searchingfordistraction | S2 finale spoilers in-thread

"You're welcome to stay here," Jim offers generously. "Since you have a key."

"You must have known I took it," Sherlock says. "I'm really not that good."

He twists the rolled-up note in his fingers, vaguely contemplating at the second line.

"Of course I knew," he says. "I wanted to find out why. So I let you."

To find out why, among other things.

"I don't know why. I guess I wanted to see what you'd do."

This was not what he expected, but he's hardly complaining now. Sherlock moves to do the second line, but thinks twice and offers the note to Jim instead.

After all, it would be rude to do all of the man's coke.

He waves it away with a small smile, murmuring,

"No, no. It's a gift."

And it's a bit late to look for the strings that have come attached to this gift, so Sherlock may as well enjoy it.

Sherlock still stands by his original assessment. There are rules in place to protect him from people like Jim, and if Jim wanted him dead, he'd have done it already.

Whether or not there are rules about getting high around here, well... if there are, Sherlock was never made aware of them.

The second line is gone just as easily as the first, and any unpleasant sensations from snorting them are already being overpowered by everything else.

Jim smiles, murmuring something under his breath.

It sounds a lot like good boy.

Sherlock drops the note and rubs his face against the pillow. It's not quite what he wants, but he'll have to wait until he works out what it is he does want before he can get it.

"Am I?" he asks.

Oh, apparently he heard that, Jim.

"For my purposes," he says. "Some might disagree."

"Mmm."

Sherlock suddenly reaches for Jim's free hand and presses his cheek to Jim's palm. He's in bad need of a shave, which will only get worse as the evening progresses, but all he cares about right now is the contact.

Jim is unresisting, his mouth curved faintly and his eyes lidded as though he were suddenly in a sort of deeply relaxed half-sleep.

His fingertips stroke gently against Sherlock's skin, a slow, idle motion. Not one he seems to be thinking a great deal about.

It's not long at all before Sherlock interprets this as some sort of consent for... something, and moves across the bed to get much closer.

He'd forgotten completely what it felt like to be touched when he's high. It's completely different from the usual feeling of invasion he normally gets. Whatever this is, he wants more of it.

Jim deftly removes the mirror from between them and tosses it aside. He'd prefer not to tear the duvet on one of its corners.

Then he drapes his arm over Sherlock, welcoming him into his space.

These things always followed a certain progression before, back when he'd disappear for weeks on end. And Sherlock is very much enjoying the way this evening is progressing. He's not thinking of anything else except for Jim's hands, and what he's not doing with them.

"Don't stop," he all but begs, reaching for Jim's hand so he can go back to touching Sherlock's face.

It would be easy, so easy, for this evening to end with Jim leaving a thoroughly-fucked Sherlock on his bed, coming down from his high and beginning to realize what he's done.

Too easy, too soon. Boring.

Jim prefers to play the long game.

"Greedy," he says, but smiles indulgently, stroking Sherlock's cheek with the backs of his fingers.

Sherlock rubs his face against Jim's hand as he vaguely wonders why he doesn't do this more often.

But eventually, this stops being enough. He needs more than just soft touches. He needs to be touched. He all but rolls on top of Jim with a contented sigh, and he really is all hard edges and sharp angles, right down to the hard-on pressing into Jim's hip.

A man less easily bored, less fond of games, more inclined to let his libido lead the way - a man like that would be easily swayed into changing his plans.

Jim is not a man like that. This may well be the first (only) time any Holmes has been fortunate to be at Moriarty's mercy.

(For now.)

He makes a surprised, pleased little sound in the back of his throat, letting Sherlock's movement nudge him onto his back, and winds his free arm around Sherlock.

By now, Sherlock's practically on autopilot. Even after all this time, his body still so effortlessly takes over to lead this familiar but almost-forgotten dance.

He buries his face in Jim's neck, still not entirely sure what he wants from the man. All he knows at this point is that whatever he wants to do with Jim, it's something he should not be doing.

Somehow, that makes him want to do it even more.

A small shift of weight changes pressure and adds friction suddenly. Oh, yes. That's what he wants.

"Sherlock," Jim murmurs, gently chiding, but offers no physical resistance.

Mixed messages. They can be so useful.

(His face is blank, eyes dark as he gazes up at the ceiling. There's little point in assuming a false expression; Sherlock isn't looking, and probably wouldn't see even if he did.)

"Mmm. What?" asks Sherlock as he tries to get his hand between the two of them. He sounds like he's only half-listening.

Jim shifts underneath him, angling his body to make Sherlock's quest considerably more difficult.

"Behave."

Well, that hardly sounds fun.

"Why? You never do."

This may be inside information, but they both know there's some truth to it.

"We're operating according to my standards of behavior now?"

The amusement in his voice is genuine.

Sherlock just shrugs, still trying to get to his zip.

"Hardly seems fair that I have to behave if you don't."

Ugh. Behaving. Boring.

"My bed," Jim reminds him, "my rules. I'm not having you do anything you're going to be tedious about later."

He wants Sherlock to trust him first.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject