searchingfordistraction | S2 finale spoilers in-thread

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.

"Your rules are boring."

He does pull his hand away, though.

Jim rewards him by running his fingers through Sherlock's hair. (It's so dry, what kind of dye does he use?)

"You'll be grateful for them in a few hours."

And no doubt he'll realize Jim's motivations are hardly selfless, but that won't change the fact that the rules were still there, and Jim enforced them, and is likely to do so again. It's a safety net, of sorts.

Really cheap dye. And it didn't help that he recently went through a phase where he changed his colour about once a week.

For a moment, he sounds like he's going to say something in protest, but he completely forgets about it the moment Jim starts messing with his hair.

Jim chuckles, letting the strands slide through his fingers.

"Aren't you manageable."

"I still think your rules are boring."

But he'll settle for this. For now.

"Of course you do."

He sounds indulgent again, like Sherlock is a pet whose antics are permitted for the amusement they provide.

Which, really, isn't too far off the mark.

Eventually, he gets bored with being still, and if Jim isn't going to play along, then Sherlock wants to get up.

He gets as far as the table next to the bed and opens the drawer to go digging through it.

Jim stretches, working stiffness out of his shoulders and back.

There's nothing of importance in this room that he doesn't keep in the safe, which is future tech shielded by alien tech, both from wildly disparate universes and thus vastly unlikely to be cracked by a coked-up Sherlock Holmes. He just watches Sherlock, offering no objection.

Sherlock will probably find the non-existent contents of the nightstand somewhat disappointing.

He does, so he rolls off the bed and lets himself fall onto the floor.

"Ow," he says distantly.

Whatever it was, he's forgotten about it immediately as he gets up to go poking through the rest of the room.

Whatever he does find winds up on the floor only a few moments later.

Jim rolls his eyes.

"What would you do if I'd set traps for people who decided to go through my things?"

Hey, Jim. You got him high. Now you get to deal with him.

"Did you?" asks Sherlock.

He doesn't stop digging through drawers.

"Maybe."

(No. The only way anyone other than him gets into this room is by stealing his key, and that doesn't happen without his implicit permission.)

He looks at Jim suspiciously for a few moments before deciding that maybe means no.

Everything means no today, it seems.

Jim watches in silence for a while. He doesn't care about the mess. He's made worse in here himself, and anyway that's what the cleaning staff are for.

Eventually: "Who did my adaptation?"

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