught him because Jim's pace slowed. His tongue became more languid, and
more focused. His touches softened. Jim could read pain on Sherlock's face, not
physical pain, but real all the same, and for once he seemed to be in a
forgiving mood.
His hands slid down Sherlock's belly to join at the base of his cock and Jim
turned his mouth to sucking the tip before he sank down again. A quick, almost
delicate rhythm followed, but his dark eyes never stopped peeking up at
Sherlock, and Sherlock could never forget who was really there with him.
Climax was sudden, unexpected, and almost violently intense. One moment
Sherlock was hypnotized, locking gazes with the criminal, and before he could
utter a warning his entire body tightened up with release. He shuddered, and
belatedly realised that the odd, desperate keening sound that filled the room
must have come from his own throat.
Jim watched him with an unusual intensity throughout, until Sherlock finally
collapsed into a boneless heap against the mattress. He could feel his heart
pounding.
Then Jim was climbing up his body, all bare, smooth torso and rough trousers
brushing against Sherlock's overheated flesh, trapped in the folds of his own
clothes. Jim's weight was solid, but he was just light enough for it not to
actually hurt. He stopped only when he was at the crook of Sherlock's neck,
using wet fingers to turn his head, kiss his mouth...and on Jim's tongue was
the taste of Sherlock himself.
Sherlock tried to recoil, repulsed by the idea much more than the taste, but he
was too exhausted to really get away. He had a split second, gazing back at Jim
with a dazed look, before the smaller man pulled him back again. Sherlock could
taste and smell musk and bitterness, far different than the blood that had
coated his tongue not that long ago.
Jim laughed into his mouth.
Finally, Jim retreated and rested his head on the pillow, still draped on top
of Sherlock, whose bitter face made Jim smile with a warmth that should have
been alien on someone like him. Perhaps it was just the sex. He stretched over
Sherlock's body, they both heard his back crack before he settled again.
"I haven't felt this good in ages," Jim drawled.
Sherlock was still in shock, or something like it. Parts of his body were
utterly content, while other parts picked up on his mental and emotional
distress and kept trying to tense up even in the afterglow.
He didn't know what to say. Or do. He didn't know what people did after
something like that. He was still adjusting to the fact that he'd had his first
proper kiss, and then sex, all under the shadow of a death threat, and the
culprit had just kissed him with cum on his tongue. Jim was smiling in an odd,
unthreatening way and draped atop him and Sherlock could hardly ever remember
being so disturbed. "I..."
Jim wriggled, trying to get more comfortable than he already was, which was a
difficult feat in his already boneless state. Sherlock was warm and Jim was
warm and together they made a very warm, and sticky, mess.
Jim's finger ran down Sherlock's nose, making him flinch away at the unfamiliar
contact. A puff of air brushed his neck when Jim sighed. It was a sound of
contentment. When he spoke, Sherlock felt it more than he heard it.
"Thank you, Sherlock. But get out of my bed."
Jim shimmied to the side and gave Sherlock a rough shove.
Sherlock tumbled to one side, but not enough to fall off the mattress
completely. The sudden movement shocked him into a more coherent state.
Sherlock had no direct experience with these things, but a ripple of
indignation was enough to tell him that, whatever the social norms were, what
had just happened wasn't something he brooked with.
"...you don't have a bed," he began. "You invaded my life and my head, tried to
kill me, and then used that threat to get what you wanted. This is my bed, in
my mind somewhere."
One black eye opened to stare at him, and even though Jim's face was obscured
by the pillow, Sherlock got the very distinct impression that he was smiling.
The room began to fade. Jim began to fade. His arms drew underneath his head,
bunching up the pillow like he were going to sleep, but his smiling, taunting
gaze never left Sherlock.
Until he was gone.
All of it was gone and Sherlock found himself left on the floor in the familiar
corridors of his hall.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Sherlock went very still. Minutes were filled with nothing but his quiet
breathing and the silence of the oak paneled halls. A torrent of emotions
filled him, rage grappling with the rest and finally clawing its way to the
top. Sherlock stood up on shaky legs.
His view of his mind palace faded with violent swiftness, turning to black
before he woke up gasping. A tackiness coated his stomach, and when Sherlock
turned his head to investigate a sharp pain lanced through his neck. He levered
himself upright, away from the semen-stained bedding, and padded into the
bathroom.
Sherlock's own haunted reflection stared back at him in the mirror. On his
neck, blood had dried in two half-circles of teeth marks left by a smaller
mouth.
He wanted to scream - or more accurately, to scream at Jim's phantom before
doing something that would permanently wipe the smug, satisfied smile off of
the man's face. Instead he started the water up and washed off in silence, then
patched up his wound with gauze and ointment as best he could. Sherlock felt a
terrible tension inside him all throughout, as if his internal pressure had
changed and cracks in his very skin would appear at any moment.
Suddenly there was a pounding at the door. The door to the flat he rarely
closed when John was still living there. Mrs. Hudson's hushed voice came from
the other side, but she wasn't talking to Sherlock. Someone else was with her.
Heavier, with a wider stance, judging by the creak of the floorboards, and then
he spoke.
"Sherlock! You there?" Lestrade.
Sherlock had left him in Cambridge. Left with one of his squad cars. Lestrade
sounded furious. And not just a little worried. Mrs. Hudson spoke again, but
Lestrade was already opening the door.
Sherlock quickly darted out of the bathroom and into his adjacent bedroom. This
had to be about the borrowed squad car. Or perhaps the CCTV cameras catching
his meeting with their prime suspect for the virus case. Or both. Regardless,
he wasn't going to let Lestrade catch him nude. The DI had seen him in various
states of terrible, but that thought wasn't one that Sherlock could stomach
after what he'd just gone through. "I'm here! Give me a moment."
Lestrade wasn't deterred. "What the hell happened?" he shouted, storming
through the flat after Sherlock, catching sight of a tousle of dark hair, a
sliver of pale skin, and the slamming of the bedroom door in Sherlock's wake.
"You disappeared, Sherlock, you disappeared and you didn't tell me. Again! We
found the car you stole a block from Trafalgar Square. I've been calling you
all morning!"
"You'll have to forgive me. I must have blacked out after nearly being
murdered." Sherlock's tone was a touch snappish through the bedroom door, but
loud enough that Greg heard it just fine. Faint sounds of fabric rustling came
from the other side. "I tracked our virus peddler down and got a first name, in
return for being shot at. Again."
"You just said you would tell me - " Sherlock could hear Lestrade throwing his
hands up outside the door, turning around, and then around again when he
couldn't decide how to direct his anger when Sherlock wasn't there to face him.
"If you nearly got shot, it's your own damn fault! How the hell did you find
him? And why the hell didn't you tell me?"
"His encrypted number was still connected. I was negotiating for the release of
his hostage, and the stipulation was that I would meet him within a given time
period. If I'd not left immediately without pausing to explain, I never would
have made the deadline." Sherlock finally opened the door. The detective looked
worse than Lestrade had seen him in awhile: skin unusually pale, and dark
circles rimming his eyes. A white patch of gauze peeked above the collar of his
dress shirt and he moved with a stiff tension that suggested stress rather than
the slow droop of fatigue. Sherlock could see the DI taking it all in.
Lestrade drew up, taken aback enough to let his vehemence die. His eyes dropped
to the floor and rose all the way up Sherlock's body, seeing the exhaustion,
the slump of his shoulders, and everything that was wrong in his face. Greg
would have asked if he'd been hit, but there was obviously no wound, and it
didn't fit the look about him.
The DI blinked, closing his mouth. "You look like shit." Lestrade's eyes
narrowed, suspicion crossing his features. "What aren't you telling me?"
"Well, our deliveryman got away, obviously. I got an even closer look this time
before he made his second murder attempt, but he might very well be out of the
country by now." Sherlock met Lestrade's eyes, and the DI's scrutiny didn't
fade. Sherlock sighed and rubbed a hand across his face. "I've been feeling ill
and it's affected my sleep patterns, and other things by extension. The
symptoms aren't consistent with the virus, so we needn’t worry about that."
"I'm gonna need you to give me everything you got on him. Name, sketch, whether
he's got a ring on his right hand or a funny way of walking that tells you
where the hell he came from and who he's working for, and why." Greg put his
hands to his forehead, conflicted with Sherlock's problems and the need to
focus on their suspect. He dropped them with a sigh. "And I'm ordering a drugs
bust on the flat."
Sherlock blinked, then stiffened in indignation. "On what grounds? Because I
left without telling you? I'm clean, Lestrade. I haven't taken anything since
the attempt at entrapping Magnussen. I'll take whatever tests you want, but you
are not ripping my flat apart because you're irritated at me."
"I am irritated at you. And not only have you looked like shit since I've seen
you recently, you've twice not told me about you going off to meet this guy on
your own with no backup, I still am no closer to finding him, and you passed
out and can't tell me why. That's more reasonable suspicion than I've ever
needed before, and you know it," Lestrade shot back and turned, taking up his
phone and giving the orders.
A flash of panic and hurt crossed Sherlock's face once Lestrade's back was
turned. He'd been telling the truth, but that wouldn't matter once they found
his stashes. If they found them. He'd get that look again, the one that said
the DI felt that he was a surrogate father as well as a friend, and a
disappointed one at that, and then Sherlock would be carted off and stuck in a
cell for a battery of tests after being charged. He wouldn't be able to find
some way to fight back against Jim before he had to sleep again, or the ghost
came out of hiding. "...Greg, I'm telling the truth. Don't do this."
"Then you've got nothing to worry about, do you?" Greg's shoulders
straightened, but the action looked more like a recoil than a stance of
confidence. The way Sherlock stepped an inch closer, the insistence in his
voice, made Greg worry he might actually be right.
Mrs. Hudson, quiet by the door, began making soft noises of protest.
They didn't have to wait long, however. An incoming confirmation on Lestrade's
phone was followed by the sound of footsteps in the hall.
"Something's happened, and I don't want to have to explain it in front of-
" Anderson. Donovan. All of the various techs and officers he'd blithely and
routinely insulted over the years. Sherlock's hand drifted up to cover the
gauze patch on his neck. He'd imagined what this situation must have been like
for victims, of course, but he'd never thought he'd experience post-assault
firsthand. He tried to think up some sort of reason he could give Lestrade that
wouldn't sound completely insane. "...something happened to me. Recently."
Greg's eyes followed to his neck, narrowing at the bandage, but Sherlock could
see he wasn't putting anything rational together. Lestrade had first thought
physical confrontation with their suspect, who was currently getting away the
longer he lingered at Sherlock's flat without answers. Then he'd thought drugs,
but couldn't make sense of that. Self injury. Accident. Sherlock saw every idea
pass the DI's face, but none stuck.
The Met officers were at the doorway, waiting for Lestrade to give the go-
ahead.
Greg looked at the end of his rope. "What?"
Sherlock swallowed, his gaze flickering towards the door for a moment. He stood
up straighter and turned back towards the DI, resolved but with an odd look of
shame on his face. He closed the distance between himself and the older man.
Sherlock's fingers went to the top buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by
one until the square of gauze was more accessible. He pulled on the medical
tape holding down the edges, just enough for the DI to see the top of the
wound. Sherlock averted his eyes. He knew Lestrade had seen enough victims with
bite wounds that he'd recognize the marks for what they were.
Very slowly, Lestrade's mouth fell open.
He looked up at Sherlock. Then down at the mark, and back up again. He raised
one hand to the team at the door who were looking between one another,
wondering what the hold up was. "Job's off. Give me a minute. Out. Now." They
were dumbfounded. "And tell Donovan I'll have details on our suspect in a
minute. Just, out."
And with that, they were gone.
"I'll just be down the hall..." Even Mrs. Hudson crept back out after them, not
wanting to feel the kind of tension that was building greater and greater
between the two men in Sherlock's hall.
Sherlock covered the mark back up. The tape readily stuck to his skin again,
but he didn't remove his hand from the gauze. Sherlock could feel heat rushing
into his cheeks and he just wanted to sink into the floor. Lestrade was going
to ask questions that he didn't want, and want him to submit evidence for a
culprit they would never catch. Not the Met, at any rate. "I don't want to talk
about it."
Lestrade swallowed, but he didn't step back, he didn't move away, he didn't
know where to look, but he didn't avert his gaze. "He got that close?"
The question was an obvious one. Lestrade had jumped to the wrong conclusion.
He'd taken what pieces he had, the only ones Sherlock had given him, and put
them together to try to form a coherent picture. And that was the only picture
that made sense.
Sherlock shook his head. "No. Someone else." Time froze for a minute and the
walls seemed to close in. When Sherlock's awareness returned he couldn't have
said how many seconds he'd paused, but it had been enough for Lestrade to grow
even more concerned. "It's not tied to the case. Our suspect got close, but not
that close. He was more concerned about putting a bullet in my head than
anything else."
Greg screwed his eyes shut, obviously not liking what he was about to ask, but
he had to. "Give me everything you could tell about our suspect. Donovan's out
there with nothing to go on. Then you're gonna tell me how... Just, tell me
what happened."
If their suspect was long gone, as Sherlock had said he likely was, then that
was that. If he wasn't, then Donovan had a shot at finding him and that had to
be priority. Lestrade, however, didn't have to be there. "Let's...make a cuppa,
alright?"
Sherlock nodded and walked off towards the kitchen. Greg knew very well where
the kettle and teabags were, given how many times he'd visited over the years.
Sherlock had simply come to figure out that he liked making tea; there'd been a
routine when John had lived with him, and he'd made tea for himself whenever
possible while undercover, around the right times. The comfort of routine and
the measurements helped him focus, and he'd continued the daily ritual after
returning to life in the flat.
"The man Donovan will be looking for is about 1.89 meters tall, weight about 90
kilograms. His first name seems to be Sebastian, he reacts to it as if it's a
personal name rather than an old alias. Squared jaw, rather German-featured due
to his heritage, but his accent shows that he grew up in Britain. There's an
odd juxtaposition in his speaking - pieces of his diction suggest he had some
public schooling, possibly from a monied background, but he certainly didn't
stay in that social sphere. I said as much before, but we'll have to look
through records for specialist marksman training. He knows how to sneak through
a crowd even with his height and bulk, and is very accurate at shooting moving
targets. I suspect he only missed me given that he was emotionally
compromised."
Greg's phone was out and he was relaying Sherlock's summary to Donovan without
a second's hesitation, barely pausing to put the details together in his own
mind until the end. Donovan, on the other end, seemed to be taking it in as
well judging from Lestrade's pace, a testament to how much they had at least
come to trust Sherlock's skill.
"What do you mean, he was emotionally compromised?" Greg asked when he hung up,
pausing by the table like the answer to that question had some bearing on
whether he would sit or not.
"I... said some things I hadn't intended to." Sherlock watched bubbles of air
drift up in the kettle and burst. He tried to put his experience into words
that Lestrade would accept, rather than something that would make him suspect
Sherlock might truly be abusing substances again. "This man is specifically
targeting me because he holds me responsible for Moriarty's death, and resents
the fact that I survived. I suspect that they had very close personal
involvement, possibly lovers or an unrequited affection. This is personal for
him, not business, and when it was suggested that Moriarty had a bad, painful
end, he was no longer interested in answering my questions or getting
sidetracked by my stalling. I had to run and, despite how close I was, the
bullet grazed my ear."
Lestrade stared and shook his head. "Well let it never be said you don't have
that effect on people." He chose to make light of things, even if Sherlock
could see him reeling from the idea that Moriarty's ex lover or whatever the
hell he was, was now gunning for Sherlock. He watched Sherlock turn, pour the
water, steep the tea, but didn't move to speak again until he had a mug sitting
in front of him. Something he could turn in his hands, round and round. "So you
got away. And then what?"
Sherlock could see the leading questions Lestrade wasn't asking. 'You just
happened to get attacked?' 'How could that really be unrelated?'
Sherlock sat down and stared at the steam rising from the mug between his
hands. "I started to feel ill again. Unbearably tired, dizzy. I'd presumed it
was shock, or related to how poorly I'd been feeling for the past several
hours. I also didn't know if the gunman had only gone a short ways and might be
waiting to pick me off if I went back to the squad car, and I was in no shape
to drive. I took a cab back here."
Greg's brows furrowed, waiting for more. He kept quiet out of sensitivity, but
Sherlock could see the questions burning in him just as much as he didn't want
to ask them. Surely Lestrade had never before imagined himself sitting in
Sherlock Holmes' kitchen in the middle of a case, asking these kinds of things.
"And then?"
"The rest isn't going to make any sense." Sherlock was doing his best to hold
still, keep his expression neutral, but distress still leaked through the mask.
He didn't want to tell Lestrade. He didn't want to tell anyone. It wouldn't
change anything, and this wasn't a problem anyone could help him solve.
A line formed between the crease of Greg's brows, narrowing even further. That
was not a statement he expected to ever hear from Sherlock, not until they were
in the middle of a particularly stumping case. Which, to be fair, they sort of
were. Lestrade eased his expression, ready to take it in stride. "Try me."
Sherlock was quiet for an unusually long stretch of time. Or perhaps not so
unusual, given the implications of what had happened. "I got inside and began
feeling even worse. I began to feel like I was losing my mind, and I started
dying. I thought I was having a heart attack. None of this, I should mention,
is remotely close to anything else I've ever experienced, either from sleep
deprivation or drugs, and I've not been taking anything."
Sherlock took a sip of tea. He was ashamed to see his hand tremble when setting
the mug back down.
One glance at Greg out of the corner of his eye told him the DI's confusion was
only mounting. He kept waiting for Sherlock to tell him something concrete and
that wasn't happening. His lips began to form a question, but he paused,
knowing Sherlock knew he wasn't making sense yet, waiting for him to continue.
Even though Sherlock had warned Greg these events wouldn't make sense.
"Moriarty showed up. I was given an ultimatum, of sorts, that I either gave him
what he wanted, or he'd get another thing he wanted: for me to be dead, like
he'd intended two years ago. He was angry I'd escaped. I didn't want to die and
I was incapable of fighting him off." Sherlock's gaze slid down and fixed on a
random spot on the table. "I'm still uncertain any of it was real, other than
the fact that I woke up to..." He gestured at his neck. "It's too small to
belong to the gunman, and I don't think I'd have lived if he'd followed me back
to the flat and snuck inside somehow."
Greg's face showed no less confusion. He didn't want to be insensitive, and
Sherlock was right, it was more than obvious that he had indeed been attacked,
but...
"Moriarty?" Lestrade repeated. His eyes danced cast around the table, trying to
put it all together. The unexplained sickness, heart attack, incoherency,
whatever, and then the presence of Moriarty, turning up in Sherlock's flat of
all places, the one place they assumed the gunman hadn't yet attacked Sherlock
for fear of his brother's security. It didn't add up. Unless... "Sherlock,"
Greg slid his cup aside. "Is it possible you could have been dosed with
something, without realizing? That you wound up hallucinating? This Sebastian
could have come back, attacked you while you were out of it..." He shook his
head, still uncertain. "There's one way to find out. Right, you're coming with
me to the hospital."
Sherlock shut his eyes. The hospital was less conspicuous than being brought
down to the station, but would still be a drain on time. Patient
confidentiality was such that he'd have to worry less about loose tongues, but
he'd still be put through a battery of questions he'd rather not face. Giving
in was the only way he was going to get Greg to back off, however, and it was a
far better option than anything else he had at the moment. "...alright."
Lestrade nodded and pushed away from the table. "Tox screen should clear up
that theory. After that, well... One thing at a time." He buttoned up the coat
he'd never taken off, made sure he had his keys and his phone and waited for
Sherlock to do the same. Sherlock caught Lestrade's eyes glancing around the
flat, trying to find signs of a break in or disturbance, and seeing nothing.
Sherlock rebuttoned his shirt and ensured the gauze square was hid by the
collar before donning his coat and scarf. He joined the DI by the door. "...I
don't want John to know," he added quietly. John's medical background would
have normally been advantageous for an investigation like this, but Sherlock
couldn't bear the thought of him knowing. Of being the recipient of that
heartbreakingly empathetic look John had given so many of the victims they'd
helped as a team. There was too much history and too many buried feelings there
for Sherlock to cope so soon after everything that had transpired.
Lestrade turned to look at him, but nodded. Maybe he understood. Maybe he was
already worrying about Sherlock. Maybe both.
They left together, back into the winter chill that hadn't dissipated even with
the arrival of the sun peeking through the clouds every now and again. Lestrade
led the way to his car, parked haphazardly on the street in a rush to get to
the flat. The street was otherwise quiet, Greg's team having long gone to chase
after a man who was nearly as much of a ghost as his employer.
They drove in silence, neither knowing what to say. Lestrade assumed the only
thing that would shed light on the events of the previous night would be the
tests they were about to perform. Sherlock knew otherwise.
Still, the voice in his head remained silent. Moriarty might as well have been
a dream.
Sherlock still didn't know what to make of it all. He had a profoundly
difficult time believing in ghosts. They were supposed to turn up when someone
had been horribly murdered or had died suddenly and left things undone, and yet
Sherlock had been around a lot of corpses without anything supernatural ever
happening. Enthusiast groups had failed to record and present satisfactory
scientific data again and again. He didn't believe in ghosts and ghouls and
magic, but he couldn't deny what was happening to him. The teeth marks were
proof, as was his brief loss of vocal control and Sebastian's reactions and
admissions, and even with all that aside, his mind and body seemed to be
experiencing the hallucinations and dreams as if they were real.
Sherlock didn't think Jim was going to be satisfied with just one night of
torment. Everything was silent now, but Sherlock didn't doubt that things
wouldn't stay that way.
Lestrade pulled into St. Bart's and led Sherlock to the sign-in desk. The
nurses on the other side bustled into action after recognizing him and seeing
Lestrade's badge. Celebrity status wasn't supposed to matter in how care was
prioritized, but like with most things, the ideal rarely seemed to transfer to
actual practice.
Since it didn't seem to be a matter of urgent care any longer, Sherlock was
directed to the toxicology laboratories, Lestrade in tow as he refused to wait
in the lounge. Doctors and staff darted out of their way by habit in the hall,
and it was a little disconcerting. Sherlock’s presence in the hospital as a
patient was technically the second time, but definitely not a common
occurrence.
The doctor on call did a double take when they entered the room before the
nurse explained to him their situation. Dr. Meyers, announced his nametag, and
Greg smiled the smile he was used to giving consulting staff whenever he had a
request.
Sherlock wasn't in the mood for small talk or for sympathy. It was a testament
to just how out of sorts he was feeling that he didn't snap at or belittle the
doctor when asked obvious questions, simply gave short, dispassionate
responses. He rolled up his sleeve without fuss when instructed for blood work,
and he didn't miss the glance Lestrade shot at his arm. The DI knew he'd
preferred injection during his junkie days, but no track marks or bruising were
visible there.
Ostensibly, this was a good sign, but the frown on Lestrade's face was still
worrisome.
The doctor gave Sherlock a cup and had him return a urine sample, and once they
had collected everything they could, Sherlock and Lestrade were left to wait.
Some results would return faster than others, but with Lestrade's influence
they would have their answer within several hours.
In the meantime, that left them with very little to do. Lestrade didn't want to
leave Sherlock alone. He still thought Sherlock should be checked out by a
doctor, but wasn't going to force him. And all the while in the background,
Donovan and the rest of his team chased after a suspect who, they had confirmed
after several calls, had gone off the map.
Sherlock was still feeling exhausted, both physically and mentally, and his
stomach was finally beginning to complain about the fact that it had had
nothing of substance for 48 hours. Lestrade had taken one look at him and
dragged him down to the small coffee shop on the premises. Sherlock had gone
reluctantly but, in truth, he was somewhat grateful to have Lestrade fussing
over him. It was proof that the older man cared.
He could feel the DI's concerned gaze while he picked at the pastry and tea
he'd bought. "...I'll be fine, Lestrade."
The DI crossed his arms and frowned at his own pastry. Sherlock was alive, and
at this point that was what counted. Lestrade obviously didn't want to contest
that fact, even if the look on his face said he had his doubts. "I'll feel a
lot better when we get that sunofabitch." Whether he meant Sebastian or
Moriarty was left unsaid. As far as Lestrade knew, they had Moriarty's body. It
had been confirmed. And yet he looked as though every one of Anderson's
hyperbolic body-switching fantasies started crossing his mind and he had to
shake them out of his head.
"So will I." Moriarty's ex-gunman was a liability, and the man now had even
more motivation to try to assassinate him. Sherlock wished he could have gotten
more information out of him before the man had pulled a gun. He needed all the
leverage against Moriarty that he could get. "He's not the sort that will let
this go. He'll come back for another strike until we catch him."
"Well one thing we've learned from all this," Lestrade began, "is that your
brother's security is not enough. I'm going to put a watch on your flat.
Anything that happens, you need to have backup there. And no more going off on
your own, you got it?" He leveled a Danish at Sherlock before biting into it.
It was then that Sherlock began to feel a particular sensation, one that was
becoming a little more familiar than it perhaps should be. Something stretched
in his mind, moving, nudging aside neurons that formed the basis of his
thoughts and memories, like waking. And with it, a very familiar voice
followed.
"Oh my, look at this little predicament."
Sherlock wasn't quite able to suppress his look of horror and a shudder. His
pulse immediately picked up, accompanied by a feeling that the walls were
closing in. He could see out of the corner of his vision that Lestrade had
noticed, and that he had spoken, but Sherlock hadn't caught the. He was too
focused on the presence at the back of his mind. "Go away," he thought as
loudly as he could.
Cruel, bitter laughter filled his mind while Lestrade's hand touched his arm.
"How tragic you must seem to him. Poor Sherlock's losing his grip on reality.
You know that's what he's thinking. But you just had to tell the truth didn't
you? Even when you knew you couldn't explain it. What are you going to tell him
when your tests turn up negative, hm?"
The grip on Sherlock's shoulder turned hard as Lestrade jerked Sherlock to face
him.
Sherlock turned to Lestrade and saw how he must have looked to the DI. He felt
afraid, and like he had no control, and it must have shown. Lestrade was
looking at him with an expression he'd only seen a few times before - when he'd
been extremely ill during withdrawal, and in the hospital after he'd been shot.
"...sorry, I didn't hear what you said."
Greg paused, not looking any more relieved that Sherlock had at least come back
to the present. "That been happening a lot lately?" he spoke without removing
his hand, like he didn't want to back away and leave Sherlock without contact,
without a stabilizer. No doubt he was adding this to Sherlock's purported
blackout the night prior and asking himself all sorts of questions about
Sherlock's sanity, possibly even drug involvement in spite of the lack of marks
on his arm. In spite of everything Sherlock went through the first time.
"Only occasionally, and only within the past 48 hours." Sherlock frowned. He
was used to other people insinuating that he was crazy, to the point that he'd
sometimes worn the accusations like armor, but it had been a long time since
Lestrade had doubted him like this. It only made him feel worse. "I think your
suggestion reminded me. Of things."
"What things?" Greg's grip finally loosened. "Look, I know you get a little
weird sometimes, but something obviously just happened to you, and yeah, I've
got to admit, I'm a little worried." Greg made no effort to hide his glance at
Sherlock's collar, no doubt thinking Sherlock could be attacked again,
wondering if the way Sherlock had been attacked was having a very negative
effect on his mind, wondering still further whether anything else had happened
within those last 48 hours with this Sebastian that Sherlock hadn't mentioned
the first time around.
Sherlock retrieved his arm, rubbing at the spot where Greg's hand had been.
"...your suggestion that I need guards in case I get attacked again simply
reminded me of everything that happened. I didn't just get bitten," he snapped,
but his voice never rose above a whisper. "And I can tell that you're wondering
if I've been on anything that doesn't involve needles, to which the answer is
no, and the lab results will prove as much soon enough."
Lestrade held up his hands. "Alright. Alright. Shit..." He clenched his teeth
and looked very sorry for suspecting that Sherlock might be losing it, whether
that be to drugs or a deeper issue. He looked sorry for even suggesting that,
considering the circumstance, it might be completely rational for Sherlock to
be losing it just a little, but still none of his regret negated the questions
Greg still had. Because none of it could explain what had happened to Sherlock
in the first place, how Moriarty, of all people, had slipped into Sherlock's
flat and nearly killed him. Without the assistance of drugs, even ones Sherlock
hadn't knowingly taken.
Sherlock heard a scoff in the back of his mind.
"Shut up." Sherlock passed a hand over his face. "Let's go back to the waiting
room. They should have gotten at least some of the results back by now."
Lestrade would get no solid answers to his questions, other than confirmation
that Sherlock wasn't under the influence of anything illicit, but he just might
let Sherlock go home.
Sherlock cut off the rest of that train of thought. He didn't want Moriarty to
know what he was thinking.
Greg sighed and finished off his coffee. "Yeah, ok."
Sherlock rose first and Lestrade had to follow after the lanky consultant as he
stalked down the halls back to toxicology. They swept through the doors just to
catch Dr. Meyers finishing off the paperwork at his desk and a pair of
assistants clearing out of the room with other projects, no doubt catching
sight of Sherlock. He looked up and his expression said everything they needed
to hear before he uttered a word. "Good news. Far as I can see, you're clean. I
don't expect the last tests to indicate otherwise."
Lestrade blinked, brought up short behind Sherlock.
Sherlock turned to Lestrade and raised an eyebrow. "Just as I told you."
Hallucinations brought on by chemicals wouldn't have caused him to materialize
bite marks or chafed skin. "Now, if you're completely satisfied, I want to go
home. There's nothing else I can tell you that will help Donovan with the
case."
"Alright...but one last thing. Thank you, doctor." Greg stepped toward the
door, nodding to Meyers who gave the DI a smile back. He led Sherlock back out
into the hall, waiting until they were alone. In spite of Sherlock's clean bill
of, at least chemical, health, Lestrade still looked worried. "This still
leaves me with more questions than it does answers. When you spaced out, you
said..." He trailed off and started again, "What happened to you 48 hours ago?"
"Nothing, as far as I know. I didn't consume anything or do anything out of the
ordinary, but I started getting chills and patches of fatigue. I had worried at
first that I'd gotten contaminated with the virus that had been sent to me
somehow, or something else, but further symptoms would have shown up." Lestrade
still looked adamant, and Sherlock shook his head and lowered his voice. "I'm
not detailing my assault to you. Nothing will be found beyond the marks on my
neck. I'm certain of that."
Lestrade bristled on instinct, on gut reaction to do something, before he
deflated. He could argue that Sherlock get himself checked over, but Greg
seemed to believe Sherlock's assessment. He could argue that Sherlock talk to
someone, but Sherlock would rip a therapist apart before they got within arm's
reach of his own problems. He could demand that Sherlock sit down with him,
search the flat, search the CCTV network, to find any concrete evidence that
might explain how these seemingly inexplicable events had taken place, but
Sherlock was right, Lestrade had to keep looking for this Sebastian, and if
Sherlock thought he needed to rest, then he deserved it. More than.
"I'm stationing a watch outside your flat. When you leave, you text me. If
something happens, you call me. If you get so much as a knock on the door, you
call me. Do you understand?"
"Understood," Sherlock muttered, but he did understand. He knew perfectly well
how this must look from the DI's perspective, and before this he would have
disbelieved anyone who had claimed to experience what he'd been experiencing.
Lestrade was concerned and confused, and Sherlock was glad to have someone give
a damn about him, but at the moment Greg's concern was profoundly unhelpful.
"Now get me home. Text me if Donovan actually manages to find our suspect."
"Right." They had a bit of a waiting game ahead of them, but Lestrade did look
like he wanted to let Sherlock rest. He would take up the hunt again, and he
had new motivation now. He wouldn't be insensitive enough to let on to the rest
of the Met know what had happened, but they would work just as hard as he would
to find Moriarty, if he was really out there, and their new suspect.
When they left again the sun had disappeared behind the clouds. The sky
promised more rain that afternoon, but at least it matched their moods.
Sherlock spent the ride back brooding, or at least it appeared that way to
Lestrade. He was actually, fruitlessly trying to feel around in the back of his
mind, as if Moriarty were a loose thread he could simply find and pluck out.
The more he thought about what had happened, the angrier he got.
"You had no right."
Sherlock could feel it when Moriarty came back to him. Like he'd been somewhere
far off, like he'd heard Sherlock and had returned, his presence slithering
back up Sherlock's insides like something alive and extremely disconcerting.
"You offered. I accepted," he whispered into Sherlock's ear as Lestrade turned
the corner on Baker St.
"I didn't offer all of that, and you know it." Moriarty had known very well
that he had no experience, and had decided to engage him twice, then left him
to deal with the emotional fallout. Sherlock felt his insides knot just
remembering. He'd tried to make the best of the situation, but the criminal
hadn't gone easy on him in return.
"Right," Sherlock sighed once Lestrade pulled over to the kerb. "I can make it
in on my own."
"Remember, call!" Lestrade shouted after him as he got out of the car. He could
see the restrained worry on the DI's face even through the window. He didn't
drive away until Sherlock had gone inside either.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Moriarty seemed to be content to remain quiet, but Sherlock could feel that he
hadn't left. He slipped in and out of Sherlock's thoughts and every once in a
while a memory would appear, seemingly out of nowhere, only for Sherlock to
realize that it was Moriarty who had pulled it up.
Sherlock walked the flat despite his confidence that Sebastian wouldn't have
come to kill him here. Having the ghost of a killer inside his head had made
him feel less secure about probabilities than he had before. Every room turned
up empty, but random memories kept cropping up as he walked. After a few
moments an idea surfaced. "...stop going through my head. You don't have my
permission to do that." Not that lack of permission was likely to stop the man.
A laugh was his only answer, and as far as he could tell, Moriarty didn't stop.
In fact, he seemed to become more interested as he went along. Sherlock
sometimes felt something shift while not completely aware of what it was, but
the glimpses he did see were going further and further back in time, and Jim
seemed to be enjoying himself.
Sherlock paused and leaned against the kitchen table. He had no idea what he
was doing, but he pictured his own hands reaching back into the dark, near the
point where he could feel weight and movement. "Stop it, Jim. I mean it." A
sense of helplessness created another surge of anger. He wished he hadn't
stayed his hand when he'd had Moriarty pinned to the ground several hours ago.
"Or what?" Jim hissed back, anger flaring in return, mirroring Sherlock again.
The sensation Sherlock received was like running into a wall, or at least
something very solid since he could not determine whether it had edges. Jim
pushed back. "You don't like me in your mind, do you?" Hearing all your trivial
little thoughts, all the ones that aren't so brilliant, all the ones you
wouldn't share with anyone else? All the little holes in your collection of
knowledge? Would you be upset if I found them and pointed them out for you? Do
you still remember the sun doesn't fly around the earth? And what about your
memories....? I quite liked that little cabin by the shore."
"It wasn't the cabin you liked." Sherlock pounded his fists against the wall
and tried to feel a way around the barrier. "Don't think I didn't notice. I was
only eleven in that memory, and your entire expression changed, and not just
with surprise."
Which only made Sherlock remember what had happened - the kiss, and Jim draped
atop him, hard. Sherlock felt violated again. So long as Jim was tied to him
like this, he was never going to be safe. He couldn't function like this.
The barrier shifted, pushing toward him. Jim advancing. Angry now. At the
accusation?
"Oh Sherlock, think. How could I resist you? Don't you remember? I'm
transparent if you were only just willing to look." Jim's voice turned cruel,
cutting, pushing at Sherlock just as hard as Sherlock pushed back. "You don't
think I noticed you just five years ago, do you?" His voice was right up in
Sherlock's ear now, Jim's whole presence had moved to the very forefront of
Sherlock’s mind. It became a whisper, losing some of its edge, softening into
something more...sincere. "Do you really think I didn't notice the strange boy
investigating the death of Carl Powers all those years ago? I saw you, even
then. You were perfect."
"I suspected, given where you had us meet for the first time. Or rather, meet
again when you weren't pretending to be someone else." Sherlock felt again for
the edges of the barrier, a handhold, anything he could find to get a lock on
Jim. "So you saw a challenge and something you wanted to possess and destroy.
Congratulations. You're well on your way towards the latter."
Jim sighed against Sherlock's ear, sending tingles of sensation over the skin
and down his neck, just like Jim were really there. Ice hung in the air again.
"I am, aren't I? Would that be a shame if you died? Do you think I could drive
you to suicide? We could make a game of it. 'How long can Sherlock last with me
in his head?' Do you think that's why I stayed behind? After all, you didn't
jump. Seems only logical..."
Sherlock sank into one of the kitchen chairs and buried his head in his hands.
"I don't know why you're here, but you seem to value nothing. You didn't value
yourself, or the empire you built, or whatever it was you had with your
assassin. And now you said I'm all you have left, but you're equally careless.
Nihilistic sadism."
Jim's presence softened. Sherlock could almost feel phantom arms wrapping about
his shoulders. False comfort.
"Value a thing and that thing will be your undoing." Jim whispered. "Everyone
knows this. And yet no one takes it to heart, no one is strong enough to follow
through with it. I told you once before... No one ever gets to me." Sherlock
could almost hear the smile in his voice. And then, like a secret, he
continued. "I valued you, Sherlock. And I valued myself. Do you see now, what I
had to do on that rooftop?"
"No," Sherlock whispered. Misery settled into his bones. "I don't see how you
saw it. What I think is that you got tired. Nothing was pleasurable enough
anymore, nothing was distracting enough, and it turned into pain. You wanted
the pain to end, and you couldn't bear the thought of leaving unaccompanied. Of
me being able to manage the same sort of pain and continue living when you
couldn't handle it anymore."
Jim hissed in his ear, but not in contradiction. Sherlock had struck a nerve.
"Either way, you should have died with me. Our story would have ended
together." Jim's insubstantial arms were as little comfort as his words, and
together they sat alone in the bleakness of Sherlock's flat, dusty and still
inside, overcast outside.
"Assumptions. You didn't own me. You wanted to, but you didn't, because that's
one point where we happen to be the same. You tried to manipulate me like you
would a normal person, but I'm not normal." Sherlock sighed. "And you're still
trying. Outright murder, or getting me to crack and kill myself. What you don't
know is whether either of those will guarantee that you won’t be alone. You
could end up in as much boredom and pain as you had when you were alive, but
without any company or real means to get rid of it for a while. Even if I die
and end up a ghost like you, you have no guarantee I'll stay, and I certainly
won't be inclined to, or to do anything you want. You don't treat me like a
person, you treat me like a toy to be broken."
Jim's arms slowly unwound from Sherlock's shoulders, if they had ever really
been there in the first place, if it wasn't any more than Jim projecting the
sensation of arms into Sherlock's head. Still, Sherlock could almost feel
fingers trailing across his shoulders as they went.
"If you asked me what I couldn't stand more than the way things were before, I
would answer you: this." Jim did not sound at all happy, and yet he had not
contradicted Sherlock's prediction that he could possibly make things worse by
carrying out his desire to end Sherlock. Jim's soft voice began to fade, and
his presence began to grow distant.
"Consider, then. You are unhappy with the present, and what you have been doing
will likely only make you more unhappy. Try treating me better." Sherlock was
still immeasurably angry with Jim, but if they were stuck together and he
wasn't constantly mistreated and pushed to his wits' end, Sherlock wasn't so
cruel as to make the criminal miserable. If it could be easily helped, at any
rate.
He could hear Jim's fading snort, almost a laugh, but not quite. Even that had
an edge of bitterness to it. "Why can't we all just get along..." he crooned
mockingly until his voice faded completely, shrinking back to wherever he had
come from. Possibly leaving Sherlock's mind altogether. It was hard to tell.
Sherlock waited for a few minutes, listening and trying to get a sense of
whether or not Jim had actually left. He seemed to be dormant, which was the
best Sherlock could hope for. When the silence continued, Sherlock set the
coffee pot to brew and snatched up his laptop.
It was only reasonable to assume that he was not the only person this had ever
happened to.
Sherlock opened up his browser and began to search, but was completely
unprepared for what he found.
He understood that he was brighter than the average member of the populace, and
that people on the whole were driven to balance themselves between a projection
of uniqueness and a desire to fit in via conformity, but the sheer amount of
drivel available on the internet was ludicrous. People seemed to be claiming
hauntings at a rate that would rival the population density of London. Users
bragged about unique abilities to see and hear spirits as well as read minds,
to be able to curse anyone who crossed them by sending ghosts to attack the
offender, or bemoaned their lack of free time due to requests from these unseen
clients. Advice for ridding oneself of spirits suggested anything from table
salt to urine to ringing highly specific bells, asking them politely to leave,
or threatening them in the name of gods Sherlock didn't believe in. A few posts
suggested what they term 'shamanic astral healing', or that embracing an angry
spirit and accepting them would make them less destructive.
Sherlock lowered his forehead to the table and dissolved into breathy,
despairing laughter. Random searches were not going to be of any use. He needed
to determine if any true experts existed, and then see what they knew.
With not much more effort, he did find several local options. Many claimed to
be exorcists of one sort or another, mostly Catholic and a few other odd
religions. Another group, however, claimed to be a society of "ghost chasers"
operating out of London. Though their website left much to be desired, they did
list themselves as professional investigators of the paranormal including
hauntings, poltergeists, residual energy, and any other supernatural phenomena.
Most notably, they were not operating on the basis of any religion and were
populated by what looked to be several individuals of varied backgrounds.
Sherlock weighed his options. There weren't many. This was outside his realm of
expertise, so far away from what he was familiar with that he didn't even know
where to begin. If information could be gleaned from so-called professionals,
then he had to try. Even with the risk that they'd recognize him and spread
rumors. He didn't care much about his reputation apart from how it would affect
his standing with his friends and his ability to work with the Met, and
Lestrade was already doubting his stability.
With some reluctance, Sherlock dug out his phone. He wasn't going to go to the
effort of sneaking out of the flat and tracking down this group's location
without some measure of confidence that they weren't completely barmy.
After the third ring a young man picked up. He sounded tired, possibly working
another day job. Still able to answer the line, however, and happy to be doing
so judging from the modulation in his tone.
"Ghost Chasers Paranormal Society, this is Chris."
"Hello, Chris." Sherlock noted the man's name and immediately used it. People
had a tendency to be more receptive to requests after their names had been
repeated. "I'm calling because I have an unusual situation and thought your
Society might be able to offer me some insight. From what I understand, most
hauntings are focused on a location or an object, but I've encountered one
focusing on a person."
"Really? Ok. Well let's see. What can you tell me about this haunting? What
makes you suspect it is a haunting, whether the deceased is someone you or the
subject being haunted knew, whether the spirit seems in any way dangerous or
malevolent, things like that." Sherlock could hear shuffling in the background.
Chris was getting ready to take down notes.
"It's someone the subject knew, who died suddenly and seems to be angry at the
subject because of it. Symptoms have included fatigue, the subject speaking as
if the deceased were talking and saying things that only the deceased knew, and
thrown objects that were witnessed by another person. Unfortunately, the second
witness has since left on a business trip, so I can't have them corroborate."
Sherlock could hear the sound of pen hitting paper. The back of his own mind
was, happily, still completely silent. "The spirit seems interested in
tormenting or killing the subject. I need to know if it can be gotten rid of."
"Alright, well, that sounds pretty serious. I'll warn you right now though,
that though we can try a number of things to persuade this spirit to leave or
calm down, getting rid of a ghost by force is extremely difficult. One of the
guys on our team has been dealing with a malevolent presence for twenty odd
years." At that point Sherlock could hear the change in Chris's tone, trying
not to worry his caller before they'd even met. "But like I said, if there's
anything that can be done, we can check it out for you and get you some good
advice. We do charge a small fee, just to cover costs of petrol and equipment
and time."
"Money won't be an issue. Discretion is. The subject would prefer to meet you
somewhere. Not a home visit, if at all possible." Sherlock wasn't going to have
a team of people show up on his doorstep. The Met would certainly stop and
question them, and once they found out who these people were, the visit
wouldn't be kept under wraps. Other fans also camped out on his doorstep at
times, and some of them might recognize these people.
"Not a problem, so long as the spirit definitely isn't attached to a specific
location. We can meet wherever you'd like, within reason. Jared, Melanie, and
myself are free this week after 5, whenever works best for you." Chris
scratched something quickly on his pad of paper.
"Today would be appreciated, if you can manage to get your team together that
quickly." Sherlock searched his memory for an optimal place to meet. "Are you
familiar with the abandoned Shoreditch police station? The one right off
Sherphardess Walk? We'll meet there. You don't need to worry about citations
for trespassing."
"Yes, yes, we can get there by 5:30 if that works out for you? You and the
person this spirit has attached itself to will both need to be there. Our
instruments won't pick anything up if we can't get the spirit to follow." Chris
was enthusiastic now. It must have been something in Sherlock's presentation
that caught his attention, but he did manage to keep up a professional tone.
"Trust me, location doesn't matter for this spirit. It's firmly attached to the
subject. Bring your instruments and we'll meet there at 5:30. I should also
caution you: you and your team will have to sign a confidentiality agreement.
You won't discuss this case with others without the permission of the subject."
Sherlock could only hope that Jim stayed dormant and oblivious to his plans
until he had a chance to get information out of these people, if they had any
expertise at all.
"Understood." Sherlock could almost hear Chris nod. "We'll see you then."
When they hung up, Sherlock was left in silence. He had only a few hours to
wait before they met, hours when Jim could potentially turn up at any moment.
It was impossible to say what the spirit did when he was silent, whether he
remained with Sherlock or went elsewhere, and whether he was aware of the
passage of time at all. Jim had mentioned being aware that three years had
passed since his death, but he also didn't seem...completely coherent in the
beginning, either. He had seemed mostly impulse. He hadn't been vocal right
away either. By the time he was, he'd faded quickly, as if running on a
battery.
That gave Sherlock ideas.
Certainly it would explain why he'd felt incredibly tired each time Jim became
active. Ghosts didn't eat, so energy had to come from somewhere. Given that Jim
seemed to be specifically connected to him, it stood to reason that he was
drawing energy from Sherlock much like a parasite. In the short term, it was
merely irritating, but in the long term it might have rather severe
consequences to his health. That is, if Jim didn't simply get tired and angry
and kill him on an impulse.
Sherlock glanced out the window. Sure enough, Lestrade had followed through on
his word and posted a pair of fairly obvious watchmen outside. The DI wouldn't
have been foolish enough to leave the back of the building uncovered, which
meant that if Sherlock wanted to get out of the flat unseen, he was going to
have to take one of the other routes. He had a few hours, but he didn't want to
spend them cooped up where he could possibly fall asleep or get sidetracked by
a visitor. Neither did he much fancy being spotted entering their meeting place
shortly before the scheduled time. Just because the ghost hunter on the phone
had agreed to confidentiality didn't mean that there would be no other eyes
watching.
Sherlock poured his coffee into a travel mug and shrugged back into his coat.
Up the stairs and through John's old bedroom, he was able to climb out through
the back window and lever himself onto the rooftop. With land in London coming
at a premium, it wasn't difficult to simply walk a fair distance away from his
Met babysitters by the rooftops and use handholds to descend back to street
level.
Within a few minutes he'd managed to flag down a cab. He could only hope
Lestrade didn't decide to check in on him to find him missing from the flat.
He was nearly there by the time he became aware of Jim's presence again. It was
the subtlest of changes in his perception, like knowing he was sitting next to
someone without having to look at them, a prickling of the skin when someone
was hovering over him, but not quite touching. The air remained as warm in the
cab as it had been before, however, and Jim didn't speak.
Sherlock kept his thoughts carefully blank. He watched buildings and people go
by, filling his mind with the white noise of pointless deductions. He didn't
know where Jim had gone, but it didn't seem to matter. The spirit's silence
told him what he needed to know.
The cab dropped Sherlock off at a nearby corner. The detective paid him and
took off at a brisk walk, turning the collar of his coat up and ducking in
order to try to avoid recognition. There was a small pub near the abandoned
building, but he couldn't risk waiting in there. Not only might he be
recognized, but Jim might take it upon himself to try to cause trouble, either
by forcing him to say something insulting or by throwing objects around.
Sherlock picked the doors to the meeting place open without trouble and let
himself inside.
"Why so suddenly clandestine Sherlock?" Jim whispered. "Giving Lestrade the
slip, so carefully quiet.... One might think you're up to something."
Interesting that Jim hadn't assumed he was simply trying to ignore the spirit.
Perhaps Jim thought he knew Sherlock better than that.
"I don't like being trapped or kept on a leash, no matter who's holding it. I'm
not going to stay put simply because Lestrade said so." Sherlock took a sip of
coffee from the travel mug he'd brought and used the extra time to look around.
The inside of the station was gutted for the most part, wallpaper and paint
alike peeling in strips off the walls. Evidently other groups had made use of
the space before: suspicious stains and piles of rags were strewn about in
several corners, and leaflets from Occupy London lay abandoned on the ground.
"Your choice of hidey-holes has seen better days," Jim mused and then, as
though he’d chosen to drop his suspicions altogether, switched tracks. "Would
you like to play a game?" The question was spontaneous, excited. "I'd like to,
and I think you'd be the very best partner. What do you say?"
Sherlock blinked in surprise. A thread of suspicion wound through him, as Jim
being excited about something usually didn't bode well. "That depends. What
sort of game did you have in mind?"
"I managed to do the most interesting thing the other day. With you. I'd like
to try it again." At first it sounded like Jim was referring to their
'experiences' in Sherlock's mind palace, but then Sherlock felt his hand
twitch. And then he was speaking, without his own voice. "Wouldn't you like to
see what else I can do?"
Sherlock felt a jolt of panic from losing control of his own voice again. He
flexed his hands to make certain nothing else had lost control. "Not
particularly, if the end result is you physically manipulating me like a
puppet. Besides, every time you exert yourself, you tap into me like a battery.
I'm exhausted, particularly in that you're not letting me sleep."
"Even if I promise to be gentle?" Sherlock could hear the smirk in Jim's voice,
but the spirit did back off. Whatever hold he'd had over the electrical
impulses firing to Sherlock's muscles, he released it. If Sherlock had to
guess, he would say that taking control like that was tiring on Jim, too.
Especially when he had to fight Sherlock to do it. Instead of force, however,
Sherlock felt a pleasantly warm sensation trail down his back.
Sherlock laughed bitterly. "Right. You, gentle and trustworthy." For all
Sherlock knew, Jim wanted to test his limits to see if he could takeover
completely. It wouldn't be difficult for the man to destroy what remained of
Sherlock's reputation that way. Or force him to take a walk off a bridge. "I'd
be more inclined to listen if I didn't know that friendly gestures from you
tend to hide daggers."
"Hmm, fair enough." The pleasant warmth didn't stop moving slowly up and down
Sherlock's spine though, so close it felt like it was just beneath the skin.
"But you might want to start planning for the future. After all, my loyal
Sebastian might pop up at any moment looking for another shot at you. You
might, say, need a little help convincing him you're worth keeping around.
Because something tells me you won't be able to do that on your own."
That comment did give Sherlock pause. He began to wonder just how tied Jim
might really be. Something about the ghost's tone sounded confident that
Sebastian was going to return soon. It easily could have been a bluff to try to
manipulate him, or his earlier silence might have indicated that Jim hadn't
gone dormant, but had gone out.
"You weren't interested in convincing him to keep me alive before."
"No, I wasn't," Jim laughed, "But you know how I change my mind." Jim’s warmth
slipped deeper, in through Sherlock’s back and settling somewhere in his
ribcage, heating him from the inside out. It was quite a pleasant sensation
considering the chill of the empty building. The only thing the walls of the
old Shoreditch Police Station kept out anymore was the wind. "I can convince
him you and I are tied, one and the same even, much faster than you can. And
you know what a moment's difference can make with a killer like my Seb."
"If you can change your mind that quickly, you can easily change it back
again." Sherlock had to admit that the warmth was nice, but he couldn't forget
who was putting it there. "You want something. You're not this pleasant unless
you want something. I'm not going to agree to anything unless I think you're
being honest with me."
"Alright..." Jim's voice was soft in his ear again, like they were lying in bed
instead of the middle of an abandoned station in the dreary city chill. "I want
to see what I can do inside you...as it were. I could speak, even with you
fighting me, but it was so much easier when you weren't expecting it. I want to
make you breathe. I want to move your hands. I want to walk in your shoes. I
want to feel what it's like to be Sherlock Holmes."
"To what purpose? So you can take my choices away with a new and exciting
method? So I have to beg you and let you do things to me, not just to keep
living, but to be allowed to control my own body?" Perhaps it was simply Jim’s
desire to live again. If he couldn't have his own form, taking over Sherlock's
would do, but Sherlock had never known Jim Moriarty to do anything without
several ulterior motives.
Jim laughed as though it were nothing. "We've already established you can fight
me. No need to worry about me taking over your body against your will, at least
not completely. No. I'm simply doing you've asked me to do," The warmth in
Sherlock's chest spread. "I'm asking for your…permission."
Sherlock froze. He couldn't deny that that was certainly true. It was also a
good sign, if Jim had actually changed his mind for the better. Sherlock truly
didn't want to get rid of Jim if another solution could be found; it was only
desperation that had driven him to explore this avenue. The question was, could
Jim actually be trusted, even this far? It seemed too simple, and Jim was too
full of sweet words and warm touches. "...what exactly are you wanting to try?"
Silence met Sherlock's question. At first it seemed as though Jim might be
about to word his answer in a way that might persuade Sherlock, but then it
stretched. Sherlock could hear traffic and pedestrians on the street below, but
he couldn't hear Jim.
"What avenue are you exploring here, Sherlock?" Jim whispered. The warmth he
created in Sherlock's chest grew cold. "What's this about getting rid of me?"
Sherlock cursed in his head, then realized Jim could hear that too. "You
weren't giving me other options and didn't seem open to my requests to deal
with me fairly. I don't want to destroy you, but I don't want you destroying me
either. Whether in the form of outright murder or you tormenting me in various
ways until I crack and finally commit suicide like you've always wanted."
"And what did you do?" Jim was prowling through Sherlock's head now, digging up
memory, rewinding through their conversation like an old videotape, watching
Sherlock walk backwards down the street, get into the cab, escape from his
flat, and, there it was. The phone call. Jim sat in silence as the memory of
Sherlock's conversation with Chris played out before them.
Until he cut it off.
And Jim laughed. Jim laughed like a gunshot in Sherlock's ear. If he'd been
standing next to Sherlock, he'd have been doubling over with it.
Sherlock ignored the sound for as long as he could, but he was at the end of
his rope. The last of his patience and emotional stability frayed. Jim was
dead, and he still held most of the cards, and any attempt Sherlock made to
defend himself or enforce boundaries ended in violence or violation and
mockery. He couldn't even strike back at the spirit to vent some of his rage.
"...I hate you," he whispered. He felt like a child again, utterly impotent and
hiding from his problems in a corner.
"Oh Sherlock," Jim gasped. "You were the one who went to Ghost Chasers." He
suffered another fit of giggles before it began to die down. Sherlock got the
vision of Jim, lying on his back in Sherlock's head, not having even the
fortitude to keep his imaginary self standing. "Let them come. I'll even do a
little dance. Would you like that? You must be desperate."
Sherlock got to his feet. He wanted to withdraw, but there was nowhere to go.
There was simply no place he could turn where Jim couldn't touch him or talk to
him or pull his strings. Coming here had been an act of desperation, and a
foolish one.
Sherlock started walking and he could feel his mind slipping into disjointed
static, something that hadn't happened for many years. Such a state had only
happened when distress of some sort or another had pushed him past endurance.
Pieces of his mind shut off like a fuse had blown in order to shield the more
delicate parts, but what was left operational were only the flat, bare-bones
essentials.
Jim turned silent in his head. If the lights had gone out where the spirit had
been residing, he didn't complain. And he didn't leave. Sherlock could still
feel the subtle weight of his presence.
Just as Sherlock was exiting back onto the street, a trio was coming down the
opposite way. They were hampered by their own luggage, heavy duffel bags and
gadgetry and laptops in arms, and were too distracted in their conversation and
finding the entrance to the building to notice him. Barely a glance was needed
to tell that these scruffy, offbeat techies were the professional investigators
he'd called.
Sherlock didn't wait around. A quick, detached examination was enough to
confirm the hunch he'd had - these men had no expertise. They treated spirit
chasing like a hobby rather than a science, more interested in social bonding
with one another and getting access to unusual locations for urban exploration
than in actually developing and testing theories. They would be no more helpful
than the internet forums full of dreamers and misfits he'd stumbled across
earlier.
Sherlock walked away from the building, searching for a cab.
The sky opened up above him and let down drop after drop of a light drizzle.
Beads of it caught in his hair and dripped down his forehead and caught under
the collar of his coat. The chill in the air seemed all the worse for it. Jim
remained quiet in his head, but while Sherlock waited on the kerb, watching for
a cab in the distance, he felt the subtle warmth in his chest, when Jim had
been trying to manipulate and persuade him, flicker back to life.
It got no response. Sherlock might as well have been a walking automaton. He
could certainly feel the sensation, but there was no ripple of emotion in
reaction - no fear, no anger, no softening. Jim had dropped a stone into a pool
only for it to disappear and leave the surface as smooth and characterless as a
pane of glass.
Sherlock finally managed to get a cabbie's attention and gave him instructions
back to Baker Street. He slipped into the back seat without another word.
Slowly, Jim's presence faded, retreating by degrees until Sherlock's mind was
aware of him no longer. It was possible he had left, as he seemed to have done
before. Even in death, Jim got bored, and apparently Sherlock being boring was
the only thing that drove him away. But Jim would return. Sherlock wouldn't be
boring forever, and Jim would eventually need to recharge. Unless he could
acquire his energy from other sources.
It was nearly an hour before Sherlock climbed over the rooftops and slipped
back in through the upper bedroom window at 221 Baker Street. He was utterly
drenched, shivering with a cold that saturated both body and mind. He was back
at square one and without any notions of how to proceed.
He was about to descend the stairs when a creak of the floorboards below
penetrated the haze filling his mind. Someone was in his flat.
Sherlock crept around the corner and tiptoed down the stairs to try to get a
glimpse of the intruder.
There in the sitting room John Watson turned around, brows raised and hands
idly ringing one another. He smiled like Sherlock had only just come down from
upstairs when John had been looking for him, but his face fell quickly after.
"Sherlock," John moved quickly to his side like he was ready to catch Sherlock
should he tip over. He must have looked awful to get such reaction. "Were you
just outside? You've got the Met on watch outside your flat. I just wanted to
stop by. They let me in... What...what happened to you?"
"I..." Sherlock didn't know what to say, suddenly confronted with the past like
this. His mind was thrown into disarray. John was here, looking just the same
as he always did in Sherlock's memories, right down to his shapeless jumper and
the way his hand clenched and unclenched when he was concerned. Sherlock's
fragile state nearly broke again; he knew John wouldn't be staying. Those days
were past. "It's... a long story. I went out for some air, but it didn't really
help."
John gaped like a fish. "And why are there Met officers posted outside the
flat?" He took Sherlock by the elbow. "Here, just, sit. Let me... I'll get you
some tea." He looked like he was about to help Sherlock with his coat, but it
was too awkward. And John, as always, knew his aborted gesture was enough to
tell Sherlock to take off his own coat because John was worried about him. It
was a strange little dance they did. Familiar and yet all the more
uncomfortable for it. For the inherent distance therein.
Sherlock struggled out of the sodden garment and hung it on a hook by the door.
The rest of his clothing was equally soaked and clung to him. Sherlock took a
seat on his leather chair and tried to ignore the small pattering sounds as
droplets fell from his wet curls. "There are officers outside the flat because
Moriarty had a pet assassin who blames me for his death and has tried to kill
me a few times in the past two days. Or that's the excuse, at any rate."
John's head and shoulders leaned out of the kitchen. "Whoa, what?” He looked
flabbergasted with two empty mugs in his hands. "You didn't call me? Someone,
Moriarty's someone, tried to kill you and you didn't call me? Who is this guy?"
The distinct sound of water boiling and simmering in the kettle didn't turn
John's attention.
"It was for a complicated case. I'm sure the Bas-Congo virus warning was all
over the news. Moriarty's old employee sent me a sealed canister with infected
tissue, posing as Moriarty, then separated me from the rest of the Met while we
were chasing down leads in order to try to get revenge." Sherlock glanced up
and backpedaled a bit when he spotted John's hurt and angry gaze. "He didn't
succeed, obviously. And I could hardly call you in on a case like this, with
everything that's going on in your life."
John's mouth opened first to argue, then in incredulity, and then finally shut.
He saw the reason behind Sherlock's assessment, but he still wanted to fight
it. Instead, he sidestepped the subject altogether. "So Moriarty's not back
from the dead, then. It was this guy all along?"
John took a deep breath and turned back to the tea. He re-entered with two
steaming mugs in hand, remembering the way Sherlock liked his.
"The virus scare was all this individual's attempt at mimicking Moriarty's
style, yes. And unfortunately, he got away and is likely to have fled the
country by now, which means he'll make another go at it in the future. Of that,
I have no doubt." Sherlock accepted his mug and tried to pretend that John
sitting across from him didn't have such an effect on him. It make him ache and
want to stare, recording every detail. Tying him down and insisting that he
become a flatmate again wasn't to be done, particularly as it would hurt Mary's
feelings, and Sherlock rather liked her, both on her own merits and because
John loved her. "But the epidemic crisis has been averted for the moment."
"You said he was out to get you for..." John's eyes trailed down to Sherlock's
collar and caught there. John tilted his head, a frown forming between the
lines of his brows as though an idea were emerging in his mind, but he hadn’t
quite grasped it yet. Until he did. "Sherlock. You've got a, a mark on your
neck...." John's hand had half raised, like Sherlock wouldn't have already
known he was referring to the bandage that was slipping down his collar bone,
sodden with the rain.
Sherlock's hand whipped up to cover the patch of skin, and he winced when the
pressure was just a touch too hard. "Ah... yes." His gaze dropped until he was
no longer looking at John directly, but his reflection captured within the mug.
He could feel his face coloring again, which only made him angry at himself. It
was easy to fake emotions when they didn't touch him, but damnably hard to hide
them when they ran this deep. "It's not infected. I'll be fine."
"Wha--? Sherlock, that looks like a bite mark." John's mug hit the coffee table
and he was closing the space between them in seconds. He was on the floor,
sidling between Sherlock and the table, on his knees, and very intent to get a
closer inspection of the wound.
Sherlock moved backwards so quickly his chair toppled over and, graceless for
once, he tripped over it and followed suit. He hit the ground in a pile of
awkward, gangly limbs, but kept one hand pressed to his neck even then. The
reaction had been instinctive, automatic, but Sherlock realized even John
wasn't so daft as to fail to read between the lines.
"...I'm well aware what it looks like."
John was left blinking, bent half over the upturned chair, having tried to
catch Sherlock and realizing midway through that Sherlock had flung himself
back to get away from him. Utter disbelief was written across John’s face. It
was more than obvious after that display that Sherlock didn't want to be
coddled, but John didn’t look like he could bring himself to move back either.
"What. ...Sherlock, what happened?"
"It doesn't matter. There's nothing to be done about it, anyways." Sherlock was
cursing himself for being so foolish. Foolish for leaving the flat in the first
place, foolish for not immediately heading to the loo to dry off and fix his
clothing when he got the chance. It said something about his state of mind that
he was frazzled enough to make these mistakes.
John's shock was turning into that warm empathy Sherlock had always valued, but
it burned now that he was the focus of it within this context. Worse still
because of the way Sherlock had felt, all of those thoughts and emotions left
unsaid the moment he'd returned to find that John had moved on and found
happiness elsewhere.
John swallowed. Sherlock was trying to pull himself together. John was trying
to pull himself together, too. He looked like his world had just tipped
sideways.
"Right. Okay. Let's. Let's get you cleaned up and dried off." John pushed
himself to a crouch, holding his hand out for Sherlock to grasp. If Sherlock
didn't want to talk, then John wasn't going to force him. Not outright. John's
way was to break him down little by little. It worked in the past, on the
oddest of things, but lately there simply wasn't enough time shared between
them for that kind of patience. But it was John's nature and he would try it
still. Soft, yet firm. "You've spoken to someone about this?"
Sherlock looked at the offered hand and took it a heartbeat later, letting John
pull him back to his feet. Even that simple touch made him feel better.
"...Lestrade took me to the hospital," Sherlock grudgingly admitted. He didn't
want to tell John that it had been because he was doubting Sherlock's sobriety,
and not because of trauma from an assault. John led him down the hall to the
lavatory and Sherlock trailed numbly behind him. He refused to let go of John's
hand.
It was a little awkward when John tried to open the cabinets for clean towels,
but he managed. "You never bother with the laundry anymore, do you?" He
muttered, finding just one in the lot and having to make do with it and a
couple used ones. "C'mon, sit." He maneuvered Sherlock to sit at the toilet
while John dried his hair and shoulders. He looked about for a dry shirt,
Sherlock sometimes left them lying around the bathroom, but was out of luck.
"Do you want me to...take a look at that?"
Sherlock was at a loss. He'd always enjoyed John making a fuss over him, in the
way that was uniquely John: warm, kind, truly concerned but not overbearing. It
was a pleasure just to have him there, and doubly so to have him close and
willingly touching him. Less thrilling was letting the doctor see what had
happened. Logic told him that John had already seen it and the damage was done,
and Sherlock sighed and nodded assent. Better to be certain it wasn't going to
get infected than risk it and have to submit himself to the questioning eyes of
strangers.
It took John a moment of consideration, but he got down on his knees. The last
thing he would do was loom over Sherlock. Like that, he had to reach up to
remove the rest of Sherlock's bandage, which was already so loose it was
practically painless. Indeed the bite marks were not deep, but there was
purpling around the skin. It looked worse than it actually was, but John feared
he could not say that for the rest of Sherlock.
"Good news is it doesn't look like there'll be any infection. Hospital will run
the tests for anything else, viruses, that sort, but again it's not very
likely." John swallowed. Neither he nor Sherlock could quite look directly at
the other. "He uhm...this was the only place he hurt you?"
"Nothing that would show physical evidence." Sherlock still felt conflicted
about everything else that had happened. Everything had been coerced, for
certain, and Sherlock hadn't wanted what had happened to him until everything
had become blurred. His body had found release and he hadn't fought back, but
he'd also had a death threat over his head, and the concern that something
worse would happen to him if he resisted too much. Touching Moriarty, on the
whole, hadn't been nearly as troubling as being touched.
Even out of the corner of Sherlock's eye, John's face was pained.
"Shit," John bit his lips and held back what was probably a torrent of
aggravation he wanted to let out. "Of all the... why?" He bit off his words
again. It was obvious John was already blaming himself for not being there, for
not only missing out on a huge case right after the supposed return of
Moriarty, but for letting his best friend go through this. With guilt as a firm
motivator, he finally worked up the nerve to look at Sherlock, and Sherlock
knew he didn't look much better than when he'd first walked down the stairs.
"Obsession for a number of years, or so I was told. And revenge, most likely."
Sherlock could feel John's eyes on him, but he didn't look back. Couldn't. The
detective shook his head. "It doesn't matter. There's nothing to be done about
it now, anyways." Nothing that John or Greg could do, or anyone else Sherlock
was acquainted with. Anyone who knew how to deal with ghosts was hidden,
drowned out by a veritable sea of charlatans and daydreamers.
John sighed heavily, blasting air through his nostrils like an angry dragon.
With supplies from Sherlock's cupboard, he set about disinfecting the wound
again and making a new bandage. "So what makes you think he's left the country
instead of hiding out and waiting for that second chance?"
John had to be asking himself why the gunman hadn't killed Sherlock when he'd
had the first chance, especially after Sherlock had come out of it looking like
this.
"...the assassin isn't suicidal. With all the law enforcement personnel trying
to track him down for attempting to cause an epidemic, he’ll go to ground
somewhere out of reach before trying again. The fact that he's on tape hand-
delivering both the corpse pieces and the tainted inoculation supplies means
that he doesn't have a support network to hide behind. He's by himself." As far
as Sherlock was concerned, Sebastian was the least of his worries at the
moment. He'd have to survive Jim first.
John put the finishing touches on his bandage and let Sherlock move his head to
test it. It held as comfortably as possible. In truth, he didn't necessarily
need a bandage, but John would know it was more about hiding the evidence than
anything else.
"If anyone can track him down, it's us," John said as he began putting the
supplies away, making sure to put emphasis on the 'us' part of that statement.
What he really meant was Sherlock, but he wanted Sherlock to know that he'd be
there. "C'mon. Up you get. When was the last time you slept?"
Sherlock started laughing. He couldn't help it, then found he couldn't quite
stop. The room wavered and John was suddenly there, having ducked under his arm
to steady him. Close physical touch was enough to shock him out of hysterics.
"Several hours ago, very briefly and not...well. Not for almost three days,
now."
Sherlock hadn't realized it had been quite so long. Preoccupation with
everything, fatigue, and the bizarre dreams that weren't really dreams had
started to warp his sense of time.
"When the case started?" John guessed, leading Sherlock carefully out of the
bathroom. That bite mark did not look three days old. John took a moment to
maneuver them around the door. Supporting his weight wasn’t easy. Thin as he
looked, there was still a lot of Sherlock to carry. John sidled them into the
bedroom and got Sherlock seated on his bed.
Sherlock went oddly rigid at the end. He tugged the sheets up higher on the bed
when he thought John wasn't paying attention. "Yes, around the time that it
started. I wasn't feeling well when this whole chain of events kicked off.
Before you ask, no, I didn't catch the Bas-Congo virus. Obviously." Sherlock
was glad John was there, truly, but he wished the doctor wasn't so inquisitive.
The frown was back on John's face as he reached for the light, sorting through
the many and varied causes of Sherlock's sudden restlessness, and since it was
Sherlock, the endeavor was nearly impossible. When he turned back he was
already in the middle of a shrug and the beginnings of a request for Sherlock
to just try one more time to get some rest... before he paused. His face fell.
His eyes narrowed at something...on the bed sheets. "....Sherlock..."
Sherlock immediately knew from the tone of John's voice that he'd noticed. He
prepared for rejection in the only way he knew, his back going rigid, chin
lifted at a haughty and aggressive angle. It was a look he'd given many
detractors over the years, particularly certain members of the Met. Sherlock
made himself untouchable, at least on the outside - either his opponents became
too intimidated to try anything, or he'd damn well make certain they hurt in
return. "...yes, John? Is something wrong?"
John closed his mouth. Sherlock could see the thoughts flickering across his
face in rapid succession, plain as day. John could identify evidence of sexual
activity when he saw it, and even though he had never encountered such a thing
in Sherlock's bedroom before, it wasn't completely out of the question. After
all, he hadn't spent a lot of time in Sherlock's bedroom in the past. Just
because his mind jumped to conclusions when he saw it now, ones having to do
with the man who'd spread the virus breaking in and attacking Sherlock right
here in his own bed, didn't mean they were at all credible. There was no way
that scenario made sense, and so, John had to conclude that it was a matter he
didn't need to bring up.
"No. Nothing." John straightened his back. Still...an ounce of doubt gnawed at
him. "But if you...would rather nap on the couch, that's fine. I've got to step
out anyway. But I'll be back, all you have to do is call," he amended.
Sherlock stayed silent and defensive for another moment before softening a bit
around the edges. John had dropped it, and he hadn't meant anything other than
that he was concerned, so far as Sherlock could tell. For a toughened soldier,
John was both surprisingly kindhearted and delicate when a situation called for
it, which was more than could be said for his own self. "Alright. I'll give you
a call if I need to."
"Do. I mean it," John said seriously. "I'll stay for a little while. And I'll
make sure Mrs. Hudson checks in on you." John's posture said he knew he was
maybe being a little too worried, but they had never ventured into this
territory before. If Sherlock were physically injured, he would have done the
same. Albeit with a few less nerves. "Right. Get some rest." John moved to the
door, turning one last time.
Sherlock looked a bit lost when John glanced back, but he was silent and made
no move to stop John from leaving.
When the door closed Sherlock carded fingers through his hair in frustration.
John would try to comfort him, even if he'd simultaneously decide that Sherlock
had gone completely mad, but he'd be powerless to actually do anything about
it. Worse, keeping John close might actually make him a target. Sherlock had a
truce with Jim right now, but it didn't shield anyone else from death or harm.
With that in mind, Sherlock toppled over bonelessly and stared at the ceiling.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Notes
     Warning in this chapter for an explicit scene with underage Sherlock.
     For those who want to skip it, you can stop reading at “Sherlock was
     quiet and still for several seconds.” and pick back up again at
     “Jim's cheek rested against the top of Sherlock's head”
"Well that was dull." The voice came like a spider crawling into his ear before
awareness of Jim's presence. Suddenly he was there, all around Sherlock, that
familiar feeling that Jim was standing over him if only just out of sight.
Sherlock got the impression that Jim was biting back more than a single comment
on the matter of John and his good bedside manners.
"So sorry to subject you to witnessing that I do, in fact, have both emotions
and a friend. He's not a genius by any stretch, but his other qualities more
than make up for it." Sherlock's eyes searched the room, but not a shadow was
spotted. Jim's presence was almost tangible, but completely invisible. "Where
are you going, anyways? Digging in my head for more information to torment me
with? Or getting the sleep you're not permitting me to have?"
Jim laughed in a breath. "You can sleep, Sherlock. You're more than welcome to,
in fact. If only you weren't so reluctant to see me again." There was a smile
in Jim's voice, but he did sound more...calm, than he usually did. Like he was
tired, himself. Or like he really was giving Sherlock's request for decent
treatment a hesitant try. Or, most likely of all, he wanted something.
"Yes, because it's been extremely restful, getting threatened and manipulated
into certain activities and then tossed aside once you're satisfied." Sherlock
hadn't really wanted that sort of contact in the first place, and everything
that had happened had thrown him into disarray about... everything. He'd
enjoyed it, and also hadn't. He was questioning everything he'd assumed about
human sexuality and his own identity within that sphere. He'd wanted nothing
more to do with Jim... and had also felt incredibly hurt to be abandoned.
Sherlock sensed a pause in the air, in the presence that was Jim, wherever he
was. "Tossed aside? Is that how you feel?" Sherlock felt a tugging inside him.
Some part of his core was sinking down into the bed, like he was falling
through his own body. A lurch of g-force. His eyelids turning heavy. His mind
spiraling after until suddenly, he awoke to the dreamscape of his mind palace.
In the familiar cabin of his childhood. And there Jim was, sitting on the edge
of the bed, one knee up and one planted on the floor, impeccably dressed as
ever. "What else did you expect?"
Sherlock gasped and rocked on his feet. His mind raced and tried to make sense
of what had just happened. Realization finally clicked and generated a look of
horror; Jim had pulled him under. He hadn't fallen asleep naturally from
fatigue.
Jim wasn't just reading his mind, haunting his body and stalking his dreams, he
could also drag Sherlock into a more vulnerable state whenever he wanted.
Sherlock's hands clenched. "Apparently, too much. You regard me as a diversion
instead of a person, whatever unique category I happen to occupy within your
mind." The room was changing as he spoke - or rather, his mind was recalling
the memory and shifting himself to match it. Even his voice changed pitch
towards the end.
Varied emotions flashed across Jim's face, from what looked like annoyance to
dismissal to curiosity and finally, to interest. Without moving a muscle more,
Jim held out his hand, palm up, beckoning Sherlock forward.
"Do you know how much you ask of me?" Jim's voice was soft velvet, but any
indifference he'd had before was gone. "You ask me for comfort and you don't
find that ironic in the slightest?" Jim's head cocked, a smile ghosting over
his lips, but it was an uncertain one. He was deflecting and Sherlock could see
it. Jim was the one who didn't want to offer comfort, and yet there was his
hand.
Sherlock glanced between Jim's palm and face in suspicion. He wanted to be
treated with basic human dignity, but he knew that it was unlikely from the
other man, and the offer made him nervous. Retrieving past constructive
emotions hadn't made Jim predisposed to softer treatment or more courtesy,
after all.
"I don't see how my basic requests are unreasonable." Sherlock frowned at how
childish his voice sounded to his own ears in this memory, with this small
body. "I'm the one trapped with you reading my mind, deciding to kill me or
pull me under on a whim."
Jim's smile widened with a touch of amusement. "Remember who you're asking." He
ducked his head and raised his eyebrows, pointedly outstretching his hand just
a little farther, unwilling to let it drop. Jim's smile turned a little more
intent. "Let me make our last encounter up to you. I won't do anything you
don't like."
Sherlock knew better than to expect. Moriarty had always been all razor edges
and hair trigger springs - beautiful, delicate, but quick and very deadly. It
was that fascination that had made Sherlock first decide to dance with him and
play his game rather than immediately striving to take him down. The same draw
that had made him rebuild a mental simulacrum from shards of the puzzle when he
was alone in the field. Even Jim's murderous or sexual intentions weren't
enough to combat that completely.
Large grey eyes, reset in a child's face and framed with dark curls, looked
back at Jim with more than a touch of fear, but a small hand hesitantly laid
itself in his palm.
Jim's whole face changed as he sighed, his fingers closing around Sherlock's.
He might have been Richard Brook again had Sherlock not noticed an undercurrent
of delight thrumming in Jim's pulse and a certain light in his eyes. He reeled
Sherlock in slowly, as that was the only way he would move, until his legs hit
the bed. One of Jim's arms wrapped around his waist, eyes fixed on him all the
while, and he was lifted into Jim's lap.
The delight in Jim's eyes had seemed like innocence before only because it was
real. Sherlock could see there was no innocence whatsoever in Jim now.
Still, Jim sat back on the bed, letting his arms twine around Sherlock’s waist
loosely. Jim wouldn't stop staring, but he didn't try anything else. "Is this
what you would have liked?"
Sherlock's spike of fear dissipated very, very slowly. Jim was undoubtedly
interested, but he wasn't doing anything yet. Sherlock felt a gentle pressure
where he was being held, but no more.
"...I don't know." Sherlock raised his eyes but didn't quite meet Jim's gaze,
looking instead at all the details around it - pale skin, delicate mouth, sleek
black hair, the matching bite mark stark against the man's neck. "I don't know
about any of this."
Jim's smile curled and his head cocked almost playfully. "Are you sure you're
not trying to indulge my fantasies?" His hand lifted and brushed a stray curl
out of Sherlock's eyes. "I can't tell whether I've gone to heaven when I have
you like this." He was laughing under his breath, but he seemed to be laughing
at himself more than anything. At Sherlock's frown, Jim tightened his grip and
shifted back on the bed, swinging his legs up until his back rested against the
headboard and he could spread out with Sherlock still there. All of a sudden,
he grew serious. "Are you lonely, Sherlock?"
The boy's frown deepened and his eyes grew distant in thought. He hadn't
thought about it like that before, but he also didn't know what loneliness was
supposed to feel like. He was used to being alone - or had been. He'd never
really had friends before, during childhood or any of his years in school.
Other relationships were work acquaintances, or people he had trading
arrangements with of some sort or another. Mrs. Hudson was a former client who
didn't really understand him. Lestrade tried to be a father figure and a
friend, but Sherlock wouldn't let him get too close. His relationship with
Mycroft was strained for a myriad of reasons.
Sherlock had found something new with John - a constant presence nearby, a
sense of comfort, familiar touches and smells, someone who liked and accepted
him as he was and not as he was wished to be. Now that was gone, and his loyal
shadow had been replaced by a wraith.
Sherlock had paused for far too long. His silence was telling, and when he
realized it a heartbeat later, he ducked his head.
Jim's head ducked to follow, pressing his brow to Sherlock's temple, but he was
still smiling and it gave him away. "That's too bad," he whispered softly,
squeezing Sherlock's middle in what might have been a reassuring gesture. Jim
delighted in Sherlock's loneliness. Jim needed it.
...and that made sense. Even more than before, Jim was cut off from the rest of
the world. He’d want Sherlock to be as well.
Jim's hand, finely boned for a man, carded through Sherlock's hair and he
shivered. He hadn't forgotten what had happened only several hours ago, but on
a certain level that didn't matter. Jim's hand was warm, and quite gentle at
the moment, and stroking in just the right way to set off nerve endings and
leave Sherlock's skin tingling. He'd tried not to think about it, tried to
divert the emptiness into other places in his mind, but Sherlock's body had
gotten used to casual, affectionate touches when John had lived with him.
They'd been missed when he was gone, and one of the things he'd been looking
forward to when he'd returned. What he'd received was few and far between and
the intervening years had only made part of him hungrier.
Sherlock found himself leaning into the touch without thinking.
It was impossible for Jim not to notice, evidenced by the little sigh of
satisfaction that escaped his lips. Jim's hand didn't stop. It trailed lower,
stroking down the delicate skin of Sherlock's neck while the man turned boy was
staring ahead in what looked like stoicism but they both knew was anything but.
Jim's head turned. He place a soft kiss to Sherlock's temple, right where the
silky strands of hair began, and when Sherlock didn't pull away or give any
other immediate reaction, Jim shifted. He laid them down on the bed, Sherlock
still wrapped in his arms, and settled there just stroking Sherlock's soft
skin. His eyes never left Sherlock's face, like Jim couldn't get enough.
Whatever fantasies he'd had since Sherlock's discovery of Carl Powers were
merging with reality.
This, Sherlock was alright with.
More than alright - drops of affection hitting the bottom of the void inside
him only made him realize just how much the emptiness had grown. Ignoring it
hadn't made it diminish into something more manageable and it had been eating
at him whenever he took on a case alone or came back to an empty flat.
Sherlock's eyes closed for a few moments. He concentrated on what he was
feeling, the way Jim's hands just glided across his skin. Fingertips brushed
down his jawline and across his lips, and when Sherlock reopened his eyes he
found Jim right there, staring.
"I couldn't believe you didn't understand me on that rooftop," Jim said softly.
"You told your friends and your family a different story when you came back...
But you played the game with me so well back then. I could see you loved it."
Jim's touches didn't stop. "And that was the only way you could have beaten me.
You would have joined me otherwise. You weren't faking. But they pulled you
away in the end, didn't they? You gave up so much for them and when you came
back...all you did was keep giving. Playing the best man, playing the forgiving
friend, playing normal."
"...exactly how long have you been watching?" Clearly, Jim had been around for
some time after his death if he'd seen all that. Sherlock flushed, remembering
how poorly some people had taken his return, his desperate manipulations to try
to get John to verbally forgive him. His attempts to fight down his sadness and
jealousy so he wouldn't destroy John's happiness with Mary, and the brief hope
he'd had upon learning about her betrayals before he'd realized that it didn't
matter. Even then, John would decide to forgive her, would keep loving her,
because that was who John was. And Sherlock had stepped aside again, helped
them heal as best he could, and been prepared to end everything when they'd
confronted Magnussen. He hadn't really wanted to die, or be jailed for the rest
of his life, but emotion had overwhelmed everything else.
"I was there for Siberia. And let me tell you, your brother wasn't the only one
who got a bit of a show." Jim smiled, speaking right against Sherlock's cheek.
"It's difficult to say, exactly. Awareness came by degrees. Control also. I was
so angry," Jim whispered in a breath. "I still am. But.... But." His fingers
remained gentle, and his voice softened in turn. "You have a certain effect on
me."
Sherlock absorbed this in silence. He wondered if Jim had been able to pluck
the thoughts out of his head during the same duration of time, and his cheeks
flushed with color again. "Because of who I am, to you? Or because I look like
this?" He hadn't missed the fact that, twice now, Jim had become noticeably
more gentle at the same time that he became more aroused.
Jim's small laugh was warm against Sherlock's ear. "Both." He didn't take
offence to the suggestion this time. Sherlock hadn't stated it as an
accusation. "Such a perfect combination you make like this, such beauty and
such intelligence. And I never expected to see it again." With a finger, Jim
turned Sherlock's head to look at him. Sherlock's assessment hadn't been wrong.
Affection mixed with arousal in Jim's eyes, a significant change to how
Sherlock often encountered him in life even though Jim's obsession with him had
always been there. Had never truly left, rather, if the seed had been planted
over two decades prior.
"Why?" Sherlock asked, even though he knew Jim might not be able to articulate
an exact reason. He had the same problem in his own mind whenever he tried to
question himself and pinpoint what had drawn him back to the Jim he'd
constructed even when he'd had no strategic use for his missions. Or why,
precisely, he'd put his hand in Jim's even after he felt raw and hurt from what
they'd done earlier. "I've been a disappointment to you. You've said as much."
Jim went quiet at first. His eyes fell in thought. There was no denying that.
It was true, Jim had become very disillusioned with what Sherlock was now. But.
"I wasn't wrong about you. Even though that's true. ...you do have the
potential to be so much more than what you've decided to be when you bend to
all these people in your life. Sentiment, Sherlock. Isn't that what your
brother said?" Jim must have plucked that out of his memory. He must have
plucked quite a lot of things by now with all his rifling. After a moment more,
Jim decided to address Sherlock's original question. "I told you from the very
beginning, you were the only one like me I ever found. A match."
Sherlock nodded. He could accept that. He'd never found anyone close to who he
was other than Jim and, to a certain extent, his brother. "I tried to be
Mycroft for such a long time, then decided I didn't want to after what he
turned into. Sentiment can be a strength as well as a weakness, but a complete
lack has... consequences." He hadn't wanted restraint, order, or to be
completely beyond connection. Humanity still drew him in even as it repelled
him.
Jim's smile quirked, seeming to catch the nuance about Sherlock's brother.
"Yes."
Jim did not yearn for restraint and order by any means. Even the last,
disconnection, Jim had at times both embraced and searched beyond. For Sherlock
and Sherlock alone, he had come out of hiding after he'd built an empire on
anonymity. That was how he'd been untouchable, and yet he'd broken it.
The movement caught Sherlock's eye and he turned. It seemed strange to be like
this. Like he'd climbed into a shark tank and was holding his breath, suspended
like a ghost while the tank's lone occupant gracefully circled, brushed up
against him, and watched with a hungry eyes. Terrifying and beautiful all at
once. Sherlock pondered everything he'd observed, everything Jim had said and
what was omitted in the spaces between. "...you were lonely, too. You still
are. You can't leave, can you?"
"I gave up on life. Of course I'm lonely." Jim's face held a bitter smile. "And
no, I can't leave. I'm not sure I'd even want to. This," he raised a hand in
the air like they would be able to see through it, "didn't solve anything.
'Rage quit' life, and all I got was limbo." Jim laughed to himself. He was very
strange with his secrets, his emotions. He was honest and impenetrable at the
flip of a switch. And now he was telling Sherlock things he would have probably
never said in life. At least not to anyone but his obsession. Jim's thumb
brushed Sherlock's plump lower lip. "But at least I still have you."
Sherlock knew it was dangerous, but he was touched. Something about Jim tugged
at him, even knowing he might get torn to ribbons and hurt even more than he
had been. Even despite the way Jim had tried killing him several times over -
the pool, the fall, manipulating Sebastian, and then trying to squeeze the life
out of his heart. "...you've given thought to what I said, then."
Jim's eyes fixed to Sherlock. He could see the leading question. And perhaps it
was only because he was calm now, because there was a connection between them
now, or because Sherlock was as small as he was, wrapped in Jim's arms and not
pulling away, but Jim decided to answer him truthfully. "Yes. But I don't play
nice, Sherlock. And I don't play by the rules, even for you. ...but I can be
kind.” His thumb on Sherlock’s lip descended.
"Nice isn't what I asked for." Sherlock's pulse had picked back up. He felt
like the shark had just taken the smallest nip at his leg, testing how helpless
the prey might. "I don't want to be pushed into anything I don't truly want, or
quicker than I can handle. Whatever that happens to be. People can be broken
more ways than physically."
"Then tell me, can you handle a lot? How did you describe it... 'the two of us
against the world, blood pumping through your veins'? Or are you going to hide
away and let all the excitement pass you by?" Jim inched closer, but held back
still. His gaze swept over Sherlock's features, assessing him. "You know me
reasonably well by now. You tell me. Do you think you can handle me?"
Sherlock's pupils grew visibly larger. The boy's thoughts raced, touching
briefly on old memories and trying to project where this might go. "...I'm not
certain that I can. There are parts of you I understand fairly well, and I
don't think those will be a problem." Violence, crime, gore... Sherlock was
familiar with such things, but he didn't want Jim to take over his mind and
force Sherlock into filling the void Jim had left behind in the criminal world.
"...there are other- ...I have no experience in other areas. I don't know what
I am."
Jim's pink tongue darted out to wet his lips. "Then let me help you discover."
Jim paused and for a moment it seemed like he was doing a bit of his own soul
searching. "And in that regard, I am willing to be as considerate as I am
able." As if to reinforce the statement, his hand stroked Sherlock's hair
gently, watching Sherlock carefully for signs of distress. His fingers curled
in the ends of the strands, winding them around the tips and pulling them free,
letting them bounce against Sherlock's soft cheek, the bone still prominently
defining him in spite of his age.
"Do I have much choice in the matter?" What they'd done before hadn't been
physically unpleasant. The source of Sherlock's distress had been the coercion,
the fact that he'd felt trapped and without a shred of control, unable to stop
the proceedings... and the fact that it had thrown large portions of his
identity into question. He'd sequestered himself away and decided that he was
asexual and aromantic, and those carefully built walls had crumbled slightly
upon meeting John, but Jim had ripped into them like a hurricane. Sherlock was
left feeling confused and uncomfortably vulnerable. "If I tell you no, are you
actually going to listen?"
Jim's eyes dropped. His hand stilled. It took him a long time to answer. "Yes.
It's no fun if you're not playing." He sighed. "But keep in mind, if you push
me away completely, then we go back to the way we were before. All bets are
off." And the look in Jim's eye suggested very strongly that he would do his
best to end it. Sherlock, firstly. Himself, if he had no luck with the former.
He had nothing left.
Sherlock was quiet and still for several seconds. His eyes never left Jim's
face. He felt like he stood at the edge of a precipice, and no matter which way
he chose, he was going to fall. A path with a sliver of hope was better than
none at all, but the unknown still filled him with illogical fear that he
couldn't quite shake. After another moment of steeling himself, Sherlock
reached up to touch Jim's face, then pulled him down into an uncertain kiss.
Jim fell into it, melting the moment their mouths touched. His hands were back
on Sherlock, one in his hair and one against his back, but Jim was gentle. If
anything, Sherlock’s childlike form managed to bring out a more compassionate
side of him, a side that didn't want to hold a part of himself back from
Sherlock. A side that wouldn't push him away when he was finished. At least,
Sherlock could only hope. The slight tremble in Jim's arms and the beat of his
pulse reinforced this idea, however.
Jim turned, pressing Sherlock down little by little, half atop his smaller
body, but conscious enough to give him just enough space.
Sherlock's felt spikes of panic, but they were eased with how slow this was
going and how restrained Jim seemed. He still didn't know how far he was able
to go beyond the familiar and comfortable, but he didn't feel out of control
yet. Not even when Jim's hand slid from his hair to his neck, then dipped
fingers underneath his collar. Touch like this was unfamiliar, but not entirely
unwanted, because it wasn't truly sexual yet.
Jim began to pop the buttons of his shirt, one by one until his small chest was
exposed. His skin was such a contrast to Jim's, unmarked by time, as Jim's hand
trailed down his sternum. Even if it wasn't necessarily sexual for Sherlock
yet, it obviously was for Jim. He gasped when their mouths parted. The hand at
the back of Sherlock's head curled in his hair just to feel him. Jim seemed to
be intent on feeling all of Sherlock that he could. And yet he was indeed
restraining himself in his pace if not his intensity.
It was the intensity, and who Jim was, that left Sherlock feeling dizzy. The
other man had been screaming at him, mocking him, trying to drag him into
death, and now the spite and fury and vicious lust had turned into something
almost worshipful. Sherlock was used to fixations from some corners of the
media and various fans, but few of them had ever tried to cross the line and
project their focus into physicality, and none of them held a candle to Jim.
They were mundane, and that word could never be used for either Jim or himself.
Jim's hands lifted him, but only for a moment. Only enough to strip his shirt
away. Gooseflesh immediately prickled up Sherlock's arms.
Then Jim's mouth was on his collarbone and the man’s body bent to cover
Sherlock's, transferring warmth but not at all diminishing the little bumps
that broke out over his skin. If anything, Jim made them worse. His mouth moved
in a path of open kisses down Sherlock's chest and Jim only seemed to get
warmer as he went. He sat up for a moment, fighting the suit jacket off his
shoulders, and then he was back again and able to move much more freely. Not
that he'd needed to cover a whole lot of space. Sherlock was so small.
For the briefest moment, Jim laid his ear over Sherlock's chest, listening for
his heart quickening, beating against his ribcage. Even in a dream and even as
insubstantial as Jim was in reality, he wanted to feel that Sherlock was real.
Jim's trail of kisses had made Sherlock’s mind jump to memories of what the man
had done to him not so long ago. However he felt about trying such a thing
again emotionally or psychologically, his body had decided it was very
interested, physically. Jim must have been close enough to feel his interest,
as warmth hit his skin when the man laughed quietly. "...what are you going to
do?" Sherlock whispered.
Dark eyes lifted to meet Sherlock's, crinkled lines at the edges giving away
Jim's smile. That pink tongue made an appearance again. Just looking at
Sherlock lying on his back, looking down his bare chest at Jim, eyes large, the
lack of lines around them making his expression softer. The way his mouth
remained just parted...
Jim sucked in another breath. "I was hoping to suck you off." One of his hands
smoothed down Sherlock's side, resting suggestively at his hip, thumb drawing a
circle over the dip of flesh and bone.
Sherlock's inner conflict spilled out into his expression; he was interested,
and felt like he shouldn't be. He didn't think of himself as being sexual, or
falling prey to needs like that. Jim was still filed away somewhere between
enemy and fascination, but not trusted partner. It said something, as well,
that Jim was especially interested in him in this form. And something bizarre
that Jim chose to be gentle when he was like this, rather than more predatory.
Part of Sherlock's dilemma resolved when moments passed and Jim didn't push. He
was waiting patiently, dark eyes fixed on Sherlock's face while his thumb
swirled in slow circles. Sherlock's lower lip trembled before he managed to
force himself to speak, and his voice was barely audible. "...alright."
Jim sighed like he'd been holding his breath. His smile spread wide and he
lowered his head, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's navel first. Like a little
thank you. He glanced back up to Sherlock before moving lower, kiss by kiss
until he reached the hem of Sherlock's trousers. He didn't look up that time,
but Sherlock could see the delight spread across Jim's face when he popped the
button, hooked his fingers in them and his underwear, and began to pull them
down. Sherlock's hips were so small and narrow that it took very little effort.
The moment his flesh was exposed, it was touched by Jim's hot breath.
Sherlock didn't know how to feel. There was an anticipation of pleasure, along
with a lingering sense of shame - not quite prudish, but that carnality was
meant for normal people, not him. He also feared Jim suddenly changing his
mind, as the man had a tendency to do. But all of that changed the moment hot
breath turned into a hot mouth and slid around him. Sherlock's thoughts
derailed and a small moan escaped him.
Jim's eyes fluttered shut. Strong hands gripped Sherlock's hips, preventing him
from bucking up and jerking too much. And then Jim sucked. Sherlock could feel
Jim's tongue slide over him, teasing all around. He fit all the way in Jim's
mouth with no trouble at all. Encapsulating him wholly while Jim's tongue slid
up and then slowly, painfully slowly, back down, was a sensation he hadn't
experienced the last time. Jim moaned from the back of his throat. Fingertips
squeezed Sherlock's hips and Jim seemed to have to force himself to stop.
Sherlock's toes curled and, after a vain scramble to try to anchor himself
using the sheets or the mattress, his fingers tangled in Jim's hair. He felt
better with something to hold onto, but it made everything more intense, more
real; he could feel Jim's head move, and the warmth of his scalp. Sherlock
whimpered and writhed and tried to find a way to cope with the onslaught of
sensations. Cool air hit damp skin and he felt Jim's head tilt up. Turning to
look at him. Sherlock licked his lips and risked a glance down, certain that he
must look desperate.
Jim's lips parted. One of his hands left Sherlock's hip to reach down his own
body, drawing Sherlock's eyes. Jim was straining against his trousers. His palm
hit the obvious bulge and a gasp escaped his mouth. His eyes fluttered shut. He
canted his hips up into his palm and the motion pulled another moan from his
throat before he squeezed his fingers around the bulge and held tight, like he
was trying to rein himself in and only barely succeeding. When dark eyes
snapped open and fixed back to Sherlock, Jim looked like he wanted to devour
him whole, body and mind. Instead, he descended back down, one hand parting his
own belt and wriggling inside his trousers while his mouth closed back around
Sherlock's erection.
Sherlock couldn't tear his eyes away, but stray thoughts surfaced through the
debilitating haze of pleasure. He hadn't missed the way Jim had looked at him
and what the man obviously wanted to do. Jim might not demand such this time,
or the next, or even several times thereafter, but eventually he'd want more.
Sherlock's mind supplied the imagery and the boy bit at his lower lip.
He didn't know if he could do that. Sherlock hadn't thought he could even
permit this, that was true, but even this was throwing him into mental disarray
and giving lie to his constant assertion that his body was merely transport.
Jim's one remaining hand at Sherlock's hips splayed wide, grabbing and kneading
the flesh of Sherlock's backside as he thrust a little more forcefully into his
own palm.
In spite of the obvious connotations, Sherlock was still hard in his mouth,
hands still gripped fiercely at his hair, small hips still strained against his
jaw. And Jim could feel with every little shudder the way Sherlock's desires
were betraying him. He reveled in it. He took the time to slow all the way down
to a standstill, just to tease the boy beneath him. Just to make Sherlock ask
for it.
Sherlock didn't realize at first what Jim was doing. Teasing sucks and swipes
from the man's tongue grew languid and finally ceased entirely, and Jim's mouth
released him to a shock of cool air. Sherlock held onto Jim's head and tried to
catch his breath, and everything clicked when Jim looked back at him with a
slow, knowing smirk playing at his lips.
Jim was going to leave him like this. He had enough control that he'd do it,
regardless of his own desires, just to make Sherlock face himself and force him
to voice what he wanted. The boy's eyes widened and he felt his tongue stick to
the roof of his mouth. He didn't know if he could say it.
Jim took a measure of pity on him. But only a small one. "Do you really hate
this so much?" he asked softly, tongue darting out to swirl around the little
head of Sherlock's cock. The heat was a focused pinpoint of sensation whereas
Sherlock had been engulfed in it before. He even stopped his own strokes,
holding himself tightly at the base. Sherlock could tell by the way the fabric
strained even if he couldn't see Jim.
Hate wasn't really the right word and Jim knew it. Sherlock didn't find the
idea distasteful or repulsive as an abstract. He understood that sex of all
kinds was a major part of life for a lot of people, and that it fulfilled
different needs depending on the person. Sherlock just had a difficult time
relating himself to it. He'd deliberately put himself out of reach, perhaps out
of self-defense, even though Mycroft had made his own exceptions about sex
regarding cold detachment. However he managed it, Sherlock didn't think he'd be
able to stay detached and unemotional around someone touching him so
intimately, or even going so far to invade his body. He'd already failed at
avoiding emotional bonds even without such things.
Part of Sherlock's mind pointed out that, for all intents and purposes, he was
already invaded. Jim was attached to him and in him, somehow, rummaging through
his head. There was no privacy to be had.
"...no, not really," Sherlock finally admitted quietly. His hangups weren't
with what they were doing, or even who he was doing this with.
"But Sherlock Holmes doesn't do this. Isn't that right?" Jim whispered. Then
his smile quirked. "If I'd come out of hiding back then, you might have changed
your mind." His tongue licked the tip again before his fingers took over,
gripping lightly around Sherlock and stroking up and down so that Jim could
speak. "Isn't that a thought? Can you imagine now what trouble we'd have gotten
up to together?" Jim's light laugh was genuine as he lost himself in the
daydream of himself and Sherlock growing up together, probably doing a lot more
together, of Sherlock imprinting on him rather than the people he so
desperately and yet tenuously clung to now.
Sherlock could imagine. He'd drifted without purpose for much of his life,
endlessly frustrated and bored and hurt by rejection. Even university hadn't
given him more hope, and it was only after falling into a life of drugs out of
despair that he'd encountered law enforcement again and remembered just how
fond he'd been of solving real puzzles instead of contrived ones. If Jim had
gotten to him before all of that, Sherlock knew he would have clung to him,
both as a kindred spirit and as a source of purpose, something to drive the
ennui away.
"I... yes," he murmured. Jim was still stroking and watching for Sherlock's
reaction, and the boy's blush deepened. His hips tilted up against Jim's hand
of their own accord.
That yes lit up Jim's whole face. The very room around them warmed with light
falling through the windows. Everything sharpened, and it wasn't just
Sherlock's imagination. The solidity of his bedroom, the salty tang of the sea
air, the gulls calling outside and the gentle waves rolling in, the softness of
the bed underneath them, it all intensified. Jim had to be doing it
unconsciously. His focus was still on Sherlock, but it was as though he were
pinpointing this one moment in his memory, saving it to be recalled later,
whenever he wished. His intent was evidenced in their surroundings.
With a toothy smile, Jim dipped back down, engulfing Sherlock with renewed
enthusiasm.
Sherlock tried to stay quiet and still, but that proved an impossibility. His
body did as it wanted, shivering and arching into Jim's touches, and Sherlock's
self-control began to fray. "...fuck," he whispered, then promptly let go of
Jim's head so he could bite down on his own hand. Anything to stop his mouth
from running. He bit too hard and tasted blood, and that only made things
worse. Sherlock gave a muffled groan.
He felt Jim's head tilt. Still sucking in ever quickening strokes, Jim was now
staring up at him with undisguised lust. Their eyes locked like that. Sherlock
could see himself, so small he was barely able to, disappearing into Jim's
mouth just as much as he could feel it. Jim broke that connection only when his
eyes drifted on a particularly sweet stroke of his own hand. From the way his
arms was moving, he was matching the pace of his mouth.
It was too much. The same throes that Sherlock remembered wracked him and he
climaxed with a muffled shout, half-lidded eyes still watching Jim devour him.
To Sherlock's surprise, something about this time felt different, and it took a
few moments for him to realize what it was: he was still hard in Jim's mouth.
Sherlock grappled with confusion before an idea stuck him - he was a different
age in this memory, one before puberty had truly struck. He might not be
subject to the limitations of his body as it currently was, but the ones
relevant to whatever form he was in.
Jim's eyes closed. His hand tightened around himself and his hips gave a
particularly violent buck against the mattress below them. He'd felt it. The
way his attention narrowed to the point of contact between them was obvious.
Jim was enthralled by it, so much so that he began to stroke himself more and
more quickly, and he was crying out in a muffled gasp not moments later.
But he didn't let go of Sherlock. Not until he pulled his hand free of his
trousers, slippery with his own come. He crawled up Sherlock's body, not having
far to go, until he could lift Sherlock into his arms. His still wet fingers
wrapped around Sherlock’s small length and Jim’s nose nuzzled against his neck.
Sherlock could have stopped him, in theory. He could have objected to being
touched with cum-slick fingers, or Jim's obvious intent to torment him by
taking advantage of this form's stamina and almost nonexistent refraction
period. He could have, and was right on the edge of telling Jim no, but
something stopped him. Perhaps he was more of a hedonist, or a masochist, than
he'd realized. Perhaps it had something to do with element of danger. Or
perhaps it had to do with the way Jim was looking at him, a far cry from how
anyone else had looked at him before.
Jim rearranged them until Sherlock was straddling his lap, one arm curled
around him to keep him in place while his other hand stroked. Sherlock was
short enough in this form that he still had to look up ever so slightly to meet
Jim's gaze. He could feel a hot dampness underneath him that made him squirm
when he realized what it was.
He felt Jim's breathy laugh against his cheek when he noticed Sherlock's
reaction, but Jim didn't otherwise draw attention to it. He seemed to desire
wringing every pleasure he could out of Sherlock, even in spite of his own
recovery time being much slower. He drew Sherlock as close as he could while
his fingers worked, ramping up the pace now that Sherlock had come once
already. Jim bent his head and captured his mouth, the position forcing his
head back but Jim caught him with his one free hand in case he lost his
balance. Jim was the only thing keeping him upright.
Sherlock's hands touched the man’s chest. He might have been intending to push
him away, but they simply rested there and gradually curled into fists,
clutching at his shirt. Jim's mouth still tasted of musk, like last time, but
without the bitterness that Sherlock had found so repulsive. The situation
wasn't entirely without disgust; Sherlock felt... not humiliated, exactly, but
uncomfortable with the knowledge that Jim's hand was coated with his own semen
and using it to ease the friction.
Jim by contrast did not seem to notice. Or care. He had no hesitance at all
about touching Sherlock's body, or encountering its fluids, something that
seemed not to have happened this time, but he had reveled in it the last. If
he'd had his way, he'd probably crawl into Sherlock's very insides, wear him
like a coat, make a home inside his core. And in a way that was exactly what he
had already done.
Kissing like this was different, too. Jim was bigger now, but he at least was
aware of the difference and able to compensate for it.
Sherlock eventually did push Jim away, just enough to break their kiss so he
could breathe. Jolts of pleasure were running through him from Jim's hand and
the lingering afterglow. He was growing close to another climax but Jim seemed
to have no intention of stopping. Part of Sherlock felt oddly... relieved. As
if decisions were past his control. He could just give in to the hands keeping
him suspended and wringing pleasure out of him, and it wouldn't be his fault.
Nobody else would know, and he wouldn't have to accept blame.
"That's it..." Jim whispered into his ear. It was still questionable whether he
could read Sherlock's mind while they were inside it. Though he was clearly
able to when Sherlock was in the waking world, that didn’t seem like the case
here. Jim was, however, very good at reading his expressions. His fingers
squeezed with just the slightest more force. His pace never faltered, moving in
quicker, shorter motions, bringing the sensation down to focus in a single
point.
Sherlock felt something soft brush his arms and realized that he'd wound them
around Jim's neck. He was panting, and everything was narrowing down to this
moment. Jim was everywhere, wound through his mind, a voice in his ear, warmth
and pressure, holding him in place and touching him until his body short
circuited into helpless delight and his thoughts stopped. Sherlock gasped and
his spine arched as he climaxed a second time, just as dry as the first.
Jim's mouth parted against his neck, more of a shocked gasp than a kiss, but
just as soft and warm all the same. He worked Sherlock through every wave of
electric pleasure that coursed through him, and finally slowed when it became
too much. Sherlock was pressed up to his front, sweaty, trembling, strung out
with the aftershocks of sensation, and Jim finally pulled his hand away. He
wrapped his arms around Sherlock instead. Unlike their previous time together,
Jim showed no signs of letting go. He tipped backward, laying Sherlock down
atop him to rest in his embrace.
Sherlock closed his eyes and his body slowly loosened up. He felt lethargic,
but in a way reminiscent of an indulgent bath or an opium high. He was relaxed
and warm, if a little sticky, and it didn't seem to matter that it was Jim
who'd done this to him, or who was holding him, or how they looked at the
moment. Sherlock noted with vague curiosity that, even though Jim was dead, he
could still hear a heartbeat beneath his ear and see the pulse line in Jim's
neck.
Jim's cheek rested against the top of Sherlock's head, and, by further contrast
to their time before, fingers trailed softly down his back. When Sherlock's own
breathing had calmed enough, he could feel Jim's chest rise and fall slowly
beneath him. Jim was tired, too. But the environment around them was just as
real. He wasn't expending any energy keeping it up. Though Jim may be as
physically tired as he possibly could be in this dream state, he had not
expended any energy in their exertions. If anything, by the pulse of his heart
and the slightest electric crackle in the air, he had gained some.
Sherlock’s curiosity was enough to rouse him out of languor. Small fingertips
reached up to touch the man's jugular and feel his pulse. It could have just
been an illusion, but something about it felt... stronger. More solid.
Sherlock recalled something similar in the time before, when he'd been cornered
without nearly as much consent. Jim had been tired afterwards, too, draped
across the bed before pushing Sherlock out of it, but something had changed
then, too. "...do you feel... different?"
Jim made a soft noise and turned his head, languidly dislodging Sherlock's
fingers. "I feel wonderful," he said instead, a little smile gracing his
features. That wasn't what Sherlock asked though, and Jim was avoiding the
question. He was perhaps even more unused to sharing details like that than
Sherlock was, even when there was no denying it. He couldn't hide the strength
of his heart, nor the way the very air all but crackled around them.
Their connection was symbiotic in some way. It had to be; Jim had drawn energy
from him before to sustain himself or perform an action, and it had left
Sherlock fatigued or chilled. Now they'd engaged in a different sort of energy
exchange, more or less, and Jim had gained strength from it. This exchange
hadn't left Sherlock bone tired and cold down to his core, however. Sherlock
opened his mouth to clarify and his voice died once he got a good look at Jim.
The criminal's skin nearly glowed, and his smile wasn't completely a mask.
It was very unlikely Jim had discovered this sort of exchange with anyone prior
to Sherlock. It was, however, very likely that he might be wary of Sherlock's
attention to it.
But it seemed Jim was in too good a mood to spoil the moment, and kept Sherlock
wrapped up in his arms, even pulling the plump blankets up around them.
Sherlock let the matter rest for now. There were topics of his own that he
didn't want to discuss, and Jim wasn't dragging them to the surface.
Wrapped together like this, Sherlock was surprisingly content. More than. He’d
had been half-bracing for another instance of bodily rejection, only for Jim to
stay curled around him. The warmth was pleasant, but just having the presence
of another person beside him was remarkably so. Strange, as well, as it was
something he wasn't used to anymore, and certainly not like this... but
soothing.
He noticed Jim's eyes began to droop. The slow stroking of his back stopped.
Jim seemed content to go boneless, lying beneath Sherlock, nose pressed to his
hair.
Gradually, the little room of the beach house began to break down. It fell away
in pieces. First the walls, then the furniture, the decorations, then the
windows, until they were on a bed on the sandy shore, and then even that fell
away. Like they were leaving earth. The bed remained, but the familiar star
clusters of Jim's mindscape slid back into place around them. They didn't tip,
or rock, or seem unstable in any way, but there was no gravity here. No up nor
down, nor left nor right.
Jim had fallen asleep.
Sherlock took advantage of the moment, quietly examining the man draped around
him and their surroundings. This void had appeared several times before, and
Sherlock was beginning to suspect that Jim's mind, rather than being a maze of
rooms, was this: endless stars, encapsulated information suspended in darkness.
Sherlock was left with a choice. He could stay here, to try to leave and find a
sheltered place to sleep elsewhere... or try to wake up and make the most of
Jim's unconscious state by researching how to get rid of him. The last no
longer seemed very likely, with an added element of futility that whatever
Sherlock found, Jim would know about it. The spirit could poke through his
recent memories and find whatever he had discovered. Even if Sherlock devised
some sort of method to encrypt the information, there had to be a key, and he
had to know where the key was. Jim could easily follow that trail and crack the
code without effort.
What remained boiled down to trust. Sherlock didn't trust Jim on the whole, but
the other man now seemed more inclined to try to work things out between them.
With some reservations, Sherlock closed his eyes and concentrated on physical
sensations of security. It took more than a few minutes, but eventually he
drifted off with the sound of Jim's quiet breathing in his ears.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
     Thanks for all your comments! And for those wondering about updates
     to the Fear series, I'll see to posting the rest of what we've
     written as soon as this story is all up online. We're around the
     halfway mark, just to give you an idea.
     Warning in this chapter for the vague mention of pedophilia.
When Sherlock opened his eyes again, the flat was empty. Empty, cold, and dark.
The alarm at his night stand read 9:34 and it took a moment of calculating to
realize that it was in fact 9:34 pm. Probably the very same day. Unless he'd
slept through the day and the night after. The shades were always closed, but
after a moment of inspection, it was in fact night outside.
There were three messages on his phone, one from John, two from Lestrade. Both
told him to stay in, take it easy, get some rest, call if he needed anything.
Lestrade went on later that they'd had no luck finding their suspect. They Met
had, however, managed to contain the Bas Congo virus and “calm” the public.
Sherlock sighed and passed a hand over his face. He turned only to find the
sheets in an even worse state than they'd been in the night before - and his
pants as well. Sherlock grimaced and stripped out of the soiled undergarments,
then took the sheets off the bed, too. He left them in the hamper and made a
note that he needed to do the washing. He had a tendency to forget, these days.
The detective made a quick inspection of the kitchen cupboards before turning
back to the loo. Few edible things remained in the flat, and none of them were
appetizing. He'd have to leave for supplies regardless of what Lestrade and his
posted Met babysitters would prefer.
Jim had been silent for the long minutes it took for Sherlock to get himself
back in order. Mostly in order, at least. By the time he had showered and had a
pot of coffee brewing, Jim made his presence known by feel more than words.
Sherlock was reaching for a mug, bent against the counter top, when a light
tingle run down his spine. It wasn't unpleasant, not like the chill from
earlier, but it was a bit startling.
"Good morning," Jim whispered in his ear.
"You're lucky I wasn't holding the coffee pot when you did that," Sherlock
muttered, but he counted this as an improvement. Anything was an improvement
compared to heart attacks, chills, and having objects thrown at his head. "And
it's evening, actually. Not that it really matters."
Sherlock finished pouring himself a mug and sat down next to his laptop in the
den. A glance told him that nothing interesting had landed in his inbox. From
what he could hear, the rain had cleared up while he'd been asleep. He leaned
over and peered around the window shades and saw that yes, indeed, the nanny
squad was still outside.
Jim tsked, perhaps in mirror of Sherlock's unspoken sentiments. "That detective
really has a soft spot for you, doesn't he?" A note of amusement made Jim's
voice lilt. He knew very well who Lestrade was and how much he went out of his
way for Sherlock. "Too bad we can't simply...I don't know, go out and call off
that little vendetta against you."
"Yes, trying to deal with your pet murderer and explain myself worked so well
last time, what with you taking over my voice and giving him further motivation
to shoot me in the head." Sherlock sipped at his coffee and scrolled through
the latest news posts. Lestrade did seem to have been telling the truth about
having the virus situation contained. "Even if you do that again, I doubt he's
going to stop and just believe whatever comes out of my mouth."
"Well obviously I wouldn't tell him to shoot you in the head." Sherlock could
feel Jim smiling as surely as if Jim's lips were pressed to the back of his
neck. "But if you're willing, I could make him believe it's me. You know how
persuasive I can be." Impressions of warm fingertips walked across Sherlock's
shoulder. Jim seemed to have figured out how unsettling the cold was, assuming
that was his natural state.
Sherlock stiffened. "...no, you're not going to use my body to persuade him
past my comfort levels." Sherlock more than suspected that Sebastian had been
involved with Jim, and he wasn't going to abide Jim taking him over just to
persuade Sebastian with particularly intimate things that only they would have
known about. Not even after this last sleep cycle.
Sherlock flushed and tried to derail the thoughts that summoned by filling his
head with white noise.
It was too late.
Jim's dark laughter echoed through his head. "For someone who's never shown an
interest in sex before, you have a filthy mind. And you've also managed to
capture Seb's likeness quite nicely." Jim didn't seem at all phased. Sherlock
could feel him settling down in his head, like Jim were folding himself into an
armchair for a little chat. "If you want him out of your hair, you're going to
have to give me a little leeway."
Sherlock wasn't going to respond to that accusation. He wasn't. His flush
deepened as he tried to push aside his own confusion about himself and whatever
his tangle of an orientation was turning out to be. "...leeway. And what
exactly is it that you want to try? Seeing if you can make me move if I give
you permission?"
If Sherlock concentrated enough, he could almost feel Jim's expressions. And
right now, he was raising his brows. "Yes, in fact. I would need to have
complete motor control as well as vocal. You'll forgive me if I mention I've
never witnessed you pull off a disguise convincingly before. If you can copy my
mannerisms, well...that might be a different story."
A frown creased Sherlock's brow from the insult. "That can't be right. Never?"
Surely Jim hadn't seen the majority of his work. Tricking people had never been
an issue before. Even when the physical components of a disguise weren't
perfect, other things could cover for it. Body language and posture,
mannerisms, tone and accent - appearance was only one of several parts of a
disguise.
"There there. Don't take it to heart. You do better when it's not in person."
Jim feigned embarrassment and Sherlock almost felt a pat on his arm. "Moving
along... you'd still need quite a show to convince dear ol' Seb. No one has had
more time to observe my person than he has, as much as your powers of
observation have made up for a considerable amount of familiarity."
"So I don't have time to make a study of all the specifics." Or to listen to
Jim's answers and repeat them. Sherlock knew this made a certain amount of
sense, as Sebastian was going to be on even more of a hair-trigger than he'd
been previously, but he still didn't like it. "...if we're going to try this,
we need some ground rules. I'm not having you ruin my life and reputation."
He got the distinct impression Jim was rolling his eyes. "Been there, done
that. Besides, the only one who needs to see you is Seb. And we'd do best if
he's taken off guard. Fortunately, I'm confident I can find him for you." Jim
stretched out in Sherlock's mind, expanding himself and filling the little
spaces until he seemed to engulf every sense and every thought. "I may not have
access to a network anymore, but I do have certain advantages in this form."
Sherlock paused to adjust to the sensation. It wasn't uncomfortable, and it
didn't hinder his thought processes, but it felt truly bizarre. Sherlock
wondered if it would feel similar if he permitted Jim a measure of control,
like someone else was with him, occupying the space just underneath his skin.
"Just walk through every wall in London until you find him?" Sherlock attempted
to joke. "Can you actually get very far? I've never been certain whether your
leaving has been you wandering off or simply falling asleep, wherever it is
you're residing."
Jim's laugh echoed in his head. "You don't think I'm going to give up all my
secrets now, do you? You'll just have to trust me on this one." Jim winked from
behind Sherlock's eyelids. "And that's really all I'm asking for. Just a little
trust. Enough to ride around in that skin of yours for a while."
"Just a little trust, entreats the man who tried to make me jump off a building
and who nearly stopped my heart," Sherlock muttered around his coffee mug. Jim
had already shown that he was able to take control of small things without
Sherlock's permission, with a related cost. If he retracted his permission and
began fighting, it should render control equally difficult. "I want to know
what you intend to try. I'm not going into this blind."
He felt Jim's nonchalant shrug. "I'll simply remind him of all the quality
times we shared together. Running around the globe, hiding out, the extra
special jobs I orchestrated, a list of every nasty little thing I’ve ever done
to him…" Sherlock felt the swish of Jim's waving hand. "Unfortunately yes,
there may be some 'touching' involved. But nothing too hard on your body, cross
my little black heart."
Sherlock felt his body tense at the thought. "You are not letting him do
anything to me. I'll retract permission if you try." Jim might be tethered to
him, but his body was still his own. He didn't want to worry about abuse from
two parties at once, much less both of them working together.
"I have to go out for supplies. We'll try something simple. Don't try anything
that draws too much attention. I don't want Lestrade to find out I've got other
ways of leaving the flat and that I'm avoiding his security detail."
"Supplies?" Jim asked as Sherlock rose. He didn't get very far before he felt
the tingle of Jim settling back inside him, expanding like he'd done before,
but this time with intent. Jim was studying his movements, feeling Sherlock's
weight stride from one foot to the other, feeling the catch and lift, feeling
his arms swing. And Sherlock could feel what Jim was perceiving like an echo,
like Jim was concentrating without his guards up and it turned into a
broadcast.
"Nothing extravagant. There's nothing edible in the apartment and I no longer
have an assistant to do the shopping, which means I have to go myself."
Sherlock shrugged into his coat and pocketed his phone and wallet, then headed
up the stairs. The rooftop exit was the least troublesome, and so far Lestrade
hadn't noticed Sherlock leaving that way, although Mycroft most certainly had.
"Wait until I get back at ground level, and then we'll try walking."
"Ooh, exciting," Jim drawled, but Sherlock could feel a distinct tingle run up
his spine that said Jim wasn't being entirely sarcastic. He was excited. It
made Sherlock prickle all over with something that felt a lot like static
electricity. At least Jim had some to burn after their little…encounter
earlier. He went quiet when Sherlock stepped through John's old room. John’s
things were long gone by now, but people like them saw the signs left behind.
Sherlock was glad for the silence. He didn't want to talk about it, and if Jim
could pick the thoughts out of his head, he probably could feel the emotional
reverberations that passed through Sherlock as he crossed the room.
Minutes later, Sherlock descended a fire escape a few buildings over. There was
a Tesco Express the next block over, but Sherlock needed more than a carton of
milk and a packet or two of crisps. A larger Tesco was a fair walk to the west,
but it gave them time to run their experiment. "...alright, we'll try this.
Head towards Church Street."
Jim didn't need any further invitation. He began to expand again, filling not
only Sherlock's head, but extending out from there. Down Sherlock's neck… He
could almost feel Jim in his throat. His eyes shifted without his own accord.
And still he could feel Jim spreading, into his hands, his fingertips, down his
legs, and into the tips of his toes. It hadn't been like that the first time
Jim had taken his voice, but Jim was driven to explore this time.
Hesitantly, Sherlock, or Jim, took a step forward.
Even though he'd expected strange sensations, the feeling of something else
spreading through his body and taking control was alien and somewhat
frightening. Sherlock mused that it wasn't entirely dissimilar to the moment
when he'd stepped off the roof of St. Bart's. The tingling was the same, as was
the sensation of weightlessness and an instinctual panic over the loss of
control. Sherlock tried to throw out his arms to catch his balance, only to
have his body's arms jerk awkwardly while it processed two conflicting signals.
"Shit."
"Stop that." Jim's voice rang out in his head, somehow louder and closer like
this. The muscles in Sherlock's back tensed as Jim tried to compensate.
Somehow, Sherlock's leg planted on the ground, what must have been an
unconscious action by one of them, but his balance was thrown. Too far to the
left side. His center of gravity was off. Jim tried to catch himself the other
way.
One of them panicked. Both of them panicked. And Sherlock went down.
Passersby gave him strange looks before quickly averting their eyes. They
assumed he was a drunk, or possibly something more unsavory, and none of them
wanted to acknowledge his existence. Doing so might mean an obligation to stop
and help, or call the police, and no one wanted the embarrassment and hassle.
"I wasn't expecting it to feel like that," Sherlock grumbled in his mind.
Getting up was equally a chore; neither of them had decided who was in control,
but eventually he rose ungracefully back to his feet. "Try moving a little
slower next time. That felt like being jerked into a free-fall."
He could almost feel Jim rolling his eyes. But slowly, once he was reasonably
sturdy again, Sherlock's shoulders rolled before he'd thought about it. A light
pain lanced across one, where he'd fallen, but Jim didn't take any notice of
it. Sherlock’s fingers twitched and that was the only warning he got before his
hands rose in front of him. They stretched and closed into fists as Jim tested
each finger. The feel of it seemed to be coming back to him more naturally now.
Sherlock felt his head tilting to follow the movement of his left palm as it
rose higher. If people weren't watching before, they were now.
"...Jim, not in public like this. I don't want attention. Nobody is supposed to
know I've left the flat." People stared and scuttled faster. Nobody wanted to
wait and see if he was a junkie that was about to tweak out on someone.
Sherlock tried to put his feet into motion again to get them moving towards the
destination he'd set.
Only to be met with instant resistance.
Muscles in Sherlock's legs tightened and turned the motion into a jerky
stagger. Fortunately, this time Jim, having seen it coming, was able to balance
with outstretched arms. "If you're going to let me drive, then let me drive."
And Sherlock's feet were moving again, this time with Jim's will behind them.
Sherlock was left with a dizzy, disorienting feeling not entirely dissimilar to
the sensory distortions of intoxication. He could still see, but it was strange
somehow, like there was a split-second time delay or coming to him through a
filter. "...like the back seat of a car," he realized. Touch seemed slightly
numb and distant as well. Jim had moved in front of him, if there was such a
thing, and he was receiving all of his sensory data after Jim was. "Is that
what it's like for you?"
"Yes, a bit."
Once Sherlock was out of the way, Jim seemed to have picked up on making his
body move quite well. He tripped a little at first, not quite used to
Sherlock's long gait. Or walking at all for that matter. But 'Sherlock' was
soon striding down the sidewalk at a fairly regular pace, arms swinging beside
him as he went.
The muscles of his face pulled. Sherlock's lips parted. He was smiling.
Grinning, even, as he strolled down the street. A laugh bubbled up out of
Sherlock's throat. Jim was happy. Jim was elated. Just to be walking again.
Sherlock could feel it. With Jim at the forefront, his body was responding as
if he were its usual owner. Endorphins flooded his system and Sherlock felt the
warmth of it radiating towards him as well, suspended in the back of his own
head. He couldn't imagine what Jim must have been thinking. After being dead
for so long, normal actions must have seemed luxurious and thrilling.
Which was another worry. What if Jim decided he wanted to just permanently take
over? "...you seem to be learning quickly."
"Like riding a bike. The less I think about it, the more easily it comes back,"
Jim laughed back, taking them on a little jump off the kerb. He caught himself
with only minimal confusion about what foot went where.
"And yes," Jim laughed again, this time speaking aloud. "Seems I'm a natural in
your body." He opened Sherlock's mouth, like he was about to yawn, feeling the
way his throat moved as he spoke. "I always loved your voice. That sultry
timbre, octaves no obstacle. This is a golden opportunity don't you think? What
could I make Sherlock say…?" He stopped, halted in the middle of a side street
in fact, as he took a moment to lower his head and growl, "Jim Moriarty is the
most brilliant criminal the world has ever known."
Sherlock had rolled his eyes at Jim's unsubtle innuendo, trying to cover his
unease at the reference and the man's description of his voice. When Jim
decided to take advantage of the situation in order to praise himself, however,
Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. "Really, you wait for years to get me to
speak whatever you want, and the best thing you think of is to force me to
compliment you? It doesn't mean much unless I do it of my own will."
The funny thing was, Jim was laughing too. Sherlock's head fell back and he
laughed up to the night sky, dull and clouded over with light pollution and
wholly unremarkable…and yet.
"Doesn't matter," Jim shot back. "I'll take what I can get, and your voice is a
fine prize." With that, they were off again, continuing their path along the
sidewalk. Jim finally had the sense to stow Sherlock's hands away in his coat
pockets, but as soon as he did, he encountered Sherlock's personal effects,
which brought them to a halt again. Jim plucked Sherlock's phone from his
pocket.
Sherlock's arms immediately began to lock up as he struggled to force Jim to
return the phone to his pocket. "Don't you dare," he growled. His smartphone
was a weakness, like with so many other users - personal data was stored on it,
but also important phone numbers. Mycroft's. John's. "I agreed to let you try
walking to the store and back, not for you to use my voice to manipulate people
I know over the phone."
"I'm hurt," Jim laughed. And strangely Sherlock did feel some emotion from the
other occupant of his mind, but it was difficult to tell what it was. Still,
Sherlock's thumb swiped across the slider, then up and down the smooth screen,
carelessly hitting buttons along the way. Jim was enamored by the feel of it.
Sherlock could feel that as the emotion welled within him. Finally he cleared
the screen and punched in the keys he'd spied Sherlock doing a hundred times
over. Jim looked at the screen, contact, music, browser, file storage icons all
waiting for him, but left it at that.
He brought out Sherlock's magnifying glass next.
Sherlock quieted once the phone was put away. He didn't mind if Jim enjoyed
himself, within reason. He watched his body's fingers turn the magnifying glass
over and finally click it open, holding it up to catch the light. Something
about the motions touched him; Jim seemed to have that mix of melancholic and
pleasurable focus that came with indulging an old nostalgia that had almost
been forgotten, or a dream that had been thought impossible. "...do you miss
it?"
Jim snorted. But he waited a beat to put the magnifying glass away. Once it was
safely tucked back into Sherlock's coat, they began meandering down the
sidewalk again. Jim seemed to have perfected a leisurely stroll. He alternated
between that and a brisk walk, then a bit of a skip. His fingers curled in the
wool of Sherlock's inner pockets to keep them warm, and he blew his breath into
the air to see and feel it turn to fog in front of his face. One thing Jim
didn't seem to be interested in were the people that occasionally passed on the
street. He ignored them completely, so much so that he might have been unaware
of them altogether.
Sherlock decided to make the most of the experience. He observed Jim's
movements, not just as they translated through to his own body, but how they
felt internally. It was almost like having someone settled right atop his skin.
He'd seen a teacher do that once, long ago - tutoring Mycroft at piano by
leaning over his brother and having his hands tucked under Mycroft's, or over,
running him through new techniques. It wasn't sexual, but in a way it was
almost more intimate than what he and Jim had done hours ago.
If Jim could feel Sherlock's considering focus, he didn't indicate so.
Probably, he was too caught up in the sensory input of the world around him to
pay it much mind.
They could see the store coming up, just across the next street, and Jim had no
reluctance about taking Sherlock out of the night and into the world of light
and people. His eyes caught on everything as he went, the slide of the glass
door, the scrape of the plastic as he picked up a basket, the squeak of his
shoe as he turned on the floor.
Sherlock wondered if Jim had always been like this, or if this was the result
of floating in a void for a few years. Here, too, Jim didn't seem to care about
the people scattered throughout this space of commercialism and industrial
lighting. " We need to get at least some basics. I hate shopping, and I'd
prefer things that keep for a while so I don't have to make another trip in a
few days."
With that said, Jim directed Sherlock's gaze to the frozen food area. His head
cocked, first one way, and then the other. It would have seemed he were simply
getting used to the physicality again if the motion hadn't been suddenly very
familiar - Jim standing before Sherlock at the pool, his head oscillating like
a lizard's. The motion was entirely his own, translated through Sherlock's
body. And then they were off, striding this way and that around a few scattered
shoppers. Sherlock's hand reached out and slid along the glass freezer doors as
they went. It sent a tiny little shiver up his spine.
The smooth coolness wasn't extraordinary to Sherlock's senses - just a
perfectly normal texture with an expected difference in temperature. The scents
coming from the produce section were ordinary as well, earthy vegetation and
faint, sweet tanginess of fruit juxtaposed against the slightly metallic smell
of the streets outside.
Sherlock had an idea. He wasn't the best at understanding and predicting normal
people, but Jim was anything but normal, and he could feel the other man's
emotions in brief flickers. "Get something for yourself, as well."
Jim snorted aloud, again. It seemed he was about to turn Sherlock down, but
then something caught his attention. Sherlock's feet stopped. His head turned,
fixating on the isle across from them where a family was leisurely making their
way along, two young boys trailing behind and laughing.
Sweets.
Sherlock turned on his heel, a motion that nearly sent them tipping again, but
swept across the isle on long strides. His gaze danced along the shelves,
fingers following his eyes, moving between the chocolates and hard candies. He
kept his back turned, but this time Jim no longer ignored the other shoppers.
His eyes darted to the two boys, kicking at one another in play that would soon
turn into an argument.
Sherlock watched Jim's behavior with more than a bit of curiosity. It didn't
take long for a theory to surface. The boys were, after all, around the same
age marker he'd been during that encounter in his mind palace, when Jim's anger
had abruptly melted away for little discernable reason. The man was being
discreet, enough that the shoppers around him wouldn't notice, but Sherlock
could see everything Jim was seeing.
"...now that's interesting. A fan of Strato, are you?"
Jim pulled Sherlock's lips into a smile, deciding between a pack of Twix or a
Snickers bar. His eyes danced between the Snickers and the two figures
meandering behind him. Sherlock could feel his amusement, still tinged with no
small amount of elation from before, but it was heightened now. "Poetry,
Sherlock? The first thing you think of is poetry?" Jim's tease wasn't a tease
at all. It felt more like their handshake on the roof. Jim took the Snickers.
"I'm sure you know what I meant." Although it couldn't have been an entirely
exclusive attraction, if Jim had dallied with his gunman as well as pursuing
him years after their near-miss at the pool. While it was insight, it added far
more questions than it answered. "I think I understand now why you're so fond
of that particular memory of mine."
Jim spread Sherlock’s smile wide as he finally made his way from the candy
isle. The family disappeared around the corner opposite.
"So you've reached enlightenment," Jim chided as he picked up the milk,
stopping to run his finger down the condensation on the inside of the glass
freezer. "I've found a few more memories of yours I enjoy rather a lot. You
didn't think I was going through your head just to dig up dirt, did you?"
Sherlock's eyebrow arched. Jim was unconsciously making expressions that
coincided with their internal conversation.
Sherlock went quiet and still. He had been assuming Jim had been rummaging for
more information, either from the distant past or from recent events, trying to
keep an eye on him after his failed attempt to research exorcism. "...what
exactly have you been looking at?" Sherlock wasn't merely keeping his own
secrets, after all.
"Well, a lot of you." Jim's smug satisfaction shot up another notch as they
moved down another isle, taking items at random off the shelves. "And I did
notice several peculiarities concerning your brother…. Ones that would lead me
to believe he might not truly be as dull as he would have the world believe.
One in particular…involving a knife and a trap set in the woods of your family
estate. Those poor rabbits." Sherlock's hand lingered in the air. "Toothpaste?"
Sherlock felt a spike of anger rush through him. He'd resigned himself to the
fact that his own recent memories were going to be violated, but he and his
brother were closer than appearances would imply. Or they were, off and on
again, when Mycroft hadn't done something to irritate him. "You had no right to
any of that."
"And yet, here we are." Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up as Jim turned his body.
"You should know by now existence as we know it doesn't care 'who has the
right' to anything. You thought the world was fair?" Jim was scanning the store
again, taking in sights and sounds, even the very smell and feel of the air,
but his mood had calmed. "If anyone had to find out, be grateful that it was
me."
"No one was ever supposed to find out." Sherlock had known very well that there
wasn't a sense of justice and fairness to the universe, or at least not from a
human perspective of such things. Nature ripped through everything without
mercy, probability played out as it would, and there was little rhyme or reason
to who got lucky in life and who died in horrific accidents or at the other end
of a murder weapon.
Sherlock wanted to punch something. His body reacted and his free hand
clenched.
Jim stiffened Sherlock's back, not liking the unexpected loss of control. He
stopped at the end of the next isle, turning his attention inward. "Are you
going to fight me on this? Because you must realize there's very little you can
keep from me now. You're my only company, Sherlock, unfortunate soul you are."
Apart from Sherlock, there was only one other man who might be persuaded to
believe what had happened to Jim.
"There's little I can keep from you, yes. Not by force." For all Sherlock knew,
Jim could pick through his mind and randomly destroy whatever he found on a
whim, terrifying as the thought was. Sherlock wouldn't be able to stop him
because Jim was beyond his reach at the moment, and perhaps permanently. "But I
am your only company, and I am asking you to leave me some privacy. You don't
like it when I'm unwilling and not playing along, that much is obvious. If
you’re that curious to get to know me, for God's sake, talk to me. Or we can
visit memories together. Just don't go picking through my head when I'm not
there."
Sherlock's face pulled into a scowl. "I'll make you no promises, but for the
time being I have no objection to inviting you along." If Jim's prior attempts
at pulling Sherlock into a memory were any indication, he might have ulterior
motives for agreeing so readily to that part. And even if Sherlock was able to
give him the director's cut version of a memory, the ones Jim wanted to visit
weren't all going to be pleasant. Or if they were, Jim would likely do his best
to make them unpleasant. Like the beach house.
Sherlock grew quiet. Jim's partial agreement was the best he could hope for.
All of this was making the most out of the poor hand of cards he'd been dealt,
really. When all was said and done, he was still alive and, aside from the
rough start that had left him on edge, things weren't as bad as they could have
been. Jim didn't have to compromise at all, but he was giving some concessions
here and there, and he hadn't forced any of the things he obviously wanted. Not
to the degree that he wanted.
"Now then, shall we?" Jim asked as though Sherlock were a petulant child,
straightening Sherlock's shoulders and tightening his grip on the basket. His
fascination with Tesco had ended and it was plainly obvious he was ready to
leave. He was also getting very comfortable in Sherlock's body. Enough that it
rocked on its heels with Jim's eagerness to get out of the store.
"By all means. I don't want to dally here all night." Sherlock had no idea how
long Jim planned on being in control, but he'd only promised a test run while
they were running errands. Being disconnected and numb like this was
disconcerting. Even more so because it was obvious that Jim was enjoying his
body and making himself at home. "Pay for this and let's get back to the flat.
Chip and pin card is in my left pocket."
Jim walked them up to the checkout machine, but that didn't stop him from
swiping another bar of chocolate off the nearby shelf. He did it in such a
fluid motion it was almost thoughtless. One hand swung down from his hip,
moving with the flow of the coat, opposite the security camera, catching the
corner of the wrapper and dipping it into his pocket along with his hand,
resurfacing once more with only the pin card as he set his things on the
loading tray. He swiped the items in a flurry. "Pin?"
"8741. Have a care not to get caught doing that in my body. I don't need the
awkward questions or for Lestrade to search my flat because he wonders why I'm
shoplifting and suddenly short on cash." The DI was already suspicious, and
sympathy wouldn't hold him off a second time if he decided there really was
something to be concerned about. Sherlock's caches were well-hidden, but not
entirely foolproof.
"Like you don't pickpocket Lestrade." Jim smirked and took up his bags, leaving
the store with a renewed bounce in his step. He unwrapped the candy bar,
chocolate caramel something he'd barely taken a second glance at, and bit into
the end.
And abruptly stopped.
Mid-chew, every bit of Jim's focus narrowed down to the sensation of taste. His
tongue - Sherlock's tongue - ran under the edge of the melting sweetness in his
mouth. He sucked and savored it before beginning to chew again, slowly. "Mm,
now that I remember."
Sherlock couldn't see his own face, but he could feel Jim shift his features
into an expression of pleasure. It felt voyeuristic, feeling someone else's
pleasure so intensely and directly. Sherlock was disturbed to realize he was
more than a little intrigued. He shouldn't have been surprised that Jim was
highly sensual in many different areas, but he was. He wouldn't have pegged the
other man as someone to get worked up over sweets. Hidden away in the darkness,
he licked his lip in sympathetic reaction.
And Sherlock's real tongue mimicked the thought. Jim mimicked the thought,
sliding his tongue over the warm, familiar flesh of Sherlock's lips, sliding
the muscle slid through, out into the cold, swiping first over the upper one
and then his lower. It was such a familiar motion. Sherlock had done it a
million times himself.
Sherlock realized Jim had noticed. He tried to move backward, to hide, but he
wasn't used to this state and there was nowhere to hide. He couldn't disappear
into some dark corner like Jim seemed to be able to. He was stuck in the
spotlight, constantly subject to attention or a bit of thought-reading.
Sherlock didn't even know what it meant to find the motions attractive. The
concept bordered on narcissism, something he'd never been guilty of before
despite numerous accusations. His body was his own, and yet it wasn't.
He could feel the telltale pull of a smile at the corners of his mouth as Jim
lifted his hand, the one that had been holding the bar. Jim raised his thumb to
his mouth and, delicately a first, began to lick the melted chocolate there. He
slid it between his lips, hollowing his cheeks around it, and sucked. He let
his tongue slide over the ridges of Sherlock's thumbprint, collecting every bit
of the sweet candy. Jim was genuinely enjoying himself. Sherlock could feel it.
Jim's attention never left him, but the act wasn't for Sherlock alone.
Sherlock tried not to respond, but these sorts of things didn't listen to sheer
willpower. Neither could he counteract arousal with pain, given that he didn't
currently control a body to supply such a distraction. Sherlock's attention was
drawn to Jim's action and his mind immediately recalled recent memories, images
of bloody fingers and mouths, a tongue on skin, lips wrapped around a tip and
sliding downward-
Sherlock tried to think of something else, anything else, but he couldn't
summon anything equal to the task. He began to try mentally reciting the
elements of the periodical table.
It was even more difficult with Jim watching. And it was turning Jim on. From
the telltale pang of lust that dropped in the bottom of Sherlock's gut, it was
more than obvious that Jim liked where this was going. Loving it, in fact. He
sucked in a cool breath of air between heated lips and began moving again, this
time at a quickened pace down the sidewalk. There was a certain heaviness to
his trousers that hadn't been there before. "Let's get you home," Jim
whispered.
Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself and watched London pass by from his
unusual vantage point. He was still confused about why this was happening - why
this, why now, and especially why with Jim. Dozens of people had made passes at
him over the course of his life, for one reason or another, and none of them
had drawn any interest. He'd experimented briefly with sexuality during his
teenage years, touching himself and looking at different kinds of erotic
materials that others seemed to favor, and come to the conclusion that sex was
an unimportant and overrated distraction. Disregarding sexuality had only
bothered him before to the extent that others teased him or pressured him about
it.
Now that a major part of his identity had shifted dramatically, Sherlock didn't
know what to do. Moreover, he had no real experience at an age when such things
were expected.
If Jim could feel his roiling emotions, he didn't let on. What had been a
leisurely stroll on the way there nearly became a sprint on the way back. Jim
was crossing streets at blazing speed, taking full advantage of Sherlock's long
stride. He cared little for the few people they passed, nearly knocking
shoulders with another man, equally as tall. They could have been severely
detoured if he'd taken more offense to Jim's rudeness than a backward glare and
a foul mutter.
Jim paid no attention until they had to sneak in again, and soon he was jogging
Sherlock's body back down the stairs of John’s old room to the flat. The door
was quickly shut behind him. And locked. The produce bags fell to the floor.
Jim had just one thing on his mind.
"Now, where were we?"
He stalked to the sitting room, catching sight of the mirror above the
fireplace and turning to it. Again, he licked Sherlock's lips.
Sherlock's introspection was broken the moment he did. There was something
about Jim - some sort of magnetic draw that had always been there, similar to
John and also entirely different. Jim was like looking in the mirror and seeing
a vastly different form swaying in hypnotizing, serpentine motions, but still
vaguely recognizable. To some degree or another, they were the same kind. That
fascination persisted even when he hated the man, even when Jim tried to kill
him or push him past the breaking point.
"Love you too, darling." Sherlock’s face in the mirror winked. Jim was reading
his thoughts again. In many ways, the same could be said for Jim. He hadn't
hated Sherlock before he died. It was very possible he'd envied Sherlock. In
many ways, Sherlock's genius was recognized, loved, in ways that Jim's could
never be. Jim, with his unabashed criminality, simply wasn't made to live like
Sherlock had. But then he'd died, he'd grown angry and disillusioned with the
ideal he'd made Sherlock out to be. It was an unsteady truce they shared.
But Sherlock's tongue didn't stop, and neither did Jim's playful tone.
Sherlock's deep voice was utterly unnatural with his lilt.
Jim moved closer to the mirror, bringing Sherlock's fingers back to his mouth
with no pretense this time. First the thumb. He slid it between his lips like
he'd done out on the street, but this time they could see it disappear as much
as they could feel it. Sherlock's cold eyes were intense under Jim's scrutiny,
but even they narrowed at the sight he made, head tipped back, long line of
neck exposed, cheeks hollowing out, full lips wrapped around his own digit.
Sherlock only grew more flustered. He couldn't tear his attention away. His
mannerisms were all strange with Jim wearing his skin, and the reflection he
made was bizarre to contemplate. Sherlock had simply never looked at himself
this way before. Jim's motions were purposeful and had the desired effect;
Sherlock didn't miss the suggestive way Jim was sucking on his fingers. All it
did was remind him of what Jim had done to him before.
"...stop that."
Sherlock's lips slowly spread. The grin looked feral on his face. Whenever
Sherlock had adopted such a thing himself, there was a note of sarcasm to it.
An affectation. Usually to challenge someone's presumptions about him. When Jim
did it with Sherlock's features, there was no falsity about it whatsoever.
"Are you sure?" Sherlock's voice rumbled, deep and still barely above a
whisper. "I could show you such things about your own body…"
Sherlock shivered. His reaction was powerful enough that it took control from
Jim for a moment and his entire frame shuddered. Jim's expression and words had
drawn a measure of newly-discovered lust and an equal measure of fear. Unknown
territory was something Sherlock wasn't used to, and he didn't trust Jim.
Particularly not with that expression. "Yes. We're home and I only offered you
control while we ran one errand. I'm not comfortable with you taking control to
do this to me."
Sherlock's eyes closed and he could feel a line of tension in his brow. That
was not the answer Jim had wanted. "I can hear you thinking, Sherlock. I can
feel what you're feeling right now. I can see how distressing it is for you not
to know your own desires." If Jim's tone was any indication, he had a certain
fondness for, a certain…interest, in being Sherlock's first. Jim stood stock
still in front of the mirror, eyes half shut, half hard in his trousers, all of
his focus turned inward on Sherlock. But he found only nervousness. Sherlock
had all the skittishness of an innocent, multiplied by the unease of one who'd
been the subject of social scorn and rejection one too many times.
"And you know just how recent this is. I've trusted you with a number of things
thus far because I don't have much choice, but you have made it a habit to try
to destroy me. You'll forgive me if I'm not confident you won't drag me in over
my head and let me drown."
Jim hissed, pulling Sherlock's lips back over his teeth like an animal. It was
true, and still he bristled at being denied. It took him a second to calm down.
One of his hands moved between Sherlock's legs, palming and pressing and
holding the bulge there with perfect pressure, as if to emphasize his point. It
sent a jolt of sensation through them both. "You're missing out," Jim growled.
And then let go.
"Maybe so. Consider it motivation. I'm not going to agree unless and until I'm
comfortable with you and confident you're not going to hurt me, and unless I'm
mistaken, you're not going anywhere," Sherlock pointed out. "And I am, as
you've pointed out, your only company. It's in your best interests to not make
me miserable. I'm sure you can find a way to make me reconsider my answer if
you're motivated enough."
Sherlock's eyes were rolling, and that's the way he found himself when he was
unceremoniously shoved to the forefront of his body again: annoyed, the
lingering taste of chocolate on his tongue, and horny. He could feel Jim
retreating somewhere into the back of his mind, that space he was so
comfortable occupying for himself, but the world was suddenly silent and cold
again. Jim had cut off whatever feeling they had shared between them.
Sherlock sighed. He was trying. Jim was just damnably difficult to get along
with, for as many similarities as they had between them. Sherlock was trying to
offer small olive branches out of the understanding that Jim was just as
unhappy with his situation as he was and that they had to make the truce work.
Jim's personality was just such that he pushed further and faster than Sherlock
could comfortably accommodate.
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Notes
     Warning in this chapter for mention of underage sex. (Sorry guys, I
     have weird headcanons about Jim and his longtime obsession with
     Sherlock...) -Piper
Sherlock went to go pick up the abandoned groceries and put them away. His
annoyance only grew when he realized his arousal wasn't going away.
He could tell this time that Jim hadn't deserted him completely. Possibly
because this time he could feel the weight of Jim's attention, like the gaze of
someone just out of sight watching him. Jim would have noticed his problem, but
he'd cut off their connection. Sherlock couldn't tell whether he was gloating
or still frustrated or just waiting to see what Sherlock would do now with the
predicament Jim had left him in.
Sherlock only became more frustrated. Their connection seemed to predominantly
go one way, allowing Jim to pick up on his thoughts and emotions and rarely
gifting him with the same. Certainly not to the same degree. Even now, Sherlock
couldn't tell whether Jim was reading him without anything flowing back through
the bond in return. He felt like an animal trapped in an observation room.
Once all his purchases had been put away, he didn't feel any better. Jim was
obviously watching and waiting for something, unwilling to give him privacy.
Stubborn anger flared up in Sherlock.
If Jim was waiting for a show, he'd get one, just out of reach.
Sherlock grabbed his laptop and draped himself across the sofa. Perhaps he'd
have a better appreciation for educational material now that he'd “awoken”, as
it were.
He could feel Jim's focus narrow and his presence shift just a little closer.
There was no question now that he had the spirit's undivided attention. Still
Jim was quiet. The laptop had to have surprised him at the very least. He
wouldn't have expected Sherlock to go in for porn. Perhaps, after the
experience with blood, Jim might have thought he was about to look up his crime
scene archives.
Sherlock made himself comfortable and brought up his browser window. He decided
to take a mixed approach, bringing up informational websites before using
keywords and phrases to search out more detailed media. Some of the terms,
ideas, and graphics were familiar because they'd proven useful for analyzing
some crime scenes. Surprisingly, other pieces were new, which could only mean
he'd deleted data about sex before, probably because he'd been certain that it
was personally and professionally irrelevant.
Sherlock set aside heterosexual research for the moment. He was already
overwhelmed, and questioning his past interactions with women wasn't going to
lead anywhere. What he needed to figure out was a way to process what he was
feeling right now in his current situation and to get a map of the
possibilities... and what he didn't want.
Jim finally broke the silence in the back of his head. "Oh dear lord, you
really are looking at porn."
Sherlock caught a trace of exasperation from Jim's direction, if it could be
called a direction. Jim scoffed at the links Sherlock brought up, one after
another. He didn't seem to be at all interested in any of them. And at first
they were much the same. Toned, tanned young men in bright lighting. Colorful,
high definition, and very posed.
"Far less embarrassing than going out and questioning some acquaintances on the
street." Sherlock had done a good turn for vulnerable sex workers several times
over, enough that a number of them had formed part of his network of eyes and
ears. In return, Sherlock discreetly helped whenever one of them had a case for
law enforcement and worried about complications or unfair dismissal. None of
them would have objected to questions, but Sherlock wasn't comfortable asking
when it was for personal reasons.
As before, none of the materials were doing much for Sherlock. Everything was
contrived, the men overwhelmingly of a particular sort of physiology - almost
hypermasculine, the sort one would expect to see in a weight room. A few images
had unsubtle props signaling military life, and Sherlock was embarrassed to
realize that those summoned an echo of... something in him. The rest were
overwhelmingly boring.
"What a shame you don't have someone who actually entices you on hand…." Jim
cooed like an echo in the back of Sherlock's mind.
A ghostly trickle of warmth spread down Sherlock's chest, settling just below
his stomach, tantalizingly resting there where it pooled into a warm pressure.
Like a touch, but not. More like a sensation just beneath the skin, like a part
of Sherlock's own body, but again, not.
Sherlock took a shaky breath. He tried to ignore it, but Jim must have been
able to tell he was failing. Sherlock felt himself twitch, much to his
embarrassment. His fingers moved across the keyboard and track pad to try
another search.
Quite by accident, this one proved more fruitful. Tucked among more of the same
boring materials, there were a few photos of younger men, one of which had very
dark, slicked-back hair. Another photo had two young men kissing, one holding
the other whose hands were bound behind his back with a rope. A third had an
intriguing assortment of equipment in the background - flails, knives, and
several things Sherlock had never seen before.
He could feel Jim laugh softly. He still didn't seem interested, himself, but
Sherlock's interest caught his attention. And he didn't miss the subtle
connection.
"Remind you of someone?" Jim whispered. "Is that how you imagine my basement
might look?" If Sherlock were to put the dark haired man in the foreground of
the last photo, he might have been able to create a decent homage to Jim
Moriarty.
"I have no idea how your basement might look." Jim's appearances had always
been carefully constructed. It would have been unwise to speculate, just
because he'd chosen to present in a certain way, that those tastes extended to
everything else. Point in fact, with the brief interests Jim had displayed at
the store earlier, it was just as likely that his basement might have looked
like a child's room, full of toys and treats and whimsical constructions. Or it
could have been cold and minimalistic, like the void in his mind.
Sherlock continued through the photos. Some of them had blood in them, or
reddening skin, far more alive than the crime scene photos he'd sneakily saved
for his own collection of oddities. Blood quickly lost its vibrancy at crime
scenes, and corpses were predominantly dull grey with deep, violet bruises
instead of sporting a healthy flush of color.
The photos were still contrived, but artfully so. Yet Jim still paid them only
enough mind to follow Sherlock's thought processes. He grew quiet again as
Sherlock browsed, probably knowing even if he hadn't been able to resist before
that every time he spoke, he was only distracting Sherlock from a path they
both, tentatively, wanted him to follow.
Sherlock was starting to draw conclusions. Clearly he'd been even more
uncomfortable with physicality when he was younger, for various reasons, but
either something had changed, or what he'd tried and looked at before simply
hadn’t been to his tastes. Images and practices that appeared to be common,
even within the subculture of the gay community, did not hold his attention. He
was beginning to spot signs that explained some of his unusual interactions
with other people in his life, which evidently had had an effect in his
subconscious without him realizing what it was: authority and domination,
blood, fear. Danger and experimentation. Helplessness. Age differences. All of
which cast his relationships with John, Irene, Jim and, to his horror, a bit of
his relationship with Lestrade into a different light.
The unnaturally warm pressure just below his stomach hadn't moved.
Jim must have sensed his focus on it because ever so minutely, it spread. It
dipped lower and when Sherlock didn't react at first, it continued, spreading
to the base of his spine, just shy of his groin. And there, it pulsed.
Sherlock made a strangled noise and turned on instinct, as if it were a normal
touch he could shy away from. His laptop clattered to the floor and snapped
shut. Turning hadn't made a bit of a difference. He could still feel whatever
Jim was doing.
"Do you still not want my help?" the silky voice came again, this time with a
note of softness someone like Jim shouldn't have been able to own so well. But
he did. Jim could be as soft as he was sharp, even if Sherlock knew he was just
as dangerous either way. The heat didn't go away and neither did the light,
tantalizing pressure, but they also didn't increase.
Sherlock was torn. His curiosity had always gotten the better of him before,
sometimes with dire consequences. A mind like his required constant stimuli and
intellectual feeding. The problem was Jim. Jim was dangerous and unpredictable,
and Sherlock still hadn't forgotten or forgiven him for what had transpired in
their first few encounters. "...how, exactly, are you proposing to 'help'?"
"Since you won't allow me to stimulate you with your own body, I propose to do
so otherwise. …while you stimulate yourself." Jim illustrated his point
further. The heat spread out a little more. It pulsed again. Over Sherlock's
very sensitive parts.
Sherlock clenched his jaw. It took concerted effort not to make a sound after
that. He shook his head. "No. Not like this." It was worse, somehow, not being
able to see Jim, lacking even the illusion that he could fight back and control
the situation. Just one more reminder that Jim seemed able to reach through his
body to do whatever he pleased, whether for pain or for pleasure.
"How then?" Jim whispered without missing a beat, voice as smooth as velvet.
Sherlock may not have been giving him what he wanted, but he knew he had
Sherlock on edge. Sherlock was uniquely a creature of both thought and
sensation, and right now, above all, he was curious. With every passing second
of tempting heat, Jim sank his claws in deeper.
"You took me under before."Sherlock had been awake one moment, and down in
dream reality the next. Whatever else it was, the dreams were real. The bite on
his neck, and the bruising on his hand, were proof enough of that. Jim also
seemed unable to read his mind there, which meant he wasn't entirely exposed
both inside and out. "I'm not interacting with you like this, where you can
touch me and pick all the thoughts out of my head and I can't see or touch
you."
Jim laughed softly. "So you'd prefer me face to face, then?" He seemed to take
special pleasure in hearing Sherlock say it, even if it was for other reasons
altogether. "How could I refuse?" As Jim spoke, Sherlock could feel it coming
on already, at first sudden tiredness. Then his head began to spin. There was
no time to right himself or lie down comfortably. He was pulled under from the
very core of his chest, like falling into a cavity, a black hole inside
himself.
When he opened his eyes again, Jim stood before him in one of his immaculate
suits, hair just as dark and slick as the model's, eyes far sharper.
He was, surprisingly, set against the same backdrop he’d been in only seconds
ago, the familiar sitting room of 221B. It was still dark, but it was warm
outside, enough for the light breeze finding its way in to be a pleasant caress
against Sherlock's face. When Jim smiled, Sherlock could tell that had been
intentional.
Behind him, however, on one of Sherlock's experiment tables, was an assortment
of items he'd just discovered in the photographs.
Sherlock's eyes widened as he took in their surroundings. He recognized this
room - 221B as it was when he'd first become independent, before he'd found a
flatmate who’d worked out. He understood why Jim would have chosen this place.
It was one of the few rooms that radiated security, because that was what it
had been: the first space that he owned, away from his parents and nosy
university acquaintances, away from the dangers of the street. Mycroft had put
cameras outside, of course, but inside the flat was entirely his.
Jim slinked closer with the relaxed focus of a predator. Sherlock couldn't help
but crawl backward. "...you know, just because I was looking at photographs
doesn't mean I want to try what was in them."
The slight man shrugged one shoulder. He held a careless smile now. "Best to
come prepared, I say. After all, 'you never know until you try'."
Jim stopped just before Sherlock and leaned slightly into his space. His hands
folded before him, delicately boned. Jim's head tilted from side to side as he
considered Sherlock. With the light breeze billowing the curtains out behind
him, he might have been, as he'd said once upon a time, a storybook villain.
The picturesque situation might have stuck Sherlock as funny if he hadn't been
so aware of the danger. He could feel his own rapid pulse. The light was such
that Jim took on alien qualities with his too-dark eyes and the slight
reptilian motions that he seemed to make unconsciously. It was funny how Jim as
a spirit scared Sherlock far more than he had when he was alive.
Part of him recognized an undertone to the feeling now. It might have always
been there, but he now had a better theory for what it was. It was the same
feeling he'd gotten when looking at some of the photographs... and the same
when Jim had taken him to the seaside room again.
"Why so nervous, Sherlock?" Jim asked softly, "After all, we're here now, in
your mind. You can do to me whatever I can do to you just as easily. Would that
excite you…?" Jim's knees spread just an inch wider. One of his hands broke
away to ride up his inseam. "To have me under your hands? Bound like those
photographs?" Jim's smile widened when Sherlock's eyes followed the lure. All
at once he was diving forward, causing Sherlock to jump, until Jim, in spite of
his size, pushed him down and had him splayed out on the floor, hovering only
inches apart, beady black eyes bright with intent. "Because that's how I would
love to have you."
Sherlock stayed still. He had a feeling that sudden movements would only make
Jim more aggressive. "...you'd let me try that out on you?" Sherlock wouldn't
know what to do, but he was far more at ease with the idea of having Jim as a
subject, rather than placing his trust in the other man and hoping he came out
unbroken. He hadn't minded touching Jim before, when Jim had asked for
reciprocation. He'd enjoyed the chance to get closer. It was the idea of being
in the center of Jim's sexual focus that made him freeze up.
"Oh yesss." Jim's eyes flashed with unholy delight. His hands came up to,
surprisingly gently, cup Sherlock's face. "You can do anything you'd like to me
here. Well. Assuming I don't fight back, of course." Somehow his smile never
wavered. "But if I like what you do, I promise I won't."
That was an angle Sherlock hadn't considered. He hadn't expected Jim to assent
so easily. The smaller man had such an overbearing, dominating presence that he
hadn't seemed likely to ever want to be put in the position of the men in the
photographs.
Sherlock flushed. He wasn't prepared to go quite that far. "...get off me,
then. I can't do anything with you pinning me to the floor."
Jim stroked a finger down Sherlock's cheek and slowly removed himself from
Sherlock's prone form. He melted easily into a crouch, perched and waiting
patiently for Sherlock to right himself, or at least crawl into an upright
position.
"What would you like to do to me?" Jim asked, far too smoothly for someone who
had just agreed to be on the receiving end of Sherlock's sexual
experimentation. As he was, however, Jim looked positively untouchable.
Sherlock was just asking himself the same question. He hadn't fantasized about
Jim before - not in this way, at least. He had a general idea of what was
possible, but this was entirely new territory.
Sherlock got to his feet and turned his gaze toward the tools on the table. One
notion stood out above everything else: he felt more comfortable if Jim
couldn't turn the tables on him. "...I want to tie you up."
Jim's smile turned crooked with mirth. "Of course you do." But he rose and
twisted on his heels to follow Sherlock and held up his wrists like he was
about to be cuffed. None of it diminished the glint of exhilaration in his
eyes. Being in their shared dream world, Jim could make any number of things go
very wrong, very suddenly. Even though Sherlock had been able to impose his
will on Jim before, Jim had turned the tables just as easily. "Come on, then."
Jim held his arms out just a little higher, offering himself up.
Sherlock grabbed a length of rope from the table and unwound it. He kept his
eyes on Jim while he readied the knot, but the shorter man was still and
compliant. Eerily so. Sherlock hadn't forgotten the lesson from when he thought
he'd had Jim cuffed before; this place could change in a heartbeat. Jim
wouldn't necessarily be restrained and helpless.
Still, the illusion helped.
Sherlock slid Jim's wrists through the loops and finished wrapping and securing
the knot, then started to walk backward, pulling Jim with him. The detective
picked up one of the knives along the way.
One polished shoe squeaked against the floor as Jim followed. Even with the
knife in hand, Sherlock wouldn't take his eyes off him, and Jim returned the
sentiment in kind. His gaze, however, was far more appreciative, even when
following the blade shifting between Sherlock's strong fingers. He had no fear.
Not of Sherlock, not of the knife, not even of the rest of their surrounding
mind palace. Dying hadn't done that to him.
Jim followed all the way through the kitchen, passing long forgotten
experiments along the way, and into Sherlock's bedroom. The windows were open
here, too, and the warm breeze still caressing Sherlock’s skin as they moved.
Sherlock turned them and guided Jim down onto the bed. His attention was
diverted for a moment while he secured the other end of the rope to the bed
frame, jerking Jim's wrists above his head. He wondered if this had ever
featured in any of the fantasies Jim had had of him; he'd been a sexual focus
for the other man for some years, it seemed, and Jim had certainly visited the
flat before he'd come for tea that once. Probably had even visited this room.
Dark eyes were still fixed on him when his gaze shifted back. Jim might as well
have not been tied at all, for all that he showed any uncertainty. A sly smile
still played on his lips.
Sherlock leaned closer and brandished the knife, then carefully began to cut
Jim's suit off of him.
A long exhale parted Jim's lips, almost a laugh, but not quite right. He
slipped his own shoes off, kicking them from the bed when he was free. He laid
himself out for Sherlock, raising his chest for the blade without hesitation.
Even his hips shifted impatiently, knees parting the slightest bit wider.
Jim's gaze danced between Sherlock and the blade in his hands as pale, supple
skin was revealed to the soft light. He held no regret for the suit as it fell
away from his chest, rising and falling and very, very alive. His heart beat
beneath it. His lungs expanded and contracted to give him breath. All encased
in human bone, even if Jim was barely human at all.
"Would you like to use that on me?" Jim asked softly as the knife hovered over
his sternum, "Find out if I have a heart after all?"
"I know you do. Physically." Sherlock wasn't his brother. He didn't have a
taste for torture or a need to see another human being squirm. He was very
interested in Jim's reactions, but not to pain. From what he'd seen, Jim was
nearly immune to pain.
Sherlock watched Jim's chest rise and fall, and the way Jim was looking at him.
The other man arched slightly, as if he was daring Sherlock, or perhaps trying
to tempt him. It worked; Sherlock dragged his fingertips down Jim's chest.
"Why? What were you hoping I was going to do?"
Jim's eyes closed at the sensation. Sherlock's nails caught lightly.
"I was hoping you might find something you do enjoy. Think. What is a heart
for, if not for the feeble and the lovesick?" Jim's small teeth made an
appearance. He had discovered one thing about Sherlock's tastes so far, and had
used it to great advantage the last time. Thick veins, thrumming with life,
stood out in his throat when he tipped his head back.
Sherlock had already considered that option; it had entered his mind as soon as
the first bit of fabric had been peeled away to reveal pale skin. What he found
more interesting was how responsive Jim was. Sherlock paused to observe.
"...you're very enthusiastic. Are you that desperate for me to touch you that
you'll take anything? Even a knife tip?" For someone deriding the lovesick, Jim
certainly seemed bound by his own personal desires.
"You make is sound like torture," Jim purred, his smile only curling wider,
daring Sherlock to take the bait.
It wasn't so highly questionable why Jim would choose to take this route in
seducing Sherlock. It had, after all, worked once, and Jim would be both
unharmed in the long term, assumedly, and able to overlook the pain. But as in
all things Jim did, there was a subtle undercurrent to all this. Handing over
dominance. Encouraging the knife. Jim had explicitly said this encounter
between them was about exploration on Sherlock's part, with Jim's guidance.
With his training, he implied Sherlock would be able to let go of his
insecurities, insecurities which Jim thought to be holding him back from much
more than just sex.
"It could be, in the hands of the wrong person." Jim wasn't drawing back,
however. He showed no reservations, and Sherlock was forced to admit that he
did want to try it. Just for a taste. He hadn't really gotten to enjoy the
moment when he'd bitten Jim before. There'd been too much fear and despair
distracting him.
"Hold still," Sherlock muttered. He raised the knife and slowly trailed the
blade down an unmarked portion of Jim's chest, touching just enough to draw a
paper thin line. The result was somewhat disappointing, but still filled with
crimson after a few moments. Sherlock touched his fingertips to the wound.
Jim's eyes closed. A soft laugh escaped his throat. He let Sherlock take a
moment, a moment to fixate on the little bead that wetted his fingers. It was
the most vibrant red.
"I think you can do better than that," Jim said softly, shifting to open
himself up to Sherlock just a little more. He'd barely drawn more than a
scratch along Jim's chest and Jim had reacted more to his touch afterward than
the knife itself.
Sherlock took another moment to contemplate the scratch before meeting Jim's
gaze. For a fully grown adult, something about Sherlock was awfully young. It
filtered into his entire demeanor at times and filled his eyes; Sherlock was
one of those people who'd never completely matured, partially because he'd
never been forced to. Even with the rough times in his life and regular
exposure to crime scenes and demonstrations of human cruelty, part of him was
still innocent. "I don't actually want to hurt you."
Jim's smile in return softened. It was amazing how he could respond like that
to Sherlock's vulnerability. His arm tugged against the bindings, forgetting
for a moment he was tied, and Sherlock got a very clear picture of Jim
intending to reach down and guide the knife himself. He could have, but instead
he kept his hands where they were.
"You won't," Jim soothed.
Sherlock's brow furrowed, but he picked another patch of skin. The blade
wouldn't have cut much deeper by itself, but Jim moved while Sherlock was
drawing the knife down. Blood welled to the surface far quicker this time,
spilling over the valley that had been carved. Sherlock gasped softly at the
sight.
It was so different than the crime scenes he was called to. That blood was
always hours old at least, losing the unreal vibrancy and fluidity as it
clotted and the cells slowly died. Before he was aware that he was moving,
Sherlock found that he'd pressed his lips to the wound. His tongue darted out
for a taste.
"Ah," Jim gasped, but not in pain. His chest welled again, trying to meet
Sherlock in the way Sherlock was meeting him.
When Sherlock licked, Jim inhaled sharply. His legs parted when Sherlock bent
over the bed for better access. Jim had made sure this wound would spring forth
a well of his blood and was not at all sorry for it, judging by the way he
groaned when Sherlock moved up the broken seam of flesh to collect more as it
seeped out.
Sherlock wasn't unaffected - not by the taste, or the sound, or the feel of Jim
moving underneath him. The last two were still unfamiliar, but buried instinct
recognized them and summoned memories of other recent interactions. Sherlock
had to pause for a moment when he remembered Jim's mouth on him.
Blood refilled the gash when he paused, and Sherlock made a second pass. He
could taste Jim's skin around the copper tang of blood, and when he reached the
end of the wound he found that he wanted to keep going. Sherlock only hesitated
for a second or two before, almost shyly, he began to let his mouth trail
higher.
He could feel Jim shiver underneath him. He could barely see Jim in his
periphery, watching him lightly kiss and lick his way up Jim's sternum. Jim's
chest rose and fell with deep breaths. His moans turned into small, almost
silent sounds of pleasure, like he were trying not to frighten Sherlock away.
Jim's hands tightened around the rope holding them. Sherlock could feel the
light tension in his muscles. Jim wanted to free himself, and yet he remained
patient. As patient as he could be.
Sherlock kept going. He was driven by more than curiosity now, or the subtle
echoes of pleasure he was getting. Jim never lost control, but from what
Sherlock could see, bits of his facade were cracking. Jim wanted something from
him in more than just a power play, or a desire to corrupt, or to punish. He
could hear the rope straining from the tension Jim was putting on it.
Sherlock risked a glance up.
He was engulfed in Jim's eyes immediately. Everything else was secondary, Jim's
small, parted mouth, the way the light glanced off the sharp bone in his jaw
and temple, how a few strands of his slick hair had become disheveled.
Restraining a person via one's gaze was a figure of speech, but Jim turned it
into an art. His eyes were hypnotizing, so dark they were nearly reflective of
the streetlamp just outside Sherlock's window. Jim drew him forward without
words, reeling Sherlock in through his will alone.
Sherlock moved until they were almost touching, face to face. His own mouth was
tinted redder than normal and his pupils were blown. Sherlock searched Jim's
face and tried to remember what he was supposed to be doing. He was moving
blindly, and he didn't know how to put what he did know into action, or what he
wanted to try. He was familiar with human anatomy and all the places where
nerve clusters were more dense. None of that seemed to match most of what he'd
seen of online erotica, though. The subjects of the camera had seemed to move
without needing to think or know anything.
Jim did not seem to mind his hesitation though. His eyes bore into Sherlock,
eating up every detail of his features, the subtle signs in his expression that
seemed to tell Jim more, because Jim didn't seem worried. He had Sherlock
hooked, pinned more firmly that Sherlock had him literally. And when Jim was
finished, he stretched closer, straining just enough to touch their mouths
together. He didn't kiss or lick or bite, just held himself there, lips
surprisingly soft against the corner of Sherlock's mouth, waiting.
Slowly, Sherlock pressed back. Jim coaxed him like he was a frighten animal,
and Sherlock was intelligent enough to realize it, but not able to stop his
strategy from working. Part of the draw was that it seemed so genuine, rather
than the acts Jim slipped into when manipulating anyone else.
Sherlock pulled back after a few moments and weighed his options. "...I don't
really know what I'm doing."
"That doesn't matter. This is about us, and only us." Jim settled down on the
bed, arms relaxing above his head and revealing marks where his pale wrists had
so easily reddened. He could have said 'you'. This was Sherlock's exploration.
But that would have been a lie. Even tied up and restrained, there was no way
for this to not involve Jim just as much as it did Sherlock. No one else could
have pushed Sherlock so far.
Sherlock didn't think he had instincts where this was concerned. Or perhaps
he'd managed to delete them in some of his internal purges. He didn't know what
to do, or how far he wanted to go, but he was certain of one thing: he wanted
Jim as he'd been only a few moments ago. There was something fascinating about
making Jim lose control and partially drop his mask, and Sherlock wasn't
certain that anyone else had ever managed it. He wanted to see what lay
underneath it all.
Sherlock leaned in again, this time concentrating on what he knew about human
physique. His lips drifted along Jim's jawline, then the curve of one ear
before he continued down his neck. He skirted the older bite mark, tracing
Jim’s collarbone instead.
"Oooh…" Jim cooed and shivered. His body writhed in small, impatient motions
under Sherlock while his hands gripped the rope above him. When Sherlock
glanced out of the corner of his eye, he caught Jim biting his lip, watching
Sherlock's progress.
It looked like Jim was doing all he could to let Sherlock move at his own pace.
The evidence that Jim was trying to hold back and hold onto control, and
failing in small ways, was what encouraged Sherlock. Trying to force his hand
would only make Sherlock summon every bit of his stubborn streak, but
presenting him with something that engaged both his curiosity and sense of
challenge was an irresistible lure.
Sherlock followed down the line of Jim's sternum. He wasn't ready to try some
of the other things he'd seen in some of the photos and videos - they seemed
too overtly sexual, more than he was comfortable with. He got down to Jim's
solar plexus and noticed the body underneath him was quivering. Sherlock
glanced up again.
Jim's mouth fell open. He let himself breathe while they locked gazes. There
was no question Jim could see just how much Sherlock was studying him, and in
fact all for the purpose of taking him apart. That was what Jim had wanted, in
a sexual manner, at least. Even though initially he'd wanted to be the one to
bend Sherlock to his will and desires, although Jim having given up on that
endeavor was very unlikely.
The slim hips underneath Sherlock shifted. Impatient. Jim raised an eyebrow,
not unaffected, but fighting it.
Sherlock crawled backwards and off of Jim, just far enough that the man could
tell he wasn't leaving. He took a moment to look at the sight Jim made, bound
and stretched out against the covers, trousers straining. Sherlock felt
incredibly nervous despite the fact he knew he'd done far more dangerous or
taboo things in his life, many times over. Time felt abnormally slow as he
reached forward and undid the fastenings on Jim's trousers, then pulled them
off. Jim's pants followed, and Sherlock was left frozen and staring, trying to
figure out what he wanted to do.
He heard a quiet moan from Jim when he'd waited too long.
The man's eyes had fallen half shut, but he was by no means relaxed. Tension
wound throughout every muscle in his body, straining nearly as much as his
erection. He hissed a breath through clenched teeth. "Sherlock…" but wherever
that sentence had been going, whether a plea or a demand, Jim cut himself off.
It had been enough. Enough to shake Sherlock out of his stupor, and enough of a
tease that he wanted more. Sherlock didn't know whether he'd be able to get Jim
to crack, but he wanted to try. Jim's inner self was an enigma he wanted to
solve. He'd wanted to solve it ever since they'd truly met, when Jim was no
longer pretending to being a mundane IT technician.
Sherlock let out a slow breath and moved forward again. Jim's cock was rigid
against his stomach and the obvious center of his focus, but Sherlock ignored
it. He picked up where he'd left off, skirting around until he reached the
hollow right above Jim's hip. Tentatively, he ran his tongue along the groove
line.
Jim groaned in frustration. His eyes squeezed shut, and so did his mouth, but
the sound reverberated from his throat. It was high and whiny and should have
been made by someone half his age. And yet he cut it off, reigned himself in
again, and only rocked his hips minutely toward Sherlock's mouth. When Jim
finally opened his eyes, his face was as slack as it could be with teeth still
clenched, but he was ready again just to watch Sherlock.
Sherlock was having trouble taking his eyes off of Jim. The man's reactions
were far more enthralling than abstract ideas of lust and sex. Sherlock had no
particular attraction to the general human form, of whatever sex, but he was
beginning to understand and slowly accept that he did have an attraction to
Jim. Likely it was an attraction to his mind, a vague recognition of a kindred
spirit to a greater or lesser degree, but this had expanded outward to
encompass the rest of him. Sherlock would never had noticed it, much less
acknowledged it, had he not been forced to do so. Jim would have remained an
abstract, distant psychological puzzle instead of a real person that was
invading Sherlock's personal space and demanding his attention. Demanding as
much as he could get.
Sherlock debated with himself. He hadn't liked the brief taste he'd had before,
and everything within society implied that this particular action was
supposedly demeaning. That hadn't stopped Jim, however... and nothing said he
had to continue if he ruled it unpleasant. Sherlock swallowed, moved over a few
centimeters, and ran his tongue up Jim's cock.
Jim's head fell back, a sharp sound escaped his throat, but he caught the
motion and snapped back to look at Sherlock just as soon as it happened. His
eyes fixed on Sherlock's face. His mouth remained open, panting softly with
every inch Sherlock progressed. Jim didn't try to move his hips this time,
endeavoring again not to frighten Sherlock off. His knees, however, parted
wider and he couldn't help straining at the rope when Sherlock reached the very
tip.
Sherlock had decided the taste wasn't as bad as he'd feared. A mixture of salt
and skin musk made it impossible for him to ignore what he was doing, but who
he was doing it to seemed to overshadow everything else. Sherlock was
disappointed that Jim had regained vocal control so quickly, but the small
signs were there - Jim was unraveling a bit at the edges. Sherlock's grey eyes
picked up on the tension in the rope and in the way Jim had shifted beneath
him.
Sherlock steeled himself and, gaze fixed on Jim's face, took the tip of Jim's
cock into his mouth.
Jim's mouth dropped farther. He strained not to thrust up and Sherlock could
feel it. Inside his mouth, Jim's cock twitched. When he held like that for too
long, Jim's breaths grew a little unsteady. Jim wouldn't take his eyes off
Sherlock though, and with the street light falling through the window beside
them and jut the very head of Jim's dock in Sherlock’s mouth, body bent over
the rest of him, Jim was likely seeing one of his fantasies come to life.
"Be careful Sherlock…" Jim whispered unevenly, "You might make me break your
headboard."
Sherlock was still adjusting to the taste and trying to figure out how he felt
about... this. Precum had a different flavor and texture than clean skin, and
not in a way Sherlock found particularly attractive or enjoyable. It just was,
and the thought of what he must look like was an awkward image to grapple with.
Jim's expression and words, however...
Sherlock slid a little lower, just until his throat started to rebel and close
up and send him coughing. Jim hadn't seemed to mind. His eyes were still fixed
on Sherlock, who watched the muscles in his upper body flex. Sherlock felt a
spike of unease; he wasn't certain Jim really was restrained at all, but just
giving him the illusion of it. Part of him wondered that if he did too much,
Jim would force him to go further.
"Shhh… It's ok…" Jim breathed above him. Like he were a hurt and nervous child.
Jim's words couldn't be trusted, but he made them soothing all the same. If his
hands were free, he'd be running them through Sherlock's hair. Jim calmed
himself again, evening out his breath, stilling the tiny, squirming movements
he made.
He seemed to be going through a lot of trouble to get Sherlock to do this. Even
if it was for Sherlock's sake, Jim certainly still benefitted from it. The
question still remained just how much he would do for Sherlock when it didn't
also benefit him. Sherlock wasn't unaware of the manipulation. It took a
certain level of mastery for it to be obvious and yet so effective that it
succeeded anyway.
And Sherlock did feel soothed.
He couldn't taste anything unusual anymore, which was a relief. Sherlock
thought back to what Jim had done to him and, like a record, started to play
the recording. Or the transcription of it. He sucked and ran his tongue around
the head of Jim's cock and was rewarded with a gasp further up the bed.
"Sherlock…" Jim breathed again, his chest rising and falling with slow,
deliberately slow, breaths. It must have been a little strange for Jim, to
allow himself to become one of Sherlock's experiments, but he was the one who
sparked the idea. He was the one who offered himself up.
Sherlock couldn't tell if Jim was being genuine or not. Clearly, Jim was
feeling something; his body was reacting, and he'd had little slips of control
here and there. Or perhaps they'd also been carefully calculated and shown.
Sherlock was good at pretending to be someone else, but Jim was a master at it,
slipping into masks so deeply that not even he could spot the seams.
One thing Sherlock did know about Jim's personality was that he wasn't normally
submissive. He must have thought this would help him reach a particular end, or
he wanted Sherlock to be sexually engaged with him so badly that he would take
whatever he could get. Sherlock frowned in thought. He needed to test this
theory, see how far Jim was willing to let him go. Pain didn't faze him and
didn't register in his mind as dominance, but other things might.
Sherlock pulled off of Jim and turned to the side. Concentration had
materialized restraints for Jim before, and it was plausible that he'd be able
to think what he needed into existence.
Jim made a frustrated sound at the loss of Sherlock’s mouth. He twisted into
the rope, but watched Sherlock lose himself to thought. Jim's eyes narrowed. It
was subtle, but it was there. "What do you want, Sherlock?" he whispered,
holding still. He didn't hide the wary interest in his tone.
"You without pretense," Sherlock countered.
The trick worked well enough, and Sherlock leaned over to reach for what had
materialized on the floor. What he intended was going to require him to draw on
his knowledge of anatomy and hope it would suffice, but the idea wasn't
repulsive or frightening. Not when he wasn't the subject.
"You seem willing to let me do things to you within certain bounds, but only so
far as you can take while feeling in control. You want me to trust you, but you
won't let me see exactly who I'm supposed to trust, nor to give me good reasons
to do so." Sherlock opened a cap and reminded himself that this was clinical -
it was only touch, it was just an experiment, he was in control.
A sudden spark came into Jim's eyes. The wariness melted away from his
expression entirely. A slow smile spread over his lips and his eyes narrowed
again, but this time with anticipation.
"There you go, needing everything to be clever again," Jim whispered softly,
eagerness written into every detail of his body language. "You think you don't
understand me, and rationally, you don't. But intuitively, you do. If you would
only open your eyes and see."
"I'm not certain I do." Sherlock coated his fingers; Jim's reaction had told
him what he need to know. This experiment might not work in the way he was
hoping it would, but Jim had anticipated him and had no objections. Sherlock
hadn't quite expected Jim's obsession to extend that far. "I don't think you
understand me either, or you wouldn't have been surprised about a number of
things recently and we wouldn't have so many... issues."
Trust issues, connection issues. Sherlock couldn't trust a person he couldn't
really see or understand, and couldn't reach the level of connection necessary
for what Jim wanted from him. Jim wanted to have and indulge while staying
hidden away behind his layers of masks and shields, and Sherlock couldn't
stomach that.
Sherlock reached down, his touch light and careful. Medical charts surfaced in
the back of his mind.
"Your need to please those people you call friends, family…" Jim breathed as
Sherlock's fingers slid down the cleft of his arse. His legs parted for it.
"Those ties just strong enough to keep you on their side. No, I don't
understand that." To Jim, they weren't worthy. Not enough to compete with him
for Sherlock's attention. "How you cling to them…"
Jim was, perhaps…jealous. In life he'd all but ignored the people who'd
surrounded Sherlock. Except to threaten their lives. And belittle John. It had
only been one or two comments. But Sherlock had seen the derision in Jim at the
time.
"I've come to value some ties. It's a weakness and a strength." Sherlock had
only been able to see it as the latter once he'd given up on being untouchable
and let the connections form. He had pressure points, now, but also support to
keep him from cracking and give him greater endurance. "I don't know why you're
so dismissive. You cling to me. You chased me and did all sorts of things to
try to catch my attention and engage me. You just didn't know how to keep me
and didn't care about me as a person."
Sherlock's finger circled and, slowly, pressed forward. He didn't have a good
idea of just how much pressure was comfortable. It could very well be that Jim
wouldn't care one way or the other.
Jim exhaled slowly, staring down his body, trying to see Sherlock's finger
disappearing inside him. His pupils dilated. "You fascinated me, Sherlock. But
they were in my way. What could I be to you other than your villain?" Jim's
smile flashed before it fell away, a hint of the game they'd played back then.
"After all the role fit me perfectly. In the little detective story you'd
written yourself, what else could I have been? You know me enough to know
nothing else would have done."
Sherlock's attention split between what he was doing and Jim's reactions. He
couldn't tell if he was hurting Jim and Jim was just ignoring it, or if the man
was actually enjoying it. "No, I know why you decided to play the villain. And
you did it perfectly for what that role required. The problem was that you
wanted more than that and didn't know how to get to that point."
Sherlock slid his finger deeper. The sensation and reality of what he was doing
was unusual, but not as unpleasant as he'd expected it might be. He crooked the
digit upward, searching for what he knew had to be there. "Was that why you
decided to have a slighted lover's murder-suicide? Because you were stuck and
couldn't figure out how to get what you wanted?"
The way Jim's back arched told Sherlock he'd hit his mark. Pink lips parted and
it took a moment for Jim to answer. There was no question that had caused him
pleasure, a great amount of it when Sherlock continued to press. He let the
sensation play out, perhaps stalling for time on a reply he didn't want to
give. If Jim's obsession went as deep as he suggested, it was very likely
Sherlock was right. It fit with Jim's bitterness over his friends, and
Sherlock's feelings for John.
"If I couldn't have you, no one would?" Jim screwed up his voice in falsetto,
mocking the clichéd line as much as his own intentions. But he dropped it a
second later. "You don't understand, do you, what kind of hell living can be…"
"No, I do." Of course he did. Sherlock couldn't see how Jim could have missed
that - the daredevil stunts, living in dangerous parts of town. The drugs he'd
taken to try to drown everything out, and the way they'd never quite been
enough. He'd been so close to death, more times than he could really count, but
been forcibly hauled up into... something resembling respectable society. He'd
found a niche that was tolerable most of the time, and an addiction that didn't
completely destroy him at the end of every high. "I just stumbled into a life
that didn't hurt as much."
Sherlock crooked his finger again.
"And that's why you didn't jump." Jim looked almost pained when his face
screwed up with pleasure that time. He trembled when Sherlock kept stroking,
back and forth. Jim's hips jerked.
Jim had tried to drag Sherlock down to his own level in the very end. He'd
certainly been unwilling to bring himself up to Sherlock's. He'd done it so
suddenly, playing the game so smoothly, never veering off course, never
stepping out of his role. If he'd wanted Sherlock then, in this way, he had
probably given up on having him.
Jim's lack of additional commentary told Sherlock he'd hit his mark. He
wondered what that meant, that Jim had found life intolerable but continued for
years, only to decide to give up... when he was unreachable. Jim must have been
more than obsessed with him for that to push him over the edge.
Sherlock wasn't naturally inclined toward empathy. He couldn't be manipulated
by the sob stories of clients or suspects, and he generally didn't care whether
or not strangers were distressed. People who'd gotten close to him were
different in that regard, and Jim had gotten to that point. Sherlock still had
lingering anger and resentment, but the suggestions that had gone unspoken and
what they signified touched him more than he was expecting. And he understood,
now, just a little about why Jim had been so furious that he hadn't died with
him.
He thrust his finger in and out, then tried adding a second. Sherlock's free
hand reached up to stroke across Jim's hip.
Jim's eyes fluttered, but stayed open just enough to watch. They followed the
motion. It was difficult to tell whether he read anything into it. Sherlock
hadn't really touched him out of affection yet, and that motion wasn't
necessarily a part of the experiment. Unless Jim suspected Sherlock had a
greater goal in mind. Still, Jim didn't speak up again. He raised his hips to
meet Sherlock's fingers, never showing a single sign of pain.
Sherlock had difficulty being affectionate in general. His attempts often
weren't interpreted as such by their recipients, and he'd been discouraged from
trying to express such things too often by constant misunderstanding. Jim also
hadn't given him many reasons to be affectionate - when he'd tried to summon
such emotions, Jim's responses hadn't been equally thoughtful.
Sherlock knew now that Jim wouldn't tell him what he wanted to know. Not in
words. Even nonverbal responses would be tricky, because Jim was simply too
good at hiding himself.
His lower hand didn't stop moving, but his other hand paused. "...what do you
want, Jim?"
"I want you inside me," Jim said without hesitation. "And I want my hands
free."
Jim raised his chin. He held their gaze. The last was a small act of trust.
Sherlock might be able to deny him and still satisfy Jim with the former. But
Jim had seemed to want to touch Sherlock from the very beginning of all this,
even if that was the very thing Sherlock wanted to avoid.
Sherlock considered this and balked. He didn't think he could manage that. Jim
was certain of himself and had enough experience to know what he liked and what
he wanted, no doubt, but Sherlock had only just started to acknowledge that he
might not be completely asexual. What might seem insignificant to Jim was a
chasm to Sherlock, and one he didn't think he could navigate quite yet. "...I
can't. I can untie you if you don't try to force things, but I can't do that."
Jim groaned in frustration. His shoulders tensed and his head fell back. "Fine.
Hands. At least."
There was no question he was disappointed by the refusal, and what he would
accept instead from Sherlock might be a problem when compared to what Sherlock
wanted to give. But…he was asking. He could break the bonds, but he was asking
instead. To his obvious frustration.
Sherlock realized as much. Ropes were nothing, after all, when compared with
shackles. He withdrew his fingers, ignoring the sound Jim made in response, and
moved up to unravel the knots keeping Jim's hands in place. The change in
position made him that much more aware of how imbalanced their power dynamic
currently was; he was still clothed, but for all that Jim was physically bare
and momentarily compliant, Jim still had the upper hand.
Jim was less human and more viper, spread out beneath Sherlock and lying docile
for now when could so easily strike instead.
The last knot of the rope slipped loose and it fell from Sherlock's hands.
Jim's wrists were red, but now they were free. His fingers flexed and he
brought his arms down slowly, a slight smile betraying his satisfaction. His
eyes flicked up to Sherlock immediately and they hung in the air like that,
Sherlock still poised above him. Slowly, Jim lifted his hands to Sherlock's
face.
Sherlock stayed still. Jim had wanted his hands free to touch, and this was a
touch he didn't mind. Better this than the other man pinning him down, or
putting his hands where Sherlock didn't want them to be. Jim's hand settled on
either side, warm to the touch, but he didn't shy away. The sensation was
pleasant, even if the way Jim was looking at him was leaving Sherlock slightly
uneasy. "...better?"
"Much."
Jim's forefinger stroked down one side of Sherlock's cheek, catching his eye as
it went. Jim watched with great satisfaction. He let his other hand move back,
fingers sliding into the curls at Sherlock's temple, sending grey eyes darting
the other way. Jim's smile spread. His fingers gripped lightly.
"Now, can I get a kiss?"
Sherlock's eyes searched Jim's face, looking for signs of... something. He knew
Jim could project or hide anything he wanted to, but he did it anyway, human
impulses overriding cold knowledge. Jim's dark eyes gave away nothing but his
pleasure. Sherlock didn't bother responding. He lowered himself slowly and let
Jim's hands guide him forward until their lips touched. Warmth washed through
him upon contact.
Jim moved slowly underneath him, as conscientiously as possible. His mouth
parted, lips pressing softly against Sherlock's. Sherlock could feel him
smiling still, even as his tongue edged between them, licking and teasing and
just short of wandering into Sherlock's mouth. Jim was strangely warm and even
gentle when Sherlock knew so well he could be anything but.
When they parted, Jim's smile softened, but he held a knowing gaze. This may
not have been his norm, but he challenged Sherlock to say he wasn't being
considerate.
And that consideration was softening Sherlock. Jim could see it in his face and
in his eyes. Sherlock was having difficulty keeping this Jim segmented from the
other sides of his persona he'd seen, and from other memories. Kindness was
making him more pliant in ways that force never would. The way he was looking
back at Jim wasn't the same as the look he'd summoned that first night, but it
was far more real. Those projected emotions had been for the synthetic memory
he'd constructed in his head. Sherlock wasn't looking back, but at the man
beneath him.
He leaned down and kissed Jim again, this time out of his own desire.
Jim responded readily, lifting his head to meet Sherlock, pressing into the
kiss more eagerly. When they brushed together, Sherlock having lowered for the
kiss, he could feel Jim still hard. Jim made a muffled sound, but didn't break
away and didn't try to find that friction again. His fingers clenched, however,
betraying the desire still welling inside him.
Sherlock could feel his own body twitch in interest. The ache from earlier
hadn't gone away, just receded into the backdrop while he'd been concerned
about Jim forcing him into things... or when he'd been exploring what Jim would
let him do. The answer to that question seemed to be 'nearly anything'. Not
only had Jim not balked at the idea of being the receptive partner, he'd
specifically asked for such.
Sherlock transferred his weight so he could free one hand. It slid down Jim's
bare side while he thought.
Jim moaned. Sherlock felt Jim's muscles tense wherever his hand trailed. When
it stopped at his hip, Jim squirmed. His hands slid around to the back of
Sherlock's neck, wandered over his shoulders. One daringly brushed along his
clothed side. Jim moved it back up, however, as soon as he felt Sherlock
hesitate. Jim's eyes never fully closed. Always he was watching Sherlock,
recording.
Sherlock was gunshy. He normally wasn't one to balk at new experiences, whether
they were dangerous or not. He didn't care much about societal norms either.
Part of him was wondering why he was having such a problem processing what he'd
discovered about his own identity and moving forward with it. Another part
whispered that whatever he gave, Jim would take and expect it regularly, and
then expect more.
Jim watched his internal battle play out with silent interest. His hands fell
to Sherlock's knees, sliding up only as far as mid thigh.
Sherlock's fingers moved methodically, catching the buttons of his own shirt,
and Jim watched as the line of his chest was bared bit by bit until the
material hung from his shoulders. Jim's fingers tightened on his legs, itching
to touch, but still he watched, restrained.
Sherlock shrugged out of the garment and tossed it to the floor. He'd avoided
looking at Jim, but he could still feel the man's gaze on him. Hungry, even if
he'd not touched him yet. Sherlock felt exposed, but he wasn't really any more
vulnerable than he'd been before. Clothing wasn't a shield here, and it was
easily removed.
Sherlock grasped Jim's wrists from where they had settled on his thighs and
placed them on his shoulders instead, giving silent permission.
Jim's smile returned. His hands glided down Sherlock's chest, fingertips
pressing, indenting the skin as they went, like he wanted to feel the muscle
and bone beneath. They trailed lower and lower, brushing over a nipple, at
which Sherlock stiffened, and Jim moved on, gliding with firm pressure down his
abdomen, over his belly button, ghosting over his sharp hip bones, thumbs
dipping into the line between them and the hem of Sherlock's trousers.
Gooseflesh broke out on Sherlock’s skin and he bit his lower lip. He mentally
wasn't adjusted yet, but his body certainly was. It remembered pleasurable
touch and wanted that again. His own mind repeated Jim's request back to him.
It wasn't that different to move from Jim's mouth to other areas, but
psychologically it felt like there was a marked difference.
Instead, Sherlock's hands explored Jim in turn, following smooth planes of
skin. Small scars were barely visible here and there. Sherlock wondered if
there had been a time when Jim hadn't stayed safely in the background and had
received these on some of his jobs, or if they were from an earlier time.
Jim's eyes finally drifted closed, enjoying the feel of both Sherlock's hands
and his attention on him. His smile turned a little crooked when he felt the
way Sherlock's hands lingered over the deep ones, or the ones that hadn't
healed properly. Sherlock could tell many were from long ago, but he could not
know how long Jim had been involved in his line of work before his death. The
little smile that played over Jim's mouth was evidence enough that he would not
readily offer up that information either.
"...what are these from?" Sherlock's curiosity prompted him to speak. There was
little context he could use to deduce the meaning behind the marks - nothing
other than how they'd faded with age, or how the shape and depth spoke to
specific kinds of wounds. Some were old enough that they suggested a very
unhappy past when he was young - possibly an indication of just how Jim had
built up a tolerance for pain. Sherlock traced his thumb over another.
Jim snorted a small laugh and peeked one eye open. Sherlock wasn't going to let
it go. "Ohh, Sebastian. Some of them. On my orders." His lips quirked, watching
Sherlock's brows knit. Sherlock's fingers, however, sought out the ones that
fit this scenario and he was correct every time. "I told him I'd have him put
me down one day, in the end. He loved it. And he hated it." Jim nodded to one
beside Sherlock's thumb. "That one was from a boy in Queens. Didn't sound a
thing like you, but he had the prettiest mop of curly black hair and ice blue
eyes. Ten years old, and he didn't want to hurt me, but I asked him to anyway."
"...why?" Jim's answers were only fueling more questions. Pieces of information
about Jim's relationship with Sebastian slotted into empty gaps to start to
form a picture, but the other... "You tried to find a boy that resembled me,
then asked him to cut you?"
As much as he didn't like it, Sherlock felt a spike of... something. He was
startled to find that it resembled jealousy.
Jim laughed. "I asked him to do a lot more than that, Sherlock." His smile grew
fond, and his hand ran up Sherlock's chest again, palm warm, while the other
moved up his side. "But sometimes…sometimes the scenario didn't fit unless you
fought me." Jim was in the memory again, Sherlock could see him disappear
enough to recall it. His smile changed, losing some of its warmth. "I knew that
much about you, at least."
Sherlock pondered this. It didn't make the other feeling recede, but that fit
with what he'd seen from Jim before.
He turned a speculative eye on Jim. He was bothered by the fact that Jim had
had things done to him by other facsimiles of himself. Bothered and
uncomfortable with examining precisely why he felt... slighted. Possessive.
Sherlock finally recognized the emotion; it was the same one that had filled
him every time John had left on a date or wrote emails to a girlfriend, the one
that had prompted him to seek out that person's weaknesses and sabotage the
relationship.
Which meant he'd started to consider Jim as his. That couldn't be good.
"...what else did you have him do?"
"Let me have my wicked way with him. What did you think?" Jim was back to the
present, a touch of amusement written into his features. "He looked so like
you…knife digging into my heart while he let me spread his legs…" Jim's teeth
flashed as Sherlock completed the mental image.
Jim's head cocked, peering at Sherlock with critical eyes, but his smile didn't
falter. "Are you...jealous?"
The flash in Sherlock's eyes responded for him. He wasn't comfortable with the
idea of letting Jim do whatever he wanted with him, because he had a very good
idea of what Jim wanted. The image of Jim fucking another boy as a placeholder
for him, an ideal he could never obtain, made something in him tighten. It
shouldn't have mattered, but it did, just as much as it had mattered when John
had asserted that he wasn't gay and Sherlock had thought himself asexual, but
flared into angry possessiveness every time John sought happiness elsewhere.
Jim's thumb dropped to rub over the spot on Sherlock's chest where the mark
would be, feeling his strong heart beat beneath. "You would be jealous of
yourself. Of course you would. At the same time you attempt to deny you want me
at all. But that's slipping, isn't it?" Jim's hand drew down again, one
forefinger painting a line from sternum to navel.
Sherlock's hand snatched up Jim's wrist. He wasn't going to get the luxury of
examining everything right now. Jim was here, and impatient, and had already
pushed Sherlock so far... and found another lever to use against him.
Irritation joined the anger and jealousy pooling in his gut and Sherlock's eyes
narrowed. His gaze drifted to the bruise still at Jim's shoulder, the teeth
marks that hadn't quite healed yet. Marks that wouldn't persist, not like the
ones Sebastian and however many boys had left on Jim.
Sherlock had started pushing Jim down against the bed before he was thinking.
He caught a flash of wide black eyes before Jim landed. Sherlock couldn't make
it hurt, it was only a bed, but he'd still managed to surprise Jim and his
hands caught at Sherlock’s sides out of instinct alone, but Jim didn't fight
immediately. His eyes darted, searching Sherlock, and if Sherlock wasn't
mistaken there was a tinge of excitement in those black pits.
There was another side to Sherlock, one that he didn’t let show very often. One
that fit a little more snugly into the neatly derogatory titles he’d been
christened with in the past by the Met. It had come in handy before, when he'd
needed information that a criminal wasn't going to willingly give him... or
when he'd wanted to punish someone who'd offended him regardless of what the
law had to say about it. He'd heard that one of the agents he'd repetitively
tossed out a window had developed a permanent limp.
Sherlock dug down for that persona now. He let it envelope him.
Narrowed grey eyes looked down at Jim without attempting to hide the spark of
jealousy anymore. He wanted Jim's memories gone. He wanted Jim to look at his
scars and not smile in dreamy remembrance of boys he'd paid or kidnapped or
whatever else he'd done to get his fixation satisfied.
If Jim had wanted a motivation to override Sherlock's senses and shyness, he'd
found it.
Jim's eyes flashed in return. His smile sharpened. "There you are." His nails
dug into Sherlock's back, eyes narrowing, daring him to make the first move.
Jim seemed pleased to see Sherlock break free of his mental shell, but the
offensive posture and intent in Sherlock now drew Jim to bare his own teeth.
"And what do you want from me, Sherlock?"
"You're going to forget them." It hardly mattered now; Jim was fused to him
whether Sherlock liked it or not, and incapable of going off and getting up to
god-only-knew-what without taking over his body against Sherlock's will. That
didn't soothe Sherlock’s feelings at all. His mind cast about for options and
found, in recent memory, video clips and photos from his aborted attempt at
research. His hand went to his trouser fastenings. "You're going to overwrite
those memories."
Sherlock saw Jim's eyes follow and narrow with interest. Jim's lip curled and
Sherlock felt goosebumps form where he held the man’s upper arm.
"Am I now?" Jim purred. His voice became something wholly unlike what Sherlock
had heard only moments ago. It wasn't a voice at all. It was a hiss, filled
with honey and venom and it sought to pull Sherlock in with exactly what he
asked for.
Sherlock normally ignored such tease. Had Sherlock been in his normal state of
mind, Jim's demeanor would have simply irritated him. As things were,
Sherlock's anger flared. One of his hands caught Jim around the throat and
squeezed in warning. "You are." Sherlock released him to kick his trousers off.
He still didn't know what he was doing, but he was motivated enough to make
educated guesses... and to not think of the consequences.
Jim's hands came up to fight, to grab at Sherlock's hair and they scrabbled for
a moment until Sherlock had Jim caught, twisting in an arm lock and still
pinned beneath him.
Jim was breathing hard and his arousal had not diminished. He bared his teeth
and pressed his hips up. "Look at that fire in you now," he hissed. "Although
not quite what I expected, oho no, but I can't complain." He snapped his teeth
in a motion somewhere between playful and provocative in spite of Sherlock's
obvious aggression.
"You'll behave, or I'll tie you up again," Sherlock snapped. Jim obviously
wanted this, which soothed a bit of Sherlock's inner conflicts... but it also
made him angry. This was exactly what Jim had wanted earlier. The difference,
now, was that Sherlock wanted it too, just in a different way. Sherlock felt
around for the bottle he'd abandoned earlier to resume where he'd left off. One
finger slipped back into Jim surprisingly easily.
Jim lunged up, wrapping at arm around Sherlock's neck to get a little closer.
His knees fell open, letting Sherlock see what his hand was doing. "Then I'll
just untie myself." Jim drew near, teeth bared and so close to snapping at
Sherlock's mouth, watching Sherlock snarl in preemptive defense. "How I've
waited for this…" Jim hissed in what sounded like triumph.
Sherlock glared. "Keep that up and you'll be waiting longer." He would, too,
just to spite Jim for being too smug. Forcing his hand, pushing him past his
comfort boundaries, trying to kill him, never stopping because the man was
obsessed and his obsession had transferred with him into this invincible,
deathless state. Sherlock slipped another finger into Jim, then a third. He
pushed against the spot he remembered earlier with a bit more pressure than was
necessary. He wanted to see Jim lose control.
Jim heaved a breath. His body shook. His eyes even rolled back a little. When
his head snapped upright, his eyes were alight and a vicious grin was painted
across his face. The grip on the back of Sherlock's neck tightened, like Jim
was getting ready to hold on. He leaned up and whispered into Sherlock's ear,
"Come on… Make me lose my mind."
Sherlock's eyes darkened. His thoughts drowned out but for a select few - to
make Jim never think about the boys who'd scarred him again, and to crack Jim
open so he could finally look inside. He wanted leverage. He wanted a sense of
power after days of feeling powerless.
Sherlock's fingers withdrew, and in the space of a few heartbeats he'd
positioned himself between Jim's thighs. He aligned them and, egged on by Jim's
grip at the back of his neck, Sherlock pushed forward.
His jaw dropped and his breath caught.
All he could see was Jim, practically a mirror reflection of himself, mouth
open, eyes wide. Jim's back arched under him, bringing their chests together,
legs wrapped around Sherlock's hips before he could move. Jim's face flushed
red. It had to hurt, but the shock of sensation on the man’s face was
indecipherable between pain or pleasure or simply surprise. His dark eyes
glanced down between them and Jim shivered.
It took a second for Sherlock to unfreeze, to risk movement. Pulling out
slightly sent another rush of sensation through him, but thrusting forward was
even more intense. Jim was warm around him and unbelievably tight, and-
Sherlock shivered. Some of the reality of what they were doing sank in. Jim was
looking down where they were joined with an indescribable expression. Sherlock
bent closer, trying to catch and hold Jim's gaze. His hips started moving.
That drew a gasp from Jim. His arms tightened and his eyes snapped back up to
Sherlock's face, mouth open, suddenly silent as Sherlock's thrusts rocked into
him. His breaths hitched, like he should have been crying out, but couldn't
make a sound. Sherlock thrust hard and Jim's head fell back, and just as
suddenly as it had been lost, his voice was freed again. Jim cried out.
That wouldn't do. Sherlock's hands buried themselves in Jim's hair and forced
their eyes to meet again. He didn't want Jim to hide, either behind personas or
by turning until Sherlock couldn't see anything.
"Look. At. Me," he breathed. Jim had wanted this, but he was going to get it on
Sherlock's terms. It was difficult to focus on anything but sensation, but
Sherlock didn't want to miss this opportunity.
Jim continued gasping. His mouth wouldn't close. He let himself be locked in
Sherlock's stare, body slackening under his sharp thrusts until Jim wound his
arms around Sherlock's neck again, holding on. When Sherlock's hips snapped up,
Jim's legs tightened. He lifted himself just so, making Sherlock slide even
deeper. He could see on Jim's face the way pleasure began to spike through him
at every thrust. Jim grabbed at Sherlock’s hair, forcing his head down,
bringing their foreheads together.
They were both past talking. Sherlock's eyes had only lost a bit of their
sharpness from earlier, wordlessly demanding that Jim forget the others.
Pleasure was addling his senses and tempering the foolish rage he'd been sway
to, only for him to be caught in a new net. Jim was wrapped around him and
somehow, even when he was sliding into the man, Jim felt like he was reaching
even deeper into Sherlock.
They'd never been this close. Sherlock could see the deep brown ridges of Jim's
irises as well as he could feel every muscle inside the man's warm body as they
moved. Every bit of Jim's humanity should have been delicate, should have made
him seem vulnerable, but it didn't. Here in this dream Jim was flesh and blood
and heat, but he was also invincible. When Jim's hands moved to splay over his
back, they felt like fire. Warmth wrapped around both of them like a blanket,
created not just in Jim's body, but emanating out of him through the very air,
curling around Sherlock, drawing him into Jim in whatever manner he possibly
could.
If Jim was invulnerable, Sherlock was far less so. There was still an innocence
to him that nothing in his life - not the drugs, or the dead bodies, or the
despair, or anything else - had quite extinguished. It was the part of himself
that he kept shielded, having learned early on that the world was only too
happy to wound him. Jim had caught hold of him.
Sherlock's thrusts grew more frantic, his features more dazed, but he couldn't
look away. He didn't want to look away; he'd wanted to see into the abyss
behind Jim's eyes, but it began to draw him in.
"Poor Sherlock," Jim's burning hand splayed over his cheek. "You'll never let
me go now." Fine lines crinkled around Jim's eyes. Sherlock could feel the
elation in Jim, not just the way he raised himself with some effort to meet
each thrust, quickening, racing headlong into a world of exquisite sensation,
but almost literally. The pleasure was lighting him up inside. The world was
shifting around them, losing its cohesiveness. Brick came apart. The darkness
outside the window couldn't decide whether it wanted to be night or day.
Paintings melted into pools of glass and color, and neither of them paid any
attention.
Sherlock couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. He was awash in sensation and the
disorientation from the world dissolving around them. Darkness kept him from
being completely overwhelmed. Everything was slick heat, Jim's hands on his
face and back, legs wrapped around his waist, the body beneath him surprisingly
soft even as it was angular. Masculine. Sherlock groaned, easily picturing what
they must look like, and a part of himself was still in utter disbelief that he
was doing this at all. Jim was meeting him thrust for thrust now.
When Jim began to scrabble, teeth bared and arching up, Sherlock could tell
something was amiss. With a snarl, Jim dragged Sherlock down so that he fell
atop Jim, hips unable to stop seeking what frantic rhythm he could find. Jim's
mouth dropped and he went suddenly silent, and Sherlock realized why. He could
feel Jim's length underneath him, smashed between their stomachs. One, two,
three more jerky thrusts and there was suddenly slick wetness between them. Jim
shuddered. A small sound escaped his throat, and still he hung on.
Sherlock had only just realized what had happened when his own climax overtook
him, brought on in no small part by the knowledge. His arms tightened around
Jim's body as he came with a soft cry. His body shook and he felt Jim's fingers
at his back, still pulling him closer, pulling him in, refusing to let go.
Time stood still for Sherlock, frozen for what, in reality, must have only been
several seconds. When finally collapsed on top of Jim, he could feel his heart
pounding in his ribcage, echoed by Jim's beneath him.
Neither moved.
The heat around them faded to embers. Jim's body remained slightly above normal
for this kind of activity, but it wasn't overwhelming anymore. A good thing,
too, because Sherlock was still inside him.
Distantly, he was aware that the room stopped melting. Everything hung in
stillness, even the dust alighting in the air of Sherlock's remembered flat,
visible in the soft ray of sunlight coming through the window.
So it had decided to be morning after all.
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Notes
     Alright. I gave up and added the 'underage' tag.
     Warning in this chapter for sexual contact between two minors (sort
     of).
It didn’t take long for Sherlock to start panicking. There was nowhere to hide.
Not from this, and not where Jim couldn't find him. He tucked his face against
Jim's neck anyway, giving himself the flimsy psychological illusion of escape.
He knew he couldn't stay there for long, but he didn't want to face everything
just yet.
Almost as soon as he did it, he felt fingers glide through his hair.
It was the only movement Jim made. How he could possibly be content to lie like
this, sweaty and sticky and with Sherlock's body still inside his own, was
unfathomable. Even if it was warm, and even if what they had made in Sherlock's
little room resembled a cocoon. Perhaps that was what Jim wanted. Sherlock
remembered the world outside, but Jim wanted, had always wanted, to escape from
it.
Alarmingly, a certain kind of catharsis swept through Sherlock. He fought back
tears, but his whole body shivered from the stress of holding everything in. He
knew that, with this, everything had changed again. His life had changed when
Jim had resurfaced from whatever purgatory he'd been condemned to, but this
exchange was going to color their interactions from now on. Even if he could
delete this, Jim would still remember and demand it again.
Sherlock's mind replayed everything. He couldn't remember anyone else ever
looking at him like that before - as an object of lust, yes, but not with
whatever else he'd seen in Jim's face.
The fingers didn't stop, even when Sherlock shook. Jim didn't show any sign he
noticed Sherlock's distress other than a second hand coming up to smooth over
his back. He held Sherlock that way, as welcoming as any seducer. It seemed he
wasn’t going to mock Sherlock for his tumultuous emotions. Jim was probably
pleased with Sherlock’s reaction and know that he had finally caught something
he'd coveted so much in his web.
It took Sherlock several minutes to calm down.
His thoughts were racing, and the one thing that rose to the surface loud and
clear was that Jim didn't shoulder all the blame. He'd manipulated Sherlock
masterfully, but the shock on Jim's face had said he'd not expected it to
really work... and it wouldn't have, if he'd not reeled Sherlock's jealous
streak into the light. The fact that his jealousy had fixated on Jim at all
said something about himself that Sherlock didn't want to look at or
acknowledge, but he was going to have to. It wasn't as if he could run from it
all and pretend this never happened; not if he was planning to keep on living.
"...I wasn't expecting this." Sherlock's voice came out muffled.
He felt Jim’s head turn to look down at him. Sherlock had brushed his neck when
he spoke and Jim could feel his breathing, feel his heartbeat. The man wouldn’t
need any more than that. His fingers scratched lightly into Sherlock's scalp.
Jim was smiling. Even if Sherlock couldn't see it, he knew. It came through in
his voice. "Of course you weren't. Even I wasn't."
Sherlock couldn't ask Jim what it all meant. It would have sounded childish,
and Jim wouldn't give him an unbiased answer. Part of him was intensely
grateful that Jim wasn't pushing him away, wasn't teasing, wasn't rejecting him
in any way. That gratitude was enough that he could ignore the way he could
feel the pull of Jim's smile and the satisfaction in his tone. "...what happens
now?"
"Now you stop regretting what we've done."
Sherlock felt Jim turn, felt a kiss placed to his hair. It was so strange. When
Sherlock showed vulnerability, Jim was gentle. The way their encounter tonight
had started, it had been obvious Jim was being so accommodating to put Sherlock
at ease, but he didn't need to now. He held Sherlock and stroked his hair like
he'd done in the cabin memory. Completely unlike the Jim who snarled and
bristled at him when they fought.
Jim's kindness was disorienting.
Sherlock understood now how gaslit individuals might have felt. He'd never
before found someone who was able to fool his observation and deduction skills.
Jim seemed to be genuine, but Sherlock wasn't completely certain, not even with
a lack of discernable motive.
Stranger yet, even though he wasn't certain it was real, Sherlock still...
wanted it. Affection felt like cool water on a parched throat.
It hit Sherlock a moment later that, perhaps, Jim wanted reciprocal touches.
His hand began to move shyly over Jim's shoulder, then paused. He'd remembered
the odd look on Jim's face. Sherlock knew the human body could accommodate a
lot, but also easily tear. He had no idea what that would mean here. "You
aren't hurt, are you?"
Jim snorted softly. "No, Sherlock. We're in a dream." Except that he could hurt
Jim here. Though they had yet to discover how far that could be taken. Jim was
either lying or he simply didn't care that Sherlock had been so rough. After
his initial shock, he'd seemed to enjoy it well enough. More than well enough.
"How thoughtful of you to ask." The touch of amusement was back in Jim's voice,
slightly jarring in the moment. "But you'll have to do a lot more than that to
damage me."
More than that, or the few shallow knife scratches. That only reminded Sherlock
of the scars that had prompted all of this. His grip on Jim tightened. "I had
told you I didn't want to hurt you. Even when you did your best to hurt me. I
could have choked you out and ended things early on, and I didn't."
"You're a fool, then," Jim whispered, undeterred. Then he got right up against
Sherlock’s ear and his voice turned cold. "But I wouldn't hold out hope on
killing me again, if I were you." Gentle as his other touches remained, Jim
slipped so easily into Moriarty, fracturing the picture of ease he presented.
The only conceivable way he did it so well was that he was not acting, that he
simply felt both contradictory emotions at once. Care, affection, and cold
aggression.
"You're misunderstanding." Sherlock couldn’t help but tense in response, but
didn't try to move away. "It wasn't that I didn't kill you because I changed my
mind, or decided my curiosity outweighed my anger. I didn't do it because I
couldn't. You don't seem at all perturbed with the idea of destroying me, but I
don't have that same lack of barriers. I tried, and I couldn't make myself
destroy you."
The hands on the back of Sherlock's head paused and Jim shifted to get a better
look at him. Sherlock could see out of the corner of his eye Jim's brows draw
together and an expression of puzzlement cross his face. "What do you mean you
couldn't?" Jim's head tilted and a finger drew down Sherlock's temple, just at
the line of his hair.
"I'm not certain you have the same limitations, but the idea was like..."
Sherlock searched for words. His gaze turned sideways in embarrassment.
"...burning the Louvre with everything in it. I'd already watched that happen
once and tried to save a few scraps in my memories. As awful as you'd been, as
much as I wanted a way out, I couldn't make myself kill you. I wanted you out
of me and to stop hurting me, not dead for a second time."
"Oh Sherlock," Jim whispered and Sherlock could just hear the delight in his
voice. And feel it in the way Jim's arms tightened around him. And there he
went again, with his little melodrama. But he let it go. His voice turned
serious. "Did you even realize you missed me before then?"
"In certain ways." Sherlock hadn't had time to react on the rooftop, and
directly afterwards he'd had to start moving and getting undercover. It had
been several days before he'd had to settle down to the first of a few long
waiting periods, waiting for baited hooks to snag their target prizes. Long,
silent solitude had been a torment. "...I was angry. Both at what you did, or
tried to do, and at the waste of it all. I needed to bring your network down to
keep my people safe, but it felt like picking your corpse apart. It was
disturbing on some levels, and a reminder that I wasn't likely to ever find
another person like myself ever again, apart from my brother."
Jim's fingers dipped back into Sherlock's hair and the man's head rested
against his own. Jim's chest rose and let out a long breath of air. “You are
life now, Sherlock. You are my life, what little I have left of it. And you
can't escape."
Sherlock knew the latter was true. Finding an exorcism technique that wasn't a
complete fabrication had been a long shot, and even if he did find one, he
suspected the entanglement had progressed too far. He didn't know what he would
do if such an opportunity was presented to him. It might very well be that he'd
find he wouldn't have the heart to cast Jim out, either. "Why do you still want
to cease existing? You finally caught what you were chasing all these years,"
Sherlock intoned bitterly.
"’To die would be an awfully big adventure’," Jim quoted with a faraway look.
"I’ll admit you are a definite lure toward the land of the living. On which I
have no ground to stand any longer. Should this be all the reality left to me?
To build palaces in your head? They would be exquisite, but you know that would
never be enough for me."
Sherlock knew what Jim was asking, between so many words. And it was asking, in
a way - he wasn't outright demanding or violently forcing his desired outcome.
"Don't try to use guilt or pity to manipulate me. I'll end up resenting you for
all the strings you've pulled." That, Sherlock knew well enough from
experience. What Jim wanted, though... "I have a life. Detective work is what I
do, what keeps me sane. I find it hard to imagine that you'd be content to stay
within the lines and not destroy what I've built."
Jim hissed out a sigh. "I have no desire to help you further your work with the
law. Whether it is intended for the law or not. What I propose is…something of
a time-share. Jekyll and Hyde. You should remember that before you came along,
I never was." Jim's fingers curled just a little tighter.
Sherlock grimaced and tried to pull backwards, but Jim wasn't letting him go
anywhere. "That's not going to work. Even if Lestrade doesn't eventually start
to suspect, Mycroft won't stand for it. He'll let me bend and break laws when
it doesn't cause too many ripples, and whatever you would plan would certainly
create a tidal wave."
"And you always do what big brother asks." Jim didn't sound happy. "You can't
get rid of me, and you can't stifle me either. I suggest you allow me some
indulgences or I will grow very, very bored. You will not like me when I'm
bored." Sherlock had seen Jim angry, both alive and dead, and that had been
unpleasant enough.
"We'll work something out," Sherlock sighed. If they were stuck in this, they'd
have to. He wasn't about to let Jim tear what remained of his life into pieces,
but Jim would have to have an outlet. He wouldn't limit himself to shooting at
walls, feeding chemical substances to passersby, and experimenting on corpses.
Sherlock sighed again. "Today wasn't that bad. We'll start slow. Although I'm
going to have to insist that you don't ruin things with my close acquaintances,
or John and Mary."
Jim's eyes rolled. "I have even less desire to interact with your pet couple
than I do with your pet detective. You keep them out of my way." One of his
fingers looped into a curl of Sherlock's hair and he pulled at it thoughtfully.
“Speaking of 'close acquaintances', you'll have to do something about Moran
soon. And you will need my help."
That was a very good point. Sherlock grimaced at the way Jim was tugging on his
hair, but Jim wasn't a threat he needed to worry about at the moment. He had
time to figure out how to bargain with the madman. Sebastian, however, was a
loose cannon. "You know him well. If he's still in the area, how long before he
makes another attempt?" Sherlock's main worry was that the gunman, having
failed to kill him twice, would start killing the people he cared about.
"Not long," Jim mused. "He'll have holed up and restocked his supplies by now.
All he has to do is wait for you to step back out into the world unguarded. And
he will be watching in the meantime." Jim sounded far too satisfied with his
prediction, possibly with Sebastian, possibly with Sherlock being forced into
action. Probably both. "But like I said, I could be persuaded to find him for
you and…change his mind."
Having a hole put through his skull from a distance wasn't something Sherlock
wanted to experience. Neither did he want Sebastian to get creative and pick up
where Jim had left off, gunning down people until Sherlock was grieving and
careless. "...persuaded. It's not enough for you to stop him from killing me,
to preserve what you have? You've already gotten more than you expected."
"It would be enough for me," Jim turned his head to whisper in Sherlock's ear.
"But unless he forces my hand sooner, I see no reason to kill him. And there
is...really only one other way for me to convince him not to kill you."
Jim needed the use of his body, his voice at the very least. A lot more at the
very most. Already he was putting Sherlock in a very difficult place with his
pursuit of a 'time-share situation'. When Sherlock had told him he'd be
unwilling to let Jim have free reign of his body in order to...take certain
liberties with convincing Sebastian, Jim had been put out. Now he was right
back at it.
Sherlock's fragile, tense afterglow was burned away. He turned his head to
glare at Jim. "I think you're lying. I think you're being opportunistic. There
have to be things only the two of you know, if you worked so closely together
for so long. I'll let you have control to convince him with body language, and
with words, but you are not using my body to try to sway him with a repeat of
what he used to do to you." Sherlock could easily imagine Jim trying to use the
situation just to push him further. Every little bit that he'd given thus far,
Jim had taken greedily and then stretched out his hands for more.
Jim smiled back with a cruel edge, responding to Sherlock's bristling in kind.
"Alright. But after I've convinced him and handed your body back to you, he
won't leave it at that. Even if he has to force you to let me out again." Jim's
brows rose with sincerity. "Think about it Sherlock, how long I've been away,
how I am in fact dead. Do you think he's going to sit down and smile and say
it's good to have you back, so sorry about trying to kill you'? You'll be
begging me to take over again."
"You killed yourself. It's not my fault you're dead, and he won't want to
damage me because then he'd be losing you again. His own fault, this time."
That was a bluff, and Sherlock knew it; there were ways to hurt a person
without leaving a mark. He simply didn't think the gunman would want to risk
injuring the body his former lover was tied to. Sherlock's jaw clenched into a
stubborn line. "You don't get to use this as another opportunity to break me."
"You misunderstand. Sebastian won't want to hurt me, or you. Well, maybe a
little. But mostly, he's going to want something much more pleasant and he will
not care whether you want it or not." Jim levelled his gaze with Sherlock, arms
still wrapped around him. Sherlock had twisted significantly, but not enough to
dislodge Jim and ruin their closeness. That kind of tension within that small
of a distance only doubled the intensity.
Sherlock tried to shove Jim away, but he didn't get anywhere. For all that he
was a much smaller man, Jim was remarkably strong. His nails dug into
Sherlock's back enough to break the skin.
"So what you're trying to convince me is that, unless I want to die, my choices
are to kill him, or let him rape me once you're convinced him not to kill me.
With or without me in control, but experiencing it anyway. You're doing a
wonderful job of convincing me to kill a man."
"I would stop you. And I will stop him if it comes to that, but it won't be
easy," Jim hissed. "And it especially won't be easy if I'm fighting you in the
meantime. You will need to work with me." That meant Sherlock had to trust Jim.
Trust Jim not to let this Sebastian Moran either kill him, which Jim had
attempted to do several times now, or rape him, which Jim did not seem
wholeheartedly opposed to either. Especially when he got a certain amount of
intimacy and control out of it in return.
Sherlock laughed bitterly. "Right. Trust you to stop him. Because you've been
so very trustworthy. Oh, and all I have to do is not panic and try to defend
myself. Just let you have control, when all you've wanted, since deciding not
to murder me, was that you wanted to fuck me. Making your second in command
take the honor would be close enough for you. You'd have a front row seat, both
to the act and my reaction." Sherlock pushed at Jim again.
To his shame, Sherlock felt his throat and chest tightening up. Part of his
mind distantly informed him that it was likely a panic attack, brought on by
unusual stress levels.
He'd nearly gotten Jim off him, too. But he couldn't fight with so little air,
and Jim was back in a heartbeat, wrapping Sherlock in his arms, holding him in
place with everything Jim had.
The air cooled. Some of the room lost its stability. "Don't try to move."
Sherlock could hear Jim's voice, clear and steady in the midst of his stress,
taking control of the situation. "I won't hurt you. I won't do anything. See?
Just let go. Your body will calm." He was trying to be soothing. He was trying
to be the rock Sherlock could cling to, in spite of everything he'd just
threatened.
The room flickered. The bed didn’t move, but beyond that everything dissolved
and reformed. They were no longer in the flat. Summer sunlight filtered through
the windows onto a scuffed wood floor littered with toys and discarded
curiosities. A few books and a child's version of a chemistry set cluttered the
top of a short dresser. An entomology poster was hung on the wall, and a short
distance away some shelves boasted actual specimens, frozen on pins inside
their plastic cases. Sherlock tried to breathe but the body draped atop him was
too heavy.
It spurred Jim to move, pitching himself to Sherlock's side, arms still tightly
around him. Jim's dark eyes darted about the room until understanding took
hold. Then he glanced back down at Sherlock’s new form with a hint of a smile
on his lips. "Yes, you're safe now." Jim's voice was so soft. So soft it could
almost be believed. If Jim kept any control over their surroundings, he let it
go to Sherlock, and the room solidified with warmth, with the old wood smell of
fine furniture and the atmosphere of its inhabitants. The very air changed in
quality, back to something tangible, lived in, rather than a hollow memory.
The vice gripping Sherlock's lungs vanished. He caught his breath and held
tightly against Jim's chest. It took several moments for it to sink in that Jim
was curled around him, and suddenly a great deal taller. Jim's voice might have
been softer, but Sherlock felt more vulnerable than when they'd been discussing
his gunman. Sebastian might be a problem for his waking self no matter what he
did or what he looked like, but Sherlock knew now that Jim was especially
partial to him like this. "...no I'm not."
"Yes, you are," Jim reaffirmed, reaching out and touching Sherlock's soft hair.
It was finer like this, not quite as coarse, but set around such a small face,
it looked twice as unruly. Sherlock was even younger than he'd been in the
cabin. Jim would have estimated about eight, and he was usually very good at
estimating. Sherlock's eyes were wide and almost blue they were so clear. "You
could not possibly be more safe than you are right now." Jim's smile curled at
one corner. He drew a finger down Sherlock's nose until it reached the tip, a
light and strangely playful gesture.
Sherlock looked back at Jim with a cautious, uncertain light in his eyes. Being
back in his old bedroom with this man was almost like a childhood nightmare,
with the monster under his bed crawling up and deciding he looked good enough
to eat. He shifted in discomfort but Jim wasn't letting him go, even if his
grip was gentler than what it had been minutes ago. Sherlock closed his eyes
and shivered. "I'm not sure we have the same ideas of 'safe'."
"Perhaps not," Jim admitted, but he burrowed down against Sherlock anyway,
pulling the boy up tight against his chest. "But in more ways than not, you
are." Jim's warm breath tickled his ear. This motion was becoming increasingly
familiar. Every time Sherlock wound up in one of his childhood memories, Jim
liked to hold him this way, body and arms wrapped around him, face so close,
watching Sherlock's every expression.
Minutes passed in silence. Sherlock was keenly aware of every inch of warm skin
pressed against him, but Jim didn't make any move other than to stroke fingers
through his hair. Sherlock gradually began to relax.
"Do you even know how far you're pushing me?" he finally asked. "I've had to
restructure and question large parts of myself and you're not giving me any
time. For anything. I won't be able to handle the added stress if you can't
keep your gunman away from me."
Jim's head lifted from the pillow, regarding Sherlock with calm consideration.
Sherlock's clear eyes watched him uncertainly, but Jim didn't try anything.
Except to trail his fingers down Sherlock's small chest.
"What have you been forced to reconstruct because of me?" Jim asked softly. He
had to have known of Sherlock's inner struggles. His body was so very
responsive to Jim's touches. Jim had also heard bits of Sherlock's battle with
his own thoughts, but perhaps Jim had not understood the weight of Sherlock's
revelations.
Sherlock was silent for a few moments. The tension that ran through his small
body spoke to some manner of internal debate; he wasn't certain he wanted to
answer Jim's question. Jim kept watching quietly, waiting.
"...I don't know how reality works anymore," Sherlock finally admitted. "You
shouldn't be real, but I've been operating under the theory that you are
because... I couldn't explain it, otherwise. And this is persistent, so it has
to be real, but I can't explain it. And-" The boy bit his lip and his gaze left
Jim's face, shifting down until he was staring at the man's chest. "...I wasn't
supposed to like people. I decided I didn't want anything to do with anyone,
early on, and so it just... stopped. People would flirt with me and I felt
nothing. I would look at people who were physically attractive by a number of
measurements, and I felt nothing. I never thought I'd have to face some
activities or interactions because they would never happen."
"It appears I've bent the very fabric of the universe to outwit you, Sherlock."
Jim smiled. His voice was strangely gentle. "But I'd have nothing less. Only
the very best of you." Which meant everything. If Jim wanted Sherlock, he would
be driven to take all of him. Every last bit, which he'd already begun to do,
driving Sherlock beyond his boundaries, delving into his very thoughts and
memories.
Jim was like fire, consuming everything in his path. And how bright he burned.
How he could make Sherlock burn, too, with pleasure and shame and anything else
Jim wanted him to feel.
Sherlock had plenty of shame at the moment. His cheeks reddened as he thought
back on everything that had happened, including what he'd done to Jim. "I grew
used to thinking about such things as disgusting." Nothing else he'd done had
made him feel like hiding. He wasn't embarrassed to have a drug-haunted past or
to be familiar with the trials of homelessness. He wasn't shamed to have
dropped out of college, or to make his living without a great amount of
monetary security. He did care about being called a freak, but he'd wrapped
himself in all of the accusations like armor and refused to give up a life of
corpses and enigmas and excitement.
Sherlock didn't know how to feel about what they'd done together, and the sure
knowledge that Jim wanted to do more to him made him shiver.
Jim's smile smoothed into something else, something that held a certain amount
of consideration. And a hint of calculation. Sherlock could see it; the gears
turning behind Jim's dark eyes was a familiar expression. It was the kind of
look Sherlock himself often wore.
"It isn't," Jim said finally. As though that could change Sherlock's mind. As
though Jim's opinion, his reassurance, stated as fact, could outweigh
Sherlock's years of forming this opinion. "But I may be willing to stop Moran's
advances, when the time comes. If you give me at least a little leeway to do
so."
"'May' isn't very reassuring. I can barely handle this with you, because-
" Because Jim was somewhat known to him, and attractive. Sherlock had begun to
admit as much now, reassessing the ways he'd previously thought of the man
before all this had started. He couldn't imagine experiencing the same with a
stranger, even if he was in the back of his own mind watching and feeling it
happen while Jim was in control. Sherlock shook his head with a violent jerk.
Jim's fingers caught on his hair. "I don't want him touching me."
Jim wouldn't let him turn away, and when Sherlock's eyes snapped back in
challenge, Jim met his gaze. Sherlock could tell he was still a little annoyed
at Sherlock's abrupt attempt to pull back, but he did not resort to anger as
he'd done before. "Then let me do the touching. Not for long. Just enough to
subdue him, and then I will stop him." Jim paused. Sherlock stared back warily.
"You have my word."
Sherlock nodded slowly. Jim was tricky, and could change his mind and his
attitude at a moment's notice, but he had a tendency to do what he'd promised
to do, if not necessarily in the way his words had been understood.
"...alright. I can't promise I won't panic, but I'll try not to." Trying to
fight back on instinct would just make it all the more difficult for Jim to
retain smooth control.
"Good," Jim smiled slowly. "Then we'll catch ourselves a tiger, maybe even by
the tail." He seemed amused enough at the old rhyme even though Sherlock had no
frame of reference for it. Other than his current age. Jim stroked his fingers
through Sherlock’s hair again. "So soft..," Jim mused. "Did you have any idea
how beautiful you were to me? Shining so bright. A beacon of intelligence...I
thought you would understand so much." Jim's eyes fell as he became thoughtful,
and then he bent his head. He didn't have to go very far to kiss Sherlock's
lips.
Sherlock felt a rush of warmth go through him when they made contact. Jim was
far different when he was like this. Odd as it seemed, Sherlock was beginning
to realize that he did feel more secure like this. Jim was softer, and more
importantly, he held back. He was responsive every time Sherlock signaled
refusal or unease, and he was pausing to listen to Sherlock's words. His lips
parted and Jim didn't waste time in taking advantage.
Sherlock wondered what Jim had looked like, back when Jim had first spotted
him. Sherlock had never seen the other boy, just his handiwork. Had never even
known the name of who was responsible.
When they parted, Jim licked his lips. Like he couldn't get enough of Sherlock.
His thumb continued it's stroking against Sherlock's temple and Jim's hand
cupped his cheek. Jim did not have large hands, until now. He stretched himself
out on the bed, curling Sherlock's blankets around them and never letting the
boy go all the while. "I could spend ages in this dream of yours," Jim admitted
fondly. Perhaps not forever, Jim was a restless soul, but for him 'ages' would
suffice.
And that was flattering - a mind that got so quickly bored of everything else,
even the entire world, was content to stay for an indeterminate amount of time
just being with Sherlock. From anyone else, that might have sounded like an
expression of love, or the words of some sort of guardian angel, but Sherlock
knew Jim didn't have idle, platonic days in mind. "I would hope so," Sherlock
whispered. "You can't leave without killing me, I don't think. I don't really
want you to get bored too quickly."
Jim glanced to him with an indulgent smile before his dark eyes turned to the
books on Sherlock's shelves. "Every piece of this room went in to the making of
Sherlock Holmes,” Jim mused. “How could I not find that intriguing? I could
dust off your memories, long since forgotten, and watch you play in here for
hours. One of the very first things I did was watch you investigate Carl
Powers." Jim's smile widened, and even when he tried to temper it, it made him
look a little devilish. "How I enjoyed those memories."
Sherlock's cheeks colored. He wasn't fond of Jim poking around inside his head
by himself, as it was more than a little voyeuristic and invasive, but he was
less bothered than he'd been at the start of this. If they were stuck together,
they were going to learn everything about one another anyway. Or at least Jim
would. "...are we able to do the same with you? Watch your memories? It's not
quite fair. I never saw you back then, and you have access to everything in
here."
Jim's head cocked thoughtfully. An idea took hold of him. "Perhaps..." He held
his hand up to Sherlock's temple again, stroking his hair back, feeling the
light pulse underneath. Sherlock could feel it in his own head as Jim looked
into his eyes. "If I can bring you under in the waking world..." Jim moved in
closer, pressing himself to Sherlock, dipping his head, pressing his brow to
Sherlock's. He was all focus. This had to be different than Jim bringing him
under while inside his head. They were under the illusion while in Sherlock's
mind together that they were more separate than they were while Sherlock was
awake. Jim seemed to be trying to counter that idea through focus alone,
illustrated by removing any physical space between them.
Finally, Sherlock felt a pull inside his chest, not unfamiliar now that Jim had
brought him under several times. This time, however, Jim seemed to be pulling
Sherlock toward him.
Sherlock's eyes rolled up. He felt like he was falling again, only instead of
toppling over in a faint, this was hooked somewhere deeper. The bedroom around
them was swallowed up in shadow. Sherlock tried to ground himself and find
something to hold onto, but Jim was the only solid thing he found. Sherlock
clung to him as they dropped.
He felt Jim's arms twine around him, tighter than ever. His face turned into
Jim's collar, and suddenly they stopped. The world’s freefall came to a halt.
There was solid ground beneath their feet, and Sherlock was wearing shoes. In
fact, both he and Jim were clothed again, Jim in a worn pair of jeans and a
tshirt, Sherlock in a heavy coat, buttoned up tightly to keep out the cold. The
way his mother used to dress him. Jim lifted him off his toes, trainers, in
fact, and it was very odd to see Jim Moriarty in trainers, until Sherlock stood
solidly on the ground. They stood on the chilly streets of London, in a very
familiar place - just outside the pool where Carl Powers had drowned.
Sherlock's breath steamed in the air in front of him. When he looked up, Jim
didn't seem to be bothered by the cold. He looked perfectly comfortable in
clothing that reminded Sherlock of the two times they'd met more casually -
once as an IT technician, and later as a small-time actor. Sherlock stared a
bit while the rest of him caught up.
He had a very good idea of why Jim had brought him here. Of all the memories
Jim could have picked, it made sense for him to select this one. It was a
moment Jim obviously treasured, and one that had started them on their
collision course so many years later. Sherlock felt his pulse pick up. His gaze
turned toward the building and his hand blindly sought out Jim's before leading
the way toward the doors.
Jim let himself be pulled along. Sherlock remembered this path. It was the same
one he'd taken into the building in the first place. Through the recreation
centre's lobby, past the gymnasiums, finding the same corridors blocked off by
notices from the Met.
People moved around them as they went, unseen, through a small throng of
investigators. They were packing up for the night, leaving with what little
they'd found for the lab, and Sherlock knew as well as Jim that his younger
self was just waiting around one of these corridors for them to finish.
Once the last steps of the Met had faded into the distance and the main lights
went out, leaving only the eerie blue glow of the secondary lamps, kept on for
the janitors, they heard a second sound of footsteps. Softer ones. The sound
preceded the shine of a torch and a small shape that appeared around the corner
of the hall, unmistakable by his curly hair.
The Met would return in the morning, but in the meantime, young Sherlock could
move as he pleased and it was clear he was heading for the pool.
Sherlock watched himself slip through the doors to the pool. His past self
would be intent on studying the whole crime scene, including the locker room.
He remembered exactly what he'd brought in his pockets that day - a makeshift
investigation kit scrounged together from pieces of his chemistry set, his
entomology magnifying glass, and whatever else he'd found around the house.
Just as the real Sherlock was about to pull forward, Jim held him back by the
hand. When the boy with the torch reached the end of the hall, carefully
checking the double doors for an alarm, another shape peered around the corner
of the lobby.
Sherlock had never seen was the other boy. He had never expected that the
culprit would return, would be right there.
The second boy crept closer now that the small investigator had disappeared
through the doors, and Sherlock watched his features gradually resolve in the
dim light. Jim's younger self was eerily recognizable. His hairline had
changed, the shape of his face had grown sharper and gained a few lines around
his eyes, and he'd grown taller and filled out from the willowy, boyish frame
Sherlock saw, but his eyes were the same. The same darkness, the same glint of
drive behind them, just with less experience...
Not yet world-weary.
A strange mixture of curiosity and anger flickered over the young Jim's face,
unhidden when he thought no one was watching. He was even more expressive than
his adult self. The chill of the outdoors followed him as he went, obviously
having just come out of the cold. He'd been watching the Met just like Sherlock
had been, then, but hadn't dared come inside until they had gone. The
interesting thing was that he wore no coat, not even a light jacket, yet did
not appear to be cold. He wore, in fact, the same clothes the Jim at Sherlock's
side wore now. His focus was absolute, and perhaps that was how he ignored it
as he slipped down the hall after Sherlock's counterpart. This Jim moved
quickly, darting like a little snake through the shadows.
The elder Jim let them follow as the boy who'd caused Carl's accident peered
through the glass window at the young detective, tentatively walking around the
pool, noting the number of exits, ventilation, drainage, everything he could
within the space. As they watched one boy watch the other, Sherlock could see
the young Jim's anger slowly melt away into uninhibited fascination. This Jim
was seeing Sherlock in his element. This Jim was seeing Sherlock perform when
he thought no one else was watching.
The boy's fascination was mirrored. Sherlock dropped Jim's hand in order to get
closer. He wanted to see this - Jim without so many shields, watching a
Sherlock who thought he was alone while he, too, thought he was unobserved.
Seeing into Jim's head had been something he'd wanted ever since they'd
officially met, and while he couldn't read the boy's thoughts or deduce his
past, this was a potent offering.
Jim was offering him this. Because he had asked. He watched the younger
Moriarty light up, dark eyes moving back and forth as the boy watched younger
Sherlock investigating.
"...what were you thinking?" Sherlock whispered.
"At first I thought how troublesome you were. I couldn't believe how such a
brat had thought there was anything suspicious about Carl's death, or that you
would have the gall to come here and investigate." Jim came up by his side. "I
thought the boy who had tried to engage the Met was nothing more than a know-
it-all who wanted his own fame. I noticed your efforts while I watched their
investigation. ....But here, here I saw you work, and everything changed." And
so did Jim's voice. It grew softer, higher, and when Sherlock glanced back at
him, he saw the same boy who crouched in front of him, watching Sherlock step
around the pool.
The Sherlock from this memory must have finally entered the locker room and
disappeared from sight. The Jim who'd been watching stepped back from the
window and moved away, leaving the two of them alone. Sherlock turned and
watched him go, his gaze sliding from the retreating shadow to its twin who
still stood before him.
"Why did you wait so long?" Sherlock knew without a doubt that, had Jim found
him in his early years, his life path would have been drastically different.
He'd been even more sensitive as a child, and easily swayed in some things, if
not others. His fascination with the morbid, and the flattery of someone paying
attention to him in an appreciative way would have drawn his younger self in.
"Your brother. Your family." Jim's dark eyes stared through him, like he were
the Jim from back then addressing Sherlock just the same. "I followed you. I
wasn't even sure I wanted a playmate at first," the young boy's eyes closed and
Jim shook his head with a smile, "but I couldn't stop thinking about you. I
found out who you were and then I found them. And they swallowed you up. Your
brother was well on his way to becoming an adult and he never took his eyes off
you. Your parents shut you away...." Jim reached out with a hand as small as
Sherlock's and twined fingers through Sherlock’s hair in a very adult gesture.
"How I wished I'd given in to the temptation to steal you away, but I didn't.
Safety above all. And then you went off to school and became boring. I thought
only of the boy who'd once nearly solved my murder after that. Until lo and
behold, a certain consulting detective appeared on my radar."
Hurt flickered across Sherlock's face. Pointless as it was to dwell on what
might have been or speculate about how things might have turned out for the
best, Sherlock felt cheated. "I thought I was alone. Except for Mycroft. Who
thought I was stupid." His brother had constantly made him feel inept and,
later on, stifled. The other people around him were even more alienating -
irritating, daft, vapid, cruel, eager to take what advantages they could and
push him to the outskirts when they saw no further use for him. Not a person,
but a freak and a tool. Even later in life this had persisted.
"Your brother had seven years on you and had learned to repress nearly anything
that made him interesting," Jim countered. "Of course he thought you were
stupid. While you were processing emotions, he skipped over them entirely and
had already moved on. Now I know why," Jim added with a hint of a playful
smile, "but you weren't alone. Or you shouldn't have been." Jim's other arm
came up and his hands linked behind Sherlock's neck. At this age he was just a
little shorter than Sherlock, and Jim didn't look like much of a threat. He was
one of those boys who was perpetually small. "I was alone, too."
"But you were really alone, weren't you?" Sherlock's parents hadn't understood
him or Mycroft at all, had even been frightened of them, but they'd tried.
They'd cared. They'd been there and done the best they could. Sherlock had
never had to worry about getting an education, or food and a roof over his
head, or that their lack of understanding might lead to abuse. Jim... seemed
disconnected even from that sort of mundane childhood.
Sherlock's arms slowly wrapped around Jim. Jim was still smiling, but Sherlock
was stuck on what a waste it had all been. All that time, all that suffering,
all the dead ends. He would have given the world just to know he wasn't alone
when he was younger.
Jim's continued smile was the only possible affirmation of Sherlock's question.
"You were my only regret," he said with his familiar lilt, so unusual in a
child's voice, and a note of nostalgia. "And how it pains me now to know I
could have lured you away..." Jim's eyes dropped, fluidly landing on Sherlock's
lips, like he was both remembering a time and caught within a particular
desire. "Maybe it's not too late."
Without looking for confirmation, Jim leaned in, brushing his mouth against
Sherlock's, pulling Sherlock back against him.
Sherlock had spent much of his life mimicking his brother, putting on an air of
cold analytical detachment or pushing others away with hurtful comments or
declarations of sociopathy. He'd never been able to successfully numb what he
felt; Sherlock was an intensely emotional creature. Regret held him in place.
A shock ran through him when he noticed how much softer Jim was like this. When
he pulled back to stare at Jim with wide eyes, another thought registered.
This was becoming a new normal. Being kissed was no longer a strange new thing.
Sherlock blinked, processing this and the fact that... he liked it. He knew
full well that other factors were in play, including his old fascination with
Jim and the psychological strain of being forced into their odd relationship,
but what he felt was beginning to overrule his anger and his reservations.
Jim must have seen something in the way Sherlock regarded him, because the
other boy's expression lightened. His lips quirked and, playfully, he darted in
again. This time it was quicker, with a nip of sharp little teeth at the end.
Just to get Sherlock to open his mouth. Then a swipe of tongue, and suddenly a
hungry little Jim was pushing at him until his back hit the wall, smirking
against him, and very, very leisurely exploring the ways he could kiss
Sherlock. "I'd thought about this, too," Jim whispered. "Even back then."
Sherlock let out a shaky breath, until even that was devoured. Jim was still
shorter than him, if not by much, but his dominant personality had always made
him feel overwhelming. Backed up against the wall, petal soft lips and sharp
teeth teasing and kissing and trying to pry him open, Sherlock felt like Jim
was a storm. He'd lingered ominously on the horizon for years, hungry and
patient, failed to sweep him up once, and now was back again to tear him open
and pour into the fissure he made. Sherlock felt a tongue lap into him mouth
and let his stance widen as Jim pushed between his legs. Sherlock's fingers
grasped at Jim's thin t-shirt, pulling, and Sherlock didn't know if he wanted
to pull Jim away or simply pull off that thin barrier hiding warm skin
underneath.
He could feel it when Jim moaned, perhaps sensing the conflict within Sherlock
because Jim redoubled his efforts, slowing down, dragging his teeth and tongue
along Sherlock's lips like he was offering honey instead. He ground his hip
against Sherlock's groin in one smooth, agonizing circle. And then did it
again. And again, until even Jim's eyes closed. "I could have you like this, at
the very scene of the murder," Jim gasped out, the idea making his blood pump
hard enough for Sherlock to hear the strain in his voice.
Sherlock's thoughts derailed and split into several directions. Part of him was
still dwelling on past possibilities. Another piece was responding to the
stimuli, reacting in ways that he was slowly learning, cues forming connections
and associations in his mind. A third portion was running over everything he
knew, everything he'd researched and seen, and picturing what Jim was
suggesting with curiosity and more than a little fear. Sherlock wasn't quite
over feeling guilty about what he'd done to Jim. "I don't think that I can," he
whispered.
"You can do anything if you just...set your mind to it," Jim said playfully and
tapped a finger against Sherlock's temple. He waggled his small brows, just as
sharp as they always were. "Just look at me."
Sherlock still looked dubious. Jim leaned back in anyway, dropping the playful
act but not his interest.
"Just let me..." His arms were back around Sherlock's shoulders and his body,
so extremely unlike his adult self, pressed against Sherlock again, and even in
spite of the change, Sherlock could feel that he was interested. Jim never
seemed to stop wanting him. "Let me...," Jim's petal soft lips brushed against
Sherlock's jaw and his hips rocked against him like Jim was afraid he wouldn't
get another chance to do this.
Sherlock rarely had nerves on a case. Even knowing that he could die at the
hands of the culprit he was tracking had never dissuaded him from putting
himself in the line of fire. The truly unknown was an exception to the rule.
The last time he could remember trembling like this was when he'd thought he
was dealing with an unearthly, ghostly hound. That notion had proven false, but
this time the ghost was real.
Jim had dropped the playful act, though. He seemed sincere and had adopted that
careful, gentle demeanor that seemed to surface whenever Sherlock was in this
form. Jim rocked against him again and Sherlock's arms tightened. He remembered
the look Jim had gotten on his face - not pain, but pleasure.
"...I'm afraid."
"To enjoy my company?" Jim sighed. Summing it up like that was a bit unfair,
and anyway, Sherlock had little reason not to be afraid of enjoying Jim's
company. Jim was, however, set on getting something out of the scene their
minds had created. He wouldn't move away in spite of Sherlock's trembles, nor
even when he fidgeted. Jim held his arms around Sherlock's neck and lowered his
head to the crook of Sherlock's shoulder. "What can I do to make it easier on
you?"
"...it's easier when you're not pretending, like this." Jim's predatory
mannerisms were intriguing in their own way, but not something that made
Sherlock want to open up and trust him. "...knowing you'd stop if I asked.
Going slow." Slow enough that he could change his mind if he found out he
couldn't take it.
Jim lifted his head. "Then come into the pool with me." His hands fell and
caught Sherlock's, pulling the other boy away from the wall. He opened the
double doors his former self had been looking through and led Sherlock inside.
Remnants of the crime scene investigation littered the walkways, but Jim only
eyed them with a certain amount of pride. He held Sherlock's hand as they moved
to the side of the pool until he stopped and turned Sherlock to face him. His
hands came up and drew Sherlock's head down, pulling the taller boy back into a
kiss.
Sherlock's kiss was delicate, born of hesitancy not for the kiss itself, but
what he knew Jim wanted to come afterwards. It was warmer in there. The
chlorine tang in the air was sharper now that they were right beside the water,
and light reflected off the pool surface, painting gossamer lines on everything
in the room. Jim's eyes seemed darker, too - staring up and as hungry as they'd
ever been. Sherlock's hands drifted back to Jim's sides and rested for a
moment, then slid under the hem of Jim's t-shirt.
The gleam of delight in Jim's eyes might have been a reflection from the pool,
but it hardly mattered. He shifted and moved into the touch while Sherlock
slowly explored. Jim's skin was infinitely soft. His body was so small and
pliable where he'd been hard and bony before. And he was slim. Sherlock could
have probably picked him up and tossed him right into the pool if he'd wanted
to. Not that that would have been a good idea, but...if he'd wanted to.
"I could have come through that door," Jim whispered, "right when you were in
the middle of it. I could have made myself known to you then and changed
everything. I would have taken your hand, and led you to the poolside, and
kissed you just like this..." Jim did it as he spoke.
Sherlock knew his younger self would have been surprised, and curious. Far more
curious, and completely unafraid, because he'd not yet have had the weight of
countless rejections and alienation piled atop him. His tongue would have
followed Jim's back into his mouth, as it did now, but without a tremor running
through him. He simply would have been thrilled to have found, as he would have
suspected, the culprit returning to the scene of the crime. And catching him,
proving his cleverness.
Jim certainly was caught, if not in the way Sherlock would have imagined all
those years ago.
Small hands wound through Sherlock's curls and Jim moved up on his toes just to
deepen the kiss. "Would you have come with me back then?" he asked as they
parted. "If I had told you how I'd done it, and how I planned to concoct more
crimes, and do it again, and again, would you have shared in my ideas? Or would
you have run away, back to big brother and all that was safe?" Jim's weight
rested against Sherlock, hanging in the moment.
"N-not right away." Sherlock would have been thrilled, and overwhelmed, but he
wouldn't have left home quite so quickly. "I would have gone home to think, and
probably to pack some things. But... it would have seemed like an adventure."
Like the pirate stories Mycroft had read to him, or fairy tale books: the
youngest boy leaving home, even though no one believed he could make it,
braving all dangers and comes out victorious, proving himself once and for all.
And having another playmate who didn't make him feel inferior...
Jim's head tipped back to regard him. He reached his hand up to trace
Sherlock's fine brow. "And then reality would have set it, and you would have
hated me," he challenged with a raise of his own brow. "I made the world my
playground, as you saw when we played our game. I didn't have to live in
somebody else's fantasy." There was a fervor in his tone that told Sherlock Jim
felt quite passionately about this, about essentially taking what he wanted and
knowing full well the consequences it would bring.
"Jim." Sherlock waited until Jim paused and actually listened. "I wouldn't
have. If we'd met that early, you would have been like Peter Pan to me. An
exciting escape from everything. I would have gone home, and planned, and
packed, and snuck out the window again." With a head full of mysteries and
murders, and childish dreams of becoming something like the people in books and
movies. A legend, instead of a toy prodigy or freakish embarrassment.
Jim pulled back and looked at Sherlock. Really looked at him, and Sherlock
could see that something in Jim was changing before it fully happened. His lust
was held back by a new dawning emotion. Disbelief knotted his brows together,
but a dull horror filled the rest of his face and twisted his mouth, horror
that told Sherlock Jim did believe him. Wide, dark eyes darted back and forth
across Sherlock's face while the weight of Jim's missed opportunity, and the
new certainty of what could have been, fell down upon him.
It was so heavy in fact, that it sent Jim to his knees, fists clutched in
Sherlock's full jacket. "Don't tell me that..." Jim whispered, but his voice
wasn't steady.
Sherlock stared back in confusion before he realized what Jim must be thinking.
It was gratifying, in a way, to see Jim openly distressed for once. For him to
share in the pain that he'd meted out to Sherlock, and others, over and over
again. He'd torn at Sherlock's body and mind without empathy or remorse.
That didn't negate the other feeling that rose up in Sherlock. Conflicted as he
was, some measure of attachment had started to form in him. Sherlock felt a
pang of sorrow as he watched, because anything that broke through Jim's
defenses this thoroughly and laid him bare must have been exceedingly strong.
Slowly, Sherlock followed Jim down until he was also on his knees.
He paused for a moment, inexperienced with fulfilling the role of comforter.
After another moment's reflection his arms circled Jim and drew him in.
Jim went stiff and wouldn't unclench his fists from Sherlock's coat. He was
like a statue, stricken with a very unsettling revelation. "If I could
have...If I could have had you from the start - " He cut himself off, hissing,
seemingly angry at his own weakness, but he was breathing heavy with a tight
chest. Sherlock could feel it as much as he could hear it. What lost potential
they'd shared had struck Jim hard. Harder than it should have. Apparently he'd
lied when he said no one ever got to him. Because Sherlock certainly had.
"You didn't, though." Sherlock said quietly. There was no getting around it.
Jim had had concerns about his own safety, and rightly so. He'd erred on the
side of caution, or maybe hadn't even known what he'd wanted back then. He'd
made a decision, and their lives had played out the way they had. "You made a
different choice. You didn't have me then and you can't change that. All you
can do is make different choices right now."
Jim hissed again and his black eyes snapped up to Sherlock. He did not look
happy at all, perhaps a little ashamed of his reaction, but the words he spat
out were bitter truths. "Now, when I'm dead and you refuse to step out of the
little box you and your brother have made for yourself? Tell me, what's so
great about now?" Jim's fists balled and he yanked hard at the lapels of
Sherlock's coat, as though if he just shook him hard enough, Sherlock would see
what Jim did.
Sherlock was seeing Jim. Jim stripped of the protective facade that had finally
cracked as the tragedy of it all had hit him. Sherlock softened, looking back
at a face that no longer radiated primal confidence, but anger and pain.
Fixated on loss, looking backwards, just as Sherlock had only a few minutes
ago. He grabbed onto Jim's hands, stilling them, then grabbed Jim's head and
pulled him into a kiss.
That shut Jim up.
Although he stiffened at first. Nearly even pulled back. But this was what he'd
wanted, and Sherlock had finally surprised him by initiating it when Jim was
off guard.
When Sherlock pressed in, moving against Jim's mouth, Jim responded. He did so
slowly. For someone who could turn emotions on a dime, he took a while to come
around. Eventually he lifted his hands and touched Sherlock in return. Jim’s
dark eyes closed into the kiss, like he was taking a moment to imagine what
could have been. Two young boys by the poolside, one a killer, smart enough to
get away with it, the other smart enough to see how.
Sherlock didn’t have to search through past, constructed memories to feel
warmth this time. He was startled to find that the weight in his chest felt
much like the one that had nestled there whenever his former blogger had done
something particularly endearing or heartbreaking. When Jim's eyes reopened and
their gazes met, Sherlock was still uneasy about what Jim might decide to do,
but he didn't want to push the other boy away. Particularly not now, not while
Jim was open like this. If he did the wrong thing, Jim might never open up
again.
Jim was searching him in return, calculating, but with neither the cold nor
fiery intensity of his usual gaze. He was analysing where Sherlock stood now,
and finally, he seemed to approve.
Jim was still dead and Sherlock was still in a memory within a dream, but when
Jim reached back to kiss him again, all that fell away just enough to be
ignored. Jim was the culprit Sherlock had been looking for, and Sherlock was
the playmate Jim had wanted, and finally they'd found one another. Whether that
was over two decades ago or in the present didn't particularly matter at the
moment.
Sherlock had experienced kissing enough now to have a general idea to build
from, and just enough comfort to actually try. He mimicked what Jim had done to
him before, licking and biting at the other boy's lips until they parted to let
him in. This, he could do. The taste was familiar, but the feel wasn't - not
with Jim like this, smaller and softer.
Once Jim began to come around, it didn't take him long to catch up. Though his
fervor was significantly more subdued than it had been before, he still grasped
at Sherlock and moved into his space. Jim was deepening the kiss. He was
climbing into Sherlock's lap. His knees fell around Sherlock's waist and Jim
just sat there, kissing him back, trying little by little to burrow in
Sherlock's space. If it hadn't been for the barrier of his skin, Jim might have
slipped right underneath. His small shoulders hunched and he crowded Sherlock
so much they had to lean back, and as soon as Jim noticed, he was pushing
Sherlock down, trying to get him to lie back.
Sherlock's nerves surfaced again, but he let himself be guided by the small
hands pushing at his shoulders. The poolside floor was cool and uncomfortable.
Sherlock was grateful for the small amount of padding his coat gave him.
Jim didn't give him space to breathe a word. Didn't give him space at all,
still pressed as close as he could get, kissing Sherlock like he could devour
his soul through that alone. Sherlock started to feel dizzy, and not just from
lack of air. His hands slid into Jim's hair.
Jim groaned aloud. His fingers fumbled down Sherlock's front, seizing the
fastenings of his coat and releasing them until Jim could dip his hands inside.
He wrapped his whole body around Sherlock and couldn't seem to figure out
whether he wanted to close his eyes and try to enfold himself in Sherlock's
clothes or whether he wanted to devour the other boy, pursuing a more intense
form of intimacy. And it seemed to frustrate him, because every now and then
Jim let out a whine, one that let Sherlock know that things had not completely
settled within him.
Sherlock did his best to breathe around Jim's possessive grip and demanding
lips. Jim's movements caused their hips to grind together briefly, and Sherlock
couldn't quite stifle a groan. Jim fixed him with a look, and that was enough
to send a violent shiver through Sherlock's body. He thought Jim had been
intense before, but he was absolutely driven now.
All that squirming didn't stop Jim's hands from rucking up Sherlock's shirt,
nor undoing its buttons either. He was a little too hurried, and he might not
have gotten them all, but he freed the garment at last. He pulled away just
long enough to look at Sherlock, splayed out on the tile floor, clothes in
disarray and hair in a wild halo about his head. Jim was back down again after
only a second, hitching himself up to press his mouth to Sherlock's collar bone
while his hands ventured lower. Jim was perhaps caught between his adult self
and his child one. Unless he had always been like this, which, after a moment's
thought, was not a far stretch of the imagination.
Sherlock wasn't quite able to let go. He'd finally gotten to the point where
he'd processed some of what they'd done and admitted to himself that he'd
enjoyed it, that he was attracted to Jim even when the man made him angry or
traumatized, but it was still so soon. A person would normally have a lot of
time to process changes in identity and be introduced to sexuality, but they
were not normal people and their relationship, such as it was, was no
exception. Sherlock felt a fluttering in his stomach and chest and tried not to
squirm when Jim's hands found skin.
When Sherlock whimpered, Jim moved to his ear, nipping and soothing and sushing
him with small sounds and warm air. His palm moved over Sherlock‘s groin first,
and then his fingers, small enough to find the perfect grip. Jim wasn't slow,
but his voice entered Sherlock's ear at the same time, so soft, even softer
than his usual self. "Come and join me, Sherlock. Pleeeasse. Give in." Just
like Jim was back at the pool. Like he'd come out and seduced Sherlock with his
wit and his danger and his incredible intensity, and even...even his longing
for another like himself.
Sherlock did want someone. Mycroft wasn't enough, as someone vaguely similar
who'd placed himself behind mental walls too thick and tall to ever be truly
reached. John had been a treasured companion, flattering him and accepting of
his eccentricities, but equally unobtainable and frustrating in his inequality.
John was gone now; had never really been Sherlock’s, had never really had the
chance of being his. Just a temporary state in Sherlock's life, whatever
Sherlock might have wanted otherwise.
Jim was here and wasn't going away. He understood the loneliness and banality,
the pain of living behind glass and separated from the rest of humanity. He
understood boredom and flexible ethics. Even more, he wanted Sherlock and was
capable of kindness and consideration when motivated. Not everything was an
act, and his pain had been very real. Real enough that he'd abandoned living.
Sherlock bit his lower lip and thrust up against Jim's hand. He was still
afraid, but Jim's constant efforts were crumbling yet another wall Sherlock had
built for himself.
Jim's eyes closed, Sherlock could feel it with the other boy’s lashes against
his neck. Jim's breath hitched as though he were the one being touched.
"You've no idea what you do to me. How long I've wanted this." And how Jim must
have never thought it could be. Sometimes the pain of a thing so desperately
longed for becoming real was almost worse than the longing itself. It had sent
even Jim to his knees, the boy, the man, who wanted things only in order to
destroy them. Who hadn't been able to cope with wanting Sherlock as the
exception.
Jim removed his hand only long enough to pull Sherlock's pants down over his
hips, and then Jim's were following. His free hand took Sherlock's and Jim
pressed it to his hip, never breaking his rhythm. He guided Sherlock's hand
inward, youthful dark eyes watching for signs of hesitance.
Jim couldn't have missed the nervous look in Sherlock's features, but his
pupils were blown wide. Sherlock didn't resist the guidance, and his touch was
light and shaky, but not hesitant. His fingers wrapped around Jim's cock, and
his eyes devoured every flicker of expression on Jim's face. If Sherlock was
going to brave this particular unknown, he wanted assurance that he wasn't
alone, that he wasn't accompanied by a projection. "I'm starting to get a
general idea," he whispered, a little late. His voice wasn't steady, but his
hand started stroking.
Jim's breath caught. Sherlock could feel him shudder. His lips pressed to
Sherlock's neck and his hips thrust back into Sherlock's hand. Jim set the
rhythm between them. It was quick and slightly desperate, even though they had
both so recently experienced climax in another dream. A dream within a dream.
The real world barely seemed to matter anymore. Not when they were buried this
deep and Sherlock was rutting into Jim and Jim was raw inside and Sherlock
could see holes in his shroud. Jim whined. His one free hand wound around
Sherlock's shoulders and slid up into his hair. Jim moved in to kiss him, and
Sherlock could feel him still shaking.
Sherlock was having trouble keeping track of reality, and of time. It all
seemed so fluid and unreal. The real world was doubtlessly progressing outside,
but it was all so distant. Jim was real, and Sherlock was inside his mind,
finally watching the shutters open just a crack to let him in. And he wanted
in; his kiss said as much, as did the arm he slid around Jim's back. He didn't
want to be alone anymore, and he wanted a companion, not an adversary.
"Sherlock," Jim whispered. Over and over he said Sherlock's name to the beat of
their thrusts, slipping as they grew more frantic. Jim could certainly hear
Sherlock’s sounds, he didn't need actual words, just the sound of Sherlock’s
voice, unusually light, gasping and crying out in little bursts every time Jim
squeezed just right. It seemed to spike Jim's arousal higher and higher. Jim
drew himself as close as he possibly could to Sherlock while they still moved.
They barely avoided the water. It was probably the only thing that would have
stopped Jim at that point. Anyone could have walked in on them and Jim wouldn’t
have noticed or cared.
Jim's frenzy drove coherent thought out of Sherlock's mind. He couldn't think
about anything else but what he was feeling and the small form draped across
him, chanting his name into his ear while they entangled and ground against
each other. Sherlock couldn’t do anything but hold on and let himself react.
Jim's hand twisted just right, and Sherlock finally gasped Jim's name. It
seemed natural; everything around them had contracted to the two of them and
the sound of soft, lapping water at their side.
Jim cried out. Possibly he couldn't take the sound of his own name on
Sherlock's lips. Not when he said it like that. Sherlock felt Jim jerk in his
hand and strain against him. Jim strained all over. His grip in Sherlock's hair
turned almost painful. Jim trembled. His body went limp and Sherlock heard a
muffled sound, from somewhere beside his neck. It could have been a word, but
was more likely a sigh. Jim's arms, however, did not loosen. Pliant as he was,
he refused to move away even an inch.
Sherlock thrust a few more times against Jim's hand, but it was too soon for
him. He stilled with a sigh and shut his eyes. Jim was still latched tight
around him, and now that they weren't moving the sound of the pool was much
clearer, accompanied by Jim's breathing against his neck and the flutter of his
own racing heartbeat. Sherlock was uncomfortable and still aroused, but not
bothered enough to break the moment.
His hand released Jim. It took a bit of wriggling before he could get his arm
free from where it was trapped between them. He wrapped it around Jim and
stared up at the ceiling. "...are you alright?"
He felt a laugh warm his neck, a puff of air more than anything. "No."
But then Jim was crawling over him, so he could see Sherlock, and when he did
Jim looked at him...kindly, if kind could ever be used in conjunction with Jim.
His fingers slipped out of Sherlock's hair and stroked down the edges of his
face and Jim still looked a little raw, but he was functioning. Even smiling,
just a little, before he kissed Sherlock's mouth. And then his jaw. And his
neck. And his chest. And his belly button. And then Jim worked Sherlock's
trousers down just a little more, and took him into his mouth.
Sherlock moaned and his eyes fluttered shut. He still wasn't used to this, and
somehow it felt more intense after the look Jim had just given him than when
he'd felt manipulated into it. He was no longer half-expecting Jim to bite him,
or kill him in a split-second whim, or force things past the hard line Sherlock
had drawn. Part of Sherlock had realized that, as much as Jim had desperately
wanted him for an excruciating length of time, he still hadn't forced things
into what he'd wanted from the start.
Jim didn’t hesitate after that. He felt Sherlock relaxing into the new touch,
as much as Sherlock could relax at the moment, and Jim began to suck. He picked
up the pace again, and he sucked hard. When Sherlock's hand scrabbled for
something to hold, Jim caught it in his own, squeezing tight. He didn't need
his hands to suck Sherlock off, not when he was this small, but Jim still hung
onto his hip. Perhaps just to ground himself, to dig his nails in the soft
flesh and feel it mold for him.
Sherlock's other hand caught a fistful of Jim's hair. The feeling was almost
more unbalancing - he could feel Jim's head moving up and down. Sherlock’s hips
canted up with little effect; his body craved more stimulation but Jim was
already swallowing him whole. Sherlock heard a desperate whine echo off the
pool walls, and it took a moment to realize it had come from him. He flushed
with embarrassment.
And then Jim moaned in return. He was certainly not sorry to hear it. The eerie
blue light danced in his dark eyes as he smiled up at Sherlock, either proud of
what Jim had caused him to do or proud of Sherlock for having done it. It
didn't deter his efforts though. In fact, it redoubled them. Jim swirled his
tongue and hollowed his cheeks and his long lashes shuttered low over his eyes.
He might have still been imagining this was what their first time could have
been, but he wasn't lost to the present either. And he seemed to enjoy
pleasuring Sherlock no less.
Sherlock's grip tightened suddenly and he arched against Jim's mouth with a
cry, going completely rigid and shaking. The hardness of the ground beneath him
barely registered; Sherlock's mind was replaying Jim's smile and the way it had
looked when he'd glanced down and watched himself disappear into Jim's mouth.
And watched Jim enjoy it. It was a good number of seconds before Sherlock
slumped bonelessly back to the ground, panting and feeling overheated despite
the cool air.
Jim crawled up his slim frame without hesitation, until he was half draped over
Sherlock and half in the crook of his shoulder. Jim's legs twined around his
own and he buried his face in Sherlock's neck, not doing anything to help the
heat. But Jim wouldn't be pried away. He was there and desperate for Sherlock's
solidity. Their chests heaved with effort to calm their hearts.
Minutes passed and still the dream remained. Jim wouldn't give it up.
Sherlock never thought any of this would happen. It wasn't just the
impossibilities of Jim's personality and untimely death; Sherlock had resigned
himself to being alone, had accepted that there were some aspects of life that
he was never going to experience... and convinced himself he didn't need or
want them anyway. Part of what had driven him to mad, impulsive actions -
faking his death and going undercover to root out dangers, forgiving his would-
be assassin, murdering Magnussen in cold blood - had been provoked by
desperation, trying to hold onto the rare companionship and affection he'd
found by happenstance.
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and wondered when he'd started equating John and
Jim in his head. It had to signify that he had developed similar feelings about
both, but while he'd let John go for the sake of the man's happiness, Jim was
never going to leave. Couldn't leave. Didn't want to leave, even, considering
that the man had chased after Sherlock for the majority of his life and hadn't
stopped in death.
If it weren't for the beating of his heart and the rise of his chest, Sherlock
would have thought he was still dead. Jim's fingers twined around the shirt
that still hung from Sherlock's shoulders, but he didn't utter a word. It was
almost as though he were in a half lucid state. Sherlock had felt his thoughts
derail during their encounters before, but this time it appeared to linger.
Like Jim would rather not have returned to reality.
Much as Sherlock could appreciate the sentiment, their location wasn't
conducive to lingering in the afterglow. Jim might have been comfortable atop
him, but Sherlock wanted to move.
"...Jim. Jim, let me up." When the other boy didn't move, Sherlock frowned.
"I'm getting cold and the floor hurts. You don't have to let go, but I want to
at least move somewhere else."
Jim sighed. But he lifted his head. "Fine," he mumbled and let Sherlock go in
order to get up and fix his trousers. Not a very difficult feat when they
hadn't made a mess and his hips were so narrow to begin with. The point of
Jim’s lethargy, however, had been not to break the moment, and Sherlock had
done just that. Even though it had to be done.
Once Jim was on his feet again, he looked around the pool with, if Sherlock
wasn't mistaken, a note of nostalgia in his eyes before he lowered them. The
lights flickered and began to grow dim. Like Jim were getting ready to power
down their environment.
Sherlock fixed his own clothing with only a brief flush of self-consciousness
and joined Jim. He twined their fingers together. The room darkened and started
to dissolve away, condensed and growing distant until it was a far-off point of
light. Sherlock glanced around and recognized the starry void from their
earliest encounters and knew that this must be... Jim's mind. His palace, or
rather, his universe. The fact that it had appeared and taken over portions of
Sherlock's own mind made him wonder just how deeply the man's ghost must be
tied to him.
Jim glanced to Sherlock. He'd noticed Sherlock looking. Their eyes met and
slowly a smile spread across Jim's face. He didn't say any more on it than
that.
"As much as I would like to explore, you need to go back," was what Jim did
say. "We need to take care of Sebastian." His demeanor was docile enough and
his hand was sure enough in Sherlock's palm that he didn't seem to be lying, or
playing on some ulterior motive. Jim would remember well his agreement on their
tentative plan.
Sherlock tensed and his grip on Jim's hand tightened, but he knew Jim was
right. Or right enough. Sebastian was highly motivated and if Jim was confident
he was still in the area, he would be. And would want to move against Sherlock
as quickly as possible, rather than risk being caught and never getting the
chance again.
"Are you sure you have enough control? We've only done one practice trip."
"I am. If you don't fight me," Jim reminded him. In truth, Jim probably
wouldn't need solid control but for the very beginning, just to get Moran to
come around. They didn't have to keep Sherlock under wraps completely, just
enough to let Jim interact with the man one on one. Enough to convince him that
Sherlock didn't need to be subdued, and that Jim was very much still…if not
alive himself, then at least present in the land of the living.
Jim had promised he'd be able to subdue Sebastian once they had convinced him.
That seemed like a tenuous thing to promise, but....if anyone could manage
it....
The world shifted around them again, this time Jim's doing. He stepped closer
to Sherlock and the stars blinked out, at first one by one and then all at
once, and when Sherlock opened his eyes, they were back in his first dream, in
the 221B of years ago, stretched out and naked on Sherlock's bed.
Sherlock closed his eyes and was still for a moment. He could feel his body
shifting with his mind, his memories drawing on another time and fitting him to
the age when this room had been created. He reached out and touched the warm
body beside him. "...I'm going to wake up a mess again. Give me some time to
clean up and get ready. Do you have a guess as to where he's holed up, or are
you going to be running me around London for the next few days trying to find
him?"
"He'll have found somewhere new, but I have a few ideas." Warm light from the
window fell on the side of Jim's face as he lifted to look at Sherlock. He
looked very satisfied lying like that in Sherlock's bed. His hair was tousled
and there were marks on his shoulders where Sherlock had been too rough, but
Jim looked as content as a king. Sherlock must look similar, as Jim seemed just
as happy to stare at him. "I anticipate not more than a day."
Sherlock nodded.
Something significant had changed between them; Sherlock stared intently at Jim
for a good minute, just taking in details and filing them away. His lips parted
to speak, but Sherlock found he didn't know what to say.
He shook his head and rolled out of bed. The dream dissolved as his feet hit
the floor, and when Sherlock opened his eyes again, he found himself sprawled
out on the floor of the living room with a now-familiar sticky feeling and an
aching back.
He grimaced and peered at the window, trying to discern from the light and
sounds of traffic just how long he'd been out.
***** Chapter 11 *****
Light was filtering in through the sitting room windows, not too dissimilar
from the light in Sherlock’s dream, if more subdued. He could have slept the
rest of the night through. Or, he could have slept through an entire day. It
remained unclear whether time in the dream state passed in the same way every
time Sherlock went there, or whether it had any relativity to the real world at
all. This was remedied by a glance to his phone, which told him in no uncertain
terms that it was precisely 6:26 am the following day. He'd been out for a
night only. Once Sherlock had determined this, he felt a faint flicker of a
laugh from the air around him.
He'd amused Jim.
Sherlock cringed and got to his feet. He put the kettle on for tea before he
staggered off toward the bathroom to clean off. One of the major inconveniences
of his new reality, it was clear, was a sharp uptick in the amount of laundry
and showers. All said, it could have been much worse.
Private routines were eerie precisely because Sherlock could feel that they
weren't private anymore. When he stripped down and stepped under the
showerhead, he could still feel Jim's eyes on him as if the man were standing
right behind him. All of his thoughts were also open to inspection; privacy was
no longer a feature of his life, at least where Jim was concerned.
Jim didn't seem to be in a hurry to go off and find Moran, either, which would
lead Sherlock to believe he was sticking around for the shower. This was
further evidenced by a prickle of warmth running down Sherlock's back that had
nothing at all to do with the water. Jim's silence and invisibility made it
somewhat unsettling. He could have spoken if he'd wanted to. Sherlock couldn't
tell where he was, if he even was in any one particular place rather than
spread out over a certain circumference in this state.
Sherlock let his head tilt down until his damp curls hung over his eyes. He
shivered but continued washing. "Not had enough yet? I suppose you're making up
for lost time. Twenty-odd years is a long wait." Sherlock raised one hand and
pried off the bandage at his neck. He couldn't see it, but he could feel the
sting when water hit the bite marks.
He could hear Jim hum pleasantly. "It is," was all the spirit would admit.
Perhaps he was thinking it was worth it, or perhaps he was still grieving the
lost time and opportunity. Whatever he thought, Sherlock got the sense that no
matter how much pain Jim had caused him with their first encounter, Jim enjoyed
seeing that mark on Sherlock's neck. Probably even more so when he didn't have
the teeth to do it, not without excessive concentration.
Sherlock felt little touches as he continued to shower. Jim's attention never
left him. Sometimes they were in odd places, like Jim was mapping his body, but
mostly they were pleasant and warm.
Sherlock felt a little... cheated. Jim could see and touch wherever he wanted
and watch the thoughts go through his head like they were being broadcast on
the telly. Sherlock, in return... couldn't see where he was, couldn't get a
sense of what Jim was thinking unless he spoke and willingly offered the
information... and couldn't touch. The situation was incredibly one-sided.
He ran shampoo through his hair and tried to ignore the fact that he was
bothered, especially by the fact that Jim would instantly know he was bothered,
and why.
"I would have you see me if I could," Jim's voice whispered through the air.
And then chuckled. "As nice as it is to sneak up on you without even trying, I
enjoy the way you look at me. Notably, when I look at you. You get this
expression sometimes, like a deer in headlights," and now Sherlock could really
hear the amusement, if fond, "when you can't decide whether you like me or
not." Jim's voice slithered up to Sherlock's ear. "But I especially like it
when you do."
"You never realize how disconcerting it is to know someone is in the room, yet
never be able to spot them, until you've experienced it." Mycroft's cameras
didn't count and didn't even come close. They didn't have the weight of
presence, and his brother's bugging team wasn't nearly as clever as they
thought they were.
Sherlock wasn't particularly happy to be compared to a dumbstruck herbivore,
either. "And that's what you've decided? That I like you and am too shocked to
admit it?"
Jim chuckled again. "Yes. Well, you were before last night anyway. And now
you've admitted it." Jim seemed very pleased with himself. Sherlock felt the
phantom press of fingers against his neck before Jim's presence receded. He
knew he was distracting Sherlock from his shower. Even though it didn't negate
the feel of his ever watchful presence, it did take away some of the unsettling
surprises at being touched in odd places. "Once I've found Moran, we'll need to
move quickly," Jim switched tracks. "He won't wait long, either to strike or to
move again."
"I'm going to trust your judgment on that." Sherlock rinsed one last time and
turned off the water. Once he was dry, dressed, and the bite wound freshly
bandaged, Sherlock headed for the kitchen. The kettle had been whistling for
some time by then, and Sherlock set a mug of tea to steep and popped two slices
of bread in the toaster. "I understand that things might not go according to
plan and you might have to improvise, but it might be beneficial for you to
explain what you're going to do to him. It's much easier to relax when I know
what's coming."
> "I'm going to set an ambush, and once he's incapacitated, I'm going to have
the task of convincing him that you are in fact me, wearing your face. I know
you have the necessary chemicals on hand to knock him out just long enough to
be restrained, mind, but he'll need to have his wits about him in order to
believe me in the end." Jim paused while Sherlock buttered his toast. "If
things go awry and it takes too long, we'll have to bring him back here. Which
I plan to do anyway, but it would be much easier if he goes willingly. This of
course means avoiding your brother's external security, and disabling any
within the premises."
Sherlock paused, then frowned. This hadn't been part of the agreement. "So once
you convince your pet assassin not to kill me or fuck me, you want him to move
in as my new assistant. Fantastic. I'll just send him out to run errands and
hope the secret service doesn't spot him. Or that I don't get any surprise
visits from Lestrade."
Sherlock bit into his toast angrily, but he got to his feet and went to the
bookshelves. He unfolded a laminated map when he returned to the table and dug
out a marker from one of the kitchen drawers. "There's no security in the flat.
It's part of an agreement I have with Mycroft, and I check regularly to make
certain he's not breaking the terms. There are too many cameras outside for me
to point them out as we go, so I'll mark them down. I trust you'll be able to
remember."
Jim hummed pleasantly as Sherlock marked points in the streets and buildings
nearby. He could feel Jim's presence close, warm this time instead of his usual
chill. It was no mystery why Jim wanted to bring Sebastian to the flat. It
would be the last place both the Met and Mycroft would suspect. It would keep
him from fleeing the country. And above all, it would probably benefit Jim in
his battle with Sherlock. Whether Sebastian would be willing to come and
whether it could be permanent was another matter entirely. Everything hinged on
how much sway Jim still held over him after death.
"Good," Jim whispered when Sherlock was finished. "Off I go then, love. Do try
not to fret while I'm away."
Sherlock blinked as Jim's presence abruptly disappeared from the flat. He'd
seen and heard nothing, but Jim was unmistakably gone. The back of his head
felt empty and the warmth was quickly fading.
Sherlock shook his head. Jim would be back soon enough, and there were things
to take care of in the meantime. He finished his light breakfast and began
sorting through his email and the news, looking for anything that might be
worth taking on. Nothing truly exciting or challenging caught his eye. His
phone, too, was suspiciously blank. He would have figured that Lestrade would
keep him in the loop, but evidently the DI had decided that Sherlock's odd
absences and subsequent assault merited a blackout period to force him to rest.
It was odd that even John was quiet, until Sherlock took into account that only
a night had passed since they'd last spoken. If John were still living in the
flat, he would have checked on Sherlock first thing in the morning. Now,
however, John probably wasn't even aware he was awake yet.
Much of the morning passed before Sherlock finally did receive a text. It was
from John, as expected. Short and sweet as John, in spite of his blogging
hobby, had never really taken to being long winded in conversation. He simply
asked whether Sherlock slept well. By the time John asked whether Sherlock
would like any company, it was well into the late afternoon. Due to John's work
schedule no doubt.
Sherlock didn't have the chance to reply before he felt Jim's presence drop
over the flat once again.
He texted back a quick refusal and a promise to set up a visit another time. He
didn't want John taking a lack of reply as Sherlock being in distress and to
have the doctor show up on his doorstep at the worst possible time.
"Well? Did you manage to find him?" Sherlock was curious just how far Jim could
actually go. Since no one had documented a situation like theirs, he had no
idea if there were physical limitations, although it made sense that there
would be some.
He didn't receive a reply right away. What he got was Jim invading his space,
invading his very body. And Sherlock could feel it. Jim was cold again, and he
wrapped himself underneath Sherlock's skin like Sherlock was the only warm
thing left in the world. It nearly knocked him back down into the armchair.
It wasn't...an attack. When Jim spoke, his voice was more difficult to hear
than it usually was. He wasn't speaking softly, but it didn't come through as
well. "South side of London. Not far from Greenwich Park." Jim quieted for a
few more moments before his voice grew more solid. His presence began to warm,
seeping heat from Sherlock's core. "He's holed up in an empty flat."
Sherlock shivered violently, suddenly chilled. He suspected he had part of his
answer; he'd always gotten cold when Jim had drained him to take some sort of
action. Clearly wandering too far seeped the ghost's energy away.
Sherlock felt movement under his skin and shivered again, for a very different
reason this time. It was intimate in a completely unnatural, unnerving way.
"Let's not have you do that very often. I feel like I’ve just been dropped into
ice water. Give me a few minutes to warm back up before we leave. Is there
anything you're going to need to subdue him?"
"Good old fashioned morphine should do the trick. And some rope." Jim stayed
put, refusing to move even when Sherlock could feel that he was finally coming
around to a normal temperature. "This is going to be a waiting game. He won't
be leaving the flat often, but when he does, we're going to move. Together.
He's got a camera set up outside the door and window and he'll be checking them
often, before he leaves and before he returns. You won't be able to enter the
flat until I've got him down, which means I need to bring him down first, and
you need to get a needle in him before he gets back up. Then we drag him back
into the flat and wait out the morphine." While Jim recharged went unsaid.
Sherlock nodded and stood, rubbing at his arms while he went to retrieve
supplies from one of his hidden compartments. A press of a button underneath
the countertop edge and one of the tiles in the kitchen clicked open, revealing
a small kit. Sherlock opened the case and selected two bottles and a small pack
of syringes. It didn't hurt to be cautious and take along extra, just in case.
"Sebastian doesn't have a history of substance abuse that you know of, does
he?" It wouldn't be entirely out of the question for an ex-soldier.
"Not that kind. A sizeable dose for an adult male should do the trick. Don't
overdo it, or we'll be waiting too long. Long enough for your brother to notice
your absence." Sherlock could almost hear Jim's sigh. "We're going to have to
do something about that someday..." But that was for another time. Even if it
did put Sherlock in an awkward place, Jim didn't sound like he had any plans to
take on Mycroft soon.
"You'll leave my brother alone," Sherlock muttered, but he made a note of the
dosage and prefilled a couple of syringes, then capped them. There would be
more than enough, although hopefully he wouldn't miss with the first strike.
"That should be enough. Trite as this might sound, do you remember the camera
locations immediately outside the building, or do you need me to get us out of
the flat undetected?"
"I remember the cameras," Jim scoffed, "But I need you in charge of your own
body until I can get the jump on him. And I'll need to save my energy until
then." Needless to say, Sebastian would never see Jim coming. He would, of
course, see Sherlock, but if Jim could get him on the ground long enough for
Sherlock to get a needle in him, that wouldn't matter. "We can't tip him off
with a diversion to get him out of the flat either. He needs to be completely
unaware for the ambush to work. Which means we wait. Fortunately for us, he'll
have found his small supply of canned goods mysteriously amiss by now."
"Was that what drained you, or was is the distance?" Or perhaps it had been
both. Moving objects had taken a large portion of Jim's energy before, although
at the time he'd seemed to leech what he needed from Sherlock directly. He
didn't particularly want to find out what happened to a ghost that drained
itself completely.
Sherlock went out of the top floor window again, levering himself up onto the
rooftop. He began to walk, keeping low until he could find a convenient fire
escape to take down to the ground. "Where am I heading, exactly? I'm going to
need an address to give the cabbie. I don't plan on walking the whole way
ducking cameras, and taking the underground is just inviting trouble."
"Take the A2 down to the crossing at Deptford Bridge. You can walk from there.
Won't be far." Apparently Jim didn't think allowing even a cabbie the knowledge
of their destination was worthwhile. Sherlock could feel Jim's presence, a
constant no longer under his very skin but almost draped over his shoulders as
he moved. And he did have to duck cameras to get to the street. If Moran had a
camera outside his door, that would likely leave Sherlock loitering outside the
building until Moran moved. It would have to be fast. They couldn't be seen by
passersby either, especially not dragging a severely compromised man back
inside.
Sherlock eventually got down to the street undetected and managed to flag a cab
down. If the driver recognized him from the telly and newspapers, he didn't
show it. Traffic was thick with people going out for a night on the town and
Sherlock slouched in the back seat to try to maintain some anonymity and avoid
getting caught by any cameras they might pass.
He had no idea what Mycroft would say about his situation if he began to
question Sherlock's behavior. He would likely be able to spot a lie, and the
truth wouldn't satisfy him either. Best to avoid suspicion entirely by passing
without notice.
The cab finally pulled over and let him out at Deptford Bridge. Sherlock handed
over a few notes and quickly got out of view, ducking into an alley where there
was a camera gap. "...alright, now what?"
"Cross the construction lot. You'll come up behind a row of apartments. We'll
find him in the farthest south, second floor, room 205." Sherlock began to make
his way as Jim instructed, until they came upon the back street and a high
wall. With the help of a pick and Jim's layout of the building Sherlock was
able to slip through a maintenance door and come around to the side. The
opposite side Sebastian resided in, just in case. "Wait here," Jim instructed,
and then disappeared.
Sherlock grew more and more tense the longer Jim was gone. He could make
educated guesses, but he didn't know the layout of the building, nor if the
rest of the tenants were of as dubious character as Sebastian. If they were the
paranoid sort, they'd notice a new face loitering in the hallways. Sherlock did
his best to keep out of site and look inconspicuous, but there was only so much
that could be done when wearing a dark greatcoat. Even the space between his
shoulder blades felt unusually cold with Jim gone.
Jim didn't hide his presence when he returned. He slipped under Sherlock's
skin, not cold this time, but probably for just that little bit of extra
energy. "We've got some time," Jim informed him. "Best find a nice little nook
until he stirs."
If Moran decided to wait it out until nightfall, Sherlock would be waiting a
long time. Jim either did not take this into account or simply did not care.
Or, perhaps he was counting on Sebastian not needing to rely on the cover of
darkness to feel safe.
Sherlock crept along the ground floor, slowly and cautiously. Eventually he
spotted a maintenance room. He picked the lock easily, and it was as he
expected - a storage closet, but with more than enough room for him to hide
inside. Flats were never cleaned and serviced at night unless there was an
emergency, which meant he could wait without having to worry about being caught
by a caretaker. "How am I going to know when he's moving? Are you just going to
go check every few minutes?"
"I'll tell you. It's not too far."
Jim was Sherlock's eyes and ears now. And his only way to pass the time. They
made sure Sherlock would be able to hear Jim's call from as far as Sebastian's
flat. In truth, Jim would probably let him get as far as the end of the hall
before he took Sebastian down, just to get Sherlock as close as possible.
Unseen attacker or no, Moran was not a good adversary to engage in close
quarters. Jim lingered close to Sherlock as they waited, presumably to retain
energy. Sometimes he would turn his attention outward, disappear for a moment,
and return, like he could hear Moran moving.
Finally, hours later, Jim did perk up. "Showtime," he said before Sherlock felt
him disappear.
Sherlock double-checked the syringes in his pocket. He was going to have to be
quick. Sebastian had a lot more bulk to him and was likely to be hard to take
down; Sherlock was banking on the fact that Jim knew what he was doing and that
the element of surprise was on their side.
The detective cocked his head and listened, but he couldn't hear anything
between the maintenance door, ventilation noise, and the padded carpet outside
the door. His hand turned on the doorknob. All that remained was for Jim to
take control and yank the door open.
When he did hear it, there was no missing it. Jim's voice rang out from a
distance that was both far away and did not adhere to the boundaries of the
walls.
"Now!" And what followed was the unmistakable sound of a body colliding with
the wall.
When Sherlock burst through the door, the first thing he saw was the now
familiar gunman on the floor, head toward Sherlock and one hand holding his
ear. Jim must have forced him headfirst into the wall. It was the only thing
that could have put him off balance like that, trying to rise but shooting his
other arm out to steady himself.
Sherlock moved as quickly as he could, closing the distance and whipping out
one of the pre-filled syringes. There wasn't time to be gentle. Sherlock
grabbed him and drove the needle into his neck. With Sebastian’s tense muscles,
it surely hurt, and it was likely to form a spectacular bruise later on.
Sherlock depressed the plunger and darted back out of reach, uncapping and
readying another syringe if the first proved not to be enough.
"You!," Moran shouted, "Fuck!" His hand went to his neck like there was any
chance of stopping the drug from entering his system. Sherlock could see
precisely the moment it hit Moran as he rose to his feet. His jaw dropped open
and he swayed, this time with legs weak and focus severely compromised. His
face contorted in something that would have been pleasure if he didn't look
like he was trying to fight it with every ounce of his will. He swayed again as
he tried to take a step toward Sherlock. "Morphine?" Moran grunted with another
step, his reflexes and thought processes slowing as the high took over, and
Sherlock had given him a strong dose. Strong enough to send him sinking to his
knees, looking like the world was tilting around him. He looked nauseous, but
fighting it. When he fell, he was too slow to catch himself.
"Yes." And the right dosage, apparently. Not too weak, not too strong. Sherlock
turned to glance at both ends of the hallway. The gunman's shout wasn't
completely out of line for a block of flats, particularly in this part of town,
but someone might get curious. Especially if he decided to keep making noise.
Morphine had many effects, but rendering the victim mute wasn't one of them
unless unconsciousness set in.
Sherlock kicked Sebastian over and took out a length of rope. Under normal
circumstances, Sebastian would have had the advantage even with Sherlock's judo
training taken into consideration, but the assassin's body wasn't cooperating
with him. Sherlock quickly got the man's hands bound behind his back. "Where,
Jim? Which room?"
"End of the hall. 205. Gag him," came Jim's unsympathetic instructions.
"Don't you speak his name," Moran slurred, his mind not quite catching up
properly with his words. He hadn't heard Jim, then, only Sherlock, speaking to
what must have seemed thin air. Still, Moran had to have been questioning Jim's
presence by then. He'd heard Jim's voice before. He'd briefly heard his words
coming out of Sherlock. Now it was time to put Moran's belief to the test. He
tried to lash out at Sherlock, but he was far too slow, far too uncoordinated.
And his voice was rising. "I'll spread your guts down this hall, do you hear
me?"
Sherlock patted his pockets, grimaced, and unlooped his scarf. It was the only
thing he had on him capable of gagging the man. Clothes could be cleaned or
bought anew, however; death was permanent, and the top priority was
neutralizing this man as a threat.
Sherlock didn't respond to Moran's words. He worked his hand around the
gunman's jaw and forced his mouth open, then looped the strip of fabric between
his lips and tied it tightly in place. Once he was muffled, Sherlock dragged
him back toward his room as quickly as he could, which wasn't nearly as quickly
as he would have liked. Sebastian was heavy, and Sherlock wasn't particularly
known for his arm strength.
He lost another half-minute picking the lock of Sebastian's room. Luckily, no
one had come looking to see what the commotion was about.
Jim was being unhelpfully silent, too. The least he could have done was make
himself known to Sebastian, who was writhing in a stupor on the floor before
Sherlock managed to drag him past that final threshold and bolt the door behind
them.
Moran was tipped ungracefully forward onto the carpet where he lay, groaning,
and finally, finally, Jim made himself be heard. It began as a low hiss.
Sherlock could feel Jim's presence spreading through the space of the room,
closer to Moran, whose head jerked away. He must have realized even in his
stupor that something wasn't right. When Jim's voice solidified, it came out as
a low hushing sound.
"Shh. Go to sleep," Jim said softly. As though this killer of a man were little
more than a child.
Moran's eyes darted around the room before landing, unfixed, on Sherlock. He
garbled out something through the scarf that might have been a 'fuck you'.
Sherlock crouched down and watched Sebastian with a curious look. It had taken
quite a bit for him to accept Jim as real, and that was with Jim living in him,
pulling the thoughts out of his head and manifesting all sorts of physical
effects. Sebastian was drugged, to boot, which meant he was more likely to try
to pass everything off as substance-induced hallucinations or ill judgment.
"No, I don't think so. And you're not going to be permitted to kill me, either.
You're going to sit still and listen."
Sebastian was wearing himself out trying to wrench free of his bonds, and in so
doing the drug was pulling him under. His breathing was heavy and laboured
around the scarf, and his eyelids were lowering. The way his face began to
slacken, some of the fierce lines fading, made the several bold scars stand out
all the more. Like the beads of a weld, they twisted across his face as raised,
marred flesh.
This man had seen a lot of sun once, enough to draw deep lines around his eyes
in a similar fashion, but it was interesting. The flaws made him come alive.
Even as his head slumped to the floor, fighting to hold his glare until the
very last second his eyelids shut.
Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief. They weren't out of the fire yet by any
means, but he didn't have to worry about the man slipping his bonds and trying
to fight back. He waited a few moments, then crept closer and held his palm
over Sebastian's nose. When he confirmed the man was breathing, he tested the
pulse at his neck.
"...he's fine. He'll be out for a short while, though." Sherlock glanced around
and lifted Moran up by his shoulders. He dragged him over to one wall and
propped him up in the corner. The gunman wasn't in danger of overdosing and
choking, but laying for too long on bindings could cut off circulation and
inflict permanent nerve damage.
"He'll still be lethargic when he wakes. We'll have at least an hour to wait
for his mind to clear whether he's awake or not. I suggest you truss him up in
something a little sturdier while he's out. And get his feet. There's extra
rope and a pair of cuffs in his duffel bag in the bedroom." Jim must have had a
look through the flat.
All had gone well so far. They couldn't risk screwing it up by losing Sebastian
halfway through the plan. He might have been outnumbered, technically, but if
Sebastian got free with a level enough head, he could very well turn the tables
on them.
Sherlock followed Jim's suggestion and entered the bedroom. This room was
equally sparse, though a small mattress was in one corner of the room.
Makeshift and inflatable - the flat was empty in anticipation of being let, and
Sebastian wouldn't have had time to find and drag a real mattress in
undetected. A small duffel bag sat on the floor near the foot of the mattress,
and Sherlock unzipped it.
Amidst Moran's weapons and other supplies, Sherlock managed to find the extra
rope and cuffs that Jim had mentioned. He returned to the main room, spotted an
old-fashioned radiator in one corner, and an idea settled into place. He
dragged Moran over, cuffed his rope bindings to the radiator, and set about
tying up his feet.
After that, there was nothing else to do but wait.
And wait they did. It took Moran nearly a full hour to regain consciousness,
and possibly it was Jim who was keeping him subtly under. Jim seemed determined
to be the first thing he saw when the drugs wore off, even if he was in
Sherlock's body. An hour wasn't the best amount of time to come down from that
kind of high, but when Moran's icy eyes began to flutter groggily, Jim decided
it would have to do.
Sherlock felt the ghost's presence coalesce under his skin, gathering into him.
Jim would have to reach down deep inside Sherlock, just like last time, but at
least this time gave him some warning. "Ready?" Jim asked.
Sherlock's heartbeat immediately picked up, thudding heavily in his chest. He
wasn't certain he was ready to repeat the bizarre experience of watching from
the back of his own head, numb while his own limbs moved in accordance with
another's will. Certainly not with the added danger of Moran in the room. And
none of that mattered; he had to be ready. He had to relax and trust Jim to
take care of this, because if he panicked and fought for control, Moran would
overpower them, and not to a desirable end.
"...ready," Sherlock whispered. No sooner had the lie fallen off his tongue
than he felt himself get pulled back, shoved into a darker, distance space in
his own head. He could still see and hear, but it was as if his senses were
subjected to a time delay and a degree of fading. The sensation he'd begun to
recognize as Jim expanded from a feeling of warmth under his skin to fill...
everything. Sherlock watched his body tense and shift while Jim molded himself
inside Sherlock's skin.
When it was all over, Sherlock felt his own mouth, from a distance, open with a
sigh. He felt his head tip back, roll his neck, hunch and stretch his
shoulders, and when his eyes fell on Moran, not by his own will, he saw that
Moran was staring at him with far more lucidly than he had been before. And
with even more contempt.
Jim hiked up Sherlock's trouser legs and brought his body into a crouch in
front of the bound man. It was a bit of a balancing act, Sherlock's tall frame
compacted onto the balls of his feet, but Jim managed it well enough. The
muscles in his face softened and his features contorted into something more
befitting of Jim's easy intensity and knowing smile.
"Good morning, Sebastian," Jim lilted in Sherlock's voice.
Moran bared his teeth. His entire body tensed under the rope. If he sensed
something was off about Sherlock, and it looked like he did, it was purely on
an instinctual level. One that had been intimately familiar with Moriarty.
Sherlock couldn't concentrate on his breathing to calm himself. Even his heart
wasn't really his own right now. He tried his best to relax and just float,
pretending that this was all a dream. A vivid dream, but a harmless one. Not
like his recent dreams, where even a slight scratch translated into the waking
realm.
Sebastian wanted to kill him even more now. Of that, there was little doubt.
Nor of the fact that he was more than capable. From the callouses on his hands,
Sherlock guessed that he was even capable of prolonging the actual end,
stretching pain out over a great duration of time. Those hands had held more
than just guns.
"Sherlock fucking Holmes, you must have a death wish," Moran spat.
And in spite of all that danger, Jim leapt forward. His hands, Sherlock's
hands, grabbed Moran by the hair just as the man jerked to catch him, possibly
bite him, only narrowly missing. "Ah ah ahh- Try again," Jim snarled back,
Sherlock's voice sounding so very unlike Sherlock. He wrenched Moran's head
back, not a very easy thing to do even in his current state, but Jim was not
delicate about it. He got right up close, shifting his body perfectly within
Moran's range of motion were he free, uncaring for his own safety, as though
Jim meant to either tempt him or intimidate him. He looked into Moran's eyes
and smiled wide.
"Bullshit," Moran snarled back, trying to wrench his head away. Jim smacked him
for the trouble, a backhand across the face and one that he didn't pull,
uncaring as to whether he hurt Sherlock's body in the process. It happened so
fast Jim's hands were back twisted in Moran's hair before his head could right
itself.
Sherlock wasn't immune. Even partially detached from his body and slightly
numb, he felt the sting on his hand and had to repress the urge to yank the
limb back. He was surprised Jim didn't feel it. Or perhaps this was yet another
time that he pushed himself past pain, refused to acknowledge it. That feat had
always simultaneously awed and scared Sherlock whenever he'd witnessed it.
Sherlock couldn't endure pain like that. Close as Jim was taking him to
Sebastian, if the gunman actually managed to inflict damage on him, it was
Sherlock was that going to be suffering later.
And Jim wasn't focused on him right then. If he'd heard Sherlock's thoughts, he
didn't acknowledge them. Jim was too busy letting his personality, bright and
horrid and quite frankly sickening, shine through. "Then let me convince you."
Sherlock's hand stroked down the side of Moran's face, catching on the sharp
little hairs at his temples and the side of his jaw. And his scars. "I have all
the time in the world to do it," Jim turned Sherlock's voice soft. "Well, as
far as you're concerned, I do. Now what do you think is the simplest way to
convince you that I am in fact Jim Moriarty? Hm? I can imagine you have a few
very unpleasant ideas." And it began to sound questionable whether Jim was
threatening to convince Moran or torture him.
"Shut up. You're not him." Moran tried to wrench his head away again, even
though it only wrenched his hair tight and made his eyes wince. He'd seen Jim's
work, been attacked in ways he couldn't explain, and still Sebastian refused to
listen.
Jim's grip tightened, straining the muscles in Sherlock's arms, and he bent
down so close that he and Moran were nearly sharing the same air. "Yes. I am,"
Jim whispered. Sherlock's mouth curled and he said softly, so softly it was
almost like he could have keep it secret from even Sherlock's consciousness in
the back of his head, "Perhaps I need to bring up Taiwan for you to believe
me?"
Moran's eyes narrowed.
Sherlock could feel some of Jim's thoughts like this. Not enough to read them,
not to the degree Jim had when settled at the back of his mind, but enough for
him to get a sense. A separate coil of tension ran through him. He'd known Jim
was capable of horrors, having dealt with the messy leftovers of some of his
schemes, but Sebastian was also someone who'd ostensibly meant something to
Jim. Someone he'd slept with more than once, from all Sherlock had been able to
deduce.
And Jim had easily considered torture, from what Sherlock had been able to
feel. Gentle as Jim had been with him, Sherlock wondered how immune he was to
such things. Or if Jim would get bored one day and decide to toy with him in
that way.
Sherlock didn't have time to think about it. Jim had gotten too close to
Sebastian and angry blue eyes were all Sherlock could see.
Jim's smile never faltered. He tilted his head, and Sebastian had to be
unnerved with Sherlock's face coming so close to his ear. Sherlock could see it
in the tendons tightening in Moran's neck. "When you got haughty with me for
ruining all your fun for my own, dragging you down to beach after beach,
brothel after brothel... Until I stuck a candy bar down your pocket and told
you to go have a little fun yourself. And ohhh you didn't like that," Jim
laughed softly. They were so close it was suffocating. "Not at first,
anyway...but oh how you came around in the end."
"Shut up!" Sebastian shouted, tense all over. His face was burning red. A
sensitive subject, perhaps. He talked quickly, shaking his head. "You're good,
Holmes," and he took a shaky breath, like he had to convince himself, "but
you're not hi-" Jim wrenched him back by the hair, cutting him off.
"I made you eat crow that night," Jim hissed, "and you looked up to me and you
knew exactly what I wanted you to say. You said 'thank you, Jim'. And you've
never been quite the same since, have you?"
Moran's eyes screwed shut. In spite of everything, this was getting to him.
Sherlock watched in fascination. Jim's words were carefully chosen - enough
that he could make guesses about what had transpired in Taiwan and what was
being referred to, but not really know for certain. More interesting still was
how Moran's body language had changed. His tension had shifted from trying to
move forward, out of the bonds and toward Sherlock, to away. Away from him,
away from the memories, to steep himself in denial and come back burning with
anger. He couldn't let himself believe Jim was speaking to him, because that
would bring a hope that would crush him anew when it proved false.
Jim made Sherlock's head chase Sebastian when he retreated. His grip loosened
just enough for Sebastian to do so. Jim was testing his limits and Sebastian
wasn't lashing out at him. Yet.
"How about prison?" Jim whispered, not relenting. "A dishonorable discharge and
a life sentence. So unfortunate for a man like you, and already filled with
such anger. How many times did I visit you? Ten? Twelve? Before you came around
enough for me to take a chance on you, and oh how that prison burned. And it
was a chance I was taking. All that work for you. But do you remember what you
said to me then? Hm?"
Moran opened his eyes and looked at Jim, and Sherlock could see it in his face,
in the way his anger began to fracture - he was losing the battle.
"You said 'thank you, Jim'," Jim whispered through Sherlock's voice, but so
much lighter. "And do you know what you'll say when I came back from the dead
to pluck you out of this miserable existence you've lowered yourself into?" Jim
tilted Sherlock's head back, looking down his nose at Moran, expression tainted
with a hint of disgust. "You'll say 'thank you, Jim'."
The manipulation was masterful. He had mind games down to an art form, and
Sherlock couldn't help but wonder how much of the recent days might have been
the culmination of just that: Jim figuring out Sherlock's fracture points and
how much he could bear, then exerting deliberate pressure in waves until he
bent into the desired shape without completely shattering. Part of him went
cold, and this time it wasn't from Jim draining the heat energy from his body.
He was trusting Jim.
Trusting him to turn Moran's mind away from slaughtering him or forcing
physicality on him. Trusting Jim, too, with everything they'd done in their
minds thus far. Sherlock hadn't thought Jim's expressions and emotions were
faked lately - particularly not at the pool, not when he'd been so conflicted
about letting emotion show - and Sherlock still thought it was real. But seeds
of doubt were planted. How was he to tell when such a liar was finally telling
the truth?
He could see the seeds of doubt sprouting in Moran's mind. It was in the
stillness of his body and the terrible, dawning hope seeping into his eyes. He
didn't want to believe it. Moran didn't want to have that kind of hope. "How?"
he rasped, voice suddenly gone, brows knotting. He looked like his world was
tilting.
"I died," Jim confirmed. "And then I came back.” One hand eased itself from
Sebastian's hair. Jim let Sherlock’s thumb trace down the line of Sebastian's
temple. And then he was leaning in, bearing down on Sebastian, forcing
Sherlock's teeth to catch his lip before he brought their mouths together. And
Sherlock could feel it then, the way Moran's body crumpled, the way his breathe
heaved, the way he recognized Moriarty instantly. He believed it.
Sherlock tried to suppress his unease and suspicion and stay relaxed, stay
floating and detached where he'd been displaced. That was proving even more
difficult than he thought it would be. Moran was no longer interested in
murdering him, but it would only be a short time before the man's shock wore
off and turned to something else. Emotional and physical need, most likely;
Sebastian's emotional intensity was even greater than Sherlock had expected,
and he'd just gone for a few years thinking Jim was dead only to have him drop
himself quite literally back in his lap.
Sherlock also didn't know what to make of the kiss. Jim was controlling
everything, but they were both feeling it. Sebastian's mouth was very different
than Jim's - firmer, scratchy with the surrounding stubble, and a faint scent
of alcohol and cigarettes. "Jim, not too much." Sherlock was uncomfortable
kissing a practical stranger who'd been set on assassinating him only a few
minutes before.
Jim didn't listen until Moran was gasping. When he finally did pull back,
Sebastian followed, coming up short at the end of his rope like he'd forgotten
he was tied at all. Jim twisted the hand in his hair and made blue eyes wince.
"Jim." Sebastian didn't seem capable of saying anything more, and Sherlock
could tell from the resonating surge of gratification rising in his own chest,
from Jim's end, that he knew he had Moran at last. "You're..." Sebastian tried
again, but Jim cut him off.
"Borrowing Sherlock? Yes. He's still in here with me." Jim smiled. "He says
hello." Sherlock had done nothing of the sort. Sebastian's face grew pinched
with a flash of insolence, but Jim interrupted again. "I suggest you refrain
from taking out your anger on this body, however, as it currently is the only
one I have."
Sebastian swallowed.
Sherlock felt an echoing jolt of anger. He'd done nothing to Jim, hadn't
touched the man or killed him, and Moran still wanted to punish him. For
existing. Possibly even for unwittingly becoming Jim's vessel. And Jim wanted
to take this man back to the flat with them. Sherlock was no longer certain
that was a good idea. "Right. Well. You've manipulated your lovesick pet
monster back into obeisance and obedience again. Congratulations. Now you have
two pets on leashes. Time to bring this one back to the kennel to join the
first, I imagine." Sherlock didn't bother hiding the bitter tone of his
thoughts. He couldn't.
Jim's eye twitched. He wasn't responding. He was doing his very best to ignore
Sherlock, even as agitated as Sherlock was. That either meant he didn't care
and intended to keep control for as long as he could, or that he still felt
tentative about Moran. Jim drew Sherlock's thumb down Sebastian's temple again.
Intimate, but not necessarily sexual, and just like that he had taken
Sebastian's attention off Sherlock. "I'm taking you back to the flat,
Sherlock's flat. You'll stay there until we clean up the mess you've made."
Jim said this like there was no room for discussion. Like he and Sherlock
hadn't feared what could happen, one way or another, the moment Jim unbound
Moran's wrists.
Moran didn't look very sure about the plan, but Jim spoke again, "When I let
you go, you work for me again, do you understand?" and Sebastian nodded his
head.
Sherlock watched his own hands go for Sebastian's bonds and instantly Sherlock
was tense again. The desire to move away was overwhelming, and even without
trying, Sherlock saw his hands fumble with the knot. Sherlock clamped down on
himself, closed his eyes, tried to make himself smaller in the back of his mind
so he didn't have to see, but that only helped so much. He could still feel and
hear, even in the darkness. Rope slid through his fingers while Jim undid the
knots, and they were close enough that Sherlock could feel breathe on his skin.
"Calm down, Sherlock," Jim paused to say under his breath. Sebastian heard, but
Jim made it clear he was speaking inward. Sebastian shifted like he was ready
to crowd the body Jim was in as soon as he was free, like he could protect Jim
from Sherlock. Jim ignored it completely. "Seb isn't going to hurt you. Or do
anything else 'untoward' to your body."
"Like hell I'm not," and from the slight breathlessness in his voice it sounded
a lot like Sebastian expected Jim to agree with him. Like he did in fact want
to grab Jim, whether he wore Sherlock's face or not, and take him down on the
floor with emotions running so high. After three years of believing he was
dead.
Jim's head snapped up, squaring Sherlock's gaze against Sebastian. "No, you're
not." He spoke with finality as he slipped away the last of Sebastian's rope.
Sebastian's words had sent an ice-cold chill through Sherlock. He hadn't lied
to Lestrade when he'd painted a picture of being assaulted, but that had been
tame compared to what he imagined Sebastian would try with him. Jim had been a
familiar face and, while it had been traumatic to have his boundaries pushed in
that way, Jim hadn't pushed nearly as far as he had wanted to go. He hadn't
just taken and been done with it. Jim didn't always respect boundaries in the
way Sherlock wanted, but he did respect them with him to a certain degree, and
there were lines he hadn't crossed.
Sherlock didn't believe Sebastian had any respect for boundary lines. He wanted
Jim, and while Sherlock couldn't blame him for his emotional reaction, he
wasn't willing to let the man violate him just so Sebastian could have a
catharsis and closure. Sebastian's body language and the roughness in his voice
only set Sherlock even more on edge. "Get him away from me."
Sherlock's body pitched unsteadily. Jim had barely enough time to fling his
arms out and catch his balance while Sebastian looked on in surprise. He took a
step forward and Sherlock's hand shot up, catching flat against his chest.
That had been Jim's doing. And Sebastian seemed to realize that, even if his
fists clenched and he looked about ready to grab Jim if Sherlock took over,
even if he didn't know what to do.
"You two are going to get along," Jim hissed.
He might as well have slapped Sebastian. "You died because of him," he nearly
shouted.
"He died because he decided to kill himself!" Sherlock overrode Jim's control
for a moment, just enough for him to speak. He evidently wasn't reining in his
emotions as well as he should have. Sherlock's body was still shaky, his
balance slightly off while his nervous system tried to cope with conflicting
signals from two different minds. It was a weakness Sherlock knew they
shouldn't be exhibiting in front of Sebastian.
Jim didn't like it either. The snarl that broke out of Sherlock's mouth in the
next instant said as much. Jim caught his hands in midair, every muscle tight,
feeling for control.
Sebastian had gotten even closer. One more indication that Sherlock had taken
over and his hands would have probably been around Sherlock's neck. Which
didn't put Sherlock at ease, but Jim didn't like it either, and he shoved at
Sebastian's chest, throwing the man back a few steps. "Back off!"
Fortunately for them both, Sebastian seemed to realize it was Jim.
Jim rolled Sherlock's shoulders and straightened himself, turning his attention
inward. "You're not helping." Sebastian swore under his breath, still somewhat
in disbelief. "Shut up," Jim snapped. "The two of you are going to get along or
I will make your lives a living hell. If you even have lives when I'm through
with you." His eyes flashed to Sebastian at the last and the tall man shifted
uneasily.
"More of a hell than it already is?" Sherlock was still afraid, still full of
suspicion, but now there was an edge of anger. He didn't like any of this,
particularly the fact that he'd been forced into this confrontation in the
first place. Jim's threat only made things worse. "Or are you going to go back
to trying to stop my heart? Or pissing off random people until they're
motivated to kill me. I suppose you don't have to try very hard with him, do
you? Even knowing you're riding around in my skin, he still wants to snap my
neck."
"Jim," Sebastian stepped forward again, but there was concern in his voice.
Sherlock's body had bent and his eyes had been darting all around. He probably
looked crazy as Jim forgot about the world around him, but the moment
Sebastian's tight grip came in contact with his arm, Jim snapped up.
"You're not going to hurt me, are you Seb?" And Jim splayed Sherlock's arms out
wide, trembling slightly as they went, baring himself to Sebastian who was a
little taken aback.
"No," was the whispered answer.
"Neither am I," Jim said aloud, and Sherlock could tell it was directed at him.
But Sebastian wasn't done. "I was ready to die for you." He tried to make it as
toneless as possible, but there was anguish in his voice.
"That's sweet of you." Jim's was...nearly unaffected. Nearly, because Sherlock
could detect the slightest mirth in his tone. "But now you can live to kill for
me."
Sherlock was silent. He'd pulled back into the space he was in, as far as his
mind could get from Sebastian... and from Jim. He started to feel slightly
numb, but Sherlock supposed that was for the best if Sebastian kept touching
him. He didn't want to feel it, even if it seemed that Jim had managed to
derail the man from thoughts of revenge or a lustful reunion.
Sherlock felt movement, like a hand was reaching back to find him. Jim's hand.
His lip curled and he tried to press himself further back into the dark. There
was an unseen wall he couldn't get past, but he could hope that if he was quiet
and still, Jim wouldn't find him in the blackness. He wasn't in the mood to be
touched. He wasn't in the mood for company, either, but he had no choice in
that.
"Sherlock..." Jim's voice, distinctly Jim's voice, whispered through the dark.
If Sherlock had been paying attention to what his body was doing, he would have
found it had stilled, Jim putting his mind to focus. "Don't be angry with me."
The presence slipped closer. Jim was going to find him. But it was gentle. It
moved slowly. "I only need you to calm down." Jim was so close. His presence
brushed up against Sherlock, not warm or cold, but simply there.
"Calm down," Sherlock repeated. He wasn't happy that he'd been found. Wasn't
happy that he never had anywhere to retreat to. Jim was always there, always
could reach him, could even replay his memories to see everything that had
transpired when he wasn't there, whether in the distant or recent past. "You
play him like an instrument, and look at how he quivers. The right words, the
right manipulations and he does whatever you want him to do. Perhaps he doesn't
even know it's a lie. I certainly didn't."
"You think I'm lying to you? Honestly?" Jim did not sound upset, but he did
sound serious. Jim's presence settled into the space beside him, like they were
back to back. Unseeing, only feeling. "When I told you what I'd done for you.
When I told you how we were the same and I believed in you. Do you really think
I was lying?" Jim waited before he went on. "Sebastian knows, Sherlock. Or did
you think he was blind to my manipulations? He's not a complete fool. But do
you see? That's how it works, that's why it works. He chooses to feel." Even
knowing Jim would never return that depth of feeling. If Jim could be himself
around Sebastian, passionate yet uncaring, then Jim could allow Sebastian to be
with him regularly. There would have been no act to keep up.
Except...except that Jim did come back for Sebastian. It benefited him, yes.
Somewhat. But he could have just as easily had Sebastian caught or killed. If
there were another reason, would Jim admit to it?
"You feel something for me, certainly. Enough to drive you to extremes."
Sherlock sighed. Extremes didn't necessarily mean what he was meant to
interpret them as. He could simply be a favorite pet, a favored plaything. One
that was desired enough that tantrums were thrown when it looked like he might
be out of reach or broken. "You manipulate others so easily, almost
thoughtlessly. I don't know what I can believe, with you. I started doubting it
was manipulation for a short time, because I didn't think you could fake
absolutely everything. Not that convincingly. But you're stringing your pet
assassin along. And he realizes it, by now, but it's too late for him to remove
the hooks, and all I draw is parallels."
Sherlock could vaguely feel his face cringe. Jim's doing. Something he said
must have stung. "The greatest manipulators are those who tell the truth."
Jim straightened. Sherlock could feel his 'touch' receding. Sebastian had been
speaking while neither had been paying attention, probably something about
Jim's stability, but Jim was suddenly back in control and waving off his hand.
"Pack up your things," Jim said to Sebastian, "Make it look like you were never
here. We're going back to the flat."
Sherlock watched from a distance as Sebastian obeyed. If the man wondered about
the way Jim hadn't seemed to be listening to him, he knew better than to
comment about it. Jim had given an order, and Sebastian was trained to obey.
Most likely he wanted to obey, as complying was a subtle confirmation of sorts:
Jim wasn't dead, Jim was back, and some amount of past normalcy was going to
return.
Sherlock supposed that was comforting, but it was bitter on his end. His
normalcy was never going to return. At least Jim wasn't crowding him and
insisting on touching, or on addressing Sherlock's change in attitude right
then.
Thankfully Sebastian didn't have too much to pack. He deflated the mattress and
took up the small amount of cutlery he'd been using in the kitchen, and all of
it went into a pack over his shoulder beside the duffel of weapons. Jim leaned
Sherlock's lanky frame up against the wall while they waited, and Sherlock
could tell he was getting tired. He would have to release his hold soon, but
Jim seemed determined to at least make it back to the flat.
"Let's go," Sebastian said when he was finished, and Jim turned on his heel to
sweep out of the room. He was going on about the cameras, about how they would
have to take the same route back and find a cab as quickly as possible, how
Sebastian would have to follow him back into the Baker Street flat with care,
but Sebastian wouldn't stop looking at him. Jim seemed not to notice the depth
of barely restrained pain residing in his features.
Sherlock, however, didn't miss it. Even trying to avoid absorbing his current
situation, trying to ignore what was going on around his body, Sherlock noticed
the look. He could sympathize, to a certain degree; pain had become a more
prevalent feature in his life when he'd ignored Mycroft's advice and let
himself care about people.
Jim's exhaustion posed another problem. Even if he could hold onto control
until they safely got Sebastian back into the flat, he wouldn't be able to
retain it past that. Sherlock had no idea what he was supposed to do with the
man. Sebastian's desire to hurt him was curbed at the moment, but he had no
certainty that it would stay that way. At worst, he might be in for a non-
lethal fight. At best, the flat was quickly going to become painfully awkward.
Once they were out of the building, Sebastian proved just as adept at spotting
and avoiding CCTV locations as Jim, which was probably the only way he'd
survived thus far. They found a cab quickly enough and silence fell between
them. It was a comfortable silence for the most part, even though it shouldn't
have been. It was familiar. Sherlock got the distinct impression Moriarty and
Sebastian often operated in silence. Sebastian's glances, however, never
ceased. Jim had to be aware of them, even though he gave no indication.
They exited several streets away, taking the looping path back Sherlock had
first indicated to avoid both the public CCTV and Mycroft's additional security
feeds.
Sherlock waited in silence at the back of his own mind. Jim had to have felt
him there, along with his emotions, but he was leaving him alone for the
moment. Most likely he didn't have the energy to divert attention to him and
keep his hold on Sherlock's body. Sherlock could feel Jim's exhaustion growing
- he wasn't moving as quickly and smoothly as he had been.
That solved one question, Sherlock supposed. He didn't need to worry about Jim
permanently walling him away and stealing his body. He was incapable of
controlling him like that for long periods of time.
Following a series of scaling adventures, they reached the rooftop. The window
was still propped slightly open and after a few short minutes later they were
safely back inside the spare bedroom.
At which point Sherlock's body sunk slowly to his knees.
Sebastian reacted immediately, bags dropped to the floor and sturdy arm
suddenly around Sherlock's waist, Jim's name on his tongue. Jim went silent and
Sherlock's eyes rolled up in the back of his head. Sherlock's consciousness
thrust forward as Jim's slipped away.
Sebastian's free hand was at his temple, his forehead, his pulse, under his
nose, making sure he was breathing, making sure his heart was still beating.
The man was calling Jim's name when Sherlock snapped back into control. He went
tense under Sebastian's hands. Jim was no longer there even to offer advice
should something go awry; he'd slipped away into whatever space he went to when
he'd run himself dry, like he had before.
Which left Sherlock in the arms of a trained killer who hated him. Sherlock's
mouth felt dry and he licked his lips, his eyes slowly opening. "...he's
resting. Let me go." Hopefully Sebastian took that to mean that Jim was merely
tired but still present, rather than somewhere else and unconscious.
The blond’s head pulled back, wide eyed, surprised to find Sherlock when he'd
expected Jim. It was almost funny how he could tell the difference now, in so
small a gesture. Slowly, Sebastian let Sherlock go, as if he was not sure what
to make of the change. When his arm slipped free of Sherlock's waist, Sherlock
slumped forward a little, but he could straighten himself now. Sebastian
stepped back, putting a decent amount of space between them again, and Jim was
completely silent.
So was Sebastian. His gaze, however, spoke volumes. Wary, closed off, probably
not sure what to expect from Sherlock. Just as Sherlock was not sure what to
expect from him. This had been Jim's plan, and neither knew what to make of the
other now that he was gone.
Sherlock levered himself upright, watching Sebastian closely while he got to
his feet. He still didn't know much about the man that he hadn't deduced
earlier. John had also been ex-military, well-educated, and skilled with guns,
but where John was nurturing, Sebastian was certainly the opposite. John had
been invited to live here and had kept himself occupied with his own interests
when Sherlock wanted space. Sebastian was here because Jim wanted him to be,
but Sherlock had no idea how to make this arrangement livable.
The two men stared at one another. Sherlock finally spoke. "...this is the only
spare room I have, which means you'll be staying here," he began. "...I'm not
about to attack you unless you're about to attack me. I don't know what Jim
wants with you, but if we're stuck with this, we might as well make the best of
it."
Sherlock paused. He'd made tea for Jim before, when he knew the man had been a
dangerous enemy and tried to kill him. It would hardly be more surreal to offer
hospitality to another criminal, particularly if he was now a... flatmate.
"...perhaps this conversation would be better served downstairs."
Sebastian stared at him several moments longer and then kicked the duffel back
into reach. He bent without taking his eyes off Sherlock and took out a handgun
which he promptly slipped into the back of his trousers before rising again.
The message was clear; he did not trust Sherlock either. Whether he would be
willing to use that gun was questionable, considering Jim now shared Sherlock's
body, but it was a bold statement nonetheless. Sebastian waited for Sherlock to
lead the way, obstinately giving off the impression that Sherlock's
conversation was going to be very one sided.
Sherlock didn't appreciate the threat. The situation was considerably one-sided
to begin with; Sebastian was of equal height, but had far greater mass and
sheer strength. Sherlock was highly proficient at judo, but there was only so
much that training and strategy could do to even the score, and that counted on
Sebastian not having equal amounts of training, which was unlikely. One good
blow, one mistake, and the other man would overpower him.
Sherlock led Sebastian down the stairs and into the kitchen. The table had been
cleared of experiments for once. He filled the kettle and felt a little silly.
Sebastian's eyes bored a hole between his shoulder blades. "...I'm going to
need information if we're going to figure out how to make this work."
Sebastian's silence was not helping. And neither was Jim's. If Jim proved to be
the only one who could get him to talk, this was going to be difficult.
Sherlock could see from the slight strain of muscle in his upper arms that
Sebastian was tense, but he could also see in the stain of grease on his shirt
and the small ash mark on his sleeve that Sebastian both smoked and wasn't
bothering to wash his clothes as often as he should, no doubt from being on the
run, but he was also barely getting enough to eat. No man of Sebastian's
stature lived on beans alone. If he left the country, he would likely be just
fine, but while he remained, he would be to a great extent dependent on
Sherlock. Sebastian was no doubt aware of this, and still he refused to indulge
Sherlock with a civil response.
Sherlock set the tea to steep and assembled the rest of his peace offering in
silence. Sebastian made him deeply, deeply uneasy in a way Sherlock couldn't
remember feeling about another living person in a long time. Facing down
murderers was exciting. Having them live with him when they could decide to off
him in his sleep was less fine. Even worse when they desperately wanted to do
things to him because of the other person sharing his body.
Sherlock kept glancing at Sebastian as he moved about the kitchen. The other
man leaned forebodingly against the wall, watching without comment. Sherlock
set toast, jam, and the finished tea on the table, stared back, and slowly took
a seat.
The man watched Sherlock breathe, take a piece of toast, shift his plate, pick
up the butter knife... It was almost a show of dominance as much as it was a
show of wariness. Their truce was tentative, but Sebastian had the upper hand
here if only just, and he was making Sherlock perform the ritual of civility
without him.
Eventually, he pushed off the wall in one fluid motion, slow enough not to
alarm Sherlock, but with a particular sort of grace that told Sherlock he was
very aware of his body and the space around them. Sebastian had the controlled
movements of a dancer as he pulled back the second chair and lowered himself
into it. He took a piece of toast and without moving his eyes away from
Sherlock, began to spread jam over it.
Some pieces began to slide into place. Jim had referenced catching tigers in
regards to this man before, and apparently there was more to it just the
cliched figure of speech. Sebastian's scars weren't the neat lines of old knife
wounds, but the ragged edges of a sort left behind from animal claws. Coupled
with a predatory grace, Sherlock could see the comparison. He was making a show
of it, but this predator was hungry and neglected, having spent everything on a
hunt only to be thwarted by his targeted prey.
Sherlock stilled for a moment as he considered what words to extend that
wouldn't result in a limb getting bit off. "...he calls you tiger, doesn't he?"
Sebastian bristled still, but Sherlock could see the flush of colour spread
under his skin. The deduction was accurate. And judging by Sebastian's
reaction, it was a very personal nickname. Probably one Jim didn't use often,
or in front of others. Something....intimate, and Sebastian looked deeply
uncomfortable with Sherlock knowing.
"I went after one down a sewer. Nearly took my head off." Or gutted him, as
hinted by a tendril of one long scar running under the collar of Sebastian’s
shirt, downward. Sebastian's declaration was, surprisingly, not a boast. He
could have easily turned it into one, and he was a man who gave off the
impression that he was not normally so humble about his strength or
achievements. Perhaps his wariness tempered his tongue.
"I had wondered," Sherlock kept his voice even. Sebastian was likely used to
people speculating about the source of his scars. Sherlock filed away the
information, and the reaction the nickname had gotten. Part of him felt even
more uncomfortable with the reminder that Jim had been intimate with this man,
regardless of how interested he was in Sherlock now.
Sherlock toyed with his tea mug. He tried to think about what he might have
felt in a similar situation, but the closest he could come up with was the
personal difficulties he and John had had after Sherlock had returned from the
illusion of the grave. John had struggled with feelings of betrayal and
abandonment and it had taken some time for Sherlock to understand his friend's
moods and reasoning. "Things have been... difficult, these past few days. For
what it's worth, he insisted we come after you as soon as the situation
stabilized between us a bit. He wanted you alive and here."
Sebastian's eyes only narrowed. He did not look comforted. In fact, he looked
rather a lot like he'd been slapped. Clearly he expected no olive branches from
Sherlock, nor pity. His hand stilled on his second piece of toast and for a
minute it seemed he might go mute again, but then he spoke. "Better to have an
ally, even in death." The toast was gone in two more crunching bites and
Sebastian sipped heavily on his tea, no longer hesitant about eating Sherlock's
food. His words suggested the truth, that Jim and Sherlock were not on
perfectly good terms, that the truce even they shared was tentative.
"You're not here to reinforce our arrangement," Sherlock retorted. As if
Sebastian was needed. If Jim changed his mind and decided he wanted Sherlock
dead, all he had to do was repeat his earlier attempt to stop his heart. Or
wait until Sherlock was asleep and murder him in the dream realm. "The first
thing Jim tried to do when he started gaining more control was kill me. Again.
And himself by extension. He tried running my mouth to get you to shoot me, and
when that failed, tried more direct methods. I've convinced him not to go
forward with that plan, and we have a truce for the moment, but Jim didn't
request your presence because he feels he needs backup to force me into
anything."
Sebastian stilled. Slowly he set down his mug of tea. His face had gone
blank...except for a slight pull of the muscle between his brows, a twitch he
couldn't stop though he was clearly fighting it. Something Sherlock said had
affected him. Something.... Jim had tried to kill himself, again. Jim still
wanted to die. Sebastian didn't care why he was there, to enforce Sherlock's
cooperation or not, he'd been broken when Jim blew his brains out on that
rooftop. And now he'd learned that Jim still wanted oblivion. What Sherlock was
seeing in his blankness was a man trying to hold himself together.
"...how have you convinced him?" Sebastian finally asked. He looked like he had
to fight the words out.
Sherlock was unable to stop the flush of color that crept into his features.
His gaze settled on the steaming liquid in his mug. "...he made it clear that
he'd tried to end it all before when everything became too much and he thought
he'd never get what he wanted. And that that feeling still held. We...
negotiated, and we're still in the middle of figuring things out." Particularly
if Jim had been lying and manipulating to try to lull Sherlock into letting him
do more. Sherlock's voice became even quieter. "He stopped trying to kill me,
and himself by extension, when I offered to try forming a relationship."
Sebastian's brows dropped. He stared, scrutinizing Sherlock with slight
disbelief written across his face. Perhaps it was Sherlock's use of the word
'relationship'. Sebastian had to know of Jim's...steadfast infatuation with
Sherlock. Even if just in hindsight, but that was unlikely. Jim had obsessed
over Sherlock from the beginning, and he'd done so publicly from the moment
they'd begun their little cat and mouse games.
"How exactly do you mean?" Sebastian asked with slight raise of an eyebrow. He
was aware Jim could take over Sherlock's body, had to be aware that while doing
so, Jim could manipulate Sherlock's body into doing whatever he wanted it to
do, or be done to it, but he had no idea they could share a dreamscape.
"We're able to speak, mind to mind, while I'm awake. He's able to exert more
influence when I fall asleep without draining his energy." Sherlock raised his
mug to his lips and deliberated over his words. He was still uneasy with
physicality, and confessing these things to Jim's former lover seemed awkward.
Perhaps even cruel, given that Sebastian clearly held deep feelings regarding
his boss.
"Jim seems to gain energy from interaction there, and it can affect things in
the waking realm. I'm still healing from a bite mark." The bite was the least
explicit thing they'd done, but Sherlock still felt embarrassed to admit even
this much.
Sebastian's steely blue eyes flashed to Sherlock's neck where there was indeed
the slim corner of the bandage below his shirt collar. Sebastian hadn't thought
to give it any significance during their scuffle, but he did now. Some of his
confusion seemed to slip away. When Sherlock said relationship, he didn't
necessarily mean Jim wanted a house and a white picket fence. In spite of the
obvious intimacy between Sherlock and Jim, this knowledge looked like it eased
Sebastian's mind. It was funny how, like most people, he was far easier to read
than Jim was, even if he was far less talkative.
Sebastian did, however, seem to have something on his mind, something that made
him hesitant to ask and yet drew him in all the same. "Not that I wasn't aware
of his...interest before the both of you supposedly died, but...why go to you?
If he wanted me to believe him, he could have spoken to me like that. Would
have made a more a believable case than showing up with your face."
"I don't know," Sherlock admitted. "We're tied together on some level. He can't
go very far from my body without getting drained. Speaking with his own voice
or throwing things also drains him very quickly, and he siphons energy off me
whenever he gets too low. I thought I was going to die of hypothermia the first
day, if he didn't just change his mind and try to stop my heart again."
Sebastian was still staring. Sherlock had always been told by others that his
own pale eyes were unnerving, and he finally understood a bit of what they
meant.
"He can't take control for very long without getting tired, either. Fetching
you and making certain you made it back stretched the limits of how long he
could hold on. He left me briefly to check on you before, at a distance, which
means that he isn't capable of speaking directly to your mind. How we did
things today was the most energy efficient method we have."
Finally Sebastian sighed. He looked, for a moment, at a loss and far out of his
element. "Ghosts." Sebastian swallowed. "If anyone ever told me I'd believe in
ghosts..." Or that Jim of all people would be the one to do so, Sherlock didn't
need to be told. It could have been a ploy just like Jim's little line of code
had once been for Sherlock. Quantum computing aside, Jim had rigged the
environment of the game to make it just as believable as Sebastian could have
imagined Sherlock was doing now. And yet here he was, desperation possibly
creating a reluctant belief.
"I didn't believe it at first, either, and that was while he was attempting to
yell at me and then kill me," Sherlock added. "I'd thought you had released
more than one virus into the public and I'd been infected by something that
gave me chills and hallucinations. That was easier to process than the idea
that I was possessed. Haunted. Whatever this qualifies as." Best not to add
that he'd promptly tried to find ways to get rid of ghosts.
Sebastian looked down at his tea and then back at Sherlock like he was
surprised they'd slipped into something that might resemble a conversation. It
had been Jim that had done it, Jim who'd thrown both of their worlds off
balance down to the very physics of the universe. Sebastian looked like he
might have wanted to say more, if only in the most subtle way, but he sighed
instead. He must have decided Sherlock wasn't much of a threat, and maybe some
of his anger had dwindled in the face of everything else, because he suddenly
looked very tired sitting there at Sherlock's kitchen table.
Sherlock knew he didn't look much better. He still was harboring major
suspicions about Jim's actions and true feelings, and now he had another source
of stress sitting in his kitchen. One that was going to be living in John's old
room. Sherlock couldn't help but feel resentful about that. It was empty, but
it was John's. Even knowing that there was no chance the doctor was coming
back, keeping it empty had been symbolic. The fact that Jim's partner in crime
was going to occupy that space only reinforced just how much Jim had colonized
his life.
Sherlock sighed. "I have no idea what the protocol for this situation is."
That seemed to break Sebastian out of his thoughts. He downed the rest of his
tea in one swig and pushed it aside, then rose from the table. "Let me know
when Jim is back. And wants to talk."
With that, he took another quick glance around the flat before making his way
back upstairs. Sherlock heard the door click shut, leaving him alone in the
silent flat for once in a long and troubling while. The sun was beginning to
set outside. His phone alerted him that he'd received a new check-in from John
and still nothing from Lestrade.
Sherlock repocketed his phone for the moment. He wanted to take advantage of
his brief illusion of solitude. Small chores were done in silence - the dishes
were put away, and new sheets were brought from the linen closet and tucked
into place on his bed. Sherlock took a couple of pills for a headache that had
surfaced and sprawled out atop his duvet.
He could hear footsteps upstairs, ever so faintly. Too heavy to be John.
Sherlock sighed and reached for his phone, opening the text and sending his own
reply back. Fine. No new developments. Lestrade has been keeping me in the
dark.
"Did you lie to him this often when you two were working together?" came Jim's
soft, almost sleepy tone. However faint it was, it was still impossible to miss
coming from the back of Sherlock's own mind. Jim sounded lethargic, but
content. It was questionable whether he'd even overheard Sherlock's
conversation with Sebastian as Sherlock still hadn't determined whether Jim
'slept' while he was dormant. He could, however, just as easily hear the faint
sounds of the other man as well as Sherlock could.
"...yes," Sherlock softly admitted. Quite often it had been easier to keep John
in the dark, both about cases and about himself. John had gotten more truth
than others, for certain, but Sherlock had all too often woven lies or kept
silent. Perhaps it had been more about keeping himself safe than for John's
sake.
"If I tell him more, he'll decide to visit, which will be awkward with your new
invited flatmate. And anyway, he already has enough to worry about." Like his
impending fatherhood. Making further repairs to his relationship with his wife.
Sherlock was mostly out of sight and out of mind, and he knew that if he
submitted to the temptation to demand John's attention on him again, it
wouldn't end in a healthy place. His desire to be the center of his friend's
world would be profoundly unfair to John.
Jim tutted softly, but Sherlock felt the hazy warmth of phantom arms wrap
around him. It wasn't a very strong sensation, but it wasn't his mind playing
tricks on him either. "Come rest with me," Jim whispered, and after the cold
and the excitement of the day, his words were alluring. He meant to pull
Sherlock into the dream world. If he was able. Sherlock would possibly have to
join him there of his free will this time if Jim was too tired.
Sherlock let the phone fall to his side. Joining Jim would mean more conflict,
but refusing would just stretch the problem out while he mulled everything
over. Alone. Sherlock's eyes closed. "We need to talk," he murmured, but he
could feel himself drifting lower. He'd made his decision. Better to confront
issues directly than to put them off and allow it to fester.
"Do we?" Sherlock heard Jim's soft voice before he saw him. Or rather, felt
Jim's arms as they wrapped around his waist. There was a chin on his shoulder
and Jim was pressed up behind him before he knew it. But Jim wasn't insistent.
He was relaxed, merely melting into Sherlock. He knew Sherlock wasn't pleased,
but that didn't stop him. As Jim solidified, so did his familiar mindscape of
stars and galaxies.
Sherlock didn't turn to look. He let them both drift for a minute, looking up
at the night sky surrounding them and trying to put his thoughts together. "I
don't know how to trust you. I don't know if I can. I thought everything you
were showing me was truthful, recently... and now I'm not certain. I can't tell
where your layers of mask end and you begin. I can't tell if I'm just another
toy to you, if one that ranks higher than Sebastian."
Jim's fingers touched his cheek, tracing as they went. "I came back from the
dead for you," Jim whispered, and Sherlock could feel his smile against the
back of his neck. "What more proof do you need than that?" It sounded as trite
as it did sincere on Jim's lips. Because Jim couldn't let anything go without
tainting it. Jim could never be honest, even if he was being honest. Jim
Moriarty believed honesty to be weakness and so in the past he’d thrown what
Sherlock had suspected as the truth of his feelings like daggers. Now they were
just fine little cuts, marring the whole of their brittle 'relationship'.
"Not that that's unimpressive," Sherlock responded. "But that doesn't prove
that you care about me. If all of this isn't purely an accident, what it proves
is your depth of obsession - that you were so fixated on me as a goal that your
mind couldn't let me go and latched on even in death. You wanted a playmate to
keep you company and relieve your boredom... for yourself. You wanted someone
to fulfill your sexual needs and preferences, for yourself. I don't know that
you're capable of considering the wants and needs of another person if it's not
overwhelmingly to your benefit in some way. You can't even give me a straight
answer right now."
"So sentimental," Jim sighed softly, notably not refuting Sherlock's claims.
"That's what your brother called you, didn't he? But I'm not John Watson. I'll
never run around caring after you the way he did," Jim whispered, unable to
keep a trace of scorn from his voice. "Is that what you want? Would you rather
have a fawning supporter than an equal? What would be proof enough of my
'caring'? Remember who I am when you ask this of me." Jim spoke almost directly
into Sherlock's ear and didn’t otherwise move.
"I don't know what would be proof enough." Jim's comments about John stung,
even if they were true. John wasn't a match for his mind. He made up for that
lack, instead, with his heart, his loyalty and fortitude and dogged optimism
that had been a pillar of sunlight through the perpetual gloom of Sherlock's
reality. "I don't know what would be enough to make me feel that I can trust
you. The fact that you can't be honest with me is a major barrier. I don't want
a pet, but I don't want the constant suspicions that I'm just one more
plaything to you. I don't feel secure enough to give you anything more."
"You see Sebastian and you compare yourself to him. You shouldn't." Jim rested
his head against Sherlock's, staring out at the stars. They began to shift. A
great, purple galaxy drifted far away. At Jim's unvoiced command, it began to
swirl. Other stars followed. Then whole constellations. Two smaller galaxies,
one a milky green and the other a vibrant orange were sucked toward the
display. Vast as it was, it must have been spinning at unimaginable velocity
and yet from their vantage point it seemed as slow and fluid as Jim's own
movements. It was, above all, beautiful. A performance of the cosmos, just for
Sherlock.
Beautiful, but it didn't move him. Sherlock was too focused on his own feelings
to be so easily distracted. The desire to struggle out of Jim's grasp and push
him away was overwhelming, as was the opposite impulse - to pull him crushingly
close and refuse to let go. Sherlock's hands clenched. "I cannot help but
compare the two of us. He's a means to an end and a particular sort of
fulfilment. I simply satisfy other requirements that he lacks. More of them,
certainly, but in the end you were willing to kill both him and I."
"And myself," Jim reminded him. "And isn't that the basis for any form of human
companionship? 'A particular sort of fulfilment'? Is that not why all the
little people of the world seek each other out and hope it lasts? Did you not
keep John around because he gave you a particular sort of fulfilment? How could
you ever have gotten along if he didn't? You cared for him, and you were
perfectly willing to kill yourself. At least to his mind. Does that mean you
didn't care?" Jim had stopped paying attention to the stars. His eyes were on
the side of Sherlock's face while they began to spin wildly out of control.
Sherlock had cared. He'd cared too much, in fact, and how poorly that had
served him in the end. His efforts and sacrifices had ensured that John was
still alive, and reasonably happy, but it hadn't secured his own happiness. If
anything, John moving on had highlighted how empty his own existence had been
and was again. "I wasn't willing to kill him. Die in his place, yes, but not
execute him for failing to give me what I wanted."
"Well, granted, I had higher hopes for death than this," Jim mumbled into
Sherlock's neck. Jim didn't see it the way Sherlock did. Jim had wanted death.
He'd wanted to raze their world to the ground and then flicker out of
existence. In that desire, he did not fear death, and he apparently saw little
reason not to inflict such a fate on other living, thinking human beings. Just
as he'd said the first time they met.
It was what people did. People died.
"We're fundamentally different in that way." One side of the struggle won out;
Sherlock's hand reached up to cover Jim's hands and remove them. Instead of
shoving the smaller man away, Sherlock turned and latched onto him. It reminded
him, unwittingly, of the same way he used to cling to Redbeard - one emotion
touchstone, one shield for pain, replaced with another, more sentient creature.
More dangerous and unpredictable, as well, and without guaranteed loyalty. "I
want to have hope."
"For what?" Jim asked even as his arms folded around Sherlock. It was a
comforting gesture. For a small man, Moriarty knew how to wrap Sherlock in his
arms fairly well. Sherlock could feel fingers in his hair and a palm on the
back of his neck. Jim lifted his head and tucked Sherlock into him like it was
something they did every day...or something he'd imagined, for a very long
time. They were floating without purpose, and Jim was warm. Jim was regaining
energy and it showed in the subtle ways he was able to provide comfort.
Sherlock wasn't certain he could explain it. The feeling wasn't logical; life
didn't have much purpose, when all was said and done. Life struggled to survive
and create copies of itself before it died, and the cycle continued endlessly
until something finally snuffed out the line. "Something more. To not have it
all be pointless indulgences and staving off boredom and pain for as long as
possible, for no particular reason. To not just have other presences
occasionally in rooms with me, but at least one person who wants to be there
because I am. Not because of what I can do for them, or because they want to
make a study of my unusual properties. Someone who is there, and will stay,
because they care and want to be there, regardless of whether I do anything to
bribe them into staying."
Sherlock could feel Jim's head turning to look down at him. He'd sounded so
horribly sentimental, Jim should have laughed, scoffed, tossed him away and let
him fall to the farthest reaches of this empty space where they clung to one
another.
"You never grew up, did you?" was what Jim said instead. His hand brushing
Sherlock's hair gently drew his head back to look at Jim, and Jim was smiling.
It was a fond smile. It held no trace of mockery. Jim seemed, quite the
contrary, rather enamoured with what Sherlock had said, even if he'd expressed
doubt that he could be the one to provide that kind of stability for Sherlock.
Sherlock stiffened and his features gained a sour edge. That had sounded a bit
too much like Mycroft's accusations, the way he'd constantly treated Sherlock
like a child. Coddled him. "...I'm not a child anymore," he muttered, but his
voice was sullen. He was aware that other people viewed him as brattish, even
grown. Jim's smile looked indulgent, in the same way one set kids at ease.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
Jim’s smile only spread wider. "Sherlock," he began to whisper
conspiratorially, "I like that about you. As much as I like your cruel streak;
and I know you have one. As much as I like your calculated leaps of logic."
Jim's smile wavered. Sherlock had been all of those things by the pool, and Jim
had to be remembering it. Remembering their conversation while they watched
their former selves begin the greatest game they'd ever played. Remembering the
potential they'd lost, perhaps never to find again with any certainty. But Jim
didn't say it aloud.
Sherlock finally let his suspicion go, but not his wariness. He sighed. "I want
to trust you." The rest went unspoken, but they both heard it; Sherlock didn't
feel like he could trust Jim. He'd been bitten by others so often that he was
afraid to stretch a hand out, particularly to another who looked at him fondly
but had proven so treacherous to other people.
Jim hummed, a noncommittal noise, but a thoughtful one. He lifted his head and
glanced back at the stars, which finally stopped their oscillating disarray.
"Well, that's alright." Jim brushed it off as casually as he brushed the hairs
at the back of Sherlock's neck. "Maybe you'll come around someday. Or maybe you
won't." Either way, Sherlock was stuck with Jim, unfortunate enough to be
forced to get to know the spirit. Whether he trusted Jim or not held no weight
over his presence.
It did, however, hold weight over Sherlock’s responses and actions. He let Jim
touch him, and he didn't let go, but neither did he look particularly happy or
inclined doling out too much affection in return. Emotional coinage was
precious, scarce tender at the moment.
"...Sebastian wants to talk whenever it is we wake up. I don't know what I'm
supposed to do with him if he won't talk to me, and you talking through me is
too draining. Or dangerous." In terms of Sherlock's physical boundaries being
preserved, at any rate.
"You'll just have to find a way to get along, then, won't you?" Jim tugged on
Sherlock's shoulder, drawing him down to a better position against the nothing
they floated upon. Jim curled up against Sherlock's side, uncaring that
Sherlock was imitating a wooden board. Sherlock would be forced out of it soon
enough. "I'm curious to know whether anything remains of the networks you took
down, on the non-personnel side," Jim amended, knowing that Sherlock had done a
very thorough job otherwise. "And he may prove useful to have on hand,
besides."
"Helpful, yes, but also unpredictable in my case. Regardless of the fact that
you've told him not to harm me, he's only doing as much because he now knows
damaging me will damage the only body you can occupy. He's made it clear that
he's not interested in a truce with me otherwise; he's just biding time until
you have enough strength to take control again." All of this combined to make
Sherlock feel even more crowded. Jim already gave him no privacy, and now he
had another hostile body in the flat. "I tried to get him to talk, and to
defuse his anger a bit. It seemed to make little difference."
"No! He didn't warm up to you at your first attempt?" Jim feigned surprise and
ignored Sherlock's withering look. "I think..." Jim began evenly, "that the two
of you over time will get used to each other. Perhaps even learn to get along."
Jim looked far too hopeful. It was hard to tell if it was exaggerated or not.
"Be patient, Sherlock. He may hate you now, but he won't forever. Especially
not if I'm wearing your face." Jim's eyes were too big, too innocent to fit
him. He ducked his head and curled into Sherlock's chest with a sigh, and
Sherlock could almost feel the pull of energy in the way Jim stretched.
A battery and a toy. A tool. That's what Sherlock felt like, and Jim's pretense
at innocence wasn't winning him points in his favor. Things might have been
different if Sherlock hadn't felt stressed and stretched so thin, but at the
moment the other man's act wasn't endearing. Sherlock felt torn between pushing
Jim away and pulling him close again, and finally decided on the latter. Warmth
and company, for the moment, was better than floating in a cold void by
himself, at least for the moment.
Jim nuzzled his cheek into Sherlock's collarbone. If he was picking up on
Sherlock's emotions at all, he wasn't showing any sign of it. He seemed to be
able to do that better when Sherlock was awake. How Jim had managed on his own
those first years was a mystery. Or...possibly not. He'd been mad with rage and
barely even self aware. It was possible that if he lost Sherlock again, his
source of energy, he could revert to that state without fading away completely.
...and it was unlikely Jim would desire to test that theory.
Sherlock stubbornly tried to hold onto his resolve and his sour mood. He was
failing. He'd always had better luck at staying in a composed fury when
interacting with people he didn't care about, which was most people. Anyone
who'd gotten too close was a liability precisely because they had more leverage
on him and a deeper reach, and Sherlock found it impossible to have interacted
the way they had and be unmoved. He was still angry at Jim, but his body slowly
became looser, more pliant, and finally curled around the smaller man.
"...you're impossible," Sherlock grumbled under his breath.
Jim smiled and hummed. Sherlock could feel it. He could also feel Jim wiggle
against him in ridiculous pleasure. Jim was content. He'd gotten what he'd
wanted - Sebastian, Sherlock, Sherlock's continued existence, and his own
energy replenished. Even if all of it was driving doubts into Sherlock's mind,
Jim wouldn't stop. Jim had been right to contrast himself with John. They were
nothing alike. John had been support, if begrudging support, at all times. Jim
looked out for himself. But he had at least come a long way from trying to kill
Sherlock.
They rested in the dreamscape for what felt like hours. At times, Jim looked
like he'd fallen asleep. His eyes would open periodically, and then close
again, comfortable to lie in Sherlock's arms for as long as he wanted.
Sherlock watched Jim for a while, amazed at just how youthful and innocent the
man looked when he appeared unconscious, how delicate and completely unlike the
dangerous personality lurking beneath. Sherlock wondered how many people had
met their end from underestimating the man based on his looks, or his soft,
lilting voice, or the frivolous quirks that showed through every now and then.
He was willing to bet that such foolish mistakes had filled a good many graves.
Eventually Sherlock drifted off after Jim had stayed quiet and still for an
uncertain amount of time. Jim drawing energy from him wasn't without cost, and
Sherlock needed to recharge himself.
When Jim finally stirred, it was in a warm and sleepy haze. He stretched
languidly over Sherlock's body, drawing Sherlock's attention to him and every
twist of his lean muscle, what little of it there was, before Jim relaxed. He
blinked up at Sherlock with warm eyes, not fully coherent. Or possibly, he was.
Possibly, he knew exactly how he looked, as a moment later Sherlock could feel
the dream slipping away from them. Jim was fading. He was sending Sherlock back
to the real world.
***** Chapter 12 *****
Sherlock's eyes opened slowly. He didn't feel like he'd gotten enough sleep,
but a quick check of the clock beside his bed said that he'd been out for a
full eight hours. Or, at least, eight hours minus whatever energy had been
siphoned from him by his supernatural parasite. Sherlock groaned and pressed
his palms over his eyes. After a few minutes he resigned himself to the fact
that he had to get up at least temporarily - just long enough to a trip to the
loo. Drinking tea before going to sleep hadn't been a wise course of action.
The flat was dark when he opened the door, just as it usually was in the early
hours of the morning, and yet Sebastian's unseen and unheard presence in the
room above gave the quiet a notably unsettling edge. Particularly so when
Sherlock stepped out into the hall and caught sight of a dark silhouette in
John's old armchair, staring out the window.
Moran’s head snapped up as Sherlock halted mid step. Even in the dark, Sherlock
could see he'd startled the man.
Sherlock froze, suddenly completely and utterly awake. He'd been half-asleep
when he'd launched into routine, never pausing to think that the highly-strung,
emotional, trained assassin might not be where he’d left him the previous
night. Evidently Sebastian wasn't going to avoid Sherlock by staying in his
room until Jim summoned him.
Sherlock was grateful that, at the very least, Sebastian didn't have a gun in
hand and he himself was fully clothed, and lacking embarrassing evidence for
once, which had become a rare way to wake up in the past few days. "I didn't
think you'd be up."
"Same to you," Sebastian said after a pause of sizing Sherlock up. He lowed
himself back against the chair, but he didn't turn back to the window. Hs
attention remained steadfastly fixed on Sherlock, watching like a statue as his
face sank back into shadow. His long legs had been spread out on the floor and
they returned to their original position, before he'd drawn up at Sherlock's
arrival. Sebastian looked at ease, but his stillness and his focus gave away
his tension.
Sherlock lingered in the hallway. He wasn't comfortable either, particularly
with Sebastian staring at him like that. He couldn't feel or hear Jim's
presence yet, which meant that he might be out of luck if he entered the
bathroom and Sebastian decided to corner him. His current position allowed him
to retreat to the back fire escape, at least. Sherlock could read his tension,
easily see the man's frame braced in key places that would let him move at a
split-second's notice, but he couldn't quite read Sebastian's intent.
"...I have no intention of harassing you so long as you extend me the same
civility. If you're waiting for Jim, he's not up yet."
Sherlock caught the shake of Sebastian's head. Not waiting for Jim, then. Even
though Sebastian would always be waiting for Jim. It looked like that was all
Sherlock was going to get, but then Sebastian finally relaxed. He laid his head
back against the chair with a sigh and crossed his ankles over one another,
losing the subtle tension to his posture. Sherlock could see, however, through
the glint of faint street light, Sebastian's eyes still watched him.
Sherlock gave him one last, cautious look, but decided to risk going ahead with
his original intent. The bathroom door closed and locked behind him, and
Sherlock started going through the morning rituals he'd readopted after two
years undercover. Teeth were brushed while the water ran until the old pipes
finally brought liquid that was better than tepid. Sherlock disrobed and
stepped into the bathtub. The water didn't make him less tired, but it did wake
him up further and sooth muscles that were aching after the long wait the
previous day.
Still Jim was unusually quiet. Perhaps Sherlock had been right to say that he
wasn't up yet. Jim may have nudged him out of their dream, but that didn't mean
the spirit wasn't still resting somewhere back there. Silently. It was hard to
imagine what Jim would want to do with Sebastian once he'd gotten the
information Sebastian had to offer. Accounts and identities Sherlock had never
linked to Jim, routes of trade that never had Jim's name attached to them,
meeting grounds for such people Sherlock had never discovered.... It was also
hard to imagine why Jim wanted to know these things. What did they matter to
him now that he was dead? Life as a ghost seemed suddenly and incredibly dull.
Sherlock finished up, dried, and wrapped a towel around himself while he
shaved. He'd never been particularly hirsute, something for which he was very
grateful, but shaving was still essential. He paused on one stroke to examine
the bite wound. It was healing well, but also a vivid reminder of his situation
and just how dangerous it could get. And now he had the added complication of
Sebastian.
He'd already said that he wasn't going to split his life into a Jekyll-Hyde
mess just so Jim could play the villain again. If Sebastian wasn't going to be
a chess piece that got dispatched for dirty jobs, Sherlock wasn't certain what
the man was going to be doing.
Sherlock wiped the lingering traces of shaving cream from his face, slid into
his dressing gown, and exited the room.
He ran into Sebastian in the kitchen. Leaning against the table. Making coffee.
And standing far too close in the small space. One scarred brow raised at
Sherlock's dressing gown, which was decidedly silky and well fitted to his
form. Especially when Sherlock had nothing on underneath. Sebastian's brow
remained arched. As though Sherlock's state of undress perplexed him, which,
given Sherlock's reservations, was probably accurate.
The coffee maker gurgled to a stop and, without moving, Sebastian reached over
and poured himself a cup. He didn't offer one to Sherlock.
Sherlock averted his gaze and quickly walked back to his room. He'd have to
make a note to bring his change of clothes with him into the bathroom. A little
dampness and a few wrinkles was preferable to having Sebastian look at him that
way.
He hadn't ever worried about nudity in the flat, before. Mostly it had been due
to the fact that he hadn't thought of himself as a sexual being, and he'd felt
safe with John. The doctor wasn't the sort to either mock or attempt to give
him unwanted attention, and so it hadn't been a problem if Sherlock had been
too tired and distracted to dress in more than a sheet or a robe any given day.
With Jim, it hardly mattered, because they couldn't get away from each other.
Sebastian was a new variable that he'd have to remember and account for in the
future.
Finally, he could feel Jim stirring in the air around him. The spirit’s
presence stretched somewhere between the space of Sherlock’s mind and the
physical world and once it had stretched far enough, he could feel Jim settle
beneath his skin. He couldn't hear it, but it felt like the ghost was yawning.
It was difficult to say whether Jim had witnessed the little socially awkward
run-in in the kitchen, but Jim certainly picked up on it now, if only from
Sherlock's discomfort.
Sherlock could hear a faint chuckle in the back of his mind. "You look like you
could use some coffee."
"Not that kind of coffee." Sherlock was having a difficult time forgetting the
look on Sebastian's face. He'd seen similar before, from strangers who wondered
about the man with odd social quirks and expensive taste in clothing who'd
swept into their lives. That, however, had always been a temporary affair, and
he'd never given a damn about their opinions so long as they left him
unhindered to pursue the solution to his latest puzzle. He didn't care much
about Sebastian's opinions of him, except as they would affect the man’s
attitude and behavior. "What is he here for, besides feeding you the
information you want to know? I don't have anything for him to do. He'd be
instantly recognized if I claimed he was a new assistant, and that's presuming
I could ever convince him to go along with such a charade."
"Maybe I'm just lonely," Jim replied unconvincingly. "Maybe I'd like to
reminisce about the good ol' days of domestic terrorism and you're not
indulging me."
The funny thing was, difficult as it was to believe, that was all Sebastian was
really good for. Besides continuing Jim's work, of course, but did Jim really
want to go back to work? That work had been a release from boredom, the only
way to exercise his mind and satisfy his need for danger, for all the extremes
life had to offer. And above all, Jim's need for control. If he wanted control
over the unsuspecting public again, or of Sherlock especially, Sebastian could
be his hands.
"Just as long as it's only reminiscing. We've already discussed your idea about
splitting time," Sherlock muttered. He did up the last few buttons and smoothed
his hair into carefully disheveled curls. His vanity demanded satiation
regardless of who was going to see him. "If you're bored, we'll think of
something, but I'm not having Mycroft come down on my head with all of MI6
because he thinks I've lost my mind."
"The duplicitous mystique of a double life doesn't tempt you at all?" Sherlock
could feel Jim's interest pique, specifically at the mention of Mycroft. "We
could always have a bit of fun with your brother. Nothing harmful of course,
just... enough to get his attention. Get on his nerves a little..." Jim was
stretching again, luxuriating in his own mischievous thoughts. He'd enjoyed
toying with Mycroft on the grand scale before he died. Sherlock on the other
hand, he had toyed with personally.
Sherlock would have been lying if he'd claimed the idea held no appeal. His
relationship with Mycroft had always been complicated, and had fractured at
several points in his life. Even with his assistance in going underground and
having a relatively smooth return to British society, there was a constant
underlying tension between them. Sherlock disliked Mycroft's ego, constructed
coldness, his adherence to order to a degree Sherlock found simultaneously
ridiculous and frightening. Mycroft, in turn, disliked having an attachment to
an unpredictable wildcard he couldn't control, a liability who knew too many of
his personal secrets, frequently publicly embarrassing to some degree of
consequence for his own reputation, and often in danger. Mycroft wanted to
bring him into the governmental fold, and Sherlock dug his heels in and
childishly rebelled at every turn. He understood the factors that had driven
Mycroft to his decisions, but Sherlock knew that such a transition would kill a
large part of himself.
"I don't think that's a wise idea." Anything that showed Jim's signature, or
seemed too great of a threat, would make Mycroft start to dig, and Sherlock
didn't want to be on the other end when Mycroft traced the thread all the way
to the end.
Sherlock could feel Jim's inevitable eye roll, which was more of a feeling than
a real motion. "If I'm going to be stuck in your daily life, I would prefer to
have an extra hand nearby who knows my work. I can't always borrow yours," Jim
said, changing the subject back to Sebastian. "And you never know, you might
even come to like him. Or at least tolerate him." Jim stretched himself through
the folds of Sherlock's mind, not searching, but readying himself after his
period of rest. "Also, we'll need to get us a computer."
A shiver ran through Sherlock's frame. He wasn't cold, nor frightened, but the
sensation of someone sliding around inside him was unsettling. It also tickled
in a way Sherlock couldn't quite describe. "I very much doubt that, even if, as
you said, he warms to me based solely on the fact that you're riding around
beneath my skin. Tolerating me, just barely, isn't conducive to getting me to
like someone. Particularly someone who's tried to kill me several times over."
Sherlock picked up his phone from where it had been charging on the bedside
table and slipped it into his pocket. "Why do we need another computer? My
laptop is perfectly functional. Or is it that your associate doesn't have one?"
"I might as well put him to work while he's with us," Jim commented, ignoring
Sherlock's irritation. "If I'm going to be thrust back to the conscious world,
I'd rather know what's going on in it." Jim sounded rather petulant at that,
and still he wouldn't let it go. It wasn't very likely Jim would leave it at
that either. The more he knew what was happening in the world, the more he
would desire to have a hand in it. And he'd been out of the loop for three
years. A lot happened in three years, especially in Jim's circles. Those
circles that no longer existed, thanks to Sherlock, which funny enough, Jim
didn't seem too upset about. He'd been more upset that Sherlock himself had
continued on with his regular life when it was all said and done.
"Fine. If it makes you happy, we'll go shopping." Sherlock rolled his eyes, but
he couldn't put things off any longer. Staying confined to his bedroom all day
to avoid Sebastian wasn't productive, and Sherlock was hungry. He didn't always
feel hunger pangs, but irresponsible eating the past few days had finally
caught up to him. His fingers closed around the doorknob and made his way back
towards the kitchen.
The kitchen Sebastian hadn't left. His pale eyes fell on Sherlock the moment he
came into view. "Having an argument with yourself?" Sebastian asked wryly. From
his seat at the table, cold cup in hand, he'd probably heard a lot. Sherlock
hadn't exactly been quiet on his end of the conversation, and Sebastian had to
be dying to talk to Jim. Even though he was hiding it very well.
"Tell him you're getting him a computer and I'll talk to him when we get back,"
Jim huffed inside Sherlock's head.
Sherlock's expression soured. He didn't enjoy playing middleman between Jim and
Sebastian, and there was something unsettling about the sharp blue tint of
Sebastian's eyes set into his angular, scarred face. That and the knowledge of
what he was capable of, and the fact that he was very focused on Sherlock, now
and for the foreseeable future. "...Jim has told to me to relate to you that
we're going shopping for a computer for you, for some purpose or another. He'll
talk to you once we get back." Sherlock straightened and walked past Sebastian
as he spoke, heading for the coffee maker. If he didn't have time to properly
eat, at the very least he was going to get some caffeine in his system.
He could hear Sebastian shift in his seat to keep Sherlock in his line of
sight, but he remained silent, sizing Sherlock up with his unnaturally cold
gaze. So far, where Jim was all fire and intensity, Sebastian was cold and
restrained. But that didn't suit the details Sherlock saw in his person. It was
more like Sebastian was simply waiting to strike.
The coffee was lukewarm, at best. Even that was being optimistic. The man
simply watched with mild disinterest as Sherlock poured it into a travel mug,
but before Sherlock could snap at him, something happened. The cup in his hand
began to warm. Noticeably. Then the black liquid began to steam. Suddenly it
boiled, nearly spilling over the edge before settling again.
Sebastian's eyes widened.
Sherlock shut his eyes and wavered on his feet. "...stop wasting energy," he
murmured. Enacting a rapid temperature change had to have drained Jim, because
Sherlock had felt the drain in turn. He'd barely gotten out of bed and he
already felt lethargic. Magic tricks to impress Sebastian wouldn't help if
Sherlock became too tired to do anything, or Jim lost so much energy that he
couldn't fulfill his promise to speak to the man later. Sebastian was being
patient, all things considered, but he wouldn't be patient forever.
Sherlock snapped the lid onto the travel mug and went to get his coat without
another word. "If you have an idea on how to get a computer without Sebastian
being picked up on camera, I'm all ears. My network, to my knowledge, doesn't
extend to high quality electronics."
"Simple. He's waiting here." Jim's reply sounded nonchalant, but Sherlock
caught the terse note in its pitch. Jim hadn't liked being scolded for the
coffee. Though all things considered, mostly Sherlock's exhaustion, it was a
ridiculous thing to do. And pointless. Perhaps Jim had done it out of spite. Or
yes, to amuse Sebastian. Or, laughably, in an attempt to do Sherlock a small
kindness. Whatever it was, Jim obviously wanted it dropped. "Problem solved.
Let's go."
Sherlock's mouth opened, then closed. He shook his head and gave Sebastian a
dubious look. He didn't fear the man ambushing him when he got back, or
anything of the sort, but Sebastian was a distrusted stranger. It felt wrong to
leave him in the flat unsupervised, just like it felt wrong for him to invade
John's room. Sherlock knew logically that there was nothing detectable in that
room that could be conceived of as an "essence", but he'd deliberately left it
empty to try to hold onto the past for as long as possible. Having the negative
reflection of John living in the space shattered the delusion. It was difficult
to pretend that that a kind, short doctor and ex-soldier was going to become
unattached and move back in when a cruel, tall assassin and ex-soldier was now
overlaid onto the same location.
"We're not taking you along." Sherlock met Sebastian's eyes and his expression
turned assertive. "You're not to touch my computer, or my violin. Don't go in
my room. I will notice. We'll be back in a short while once Jim has the
computer he wants."
At first Sebastian's eyes widened, but then a wry smile found its way onto his
mouth. Like Sherlock's attempt at control, and dominance, amused him. "Sir, yes
sir," Sebastian drawled with none of the respect afforded to a real commanding
officer. He even raised his fingers to his marred forehead and gave Sherlock a
smooth salute, but the pull at the corners of his mouth never faded.
Sherlock could feel Jim give the equivalent of a snort in his head. Or possibly
a huff of impatience. It was hard to tell. But Sebastian continued to sit
unassumingly at the table with his new mug of coffee, rolling it between his
hands, the very picture of compliance. Sherlock raised one eyebrow and his gaze
turned sharp, but he didn't have time to try to quarrel with the man. Likely he
also didn't have any leverage that would make Sebastian treat him with more
respect and consideration; he couldn't physically threaten him. All he had was
Sebastian's desire to be near Jim and, if it came to the worst, creatively
punishing him by chemical means. That would only really work once; Sebastian
wouldn't accept food or drink from Sherlock or his flat if he taught the man a
lesson that way.
The detective turned on his heel and left. He tried to be grateful that, at the
least, he now had warm coffee with him.
"Try not to worry so much. We'll be back before you know it," Jim said in what
Sherlock assumed could only be an attempt to ease his mind. He felt a warm
presence seep into his chest. Definitely, Jim was attempting comfort. But it
was Jim. Jim didn't know how to do this. Comforting words and gestures from him
could never be taken without considering the source.
Sebastian might get curious sitting alone in the flat. It wasn't unlikely he
would go snooping about, but he had little motivation to destroy anything.
Sebastian didn't care about Sherlock's life. He cared about Jim, and Sherlock's
existence only by extension.
"There's little in the way of physical objects that hold much attachment for
me, but I don't want him exploring without me there." It was the same principle
problem he'd had with Jim: pieces of one's private living quarters were
sometimes extensions of the self in what one found there, and having a stranger
pick things over and learn personal things about him without his permission
felt like a violation. "I also don't want him finding the hidden compartments
in the flat."
Sherlock got down to street level and rolled his eyes at the obvious security
detachment that was visible. Twice over, in fact; aside from the plainclothes
officers loitering in a car across the street, Sherlock could spot an
undercover agent further down the road. He'd had enough people tailing him on
Mycroft's orders before to be able to recognize the stiffness and sterility
that government agents exuded. They were a bit too calculated in their guises.
Luckily, he wasn't going anywhere that would raise any suspicions, particularly
if Jim didn't try to take control.
"Popular these days, aren't you?" Jim mused as Sherlock walked. He set a brisk
pace down the street, not going to be bothered by either passersby or the Met's
men. There was an electronics store not far, only a few streets away, and it
would have to do. Jim hadn't been very specific on what he'd need, and knowing
Jim, that was an indication that he didn't in fact need anything specific.
Something to access the web and be modified to Jim's liking would do. What he
would have Sebastian doing on it was another matter of concern.
They were crossing the last street when Sherlock's phone chimed. A text from
Lestrade. Finally, he'd deemed Sherlock ready for an update.
Trail went cold. Investigation remains open, but our guy has likely fled the
country. Had to hand this one off to MI5.
Sherlock sighed. He did like Lestrade, and he did occasionally have twinges of
guilt about the frequency and degree to which he had to lie to the DI. His
fingers darted over the screen and began typing out a reply. Keep me updated if
interesting cases come up.
Sherlock was still feeling off-balance, but he didn't want Greg to keep him
confined to the sidelines for weeks out of concern for his well-being. He was
dealing with a number of problems, but a case would be a beneficial
distraction. Possibly even critical; he wanted to see how Jim would handle his
work. Jim had dismissed such things as boring and trivial when it wasn’t his
own crime Sherlock was puzzling out, but experiencing it from Sherlock's
perspective, with Sherlock, might change his mind.
The detective kept walking and pretended he didn't notice the way he was subtly
followed at a distance. He sipped at his coffee and wondered whether he wanted
to risk leaving Sebastian alone for additional time if it meant picking up food
on the way back.
They entered the electronics store and were, like the Tesco, plunged into the
monotonous, dreary world of normal people, of clerks and customers and everyone
who never dealt with dismembered and infected corpses nor the return of
adversaries from beyond the grave. But a burst of warm air came with it, and
even though Sherlock was as out of place as he ever was in daily life, it was a
reminder that the rest of the world, the one John had returned to, still
carried on.
They quickly found the isles of laptops. Jim considered as Sherlock moved. It
took less than five seconds for him to nudge Sherlock's attention toward one.
Small, durable, decent processor, long battery life, cheap. Nothing fancy.
"I would have thought you to be the sort to go in for something more high end."
Sherlock hadn't been certain what he'd been expecting. Something more along the
lines of a few individuals he's seen the Met catch over the years, causing
trouble with homebrew systems built with expensive individual components and
operating systems that tended to only be run by those who occupied certain
niches. The laptop Jim had selected wouldn't have been out of place in the
possession of an elderly person or single parent - someone too preoccupied with
other things to bother with learning technical information.
Sherlock became aware of a clerk approaching before the man entered his line of
sight. He could feel another eyeroll from Jim. "I can switch the operating
system. All I need is software. The rest is irrelevant." Easily replaceable,
too. Jim sneered from the back of Sherlock's mind as the clerk asked whether
Sherlock would like any help. He apparently did not like interacting, even
through Sherlock, with unsuspecting people on a day to day basis.
"No, I've already figured out what I need." Sherlock started the purchase
process, getting the clerk to go back to the locked stock area and pull the
correct model. The clerk walked him to the front registers and Sherlock did his
best to ignore the sharp feelings at the back of his head. "I can see why you
rarely did legwork, now. You seem to have an even lower tolerance than I do.
Was that why you were desperate for company?"
Sherlock could feel Jim's attention hone in on him, scrutinizing Sherlock's
motivation for asking, but he answered just the same. "You know it was. I told
you from the very beginning. Sebastian could be fun, but compared to a mind
like mine, well. I was desperate to find someone who could play at my level.
Someone whowouldplay at my level." Jim's irritation with the clerk and the few
customers in line behind them didn't lessen until they were back out on the
street.
Sherlock walked right past the Met officers who'd followed and managed not to
smirk at them. Barely.
"Isn't it more interesting to play opposite sides, though? Playing chess by
yourself is dull, but it's no less dull when you've got another person helping
you and no opponent." Sherlock paused to wait for a traffic light to turn and
let him back across the street. Other pedestrians, thankfully, either didn't
recognize him or didn't gawp and try to engage with him if they did. "We don't
play in the same way. You build, and I unravel."
"Yes, and while we played, on opposing sides....that was the most fun I'd had
in a very, very long time." Sherlock could hear by the tone of Jim's voice that
he meant it. "But the game can only last so long. One way or another, it had to
reach its own culmination. Our game was the perfect distraction, Sherlock. But
even it couldn't overcome the...disappointment of life." And Jim had decided
how to fix that. He'd attempted and nearly succeeded in leaving this world.
"And you feel life always has to be disappointing?" It was quite often,
certainly. Sherlock knew that his intellect and skills caused no small amount
of envy in other people, along with his physical appearance and social
connections via family, but... such things also had caused quite a lot of pain
and alienation. People desired uniqueness while craving conformity, and they
punished those who didn't fall within their comfort lines. Sherlock had been
punished quite often; more so because he couldn't relate to normal people,
while those self-same people became angry with him over communication
misunderstandings or the perceived inequality between them. "Are you still
unhappy with how things have turned out for you?"
"With how life has turned out?" Jim asked, " Absolutely." It took a long time
for him to elaborate. A whole street block, precisely, before he continued. "We
have the capacity for knowledge and the inability to affect change in any
meaningful degree. I accepted the realities of the universe, as it applied to
other people, and also myself, but I did not like it."
People died, that's what people did. Jim's words had been acceptance of reality
by the pool that day. And yet his very existence now strove to defy the
circumstances of that reality.
"I accepted the fact, long ago, that my work would likely have no permanent
change on the world." Sherlock could shift individual lives, certainly, and
alter the courses of some things, but always in an abstract way that seemed
pointless. People frequently commented that this or that victim might have
turned out to be someone who made an amazing technological breakthrough, or
would have become a beloved leader or some such thing, but statistics weren’t
in their favor. Most people were mundane, followers, who lived their lives by
staying firmly within the boundaries of things, keeping their noses down, and
trying to obtain as much comfort as they could get rather than changing the
circumstances around them.
"Mycroft thinks he's making a lasting impact, but I doubt that, and I wasn't
willing to sacrifice everything and live that way on the off-chance that I'd
leave something permanent behind. And what use would that be, really? I
wouldn't be around to enjoy it." They were coming up on the flat by now.
Sherlock could see the overhang for Speedy's. His stomach reminded him again of
just how empty it was.
"Your brother isn't changing anything. Neither are you. And neither was I. It
is the very nature of existence for humanity," Jim hissed. " It's in the
function of a brain, the nature of cells and atoms to thrive and then die, the
nature of separate, individual existence and the inability to reach beyond our
limitations coupled with the torture of imagining that we can. We must accept
all this, somehow, or be simply ignorant of it. The latter is by far the more
popular solution."
"I don't think we can change things, but our limitations must not be drawn
where we think, or else this would not be possible." Existence for them was no
longer truly separate. Jim had died but failed to disappear. Sherlock turned
the key in the building lock as he thought. Wordlessly, without being able to
articulate how he did it, he reached back in his mind, attempting the same
thing Jim had done before - touching the agitated presence in the shadows to
try to impart comfort.
He felt, as if from fingertips intertwining with his own, something press back.
It felt like Jim, as Sherlock was coming to know the feel of Jim. As distinct
as he could detect different smells or tastes, Jim had a feel. And Sherlock
could feel his emotions now, too. Perhaps Jim was allowing him to do so, but
they were honest. Jim was...frustrated, despondent, but in a way familiar
enough to him that it was not so strong. It was just the same old great
disappointment of life.
Sherlock stepped through and closed the door behind him, and their contact
faded until Jim was only the usual weight in the back of his mind. His flat was
silent. No sounds of Sebastian moving around filtered down the stairs, which
may or may not have been a good sign.
When Sherlock opened the door, he found Sebastian's long limbs sprawled out on
the couch. Asleep.
Sherlock stared. He couldn't not. He'd been expecting a confrontation when he
got back, either with Sebastian digging around exactly where he'd been told not
to go, or with the man immediately demanding to talk to Jim as soon as the
front door closed. He either must not have slept well the previous night, or
whatever sleep he'd gotten hadn't been able to counteract the neglect he'd put
his body through while pursuing revenge.
Sebastian was... significantly less intimidating when unconscious. There was
still the threat of pure physical strength, and the scars to suggest that he
wasn't a creature to be trifled with, but his long limbs didn't look gangly and
ridiculous like Sherlock thought his own body must appear. He was draped in a
way that suggested something graceful and slightly leonine.
Sherlock realized he was staring for longer than might be considered
appropriate. He averted his gaze and quietly crept into the kitchen to unpack
their purchase.
Without comment, Jim sent a stroke of warm pressure down the curve of his
shoulder. Not enticement, not suggestion, and not uncomfortable, just a small
gesture of approval.
"You can leave it on the table. I'll have him set it up," Jim said softly, as
though there were any chance of Sebastian hearing him. "You should eat. Get
some of your strength back." And Sherlock could feel how comforting Jim was
trying to be, again, in the way he warmed in the center of Sherlock's chest.
He still couldn't tell if it was real. Maybe Jim was capable of that sort of
affection and concern, or maybe he was thinking more pragmatically - how to
appear that way to mollify Sherlock, how to ensure that Sherlock took care of
the body they both occupied so it wouldn't break down on them. Whichever it
was, Jim was right. He did need to eat, even if eating tended to be a chore for
him.
There were still plenty of supplies from their previous shopping trip, which
meant Sebastian hadn't helped himself to much. Sherlock dug out the supplies
for a sandwich and an apple, which seemed like the least work-intensive meal he
could manage. It was that or heating a can of soup on the hob, but that sounded
even less appealing.
Strangely, he felt Jim leave him for a moment. Or perhaps not so strange, as
he'd done it often enough before, but Sherlock had been tired today and that
meant that Jim had to be tired as well. Or at least have minimal reserves of
energy at his disposal. But Jim returned after a minute, without comment, as
Sherlock continued to make his sandwich.
Then Sebastian appeared at the corner, looking tired but no less alert. He
assessed the state of Sherlock's breakfast and frowned. Then sighed.
"Move aside." And then Sebastian was heading toward Sherlock, forcing him
either out of the way or at risk of being within arm's reach of one another. He
reached for a sack of potatoes Mrs. Hudson had left in the futile hope Sherlock
might actually make himself a meal.
Sherlock rapidly backed away, so hasty he neglected to even retain the knife
he'd been using. He hadn't been expecting Sebastian to suddenly wake up, or to
suddenly want to use the same facilities Sherlock was using.
It didn't take long for Sherlock to get suspicious. The way Sebastian had
looked at him and what he was doing combined with Jim's fleeting disappearance,
and the way he'd returned when Sebastian was awake. People didn't normally wake
up and immediately head to the kitchen to cook. "...what are you doing?"
"Making you something you'll actually eat," Sebastian grunted while opening the
freezer. There was one pack of frozen sausages, probably also from Mrs. Hudson
and questionable as to how long they'd been there, but after a brief
inspection, Sebastian deemed them fit enough. He rummaged around until he found
a few pans and the knife Sherlock had dropped on the counter, and set about
peeling potatoes. "You going to let me talk to Jim," he asked after a brief
silence.
Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. He'd started to guess as much, but he hadn't
really been expecting confirmation. "...why?" he asked. He hadn't heard
anything in the other room, and Jim didn't feel more exhausted that he had
been. As far as Sherlock knew, Jim couldn't speak directly to Sebastian's mind,
or else the man wouldn't have continued to be insistent on speaking with him.
"I'm not going to interfere whenever Jim decides he's ready to talk"
Icy eyes glanced to Sherlock and then back to the pans. Sebastian added oil and
dumped in the sliced up potatoes. "Pretty sure he just woke me up." He shrugged
a shoulder. Sherlock could feel Jim coil and warm with slight amusement. A
light breeze ruffled the fringe of Sebastian's hair and he jerked. "Like that."
It didn't take much energy, granted, but Jim was getting a habit of doing these
little things. If he kept it up constantly, he could be in trouble of draining
Sherlock slowly. Sherlock could feel Jim settle, centering himself inside
Sherlock's body. "I'm ready."
Sebastian turned his attention from the pans. He focused it all on Sherlock
now, and it was slightly unnerving. Jim, however, didn't seem to think so.
Sherlock was overcome with that odd sense of fullness in his mind first and
then even through his body as Jim expanded his control. He did it slowly,
nudging Sherlock out of a muscle he was holding tense, slackening his fingers
one hand at a time, holding Sherlock's posture at ease when he spread to
Sherlock's spine until finally Sherlock was loosened from his own extremities
and felt the sensation of being sent deep down into himself.
Jim took a breath, a deep one. He raised Sherlock's gaze to Sebastian and
blinked with Sherlock's eyes, testing the roll of his shoulders.
"Jim," Sebastian breathed.
Sherlock wasn't certain he'd ever get used to this feeling. It reminded him
vaguely of his experiences with certain opiates, the way he floated inside his
numbed body, but this seemed even more detached... and he could still feel. He
experienced his normal senses, and the added sense of Jim being right there, a
warm pressure filling him up completely instead of being a weight at the back
of his head.
The last wasn't entirely unpleasant, but it was certainly unnerving.
Sherlock watched emotion fill Sebastian's features and felt even stranger.
Sebastian wasn't looking at him, but he also was. The view was a bit like
watching a movie unfold if it was filmed through the eyes of one of the main
characters, and just as surreal.
Jim pulled a smile across his face. And took a step closer, removing the
distance Sherlock had put between himself and Sebastian. "Poor thing. How you
did miss me." Jim drew his hand up and laid it against Sebastian's cheek.
Sherlock could feel a sickly sweet pleasure run through Jim as Sebastian closed
his eyes, froze in place, and allowed himself to be touched. The oil in the pan
crackled. "Better take care of that," Jim said with a glance.
"Fuck, Jim," Sherlock could hear the strain in Sebastian's voice. Jim pushed
away and went to take a seat at the table. Sebastian set everything on slow
burn and hastily moved across from Sherlock. He was trying to keep the tension
out of his face.
"I never expected you to feel so sentimental over me," Jim sent Sherlock's
voice into a rumbling purr. Sherlock noticed he liked making that sound.
"You knew." Sebastian's jaw clenched.
As fascinating as it was to watch Sebastian suddenly become incredibly stripped
and vulnerable, more interesting still were the things Sherlock was feeling
from Jim. Ownership, and pleasure at the way Sebastian obviously worshipped
him, tripping over himself and bending at the slightest pressure in his
attempts to please or get close to Jim. This wasn't a reaction that would have
developed from gratitude for being saved from prison, if Sherlock was correct
in his guesses on how things between the two had transpired. Sebastian's
reactions seemed almost... trained. "...what did you do to him?"
Jim's smile peeled back from his teeth. "Sherlock would like to know how I
garnered such loyalty, such...devotion, from you." Sebastian shifted
uncomfortably and his mouth turned down with annoyance. Still Jim went on.
"Sebastian likes to think of himself as a hunter, and in fact he is. A man who
can best the most dangerous game, man or beast. Those animals are beautiful in
their ferocity, aren't they Sebastian? ...I simply gave him a target he
couldn't best. But one he could obey. If given the right...incentive."
"You're a bastard, you know that Jim?" Sebastian growled.
Jim smirked, unafraid. The pleasure inside him only spread.
Sebastian was afraid of Jim. Of that much, Sherlock was certain. It showed in
little ways, like how Jim was able to nettle him and the man would tense and
grumble like a cornered, irritated beast being poked with a stick, but never
dare to try and retaliate. Or how Sebastian's first response, while emotional,
hadn't been to strike at Jim to express his pain. John had cared deeply and
still clocked Sherlock in the face when he'd returned from false death.
"One day, Sherlock, I'll show you," Jim promised and that got such a reaction
out of Sebastian it was hard to miss. The man didn't move, but his shoulders
went rigid, his knuckles tightened, his jaw grew taut, and his pupils dilated.
All the reaction signs of expecting a battle, right down to the spike of
excitement in those blue eyes. Sebastian liked danger, then. Just like John.
No, not quite like John. Jim had done this before with him. Whatever it was, it
was a battle Sebastian wouldn't win, but he still seemed to enjoy
the...possibly the brutality in it, the 'ferocity' Jim had mentioned in the big
game he hunted. And Sherlock could tell it was something that both excited him
and made him uneasy, just by the way he shifted minutely in his seat, widening
his legs.
"You said you wanted to talk business," Sebastian cut in.
Sherlock's fascination sharpened even further. He wasn't certain what
interested him more - Sebastian's visceral reaction and the suggestions of what
had transpired between the two men before, or the fact that Jim was capable of
overpowering Sebastian and enjoyed doing it. Clearly there was an erotic
element at play as well, and Sherlock's mind immediately began to speculate and
generate images of its own accord. His imagination quickly shifted from how Jim
might corner and fight Sebastian down into submission to... what it might be
like if their positions were switched, and if it would be as unpleasant as the
first few experiences between Jim and himself, when Jim hadn't seemed to care
what Sherlock wanted.
Something in him responded deeply to that image. Sherlock wondered why, and if
that feeling was significant.
Jim's smile slackened and his attention turned inward. Some of Sherlock must
have seeped through because it certainly caught Jim off guard. Jim cocked his
head and a hint of that smile returned.
"What?" Sebastian asked, sensing Jim's attention was suddenly divided.
"Nothing." Jim redirected his attention back to Sebastian. "And yes. I know
you've cut ties with our old networks. Almost all of which Sherlock has since
dismantled. What I'd like to know is whether you've kept an eye on the forums
we set up. I'm looking only for a place to chat."
Slowly, Sebastian nodded. "A few. Changed hands several times..."
Sherlock tried to refocus. He wanted to know what Jim had in mind, and he had
no way of reading Jim's mind. Sebastian wasn't likely to fill him in on the
details later, either, which meant he had to pay attention now in order to have
any data to work with. "Why do you need to chat with anyone? I meant it, we're
not turning into a two-faced mess where I solve crimes part time while you
create others part time."
"You'll have nothing to do with it, Sherlock," Jim said evenly. "You can hardly
expect me to live locked up in your head. If I'm 'alive', then I'm going to
find out where the world has been since I left it. Call it a curiosity."
Sebastian frowned, listening to Jim's half of the conversation. "Set up the
laptop," Jim instructed him. "Get rid of Windows. Install Linux, and then I'll
see what I can do."
Sebastian moved to get the computer, but even he wore a questioning look upon
his face.
"And after you find out the state of things, what then? You can't expect me to
believe you'll be content to leave it alone and not meddle." Sherlock could see
Sebastian carrying out his orders. A power cord was plugged into a kitchen
outlet and then Sebastian had the laptop open and booting up. "I've no
intention of keeping you 'locked up in my head', or I'd never permit you to
take control like this. We'll find something to keep you happily occupied that
doesn't involve risking my life in the process."
"Easier said than done, Sherlock, but you're welcome to try." Jim sounded
neither optimistic nor pessimistic, just indulgent. He didn't likely believe he
could be interested enough to give up his other pursuits in Sherlock's
endeavours. The experiments, maybe. Jim would be interested in those. Jim
would...possibly be interested in crime scene investigation, but that was
questionable.
They watched as Sebastian began the installation process and then the necessary
downloads, and then the installation process all over again, at which point he
handed it over to Jim. Jim grew accustomed to Sherlock's fingers enough so that
they were flying over the keys as he installed the new OS, Sebastian watching
over his shoulder, and then he began several more downloads. Encrypting the
hard drive, isolating the new OS, forcing processes to run on memory, and
checking to make sure Sebastian remembered the steps every time.
The whole undertaking took nearly an hour.
Sherlock was surprised that Jim was holding onto control for this long. It had
to be wearing him down, just as it had when Jim had taken control to talk
Sebastian into coming with them, then leading him back across town. "Sebastian
is going to be angry if you expend everything on setting up a laptop and
collapse without talking to him. I don't really want to be the one stuck with
his frustrations when you run out of energy and crash." It was likely to not be
long from now, too, with the little stunt Jim had pulled earlier.
Jim sighed. "Fine. I suppose it's time to test the next part of this plan
anyway." Sebastian looked up, just as curious as Sherlock. "I'm going to leave
your body. You'll have control again." He sat up, got comfortable for the
transition, and Sherlock was thrust forward, back into awareness of his own
motor functions.
Jim was gone. Almost.
Sherlock could still feel him close by. Vaguely. As he often did when Jim moved
about the flat for some reason or another. Sebastian was looking at Sherlock
like he could see the difference. And then a new window opened on the screen
before them.
> Hello boys.
Sherlock stared. It took a few moments for him to process what must be
happening. What had happened. He'd seen even great impossibilities lately, but
it was still a bit numbing to look at words scrawled across a screen and know
they were being written by a dead person. "...this was what you had in mind?"
Sherlock flexed his fingers to return feeling to them. Jim drawing comparisons
between the electric impulses in the human body and those within a computer was
very clever, but the implications were also a bit frightening. Sherlock had no
idea how far Jim might be able to travel this way, or what he might be able to
do to other systems from a great distance.
"Shit," Sebastian whispered, apparently having similar ideas. He set his hands
back on the keyboard.
> Hello Jim. He didn't look like he could think of anything else to say.
This was draining considerably less energy from Sherlock, he could tell
already. Jim didn't have to control an entire body, both in primary functions
and unconscious functions, Sherlock's movements as well as his breathing.
> This is how we will work now. Sebastian, you and I will be able to converse.
And Sherlock, you may rest.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed in suspicion. This was easier on his body, but it also
meant that Jim could do a multitude of things without him knowing. Jim could
very well start running new jobs and commanding Sebastian, and others, from
this surrogate vessel and Sherlock wouldn't be the wiser. Not unless and until
the computer was traced back to his address and brought the authorities down on
his head.
"Perfect. And a wonderful way of phrasing that, if I might say so. May rest.
You'll just secretly make plans behind my back until you need a body to ride
around in again, I suppose?" Sherlock sighed, rose, and went to finish up the
cooking. Sebastian had turned the heat down, but the potatoes and sausage were
beginning to burn slightly around the edges.
Sebastian sighed, grabbed the laptop, and went to the couch where he sprawled
out in his former position, one of Sherlock's favourites, actually, and began
to type. Jim, however, was not gone completely. Sherlock felt the ghost's
presence sweep up his spine after a minute's conversation with Sebastian.
"Sherlock," Jim whispered into his mind, "That computer will not be traced. You
remember that neither you nor your brother could manage it the last time, even
when you knew you were looking for me." A gentle weight pressed down on his
shoulders. "If you wish to redirect my attention, I wasn't leading you on. I
will indulge you. It'll be an experiment of sorts. But I know my own mind, and
it is better for you not to be involved in what work I do choose to pursue. In
this way, I will not have to use your name, your face, your body, or location."
Sherlock's chin lowered and his fringe fell across his eyes, obscuring his
vision. Even his hands paused midway through dumping the contents of the pan
onto a plate. Sherlock knew this agitation was pointless, and was equally
ashamed at how emotional the situation was making him. He'd always been thus,
but able to hide it. There was simply no place to hide from someone who could
observe everything running through his head.
Despite what Jim had put him through, multiple times, he didn't want any sort
of revenge. He didn't want Jim to suffer; from what he'd gathered, the other
man had suffered quite enough when he was alive. "...I want this to work. I
want you to feel as content as you can, not just for my own sake. I appreciate,
on some level, that you're trying to spare me, but I'm also uncomfortable about
being kept in the dark all the time. I don't like feeling unequal, and I don't
like bad surprises."
Jim was surprised. It showed in his silence. He wasn't going to put this aside,
and they both knew it. Sherlock had indicated so. Which left only one more
option. "Then come watch me work." Jim spread warmth across Sherlock's back
before pulling away. He left in a sweeping motion, as though trying to tug
Sherlock along with him. Back at the couch, Sebastian began to type again,
though he glanced over to Sherlock once or twice.
Sherlock got a glass of water before taking his plate and crossing the room. A
very awkward moment ensued when Sebastian paused in his typing and looked up at
Sherlock, standing in front of the couch and staring right back. Sherlock
didn't particularly want to get closer to Sebastian, but he was going to have
to sit next to him in order to see what Jim was doing. And in order to do that,
Sebastian was going to have to be willing to sit up and move his legs so there
was somewhere to sit.
"Alright then," Sebastian said after their stare went on for a bit too long. He
lifted the laptop and swung his legs down to the floor, righting himself so he
could place the computer on the coffee table.
Sitting next to Sebastian was definitely awkward at first, primarily because
Sherlock had to sit so close. Sebastian made no comment, just continued his
browse through what looked like a series of rather old or minimally designed
forums. He didn't show it, but he was probably nearly as uncomfortable as
Sherlock was.
Jim, however, was not beyond taking advantage of the situation. Once they were
settled, he activated the webcam and before they realized what was happening, a
photograph of Sebastian hunched over the keyboard pressed shoulder to shoulder
with Sherlock, half a bite of sausage sticking out of his mouth, popped up on
the screen.
Sherlock frowned and swallowed. "That's not funny, Jim," he grumbled. All in
all, the ghost could have done worse, but Jim knew how uneasy Sherlock still
was. About sexuality in general, and Sebastian's attentions in specific.
Sebastian had a way to talk to Jim now without waiting for him to take over
Sherlock's body, but Sherlock was the only living body he could seem to
possess. Sebastian's feelings for Jim clearly hadn't diminished, which meant
Sherlock was going to have to endure the man's uncomfortable focus at minimum.
"It's a little bit funny," Sebastian commented unexpectedly, completely
deadpan. He continued bringing up new forums and lists of servers for Jim to
make note of until he had half a dozen. "That's it. That's all I know of."
> It's a start. popped up on the screen.
And off they went to business. Jim did a bit of his own browsing, searching
through unrelated networks, reading between the lines of seemingly meaningless
conversation, ads for jobs, innocuous posts from a name he recognized that led
to more and more. Jim could put threads of dialog together to determine who was
still alive and who was in contact with whom. Much of it would be private, even
from the hidden part of the web they browsed, but even criminals had to
advertise, and Jim began a list of people to contact.
Sherlock watched in silence, and the food on his plate slowly disappeared. He
hadn't expected Sebastian to say anything about Jim's prank, or at least not
anything positive. The space on the couch was such that they were still pressed
too close to one another for comfort, and Sherlock's attention was divided
between what was happening on the laptop monitor, trying to guess what Jim was
thinking, and the solid warmth right next to him. "...I'm guessing that the
jobs you favored were always chosen like my own? I wasn't able to discern a
solid pattern when dismantling what you’d put together."
> Yes flashed into view. > I let them come to me and I chose the interesting
ones. Very few were personal.
Even Sherlock, from his research into Moriarty's inner network, could recognize
a few of the names they ran across - people who put criminals in touch with one
another, a few he hadn't known to be involved with Jim at all, a few he knew
for sure weren't, rivals, new potential customers, the list went on. Jim was
outlining communications across these hidden boards like a map. Every time he
found a hole that indicated someone's private network, he made note of it and
how to get invited in. It was time consuming, and Sherlock may have been able
to do much of it himself if he'd wanted to, but Jim had prior knowledge that
turned their coded language into something meaningful.
Still, their work went on for hours before Jim announced it was time to stop.
Sherlock had begun to slouch slowly over the course of watching Jim work. The
ghost using the computer was less of a drain, but still a gradual one that
Sherlock felt, and his body had been hit hard and repetitively over the course
of the last few days. His limbs felt too loose to have a great deal of control,
his back muscles were a series of knots, and his head felt stuffed full of wool
from too many short and troubled bursts of sleep that did more to rejuvenate
Jim than himself. It took Sherlock two tries to get to his feet and shuffle
into the kitchen with his empty plate and glass.
"You should get some sleep," Sebastian called from the sitting room. He put the
computer on standby and moved to follow Sherlock, leaning against the door
frame.
Jim curled himself back into Sherlock, not really helping but for the warmth
and the lack of drain. Sebastian didn't look concerned, exactly, but he did
look certain that Sherlock wouldn't last on his feet for very long.
"Yes, I couldn't have figured that out on my own," Sherlock drawled. His
fatigue was making him irritable, and he saw no reason why Sebastian should
feel the need to follow him. "Your concern for the well-being of your boss's
physical tether is, truly, very touching. I'm so glad you're no longer
enthusiastic about killing me with deadly infectious diseases."
For some reason, that made Sebastian half smile. Maybe it was Sherlock's
petulance, because he didn't seem at all intimidated, but nor did he look
particularly affronted at being caught out. He simply stood and watched. It was
unnerving enough to nearly send Sherlock out of the room anyway. Sebastian had
gotten his second taste of Jim in Sherlock's body, and he had to be mapping the
differences. ...possibly even wondering how his intimately familiar memories of
Jim's body might compare to Sherlock's.
And unfortunately, Sebastian didn't hide his thoughts nearly as well as Jim
did. Sherlock could deduce bits of what he was thinking, and he flushed before
all the color drained from his face. He'd nettled the gunman about it, but he
didn't want to seriously consider that Sebastian was starting to become
concerned for his physical health, at least, not simply because he was the
person tying Jim to the world of the living, but because Jim could occupy his
skin. Sherlock turned on his heel and staggered into the hallway towards his
bedroom.
This time, Jim didn't comment on it. Sherlock had yet to have a good reaction
to that sort of thing and Jim was tired, too. He curled himself into a smaller
and smaller ball in Sherlock's mind, trying to conserve energy until Sherlock
hit the bed, face first. Then Jim spread out again. He was slow, soothing
pressure down the back of Sherlock's neck and spine, out his arms, wrists,
fingertips, down the back of his legs, like Jim were lying down above him,
draping himself over Sherlock's body. Except he felt like he was inside
Sherlock's body.
Sherlock didn't have the physical or mental fortitude to make a fuss about it.
He melted under the phantom touches, brows slightly creased while Jim slid
through him and coaxed tense, sore muscles into relaxing.
He would have been spooked by this sort of thing, before. It didn't matter
whether it was done by a ghost or a flesh and blood human; Sherlock had been
used to being starved of touch. Now…he found it comforting. "...did you get
what you wanted?"
"Yes." It was a sigh in Sherlock's ear. "I'll check back later, but I have a
pretty good idea of where things stand since I've been gone." And that meant it
was time for either Jim to start meddling, or leave it alone. At least Sherlock
could be somewhat certain that, should Jim wish to start meddling, he'd need
ample time to build a new persona and reputation. Although, he did have
Sebastian, and once he put Sebastian to work, that would happen very quickly.
Sherlock went quiet - or, at least, he continued to think without directing
specific thoughts directly toward Jim. His head was still a snarled tangle of
emotions and ideas. Sherlock had quickly gone from morbid fascination, to fear
and rage, to a hesitant truce... and now he wasn't sure where he'd arrived. He
still didn't trust Jim, and it would be quite some time before the last
lingering traces of anger disappeared from him for all that he'd endured, but
other feelings had started to take root. They felt similar to the
protectiveness he'd felt for his old flatmate.
Sherlock's previous focus had been entirely on survival, and then minimizing
trauma and how much Jim might rip his life apart. A side concern had been added
now: questions of survival aside, how happy could someone be when trapped
inside another person?
"Thinking too much, Sherlock.... The bane of our existence." Jim laughed
softly. He could tell how relaxed he was making Sherlock, and he didn't stop.
He seemed to enjoy it, too, even though it was such simple touches. "I don't
know if I'll be happy. I've never been 'happy' before. Not for any reasonable
amount of time, anyway." Jim's warmth spread across Sherlock's cheek, like he
was stroking a finger there.
Sherlock could remember being happy when he was younger. Adolescence and
adulthood hadn't been easy on him, as his descent into drugs and self-
relegation to the fringes of society could attest. His life could almost be
termed bi-polar - extreme highs and happiness when engaged in a case, followed
by withdrawal and depression when he had nothing that was suitably challenging.
It was far more tolerable than his time at university, or the solutions other
people had proposed, but he wasn't able to ensure his own happiness even half
the time.
"...do you even have an idea of what you want, what would work? I had no notion
that solving crimes would prove enjoyable until I tried it, for instance."
Jim considered. "When I worked. And when we played our game. Creation.
Understanding. Without interruption. In those fleeting moments, I could find
happiness." Sherlock could feel Jim burrow a little deeper, settling into his
very bones. "Now this, right here, I would call this contentment." Sherlock
could hear the smile in that. Jim wasn't referring to being a ghost or working
with Sebastian in any roundabout way he could. Somehow, Jim was still fond of
him.
Sherlock felt a small portion of his suspicions fracture away. A small smile
graced his mouth. Jim had had them expend great effort to bring Sebastian here
in one piece, and Sherlock still wasn't at ease about it or how Jim toyed with
the man, but... the teasing wasn't the same at all. When Sebastian was the
target, there was an edge of superiority, an almost cruel element to it. When
Sherlock was the target, it was more playful, and often followed up by small,
comforting touches that Sebastian didn't receive.
"...take me under," he murmured against his pillow. Sherlock had had enough of
the waking world for the moment.
He felt a pulse of warmth, of a “gladly” almost voiced from Jim right before
the pull. His eyes drooped and his muscles went slack and Sherlock was falling.
***** Chapter 13 *****
When Sherlock woke up inside the dream, there were arms wrapped around him and
the bed he lay on was familiar. It was barely like he'd left the flat at all,
except for the certainty of isolation.
"Caught you," came a voice beside his ear and when he turned, he came face to
face with Jim, smiling, hair smoothed back and coal suit pressed where it
wasn't rumpled against Sherlock.
The look Sherlock gave him was almost mournful, but for the small smile that
hadn't disappeared from his lips. He tilted his head and considered Jim for a
moment.
When Sherlock moved again, it was forward. He closed the small gap between
himself and Jim and pressed them together, partially recreating the sense that
Jim had given him when he'd settled against Sherlock's bones. He wasn't
following any trail of logic, but an impulse that had surfaced in him like a
small, nagging itch that demanded satisfaction. Sherlock didn't want to stay
away.
Since he was larger, he pushed Jim down into the pillows, but he could hear Jim
laugh. He could feel the rise and fall of Jim's chest. He could feel the squirm
of Jim's legs beneath his own. He could hear the slide of Jim's expensive suit
and feel the smoothness of it. And Jim smelled, as he always did in these
dreams, like Jim. He felt fingers tickle behind his ear and curl into his hair.
"I know...." Jim sighed softly. If they could merge together, just far enough,
perhaps then they could be...not happy, maybe, but at least content.
Sherlock was tired, but this wasn't enough. They were close, enough to feel
each others' body heat through layers of clothing, enough to touch one another,
but it didn't satisfy the tension coiled somewhere within Sherlock. Sherlock
pulled back just enough to look down at Jim in confusion. After a few more
moments, a vague suspicion began to creep into place. The ideas and flickers of
images that Sherlock's mind immediately conjured only furthered that suspicion.
Sherlock's gaze slid off to one side, embarrassed, but he slipped one hand
between them and started to undo the buttons of Jim's suit. His fingers brushed
against the smooth silk of a tie, and all Sherlock could remember was equally
soft skin.
He felt Jim's chest rise with breath, with light laughter, beneath the thin
layer of his shirt. Jim adjusted to loop his arms around Sherlock's neck to let
him reach up and undo the tie and slip it free. When Sherlock paused, Jim
canted his hips, drawing attention to that extra layer between them. When
Sherlock hesitated, Jim shimmied out of his jacket and then smoothed his hands
down Sherlock's shoulders and sides. Jim pulled Sherlock's shirt free before
his hands went to work on the buttons.
Jim's laugh meant he must have been amused or pleased. Or perhaps both.
Sherlock couldn't spare the focus to consider it too closely. He wasn't even
certain where he was intending to end up, or what he wanted to do, other than
to remove the clothing separating them from each other. He fumbled with the
small fastenings of Jim's trousers until he lost patience. One violent tug
broke the zipper and sent a button flying. Sherlock tugged everything down just
enough to be able to slide his hand across Jim's stomach and settle his palm
into the groove just above his hip.
Jim sighed deeply. His head fell back but he didn't stop his work until
Sherlock's shirt was slipping down his shoulders. He let his own shirt fall
away and, with a bit more wriggling, toed off his shoes while Sherlock tugged
his trousers down. He couldn't help another little laugh. "Impatient," he
huffed in Sherlock's ear before he hooked his fingers into Sherlock's trousers
as well.
Jim had understood Sherlock's initial intent for their nakedness, that much was
evidenced by the way he didn't immediately try to initiate more when the last
of their clothes fell away. Still, he was half hard and he pressed up against
Sherlock again, just as Sherlock had done to him.
Sherlock clung to Jim and took a few minutes to just... be. Just to feel warm
skin against skin, Jim's fingertips sliding over his spine, the way the lines
of their bodies fit against each other and how much smaller Jim was in
comparison. Sherlock forgot that so often, between the way Jim's projected
dominance and personality filled a room, or how he filled Sherlock's skin
without any problems. Sherlock always remembered Jim as bigger than he was, and
their interactions within Sherlock's old memories only reinforced this by
making it a partial reality.
Sherlock's eyes closed and he sighed against Jim's neck. This was better, but a
vague sense of discontent still lingered. His hips shifted against Jim's and
brought memories back to the surface. Tension only increased, and Sherlock now
had confirmation for what the feeling was - some variant of lust, or longing.
He hadn't quite recognized it because he'd never felt it before.
Jim's head turned, dark eyes moving over Sherlock's face with sly conviction.
Fingers crept up Sherlock's neck to nestle in his hair and suddenly they were
holding his head still and Jim was moving closer with a little smile on his
mouth. That mouth pressed against Sherlock's, and Sherlock felt Jim's hips roll
against his, mirroring the move Sherlock had made before with more intent.
Jim's other hand slipped down his back and rolled his hips again until he could
feel Sherlock's body react.
A shiver rippled through Sherlock's frame, and he went from half-hard to rigid
in a matter of seconds. The physical sensations were pleasant enough by
themselves now, but meaningless and uninteresting without the added context.
Sherlock wasn't reacting because nerve endings were sensing enjoyable touch and
firing; he was reacting because of who was touching him and everything that was
associated with that.
This time wasn't about anger, or proving a point. That had gotten him past his
own constructed barriers and insecurities, but now Sherlock wasn't left with
any excuses to avoid examining his own motivations. He wanted this because,
somewhere during these past few days, he'd decided that he wanted Jim. Trusted
or not.
Without rebellious fury driving him, Sherlock's hands and mouth were more
hesitant, almost shy. One hand tangled itself in Jim's hair and ruined the
sleek lines it had made. Sherlock's hips shifted over until their cocks were
side by side.
It was Jim who reached between them and took hold of both. His hand was wet
with slick that, as far as Sherlock could tell, had come from nowhere. Jim had
given up all pretense of needing to disentangle himself and go for a bedside
table. He stroked in a languid twist of his hand as he pulled Sherlock tight
with his other, and it helped that Sherlock wasn't letting go either. Jim's
lips parted in little huffs of air and Sherlock felt his hips jerk wanting to
buck forward. Jim wouldn't let go of Sherlock's gaze. He was maybe a little
surprised Sherlock was allowing this, desiring this, even initiating it, but
true to Jim's nature, he took full advantage.
Sherlock wasn't unaffected; he couldn't be, not with both of them like this and
Jim's hand sliding over their lengths, but his gaze was intent and fixed on
Jim's face. Watching, looking for something... maybe questioning himself. He
didn't dip closer to try to catch Jim's parted lips.
Too many thoughts raced through Sherlock's head. He still didn't trust Jim, not
really. He didn't know for certain how much of what he did was an act, and how
much might be real. He was gradually coming to the realization that it might...
not matter. If it was an act, it was so convincing that it might as well have
been real. So too, there was the fact that while they'd gotten off to a very
rough start, Jim hadn't been abusive. He'd stopped when asked. He'd made
concessions. He'd let Sherlock into his own head to view a memory that was
precious to him. Sherlock wasn't treated with the callousness that Sebastian
was targeted with.
Part of Sherlock whispered that that might change if Jim got everything that he
wanted, but Sherlock doubted even that. He had decided that Jim wasn't lying
about the fact that he viewed Sherlock and Sebastian very, very differently.
Sherlock's frame tensed, and before Jim could question it, Sherlock had rolled
them until he was staring up at the smaller man.
Jim's eyes flashed and Sherlock could see a spark of excitement flare up in
him. It was in his smile, the way it grew sharp, and his eyes, the way his
needle like brows dipped toward inky irises. He planted a hand to steady
himself on the bed while he rubbed his body up against Sherlock's.
"What's this?" Jim's voice was little more than a rustle of air. His back bent
as he got down lower, sliding his way up to Sherlock like he was stalking a
small animal. "You like feeling me above you?"
Sherlock had paled a little; he wasn't immune to being intimidated by Jim, and
he knew very well that, once the offer was made, he wouldn't be able to retract
it. Possibly ever. He couldn't imagine that Jim would be satisfied with just
once, not after spending years stalking him in the shadows. Sherlock swallowed,
and watched dark eyes glinting with a predatory light glide closer. "I... was
thinking." Sherlock couldn't get his brain to connect with his tongue quite
right. "About... things."
"Go on." It was a miracle Jim hadn't commented on Sherlock's lack of
articulation. Instead, his head tilted slowly, sizing Sherlock up and probably
wishing he could read Sherlock's mind as easily as he did when they were
outside of the dream. Then again, Jim had to have some suspicion considering
Sherlock's fleeting thoughts regarding the relationship Jim had with Sebastian.
Sherlock felt the glide of Jim's hand slow to a near stop. He applied
tantalizing pressure with a light squeeze but refused to continue…apart for the
swipe of his thumb across the delicate head of Sherlock's cock.
Sherlock's hips jerked in response. He couldn't help it. He felt pinned in
place by Jim's gaze, but the smaller man was waiting for him to speak. "I'm...
not certain that I can, but-" But he'd felt jealous of a man Jim mistreated the
moment he'd seen Sebastian's eyes dilate and his legs spread. He was thinking
now about how Jim had looked when they'd fucked - in pain at the beginning, but
later...
"...I was thinking of trying something different," Sherlock finished in
whisper. He looked like the quintessential deer caught in headlights, frozen
and unable to look away from Jim's face.
Jim stilled. Pressed so close together, Sherlock could feel goosebumps spread
down his arms and see the way Jim's pupils dilated. Jim's hand tightened around
the base of his own cock, holding back desire. He swallowed. His eyes closed.
And that familiar smile touched his lips. When Jim opened his eyes again, his
brow raised with them. "Different?" The pressure of his hand was back. The
lightest squeeze. "I could give you many kinds of different... Pray tell, what
gave you this idea?"
Sherlock was still half-hypnotized, torn between curious desire and fearful
revulsion. Jim had seemed to enjoy what they’d done before, and obviously other
queer men enjoyed it or they wouldn't engage in such activities, but Sherlock
didn't know if that would hold true for himself. He was having trouble not
squirming just considering what he was offering. "...you enjoyed it, that time
I... lost my temper. And Sebastian, watching him react... I'm not interested in
pain, but you've obviously done things to him."
Jim was beginning to see Sherlock wasn't going to say it. Not now, anyway. He
leaned in closer, breath ghosting across Sherlock's jaw until Jim reached his
ear. "And do you think you might like such things? It can indeed be extremely
pleasurable. Especially here..." To prove his point Jim trailed the tips of his
fingers down Sherlock's chest, leaving prickles of warmth behind them. He'd
never done that before, not in the dream. It had always been very real, but it
was in fact a dream and therefore should not have been surprising. "I won't
lie, it always comes with some discomfort. But I can...distract you."
When Jim looked again, Sherlock's pupils were blown wide. He seemed right on
the edge of refusal, but at the last moment he licked his lips and gained a
hard edge to his features that Jim was beginning to recognize. Stubbornness, a
refusal to back down. "...I think I want to try. But only if you agree that if
I decide it's too much, you'll stop and we'll do something else."
Jim's lashes fell slowly as he blinked. Time clung to him, softening his smile,
measuring his movements as he lifted his head back. "I agree," Jim whispered
with a squeeze of his hand. His smile curled at Sherlock's intake of breath. It
was his crooked one, the one that said he was infinitely pleased with being
right where he was, and that, usually, something very bad was about to happen.
Sherlock could only hope that wasn't the case this time.
Jim let his hand slip free of their erections. He sat up on his knees, bracing
over Sherlock. He moved slowly, stroking his hands down Sherlock's long legs
and parting his knees so that Jim could sit between them. Sherlock could feel
his fingers slick again.
Sherlock's breathing was low and shallow. He was still hard, but he obviously
had more than a small bit of anxiety about how this was going to turn out. He
was still new to sex in general, and he'd just invited Jim to introduce him to
sex that he had heard was painful... and it was what Jim wanted. Sherlock
didn't know whether that boded well, because Jim would take care that Sherlock
would want to do it again, or whether he'd signed himself up for a torture
session.
A small part of him whispered that this wasn't just about curiosity, or proving
to himself that he wasn't afraid, because he clearly was. That same part told
him that he was considering this because of Jim. Because he was starting to get
attached more than was wise. All that did was lead to heartache.
Jim certainly had to be aware of that. The man was a devil. And he looked like
it, poised between Sherlock's legs with one soothing palm on Sherlock's stomach
and the other pressing down over his balls, a touch more stimulation before it
drew lower, pressing a sensitive spot underneath and watching Sherlock's little
twitch of reaction, and lower still until Sherlock could feeling Jim pressing
where he wanted. Jim was giving him a pointed look. If Sherlock was going to be
damned for this, Jim made sure he knew he was damning himself.
Sherlock was about to lose his nerve; he’d jumped when he felt slicked fingers
finally reach their goal. He was about to call Jim off when he caught Jim's
expression.
It was one of those looks that had always made him dig his heels in: the tilted
chin, sometimes with a raised eyebrow, and a stern or questioning glance that
was never encouraging. The sort a teacher gave a student when he thought they
were about to dig their own grave through a series of incorrect answers.
Sherlock stared back at Jim, and the stubborn light came back into his eyes. He
didn't want to be defeated so easily.
His brave face was ruined slightly when Jim's finger circled, applied a little
pressure, and began to slip in. A muscle along Sherlock’s jaw quivered and he
held his breath.
The initial push left a bit of a burn, but the lubrication helped as did Jim's
attention. He moved slowly, but not so slow that it drew out the sensation of
that burn. Once he was past that first ring of muscle, it was nearly gone. Jim
lowered himself over Sherlock as he slid it in deeper. He'd let Sherlock watch
at first, but now came the distraction of Jim's searching mouth, finding his
own and locking them together. Sherlock could feel Jim pull back and push in,
as slow and smooth as he had started, but he couldn't see it anymore. He stayed
close when they broke apart and petted Sherlock's hair, keeping his attention
on Jim as he continued to move.
Distraction helped, but Sherlock was still intensely aware of what was going
on. He couldn't fail to be. His body had never experienced this before and was
in somewhat of a state of alarm about the new sensation. Sherlock's nervousness
didn't help, and so his frame wasn't nearly as relaxed as it should have been
for his own comfort.
Sherlock concentrated on keeping his breathing steady, rather than holding it.
His gaze stayed fixed on Jim. He knew from his brief research that this was
still the easy part - one finger didn't compare to the size of a cock. Whatever
Jim was thinking, Sherlock wasn't able to guess; inky eyes held a glint of
pleasure, but no hint of what lay beneath the surface.
Jim was being far too kind for that. Right now he had to be, just to get
Sherlock through this. He moved his hip to rub up against Sherlock while his
hand moved. Dark lashes fluttered as Jim let his weight ease against Sherlock,
and he curled himself up to whisper in Sherlock's ear. "You'll like this." Jim
pressed upward, searching until he saw Sherlock give a little jerk. He paused
and did it again, so slowly, teasing pleasure into Sherlock's body through one
tiny point inside of him.
Sherlock's breath hitched, then left him in an undignified whine, and his hips
jerked again. He didn't know what to make of the feeling, which was certainly
erotic, but also bizarre. Or perhaps it was only bizarre because all of this
was new and he'd never had that particular portion of his anatomy stimulated
before.
Jim wouldn't let up. He was being unusually gentle and slow, but when Sherlock
glanced over he looked extremely pleased with the reactions he was coaxing out
of Sherlock.
When he saw Sherlock looking, Jim was not hesitant to steal a kiss. He stroked
again and drew out, and when he pushed inside again it was with two fingers.
That little massage given Sherlock a pleasant taste of the experience if he
went through with this. Jim seemed to know what he was doing, not only in the
mechanics of it, but in the way he coaxed someone as hesitant and inexperienced
as Sherlock. His pace was mindful of Sherlock's reactions. His patience was
slow easy even when his own anticipation was obvious.
But even though it was more focused on Sherlock than himself, Sherlock knew how
much Jim had wanted this.
Two fingers burned a bit more than just one, and understandably so. But it
wasn't unbearable or truly, actively painful - simply uncomfortable. Sherlock
had been through far, far worse. It was what was being done that was more
troubling, and something Sherlock was having a hard time not thinking about
with a mild amount of panic. As many odd things as he got up to, they all
seemed comparably normal to him when held up against this.
But he'd done this to Jim before, and Jim had enjoyed it.
Sherlock had to remind himself that Jim also seemed to disregard pain and be
fairly enthusiastic about sex in general, which certainly would have weighted
things in his favor. His worries weren't keeping him tense, though; Jim did
know what he was doing, and after a few minutes when the burning sensation
lessened, Sherlock felt a slick third digit slip inside him. He closed his eyes
and tried not to squirm.
"Relax, Sherlock," Jim soothed. "You've never been shy about the human body,
nor any of its abilities, before." Even though Sherlock preferred dead bodies,
doctors did this every day on live patients. Even John did this. And that was
probably not the best thing to imagine. Jim's eyes dancing in front of Sherlock
wouldn't allow his attention to waver for too long. Every time Sherlock winced
or looked away, Jim made sure he was right there when Sherlock looked again.
Finally, Jim let his fingers slip free. He levered himself up above Sherlock,
pausing to look down and smile. "I am going to love seeing you like this," he
whispered.
A flush of color spread across Sherlock's cheeks, down his neck, and to his
chest. This was his last chance to ditch out. He said nothing, but he needed
something to hold onto, something to ground him. He ended up latching onto
Jim's upper arms. He could feel Jim's legs between his thighs and knew what was
coming, but he couldn't bring himself to look down. His eyes fixed on Jim's
face, lit with the terror that tended to well up during every person's first
time. It was a struggle with the unknown, and societal norms, and realization
that his mental, emotional, and physical boundaries weren't as solid as he’d
thought.
Jim leaned down, bringing them slightly closer before he pressed the head of
his very hard cock against Sherlock. With one hand, he guided its way, pressing
insistently farther and farther until the muscle breached and opened for him
and then farther still as Jim slid inside. A gasp left his mouth and his
features slackened with what must have been exquisite pleasure. Pleasure at the
sensation. Pleasure at having Sherlock beneath him, tensing and wincing and all
fluttering, heated muscle from the inside out. When Jim paused, another
shuddering breath escaped his throat. His hands kneaded Sherlock's skin and he
pressed his face to the crook of Sherlock's neck.
Sherlock wrapped his arms around Jim and held on for dear life. He hadn't
missed the change in Jim's expression, but Jim's pleasure was secondary right
now. Sherlock's attention was entirely focused on the heated pressure inside of
him and the burning sensation that had accompanied it, even after Jim had
prepared him. Right at the moment, it wasn't particularly pleasant, and beyond
that Sherlock couldn't help but draw parallels between it and something Jim had
done a couple of times now. Penetration was, in a way, like an uncomfortable
version of the way he felt when Jim slid underneath his skin and settled up
against his bones, but for the fact that this was very focused on one
particular location.
When Jim caught his breath again, he held onto Sherlock, who had somehow made
himself smaller. The way Jim's arms cradled him at the same time he forced the
sharp, burning pain in farther was a horrible contradiction. Just like Jim
always was, whispering words of love and greatness while he pushed Sherlock off
a ledge. Always pushing, further and farther. Until he was buried completely.
Until Sherlock trembled against him.
Jim ran his hands up the smooth skin of Sherlock's sides. He pressed kisses
into Sherlock's neck, even while Sherlock held him in a vice like grip. He
didn't move to pull out or otherwise, simply stayed like that, caressing
Sherlock's tense frame.
Sherlock didn't think this was going to work. Jim's fingers had been odd, but
he'd been able to curl them upwards and give him a bit of pleasure that way.
Sherlock just felt... filled, and uncomfortable, and embarrassed. Even though
no one was going to see them. This was different than walking around in just a
sheet or nude, or dealing clinically with dead bodies.
He'd gone a bit soft, but didn't push Jim off him. He was afraid to let go.
Jim's kisses and small touches worked a little to distract him, and slowly
Sherlock could feel his body, if not relaxing, at least loosening up and
stretching to accommodate Jim. "...how did you do this?" Sherlock whispered.
Jim's laugh was a huff of air on Sherlock's neck. "I knew what it can be like."
One of Jim's hands slid between their stomachs to find and squeeze Sherlock's
cock, just to bring some of the pleasure back. "It gets better. You have to get
used to it. Your body has to learn how to open up to me. Your muscles
relax...and you'll begin to feel that stimulation again. When I move." But Jim
wasn't moving. Not yet. He was stroking Sherlock and waiting for him to relax
just a little more. And maybe Jim enjoyed it, too, being the direct cause of
Sherlock's body battling with his will.
Sherlock couldn't ignore the pressure inside him, but Jim's touch was more
familiar. And wasn't that a strange thought, that he'd internalized sexual
touching enough now that it seemed normal and comforting in comparison.
Sherlock turned his head slightly, but all he could see was sleek, black hair.
Gradually, he gave up his death grip on Jim's back and let his hands gravitate
to a more normal embrace. Even that was self-conscious; Sherlock knowingly put
his trust in what he believed was an illusion, hoping that, if it wasn't true,
at least it wouldn't shatter and cut him to ribbons. If Jim really only
regarded him as a prize or a more sophisticated toy, Sherlock didn't want to
see the confirmation. He knew that Jim's acting skills were equal to the task.
It took a few minutes, but Jim's stroking finally teased Sherlock back to an
aroused state.
Jim's mouth latched onto the side of his neck. The more relaxed Sherlock
became, the more Jim showed signs of his own restraint. Tensing muscles under
Sherlock's hands, hips wanting to press forward, body straining, breath deep...
Sherlock could feel it, even though Jim barely moved an inch. "It helped..,"
Jim breathed, "that it was you. I don't...do that for just anyone." His tongue
and teeth nipped lightly over the remaining bruise. Jim fixated on it, but he
didn't try to bring Sherlock any more pain. Not right now.
A shudder ran all the way through Sherlock's body and he clenched around Jim.
Sherlock didn't know what he was doing anymore. He was losing himself to a dead
man - his bodily integrity, pieces of his mind, his sexuality and virginity,
and possibly even the few moral principles he'd had. Jim's internet browsing
that afternoon would eventually lead to harm, casualties, and Sherlock hadn't
merely neglected to stop him, but had watched it happen... to try to learn more
about Jim.
Jim's tongue ran along his jugular and Sherlock gasped. His hips tilted up of
their own accord.
Finally Jim moved. It started with a shudder and then he rolled his hips, not
too far, but enough to push back into Sherlock and make both of them gasp.
Sherlock at the burn and Jim at the perfect, tight heat. He did it again and
gradually he began to build up a rhythm, as slow as he could go. It brushed the
sweet spot inside Sherlock just barely, and only when Jim tilted his hips to
roll back in, but it was something. Jim's teeth were clenching. His breath was
hot on Sherlock's neck. He was making little sounds as if he were trying to
restrain them as much as his thrusts, but Sherlock could feel the grip of his
hands, one stroking, the other tight at the back of Sherlock's neck. Almost too
tight.
Sherlock was trying to relax. Strangely, the hand on the back of his neck felt
simultaneously threatening and comforting. Small amounts of pleasurable
stimulation helped, and after a few moments Sherlock clenched his jaw and tried
to shift himself, fully intent on calling the experiment off if things didn't
improve within the next few minutes.
He tilted his hips to change the angle, and suddenly he was getting more than
just a brief, faint touch when Jim thrust forward. Jim was still slow, tightly
controlled, but after a few repetitions Sherlock hardened noticeably in Jim's
hand.
Jim's head came up, his devilish smile spread wide and eyes gleaming. "That's
it."
The hand around Sherlock squeezed tighter and Jim thrust just a little deeper.
His teeth showed when he caught Sherlock's breath hitch from something other
than pain. Jim didn't stop now. Sherlock could tell from the strain of his body
that he was still holding back, holding back a lot, but Jim was getting what
he'd wanted, and when Jim got was getting what he wanted, he had all the
patience in the world.
"Amazing, that you would do this for me, Sherlock," Jim whispered lovingly.
"Not just someone like you. You. You're really starting to care, aren't you?"
Sherlock shot him a tortured look. He was too compromised, physically and
emotionally, to be able to shield and pretend to be indifferent, even though
Jim couldn't read his mind here. Jim had taken pieces of Sherlock and bound
them to himself, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel now.
It was completely unwise to have this sort of attachment to a man like Jim.
Sherlock was certain it was going to irreparably damage him in the end. He
couldn't stop at this point, though, or stop hoping that Jim might reciprocate.
Getting away from this would require that Sherlock get away from Jim, and that
was an impossibility.
Jim's words were too probing, and Sherlock couldn't bear to look him in the
eye. His gaze slid sideways.
"Don't worry," Jim breathed in between thrusts, "I know the feeling." Even
though his words conveyed sentiment, he gave a sharp thrust. It followed with a
groan, and soon Jim was picking up the pace, finally letting himself move like
he had wanted since this had begun. His knees dug into the bed and his hips
rolled in deepening motions. Sherlock could hear his name on Jim's tongue,
nearly too soft to be intelligible, but it couldn't have been anything else. He
drew up and caught Sherlock's mouth with his own.
The times Jim must have fantasized about this act were countless, and it came
through in his every touch. He looked at Sherlock, even touched Sherlock, like
he wanted to devour him.
Sherlock finally looked back, and Jim's hunger riveted him in place and
summoned, if not matching desire, then an echo of it. Jim was moving quicker,
but it seemed to matter less now - Sherlock felt looser, and the burning
sensation had faded into the background. His focus instead was on Jim's hand on
his cock, Jim's lips against his, and a hungry rhythm that brought a spike of
pleasure every few beats and made it seem like Jim wanted... everything. Wanted
to crawl inside him and claim him completely and thoroughly on every level,
even in a dream. That thought, and the feel of Jim sliding in and out, and the
idea of what they must look like...
Sherlock moaned softly into Jim's mouth and did his best to hold on.
Jim could have been likened to a parasite. He's invaded Sherlock's mind. He'd
made his home there. He'd invaded Sherlock's body in the waking world, and
every time he ran into a barrier, he found a way to push past it. Like now,
penetrating Sherlock's body in their dream world. Soon he would find a way to
invade Sherlock's thoughts here as well. And he was already trying, luring
Sherlock into admitting Jim was getting to him. Admitting that he wanted Jim.
Jim was the worst kind of parasite, one that made its host think he was in
love.
Or perhaps not quite love, but suffused in sufficient emotional attachment to
satisfy Jim's ends anyway. Sherlock wasn't finding this sort of sex as pleasant
as other acts Jim had coaxed him into, but it was very different in a
psychological sense. Jim was taking every advantage of Sherlock's confused
exploration of his own identity, his relative innocence in some spheres of
life, and the loneliness and desperation that had built throughout the
detective's life and came to a head when John Watson moved on. Part of Sherlock
had decided, rather than to despair at the trap he'd found himself in, to
consider whether or not Jim might be a satisfactory replacement as a companion.
Such thoughts were making him bend to accommodate Jim in ways he'd never have
done before, but which neatly mirrored the ways he'd altered himself when
trying to keep John with him.
And Jim welcomed every little bit of it. He ate it up, like the way he was
trying to devour Sherlock's neck, kneading the flesh of his back, his hips, his
thighs, as he thrust inside over and over again. Jim's arms wrapped around
Sherlock's lower back and lifted his hips, bettering their angle. That dark
head descended down Sherlock's torso, nipping and biting like Jim couldn't get
enough. He never left Sherlock's cock for long. Every time he came back, he
squeezed and started the rhythm again. And every time he looked at Sherlock, it
was like Jim was trying to score the vision of him inside his mind.
Sherlock began to feel completely overwhelmed. Part of him wanted to push Jim
off him, out of him, and to retreat into himself. Part of him reacted to Jim's
predatory intensity in a way he'd only been partially aware of in other parts
of his life. It was a thrill, of the same sort whenever he'd cornered a killer
and risked his life to play with them - risking poison, gunfire, knives,
explosives, any number of things. The other criminals had always proving
disappointing in the end, when Sherlock outsmarted them and they left their
pedestal status to become ordinary, boring humans again.
Jim wasn't ordinary or boring and, at least for the moment, he didn't want
Sherlock to die. Sherlock was losing for once, but not in a way that would end
his life. It was still humiliating, but his skin felt like it was alive with
electric current, humming just beneath the surface. He felt like he was being
unraveled.
And Jim was wrapping the thread of him around himself, tying them together. Jim
whispered Sherlock's name lovingly as he did so to let him know that he would
be safe, for now, that in this moment he could relax and give in to the
experience and the sensations. Jim was in control, and though Sherlock had
often feared he would be a sadistic master, he could also be a devoted one. It
could have been likened to an act. Jim must have been this way for any number
of the personalities he'd adopted to slip into to get to the lives of
unsuspecting people, but this time he was still himself when he held back.
Some portion of Sherlock was still concerned with self-preservation. The same
part that had argued with himself every time he'd gone down the path of self-
destruction, that had driven his will to claw himself back up from addiction
and hopeless situations and even death itself, was what surfaced and began
pushing Jim away.
Sherlock's head turned away from Jim's mouth, and his hands pushed back against
his chest and arms. "...stop."
Time stopped with the command. All but Jim's heart beating under Sherlock's
hand. There had been a gasp on Jim's lips as he froze, and now his body was
straining, rigid against and inside of Sherlock, the hardness of bone and
sinewy muscle and heat intertwined with his body. Jim's eyes peered into his
own. Jim's hand shifted on his cheek. They were so close Sherlock could feel
the warmth of it every time Jim exhaled, proving he was...if not alive, then
real.
"What?" Jim broke the silence.
Sherlock was trying to hold onto himself with every fiber of his being. He'd
done a great many foolish things in his life, often with the best intentions,
and this seemed to be another of them. He couldn't give himself over to any
other master but himself, and while he thought he'd be able to handle not
knowing if Jim was putting on an act or not, it hadn't proven true. The act was
turning out to be more pleasant, in the end, than he'd expected it to be, and
his skin still prickled with gooseflesh, but Sherlock was deeply unhappy. "I
can't do this."
Jim's brows raised ever so slightly. He wore a pleasantly inquisitive
expression when he asked, "Why not?"
Sherlock could not deny any longer that his body was enjoying it. The pleasure
Jim gave him far outweighed the pain and they both could see it. Jim, though
insistent, had been ever so gentle. His dark eyes probed Sherlock, so used to
getting inside his head now even though here Jim couldn't. He could, however,
tell that it was something in Sherlock's psyche that held him back.
Sherlock wasn't able to keep his expression impassive. He was too far gone to
be able to pretend at serenity and dispassion about Jim. He did, however,
manage to keep his gaze steady and his voice from cracking. "I think you know.
I can't give you everything without getting something equal back in return, and
we're not equal. I've fought against being controlled my whole life. I can't...
take this. I can't give you a leash no matter how much you pretend at
gentleness, because I can feel that it's empty, even if I can't see it."
"You want me to give you myself, show you my weaknesses...." Jim hummed softly.
His pink tongue darted out to wet his lips, such a delicate motion on such an
indestructible creature. "I have a suggestion. If you want to know me. If you
want to be my equal.... Do you remember what I said on that rooftop? What
you've denied before, and you've refused to consider? I said we were the same.
You and I. Instead of taking in my weaknesses, you should take on my
strengths." Jim's fingers stroked his temple. "The things we could share if we
were one...."
"Learn to adopt so many masks that I'm incapable of peeling them off anymore?
Not knowing who I am?" Sherlock gave a short, bitter laugh. "I'm well on my way
to the latter already, but no. I'm not going to pretend to that level."
But there was something else in Jim's words, hidden between the ordered flow of
syllables. Sherlock gave him a sharp look, the effect only somewhat ruined by
the fact that he was pinned beneath the smaller man and exquisitely aware of
where they were still joined together. "I think you want to be very careful
about what you encourage me to do."
"And why is that? Because you'll try to control me?" Jim smiled. "Perhaps you
don't understand me quite as well as I'd hoped. If you were me, I would have no
need to control you. I control myself only insofar as it is necessary. So that
I may learn to form the skills in which to control others. You don't need to
wear the masks I wore. But, Sherlock..." Jim closed his eyes. He drew closer,
pressing his body against Sherlock again, pressing his head to Sherlock's
temple. "Join me. Help me, and I will open for you."
"I have already helped you," Sherlock finally hissed. "You say you won't need
control if I become subsumed, but I won't let you consume me until nothing
exists but you. Like a virus, burning out its host to copy itself. I can't give
up my existence like that, and I doubt you'd be happy to be alone again, with
only yourself for company."
Sherlock pushed at Jim again, but the smaller man clung tight to him. He was
starting to feel cornered and angry again. If Jim kept pushing him, it was only
a matter of time before he snapped.
"No," Jim hissed, "You will not lose yourself. You will not lose any part of
yourself. It's already inside you. It always has been, the potential for more.
And I will not live in stagnation, opening up all my feelings," he spat the
word, "for you while we sit in your little hideout of a flat and rot." Jim's
teeth clenched. Sherlock stared back in defiance. "You want your old life
back," Jim tried again, this time more softly. "What about it was so much
better than the one you could have with me? You want freedom? You want to be
out from under your brother's thumb? You want excitement, challenge? You want
to be needed?" Jim did seem strangely open when he said it. It was something in
his expression. He was talking about what John would have called terrible
things, if not outright. But that's what Jim's life was. And still something in
Jim wanted to merge with Sherlock. Some quality of Sherlock's had always called
to him.
Sherlock blinked, and when he looked back at Jim there was an odd, hawklike
quality to his eyes - intent, calculating, angry. Jim wouldn't let go of him,
so Sherlock braced himself and flipped them over. He pinned Jim's hands and
moved himself back until they were no longer interlaced. "I cannot have my old
life back," Sherlock growled. "I'm well aware it's an impossibility now. But
I'm not going to exchange Mycroft's thumb for yours. I'm not going to make all
of the compromises to please you. I have no choice about many things, and I'm
trying to make the best of that and cope, and you keep pushing for more. One
more box to check off on your list."
Sherlock's grip on Jim's wrists tightened and his mouth curled up into a snarl.
"I was trying this for you, you know. For all the difference that made. You
don't compromise in return. I think you need to be very careful not to mistake
my sentimentality as a weakness."
"I am dead, Sherlock. I can have none of those things. The only way I will ever
live is through you. Is that not compromise enough?" Jim stilled under
Sherlock's hands, his body almost slack. Jim's hands wrapped gently around
Sherlock's forearms where they held him down. But Jim had never been physically
aggressive, at least not in Sherlock's presence. His gentleness was not an act
of submission. "Having you under me was not a weakness. And having you above me
was not a weakness of mine. That memory I gave you, what I felt then at losing
you, that was a weakness."
"Living through me is a compromise to yourself, not to me. It's an unasked for
cost that I don't get to refuse, as the price to keep living." Sherlock had
seen too many dangerous men to mistake a lack of physical aggression for
safety. Gentleness didn't always stay that way. "I am trying. I have let you
take control for periods of time. I have let you have your pet tiger back. I
have let you have computer access, knowing what that means, and doing it
anyway, because I know very well how painful everything can get, and because it
gives you another space to live in."
"I have even let you have me." Sherlock bit off the word. "In ways I never
fathomed giving anyone permission. I have done my best to adjust and explore
this. You cannot tell me to pity you for being dead, for choosing death, and
tell me that we are even when you have inflicted such costs upon me."
Jim stared. And then he laughed. It started as a sigh, half a smile, but it was
definitely a laugh. "Oh, you got me. Taking what isn't mine. Not regretting it.
Who would do such a heinous thing?" Jim laughed again. "But the fact of the
matter remains that I'm down to nothing, whether it was given to you or not. I
can't offer to be your next little John Watson, it's not in my programing. I
can offer you all the skills I possessed before in life. That is what I can
give you. The only question that matters now is....what is it you want from
me?"
"It isn't skills that I want," Sherlock murmured. His eyes had gone half-lidded
in thought, staring into Jim like he wanted to reach in and find... something.
Something he could read, know, hold onto with certainty. "I don't want you to
be John, or even pretend to be him. You're nothing alike, and I don't care for
that sort of falseness. I think that's the problem. You're fixated on your
goal, and your conviction that you'll show me a better, more satisfying life,
and you're expecting that to be your payment. For me to be satisfied with that.
That might have been enough, years ago, but it isn't anymore."
"Hmm, and I'm still not hearing what it is, exactly, that you do want. What
experience can I offer you that you do desire, Sherlock? Do you want me to go
away and leave you in peace again? You'd wanted that from the start after all.
Do you want me to love and care about you and never ever leave?" Jim pouted in
mockery. But then he calmed a little. "Do you want me to stop wanting all of
you, everything that I can get? You're the only interesting thing in my
existence now. I don't see that happening any time soon."
Sherlock went silent. One of his hands let go of Jim's arm and drifted to his
face - the same delicate features he'd traced over early on in this, learning
by touch and sight and trying to accept his new reality. They were very alike
in some ways, he and Jim, and completely alien in others. "...the second option
would be preferable," he admitted quietly. "But also seems unlikely. I suppose
I could settle with you wanting me as a person, and not a subordinate extension
of yourself, or an object to consume and use."
"That's what people are," Jim lifted his head and hissed. "If I care for you,
it is because you are more like me than you are like them." He fell back among
the blankets and looked at Sherlock. "Do you see why I had never considered
Sebastian a partner, and why I wanted one in you?" Jim was watching him like he
hoped Sherlock would understand. He looked a little more like Richard Brook
then, with open eyes and pinched expression, even though the cunning,
manipulative air was more part of Jim's nature than anything else.
"I can see why, yes." Sherlock ignored Jim's change of expression, and his eyes
followed his fingers as they trailed down Jim's neck or stroked through his
hair. Small details were real and solid, beautiful and not subject to the same
sort of manipulation techniques the face or body were capable of as a whole.
"What happened to you? No one is born like this, not even people like us.
Things happen, and we change to defend against those things in the future.
There's more to this than simply seeing people as stupid, pointless
automatons."
"Nothing happened to me. I happened." Jim's teeth flashed at that. Before he
forced it off his face. A sigh and a laugh followed. "You know about Carl
Powers. And yourself. But if you're looking for a direct cause you will be
woefully disappointed." Jim laid himself out, spreading his arms. "I didn't
have a family like the Holmes', and I didn't have a big brother like yours. All
things considered, I had a fairly normal childhood. I was just a bit, shall we
say, different."
Sherlock considered this. A poorer financial situation, a less sheltered
childhood, and a lack of intellectual stimulation by an elder sibling to hold
off the boredom might have been all the explanation needed. Sherlock had
certainly seen enough criminals and killers from perfectly normal backgrounds
where small stresses, small lacks of some needed thing, were what caused
fractures that surfaced later in life. "...yes, I can imagine. Trying to
interact with other people didn't go well for me, either."
Jim reached up, took hold of Sherlock's wrists, and drew him down. "Carl was
the first person I'd ever killed. But I was perfectly capable of it far
earlier. As I got older, I had no reason to stop and every reason to continue
living outside the law. For the sake of a challenge, for the sake of my
desires, for the sake of my boredom, and for opportunity and financial
stability... I was already a killer, but I took care of that bully and he
wasn't coming back. I could have stopped with him. You... That beautiful little
boy who showed up at the pool, you stayed with me. There were no other boys
like you, but....well. As I said, I learned more about myself and my desires,
and I saw no reason to live a lawful life."
"I don't think I ever learned enough about myself," Sherlock muttered softly.
Which was probably why he had drifted aimlessly through life. He'd not fit in
with other people no matter what he tried, whether it was conventional
schooling and a career track, or falling off the grid entirely into a haze of
lawlessness and drugs. He'd met plenty of other misfits in the shadowy corners
of that underworld, but he hadn't fit or been wanted there either. "I never
figured out what I wanted, really, other than to fit someplace, and that never
happened. Being an Independent Consulting Detective was the best I could come
up with, but even then it was more a matter of being tolerated because I was
useful."
"And now I tell you that you belong with me, and you fight me. Do you compare
me to all those people you knew before?" Jim's hands ran down Sherlock's back.
Jim was still warm, even though the room around them had cooled significantly
with their moods. He had curled against Sherlock, seeking more warmth for
himself whether consciously or not. Other than that, the room remained the
same, lacking the usual drone of the street below and other sounds that subtly
indicated they were in the real world.
"It's not just a matter of belonging," Sherlock sighed. He leaned down until
their foreheads touched, but shut his eyes. He could see Jim's handprints in
his mind, heated and trailing a red glow behind him while they stroked down his
back. "I don't know how I can make you understand. It's not enough for you to
want to possess me like an object, or fuck me, or drag me back with you to
resume the life you left behind. There's more to it than putting me into that
picture like a jigsaw piece that just barely fits into an empty space."
Jim was quiet for a while before he seemed to come to a conclusion. "Think of
what you know of me. If I could say to anyone that I cared for them, it would
be you. But I'll never say it to anyone, not in the least because I can't speak
anymore." Jim's smile was wry, but he looked over at Sherlock and it fell. He
had to know that Sherlock was on very unstable ground, and that Jim's words
would sting. But it was an honest statement, at the very least.
Sherlock was, in many ways, an overgrown child. He'd always tended towards
childishness, but Mycroft's overprotective behavior had secured the trait -
Mycroft had grown up far, far too quickly in order to ensure that Sherlock
would never have to. It was a choice he probably regretted later when having to
deal with the aftermath.
Sherlock didn't respond in words. His expression fell and he curled around Jim,
burying his face against Jim's neck. He didn't seem to notice his limbs
beginning to slowly shorten, inch by inch. Sherlock was too overwhelmed with
his own crisis of being that seemed a long way from a solution.
He could feel Jim shift in surprise, however, not expecting to see Sherlock so
small again. Especially now. But Jim's arms were wrapping around him and Jim
was pressing him close without hesitation. Jim's coldness, his insensitive
smile, it all fell away. He pressed his lips to Sherlock's head and closed his
eyes.
If Sherlock had been looking for a way to make Jim feel, his subconscious had
found it. A part of Jim was back at that pool when he saw Sherlock so small,
before he missed the chance to follow that boy and change their lives forever.
Sherlock stayed close. He no longer felt particularly unsafe when they were
like this, not anymore... and he was trapped in this respect, too. If he
rejected Jim entirely in a fit of self-protection, what was going to be left?
Jim wouldn't leave, couldn't leave, and Sherlock would still be trapped in the
same predicament... but without any comfort at all. "...do you think that's
part of it, what we are? Wanting things we can't have."
"That's a part of the entire human existence, isn't it?" Jim's voice was much
softer now and his fingers stroked through Sherlock's hair. "But yes,
definitely for us. Because, in our brilliance, we have the means to pursue what
we want. And hope can be a horrible thing." Jim's fingers turned Sherlock's
head up to look at him, just to see Sherlock. His face was soft, and it didn't
look like a mask. Even though with Jim it was impossible to tell, it was
difficult to think that it was one.
Sherlock met Jim's gaze with great hesitance. His own grey eyes were unusually
sharp and bright with tears, rimmed with red. It was the sorrow of a life of
dashed hopes, of dealing with humanity that feared differences and punished
deviants accordingly. Sherlock, and his brother to a greater extent, had lived
life keeping people and things at a distance to try to avoid such a sorrow, but
Sherlock had been too tempted by loneliness and a desire for acknowledgement
and validation. "...hope is terrible," he agreed.
Jim's thumb stroked Sherlock's cheek. The tears didn't fall, but they were
there. The bedroom began to fall away, but the warmth and the softness of the
bed beneath them remained. They were sinking through the years of Sherlock's
flat, through memories of his home, his bedroom, the Holmes' den, anywhere that
was a safe and a comfortable place, until they began to sink through Jim's
mind. Sherlock saw glimpses of lavish hotels, tropical weather, cabins in the
snow and warm fireplaces, changing cultures in the details of each bedroom,
even, strangely, a few glimpses of the homes of normal families that Jim could
not have possibly stayed in as himself, but perhaps one of his personas, and
back and back until they encountered the skyline of Dublin, and then the
rolling fields of Ireland glimpsed through windows, out farther into the land
and through increasingly modest homes, until it all began to fade away into the
dark. Until there was only Jim and little Sherlock and the bed. They were
somewhere very deep now, somewhere very quiet, and so when Jim leaned down to
press a kiss to Sherlock's cheek, Sherlock could just hear the words he
whispered. A secret to be shared with no one.
"I do care."
Sherlock turned his head to lay his ear against Jim's chest. The black silence
around them was a little disorienting, even frightening, but Jim's skin was
warm and his heartbeat was steady. Even that was an illusion - if the
government didn't have Jim's body stashed away in cold storage for some purpose
or another, he was in the ground somewhere, decomposing.
That thought was more disturbing than Sherlock had thought it would be. His
grip on Jim tightened, even though that wouldn't do any good. "...I don't know
where to go from here."
"You live, and I survive. Until we find another way to kill me, I'll only crawl
deeper and deeper inside you." Jim's voice was gentle. He knew he would cause
Sherlock pain by his very nature, but right then he didn't want to. Not when
Sherlock was wrapped in his arms, so small, the essence of one of Jim's very
first, fragile hopes. Jim kissed Sherlock to say he was sorry. Down this deep,
everything they said was private. Even though no one would have overheard their
dreams before.
"I did mean it, before. I don't want to kill you." Sherlock turned his head to
look back up at Jim, small brows knit together in concern. Part of what Jim had
said stuck in the back of his mind like a splinter, aching to be picked at.
"...do you still want to die? You still feel like this existence is so terrible
that you would rather not continue anymore?"
Jim's eyes didn't glitter anymore when he looked at Sherlock. There was no
light. It was a miracle they could see one another in the darkness around them,
but in the space between them, the world was just bright enough to make out
Jim's feature. "If I can't find stimulating pursuits, then perhaps. And...if
I...if I can't find something 'more', as you said, between us, then perhaps."
Jim's fingers wouldn't stop caressing his skin. Any place Jim could touch, they
roamed without purpose other than to feel.
"I thought you said you couldn't. And I thought you said you couldn’t care,
either," Sherlock pointed out unhappily. His eyes closed and he leaned into the
touches anyway. He was getting used to such things, and the heat and sensation
were an undeniable piece of evidence that he wasn't alone. He'd spent a lot of
energy struggling against Jim's theft of his privacy, but not feeling alone was
extremely valuable at the moment.
And just more proof to Sherlock about how far he'd let his emotions get
entangled with this man. They were discussing Jim's incapacity to love, and the
possibility of a murder suicide, and Sherlock still wanted Jim's hands on his
skin.
"I said I couldn't say it." Jim said quietly. His palm rested on the back of
Sherlock's head, fingers curling idly in soft strands of hair. Like Sherlock
had looked at him before, taking in detail by detail to enjoy his beauty but
avoiding the whole, Jim was now turning that gaze to Sherlock. His dark eyes
danced over Sherlock's fine brow, down the side of his cheek, glanced away from
long lashes that held piercing questions in the eyes beneath. "Do you know what
it took to be me? I bet you can imagine. It was much the same as what it took
to be you. Sentiment doesn't fit." Jim paused. "And still you got under my skin
anyway."
"Sentiment isn't supposed to fit, at least. It's something I've always had a
problem with." Either too much, or too little. One hurt Sherlock himself when
other people invariably disappointed him, while the other got him painted as a
monster or eerily robotic. "I don't know how much of my head you've explored
without me. I'm sure you'll find the memories where I was taunted about it.
Including when my dog died. I was supposed to learn to be less attached and
less sensitive, but it didn't quite work out that way."
"Yes, I'd gathered as much," Jim smiled and brushed his thumb down Sherlock's
cheek. Jim's persona wasn't just softer, he was also incredibly tactile when
Sherlock was a child. "Even when you grew up, I could tell you grew attached to
people. Not often, and only one at a time, Dr. Watson being the most
successful. But, how did he put it, you're a 'drama queen'?" Jim chuckled. "You
have a need to be appreciated. And I, well...remaining unattached came far more
naturally to me. I needed my work to be appreciated, I needed it to top all
others, and that was what I stayed alive for."
"...I don't really care about my work, mostly," Sherlock admitted. Work was a
distraction, and also a means of proving himself, but not often the focus in
and of itself. John had mostly guessed right when he'd accused Sherlock of
doing things to prove his was clever. It was an added benefit that justice was
served when he completed a case, but helping people wasn't what drove Sherlock
to do it. "Or most people. They're frustrating and get in the way. I suppose I
sound stupid, wanting people around and also wanting them to go away at the
same time."
Jim paused his stroking to wrap his arms around Sherlock. They were still
naked, but in the dark and amidst the blankets and the silence, it didn't seem
to matter much. Jim enjoyed the feeling of Sherlock against him. "You should
rest," Jim whispered. "And I will keep you like this, down here, for as long as
I can." All traces of his maliciousness were gone.
Sherlock glanced up at Jim and stared for a second before he finally nodded. He
desperately needed uninterrupted sleep, both for his body and his mind. He
certainly didn't have boundless trust in Jim for all things, but he had trust
enough for this. Jim had kept his word and stopped when Sherlock had asked him
to. Sherlock felt safe enough to sleep like this without worrying Jim would
take advantage.
Sherlock leaned up to press a kiss to Jim's lips, then settled back down beside
him.
Jim's body was warm and his arms were solid. He could wrap himself around
Sherlock even better than the blankets he pulled up around their shoulders.
Though the silence at this depth of Jim's mind had been unnerving at first, it
was now comfortable.
Jim had taken them far away from the real world, a place no one could see or
touch or force them out of. Sebastian could keep himself occupied with the work
Jim had started. Lestrade would continue to follow dead leads and Mycroft would
join in the same.
The world would turn outside their cocoon, but for now, Sherlock could rest.
***** Chapter 14 *****
Days passed, and Sherlock grew more and more tense. Watching Jim and Seb work
on networking proved to be too boring to watch when he was uninvolved, and
Sherlock's cell phone stayed conspicuously silent. Either no cases had come up,
or Lestrade was purposefully keeping him away from them to try to force him to
rest. For all Greg and John knew, Sherlock was in a fragile state of mind.
Looking up at Seb's hunched form curled up on the sofa with Jim's laptop,
Sherlock had to concede that he was in a fragile state of mind... but that
didn't negate his boredom. He wished he could sneak into Sebastian's room
without the man noticing; the gunman had to have several weapons that Sherlock
hadn't had the opportunity to take apart before.
Eventually, Sebastian began to glance at him across the room while Sherlock was
tinkering with some old experiment or shuffling through his notes. He might
have been putting the gunman on edge with his restlessness, but Sherlock got
the distinct impression that something Jim typed had something to do with
Sebastian's interest. Not in the least because Jim would occasionally drift
back to Sherlock and settle inside of him, sometimes creating a soothing
sensation, sometimes simply assessing his mental state. Or Sherlock could only
assume. Jim knew Sherlock didn't want to be involved in his work, and so hadn't
offered again. But even Sherlock knew that whatever Jim was doing wouldn't
remain limited to networking forever.
One day when Sherlock was particularly restless, Jim settled under his skin and
asked, quite bluntly, "How bored do you have to be before I can interest you in
a dose of heroin?"
Sherlock stiffened. "...what do you mean?" It was pointless to deny that he had
drugs and various chemicals secreted throughout the flat. Sherlock knew they
were there, so Jim knew they were there by extension. Drugs were an option that
Sherlock considered every now and again, particularly now that John was out of
the flat, but it had seemed entirely too dangerous to risk dosing himself with
Jim lurking in the background and, now, Sebastian living in John's old room.
He also never knew when Lestrade might insist on a random drug test. They had
become less frequent over the years, but never ceased entirely. "As much as I
would like to stop feeling my brain grinding itself to pieces in ennui, I was
under the impression that your pet is interested in the vulnerable. From what
I've deduced, at any rate. He's unsettling enough when I have all my wits and
coordination about me."
Jim laughed. "As interesting as it would be by proxy, you do have a fair point.
Poor Seb is getting just as restless as the both of us." One glance to the
large man on the couch confirmed Jim's words. Moran's body was as relaxed as it
could get but he had barely moved all day. He exercised as much as he could
with his own bodyweight and the limited space of the flat in the early mornings
and late nights, but usually he did it out of Sherlock's sight. "You sure I
can't interest you in a jaunt around town...just see what havoc we could
cause?"
"...and just what, precisely, do you have in mind?" They all knew going out
with Sebastian was a risk. The authorities by now had assumed he was out of the
country, but Moran's face was still fresh in a lot of people's minds, and there
were cameras and eyes everywhere. Sherlock wasn't against a little adventure,
but not if it involved getting arrested and having MI6 show up with his brother
to demand to know why he was running around with a bio-terrorist.
"Oh I don't know. Hit up a pub, see how much we can wrangle out of a few games
of cards with the locals. Find a nice little club and dance the night away."
Jim snickered lazily, "I would so love to see you dance in person. Whatever
takes our fancy." Sherlock could feel the prickle of Seb's gaze across the room
again, and sure enough blue eyes were glancing at him over the screen of the
laptop. The man could probably tell Sherlock and Jim were conversing, if only
because Jim had disappeared from his screen.
"You can't be serious." Sherlock was fairly certain Jim was being facetious,
but he could never tell. He might have been entirely serious about going out in
public so conspicuously, for at least some of his suggestions. Jim had a
reckless streak in him at times, but always indulged within carefully
controlled parameters - like his theatrical break-in at the Tower of London and
his engineered acquittal. Sherlock's gaze flickered to Moran uneasily and found
the man staring back at him with his unsettling blue eyes.
"I am. Unless you have a better idea." Sherlock felt Jim curl up inside him,
prodding places in his mind with a very unusual sensation. "We could dance in
the sitting room perhaps. How loud do you think Mrs. Hudson would tolerate the
music?" Jim was definitely joking that time. He had to be. There was no way
Sherlock would be dancing alone in his sitting room with Sebastian Moran, no
matter how cooped up they were, even if Jim was lurking somewhere in the
shadows. Probably laughing.
Sherlock's expression soured and he heard Jim laugh in the back of his mind.
"If you're serious about this, we'll have to sneak out to the countryside.
Somewhere small, without a lot of CCTV cameras. Even if we took a quick trip
out of the country to France, there will be CCTV cameras in the major cities
and agents watching them." Sherlock's frown deepened. "And I am not going to be
dancing for you. Least of all with him."
"Spoil sport," Jim huffed. "I'd wager I can get you to dance with me. Still.
Aside from donning one of your ridiculous disguises to get Seb into a pub,
which I am perfectly willing to do, we don't have many options. And I am
dreadfully bored. Almost as bored as you are, no doubt." If Jim had been
physically present in the room, Sherlock got the feeling he would have been
levelling big, dead eyes at him.
Sherlock was bored. Terribly, terribly bored. As far as suggestions went,
sneaking out to a pub in the countryside was going to be less conspicuous and
dangerous than other things Jim might think up that would have MI6 combing the
city for Moran all over again. Sherlock sighed and crossed his arms, looking
back to Moran. "...Jim wants a night out at the pub. All of us together. I
don't want to test what might happen if he gets more bored than he already is,
so I'd suggest we get away from the city to somewhere your face isn't going to
immediately summon the authorities."
Sebastian eyed Sherlock at his choice of wording, but sat up in interest. He
cracked his neck. "Sounds good to me. Flat's a bit cramped lately." He rose and
headed to the kitchen, walking straight up to Sherlock, and then around him for
the fridge. Moran had a tendency to do things like that, subtle physical
intimidations "Are we going to be camera dodging all the way, or are you
renting a car? I can hide well enough but it'll take a while by cab." Moran
sloshed his tea around the mug instead of using a spoon. "Y'know there was one
place Jim liked to go. Club, not too far out but maybe just far enough. Little
place called Ivory up the A406."
Sherlock resented Moran's attempts at intimidation, as well as his presence in
the flat. He tolerated the gunman as an unfortunate requirement for keeping Jim
happy. "I'll be renting a car. You'll need to hide in the back until we're
suitably out of London proper to no longer have the danger of any cameras
catching a glimpse of you. I don't particularly care where we go." So long as
it was out of the flat for a bit and took the edge off for all of them. So long
as Jim and Sebastian didn't make this more unpleasant than it had to be.
"Exciting." Moran sounded just as displeased as Sherlock did, but he sipped his
tea and the subtle posturing of his body hinted that he was relieved to be
doing something.
Sherlock could feel Jim's satisfaction seeping through his body, like Jim was a
foreign source of endorphins. He uncurled himself and became very light in
Sherlock's mind, almost not there at all but for the lingering, familiarity of
his presence. "Ivory will be discreet enough, if you have the cash. And Seb
knows the area. Give it a chance."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he dug out his phone. "Pack whatever you need for
the night. The fact that I'm leaving London is going to be noticed, and it will
be considerably less suspicious if I stay out for more than a handful of hours,
as I can pass my absence off as a short holiday."
Sherlock turned and left for his room before Moran could respond. He was
already dialing a rental company for a car and planning on what he'd need to
bring. One thing was certain: he'd need to have plenty of cash to spare. He was
not going to share a room with Moran, even with the concerns that they might be
spotted or tracked.
Jim said nothing while Sherlock made preparations. Since that first day he
hadn't pushed for Sherlock and Sebastian to get along, and they'd been avoiding
each other as much as possible ever since. They were doing surprisingly well
for two people who were stuck in a single flat. Having an unseen third party to
talk to and access to the outside world via internet was probably the only
thing that saved them from having to converse with one another. But all that
was about to change with this outing. They wouldn't be able to avoid each
other, at least not completely. If only on the drive. Once there, they could
split. Moran wouldn't be stupid enough to step out of the club and get noticed,
and all Jim wanted to do was to see Sherlock dance. Simple, really. Hopefully.
Sherlock packed what he needed, deposited his luggage by the doorway, and
briefly left the flat to pick up the car. Thankfully, since they were so close
to the University of Westminster, a car rental service was only a few minutes'
walk away. Sherlock made good time, paid, and was back in front of the flat in
barely any time at all.
Enough days had passed without incident that, thankfully, Lestrade's security
detail had been called off due to the lack of active threat. All that left was
getting Sebastian into the car without being noticed.
"...Jim, are you able to temporarily knock out the cameras watching the door?"
"Think nothing of it," Jim said sweetly. "You walk ahead of Seb. I'll cut it
before he enters the frame. Dear brother will be less suspicious that way."
Moran, too, was ready to go with only a single pack at his feet. Change of
clothes, toothbrush, razor, he didn't need much. One look at Sherlock and he
swung the bag over his shoulder. This was Jim's desire and they were all ready
to for a break. Moran wasn't going to cause trouble now. "All set?"
Sherlock grabbed his bag from where he'd left it beside the door. "All set.
Follow close behind me. Jim is going to cut the cameras temporarily right after
I leave the doorway. You'll have a short time to get in and hide in the back."
The drive wouldn't take long - a little less than an hour - but Sherlock wasn't
happy thinking about behind trapped in a small car with Moran sitting behind
him. The man wouldn’t try anything while Sherlock was driving, but he'd be more
than able to make things uncomfortable.
Sherlock received a nod of confirmation and then they were out the door. Just
as Sherlock instructed, Moran stayed close, several steps behind, just far back
enough. Jim informed Sherlock the cameras malfunctioned without a hitch, and
they were sliding into the car Sherlock had parked conveniently on the street.
Moran's pack went on the floor and he maneuvered his tall frame to lie on the
back seat.
"Damn, this is uncomfortable." He had to like it even less when he couldn't see
where they were going or what was coming. Sherlock had noticed early on that he
needed to be aware and in control of his surroundings at all times.
Sherlock bitterly mused that it was nice to have someone else experiencing an
unnerving loss of control. He'd had quite enough of being the only one with his
hands tied. He deposited his own bag in the passenger seat, turned the key in
the ignition, and then they were off.
Traffic was congested enough that it took them longer to get past the city
limits than Sherlock had planned, but eventually the A1 turned and brought the
sight of open, green pastures out the window. Sherlock glanced in the rearview
mirror to get a look at his passenger. "...you should be able to sit up now."
Moran did, quickly. The first thing he did was look out the window, assessing
where they were. Now that he was up, he seemed much more comfortable. He even
rolled down a window. "Not much farther." Amazingly, some of the gruff tension
had left his tone.
"Get Seb outside and he's happy," Jim grumbled from somewhere inside Sherlock's
head. His tone suggested this had been an annoyance for him often enough
before. Possibly something the two of them had disagreed on.
Sherlock's gaze lingered in the mirror for a second or two longer before it
turned back to the road. Moran didn't just sound happier, he looked happier.
His body language had subtly changed.
All that did was remind Sherlock of another memory - taking John out to the
countryside for a case. Despite how nettly some of their conversations had
gotten on the trip, tension had noticeably drained away from the doctor. The
phenomenon had confused Sherlock until he'd reflected on John's veteran status.
Soldiers returning from war often felt overwhelmed by a number of things,
including the wide range of choices in a consumeristic society and the
bustling, tightly-packed spaces of the city. For people who were stuck
constantly assessing their surroundings for potential threats, there was simply
too much to look at, too many things moving too fast.
Moran would not have had time to adjust to civilian life. He'd gone from the
military to prison to working as an assassin under Jim. Constant vigilance was
ingrained by now.
A less surly Moran could do a lot to improve the trip. Subtle aggression had
been forming as much of the tension between them as wariness had been. Sherlock
would just have to hope that it lasted. They were losing the sun quickly, and
it was just as well. Any cover they had when they arrived would be useful.
"It's been years, doubtful they'd remember me, but just in case I hope Jim told
you to bring extra cash." Moran flashed a prepaid ATM card in the mirror.
"Don't worry about me."
"He did, in fact, warn me that this place would be discreet so long as they
were compensated, if the need came up." Now that they were closer to their
destination, Sherlock wasn't entirely certain what Jim's plan was. He wasn't
opposed to a little alcohol in moderation, although drinking while seemingly
alone was going to be awkward, but Sherlock didn't know what he was supposed to
do to pass the time. Watching people quickly became boring. Deductions rarely
turned up anyone sufficiently unique to be worth the effort of engaging in
temporary conversation. He also wasn't much for card games.
They drove on in silence until Moran leaned forward to look out the windshield.
"Take the next exit."
If Sherlock wanted 'out of the way', it looked like they were going to get it.
There wasn't much off this part of the highway apart from back streets and
warehouses. Old ones by the look of it, and not many signs of surveillance.
Still they would have to be careful on the way in. Down a few more turns and
they found their destination, barely noticeable from the outside with only a
single open door and a tiny, modestly lit sign pronouncing itself "Ivory".
"It gets better on the inside," Seb shrugged before pointing out valet.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and eyed the building skeptically. It truly didn't
look like much. Not the sort of place he would have thought Jim would favor, at
any rate. Ivory looked like it catered to clientele who wanted cheap drinks and
House music without having to venture down to London and worry about a long
drive home.
Sherlock pulled up to the kerb and stepped out. He heard the passenger door
open and close behind him while he handed over the keys to the valet boy and
slipped him a note. Jim had said the club was discreet, but it didn't hurt to
be extra cautious, particularly considering that he could feel Moran's looming
presence right behind him. The valet barely glanced at Sherlock's companion
before he slid into the driver's seat and took off.
The detective's skin prickled as they walked to the door. He couldn't help it.
Moran hadn't tried to kill him since Jim had brought them to a truce, but he'd
still done his best to subtly intimidate, and Moran was very good at
intimidation.
The way he crowded Sherlock's back at the very least kept prying eyes off him,
if the doorman and one or two patrons heading their way were any concern. It
was an unusual kind of body language to be directed at Sherlock, and Sherlock
could only deduce that now they were among other people, Moran's first instinct
was to watch out for Sherlock as he would have done for Moriarty. It was a
strange contrast to their interactions thus far, but considering that Sherlock
now in a sense was Moriarty, it was almost to be expected.
Moran kept it up only until they were inside and had a good look at the place,
however. He, like Sherlock, needed to get a lay of the land after being absent
for at least three years. And it was not at all what Sherlock had expected from
the outside.
It was packed. And expansive. And true to its name, it glittered in whites and
gold and lights dangling like icicles of crystal glass from the ceiling. There
were walkways and alcoves and a bar not far from the entrance. And the music
was loud. Almost too loud to hear.
"There's more in the back," Moran raised his voice, having to lean over
Sherlock's shoulder to make himself heard.
Sherlock tensed when Moran got closer, but he quickly realized why the man had
done it. The bass from the music was turned up enough to reverberate through
his bones. It was only early evening and people were only just getting started,
but the crowd spoke to the club's popularity, if not necessarily its quality.
The detective walked quickly through the crowd, eyes skimming over people as he
passed by. No one in the front alcoves looked to be anyone he needed to worry
about. At least not in a serious way; he was quite recognizable in London, but
had always been less so in rural areas around Great Britain. Sherlock could
only hope that no fans tried to sneak a picture of him and unfortunately catch
Moran in the frame.
Which he needn't have worried about because the moment he turned to glance
back, Moran was gone. Nowhere in sight. He'd ditched Sherlock, and the bustle
of bodies coming and going around him amid the flashing lights made Moran
impossible to spot.
"Don't worry," Jim finally spoke up, not needing to compete with the sound
system for Sherlock's ear. "He just needs to blow off a little steam. As do you
I assume."
"I can't imagine why." Sherlock suppressed the desire to roll his eyes and
instead concentrated on getting through the crowd unmolested. Just because no
one had recognized him thus far didn't mean he wasn't going to be bothered.
Sherlock would be lying if he'd said he wasn't flattered by the attentions he
attracted, but he rarely wanted to deal with the people who came up to him. The
situation was always uncomfortable and tended to end with tears or resentful
looks whenever he tried to cut to the chase in order to get his privacy back.
Sherlock managed to make it all the way back to the bar. The bartenders were
busy with the several customers already waiting in front of Sherlock, which
gave him some time to mull over what to order. Alcohol did, in fact, sound
thoroughly appealing at the moment, but Sherlock also had other considerations
to think about. Such as the blood alcohol threshold where he'd be operating at
less-than-optimal should this outing go wrong.
"Live a little, Sherlock. If you start now, you'll have plenty of time to sober
up before the night winds down. And Sebastian can take care of himself." Jim's
logic was tempting. As was the curl of warmth that pressed at Sherlock's chest,
just a little reminder that he wasn't alone. "You don't have to start off too
strong. And I'll even keep an eye out for you. How's that now?"
The crowd parted as several people left with drinks in hand. Everyone around
him was ignoring Sherlock, chatting loudly amongst themselves or waiting for
the bar. Here, he wasn't noticeably alone.
Sherlock preferred wine, but he knew that a place like this would also lack
anything of the quality he was used to... and he would look out of place. He
was at least that adept at some social conventions.
A glance up and down the bar gave him a general idea of what the normal range
of drinks were, as well as what the bar might have in stock. Something in Jim's
tone, in the way he felt the need to comfort him like a timid child, rankled.
It was a reaction that Jim was probably aiming for, but he'd had time to learn
just how to aim. When the bartender's gaze turned to him, he ordered a
Manhattan. A minute later and he'd handed over a couple of quid for an amber
glass with a skewer of black cherries. Sherlock immediately moved away from the
bar and went looking for an empty corner where he could sit and observe the
crowd without interacting.
Jim, to his credit, did not comment on the drink. That, however, did not
prevent him from commenting on other topics. "What I wouldn't give to have my
body back for this. But you know, I am keenly interested to find out whether
the alcohol you consume will have any effect on me, should I remain in your
body long enough. I can feel your emotions. If I let them, they could probably
affect me. I wonder if the same can be said on a chemical level."
People parted for Sherlock as he moved, recognizing his single minded focus to
be elsewhere, but occasionally, someone's eyes would follow. From where he
stood now, the dance floor wasn't far. It was expansive, but broken up into
sections that looked like they spread to rooms beyond the one adorned solely in
white. Sherlock ignored it and made a beeline for an empty table. It was
inevitable that someone would approach and try to initiate a conversation, but
he would deal with such situations as they came up.
He took a seat and began to watch the crowd while taking the first sip from his
glass. The bitterness of whiskey and vermouth rolled over his tongue.
"I don't see why you'd need your body back for this. I'm fairly confident that
anything that affects my body would, by consequence, affect you. You can detach
and temporarily go elsewhere, but the evidence thus far is stacked in favor of
the theory that you've taken up residence in a portion of my brain and
sectioned it off." Sherlock took another sip. "Although you seem to have
avoided other complications, come to think of it. You haven't been affected by
any of the endocrinal reactions to my emotions, which would saturate the
bloodstream just as much."
Jim hummed in agreement. "All that we've managed to determine is that you, and
you only, are a source of energy for me. Whether that energy is chemical,
electrical, or somehow neurologically specific to you…remains to be determined.
And I wouldn't mind starting here. Though I do miss the taste." Jim sighed
wistfully. It wasn't completely put upon. He was about to ‘make conversation’.
"When was the last time you had a decent drink out? Don't tell me it was John's
stag do. It was John's stag do, wasn't it?"
"It was. There's little point in going out in public and having to endure
people and pay more for poorer quality when unaccompanied. Why would I want to
subject myself to... this?" Sherlock took in the room, filled with people -
many couples, or groups of friends, and quite a few people who were obviously
seeking out someone to start a fling with. Most were laughing, smiling, having
a good time. Some were buzzed enough that they'd grown more open in their
expressions and careless with their bodies, just a little too loud and too
loose, too exaggerated. None really caught Sherlock's attention. It was just
more of the same that he ran into everywhere in London. There wasn't anything
specifically wrong with them, except for the fact that they were frustratingly
normal. No unusual drive, no particularly unique personalities or skills, just
people who were content to subject themselves to eight hours of daily
gruntwork, then go to the pub and turn off their brains with football and beer.
Or whatever their poison was. They'd pass into history without a ripple left
behind.
"Mmm, I do see your point. Not a soul in sight who could meet even half my
intellect. And yet.... When the world becomes too frustrating and even my
personal dalliances with a false identity on the side didn’t work out, I could
come to a place like this, get perfectly sloshed, or another poison of choice,
stand in the middle of that dance floor, and get lost in the mindless,
writhing, repugnant sea of humanity."
Off to the side of the dance floor a pair of young women had noticed Sherlock.
From their glances and the way they leaned in to talk to one another it was
obvious, but they would stay where they were after making eye contact. They
would expect Sherlock to come to them if he was just taking a break to scope
out the scene for a minute and not the isolated creepy guy he was about to
become if he sat there alone much longer.
"Humanity depresses me. I don't know why you'd want to inflict that upon
yourself." Alcohol lowered inhibitions and dulled some senses, but it also
could make it more difficult to cope. All Sherlock saw, when in a place like
this by himself, was how alien he was to other people, and they to him. How
much he was alone not only by choice, but because there was a gap there that
couldn't be breached no matter how they tried to communicate. It seemed far
better to indulge his vices in the privacy of his own home, or at least out in
the more deserved portions of the London streets and rooftops.
The two women continued to whisper, and one rubbed her arm in a nervous
gesture. Sherlock ignored them. This, perhaps, was where he'd made his
miscalculation before. He wasn't uninterested because of a preference for a
particular gender over others, but neither was he completely asexual. His
boundaries and requirements to merit interest were simply so very particular
that he'd gone for most of his life never encountering anyone that triggered
attraction beyond a vaguely pleasing sense of aesthetics.
"I'm pleased you find me so alluring," Jim whispered, reading Sherlock's
thoughts, and Sherlock knew he'd be grinning if he was tangible. A warm tingle,
like the tips of fingers, trailed down the back of Sherlock's neck. It
lingered. "Tell me, when was the last time you danced? I've seen enough of your
early memories to know you enjoy it...."
The women moved on, seeing that Sherlock was in fact as disinterested as he
looked. A third of their group had joined them and was pulling them off to the
floor. How easy it was for people like them, to stop thinking about everything
else and go along with the flow of the crowd.
"...a very long time," Sherlock admitted quietly. His drink was half-gone by
now, the effects slowly taking hold. His gaze shifted to those who were out on
the dance floor. Most of them didn't have the faintest idea of what to do, but
they made up for it in enthusiasm and drink-fortified courage. "It was just one
more thing to elicit comments and mockery, when I reached those particularly
awkward years, and there isn't much point to doing it without a partner. For a
lot of dances, anyway. And I'm well known enough now in London that it just..."
Hadn't seemed worth it to try to find an outlet, either for the people who'd
try to interact with him to snag a bit of fame for themselves, or the paparazzi
that occasionally snapped shots of him when he was out and about. He'd had a
brief moment of hope that he'd find an opportunity at John's wedding, only to
have that thoroughly dashed.
"Well, let's get you another drink. Tonight I'd like to break your dry spell."
The phantom fingers curled gently at the nape of Sherlock's neck, and when Jim
spoke again his voice was soothing. "I would very much like to see you dance.
And to be here, in your body, while doing so. The physicality of it....I have
all these memories.... Training in Judo, for example." Jim's speech paused,
like he were smiling. Warmth settled lightly in Sherlock's chest. "You were
beautiful even when you were fighting."
Sherlock felt a flush creep up his cheeks. And that, too, was strange; while
he'd often appreciated compliments, he usually didn't feel any sort of weight
behind them that made him internalize them. "Judo is... very similar to a dance
in many ways, yes, even though the object is to incapacitate your partner. I'm
not going to dance tonight, though. I don't like to dance alone, especially in
public, and I'd rather not make a show at seducing some random woman just to
have a warm body in front of me."
"And so you see why it is I wish for my body back," Jim sighed. "You know if
you go out there, you won't be truly alone." Sherlock felt the sensation of
palms running over his shoulders and down his arms. It was Jim's beckoning
call, trying to sway him away from the table in the corner whether that was
back to the bar or out to the dance floor. Jim's attempts to ply him into
dancing with more alcohol were transparent, but out of the options available it
was one of the better ones.
Sherlock finished his drink and rose to return to the bar. He'd supply Jim with
the means to experiment with whether he could still feel intoxication or not,
but he wasn't going to be persuaded out onto the floor. He really wasn't alone
anymore, because Jim couldn't ever truly leave, but he was alone in the way
that mattered for this. He had no one to touch, no one to play off, and his
partner would be unobservable to everyone else.
Sherlock paid for a Jameson with just a hint of an ironic smile and quickly
made his way back to his table before he lost his seat. He wasn't in the mood
to be awkwardly wandering around the club with a drink in hand.
"Irish whiskey?" Sherlock could feel Jim's amusement.
"I don't suppose you're going to tell me, while you're eagerly trying to ply me
with drink, what your favorites were."
"I've always had a weak spot for Talisker. Sebastian favours vodka. It's grown
on me.” Jim laughed softly. He was becoming tactile. Sherlock felt it in
subtle, ghostly touches along his arms and waist, so light it might have almost
been the clothing brushing against his body. "My one real vice for these
outings wasn't liquor. It was E."
Sherlock paused with his glass halfway to his lips. He wasn't expecting Jim to
admit something like that. "I'm going to take it you were aware that E
permanently burns out pleasure receptors? I'm in no position to judge regarding
substance use, but I tried to limit it to things that weren't likely to do much
permanent harm." Although, if Jim had burnt himself completely out, that might
have explained a few things. Without being able to feel anything to combat the
pain filling the other areas of his life, life would have quickly become
unbearable.
Sherlock took a swallow of his whiskey and leaned back in his chair. He was
starting to feel looser, and pleasantly warm, and Jim's light touches were
starting to become distracting. The corner of Sherlock's mouth curled into a
half-smile. "Is this a sign that alcohol does, in fact, get to you in this
state, or am I just that irresistible to you tonight?"
Jim laughed and Sherlock could have sworn he felt it against his ear. "I can
feel it in you, but it's not quite the same.... The way I can feel your body,
it's like stepping into you and then stepping out again. I could...separate
myself if I wanted to.... Hm, but I don't think I do. Now that I have access to
your unpolluted pleasure receptors." That time Sherlock definitely felt
something against his ear. Something very pleasant. And pressure like a
hand...sliding down his chest. "I doubt you have a penchant for secret, public
indulgences, but yes, it is hard to resist."
No one was paying attention either. People milled about, but each little party
was lost in their own world until one or two broke away and crossed paths. Like
little atoms. Protons and electrons, jittering about and colliding. Attraction.
Repulsion. In a very trite way, it was all there.
Sherlock's train of thought derailed. Jim had been letting him recover for the
past few days, and while he'd been loathe to admit it, he was starting to feel
an effect. He hadn't quite been bold enough to try initiating anything again,
but the idea of Jim doing things to him in ways he couldn't prevent, in
public... was both intriguing and frightening. One part of his body was quite
focused on just how intriguing it was, and the sensation of a hand sliding
lower. "...I'd really rather that you didn't. I might admit to being dramatic,
but not that sort of dramatic."
"That's really too bad. The fun of it isn't the exhibitionism. It's the not
getting caught." But the pressure retreated from Sherlock's belt, diverting to
smooth down his leg instead. That didn't stop the warmth near Sherlock's ear
from sliding down his neck, however. "Doesn't seem like my efforts were
wasted," Jim mused. "I can feel your interest." The warmth paused at the dip in
Sherlock's collar. "Are you sure you won't dance with me...? You may not be
able to see me, but you can certainlyfeelme."
Sherlock's eyes slid closed, but he shook his head. Even with a moderate amount
of liquor in him and Jim's persuasive touches, he wasn't going to be moved. "I
don't want to look like I'm dancing with myself, is all. If you really want to
insist, we can visit an older memory of mine and dance there." Sherlock's neck
arched and he opened his eyes, trying at the last moment to make it look like
he was simply stretching to get rid of a cramp.
Jim chuckled. "That doesn't lend us the same unpredictability. Hmm, but I
wouldn't say no."
Far across the room, almost too far and through too many moving bodies to be
sure, Sherlock caught a glimpse of Moran. It was his stature more than anything
that gave him away. The man's profile, cropped, natural blond hair and stern
brow, was familiar enough for Sherlock to fix on the man with even as brief a
glimpse as he'd seen. Moran's gait had changed though, smooth enough to slip
around the other patrons. Sherlock saw that much as the crowd parted and he
caught another glimpse of Jim's former bodyguard. He was heading for the bar.
Sherlock's attention shifted. The other patrons faded into the background as
they went about their business, dancing and drinking and socializing with the
hope of making particular connections. Sherlock's gaze followed Moran's glide
through the crowd with particular interest. He moved differently. He was, in a
very real sense, different from everyone else in this building, so far as
Sherlock could discern. Moran was a prowling cat slinking through a hutch
filled with songbirds, and that was far more interesting to watch than the
meaningless twittering going on around him.
Sherlock got to his feet before he quite realized his own intentions and began
to follow after the man.
True to Jim's memory, Moran was ordering straight vodka shots from the bar. He
was tall enough, and big enough, that Sherlock estimated his body weight to
alcohol level could handle it, but Moran wasn't taking his time about it. One
clear glass after the next he tipped back until he was washing it down with
beer. And then, just as he was turning, scanning the crowd, raising his arm to
lean on the bar, he caught sight of Sherlock standing amidst the throng. It
wasn't quite a double take he gave Sherlock, but Moran's pale eyes, clear even
from a distance, fixed to him carefully. Moran was staring at him with such
scrutiny that it took a second for Sherlock to realize why.
He was trying to determine whether Sherlock was still Sherlock.
A thrill raced up Sherlock's spine. It wasn't quite the same as the adrenaline
rush he remembered from other dangerous confrontations, but similar enough that
he recognized the feeling. Moran was intrinsically understood to be a predator,
and one that would get the better of him if he wasn't careful. It was the same
sort of situation Sherlock enjoyed when dealing with criminals, although he
vastly preferred an intellectual game of wits against physicality.
Sherlock finished the last of his whiskey and, under the pretense of ordering a
new round, began to approach the bar. He could feel his pulse rising with every
step, and he didn't quite dare take his eyes off the gunman.
It was very strange, their little nonverbal standoff, because even though there
was no doubt Moran was a predator, his eyes were wary on Sherlock. If Sherlock
was Jim, and Jim was playing at ignoring Moran, it was putting the man on edge.
Finally, it looked like he'd decided Jim hadn't taken over after all, that
Sherlock's hesitance was simply Sherlock as usual, because some of Moran's
casual confidence came back to the set of his posture. He took another pull
from his beer and strode forward, gliding with unusual grace through the bodies
between them, heading straight for Sherlock.
Sherlock's stride didn't alter, but his frame tensed the closer Moran got. Days
of subtle and overt intimidation had an effect, and that was after he'd already
found Moran threatening. Being introduced to someone by having them nearly kill
him a few times wasn't a way to induce confidence and ease into their
relationship.
Sebastian eventually blocked Sherlock's way to the bar. They were nearly of
equal height, but Sherlock felt as if he was looking up at the man, empty glass
clutched in one hand. He raised an eyebrow and tried to step around him.
Sebastian allowed it, but not without a little half smile and not without
turning right along with Sherlock, matching his pace until they reached the bar
and had to stop. That smile on Moran looked...decidedly cocky. And Jim was
unusually, and in this case unhelpfully, silent. Even his touches had all but
stopped. The only one that remained, like a little reminder for Sherlock not to
worry, was a gentle stroking at the nape of his neck.
"Enjoying yourself?" Sebastian wouldn't leave. He planted his back against the
bar and made it seem like he was looking out over the crowd, but his eyes were
still on Sherlock. "Doesn't look like you've moved from that corner even once
yet. Not counting the bar."
Sherlock decided to continue his play on nonchalance. He stared back at Moran
for a moment before ordering another round - Talisker, this time. From the
microexpression Sherlock saw flicker across the other man's face, he knew Moran
recognized it. "Why would I?" Sherlock finally asked. "It's not like the other
patrons are suitably entertaining to engage with. In any way. The same dull
chatting and awkward, half-aborted movements that are supposed to approximate
dancing everywhere you look."
"I see you've been talking to Jim," Moran raised an eyebrow at the drink, which
they surprisingly did have on hand, as the bartender slid it up. "Unless you
just happen to have a thing for same whiskey. But that begs the question, if
the two of you have in fact been talking, what does he think about you hiding
out over there all night?" Moran looked like he knew very well how Jim felt
about Sherlock sitting alone, not that Jim had encouraged him to dance with
anyone else.
"I think you know very well how he feels about it." Sherlock took a sip of the
drink and winced ever so slightly. He wasn't far enough gone yet that the peat
taste and potent sting of the scotch didn't register. "I'm grateful I haven't
had a request to burn my pleasure sensors out to let him relive old
experiences, but I'm also not about to make an idiot of myself dancing alone.
Or with some random woman I could persuade into it, which would only be a short
step up from dancing alone," he added dryly.
Moran laughed. It was a sudden, deep throated sound, not for show or for
banter. "Jim almost always danced alone," he explained. "He really wouldn't
think of being self-conscious over that. He'd get out there and then just tune
out. Wouldn't even realize there were people on the floor with him. And no, he
never did dance with women either."
But Moran had said 'almost' always, and if he didn't dance with women, that
brought up the question of who Jim did dance with. It wasn't inconceivable that
he'd been able to find male partners here, but...that was a similarly strange
mental image from what Sherlock knew of Jim.
Sherlock's eyebrows drew together as he tried to picture it. He was having a
difficult time imagining Jim with... anyone, really, but particularly other
men. Sherlock was fairly confident that Jim would aggressively insist on being
the dominant no matter what situation he was in, which wouldn't have played
very well with the sort of men Sherlock could see in the club. Even with his
deductive powers diminishing under the effect of alcohol, every male in the
area who was a little bit flexible towards their own gender was projecting a
preference for dominance and control. Sherlock supposed that said more about
the vicissitudes of societal norms, even when in a minority group, than it did
about males in general.
He was in the middle of taking another sip when his gaze slid sideways toward
Moran. The rest of the man's words had finally clicked into a semblance of a
theory, but equally odd was how... friendly Moran was being. His body language
was still slightly aggressive, but not nearly to the degree it had been every
time they'd interacted before. Sherlock wondered if the man had noticed he was
leaning towards Sherlock slightly.
Moran caught Sherlock's eyes when they raised, and it was...strange. Sebastian
hated Sherlock, but he was devoted, utterly devoted, to Jim, and up until this
moment he had looked at Sherlock like that distinction was very clear in his
mind. But now, and maybe the liquor had something to do with it, he looked at
Sherlock...like he was looking for Jim, and yet wasn't entirely disappointed
that it was still Sherlock in front of him. Just a little...confused.
Moran must have caught himself, remembering to speak again. "He made it a good
time when he wanted it to be." He shrugged one shoulder.
"...he has the tendency to do that, yes," Sherlock agreed slowly. He wasn't
thinking as quickly with the alcohol in his system, but part of him was very
wary - both of Moran in general, and this new odd behavior of his. It was a
vast improvement, but Sherlock wasn't sure where to step. He was certain he was
going to put his foot into a bear trap when he wasn't paying attention.
"You don't seem naturally inclined in that direction. What have you been doing,
then? Besides watching me enough to know that I haven't moved." That wasn't as
suspicious as it might have been, given that Moran was more or less Jim's
bodyguard, but it was a little eerie for him to have blended in so thoroughly
that he could watch Sherlock while Sherlock hadn’t spotted him.
Moran was silent, relaxed but it also looked like he was having some trouble
deciding on an expression. He smiled and half laughed to himself even when a
frown threatened to pull at the corners. He licked his lips to cover for it,
but Sherlock saw. And then the man shrugged. "Looking for someone I won't find,
I suppose. Dancing's not really my thing unless I have incentive to be out
there." And now he wouldn't look at Sherlock, not even when Sherlock stared. It
was suddenly a little easier now to imagine Jim alone on the floor...and Moran
coming up behind him...because Jim wouldn't care if it was Moran.
Sherlock didn't know what to say. Even with his thoughts turning fuzzy around
the edges, he could still follow what was going on between the lines. He could
even picture what must have happened when the two men had gone out in public
before, here and in other places. Jim would try to escape himself and
everything else, burning so brightly he was burning himself out, far too
fast... and Moran hovering like a shadow in the background, every once in a
while daring to reach out to try to touch, try to catch him.
Sherlock wasn't naturally prone towards feelings of empathy, but he could
easily understand how painful that must have been.
And how painful it might be now, coming to the same place and finding Jim
conspicuously absent, in a way. Sherlock studied Moran's face for another
moment or two before he averted his gaze and took another sip of his drink.
"...do you miss it?"
"Shit," Moran laughed. "Of course I miss it." He took a long pull on his beer
after that like he wanted to be, needed to be, more intoxicated than he was for
this kind of talk. Before Sherlock could comment, Sebastian turned and asked
the bartender for another shot, this time two, and when he turned back to
Sherlock, he slid one across the counter. His smile was forced and so was the
raise of his brow, Sherlock could see that much. Sebastian, like Jim and like
Sherlock in other ways, held back quite a lot. "Drink up."
Sherlock may not have been what one could call a friend to Moran, but he was
also the only one who was there and the only one who had known Jim. And
understood Jim just barely well enough for that to matter.
Sherlock's surprise evened out into an intent expression. He didn't know what
one called this sort of social interaction, but he'd witnessed it many times
before both when he was putting on an act for a case or simply watching people
from a distance. They weren't friends, but they were two people trying to cope
with the same situation, and there was no one else who understood the
situation.
Sherlock took the glass and raised it in acknowledgement, waiting until Moran
took his. They tossed the shots back together, and Sherlock noted vaguely that
he was intoxicated enough that it hardly burned going down. The thought didn't
seem important. Words started pouring out of Sherlock's mouth before he was
aware of his intent to speak. "...it's strange to miss some things when he's
not really gone. Cases giftwrapped like presents. I keep expecting to see him
right behind me just because I can hear him and feel he's there."
"I don't know if that much would help or just drive me madder," Moran admitted.
From what Sherlock could tell from the time Jim had inhabited his body, touch
was a thing Moran desired quite a lot from Jim. Although that may not translate
solely to erotic purposes. It was a desire very similar to Sherlock's
expectation of seeing Jim when he heard Jim's voice, a desire for solidity.
Moran seemed determined not to let melancholy get the best of him, even in
their fast deteriorating line of conversation. "I always told Jim he was
unstable at the best of times. Now he had to go and make himself intangible,
too." Another pull of beer. Another stilted laugh. "I shouldn't believe all
this....but when he writes to me, I can tell it's him. And when he talked
through you, I could tell it was him. And I know he's probably listening to
every fucking word of this and tomorrow he'll have a field day tearing me apart
for getting this drunk, but...shit, yeah. I miss it."
"Don't feel too badly about that." Sherlock actually laughed quietly, staring
down at the remaining scotch in his glass. "I had a hard time believing it, and
that was with him jerking me around like a puppet, freezing me half to death
and shattering light bulbs and trying to stop my heart. It was easier to think
I was sick and losing my mind to hallucinations." There were still moments of
unreality, even though Sherlock knew better now. It was difficult to reconsider
previously solid beliefs about how the world worked, even in the face of the
evidence.
Alcohol was making everything and everyone else melt into the background.
Sherlock could still hear the music playing, could still see and feel the crowd
around them at the bar, but none of it seemed to matter. Everything was too
colorful, like a dream. Even time seemed to slow down.
Moran was laughing now, too. At something Sherlock said. Or did. It was hard to
tell because Sebastian was just sort of looking at him like he hadn't really
looked at Sherlock before. "Y'know for a guy who spends his time trying to be
the next greatest detective, investigator, or whatever it is, you're not so bad
when you relax a little. I mean, I've seen what you can do, and don't get me
wrong, it's impressive, but I never understood his fascination with you."
Piercing blue eyes, intoxicated as Moran was, never let up their scrutiny. Just
like Moran had studied him before. And that was it. Moran was trying to see
Sherlock the way Jim saw Sherlock. But Sebastian wasn't Jim, and he possibly,
probably, hadn't known the gravity of Jim's encounter with Sherlock so long
ago. All he saw was Jim's growing obsession with the reclusive detective over
the past couple years of Jim's life coinciding with some happenstance in their
childhoods, and apart from Sherlock's substantial intellect and adversarial
role to Moriarty, Moran would have had no idea why.
Sherlock frowned and bristled a little. "I don't try," he muttered, his words
starting to get just slightly slurred around the edges. "I am the greatest
detective in Great Britain, if not the world. I don't do what I do because I
want to be the best. I don't really care what people think of me."
Well, the last wasn't entirely true, but it was true enough. Sherlock wanted
recognition and praise, but he didn't care what the average person thought
about him. He hadn't even cared when his name had been dragged through the mud
in the media after his fake suicide.
Sherlock tipped back the last of his scotch and set the empty tumbler onto the
bar a little more forcefully than he intended. "I do it because the Game is the
only thing that's tolerable. The only thing that isn't boring. I can't do a
normal life, what everyone else has. I've tried it and it doesn't work."
Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and vaguely gestured. "All of this. Stupid,
banal pointlessness. And they don't even realize it. Small distractions and
pleasures work on them so they can't see it. I never stop seeing it. I can
never stop seeing too much, so I find a game where I need to see everything to
win, and it all goes away for a little while."
Moran's eyes followed. "You sound like him," he said, barely loud enough to be
heard over the thrum of music, even as close as they needed to be to hear one
another. "He'd say shit like that. And then he'd laugh and go out right in the
middle of all of them," he gestured with his drink to the moving bodies, "like
he was just another one of them. Almost like he was mocking them, just by
pretending. And only I knew." Moran took another drink, emptying the bottle.
Sherlock could see the liquor in his movements now, just a little too languid,
but Moran was practiced at keeping himself in control. Even when he wasn't. "We
could do whatever we wanted. Didn't matter."
"I don't want to pretend to be them." Sherlock was starting to feel sullen,
just looking at all of them. Laughing, dancing, completely oblivious. They
couldn't understand him, they didn't want him, and so he didn't want them in
turn. They only wanted him when they needed something, and so Sherlock would
make them come to them and blind them when they looked at him, like a vengeful
Apollo. "I'm not one of them and I can't stand most of them. I tried, with the
few I could stand. Making friends. Interacting. I don't think it worked, or
else I wouldn't be alone again but for the dead." Sherlock laughed quietly, and
it came out bitter and unsettling.
Sherlock felt Jim's warmth again. How different it was from when they had first
met like this, the polar opposite in fact. Soothing, caressing pressure stemmed
up his chest and rested at his collar. It glided against his cheek and ruffled
the strands of his hair.
Jim hadn't left them. He'd been listening. Even as Moran turned to look at
Sherlock, studious gaze trying to determine just who and what Sherlock was
through his own inebriation, Jim was watching it all.
"Sebastian has never done well with the common people either," Jim whispered.
"You may hate them, but you'd still like to dance, wouldn't you?" The warmth
slithered down Sherlock's waist, drawing his thoughts away from their sombre
path.
Sherlock's gaze sharpened and turned analytical, and when his eyes slid back
towards Moran, his head tilted quizzically. Considering. It wasn't quite the
same as the snakelike motions Jim used to make, but the parallel was enough to
be eerie.
Moran was tolerating him, and as far as Sherlock was concerned, he was a cut
above the rest of the bodies filling this place. The gunman wasn't a genius,
but he wasn't stupid, either. Jim had tolerated him well enough. Sherlock felt
the prickle of Jim's fingers sliding over his skin and his breathing caught for
a moment. "...how much do you miss it? Dancing here."
Although Sherlock's tone itself was casual, the question was unavoidably
leading. Moran's gaze, though somewhat relaxed due to intoxication, fixed on
Sherlock. It might have been enough to unsettle Sherlock's nerves, the way
Moran was looking him up and down, but Jim's touches had gotten more
distracting.
"A fair bit," Moran finally conceded, "But I don't see anybody out there who
could hold my attention." Sherlock wasn't imagining the spark of interest in
his eye. Moran knew Sherlock wasn't Jim and wasn't about to let Jim take over.
He couldn't be hoping for that. But that didn't diminish the curiosity in his
stare. He had to be second guessing himself and their mutual inebriation.
"But one option remains to be taken." Even drunk, Sherlock was beginning to
feel pings of nervousness jolt through his spine, and his tongue felt too
thick. Moran wasn't safe, but that was part of the appeal, and Sherlock was
feeling bored... and dejected, watching the masses flow around him in
untouchable Dionysian ecstasy while leaving him to the shadows. He wanted to
feel something, for once, instead of numbing everything away because he
couldn't find a suitable distraction. "Not an exact match, for either of us,
but a better alternative than watching this lot and drinking until blackout."
Nothing seemed to change in Moran as he continued to stare, until Sherlock
realized he was getting closer. It wasn't his depth perception playing tricks
on him, Moran was definitely leaning in until, quite suddenly, he was in
Sherlock’s space. Pale eyes caught on the way Sherlock's breathing
instinctively hitched and he could see how that drew the man’s interest.
Sebastian’s body turned away from the counter, one step closer brought him mere
centimeters apart. Sherlock had made an offer, and now Moran was testing its
sincerity with all of his focus. When Sherlock didn't immediately back away,
the man smiled.
Through it all, the gentle pressure of Jim's caresses never ceased.
A mixture of cold and heat washed through Sherlock and his eyes visibly
dilated. Instinct was telling him to run, and it was an impulse he'd always
ignored, because running brought him right back to safety and boredom. Moran
didn't intend anything yet, but they'd begun another game. Sherlock had risked
putting out just the smallest hint, a little tempting offer, and he now had
Moran's full attention. He licked his lips and stared back, but didn't back
down. "...you didn't give a reply."
Now Moran was really grinning. It reached his eyes. In spite of the scars and
the perpetual dourness Sherlock had seen thus far, the man had a very warm face
when he had that look about him. And yet somehow it didn't lessen the predatory
air. He simply enjoyed being that predator. Moran moved closer still, tilting
his head to get to Sherlock's ear. "Come dance with me."
Sherlock had to concede that Sebastian knew Jim rested inside Sherlock often,
that when he spoke into Sherlock's ear with that tone of voice, Jim would hear
it too. That might have been incentive for him to take an interest in Sherlock,
however, Sebastian also had to be very aware that he was definitely interacting
with Sherlock and not Jim. But before Sherlock could consider it longer, he
felt a strong grip around his wrist, and he was being pulled away from the bar.
Sherlock's gaze flicked behind him for a second and he watched it move out of
reach like he was observing a life preserver drifting away on the tide. This
was sink or swim, now. He'd made his choice and was about to see if the animal
in the cage would let himself be touched or would shred Sherlock’s hand as he
dared reach between the bars.
Moran was leading him back through the crowds, away from the packed floor of
the front rooms to the one in the back. Sherlock was panicking a bit, running
through situations in his head. He hadn't, in fact, danced with another man
before, and had only ever taken the lead. He couldn't see Moran letting the
latter happen.
In stark contrast to the front, the room Sebastian led him to was pitch black.
Only strobe lights illuminated the space and Moran had to wind between people
they encountered suddenly just to get them out onto the floor. It was a small
relief that there would be more privacy here, but no relief at all when that
meant sharing privacy with Moran, of all people. They entered the floor and
Sebastian took Sherlock as far away from the other swaying bodies as they could
get, which, both fortunately and unfortunately for Sherlock, wasn't all that
far.
Sherlock stood awkwardly at first, and would have remained so if Moran hadn't
still had hold of his arm. He was pulled up close as soon as they stopped.
Sebastian stepped forward, well into Sherlock's space, but not quite touching,
brushing, perhaps, chest to chest, but there was just the smallest sense of
distance between them still. Sherlock could feel Jim encouraging him forward
with leading brushes of warmth. It was in the very air, like a breeze, and
apparently Moran felt it too, because he laughed and his words were as slurred
as Sherlock's when he spoke. "I see someone doesn't mind."
Sherlock had never felt this level of anxiety with other partners. Mostly
because he'd never really cared who they were, and they've never really had any
power to do anything to him; they'd simply been convenient, somewhat pleasant
bodies to share space with in time with the rhythm, people that he hadn't
minded touching. "I'm not sure why."
And why didn't Jim mind? It could have been simply because he was finally
getting what he wanted - someone Sherlock was willing to dance with so he could
get his show. There was more to it, though, with the small teases he'd gotten
from Jim ever since they'd brought Moran back to the flat. Perhaps Jim viewed
Moran as an extension of himself.
Moran was still doing his best to intimidate Sherlock. Sherlock wasn't
unaffected, but he wasn't going to let Moran win the game so easily.
Determination hardened Sherlock's features and he started to move, but was
taking the lead - pushing back on Moran and using leverage to try to make him
turn.
Moran's laugh of surprise told Sherlock exactly what he thought of that, but he
went with it, turning in Sherlock's arms before they caught again. The beat of
the music wasn't right for a tango, it was the usual droning thump of the club
scene, but Moran seemed to be able to work with it as he stepped forward into
Sherlock's space, forcing Sherlock either back or into him just as Sherlock had
done to him. His arms, however, didn't push Sherlock away. He didn't say it,
but the look on his face told Sherlock he knew Sherlock hadn't done this
before, especially when Moran's strong arms wrapped around him, guiding him to
turn like Sherlock had attempted with him, only slowly this time, catching
Sherlock so they were back to front. The alcohol made their movements more
fluid, somewhat slower, perhaps, but it loosened the rhythm. "So what do you
think?" Moran pressed the words into Sherlock's ear.
A flush had crept up into Sherlock's face, not entirely from the alcohol. Moran
at his back was making him think about Jim, and everything they'd done
together... and not quite done. The bass from the speakers was creeping up to
hum in his bones. Sherlock turned his head just enough to be able to catch
sight of Moran and reply. "...about dancing, or about you?"
Sherlock wasn't sure about the latter, but he wasn't going to make this that
easy. His judo training meant he barely had to think about how to step out of
the way they were locked together - he slid and ducked, turned, restraining the
last part of the move that would have twisted Moran's arm or landed him on the
floor. Their positions changed and now he was whispering in the blond's ear.
"What do you think?"
Moran's head tilted back and he laughed, really laughed, not just for show. "I
think I like it." They swayed that way until Moran leaned his weight back into
Sherlock, taking hold of his wrists and holding out by sheer force until he
turned and once again they were face to face. He stopped there, however, and
lowered Sherlock's hands to his own waist before he let go. "You could spar
with me properly someday," Moran said as he wrapped his arms loosely around
Sherlock's waist in return. They swayed to the beat of the music, not in
perfect rhythm due to the closeness of their position and their intoxication,
but it kept their blood pumping. Sherlock's other dances had not usually been
this close, formal as they were. Moran was certainly more used to improvising
like this.
Sherlock wasn't used to dancing like this at all, or with a partner that could
have easily been someone he'd have faced off in the dojo or on the street.
Moran's hands around his waist felt heavier than the female partners he'd had
before, and more threatening despite the fact that he wasn't intending anything
at the moment. "...I haven't sparred in a while." The thought made Sherlock's
blood race, trying to imagine it. Facing down a real threat again, a real
challenge, but without the danger of actually dying should he fail. Moran
wouldn't kill him now that he knew Jim was tied to him, and Jim wouldn't let
Moran go too far.
"That doesn't sound like a 'no'," Moran leaned in. Part of him was still
testing Sherlock, and that part of Moran, just like Sherlock, hadn't let his
guard down. The interesting thing about the man was that he could be this
intimate without letting that particular guard down, and it was eerily similar
to Jim. Although Jim's demeanour was far more sweetly cunning than Sebastian’s.
Sebastian instead had an intense confidence about him. And right now it was
being directed at Sherlock. There was no doubt Moran remembered Sherlock's
adamant refusal of more intimate acts between them, or between Jim using his
body, but even with that option off the table, it wasn't dampening the man’s
curiosity.
"It isn't a no. Not unless I'm given a reason to change my mind." Sherlock
responded with the same stubbornness he always had when he felt challenged.
Moran might have been heavier, and stronger in terms of pure force, but that
didn't mean that Sherlock was a pushover. He didn't lean away when Sebastian
got closer, didn't respond other than a slight narrowing of his eyes and a
tension around his mouth. Sherlock tried to press forward, but Moran didn't
move back, which meant that Sherlock ended up sliding against him.
Sherlock saw the way the breath left the other man. Sebastian remained still
for only a second and then he was pushing back against Sherlock as well. His
hands trapped Sherlock there, preventing him from stepping away. "I'm surprised
at you. Living the way we have for the last few days. And yet here you are."
Moran was far too close again, and he had that particularly curious glint in
his eye when he looked at Sherlock. It was hard not to wonder whether Sebastian
was imagining Moriarty somewhere behind the eyes he was looking into when he
spoke like that, because his voice had dropped low and his hands were sliding
along the dip in Sherlock's lower back.
Sherlock wasn't able to stop the way his breath hitched, or the glint of fear
that crept into his eyes. He knew that Moran wanted to do things to him - or
more, that he wanted to do things to Jim, and going through Sherlock was the
only way to reach him. The way Sebastian’s interest increased every time he
showed a hint of uneasiness didn't make things any easier. "...I don't always
do things that make sense." Sherlock felt another streak of warmth travel up
his back and into his shoulders, and he laughed. "I think Jim wants us to be
friends. I'm not sure about that yet."
"Hm, and why not?" Moran laughed, a little breathlessly. "I know you and Jim
haven't exactly been platonic, at least in that mindscape of yours or whatever
it is." Moran's arms locked behind his back. One of the man's legs slipped
between his own. "Don't tell me you're afraid of me." Moran said with a little
grin. It was exactly the type of grin that told Sherlock Moran wouldn't mind if
he was. And Jim's little caresses were doing their best to offset Sherlock's
fear, while still being as unobtrusive as possible.
The way Sherlock's body stiffened and tensed told Moran he'd hit a mark. Jim's
touches told him he was safe, but Sherlock didn't feel very comforted. More
embarrassing still, his body was responding, and Sherlock could tell from the
glint in Sebastian’s eye that he'd felt it. "I'd have to be an idiot to not be
concerned about a man who's tried to kill me several times over," Sherlock
grated. He could have been describing Jim or Sebastian with that remark,
really. "I've only just gotten used to 'not platonic'. It's a bit much to...
also deal with someone who resents you getting in the way of who they really
want."
"Getting in the way?" Moran didn't bristle at that. "You were getting in the
way when he was alive. And I was bitter when he was dead. But now...now, you're
practically on my side. Even if you'd rather not be," Moran admitted. He wasn't
oblivious to Sherlock's reluctance. He cocked his head and shrugged one
shoulder in that nonchalant way of his. "I don't typically forgive people for
getting in my way...but it doesn't exactly matter anymore, does it?"
Sherlock felt some measure of relief that, at least to some degree, Moran had
admitted that he'd let go of his resentment. Sherlock had been walking around
on eggshells in the flat, trying to avoid interaction as much as he possibly
could. The laptop had helped the situation a bit, but he'd not forgotten the
way Moran had looked at him when they'd gone to get him and the gunman had
realized that Jim was riding around in Sherlock's body.
"So I'm forgiven, then?" The music changed to a new song, but neither of them
were paying much attention to the dancers around them. Moran had leaned closer
again and all Sherlock's mind could process were piercing blue eyes and sharp,
white teeth set in a predatory smile. Between that and his intoxication, he was
having trouble thinking.
"Yeah, I think you could say that." Given that Sherlock's only fault was being
too interesting for Jim to let go, this was fortunate. Jim would have probably
held a grudge were he in Moran's position, but Sebastian was proving to be a
little more flexible. Sebastian shifted as they swayed to the beat of the
music, his leg still firmly wedged in between Sherlock's own, but his hands
drew up Sherlock's back as he leaned in close. He stopped before they met, head
tilting to hover at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "And what do you say, do
you think you can tolerate having me around?"
Sherlock's thought processes were muddled, but even so, he could tell that
Moran wasn't doing this with a focus on someone else. He wasn't feigning
interest in order to get access to Jim, although the thought had most certainly
crossed the blond's mind. Sherlock couldn't keep his own thoughts from drifting
to other parallels - another scarred blond who used to be in the military, with
an affinity for guns and broad hands. It didn't help his composure. "I don't
think I have much of a choice in the matter," Sherlock replied. "But you're
getting more tolerable."
The corner of Moran's mouth pulled up. "Think you could tolerate more than just
having me around?" Moran pressed his weight into Sherlock. The friction it
created was no less intense when accompanied with the insinuation, and it
nearly made them sway on their feet. Moran caught his arms around Sherlock's
back, making sure he didn't tip back too far and overbalance as they rocked.
Surprisingly, light lashes lowered over Sebastian’s gaze as he drew his nose
closer to Sherlock's neck. "It's a little...unexpected, I'll admit. But I'm
sure you're aware I've thought about it."
Sherlock starting feeling the first vague waves of panic, sluggish as he
finally matched Moran's words with his body language. His voice caught in his
throat. Jim was still present, a warm touch at Sherlock's back, but Sherlock
didn't know whether that meant he was safe or not.
He certainly didn't feel safe. Sebastian had Sherlock caught tight against him,
and pressed together as they were, it was readily apparent just how much more
physically powerful the man was, even if they were of equal height. Sherlock
watched the blond's mouth get closer to his neck and all he could think of was
Moran's too-wide, sharklike smile and how much damage it could do. "...I'm not
certain. This is... very new, to me." The rest of Moran's words sunk in, and
Sherlock blinked. "I was aware you were thinking about Jim, not me."
Sherlock felt more than saw that increasingly familiar shrug of one shoulder.
"I was," Moran admitted. "But I'm not now." Sherlock felt teeth graze along the
curve of his neck even before Moran's mouth followed. The kiss was
comparatively chaste to many of Jim's, but those teeth dragged across his skin.
"I know you're not Jim," Moran clarified, just to be sure Sherlock was
listening as much as he was feeling, "but you're also a little more interesting
than I thought you were." He put pressure in the nip that time. Not much. Just
enough to feel Sherlock react.
"Oh god, Jim, what do I do?" Sherlock couldn't suppress the shiver that ran
through him, and Moran was too close for him to be able to hide the other
reactions - his racing pulse, or the way he got even harder where he was
pressed against the man's hip. Having Jim interested in him was challenging
enough for Sherlock, who was slowly reassembling pieces of his identity now
that he'd begun to accept his attraction and his interest in sex. Sherlock
didn't know what to do with another man, one who had also wanted to murder him,
suddenly deciding he'd rather bed him instead.
"Go with it, Sherlock. He won't actually hurt you," Jim whispered into his mind
as though he were whispering into Sherlock's ear, directly opposite where Moran
was leading up Sherlock's neck. "If you were anyone else, he might, but
you...you aren't exactly on the hit list anymore, and not only insofar as I
need your body." Jim's warmth wasn't so much soothing any longer as it was
tantalizing. It drew down Sherlock's back and over his hips, dipping between
them where he was pressed against Moran and between his thighs.
Sherlock felt Moran gasp. His head looked up to catch Sherlock's attention.
He'd felt it, too.
Sherlock was realizing a little belatedly that Moran must have fit into
'preference types' he hadn't even been aware he'd possessed. He certainly
hadn't ever considered his thrillseeking in sexual terms, because Sherlock
hadn't thought of himself as sexual. He couldn't deny, however, that knowing
how dangerous Moran was... was part of the draw.
The music shifted around them, and people moved on and off of the dance floor.
Sherlock and Sebastian ignored all of it, too busy trying to gauge one another.
Sherlock licked his lips and tried not to betray how nervous he actually was.
Jim's heat returned, smoldering under Sherlock's skin like he was combusting
from the inside out. It could have been painful if Jim wanted it to be, but
right now it definitely, definitely wasn't, and the more Sebastian pressed
against Sherlock, the more he felt it, too.
"That's him, isn't it?" Moran gasped. His voice was rougher than it was before
and Sherlock could feel him shiver. "Is he always under your skin like that?"
Sherlock could barely hear Moran his voice was so low and the music was so
loud, but he caught the faint strain of incredulity in his tone. Even while
Sherlock could feel just how much the heat and the press of his own body was
affecting Moran.
"Not always, but enough," Sherlock murmured. He was surprised at how rough his
own voice sounded. Sound and lights and heat and touch were starting to make
him dizzy, and he shut his eyes. That almost made it worse, because then he had
to concentration on sensation, the hard body wrapped around him and the music
thrumming in his bones until he felt slightly numb. Sherlock was only vaguely
aware of how they must have looked out on the dance floor, two men caught up in
each other.
Sebastian didn't seem to care at all, especially when he moved a hand between
them. He could have been seeking out Jim's heat, it was possible Jim had
distracted him enough with his presence, until Sherlock very keenly felt the
fingers of that hand splay out over him, adding very real and very direct
pressure to the myriad of sensations their bodies and Jim were creating.
Moran's hand slid up as the other behind Sherlock slid down, resting at the
small of his back to keep him in place while the one at his front curled around
the outline of his erection.
"I really think we should take this somewhere more private," Moran's rumbling
voice sounded in his ear.
Sherlock had nearly stumbled and fallen, but for the fact that he couldn't.
Moran had caught him as soon as he wavered. The man's breath in his ear wasn't
helping Sherlock think; it took another moment before he finally nodded. He'd
meant what he'd told Jim before - he wasn't interested in exhibitionism or
public sex, and what they'd been doing on the dance floor had been starting to
skirt dangerously close to the line.
Moran finally backed off slightly, and Sherlock glanced over... and immediately
felt another wave of panic. It shouldn't have made much of a difference, but
Sherlock couldn't help but consider the fact that he'd never done anything
outside of the dream reality he shared with Jim. He had no idea what
Sebastian’s expectations might be, or if any of the experiences would be
remotely the same.
With Sebastian help, he staggered off the floor. "Upstairs," Sebastian grunted
in his ear as they passed another couple and held onto the railing of the
walkway. As well as Sherlock could tell, which was probably not very well at
the moment, the other patrons weren't paying them much attention. Moran had his
arm around Sherlock, Sherlock had both arms around Moran, but they were
generally making progress in a meandering line. They took the stairs slowly and
then across another walkway overlooking the floor in the black room. The lights
illuminated everything below in staccato flashes, but up where they were it was
harder to reach. So instead, miniature fixtures set on the tops of tables
illuminated their way. Moran could have pulled Sherlock anywhere if he'd wanted
to. It would have been just dark enough, and with few enough people up there,
but instead, down another hall, he found an exit.
Sherlock was conscious enough that he had realized either he was more
intoxicated than Moran, or the blond had much better control. It could have
been either; Sherlock used to be able to function even while strung out on
illicit substances, but he hadn't indulged for quite some time and wasn't in
the habit of drinking regularly. It was a blessing that they were away from the
disorienting strobes, but he couldn't help but wonder where they were going. He
was going to trust that Sebastian knew the layout of the building, given how
many times he and Jim must have come here and how concerned Sebastian would
have been over Jim's security. He just hoped they were heading for an exit,
rather than a corner where someone might still find them.
Sebastian took him around another corner, through a door into a service
hallway, and through another door out into the cold air of the night. It hit
Sherlock like a shock compared to the stuffy inside, but Moran turned and
blocked the cold with his body. He backed Sherlock up against the door they'd
just opened, a roof access point, one that Sebastian had discovered before very
likely with Jim. Sherlock's back hit the chilled steel, but that part wasn't as
uncomfortable as the bar of the door handle. Moran didn't care, or more likely
didn't notice, as he pressed the length of himself up to Sherlock with a smile
on his lips. "Bit chilly, but it'll have to do," he said in a quiet, gravely
tone. To hear it was to understand where that metaphor began. The man’s voice
was as rough as tires crunching into freshly laid dirt.
The cold had startled Sherlock into a slightly more lucid state, but not
anywhere near what could have been described as sober. Even the bar digging
into his spine didn't seem quite real, though it certainly would later when
he'd feel the bruise. He didn't have much room to move; Moran was pressed as
close as he could manage with clothing in the way, pinning Sherlock against the
door with his weight.
Pinned with more than his weight, even. Sherlock found himself staring at
Moran's mouth, wondering how many people had seen that exact smile before and
hadn't lived to tell about it. "...do for what, exactly?"
It only spread wider. "No ideas? Not one?" Moran enjoyed the tease, letting his
mouth draw closer to Sherlock's neck as he leaned in just that much farther.
Along with it came a roll of his hips against Sherlock's, creating all the more
friction with Sherlock's rear trapped against the steel. And Sherlock could
feel something else, too, something that wasn't Moran because he could see
where Moran's hands were slipping down his front on a direct path to regions
lower. He could feel a warmth against the other side of his collar and a
similar, familiar sensation running down his thighs. Jim. "I could make it a
surprise," Moran offered with no less of that shark's grin, drawing Sherlock's
attention.
Sherlock swallowed hard. He'd known his interest in particular sorts of crime
and criminals went further than what was considered the norm, but he was
rapidly getting confirmation that he was more reactive than even he had
suspected. Being trapped, if still within reasonably safe boundaries, was
giving him all sorts of ideas, and Jim's touches were only making the fantasies
even more deranged. Moran's hand hit its mark at the same time Jim's tingling
heat drifted just a bit higher up the back of Sherlock's thighs, and the
detective shuddered.
"Everything is a surprise, at this point," Sherlock rasped.
Moran gave a deep laugh. Sherlock felt it reverberate through his chest just as
surely as he felt it in his ear. And in his mind. Where Moran's came from deep
within the man’s chest, Jim's laugh was more like the slick of oil sliding
between Sherlock’s ears and together the two sounds made for a disorienting
echo.
"Sounds good to me." Moran's mouth opened over Sherlock's neck, hot and smooth
and wet and very unlike the short stubble of Sebastian’s jaw that scratched as
it slid against Sherlock’s skin. He heard the clack of his belt before he felt
Sebastian’s hands undoing it. His trousers were undone just as quickly, and
then Sebastian’s very warm and very firm hands were on him again, just like
inside, only this time through the single, insubstantial layer of his shorts.
Sherlock felt like he'd been thrown back into the first few days of his
relationship with Jim, trapped in his body and mind. The difference was that,
then, the situation had evoked horror, terror, and despair; Sherlock hadn't
wanted Jim to touch him, hadn't wanted anything to do with him. Although
Sherlock was still afraid in the current situation, and still firmly trapped,
he didn't truly want to escape. He hadn't had to follow Moran up here. He
didn't want the man to stop, at least not yet.
Sherlock's breathing grew shallow and quick. His body was used to stimulation
enough now that he tried to thrust against Moran's palm without really thinking
about it, but all Sherlock managed to do was squirm.
"Perhaps not a wholly unanticipated surprise...?" Moran remarked at Sherlock's
arousal. Sherlock felt the edges of the man’s teeth as he smiled. He'd often
compared it to that of a shark, not that Moran's teeth were especially small or
sharp. They were actually quite blunt. It was more in the way it lifted at the
corners, spread a little too wide and showed a few too many of those teeth to
not seem just a little frightening. Sherlock could feel that smile pressed
against the thin flesh of his neck as Moran's hand slid beneath the last
barrier, lifting the elastic with practised ease. His fingers were a shock when
they wrapped around Sherlock's heated erection, but Sebastian’s hand rapidly
warmed between the heat of their bodies.
Sherlock jerked at the touch; the back of his head hit the door with a dull
thump, and he could feel Moran laugh against his neck. A laugh that was echoed
inside his head. "Difficult not to anticipate... some of your intentions,
given... the dance floor." Words were coming slowly. Between the alcohol and
what Moran was doing, Sherlock couldn't think. Everything was slipping through
his fingers into pure sensation and visuals. "But not expected. Or...
experienced."
Moran's hand twisted slightly and Sherlock bit back a whimper.
"Does that mean I'm technically your first?" Moran asked with a little too much
satisfaction to be called a proper tease.
"I am." Jim's voice followed fast on the heels of Moran's, but his petulant
snarl was only heard in Sherlock's head, and so it didn't hinder Sebastian’s
touches.
Until the man pulled his hand free to spit in it while the other worked at his
own belt. When Sherlock’s attention caught on him, a hint of that grin
returned, reading the startled expression that must have been on Sherlock's
face, but Sebastian didn't turn him around, he didn't wrench Sherlock's
trousers down his knees and kick his legs apart. Instead, he took himself out
and, with his own cock aligned with Sherlock's, wrapped his hand around both.
Sherlock froze. Even his breathing stopped for a moment. The only movement was
a shiver that spread through him at the touch, heat aligned with heat and
stroked together. At least one question was answered; this felt like it had
when Jim had slid against him. The difference was that he knew Jim, in a way,
because they were so alike, because they had a history. Moran's history with
him was attempted assassination, and resentment, and intimidation.
And yet now the man was fixated on Sherlock, not entirely due to who resided
within him, but for himself. Sherlock's breath finally left him in a slow hiss.
"Not quite, unless you don't count ghosts."
That made Moran's breath hitch, and Sherlock could guess what he was imagining.
"And what hasn't Jim done to you yet?" Moran pressed close and whispered, hips
rocking into Sherlock along with the rhythm of his hand. The other he let rest
against the steel of the door behind Sherlock's head. He did it for balance, so
his legs could spread wider and he could get up that much closer, but it didn't
lessen the way Sebastian could make himself appear bigger, stronger, even when
they were nearly eye to eye and very much up close. It wasn't a threat this
time. Not...entirely. This time, there was something deeply, profoundly sexual
about Moran's dominance.
Sherlock's hands finally came up from where they'd been bracing against the
door, settling against Moran's chest... but not pushing him away. Sherlock's
fingers curled into the fabric instead. He felt like he'd lost all control,
like Moran was holding him under water to drown rather than pinning him against
a door to rut against. Part of his mind flailed backwards, trying to find
something more solid to hold onto than what his body had found. "I don't...
think I should answer that. He'll stop you just to make certain he gets there
first."
Moran laughed with a genuine snort of surprise, the kind that told Sherlock he
hadn't expected such an accurate assessment of Jim. From somewhere in the back
of Sherlock's mind, Jim's presence dragged itself across his senses like a bead
of electricity, just enough to make himself noticed.
"Good call," Jim whispered, just as Sebastian began to speed up the pace.
"We'll just have to make do, then," Sebastian whispered against Sherlock's ear
before he took it between his teeth, oblivious to Jim worming himself through
Sherlock's mind. Moran wasn't quite so oblivious the moment Jim brought the
heat back, running down Sherlock's chest where they were pressed together and
ending at his groin, setting all the nerve endings there alight. The few that
weren't already. Sherlock felt it when Moran's mouth dropped open, releasing
his ear, and heard it when Moran groaned.
Sherlock wasn't certain whether this was about him, or about Jim. Jim was
certainly doing his best to draw his and Moran's attention, and he could feel
the way the blond's interest spiked... but was directed elsewhere. Anger pooled
and surfaced in Sherlock, and he finally pushed against Moran's chest while he
pushed at Jim in his mind. "...I'm not just transport," he grunted. "I'm not
here for you to use to tease each other."
An actual growl escaped Moran's throat and he pushed back. He'd dug in his
heels, helped by his already widened stance, and fought to get right back up
against Sherlock. "'S not about Jim," he grunted though Sherlock could hear the
way Moran couldn't even say Jim's name without losing his breath. But Sebastian
wasn't deterred easily. "Not like that anyway," he tried again, teeth clenched,
the both of them held tightly in one hand and the back of Sherlock's collar in
the other. "I don't mind having you both," and there was that curl of lip
again, "but that's not what this is."
Sherlock could hear Jim's whispering laugh. He'd backed off some, but not
nearly enough. "I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock. Not for your sake nor for
his."
Sherlock snarled back and bucked against the hand at his collar and the chest
pressing his against the door. His feet couldn't get purchase against the
ground and their surroundings seemed to tilt and waver in his sight. "Then what
is this?" he ground out. "How you complete the game you've been playing with me
the past few days? Or is this just desperation? We're both in love with a dead
man and I'm convenient, so I'll do?" The words fell off Sherlock's tongue, but
he didn't seem to realize what he'd actually said; he was too busy glaring at
Moran.
His first clue was the way Moran stilled, caught between expressions until he
slowly melted into one of disbelief. He must have spent long hours with Jim to
perfect a stare like that, but his brows furrowed and, cautiously, something
pulled at the corners of his mouth. A smile. And a crooked one at that. Moran's
hand adjusted its grip, increasing the pressure on both of them. There was no
way he didn't catch Sherlock's wince. "Well if you feel that way..." Moran
began in what, compared to Sherlock's tone, was a hush, "then why not? We have
something in common now," Moran laughed, "Yes, it is convenient, but so what?
That doesn't necessarily cheapen it."
Sherlock's mind finally caught up, replaying his own words for him, and the
color briefly drained from his features. He didn't stay that way for long. He
couldn't, not with the way Moran was stroking them both, or the way he was
suddenly focused on Sherlock's face.
Sherlock had traded in one impossible attachment for another, letting John go
for a voice in his head and a body in his dreams. He bit back a frustrated
sound. "I don't see how it doesn't."
Jim was eerily silent but for the hum of what felt nearly like electricity
beneath Sherlock's skin, and if he focused on it, if he ignored Moran's sure
fingers for just a second, he could feel it was spreading.
"Cause for once, you're on my side. Well, not really, but I don't mind. 'United
by Jim Moriarty', how do you like the sound of that?" Sebastian’s chuckle
vibrated into Sherlock's chest, he was that close again, picking up right where
he'd left off. "I don't find you any less interesting for your own sake. And we
are going to be spending a lot of time around each other...."
"I've not made a habit of doing this with people I spend a lot of time with."
Or at all, really. Even now, Sherlock felt slightly unreal, looking back at
Moran's predatory smile and too-pale eyes. He was the opposite of Jim in almost
every respect, from appearance to demeanor. Moran's hand twisted and Sherlock
couldn't help but writhe in response. "Although it's refreshing to hear that
I've been upgraded to interesting. Does this mean you'll stop trying to
intimidate me every half hour?"
"Not a chance," Moran replied with far too much mirth and affection to be
warranted. Sherlock could feel the curve of Moran's grin pressed into his
cheek. "It's one of my favorite things. Makes the time pass." Moran's hips
bucked and made them both gasp. "And the way you look like you're ready to bolt
when I do, every time....is just too enticing." Teeth grazed at Sherlock's jaw
and dipped down to his neck. Sebastian wasn't the least bit sorry, nor
apologetic for even Sherlock's sake. And he couldn't fool Sherlock that in the
beginning it hadn't been real intimidation, that there hadn't been actual anger
behind it, but...it was perhaps true that had changed somewhere along the line,
or was changing now.
Sherlock couldn't string together the words to reply right away. Teeth on his
neck was sending a hot, tingling rush through his whole body, and being
overpowered only made it feel more intense. Sherlock could feel Jim too, just
beneath his skin, watching. He didn't doubt Jim was making notes and
formulating ideas for what to try later. Sherlock found the thought more
thrilling than he would have even a week ago. "...you like your partners
scared? I can't imagine that worked with Jim."
"No, it didn't," Moran agreed, "but yes, I do." His hand picked up again,
causing the little puffs of air against Sherlock's cheek to quicken. Sebastian
crowded him back against the door, back to where they were before, but this
time pressed fully up against him with more...intent. Now that Sherlock had
tried to get away once, Sebastian’s entire body told him he wouldn't let it
happen again. And Sherlock could feel Jim spreading out, too. He stayed away
from their lower regions this time, but soothing heat curled up Sherlock's
neck, loosening his muscles, wound between his shoulders, fluttered through his
chest, all in a way that spoke of endearment.
Sherlock couldn't understand why Jim would want this, unless he viewed Moran
as... a pet, a tool, a lesser and impersonal extension of himself. Even drunk,
Sherlock was beginning to realize that Jim must have planned for this
possibility, perhaps even aimed for it.
Something in the detective could never leave things alone. He challenged
boundaries, he walked right up to the razor edge of a firmly drawn line, and
then over. He plunged his hands into darkness without much concern for what
might reach back. Moran was trying to project an aura of absolute control and
dominance, and Sherlock couldn't just leave it unchallenged. One foot swept out
to try to hook Sebastian off balance and he pushed again, putting up a struggle
simply because he wanted to.
Sebastian tried to catch it, and catch himself, but he couldn't. His balance
was shot with alcohol. His limbs were too slow. Their legs tangled together,
but Sebastian grabbed onto Sherlock as he went down, thankfully coordinated
just enough to release his hold on their more delicate appendages on the way,
and Sherlock was dragged with him.
Sherlock landed on top, but with the way one of Sebastian’s arms wrapped around
the back of his neck and the other braced against his front, there really
wasn't anywhere he could move. With a boot planted on the ground, Moran threw
his weight into Sherlock, intent on flipping them.
Sherlock moved on automatic, his judo training kicking in. He tried to gain
purchase against the ground and move out of Moran's grip before they turned
over, but the bodyguard's fingers tangled in his hair and the front of his
shirt. They were too close to the ground already for Sherlock to have room to
work with. Sherlock put up a fight, but Sebastian managed to flip their
positions and pin him. Sherlock grinned at the look Sebastian gave him. Already
he was considering whether to try a striking technique or whether that might
land him in real danger. "Not used to anyone fighting back?"
"Not used to being this drunk," Moran huffed a breath of air, but his surprise
melted back into a smirk. "I like it when they fight." With that, he shimmied
his hips between Sherlock's, nudging his knees apart, and rocked into him. "And
I haven't seen anyone fight as well as you in a long time," The smirk turned
into a grin as he did it again. The muscles in his shoulders rolled. He lifted
himself to hover over Sherlock, using the weight of his lower half to keep
Sherlock down. One of Moran's eyebrows quirked. "You sure you don't like it?"
"If I truly objected, I'd have said so, and you'd be hurting." Moran had left a
few vulnerable spots open for a blow before he'd settled into his final
position. Even now, Sherlock thought he'd be able to find something unless
Sebastian pinned his hands, but he didn't know when Sebastian would consider
the boundaries of play to be crossed. "I didn't do it to make you stop. I just
didn't want it to be too easy."
A burst of laughter erupted from Moran, but he didn't stop. "I don't think
anyone would consider you easy," Sebastian said as he spit into his hand and
let it wander low again to wrap around them. His face slackened before he
caught his breath, and when the rhythm was steady, he leaned in close, the
light in his eyes dancing with excitement. Sebastian hadn't known Sherlock
personally for very long, but he'd known of Sherlock for far longer. He'd
researched Sherlock. He'd listened to Jim lecture about Sherlock. He'd studied
Sherlock, as much as Sherlock could be studied. He would have known about
Sherlock's lack of lovers, and his general distaste for romantic nonsense, even
though he obviously hadn't realized just how little experience Sherlock
actually had. His mouth caught Sherlock's lip, teeth first.
Drunken pleasure still didn't completely counteract the ripple of fear that ran
through Sherlock when Sebastian bit at his mouth. He wasn't used to thinking of
the blond as anything but a deadly threat. Sebastian hadn't hurt him, not yet,
but the potential for violence clung to him like miasma and rippled under his
skin. Jim's malevolence was subtle, the hypnotic sway of a viper or a spider
deftly gliding across a perfect web. Moran couldn't be mistaken for anything
but predatory; it was built into his frame and written in tracery across his
skin.
Sebastian’s teeth were sharp, but didn't press hard enough to break the skin.
Only when he deepened the kiss did Sherlock make a sound low in his throat.
He heard one in return. Sebastian’s movements were getting more hurried, and he
was getting more frustrated with their clothing. With his free hand, he jerked
at the hem of Sherlock's trousers, yanking them over his hips and down just far
enough so Moran could...could grab him from behind. Sherlock felt Moran's chest
heave as he gasped, kneading Sherlock's flesh in his hands from both sides. It
lifted Sherlock's hips just enough to make the angle of their strokes change,
unexpectedly enhancing the friction. Moran's kiss grew more fervent. The grind
of his hips became sharper.
Sherlock gasped, both from the assault and the cold air hitting his skin. This
wasn't comfortable at all, and he knew he never would have considered this if
he'd been sober. One of Sherlock's hands clutched at Moran's shirt... and the
other grabbed a handful of short, blond hair.
Sherlock had been considering his relationship with Jim to be, in essence, an
anomaly. Sebastian seemed to be proving him wrong, at least in terms of
enjoying sex with anyone else. One of Moran's fingers slid lower and Sherlock's
eyes widened while his hips jerked in surprise. Kissing and handjobs seemed
relatively safe, but Sherlock was no longer certain he knew what Moran
intended.
Ice blue eyes raised to meet him under drawn brows, and Sherlock could see just
how much Moran reveled at having him on edge. With a flash of white teeth Moran
raised the hand and spit, and then it was right back where it was before. When
Sherlock's chest rose with accelerated breath, Sebastian pressed his own down,
squeezing him into the ground. Sherlock felt a finger slip down his tailbone,
and farther. And then pressure. Moran smiled, his finger circling there while
he slowed the rhythm of his other hand to a steady, torturous pace. He wanted
to see that very look on Sherlock's face, Sherlock realized, and he was getting
it.
Anger started bleeding into Sherlock's startled expression. The hand in
Sebastian’s hair tugged, as if he could pull the man off that easily, and he
squirmed to try to get out of reach. "Stop. Off. Not this." Sherlock couldn't
think, couldn't express anything more than those short words. His instincts
were screaming at him and he was just barely restraining the hand at Moran's
side from moving to strike at the nearest pressure point, just to try to force
him away.
Sebastian’s hand paused, and Sherlock felt his head turn. "Really?" There was
an actual note of surprise in his voice, and when he lifted his head to look at
Sherlock, he had the gall to appear perplexed. "You and Jim haven't....?"
Finishing that question would be even more awkward, and Sherlock's grip didn't
show any signs of loosening, so Sebastian, with a reluctant lift of his brows,
drew his hand up to rest at Sherlock's lower back.
Sebastian’s expression only seemed to make Sherlock angrier. Sharp grey eyes
flashed and the corner of his mouth turned up in a snarl. Sherlock still didn't
have the leverage to flip them over, given Sebastian’s extra bulk, so he
contented himself with pulling on the man's hair until his head tilted back.
"What we've done isn't any of your business. It's about what I'm willing to let
you do, and I'm not willing for that."
One corner of Moran's mouth quirked. "Your loss." He bent down to press his
lips to Sherlock's ear, having to push against Sherlock's iron grip until it
gave inch by inch. "Any other stipulations or demands you'd like to make while
I'm still semi coherent?" Moran asked with a roll of his hips. He didn't seem
very displeased, considering the force of Sherlock's reaction. There was a
small smile playing over his lips, which he let brush against Sherlock's very
sensitive lobe as he spoke and then kissed beneath it. His hand squeezed them
both, giving Sherlock a not so subtle point of incentive to consider Moran's
question carefully.
Sherlock went quiet. His enthusiasm, if not his body's interest, had been
dampened by the unwanted attention. As he thought, his gaze drifted back to
Moran's mouth. Something about it was consistently fascinating and unsettling,
attractive lines that stretched a little too wide and showed off more teeth
than normal. Sherlock remembered how he'd started with Jim and immediately
flushed at the image that came to mind. "...I don't suppose you'd suck me off?"
he asked wryly.
Moran snorted. Then laughed. His eyes were full of amusement, bordering on
malicious, as he considered. "You'd really let me have my teeth around your
dick?" And he laughed again at the look Sherlock gave him. Reconsidering might
not be an option. Doubly so when Moran lifted his weight onto his arm and made
a show of mulling it over. He gave himself away by watching Sherlock squirm the
whole time. Finally, he raised a brow. "Only if you return the favour." And
again, his teeth flashed.
Sherlock hadn't seen the gunman without clothes, but he was able to make an
educated guess about what he was agreeing to. Sebastian's grin wasn't exactly
reassuring, but after a moment of considering Sherlock met his eyes and nodded.
He couldn't be said to have much experience, but he'd done this with Jim enough
to feel a bit more confident about himself. A small part of him had to admit,
if only to himself, that the threat of Moran's teeth was part of the appeal...
but only because he knew he wouldn't actually get hurt. "We have a deal."
Moran's smile widened. "Then lie back." With the tips of his fingers,
surprisingly strong, he pushed Sherlock's torso down to rest against the
ground. It was cold, but Moran distracted Sherlock soon enough by moving down
to his waist, fingers trailing a path down the buttons of Sherlock's shirt as
he went. Sebastian found the loose hem of Sherlock's trousers and rolled them
down even farther, sending another shock of cold into his bare skin. Steam from
Sebastian’s quiet laugh rose up in the air. Before Sherlock had another chance
to react, Sebastian was on him. Around him. Hot mouth surrounding his cock and
sucking him down, tight and strong.
The sudden shock of it had Sherlock gasping, and his hips rose before Sebastian
grabbed him and pushed him back down. The chill in the air and the discomfort
of the rooftop underneath them faded into the background, no longer really
registering in Sherlock's mind. His eyes slid closed for a few moments before
he felt grounded enough to raise his head and glance down.
Sherlock felt a jolt of lust and adrenaline at the sight. Whatever complex
logic his orientation followed, Sebastian evidently fell within the narrow band
of people he found suitable. Sherlock bit off a choked sound when Moran's gaze
flicked upwards with a smug, predatory glint.
He raised up slowly, Sherlock could feel his tongue dragging along the
underside and popped off the top with an obscene sound. With a flash of a grin
Sebastian was back down again. He didn't need to hold Sherlock's cock to do it,
apparently Sebastian had some experience with this, so his hands wrapped around
Sherlock's thighs, kneading at the muscle and making sure they stayed firmly
wedged apart for him.
Jim had made a lot of noise when he'd done this for Sherlock. Sebastian, by
contrast, was nearly silent apart from the rush of his breath and the wet
sounds of his mouth. The faint sounds of the street below and the dull,
throbbing music from inside couldn't touch them.
Sherlock made enough sounds to make up for the quiet. He had to bite down on
the edge of his hand to muffle himself. His other hand drifted lower to settle
on Moran's head, but instead of anchoring him, all it did was heighten the
reality of what was happening. The head under his palm bobbed up and down,
short blond hair tickling against his skin, and Sherlock's higher-level
thoughts began breaking down. It didn't seem to matter how they'd gotten to
this point, or what the later consequences might be. He didn't want Sebastian
to stop, not even when he felt the sharp line of a tooth drag against tender
skin.
It hadn't been an accident. Moran knew what he was doing because nails
followed, digging into Sherlock's thighs and scratching down. They were blunt,
just like Moran's teeth, but he didn't need them to be sharp or long. He knew
how to use them. It made Sherlock's body twitch beneath him and that got a
sound out of Sebastian. A quiet little moan. Sebastian wanted to do it again as
he lapped and sucked. Sherlock could see it in the line of the man’s shoulders
when he glanced down.
Sherlock's hands tightened. He was well aware that people did a variety of
things within the boundaries of sexual behavior, but he'd not explored them.
He'd been so terrified of sex in general that he'd only begun scratching the
surface of all the possibilities with Jim. Sebastian clearly enjoyed inflicting
pain and fear beyond interrogation rooms and his work in the field, but
Sherlock didn't know if he enjoyed that sort of thing. Or, equally important,
whether Moran had any sort of restraint.
Living inside of Jim's line of work would suggest he didn't. Except, that was
not necessarily true. Jim's work was not pursued for the sole purpose of
carnage though carnage was so often the outcome, the same as money. There was a
time Moriarty had spent months in the guise of a mild mannered actor in a
children's programme during his daytime hours. It was very, very likely that
similar kinds of restraint had been required of Moran for the work to be
successful. But when the job was over.... Perhaps that was it. Sebastian had
shown restraint living with Sherlock so far. He was restraining himself now.
Because he was patient. And he wasn't a fool.
He could be simply passing the time. As he'd as much said, this was convenient.
Sebastian sucked with a twist of his mouth and tongue at Sherlock's head and
for a moment he looked like that might have been all he needed, just sex.
As far as Sherlock knew, Sebastian had never hurt Moriarty when they'd been
together. If anything, the reverse had been suggested.
Sherlock took a shaky breath and let his hands trail lower. They slid down the
sides of Sebastian’s head, down his neck, and then his fingers curled at the
base until his nails dragged across Moran's shoulders. It wasn't enough to draw
blood, but it did leave a set of pink lines behind... and drew the man's
attention upwards. Their eyes locked, Sherlock's full of questions while he
tried to stare through Sebastian and figure him out. Understanding the gunman
was going to be simpler than trying to understand himself.
What Moran had said before came back to Sherlock. Sebastian had found
him...interesting. Interesting, in the way Moriarty was interesting. Even if
Sherlock had none of the history Jim had with Sebastian, and the fierce loyalty
that came with it, there were certain qualities Sherlock possessed that were
very similar to Jim. Enough for Sebastian to think so, anyway, and if Sebastian
thought of Jim as off limits then perhaps...perhaps Sherlock was not in so much
danger that he should fear for his life. Even if he could see the desire
coiling in Sebastian as clearly as if he could see into the man's thoughts.
Whatever understanding Sebastian had had with Jim, he and Sherlock had not even
begun yet.
Large fingers curled into Sherlock's hip, nails digging in just deep enough to
bite, and Sebastian watched Sherlock watching him back. He was...asking for
permission, permission to give Sherlock just that much pain.
"There are limitations," Sherlock whispered. He didn't want to fully agree
until he knew what he was agreeing to. Mo Sebastian ran didn't know Sherlock's
boundaries yet, and hadn't agreed to respect them. Even when he'd stopped
earlier, Sherlock was uncertain it was over his own objections - it could have
just as easily been because he feared what Jim would do in retribution.
Sherlock's gaze flickered down to Sebastian’s mouth. The blond should have
looked somewhat ridiculous, but Sherlock felt a pulse of lust and fear instead.
He'd seen on corpses just what human teeth were capable of doing. "Stop if I
tell you."
A smile flickered to Moran's lips and Sherlock felt his chest heave with
breath. "Alright."
And Sebastian was back down again, but this time he held Sherlock's cock with
one hand, stroking lightly while his mouth diverted to land at the juncture
between Sherlock's pelvis and thigh. And there he sucked. Sherlock felt a nip
of teeth, dragging upward, opening wide... Moran's mouth caught on his hip
bone, just below the jut of it, and sank down. He held Sherlock's leg with one
strong hand while he stroked with the other, but his teeth didn't let go. It
stung, sharp, almost too much. Sebastian held back, but only just. This was a
taste for Sherlock as figuratively as it was literally for Sebastian.
The bite hurt, undeniably. Even somewhat numbed by alcohol, Sherlock could feel
the sharp pressure arranged in a curved line of points digging into his flesh.
Instinct told him to buck, while the logical portions of his mind told him to
stay still, that movement would mean risking injury that Sebastian didn't
intend. Sherlock couldn't suppress the cry that came to his lips. He felt
Sebastian’s body shift and his hand tighten while it stroked in response to the
sound.
Sherlock didn't think he was supposed to find that erotic. Pain should have
been dissuasive. Sebastian’s teeth were going to leave a livid bruise at best,
and Sherlock couldn't help thinking of crime scene photos. He wondered what was
going through Sebastian’s head.
Sebastian was breathing hard when he released Sherlock. Nearly as hard as
Sherlock was. Sherlock's body trembled under his hands, but when Sebastian
looked up again to meet Sherlock's eyes, to make sure that he wasn't about to
be stopped, he must have recognized that significant spark in Sherlock's face.
If anyone would have recognized an interest in this situation, it would have
been Sebastian Moran. Sherlock saw the way his pupils widened until the irises
were nearly gone. It had already been dark, but now Moran's eyes nearly
rivalled Jim's with desire. With fluid grace he lifted his other hand to stroke
Sherlock and moved himself to Sherlock's other hip. With too many teeth
glinting in a wicked smile, he bent to bite again.
Sherlock started questioning his own sanity as he watched those teeth descend.
He inhaled sharply when Moran's jaw tightened. His hip burned, but it felt like
a counterpoint to the hand stroking his cock, rather than something to flinch
away from. The heat persisted as well; the skin on his other side still felt
too warm, tingling and almost pleasant. Sherlock could easily picture what it
would look like in an hour or two.
Sebastian used a bit more force this time, and eventually Sherlock grunted and
tried to pull away. "Too hard." And yet he was still going along with this,
still curious. Sherlock wondered precisely how much was wrong with him.
When Sebastian pulled away, he was...surprisingly gentle. His tongue soothed
the redness of the bite and his lips brushed a trail away from it. Back to
Sherlock's cock, which he engulfed again in the heat of his mouth like a thank
you. Or another counterpoint because suddenly Moran's nails were digging into
the backs of Sherlock's thighs again. His grip was too strong and he wrenched
Sherlock's legs apart for better access, all the while sucking him down.
Perhaps it was because Sherlock was new to this, because Sebastian didn't want
him to want to stop, but whenever Sebastian changed tactics, he made sure to
offset the painful sensation with something pleasurable. When he dragged his
teeth, his hands smoothed and massaged up the tops of Sherlock's thighs.
Sherlock started melting into a mindless, twitching mess. Pleasure turned pain
into a confusing mix of signals in his system, and pain kept the pleasure from
becoming overwhelming. Sherlock had expected this to be an interesting
experiment, but he hadn't expected to actually like it. His body jerked under
Sebastian’s mouth and hands, and the blond wasn't as quick a study as Jim, but
he was still learning - exactly how hard he could bite, how deep he could
scratch. Sebastian slipped a hand behind Sherlock and raked lines down his
back, and Sherlock was embarrassed to realize the breathy moan that reached his
ears had originated from himself.
It made Sebastian even more enthusiastic. His own sounds echoed Sherlock's. His
tongue and his mouth picked up the pace until one hand cupped Sherlock's balled
and the other dug nails into his behind and Moran sucked him down hard and
fast. There was no doubt in Sherlock's mind that Sebastian was imagining many
other scenarios they could act out. He braced his weight over Sherlock's lower
legs and didn't allow him to move if he tried. If Moran had been atop him,
lined up with him, inside of him, he would have been holding Sherlock down.
Every other sweet stroke of his tongue was followed by the teeth now, even with
the quickening pace.
Pain was quickly becoming torment, not in and of itself, but for the fact that
it kept Sherlock on the edge. Sebastian knew what he was doing, but his teeth
were keeping Sherlock stuck just short of climax. Sherlock's arms weren't
pinned, but he still felt trapped, helpless... and it was a far different
experience this time than what he'd had those first few times with Jim.
Sherlock had been frightened and resisting then. Choosing this apparently made
all the difference; he felt high on adrenaline.
After a few minutes one of Sebastian’s fingers slid back to press against
Sherlock's perineum, and the image that generated was enough to finally send
Sherlock over the edge.
Sebastian stilled when he felt it, but he kept his mouth on Sherlock and his
fingers pressing where they were until the spurts subsided. He pulled off only
when Sherlock's body began to tremble with sensation.
As Sherlock lay with breath heaving against the cold ground, Sebastian crawled
back up to rest his weight over Sherlock. He must have enjoyed the feel of
Sherlock limp beneath him, for the only reason Sherlock wasn't immediately
smothered was the one elbow Sebastian laid beside his shoulder. The man was
hard, Sherlock could feel it pressing into his thigh, but Sebastian waited
patiently for him to catch his breath, a proud smile playing around his mouth
while he watched.
Sherlock's eyes were still dark and more than a little dazed when he finally
opened them and found Sebastian hovering right above him. Sebastian’s lips were
flushed like he'd been kissing, and Sherlock shivered. Part of him ached, with
the cold or from Sebastian's attentions, and they still weren't finished.
Sherlock gave a breathy laugh and tried not to worry about whether his end of
the tradeoff was going to be equally challenging; the length pressed against
him felt intimidating. "...you seem to have enjoyed yourself."
Moran's smile glinted. "I very much did." His fingers rested like a weight over
Sherlock's chest, pressing light indentations in the fabric of his shirt where
sweat had dampened it. "Looks like you did, too." The fingers drew downward in
a suggestive line. Sebastian only watched for a moment before his gaze lifted
back to Sherlock. The man was probably surprised at Sherlock's enthusiasm over
their 'experiment', but he didn't mention it. It was just as surprising that he
could have tact. Or maybe he was just too focused on what he was about to get
because Sherlock couldn't miss the way icy blue eyes dropped to watch his own
mouth.
Sherlock's breathing was slowing down, but his heart was still racing. He felt
odd, being touched - he'd been touched so rarely during his life, and that had
only changed recently... and Sebastian’s hands and body were very different
from Jim's. Odd, too, to be touched outside of a memory, outside of his own
head. Sherlock watched Sebastian stare at his mouth and licked his lips.
"...you're going to have to let me up if you want that."
Moran didn't need to be told twice. He drew away, rose up to his knees, got one
foot under him and then was standing, looming over Sherlock. At which point
Sherlock must have looked like a frightened child on the ground. But Sebastian
bent and offered his hand, and helped Sherlock back to his feet as well. It
seemed Sebastian preferred to do this standing. Which meant Sherlock would be
on his knees.
But Moran's hands drew up his sides and he stepped very close and then those
large hands were in his hair and Sebastian’s mouth was on his own. Sherlock was
being pulled forward while Sebastian stepped backward until his back hit the
wall with a dull thud. He leaned against it while the corners of his mouth
curled up under the kiss.
Sadism, Sherlock had expected from Moran. Someone in his line of work almost
required it, given what he knew about the man's employ with Jim and what he
could guess regarding his military history. The odd moment of gentleness before
had been as unexpected as the courtesy of offering his hand, or this kiss.
Clearly Sherlock hadn't gotten as accurate a read of Sebastian's personality as
he'd thought.
Bitterness hit Sherlock's tongue and he flinched slightly, still unused to the
taste. Cold air on exposed, recently damp skin was sending chills up his spine.
Sherlock tucked himself and his clothing back into place before his hands
settled on Sebastian's sides. When the kiss broke he arched an eyebrow in
question.
Moran raised both of his in return. His hands fell to Sherlock's shoulders. "On
your knees, then." The curl of a smile was back on his lips and Sebastian's
hands became heavy, guiding Sherlock down. The man's trousers were still open,
that had to be cold, but between them this close all Sherlock could do was feel
him hard against Sherlock's thigh. The club's music still throbbed behind them.
In the distance they could hear people laughing below from the smoking section,
their voices unintelligible from that far away and carried only on the wind. If
Sherlock at any point during the next several minutes wanted to run, he was in
a very bad position to do so, never mind being intoxicated.
Sherlock sank down slowly, his gaze sliding from Sebastian's face to his
promised task. The man's cock was already intimidating, but even more so at
this angle. Sherlock swallowed and wondered just how this was going to work -
Jim had been laying down every time they'd done this, and also hadn't forced
the pace or depth. Sherlock wasn't certain Sebastian would extend the same
courtesy.
Grey eyes flicked up to find Sebastian watching him expectantly, his smug smile
still firmly in place. Sherlock kept his eyes on Sebastian's face and opened
his mouth, running his tongue slowly from the base to the tip, then taking in
the head.
Sebastian exhaled with a low sound. In some twisted form of sympathy, he swiped
his tongue over his bottom lip, eyes fixed on Sherlock, and Sherlock knew from
that point on that at the very least he had Sebastian's undivided attention.
And enthusiasm. Which would hopefully make the task easier. Just as long as the
man didn't decide to choke him. Blunt teeth caught between Sebastian's lips as
he waited, the rest of him perfectly still, hands resting heavily on Sherlock's
shoulders, but taut as a wire all over.
Sherlock fought to focus. He felt heavy, blood rushing through his veins, time
dragging around them like swirling water. The streetlights and club sounds
seemed far away, like the rooftop was suspended far above it all. Sherlock took
a deep breath and then dropped his jaw more, just barely remembering to take
care about his teeth - he wasn't certain whether Sebastian also enjoyed
receiving pain, and he didn't want to test the theory quite yet. He took his
time, setting a steady pace and gradually taking more of Sebastian's cock as he
became more confident in what he could handle. It helped that the man was still
letting him have control; he had a tight grip on Sherlock's shoulders, but he
wasn't trying to draw him in or control the rhythm.
Sherlock could latch onto Sebastian's breathing as an indicator of how well he
was doing, and so far it sounded like he was doing well. It was a deep, steady
intake and exhale, no moans yet, but Moran wouldn't take his eyes off Sherlock
either. Once he'd started to get comfortable, edging his tongue around a little
bit, Sebastian's hands lifted. Sherlock caught the flicker of the man’s smile
widening when he saw the movement startle him. The hands drew up the back of
Sherlock's neck, tangling in his hair on either side, still gentle, but.... But
this was the perfect position for Sebastian to take control. At any moment.
Even though he was waiting, smile widening as he watched Sherlock continue to
work with the subtle risk of what he could do in the air around them.
Sherlock's nervousness must have shown on his face, judging by that smile. What
he didn't know yet was whether Sebastian would be satisfied with that or
whether he'd want to follow through on the threat. Sherlock was certain that
being forced wasn't pleasant, particularly since he hadn't figured out how to
take all of the man's cock without triggering his gag reflex. It would take
very little to choke him.
Still, Sebastian didn't move. Sherlock glanced up, watching for any signs of
the man's intentions, and finally let his hands wander, running up the insides
of the man’s thighs. Sherlock tried to remember and mimic what had been done to
him, cupping Sebastian's balls while his other hand slid up beneath the hem of
the man's shirt. Sherlock's eyes went a bit distant as he mapped out what he
was feeling - toned muscle and ridges that had to be scars.
Sherlock heard Sebastian's chest rumble. Apparently he liked the feel of
Sherlock exploring. The fingers in his hair twisted where they were tangled,
but not sharply, just a reaction. But then there was a flash of that pink
tongue again as Sebastian looked down at him and he must have decided he quite
liked that because the fingers twisted harder. They didn't release until
Sherlock winced. And then one of them loosened to stroke at his head. It wasn't
a movement natural to Moran, Sherlock could tell that much. It was something he
had picked up somewhere, seen done before, felt before....
Jim. That was the kind of comfort Jim gave when he'd done something wrong and
wanted to appease Sherlock.
Curiosity bled into Sherlock's gaze. He wondered again just what, exactly, the
relationship between the two men had been like. He hadn't expected that Jim
would have cared enough to console Sebastian that way - enough times that
Sebastian would have picked it up. He couldn't imagine Jim letting himself be
truly dominated either, and the brief interaction he'd seen when Jim was in
control suggested that Sebastian had enjoyed the role reversal... but it was
difficult to tell whether that was because he enjoyed it naturally, or whether
that was a byproduct of his feelings for Jim. Jim... who'd been unusually
quiet.
Sherlock let his exploring hand slide around to rest at the small of
Sebastian's back. He decided to risk adding teeth to the equation.
That drew a groan from Sebastian's throat, but there wasn't much pleasure in
it. Sherlock could tell if not for the tone then by the way his hair was jerked
taut. Still, Sebastian didn't exactly stop him. When Sherlock paused, Sebastian
guided him to continue. The man had said he liked a fight. When Sherlock's
teeth scratched again, Sebastian's voice sounded again, but still he didn't
stop Sherlock. He could take pain. Pain wasn't the principle here, not for him.
Having dominance was. And Sebastian hadn't lost that, so when his hands
encouraged Sherlock to quicken the pace, it was out of enthusiasm.
Pain wasn't Sherlock's focus either, so when he saw he wasn't drawing any true
interest from Sebastian, he resumed what he'd been doing previously, if a
little faster. He wondered whether his results would be different if he managed
to get the man subdued again, like he'd been when Jim and he had ambushed him
at his hideout... and then blinked, realizing that that had just assumed that
he intended on doing something like this again.
After another moment's thought, Sherlock found he couldn't truthfully deny that
he was curious. Sebastian's attitude at present wasn't particularly exciting,
but it wasn't offputting either. Sherlock watched the man's face while his
hands continued exploring and he sucked. He found himself wishing he knew what
Jim had done to Sebastian; he wouldn't have minded causing the same expression
on the blond's face that he'd seen in the kitchen.
Below him Sebastian's feet shifted wider apart. His hands were still cupping
Sherlock's head, guiding him with hair twisted through Sebastian's fingers, but
it wasn't too rough. Sebastian's breath was coming faster. Sherlock could feel
a quiver in the muscles of his abdomen. He was getting closer. At this rate he
would finish far faster than Sherlock had, but then again he had been wound up
for longer, and with fewer reservations about the whole thing. When low moans
started escaping his lips, his grip grew tighter.
Sherlock could feel the way his body became focused, all of it, chasing the
single goal of release.
It was becoming harder to breathe, at this pace, and Sherlock was beginning to
feel light-headed. Sebastian's cock grew noticeably harder under his tongue,
and Sherlock could feel the rest of the man's anatomy tightening as he drew
close. It wouldn't take much more now. Sherlock would have felt flattered but
for the fact that he knew this wasn't a commentary on his skill, or the degree
to which Sebastian might find him attractive. This was merely the result of
denial, a lack of outlets. Sherlock shouldn't have felt disappointed about
that. He had no emotional investment in the man, after all, but his self-esteem
had always been a fragile thing.
Sherlock's nails dug into the skin right above Sebastian's hip, trying to draw
his attention down. At the very least, he didn't want Sebastian pretending he
was someone else.
He heard a grunt from above and Sebastian's hands tightened on his head even
harder. There was no question he was staring a hole into the top of Sherlock's
head, watching his length disappear between Sherlock's full lips. No, Sherlock
wasn't Moriarty and he wouldn't get the same reaction Jim received from
Sebastian, but Sebastian wasn't imagining Jim either. He could see Sherlock. He
knew who the man in front of him, bent down on his knees and giving him
pleasure was, and Sebastian may have hated him once, but there was no reason
for that now. It was a good thing the man could let certain things go. Even if
it somehow turned into...this. Sherlock felt Sebastian bend, double over him.
His head was gripped still. Sebastian's hips jerked. There was a groan from
above, and suddenly his mouth was filled with warm fluid.
Sherlock nearly choked, surprised even though he knew what was coming.
Sebastian wasn't letting him go so Sherlock had no choice but to swallow.
Sebastian must have felt it, as the fingers in his hair tightened just a little
bit more. Sherlock wanted to pull away and gasp for air but he couldn't move,
not until the other man released him. His knees were starting to ache from the
rooftop and he felt vaguely... dirty, compromised in a way he hadn't after he'd
done similar things with Jim. He'd not wanted to stray too far from Jim
afterwards, while now all he wanted to do was put a bit of distance between
himself and Moran.
It didn't look like that was an option because before he knew it, Sebastian was
sinking. His cock slipped free but his hands didn't release Sherlock until
Sebastian was down on his knees right where Sherlock was, and even then his
hold only loosened enough to readjust his grip on Sherlock's hair, drawing him
forward. Sebastian's mouth hit his own before Sherlock knew what to expect, and
then he was being kissed. The taste lingered between them. Sebastian's tongue
was delving into his mouth, not caring the way Sherlock had about the taste. If
anything, Sebastian seemed to be drawing it out of him, enjoying it. He was
tipping. Sebastian was pushing him down without breaking the kiss until
Sherlock's back hit the ground, and when Sebastian finally let go, there was a
smile on his face that reached his eyes.
Sherlock felt a warmth brewing in his chest, confounding at first, until he
recognized it as Jim. A particularly pleased Jim.
He felt exhausted all of a sudden, and just as confused and lost as he'd been
the first few days after adjusting to Jim's presense. He'd never understood
some aspects of people very well, and everything about this was firmly located
in the deep end of human interaction where he had a tendency to fail and drown.
Sherlock stared up at Sebastian with a questioning look, unable to determine
just what had put that expression on the other man's face - his compliance, or
relief at finally getting some release, or some other interaction between the
chemicals filling Sebastian's bloodstream and aspects of his psyche.
"...why did you want this, Jim? Why this, why him?"
"We're all here together, now," Jim whispered back, just as warmly as the way
he felt nestled in Sherlock's chest. Sebastian was smoothing Sherlock's hair
back into place, setting his rumpled clothes to right, before doing back up his
own trousers. It was such a strange gesture to receive from the man, that
Sebastian would consciously or unconsciously think to take care of Sherlock's
appearance was...unexpected. But then Sebastian was helping Sherlock back to
his feet, swaying just a little, and it really was too chilly to be standing
outside this high up any longer.
"C'mon," Sebastian wrapped an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and drew him back
to the door. Sherlock was unsteady enough that he didn't have much of a choice
but to accept Sebastian's help. He was more acutely aware of where their bodies
touched than his surroundings.
Heat swept over them once they stepped back inside the club, more than welcome
after the chill that had settled into Sherlock's bones. Still, it was too much
- too much noise, too many lights, too many people and things to look at.
Sherlock's head filled with static; he closed his eyes, swallowed, and shook
his head to try to stop the tangle of thoughts that were turning into nonsense
in his head. He had to tug on Sebastian to get his attention, but eventually
the man bent down enough for Sherlock to murmur in his ear. "'m done. I want to
leave."
"Not gonna make it back like this." Sebastian's fingers dug into his shoulder
while Sherlock soaked up his body heat. "Let's get a coffee and sober up. I
know a spot down the street." He led the way back through the floors of
partygoers, or dancers and drinkers, people celebrating a birthday and the
regulars who showed up every weekend. Sebastian paid attention to their
surroundings so that Sherlock didn't have to, and once they left through the
front door, Jim kept him warm.
They left behind them the cacophony of sound and lights and voices from the
bouncers and the crowd. All of it faded into the distance as Sebastian led
Sherlock down the narrow sidewalk. They might have been the only ones left
alive but for the glow of an all night shop at the other end of the block.
Sherlock followed in a daze not unlike the ones he remembered from his days of
substance abuse. Street-lights seemed watery and cast the world in unreal,
artificial tones, and it was too quiet for someone used to the constant hum of
London. Even the sky was quieter, in a way, missing the intense light pollution
that the city had. Sherlock's head turned up in distraction, examining the few
visible stars scattered through the gloom. He couldn't name a single one. All
of that data had been deleted as inconsequential, but that didn't make the
sight any less beautiful.
Sherlock felt the hand around his shoulder tighten and steer him away from a
near-collision with a pole. That was enough to finally draw his attention back
down from the sky. He flushed at the amused smile Sebastian shot him.
The door of the convenience store chimed when they entered, a sound both quaint
and out of place for being so. The coffee wasn't going to be the best, but
Sebastian led Sherlock up through the small isles until he could pour them two
travel mugs, and let Sherlock rest against his side as he did so. Sebastian
wasn't sober, but he was good at mucking through on as steady of legs as he
could manage. The clerk at the register eyed them only slightly as he rang up
their charge and soon enough they were back out onto the street with Sebastian
leading the way again. This time, they stopped only two doors down. Sherlock
had to squint through the mouldy window pane to make out the sign of a hotel.
"Up we go," Sebastian slipped his arm under Sherlock's shoulders again and led
him up the steps while Jim hummed pleasantly in the back of his head.
Sherlock wondered what Sebastian meant by this, as he wasn't in a fit enough
state to try to deduce what was running through his mind. Most likely he just
wanted to get a space for them to sober up while warm; the air outside had
taken on a slight tang, and rain was coming to augment the cold temperature.
Waiting outdoors until they were able to drive wasn't going to be a pleasant
option, perhaps not even a safe one. Neither of them were dressed for a night
exposed to the elements.
The woman at the service desk looked up from the novel she'd been reading, and
her eyebrows rose at the sight of them. More so when Sherlock ordered a room
and handed over a few notes to cover the charge. The woman kept glancing at his
neck while she processed everything and handed over the keys, and a slight
smile curved the edges of her mouth. Sebastian and he were halfway up the
stairs to the room before Sherlock realized that the gunman must have left a
mark on his neck earlier.
The way Jim tried to sooth his mind with warmth wasn't helping fight the
tiredness. Tiredness that Sebastian must have been feeling, too, because he had
to prop Sherlock up against his side when they made it to their door to unlock
it and stumbled somewhat awkwardly through after. It banged shut behind them on
shoddy hinges. And there they stood because their room contained one bed, one
couch, one chair, and a lamp.
Sebastian tossed the keys on a night stand and sighed, toeing off his boots
with one hand against the wall.
Sherlock managed to stumble through to the room's tiny bathroom, leaning
against the door after it shut behind him. He felt a bit better after relieving
himself and splashing cold water on his face, but not any more alert. A glance
in the mirror told him that he'd guessed correctly; a bruise that could only
have been made by a mouth was visible above his collar, stark against his pale
skin. Sherlock felt too tired to be embarrassed, or to worry about whether the
attendant downstairs had recognized him and would gossip later.
He returned to the room and headed straight for the bed, only stopping to
remove his shoes once he was sitting on the edge.
Sebastian seemed to have disappeared until, in a double take, Sherlock looked
at the couch. There, resting flat on his back, face buried between his arm and
the side, was the gunman. Out cold.
He'd given Sherlock the bed. Intentionally.
Before Sherlock could dwell on it, Jim turned his usual subtle caress into a
pull towards the mattress, towards comfort and rest and oblivion. He didn't
need to say anything, every touch was enough to draw Sherlock toward sleep.
Sherlock spared a glance to the abandoned coffees growing cold on the room's
small table, another for the form awkwardly sprawled out on the couch, and then
he pitched backwards onto the mattress. He was past the point of caring about
anything but sleep. He felt Jim twined around him, hot under his skin, and for
a moment a small smile graced his lips as he imagined Jim draped across him
like a blanket. The poor quality of the mattress made little difference to
Sherlock, as he lost consciousness within a matter of seconds.
***** Chapter 15 *****
Waking the next morning was an awkward affair.
It didn't help that both Sherlock and Sebastian barely remembered where they
were or where they’d parked the car, or that they even had a car. Once that was
sorted out, once they were showered, found some fresh coffee, and on their way
back to the city proper, neither knew precisely how to address their current
situation.
Sebastian, as usual, continued with silence. Apart from the way he'd shot up
from the couch that morning and looked about, taking stock of his surroundings,
he seemed mostly at ease thereafter. But Sherlock could read the subtle thread
of tension underneath it. The man wasn't cold anymore, but there were subtle
signs he didn't know how to treat Sherlock now.
If anything, it was only Jim who was truly at ease. He spent the whole drive
back with a pleasant hum inside Sherlock's head, nearly crackling in the air
around them. Jim had brought his little troupe closer together. If that was
truly his goal, it had been accomplished.
Over the next few days, however, Jim's mood soured progressively.
Sebastian's changed attitude may have helped somewhat, but it didn't extend to
his power games. He continued to try to intimidate and corner Sherlock,
becoming less subtle as time grew on, and gradually he added a flirtatious
undertone that Sherlock didn't know quite how to deal with.
It had been a relief when Lestrade finally texted him about a case. Sherlock
jumped at the opportunity - to get out of the house, and to bury himself in the
Game and try to lever Jim out of the bored slump he'd been sliding into.
Two days later after Lestrade’s invitation, after a mad chase around London,
two building explosions, and a shootout, the case came to a less-than-thrilling
conclusion. A rash of cyanide poisonings turned out not to be an old-fashioned
family feud over inheritance or an attempt at theft or revenge by one of the
family’s hired staff, but a truly incompetent and convoluted meth ring that
capitalized on the ill health of a few of the family elders and the rather
flexible ethics of their private medical attendants.
Sherlock sat on the back edge of an ambulance and grudgingly let a nurse patch
up the graze wound on his upper arm while Lestrade chewed him out, once again,
for going in without backup.
Inside his mind, Jim chewed him out for another reason entirely. The former
criminal was deeply, thoroughly unimpressed. Unimpressed by both the competence
of the suspects they'd apprehended and the competence of Lestrade's forces. And
so, even while Lestrade paced circles and ranted from one side of Sherlock's
ears, Jim did the mental equivalent and ranted just as loudly, although
ineffectively, at Lestrade and the entire Met by extension. He couldn't stand
them, and what was worse, he couldn't see how Sherlock put up with them, or why
he had thought it would be a good idea to bring Jim along. In Jim's opinion the
entire police force could go jump off a bridge for the kind of idiocy they had
exhibited, idiocy that had resulted in Sherlock, and himself, running like rats
in a maze around the city all day. And what was worse, all for such equally
incompetent criminals.
And then it started to rain.
Lestrade stopped, pinching the bridge of his nose, not wanting to stand out
there any longer than he already had been, and looked at Sherlock like nothing
he'd said had gotten through. Although, to be fair, this time it wasn't
entirely Sherlock's fault he was having trouble paying attention.
Sherlock looked drawn and sullen, and when Lestrade opened his mouth to speak
again, he finally snapped. "Yes, I heard you. Not waiting for your sluggish
team to mobilize allowed me to keep Mr. Hartell from setting off the building
and getting away, doubtlessly adding to the body count, destroying crucial
evidence needed to prosecute, and allowing further toxic substances to leak
into the sewers. A scratch on the arm was well worth it."
His eyes shuttered and he barely paid attention to Lestrade's indignant
response; his focus had turned inwards, regarding Jim with no small amount of
dismay. "They were idiots, yes... but you didn't enjoy the chase? Not even when
the block of flats combusted? Or the way they were so boldly transporting
ingredients under the guise of medical supplies?"
Jim gave a mental sigh, which Sherlock heard loud and clear. "Your ability to
leap through moving traffic is quite impressive, and yes the decimation of a
block of flats was entertaining enough, in and of itself, but I'm sorry
Sherlock, the case and criminals lacked any qualities of lustre or interest
beyond being at once, paradoxically, both exceedingly dull and obnoxiously
brazen enough to attempt a feat so over their heads as to leave no chance
theywouldn'tbe caught." Droplets of rain fell into Sherlock's bangs and
trickled down his temple. He must have looked just as sorry as he felt, because
Jim sighed again and toned down his ire. "Leaving myself to the mercy, the
hope, of other people's criminal endeavours has never been a draw for me. And
this is why. They all. Fall. Short."
To anyone else, Sherlock would have appeared to be wool gathering, or sulking,
and so it was no surprise that once his arm was patched up well enough,
Lestrade sent him on his way.
Sherlock's trip home took longer than normal. He was distracted enough to miss
a few opportunities to flag a cab down, resulting in an introspective walk
while getting drenched to the bone. London was quite beautiful like this,
shimmering and full of reflected lights, but Sherlock didn't care. His high
from the case had fallen almost instantly, the moment it became clear that Jim
hadn't been entertained. Sherlock had never understood the mood reference about
going to one's own funeral, but he thought he had the gist of it now.
Cases were not going to be enough to sustain them. Sustain Sherlock, yes, but
not Jim, and Sebastian was still a wildcard he didn't know what to do with. For
once, Sherlock was at a loss.
Sebastian was getting restless. Jim was getting restless. Sherlock had been an
admiral sulk all his life, but Jim could be a terror. Sherlock hadn't yet seen
the full extent of it, but when Jim's mood turned black and he turned into the
furthest reaches of Sherlock’s mind he could find to curl himself up as tight
as possible, it seeped into everything. It killed Sherlock's mood. It made
Sebastian antsy. It made strange things happen. And soon enough Jim was going
to get so bored that he wouldn't try to contain it anymore.
Sebastian had taken to sneaking out of the flat. Only at night, only twice, and
only because he was certain where the video cameras were, but that didn't bode
well for Sherlock either. Even out of the flat, there wasn't much Sebastian
could do. Both times when he'd returned, he bore evidence of twigs on his
sleeve and mud on his feet and Sherlock knew he hadn't actually interacted with
anyone. He'd gone for a walk, or rather, a skulk.
In short, they needed something to do.
One cab right later, dripping onto the worn and stained back seats before being
dumped on the doorstep of 221 Baker Street, Sherlock began to feel a chill that
had nothing to do with the cold and damp. He felt hounded, hedged in like he'd
been at the start of this, with only two options for moving forward: doing what
he didn't want to do, or letting himself be destroyed. Sherlock wouldn't put it
past Jim to try to end them both in a fit of black, bored despair if it got bad
enough.
He climbed the stairs slowly, dragging his feet, not wanting to face what was
coming.
When he opened the door he found Sebastian on the couch, spread out like he had
been at every other point over the last few days, laptop on his lap and one
finger drawing idly across the trackpad. He didn't look up as Sherlock trudged
inside. Jim, however, sent the door slamming behind him, making them all jump.
Sebastian's eyes darted up to him.
One light brow arched. "Case not go so well?"
He needn't have asked. The look on Sherlock's face said it all. Inside,
Sherlock could feel it start. His stomach was sinking in a way that, at first,
felt like anxiety, but then it kept dropping and dropping until it could only
be Jim sliding down through his insides with that black mood of his.
The lights flickered.
"Let's go to bed," was all that Jim whispered in his head, ignoring Sebastian
as though he weren't there at all.
"Why, so you can kill me while I sleep?" Sherlock muttered. He spared Sebastian
one sour glance before heading to the bathroom and shutting the door. He wasn't
going to go to bed cold and dirty from London rain. Numb fingers worked at
fastenings and slowly peeled sodden layers from his skin. Sherlock dropped them
in a pile on the floor and started up the hot water. His spirits didn't lift
once he got under the spray, but it warmed him up at least.
He felt the cool touch of air that shouldn't have been there crawl up his
chest. Jim didn't have the presence of mind to warm his caresses and it made
goosebumps prickle across Sherlock's skin. He had at least stopped Jim's
descent into whatever deep pit he'd made for himself in Sherlock's core, a
place that was more unsettling the worse Jim felt.
"Worried about my state of mind, are you?" Jim murmured in the air. "And not
for my sake. Here I thought you might be growing to like me," he added with a
hiss of a laugh.
Outside, Sherlock could hear Sebastian banging around in the sitting room.
Exercising, again. Probably.
Jim might not have disappeared ominously, but his touch was no less eerie.
Sherlock felt distinctly reminded of the cool touch of corpses, which didn't
help his imagination or his sense of alarm. It didn't matter that he was right
underneath the showerhead; Jim's touch overrode whatever external senses he was
feeling, emphasizing his presence by the contrast of the hot water. "Don't play
at being insulted. I've been worried about you before now, but you've been
fairly clear about what happens to me when you decide you can't bear existing
like this any longer. I haven't changed my mind about my own desire to live."
Sherlock got the very distinct impression that Jim was slithering up close.
"Then help me." The cold points of pressure danced along his collar bone and
down over his heart. "I don't want to kill you..." Jim trailed off before he
said what they both knew would become a lie soon enough. He turned back to
optimism, but there was a note of breathless desperation to his words. "If
anyone could do it, it would be you. Your mind could be put to so much more
than playing the Met's bloodhound." Sherlock felt Jim's cold presence constrict
around him, too caught up with his own distress to take heed of Sherlock's
discomfort.
Bitterness crept through Sherlock and he felt his throat close up. He'd started
to care for Jim, but that wasn't enough to nullify his own feelings about being
cornered. "'Help me, so I don't murder you out of boredom.' 'Dance to the pull
of my strings and do what I always wanted, or I'll try to commit suicide again
by destroying you.'"
Sherlock turned to face the spray and shuddered. His body was trying in vain to
throw off the uncomfortable touch. "I was happy before this, you know, or as
much as I could manage. And you just couldn't leave me alone - not in life, and
not now. I'm tired of having my hand forced, of not having any choices. And
don't say that I can choose to resist and let you kill me, because we both know
that's not much of a choice."
"Boo hoo." Jim hissed. "What are you going to do about it? Whine at me until I
go away? Who knows, it might just work." He let a beat of silence calm his
words, interrupted only by the patter of the shower spray and Sebastian's faint
sounds. "In life, I would have manipulated you into this...this little
situation we have, to get what I wanted," notes of truth rang in his murmur,
"Perhaps the outcome is the same, now, but I have no other method to satisfy
this...need. Take it as you will." Ice rested over the back of Sherlock's neck,
right where the hairs would have been standing on end. "If you won't help me
then I will see how far I can go with Sebastian."
"And what, precisely, does that mean?" Sherlock snapped at thin air. "You can
mock me as you will, as I can't very well stop you, but don't pretend you
wouldn't go mad if the tables were turned. You'd be just as pathetic if you
were caged and medicated within an inch of your life, forever prevented from
ending it or escaping, with the only offered stimuli being to help dullwitted
government agents. You'd resent being collared and forced by virtue of having
no other options."
Jim went silent, but there was the strangest tone to it, if silence could have
a tone. Something Sherlock had said had caught his attention. The stinging
prickle of ice receded.
"'Caged and medicated,' Sherlock?" Jim honed in on it like a laser. "Now that
doesn't sound very familiar. ...are you perhaps, just perhaps, more upset with
your dear big brother's influence on your life than you are with me?" The press
of cold down his back didn't warm precisely, but it was less intense. "Because
it sounds like, under his wishes, your family's expectations, et cetera and et
cetera, working with dullwitted government agents was the only option left open
to you."
"And just look at what happened with that," Sherlock grated. "Poor Mycroft,
carrying on like he was the wounded one. Getting upset every time I strayed
outside the lines and embarrassed him. Sometimes I did it just to get back at
him for his presumption. Something you're drifting very close to."
Sherlock shut off the water and quickly dried, wrapping a towel around his
waist and darting from the bathroom to his bedroom. The door shut with a click
behind him.
"Is that all you're capable of? Reacting?" Jim whispered. "Had you any desire
for more, you might have shared in my interests all on your own. But it looks
like you've given in, in the end. Gone and made yourself content to play within
the bounds of the playground Mycroft has built for you. You think I'm doing all
this just to get you to do my bidding? You really have gone and taken my role
of villain to heart. I do this because I would like some company and I would
rather burn all the world and myself up with it than play within the confines
of someone else's rules."
"You of all people should know I'm capable of more than that, but only when I
have avenues open to me. It's an exercise in futility when you have no leverage
or power in a situation, and no real hope of gaining any." Sherlock's towel
slid to the floor and he tilted back to fall onto the mattress, staring
sullenly at the yellowing plaster of the ceiling. "I took pieces of what
Mycroft wanted and made something different that worked for me, and he knew
better than to try to push me further. You're not asking me to live without
playing by other people's rules. You're insisting, on pain of death, that I
adopt yours. Your rules, your framework, your choices and lifestyle. And, I
suppose, expecting me to happily submit to your every whim and stay besotted
and grateful to you for forcing my compliance."
Sherlock snorted, and his hands curled against the duvet. "I would have thought
you'd know me well enough by now to realize I respond much better when tempted
instead of threatened."
Jim's snort was so derisive it cut the air with a crackle of electricity. His
built up tension was turning into built up static. "It's not all or nothing,
you know. You fear so much that I'll overpower your will after a few waltzes
through my territory. Or do you simply believe it impossible? To live as
upstandingly as you've done so far with a few less than savoury jaunts on the
side? Because if you do, you have very little faith in me. Richard Brook and
his counterparts would have a word to say in my defence."
Just as Jim had been trailing off there sounded a crash from the sitting room,
followed by a truly miserable growl.
"Doesn't sound like I'm the only one either."
Sherlock's gaze flicked towards his bedroom door, still shut. "I don't think
I'm living upstandingly according to how most people would define that word.
The problem is that I have no leverage. No recourse except what you're allowing
me, if you allow me anything. I can't banish you, and you can't latch onto
someone else as a vessel, and even if you could, I doubt you'd do it. You're
not someone who only takes halves, either. If you don't demand it upfront,
eventually you'll want everything, and my choices are again going to be 'give
in or Jim kills you'."
Even if Jim didn't want to end him now, the destructive ennui that followed
after boredom would eventually, someday, ensure it. It was possible that if it
came to that, Jim might seek to end only himself, but unlikely. They
were...attached, somehow. There was no telling if Jim could in fact move on
while Sherlock was still alive. Nor that he would care once that state of mind
took hold of him.
Surely Jim saw it, too, because Sherlock felt his silence almost as clearly as
his whispers.
"What can I do for you?" Jim asked, "To allow you some measure of...solace?"
Sherlock pressed a hand to his face and exhaled. He could feel the tension in
his body creeping up, shattering into painful splinters right behind his eyes.
"...don't force me. If you want me to try something, don't make me try it at
gunpoint while insisting it's for my own good, or that I'll enjoy it. I'm not
averse to trying to keep you happy, keeping some measure of peace between us,
and you don't have to threaten me for that much."
Sounds of pacing from the sitting room caught Sherlock's attention and summoned
a thoughtless, wistful notion... and envy. Sherlock had enjoyed the worshipful
aspect of John's companionship. Jim's obsession wasn't quite the same thing,
and it would never be the same, but Jim had something similar from his pet
sniper. The same sniper who'd not known how to act around Sherlock after they'd
returned from their little holiday.
Inside his head, Jim gave the equivalent of a sigh. It was once of concession.
...before his attention followed that of Sherlock's.
"You could get him to look at you that way if you wanted him to, you know."
Damn Jim's ability to track Sherlock's thoughts outside of his mind palace,
still an unsettling aspect of their relationship. And yet his tone wasn't
taunting. He held no malice or resentment that Sherlock had the potential to
even attempt to interact with Sebastian in the real world. "He's as curious
about you as you are about him. I think you can tell."
Sherlock colored, but it was pointless to deny his thoughts, and it was
difficult to remain embarrassed after being consistently flustered for the past
few weeks. Flustered and depredated. "He's different. Simpler, but not lacking
in complexity to the point of being boring, as most people are. I miss... well,
having a shadow in the usual metaphorical way."
Sherlock's hand fell from his face back to the bed. "...be patient. Find
something small we can work on together, for a start. Just to try it. Something
you'd think would catch my interest, rather than just insisting I'll like it
once I try it."
Jim's touch turned warm where it rested, weighty under the skin of Sherlock's
chest. It was something. That concession might be enough for Jim. For now.
Depending on what he conjured up out of the new webs he'd been laying with
Sebastian.
"I may have the very thing. Give me a few days to work out the details, and I
will bring it to you. For you to either accept, or refuse." That sounded very
considerate of Jim indeed. "If you refuse, I'll use Sebastian instead. But I
give you my word I'll leave you out of it." Jim's touch turned into a caress
down Sherlock's cheek. "Though keep in mind, if you do join us on this little
excursion, how much fun it could be working together. I can imagine exactly how
much Seb would enjoy it." Jim's attention rested pointedly on the silence from
the sitting room.
"Fair enough." Sherlock appreciated the caresses and Jim's changed tone, even
if he wasn't completely mollified by either. It was just the way Jim was, and
he didn't mean anything by it. Sherlock found that to be a small consolation.
Jim conceding slightly and agreeing to give him some space and time, and at
least the pretense of a choice, had done the most to ease the tensions between
them.
"I don't know that Sebastian has the patience for a few more days. He's
sneaking out of the flat again like an overgrown alley cat."
"You should let him hear you say that." Sherlock could feel the wry grin in
Jim's voice. His warm touch walked down Sherlock's ribs. "Or catch him." The
pressure landed at Sherlock's navel and waited.
If Sherlock listened very, very carefully, he could hear the creak of
floorboards from the upstairs room now. Near the window side. Sebastian
probably already had it open, halfway onto the roof. He probably wouldn't enjoy
being caught out, even if Jim was amused by the idea. What Jim had insinuated
about them working together was more likely to put Sherlock in better graces
with Sebastian. Unless Sherlock decided to join him on his jaunt around the
park, or whatever he did when he slipped out.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He rolled off the bed and got to his feet before Jim
even heard a thought of intention. Sherlock wasn't thinking - not when he
slipped through his own bedroom door or quickly moved up the stairs, headless
of his state of undress. He'd had long practice to know just where to step
without the stairway creaking, having taking his current route many times to
check on his former flatmate throughout the night.
The door to Sebastian's quarters hit the wall with a bang, just as the man
looked to be getting ready to squeeze through the window and climb up onto the
rooftop. Sherlock stalked across the room and seized Sebastian's arm with a
slight snarl, heedless of the way Sebastian's gaze tracked over him in
confusion. "And just where do you think you're going? It does none of us any
good for you to be seen and put us all at risk just because you're incapable of
living indoors like a civilized person."
Sebastian hadn't the decency to look embarrassed or anything other than
surprised when Sherlock pulled him back inside. The window came slamming down
behind him. And then, after the man’s shoulders had gone rigid from the sound,
anger began to seep into his posture. He stepped into Sherlock's space, and
something about the way they were of a height, Sebastian's heated, flashing
eyes staring directly into his own, gave the spark between them a certain
intensity. Thankfully, Jim had quieted.
"I am going out of my mind being cooped up in here," Sebastian said evenly.
Sherlock had had enough of being pushed around, and of walking on eggshells to
try to avoid setting off the other two men. Sebastian had spent a good deal of
effort trying to intimidate him, but at the moment Sherlock felt strangely...
invincible. Even if he was staring a trained killer down in nothing but his
skin. "So you decide to risk everything to jump around on rooftops, hoping you
don't miss spotting any of the hidden cameras plastered across London,
particularly around areas I frequent. Cameras which, incidentally, I happen to
know the locations of. What is with the two of you and your refusal to bloody
well ask before doing something that could impact me?"
Sebastian's eyes dropped. Not in contrition. Sherlock was nude, and Sebastian
had apparently not noticed until it was Sherlock's turn to dole out
accusations. Unfortunately for Sherlock, this meant that his anger went rather
over the former bodyguard's head. When Sebastian's eyes lifted, there was a
question in them. It was the same one they'd been dancing around since the
club.
Sebastian's head lowered, fixing Sherlock's gaze without the anger from a
moment ago. "Would you have said yes if I asked nicely?"
"Maybe I would have, provided I was able to accompany you, or at least point
out where some of the more difficult cameras are located. But," Sherlock
continued quietly. "You didn't ask. You didn't think about the possible
repercussions, not just for myself, but what I might have to do if you got
caught. And you must not have cared, because surely you didn't think I was so
stupid that I haven't been noticing your outdoor jaunts."
One of Sebastian's arms moved as if to reach out, and Sherlock stepped back in
response, tightening his own grip on Sebastian's other arm and twisting
slightly. His eyes narrowed. "I wouldn't think of trying anything, if I were
you."
One corner of Sebastian's mouth curled. It wasn't for show, Sherlock could see
that much. Sebastian was desperate for some form of stimulation and it looked
like Sherlock had just become the center of his attention. "You sure? Because
staying in just got a lot more interesting." Sherlock felt the muscle and
tendon in Sebastian's arm tighten, and there were those teeth again, flashing
wide before Sebastian's body came alive. He swept forward, crowding into
Sherlock with the anticipation of confrontation rolling off him nearly as
tangibly as Jim when he was upset. Except Sebastian wasn't upset any longer. He
was excited. "I think you should make good on that threat."
Sebastian had barely gotten his words out before he had to stumble to keep his
footing. Sherlock had started to move, twisting aside and using the blond's
momentum to throw him off balance. Sherlock kicked out and barely missed
sweeping one of Sebastian's ankles out from under him.
When the bodyguard was finally facing him again, Sherlock had moved back a foot
into empty space, waiting. His posture was clearly that of someone trained in
martial arts, tense and alert instead of passively standing open to attacks.
Sebastian looked a little surprised, but he faced Sherlock, face split into a
grin. "Now that's more like it!" he shouted, like he could expel energy with
his voice. He moved like he could throw it off himself in waves, crouching low
and slinking in wide steps to circle Sherlock, forcing Sherlock to turn in what
little space they had to anticipate his attack. Sherlock caught a flash of
tongue swiping across white teeth, deliberate, as Sebastian all but leered at
him. "We should have done this sooner," the man's voice rumbled low.
"Oh, I'm well aware of what would have happened if we sparred too soon."
Sherlock ducked a swipe from Sebastian's arm. The two of them circled slowly,
each looking for an opening. Sparse as the furniture was, there wasn't much
room to move. "I think you would have been a little more focused on hurting me
if you managed to get a few hits in."
Sebastian's confident grin widened and he launched into a set of strikes.
Sherlock avoided all but the last, knuckles barely clipping the side of his
face. He countered with a snarl, landing a blow on a pressure point near
Sebastian's ribs.
A heel kick thumped harmlessly off the floorboards as Sebastian darted back out
of reach. His grin was pained when they faced each other again, but still just
as wide. His arm curled to his side before he deliberately moved it away.
"Maybe so," Sebastian had to concede, "Good thing my interests have shifted
since then." He laughed as he ran at Sherlock, a bold move, especially with
Sherlock's feet flying into the air again, but Sebastian ducked his head and
took the blow to his arm and shoulder, while he threw his weight into Sherlock.
It was crudely done but it effectively knocked Sherlock off his feet and into
the wall. Sebastian nearly went down with him. Blue eyes caught the light in
delight, but then something heavy screeched across the floor as he took a step
back. Sebastian tripped and was laid out flat on his back just as quickly.
Sherlock felt dark amusement colour the air.
Jim
Sherlock quickly took advantage of the situation. He sabotaged Sebastian's
attempts to get back to his feet, kicking and grappling while the man tried to
get a bit of space. After a few more moments they both went down in a tangle,
Sherlock firmly pinning Sebastian in a hold that, if he struggled, could easily
dislocate or break the trapped limbs. Both men panted heavily.
"...had enough, or am I going to have to make certain you're not going to
attack me again?" Sherlock muttered. The body underneath him shook in what had
to be laughter.
"Gonna break my arm? Not sure that would be much deterrent. I don't think I'd
need two arms to fight you again." Sebastian didn't particularly sound like he
cared whether he won or not, or maybe he was testing Sherlock's limits.
Sherlock could feel Sebastian’s wiry muscles tense and contract under his hold
with what little between them there was. "Tell me this doesn't get your blood
pumping the way it does mine." Sebastian craned his neck around as far back as
he could, trying to catch Sherlock's eye. It didn't really work. All Sherlock
caught was a sharp brow and a sliver of blue.
Sherlock hesitated for a moment too long, and his silence answered for him. He
watched and felt the body under his hands pull tight, all potential energy,
potential violence just barely contained in flesh and blood. It reminded him of
animals he'd seen and touched - the raw power of horses, the crippling strength
of pythons. Sebastian wasn't entirely human in Sherlock's mind, at least
metaphorically.
"Well, there's my answer on how you managed with Jim. Masochist as well as a
sadist." Sherlock tugged slightly, pulling one of Sebastian's trapped arms to
its limits. "Is that how he tamed you? Fought you down into submission?"
Sebastian let himself gasp. There was pain in it, there was still the desire
for a fight in it, and there was something else in it too. "Among other
things." Sebastian wasn't too embarrassed to admit Sherlock's accuracy now that
they were like this. "You might have noticed he doesn't usually take to just
one tactic. But oh yeah...he likes to have his fun." Jim's 'fun' was likely the
only way he allowed Sebastian to be with him...like that. Sherlock heard
Sebastian's voice drop. He barely saw the man's lip curl before the hips
beneath him shimmied back, rubbing up against Sherlock.
Sherlock was caught off guard. He'd understood that Sebastian's aggression and
preferences shifted and became flexible where Jim was concerned, but he'd
figured that Jim was an exception that was bourne out from a period of
adjustment. Either Sebastian's boundaries were wider and more flexible than
he'd thought, or the man had associated him with Jim enough that Sherlock was
now an additional exception.
"...now this is interesting." Sherlock prided himself that his voice remained
steady. Mostly. "Is this encouragement towards Jim's sort of 'fun', or are you
attempting to find out what my ideas are?"
Sebastian tried to wrench his head around again to no avail. Still Sherlock saw
the raise of his brows. "You have ideas?"
Sherlock felt a spark in the air. Jim's attention had been caught, as
interested in this turn of events as Sherlock was.
"I know what Jim's kind of fun is like," Sebastian continued. He couldn't move,
so all Sherlock could do was feel the flex of his lithe muscles again and see
the flick of his tongue wet his lips. Jim's presence constricted, reeling in
from the edges of the room to focus on them, but thankfully he was still calm.
Sherlock's eyes tracked over Sebastian's shoulders, watching muscles coil and
tense beneath the skin and the thin layer of his shirt. Neither of them had
quite dared anything after their drunken rooftop interaction. Sherlock wasn't
even certain how he felt about the man.
From the way Sebastian was speaking, all of his body language, he was curious.
Perhaps curious enough to let Sherlock experiment. "I have some idea," he
finally admitted. "I hadn't thought you'd be... pliable to certain degrees. I
also wasn't certain how much of what happened was alcohol paired with
frustration."
He felt the body under him shake with a laugh. "Well, I won't say that it
wasn't. But that was only the start of it. Just like you caught me now..."
Sebastian had as much of a tendency to provoke Sherlock as Jim had, but he
wasn't just coy. The man couldn't be sure Sherlock would want anything to do
with him at all, but even when he ground his arse back into Sherlock again,
there was certain kind of control, a certain kind of defiance, about him.
"Hit him." Jim's voice slithered through the air, so soft Sherlock barely heard
it. It seeped through his head from one ear to the other in perfect stereo.
Sherlock kept his grip on Sebastian's locked arm. With the other, he drew back,
curled his hand into a fist, and punched. There wasn't enough force to severely
hurt the man, but Sebastian's grunt told him that he'd succeeded in striking
hard enough to warn. A sliver of creativity had Sherlock reaching up afterwards
to grab a handful of short blond hair and tug Sebastian's head back. At this
angle, Sherlock could see his adam's apple move as Sebastian swallowed. "None
of that, now. You're not going to be in control."
Sebastian was reeling, but Jim was reveling. Sherlock could feel it, the way
Jim drew in all around him like a cloud heavy with rain. But he didn't touch -
he let Sherlock be - though he wanted to. Sherlock knew that much. Jim
desperately wanted to.
Sebastian spit, and flecks of blood came with it. Apparently Sherlock had cut
his lip. Sebastian's chest was heaving with breath. He'd gone still, but
Sherlock could still feel the muscles in his body tensing and relaxing, wanting
to move even more insistently than he'd wanted to before. Shockingly,
Sebastian's reaction wasn't anger. Sherlock couldn't see, but every signal
Sebastian's body was giving him said that he was becoming aroused. "You're
really gonna have to make me," he spat in challenge.
"Again," Jim whispered. "Harder."
Sherlock let his breath out slowly. The sound was soft and relenting, which
made it all the more shocking when Sherlock released Sebastian's hair to strike
him again. Sherlock's mind was turning over remembered pieces of video from his
earlier research, noting angles and force levels. Sebastian made a most
satisfying sound when Sherlock dug fingernails into his back and dragged them
down in sharp lines. "Are you certain? You might want to reconsider. I'm nicer
than Jim, but that doesn't mean weaker. If you give me too much trouble, I'll
simply take his advice. More than I already am."
Sherlock felt Sebastian's breath stop. "Is he....did he tell you to....?"
"Make him shut up. Don't give him time to respond. Hurt. Him. Take him." Jim's
voice floated through Sherlock, reverberating in his head, crackling with
electric pulses down the back of his neck and in between his shoulder blades.
"It'll be a fight, but don't let him touch you. Don't give him time." Jim
didn't touch Sherlock's hands, but he could feel everything inside of the
spirit urging him on, and strangely, he could practically feel the same from
Sebastian. Not tangibly, like Jim, and Sebastian wouldn't expect it, but there
was something in his voice that didn't sound like betrayal.
Sherlock was on unsteady ground; it wasn't really in his nature to be violent
without sufficient anger to motivate him. He struck Sebastian again, and it was
enough to stop the man speaking, but the action was pure mimicry. He had to
find an emotion to substitute for anger, or the whole performance was going to
feel noticeably hollow, and Sherlock doubted Sebastian would enjoy and
appreciate a pale shadow of what he seemed to want.
Inspiration came with a revelation; Sherlock had searched through a number of
memories for an approximate emotion, and the closest he could find was...
possessiveness. Particularly regarding his ex-flatmate: every time John had
nearly been harmed by a criminal on a case, and every time his attention had
waivered on the newest girlfriend, until one finally succeeded in drawing him
away.
Sherlock tapped the old memories. A spark lit in his eyes before the next hit,
and he wrenched Sebastian's arm just the slightest bit more to remind him that
his was pinned. The word that hissed out from between his teeth was a surprise
to them both. "Mine."
He felt the way Sebastian stiffened. Felt the goosebumps spread out across his
flesh. He could feel Jim thrumming with excitement, leaking it, permeating the
very atmosphere with it.
Sebastian jerked with a snarl, ignoring the pain, trying to twist himself
around, trying to get another elbow in Sherlock. It was an attack, the first
move. He could dislocate his arm like this, but it was all he needed to do to
provoke Sherlock.
"Now," Jim hissed.
Sherlock had only a split-second to make a decision. He felt a jolt of regret
and pulled just a little further - not enough to tear anything, but enough that
Sebastian's arm dislocated with a soft pop. Sebastian cried out and thrashed
against Sherlock's hold and the tangle of their legs, and Sherlock gripped the
back of the man's neck. "Stop that. You don't want to hurt yourself. Or are you
going to make me take care of the rest of your limbs, as well? I'd rather not
if I don't have to."
Sherlock saw blue eyes shut tight. Sebastian allowed himself a deep groan of
agony, but it was through clenched teeth and lips. Sweat curled down his
temple, glistening in the light of the street below. Sherlock could feel him
trembling.
Then most fascinating thing happened. Sebastian's hips shifted, and his legs
spread apart. It was by degrees at most, but Sherlock couldn't miss the
unspoken communication.
Jim's presence prickled over Sherlock’s skin, making the hair on his arms
raise. Jim was everywhere, whispering an undercurrent of "Yes, yes, yes," as
though he could thread it inside the very air, making Sherlock and Sebastian
draw breath with it.
This may have been alien to Sherlock, but something told him that it wasn't to
Sebastian. It would have been years now since he'd been in this situation. With
Sherlock following Jim's instruction, familiar actions, and with knowledge that
Jim was present if unseen, the memories must have been slightly overwhelming.
Sherlock released Sebastian's neck and stroked fingers through his hair. He
couldn't quite understand this yet, but he was paying rapt attention to the
blond's reactions. "That's better. I'm going to release you from the lockhold,
now, and you're going to stay still."
Sherlock knew that Sebastian had likely only ever allowed Jim to do this, and
Jim had been gone for years. Despite what had happened thus far, Sherlock
didn't truly want to hurt the blond, not unless Sebastian wanted to be hurt. He
couldn't imagine that Sebastian would enjoy sex without preparation to ease the
way.
Slowly, he untwined their limbs, watching carefully for any twitch of movement
that signaled Sebastian was getting ready to fight.
There came only a wince of pain and a grunt as the man’s arm was released and
its weight resettled against his back. Even through the fitted material of his
shirt, Sherlock could see the way the humerus rested outside of its pocket,
making Sebastian's clavicle far more pronounced. The repositioning quickened
his breathing until Sherlock moved away and he had a few moments to allow his
nerves to settle.
Jim did not follow as Sherlock moved across the room to search through
Sebastian's things. He felt himself drawing out of the oppressive cloud of the
spirit's presence before it coalesced around Sebastian, who trembled on the
floor, a second gasp emanating from his throat. It was hard to tell whether Jim
was causing him pain or pleasure, or simply running prickles down his spine
like he so often did to Sherlock, just to let his Sebastian know he was there.
Whatever it was, it didn't last long before Sherlock felt Jim draw back around
himself instead.
It only took a few moments of digging through Sebastian's belongings before
Sherlock found what he was looking for. He'd made an educated guess that this
was the sort of man to keep lubricant for himself even when unattached, and
he'd guessed right. A small bottle had been tucked away in one of the man's
duffel bags, still unpacked. Or perhaps perpetually packed. Sebastian seemed to
have lived a life constantly on the move, so it might not have occurred to him
to ever stop living out of suitcases and travel bags.
Sherlock was faced with another dilemma when he sank back to his knees beside
Sebastian. He needed at least some cooperation from the other man to remove his
clothing without damaging it. "...lift your hips."
It turned out that was all that need be said. If Sherlock had any doubt whether
Sebastian was having second thoughts, it was swiftly cast aside when the man
not only complied, but worked his good arm underneath himself with a groan to
undo his own trousers and help Sherlock push them down. Bringing his weight up
to his knees involved a cascade of muffled curses as it shifted his shoulder,
but soon enough his trousers and shorts were halfway down his thighs and
Sherlock could see he was already hard.
Sherlock felt a prickle of warmth against his ear that was perhaps Jim's
version of a kiss.
Sherlock was relieved. Sebastian's enthusiastic, if pained, compliance eased
his own doubts. He reached around and stroked Sebastian in encouragement, and a
slight smile touched his mouth at the hiss he heard in return. Sherlock cracked
top of the lubricant bottle open and coated his fingers, then got to work. One
finger slipped into Sebastian easily enough, but Sherlock didn't want to rush.
"...will he fight back, if this doesn't hurt? Isn't violent?"
"No," Jim whispered into his mind. "You've already proven your own brutality
and authority to him. That is what makes him comply. If you wish to give him
more, he will accept it, and he will do so gladly. He will never accept a
master until they have proven themself to him, absolutely." Sebastian groaned
beneath him, free hand reaching back for Sherlock, trying to draw him in.
"Normally, a dislocated shoulder and a few harsh words would not have been
enough to prove anything, unless you kept at it repeatedly. Fortunately, you
have me on your side. I have given you my blessing, and we are tied in his mind
now. I have handed my power over him to you."
Sherlock paused, withdrew his hand, and grabbed Sebastian's wrist to press it
back down to the floor. "You don't touch me unless and until I give you
permission," he chided. With that completed, he turned his attention back to
what he'd been doing, adding a second finger and working towards a third. His
gaze remained speculative as he watched Sebastian's reactions - the slight
shivering, the way he pressed back with his hips now that he wasn't allowed to
pull Sherlock forward. "...does he only enjoy it, or enjoy it better, if
there's pain? Or do you not know? I'm having trouble imagining that you were
ever truly gentle with him."
"He does not, typically, enjoy pain. He enjoys violence. He enjoys the battle,
as you knew from the very first moment you met him. When he enjoys pain, he
enjoys it because I give it to him. Because he enjoyed my own violence, my
innate proclivity for destruction. It was...a form of affection, one that he
and I could understand, even though we both knew it was not true affection. If
you are violent with him, he will be starved for gentleness, and then when you
are gentle, even for one moment, it will be a thousand times sweeter." Sherlock
felt Jim thrum with warmth around his body.
Sebastian was writhing again, whispering against the floorboards. "C'mon..."
Perhaps a middle road, then. Sherlock withdrew his hand, spared a moment to
reach for the bottle and coat himself, and in the meantime leaned down... and
sank teeth into the tender flesh of Sebastian's side between his ribs and his
hip. His intention was merely to do something small to balance out the ways
Sebastian might be disappointed, as Sherlock was certain he wouldn't have the
heart to match Jim in viciousness.
He knew the bite was a mistake as soon as blood hit his tongue. Sherlock wasn't
thinking clearly, or he would have recalled just how this same impulse had
gotten him in trouble before, even if it was out of compassion this time
instead of anger. His hands moved to Sebastian's hips and his jaw clenched
tighter for just a moment. Sherlock moaned low in his throat, and after a
moment of stillness he moved like a flash, straightening up, aligning them, and
pushing in more quickly than he'd originally intended.
Sebastian groaned and didn't have much time to react, but Sherlock felt his
hips rise and shift to accommodate the burn. He nearly turned, but was hindered
by his shoulder, lancing pain sending him down again, flat on his stomach while
the jostling motion, the tightness and clench of his muscles rubbed all around
Sherlock. It was a nice view, too. Sebastian hadn't bothered to dress warmly
for his midnight excursion, and though he hadn't removed his shirt, it was very
thin. Sherlock could see every line of his back and arse. Strange, that a man
such as this could be beneath him, that Sherlock could be inside him, and such
a contrast from Jim who, while unquestionably male, was small and...rather
pliant.
For all that Sebastian was graceful, he wasn't as flexible as Jim. His legs
weren't spread as wide, and Sherlock had to shift a bit until he found a
comfortable position. The feel of the body in front of his was also undeniably
different. Where Jim was trim, Sebastian was solid, all hard and densely packed
muscle. Sherlock found himself incredulous for a moment not only that had he
managed to subdue this man, but that Sebastian was allowing this even after
Sherlock had released him from the bonelock hold.
Sherlock started off slow. Nice as the view was, he found himself wishing he
could see the other man's face. After all of Sebastian's leers and scowls and
attempts at intimidation, it would have been refreshing to watch him come
undone like this.
He could hear Sebastian's breathing turn laboured, and it didn't sound like
pain. Even though Sherlock hadn't been inside him long. Even though his
shoulder had to be in agony. He turned his head like he'd done earlier, trying
to look back at Sherlock, but the pain in his shoulder wouldn't allow him to
get more than halfway before he had to stop with a hiss of breath. His hips
shifted, rocking back against Sherlock every time he thrust. As much as
Sebastian could, mobility limited.
This time Jim wasn't still. Sherlock could feel the tingle of him running down
his neck, over his back, around his waist, caressing and urging Sherlock on.
Slowly Sherlock sped up, vaguely hypnotized by the sight and feel, the
knowledge of who Sebastian was and the things he'd done... the patterns of
scars visible on his exposed skin, and the slight trickle of blood from the
bite mark above his hip. He ignored Jim's whispered urgings, the temptation to
go faster and just take. This wasn't about Jim, or what Jim would have done; it
was about himself, and gaining back some sense of control and power in his
life, and he didn't want Sebastian to think of Jim and himself as the same. He
wanted his own control, desire for himself, and not just to be an extension of
the ghost living inside him.
Eventually Sebastian's breathing began to shift, becoming more vocal, and
Sherlock couldn't resist any longer. He wanted to see, and wanted the other man
to see him as more than a half-glanced outline. Sherlock stilled and pulled
out, then tugged on Sebastian's hips. "Turn over."
Miraculously, Sebastian obeyed, and without protest. Even in spite of his
shoulder, which twisted roughly as his weight shifted, carrying him smoothly
from his front to his back. He couldn't hold back a shout of pain, even if he
could force his body to obey him. But it was over soon enough, and there was
the man who'd been haunting Sherlock's flat just as insistently as Jim, who'd
never let his nerves rest any moment they were in the same room, who looked at
Sherlock like he wanted to eat him alive and acted like it, too. And for once
he was lying on his back, beaten and compliant.
Sebastian reached for Sherlock with his good arm.
Sherlock snarled and caught Sebastian's wrist. Fingernails dug into the skin.
"Did you forget what I told you already? You don't touch unless I tell you that
you can."
Sherlock's other hand raked nails down Sebastian's chest and stomach, then
reached down to align them together again. "Legs up. You can wrap them around
me if that's easier, but don't try to control it, or there will be
consequences." Sherlock's hips snapped forward again and he smiled at the hitch
of breath that followed. "...if you want to touch, you're going to have to
ask."
One moment of silence later, after Sebastian's hips lifted and his legs bent to
wrap around Sherlock, he spoke. "Can I touch you?"
Sherlock had never heard his voice like that. It was low, but gone was the
mockery, the niggling challenge, the fight for dominance. It was just as he'd
asked, a question without pretense, simple and straightforward. Sebastian
wasn't begging, not as the term usually implied, but for Sebastian, this was
submission. His fingers curled and flexed, his breath came heavy outlining the
muscles in his chest and abdomen every time, but he was staring at Sherlock, at
Sherlock's nudity, and there was desire in his gaze.
Sherlock didn't reply for a long moment, thrusting slowly while he watched
Sebastian. It was both a matter of wanting to tease the man by drawing the
moment out, and because Sherlock wanted to record this for later - Sebastian's
exact expression and tone, how he was fidgeting with impatience and desire.
Sherlock was still shocked that he hadn't had to fight the man into submission
more than he already had.
Finally, Sherlock inclined his head. "You may touch, until I tell you not to."
Sherlock saw Sebastian's stomach tighten before he saw anything else, and then
Sebastian was lifting himself up, teeth clenched at the pain, but reaching out
for Sherlock all the same. His hand met Sherlock's side, large fingers wrapping
into the dip of his back, thumb caressing the slant of his hipbone in the
front. And then Sebastian was right in front of him, legs braced and stomach
taut to keep his balance. Sherlock could see every ridge of his old scars,
every line in his face, every individual hair of stubble and brow. The hand at
his hip moved up to his back and Sebastian's lips parted. "Can I kiss you?"
Sherlock's eyebrows rose. Whatever he'd expected from Sebastian, this wasn't
it. Not after all their other interactions. It was almost unnerving to see the
face and form he'd associated with aggression and violence suddenly turn so
submissive and affectionate... or as submissive and affectionate as a man like
him could get. Sherlock stroked a hand up Sebastian's side and felt a slight
stickiness when his palm grazed over the bite mark.
Sherlock didn't respond with words. He fell on Sebastian instead, hungrily
pressing their mouths together and picking up the pace of his thrusts. For
once, Sherlock felt like he actually was in control.
Sebastian held that way for an impressively long time, even rocking back
against Sherlock as much as he could, but gradually he began to sink back down,
gravity at work without an arm to brace himself. He pulled Sherlock with him as
he went, mouth still hungrily pressed against him and unwilling to let go until
Sherlock was bent over him. Sebastian's body was like a furnace. Sweat dripped
at his temples, and that detail] as much as his occasional groan told Sherlock
how he was struggling against the pain. But there was pleasure, too. His breath
hitched when Sherlock thrust. He clenched tight and rose to meet Sherlock every
time, easier now that they were in a better position for it.
Jim's presence still hung in the air, but he finally let Sherlock take over.
Sherlock had to slow down every now and again to keep this from being over far
too soon. Sebastian was all heat and exquisite pressure, and even when he was
this willing there was still an undertone of danger. Sebastian could still hurt
Sherlock if he'd really wanted to.
Sherlock took his time exploring and observing. He leaned most of his weight
onto one arm, leaving his other hand free to sneak under the hem of Sebastian's
shirt and map his skin. His focus sharpened, noting every change in Sebastian's
reactions when he altered the angle of his thrusts, touched in a certain way,
let a hint of teeth or tongue into a kiss. Eventually Sherlock's hand wrapped
around the cock trapped between their bodies.
That was when he felt Sebastian stiffen, felt him buck up in earnest and then
wince as it moved his shoulder, only to do it again a second later. He was
gripping tight to the pleasure and ignoring the pain as best he could.
Sebastian couldn't block it out the way Jim could, the way Jim did it had been
unnatural when he was alive, but Sebastian could take it. He could endure for
the sake of something better. Even if his hand gripped Sherlock tighter,
latching onto the back of his neck, growling every time they broke apart.
Whenever Sherlock took a moment to read his expression, he looked desperate.
Desperate was exactly what Sherlock wanted. If Jim was associated with the
unreachable, with pleasure and limited affection that only came with a generous
dose of pain, Sherlock wanted Sebastian to regard him differently. He wanted to
be the counterpoint, accessible so long as Sebastian played by the rules. He
could fill desires that Jim wouldn't... so Sebastian would come back for more
and let Sherlock retain control. After feeling completely powerless for so
long, he craved power over someone, and Sebastian would do nicely.
Sherlock paused just long enough to spit into his hand. When his fingers closed
around Sebastian's cock again, he started moving with single minded focus,
stroking in time to the thrust of his hips.
Sebastian's eyes twisted shut at the pleasure before he seemed to realize what
he was doing and opened them again. His mouth fell open, but no sound came out.
He had in fact, besides grunts and his entreaties to touch Sherlock, been
nearly silent. Instead he let Sherlock read into his body language and see his
expressions. But he was becoming more vocal now, hitches and grunts that turned
into whines. Deep as they were, they were definitely whines.
Sherlock felt Sebastian's grip tighten before he felt anything else. He saw
teeth clench and then Sebastian's whole body was clenching, arm be damned, as
his legs locked around Sherlock and an iron grip pulled him down, pulled him
closer, harder, faster. And then Sebastian was coming, slick between Sherlock’s
fingers, and the man's head fell back, back arched, body frozen in motion.
Sherlock drank the sight in and felt a heady rush of power, and then he was
following, buried as deeply as he could get in the body clenched around him. He
bit back a moan and his arm finally gave way. Sherlock collapsed atop
Sebastian, heedless of the sweat and cum, and took a few moments to catch his
breath. The man still hadn't let go of him - not with the hand gripping the
back of his neck, or the legs circling his waist and locking them in place.
Pleasurable lethargy tugged at Sherlock, but he resisted. He still had
something more to do, one more thing to try to set the dynamics between himself
and the blond for the future. He attempted to move off of Sebastian without
much luck. "Let me go and stay here," he finally muttered. "I'll be right
back."
He saw pale lashes blink dazedly out of the corner of his eye. Sebastian's
chest was taking in deep breaths of air beneath him, still disoriented enough
that he didn't react at first. He gave a grunt of confusion, but when Sherlock
tugged again, Sebastian's fingers loosened and he slipped free. Sebastian,
however, remained exactly where he was, sprawled out on the floor, arms wide by
his sides, trousers kicked away, legs bent and open. He looked wrecked and his
eyes never left Sherlock.
Jim still swirled the air, though his presence has quieted considerably. In the
last minutes, they'd barely felt him.
Sherlock hesitated in the doorway, glancing back one more time before heading
downstairs. The image followed him, and Sherlock only paid half attention as he
walked to the bathroom and cleaned himself up, then gathered supplies. A few
minutes later and he was trudging back up the stairs with a small armful.
Sebastian was still where Sherlock had left him, if slightly less dazed.
Sherlock gave him a pleased smile as he returned to the man's side and set out
the things he'd gathered. "Let's get you cleaned up and back in order, shall
we? You get a choice. I can either put your arm back with, or without, pain
medication." Sherlock took the damp washcloth he'd brought with him and began
washing off Sebastian's stomach, but his gaze barely left the man's face.
"Which do you want?"
Sebastian gave a choked laugh. "Really don't think it matters at this point.
Just reset it, I'll take the pills later." He moved just enough to allow
Sherlock better access, sitting up again with a struggle that showed on his
face. It looked like it was getting harder and harder for him to move without
showing signs of pain, leaving it like that for as long as he had. He allowed
Sherlock to crouch beside him, watching his hands as he touched the shoulder,
finding whether the humerus had been pushed forward or back. He didn't make a
sound, but Sherlock could see the pain written into every groove in the man's
face.
Sherlock felt around until he was confident that no other tendons or ligaments
had gotten trapped in the space between the joint and humeral head. "I'm going
to do an external rotation. Try to relax."
Sherlock gripped Sebastian's arm, bent the elbow, and started to slowly rotate
it. Muscles began spasming in the blond's arm almost immediately. Sebastian was
certainly in pain, but was bearing it well. The sharp hiss of his breath
through his teeth and a grunt every now and again were the only sounds he made.
Sherlock kept turning, gradually lifting Sebastian's arm up higher, and it
finally popped softly back into place.
It came with a shout and a gasp, but afterward, Sebastian looked relieved. His
head tipped back and rolled tentatively before he tried the same with his
shoulder. It moved well enough, though his face contorted in agony. "This is
gonna be stiff as hell for a few days." More than that, Sherlock knew. He
probably wouldn't be able to move it at all. It was going to swell and he'd be
left with a massive bruise.
However, if Sherlock's point had gotten through, he would have lots of time to
rest and let it heal.
Sebastian, finally, lifted his gaze to Sherlock's. Startlingly blue eyes stared
at him with an unreadable expression, almost as though Sebastian were remapping
his face, like he needed to reassess Sherlock after what he'd just done.
Sherlock gave him a flicker of a smile. He cracked an instant ice pack, wrapped
it in a towel, and pressed it to the reddened muscles that were already
starting to swell up, then grabbed Sebastian's hand to have him hold the pack
in place. "Lucky for you that Jim needs a few days to get the next job ready.
Just don't be foolish and try to move it too soon, or you'll be down one arm
for the job."
Sebastian was still staring. Sherlock stared back, trying to read what was
going on in the blond's head.
"...you didn't think I was capable of bringing you down?"
The muscles in the man's jaw worked, not quite sure himself how to explain.
"Didn't think you'd be...like that," he admitted. It wasn't just what Sherlock
had done to his shoulder, it wasn't just that Sherlock had overpowered him, it
wasn't just that Sherlock wanted to be in control... It was all of those things
together, that Sherlock had wanted control and had taken it, by force, with
Jim's blessing. Sebastian breathed in and out again before he looked
imploringly back to Sherlock. "You in on the job, then?"
He and Jim had been working online for days, but it seemed Jim hadn't
preemptively assured him Sherlock's participation.
"To be fair, I didn't think you'd be like that either," Sherlock countered,
ignoring Sebastian’s attempt to redirect the conversation. His expression
flickered for a moment as memories of what they'd just done resurfaced in his
mind, including the image of Sebastian spread open and desperate. "...and yes,
the plan at this point is for me to join you. I haven't been given the details
yet."
Sherlock's gaze fell to the open patch of flooring between them. Sebastian had
to know that Jim was unhappy; the spirit had hardly been subtle about his
displeasure and boredom, and with the way he and Sebastian worked through Jim's
computer, Jim could very well have been complaining directly. What Sherlock
didn't know was whether Sebastian was aware of what would happen if Jim wasn't
mollified.
"You look like you're on your way to a funeral," Sebastian said, grabbing for
his trousers.
Sebastian would have to have been an idiot if, after Jim had killed himself
once and tried to kill Sherlock, he didn't think the spirit capable of doing it
again. And Jim...Jim himself wasn't exactly thinking in those terms. He
recognized that if he became too despondent, he was bound to lash out and not
care as to the consequences, but it didn't sound like he was openly trying to
hold it over Sherlock's head. It begged the question of whether Jim's
manipulations were wholly intentional or not. He seemed to be that way by his
very nature.
"I might very well be." Sherlock watched Sebastian dress without a hint of
self-consciousness for his own bare skin. He'd never found nudity much cause
for embarrassment; the human body was what it was. People would judge
regardless of appearances. Far better to worry about ill intentions than
anything else. "Jim didn't enjoy the case. It possibly even made him feel worse
than he has been."
Sebastian paused, standing, and frowned. The gravity wasn't lost on him. "Least
he enjoyed the show," he said finally, with a half hearted snort.
Jim hadn't left, precisely, but it was more difficult to feel him than it had
been minutes ago. What he was doing during these times was a mystery, whether
he was floating listlessly or whether his concentration had moved to another
space, or into himself and his own mind palace. It was impossible to say, other
than for the moment he'd left Sherlock and Sebastian as alone as they were ever
going to get.
"He did, but he wasn't the only one." Sherlock stood and watched Sebastian try
to fiddle with the fastenings of his trousers one-handed. "He might have given
some encouragement at the beginning, but it was my decision." He decided not to
mention that Jim had practically gift-wrapped Sebastian, given his blessing and
the directions needed to manipulate the man into giving himself over. The
gunman was a means of consolation after the strain of their situation.
"Right. Well. Looks like I'll be staying in tonight." There was a smile on
Sebastian's lips, an almost secret one, although what they'd done was no secret
at all. "And I feel like a movie. Don't think I can sleep." The smile widened
and as he moved past Sherlock, he bent to pick up his lighter and a cigarette
he'd carelessly left on the nightstand. He tossed one last look at Sherlock
over his shoulder, one that said Sherlock's presence wouldn't be unwelcome,
before his boots descended the stairs.
Sherlock spared a glance around the room. Aside from the new belongings and the
slightly damp spot on the floorboards, nothing had physically changed. The
structure of the room was still the same, all the angles and planes that he
remembered. Still, Sherlock felt like he'd just tainted the older memories of
the place now. It was no longer John's old room, where he'd used to come watch
his flatmate sleep, or touch his belongings when John was away. It was no
longer even the empty, echoing space that had represented the void in his life
like a spacious tombstone.
It was now Sebastian's room. Sebastian's room. The room full of weapons and the
slight smell of musk and cigarettes and gun oil. The space in which Sherlock
had just fucked someone. If one was technical about it and had very rigid
definitions of what acts "counted", by some measures it was now the location
where he'd lost his virginity, at least in the physical realm.
Sherlock steadied himself against the wall, took a few deep gulps of air, and
started making his way down the stairs to his room. If he was expected to be
social and bond with Sebastian, he didn't want to be cold while doing so.
Once he was dressed he found Sebastian had taken over the couch. Spread out
over it as usual, he had one arm behind his head and the other, the one
positioned a little more tenderly, holding the lit cigarette up to his mouth.
It glowed bright orange before his eyes cast up to find Sherlock and then back
to the TV. Some alien horror movie. Sebastian looked like he was perfectly
relaxed aside from the ice pack resting on his shoulder, but for once there
wasn't any accompanying smirk or hard stare to his acknowledgement of
Sherlock's presence.
Sherlock could only hope this would last.
He ignored the smoke and the way it sent cravings lancing through him. He
grabbed a couple patches from the box he left on the mantle, slapping them on
before he settled down into a slouch in his armchair. If he was annoyed by the
way Sebastian had monopolized all the space on the couch, he wasn't going to
show it. He sure as hell wasn't going to draw attention by forcing the man to
move, either.
Sherlock tried to pay attention, but he quickly got bored. The movie was trite
and easily predictable, lacking any real innovative ideas or charm. Worst
still, it committed the sin so prevalent in science fiction: a complete lack of
understanding of basic scientific principles and facts. Sherlock found himself
muttering criticisms every time a law was violated or stretched to
improbability.
His little diatribe was lost on Sebastian, however, as the next time Sherlock
looked over at him, he was fast asleep, snoring lightly exactly the way he'd
been sitting. At least the butt of the cigarette lay in embers inside his empty
coffee mug. He hadn't even made it halfway through the film. Sherlock was
nearly rolling his eyes when he felt Jim's presence come back to him like oil
slipping into his veins. It was sudden, one moment he was alone and the next he
was not. But Jim seemed content to remain quiet. All Sherlock felt of him was
the hairs at the back of his neck brushed lightly on an unheard breeze. It felt
like Jim was edging in and nuzzling up close, needing Sherlock's presence in
some inexplicable way.
Sherlock rolled his eyes at Sebastian. Sleeping like that was bound to give the
man a stiff neck as well as a stiff shoulder, but Sherlock wasn't about to wake
him and order him to move. He turned off the telly instead and padded off
towards his room. He could feel Jim draped over him, coating his skin and
twining around his body before sinking in.
Sherlock felt less upset than earlier, slightly less trapped, but nothing was
solved yet. He wouldn't start to be back on solid ground until he gave their
test-run job a try and saw how it panned out, for himself and for Jim. For now,
they were back to a tense sort of truce, even if it was one that held
pleasures.
"Is this your version of an apology for earlier? Or was Sebastian my
consolation prize?"
"Hasn't anyone ever told you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?" Jim
chided. "My present to you, yes, but to be a part of us, not for consolation.
Unless you must think of it that way. Still, I know you wanted it." Jim quieted
as Sherlock shut the door and began to get ready for bed, until Sherlock was
lying flat on his back with Jim's presence a heavy weight under his skin. Jim
sent strange sensations through his body when the spirit moved, and Jim seemed
to be studying the way it affected him. Relentless curiosity, the way he
whittled at people just to see what it would do, as natural as breathing.
It wasn't a surprise, then, that he kept testing Sherlock's limits. Not even
out of cruelty, but because it was a hunger and an impulse he couldn't resist.
Jim had much in common with young children at times, pulling the wings off
dragonflies and turtles out of their shells and not understanding the full
repercussions that might follow afterwards.
"I did," Sherlock admitted. He pulled the covers over himself and settled down,
and thought once again how strange it was to feel someone there but not be able
to touch or curl around them. "And it was appreciated." Appreciated, but not
all he wanted. Jim couldn't have missed the hurt nestled in Sherlock like a
stone. Aside from his concern for his own skin, he was disappointed in his
failure, and insecure in the fact that he wasn't proving to be enough to keep
Jim in a happier state of mind.
He felt Jim's prodding stop. The room spanned out in their silence, Sherlock's
light breath too small in the cavernous wake of it. Jim had not missed his
treacherous little wish.
Instead of the oily weight of smugness Sherlock was so accustomed to, he felt a
small warmth in the center of his chest, emitted by Jim, strong enough to
become just shy of an ache. "I would have us be one if I could," Jim said
softly, "To live inside your mind and mine, together with whatever we created,
whatever we wanted, to make the world anything we could imagine, beautiful or
terrible, without any of this, this..." Dull. Wretched. Life. "I think that
could be enough for me. But knowing a world outside of that exists, I could
never let it be." The pressure stopped when it neared too close to pain. "It
isn't that you aren't enough."
Sherlock closed his eyes. In the dark, lying like this, if he didn't pay
attention to some of the details, how the covers weren't wrapped around another
body, how the touch didn't stop at the boundary of his skin, he could almost
pretend Jim was there, pushing with the heel of his palm against Sherlock's
chest.
He wondered where Jim's palm even was—if his brother knew which government
bureau had swept up the remains into storage, or an unmarked grave somewhere.
The thought cut into him, and so he dismissed it to contemplate another time.
"Take me down. I've had enough of being awake for today."
He felt Jim's smile as vividly as though it were on his own face before his
eyes drooped with heaviness and then he felt nothing at all.
***** Chapter 16 *****
Chapter Notes
     So close to the end guys, only one or two chapters left! Thanks for
     reading! (And I'll try to catch up on replying to the comments asap,
     we read every one. Thank you so much!)
Serlock could hear the shore.
He heard the sound of waves lapping upon land, and feel the hard grit of
densely packed sand under his back. When he opened his eyes, there was Jim,
sitting with his knees up in old jeans and a loose tshirt, smiling down at him.
The sun was warm, and so was the sand, tempered only with just enough of a
light breeze to make Sherlock feel comfortable. Just as comfortable as it
seemed Jim was becoming with his childhood summer home. But they were alone
here now, and this place was only a backdrop.
Jim scooted up close, headless of the sand on his palms and all over his side
as he laid down next to Sherlock, head propped up on one hand and the
other....reaching out to press over Sherlock’s chest. Right in the middle. The
corner of his mouth lifted. "Would this be enough for you?"
Sherlock gave Jim a slight smile in return. Gull cries echoed faintly in the
distance. "I'd have trouble saying for certain. The leisurely country life has
its charms, for sure, particularly when paired with the right companions. I
haven't tried it, though."
Sherlock's toes dug into the sand and he turned his head. Beyond the outline of
Jim's body, he could see where the beach trailed up into manicured green plots
and little pathways and the trees that surrounded the country house he
remembered so well. "I always had the intention of eventually retiring
someplace a bit like this. Some sort of partially secluded farmhouse where I
could continue to experiment and do whatever I wanted without disturbing the
locals. Keep bees or chickens or something quaint. I'm not certain if it'd
eventually drive me mad or not. I didn't think I was going to live to retire at
quite a few points in my life."
Jim's smile was wide and bemused, listening to Sherlock's idle daydreams. He
followed where Sherlock's eyes led, seeming to enjoy the fantasy of it himself
for a time. "It wouldn't all be sunshine and meadows, you know," and that was
where a hint of a smirk came to his lips, "Our minds are not always
so...governable as that. You may think you're in control of your own mind
palace, and for the most part you are. But spend enough time here and the
subconscious will come out to play. The part of our minds that control every
detached 'what if', every unconscious imagining that shows up in our
nightmares, every intrusive path of logic we follow through to conclusion, no
matter where it leads, that is as much a part of this place as your retirement
home. Think of it. Anything we could imagine. The greatest mysteries of all
time, played out right here. Nothing would ever fall short because nothing
would ever be created by anything less than our own minds. Not a dull moment
again." Jim fingered a curl of Sherlock's hair, smiling.
Sherlock considered. It was considerably more difficult to think with Jim's
fingertips just barely stroking enough for him to feel it. "Hmm. So eventual
madness for certain. I don't think I'd weather the darker parts of my
subconscious all that well once they surfaced and refused to go away." That was
the thing about nightmares: one could always wake up and escape them unharmed.
With normal dreams, at least. If any of the late night terrors that had plagued
Sherlock throughout his life proved to be as real as Jim's actions were, with
repercussions carrying over to the waking world, he'd not survive. "And that's
besides the danger that I'd simply get lost and waste away."
Jim closed his eyes. "I wish you would get lost with me."
It was interesting how much control Jim demanded over the real world when he
had to live in it, especially when all he seemed to want to do was throw it
away for something better. He was, perhaps, too competitive to let it go and
simply hide away in his mind. He had to give up the real world completely in
order for him to let it be. Control freak.
Somewhere up at the cabin a wind chime tinkled on the breeze. Jim took a deep
breath and let his fingers rest against the back of Sherlock's scalp. Jim
wanted to feel him there, as solidly as was possible.
"I'm not done with the world outside, yet. I don't know everything I want to
do, but I'm not done." Sherlock's gaze turned and rested on Jim, who was still
shuttered tight, eyes closed and concentrating on touch. There was an unspoken
fragility there that broke through the last of Sherlock's residual anger. Jim
looked ghostly against the ocean sun - a delicate Irish spectre that was going
to burn away into mist if they lingered too long.
Sherlock sat up and took hold of Jim's other hand, tugging gently until Jim
opened his eyes again. The edges of Sherlock's mouth curled upwards ever so
slightly as he got to his feet and pulled Jim with him, turning them back
towards the summer house.
Patience did not come easy to Jim, but he had managed it when he needed to.
More than, when his ambitions had been set on something. Sherlock had seen so
while he was alive. His ambitions must still have been set on Sherlock now, for
he followed with only a sigh of the warm air and lazy, trudging feet.
The house was empty when they reached it, as both knew it would be. It was
theirs now, no longer would the absence of Sherlock's family haunt him here.
Light spilled in through the windows as easily as it did outside. There were so
many. Jim let Sherlock lead, for once relaxed and present in the moment. Maybe
the sun had gotten to him. Maybe he was enjoying this while it lasted.
Sherlock took time to survey the blank interior. His brow furrowed while he
searched through his memories, seizing upon different shapes and remembered
textures. He looked away, and when he looked back a few pieces of furniture had
filled some of the gaps. None of them matched; they were piecemeal copies of
different memories roughly combined with a bit of raw creativity and dropped
into the space.
Still, they were functional. Sherlock tentatively settled onto a spot on the
new sofa. It didn't collapse or disappear, but neither did it feel like one
might expect from its appearance.
Jim, instead of finding or making one of his own, drifted to Sherlock. When he
sat, he barely left any space between them at all. His hands found their way
into Sherlock's hair, one on either side of his head and Jim closed his eyes,
letting them rest. Everything Sherlock was getting into out in the real world
hovered around them, like a palpable thing just beyond the walls of this room.
It was waiting to be acknowledged, but it seemed Jim didn't want to. He would
want to tomorrow, when they were back in the waking world, but he didn't want
to now. It might have been for Sherlock's sake, and it might have been for his
own--for it could only serve to sour Sherlock's mood. So instead, for once, Jim
said nothing.
Sherlock let himself be held and pet for a minute or two. Rather than relaxing
into the touch, his gaze on Jim's face was wary. Jim's hunger for physical
contact was very different from the brooding, heavy atmosphere he'd been
generating earlier that day. Sherlock wasn't quite sure how to interpret the
change, or whether this was a signal that Jim was feeling as fragile as he was
himself. Looking out over an abyss of self-destruction wasn't conducive to
generating high spirits and feelings of security, after all.
Eventually, Sherlock tugged Jim closer and pulled him into his lap. "...what is
it? You've been looking at me like I'm going to disappear."
Something pulled at Jim's lip, almost a smile. "You've agreed to join me on a
test run. Finally. But I know better than to put all my faith in it. Hope is
not a thing I carry in spades." Funny, how Jim should begin to distrust
everything as soon as it was taking a very tentative turn his way. "I think
you'll enjoy it, but then again you thought that I would enjoy chasing
dullheaded thugs all around town. Not," he interrupted before Sherlock could
speak, "that that was necessarily your fault. I just loathe waiting in
uncertainty."
Sherlock tilted his head in consideration. "Few things in life are ever
certain. There's a matter of probability, but that's as much about hedging your
bets as stacking the deck in your favor." He watched Jim in silence for a few
heartbeats, his expression oddly guarded. "...I can't make any promises, other
than that I am trying, and I will approach the test run with an open mind.
You've made it very clear what it would mean to you."
Jim did smile then, a reproachful one aimed at himself. "That I should need to
be told how little is certain.... Look what you've done to me." He paused. "Oh
yes, I know, it wasn't you. It was all me." Jim's hands dropped from Sherlock's
hair and Jim himself pulled back and dropped into the nearest armchair, feet
kicked out in front of him. Until he decided that was too great a distance
between them and scooted closer, scraping against the hardwood floor. "You'll
just have to forgive me for being a little....touchy." His fingers wiggled and
danced, illustrating the point, until they settled on Sherlock's forearm.
Grey eyes followed the digits curling around Sherlock's limb. With Jim's hand
draped as it was, the size difference between them was all the more apparent.
The smaller man's fingers curled and snagged on Sherlock's sleeve, but this
wasn't Jim's usual almost-predatory hunger and obsession. Sherlock blinked and
wondered how it was that the two of them were so alike and yet so different; he
couldn't begin to say what had cause this shift in mood in the criminal, and
what it meant. "...I don't mind when I don't feel forced. What happened earlier
wasn't rejection, it was frustration. I don't like feeling controlled or backed
into a corner and given no options. You tend to... ask in the wrong ways."
Jim's head rolled to look at him. For a moment their eyes held. Jim's
expression was unreadable and his mind unfathomable. Sherlock may have laid his
cards down just then, but he at least had the knowledge that likewise, here,
his mind was as closed to Jim as Jim always was to him.
"How would you like me to ask?" The silence broke, but Jim didn't move. The
scene around them seemed strange for this kind of conversation now, gulls
calling outside, chimes sounding softly from the patio, the warm light
streaming in all around them.
Sherlock wouldn't have wanted to admit it, but even now that he knew Jim a bit
better, something about his eyes was always slightly unnerving, regardless of
what expression they were set in. Jim's mannerisms were currently mild, even
soft, but that meant nothing.
"I'll put it another way: you're used to dominating, forcing, and manipulating
to get your way, out of habit, because that's what's been most effective and
fulfilling with other people. Those same tactics won't work on me, not for the
end results you want." Sherlock's eyes trailed over Jim for insights as to what
he was thinking, but the man was as still and closed as a mirrored box,
revealing nothing of what was going on inside. "I've had a lifetime to learn to
hate people who try to force, dominate, and manipulate me towards their own
ends and pleasures. When you ask for things, there has to be more leeway for me
to choose. Less of a tone of threat, and more of a sense that I'm being treated
as an equal."
"I know," Sherlock raised his hand and stopped Jim before he could reply. "I
know that you've said that we're equal, that we're the same. You've said it,
but you've not always acted in accordance. If our positions were switched and
I'd behaved the same, I think you would have attempted to murder me by now, and
damn the consequences."
"I'm giving you a choice this time," Jim's face contorted into a scowl. "As
much as I can. You fear I'll go mad and end us both. I don't want that to
happen, but it is a valid fear." Jim's mouth soured, like he was about to say
something he found distasteful. "I didn't want this. I didn't want to be here.
All I have is what I can take. I can't...leave it to chance." His head dropped
to rest against his own arm, considering Sherlock. He seemed to be having some
degree of internal battle. The way he stared, how slowly he spoke, Jim was
resting on a scale that could go either way, but he heard Sherlock. "I'll try."
"Trying is all I can ask for." Sherlock watched carefully, measuring his words
and hesitantly stepping out onto thin conversational ground. Jim was trying to
meet him halfway and go outside of his well-shielded comfort zone. The least he
could do was the same. "But that's what I'm trying to tell you. I remember very
well how disappointed you were to wake up like this, still here. And how
disappointed you were with me. I'm also aware that, trapped as I feel, you're
trapped in similar ways via your dependency on me. You're just as put off as I
am by limitations and another person having enough control to deny you what you
want or need."
Sherlock hesitated, then reached out and covered Jim's hand with his own where
it still rested on his arm. "You'll have better luck at getting more if you
don't try to forcibly take, if you leave a few issues up to chance, if only in
regards to me."
Jim's head didn't move from his arm, but he looked up at Sherlock with a note
of skepticism in his eyes. But that wasn't all that was there. Sherlock saw his
jaw work, chewing his lip in a nervous tick. Jim would find it incredibly hard
to leave something he was set on to chance. Pushing aside the want and pulling
on a veil of neutrality for someone else's sake was so far from his nature that
Sherlock could almost see how much it pained him.
But again, he spoke quietly. "Alright."
Sherlock felt Jim's pulse steady, felt his fingers flex and grip back. Jim
looked at their hands with a blank enough expression to suggest that he was
unused to holding hands with Sherlock. Or the idea of it, anyway. Funny, how
prickly he was in some areas. He liked to touch. He liked to be touched. But
contact that had traditionally constructed meanings around it seemed unnatural
to him outside of his false personas.
Sherlock tried to stifle the smile Jim's discomfort caused, then aborted the
effort; covering up reactions was just a different sort of lie, and Sherlock
was trying to stop all the barriers and pretenses between them that was causing
them to be on the edge of destroying one another. He gave Jim's hand one last
brief squeeze, then let go. "...so, you didn't seem to like that. What would
you like?"
Dark eyes locked on Sherlock's face, and he licked his lips. Sherlock was aware
that he was standing on a ledge. After asking Jim to trust him enough to try
being vulnerable and asking, rather than taking, it wouldn't encourage him to
continue to trust if Sherlock immediately turned down his requests.
He saw only one side of Jim's mouth curve, the rest hidden by his sleeve. Jim
let the moment last, eyes dropping to Sherlock's chair and sliding back up
before he replied. "I'd like to sit on your lap again." The smile crinkled the
corners of his eyes, but he didn't move. He seemed to be asking now, proving he
understood the point of Sherlock's complaint, whereas before, he would have
just got up and planted himself there whether Sherlock was expecting it or not.
And the odds leaned toward not.
Sherlock's features slackened a bit in surprise, but he didn't speak a word of
refusal. He nodded once, more of an acknowledgement that he'd heard the request
than anything else. "That's more than fine with me." The fingers of one hand
crooked, an invitation for Jim to come closer and place himself where he
wanted.
Jim's smile spread into a smirk as he lifted himself from his own chair and
with one step brought first one leg up over Sherlock's hips and then the other,
resting them between his thighs and the arms of the seat. They'd been close
before, leaning across the space between them, but now Jim practically
flattened himself up against Sherlock, hands sliding over his shoulders and
down his chest before Jim drew in. Sherlock felt the tickle of the man’s breath
and the near palpable focus of his eyes, lingering on Sherlock's face no matter
which way his body moved, until Jim was nestled up against him, merely inches
apart.
"I like this better," Jim said with a twitch of one slim brow.
Sherlock was speechless for a moment, pupils blown wide and fixed on the man
who'd just slithered over the boundaries of his chair. The position wasn't
unfamiliar, and only a very subtle piece of their interaction had changed, but
that change was making all the difference. Instead of worrying about which way
Jim was going to choose to violate his autonomy and boundaries, Sherlock was
trying to predict what Jim might choose to request next... and hoping.
"So do I," Sherlock finally breathed, once he realized he'd been staring at Jim
in silence. Jim's smirk only widened. "Do I get to touch you, or am I supposed
to keep my hands to myself?"
Jim's teeth made an appearance. "I would like to touch you, if you wouldn't
mind," he said softly, almost merrily. Somehow this was a conversation now,
negotiating the terms of the encounter they were about to delve into. It was
odd, hearing Jim speak like that, but it was what Sherlock had asked for. Even
if it didn't seem to sit right within reality because this was Jim, he at least
sounded like was making the effort. His fingers walked up Sherlock's sternum to
finger at the top buttons of his shirt, slipping one free and then another, so
slowly, before he bent to press his lips to Sherlock's collarbone.
Sherlock's gaze turned half-lidded, but he didn't take his eyes off of Jim. Or
at least, he tried. When Jim moved closer Sherlock arched to give him easier
access - tacit, wordless permission. Jim's attention was having a marked effect
that he couldn't have failed to notice, sitting as he was. Sherlock shifted,
suddenly uncomfortable now that pieces of his anatomy were trapped at awkward
angles. Jim still hadn't answered his question, either. Sherlock's hands
gripped the chair's arms on either side until his knuckles turned white.
"As much as I enjoyed watching you with Sebastian, I did miss having you to
myself," Jim whispered as he parted the buttons down Sherlock's chest. He
pulled up the rest of the shirt from Sherlock's trousers to get the last, and
Sherlock saw his smile curl when he glanced down. Jim parted the material just
as slowly as he'd removed the buttons, draping it carefully to either side of
Sherlock's torso. His breath teased against Sherlock's collar, and he knew
exactly what he was doing because he was deliberately didn’t touch yet. Until
he bent down, and shimmied his hips up just a bit, presumably to make sure he
was secure, but it rubbed over Sherlock's lap in all the right ways. Finally
his mouth pressed to Sherlock's shoulder and his hands felt to the soft skin of
Sherlock's stomach. Jim explored like Sherlock might have changed since he'd
been with Sebastian, like he could find the difference if he only looked.
"Would you like to touch me as well?" The question floated up soft and
unexpected.
Jim's explorations produced a choked sound from Sherlock; the arms of the chair
actually creaked. When Jim looked up a flush spread across Sherlock's pale skin
and his lips parted. Jim had barely started to touch him and yet he already
looked partially debauched. Truly, he'd come a long way from the frightened and
reluctant man he'd been only a handful of weeks ago. "Yes. Yes, I do. It's...
very difficult not to, when you're doing this."
Sherlock felt a huff of air, Jim's laugh, against his sternum before a pair of
thumbs dipped between the jut of his hip bone and the waist of his trousers. A
very sensitive spot. Jim licked his lips when Sherlock shivered and did it
again before drawing up. Face to face, Sherlock could see just how much Jim was
enjoying this. And he was, surprisingly. To be fair, they'd barely tested the
waters of their new agreement, but it hadn't put Jim off yet. Not like holding
hands had.
Jim kissed Sherlock, starting slowly, almost chastely but for the darting of
his tongue, before he pulled back. "Then you may."
Sherlock was practiced at being subtle with many things, when he put his mind
to it, but this wasn't one of them. The moment Jim gave permission, Sherlock
let go of the chair. He pulled Jim closer, hips canting slightly, and even that
quickly proved insufficient. He fumbled to catch up with his own partial state
of undress, tugging at Jim's shirt and seeking out warm skin underneath.
Sherlock could both feel and hear Jim's laughter in response. "I'm that
amusing, am I?"
"I remember not so long ago how you felt about this sort of thing. And now....
Twice in one night. With two different people. Kinky, Sherlock." He felt the
curve of Jim's lips against the corner of his mouth. One of Jim's inky eyes was
watching him in amusement. Before Sherlock could hesitate, however, Jim's
thighs parted, pressing his weight down and against Sherlock's crotch. Even Jim
gasped at that. One of his hands came up to grip Sherlock's hair like he
thought he could hold on that way.
Whatever Sherlock had wanted to say in reply, Jim had driven the words out of
his head. The sting was still there, but Sherlock's gaze was drawn to the curve
of lips parted in a gasp, showing just a hint of teeth. He could feel the
tension in his scalp where Jim had latched onto his hair and the slight scratch
of his nails. Jim was untouchable while he was awake, but here was where they
were on nearly equal footing. Here was where Jim could be touched, physically
and otherwise, and where he was vulnerable by virtue of permitting such a
thing.
Sherlock clung to the body atop him. It didn't matter how reticent and
disgusted he'd initially felt about this. What did matter was that he no longer
felt the same, partially through experience and partially through the passage
of time, processing, and becoming more secure with the revelations of his own
identity and desires. He didn't look at Jim anymore and fear being taken
against his will, or consider the possibilities with a sense of shame and skin-
crawling aversion. Sherlock had grown to want touch.
Dark eyes closed and Jim's temple bent to his while Jim worked at the fastening
of his own jeans. He was quick about it, getting them open and lifting himself
in a way that was too fast to be entirely awkward to shove them down his legs.
He'd been barefoot on the beach, a strange thing to see, but not unwelcome. It
saved time here. The shirt went over his head next, and then Jim was sitting,
in all his naked glory, in Sherlock's lap again. He wore only a smile,
satisfied in the way Sherlock's eyes took in his skin, warm and bright for the
first time in the midday sunlight. This....shouldn't have been Jim, Jim did not
live in sunlight like that, but somehow it still was.
Perhaps it made a difference that it was their sunlight, in the same way that
everything else here was their own. Sherlock took a shuddering breath and let
his gaze flow over Jim's body like a caress, noting every line and curve, the
way his pale skin almost glowed in stark contrast to the inky blackness of his
hair. Light caught on Jim's eyes and, for once, their true color showed: dark,
intense brown, like earth that had never before been touched by the sun
suddenly pulled from hidden depths. Sherlock’s expression must have shown
something of what he was feeling because Jim's smile grew a little wider, a
little more crooked.
He looked like he wanted to say something, preen under the attention, maybe,
but instead he leaned in close and just followed the movement of Sherlock's
eyes with his own, seeing if he could get Sherlock to follow him. Like a snake.
It worked until Sherlock realized what he was doing, but Jim chuckled and
kissed him before he could stop. And then Jim's hands were at Sherlock's
trousers, unbuttoning while his hips rocked just below, encouraging the growing
hardness there.
"I'd like a taste of you now," Jim whispered, Sebastian flashing through their
minds for the briefest moment.
Sherlock made a strained noise deep in his throat, flushed, and nodded. The
image that had passed between them was more than fine with him.
His thoughts didn't stop there, however. Jim's fingers worked quickly, taking
care of the cloth barriers between them, but when Jim stopped at the bare
minimum he needed to get what he wanted, Sherlock shook his head. Jim stood
briefly while Sherlock hooked his thumbs into his waistband and shimmied
awkwardly out of his trousers and pants, kicking them off with his shoes as
quickly as he could. Memories of Sebastian bent over in front of him had merged
with other memories and sparked a desire Sherlock hadn't expected to feel
again. Or ever.
At Jim's raised eyebrow, Sherlock felt his mouth go dry. He licked his lips and
finally managed to force the words out. "...I want to try again."
The words hung in the air until they settled into Jim almost visibly. "Come
then." He took Sherlock's wrist and led him back through the house, not to his
former room, not to his parents' room, not to his brother's, but to one that
might have been a guest room. It was difficult to remember. Jim had changed
something about the house because the room he led Sherlock to shouldn't have
been the master bedroom and yet it was, light and pristine with windows on
either side as wide and as tall as the rest of the interior. They could see the
ocean from there, the very beach Sherlock had woken upon. But Jim turned him
away from the glass and drew him toward the bed instead.
The points where Jim's hands touched him felt hot. Sherlock let himself be
guided to a sitting position on the bed. He actually swayed a bit at that small
loss of pressure as Jim let him go, his body trying to reclose the gap between
them. Sherlock was reminded, of all the ridiculous images that could have come
to mind, of magnets - one hungry, grasping object being put in close contact
with an inert, indifferent one until the hunger spread through charges and the
two clung together.
But then Jim leaned in again, he tipped his head up and they kissed. Sherlock's
body reacted to him all on its own now. Jim barely had to do more than give him
a look, lean a certain way, suggestive in body or mind. Even out in the waking
world he could send a touch skittering down Sherlock's spine and get an instant
reaction. Jim backed him up on the bed until he found the pillows, until he was
all but pressed between Jim and the headboard. Jim seemed to like that. He drew
Sherlock's arms up, splaying them out like he intended to tie them there before
he nipped Sherlock's neck and let them fall again. His hands wandered down
Sherlock's hips. His knee spread Sherlock's thighs. Jim explored like that
until Sherlock's breaths filled the space between them, then bent to the night
stand and found a bottle he'd no doubt put there himself.
Sherlock was already breathing a bit too shallow. He'd asked for this, he
wanted this, but he was still nervous. Even knowing what to expect this time,
how it would feel and that the burning sensation would pass. Part of him feared
that he'd lose heart halfway through again.
He grabbed onto Jim as the man turned back, before he'd even had a chance to
start using the bottle in his hand. The way his arms encircled Jim and the
short puffs of breath against his neck communicated everything that needed
saying without a single word passing between them. After a few moments Sherlock
finally let go and shifted his legs a little wider.
Jim bent over him, held up by one arm, but he didn't reach to open the cap yet.
His face had gentled, a look on him so rare. Sherlock had seen that expression
on him only a scant few times at all. His thumb stroked Sherlock's cheekbone
and swept through his hair, face unchanging before he went back to the bottle.
Jim understood. He knew how Sherlock felt, and what he was asking.
The slick fluid warmed between Jim's fingers as he coated them and rubbed it
into Sherlock's skin. It was almost a massage at first, Jim's hand starting
between his thighs, running under the base of his cock, down his perineum and
back and forth, making Sherlock squirm with a hint of what was to come, and
ending where he intended. Then more fluid, and the process repeated.
If Jim was aiming to drive Sherlock a bit mad, he was succeeding. Pressure
along his perineum was teasing - almost enough to stimulate his prostate, but
not quite. The result was a slowly building desperation, with Sherlock's focus
narrowing down to a very limited portion of his anatomy. His skin became
sensitized to the touch. When Jim's fingers started circling, giving a limited
pressure that was never quite enough to penetrate, a visible shiver ran through
Sherlock and he reached down to grab onto Jim's shoulders. His voice was quiet
enough that when he finally spoke in a whisper, Jim almost missed it.
"...please."
He saw Jim's lashes flutter closed before he felt the fingers circle again,
feeling before breaching him. In taking away one of his senses, Jim focused
only on the touch of his hand on Sherlock's body, in Sherlock's body. He moved
so slowly, but Sherlock felt every inch give way until Jim's finger found what
he wanted, what he'd been teasing at before. When Sherlock's spine arched and
his hips shifted, Jim smiled, still not opening his eyes until he pressed a
second finger in, joining it with the first and sliding up to that sweet spot
again. When Sherlock arched the second time, brown eyes opened to see his face.
Sherlock was laid open, in every sense of the word. Unlike the previous time
they'd tried this, there wasn't any underlying hesitance, nothing covered up by
bravado or aggression. Nothing that was drawn up from old memories and used as
a mask. Sherlock stared back at Jim with half-lidded eyes, just the barest ring
of grey still visible around his pupils, and there was only want. Sherlock was
still adjusting to the slide of the digits inside him, but his hips rocked up
against Jim's hand every time it moved.
Jim coveted the expression. It was all for him now, the way Sherlock looked at
him. And Sherlock saw how much he wanted that, how much he'd craved it for as
long as they'd known one another.
Jim was patient. They had time, here. This was their dance, this was Sherlock
wanting him, and Sherlock knew he drew it out because he wanted that, too. He
wanted to hold onto that look on Sherlock's face. But soon enough a third
finger had slipped between them and Sherlock's hips were getting more
insistent. Jim knew he was ready, but he pulled out almost reluctantly. Slowly,
methodically, he leaned back to coat himself as Sherlock watched, legs spread,
waiting, and then drew himself over Sherlock's body.
Jim fitted between his thighs easily, rolling his erection against Sherlock's
in a burst of stimulation that remained unsatisfactory, just not enough. He
hovered over Sherlock's mouth, wanting to kiss but refraining until he drew up
one of Sherlock's thighs and lowered himself, lining up, and sliding slowly
inside.
Sherlock's cock twitched against his stomach and his lower lip trembled.
Preparation made this easier, but this was about more than simple physics and
anatomy. Propped against the headboard like he was, Sherlock could partially
see himself being penetrated. His body clenched around Jim, who'd just leaned
forward those last few millimeters and pressed their lips together. Sherlock's
arms slid around Jim, holding onto him like he was the only thing keeping him
centered.
He could hear Jim whine, a sound caught inside him while their mouths where
fitted together. He could feel it just as easily as he felt Jim inside him,
pushing up and up until their hips fitted together. He felt every inch of it.
It felt like Jim could go no farther, like there was only that much of him to
give, until Jim pulled Sherlock down several inches and rocked forward.
It burned, but perhaps not as much as the first time, and the angle Jim moved
him into helped. It didn't, however, help Jim's composure. His mouth had
dropped open, and Sherlock could feel him tremble as he began to move his hips.
Sherlock gasped as Jim began to set a slow rhythm. The angle would have seemed
awkward to contemplate, with his legs drawn up higher and causing his spine to
curve, but everything seemed easier. There was less resistance, but more than
that, he could feel Jim thrusting deeper than he previously would have thought
possible. The combination of that and the way Jim was looking at him made
Sherlock feel pinned and utterly exposed. He wanted to burn that expression
into his memory.
Jim's fingers dug so hard into his hip it hurt, but Jim didn't seem to be aware
he was doing it. His hair had gone into disarray between the wind of the beach
and Sherlock's own hands. A drop of sweat, bright in the sunlight glistened on
his temple. He looked more like Richard Brook than ever and yet he was still
utterly Jim Moriarty. Just...in a way that no one had seen him before. Possibly
ever. No one but Sherlock. And no one had seen Sherlock this way either,
although not quite in the same way. No one had had Sherlock this way was more
accurate. And Jim loved that. He loved that Sherlock wanted it that way. It
made Jim press as deep and as close as he could, trying to devour Sherlock's
mouth until he reached to stroke him in time.
Jim's fingers closed around him and Sherlock whimpered in earnest. His eyes
slid shut and his legs tensed, which only pressed Jim into him even more.
Sherlock could feel every inch, Jim's hand perfectly synchronized with the
thrusting of his hips, and his mouth was equally demanding. Jim's tongue was
suddenly there, tasting and all but fucking his mouth, and Sherlock moaned and
thrust back against him.
That this was of his own free will, of his own desire, made all of the
difference. Jim had exactly what he'd wanted for so long, and Sherlock...
unexpectedly found that he was enjoying it far more than he'd thought he would.
Jim's free hand caught the headboard to steady himself. It was the only thing
apart from the increasingly desperate thrust of his hips that kept him upright.
And still he sank against Sherlock as much as he could. He pressed his temple
to Sherlock's and fell into the rhythm and sensation. The world around them
blurred, coming in and out of focus, too bright, the ceiling went missing and
plumes of white clouds rolled overhead. The breeze came through even when the
roof righted itself again. Jim was too lost and so was Sherlock to maintain
these things, even subconsciously.
Their surroundings fell apart, piece by piece, until there was only the two of
them, the bed, and the void. Sherlock gripped Jim tight enough that his nails
drew blood. Neither of them noticed. Jim was hitting the perfect angle at
nearly every other thrust, his hand moving even more quickly, and Sherlock's
eyes were starting to roll back into his head. Jim was driving all coherent
thought out of his head and filling it with himself - his presense, his body,
his touch, the panting whines right next to Sherlock's ear.
Sherlock didn't want it to stop.
It had to, eventually. They both knew it. But the sensation building up inside
of Sherlock was exquisite, and Jim was warmth and heat and want. Sherlock drew
him in and Jim could no sooner slow down than he could pull away entirely. He'd
wanted Sherlock too long and too desperately. Too much lay poised ready to fall
apart in their future to let a second of this go to waste.
"Sherlock," Jim whispered. It came out in a whimper and he buried his face in
Sherlock's neck.
This was the Jim who'd watched Sherlock sneaking into the pool, who'd hoped
they could know each other someday. It didn't matter on what side of reality
anymore.
"Jim-" Sherlock's voice turned into a cry, and the way his body suddenly tensed
was Jim's only warning.
Sherlock arched and wet, sticky heat spilled over Jim's fingers. White noise
filled Sherlock's ears and the edges of his vision dimmed, but he could still
feel Jim. Jim, who was tucked as close as he could possibly get, panting
against his neck and driving into him even as his orgasm was beginning to fade
and turning everything almost painfully sensitive.
Jim let him go as stars flickered, grew bright, and died all around them, but
he didn't stop his thrusts, not until Sherlock opened his eyes again, brows
drawn tight with sensation, overwhelmed, lips bruised red and parted, a sound
close to pain wrenched from his lungs, and then Jim was coming inside him with
a cry of his own. Three more snaps of his hips to ride it through and he
stilled, chest heaving, trembling, unwilling to let Sherlock go as even the
galaxies faded. Everything faded. The world grew dim, until it was only them,
no sheets, no blankets, no bed, but comfortable and warm just the same.
Sherlock clung to him, shivering despite the warmth. He could feel echoes of
pleasure rippling through him, sparking off through his nervous system like an
afterimage that lingered behind the eyes when overwhelmed with light. They were
both slightly damp with sweat, and Sherlock could feel stickiness around Jim's
hand where it was still trapped between them, but he didn't want to move.
One of Sherlock's hands eventually slid up Jim's back and tangled in his hair.
It caused Jim to nuzzle into him, too tired, too relaxed to do anything more.
If they had been able to make time stand still, they would have done it here.
They could have been anywhere. Jim's face fell in shadow. Sherlock could barely
see the rest of him. When he at last drew his head up again, his eyes were
their normal black pits, like Jim carried windows into this void of theirs with
him wherever he went. If anyone were to ever to get close enough, they might
have been able to see this place. Jim would have sucked them in. Just like he'd
done to Sherlock.
With a smile he curled his fingers into Sherlock's hair in return, then ran
them down his jaw, and landed at his sternum. Jim laid his head down against
Sherlock's chest, breath finally steady. "Don't wake me up."
"I'll try not to." Sherlock's muscles were finally starting to protest,
however. He lifted Jim and wriggled just enough to get into a more comfortable
position, and Jim slipped out of him. He resettled with the smaller man draped
atop him like a blanket. The blackness around them was utterly quiet, utterly
still, the distant points of stars gradually flickering back into view.
Sherlock watched their reemergence and quietly stroked fingers through Jim's
hair.
He didn't know what to say. Sherlock didn't know that there was anything to be
said. He'd been slowly losing pieces of himself to Jim, and this was only the
latest. He could only hope that he was getting pieces back, before he ended up
hollow - a cavern with a very particular dragon curled tight inside him and a
small pile of shards of his former self clutched tight in its claws.
***** Chapter 17 *****
Chapter Notes
     Just one more chapter to go after this. Thanks for sticking with us!
It was another week before Jim was ready with an undertaking he deemed worthy
enough of Sherlock's attention, a week in which he went between periods of
restless moodiness and manic, intense planning sessions with Sebastian or
marathons of sex with Sherlock. Jim craved it.
Sherlock could tell that he was worried, that he was nervous Sherlock would not
take to his side of the game just as he'd not taken to Sherlock's, and that had
much to do with Jim's desperate bids for Sherlock's touch. Part of Jim must
have been sure that he was about to lose it. Perhaps not right away and perhaps
not all at once, but if their plan failed, if Sherlock did not want to work
with Jim and did not want Jim to work out of his home, then they would be
forced into a standoff.
Jim's mood was infectious and had put Sherlock on edge. He'd followed through
with their agreement--giving control over to Jim and letting him handle
choosing and planning the job he wanted Sherlock to try, but it was difficult
not to try to interfere. He stopped short of questioning Sebastian or going
through Jim's laptop, and he refused to broach the subject when Jim sought him
out at night. Words weren't going to be much assurance to either of them at the
moment. There was nothing to be done but to wait and see.
Sherlock spent increasing amounts of time on the rooftop, aggressively
practicing and physically working off pressure in a way that he couldn't with
his mind right then. Training as if he could force the upcoming job to be a
success through effort alone as if preparation for dangers on the job would
also save him from the possible dangers that would follow.
Jim's goal in itself was simple enough. Now that "Moriarty" was back in the
public light, supposedly alive, it was time to come to collect on old dues.
Those who'd moved in the circles he created back then now needed to be
convinced to return, and there was no better way than following up where he'd
left off.
One such person was a man named Henry Kingston, a London banker, not a rookie,
but not a real player in Moriarty's prior schemes. Someone who had never shown
up on Sherlock's radar as more than an acquaintance. Kingston had been part of
a drop network and no more. The way Moriarty worked anonymously online had been
mirrored in real life when dealing with goods and funds of varying degrees of
legitimacy, and he'd kept that network as separate as was possible from his
true work. Those who worked to pass money for Moriarty knew the name, but never
anything more.
Occasionally, however, something would go awry, as it did the day after Jim
died. Kingston was supposed to receive a drop of 500,000 US Dollars and pass it
along, but after the sudden demise of the network's employer, several of the
jobs Moriarty had in motion fell into disarray. One such piece that had gone
missing during that time was Kingston's package, and now it was time for Jim to
come calling.
They needed to determine if Kingston took it for himself, handed it off to
someone else, either the next drop in the chain or someone outside of the
organization, gave it to the police and ratted Jim out--because Jim's name had
surfaced along the line somewhere, or never even had it to begin with, and that
was where Sherlock came in.
Once the bare bones of the plan was revealed, Sherlock's role made perfect
sense.
Kingston wasn't going to give them the information they needed through a simple
show of force or intimidation, and if he was still a viable tool, he was
valuable. Too valuable to break by having Sebastian dig the information out of
him using other methods, thus putting him out of commission and drawing
attention to him as a former pawn in Moriarty's network, legitimate or not.
Subtlety was needed, and subtlety was what Sherlock was going to deliver.
Sherlock and Sebastian sat side by side on the couch, facing Jim's text
streaming across the laptop screen and running through the stages of the plan.
Kingston wasn't a true mover in the banking industry, but he had climbed the
ranks enough to have gained a taste for the pretense of being one... and a
subsequent addiction to high stakes betting, whether that was in stocks and
bonds or by popular methods of gambling. He'd bought himself a membership to
the Colony Club and was a frequent customer. It would be easy enough for
Sherlock and Sebastian to gain access separately.
"It goes without saying that we need to be careful of the security cameras, but
if we're going to do this, we need to enter separately at the beginning."
Sherlock turned and looked Sebastian in the eye. "In order to be convincing,
your surprise should be genuine. Achieving that will be easier if you don't see
me before you begin to confront Kingston. He'll be less likely to think me
another agent if it's clear we've never seen one another before."
Sebastian nodded. He'd taken to working with Sherlock easily enough, even
accepting suggestions from him, Sherlock's own particular brand of suggestions,
without complaint. Something they surely wouldn't have been able to accomplish
before the encounter at Sebastian's window. No matter how disdainful Sherlock
became now, Sebastian didn't bat an eyelash, nor did he try to vie for
dominance. Sherlock, for his part, softened his tone, fractionally, whenever
Sebastian levelled him with a cool gaze.
"You'll have to keep watch after I approach him. His body language will tell
you when to interrupt," Sebastian added.
On screen, Jim gave the affirmative.
Their plan was twofold. They didn't want to make a scene. They did want to
intimidate Kingston, but just enough to work with what they had after they
determined where the money had gone. Sebastian and Sherlock, acting as
Moriarty's agents, could easily bring him back into the fold right then and
there if he had remained loyal. If not...Sebastian would take care of him.
Either way, word of Moriarty's tying up loose ends would get around.
"That will be easy enough. You'll have to trust me to be able to manipulate him
into going into one of the private gaming areas where we'll have more of an
advantage and won't have to worry as much about being overheard. You'll have to
watch for cues from me, as there will be points where it might be more
advantageous for me to be alone with him, or at least have the appearance of
being alone. You should be able to tail us without much trouble."
Sherlock spared a glance at the building blueprints Jim had brought up on the
screen. The open layout of the architecture was both an advantage and
disadvantage; it was unlikely that they would run into privately hired
security, either by Kingston or another party, but it also put Sebastian at
more risk for recognition and would make their situation far more difficult
should Kingston decide to risk making a scene.
Sebastian nodded again. "Only likely if he was loyal after all." There wasn't
much chance Sebastian, who was meant to put pressure on Kingston from the
start, would leave the vicinity should Sherlock determine he'd given Moriarty
up to the authorities or had taken the money and run. If the opposite were
true, however, Sebastian's continued presence might make Kingston nervous.
They had a limited space to work with. The Colony Club consisted of a full bar,
a restaurant, and roughly 20 gaming tables, but the place was popular. And
patrons were under close scrutiny. They would have to make their movements
between groups seamless.
Jim continued to write out instructions for them. Their plan had two outcomes.
Either they wanted Kingston to rejoin Moriarty's network, and tell others what
he'd encountered that night, or he would be taken out back, as the saying went.
Sherlock would have to lure him away from the crowd and the cameras and then he
and Sebastian would have to incapacitate him and remove him from the premises.
His body would turn up later, and Moriarty's name would follow.
They would complete the undertaking the following evening and though it
wouldn’t be particularly complex in and of itself, really Jim was starting
Sherlock off with a simple job, they still had to be coordinated.
Once Sebastian and Sherlock had gone over the outcomes, all that remained was
to make their preparations and get ready. Sebastian's gaze followed Sherlock as
he got up from the couch, much as he'd watched him during the past few days,
but Sherlock ignored the look. He could feel Jim twined around him again, and
with his own unsettled nerves Sherlock only had enough energy to focus on
soothing himself and the spirit. Sebastian would have to wait until after the
job had been completed and things settled down.
And Jim, Jim was unusually intense, even given the desperation of the last
week. Sherlock found the spirit’s hunger more nerve-wracking that comforting -
it reassured him that Jim wanted this to work, but at the same time revealed
the his doubts. It felt entirely too much like a frenzied goodbye.
===============================================================================
Sherlock awoke the next morning sore, stressed, and wishing time would pass
more quickly so he could simply get the job over with.
Rather than drive himself mad cooped up in the flat until it was time to move,
he left to wander London. Somewhere between grabbing a late breakfast at a
street side cafe and watching passersby in Regent's Park, the thought surfaced
that John would be disappointed in him. For a great many things, but
particularly in aiding Jim and Sebastian to continue their work. It almost
startled him.
But John wasn't there anymore, either in the sense of being in the immediate
vicinity or being involved in Sherlock's life. His phone was silent, even with
the doctor knowing of Sherlock's recent supposed assault. John had been giving
him space. But without Sherlock's presence serving as a reminder, John Watson
was growing distracted and forgetful in his new life. Sherlock no longer had
his moral compass.
What he did have was Jim. Jim who remained a thick presence wherever he went
now. Whether the spirit was speaking to him or not, Sherlock could feel him. He
was sure it had to do with Jim's heightened emotions bleeding into his presence
and making him incapable of subtlety. To Sherlock, anyway. Sebastian only felt
it when Jim got out of control. Other people he passed on the street didn't
seem to notice at all. It was like having a very real imaginary friend.
Sebastian, as much as he would have loved to stretch his legs, was waiting for
him back at the flat. On Jim's instructions, Sherlock picked up clothes for
him. They needed to blend in the crowd.
The night couldn't be delayed forever, and finally Sherlock stood and returned
to the flat with the few packages. Sebastian wasn't the only one with new
purchases to help the job go more smoothly.
When Sherlock entered, he found the man pacing in the den. "We need to get
ready," Sherlock stated, crossing the room to hand over Sebastian's new
clothing. "We should have plenty of time, according to what we know about
Kingston’s habits, but I also can't leave until you do. I'm assuming you've
already arranged for transport fit for the two of us, because I don't
particularly want to take a cab back at the end."
"You'll ride back with me. I'll keep us out of sight." There were a few ways
Sebastian might plan to accomplish that, but it would not be their biggest
obstacle. He took the package Sherlock handed him with barely a glance, his
attention lingered on Sherlock instead, and went to change.
Sebastian's scrutiny came from a number of reasons. Not only had he never seen
Sherlock take part in such a farcical setup, never mind uncertain how Sherlock
would handle the situation should they have to murder their target, but
Sebastian had never worked with Sherlock, at all. It had been a long time since
Sebastian had worked with anyone. And Jim was in Sherlock's head. They all
would work as a team, but ultimately, it was Sherlock and the spirit who would
call the shots. Jim would lay down the plan; Sherlock would either accept it or
reject it.
Sebastian would give his input as needed, and work with what he was given.
Altogether, it made him look at Sherlock a little more like he'd looked at
Sherlock the last time they'd been together. A little like he might have once
looked at Jim.
And Jim didn't seem particularly worried about that either. All his attention
was reserved for Sherlock as Sebastian left the room, rummaging through the
shopping.
Sherlock wasn't worried about Sebastian's performance or aptitude. He wasn't
letting himself worry about the outcome of the job either, at least in terms of
how he was going to feel about it. Worrying wouldn't do anything to alter what
was going to happen. Making certain that he was giving the job his utmost
attention most certainly would. Their success, and what they might have to do,
hinged on how well he could read and manipulate their target - or at least it
did in the event that the man hadn't already sold Jim out.
Sherlock needed to be convincing, and to be convincing he needed to slip into
someone else.
He'd already picked out the exact character he was going to portray, and the
appearance he'd need to supplement the mannerisms and attitude he was going to
adopt. Sherlock walked back to his room to gather up what he'd need from his
kit. He ignored the way the rustling in the bathroom paused as he walked by.
Sebastian hadn't bothered to shut the door and Sherlock caught a flash of lean
torso out of the corner of his eye as the man stood, hand at the buckle of his
trousers.
Jim's touch curled at the back of Sherlock's neck, urging him on even if he
didn't need to be reminded to avoid distraction.
They readied as quickly as they were able. Sherlock could hear Sebastian
finishing first and gathering his things in the sitting room. He would clean up
well in a tailored suit jacket and fitted shirt, but there was little hope of
disguising the scars across his cheek and forehead. He had assured Sherlock
twice that unless his photograph was out in the general public, he could pass
in a crowd, even in close company. Jim had seen Sebastian work before and could
at least vouch for such a bold statement. And Jim would take care of the
cameras.
It wasn't long before Sherlock heard the swish of a coat, quick footsteps
descending the stairs, and the front door bang shut.
Sherlock sighed and moved from bedroom to bathroom with his own clothing and
makeup supplies. He normally dressed to a particular effect, but tonight was
going to be different. His clothing was going to speak to more than confidence,
taste, and awareness of his own appearance; he was going to ooze the barely
restrained aggression and rampant, entitled ego so typical in certain ranks of
businessmen. He needed to sell himself to Kingston first as a potential ally
and voice of reason before the other shoe dropped and Kingston realized he had
nowhere left to run and could hide nothing.
Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock put on a new coat he'd bought for the occasion
and left the flat. Everything he needed was secreted away in several different
pockets. All that remained was to catch a cab and start the game.
Jim's low thrum of approval washed through him on the ride to the exclusive
casino, but the spirit refrained from saying much at all. Silence remained
Sherlock's company as they travelled south, near to the river and amidst the
throng of traffic.
The place wasn't new to Sherlock--a trendy, long standing meeting ground for
several former clients. Jim did not seem to hold any particular sentiment over
the casino and, as Sherlock had come to know him, it was difficult imagining
the former criminal was one of its frequent faces.
By the time he arrived, the sun had long descended and the night crowd had hit
the streets in full swing. Even in the chill, short dresses and pressed slacks
bundled into winter jackets thronged around Sherlock as he made his way across
the street and into the club, no sign of Sebastian.
A flash of his membership card at the door was all it took to enter. The Colony
Club wasn't as exclusive as it pretended to be; there were no invitation
hurdles and networking requirements to gain entry. Once you could bankroll the
one-time membership fee, you were in.
It showed in the clientele, as well. All were well-dressed, some exceedingly
so—it showed in the flash of cufflinks and the whiteness of smiles, glittering
earrings and sprayed on suntans, but there was little of the extravagance one
could find at the extremely private clubs attended only by the highest rungs of
society. These were aspiring social climbers. They came here to see, be seen,
network, pretend to be living their dream life, and to bet... but not too
steeply.
Sherlock began walking the rooms, scanning the crowd and keeping an eye out for
Sebastian while slowly migrating towards the bar. A murmured word with the
bartender and a note passed him a gin and tonic, purchased as a prop than
actual desire for a drink.
Still Jim remained silent. His presence had receded into the background of
Sherlock's awareness, small and subtle, but there if he reached for it.
The lay of the club was not optimal for comfort, with low ceilings and an
ovular bar as the centerpiece, a theme repeated throughout the restaurant and
overhead the gaming tables. The intimate lighting and condensed area did,
however, give them a semi-secluded space to work with should they need to move
Kingston into a corner.
Kingston, as Sherlock finally spotted him, did not stand out from the crowd. He
was an early greying man who currently sat at the blackjack tables with an
unfortunate way of leaning heavily into his seat with his shoulders hunched. It
made him appear more piggish than not. Still, he looked to be doing moderately
well for himself in regards to the game.
The table played another round of hands before Sherlock spotted Sebastian
moving through the crowd. Not directly toward Kingston, but circling well
within view.
Sebastian cleaned up well.
Sherlock could see at not so far a distance that the man had been right to
downplay the effect his facial scars would have on a crowd during their
planning earlier. He seemed perfectly at home, leisurely moving from one table
to the next. It was a certain trick of genetics and personality, the way his
whole face could open up, the deep grooves around his eyes from stress and sun
and the scars from much worse would melt into his persona and become something
far more flattering than not.
Sherlock was very conscious of just how much a difference small details made.
Lighting, posture, body language and expression, the right clothing - all could
combine and drastically change the impression one gave off. Even with that
knowledge, Sherlock couldn't help but watch with some amount of admiration. An
admiration that wasn't in any way diminished by Sebastian's failure to
completely disguise the military clip in his step. If anything, somehow that
added to the allure.
Kingston either wasn't skilled at criminal games, or he'd fallen out of
practice. The man continued to focus on the cards and table in front of him,
oblivious to the rest of the room and the danger striding closer with every
second.
It wasn't until they were collecting their chips that Sebastian made contact.
He did so smoothly, just as Kingston was scanning the room, making steps toward
another table, and then Sebastian was at his side, snapping the man's attention
to him with a very unsubtle comment by the look of things.
To anyone else, the two men might have known each other. Sebastian walked in
stride until Kingston stopped and paled. Sherlock could see from where he stood
that the man looked stricken as Sebastian continued to speak with a friendly
enough expression, one hand touching the back of Kingston's arm to lead him
away from the tables just so, but the words were kept just between them and
Sherlock could be sure that he was delivering nothing less than a threat on the
man's life in regards to the debt owed his former employer.
Sherlock waited a heartbeat or two, then called up the persona he'd built and
slipped it into place. He strode towards the two men with the absolute
arrogance of those who were used to power and luxury, those who never took 'no'
for an answer. Sherlock couldn't see himself, but he could feel the difference
it made - an aggressive tension in his shoulders, lines of cruelty around his
mouth and eyes, a slight tilt to his head and a predatory cadence in his step.
"You gentlemen will have to pardon me for butting in," Sherlock interrupted
with a brittle smile that didn't reach his eyes, not apologetic in the least.
"The tune sounds familiar. Just what seems to be the problem here?"
Sebastian's eyes widened, not an act. He was taken aback by Sherlock’s new
appearance, the dark clothes, the way his hair slicked back, straight and
sweeping from his temples to the nape of his neck, the way the look set his
eyes sharper and his brow angrier. Even his shirt was undone to expose his long
stretch of throat and collar. In short, he looked like a rich, smarmy, cruel
version of himself and nothing at all like the posh detective that occasionally
graced the front covers of the London news stands.
Kingston was equally thrown off guard, but from the way his eyes darted to
Sherlock, any interruption to his conversation with Sebastian was welcome. If
there was a chance Sherlock’s arrival could get him out of Sebastian's sights,
he was about to take it. "Ah, just, a misunderstanding I believe. From a former
associate of ours who believes I owe him something, which I don't." Kingston
looked beseechingly at Sebastian, whose eyes narrowed. Kingston couldn't
exactly go about explaining he owed the late Moriarty a large sum of money,
least of all why.
"Who are you?" Sebastian cut in.
"Someone in the network," Sherlock countered smoothly, eyes cold and
calculating as they darted between Sebastian and Kingston. He turned his
attention to the latter, openly sizing him up in a matter of seconds. "...I
think I remember hearing about you. One of the Barclays contacts, working in
wealth and investment management. Coming up on your 10th year there, aren't
you?"
Kingston's round jaw worked before he thought to reply, "Yes! Yes, in fact I
am. And if you were part of the network, then surely you can vouch for my
credibility." His beady eyes sought Sebastian's as though he were about to be
vindicated. He'd taken the bait. Sherlock had him talking now, openly, or just
openly enough. So long as he didn't implicate himself in Sebastian's eyes or
anything even worse, Kingston would find a degree of camaraderie in Sherlock's
presence. "I mean, of course none of us knew one another, not officially. But I
was, well, I was part of the West side leg of the route, as it were. Five
years, and you'd have heard word of it yourself if the guys upstairs had any
odd questions about me, right?"
"Five years until the day he died," Sebastian cut in, shifting his own weight
in a mild display of authority. His eyes flashed back to Sherlock every other
second, perfectly wary of the newcomer.
"And what makes you think I had anything to do with that?" Kingston rounded
quickly before lowering his voice, "The drop never even made it to me before we
found out and everything went to hell." But he was sweating. And rushing.
"None of us in financials had the means to get involved in something like that,
even if someone was stupid enough to want to kill business." Sherlock was
watching both men, but he'd shifted ever so slightly, aligning his shoulders
and hips parallel to Kingston. A subtle message, but clear: he was siding with
the banker. Sebastian's unfriendly, suspicious look settled on him, and
Sherlock made a show of straightening into a stiffer, defensive posture.
"Mistakes in the chain of trade happen, and they happened even back then. If
there's a misunderstanding, I'm sure we can clean it up. Rocking the boat too
much is bad for business. ...so is retiring valuable oarsmen."
Kingston raised his brows and his drink to that, a clear burst of relief
written all over him. Sebastian had yet to look convinced, but this had
bolstered his hopes.
Sebastian smiled in return, but it wasn't kind. He had eyes only for Kingston
now, and took a step into the man's space, lowering his voice. "500 grand
doesn't just go missing, and I've looked through every hop in the chain. That
was a nice vacation you took the year after, wasn't it? Bali, am I right?"
Kingston's hackles raised. "How can I convince you? If he is back.... well,
you're going to have a lot of these problems to follow up on, aren't you?" He
seemed to flounder for a moment, looking to Sherlock and then back to
Sebastian. "You can't prove anything. Bali isn't so extravagant when you do it
frugally."
"I can prove you were in talks with the Met only weeks after," Sebastian
countered, smile plastered to his face. "I know they had reason to enter your
flat. Did you sell us out?"
Kingston paled further.
"Gentlemen, I suggest we take this off the floor," Sherlock interrupted, giving
both men a razor-thin smile. "It's rude to block traffic around the tables, and
rudeness gets noticed, which is something I think we'd all prefer to avoid. I
happen to have paid access to one of the private gaming rooms."
Kingston tensed and looked like he was considering his escape options. Sherlock
regarded him with a raised brow. "I'm sure there's a perfectly valid
explanation for all of this. It isn't as if a number of contacts didn't get
questioned when things got shaken up."
Sebastian did his best to look thoroughly displeased at this turn of events,
which Kingston picked up on. He looked to Sherlock as though for reassurance,
as though having Sherlock there with them would save him from Sebastian's
judgement.
"Alright."
Sherlock led the way, Kingston stiff between himself and Sebastian. He caught
the barest hint of a smile at the blond's mouth before it was gone. It had been
meant for him. Sebastian was enjoying himself. Or about to be.
Jim, however, remained reserved.
Sherlock didn't break character. He walked with confidence, pretending that
there was no question that Kingston would follow. It was quite possible that
the man would have bolted, if not for the fact that Sebastian was right behind
him and preventing escape. Kingston was still operating under the assumption
that he was going to get out of here unharmed, or else he wouldn't have agreed
to move to a room with fewer eyes and possibly intervening hands.
Sherlock had no such confidence. It was plainly obvious that the banker had
sold Jim out, and portions of the network with him. What remained to be seen is
what had happened to the money, who Kingston might be linked to in law
enforcement, and how much damage he'd done. As soon as Sherlock extracted the
information, Sebastian was unlikely to leave him alive.
As far as guilty men went, Sherlock generally did not feel much in the way of
sympathy, and Kingston was no exception to this. A banker could destroy more
lives more completely than one armed thug on the street. What preoccupied
Sherlock's mind was what would follow; a high profile murder would be noticed
and had the potential to bring an investigation to his door.
Overlooking the rest of the club there were spaces for private game and meeting
rooms, rooms where the high stakes deals went down, and Sherlock led them to
the one he had paid for, followed by Kingston followed by Sebastian, who locked
the door behind him as soon as it closed.
"Much better." A genuine smile drew slowly over Sebastian's face as he crossed
his arms, noticeably blocking the door. "I think it's about time to come clean,
don't you?"
Kingston turned in surprise at Sebastian's surety, which, to be fair, was a bit
of a bluff, but they would find out soon enough.
"For all of us." Sebastian’s blue eyes moved over Kingston's shoulder to settle
on Sherlock, just as Sherlock felt a spike of Jim's anticipation.
It took Kingston a moment for the blond’s words and body language to sink in.
When they did, the man turned, horror filtered into his face. Sherlock stared
back blankly, still and lifeless as glass. He let that expressionless mask
linger for a moment longer before his features turned into a predatory grimace
that only vaguely resembled a smile. He had used it to terrify interrogation
subjects before, and it had precisely the effect he was hoping for. Color
drained from Kingston's face.
"I wasn't precisely lying. I had heard of him, and I am in the network, but
never anyone he's happened to meet. Probably for the best. He panicked and sold
out everyone he knew as soon as Moriarty's continued existence was in question.
Probably wanted out even before then, but didn't want to risk the consequences
- not until he thought there might be a possibility to get away free from
consequences on either side." Sherlock's head tilted, raptorlike, and he began
to circle around Kingston. Slowly. "He didn't spend it all right away. I'd
venture there's still quite a lot squirreled away in a few accounts, between
the amount he 'lost' and the stipend he was paid for his... compliance with law
enforcement."
Sebastian's smile spread wide, trusting Sherlock's verdict. He looked like an
animal. Kingston shrank back from Sherlock, but there was nowhere for him to
go, not with the way Sherlock was circling. "I didn't, I swear-"
"What else did you give them?" Sebastian cut him off, stepping forward to
assert his presence, but not far enough to get in Sherlock's way. Sherlock was
leading now.
"No, you really can't prove anything..." Kingston turned to Sherlock again,
visibly distressed. His voice turned simpering and shrewish, one last pained
attempt at convincing them.
"Mr. Kingston, I think you're underestimating the skill of those employed in
the higher ranks. Just because you are an imbecilic fool doesn't mean all of us
are." Sherlock's mind was already humming away, cataloguing the man's reactions
and his own deductions. Disappointingly, much of it came down to simple math.
"I also think you're overestimating the quality of your cover. You had been
operating without troubles prior to the rumor of your employer's disappearance.
You held onto the money as a test - any small deviation would normally result
in contact of some sort to see why the drop had failed. It was a calculated
risk to test whether the rumors you'd heard were true and there was no one
monitoring the system anymore."
Kingston was shaking now, his racing pulse nearly visible in the bulge of his
neck. Sherlock felt a thrill run through him - the same adrenaline high that
accompanied the end of a game, when he was finally close to snaring the culprit
in a trap they couldn't escape. "When a couple weeks passed without contact,
you saw the out you'd wanted, but never thought achievable. With a severance
bonus, no less. You'll have put the drop money away and hid the trails before
contacting the Met, likely with some sob story about how you'd gotten roped
into the network, and decided to pre-emptively save your own skin by selling
out what few contacts you knew in the network before they panicked and did the
same. The timing will have coincided nicely; you entered a protection program
and left the country suddenly on your vacation, likely with tickets purchased
from an account that had received a sudden deposit. The Met will have waited
until you had departed, then raided and arrested a number of individuals, all
with close ties to you. All individuals you would have known by name, or been
able to guess based upon information at your disposal. Evidence."
"That's the pertinent point here, Mr. Kingston," Sherlock continued. "The
justice system has to be very particular about gathering sufficient evidence to
convict a suspect, but you're not in court. All that's needed is enough
evidence to convince Moriarty that my deductions are correct... and Moriarty
trusts my judgment."
Sherlock's chest bloomed with satisfaction, but the feeling was Jim's, not his
own. Every time John looked up at him with pride, with that particular
affection of his at watching Sherlock work...it felt like that. He'd used
Moriarty's name, dropped it as though Sherlock worked with him every day, and
though the deduction was simple enough, Jim's approval resonated through his
core.
Sebastian stalked forward. Kingston had recoiled first from Sherlock's
accusation, backed up with more than enough probable plausibility this time,
and then from Sebastian's grinning, vicious face. "That's all I need. You're
coming with us.” Swiftly, Sebastian shoved Kingston against the wall, face
forward, arm wrenched behind his back, "where you'll get one more chance to
return what's left and live to tell. Or I kill you right here and now without a
single regret."
"He would, you know. I'd suggest taking his offer, because I don't think I'll
be able to order him to stand down if you make a fuss." Sherlock had caught the
flash of a microexpression on Sebastian's face; he was lying through his teeth.
Sebastian wanted to take Kingston elsewhere before disposing of him, most
likely after a more thorough questioning to find out what they could from him
in person before they began scouring his financial accounts and old
communication records. Sherlock wasn't certain the man was going to trust
Sebastian's word, however; they'd already lied to him once, and Jim hadn't been
the sort to let betrayals go unpunished. Kingston had to suspect that he was
about to die no matter what he did.
As it was, his choices were to die for certain there, or risk death later by
going with them. "I'll go," Kingston spluttered, and Sebastian loosened his
grip. The banker tried to catch his breath, but he couldn't. He was trembling,
a minor quake of his limbs that neither Sebastian nor Sherlock failed to
notice. "I'll go," Kingston repeated when Sebastian didn't move back. "We can
work something out?"
"Depends on what you can offer. I'd start thinking, if I were you." Sebastian
laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, turning him toward the door.
Kingston went, with Sebastian and Sherlock shadowing right behind him.
Sebastian kept a close watch to make certain their target didn't run. Sherlock,
in turn, watched the space around them.
For the first few rooms, no one spared them a second glace. Indeed, no one
seemed to recognize Kingston at all. For all intents and purposes, their group
looked like a trio of friends, guiding one member who'd had too much to drink.
Not very classy, but not unusual for an establishment that was built around
excess and indulgence.
Sherlock knew they were going to hit trouble as soon as they passed through the
fourth room. Two sets of men spotted them and recognized Kingston. Those who
had been lounging at a table on the far side of the room suddenly rose and
disappeared through the exit, abandoning their drinks. The other set looked to
be quickly settling their final bets and closing out of their game. Sherlock
reached sideways and touched a palm to Sebastian's ribs.
"I see," Sebastian murmured, causing Kingston to stiffen when he gripped his
hand around the man's arm. Sherlock felt Jim's presence perk up. He'd been
using a portion of his energy on the surveillance system since they arrived,
but that hadn't been the reason for his quiet. "Get ready," Sebastian warned,
picking up their pace, moving an increasingly distressed Kingston along in
front of them with a hand hidden between their arms. He intended to make it to
the door before a scene started, but Sherlock saw from the start that wasn't
going to happen.
Just over halfway to the exit, two men stepped into their path. It was enough
to catch attention from the dealers and the bartender. Within minutes the floor
manager would be down, and after that... "You going somewhere?" One of them
asked. Kingston made to speak out, to call for help, to tip off these
associates, but Sebastian shoved him back, nearly sending him down to the
floor. It sent those around them into silence for a split second, the hush
falling by degrees.
But he didn't stop there. As soon as surprise registered on the interloper's
faces, Sebastian flew at them. "Get him out!" Sherlock heard him call.
Sherlock's vision wavered from an adrenaline surge as he grabbed Kingston by
the arm and collar. He hauled him to his feet and half-pushed, half-dragged
Kingston through the doorway, twisting Kingston's arm behind him at an angle
that would send a warning shock of pain through his shoulder. Sherlock's height
advantage was nullified by Kingston's additional weight, making every step a
struggle, but Sherlock was winning. They made it through the door and, from
there, to an emergency exit tucked away in an alcove. An alarm shrieked as soon
as Sherlock opened the door, then fizzled into silence.
Sherlock could hear sounds of fighting behind him, and underneath the commotion
the footsteps of pursuit.
They were gaining on him, at least three. Sherlock could hear them separate
from the sounds Sebastian made, or rather, Sebastian didn't make. He could hear
shouts and grunts and curses from the other men, but he didn't hear Sebastian's
voice once.
In the air all around them, Jim was sparking to life, insofar as the metaphor
allowed. Anticipation thrummed through Sherlock and he could tell it was not
his own, not when it was wound tight through the very atmosphere, making the
air heavy and the fine hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. He had a
captive audience now, even if Jim wouldn't interfere. However this went down,
he knew Jim wouldn't interfere.
Kingston was crying in pain, crying for help, shaking with nerves and trying
weakly to get away by the time their pursuers caught up with them at the corner
of the street.
Reality contracted. It was the same artificial sense of slowness that Sherlock
remembered well from his time in the dojo and in other life-or-death
situations. He moved with cold calculation: his limbs needed to be free to
fight, and Kingston was not to be permitted to get away. Sherlock's first move
was to break the man's arm in one swift jerk, followed by a kick that
dislocated Kingston's knee and sent him tumbling to the ground.
Sherlock ducked right and felt a rush of air where a fist just missed colliding
with his head. He pivoted and struck - one blow to crack his assailant's
exposed ribs, then a sweep with a turn and grab that sent the man falling,
still grunting in shock and pain. The throw set Sherlock off balance himself.
He rolled with it, tucking his arms and shoulders and rising with the continued
momentum.
He could hear Kingston's shock and pain in the distance, feel Jim's excitement
spark, and see flurry of the remaining two men coming for him together. They
hadn't slowed, hadn't had time to even as the first fell. From a distance,
Sherlock could hear din of shouting voices from the casino. Estimated five
minutes before the first responding police arrived, assuming they had been
called the moment Sebastian threw Kingston to him. That meant they had to move
fast. Sebastian could be lost in the crowd, piled under the sheer number of
bouncers and Kingston's associates, for all he knew. There was no time to
check.
Sherlock exhaled sharply and moved, changing the angle so both men couldn't
grab him at once and bear him down. He grabbed the punch one of them threw by
the man's forearm, ducking under and jerking him off balance. While he
stumbled, Sherlock turned and kicked at the second man. He didn't react quickly
enough to the change in angle; Sherlock's kick caught him on the side of his
face just as he was turning, far higher than any blow he might have expected.
Sherlock's foot stung, and there would be a livid bruise across it later, but
his opponent went down with a sickening crack that suggested he'd broken the
man's cheek bone. Sherlock caught a glimpse of a dislodged eye while he turned
away.
He had to duck a flurry of incoming blows. The first man was furious, moving
fast with overpowered, ill-controlled attacks to try to bring him down quickly.
Sherlock danced backwards, staying just out of reach. He watched and waited,
looking for the perfect opening, and found one in an over-extended arm. With
one hand he caught the man’s wrist, with the other he jabbed upwards and
devastated a vulnerable elbow. The man's screams were short-lived; Sherlock
pulled him off balance, flipped him, and the man's head collided with the
pavement.
Heavy footfalls registered behind him and Sherlock spun just in time to see
Sebastian running at them, coming up short. He took in the scene with widened
eyes before settling on Sherlock and seemed to shake himself. Sebastian darted
to grab Kingston, hauling him to his feet with the man screaming. It didn't
slow his pace any. "Down the street."
They were pursued, but not very far. Only those left were the patrons of the
Colony Club, and they didn't stray beyond the edges of the sidewalk as Sherlock
and Sebastian carried a stumbling, sobbing Kingston away.
Sebastian piled them into the car he’d left at a meter, Kingston tossed in the
back and him behind the wheel. Sherlock had barely scrambled inside before they
peeled away from the kerb and Sebastian tossed something metal at him. "Cuff
him to the seat."
Sherlock grabbed the cuffs out of the air and snapped them around Kingston's
wrists. He ignored the way the man yelped when his broken arm got jostled and
twisted. "Well, this is splendid. Now we have a number of witnesses who will
doubtlessly be painting vivid pictures for the Met when they come calling. I
rather thought the entire idea was not to draw attention to the fact that
you're still in the country!"
Sebastian scowled, huffing a breath through his nose and steadfastly staring
out the windshield as they swerved around traffic. "No shit. At this point I
will have to leave the country." Police sirens began to wail in the distance.
His grip turned white on the steering wheel. "You alive back there?" He called,
not bothering to turn. There was no way he'd mistaken Kingston's muffled gasps
and sobs of panic as anything but. "Good. Cause after all that shit you put us
through, you won't be for much longer."
They swerved around a corner. Sebastian was about to improvise on their plan.
Sherlock could tell. Down by the waterfront, this was where they'd meant to end
Kingston if they'd had to, but they didn't have time now, and Sebastian wasn't
slowing. He was taking the ever narrowing side streets with tires screeching.
They could see docks in the distance, a break in the gleaming lights, the
darkness of the Thames swallowing them up only to rise again on the other side.
"Unlock your door," Sebastian warned. "Get out when I tell you."
Sherlock felt a strange calm enter him. Control had been wrenched out of his
hands, to a certain degree. None of this had been part of the plan, and he was
already committed by circumstance. He'd been seen, he'd taken down the thugs
who'd come after him outside the club, and now they were barreling towards the
Thames. Part of Sherlock's mind began ticking down how it would happen,
drowning: panic and automatic reflexes, laryngospasm, dilution of the blood by
osmosis once liquid was inhaled, then likely cardiac arrest, hypothermia and
cold shock...
Sherlock knew he should be feeling horror, or some sort of sympathy. Or perhaps
distress at the circumstances he'd found himself in. Instead, the high of the
Game was singing in his blood, and he could feel Jim - curled around him, warm,
excited, and radiating the praise and admiration Sherlock had missed for so
long. It created a vivid sense of pleasure that was far different from any drug
he'd ever indulged in.
Sebastian's voice hit his ears again, and Sherlock moved without a second
thought. The door opened and he bolted out of the vehicle, grunting in pain
while he rolled to a stop.
Sebastian left not a second later, he caught it out of the corner of his eye,
just a flash of dark jacket and sandy hair. He'd gunned the engine, aiming for
a loading dock. The car careened forward, unstoppable momentum taking it
through the flimsy chain and across the platform. He could hear Kingston's
scream before it hit the water, sounding with a crack in the black, bubbling
oil of the river. Sherlock could hear it until the car was submerged. It didn't
take long at all, not with their doors open.
Across from him, Sebastian was picking himself up off the ground, dusting off
his knees, rolling one shoulder and then the other, painfully, checking to make
sure he hadn't broken anything. His face scrunched in pain, but he came toward
Sherlock with a sure step. He was alright. He'd had a livid bruise across most
of his torso and back since the dislocated shoulder, and it had to be in agony
now, but he could move. His eyes assessed Sherlock, glancing for injury the
same way Sherlock watched him. It took less than a moment before he was moving
quickly again, knowing Sherlock would follow. "Bike isn't far."
Sherlock got to his feet, aching and bruised and with a patterning of scrapes
here and there, but otherwise unharmed. He limped after Sebastian as quickly as
he was able; the bruise from his fight with Kingston's companions was finally
starting to make itself known. From the twinges of pain every time he moved his
foot or settled his weight onto it, the skin was going to be a dark purple when
he finally looked. Possibly even concealing a hairline fracture in one of the
bones.
Sherlock caught up with Sebastian and grabbed ahold of him for support. His
eyebrows rose when the blond slid an arm around his shoulder and helped him
take a bit of the weight off his foot.
The bike they'd planted earlier was in fact only a block away. Sebastian had
gotten them near enough, where they would have had to ditch the car anyway so
as not to be followed. This whole thing was a trick of improvisation now, Jim's
plans did not normally turn out this way, but they'd played it well.
They found the bike in the alley they'd left it, and Sebastian dragged away its
camouflage of cardboard sheets and bins before again holding a hand out to
Sherlock and helping him up behind Sebastian. He made sure Sherlock had to wrap
his arms around Sebastian's waist to hold on, but Sebastian welcomed it, making
sure he was holding tight enough before kicking up the stand and getting them
out of there as fast as possible.
Sherlock had never been the second passenger on a motorcycle before. The
machine's engine kicked in far more rapidly than he had been expecting. His
hold around Sebastian tightened and he had to tuck himself against the man’s
back, both to avoid curious eyes and the sudden sting of wind.
Sebastian felt like the one steady thing in a world of motion. He was going to
have to leave the country after this... but so would Sherlock. Sherlock had
realized as much as soon as he'd catalogued just how far the plan had gone
wrong. Rather than anger or loss, he felt strangely at peace with it, numb and
quiet. He'd do what it took to survive, and right now that necessitated closing
the door on the portion of his life he'd tried so hard to return to.
Jim's warmth embraced him. He could feel it as real as the warmth of
Sebastian's body molded to his front. Jim wasn't speaking, but he wasn't
silent. Everything Jim felt filtered through now. If he were real, if he were
there with them, he would be stroking fingers through Sherlock's hair and
whispering words of endearment in his ear.
The devil takes care of his own.
***** Chapter 18 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Sebastian took them all the way back to the Baker Street flat, hiding the bike
again in the alley, and with Sherlock's help in avoiding the CCTV cameras, they
slipped back inside. All was quiet. Mrs. Hudson wasn't home, on vacation
visiting her sister if Sherlock recalled correctly. Or brother. Some relative.
Still, they were silent until Sebastian came right up to him, hands going to
tug Sherlock's shirt free from his trousers, intent on inspecting the damage.
Sherlock was still lost in a daze. His body remembered something like this from
before - getting bundled off at the end of cases to be checked for injury.
Impatient hands in the back of ambulances had eventually been replaced with
kind ones within the Baker Street flat - equally clinical, but far more
comforting that what had previously been routine.
He moved his arms automatically when his shirt was unbuttoned and peeled off.
Cool air hit his skin, followed by hands that sought out each injury point.
They pressed gently, testing the health of the muscle and bone beneath the
surface. It took a few more moments for Sherlock to start drifting back. The
hands touching him were larger than he remembered.
It was Sebastian's eyes he met when he looked up, clearer blue, striking even
in the low light. The man smiled when he saw Sherlock looking. Sebastian was
pleased. Interestingly, Sherlock felt Jim's satisfaction coil tighter inside
him. "You'll be okay," Sebastian pronounced, lowering Sherlock's shirt and
leaving the hem of his trousers be where he'd felt the jutting bone of
Sherlock's hips. But Sebastian's voice was too soft, too deep, and he didn't
move away. Sherlock could feel his attention as intimately as though....as
though they had just narrowly escaped capture, managed to pull off what they'd
set out to do against the odds, been on a high of adrenaline and violence, that
Sebastian had seen Sherlock really, truly fight, and that Sherlock had exceeded
his expectations. All of their expectations.
Sherlock stared back. Neither of them were moving away, and Sebastian was close
enough that Sherlock could have sworn the air felt warmer from the heat
radiating from him. "Perhaps eventually," Sherlock finally replied, too soft to
sound very certain of himself. He wasn't going to feel the full repercussions
right away. They would come later - when he would have to burn what he couldn't
take with him or leave behind, or when he packed away his violin for travel, or
even when the hum of a plane engine reached through the steel frame and
cushioned seats to rattle his bones thousands of miles in the air. Bruises
would pass quickly; emotions would linger for far longer.
"I'm... uncertain how badly I injured my foot during the fight. I've never
tried to break someone's face with that particular kick before."
Sebastian's smile reached his eyes. "Sit." He drew Sherlock into the armchair,
John's old armchair though he did not know, and bent down to slip off
Sherlock's shoe. He glanced up when Sherlock winced, but rolled down the sock
smoothly and pressed his hand over the side of it. It was red where it had made
impact. "That's going to be one hell of a bruise," Sebastian said, fingers
sliding up to feel the bones, "but nothing's broken." His blue eyes glanced
back up to Sherlock and Sherlock could tell Sebastian knew how odd a picture he
made on the floor like that because a certain amusement came into his gaze. He
slid Sherlock's sock back on, but left the shoe where it was on the floor. One
by one his hands trailed up Sherlock's shin, to his knee, to the top of his
thigh, just exploring as if on a whim.
Sherlock sighed in pleasure. The ache in him was, evidently, deeper than mere
bodily discomfort from the beating he'd taken. Heat from Sebastian's palms
soaked through the fabric. It felt like concentrated sunlight. "Well, I make it
a habit to try not to break myself. Usually." His self-destructive tendencies
came with some amount of moderation.
"You clean up rather nicely. I admit I had some doubts about how well you'd fit
in among a crowd of pampered, over-indulgent businessmen and bon vivants."
Sebastian's thumb slid along the inseam of one thigh, and suddenly Sherlock was
no longer thinking about the man's earlier figure and social mannerisms.
A wry grin had taken to the blond's face. "A little bit of family history can
go a long way," he said enigmatically. Sherlock saw a slim slice of pink tongue
against the man's mouth as Sebastian watched his own hands. Up and down they
went, a little higher each time until Sherlock's hips moved to meet the touch.
Sebastian lifted himself higher, riding his thumbs in the dip where Sherlock's
thighs met his groin. Jim's affirming presence hadn't quieted. If anything, it
felt stronger, a song they should have heard echoing all around them, but all
Sherlock could do was feel it.
Sebastian lifted himself to meet Sherlock, hands never moving. "We've got to
get out of here," he said against Sherlock's lips.
Sherlock quivered, his body stopping halfway through an arching motion as its
need for touch clashed with the reality of the situation. "...I know," he
whispered. Sebastian was always ready to be on the move, but Sherlock needed to
pack, needed to destroy a few pieces of evidence. It would take the Met some
time to fit all the pieces together, get a warrant, and send someone to his
door. Mycroft's men would be far quicker and wouldn't bother with formalities
like civil law.
Sherlock's hands rose and rested on Sebastian's sides.
He seemed reluctant to let go, too. His lips brushed at the corner of
Sherlock's mouth as he spoke. "Get what you need. We'll find a place for the
night. Tomorrow we'll leave." But then he pulled back, rising to his feet as
Sherlock's hands slid free. Sebastian took a breath before he turned and went
to his room to gather his things.
It was conceivable that Sherlock could fight this. This was not the first time
injuries or even casualties had occurred when he was in the middle of a case,
undercover. The Met would likely side with him should he turn against Sebastian
and make it clear that it had been his plan all along, that Kingston had died
at his hand... even if the circumstances were highly questionable.
Theoretically. Mycroft had gotten him out of worse.
And yet, Sherlock rose and started to make his needed preparations. Even if he
did betray the gunman in order to save this life, on the small chance that it
worked... it was only going to delay the inevitable. Sherlock had realized
halfway through the job that Jim needed this line of work, and denying him that
outlet would make the spirit lose his will to exist. Jim could do without
Sebastian, but not easily; Sherlock would have to take his place, or secure a
new hired gun, this time of questionable skill, intelligence, and loyalty.
Sebastian had also managed to grow on him, bizarre as it was to contemplate. He
was owned in a way that Sherlock had never quite owned John, and he was far
more charming now that he wasn't trying to bully and inconvenience Sherlock at
every chance he had.
Sherlock's hands paused for a few moments midway through stuffing more clothes
into a suitcase. He stared at his room without seeing the walls - seeing,
instead, lines of choice spreading out in front of him. Sentiment combined with
logic; he shook his head and began packing more quickly. He took a mix of
necessities, mementos he couldn't bear to lose, and the illegal substances he'd
stashed away in hidden cubbyholes. Everything else could be replaced or done
without. It was sobering to see his life condensed into two cases - one for his
violin, and one for everything else.
Sebastian was back down and waiting for him in the sitting room. The man slung
his own pack over his shoulder and helped Sherlock with his, taking the weight
off his injured foot.
Mrs. Hudson would be lonely, but taken care of. Mycroft would see to that. John
and Mary might see to the former once they'd sorted their lives out a bit.
Sebastian waited patiently at the door for Sherlock to take one last look
around. He knew Sherlock hadn't planned for this, and though more silent than
not, he was being respectful. Jim's presence hadn't dampened much, still warm,
still affirming.
One they were out on the kerb, Sebastian hailed for a cab.
Sherlock refused to look behind him. He hadn't looked back any of the times
he'd left a major portion of his life behind before: not when he quit
university, not when he got out of rehab for the final time, not when he'd left
to dismantle Moriarty's network without knowing if he'd survive the mission. If
anything, his faked death had proved one thing to him - that those he cared
about would survive just fine without him. Better than fine, even.
Sherlock felt all the more alone for it, despite the fact that Jim was coiled
inside him and Sebastian was at his side.
It wasn't long before they were taxied to the other end of the city, then out,
into another cab, and then off in the opposite direction. Close to the airport.
If Mycroft got to their first driver, he'd be led astray. Only for so long,
they all knew, but that was all they needed. One night in a hotel, on a plane
in the morning. Jim had acquired enough funds to make it happen, and he wasn't
sparing expense on their accommodations.
Sherlock found himself and Sebastian at the front desk of an upscale hotel next
to Heathrow, requesting a room for the night without trouble.
Sherlock made it up to the room and behind closed doors before his shoulders
began to droop. The room they'd been given was rich and tasteful, full of all
the comforts money could buy a weary traveler. The contrast to 221B's
weathered, patinated walls, riddled with bullet and thumbtack holes, covered
with crime scene photos and curiosities, severed the last thread that had been
holding Sherlock's composure together. He walked over to the room's single bed
and sank down on the edge, pinching his temples with the fingers of one hand
and hiding his face against his palm.
Sebastian let him be, taking the time to bring his own things to the bathroom
and rummage around for first aid supplies. It was fortunate that neither of
them had been hit in the face, but Sebastian was swallowing painkillers for his
shoulder nonetheless.
Sherlock felt a light breeze ruffle his hair and knew it was Jim. Jim, who was
letting him have this moment without interruption, without trying to persuade
him to feel better. It would be transparent if he tried, Sherlock knew how much
Jim wanted this. How glad he was that Sherlock had taken to his game at last.
Rough as the moment was, it passed quickly. Sherlock was no stranger to regret,
loss, or disappointment. Things had gone awry, but he had enjoyed parts of
Jim's game to a certain extent. More than he had been expecting, at the least.
What Jim needed and what he needed didn't match exactly, but the test job had
proven that they weren't incompatible. A balance could be reached, and would
have to be, considering that Sherlock had now entirely thrown his lot in with
Jim... and with Sebastian.
He watched the doorway to the loo, observing the outline that reappeared and
paused once the blond spotted Sherlock staring. He must have looked better
because Sebastian relaxed subtly, leaning against the doorframe.
"Second thoughts?" the man asked before moving to the coffee maker, filling it
with enough for two cups.
Sherlock felt a coil of amusement from Jim. Sebastian was making himself busy.
If Jim's response was any indication, the man had never been good with tender
discussion. Still, the coffee didn't take long, and Sebastian faced Sherlock
again, setting one steaming cup beside the lamp at his bed. The bed. Sebastian
sat slowly next to Sherlock, taking a sip.
"No. I'm not much for second thoughts, in general. If I've already examined the
facts and made the best available decision, there's no reason to waste time on
impossibilities and lesser choices." Sherlock watched tendrils of steam rise
from the cup on the bedside table. He'd always tended to drink tea before all
of this had started; at this point he was beginning to associate the smell of
coffee with Jim's presense.
"Are you having second thoughts? I'm not as self-sufficient as Jim."
That wry smile was back. "We've still got Jim." He held the cup loosely in his
hands, shoulders hunched ever so. Sherlock could see that one was tighter than
the other, but Sebastian was, for the most part, relaxed. That might not have
sounded like a very good answer to the point of Sherlock's question, and
Sebastian seemed to realize this. "No. I'm not." He took another long sip of
his coffee before putting it down on the night stand and turning back to
Sherlock. Sherlock, who's still slicked back hair but now much softer
expression were at odds with what he'd been at the club. Sebastian liked it, he
could tell by the way the man was looking at him. Sebastian bent closer,
finding the seam of Sherlock's shirt and following it up, a stealthy way of
slipping into his space, before his finger hooked into the collar. Sebastian
tugged lightly.
Sherlock hesitated for a second, intently scanning Sebastian's features. He
relaxed when he confirmed that Sebastian was looking at him, not through him.
Sebastian's voiceless suggestion was easily understood, but it took Sherlock
another moment to figure out what he himself wanted. Comfort, mostly. Pleasure,
something to forget, and the stakes were too high to fall to the temptation of
the substances he'd brought with him, dulling his senses and starting this new
chapter of his life while struggling with addiction and withdrawal again.
Grey eyes focused with increasing sharpness on Sebastian's face. Sherlock
started undoing the buttons on his shirt.
Sebastian's mouth turned up at the corners. He watched as one button after
another fell away to expose Sherlock's chest. The scratches and bruises were
mostly at his arms and thighs, but there was one on his shoulder. Sebastian
scooted closer, hand sliding up to the back of Sherlock's neck. He bent to the
spot until his mouth was against it, sucking and laving into the tender flesh.
Jim was not silent this time. "Lie back," he said softly as Sherlock's shirt
parted, as Sebastian slid it down his shoulders. "I want to try something."
Sherlock hissed. Sebastian's attentions didn't hurt much, but the area was
sensitive enough that it was uncomfortable. He waited until his arms were free
of his sleeves, then leaned back. Sebastian didn't follow right away - just
watched with some amount of surprise when Sherlock settled back against the
pillows. The glint that immediately sparked in the blond's eye made Sherlock
tense, both from sudden nervousness and an accompanying flush of heat. "...what
are you thinking of?"
"I'd like to take you under, to join me here in your mind." Jim's voice was
quiet, sensing the need to make this a proposal, not a demand. Sebastian
climbed atop Sherlock with heat in his gaze, blood thrumming at the position
Sherlock had put himself in. He bent and found the other side of Sherlock's
neck before lowering his body down, pressing against Sherlock in all the right
places. "I'd like to take him under as well." Jim finished softly.
Sherlock's breath hitched. His hands had risen automatically, one curled around
Sebastian's waist while the other cupped the back of his neck. "Can you even do
that?" Sherlock's voice in his mind was filled with disbelief. He'd always
assumed that Jim had been able to pull that particular trick due to the way
they were tied together. It was less of a stretch to think about Jim
manipulating his body to force him unconscious than it was to imagine Jim
reaching into other people and doing the same. If he'd figured out how to do
such a thing, Jim's powers had truly dangerous potential.
Sebastian ground against Sherlock, and Sherlock's eyes closed. "...yes," he
finally managed. "Try it."
Sherlock felt Jim's presence expand from his body, just far enough to reach
Sebastian. He heard the man moan sluggishly, felt his body mold against
Sherlock's with more weight than it had before, not realizing what was
happening at first. It was happening to him slowly, much slower than with
Sherlock. But then Sebastian's head lifted, eyes bleary. He looked at Sherlock
with a creeping sense of disquiet. "What...?" His voice trailed off. Sherlock
could feel the cold. He could feel Jim drawing on his energy. Sebastian's hand
clung tighter to his scalp.
"It's alright." Sherlock stroked a hand down Sebastian's side. "It's a trick
Jim has done with me. Just try to relax. He's making you tired enough to sleep,
and then he'll do the same to me... and then he'll pull both of us into my
mind. With him." Sherlock hoped that would be reassurance enough. He couldn't
predict how this would work with another person, given that they'd never tried
it before, but Sherlock guessed that seeing Jim again would be a powerful
motivation to get Sebastian to relax.
He was right. Sebastian blinked, mouth open in surprise, but his eyes began to
droop. Sherlock felt the way his body began to relax, letting it happen instead
of fighting it. Finally, his head dropped to Sherlock's chest. Jim released the
drain on him. It hadn't been so noticeable until Jim stopped. But then that
pull was directed at Sherlock and before he could move Sebastian off him,
Sherlock felt himself sinking as well.
Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed, and he felt a falling sensation that was
becoming very familiar. He couldn't help but try to reach out and grab onto
something, but there was nothing to grab and no way to stop the feeling until
he'd reached the dream state.
When Sherlock opened his eyes, he wasn't in anyplace familiar. Rather than his
flat, or the seaside house, or even the wood-paneled corridors of his mind,
he'd awoken on the floor of a different flat - somehow both minimalistic and
rich, with bold colors and outlines characterizing the few visible pieces of
furniture. If he was still in his own mind, this was in the portion that Jim
had sectioned off for himself. The room might have been a recreation of a place
from Jim's memories, or pure fabrication. Either was equally possible.
Something cold touched the back of his neck and just as he twisted around, he
came face to face with Jim, smiling and pristine. The hole in the back of his
head was gone, his suit was pressed, and there was colour in his face. He must
have been tired from the extra strain, but he was too cheerful at this little
accomplishment for it to show. He lifted himself up to Sherlock, a little on
his toes, and his smile spread. "Good job back there. Glad to have you with
us."
A quiet groan from the other side of the room caught their attention, and Jim
moved to tend to Sebastian. Sebastian, who was lying on the rug of the sitting
room as though he were its centerpiece. Jim bent low, a soft smile settling
over his mouth as Sebastian opened his eyes.
Jim was the first thing he saw. Even though he spoke so quietly, Sherlock heard
him as clearly as though he'd shouted. "Shit. Jim."
Sherlock walked around until he and Jim flanked Sebastian. The blond looked so
stricken that Sherlock couldn't help but smile. "Now you know where I've been
going every night, so to speak. The trip down here takes a bit to get used to,
but..."
Sherlock's gaze drifted toward the back of Jim's head. Sleek black hair greeted
his eyes; he hadn't seen the bullet wound for some time now, no more reminders
of the fact that Jim's body was gone. Sherlock reached out and ran his fingers
through Jim's hair, then fondly ruffled it into a mess of spikes, just because
he could. "It's well worth it."
Jim's inky eyes slid over to him disapprovingly, but Sherlock knew the touch
was not unwelcome. "It's nice to see you too, Sebastian."
Sebastian rose up onto his elbows. He couldn't take his eyes off Jim. His
throat worked enough to swallow, but it took him a moment to form words. "Where
am I?"
"A shared dream, if you will." Jim sat back, allowing Sebastian to rise into a
sitting position. "A space created using the arena of Sherlock's imagination.
I've simply dragged you into it. Neat trick, really..." Jim twisted his head,
cracking his neck, but his attention caught on Sherlock . Or more specifically,
Sherlock's mouth. "Looked like you two were having fun," he whispered, drawing
nearer with a smile, but he came up short, brushing a lock of Sherlock's hair
away from his ear instead.
Sebastian's breath stopped.
Sherlock's breathing, in turn, had immediately sped up with his pulse. He felt
prickles on his arms that could only be gooseflesh and noted, distantly, that
he was beginning to be very well trained. All Jim had to do was look at him a
certain way, start touching him... even just get a little too close, and
Sherlock suddenly found himself wanting. From the way Jim's smile curled just a
little wider and gained a wicked edge, Sherlock knew that was exactly the way
Jim wanted it.
Sherlock closed the last few centimeters himself, kissing Jim without the
slightest care that he was practically doing so over Sebastian's lap.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sebastian's jaw go slack. It looked
like the air had been punched out of him, but then he was breathing again, deep
and fast as he watched Jim smile into the kiss. As he watched Sherlock take
Jim's mouth. No fear, no hesitation. They broke apart and Jim still had that
little curl to his lips, a crooked man with a crooked smile. Sebastian pulled
himself up straighter.
When Jim's head turned toward Sebastian, it didn't waver. The soft spikes of
his hair tickled Sherlock's neck they were so close. "Let's see what we can do
here, shall we." And then he was rising to his feet, sliding a hand along
Sherlock's back, waiting for them to follow. Sebastian glanced at Sherlock and
then scrambled to his feet. He was a full head higher than Jim, and the sight
was rather strange, with him looking down with such awe. He was almost
trembling.
"Jim...."
Jim closed his eyes and tilted his head as Sebastian reached out, almost
hesitantly, to touch him.
Sherlock stood and watched them. Part of him was touched by the raw emotion
visible on Sebastian's face - understandable, given that he hadn't seen Jim for
years, or been able to touch him and speak to him as himself. Another part of
him... felt distinctly uncomfortable, even jealous, watching Sebastian touch
Jim and knowing what the history was between them. It was irrational, given
that he'd had sex with both of them and Jim's affections were not going to
waver, but...
Sherlock felt like an intruder. Sebastian had originally begun to tolerate him
out of necessity, because he was the one carrying Jim, the one thing fettering
him to continued existence. Now that they knew Jim could pull Sebastian under
and interact with the blond directly, Sherlock wasn't necessary for them to
touch. Possibly he was even unwelcome. After all, why would Sebastian want him
there as a reminder than Jim considered him less important, less worthy of
affection?
Jim's head tipped back to Sherlock, Sebastian's fingers still held in his hair,
pressed to his temple. Jim reached out. "Come here." He shouldn't have been
able to read Sherlock's mind, but perhaps he didn't have to. His hand gripped
Sherlock's arm and pulled him forward, well into Jim's space. Jim pressed the
line of his body to Sherlock and looked up at him, ignoring Sebastian.
But then Sherlock felt another hand around his waist, arm sliding smoothly
across his stomach and another body pressing close from behind. "Thank you,"
Sebastian's voice rumbled in his ear.
Jim was the only one of them able to see the brief flash of vulnerability cross
Sherlock's face, or the way he blinked back the tears that had suddenly rimmed
his eyes. Sherlock was able to hide everything but the way his breathing
shifted. He didn't know where to put his hands, trapped between them as he was.
One arm ended up draped around Jim's shoulders, and the other covered
Sebastian's hand where he'd grabbed him around the waist. "...I thought you
wouldn't want me here. He's-... you haven't really seen one another. Not
without you borrowing me."
Sherlock felt the man's head turn into him. "And why would that make me not
want you?" It was quite possible that although Jim and Sebastian had been
together before, that this kind of intimacy was more than Sebastian ever had.
Jim smiled. "I do think Seb here has become somewhat fond of you, Sherlock."
Jim might have guessed. In fact, if he'd suspected before that he might be able
to pull Sebastian under with himself and Sherlock, that might have been why
he'd waited until they had...gotten to know each other better. Sherlock knew he
couldn't have done it from the start. Jim had been getting stronger the more
time they spent together, but still, he'd encouraged quite a lot between
Sherlock and his former bodyguard.
Sherlock gave Jim a flicker of a smile. "I'm simply aware that... our
arrangement makes things difficult. I keep you here, but I'm also a barrier.
Between you and Sebastian, between you and the ability to do what you want,
whenever you want. I'm never quite certain where the line is between being
wanted and being in the way." Sebastian shifted behind him, and Sherlock's eyes
lost focus. He drew in a shaky breath. "Although at the moment, I think I have
ample evidence that I'm not in the way."
Sherlock felt the breath of a laugh against his neck and even Jim's smile
spread wider. "Good. Then perhaps we can take this to bed," Jim leaned closer,
brushing his mouth to Sherlock's. His dark eyes fluttered down to inky slits of
reflected light. Just as Jim's tongue touched his lip he felt Sebastian's mouth
close down on his neck. The man's large hands drew down Sherlock's front,
dipping where they had been before Jim brought them here. But then Jim was
pulling back, grinning, sly, slinking away toward a darkened hall.
Sherlock's thoughts skittered to a halt. The implications had been there as
soon as he'd been bracketed by the two men, but Jim's words and their actions
had made it reality.
He'd seen such things before, during his brief stint of research when exploring
his awakened sexuality. He'd known such things were possible and indulged in by
people even before he'd witnessed it in pictures and films - crimes of passion
weren't limited to cheating monogamous couples, after all. Polyamory wasn't as
rare and unknown as it might have been decades in the past, and humans had
similar problems no matter what structure their relationships took.
Sherlock was just having trouble processing what that meant for him, even as he
was stumbling after Jim's retreating form with Sebastian close behind him.
They followed Jim to a master bedroom, sparse but for the enormous bed. It
might have been one of Jim's hideaways ensconced somewhere in one of the major
Western cities, but the blinds of the window were drawn and Sherlock got the
feeling that if he tried to open them, he would find nothing but darkness
outside.
Sebastian didn't want to let go, but when Jim took hold of Sherlock, drawing
himself up upon the bed backwards, luring Sherlock after him clinging hands and
biting kisses, Sebastian relented. Jim's shoes were flung to the floor and he
bounced, flipping them so that Sherlock was beneath him, grinning wickedly
down.
Sherlock had become used to Jim being like this, after all the worry he'd had
about whether Sherlock would enjoy his kind of work. It was still a bit
overwhelming to have the smaller man pin him down and pounce on him, but no
longer an unwelcome or fearful thing. He'd started to enjoy not just what Jim
was able to do to him and how it made him feel, but the fact that he was the
center of so much focus when Jim didn't feel much for... much of anyone or
anything else. It was a unique sense of power. He wished Jim would say more,
but actions would do.
The bed creaked and dipped beside Sherlock and then Sebastian was there,
kneeling beside both of them.
It was a little strange how easily Sebastian took to this, questionable whether
he and Jim had done something like this before. Except that, gone for years or
not, being the focus of Sebastian's obsessive loyalty or not, Jim had put
certain restrictions on their interaction and those remained in place.
Sebastian would not fight those restrictions, not when he'd gotten this far.
And what they'd both said was true, Sebastian was interested in Sherlock. Very
interested, as evidenced by the way he sidled up close, reaching a hand between
them to touch Sherlock. It didn't phase Jim, not even when Sebastian shifted
closer, moving to turn Sherlock's head after Jim kissed him.
Sherlock looked dazed. Jim was already working on stripping away what clothing
lay between him and Sherlock's skin, and now Sebastian was watching him as
hungrily as he'd been before they'd both slipped unconscious. Sherlock's brows
furrowed with an unspoken question before he slowly, hesitantly, reached up and
guided Sebastian closer. Sebastian didn't seem to have the same limitations or
doubts once the invitation was extended; his lips replaced where Jim had just
been, moving just as hungrily.
Sherlock heard the zip of his belt buckle fly free from its loops and then felt
the buttons of his trousers being undone. Jim pulled them down with little
preamble while Sebastian's fingers worked at his shirt buttons. They made quite
a team taking Sherlock apart. From the look of Jim's smile and the light in
Sebastian's eye, they knew it. In an odd way, this was how Sebastian felt close
to Jim. It wasn't so much that he saw Sherlock as an extension of Jim, it was
that he saw himself as one.
Sherlock bit back a moan once Jim managed to tug his trousers down and slip a
hand beneath the waistline of his pants. Jim wasn't wasting any time in getting
what he wanted, and Sebastian was following Jim's lead. Sherlock's shirt parted
and calloused fingers smoothed over his skin. Sherlock could feel his heart in
his throat and he couldn't get enough air. His helpless reaction, if anything,
only seemed to please the two men. Sherlock saw a flash of teeth from both of
them. "...wh... what are you thinking?"
Jim smiled as he sat back to remove his own jacket and shirt before he was back
on Sherlock, allowing Sebastian reprieve to do the same. "I want you inside
me," Jim bit Sherlock's lip. "And Seb inside you." He came away with eyes
gleaming. Sherlock could feel the way Sebastian's air caught now that he was
shirtless and pressed back against Sherlock's side. Jim lifted his legs around
Sherlock to straddle his hips, sitting atop Sherlock to mimic the position he
intended. Against his ear, Sebastian groaned.
Jim's words had a similar effect on Sherlock; it took him a good few heartbeats
to fully process what had been suggested. Made more difficult, perhaps, due to
the way Jim was sitting atop of him and rocking suggestively. "I-... I don't
know if I can, we haven't-" Or rather, he and Sebastian hadn't tried things
with their positions reversed. Sherlock didn't want to admit he still found the
blond intimidating, but he did, and for more than his aggressive demeanor. They
were equal in height, but not equal in proportions. Injury was a concern. So
was losing his mind. Sherlock was having trouble imagining what sort of sensory
overload he'd be enduring, having the attention of both men on him at once.
"Anything is possible inside your mind," Jim's smile gained a sly edge. That
may have been true, but Sherlock knew well that even though this was his mind,
Jim could control the environment just as easily as he could. Whether Sebastian
could do the same remained to be seen.
He felt Sebastian grin against his ear. "Would you let me?" he asked, just for
Sherlock, his hand smoothing down Sherlock's chest to where his hips met Jim's,
dipping between the creases of his flesh and the soft material of Jim's
trousers and then back up again. His blue eyes were wide and imploring, staring
into Sherlock like he couldn't have forced him if he'd wanted to.
"Anything is possible within some bodily limits. Or did you forget how your
bite mark showed up when I awoke?" Sherlock shivered; he'd felt those blunt
fingers before, very briefly, but those weren't what he was concerned about.
He'd had both men's cocks in his mouth, enough to make a comparison; Jim wasn't
small, and Sebastian was larger. Muscles could stretch, but there was also the
matter of comfort and carefulness.
Sherlock's gaze flickered between Jim's smirk and Sebastian's entreating look.
"I don't want to wake up bleeding."
"Then Seb will just have to be very careful," Jim bent down to hover close,
resting his weight on an elbow opposite Sherlock's head. He placed a kiss to
the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "He is very practised in restraint, aren't you,
Sebastian?" Jim turned finally to regard the other man with a hint of the smile
he'd had for Sherlock.
Sherlock felt a puff of air and saw Sebastian's eyes close. He felt the man's
hips shift into his hip. Jim had nearly knocked the wind from his lungs with
just a look. But his hand remained gentle on Sherlock's stomach, stroking over
his flesh up and down.
Sherlock was trembling from nerves, completely uncertain - and hard as a rock,
much to Jim's amusement. "I'm beginning to think you get off on forcing me into
intimidating situations," Sherlock muttered, but there was no bite to his
voice. Jim would know it for a lie if he denied that the idea had any appeal.
Sherlock watched Sebastian until the man's eyes opened again. He licked his
lips. "...alright, but only so long as we stop the instant I ask."
Blue eyes blinked. Sebastian looked relieved. And very, very interested.
"We'll take it slow," Jim purred against Sherlock's neck, nuzzling there as he
undid his own belt. "Not all at once." He slipped his trousers down his legs.
"I'll take care of you." Anyone else would have been a fool to believe such
words from the mouth of Jim. But his eyes were fond when he looked up at
Sherlock from the dip in his chest where he'd begun pressing kisses. His
fingers hooked in Sherlock's pants and his smile grew as he pulled them down.
Sherlock bit his lower lip and tilted his hips up as best he could to let Jim
remove the garment. He might have been a fool, but Jim had taken care of him.
At least to the best of Jim's capabilities, given that he was anything but
nurturing. This much, he was starting to get used to from Jim - touching,
tasting, demanding while sliding against and into one another. He gave a little
moan when Jim's fingers curled around him, then frowned when Jim laughed
quietly in return. "Are you ever going to stop teasing me about such things?"
Jim's head gave a little shake, eyes dancing in the low light. Jim slithered
down his stomach until his smiling lips were right there, so close. He never
broke his gaze when his tongue darted out to wet the tip. Then again. And
again, a little more each time. Sebastian drew nearer, pressing up next to
Sherlock and looking down alongside him to watch. Sherlock could feel the rise
and fall of his chest, heavy as they followed Jim's show. The head of
Sherlock's cock popped into Jim's mouth and never once did his eyes fall shut.
Jim wasn't just giving Sherlock a show anymore.
The undeniable knowledge that someone else was there, watching Jim do this to
him... Sherlock bit down on the edge of his hand, both to muffle any sound he
might make and hide the ridiculous face he knew he must be making. He could
feel Sebastian's breath on his skin, arrhythmic like Jim was doing this to him
instead of Sherlock.
Sherlock reached up and found rough stubble coating Sebastian's cheek. His eyes
never left Jim. There was something hypnotizing about how the spirit's dark
eyes glittered over the stretch of his mouth.
Sebastian finally dragged his gaze away, turning his attentions to Sherlock's
throat. The man's chin was rough there, but the brush of his hair was soft. His
mouth opened wide and Sherlock felt intimately how much of his throat Sebastian
could have ripped into given the whim, but his teeth were gentle and his tongue
was a lewd massage.
All too soon Jim pulled away, releasing Sherlock to climb up him again. He took
hold of Sherlock's hands and, with effort, drew him to rise out of Sebastian's
embrace. "Turn over," Jim whispered.
Rather than obeying, Sherlock pulled Jim closer and wrapped his arms around
him, breathing him in. He stayed that way for a few moments, but that was
enough to communicate what was going through his mind. He released Jim slowly,
and the look he gave Sebastian when he started to turn over was anything but
certain. He'd seen enough of the blond's personality to have a fair idea of how
far his tastes ran, and Sherlock wasn't certain that Jim's previous tips for
obtaining dominance and respect would hold when Sebastian got him into a
vulnerable position.
But Jim came down with him. lying on his side as close as he could, fingers
drawing down Sherlock's neck. It was worrisome at first that Jim wasn't going
to oversee this, even if he could prop himself up to see Sebastian, but when
Sebastian's hands came, they were surprisingly gentle. Sherlock felt him slide
up, settling himself atop the back of Sherlock's thighs. Not the best position
to get free if he needed to, but... Jim's fingers stroked his hair. He directed
Sherlock's attention to him when he leaned close for a kiss, but Sherlock could
hear a cap opening and the wet slide of Sebastian pouring liquid over his hands
and warming it. When Sebastian touched him though, it was practically a
massage. Up the back of his thighs, over his buttocks, and down the small of
Sherlock's back he moved the oil.
There was no denying that Sebastian was being gentle, even soothing, but
Sherlock still had a sliver of terror in his eyes. He kissed Jim back with a
certain amount of desperation, trying to find reassurance when nothing was
truly going to ease his worries but going through with it and seeing that they
were unfounded.
Sebastian had to feel that Sherlock was tense. His hands paused and pressed
every once in awhile, working knots out of his muscles. Sherlock was hyperaware
every time Sebastian's fingers made contact with his skin, but the blond knew
what he was doing. Gradually Sherlock's body responded to what Sebastian was
doing, loosening up by degrees. Sherlock only tensed, rather than jumped, when
he heard the bottle uncap again and fingers started circling his opening.
Just as slight pressure was applied Sherlock felt Sebastian lean over him.
There was a kiss pressed to his shoulder before Sebastian angled his body to
the side...to look at Sherlock as he did what he was doing. Jim's fingers
encouraged him to turn his head and as soon as Sherlock did, blue eyes met
grey. Sebastian didn't look like he was about to hurt Sherlock. Not even for a
bit of fun. Then Sherlock felt the pressure intensify, felt himself being
breached, and it didn't hurt, not with only one finger, but this was Sebastian
and somehow...Sebastian was going slowly. Not at all like he'd been at the
club.
Sherlock felt the press of Jim's temple to the back of his head and knew that
Jim was smiling.
Sherlock didn't look away. He didn't want to look away. Sebastian looked
markedly different than he'd been before, on the rooftop and later when
Sherlock had cornered him in his room. The first time, he'd been predatory and
only partially restrained, and that mostly in accordance with Jim's wishes. The
second time had been a heady mix of pain and dominance, with Sebastian on the
losing side, but only just due to Jim's councelling.
Sherlock was having trouble reading Sebastian's expression. Perhaps it was a
mark of just how inexperienced he was with some areas of the human condition -
he could see the man's focus, his intent, the lack of aggression... but not
what else laid underneath the calm.
But then the man leaned in and kissed him, and it was slow. Sebastian's teeth
gripped his lip, but didn't bite. It was almost languid. His finger slid in
farther, deepening its little back and forth motions to worm its way inside
more easily. There was lust, that was easy to see when he could feel the
hardness underneath Sebastian's trousers as he let his body brush against
Sherlock. But when he brought his other hand up to Sherlock's face as they
kissed deeper, Sherlock suspected there might have been something more.
Sebastian may have never been able to do this with Moriarty, it was impossible
to know without confirmed from either man, but he might have wanted to. He
might have wanted to do this with someone...someone he could respect. One could
only hope that wasn't just wishful thinking because soon enough he added
another finger inside Sherlock.
Sherlock gasped around the kiss and he squirmed. Where Jim's hands were more
tapered and delicate, the hands of someone who worked behind the scenes...
Sebastian's were thicker, blunted, and calloused from years in the field.
Lubrication went a long way, but Sherlock could still feel the difference
between two of Jim's fingers, and two of Sebastian's. The blond paused long
enough to make certain Sherlock wasn't in actual pain, and Jim's hands stroked
down Sherlock's neck and back, and all of a sudden Sherlock felt the tension
leave his shoulders.
He had Sebastian on one side, Jim on the other. Both pressed close. Both
attentive. Jim's mouth moved to the crook of his neck and Sebastian's fingers
began working again. He studied Sherlock's face carefully. If Sherlock wanted
him to stop, all he had to do was wince. As soon as he was open enough,
however, Sebastian shifted to work at another angle. Sherlock felt his fingers
press, searching, and there, he found that sweet spot. Jim's lips curled
against his ear when Sherlock shook. His arms went around Sherlock's waist,
wanting to feel the shiver run through him.
A helpless sound escaped Sherlock, but it was anything but pained. He scrabbled
for purchase, something to hold onto and ground himself with; two different
hands found his and held him still. Sebastian was still being gentle, but he
wasn't letting up. He seemed fascinated by the reactions he was getting with
just the slightest crook of his fingers. Sherlock was quivering, lips parted
and breathing ragged, pupils blown wide from pleasure.
When Sebastian added a third, the stretch wasn't as forgiving and the rhythm
slowed, but he didn't lose his place.
Jim was the first to rise. He lifted Sherlock after him with a bit of coaxing
and the relent of Sebastian's torture. Sebastian, who took that moment to
finally undo the strain of his trousers. Sherlock heard him hiss as the fabric
released, saw the man palm himself before Jim reached out and slapped his hand
away. Sebastian made a frustrated sound, but Jim's mouth only curled in
satisfaction before he turned back to Sherlock. His expression shifted, no less
intense, but somehow...softer.
Sebastian went for the oil again, laving a good amount of it over himself,
quickly enough to keep Jim satisfied.
Sherlock was on his knees, not quite certain what he was supposed to be doing.
Jim's enigmatic smile told him nothing. Nothing except for the fact that Jim
was pleased with what he had planned and was enjoying the view.
A warm body shifted forward behind Sherlock, and suddenly all of his attention
was focused on a hard line of heat pressing against the cleft of his arse.
Sebastian's arm snuck around him, but he wasn't pulling Sherlock back yet. Lips
pressed to the back of Sherlock's neck, but all Sherlock could think about was
what was going to come next. Sebastian was clearly waiting for Jim to signal
them to proceed, and Sherlock knew that Jim wasn't going to make him wait very
long.
Still, Jim scooted up closer, slim hands moving to either side of Sherlock's
face. He bent for a kiss, gentle, but Sherlock could feel the excitement behind
it. Not unlike Sebastian's continued kisses at the back and side of his neck.
Jim caught his gaze, traced a finger down his bottom lip. Sherlock could see a
hint of his teeth, not like Sebastian's smile at all, but Jim didn't need it.
"Are you ready?" Jim whispered. Sherlock felt Sebastian take a breath. Jim
wasn't talking to Sebastian, but his anticipation was still coiled tight as a
spring.
Sherlock looked up, feeling less like an equal and more like a supplicant
before a lord. Jim's smile was more predatory than benevolent, and a quick
glance put proof to the theory that he was a bit of a voyeur. As if Sherlock
had had any doubts about that.
Sherlock's hands settled on Jim's legs and he exhaled shakily. Terrified
awareness still centered on Sebastian right behind him, angled and ready.
Sherlock finally nodded. "...ready."
Jim's smile spread, little teeth revealing themselves in sharp points.
Sebastian's arms shifted. His hand moved beneath Sherlock's stomach to press
his hips up and the other disappeared until Sherlock felt something blunt press
against that ring of muscle. Sebastian was guiding himself as he pressed
forward, moving ever so slowly. It was a miracle he had enough restraint.
"You can look," Jim said as nuzzled at Sherlock's cheek, dark eyes glancing
over his pale shoulder. Sherlock felt the head of Sebastian's cock breach him.
That in itself was a shock. Sherlock sucked in a breath, quivering, held still
by both men. The burn was intense, and Sherlock felt stretched to the verge of
breaking, but there were no sharp pains that signaled a tear. Sebastian was
pushing forward ever so slowly, somehow able to resist the temptation to just
thrust once he was in. Sherlock swallowed and craned his neck, trying to glance
behind himself.
Jim moved his hands so Sherlock could see. He had to twist, but when he did
Sebastian lifted just enough for him.
Sebastian was not little. And barely a third of him was in, which made it seem
that much larger. Sherlock must have looked stricken because Sebastian's face
split into a decidedly self satisfied grin. He bent down over Sherlock again,
this time wrapping his arms around him, helping to hold him up, to keep him
steady, and still Sebastian only moved in a little farther. "You alright?" he
whispered in the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck.
Sherlock shuddered. He couldn't get the images out of his mind - the sight and
feel of Sebastian impaling him in slow motion, or the memory of just how many
sharp teeth were pressed close to his neck. And yet Sebastian was concerned,
checking in with him. "....mmm. Alright. Just... not used to... this."
Penetrative sex. Threesomes and voyeurism. Having a partner that made him
question whether he was going to get split in two.
Jim was there at his side, hands drawing warm paths down his arms and over his
cheek. He was so very tactile at times, and yet with every touch came soothing
intentions. "That's alright," Jim said, smiling against Sherlock's temple. He
could hear the lilt in Jim's voice, soft enough and deep enough and distracted
enough for it to ring out.
Sebastian kept going, letting Sherlock adjust whenever the muscles in his back
tensed, until he was all the way in and panting over Sherlock's shoulder. They
rested that way for a minute, Sherlock and Sebastian breathing deep, trying to
get used to the feel, and Jim drinking them in. The way Sherlock's back was
arched, with Sebastian pressing against him like that, wrapped up in each
other...they must have looked quite obscene.
Sebastian finally moved, just a shallow rocking motion, and that was enough for
Sherlock's jaw to drop. It didn't feel pleasurable - at least not yet. Instead,
Sherlock was caught up in a tangle of other emotions that sparked a different
sort of thrill. He felt powerless, but in a way that didn't fill him with fear
or anger; there was a certain freedom instead. Sherlock had the option to let
go and trust that he would be alright, that he'd enjoy what was going to
happen... because Jim was going to direct it and make sure he enjoyed it.
Sebastian and Sherlock were both, in a way, following Jim's orders. Sherlock
was shocked to find that he was enjoying the twist that added to this.
Jim hissed in a way that might have been a 'yessss' but Sherlock couldn't be
sure. He touched Sherlock instead of himself, reaching down to coil his hand
loosely around Sherlock's cock, stroking slowly to watch it fill again.
Sebastian groaned from above them, hips circling to create the friction he
wanted without making any sudden stabs of motion, then pulling back slowly, as
slowly as he could and pushing in again. When Sherlock's mouth fell open, Jim
covered it with his own.
Sherlock's body was finding it difficult to decide which way to move. Forward
or back, each direction carried pleasure - the slide of Sebastian's cock inside
him, or his own cock against Jim's palm, hands on his body and kisses on his
mouth and neck. Sherlock leaned forward just a bit more, and Sebastian's next
slow thrust managed to hit the perfect angle. Sherlock moaned into Jim's mouth
and his grip on Jim turned white-knuckled.
"There you go." Jim grinned against him, but after a squeeze his hand slipped
away, leaving Sherlock gasping at the loss. Sebastian thrust in again and Jim
soaked up the pleasure that flashed across Sherlock's features. Sherlock felt
the weight of Sebastian's head fall between his shoulder blades, hair soft and,
in spite of everything, ticklish.
After a minute or so of letting them get comfortable, Jim drew Sherlock
upright, forcing Sebastian to move back as well. One look between them was all
Jim needed to convey what he wanted, and Sebastian took Sherlock's hips and
guided him back and down to a sitting position atop his lap. Back to front they
were pressed together, Sebastian against the headboard, using it for stability.
Jim licked his lips and crawled forward. Sherlock was splayed open to him now.
A flush of color spread across Sherlock's cheekbones. Sitting like this, he
couldn't help but feel... odd about everything. He'd begun to get used to sex
in general, but he'd started with a relationship that was taboo by several
notches in society's estimation and only kept going. The three of them had been
together before, more or less, when he'd started to interact with Sebastian,
but...
Sherlock's position drove the point home. He was naked, legs spread out, with
Sebastian behind him and in him and Jim would certainly be able to see
everything at the current angle. Jim kept crawling towards him and Sherlock's
embarrassment and shame didn't disappear, but it began to become overshadowed
by lust. Particularly when Jim licked his lips again and let his gaze trail
hungrily over Sherlock's skin.
Jim's fingers touched his knees, slid up his thighs, dipped into Sherlock's
hips so close to his erection, but he kept going until he was nearly pressed to
Sherlock's front. "You don't have to be nervous," Jim whispered in his ear,
even though Sebastian could probably hear he was so close. "You're with me
now."
Sherlock felt Sebastian's mouth against the top of his shoulder before Jim sank
back down, eye on what he was after. He nestled himself there between
Sherlock's legs and Sherlock felt Sebastian tense inside of him at the sight of
it, of Jim slowly taking Sherlock into his mouth.
Sherlock couldn't keep silent this time. Sensations bombarded him from both
sides. Sherlock couldn't tear his eyes away from watching Jim swallowing him
whole, and he was nearly overwhelmed.
Sebastian's thrusts didn't match the slide of Jim's mouth at all. There weren't
any split-seconds of relief, just continuous spikes of pleasure that
occasionally fell into sync and left Sherlock moaning. His toes started to
curl.
Jim gripped him, suddenly and rather forcefully, at the base. It was a
surprise, and almost painful, but Jim looked up at him with wide eyes and
satisfaction, tongue lingering at the tip just to torment Sherlock. Sherlock
felt the scratch of teeth at his neck and heard a whispered "Fuck" behind him.
Sebastian's hips jerked, but he held on. He'd been moving slowly, had managed
not to get as terribly worked up as Sherlock had. Though really that was Jim's
fault. Jim who was pouring the oil over his own fingers now, leaning into
Sherlock, and reaching behind himself.
"...fuck." Sherlock barely recognized his own voice. He couldn't stop a slight
tremor in his limbs. Now that he'd had a preview, he had no idea how he was
going to last through this. Sebastian had slowed down, and Jim was no longer
touching him, but watching Jim finger himself was like torture. Sherlock felt
his cock twitch against his stomach as Jim worked himself open, completely
aware of the show he was giving Sherlock and Sebastian, and utterly smug
knowing how it was affecting the both of them. "...Jim, you're going to kill me
like this."
"I should have tried this first, then," Jim laughed softly, working his hips in
a lazy circle over the fingers impaled inside him. When Sherlock hissed a
breath through his nose, Jim reached out and took him in hand again, staving
off the tightening in his gut with a hard grip. Then he began to climb up
Sherlock's lap, hooking a leg around either side of him and slicking the head
of his cock with the oil. The extra weight forced Sebastian to lean into the
headboard, but he managed to hold them well enough as Jim lined himself up,
bending, grinning, sinking slowly but smoothly onto Sherlock. His free hand
reached for support over their shoulders, gripping the headboard, but
Sebastian's hand reached up and caught his arm.
Sherlock didn't make a sound, but his mouth opened as if he wanted to. His eyes
were closed and he looked almost pained. His arms wrapped around Jim now that
the smaller man was close enough. Sherlock felt like he was losing his mind,
everything derailing and re-centering until there was nothing but this: heat
and touch and sight, sound and the scent of sex, the boundary lines of their
bodies becoming hazy while they merged into one another in a tangle of limbs
and lust. Jim's body paused once Sherlock was fully sheathed, and Sherlock gave
an experimental jerk of his hips.
Jim's mouth dropped open and his eyelids shuttered. A breath of air escaped
him, almost a whimper. Sherlock could see Sebastian's grip on Jim's forearm
tighten out of the corner of his eye, but Jim didn't seem to notice nor care.
Then he felt Sebastian move. It wasn't a subtle movement either. The way he
rocked into Sherlock rocked into Jim and then Jim did let out a gasping whine.
His fingers squeezed tighter around Sherlock's base, keeping the hold in spite
of everything. Sebastian groaned and did it again. It took effort from his
position, and strength, but he showed no signs of slowing down.
There was nothing left for it but to hold on - almost literally. Sherlock's
hands would leave bruises on Jim's skin from where he gripped him, and
Sherlock's voice started to join Jim's. He'd been right upon the cusp of orgasm
a few times now, enough that he was beginning to ache, and tension was building
again. Jim's hand was tight enough that Sherlock wasn't going to be able to
come until he let go. Perhaps that was Jim's plan, to make Sherlock beg for
release before he finally allowed it.
Sebastian didn't have either the advantage of a strong grip nor just starting
out. His thrusts were becoming more and more frantic, his breathing against
Sherlock's neck more and more irregular. One of his arms worked in between
Sherlock's front and Jim's back, the other reached around Jim as best he could,
like Sebastian were trying to hold onto the both of them. His pants came woven
with curses. Sherlock felt the bite of his teeth against his earlobe, thought
he heard his name in between Sebastian's pants, and then Jim turned his temple
from where it had pressed against Sherlock's to look into Sebastian's eyes. And
curl his mouth into a smile.
Sebastian jerked underneath them both. With a groan he came, hard, and Sherlock
could feel every inch of it in the way his body, all of that sinewy muscle,
gripped around his own.
Sherlock stiffened, eyes wide. He could feel Sebastian twitching inside him
with release, and with the sensation he could feel himself hardening even
further. Jim still wasn't letting him come; his grip was tight around
Sherlock's base, enough that Sherlock gave him an imploring look. He let go of
Jim's hip and, after spitting in his hand, began to stroke. He could still feel
Sebastian's breath against his ear.
Sebastian's arms only released Jim, who had begun to take over the rhythm as it
was difficult for Sherlock to move. Sherlock felt the soft fringe of
Sebastian's hair brush his neck and the press of head as he bent into Sherlock.
One of Jim's arms wrapped around his neck, the other wedged between Sebastian
and his back, desperate for something to hold onto while Jim began to pant in
time. He met Sherlock's gaze, but he didn't loosen his hold. Instead, he
pressed their mouths together, lifting his body, sinking Sherlock inside of
himself over and over.
After so many times of coming close to completion and being thwarted, it didn't
take long. Sherlock gasped into Jim's mouth, his hand tightening around Jim's
cock while he came in spurts. The tension made his whole body tighten, bringing
an awareness of Sebastian's cock - softening, but still inside him.
A bizarre feeling flooded through Sherlock. He couldn't get close enough. He
was inside Jim, wrapped around him, but all he wanted was to get closer. To
bury himself in the man and never resurface, twined around him forever. He
wondered if this was anything like how Jim felt.
The pace of his hand didn't slow, and as he rode through the aftershocks he
heard Jim gasping, whining his name, felt him writhing on Sherlock, the
sensations overwhelming. Jim wouldn't slow down, even with Sherlock's arms
wrapped tightly around him, until he came as well, face buried in Sherlock's
neck. His body froze. Everything froze, like time restructured itself and
extended the twisting heat and pleasure inside them, Jim's muscles quivering
around Sherlock, the taut line of Jim's back arching, Sebastian's chest
expanding and contracting against his own back. Until Jim drifted down from the
high.
Sherlock didn't want to let go. He kept Jim pressed tightly against him,
heedless of the mess or the damp feel of sweat against skin. Sherlock was all
too aware that this only existed in the dream; he'd wake up with Jim gone,
untouchable, only a voice in his head and a feeling underneath his skin instead
of a solid reality he could hold onto. The thought that they could have had
this before, the waste of it all, was shattering, only slightly helped by the
warmth surrounding him.
Jim's head turned. He pressed a kiss to the side of Sherlock's cheek. Sebastian
held them both. Sherlock felt him, saw him out of the corner of his eye,
hooking his chin over Sherlock's shoulder.
To think, a mind palace could accommodate people all along. Of course Sherlock
would not have known without Jim's intervention, but the three of them filled
its space with life. More life than the outside world could ever contain, at
least for Sherlock. Jim had been infatuated with the idea. Of staying here.
One dark eye peered up at Sherlock. It was impossible to see Jim's expression
with his head buried like that, but he held on just as tightly.
Sherlock couldn't bear it. His head lowered until it rested against Jim's
shoulder, hiding his face from view. He was certain Jim had figured out what he
was thinking anyway. Jim couldn't read Sherlock's thoughts here, but the way
Sherlock clung to the man and the slight dampness against Jim's shoulder would
have told him everything regardless. Sherlock was mourning less for the loss of
his old life than he was for opportunities squandered, for the fact that he was
leaving the country with Sebastian and there would be one extra empty seat on
the plane between them where Jim should have been. It was only a minor
consolation that he carried Jim with him.
Fingers slid up the back of Sherlock's neck and into his hair. Even Sebastian
must have understood what Sherlock was thinking because he moved just enough to
make Sherlock more comfortable and stroked a warm hand up and down his side.
Jim wouldn't say that it was going to be okay. It was never going to be okay.
Sherlock would go on living. Sebastian would help him through the rough spots.
He would have Jim's mind but never as it could have been. Jim would remain
elusive, still ever out of his reach. Except here.
"Please." Sherlock's whisper was barely audible. Things had come full circle
now. Sherlock had wanted nothing more than to be free of Jim, to have him
expelled from his body and mind, and now he couldn't get close enough, couldn't
have enough of him. He'd become like Sebastian, addicted. "I don't want to go.
It isn't the same."
He felt Jim's eyelashes flutter against his temple. Jim was staring into him
with half lidded eyes. "Stay with me," warm lips murmured against Sherlock's
cheek.
Sebastian remained silent against Sherlock's back, but there was no mistaking
the way his arms tightened.
Jim kissed Sherlock's ear. If he'd been able to feel Jim's emotions, ever, he
was certain he would feel an echo of his own turmoil. Jim's heart was beating
solidly against his chest. He would never feel that anywhere but here.
"...I can't." Sherlock knew he would wake up eventually. The choice was that,
or going into a coma and slowly slipping away. Nothing in the dream was truly
real except for themselves - it would be a hollow existence of delusions, even
though that wasn't much of a difference from the waking, living world. Sherlock
had only just begun to feel some sort of connection to Sebastian, but he knew
well enough that losing Jim again, losing Sherlock now, would destroy him. "I
can't stay here. Not yet. I don't want to leave, but I can't stay yet. There's
too much we haven't done."
"One day you will," Jim whispered, but he drew back enough to look at Sherlock.
His body was relaxed again, fingers drawing idly through Sherlock's hair and
over the places Sebastian wasn't pressed to his back. Jim kissed Sherlock in
what was, compared to before, a rather chaste motion. The room around them was
beginning to fade. Sherlock could see parts of the living room he'd woken in
through the walls. A smile drew up Jim's mouth and he regarded Sebastian. "You
take care of him for me."
"I will." Sebastian's breath caught and Sherlock felt it.
Jim reached out to draw Sebastian to him. He nipped at Sebastian's bottom lip
before Sebastian pressed their mouths together. Jim's fingers slid through
short strands of blond hair before they parted, sealing his command.
Sherlock could feel Sebastian's emotions play out in the way his body shifted
and tightened, even though the man didn't make a sound.
He knew Sebastian would keep to his promise. He probably would have even if Jim
hadn't sworn him to it. Sherlock was more than just a vessel carrying around
the object of Sebastian's desire now; he was a secondary desire in and of
himself. Sebastian would shadow him to the end of his days, a solid presense in
a way that Jim couldn't quite be anymore.
Their bedroom lost its walls to the creeping darkness. The lamp beside their
bed began to grow insubstantial and with it, the light. Sherlock felt Sebastian
lay a kiss against the side of his neck. The world was fading, but none of them
would move.
Sherlock could feel Sebastian's body tense as they lost more and more of their
sight, as everything began to drift away. Jim smiled, barely visible anymore,
serene and motionless as a statue waiting to crumble into dust until Sherlock
brought him together again.
Sherlock's consciousness faded with the light. The last thing he felt were the
warm bodies of both men wrapped thoroughly around him.
Hours later, he became more and more aware of a heaviness throughout himself.
It took several minutes before Sherlock realized the sensation was, in fact,
due to someone on top of him, weighty enough that his breathing was shallow and
strained. His hands rose with great effort, feeling blindly until Sherlock
touched cloth, skin, short hair. Memories began flooding back. "...Sebastian.
Wake up."
"Mmf," was all he got at first. Sebastian lifted his head when Sherlock shook
his shoulder. He blinked blearily.
They were back in their hotel, lying atop the sheets of their single bed. More
specifically, Sebastian was lying atop Sherlock who was lying atop the sheets.
It was still dark out, but it had to be close to morning. The night sky outside
their window held just the barest hint of light.
Carefully, Sebastian scooted himself to Sherlock's side. He lay boneless like
that, one arm over Sherlock's chest, unwilling to move farther. "'Morning."
Sherlock sucked in a deep breath before he answered, eyes fluttering closed.
"...morning." Waking to another physical presense was odd, but not unwelcome
given the circumstances. It kept a bit of the reality of the situation at bay.
They'd be leaving this morning as soon as they were able - destination unknown,
but somewhere far enough that it would be difficult for MI6 to track them down.
For Mycroft to track them down.
Sherlock's hand rose and settled on the side of Sebastian's head, just enough
to feel a ridge of scarring beneath his palm. "You seem to have slept well
enough."
He caught the man's smile into the blankets.
"Thank you. For last night." Sebastian really didn't need to clarify. Still, it
was a surprise to hear from him. Then again....it had meant a lot to Sebastian.
More than he would say, probably. If there was a chance they could do this
again, Sebastian would jump at it.
Wherever he was, Jim was silent. Resting, assumedly. Their escapades last night
would have taken a toll on him.
"You're welcome." Sherlock didn't know what else to say. Their tentative
understanding had grown a little further, but Sherlock still didn't quite know
exactly where they stood with one another. The relationship between himself and
the blond was vastly different than the one between himself and Jim, and it was
sure to change even more if they were going to be stuck on the road together,
moving and doing jobs as they went. "...happy you missed those shots, now, I
should think."
Sebastian turned his head. His smile curled. "Absolutely." He leaned in to kiss
Sherlock, somewhat of an apology. When Sebastian drew back, he paused, looking
at Sherlock. They were both a little wrecked, dazed from sleep and, not sticky
any longer, but exploration in the dream world had left plenty of evidence in
the real world. They would both need a good hot shower. But Sebastian was
looking at him...a lot like Jim sometimes looked at him. Trying to look into
him, to see what Jim saw in Sherlock. Sebastian must have been satisfied,
because the corner of his mouth lifted again. "C'mon, time to pack up." And
then he was off the bed, awake and moving all at once.
Sherlock turned to roll off the bed and winced. The night had left more than
residue behind, it would seem. Jim had previously left him sore, but size
apparently made a difference both in the moment and with the aftermath.
Sherlock grabbed fresh clothing out of his suitcase and headed towards the
small bathroom with a stiff expression. He didn't look at Sebastian; he was
certain he'd see a smugness on the scarred man's face that would make Sherlock
want to deck him.
Two hours later Sherlock was sitting next to Sebastian aboard a jet pointed
toward Thailand. A small airline, a modest cabin crew, two falsified IDs they'd
both had from the start, and they were ready for a new beginning.
Sebastian was so far his usual silent self, taking up the isle seat so Sherlock
wouldn't have to. He fielded offers from an overly helpful flight attendant and
got Sherlock a club soda.
Jim remained silent. Sebastian didn't ask. Everything rested in the present
now. Their past was fading away, ever quicker as the captain's cheerful voice
laid in their destination and travel time over the cabin address and faster
still as the plane taxi'd out onto the runway, gaining momentum, gaining
flight. Neither of them could predict the future. All they had was something to
aim for and if they missed, well, they would have to find another way. There
was no looking back or forward, only now.
Sherlock looked out the window as England receded and then disappeared under
cloud cover. There was no telling if he'd ever set foot on British soil again.
No telling, either, where their final destination might be. All Sherlock had
was himself, and the ghost he carried with him, and Sebastian beside him.
Sherlock reached over, subtly grabbed Sebastian's wrist, and squeezed. They'd
make do.
Chapter End Notes
     Finally we've come to an end. Thank you so much for reading and
     sticking with us all the while. We appreciate it so much.
End Notes
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