lostwithoutmyblogger | au meets hotel

Jim nods, sitting up a little. "Bloodless enough. Just look at the two of you- a portrait of self-destruction without one another. It's enough to make a grown man cry."

He turns toward his lover. "I guess your brother was right. We really do wither without this."

"My brother is never right-" say both Sherlocks, in complete and utter unison. The effect is positively chilling, and the younger one ends up sort of grabbing Jim a bit.

All his shirt buttons are ripped off, but he gets his pants back on, at least, and observes; "We can't let ourselves do that. Whatever has them so irked with one another."

James rolls his eyes, taking a step forward.

"Boring, boring. Look at this- in what fucked up universe are you ever interesting enough for me?"

It makes Jim flinch, and he glances back toward his Sherlock. "We have to find the difference. Where it started- if we can avoid it-"

"Yes."

He agrees, looking up at him, tuning out his counterpart's cruel words completely, making him the centre of his entire focus and recalibrating quietly. His Jim wouldn't say or mean or think a thing like that.

In the mean time, the older detective, still rather uncharacteristically silent, is checking the door handle.

"Moriarty-"

"What now?"

James turns to see where Sherlock was at the door, his eyes following the path of his arm, his hand around the door handle- he curses under his breath. "We're stuck with them? Now this is twisted."

"Stuck?" Asks the younger one. "What do you mean-"

Oh. His mind catches up shortly. The decor, the reluctant sexual history between them, the closet. He glances up at Jim, brows creasing.

The Sherlock at the door glances back at James, subtly trying to encourage him to help take charge. The younger ones are lovelorn and new, and compromised, as far as he is concerned, intellectually.

"What combinations and permutations will it expect, do you think?" He asks, in a low voice.

Jim's reached that conclusion himself and stares back toward his Sherlock, shifting a little closer to him- a little protective, a little plaintive.

James forces a laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. "We could always form a conga line!"

"No."

Say both Sherlocks, again, in calm, easy unison. Just no.

"You know what's disappointing?" Jim's Sherlock informs him, "is that the fantasy of being with an older version of you might be arousing. Except that it would be hinged on being subjected to his greater experience. And I don't think he either of them know how to be particularly satisfying sexual partners. We'll probably have to give guidance."

Less sexy.

"Oh, stuff it," James snaps, whirling on him. "You're weak. The both of you are."

Jim chews thoughtfully on his thumb, before standing up slowly, holding his pants up with the fabric bunched in his fist. He takes a slow step toward the older Sherlock, ignoring his counterpart.

"It's intricate," he murmurs, his eyes dark with their crazy calm. "The way you look like him. Your eyes- the angle of your jawbone. I could want you the way I want him."

The younger Sherlock scrambles off the bed, to stand back with James, out of the way of whatever is about to happen. He imagines they'll need space to land.

The older version has his eyes fixed firmly on Jim. There's none of the devotion or love that usually shows up when they stare at each other, just frank, challenging blue.

"Rethink propositioning me. I am not him. I am not gentle. And I am not bending over for you."

"Oh, sweet thing," Jim breathes, a little smirk touching his expression. "You act like I want to be gentle."

James' eyes narrow toward the younger Sherlock, but he takes a step toward him all the same- only because it's a step away from the other two, who he glares at with some contempt.

"Watch them." He suggests, in a quiet voice. "At the very least, you'll learn- ah!"

And he's having trouble following his own advice, because his adult self has flown into action. Grabbed Jim by the collar and thrown him backwards to shove him against the door, pinning him there viciously. He looks him up and down disdainfully, then presses their bodies up against each other.

"Youth."

A rush of breath escapes Jim's chest at that- excitement, arousal, and perhaps it gives away too much, but his hands clasp at Sherlock's jacket all the same.

"Age."

Just as scornfully, but he leans forward for a biting kiss.

Sherlock gets an arm across Jim's throat as they kiss, holding him there, returning the kiss just-barely, forcing him to struggle for it.

It's the first time he's ever been kissed back with enthusiasm like this, actually, and he rewards it be sliding a leg up between Jim's knees, making a dark little sound at the pleasure of holding him still.

He squirms, pressing against him even as it cuts off his own air. Jim fights for the contact, wanting him, reveling in the violence he brings.

James looks over, curling his lip for a moment, before slinging his arm around Sherlock's shoulder.

"Looks like we've got ourselves a show, lovely."

"Well, you're beautiful."

Sherlock reasons, quiet and sincere, but stops commenting there, losing his breath at the sight of his older self stripping Jim down with violent hands, pinning him by the throat with one as he starts to stroke him with the other, hand holding him tight.

James frowns, glancing toward the younger Sherlock, taking a step closer with his eyes all dark and intense.

"You're weird looking- but in a not entirely negative way."

Jim, meanwhile, is gasping, pressing forward against him as much as Sherlock will allow. He's aroused now, the violence turning him on as much as any of his play with Sherlock back home.

"Shh."

Says the younger one, nudging James at the bed. He wants to watch this, to see every flicker of pleasure across Jim's face, to devote all his concentration to memorizing what he looks like when the older Holmes reaches up, taking the wrist of the hand he'd lubricated, forcing it between his own legs and holding it there.

"Finger yourself." He orders darkly, keeping him still bodily, biting thoughtfully at his ear.

"You really don't care for sleeping with him?" Sherlock asks James at that. "Or is he just less intense with you?"

"No. He's more- oh come on, me, that's humiliating-"

James rolls his eyes, before wrapping his hands around Sherlock's arm and forcing him down onto his back on the bed. "Fine, then. Two- four can play at this game."

Meanwhile, Jim arches up into him, pressing the back of his head against the door. God, yes. His hand seems to move of its own accord, fingers slipping along one another before he presses one inside with a ragged little gasp.

"A mhuirnín-"

"It's supposed to be humiliating."

Sherlock informs James, laying down for him. He's still in his open shirt and black slacks, a little more wiry and sharp edged than he will be in a few years, coltish and with fresher track marks in well disguised places. And trying to turn his head to watch Jim again, because he's flighty as ever in terms of attention span and loves it when he swears in languages. Particularly if it means he's losing control.

"That's right." Whispered into Jim's ear, soft and low. "He's staring at you. We both are. Nothing about this moment will ever fade for either of us, you'll stay like this for an eternity, hard and trapped." Rubbing at his cock to reward him for his obedience. "He'll want to try this himself, obviously, and to perfect the experiment. Keep you like this until your legs give out."

"No- don't look at them."

James' voice is hard and grating, crawling over the younger detective with a cold edge in his eyes. "Look at me, look only at me. I'm going to do things to you, things he hasn't even dreamed of yet, Amadán. And he's going to hear you beg me for more, isn't that right?"

The younger criminal's eyes strayed for a few moments to the bed, practically keening at the sight of the two of them there- the words, the fingers, and he thinks in the back of his mind that they made a mistake somewhere. This Sherlock wasn't inexperienced because he hadn't fucked his Jim, no- he knew everything, he was good at this, and he brought something altogether new to the table- something dark and twisted, and it resonated perfectly with all the twisted pieces of him.

"Do this to him, sometime," he grates out, slipping another finger in with a ragged gasp. "You're so good when you take."

Sherlock would inform him that he doesn't beg, but that isn't strictly true. He begs his Jim fairly frequently, for all numbers of things, but he doesn't want to buckle to this one. The names are too disconcerting, remind him of school-days and sharp attacks in ways that make him feel small, rather than warm. This isn't his Jim.

But he can hold his own. He has a point to make, too, that he knows what to do and when, and he has James' hand in his mouth, and is sucking on his fingers like someone who knows how to take it.

Rather unlike the unbiddable, recalcitrant detective who is continuing to make short work of Jim's composure. He wants him unable to remember his English, so he follows the example of his young counterpart on the bed, sucking his own fingers for a few seconds. He doesn't watch him as he does it- although eyecontact is a powerful tool, by this age he's learned the art of making someone feel approximately two inches tall be choosing the right moment to not bother to look at him.

He does look meet his eyes, though, when he reaches down to press the first spit-slicked finger in with Jim's own.

James smirks at that, using his other hand to brush Sherlock's pants down, leaning in close.

"It's alright, I'm here. And I'm just like him, you see- except a little different. But that's alright, honey, the fear is good for it, every once and awhile." His teeth slowly scrapes against Sherlock's chest, tasting him.

By contrast, Jim's composure is all but gone, and he winces a little, taking in a deep, gasping breath. It's good, it's good, and Sherlock's eyes make it all the better- he finds himself looking up, seeking them out, a little desperate, a little needy.

He tries to kiss him again, squirming and alive with the friction and the heat.

"You're the parts of him that still unnerve me." Sherlock informs him, cautiously, arching his body up against him, mostly unafraid. He likes the teeth, as always. "You nurtured them, where he mastered them."

At the door, Sherlock's fingers are curling- a second one slipping up inside him, still slick with spit and the leftover lubricant the two young versions had been going to use, but still enough inside him to hurt.

"Have you ever let him take you? Was it like this? Fuller? Could we stretch you wide enough to slip both of us into you, do you think? Or if he's the receiving partner in your relationship, perhaps you'd like to join them on the bed when I'm through with you." Biting his ear, deliberately giving him a clear view of what the other two are doing. "See what he can take."

"Unnerving. I rather like that." James grins, crawling up him a little further to move toward the drawer. "What would your precious Jimbo say if he caught sight of you, stuffed to the brim with all sorts of fun little things? Stay still for me darling, that's a good boy, I'll be nice if you stay still."

Jim twitches suddenly, a knee-jerk reaction to seeing someone treat Sherlock like that- and a little of it is possessiveness, a little is arousal, and then he can hardly think at all.

"Can't you tell?" he asks, breathless, his face flushed. "We switch it off, now and then, but we've never- other people are so boring, we wouldn't incorporate..." Jim slowly trails off, his eyes slipping back toward the Sherlock pinning him, sweeping his gaze downward toward his belt. "I want to see you."

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