Fic - Concrete Feet [Sherlock/Moriarty] [NC-17]
current location: south wales
current mood: pleased
current song: florence and the machine - heavy in your arms
Title: Concrete Feet
Characters: Sherlock/Moriarty (BBC Verse)
Disclaimer: None of this is mine, I'm just borrowing them :(
Summary: Post TGG, Sherlock/Moriarty. Fourth sequel to Stretch Out and Wait, but the porn could work alone.
Warnings: Porn, kink, violence.
A/N - The image of a mind like a drawer of knives is quite shamelessly stolen from my favourite poet, much as I wish I could take credit for it.
People don’t understand Jim. They’re so predictable and narrow-minded, so black and white in their thinking. He doesn’t expect to be seen as a nice person, purely because he isn’t one. Jim can flatter himself about a great many things - reasonably attractive, beautifully dressed, extremely wealthy, mind like a drawer of knives - but a keen sense of morality isn’t a trait he’d ever ascribe to himself. Or rather, a keen sense of conscience.
Jim isn’t Sherlock, he can understand perfectly how he’s expected to behave, how others believe he should be, it’s just that whilst Sherlock needs someone to teach him which rules to follow (damn John Watson, absolutely damn him, for showing Sherlock the one thing Jim can never teach him), Jim doesn’t give a damn about which rules he decides to break. He operates wholly within his own scope - in matters of business truly unscrupulous, and in matters of pleasure truly vicious, when the mood takes him. But damn anyone for letting that make them think he’s incapable of emotion.
For Jim does actually love Sherlock, loves him with the intense, overriding devotion of the truly deranged, with an obsession only he or Sherlock himself could comprehend. Moran, more perceptive than the other specialised thugs Moriarty’s obliged to keep close, only ever had the nerve to joke about Sherlock outright, to refer to him as some kind of plaything, or worse yet, as a victim, once. He never will again, and neither will the others, and it’s with delighted scorn that Moriarty insists Moran always drives Sherlock from Baker Street to their suite, every single time.
Things have been going particularly well, recently. Jim’s business affairs are booming - nothing like the idle summer to tempt the general public into intrigue and plotting. The heat does soencourage crimes of passion - passion in general really, and it always brings out a certain cheerfulness in Jim, this burning time of year when everything feels just that little bit dirtier. Sherlock is his opposite, and the season makes him irritable beyond belief - furious about any number of small grievances: the heat forcing him to either dress less formally or suffer in well-tailored discomfort, the fact that he never feels clean enough, the warmth that makes everyone around him even more stupid than usual, and makes it impossible to think as clearly and delicately as usual. Of course, Sherlock’s recent snappishness and short temper have made things considerably more interesting in the bedroom - sweaty, and violent, and glorious. All in all, for Jim, everything’s lovely. Which is of course why everything has to go wrong.
Moran has texted that Sherlock seems uncomfortable, restless and fidgety in the back of the car, smoking and probably ruining the upholstery (as if Jim cares at all what Sherlock ruins). The criminal doesn’t really feel worried about this - Sherlock’s been uncomfortable and restless for about a fortnight, so why should this evening be any different? The text had arrived, twenty-five minutes ago, quite by surprise - they usually never meet two days in a row -
Send a car.
It’s unusual for Sherlock to be so blunt, admittedly, but not that unusual. As soon as the detective walks through the hotel door, however, Jim can see that this is more than Sherlock’s usual summer-fuelled irritation. Little arcs of colour sit on the shelves of his cheekbones, and his elegant hands shake a little, as if he’s not quite calm yet from whatever so recently rattled him. It doesn’t stop him from kissing Jim, as soon as the door is closed behind him, deep and passionate, like he’s dying of thirst, and it takes iron self-control for Jim not to immediately initiate sex - sex with Sherlock so vulnerable and shaky would be new, and interesting, and has the potential to be either fantastic for reasons Jim probably doesn’t want to consider, or genuinely awful for both of them. Perhaps both.
Jim pulls back from the kiss and sits on the bed, motioning for Sherlock to sit beside him. He doesn’t need to ask what has happened - Sherlock only ever becomes this agitated from sex or conflict, and Jim knows him well enough to know that he’s not the unfaithful type. Not, Jim understands, from a sense of morality or decency, but from the mere fact that for both of them there is now only one person really worth wasting their time on. Other partners would simply not register. So it is conflict.
Sherlock only really bothers about the opinions of four people, and only two enough to get himself in this state over a falling out - John, then. Factor in Sherlock’s damned irritability, the lack of self-control and wilfulness that comes to him with this heat, and it is all too easy for Jim to picture what has taken place. Sherlock has taken Jim up on telling John, unable to keep the disastrous secret burning in the back of his throat to himself any longer. Thrown it, the knowledge of this thing that they have, out at John, who is too blinkered by his petty morality and his faculty-blinding normality, to ever understand. He used it to provoke him into a fight, perhaps, or spat the fact out like a bullet to win one. Used it to shut John up, to spite him, to hurt him, or just to create some noise to penetrate a sickly and mind-clouding boredom (and God, does Jim understand that need).
And it’s a curiously delicate thing that they have. It will stand up to the looming threat of their death, to (entirely willing) violence that many would balk at. It can stand up to bloodshed, but never to the scrutiny of others. Apparently Mycroft doesn’t mind - Jim had wondered when he’d make an appearance, had hoped he wouldn’t do anything tiresome like try to abduct him. It would be such a bother to have to calm Sherlock down, if he’d been forced to injure his brother. Luckily he’d exceeded Jim’s expectations, had simply texted them both a few weeks into their arrangement, when it was clear that neither man would stop anytime soon.
To Jim, it had been:
You are intelligent enough to know the threat I could pose to you, should you hurt my brother.
I need say no more.
Jim rather suspects that Mycroft had been rooting for John. To Sherlock, it had been:
I rarely approve of your ridiculous choices, little brother.
This is no exception.
The slightest indication that you are not fully in control of your situation,and you will not be able to stop me intervening.
As is, I will leave the whole sordid affair alone.
He’d been rather impressed by Mycroft, all told. Apparently John hadn’t reacted nearly as well. Sherlock has opened his mouth to speak three times, but hasn’t yet uttered a word. Jim saves him the bother by kissing his neck and crooning, in a way he supposes could be insensitive, “What did the mean boy say, Sherlock?”. He punctuates this by licking the detective once, just behind his ear, where Sherlock is particularly sensitive. He receives, in answer, a shiver (good) and an exhale (bad).
“He told me to leave. That I clearly didn’t value him as a friend, if I’d forgiven you so easily. Why can’t he see? It’s nothing to do with forgiving you. I don’t forgive you, I don’t need to, I’m not with your actions, I’m with you, because it could only ever be you, and why can’t he separate them? You from your actions, I mean. I just wanted everything to be easier“.
The poor, lovely idiot. John was right about one thing at least - Sherlock’s ignorance. Jim speaks, diplomatically, aware that if he insults John he really won’t be helping matters, given Sherlock’s inexplicable tolerance of the man (Jim, personally, would rather do away with the unremarkable sod altogether and have Sherlock all to himself forever, but that is so very, very unhealthy that he will never speak a word of it).
“Other people don’t think like you, pet. Or me, come to think of it. Our world, remember? Just us. You’d be better to lie. We could fabricate a row, hmm? You crawl back,” he punctuates every other word with kisses to the agitated detective’s neck and jaw, working one hand under his collar “utterly repentant. You’re human, just like anybody else. You were deceived and I was terrible and oh, John, you’re so very sorry. Sorted”. It makes Jim’s skin crawl to have to lie, to pander to win back the good opinion, even for someone else, of a man so very undeserving. But if it keeps the peace, the compromise that is not perfect but is good enough to fight to retain, then Jim is prepared to do it.
Perhaps it’s the knowledge of just how much dignity this solution would actually cost Jim, that makes Sherlock’s mood change so sharply. Suddenly, although he’s still far from cheerful, the detective seems to uncoil. He smiles, kisses Jim’s hair, and mutters into it “What will we fight about, I wonder?”. Jim smiles, prods him in the side and suggests “Perhaps you’re not pulling your weight in the sack, so I chucked you?”. This earns a snuffly gasp of laughter, a gust of warm, amused air in on the top of Jim’s head, and the reply “No. Something believable. Perhaps the height difference became too much for me, all the stooping to kiss you and so on. Murder on the back, had to leave, so sad…”.
Jim pushes Sherlock fully onto his back, one knee between his legs. He takes hold of one white, narrow wrist. “Perhaps I was an utter brute…” he suggests darkly, his voice low and seductive. He knows what this sort of thing does to Sherlock, when they bring their respective roles into the bedroom. Sherlock’s own voice is deeper, when he replies “Mmm. Yes, you overwhelmed me with superior force. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into”.
During this exchange, Jim’s managed to work his hand - previously ghosting just beneath Sherlock’s top button along the frail shelf of his collarbone - downwards, opening the expensive shirt to the last button. He pops the final one out of its hole and lays his palm flat on the white stomach he’s uncovered, nails digging into his hip. “I suppose,” he growls into dark curls, as Sherlock’s fingers gracefully work on Jim’s own shirt “that they’ll call you a victim”.
A small noise escapes the detective’s throat at this, and Jim smiles darkly. He’s continually finding new things, new buttons to push… he’s endlessly grateful for whatever left Sherlock’s wires quite so crossed, whatever left him quite so receptive to these sorts of things. He leans back, away from Sherlock, for just the time it takes to divest himself of his trousers. Sherlock does the same, half-hard and as gorgeous as anything Jim’s ever seen. He has enough sense left in him to quickly check that Sherlock remembers their safe word - the one word neither man will ever forget, now a place has been set for the final meeting, if it must ever happen.
“Remember, dear-” Sherlock cuts him off impatiently with “Yes, yes. I know, Reichenbach. I shan’t need it, you know. I never do”. He never does. Jim wonders if there’s a limit to how far he can push before Sherlock breaks. He wonders if so, when he’ll get around to finding it. Now’s not the time for speculation, at any rate. He leans over Sherlock and continues their exchange.
“So… yes. A victim. Poor old you.” He’s got one leg between Sherlock’s, propped up on his elbows over the detective, who is flat on his back beneath Jim. “Probably got me here under false pretences. Pretended to be a changed man.” Sherlock breathes. Jim tightens one hand around his neck, grinding down onto Sherlock’s erection with his hip, saying “There’s really nothing you could have done to stop me. I’m so very much stronger than you are, not nearly so delicate…”
Game or no game, Jim won’t take Sherlock with no preparation at all. He fishes lube out from under the pillow as Sherlock says “Safer just to go along with it… you’re so very dangerous, after all, who knows how you’d react to a serious struggle”. ‘Struggle’ comes out a good deal higher and breathier than the words it succeeds, because by this point Jim has two fingers curled inside Sherlock, and of course it hurts a little, but Jim can tell Sherlock’s rather enjoying the burn, as he scissors his fingers viciously, adding a third as he uses his other hand to force Sherlock’s arms folded, up over his chest, pinning his wrists at the marble shoulder - “Yes… and then you were trapped. Utterly at the mercy of a maniac. Poor darling”.
Jim decides it really is time now, lets go of Sherlock’s wrists reluctantly, and lines himself up - Sherlock whimpers at the loss of Jim’s fingers, as he pauses to slick himself with lubricant and then pushes in. He’s not at all slow, gives Sherlock no time to adjust, because this really isn’t one of those times. It feels perfect, all tight heat and submission. Jim feels dizzy with the power Sherlock allows Jim to have over him, each time they fuck it feels like Jim’s conquering something beautiful and terrible, a perfectly executed invasion. Sherlock has his head back, and when Jim angles his hips to hit that spot, he gasps a little brokenly. “You’d probably kill me. If I tried to leave… utterly. Powerless. To. Stop. You… Oh!”. Each word of Sherlock’s is punctuated by a thrust from Jim, and speaking has really become difficult to the point of impossibility now.
Instead, Jim holds Sherlock down, hard enough to bruise, one hand around his neck and one on his hip, and thrusts into him aggressively, the pace brutal and unrelenting. For once, it looks like Jim’s going to come first… he feels it approaching, building, like the noise from a train one cannot yet see. Sherlock can tell, of course, and Jim releases his wrist to allow the man beneath him to touch himself, moving the hand on his neck to cup his jaw a little too firmly to be romantic. He spits the word “Mine.” into Sherlock’s ear and is swallowed by the dizzying moment of orgasm. It’s white, and hot, and the room feels more like hell than it should, still air and tense warmth not even the air conditioning can hide. Sherlock arches beneath him and comes onto his fist, their stomachs… he really is beautiful. Heartbreakingly so. But far stronger than his brother thinks, strong enough to be with Jim, with him like this and still be the very opposite of a victim, for all their joking.
He hates it a little that nobody will ever understand that, especially not now. At least the bruises will help Sherlock’s damned excuses, he thinks bitterly, as sleep and slender arms envelop him.