FIC - Stretch Out and Wait. [Sherlock/Moriarty] [NC-17]
Title: Stretch Out and Wait
Characters: Sherlock/Moriarty (BBC Verse)
Disclaimer: None of this is mine, I'm just borrowing them :(
Summary: Post TGG, Sherlock/Moriarty. Pretty much PWP, works standalone but I plan sequels.
Warnings : Porn! Fairly kinky porn at that.
Sherlock is working in their kitchen, tinkering about, preparing some utterly trivial research involving chlorine and the freezing point of water - all useful, of course, but arbitrary, necessitated only by boredom. It’s crippling, this restless frustration, a different breed to the usual; it’s as if the series of events beginning at the pool and ending in their release from hospital was a particularly engaging drug, a dizzying high with an aching, itching comedown that refuses to leave, or to be sated, or allow him to sleep. His craving for action is a different flavour than usual as well. Problems, work… he’s not sure they would fulfil it, not sure intellectual engagement would quite do the trick. He isn’t decaying, he’s burning, constantly, low in his stomach, constantly noticeable but never ever intensely enough. It would take something utterly reckless to fan, or quell, this simmering tense flame in his belly. Would take semtex, or violence, or sex.
He’s perturbed by this, by being a slave to his body. It occurs so rarely to this man, who does all he can to suppress every impulse that he judges to be base, to weaken him. Unless he’s caving in to something complex, something that little bit sharper and bloodier and more perverse; something a little less simple. Sherlock saves up his indulgences for the really worthwhile transgressions, prefers his darkness to be a richer shade of black. And there are so many helpful distractions these days, so many diversions, and sometimes narcotics, although not at the minute. But now the ache. It’s been there for over a week and the last straw is this:
He uncorks the little chemical bottle marked Cl2, and gosh. The sense memory the tang of the chlorine evokes, it hits him like a punch to the stomach, a little flashbulb of adrenaline, anger, fear and - one must be honest in one’s deductions, especially within the confines of one’s own head - arousal, sickly and uncomfortable, laced with faint red tendrils of guilt he’s sure he wouldn’t have thought to feel before John. He remembers the pool, and the gun and how utterly present he felt during all of it, mind slowed down from its usual million trains of thought into just this - and now this - and now this. To feel like a body inside a room, rather than a mind inside a body. How rare. How novel.
Experiment abandoned, Sherlock leans against the sofa for support as much as comfort. Jim’s number is burning inside his jacket pocket. He wants, with an urgency he hasn’t felt since the days of needles and alleyways and desperate, shaking need, to call Moriarty. Knows instantly that this is the only way he will tip the nagging ache either way into silence or climax, and also that confessing this sort of weakness, this dizzying level of wanting, to anyone, let alone the only man who could steal the name ‘nemesis’ from Mycroft, would be painful beyond belief.
Greed wins out. He enters Jim’s number with shaking fingers - doesn’t add him to contacts. Sherlock briefly wonders which name he’d save it under - Jim? Moriarty? The criminal would probably save him under some obscene pet name, and never quite know if it was ironic or in earnest.
They’ve had no contact since the pool, unless one counts the ludicrously large bouquet of flowers an anonymous well-wisher had sent to Sherlock’s hospital bed. John hadn’t been too pleased about that one, and Sherlock had felt a curious annoyance at his flatmate’s anger, something close to amusement before he agreed that the nurse should remove them from their shared ward. Jim picks up on the seventh ring.
“Hello?” Businesslike, unexpected, until Sherlock introduces himself.
An exhale “Oh, hello darling. Do you miss me? I miss you…”
“I haven‘t… I’m not used to speaking on the telephone.”
“No? I’m not used to using my own voice, I suppose. Not for anyone but you. We could text, I suppose… does your phone have a camera, I wonder?” That voice, constantly fluctuating. Always somewhere between flirting and mocking. Sherlock can’t tell what in this conversation he should take seriously. Suddenly, he feels foolish and hates it. Hates himself for calling. He hesitates for perhaps a second too long. Hangs up and sits in utter, embarrassed despair, feeling like a teenage girl.
Exactly five seconds pass before Sherlock’s phone buzzes in his hand.
Silly darling. I mean it, though.
Sherlock’s genuinely confused.
The camera, Sherlock. Do you have many injuries still?
Some residual bruising. Lacerations healing as expected; mostly neck and torso.
Sherlock feels vaguely confused. But not bored. He pulls up his pyjama shirt and photographs the shrapnel wounds that pepper the left hand side of his body from just below his nipple to just above his waistband. On the small screen, his skin looks impossibly white, the deep scabs varying degrees of red to purple. A cut runs along his pronounced hipbone, disappearing into his pyjama trousers and out of sight. He sends it.
Fuck. The bruising?
The bruising’s mostly around his collarbone and neck on the right hand side, from the impact of hitting the pool ladder at exactly the wrong angle. The camera on his phone isn’t picking it up properly : in the flesh it’s a million shades of yellow, brown, purple. The picture doesn’t really do it justice, just a dark smudge against white flesh and dark shade where his collarbone juts out. He sends it anyway, with the apology:
Camera not good enough for detail. Darker in real life.
If I send a car, will you let me taste it?
Sherlock considers how stupid it would be to get in a serial-killer’s car, so that he can get a better view of the injuries he himself caused not two weeks ago. How reckless. How foolhardy.
He also considers how much the idea of Moriarty getting off on his scars, on his bruising turns him on. And how this was pretty much why he’d called him in the first place. It’d be stupid to pretend he hadn’t spent the last ten days, even the ones spent in hospital, imagining every way in which he could fuck or be fucked by his criminal counterpart. Sherlock is a very thorough man. He tries not to picture John’s annoyance as he replies:
I can be dressed in five minutes.
Took the liberty of sending the car ten minutes ago. I don’t give a damn if you’re dressed or not.
Sherlock stumbles into his room and pulls on the first trousers and shirt he finds. He rips the healing scab on his hip in his haste and blood spots the white shirt. He has no time to change. He still manages to look fairly composed as he locks up and climbs into the waiting black car.
Driver says you’re bleeding. Can hardly wait.
Sherlock feels that he should be bringing more to this, but he’s so unused to flirting. And he’s getting the idea that perhaps he won’t have to come up with too many ideas, that Jim quite likes to be the one controlling events. He finds he quite likes the idea of being manhandled by someone as charismatic, as dark and skilled as Jim Moriarty. He imagines Jim has all kinds of ideas, enough to make up for Sherlock’s relative inexperience. He’s no blushing virgin, not at all, but this feels decidedly different to all his previous encounters. It’s better by far, and it hasn’t even begun yet. Christ.
The car stops, and Sherlock realises he forgot to text back. He’s hard already, and his stomach’s fluttering with nerves and anticipation as he carefully disembarks. The cars drives away and Sherlock stands, perplexed, outside a very expensive hotel. The sort of hotel in which discretion is part of the price tag.
Room 221. Thought it would amuse you. Hurry.
He can’t quite get there fast enough; he stand outside Jim’s door breathless in a way that has nothing to do with the stairs. Jim’s expression as he opens the door is the hungriest Sherlock’s ever seen a man. Moriarty pulls him in, and then slams him against the closed door, kissing him aggressively, possessively, hands wandering over his torso, finding the wet spot of blood on his hip and moaning. Jim unbuttons Sherlock’s shirt hurriedly, letting it fall to the floor. His fingers find the bleeding cut again, above the detective’s pelvis. He pushes them into it in a way that isn’t at all kind - pain jolts into pleasure in Sherlock’s confused brain, and he decides then and there to take whatever Jim will give him. Whatever Jim will do to, or with, him.
Jim brings the blood-tipped fingers to his mouth and smears Sherlock’s cheek before licking his hand clean. It’s hot in ways it probably shouldn’t be. Jim steps back and eyes him hungrily - eyes taking in every cut and bruise and smudge of blood like it’s about the best thing he’s ever seen. Like he can’t decide what to touch first. Like he can’t decide what to make worse.
“Clothes off. Now.” Jim’s virtually growling. Sherlock strips himself of his trousers, then, after a moment’s thought, his socks too. Jim’s still fully clothed and it makes him feel vulnerable in a way he’s not sure is completely bad. What is this madman doing to him? He reaches out to undress the smaller man and Jim grabs at his wrist, stops him mid-action. Twists in a way that forces Sherlock to bend his arm, to turn around facing the wall. There seems to be an understanding between them that this is the way it will work: Jim is in charge. There’s a shared interest in violence, clearly - it’s what led them to meet, after all. Sherlock’s dizzy with excitement at the thought of being the focus of all that brilliant, blood-minded genius. He is released, chastened, as Jim strips his purple shirt and black trousers, apparently as indifferent to underwear as Sherlock himself is. Strong arms lead him to the bed.
They’re kissing, softer than before, as if Jim’s trying to trick him into caring. Gosh, but it’s working, too. He imagines for a second, through the blinding red lust, if this was them. If they met and spoke to one another, if they shared a bed and kissed and allowed themselves to care about just one other person. The only other person, really, to inhabit their special, blood-soaked version of the world. He stops fairly quickly though, as Jim’s kissing becomes more urgent, his tongue fucking Sherlock’s mouth, his hand pressing into the bruising on Sherlock’s neck. If he added the other hand it’d be dizzying, and Sherlock resolves to try it one day soon. For now the threat is enough.
“Sherlock, if you think any louder, I’ll gag you” Jim growls into his neck. Sherlock can’t suppress his inner pedant, corrects in a shaking, deep voice “How would that quiet my thoughts?”. Jim chuckles, a warm huff of breath against Sherlock’s collarbone. “I’ll gag your fucking brain, then. I’ll work it out”.
If anyone could, he supposes Moriarty could. His clever fingers wrap in Sherlock’s hair, pulling hard enough, just once, to pull him out of his thoughts. He grunts in surprised pain. It’s not at all a bad feeling.
Jim fishes out lubricant from somewhere under a pillow. There’s no conversation about condoms; both can deduce enough about one another to tack together a vague but fairly complete picture of their respective sexual histories, enough for neither to worry a great deal. It’s hardly the most risky element of the day, and how often can anyone say that? The look Jim gives Sherlock as he slicks his fingers is bruising, the eye contact so intense he feels himself blushing. Then Jim slides one finger into Sherlock and his eyes close. He’s immediately rewarded with a slap, sharp, to the side of his face, and Jim growls at him.
“Keep watching, you little fucker, or I’ll stop. Understood?” Sherlock moans, nodding and forcing his eyes to open. Jim rewards him with another finger - he scissors them, fucking Sherlock open. He pushes back against them, and Jim pants out “Fuck… look how desperate for me you are. Gorgeous. Tell me you want me to fuck you.” Sherlock wonders if an answer is actually required, and then if his voice will actually work if it is.
Jim adds a third finger, thrusting his hand roughly, commanding “Go on, Sherlock… ask for it”. Sherlock pants, almost a whisper “Fuck me. Jim, please…”. Jim looks pleased, pulls out his fingers and slicks his cock with lube, saying, as he does this, “Tell me you’re a slut. Do it”. Sherlock chokes out “I’m a slut. Jim, Jim please…”. Moriarty seems to take pity on him, leaning down and propping himself up with his hands, one on the bed, the other pressing down on Sherlock’s bloody, much-abused hip. He pushes in, and Sherlock sees stars. He’s moaning like a tart now, Jim whimpering every third or fourth thrust. Sherlock can tell Jim’s close, because he takes Sherlock’s cock in hand, rough jerking it in time with the rhythm Jim’s set fucking him.
Jim bites down on Sherlock’s neck bruise, and this tips him over the edge. He’s coming, painting their stomachs and dragging Jim down with him into orgasm. The criminal’s head is buried between his neck and shoulder, fitting into the gap there. He pulls out, uses the throw to clean up a little and…
And this is the moment Sherlock expected cruelty. He’s not sure what, but he definitely anticipated… some kind of savage comment, a picture message to John, to be kicked out of bed or told, in harsh tones, to leave without looking back and dress in the hall. He never really had time to plan an ending to this, but it seems obvious now, as the only possible resolution to fucking this man who calls himself his enemy and has made it his mission to burn out his heart.
Sherlock hadn’t expected him to be burning it from the inside out, though. What actually happens now is almost harder to process than any minor atrocity Jim could have inflicted upon him. Moriarty kisses him, once, very gently in the place he’d previously bitten down on, and Sherlock shivers slightly with the ghost of his orgasm. Jim winds his legs in with Sherlock’s, insinuates himself into his arms, head on his chest.
“You’re thinking too hard again. Stop it.” he sounds sleepy now, rather than threatening. Sherlock allows himself to stoke Jim’s hair, and it feels rather like petting a sleeping but ferocious animal. It’s a minor miracle he keeps all five fingers. Sherlock asks “Going to gag my brain?” and wonders when he starting doing things like joking and flirting. He feels the smile curve on Jim’s face against his chest and endeavours not to think, at least for now.
It’s inevitable, he supposes, in a world with only two people. For them to eventually end up here.