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]

"I don't like being predictable."

Surely he knows that by now.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"You want the door open, don't you?"

He leans back over him, with a pair of scissors in his hand.

[napoleonofcrime]

His legs shift a little, uneasily.

"These are Westwood."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"What's Westwood?"

He asks, with the first decisive snip.

The tie he saves, though.

[napoleonofcrime]

He grits his teeth and tries to hold back a scoff.

"Vivienne Westwood, idiot. A designer brand. This shirt is more expensive than your entire drabby suit."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Whoops."

Rip.

[napoleonofcrime]

He rolls his eyes.

"You're such a child."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"You spent more on my shirt than I did on my suit."

He informs him, reaching down to get his pants off. Those don't have to be torn, at least.

He wants him completely nude.

[napoleonofcrime]

"I had the money, cupcake."

Lifting his hips. Despite his teasing words, his voice is a little more tense, jaw a fraction more set. He doesn't like this already.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

Once he has him completely undressed, he sits up over him, and settles down to examine him.

Every scar is a story, every inch of skin written with history.

[napoleonofcrime]

He looks away at the scrutiny, knowing full well that Sherlock will map out exactly what he sees. For the most part, his body is clean, unmarred- thicker than Sherlock's own, but fit, athletic. There's a scar from when he had his appendix removed. A grouping of small scars on his leg from when he was hit by shrapnel from one of his bombs. A narrow one on his bicep from a deal with a knife thrower gone wrong, which matched another barely visible one just above his collarbone from having a blade to his throat. Small, thin scars on his fingers from working with delicate and sharp instruments.

Tiny, almost unrecognizable needle marks on his arm.

"Done yet?"

Impatient, starting to squirm.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

Oh no, not by far.

But he leans down right away, drawn to them irresistibly, and licks along those needle marks. Then kisses, and finally makes good on his threat to bite, once he's hypersensitive to the touch.

[napoleonofcrime]

Jim's teeth grit together and he narrowly avoids kicking him.

"That's not very nice."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"You don't like me because I'm nice. You like me because I'm you."

Draping his weight down over him to keep him still, as he has mercy and turns his attention instead to the knife mark.

[napoleonofcrime]

He takes a deep breath.

"This is ridiculous."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Oh, shut up."

He leans in and kisses him, with that same heat and aggravation as before.

[napoleonofcrime]

He weakens a little and returns it, cuffs jangling against the headboard as he tries to move his hands to wrap around the detective. No go.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

He smiles into the kiss, letting him feel it, before pulling back and sliding down, to drag his tongue over each individual shrapnel scar, from largest to smallest, without having to cast a second look.

[napoleonofcrime]

"Nnh."

His body twitches responsively, skin flushing a little.

"Is this necessary?"

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"It's recreational sexual behaviour. We can't reproduce, so none of this is strictly necessary."

He informs him, spare hand trailing slowly up his outer thigh.

[napoleonofcrime]

"For the door, moron."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

Sherlock laughs at him, brightly, then lowers his head to suck a mark on his hipbone.

[napoleonofcrime]

He hisses at that, 'accidentally' kneeing him in the chest.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

It doesn't hurt, but it does make him sit up, pulling away.

He meant it, when he said he'd respect his wishes.

[napoleonofcrime]

Jim frowns at that. He doesn't play fair- Sherlock should know that by now.

"What?"