lostwithoutmyblogger | au meets hotel

Jim groans the instant he opens his eyes, before collapsing back into the bed, staring toward the ceiling.

"No, I've had it. Kill me."

"I'll find a gun."

Sitting up to search the dresser, completely serious. They can both blow their brains out.

He finds the note instead, and sighs, before poking Jim in the shoulder, offering it to him.

"It's different."

He takes the note, sitting up and staring at it for a moment, his own mind going through the same processes of Sherlock's. Analyzing the handwriting, the pressure of the pen, the type of paper, the ink. After a moment, he barks out a laugh.

"The hotel is female. Apparently."

"That makes sense. After I became notorious a significant internet presence emerged of young female writers writing speculative homoerotic fiction about myself and John. Fetishization of gay male partnerships seems to be a female passtime."

Sliding off the bed.

"-some of that might have been me."

Whoops, cat's out of the bag.

"Ugh. Get up."

The sooner they're in the closet, the better.

He scrambles to stand, tucking the paper away for further analysis.

"You've got to admit, there's tension."

"He's heterosexual."

He's insisting, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him in just in time. The door bangs open, and two bodies stagger towards the bed.

"So?"

He tries to continue, but is cut off when- well he bursts through the door, a younger version of Sherlock in tow.

"-oh."

The older Sherlock's hand claps over Jim's mouth, and he goes very still. The closet has slats, and he can stand behind him like this, watching over his shoulder, holding him still so as not to disrupt the show on the bed.

Which is quite a show, apparently. Sherlock is in one of his moods, yanking Jim down by the tie, sprawling onto the sheets.

"-scientific implications of multiple universes are astronomical-"

He's babbling, between scrambling at buttons.

Jim watches, eyes wide- for once, not snapping at him for touching without warning, instead transfixed on the scene before him.

"-numbers, Sherlock, they're everywhere-" The younger Jim leans forward, muting himself with a brief but passionate kiss, rocking his still-clothed hips down against the detective's own. "-Schroedinger, the MWI, and strings and black holes and-"

In the closet, Sherlock lowers his hand, settling it on his shoulder rather than his mouth, trusting him to hold still and watch.

On the bed, the young detective has his long legs up, one around Jim's waist, one tossed haphazardly over his arm. Hands tearing at his clothes, trying to get them off, as he babbles;

"All right. The fictional component is obvious, mythological sources for a number of the guests, too, meaning the scope of reality is as broad as human imagination. Each strand of imagination creates a world, each variation another world, as many as there are stars in the galaxy, infinitely expanding with each breath each man takes and thinks. Where does the space come from?"

Frantic, grabbing at him. Locking eyes. They can communicate so much with a gaze, these days.

"Hold on to me, we'll fly apart-"

He gasps, kissing the young detective hard, tearing at his shirt, popping buttons and sending them flying, before pulling back to rip his blazer off of his arms, eager to get them back around Sherlock again.

"Any human imagination? If I make up some intricate world right here, in your arms, will the main character come to life here? Is it the multiverse, or is this place some scientific facility on the edge of the universe that churns people through the gears like butter, taking thoughts and making them real through a system of- genetic manipulation, growing people, implanting memories- "

The Jim on the bed moans, rocking their hips together, frantic, making the bed squeak in complaint- his counterpart in the closet has gone very quiet, pressing back into Sherlock and further away from the spectacle in the room.

"Absurd. Financially unfeasible. You know your world politics as well as mine, there isn't an organization with this kind of scope, and if cloning technology were this advanced there would be a clear victor in the international technology race when- fuck,"

His voice, already nearly as deep as it will be when he's in his thirties, breaks filthily into one of his growls of pleasure, all ragged and low.

"I need you, now. Now!"

Finally managing to get Jim's pants down far enough.

In the closet, Sherlock is barely breathing. He doesn't react to the sudden proximity, just as startled by what they're seeing. The hinted memories had been there, but nothing so vivid as this, nothing to communicate the need there, or the synthesis, the way they finished each others thoughts, each others movements.

He struggles with the rest of Sherlock's clothing, finally gets it to a manageable part, and reaches for the lubricant that's been so nicely supplied to them.

"Penetration or masturbation?"

Jim doesn't wait for a response before attacking his neck with his teeth, wrapping a slick hand around Sherlock's cock, wanting him.

"Pe- ah!"

Their observers will be treated to quite the soundtrack, even if they can't entirely see. His teeth, he's missed them. They don't see each other often enough and it's rarely frantic like this, these days, and he'd forgotten what it was like to need so badly his mind lost all semblance of rational thought.

In return, he rakes nails down his back, because more.

"Yes, excellent judgement."

He pulls his hand back to slick his fingers a little further, caught in a frenzied lust.

The hotel chooses that moment to unlock the handle to the closet with a click. On the bed, Jim freezes where he is, glancing over his shoulder, his expressive eyes quiet, calculating.

Sherlock, bless his hazy mind, has Jim's gun out in a second, grope turned smoothly into draw, safety off, barrel pointed at the closet door. He's still flushed, naked, and obviously aroused- and frankly in the state of mind he's in, rather a menace with a weapon.

"Come out."

The older criminal tenses up for just a moment, glancing behind him toward Sherlock, before pushing the door open, revealing the both of them with a smile and a slow, irish drawl.

"No need to get so defensive- we were just enjoying the show."

On the bed, Jim goes all tense, his eyes widening a little- not quite able to believe what he's seeing.

"We mean you no harm." Insists Sherlock, placatingly. Timeline wise, he's not sure they could kill their younger selves. It'd be a bit of a paradox.

"Multiverse." Sherlock on the bed, concludes, nudging Jim with his knee. He doesn't lower the gun, though, and his arm slips defensively about Jim's waist, fingers swirling a quick message against his back in them-code. Willshootifyousay.

"I'm dead," Jim sees, the shock gone. He sits up a bit more, glancing down to Sherlock. Keep it on them, don't shoot yet.. "They're not lovers- Sherlock, you're living with someone else, judging by those shoes."

"Then they're idiots."

He says, in his disdainful-playing-bored voice that is very, very far from actual boredom. He hasn't taken his eyes off him, drawing his own silent conclusions. The man his older self lives with is a roommate. These two do have sex, but not commonly, and not caringly. That thought startles him into holding Jim a little tighter, just in time for his older counterpart to speak.

"And yet we're not the ones threatening to shoot ourselves. Put that down, you're making a tense situation worse. Unless you think we're killer clones."

"Don't be stupid," the younger Jim remarks, eyes narrowed. "I wouldn't trust myself in an empty room- let alone a me from a parallel universe. I could be anything- that is, anything steeped hard in the criminal underworld, recently on trial- with a verdict of not guilty no less, a confrontation, and then- ah."

He smiles.

"A gun. But Sherlock, sweetheart, you didn't pull the trigger. And I don't think you will now."

The older Jim raises an eyebrow, glancing toward his Sherlock before taking a step closer. "This works both ways, honey- Sherlock, be a dear and put the gun down? I don't actually want to kill you, for once- and I don't think you're up for shooting my brains out either."

"You'd be surprised. You leave wet towels on the floor. It's very annoying."

But he gently lowers the gun. He isn't letting go of it, precisely, but nor is it trailed squarely between James' (he assigns him that name in his mind) eyes. He doesn't contribute to the deductions- since Jim is doing that well enough on his own. He wants to let his older double see him think, to get a chance to see the wit in him that Sherlock does. And really, it's a little daunting, being the centre of so much Moriarty-brand attention. Jim's dark eyes age beautifully, and he isn't one drop less charismatic. He finds himself looking at his double for help.

"Would you like me to take the clip?" The adult version offers, since he's probably the only person in the room not too erratic to be trusted with it.

James- the older- giggles, slipping his hands in his pockets.

"Well, I can hardly be expected to pick up after myself. I do run a very tight schedule, you know. Sherlock- my Sherlock, dearest, I think you'd best take it. We don't need anyone getting splattered anywhere."

The younger shudders a little, reaching down to try and hitch his pants up a little- feeling much the same under two sets of those blue, blue eyes. "Give it to him, Sherlock. They're both unarmed, and they can't do anything with just the clip."

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