Archive of Our Own

Back at the riad where Silas and Beatrice had been staying, James follows Sherlock to his room. It’s late, way past midnight, but the citrus trees in the courtyard are fragrant and the cicadas enthusiastically advertise their willingness to mate.

Stopping at his door, Sherlock looks over his shoulder, lifting his eyebrows questioningly at the other man.

James simply mirrors him, feigning innocence.

When Sherlock pulls out the key to his room, his fingers brush against a second one. It’s neither bigger nor heavier than the room key, yet it feels as if the gravitas of the world is melted into its brass.

Funny, he thinks as he hears the lock tumble, I never once carried two separate keys in my pocket. It’s either a keyring, or one single key.

"Nightcap?” Sherlock proposes.

Long, white curtains made from filmy linen billow towards them in the draft generated by the open door. The quarters Sherlock’s been given by his father are generous: there’s a dressing room, a private bath, a separate bedroom. There are also thirty-seven locks in total. Sherlock had counted them all and tried those who looked as if the key he’d found in Silas’s book might fit.

As expected, none of the locks opened.

Sherlock blinks in surprise as a tumbler of whisky is pushed under his nose. He takes it from James’s hand, not flinching back as their fingers brush for a half-second. James’s grip leaves a warm impression against the chill of the glass. All of Constantinople is warm all the time. Used to the rain-soaked Oxfordshire countryside, Sherlock’s been craving a single cool breeze ever since they arrived. Every stone in the city radiates warmth, and the sun is unforgiving in its relentless punishment.

But the heat of James’s skin is something else. Something Sherlock doesn’t want to flee, but has come to crave, no matter the temperature... 

James smiles, the corners of his mouth curling just so, and every time he does that, Sherlock’s breath catches a little bit. “Sláinte,” he intones, and Sherlock echoes the toast in English, “Cheers.”

While James sips his whiskey, he prowls around the room, lifting papers to peer underneath them and opening drawers. Sherlock leans against the massive, iron-wrought table dominating the parlour, tracking James’s every movement. The whiskey’s better than what they had at the kahvehane, which doesn’t surprise him. Only the best for Silas Holmes, and that includes single malt, aged at least eighteen years, imported all the way from the wind-swept Scottish isles to the sweltering Ottoman Empire.

Whiskey and nerve gas, Sherlock muses. I wonder if Father had hidden tiny bottles of booze in porcelain dolls, too.

James pries open a cabinet, his back to Sherlock. “Are you going to ask me, then?” he tosses over his shoulder. They share but a fleeting glance before he turns back to inspect the cabinet’s contents.

“Are you going to narrow down the possible number questions to at least a couple of hundred instead of countless?” Sherlock replies.

He doesn’t hear James’s silent laugh, only sees it in the way his shoulders quiver. “You know what I’m speaking of, my friend.”

Sherlock takes another sip, contemplating James’s words. There are, in fact, only two questions he wants to ask him right now. Both are entirely selfish, and both would give James more of an answer than any of James’s replies could give Sherlock.

But this is Constantinople: loud and hot and messy and so very, very far away from prim and button-upped England where this had all begun. Here, where his sister is alive, where his father died, life seems to come in such overwhelming abundance, and death so swiftly. It made people want to shout at the sky or run into the desert or tear off each other’s clothes and sink into their bodies.

“Question number one,” Sherlock says. James finally turns around, gently swirling his tumbler as he studies Sherlock. Sherlock licks whiskey off his lips and doesn’t miss how James’s gaze lingers on his mouth. “Don’t you have an appointment tonight?”

Sherlock, watching his friend’s face very closely, doesn’t miss the flash of surprise flickering across the other man’s features. He rearranges them into a mask of cool nonchalance a moment later, but it was enough to give himself away.

“Fool that I am,” James says slowly, “I had actually believed you wouldn’t have noticed.”

Sherlock doesn’t move, despite every muscle in his body wanting to. “What?” he replies, careful not to bite off the word. “That you and my sister were fucking?” He doesn’t bother trying to make it sound needlessly suave; he knows James would see right through him. When it comes to sex, Sherlock Holmes cannot hide before James Moriarty.

James’s lips twitch upwards, his eyes sparkle and darken. And it dawns on Sherlock that he made a grave and rather stupid mistake. Sherlock swallows, squares his shoulders, and mentally braces for the inevitable comeback.

When James speaks, he draws out the words as if he’s savouring every last one. “Well. I did have my taste of Holmeses…”

Sherlock drops his face into his hand and groans. He should have seen it coming, this line. He had handed James a wagonload of fireworks and, what?, expected him not to light the fuse? James Moriarty had a raw talent lighting fuses, and only some of them were attached to explosives. Others, Sherlock had found out not so long ago, were attached to interesting parts of his body…

“Please, for the love of all that is sacred, stop right there,” Sherlock hisses out. “I really, really do not need you to elaborate on the topic.”

“Ah, but I had a whole paper written and ready,” James replies, devilish amusement laced through every word.

“If you so much as mention my mother’s name—!” Sherlock jumps in. He still can’t look at James, mortification creeping up his neck and into his face. He remembers the carriage ride back in England, how James had placed his hand on Mother’s knee, how Mother had melted at his touch.

Your mother is a very attractive woman.

Oh dear God.

“What of your brother then?” James barrels on happily before Sherlock can stop him. “I would so love to tell you the story about that time in Oxford, when—”

“No!” Sherlock interrupts him, holding up his index finger without meeting James’s eyes. “No, absolutely not, under no circumstances shall you speak about Mycroft. Ever. At all.”

James laughs, freely, heartily, then finally makes his way over to Sherlock. He walks right up to him, stepping straight into his space and crowding him against the table. James picks the glass from Sherlock’s too-tight grip and sets both empty tumblers down on the table.

“All jokes aside,” James says softly and now Sherlock has to meet his gaze. James’s hands slide up to his shoulders and inwards, until his thumbs brush the side of his neck. “Having sampled my share,” James whispers, “I think I found my favourite Holmes.”

And then he leans forward and Sherlock cannot help but strain towards his lips, cannot wait until they finally meet his again. He exhales against James’s mouth, drags his lips against the other man’s until James parts them and Sherlock follows suit. When their tongues brush, Sherlock tastes whiskey and mint tea and he wraps his arms around James’s neck and holds on tight. Mine, he thinks. My friend, mine. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t make friends, so when he found James—a mind like an explosion of colour amidst a sea of drab black robes in the dusty cold halls of Magdalene College—he held on tight, too.

Sherlock’s lips tingle and the tingling spreads across his face, down his neck and chest, curls in his belly and then it rushes deeper. James spreads his legs and pushes up against Sherlock, his dick half-hard against Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock shudders and inhales sharply and pushes back.

“Is this what you wanted to hear?” James whispers as he pulls back just enough to speak. “That you’re my favourite?”

Sherlock knows he’s hopelessly flushed, his erection nestled into James’s groin. When it comes to sex, Sherlock Holmes cannot hide before James Moriarty. When it comes to sex, Sherlock Holmes is an open book. ‘A work in progress’, Xiao Wei called him, and oh what progress he already made, with James as his tireless mentor…

But for now, Sherlock’s wit is still sharp (somewhat), so he counters with, “Is it the truth?”

James cocks his head and glances up at Sherlock with an unreadable look. “When you have eliminated the impossible, must whatever remains not be the truth?”

~~~~

“I’m having a lovely time,” James said happily then proceeded to punch Sherlock in the face. The summersault that Sherlock performed was rather unexpected and, quite frankly, pretty professional-looking. So he punched him again, for better measures.

Sherlock looked at him with all the indignity only a thoroughbred member of English country nobility could muster, and James realised that, as brilliant, handsome and extremely fuckable as this young man was, he still had no idea what was going on.

“You need to learn how to defend yourself,” he therefore explained.

“Stop hitting me in the nose!” Sherlock blustered.

“Then learn how to stop me from hitting you in the nose,” James shot back and this time, as he aimed for Sherlock’s face, the other man was ready.

“Very good!” James exclaimed as Sherlock dodged his fist. Bringing up his arms, he slid into a boxer’s defence stance. They had discarded the washerwomen’s disguises as they entered James’s theatre hideout. Sherlock was wearing his ragged prison clothes and James nothing but his underwear. They looked ridiculous, and it was cold in the theatre’s drafty attic, but at least they were safe. For now. 

They sparred, but only half-heartedly. Sherlock became distracted not five minutes into their mock-fight and, hauling James along into his Overactive Imagination, began to examine what Shou’an did that must’ve got him thrown into jail. Their physical bout switched to a verbal one, until James wrapped a gaudy brocade coat around himself and pretended to be the Chinese princess.

“Oh Sherlock, you’re so pretty!” James fluted, his voice pitched high.

It wasn’t a lie at all, but neither, unfortunately, was Sherlock’s well-aimed right hook that followed. Laughing and wiping blood from his nose, James had to admit, “That’s not bad.”

Sherlock still looked a bit pouty, face flushed from the fight and hair tousled, and James bit down his lower lip before he could forget himself and put his hands on very different parts of Sherlock’s body. He wouldn’t do anything that the other man wasn’t explicitly consenting to, but then again…The look Sherlock gave him made James think that he might not object to his various and, at times, rather detailed and colourful ideas…

But then something jogged Sherlock’s memory and he once again veered off into reliving his lost night. James was inevitably pulled along once more, and frankly, bouncing ideas and theories off each other like that, like playing a tennis match, not against but in perfect synch with another person, was part of why James Moriarty had been instantly attracted to Sherlock Holmes.

Another part was that screaming boarding school boy innocence he wanted to corrupt oh so badly…

“…and I would love to see her again,” Sherlock finished, cocking one eyebrow at James.

“Would you now?” James replied. “So she can kick your sorry ass again?” He let his gaze rake pointedly up and down Sherlock’s body. Faded trousers and a rank sweater weren’t the most flattering garments on any man, but on Sherlock, the prison wear looked downright…endearing. Never had James believed he’d use that word in connection with I really want to fuck your brains out, but then again, he was experiencing a lot of firsts with the young man that was Sherlock Holmes.

And Sherlock, James had a distinct inkling, had quite a few firsts he might not (yet) know how badly he wanted to experience, too…

“Ah, and there I thought you made that job yours,” Sherlock countered.

James raised his eyebrows at him. He had got to hand it to the lad, he wasn’t all that bad at pretending he was game. James took a step forward, just to test the waters. He was already invading Sherlock’s private space, but the other man wasn’t backing away. Sherlock’s lips were slightly parted, his breath a tad too shallow. There was a wariness in his light-blue eyes and he was a little tense. But he wasn’t scared, merely vigilant, and waiting for what would come next.

Encouraged, James took another step.

The way they had instantly started bantering, practically from the moment they had first met, had been the lightning-strike to jump-start James’s bored mind. The cocky scout with the wicker basket who shamelessly corrected Professor Thomson’s math in front of the entire classroom was unlike anyone James had ever known. The pretty face came with a mind sharp and imaginative enough to finally, finally match James’s own, and for a blinding moment, he’s zoned out completely while imagining shoving Sherlock up against the chalkboard and having his wicked way with him there and then.

They stood almost close enough to touch now, yet Sherlock still hadn’t budged an inch. Inhaling sharply, Sherlock’s chest brushed against James’s and James couldn’t help but stare at his parted lips. They quivered into…what, a smile? James lifted his eyes—brown meeting blue—and curled up one corner of his mouth.

“I’m good at all kinds of jobs,” James drawled and absolutely delighted in the way Sherlock’s face instantly flushed red. How very nice to know that the brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes was absolutely capable of taking a nosedive into the gutter.

“Oh?” Sherlock mumbled, his eyes involuntarily dropping to James’s mouth and staying there. “Care to elaborate?”

“I’d rather demonstrate,” James murmured and then let his lips brush lightly against Sherlock’s.

“I always did enjoy a practical lesson,” Sherlock whispered, every syllable a warm burst of breath as Sherlock’s mouth moved against his.

 James managed to hold himself back for only another instant, before he couldn’t help but press against the other man’s mouth with a groan. He curled his hands around Sherlock’s hips and Sherlock instantly became pliable like wax beneath him. He followed where James led, and when James opened his mouth, Sherlock’s tongue followed his, too. There was a hand in James’s hair, carding deftly through his locks. When James moved one hand to the small of Sherlock’s back and then slid it underneath the waistband of his trousers to squeeze his ass, Sherlock gripped a fistful of his hair and held on tight.

James pulled back, shivering. He was rapidly getting hard and when he nudged his hips forward, he could feel Sherlock’s own erection against his stomach. Spurred on by this rather delightful discovery, he dove back in, sealing Sherlock’s mouth with his own, licking deep into the wet heat. Sherlock groaned into the kiss and shoved himself up against James, the hard length of his dick poking into his abdomen.

James couldn’t suppress a moan. Every fantasy he’s entertained during the week (just one short week, God Almighty!) he’s known Sherlock was bubbling up in his mind at once. He still had his hand on Sherlock’s ass and he hauled him closer, thrusting into the crease of Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock let out a low grunt and ground against James in return, and James could feel him growing harder with every thrust. There were still a few layers of clothes between them, though, and they were rapidly becoming a major inconvenience.

“I heard somewhere,” James whispered, voice already a little hoarse, “that it really helps to get naked at this point.”

“Uh-hu,” Sherlock replied eloquently, and the fact that he couldn’t even be bothered to form proper words anymore thrilled James more than he dared to admit. Sherlock Holmes, the man with a mind brilliant enough to outwit the entire English police force and probably every Oxford professor on top, was reduced to mono-syllable mumbling under James’s hands.

Just for that, James cupped Sherlock’s chin and brought his head around for a scathing kiss so deep, he thought the other man might just swallow his tongue if he wasn’t careful. He moved his other hand down Sherlock’s buttock and between his legs, pressing two fingers to a spot behind his balls. Sherlock gasped into his mouth, a quiver running through his entire body, and he tightened his fist in James’s hair. His other hand, which he’d placed on James’s left shoulder, spasmed, fingertips digging into James’s skin through his shirt.                “Do that—” Sherlock panted, “Do that again!”

And when James, kind soul that he was, heeded his friend’s wish, Sherlock went on tiptoes and whined. His whole body shook, his dick twitching against James’s stomach and leaking a drop of precome through the fabric of his trousers.

“Oh fuck,” Sherlock breathed. “That is…I didn’t know!”

“The brilliant Sherlock Holmes,” James mused. “Admitting there are things he doesn’t know. I shall have to mark this day in my calendar.” James pressed his mouth to Sherlock’s again, lips dragging sideways and teeth scraping lightly over the sharp jut of his jaw.

Sherlock moaned weakly and chased after his mouth when James started to pull back. “Get your clothes off,” James suggested, licking a layer of sweat off the constellation of moles on Sherlock’s cheek, “so I can educate you properly.”

Sherlock complied without another word.

James pulled his own shirt over his head and stepped out of the drawers, kicking both garments away. He was as hard as Sherlock and no longer entirely steady on his legs. Grabbing Sherlock by the wrist, he led him over to a corner where a mattress covered with a sheet served as his bed.

“Lie down,” James ordered and Sherlock followed suit. He settled on his back, feet planted on the mattress, one arm flung across his forehead. He looked up at James from under half-closed eyelids, his blue eyes gone almost entirely dark from pupils blown wide, glinting in the weak candlelight.

James whistled out a long breath as he took a moment to simply enjoy the view. Sherlock Holmes was on the scrawny and pale side. Given how he’d fought earlier, and what he’d seen of the man’s physique so far, James wasn’t at all surprised. He was still, however, turned very much on by the gorgeous man who put himself on display for him so shamelessly.

One of the things that fascinated James most about Sherlock was his ability to remain an enigma. When they first met, James was captured by Sherlock’s intelligence, but believed he’d figured him out easily enough: socially awkward offspring of a sequestered wealthy family with a tendency for solitude and introversion. Maybe done a bit of innocent fumbling at boarding school, but certainly never been fucked. Catholic guilt would make him shy and uptight.

And Sherlock kept proving him wrong on every turn.

Letting his eyes travel slowly down Sherlock’s body—from his flushed face down his

heaving chest and his flat stomach—he lingered pointedly on Sherlock’s erection. Here he was, doing it again: shattering every last one of James’s expectations. Sherlock didn’t hide himself, didn’t try to cover his nakedness. He put himself on display for James, feigning a bravery he couldn’t possibly have. But his body betrayed him nevertheless. Sherlock’s cock was blood-dark and heavy against the pallor of his stomach, a layer of precome smeared on the head.

James dropped to his knees at the foot of the mattress and slowly crawled up until he hovered over Sherlock.

“I gather you haven’t done this before,” James whispered, searching the other man’s eyes.

Sherlock shook his head, then inhaled to speak. He stopped himself short before settling on a simple, “No.”

No—not with another man? James wondered. Or no—not ever? They had hardly even started, and Sherlock Holmes was already writhing and more than ready beneath him. James allowed the fact to send a spike a of pleasure to between his legs. His dick twitched in reply and he reached down and gave himself a hard stroke.

You spent all your time burying yourself in books, James thought, while I spent at least some of mine burying myself…in other places.

“Well,” James said out loud, licking his lips and leaning down to close his teeth carefully on Sherlock’s earlobe. “I would very much like to make you come so hard, you’ll forget your own name.”

Sherlock gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He jerked a little, rolling his hips. James wasn’t certain he was even aware he was doing it. “Yes, please,” Sherlock rasped breathlessly.

“Challenge accepted, then,” James whispered, then moved farther down to suck at Sherlock’s throat.

Sherlock groaned softly and turned his head to give James better access. His hand landed on James’s back, a hot impression on his already too-warm skin. They were both sweating, skin slick against skin. Sherlock pressed down on James’s spine, trying to get James to lower himself all the way on top of him.

James, however, had other plans (and other plans and more other plans, but he could not get ahead of himself just now).

He pressed the heel of one hand lightly against the head of Sherlock’s cock, giving him something to thrust into. Propping himself up with one hand, James couldn’t help but watch how Sherlock gave a grateful sigh and rubbed his dick along James’s palm. A shiver ran from his head all the way to his toes and he scraped his short fingernails over James’s shoulder blades. It tickled a little and despite the desire pooling warm in his groin, James laughed softly. Sherlock raised his hips to thrust into James’s hand again, twisting to get more friction.

“You keep doing that,” James mumbled, his breath coming almost as quick as Sherlock’s, “you’ll be done before I even get to the good part.”

“This isn’t—” Sherlock panted, his eyes meeting James’s, “this isn’t the good part?”

“Does it feel good?” James asked.

“It feels fucking amazing,” Sherlock breathed and his cock slid along James’s wrist.

James hummed, then pulled his hand away from Sherlock’s dick. He knelt up and made sure the other man watched him closely as he licked the precome off his palm, then covered his fingers in saliva.

Moving down along Sherlock’s body, he took his time to kiss a trail from the hollow at the base of his throat down his chest, teasing the skin with his teeth and deft licks. He detoured briefly to flick his tongue against Sherlock’s left nipple and was rewarded with a startled groan, so he did it again, which made Sherlock moan and arch his back.

“God, you’re incredible,” James muttered before he could stop himself. Sherlock’s hands weren’t anywhere near his dick, but the way he melted into James’s touch, unapologetic and pliable, was the most brutal turn-on James didn’t know existed until now. Not until Sherlock.

Sherlock visibly preened under James’s praise, a dazed smile stretching his kiss-bruised lips and he seemed to puff out his chest. James tucked this new, precious bit of information away, along with the other beautiful little things he was currently discovering about the man coming apart beneath him. He had a hunch that this wasn’t going to be a one-time thing, and James was nothing if not a generous, attentive lover. He and Sherlock clicked on so many levels, so easily. It hardly came as a surprise that sex would be one of them. 

Unable to hold back any longer, James slid further down and wrapped one hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock, and the other around himself. He squeezed and jerked both Sherlock and himself a little, and they groaned in unison. James lifted his head to peer up at Sherlock, who was watching him with his chin tucked against his chest. He had slid one hand into his hair and the other fisted into the sheet. James rubbed his thumb slowly up and down the hard, hot shaft of Sherlock’s dick and watched as the other man tipped back his head, his mouth flashing open.

“Oh God,” Sherlock panted and he let his legs fall open.

James couldn’t help but grin. “’James’ will do nicely, but thank you,” he replied in a mostly steady voice. Then he dipped his head and ran his tongue over the tip of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock whined and when fresh precome welled up, James lapped it up eagerly. The taste of that stuff was never that great, but this was Sherlock, and James savoured his flavour like a rare vintage as it fille his mouth and flooded his senses. Because James was already addicted to everything the other man gave him.

He was addicted to the sounds Sherlock made because James touched him, addicted to the way he opened himself to the pleasure James offered. As prim and controlled, even stuck-up as Sherlock seemed to the world outside, he was the opposite in bed. Everybody had to find and outlet. To let go of oneself and give oneself over to fantasies and desires. And being slowly, gradually driven toward orgasm seemed to be exactly what Sherlock needed.

And James needed it just as much.

James pressed his tongue hard against the head of Sherlock’s cock one more time, then wrapped his mouth around it. He sucked gently at first, jerking his own cock to the same rhythm. Sherlock immediately tried to push up into James’s mouth, making desperate little noises. A hand landed in his hair, tugging at his curls, trying to push him down. James hummed, but didn’t give in to Sherlock’s begging just yet, despite sympathising with the other man’s urgency. He had to forcefully still his hand on himself, suppressing the urge to get himself off now.

His hand still around the base of Sherlock’s cock, jerking him slowly, James went lower. His lips dragged over the sensitive, soft skin, until they met with his fingers. He ran his tongue along the underside of Sherlock’s cock, tracing the vein. Sherlock was a hot and heavy weight inside his mouth, tasting a little salty and a lot like pure sex.

When James started to give Sherlock head properly, alternating between moving up and down the hard shaft and sucking him hard, Sherlock moaned and panted, his hand in James’s hair opening and closing spasmodically. James could tell he was desperately trying to hold back, that he was close to the edge, and that it wouldn’t take a whole lot of effort to make im come. He tightened his grip on himself and sped up, running his thumb over the head of his own cock while he tongued the slit of Sherlock’s. The other man trembled beneath him, his lower lip caught between his teeth and biting down so hard, the skin turned white.

Sherlock was writhing, pushing into James’s mouth in uncontrolled movements, as James sucked him off mercilessly. He was dragging the heels of his feet against the mattress, breath coming in harsh bursts, gripping James’s hair so tight it was bordering on being painful.

 James came up only once to spit into his palm, and then jerked himself fast to the sounds of Sherlock Holmes coming apart.

“Oh fuck, I’m—!” Sherlock whined and thrust up into James’s mouth. James tried to take it as best as he knew how, opening himself up to Sherlock fucking his mouth raw. There was no question he’d be feeling the aftermath of this all day tomorrow and the idea thrilled him.

A second before Sherlock came, he went rigid, his cock deep inside James’s mouth, and then he was spurting his seed down James’s throat. James swallowed and swallowed until he started coughing. But he didn’t let up, even as Sherlock melted into the mattress with a heavy groan and his cock began to soften. James sucked until Sherlock whimpered, thrusting hard into his own fist, then he finally came, spilling over his fingers, his orgasm wrenching a deep moan from somewhere low in his chest.

James collapsed onto the mattress next to Sherlock. They were still heaving as if they’d run for their lives (again). When the sweat on their skin started cooling and Sherlock gave a shiver, James rolled onto his side and simply draped himself across the other man. Sherlock shifted and, having found the cover crumbled in one corner, dragged it over both of them.

James often wished he had the talent to just fall asleep after sex. It was a myth anyway, so it wasn’t so bad he never managed it.

And neither, it seemed, was it a talent Sherlock Holmes had mastered. Because instead of drifting off, he started talking. Because of course he would.

“Did you know,” Sherlock mumbled, twisting one of James’s locks around his finger, his words still a little slurred, “that reliable knowledge comes only from experiments that can be repeated under controlled conditions, so they produce consistent, measurable results?”

James adjusted his head on Sherlock’s chest to glance up at him. “I did, in fact, know that,” me mumbled back.

“So,” Sherlock continued, “although this experiment did inarguably produce…uh…results, it is not enough to justify as reliable knowledge. Or to have proven your hypothesis, for that matter.”

James lifted his chin off Sherlock’s chest to give him incredulous look. “Did you just very roundabout ask me to blow you again?”

Sherlock had the audacity to smirk. “You promised that I’d forget my own name. I still know my name: I am Sherlock Silas Holmes. So…”

James let his forehead fall against Sherlock’s shoulder, the chuckle bubbling out of him shaking his whole body. He cupped Sherlock’s face with one hand and turned his head, then braced himself on his elbow to press his lips against Sherlock’s.

“Is that a yes, then?” Sherlock asked, sounding entirely sincere.

“The game,” James laughed softly, “is indeed still afoot.”

In the weeks that followed, James continued to collect a hundred little pieces of the puzzle that was Sherlock Holmes. He did it by asking his brother, his mother, his father. By roaming Appleton Manor and studying paintings of the Holmes family, peering into chests, leafing through drawers, and reading the diaries of a seven-year-old boy.

He did it, too, by mapping every mole and scar on Sherlock’s body, by kissing every inch of him, by analysing what made him moan and writhe and come apart. He collected the sounds Sherlock made when he touched his dick: with his fingers, with his mouth, with his own cock. James taught Sherlock numerous ways to experience desire and just like they never grew tired of their rapid-fire banter and teasing, they never grew tired of sex with each other.

But James liked to flirt, while Sherlock was utterly (adorably, really) immune to the whole concept—except, perhaps, when it came to James.  

James had once heard that men fucked for the simple sake of it, while for women, it was so often a matter of the mind. With Sherlock, it was nothing but a matter of the mind. Sherlock, who was a prisoner of his own imagination, who needed—desperately, helplessly—a way to escape the rigid confines of own intellect. An outlet, an excuse to simply let go. And James was the only one Sherlock trusted with his pleasure.

Sherlock had chosen James, and James alone. And although James bathed in that fact, it also meant that Sherlock was prone to jealousy.

~~~

“When you have eliminated the impossible,” James says, “must whatever remains not be the truth?”

“However improbable?” Sherlock adds, caressing the short locks at James’s nape. They curled around his fingertips as if they were trying to hold on.

“You think this is improbable?” James asks softly before tilting his head to kiss Sherlock lightly on the lips. “Have we not conducted a quite sufficient number of experiments with inarguably satisfying results to arrive at a solid hypothesis?”

The evidence, Sherlock has to admit, is in James’s favour, despite an alarmingly large margin of error. Reducing their relationship to dry numbers might take some of the thrill out of it, but it helps Sherlock to fight his triggers.

Sherlock has chosen James. But James, apparently, hasn’t chosen Sherlock in the same way.

They both come from broken families, and James knows all about the origins of Sherlock’s trauma: a dead sister, an absent father, a mother mad with grief, an unapproachable  brother unable to deal with any sort of emotion. Sherlock knows next to nothing about James’s, except that James’s mother might (or might not) have died of consumption.

But there is one thing Sherlock does knows: he wants James Moriarty. Badly. He wants his intellect, his friendship, his company, and his trust. He also wants his body, his hands on himself, his cock inside him. And doesn’t want to share any of it.

So he made that first question sound innocent enough. Don’t you have an appointment?

It’s really just an empty hull, concealing all the things he couldn’t bring himself to ask. But he knows James, and he knows that he heard the other questions, too.

Won’t you rather be with Beatrice right now? Do you want me, or do you want her? Will you leave? Will you leave me, too…

Sherlock hums thoughtfully and nips at James’s bottom lip. “We experimented thirty-four times, to be precise.”

James grunts in surprise. “You counted?”

Sherlock draws back to cock an eyebrow at the other man. “You didn’t?”

James meets the challenge in his gaze unflinchingly. “I was ever so slightly distracted, Mister Holmes.”

“So what, then, is your hypothesis, Mister Moriarty?” Sherlock asks, not bothering to keep the satisfaction out of his smile. Nice to know that James was ‘too distracted’ to keep count.

“My hypothesis, Mister Holmes,” James replies, “is that I would very, very much like to fuck you senseless right about now.”

“That is not a valid hypo—” Sherlock begins, but then is completely derailed by James sucking at that sensitive spot under his left ear. Groaning softly, he slides one hand up into James’s hair—he cannot deny that he might have developed a bit of a fetish for those curls—and one hand down to grab James’s ass. Just this once, he won’t call James out on his horseshit.  

The table rattles a little when James pushes Sherlock against its edge. He spreads his feet and James nudges his thigh between his legs. Sherlock lets his eyes fall close with a groan and grinds against James’s thigh. He can feel James’s dick hardening against his stomach, can feel its heat and weight, and he counts back to when they had last done this and absently thinks Seven days are six days too many.

James is wriggling one finger under the knot of Sherlock’s tie while he unbuttons his vest with the other. What his tongue is doing, however, is what throws Sherlock off completely, because it is currently pressed against that hot, throbbing spot on his neck. He’ll have a mark there tomorrow and briefly debates whether he should bother hiding it with a scarf and a high collar, when James sucks on the same damn spot again. Sherlock’s mind goes blank and his cock twitches in the too-tight confines of his trousers.

 James yanks at the undone tie and throws the silk ribbon unceremoniously to the floor. He works open the vest’s last button and Sherlock starts on his own shirt with trembling hands.

“Work faster, will you?” James grumbles, pushing one hand under the hem of Sherlock’s shirt, fingertips skimming over heated skin. “God, I missed touching you…”

“Why am I the only one being currently undressed?” Sherlock mumbles, already a bit breathless. “I can guarantee much better results if we’re both naked.”

“Can you now?” James inquires while he thumbs open the buttons of Sherlock’s trousers. Before Sherlock can come up with a witty enough reply, James slides his hand inside and palms Sherlock’s cock through the fabric of his drawers. All words are immediately blasted from his brain.

Sherlock moans and pushes into James’s touch, settling his forehead onto James’s shoulder. Even after thirty-four times (give or take; maybe he didn’t keep perfect count) he would still come undone the moment this man laid a hand on him. Sherlock didn’t have a whole lot of experience with this before James—certainly not with another man—but the endlessly creative, endlessly arousing things James Moriarty keeps doing to him don’t exactly leave anything to be desired.

Sherlock knows that James gets off from making him come in new ways as much as Sherlock gets off from letting James experiment with him. But the fact that despite how compatible they are he still had a dalliance with Beatrice stings more than he dares to admit. The thought cuts through the want like a cold bucket of ice.

“I missed your touch, too,” Sherlock admits softly, unable to meet James’s eyes. He’s still not good with words like these. Words about himself, about how he feels. When he has sex with James, Sherlock tries to let his body speak for him, and it’s usually enough communication. James is so much better at saying things out loud, things that still make Sherlock blush like a bloody virgin. “I missed you,” Sherlock adds, just in case he wasn’t obvious enough.

James stills his hand and his dark eyes lock onto Sherlock’s. “I never went anywhere,” he replies.

“But you did,” Sherlock says.

“Yet I came back,” James whispers.

There is an element of real danger to James Moriarty. It flashes through the cracks of his trickster deity personality every now and then, like a flashfire, and it scares Sherlock. He can be unpredictable sometimes, talking without ever revealing anything. James has his triggers, too, and although Sherlock isn’t above pushing his buttons, he’s never quite certain what James’s reaction will be if he does.

James pulls his hand out of Sherlock’s trousers only long enough to yank them down, along with his drawers. Then he covers Sherlock’s half-hard dick with one hand again, while he retrieves a small, flat tin box from his coat pocket. It’s a familiar item to both them by now, and Sherlock feels his heartbeat speed up and his dick harden at the sight of it. He pushed slowly into James’s hand and lets his eyes fall close as pleasure zings up his spine.

James’s eyes never leave Sherlock’s as he asks, “What’s the second question?”

“You haven’t earned it yet,” Sherlock retorts, the petulance in his voice half eradicated by his harsh breathing.

Flipping the tin box open one-handedly, James sets it down on the table before scooping up some of the yellow-white cream inside.

Sherlock suppresses the urge to thrust into James’s palm again. “I see you came prepared,” he remarks.

“I am always prepared,” James replies sagely, before guiding his other hand to Sherlock’s back. Sherlock can feel the cold-slick touch of James’s coated finger against his buttock, then James slides the tip of one finger into the crack. Sherlock automatically spreads his legs wider, jerking as James’s fingertip touches the crinkled skin around his hole.

“Oh fuck,” Sherlock moans, pressing the side of his face against James’s temple as his mouth drops open. He’s trembling, holding on to James, unable to decide which way to move his body: thrusting forward into James’s palm, or backwards into the vaseline-slick finger in his ass.

James hardly moves, only lightly massages the head of Sherlock’s dick with the heel of his hand and describing a slow circle with his finger inside of him.

“As I’m currently occupied,” James murmurs, “I’d appreciate some help getting out of this suit.”

“Whu?” Sherlock replies.

“I suggest you start with the tie,” James adds helpfully.

Sherlock pulls back until James’s face swims into focus. He feels ridiculously good, loose and warm and relaxed, James’s finger inside him as familiar as James’s palm on his dick.  

“Preferably this week, Sherlock,” James says.

“Right, yes,” Sherlock mumbles and starts undoing the other man’s tie with hands that wouldn’t quite behave as he wants them to. James watches him intently, moving his hands in constant, gentle motions.

When he’s finished unbuttoning the vest and starts on James’s shirt, James smiles and pushes his finger deeper into Sherlock. He moves his hand away from Sherlock’s cock to curl it around his hip, his thumb drawing circles around his left hipbone.

Sherlock has to stop what he’s doing, instead grabbing James’s lapels with a whine and thrusting back hard. He feels James slide further in, until he is all the way inside. Sherlock moans and pants, grinding up against the finger in his ass. His own dick is painfully hard again, standing up between them, and he watches precome bubble up from the slit and drop to the ground.

“Almost there,” James whispers, and at least his own voice isn’t too stable, either. He starts moving his finger in and out, crooking and twisting it with practised ease. The spot behind his balls, the one that James had pressed the first time they’d had sex, could be stimulated from inside, too. The first time James had done this, Sherlock had been so desperate and ready, he had come with a startled cry.

“Just the shirt,” James clarifies, and Sherlock wills his trembling hands back to work. James pulls out of him, leaving him feeling woefully empty for a moment. But then Sherlock hears the crape of metal against the tabletop as James slicks his fingers with more vaseline. This time, James slides two fingers inside. He opens Sherlock gradually and methodically, though he carefully avoids touching the spot that makes Sherlock see stars again.

Sherlock all but rips the last two buttons off and brushes the shirt off James’s shoulders. It slides down his arms, exposing lean muscles and a body always so much more tanned than Sherlock’s. Sherlock can’t help but tilt forward, ghosting his lips against James’s, needing to taste him.

How does James do it? He is the only one outside his twisted family who meets his intellect, the only truly interesting person Sherlock met in a long time. But he never seems to have sacrificed anything to get there. James flirts with the world as if he secretly owns it, and he indulges in pleasure without a second thought.

Sherlock, now Sherlock’s sacrifices have been many: no friends, no lovers, no meaningful connections. Always alone in the too-quiet hallways of Appleton Manor, except for his brother and sister and his mother, who gifted him an overactive imagination. Iron-clad control and the pathological need to deconstruct and dissect reality in order to draw some sort of understanding from other people were the shrouds in which Sherlock had wrapped himself. 

Oh, he’s learned how to touch himself eventually. But it had always been a means to an end. Methodical and clinical, to arrive at those few moments of suspended bliss where he could, just for an eyeblink, let finally go of all control.

James Moriarty had picked up what little pleasure Sherlock knew and made art from it. What had been a smudge of paint, James had taken and turned into a masterpiece. And Sherlock wanted to so desperately to be his muse, to find himself in the centre of endless variations of James’s myriad ideas of what desire could look like.

James had brought him to climax dozens of times, in dozens of ways. But all of them had one thing in common: they always completely stripped away Sherlock’s control. Layer by layer, touch by touch, kiss by kiss. Sherlock Holmes is an addict, and he doesn’t have the slightest intention to let go of his drug.

Because James is the only one Sherlock allows to get this deeply, this thoroughly under his skin.

Sherlock lets out a long breath, trying to relax around James’s fingers inside him while his whole body is on fire, screaming for more.

“What’s the second question?” James mumbles against Sherlock’s temple.

Before Sherlock can gather enough of his rapidly declining wits to formulate a halfway decent reply, James crooks his fingers and presses them against Sherlock’s prostate.

Sherlock groans and pushed back, biting down hard on his lower lip. Pure lighting shoots into his groin and makes his dick ache with the need to be touched.

“I distinctly remember….” he pants, grabbing the base of his cock and squeezing hard to keep from coming there and then. “…that you promised to fuck me. Do you intend to get there at some point or—?”

 “’Fuck you senseless’ were my exact words,” James agrees cheerfully. “You’re avoiding me, though. What’s the second question, Sherlock?”

Sherlock lets his hands drop to the front of James’s trousers. Before he starts popping the buttons, he runs his fingers up and down the length of the other man’s cock. James is hard, too, his dick solid and radiating damp heat through the fabric. Sherlock can’t suppress the thrill of victory as he watches James’s eyelids flutter and his lips part on a silent moan. The two fingers that are still inside Sherlock twitch, brushing against that sweet spot and Sherlock shudders helplessly.

“Deliver on your promise first,” Sherlock grinds out, “then I’ll tell you what the second question is.”

“All right. Bed. Now.” James orders shakily and turns Sherlock around by his shoulders.

They somehow manage to get rid of the rest of their clothes without tripping over their trousers or ripping off any more buttons. Sherlock tumbles face first onto the mattress. They’d done this enough times for him to know what comes next, so he tucks one knee under himself and spreads his other leg out.

“Ah-ah, not like this,” James says. Sherlock feels the mattress give way as the other man kneels behind him. Warm hands grip his hips and he’s deftly flipped onto his back. “I want to look at you. And I want you to look at me.”

James’s eyes are dark as midnight, the warm brown swallowed by a pupil blown wide with pure want.

I always want to look at you, Sherlock thinks. And I don’t want you to look at anyone but me.

Sherlock knows that there’s nothing more dangerous in this world than ideas. And thoughts like these—possessive thoughts, thoughts that give away too much of himself, thoughts that make him more naked than he is right now, that bare his very soul—are the most perilous of them all.

Sherlock plants his feet on the mattress and swallows hard as he’s transported back to the first time he’d met James. The way James had looked at him in that deserted classroom. As if Sherlock were an equation infinitely more interesting than what was scrawled on the chalkboard. As if he were prey. As if he were a treat to be devoured...

Less than a week after that first meeting, Sherlock was writhing beneath James with his cock down James’s throat.

Sherlock’s breath hitches as James coats his fingers with more grease from the tin and begins to lather his dick. Then he grabs one of Sherlock’s legs and hooks it over his shoulder.

They haven’t yet done it like this before, but Sherlock is nothing if not perceptive. So he cants his hips a little, offering himself up to James.

James looks pleased. “Good boy, that’s it,” he praises Sherlock preens. It’s rare that James compliments him. Their banter is usually based on trying to one-upping each other. Sherlock always enjoys their verbal sparring sessions that tend to fly over any bystanders’ heads like darting swallows. But in the intimate privacy of their own little bubble, James would not hold back with praise. Not when he knows that it they arouse Sherlock almost as much as his touch does.

James’s gaze travels down Sherlock’s body, but it doesn’t stop on his hard, wet cock, but instead returns to linger on his face. “You really are incomparable,” James mutters, sounding almost thoughtful, as if he’s speaking to himself. “That mind, that body, that passion. Lord, but you’re something else…”

Sherlock settles his fingertips above James’s knees, pressing into the taut muscles. Their gazes are locked, James’s expressive face hovering above Sherlock.

Sherlock frowns and tilts his head, studying the other man’s features. He looks…awestruck. James Moriarty, in this moment, is an open book. The realisation startles Sherlock. He can solve equations, memorize whole tomes thanks to an eidetic memory, and remember details like a lose thread on a passerby’s coat. But the greatest mystery would always be other people. And as intimately familiar as he was with James Moriarty, much of the man is still a riddle to Sherlock.

Except for now.

You’re incomparable.

“Is this what you did?” Sherlock breathes, sliding his hands up James’s thighs. “Trying to compare me?”

James’s expression twists into one of pained frustration, the way he sometimes used to looked at Sherlock when he desperately needed him to believe something Sherlock wasn’t yet ready for. Like back at Appleton Manor, when James already knew Silas was playing a dirty game and Sherlock blindly refused to see it.

Instead of a verbal reply, James bends down and kisses Sherlock. It’s slow and intense and deliberate, building like a story. James communicates as much through the movement of his lips and the brushing of his tongue as he does with words.

When they part for air, Sherlock takes a deep breath, and says, “Oh. I see.”

“Forgive me,” James breathes.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything for a long time, only stares into eyes dark with want. Want for me, he realises with a jolt. You want me.

“My name is Sherlock Silas Holmes,” Sherlock says eventually. “I can still remember it.” He isn’t certain he’s ready to forgive James just yet, but then again, James is currently making a few very good arguments in his favour.

James laughs breezily then bends over Sherlock. He props himself up with one hand, the other guiding his dick to Sherlock’s hole.

Sherlock’s eyes fall close and his mouth drops open as he feels the blunt head of James’s cock against his opening. James presses steadily until he slides into Sherlock. He feels huge, filling Sherlock to the brim. It’s always like this, every time they do this, and every time, it’s almost overwhelming. Sherlock thinks that the more often they fuck, the more easily he should get used to James’s cock inside him, stretching him to the very edges of pain. But some part of him wants it to be like this forever; to feel filled up completely by James, even if it hurts at first. He’s claimed in a way he craves time and again, completed in a way he didn’t know he’s longed for.

James keeps pushing until he’s bottomed out. Sherlock’s muscles stretch as his leg over James’s shoulder is pressed to his chest, James leaning in. A drawn-out groan makes Sherlock open his eyes and he sees James’s face hover above his own. His lover’s eyes are slits beneath eyelids heavy with pleasure. His lips, slightly wet, are parted and there’s beads of sweat on his forehead and running down his temples.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” James slurs. He sounds drunk, as if he’s had more than two glasses of whiskey.

Sherlock reaches up and slides both hands into James’s damp locks, cards them through his hair and to the back of his head. Then he drops his gaze to where their bodies are joined, half obscured by shadows. He’s stretched tight around James’s cock, the other man buried inside him to the root. His own dick is a dark shaft pressed against his stomach, glistening wetly at the tip.

Even when they combine their minds to reach aver new intellectual heights, they’re never as connected as they are right now. Never as one as this. They are literally one body, one thing, soaring on a shared pinnacle.

“What is,” James pants as he pulls out agonizingly slow, just to thrust back in with a snap of his hips that makes Sherlock gasp, “the second question?”

Sherlock tightens his hands in James’s hair and, digging his heel into James’s back, rolls up his hips until he hears skin smack against skin. James slides halfway out of him, then pushes back in, and it’s this moment that the pain tips over into pleasure. Sherlock’s cock, neglected and untouched between them, jerks, and when James shifts and changes the angle a little to rub against Sherlock’s prostate on his next thrust, Sherlock’s mind goes completely blank.

The question still echoes in the dark, sweaty space between their bodies, yet Sherlock couldn’t reply even if he wanted to. His brain is a white and empty plane, and with every thrust, every jolt up his spine, every gasp from James, that white plane expands further.

There are no thoughts now, no ideas, no control.

Above him, James fucks him harder and harder, rocking Sherlock’s whole body and making the bedstand creak. His aching dick slaps against his stomach, the muscles in his leg on James’s shoulder straining. Pleasure is building like a wall, like a wave between his legs, and he can feel his release coming closer every time James slams into him.

Sherlock forces himself to open his eyes, to look into the face of the man fucking the living daylight out of him. James is magnificent above him, beautiful like an angel, like a devil. He sprays droplets of sweat onto Sherlock, his eyes—burning with a single-minded intensity—utterly focused on Sherlock.

“My name is—” Sherlock rasps, hardly audible, but he can’t finish despite himself. He bites his lower lip as a fresh wave of pleasure makes his whole body shake. He keeps his eyes are wide open and locked with the other man’s.

“James!”

When he can’t take it anymore, Sherlock keens and reaches down to finish himself off. But James is faster. A large hand wraps around his aching cock and one, two deft downstrokes are all it takes to finally send Sherlock over the edge.

He comes with a cry, spilling over James’s fingers in long pulses. Sherlock arches his back, mouth open on a wordless, soundless moan, and rides out an orgasm that doesn’t seem to end. Like an idiot he thinks, Fuck, he did it, I can’t remember by own name, before bliss floods him like a drug.

Sherlock deflates into the mattress with a drawn-out groan. Above him, James has stopped moving, but his hand is still around Sherlock’s spent dick. Sherlock squirms a little, come wet and gooey on his belly, his cock oversensitive in James’s grip.

When James starts moving inside him again, Sherlock shudders with aftershocks of pleasure. James slams into him with a sudden single-mindedness, his hand still wrapped loosely around Sherlock. He doesn’t stroke him again, though, only holding him in a gentle grip, as he fucks him with hard, deft thrusts.

James grunts and shudders, hips snapping forward until their flesh slaps audibly together, and then he’s coming and coming, pumping into Sherlock and filling him up in an entirely different way.

James pulls out slowly, and although Sherlock is spent and half ready to doze off, he still moans weakly when James’s cock leaves a cold, empty space inside him. Sherlock rolls onto his side and without giving any thought to his actions, he wraps himself around James.

James’s arms come around him and Sherlock throws one leg over James’s hip, scooting closer and pressing his face into the crook of James's neck. They’re both coated in sweat that’s starting to cool. James’s semen is trickling out of him and Sherlock squirms a little against the tickling sensation. They should clean up, maybe take a bath, but Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to move even if Beatrice and Mother both burst into the room.

Sherlock listens to their breathing becoming gradually even. When James next speaks, he’s prepared for his words.

“What’s the second question?”

Sherlock blinks his eyes open but has to pull back a little to properly look at him. “I shall not insult your intellect by suggesting you haven’t already figured it out,” Sherlock says softly.

James’s lips curl into a smile. His locks are plastered to his forehead, beads of sweat clinging to his temples. His eyes are half closed and his freckles stand out starkly against his still flushed skin. He looks so much at peace that for a moment, Sherlock envies him fiercely. With a mind, a past, and a family like his, peace, to Sherlock, is a foreign and distant land. But he would never, ever begrudge it to the man in his arms.

“Yes,” James says gently.

“Yes—what?” Sherlock prods.

“Yes, I have obviously figured out your second question,” James clarifies.

Sherlock forgets now to breathe. His heart, which has finally settled down, picks up speed again and fresh sweat breaks out all over his body. He keeps himself very still and forces himself to hold James’s eyes.

“And your answer?” Sherlock whispers.

“The answer is also ‘yes’,” James says very softly. “But I had to be sure.”

It’s rare that Sherlock finds himself utterly at a loss of words. Words are, after all, his one and only weapon. He’s shite with a gun, absolutely useless with his fists, so what else is left? Words are the conduit to make sense of the nameless chaos that is going on his mind, and for a little while, words were the thing that most connected him to James Moriarty. Until, of course, they started using their bodies and connected on an entirely different level. Sex never replaced their verbal exchange, only supplemented it, and even if Sherlock is still learning from James’s expertise when he’s naked and at his mercy, he’s always his equal when it comes to exchanging quips.

But quips are just this: banter, flirting, teasing. Always eloquent, always elaborate, yet never to the point. Speaking out loud hard and distilled truths is still something they both struggle with. So even now, Sherlock still can’t ask the question outright, and James still can’t say the words. And neither can Sherlock.

Yet.