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As James turned his back, flashes of a golden silk dress flashed before Sherlock’s eyes. The dim light of the dressing room was an almost perfect facsimile of Sherlock’s evening candlelit bedroom last night.
“She did have her back to me, as she poured the drinks,” Sherlock mused, hand pointed emphatically.
James turned around, eyes wide and twinkling, a semblance of understanding flashing through them in the blink of an eye. With James, Sherlock never truly needed to say the facts out loud. In this case a fact effortlessly hovered between them: Princess Shou’an had spiked Sherlock’s drink.
“So you remember now?” James’ voice raised at the end slightly, face conveying an apparently unconcerned temperament, but ears eagerly perked up.
Sherlock had to reign in his train of thought as he attempted to dig deeper into his memory, but it was as if he had hit a dam, the current of memories abruptly stopping and walling him off the further he waded. He pressed a rubbing hand to his forehead, almost trying to stimulate his brain into action.
“I don’t know… I think- my mind is clouded.”
“Right,” James’ lilting Irish accent had a hint of exasperation in it already, “Any chance of a sunny day soon?”
Sherlock glanced up at him, “I had a moment of recollection when you turned your back.”
James nodded, mulling it over in his head. Then, slowly, he began to smirk, barely illuminated by the striated sunbeams coming through the wooden floorboards of the ceiling, “What? Do I remind you of the Princess?”
At the end of his sentence James comically swished his hips in a womanly manner, and the cheeky smile Sherlock had violently thwarted had reinstated its residence on James’ face. He pressed his lips together into a stubbornly straight line as he willingly ignored James’ comment. Eyes straight, chin up, as his mother used to say.
“You just happened to be in the same pose when I remembered.”
“Right. Of course.”
James looked at Sherlock curiously. Then, after a light, knowing hum, James abandoned the orange shawl and clumsily stepped forward over the rickety mismatched floorboards of the shoddy dressing room, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He knew exactly when to give Sherlock space, and exactly when he felt Sherlock needed to be probed and pressured. Now was presumably the time for probing, and Sherlock couldn’t deny that for one reason or the other, James was having a catalyst-like effect on his recollection. It wouldn’t hurt to toy around with this hypothesis.
The scarce beams of sunlight danced over James’ hair as he walked over. The floor creaked but James’ steps were quiet, like a predator’s. Sherlock’s eyes were momentarily distracted, flicking down to the slightly muddied shoes that rhythmically made their way over to him. They trailed upwards, over the languid yet tense hips, over the waist around which James’ waistcoat was tightly bound, over the slightly parted lips that always had a ghost of a smile upon them. When his eyes finished their habitual scan, gleaning nothing malicious from the man in front of him, Sherlock found that James’ eyebrows were curiously poised. He had a strange look, and it was one Sherlock had seen before. There was something unspoken in his gaze, repressed - strained, even. But it was hard to make out in the dim light.
“Wait,” Sherlock finally acknowledged the resemblance.
“What?”
“I… I must admit. I believe there is something about you that is triggering my memory.”
James raised an eyebrow.
“Oh?” James brought his hand back to his chin, displaying a false look of thoughtfulness, “It sounds like you need my help.”
“Right. Well then-”
“Ah, ah, you think I’m going to help you for free?”
Sherlock’s brows furrowed. He wasn’t sure if this was a gimmick, or if perhaps he had placed himself too much in James’ debt, “You want something in return?”
“Ask nicely,” James crossed his arms in front of him, briefly looking up at the ceiling contemplatively.
Sherlock let out a brief sigh. Then, with no movement from James besides maintaining his patient position, Sherlock gritted his teeth and looked down, “If we are to work together and discover whatever nefarious plans Shou’an beholds, I must dearly request, my dearest friend, James Moriarty,” his jaw clenched, his eyes briefly closing to spare himself from a smug expression looking patronisingly down at him, “Please help me.”
“That wasn‘t so hard, was it Sherly?” James oh-so-generously spread his hands outwards, drawling that childish nickname that he knew Sherlock despised. It was what Mycroft used to call him when they played as kids - when he had been dressed up in Bea’s dresses, in his mother’s high heels, and made to twirl around as if in a Parisian fashion show. For his older brother, it must have been amusing. For Sherlock, he had never wished to erase a memory so vehemently in his brief, stubborn existence. James kept his arms outstretched, then bent his knees slightly in a mocking bow of courtesy, as if they were both on stage rather than hiding behind one, surrounded by false identities in the form of frilly costumes and hollow props, “Well then. Can’t refuse Romeo, now can I?”
“Might I remind you that speaking is optional? Move closer.”
James chuckled and stepped forward again, closing the gap between them so that his feet knocked against Sherlock’s. Sherlock could feel himself swaying, but he stood his ground. No matter how he tried to conjure Shou’an again, something was off. There was something missing.
“There was a bed behind me.”
“Right,” James nodded, “And how is this relevant?”
“I fell onto it.”
“She pushed you onto a bed?” James raised his eyebrows with a knowing smile.
“It needs to be somewhere I can sit down,” Sherlock ignored the latent teasing behind the insinuation and allowed his eyes to slip over the dark, greenish room until his eyes landed on a large sturdy object behind the pillar, barely illuminated with the soft glow of spotted sunlight. He gestured to James to follow, stepping over the sandbags and costumes that had been carelessly flung onto the floor in their tussle, and arrived at a large table. It was as tall as Sherlock’s thighs, but long like a coffin, and particularly sturdy. It was perhaps not so comfortable as a bed, but it was the perfect shape. Sherlock stepped in front of it, then turned around to face James. It felt odd to place himself in the dim sunlight whilst James was shrouded in darkness. It made Sherlock feel strangely on edge.
“Push me.”
James stepped forward and unquestioningly pressed a hand onto Sherlock’s warm blue undershirt that contained a chest with a heartbeat that flitted like a hummingbird, barely recovered from their police evading and impromptu fighting.
“Harder.”
James hesitated for a moment, and then did so. Sherlock fell back onto the bench, remaining seated.
The Shou’an in Sherlock’s memory was returning, overlapping over James’ figure in such a manner that he knew not whether he was seeing the curiously desirable eyes of the Princess, or the piercing eyes of his companion. In the meantime, amused by Sherlock’s vacant state, James tilted his own head down, then reached out a bold hand to gently tilt Sherlock’s face back, like a child demanding attention from his playmate. Sherlock, who was retreating into his overactive imagination, was too dazed to notice James’ wandering, parched gaze, which lingered on his bitten lips perhaps a touch too long to be considered normal. Though perhaps it was just the strange way the flickering sunlight made them appear succulent and translucent, like petals.
“Did she touch you like this?” his thumb brushed small, strangely soothing circles over Sherlock's chin, missing his lips by a mere millimeter.
“Certainly not,” Sherlock responded, eyes still unfocused, brows furrowed, “Her hands were softer.”
James retreated his hand, taken aback by his own impulsiveness, then crossed his arms bashfully, “Oh my apologies, sweet prince. Do my roughened hands offend you?”
“Why my dear Horatio,” Sherlock tapped his fingers lightly on the table, gaze coming back into focus as he glanced at James, mildly amused, “I am not passion’s slave. I hardly require a delicate touch.”
“You’d think otherwise. For a scout you err on the tender side.”
“Tender?” Sherlock smiled in outrage, “I’ll show you tender.”
He swung his right fist, target focused squarely on that infuriatingly smug expression. But unlike before, he now lacked the element of surprise. It happened in an instant: James quickly dodged out of the way before grabbing Sherlock’s wildly flung arm, whilst simultaneously placing a firm hand on his chest. Holding onto Sherlock’s arm, James pushed him backwards, leveraging Sherlock’s clumsily thrown momentum to throw him onto the bench with such force that his back thudded against the wooden surface with a resounding, rounded slam, but James - the damned conniving bastard - held his arm in position such that his head was yanked forward, narrowly avoiding a potential concussion. James, by necessity, had jammed his leg between Sherlock’s to make space for the awkward pose. Now, James’ head also came into the beam of sunlight, and Sherlock could see his smiling face a little more clearly.
“Ah, well you certainly weren’t born to be a solider.”
Rather than retaliating however, Sherlock was immediately plunged back into his bedroom at Oxford, the dim candlelight framing the dark window that framed the jagged cobbled streets of London. A hand pressed to his chest, tilting his chin up, grabbing his face. Was this Shou’an? She was… cleaning his face perhaps. Yes, the wet towel, the soothing tone of her voice. But the hand on his chest was too broad, and not delicate enough. It was rougher, rich with callouses and scars, embedded with curbed strength and vicious resolve. A scholar’s hands. The hands of a working class man. And he smelled of books, and danger, and Sherlock looked up and could only see those dark infuriatingly charming eyes looking back at him. They reflected all, and revealed nothing. That subtle grin that exuded a fake confidence. Sherlock was certain that he was the only one that had ever recognised it for what it was.
Sherlock sighed, tilting his head at the figure in his imagination, “What are you doing in here again?”
For some reason, even when he had not been needed, or indeed even present, James had, of late, managed to sneak himself into most of Sherlock’s imaginary scenarios. As usual, the characters in his mind were unable to talk. The current ‘James’ in his bedroom simply tilted his head, pursing his lips as if he were saying ‘it’s obvious why I’m here’. He had stolen Shou’an’s place in front of Sherlock, and still had a hand pressed to Sherlock’s chest. His hand slid upwards, probing, testing, and brushed against Sherlock’s neck, cupping his jaw, pressing against his lips.
Sherlock suddenly felt the urge to grab that hand, lick it, taste the ink off a night’s laborious work hunched over a piece of parchment, quill in hand, candlelit. He could breathe in the smell of a hardened resolve to never look back, to never again rely on any silver-spooned upper-class snob who funded people like him solely to feed their insatiable prides. He wanted to lean in and smell the clean soapy skin of a stubbornly well-groomed man, pounce on the unbuttoned collar and bite down on the exposed neck underneath. He wanted to ruin that smug face, wipe it away, release the truly damaged person underneath from his buried chains. He wanted to see what he knew was there: a reflection of his own torment, his own wounds, and an equally desperate desire to survive in this world.
Sherlock’s train of thought abruptly stopped at the sensation of a hand, shifting slightly on his shirt. James’ hand was still pressed onto Sherlock’s chest, uncertain as to whether he might remove it lest it hinder Sherlock’s stream of thought. Sherlock was troubled, gulped slightly, but did not let it show on his face. He looked up at James.
“Tell me what you need,” James coaxed, as if granting Sherlock permission.
For a brief moment Sherlock was dazed, conflating the boundary between imaginary and reality, something he’d never done before. This bastard was just as slippery and cunning in Sherlock’s dreams as he was in real life. It was hardly Sherlock’s fault that he occasionally allowed himself to assume one was the other. When Sherlock mentally confirmed what exactly James was granting permission for, he grasped the opportunity, appreciative of James’ oh-so-magnanimous graciousness.
“Touch my face again.”
“Like this?”
His hand wasn’t as languid nor insinuating as Sherlock had just experienced. It was respectful, clipping, lifted then placed mechanically on Sherlock’s face. It was strange, then, that Sherlock confused the two. What correlation did James had to Sherlock’s strange musings over the ‘James’ he so frequently, annoyingly, involuntarily conjured? Why had he just imagined such a strange scenario, and one so far from reality?
“She smeared blood on me,” Sherlock finally said, images of red flashing across his mind’s eye like damaged film, “Then she stole my knife from my coat pocket.”
James’ expression widened in misplaced admiration, his voice low, torturously, beautifully calm, “The devil hath power t’assume a pleasing shape.”
Then James tutted whilst shaking his head, removing his hand to place it on his own waist, and this time Sherlock felt the empty space on his face as if a bandaid had been ripped away. Why did he crave the touch of that hand? Sherlock failed to understand his own mind, and began to wonder whether James had worn clothing soaked in some strange substance that made one irrationally bemused. Or desirous.
“I certainly do not find her pleasing,” Sherlock frowned. He couldn’t help but feel as if his comment were out of place. As if it had not been intended for Shou’an.
“Do you, now? But you’re on a first-name basis with her?”
“Does it worry you that much?”
James shrugged, expression shifting back to a feigned lack of concern, “Just looking out for a friend is all.”
“Liar.”
James grinned, eyes sparkling, “What do you mean by that, Sherlock?”
Even Sherlock didn’t know what he himself quite meant. He tapped his fingers distractedly on the bench again, stating the first thought that came to his mind, “You’re jealous. You’re infatuated with her.”
“Am I?”
Sherlock nodded somewhat uncertainly. James scoffed, turning his head away, back into the dim light, back into the darkness. And yet Sherlock’s eyes couldn’t help but drift towards his neck, stretched and pale and vulnerable, feeling the same urge he had in his imagination. When Sherlock finally managed to tear his eyes away, James turned back around, his voice coming out darker, embalmed in dripping, bleeding sarcasm.
“Astounding deduction. I was worried for a moment that you would be unable to read the emotion clear on my face. Pray tell me, what else do you imagine I might be feeling?”
Spending a life of an impulsive kleptomaniac - moreso a daredevil who always seeked experimental thrills that may or may not have been less than lawful - who enraged people as naturally as he breathed, Sherlock had developed an attuned sense for anger. And James, for whatever reason, was definitely angry.
“Well, you’re angry. I understand.”
“Do you?” James stepped closer.
“Of course. Shou’an is a beautiful woman. Anyone would be eager to…”
“To what?”
Sherlock’s lips twitched as he found the right word, “Claim her. To put it delicately.”
James paused. He chuckled to himself, more strained in frustration than purely amused, his eyes failing to give the tell-tale crease of a genuine smile. There he was. The conflicted man trapped inside. Sherlock wanted to strip away the layers and lay himself next to the rawness that was James Moriarty. He shivered slightly as James turned his gaze back to him, an indecipherable expression swimming in the depths of his eyes. Then, slowly, James reached his hand back out - Sherlock followed the movement with his eyes - to place it back on Sherlock’s chest. It lay there, like laying claim to what one rightfully deserved. Sherlock forced himself to keep his hips square and flush with the bench, his back straight and upright, feeling a dangerous, irrational urge to arch into the movement. He was tempted to diffuse the tension that had built in the air with a stupid joke, a nonsensical insult. But somehow he did not feel it was appropriate. Or rather, he didn’t want to dissipate the unspoken insinuation that they both mutually understood at this moment.
James’s lips twitched into a wry grin, likely feeling the racing heart beneath Sherlock’s navy undershirt that did not match his deadpan face, like he could read the depth of Sherlock’s thoughts and desires with his palm, as if he had gleaned for himself something about Sherlock that even Sherlock himself did not know.
“And what if I said,” Sherlock’s breath suddenly became shallow as James’ calm voice pierced the air, quiet and whispering. James leaned back towards the table, back into the dimmed sunlight, as if he were divulging a precious secret, “she’s not the one I want to claim?”
Sherlock took a deep, wavering breath, deriving the less-than-latent meaning behind James’ words. It became clear why the ‘James’ in Sherlock’s mind had been so strange. His subconscious had been trying to tell him all along. ‘James’ wasn’t so different after all; the one in front of him was simply too restrained. And perhaps Sherlock was too.
“I would say that you can’t claim me. I belong to no one.”
James paused, taking in Sherlock’s response with an almost unnoticeable dry swallow, then he laughed and shook his head, and backed off. His hand was still placed on Sherlock, but he pulled his face away, back out of the sunbeams, “This is dangerous.”
“It is.” Sherlock was far too aware of the way James was still leaning over him, his legs still forcibly parted slightly by James’ knee. They were playing a push and pull game of forbidden, unspoken desires. They were somehow detached and conjoined at the same time. They were on the edge of a very dangerous line. Sherlock quietly clenched his fists.
James’ eyes flicked between the bolted door, as if steadying his mind by focusing on the solid wooden structure, and Sherlock, musing over one rational option over the other. Sherlock found himself uncharacteristically silent, his body motionless and forcibly calmed as if he were truly lying on a bed, but his heart was pumping, traitorously unquieted. If James made the decision to wordlessly walk out of here at this moment, Sherlock would not stop him. This was something Sherlock could not control.
Then, something thoughtful passed over James’ expression. He leaned back towards Sherlock, bracing his other hand against the side of the bench, and brought his face closer and closer to Sherlock’s. It was only when their proximity was such that Sherlock merely had to shift a millimeter forward in order to close the gap between their mouths that James stopped. Then, James held still. The message was obvious: he was leaving the choice to Sherlock. The damned bastard. Never took any responsibility for his actions, and in this case Sherlock would take the fall for whatever happened between them today.
Once upon a time, Sherlock had felt guarded, perhaps even threatened by a mind as bright as his own that appeared in the form of one James Moriarty. Perhaps he still did. Perhaps that was why he shuddered as he realised how vulnerable he currently was, physically and mentally splayed out before James to see, to inspect, to critique.
God, if Mycroft could see them now. He would probably wipe the floor with his jaw. It was not the idea of lying with a man that scared Sherlock. He had done quite enough experimentation bearing in mind his attendance at an all boys’ boarding school, and Mycroft had always quietly acknowledged Sherlock’s disinterest in women thereafter. But this was more than an experiment. It was a chemical explosion of many magnitudes, threatening to burst at the drop of a very dilute acid. It was a solution, hidden in the complex plane but always there. It was a tragically inevitable massacre, an action that had been delayed for too long. And it mortified him that it was James that brought out this equivocal nature in him.
“Earth to Sherlock,” James’ voice was hushed with a hint of amusement, and Sherlock could feel the way James’ mouth almost brushed his, “You haven’t fallen asleep with your eyes open, have you?”
Sherlock was quiet for a few moments, his lip trembling with the force of his conflicted decision making. And perhaps it was morbid fascination. Perhaps it was pity. Perhaps it was a reason truly as pathetic as raw desire. But in that moment, Sherlock finally buried his hands in that damned curly hair, and crushed their mouths together.
Connected to James like this, Sherlock could feel his effect on the other man. Despite his boldness, James’ breath was deliberately held back. He was nervous. His hands were still at his sides despite Sherlock’s hands already buried deep in his hair and tugging gently at the strands. After a short moment however, he started to feel James’ quiet hum against his mouth following each gentle tug. Then, reciprocal hands came up to gently cup his face, in a manner Sherlock never thought to be possible from James.
When they broke apart, they were both out of breath. Sherlock managed to pause for a moment, licking his lips unconsciously, tasting this boundary they had both stepped past. James followed the movement of his tongue, then looked back up with a mischievous glint in his eye.
“You’re an eager one, aren’t you? If only the Princess knew what she was missing-”
“Don’t mention her. Not now,” Sherlock breathlessly held their foreheads together, closing his eyes to revel in the new sensations and smells with being this close to James. It had never been about Shou’an.
James quietly nodded against him, suddenly serious, and atypically accomodating, “Ok.”
Then, “Can I just say though-”
Sherlock smiled, shaking his head, “Shut up.”
“-next time you throw a punch, make sure to aim. You’re not a wild animal.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened, “Hah!” and he made one last attempt at James’ nose. But his arms were firmly grabbed - which in fairness had only been thrown in jest - and pulled down against the table.
“Damned villain,” Sherlock muttered, lacking the words to describe what in particular irked him about that smug face.
“Smiling damned villain,” James tilted his head slightly, before pausing expectantly, eyes finally donning that crease of sincere amusement.
James’ words were sharp and damning, but his brilliant cold dark eyes were uncharacteristically trembling, confirming Sherlock’s theory. James wasn’t an arrogant, hedonistic bastard, or an instinctive rule breaker in the same way Sherlock was. He was a desperate man. Chasing thrills from one place to the next, throwing his entirety into what he believed in. He had been wandering his whole life, whereas Sherlock had always been seeking to break free. Twin souls, each longing for what the other sought to escape. Sherlock lightly leaned in to bite that trembling lip, and moved back with a smile tugging at his lips.
“I’ve caught you now, James.”
“What?”
Taking advantage of James’ rare show of vulnerability, and momentary confusion, Sherlock held the edges of his waistcoat and clumsily swung them both around so that James was now sat on the large bench - though perhaps it was more so that James graciously complied with the movement. Then the same feeling that Sherlock had felt before overcame him once again, and he greedily leaned in for more, in a manner that clearly amused James as his mouth stretched into a cunning smile against Sherlock’s. While they kissed, James pressed a hand to Sherlock’s jaw, and adjusted him so that their mouths slotted together more openly, turning the kiss filthy. James experimentally licked into his mouth, pulling a quiet sound from them both.
James tasted like a cocktail of fine whiskey and pencil lead. It was intoxicating. Sherlock hungrily leaned in for more, pressing his mouth with less and less precision against James’ each time. Sherlock was swept up, and in one bastardly moment of slipping control, he let out an involuntary groan. At the wanton sound, Sherlock could feel James stiffen fully from where his neck was cupped inside Sherlock’s hands to where his arms were loosely wrapped around Sherlock’s waist. Then, James forcibly relaxed his muscles, and began to knead at Sherlock’s lower back, yanking him impossibly closer and overwhelming Sherlock with a myriad of sensations.
They broke apart again, rather unceremoniously, as Sherlock undid James’ waistcoat and pulled his shirt off revealing bare skin. Sherlock placed his hands on the wide chest in front of him and spread his hands, feeling the fluttering heartbeat of a man who always held himself with a distinct calmness and swagger. That quiet moment gave Sherlock the opportunity to appreciate the hot flush marking its quiet path along James’ neck, his lips parted and lightly red, the jut of his neck rising as he swallowed, his curly hair mussed and halfway to ruin. Still, a teasing smile managed to remain dancing upon James’ lips, his eyes unfazed by the pleasure, a certain focus and reciprocally analytical gaze directed back at Sherlock.
“Like what you see?” James slid back on the box, resting on his elbows, almost like an invitation, a provisional show of submission.
Sherlock made no comment, climbing onto the box with his legs either side of James, leaning down to press their hips flush, causing them both to let out a guttural noise as they rutted against each other, with James’ hands pulling Sherlock’s hips ever closer. Sherlock frantically moved his hands down to map out James’ chest, brushing the tips of his fingers gently across James’ nipples and being rewarded with a delicious gasp from those ever-mocking lips. He proceeded to press on them harder, and when James hissed in rebuttal he allowed an amused laugh to fall from his lips in between their kisses. James seemed to want to say something back but was stunned by Sherlock’s sincere laugh, and gave him a warning bite on his neck instead.
Sherlock found an opening when James tilted his head back slightly in a lazy fashion, to press a series of open-mouthed kisses onto his neck. The smell of sweat should have been repelling, but it was so distinct to James that Sherlock found himself breathing it in as if it were an opioid. Such was the high he felt at the thought of James under him, James vulnerable to him, that rivalling brilliant mind dulled and rendered mush under his touch. Only a moment later he was forced to come back to his senses when James’ slightly raised voice and steely arms firmly pushed him back.
Dazed, he looked at the slightly pinkish-purple mark his mouth had just left upon the fleshy muscular joint between James’ neck and shoulder. James’ eyes were accusing, his jaw gritted.
“Damn you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock smiled a teasing smile, stolen from James’ frowning lips.
James tutted, “Not funny. These kinds of marks last days.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, “Oh? You’ve allowed someone else to put their hands on you before?”
“Now who’s jealous?” James scoffed, manner still languid, “And ‘allowed’ is the wrong word.”
Sherlock acknowledged the quiet understanding that passed through them once again. A conversation passed in glances and deductions. Sherlock detested the thought of James being vulnerable to such rotten examples of humanity. Though nothing less would have built such a tough exterior.
“And now look at what you’ve become. Orphan boy.”
“Snobbish scout.”
“Do be quiet,” Sherlock muttered irritably, though his smile suggested otherwise.
Sherlock’s hands traced themselves downwards, reaching James’ waistline where his trousers met soft skin, and experimentally tapping his hips to acclimatise him to his touch. James, however, had other plans. He used his superior brute strength to push Sherlock with such force that he stumbled backwards. In the wake of his delirious shock, James stood, grabbed his waist, and dragged him over to a pile of clothing that had been tossed and shaken to the floor by Sherlock’s earlier hand-to-hand combat ‘training’. He shoved Sherlock onto the floor and followed suit, pinning Sherlock’s arms onto the ground in a flutter of aired clothing and fast movement. When Sherlock regained his bearings, his eyes immediately shot up to meet James’ gaze, a quiet threat lingering behind them.
“Unhand me.”
“Hmm,” James mused, “Perhaps if you beg I might consider it?”
“I am not your scout,” Sherlock huffed, “You do not order me around.”
James shrugged, knees planted either side of Sherlock’s hips.
Sherlock gritted his teeth, “I said unhand me.”
“I said beg.”
“I refuse,” Sherlock turned his head to the side defiantly
“Suit yourself,”
James moved his knee to slot it between Sherlock’s legs, then stared pointedly at Sherlock as he slid it upwards until it pressed itself against Sherlock’s crotch. Sherlock grunted, wriggled slightly, but was still solidly pinned and subject to James’ mercy. His wrists were locked in a firm vice above his head. He stopped attempting to move. Such was his conclusion: he could not overpower James with brute force alone.
James appeared amused, as if he could read every single one of Sherlock’s thoughts, taste them off his lips, lick them off his neck. His knee rocked into Sherlock again, pulling another groan as he voluntarily held still, refusing to waste energy on futile escape. By the third time, Sherlock had a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead from the effort of enduring the relentless, tormenting process. He felt compromised.
“Unhand me or you will regret it,” Sherlock’s voice was deep, his breath shallow as he tried again.
“Oh, I’m so scared,” James’ lilting tone was purely mocking and entirely infuriating.
Sherlock’s breath hitched as James moved his free hand - for Sherlock was embarrassingly pinned with only one - to cup the bulge in his trousers. The gentle touch of his explorative hands, torturously more forgiving than his knee, sent Sherlock into a mental frenzy as his fists clenched above his head and he bit his tongue. But James was persistent. And impossibly skilled. It was only when Sherlock writhed again, letting out a sound that bordered on a whine, that James huffed out an amused breath and leaned in close, whispering.
“Tell me what you need.”
It was a laughable repeat of what he had said earlier. Back then, Sherlock wondered, had James already been thinking of a scenario such as this? Sherlock involuntarily trembled, but his frustrations finally triumphed over his pride. His voice was hoarse now, but resolved.
“Touch me.”
“Touch you?”
Sherlock gritted his teeth.
“Touch me, please,” he was attempting sarcasm but his voice sounded frustratingly strained instead.
James’ grin grew wider, satisfied enough, and he yanked Sherlock’s bottoms off in time with Sherlock’s own efforts to kick his trousers off. No sooner had that barrier been removed that James began to deliver on his promise, wrapping his hand around his target and shifting his hand in rhythm to the involuntary shuffling of Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock could no longer hold back his gasps, the hands that once covered his mouth now pinned, leaving him utterly helpless.
Such pleasure was cheap. He was whoring himself for a sweet release, at the expensive cost of his pride. But under those transparent eyes, Sherlock saw himself. He was too far gone to be concerned with matters of pride any longer. The sounds from his mouth were obscene. He fell into a state of surrender, mortified beyond recovery. His… friend, his rival, and the daily source of his frustration was currently complicit in his pleasure. He found it hard to resolve in his mind, hence he resolved to stop thinking altogether.
James’ grip tightened, as if he were purposefully pulling Sherlock back to the surface by force, causing Sherlock to cry out briefly, his wrists straining against James’ grip. The pace became unforgiving. A short while after, Sherlock began to panic.
“Wait! Ah, wait, I’m going to- James, slow down.”
“You’re going to… what?” James feigned ignorance.
“I said-”
But it was too late. Sherlock suddenly tensed, waves of pleasure rolling over him in magnitudes far more extreme than a chemically induced high. James continued, wringing out every last drop of Sherlock’s release, relishing the sweet sound of his quiet voice muttering intelligible curses in various languages. When Sherlock was done, James released his wrists, and Sherlock covered his face in mortification.
“Hasty,” James tutted, either condemning his own impatience or Sherlock’s amusing intolerance, bringing his slick covered hand to his mouth, hesitating for a moment. But when he looked at Sherlock’s mortified gaze, guessing at what James was about to do, it appeared to harden his resolve and he brought it to his mouth to lick it.
“James, don’t-”
“Hm?”
“You don't need to-” Sherlock turned his face away, but James just smiled, letting go of Sherlock’s wrists to guide Sherlock’s face back to him, “You bastard.”
“Now, now Sherlock. Don’t let the free show go to waste.”
Sherlock flushed a deep red, no longer able to tear his eyes away at the obscene sight. James apparently saw this as an opportunity to further torment him. He lapped up the sticky fluid slowly, lazily, placing each finger in his mouth and sucking until it came out clean. Once he was quite finished, he began laughing to himself.
“You cheap virgin. If I’d known you’d finish so fast I wouldn’t have bothered.”
Sherlock quietly glared at him. Virgin, his ass. Just as James was going to continue teasing him, he was suddenly shoved onto the hard wooden ground. Then Sherlock snatched a scarf from the abandoned pile of costumes, and swiftly tied it around James’ wrists.
James, just about able to regain his bearings after being reciprocally flung onto the hard wooden floor, was too late to protest, “What are you doing?”
“Your turn,” Sherlock smiled, still breathless from his release, as he leaned forwards and began trailing kisses across James’ front, careful not to leave marks this time after his earlier shenanigans.
He left small bites instead, relishing the sharp hisses that became increasingly erratic the closer he came to a sensitive part. This way, he could map James’ body like the floor plans of his many secondary schools, and strike at the weakest parts. After one such nip on his neck, just beneath his jaw, Sherlock watched as James’ fist clenched and his teeth gritted. Reminding himself to be careful not to leave a mark, he licked and sucked and worried that particularly sensitive spot until James abruptly hissed in frustration.
“Damn you Sherlock.”
“What?” Sherlock donned an innocent face easily enough.
“You… can’t you just get on with it?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Sherlock shrugged, grinning, “Maybe if you beg.”
James raised an eyebrow breathlessly in exasperated acknowledgement. Touché, his expression read. His frustration became no less apparent.
“Open your mouth.”
James scrunched his eyebrows, “What, me? What are you going to do?”
Sherlock didn’t respond, he merely tapped two of his fingers on James’ slightly swollen lips to try and coax him into opening up. There was such a level of trust between them that Sherlock wasn’t surprised when James did eventually open his mouth slowly, but he looked equally ready to bite down on whatever went in. Sherlock didn’t mind, sliding his fingers in and around James’ tongue, wetting it sufficiently, before bringing it to his own arse. He made eye contact with James, exactly aware of how he currently looked, and allowed his eyes to shut indulgently as he slid two fingers inside himself. It was a strange sensation for sure. He hadn’t done such things to himself before - he’d always been the giver. But under the circumstances, and the fact that James was trembling like a newborn rabbit, he had to assume that he had more experience out of the two, and hence would take the more compromised position.
When he felt James shift under him, he allowed himself to open his eyes ever so slightly, and huffed amusedly at James’ astonished expression. Correction: James didn’t only have less experience, he had none at all. At least, not with men, from the way his lip was trembling whilst his eyes burned with helpless infatuation covered up with a false cocky smile. But Sherlock wanted to completely break his facade, and found it in himself to insert a third finger, letting his mouth go slack as he let out a moan more wanton than he’d intended.
“Are you quite ready?” James’ asked impatiently, voice tense with suppressed irritation.
“Almost,” Sherlock smirked, “Why don’t you enjoy the show?”
He huffed out a breath at James’ unamused expression. Oh the sweetness of dull revenge. Sherlock placed his hand on James’ chest again, pinching the areas he’d learned were sensitive, and slid his hand downwards. The way James wriggled and twitched beneath his fingers was dizzyingly addictive, and his own impatience manifested itself in his increasingly trembling hand. He undid the fastenings of James’ trousers with diligent speed, and allowed his hand to remain still there. Sherlock would make James wait until he was ready, and he thoroughly savoured the way James slowly swallowed and gritted his teeth so hard that there were fluctuations in the way the floorboard-sliced sunbeams hit his cheekbones. James was well-aware that further protest would only spur Sherlock to prolong the torment, remaining quiet. Though, he was likely overestimating the effectiveness of Sherlock’s self-control.
Once Sherlock felt less resistance and a decrease in pain in his slickened arse, he removed his hand, and braced it on James’ stomach. He then wrapped his other hand around James, lining it up with himself, and teasingly, slowly, stroking down the length until he came to full hardness.
“I think you’re the cheap virgin here, James. So riled up before I’ve even touched you?”
“And you’re not quite the madonna I’d envisioned.”
Sherlock tilted his head at the unintended confession, “You’ve been envisioning this?”
James was quiet for a moment, before he allowed his head to fall back and his eyes to stare at the ceiling. If you looked closely, you could see a faint embarrassed flush spread across his face, “You have no idea.”
Sherlock smiled at the thought. All that taunting, borderline flirting, dangerous, charged glances. He had been stupid not to acknowledge the latent desire within them. Such was the mystifying nature of James; it was impossible to tell whether he was being sincere or not about trivial matters.
Sherlock found it in himself to force James to wallow in the lengthened silence for some moments more, watching his expression shift, before aligning himself with James’ body. James waited with bated breath.
“Relax,” Sherlock couldn’t help but add, “I’m not in this to hurt you.”
“I would think not,” James’ voice was becoming increasingly stuck in his throat, his breath trembling. There was something intensely vulnerable in his expression at present.
“Eye for an eye, as they say,” Sherlock smiled, “I believe you did your best to satisfy me.”
“Well, you’d be a bastard if you didn’t return the favour.”
“Lucky for you, I’m a gentleman.”
“Quite,” James returned breathlessly, bucking his hips impatiently.
“Ah ah,” Sherlock tutted, “Patience is a virtue.”
“Damn you and your patience.”
“The mouth on you. No wonder they took your scholarship away.”
“As I recall,” James huffed, “That was your fault.”
“Ah yes. I suppose it was.”
“No apology?”
“Is this not enough?”
It was at the precise moment that James was on the cusp of returning something impossibly witty that Sherlock allowed his hips to lower slightly, savouring the sensation of being impaled. James’ breath caught in his throat, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s flushed form. For Sherlock it felt strange, and a little painful, but he could bear with it. When Sherlock inched down slightly more, James made the most desperate sound, stomach tensing and untensing in uneven waves. He strained against the scarf that bound his hands, his gaze insinuating his desire to grip Sherlock’s hips and pull him down. The process was arduous, particularly for James, who would flinch at every shuffle or light wriggle as Sherlock pressed down at his own, torturously slow pace. Sherlock could feel James’ tangible desperation in his trembles where they were connected, and couldn’t help the smirk that formed and remained on his face, drawing out a scoff from James that was quickly silenced by a quiet pleading look in his eyes, and quiet curses under his breath.
Once Sherlock’s hips were pressed flush with James’, Sherlock’s lips were red and swollen from biting down on them, and his eyes had a subtle teary shine that quickly disappeared. Sherlock was frustratingly susceptible to pain, even after taking many a beating from bullies or otherwise during his childhood. He had learned to compartmentalise it. But in this case, he could not. James was invasive, and all-consuming, and any attempt to retreat only led to ruin. James was also strangely quiet, though perhaps he had never been teased and taken so far in a lesson of patience. It almost made Sherlock pity him, though he knew better than to feel sympathy for one so cunning.
Then, slowly, he moved, up and down, just like the fragile blonde boys that had readily slept with him in his time at boarding school during his earlier years. They had left quickly afterwards, as if he were just a tool for their desire. A mere object. If they were accused of being queer, the blame was quickly put on him instead. The teachers would look upon him like he was a freak of nature either way, so it did not bother him. It scared Sherlock that James looked at him like he was far more than one such object, as if he were irreplaceable rather than a temporary measure for relief.
“Are you seriously thinking of someone else right now?” James’ voice was breathless and strained, his breath coming out in hot shallow puffs, wrung out from prolonged torture, “Am I not enough for you?”
Sherlock twitched, eyes almost closed from the effort, managing a smirk whilst he replied breathlessly, “You’re plenty."
James smiled at the euphemism, but his response was cut off by Sherlock’s erratic hip movement which tore another quiet curse from his mouth instead.
If Sherlock wasn’t mistaken, James had always had an underlying look of the utmost reverence for Sherlock. All his teasing and jokes had never been intentionally malicious. It was all just to rile him up, like James was a pet that constantly demanded attention. Perhaps it was that kind of behaviour that made it hard for Sherlock to resist him. To push him away. To isolate himself, like he always did.
Even now, James, flushed with pleasure, desire, anger, was still looking at him with a kind of sparkling admiration. Sherlock plunged himself downwards again, repeating the motion and changing the angle, letting his head fall forward as he increased his pace, and drawing more and more obscene moans from James. Then, at a certain angle, Sherlock suddenly felt a violent sensation run up his spine, causing him to shudder whilst throwing his head back and furiously biting his lip. An unrestrained groan squeezed itself from Sherlock’s throat. James watched breathlessly, his face strained - to Sherlock’s amusement - as he watched the tantalising demonstration. Sherlock saw the subtle way his wrists strained against the scarf once again, quietly asking to be set free, brutally held in place.
James’ hips twitched, his voice hoarse, “Fuck. Sherlock.”
Sherlock huffed, noting how the vulgar term felt incongruous to James’ ever-charismatic image, “What?”
“If you keep going at that rate, I’m going to have to do something.”
“Oh?” Sherlock grinned, “Is that a threat?”
“Your choice,” James groaned slightly as Sherlock dipped his hips again.
“My, I’m so scared.”
James was quiet for a moment, mouth open from laboured breaths, before he smiled.
“You look like a wreck right now.”
Sherlock nodded, breathless, “So do you.”
“My pretty scout boy.”
Sherlock's movements ceased involuntarily. Then, against his will, his neck flushed in its entirety, his face burning at the humiliating comment. It caused him to blunder; his grip weakened briefly, allowing James to thrust his hips upwards without warning, at the same angle at which Sherlock had just been brutally prodded in just the right spot, pulling a cry from Sherlock’s traitorous, teeth-swollen lips. Cunning bastard.
Sherlock glared at him. James smiled back - as well as he could - with a knowing look, and Sherlock involuntarily shuddered in a sudden moment of self-awareness. Deriving pleasure from the back like this… Sherlock found himself blushing an even deeper red in shame. But the look of desperate pleasure on James’ face allowed him to plough on, and as laborious effort and stinging pain gave way to pleasure, Sherlock found himself losing control over the sounds that continued to traitorously leave his throat.
James was unintentionally letting out held-back groans as well, abandoning his quippy remarks, his tense figure writhing and impossibly seductive. He had readily relinquished control more readily than Sherlock, and allowed himself to be swept up in Sherlock’s pace. Their bodies seemed to align as closely as their minds, and as Sherlock’s movements became faster and more erratic, their moans melded together obscenely. At some point, James managed to break free from the scarf, placing one hand reassuredly on top of Sherlock’s hand which was braced on his chest, and the other guiding Sherlock’s hips as they slammed into his body more and more erratically. Sherlock flinched at the touch, eyes closed, focused on chasing his own pleasure as he became more and more lost in the movements. When he opened his eyes he could also see James’ almost teary eyelashes, his pained expression, and his reddened, kiss-swollen lips.
James really was…
“Beautiful,” James croaked.
It was almost as if James had read his mind, except now that it was directed at himself, he felt strange.
Sherlock refused to give James the satisfaction of musing over his conflicted expression, and leaned down to kiss James once more, tasting the residuals of himself on James’ tongue. Sherlock’s hips never stopped moving even as he wrapped a hand around himself and began to stroke. Their moans grew more strained, their moves more and more erratic, until James finally came first with a pained groan and a violent shudder. Sherlock didn’t stop, even as James began to twitch with slight oversensitivity and a stuttered, “Sherlock, please”, and finally came over the edge with a tortured groan and James lightly pinching at his waist. He allowed his teeth to dig into James’ lips, pulling a final groan from James’ hoarse throat, and allowing James to swallow down his own obscene moans, his head buzzing. The two came to a slow, rolling stop as pleasure ebbed away from them in calming waves. Sherlock’s clear eyes met James’.
The two stayed like that as both processed the scenario which had just passed. Then, James broke the silence with a quiet chuckle, and Sherlock followed suit. Soon, they were both laughing uncontrollably, as if in an induced high, and Sherlock amused himself with the low vibration of James’ chest below his sweaty palm. With James’ guiding hands on his hips, Sherlock slowly removed himself from the mess of their ventures with an obscenely wet sound, and regained his bearings. He picked up a nearby ball of soft costume material and used it to mop himself up without hesitation, before throwing it towards James to do the same
“I pity the poor fellow that finds this,” James’ hoarse voice regained its usual humorous ring as wiped himself and tossed away the spoiled rag. Then he licked his bloodied mouth, and pressed a thumb against the mark on his neck that was already turning purple, “Never took you for a biter, Sherlock.”
Sherlock choked on air and turned away. He had never imagined himself to be so strangely violent either. Equally, he felt a warm satisfaction at having left his mark.
It was over as soon as it had started. They both quickly got dressed, and Sherlock’s gaze was mostly averted. Both stayed in silence for a while until Sherlock pressed his hand to his chin, his expression distinctly clarified.
“Hm,” Sherlock mused, regaining his breath.
“Hm?” James recognised that tone of voice.
“Perhaps we do have the right idea,” he stated calmly, “About the case, I mean.”
It was as if their diversion had never happened. As if the lingering smell of desire wasn’t still in the room with them. Sherlock had moved on to more pressing matters. Such was the manner in which he dealt with these things. There was something mechanically brutal about it. Something bitter. Perhaps a habit from having been abandoned so often in his childhood. Like a mechanism that prevented him from forming expectations that were bound to be let down. James looked as if he wanted to say something, but they both knew that this could not become more than what it just was.
James was clearly distracted but soon followed the logic, “Just the wrong thief.”
Sherlock’s eyes twinkled gratefully as he finally looked back at James’ unchanged gaze, grinning.
“She stole the scrolls to ensure the library was locked down, giving her time to plant the bomb.”
James was still breathless as a fog lazily cleared from his mind. His breath slowly calmed as he buttoned his waistcoat back up. He quietly noted the pointed lack of eye contact and the decreased proximity between them both now that it was over. Then, he managed to follow Sherlock’s line of thought, “All good, all good… to a point. If she was trying to kill the professor, why would she go to the trouble of building the bomb? Why would you not just knife him in the back and get it over with?”
Sherlock leaned against the wall with mussed hair in all his flushed glory, and James forced himself to look away lest he reach out to glean one more touch, “Let’s ask her. I would love to see her again.”