dear jim

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

The hotel brings them together eventually.

One room. A locked door. Two men asleep on a bed.

It was bound to come down to something like this.

Comments

[napoleonofcrime]

Jim wakes up first. He's a light sleeper, and interdimensional travel was always hell on the REM cycle. He knows where he is from the beginning- it's not the first time the hotel has whisked him away like this. But it is the first time with such an... interesting partner.

He blinks. Rubs the sleep out of his eyes for a moment, staring at the man next to him. And finally, he throws his head back and laughs.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

It wakes him up, and Sherlock is off the bed like a scalded cat, impossibly coordinated for someone so gangly.

"Moriarty."

In his bed. No, not his bed- it takes a second for everything to absorb.

[napoleonofcrime]

"In the flesh."

He cants his knee, rests his elbow on it, and places his chin in his palm, smiling impossibly wide at Sherlock's reaction.

"Quite literally, I'm afraid."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

The hotel has seen fit to leave Sherlock in one of his crisp suits, though it's slightly rumpled from napping in it. And his curls are all rumpled and stuck up on one side.

He ignores that, crossing to the door quickly and checking the handle. Predictably, it refuses to open.

[napoleonofcrime]

"Nope."

He's wearing his suit as well- sleep rumpled like Sherlock's, but still in one piece- and he watches the consulting detective like an overeager cat.

"Not going to work. I give it three minutes before they start pumping the gas in through the ventilation."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

His teeth bare in a brief, frustrated snarl, as he turns on him.

"I'm not much for necrophilia, thank you."

[napoleonofcrime]

"Sticks and stones."

Jim reclines, utterly at ease with the situation.

"I'll let you feel my pulse, if you want. It's positively bounding right now."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"We could fix that."

He offers, gaze half-lidded.

"Think they'd let me out of here then? If I left your body on the floor. No fun in drugging one of us."

[napoleonofcrime]

"How brutal."

He shrugs.

"If you're wrong, you'd have to reconsider the necrophilia bit."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Obviously."

He pulls off his tie, and tosses it aside. The constriction is frankly bothersome, and he'd be lying if he said his pulse weren't pounding too. Sherlock is calmer now, but the agitation is still evident in his hands, in the set of his shoulders.

"Very well. I suppose we wait."

[napoleonofcrime]

"For?"

Sprawling out, enjoying the obvious discomfort.

"Come to bed, Sherlock. I assure you, it's at least a little better to pretend you're doing it of free will, now isn't it?"

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Oh, I enjoyed it perfectly well when it is of my own free will."

He informs him, with a bit of an edge, to end all speculation on the topic of his supposed virginity.

"But I highly doubt I will be able to suspend the disbelief in this case, and frankly, I could rather use the high."

[napoleonofcrime]

He laughs softly.

"Sherlock Holmes, enjoying being fucked. You must have been here awhile."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"You're full of erroneous assumptions today, Jim."

He stays practically plastered against the wall.

[napoleonofcrime]

"Oh, I very much doubt that you got those bruises from being the controlling factor in the coupling."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"You'd really have to ask her about the proper verbs."

Fucking, fucked. He'd penetrated. But he supposes he hadn't been in control.

"I meant that I am comparatively new here."

[napoleonofcrime]

He perks up a little, sitting on the bed.

"I'd figured as much. Don't worry, Daddy's here to show you the ropes."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"You're bordering on genuinely disgusting."

He warns him, and oh, there are the drugs. He reaches out and grips the dresser as it hits him.

[napoleonofcrime]

"Careful- ah."

He inhales once, and closes his eyes- apparently not quite as comfortable as he was implying himself to be. But then, it's control with him. As long as he has his own body, he's quite content to jeer and poke fun; with the drugs forcing a reaction, he finds himself at the mercy of his own body. And he hates being at the mercy of anything, even himself.

"-don't want to hurt yourself."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

Sherlock lets out a breath, watching him closely. Something about this means he can approach again, at the foot of the bed, leaning up against one of the four posts, sinuous and easy, and back in control.

"You're afraid of losing control. That makes this so much worse, Jim."

[napoleonofcrime]

He wants to snap out- 'what makes you think I'm afraid of anything?'- but then he'd get a long, boring dissection of every subconscious reaction he's had in the past five minutes. His eyes meet Sherlock's own, clear and confident.

"I'm always in control, dear. I already know how this is going to end."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Yes. Your snapping is inevitable."

Two steps, and he's at the other side of the footboard, holding on to that bedpole and twisting.

"Jim."

[napoleonofcrime]

Self-control is so thin, at least in Jim's case. He's allowed to be eccentric, because he's that powerful, allowed to throw his tantrums because he's got the men and the brilliance to cover for himself when he needs to.

He sits up a little more on the bed, his eyes locked on Sherlock's- evenly, warily.

"Ooh, the buildup is what makes it memorable. Look at you, being so dramatic."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"I'm not building. I'm observing."

He informs him, watching him, pupils dilated. It affects him, of course he can feel it. But it's a spiral he's utterly familiar with.

He never thought it'd be an advantage.

"What are we going to do? When we snap."

[napoleonofcrime]

"And here I thought losing your virginity would make you know what happens when two men hate each other very much."

Snide, sarcastic. His respiratory rate is increasing minutely, heart pounding. He knows what's going to happen, but he's furiously maintaining control of his body, for now.