Standalone Fic - Sherlock/Moriarty [Something Blue]
current mood: tired
current song: bright eyes - coyote song
Title: Something Blue
Characters: Sherlock/Moriarty (BBC Verse)
Disclaimer: None of this is mine, I'm just borrowing them :(
Summary: For this prompt on the kink meme: "I think it might just be because I am tired, but my mind had a strange train of thoughts:
Sherlock is married to his work, Moriarty gives him cases to work on, so Sherlock's work is Moriarty...so...Sherlock is married to Moriarty? Give me crack, give me angst, give me anything (though preferably consensual and requited)".
Warnings: Unprotected sex. But it's fiction, so let them off.
Sherlock Holmes, a man who has, for the last several years at least, been happily and exclusively married to his work, is considering an affair. Or - that isn’t quite the right expression - a consummation. Because this man, this ash-covered, dark haired, mad eyed bastard currently tearing at his clothes is as close to a physical manifestation of his profession as Sherlock is ever likely to meet. Jim is a problem. Jim is infinitely more exciting than any puzzle Sherlock can remember tackling because Jim actively resists being solved. And so here they are.
Of course Jim knew - Jim knows - that Sherlock would want him, in the same way Sherlock knew without asking exactly where this would lead, right from the beginning of the entire poolside charade. Sherlock is annoyed when people assume that he doesn’t do this sort of thing, when in fact the truth is simply that he doesn’t do it with them. And now, an equal. How novel.
The wedding metaphor really fits, in that off-kilter Holmes way that is labelled as ‘eccentric’ by all the normal (hateful) eyes that observe it. The party is over (John off to hospital, smoke inhalation, shock, the Met gone and Sherlock left here to ‘take care of’ Jim - his vague request to Lestrade, and one that he will fulfil, albeit not in the way he implied) and they stand together, alone.
His skin is pale, only a little lighter than Jim’s own (masterminds, be they detectives or criminals, tend not to get too much sun, it seems) and in the eerie light the bobbing water casts onto the walls he is even whiter. Glowing like a bride.
They are archetypes. There is something so very old about this - this standoff, this rivalry, this completion. Jim is mouthing at Sherlock’s jutting clavicle, his voice a lilting murmur smothered into insensibility by Sherlock’s not-quite-removed shirt. Clever fingers are working it over his slender arms now, Jim already naked save for the tacky ‘gay’ boxers Sherlock remembers from Jim’s brief stint in IT. A shudder runs down Sherlock’s spine at the thought of the power that lies behind those hands, at the thought of the things they have done.
He shifts his arms to help Jim - after all, nobody stays clothed for long on their wedding night, and it’s high time they were closer. The shirt and Jim’s knees hit the floor at roughly the same time (and it’s a mark of how gone Sherlock is that he’s judging anything by roughly and not precisely) and Jim’s working off the belt, nudging Sherlock to lift each bare foot in turn to allow the removal of his trousers. The belt buckle skitters sideways and lands in the half-filled pool with a dull plop, swallowed up by chlorinated water. Something blue.
Jim is sucking bruises into Sherlock’s hips, the cream coloured skin pulled tight over frankly alarming hipbones, and it’s all so very distracting. Sherlock is, momentarily at least, a body in a room, rather than a mind inside a head. The small, warm patches of suction and teeth are trailing closer and closer to the dark curls of hair above Sherlock’s waistband, and now Jim is pulling Sherlock’s underwear down decisively, the feeling of Jim’s hands skimming his thighs making Sherlock shudder slightly. Jim leans forward and breathes hotly over Sherlock’s cock, fully erect and straining for contact. He flicks dangerous, dark eyes up to meet the detective’s own before he bows his head to take Sherlock in.
The heat and the pressure are wonderful truly, but this isn’t what Sherlock wants for tonight. Here, in this borrowed swimming pool that has served as their church, he wants to take. He allows Jim to bob up and down on his swollen cock just a few times, thrusting into his mouth a little, because despite all his genius he really didn’t bring nearly the right supplies for this evening. He supposes they’ll have to rough it, and finds he doesn’t really care. He doubts Jim will.
His vague ideas of resorting to saliva are dispelled, however, by his altogether more prepared counterpart. When Sherlock yanks Jim off of his cock by his short, dark hair, Jim grins a bee-stung grin through the Salvia and precome glossing his lips and pulls a small sachet of lube from the ridiculous boxers, ridding himself of them in the process.
“New. Picked it up on my way here. Now, darling, don’t look so annoyed. You’re not really all that predictable…” Jim smirks, pressing the little packet that is warm from the heat of his body into Sherlock’s hand. There’s no way they can stand, as the hall is soaking wet and slippery as all hell, and they should probably at least retreat to a changing room, but they’ve waited enough.
The water is cold on Jim’s back, Sherlock can tell, but as his adversary is gazing up at him with a mixture of impatience and dark pleasure, he doesn’t mind much. Jim parts his pale thighs even more, bracing his feel on either side of Sherlock, who leans down to crush their mouths together as he swirls one lube-slicked finger first around Jim’s entrance and then steadily into the tight heat of Jim’s body.
Jim can’t hold in a whimper and the noise shoots strait to Sherlock’s cock, urging him to speed up preparation and just do this, already. He adds another, and then another, scissoring his three fingers inside Jim and curling them upwards in a way that has Jim throwing his head back and pushing into Sherlock’s hand, sweat beading his pale body.
As Sherlock pulls his hand away Jim makes a small noise of protest, but as Sherlock slicks himself with the last of the lube and looms back over the criminal, not allowing him time to adjust but snapping his hips violently towards Jim. It’s amazing, rough and animal and real, Jim’s heels digging into Sherlock’s back and Sherlock’s hands splayed either side of Jim’s head on the wet floor.
When he feels his orgasm building he puts his weight on one arm and skims the other back along Jim’s pale torso, scratching small red lines in on his way to take Jim in hand. He times his tight hand movements with his thrusts into Jim, who is blissfully moaning is a way that suggests he doesn’t care a jot if Sherlock thinks him a slut. He doesn’t though. Jim is far more interesting things than that. When Jim comes warm over Sherlock’s fist, he tenses around Sherlock, a tight, burning pleasure that tips Sherlock into his own climax. He collapses on top of Jim, breathing hard into his neck.
They stay like that, together, for longer than either will later admit. The air in the hall is chilling the sweat and pool water the covers them, and they manage to get more or less dressed fairly quickly. And this is goodbye - for now - and Jim has a car waiting and Sherlock can call a cab, he has them on speed dial after all, and just before they go their separate ways, Jim pulls him down into one last, slow kiss.
“I’ll see you soon,” he purrs “on honeymoon”.