the revenge of the school au

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

Sherlock has been away at school. Despite swearing up and down that he would never go back, ever, no matter what, with no drug addiction to nurture and no name for himself yet as a detective, and a full ride to Oxford sitting on the backburner, it was an easy enough decision to distract himself with a class or two in chemistry.

He's finishing his Masters now, slightly over three years later, just finished a massive project with the cigarette ash that fascinate him so completely and generally bores everyone else. Oh, and a pesky side project or two for the school on judicious application of chemical astringents to corpses and policing, reconstructing DNA samples from badly chemically burned flesh. Enough to keep him from going stark raving mad, enough to keep him out of most of Jim's tricky business.

There are still cases, of course, chases, hunts, games, and things are gearing up to lead to something more, something exquisite. But Sherlock knows enough to know that Jim needs to plot without any derailing from his enthusiastically meddlesome boyfriend, for his own safety as well as to make the game better in the long run. So, he spends his days practicing disposing bodies down drains, turning the world of DNA science on its' head, and comes home for summer and Christmas and the odd long weekend to a generally enthusiastic welcome.

In fact, it's working so well he actually has a key to Jim's flat again. Jim's flat, not their flat, not after the first ill-fated attempt, but the boundaries are less desperately strict. His toothbrush sits by the mirror, his favourite biscuits live on the back shelf. He enters without knocking.

He enters without knocking today, and walks in on something entirely unexpected.

Comments

[napoleonofcrime]

"Look, sweetling, I'm not going to-"

The blow catches him across the cheek and sends poor Jim reeling. His attacker is easily twice his weight and has a foot on him, but he doesn't seem to be particularly intimidated at all. The two of them are off in the living area; there's a hallway between the front door and the two of them, showing light signs of a scuffle- keys dropped on the floor, a shredded bit of paper, a scuff on the wood floors (and Jim is meticulous about cleaning).

He's alright, mostly. For now. But the large man is taking a step forward, his hand raised up and threatening.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"You know the moment in films, American ones, generally, where the hero looks at the attacker and says 'you have one chance to get out of here?'"

Sherlock observes, from the doorway, setting his book bag down and taking three slow steps into the room.

"I'm afraid I'm not heroic in the slightest."

[napoleonofcrime]

Jim grins at the sight of Sherlock, completely ignoring the bruised cheek and the trickle of blood coming from his nose.

"Sweetheart! This is a bit of a bad time, I'm-"

The man snarls and wraps his fingers around the collar of Jim's jacket, yanking him closer, eyes locked on Sherlock, as if daring him to do something about it.

"I don't know who the hell you think you are, but if you don't scram, you're next."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"I'm afraid you are, actually."

He informs him, blandly, moving to put his back to the the fireplace. The poker is withing grabbing range, but he doesn't go for it just yet.

"Put him down and pick on someone a fraction closer to being your size, neanderthal."

[napoleonofcrime]

This is getting bad. Jim raises a hand, trying to calm things.

"Hey- I'm afraid this is all a biiiiig misunder-"

And the bruiser shoves hard, throwing him bodily across the room so that the man can face Sherlock directly, scowling. Jim's back shatters the glass frame of a Rembrandt on his wall, and he hits the ground hard, with a sharp inhale.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

With Jim out of the way, Sherlock flies into motion, so fast the man doesn't have time to react at first, so fast that by the time Jim manages to catch his breath and open his eyes, he'll already have slapped the man hard upside the head with a cupped palm, rupturing an eardrum, and driven three quick punches into his nose, jaw, left cheek.

Sherlock has been boxing at school. Very competitively. And very well.

[napoleonofcrime]

Jim rubs at his eyes for a moment and looks up, unable to stop himself from being horribly amused at the situation. The man is large, powerful, and surprisingly fast, but not quite fast enough. He attempts to strike back, using his bulk and raw strength, but he lacks precise training. It's kind of sad, really.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

One blow is just quick enough to cuff Sherlock's temple, but he rocks with it and whips back around, planting a knee right between the man's legs, then another two violent ones in the gut when he doubles over from pain.

Then, then when he's on the floor, in a wheezing heap, he goes to get the poker.

[napoleonofcrime]

Jim has found his way to his feet by then, and is leaning back against the wall, watching it progress with a furrowed brow.

"Don't kill him, lovely."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Why?"

He demands, looking up at him, hotly, poker already raised, ready to swing. His voice is terse, snappish, as though he wants nothing more than to demolish this man for touching him.

[napoleonofcrime]

"Business."

He wipes the blood from his face, watching the both of them.

"It'll be hard to explain to his boss."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Phone his boss and apologize for the broken arm."

Sherlock orders him, voice like ice.

The man on the floor clutches (both fully functional) arms, drawing in an anxious breath.

[napoleonofcrime]

Jim grins at them both before slipping down the wall and pulling his phone out.

"Hello? Yes, of course, I met him. He's very charming. But he slipped in my kitchen, you see-"

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

Sherlock looks down at the man, and huffs out a breath.

"Jim Moriarty is saving your life today. If I were you, I'd take two things from this incident. One, that you owe him- not a specific debt, dear fellow, but a spiritual one, he is the reason you are drawing in breaths at this very moment, I'd be done with you by now if it were me, I don't toy with my prey. Two, that I am the kind of person whose loyalty he commands. If you can't find it in that hyperextended heart of yours to try to pay him back, in the interest of self preservation, I would, at the very least, stay the hell out of his way."

And then, Sherlock is merciful. The poker comes down not on the man's arm, but on his fingers. Two of them shatter, and he screams, nice and loud for the phone.

But he'll be back on his feet soon enough. In fact, he's already scrambling for the door, once Sherlock nods for him to go.

[napoleonofcrime]

Jim grins and hangs up the phone, clicking it shut before looking up at Sherlock, listening as the man slams the door shut behind him.

"Well done, sugarplum."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

Sherlock advances on him, the long, violent thing he had been a moment ago, poker still in his hand.

He has grown into himself, the six months since he's been home. The boxing has filled out his shoulders and chest in subtle ways. His cheeks aren't hollowed from the drugs. And when he steps in close, he can back Jim right back up against the wall like it's nothing, lifting the poker up and pressing it under his chin, turning his face up so he can inspect the bruise, the blood.

[napoleonofcrime]

Jim's breath catches in his throat at the threat, and he takes a step back, pressed between the wall and Sherlock. He lets the detective move him, edging his chin away from the edge of the poker.

Nothing is broken, merely bruised, blood trickling down his face from his brow and nose. His cheek is swelling a little, red, angry.

"Sherlock-"

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"We'll get ice on that right away."

He decides, putting a knee between Jim's legs while he kisses his brow, very gently. The metal stays, though, sharp against his skin.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?"

[napoleonofcrime]

"No."

He shakes his head slightly to not disturb the poker, shifting his hips slightly against Sherlock's leg.

"My back, but that's- it's nothing, really."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"I think the adrenaline is affecting my judgement."

Sherlock informs him, letting the metal bite his skin, just slightly.

"Are you all right? Should I-?" Back away right now and take care of his boyfriend rather than grinding him when he's been attacked?

[napoleonofcrime]

"No, you're-"

He whines softly, fingers grasping at Sherlock's shirt.

"You should probably kiss me."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"What if I didn't?"

He whispers, lips a few inches away, barely, poker keeping them apart.

"What if I just- flipped you over without a kiss, and was dreadful to you."

[napoleonofcrime]

He moans softly, arching up against him.

"Please-"

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

His lips curl, in something between a smile and a possessive snarl. He leans forward, and lets his tongue flick out to gently taste a bit of the blood on his forehead, predatory and slow.

[napoleonofcrime]

Jim dips forward a little, letting him kiss, his breath coming in a shaky gasp. His hands slowly shift to rest on Sherlock's hips, fingers curling a little. He wants him.