tallandtailored:

Previous: Sebastian
—cw: drug use—
The photos arrive on the coffee table. They simply appear, while Sherlock is in the other room. Sherlock finds them after hearing the door, (“John?”), and knows. He sifts through the glossy A4 photos slowly. They stick, gently, to each other. He pries them apart with dextrous fingertips. He looks them over for an hour.
Sherlock doesn’t leave the flat for three days. He doesn’t sleep, either. The photos are char and ash at the bottom of the bin by the end of the first. Before the morning of the second, he’s dug out a small wooden box from the depths of his belongings. He spends that day in a haze, forgetting. Forgetting as much as possible. By the third day he has convinced himself that John is not coming home.
The fourth day find Sherlock on the pavement. He’s unsure where he’s going, but lets his feet take him there. Wandering, to attempt to clear his mind. I’ve been alone before, I can do it again. It was only a matter of time. No one can stand you for that long. It doesn’t work, not really, and he finds himself in Lestrade’s neighbourhood without intending to be there. 
Sherlock is very good at hiding in plain sight and he knows it. He’s left his coat, and expects that if he’d paid any attention to his own mind at the time, he’d know that he meant to end up here. It’s early, just a bit before Lestrade should be leaving for work, but then Sherlock is slightly unsure about the day. The foot traffic around him is light, but it is early. A cursory glance at a nearby newsstand confirms that it’s a weekday, but Lestrade doesn’t emerge for hours. Sherlock begins to wonder if he should have headed for the Yard, but that seemed too obvious.
It’s almost noon when he spots Lestrade (and John), and this is somehow worse. There’s a roiling and tight sensation high in Sherlock’s chest. Hot and angry. Perhaps a day off? Or did he take it off for John? Or were they perhaps too indisposed? Sherlock follows at a distance, and Lestrade and John are talking amicably. They touch, small ones. Hands at the smalls of backs, tiny grips at elbows. It looks so intimate to Sherlock, from across the street, that he’s finding it hard to breathe.
Sherlock follows them for the entire day. Lestrade does, eventually, go to the Yard. John goes back to Lestrade’s flat, alone. He hesitates at the door and Sherlock thinks he’s been seen, but no. John heads up, after some internal decision, and Sherlock heads for higher ground.
It doesn’t take long, though the view is not ideal. A shorter rooftop, just across. Sherlock tries to ignore the fact that the angles of the flat from this viewpoint match exactly the photos he received. He watches John make tea, turn on the television. For hours, he waits. Watches.
Eventually he begins to feel the way he did when he came back to London and follows John. He is in orbit around him, lost to John’s gravitational pull. Invisible and incredibly present. He wonders, for a while, if the last several months had even occurred.
Two hours pass and it barely registers. A dull, deep hum has started in his head, not unlike the droning sound of speaks that have been overused and starting to crack with static. In Lestrade’s flat, John is typing away on his computer and Sherlock is suddenly convinced it must be an email for him. He starts out immediately for home, oblivious to the smart phone in his pocket. He must get back to the flat and wait for John’s message. 
By the time the sun sets, Sherlock is already half a gram into his euphoria and no longer cares that there has been no correspondence from John. He is more relaxed than he can remember being in years. The tightness in his chest has subsided, replaced instead by a warm, calming sensation that radiates down his limbs. He knows now why John left. Sherlock was too uptight, too intense. John will like this new Sherlock. He knows it. He takes out his mobile and dials.
Sherlock leaves the phone on the floor and can barely hear it ringing as it called out. He is chasing his next hit of instant gratification - something he used to get from John on cases, declarations of brilliance and wonder - when the call connects and John’s voice carries through the small speaker.
“Sherlock?”
There is no response from the detective.

tallandtailored:

Previous: Sebastian


cw: drug use


The photos arrive on the coffee table. They simply appear, while Sherlock is in the other room. Sherlock finds them after hearing the door, (“John?”), and knows. He sifts through the glossy A4 photos slowly. They stick, gently, to each other. He pries them apart with dextrous fingertips. He looks them over for an hour.

Sherlock doesn’t leave the flat for three days. He doesn’t sleep, either. The photos are char and ash at the bottom of the bin by the end of the first. Before the morning of the second, he’s dug out a small wooden box from the depths of his belongings. He spends that day in a haze, forgetting. Forgetting as much as possible. By the third day he has convinced himself that John is not coming home.

The fourth day find Sherlock on the pavement. He’s unsure where he’s going, but lets his feet take him there. Wandering, to attempt to clear his mind. I’ve been alone before, I can do it again. It was only a matter of time. No one can stand you for that long. It doesn’t work, not really, and he finds himself in Lestrade’s neighbourhood without intending to be there. 

Sherlock is very good at hiding in plain sight and he knows it. He’s left his coat, and expects that if he’d paid any attention to his own mind at the time, he’d know that he meant to end up here. It’s early, just a bit before Lestrade should be leaving for work, but then Sherlock is slightly unsure about the day. The foot traffic around him is light, but it is early. A cursory glance at a nearby newsstand confirms that it’s a weekday, but Lestrade doesn’t emerge for hours. Sherlock begins to wonder if he should have headed for the Yard, but that seemed too obvious.

It’s almost noon when he spots Lestrade (and John), and this is somehow worse. There’s a roiling and tight sensation high in Sherlock’s chest. Hot and angry. Perhaps a day off? Or did he take it off for John? Or were they perhaps too indisposed? Sherlock follows at a distance, and Lestrade and John are talking amicably. They touch, small ones. Hands at the smalls of backs, tiny grips at elbows. It looks so intimate to Sherlock, from across the street, that he’s finding it hard to breathe.

Sherlock follows them for the entire day. Lestrade does, eventually, go to the Yard. John goes back to Lestrade’s flat, alone. He hesitates at the door and Sherlock thinks he’s been seen, but no. John heads up, after some internal decision, and Sherlock heads for higher ground.

It doesn’t take long, though the view is not ideal. A shorter rooftop, just across. Sherlock tries to ignore the fact that the angles of the flat from this viewpoint match exactly the photos he received. He watches John make tea, turn on the television. For hours, he waits. Watches.

Eventually he begins to feel the way he did when he came back to London and follows John. He is in orbit around him, lost to John’s gravitational pull. Invisible and incredibly present. He wonders, for a while, if the last several months had even occurred.

Two hours pass and it barely registers. A dull, deep hum has started in his head, not unlike the droning sound of speaks that have been overused and starting to crack with static. In Lestrade’s flat, John is typing away on his computer and Sherlock is suddenly convinced it must be an email for him. He starts out immediately for home, oblivious to the smart phone in his pocket. He must get back to the flat and wait for John’s message. 

By the time the sun sets, Sherlock is already half a gram into his euphoria and no longer cares that there has been no correspondence from John. He is more relaxed than he can remember being in years. The tightness in his chest has subsided, replaced instead by a warm, calming sensation that radiates down his limbs. He knows now why John left. Sherlock was too uptight, too intense. John will like this new Sherlock. He knows it. He takes out his mobile and dials.

Sherlock leaves the phone on the floor and can barely hear it ringing as it called out. He is chasing his next hit of instant gratification - something he used to get from John on cases, declarations of brilliance and wonder - when the call connects and John’s voice carries through the small speaker.

“Sherlock?”

There is no response from the detective.

mightybastion:

Previously:  Sherlock
——
It’s raining, obviously.  They are back in London, after all.  Miserable town.  No comparison to Paris.  Sebastian lies flat on his stomach, watching 221b through his scope.  Jim and Sherlock are seated at the desk in front of one of the large windows.  He has a perfect sight line.  His finger itches over the trigger, but he doesn’t dare pull it.  He wouldn’t survive the trip home.  Not after taking away Jim’s most beloved adversary.
He is absolutely drenched.  The kind of sodden dampness that settles into your skin and bones and makes you feel heavy.  Sebastian has turned up his collar and pulled a hood over his head, but the rain has a method of finding its way in to all the crevices and folds, regardless.
Sebastian huffs out an impatient breath when Jim slides the chess board over.  He’s showing off.  Flirting.  And he knows that Seb is watching.  Insufferable wanker.  Things are not getting better.  They are only getting worse.
He spares a glance away from his scope to watch John turn the corner with the cop.  Something is definitely wrong.  There’s no way John would normally leave Sherlock in that position.  Something has changed since he and Jim left the city.  Something significant.  A feeling almost like relief tickles at Seb’s skin.  He respects the Captain and it would be good to see him clear of all of this.
When he looks back at 221b, Jim is nowhere to be found.  Sherlock is standing dumbstruck at the fireplace, cigarettes in hand.
“Fuck,” Sebastian says under his breath.  He sits up on his knees and starts to disassemble his rifle.  He breaks it down piece by piece, laying it carefully back into the case.  Then he jogs over to the roof access door he propped open with a brick and disappears into the stairwell.
At the fourth landing, he peels off his jacket and shakes it out.  Waterlogged, it felt heavy and oppressive on his shoulders.  His shirt and jeans cling to his body and his boots squelch with every step.  He sighs, tired and worn, and looks down at the next flight of stairs.
“Thinking about running, or just pitching yourself down them?”
Sebastian turns to look over his shoulder and sees Jim standing at the previous landing.  His suit is perfect, of course, untouched by the downpour.
“Neither,” Sebastian replies.  ”Wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”
Jim smirks and nods once, slowly.  ”You don’t give me anything, Sebastian,” he replies.  ”I just take.“ 
——

mightybastion:

Previously:  Sherlock

——

It’s raining, obviously.  They are back in London, after all.  Miserable town.  No comparison to Paris.  Sebastian lies flat on his stomach, watching 221b through his scope.  Jim and Sherlock are seated at the desk in front of one of the large windows.  He has a perfect sight line.  His finger itches over the trigger, but he doesn’t dare pull it.  He wouldn’t survive the trip home.  Not after taking away Jim’s most beloved adversary.

He is absolutely drenched.  The kind of sodden dampness that settles into your skin and bones and makes you feel heavy.  Sebastian has turned up his collar and pulled a hood over his head, but the rain has a method of finding its way in to all the crevices and folds, regardless.

Sebastian huffs out an impatient breath when Jim slides the chess board over.  He’s showing off.  Flirting.  And he knows that Seb is watching.  Insufferable wanker.  Things are not getting better.  They are only getting worse.

He spares a glance away from his scope to watch John turn the corner with the cop.  Something is definitely wrong.  There’s no way John would normally leave Sherlock in that position.  Something has changed since he and Jim left the city.  Something significant.  A feeling almost like relief tickles at Seb’s skin.  He respects the Captain and it would be good to see him clear of all of this.

When he looks back at 221b, Jim is nowhere to be found.  Sherlock is standing dumbstruck at the fireplace, cigarettes in hand.

“Fuck,” Sebastian says under his breath.  He sits up on his knees and starts to disassemble his rifle.  He breaks it down piece by piece, laying it carefully back into the case.  Then he jogs over to the roof access door he propped open with a brick and disappears into the stairwell.

At the fourth landing, he peels off his jacket and shakes it out.  Waterlogged, it felt heavy and oppressive on his shoulders.  His shirt and jeans cling to his body and his boots squelch with every step.  He sighs, tired and worn, and looks down at the next flight of stairs.

“Thinking about running, or just pitching yourself down them?”

Sebastian turns to look over his shoulder and sees Jim standing at the previous landing.  His suit is perfect, of course, untouched by the downpour.

“Neither,” Sebastian replies.  ”Wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”

Jim smirks and nods once, slowly.  ”You don’t give me anything, Sebastian,” he replies.  ”I just take.“ 

——

tallandtailored:

Previous: Sebastian

It’s always different in the daylight.


Sherlock watches the light track across the ceiling. John is asleep next to him. At first, half on top of him, head nestled into Sherlock’s shoulder. Their skin is cooling in the air, and the light on the ceiling is artificial- streetlamps and tracking headlights of cars.

Later, John has rolled over, is breathing heavy and well into sleep. The edges of the room are lightening. Sun, somewhere, is coming up, hidden still behind buildings and trees, a subtle change in the sky.

Sherlock doesn’t usually need to sleep if he doesn’t want to. Tonight, he wanted to. As John’s skin was cooling from sweat-slicked heat under his hands, he wanted to sleep. Guilt was worming its way up from under his ribcage, instead.

It was easy to delete useless information. Information regarding John was a different story entirely. Sherlock cataloged and saved everything about John and was unable to stop. Sentiment.

Sherlock closed his eyes, blocking out the slowly lightening sun, and was greeted by memories instead. Pointing a gun at John, nightmares nipping at the heels of his vision. John’s disappointment. John’s silence. The ache between them. Guilt.

Eventually, when the ceiling is well lit with sunlight, birds chirping, Sherlock slides out of bed. The nice day seems specifically contrary to his mood. He glances down at John, relaxed into the bed. Covers tangled between his legs. Sherlock’s chest tightens painfully.

Sherlock dresses, head to toe in well tailored black. He knows John will likely come out in only pyjama bottoms, sleep mussed and relaxed. He’ll probably smile while he makes tea. Sherlock feels like he’s armouring himself as he does up his buttons.

He sighs and heads to the kitchen, pokes his head into the fridge and cupboards, pulling out whatever he can find. He cranks the knob on the stove, puts out pans. Mixes, chops, stirs. By the time John wakes up, there is a mostly done omelette in the pan, replete with cheese and bell peppers. John is deeply surprised, if his expression is anything to go by. 

“Did someone abduct you in the night and switch your brain?” John asks, pleasant. He runs a hand absently across Sherlock’s lower back as he passes him to the cupboards. Sherlock freezes as it happens, an ache spreading through his chest. He turns and smiles winningly at John, but doesn’t trust himself to respond.

John holds up a mug and silently asks Sherlock if he’s interested. He nods, and turns away. Busies himself with cooking. It’s always different in the daylight.

Sherlock would give anything for it to be different. 

He sets the table, John provides the tea. Sherlock eats toast, and a quarter of the omelette off John’s plate. There was only 3 eggs. John makes appreciative noises and small talk. His feet keep finding Sherlock’s under the table. 

When they both finish, Sherlock clears the plates to the sink.

“Got a case?” John asks, nodding at Sherlock’s clothes, “It’s only 9.”

Sherlock looks down at himself, then out the window. Considers the sunlight, the incessant chirping of a bird outside. Doesn’t bother to categorize the birdcall which disturbs him. Too distracted. Even worse.

Sherlock turns and faces John, steady now, grips the counter behind him surreptitiously.

“I can’t be with you, John.” I love you too much.

John goes very still. His mug is halfway to his mouth, which is set in a very hard line. Sherlock recalls very vividly exactly how that mouth tastes and feels. He imagines how it would taste now. He waits for John to say something. He is pretty sure that’s the correct thing to do.

John doesn’t speak.

Sherlock, impatient, ventures to repeat himself a bit more clearly.

“I can’t be with you.” He pauses, waits for a response, then: “I’m going to get you killed.”

Sherlock’s heart is pounding. John doesn’t seem to have a response, and is just watching Sherlock with a very measured gaze. Sherlock turns back towards the window.

“I almost killed you, myself.”

Breathe In

“It’s one thing to protect me, as a lover or a friend.”

Breathe Out

“I love you now, though, and it’s distracting, and I almost killed you.”

Breathe In

“So I can’t do this anymore. We can’t be together.”

Breathe Out

“I’ll leave by the end of the day.”

Silence. Breathe in.

It’s always different in the daylight. 

mightybastion:

Previously:  Jim
Warning:  This chapter includes graphic depictions of violence, bladeplay and bloodplay.  NSFW.  Just a reminder that these characters are serial killers and this half of the RP is not a fluffy fic.
—-
Power.  
The impact comes all at once.  Sebastian shoves himself inside of Jim.  He strains against the tension, not caring about the pain he causes on the way in.  Serves him bloody right.  Unshielded, flesh against flesh.  Dangerous, maybe.  Rough, definitely.  It doesn’t matter, he has him.
Control.
“Fuck me,” Sebastian commands.  ”I want to watch you fuck my cock.”
Jim huffs, but complies.  He pushes his hips back towards Sebastian’s pelvis, burying him nearly base to tip in his arse.  Then slowly, he pulls his hips forward, sliding off.  Sebastian watches his meticulous motions for a long moment before taking the slighter man’s hips in his hands and increasing the rhythm.
Instability.
He digs his fingertips into Jim’s flesh, gripping him as tightly as possible.  Part of Sebastian wants to crush every bone in his body, leave fingerprint impressions in the stark whiteness of his core.  The other part of him wants to press Jim against him until the end of time, never letting him pull away.  Sebastian would suffocate him here and now if it would keep the boss from running back to London.
And to Sherlock Holmes. 
Combustion.
The thought alone boils like a rage in his gut.  He slams into Jim, forcing stifled cries and groans out of the smaller man.  His own skin is raw from where he’s chafed against him - sweat slick, red and sore.  A pressure begins to build at the base of his cock.  He’s close.  
“Do you think of him?” Sebastian growls through clenched teeth.
Breathless, Jim tries to reply.  ”Abo- about wh- whom?”
“DO YOU THINK OF HIM?” Sebastian bellows, thrusting deeper, irregular.
Jim bites into his lip and buries his face into the mattress.  He groans, pained.  ”Fuck off, Sebastian.”  He recovers, slightly.  He’s breathing heavily.  ”It is your cock in my arse, not his!”
It’s not an answer and Sebastian knows it.  ”Tell me, Jim,” he croons, voice dipped in honey.  ”Do you imagine Sherlock’s cock when I’m fucking you?  Do you think about his long fingers pressed into your skin?  His voice in your ear?  His cold eyes all over your body?”
Fallout.
Jim inhales sharply and Sebastian feels him get tighter.  It’s an admission in itself.  His anger is white hot.  He pulls out and grabs Jim around the waist.  He pulls him off the bed and throws him to the floor.
Sebastian takes the knife from the bedside table and climbs on top of Jim.  
“Who’s the sinner now, you sick fuck?”  Sebastian spits the accusation inches from Jim’s face.  He leans back and sits stick straight above him before Jim can get any words out.
“Time for repentance,” Sebastian whispers.  ”Don’t worry, I’ll keep them shallow, just how you like it.”
The first cut is over Jim’s right nipple.  ”One for the Father,” Sebastian recites.
The second cut runs the length from Jim’s left collarbone down to about his sixth rib.  ”Two for the Son.”
Sebastian takes a moment to admire his handiwork.  He knows the boss won’t be able to enjoy wearing any of his fucking suits any time soon.  The slightest brush of fabric over his chest will incite pain for days.
“Three for the Holy Ghost.”  He holds his own hand up and slices into his palm.  Blood pools and he presses it against the centre of Jim’s chest, leaving a bloody hand print over his heart.
Black Rain.
The blood is still warm and slick when Sebastian removes his hand and wraps it around his cock.  The sight of Jim below him and the lubrication renew his erection quickly.  He pumps himself rapidly.  He can’t read the expression in Jim’s eyes when he finally looks up at him.  Something about that pushes him closer to the edge.
Sebastian inches a bit further up Jim’s torso so he can spill over his chest.  He leans his head back and tugs out the last few strokes.  He comes in a few great spurts, mixing with the blood already smeared over Jim’s skin.  Exhausted, Sebastian slumps forward and to the side, coming to a rest beside him.
Sebastian rolls his head to the side to look at Jim.  ”Everything worth it hurts a little bit,” he says gently.
Jim stares at the ceiling, not meeting his gaze.  ”We’re leaving for London,” he replies.  ”Tomorrow.”
#
Is it really such a deep cut?That I have to come and stitch it up?Yeah, I get a little crazy with razorblades,Go on and call your momma if you need a band aidBut everything worth it hurts a little bit.
Take it Like a Man - Dragonette
—-

mightybastion:

Previously:  Jim

Warning:  This chapter includes graphic depictions of violence, bladeplay and bloodplay.  NSFW.  Just a reminder that these characters are serial killers and this half of the RP is not a fluffy fic.

—-

Power.  

The impact comes all at once.  Sebastian shoves himself inside of Jim.  He strains against the tension, not caring about the pain he causes on the way in.  Serves him bloody right.  Unshielded, flesh against flesh.  Dangerous, maybe.  Rough, definitely.  It doesn’t matter, he has him.

Control.

“Fuck me,” Sebastian commands.  ”I want to watch you fuck my cock.”

Jim huffs, but complies.  He pushes his hips back towards Sebastian’s pelvis, burying him nearly base to tip in his arse.  Then slowly, he pulls his hips forward, sliding off.  Sebastian watches his meticulous motions for a long moment before taking the slighter man’s hips in his hands and increasing the rhythm.

Instability.

He digs his fingertips into Jim’s flesh, gripping him as tightly as possible.  Part of Sebastian wants to crush every bone in his body, leave fingerprint impressions in the stark whiteness of his core.  The other part of him wants to press Jim against him until the end of time, never letting him pull away.  Sebastian would suffocate him here and now if it would keep the boss from running back to London.

And to Sherlock Holmes. 

Combustion.

The thought alone boils like a rage in his gut.  He slams into Jim, forcing stifled cries and groans out of the smaller man.  His own skin is raw from where he’s chafed against him - sweat slick, red and sore.  A pressure begins to build at the base of his cock.  He’s close.  

“Do you think of him?” Sebastian growls through clenched teeth.

Breathless, Jim tries to reply.  ”Abo- about wh- whom?”

“DO YOU THINK OF HIM?” Sebastian bellows, thrusting deeper, irregular.

Jim bites into his lip and buries his face into the mattress.  He groans, pained.  ”Fuck off, Sebastian.”  He recovers, slightly.  He’s breathing heavily.  ”It is your cock in my arse, not his!”

It’s not an answer and Sebastian knows it.  ”Tell me, Jim,” he croons, voice dipped in honey.  ”Do you imagine Sherlock’s cock when I’m fucking you?  Do you think about his long fingers pressed into your skin?  His voice in your ear?  His cold eyes all over your body?”

Fallout.

Jim inhales sharply and Sebastian feels him get tighter.  It’s an admission in itself.  His anger is white hot.  He pulls out and grabs Jim around the waist.  He pulls him off the bed and throws him to the floor.

Sebastian takes the knife from the bedside table and climbs on top of Jim.  

“Who’s the sinner now, you sick fuck?”  Sebastian spits the accusation inches from Jim’s face.  He leans back and sits stick straight above him before Jim can get any words out.

“Time for repentance,” Sebastian whispers.  ”Don’t worry, I’ll keep them shallow, just how you like it.”

The first cut is over Jim’s right nipple.  ”One for the Father,” Sebastian recites.

The second cut runs the length from Jim’s left collarbone down to about his sixth rib.  ”Two for the Son.”

Sebastian takes a moment to admire his handiwork.  He knows the boss won’t be able to enjoy wearing any of his fucking suits any time soon.  The slightest brush of fabric over his chest will incite pain for days.

“Three for the Holy Ghost.”  He holds his own hand up and slices into his palm.  Blood pools and he presses it against the centre of Jim’s chest, leaving a bloody hand print over his heart.

Black Rain.

The blood is still warm and slick when Sebastian removes his hand and wraps it around his cock.  The sight of Jim below him and the lubrication renew his erection quickly.  He pumps himself rapidly.  He can’t read the expression in Jim’s eyes when he finally looks up at him.  Something about that pushes him closer to the edge.

Sebastian inches a bit further up Jim’s torso so he can spill over his chest.  He leans his head back and tugs out the last few strokes.  He comes in a few great spurts, mixing with the blood already smeared over Jim’s skin.  Exhausted, Sebastian slumps forward and to the side, coming to a rest beside him.

Sebastian rolls his head to the side to look at Jim.  ”Everything worth it hurts a little bit,” he says gently.

Jim stares at the ceiling, not meeting his gaze.  ”We’re leaving for London,” he replies.  ”Tomorrow.”

#

Is it really such a deep cut?
That I have to come and stitch it up?
Yeah, I get a little crazy with razorblades,
Go on and call your momma if you need a band aid
But everything worth it hurts a little bit.

Take it Like a Man - Dragonette

—-

coldbloodedconsultant:

Previously: Sebastian

Jim laughs, first. Delighted. His tiger is finding his claws. Sebastian’s eyes flash, the tip of the knife pressing harder into the soft skin of Jim’s neck. Jim grins at him, teeth and teeth and teeth. An unspoken threat.

Sebastian’s hand encompasses Jim’s smaller wrists, holding him still in one calloused palm. He raises his eyebrows at him. Are you going to fucking fight me on this? Jim pouts, simpering. Satisfied, Sebastian pulls the knife from Jim’s neck, running it across his collarbone, grazing it down his side. He slides his palm and the hilt of the knife under Jim’s ass, shifting the both of them around, Jim’s legs around his hips. As soon as Sebastian settles, with Jim’s legs around him, Jim twists, gripping Sebastian with his thighs. Sebastian presses harder against Jim’s wrists, trying to keep him in place, but in the end the shorter man is too slippery. They both roll, fighting for dominance. In the end, despite Jim’s agile body, Sebastian manages to separate himself from Jim’s limbs and press him against the floor - chest down, ass up. Jim bares his teeth, Sebastian’s hands pressed against his shoulders, using his height to encompass Jim’s entire frame.

He considers killing him.  Later, when he’s not expecting it to come. He’s the only person he would dirty his hands for.

Sebastian runs his hands roughly down Jim’s body, growling something close to his ear, derailing Jim’s plotting. Sebastian gathers Jim’s wrists behind his back, using his other hand to pull his hips up, forcing his knees under him. 

“I’m done paying, Jim.” Sebastian’s voice is rough, gravel. It makes Jim want to roll in it. He closes his eyes, a smile stretching across his face.

“Repenting.” Growl.  ”Time for you to spend some time on your knees.”

Sebastian rolls his hips against Jim, forcing him to curve his back. Mmm. Sebastian reaches around running his open hand across Jim’s cock, teasingly. Jim rolls his hips towards Sebastian’s hand, greedy.

“Ah-ah. No. You’re going to get what I give you.” Sebastian snaps his hand to Jim’s hip, holding him still, pulling him tight against his own body. “When I give it to you.” 

Maybe kill him very, very, slowly. Knives. He likes knives. 

Sebastian leans back, separating his body from Jim enough to allow for his rehardening cock to slip between them, resting against Jim’s ass. Seb slowly slides his hand from Jim’s hip, wrapping it around himself, being extremely conscious of the fact that Jim can feel his hand, his knuckles, bushing against his skin as he very, very slowly strokes. 

Jim growls, trying to arch around, but finding himself very firmly held by Sebastian, who has pushed both his grasped wrists up the middle of his back, pinning his shoulders to the ground. Jim hates not being able to see. There are few things he enjoys more than watching Sebastian handle his cock, and this..this. Jim can feel Sebastian’s hand twisting around his cock, very slowly picking up speed. Sebastian groans, a chesty sound of pleasure. He starts to speed up and Jim is convinced, convinced, that he intends to just jerk off all over his back and ass in which case he will absolutely flay him to his very nerves.  He continues trying to twist around, earning himself Sebastian’s knees braced against his legs, further inhibiting any sort of around motion.

“Patience.” Sebastian grunts, deliberately testing the edges of what Jim will stand for. He’s got the sneaking suspicion that he’s going to pay for this, dearly, but is intent on taking what he wants.

Sebastian releases his grip using a thumb to provide enough pressure to line his cock up with the curving lines of Jim’s ass. Jim stills. Sebastian rolls his hips, rubbing the length of his cock against Jim, sliding between the cheeks of his ass. Jim is slicked with sweat from their previous activities, and from recent struggles, so the slide is slick and he can’t help it when a groan escapes from his mouth. Sebastian responds in kind, a laugh tucked inside the noise. Sebastian continues the motion, purposefully spending time to ensure that the head of his cock runs against Jim’s opening. He does this for longer than Jim thinks is fucking necessary. He’s achingly fucking hard now, and waiting for Sebastian to follow up on his god damn promise. Seb repeats the motion, drawing a frustrated moan from Jim. He grits his teeth around the noise.

“You said you were going to fuck me, god damnit. Not play with yourself.” He grits out, trying his best to sound mocking despite the fact that he wants wants wants.

“I want you to beg me for it,” Sebastian says, focused on continuing. He’s careful, gripping the base of his cock now, intent on lasting as long as it takes. Jim rolls his hips back into Sebastian, intently trying to move the process along. All he gets in response his Sebastian pausing against him, cock still pressed against his ass. Jim bites his lip, frustrated. Sebastian doesn’t need to say a thing to impress upon him: Don’t do that now, honey. He remembers. 

Instead of resuming, Sebastian runs his fingers down Jim’s ass, circling him slowly. Jim muffles a moan into the floor stubbornly. Sebastian stills, and Jim tries to crane his head around to find out why. He can feel him shifting behind him, his hand disappearing. A few moments later and there’s a wet-plastic pop and cold, jesus fuck. 

Seb drags his fingers through the lube, pressing gently and smoothing in turns. Jim moans when Sebastian slips a finger inside of him. He tries to bite down on the noise when Seb slips in a second one, stretching him open, but he can’t. Sebastian pulls his fingers out slowly, re-entering over and over until Jim is keeping up a steady stream of gentle moans into the floor. At this point Sebastian shifts back to running his cock along Jim’s ass, reveling in how slick and warm he is. Jim whines at this and Sebastian tries his luck, teasing Jim with the tip of his cock, swaying his hips gently. 

“Hmm?” Sebastian prompts, as if he’d heard Jim say something. Jim presses his forehead to the ground. It’s a long several minutes of Sebastian continuing to tease Jim infuriatingly before he bites out a reply.

“For fucks sake Sebastian! Fuck me already!”

Sebastian mockingly cops Jim’s voice, “Say pleeease!” He singsongs.

Jim grinds his teeth around the idea. Maybe tie him up and then flay him.

Please.” 

 

mightybastion:

Previously:  Sherlock
——
“I need you, Jim.”
Heartbeats.
“I love you, Jim.”
Confessions trapped inside his throat, strangled by fear.  How ridiculous, Sebastian thinks.  I’m not afraid of anything.
Heartbeats.
Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Pause.
Squeeze the trigger.
Au revoir.
#
“It’s done,” he announces as he enters the flat.
Jim is sitting in an armchair, studying his mobile.  He doesn’t look up when he says: “Good.”
Sebastian crosses through the sitting room to their kitchen.  He leans his rifle case up against the table and takes a glass from one of the cabinets.  A small window above the sink overlooks the Seine, glistening in the pre-dusk light.  They’ve been in Paris for about a month, after criss-crossing through Europe while criss-crossing people off of Jim’s list.  Sebastian likes it here; he doesn’t miss London in the least.
He pours himself a glass of water and drinks it all in one go.  It had been a long day already - up at dawn to wait for his target.  No viable kill shot until late afternoon. He turns and watches Jim in the other room, still texting away on his phone.  Sebastian knows better than to disturb him, so he sets the glass on the counter and walks down the hall to the bedroom.
It seemed as though any city in the world was a welcome host for Jim Moriarty.  They had been through Belgium, Sweden, Poland, Ireland.  Every single stop along the way had safe houses, networks, arsenals and plans.  It was more elaborate a web than Sebastian could have ever imagined.  And Jim was the Daddy Longlegs in the centre of it all.
Sebastian sits on the edge of the bed and unzips his leather jacket.  Underneath, his t-shirt clings to his sweaty skin, so he pulls it off and throws it into a corner of the room.  He stands and walks to the ensuite, pausing to look in the full length mirror that hangs on the door.  Dark purple bruises cover his abdomen in angry splotches; some of the older ones have faded to a gnarled brown-green, making his skin look sickly.  He reaches down and traces a recent scar that begins just above his pelvis - it still stings and he sucks in a sharp breath.
The red marks encircling his wrists have faded slightly, leaving scabs only where the rope had actually bitten into his skin.  His eyes travel up his body to his face, where he absent-mindedly licks at the scar on his lip - now almost two weeks old.  His nose has mended respectfully, only a slight bend giving it all away.  The black eye has faded, the broken blood-vessels in his eye long healed.  He blinks, willing himself to look away from the reflection and takes a deep breath, chasing away the slight tremor in his left arm.
“Vanity,” comes Jim’s voice from the door, almost a whisper.  Sebastian stops cold, refusing to turn and acknowledge him.
“Pride.”  His voice again, almost a purr, this time right behind his ear.  He can feel Jim’s breath on his skin.  Sebastian shivers.  Jim slides his hands along Sebastian’s sides, then across his chest from behind.  He holds him against his body in a tight embrace.
“Ssssssssinnner…” he hisses.
#
There’s a numbness that comes with pain, after the searing, the burning, the gnawing itch.  After the white hot, the insistent red, the aching blackness.  And in the numbness, in the blackness, that’s where Sebastian loves him.  That’s where Jim lives inside him.
While Sebastian doesn’t miss London, Jim bleeds for it.  He needs it like a phantom limb, the sensations never resolving, never tangible.  He blames Sebastian for their self-imposed exile.  He claims they’re on a sabbatical to clean up the mess that Sebastian made.  That it’s only a matter of time before they return.  London is the palace from which he rules.  And Sherlock-
Sherlock is his crown jewel.
The whip cracks again and this time Sebastian feels the flesh tear.  A bead of hot, thick blood runs down his back before sliding down the curve of his hip, then spilling over his side.  From his position on his hands and knees he can lower his head and watch the blood drip down on to the white sheets, staining them.  It spreads through the fibres of the cotton, writing a morbid love letter.  I love you, Jim Moriarty, watch me bleed for you.
From behind, Jim tosses the whip to the side and climbs on to the bed.  He thrusts deep inside Sebastian, his hands gripping him roughly, directing the angle of his hips.  They are both sweaty and hot, sticky and chaffed.  Sebastian throbs with pain, but bites his lip and grunts with every entry.  It won’t be the first time he chews through his own lip.
A thought slips through and triggers a memory for Sebastian.  Repentance.  He has been on his knees long enough.  Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.  Sebastian has paid for his mistakes, for forcing Jim out of London.  He has worshipped until his knees were black and blue.  Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now at at the hour of our death.  Jim didn’t bind him this time - lazy, cocky, presumptuous.  Sebastian kicks out at one of Jim’s knees and knocks him off balance.  He grabs the knife from the bedside table and launches himself at the smaller man, pinning him to the floor.
“Fuck you,” Jim growls, the knife pressing into his throat.
“No,” Sebastian replies, “my turn to fuck you.”
Amen.

mightybastion:

Previously:  Sherlock

——

“I need you, Jim.”

Heartbeats.

“I love you, Jim.”

Confessions trapped inside his throat, strangled by fear.  How ridiculous, Sebastian thinks.  I’m not afraid of anything.

Heartbeats.

Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Pause.

Squeeze the trigger.

Au revoir.

#

“It’s done,” he announces as he enters the flat.

Jim is sitting in an armchair, studying his mobile.  He doesn’t look up when he says: “Good.”

Sebastian crosses through the sitting room to their kitchen.  He leans his rifle case up against the table and takes a glass from one of the cabinets.  A small window above the sink overlooks the Seine, glistening in the pre-dusk light.  They’ve been in Paris for about a month, after criss-crossing through Europe while criss-crossing people off of Jim’s list.  Sebastian likes it here; he doesn’t miss London in the least.

He pours himself a glass of water and drinks it all in one go.  It had been a long day already - up at dawn to wait for his target.  No viable kill shot until late afternoon. He turns and watches Jim in the other room, still texting away on his phone.  Sebastian knows better than to disturb him, so he sets the glass on the counter and walks down the hall to the bedroom.

It seemed as though any city in the world was a welcome host for Jim Moriarty.  They had been through Belgium, Sweden, Poland, Ireland.  Every single stop along the way had safe houses, networks, arsenals and plans.  It was more elaborate a web than Sebastian could have ever imagined.  And Jim was the Daddy Longlegs in the centre of it all.

Sebastian sits on the edge of the bed and unzips his leather jacket.  Underneath, his t-shirt clings to his sweaty skin, so he pulls it off and throws it into a corner of the room.  He stands and walks to the ensuite, pausing to look in the full length mirror that hangs on the door.  Dark purple bruises cover his abdomen in angry splotches; some of the older ones have faded to a gnarled brown-green, making his skin look sickly.  He reaches down and traces a recent scar that begins just above his pelvis - it still stings and he sucks in a sharp breath.

The red marks encircling his wrists have faded slightly, leaving scabs only where the rope had actually bitten into his skin.  His eyes travel up his body to his face, where he absent-mindedly licks at the scar on his lip - now almost two weeks old.  His nose has mended respectfully, only a slight bend giving it all away.  The black eye has faded, the broken blood-vessels in his eye long healed.  He blinks, willing himself to look away from the reflection and takes a deep breath, chasing away the slight tremor in his left arm.

“Vanity,” comes Jim’s voice from the door, almost a whisper.  Sebastian stops cold, refusing to turn and acknowledge him.

“Pride.”  His voice again, almost a purr, this time right behind his ear.  He can feel Jim’s breath on his skin.  Sebastian shivers.  Jim slides his hands along Sebastian’s sides, then across his chest from behind.  He holds him against his body in a tight embrace.

“Ssssssssinnner…” he hisses.

#

There’s a numbness that comes with pain, after the searing, the burning, the gnawing itch.  After the white hot, the insistent red, the aching blackness.  And in the numbness, in the blackness, that’s where Sebastian loves him.  That’s where Jim lives inside him.

While Sebastian doesn’t miss London, Jim bleeds for it.  He needs it like a phantom limb, the sensations never resolving, never tangible.  He blames Sebastian for their self-imposed exile.  He claims they’re on a sabbatical to clean up the mess that Sebastian made.  That it’s only a matter of time before they return.  London is the palace from which he rules.  And Sherlock-

Sherlock is his crown jewel.

The whip cracks again and this time Sebastian feels the flesh tear.  A bead of hot, thick blood runs down his back before sliding down the curve of his hip, then spilling over his side.  From his position on his hands and knees he can lower his head and watch the blood drip down on to the white sheets, staining them.  It spreads through the fibres of the cotton, writing a morbid love letter.  I love you, Jim Moriarty, watch me bleed for you.

From behind, Jim tosses the whip to the side and climbs on to the bed.  He thrusts deep inside Sebastian, his hands gripping him roughly, directing the angle of his hips.  They are both sweaty and hot, sticky and chaffed.  Sebastian throbs with pain, but bites his lip and grunts with every entry.  It won’t be the first time he chews through his own lip.

A thought slips through and triggers a memory for Sebastian.  Repentance.  He has been on his knees long enough.  Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.  Sebastian has paid for his mistakes, for forcing Jim out of London.  He has worshipped until his knees were black and blue.  Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now at at the hour of our death.  Jim didn’t bind him this time - lazy, cocky, presumptuous.  Sebastian kicks out at one of Jim’s knees and knocks him off balance.  He grabs the knife from the bedside table and launches himself at the smaller man, pinning him to the floor.

“Fuck you,” Jim growls, the knife pressing into his throat.

“No,” Sebastian replies, “my turn to fuck you.”

Amen.

turnedupcoatcollar:

Fuck.
That was an awful idea. I knew it was. Had known forever we shouldn’t do it. But we had just gotten to a point of such openness and vulnerability, and we’d been needing such comfort for so long, not to mention the fact that our bodies had started to have minds of their own…
Basically, because it sort of felt like we had already done it, a real life kiss was inevitable. I mean, he’s right that on some level we both wanted it, if we kept dreaming about it. But that doesn’t mean it was ever something that should have happened. He caught me at a weak moment. Not that he took advantage, he was being incredibly sweet and caring, it simply caught me off guard and affected me in a way I wasn’t expecting. And so we did something that we will regret. Or at least I will. I should have known better and not allowed it to happen.
Because, of course, the outcome was disastrous. I mean, there was no way he wasn’t going to Yow, for fuck’s sake. We knew that. He’d seemed unconcerned at the time so I didn’t push it, but then when it happened, it was, well, legitimately terrible.
They’d been getting progressively worse, clearly, but I hadn’t witnessed the last one. I wasn’t aware of the violence involved.
So what? You say. Aren’t you a military man? Can’t you handle a little violence? My response is: yes, I can, but not when the person with whom I share a life and just shared something incredibly intimate starts throwing the worst fit I’ve ever seen, screaming and cursing and crying and throwing himself and anything he can grab hold of across the room.
It got really nasty, let me tell you. He was still naked from the waist up and was looking to do as much damage as he could to the room, himself, and me. In desperation I locked him in the bathroom, until I heard him trashing the medicine cabinet and remembered my old-fashioned cutthroat razor. Then I burst in, grabbed him, and threw him face down on the bed. I sat on his legs and caught his hands behind his back. I thought about the pair of Lestrade’s handcuffs he’d nicked forever ago and kept in his dresser drawer, but I knew if I let him up he would come raging at me, so I made do with holding him down myself.
Until, that is, I realised he was convulsively sobbing into the duvet.

turnedupcoatcollar:

Fuck.

That was an awful idea. I knew it was. Had known forever we shouldn’t do it. But we had just gotten to a point of such openness and vulnerability, and we’d been needing such comfort for so long, not to mention the fact that our bodies had started to have minds of their own…

Basically, because it sort of felt like we had already done it, a real life kiss was inevitable. I mean, he’s right that on some level we both wanted it, if we kept dreaming about it. But that doesn’t mean it was ever something that should have happened. He caught me at a weak moment. Not that he took advantage, he was being incredibly sweet and caring, it simply caught me off guard and affected me in a way I wasn’t expecting. And so we did something that we will regret. Or at least I will. I should have known better and not allowed it to happen.

Because, of course, the outcome was disastrous. I mean, there was no way he wasn’t going to Yow, for fuck’s sake. We knew that. He’d seemed unconcerned at the time so I didn’t push it, but then when it happened, it was, well, legitimately terrible.

They’d been getting progressively worse, clearly, but I hadn’t witnessed the last one. I wasn’t aware of the violence involved.

So what? You say. Aren’t you a military man? Can’t you handle a little violence? My response is: yes, I can, but not when the person with whom I share a life and just shared something incredibly intimate starts throwing the worst fit I’ve ever seen, screaming and cursing and crying and throwing himself and anything he can grab hold of across the room.

It got really nasty, let me tell you. He was still naked from the waist up and was looking to do as much damage as he could to the room, himself, and me. In desperation I locked him in the bathroom, until I heard him trashing the medicine cabinet and remembered my old-fashioned cutthroat razor. Then I burst in, grabbed him, and threw him face down on the bed. I sat on his legs and caught his hands behind his back. I thought about the pair of Lestrade’s handcuffs he’d nicked forever ago and kept in his dresser drawer, but I knew if I let him up he would come raging at me, so I made do with holding him down myself.

Until, that is, I realised he was convulsively sobbing into the duvet.

tallandtailored:

Previous: John

Sherlock watches John down the hall, feeling his chest constrict, contract into him. I shouldn’t have. His mouth still feels warm from John’s, and he is silently pressing his fingers to his lips an hour later when they are stepping into a cab together.

“You going to tell me what happened?” John ventures into the silence. Sherlock gazes out the window, long fingers pressed to his lips. He doesn’t respond.

“Greg tells me you were just…there. And you left your phone at the flat.” John pauses, “You never forget your phone.” 

Sherlock could feel John shifting on the seat next to him, his posture leaning away, his gaze turning outward to the passing sidewalks. Silence stretched between the two of them.

The night passed similarly. Sherlock hoped against hope that John just assumed he had fallen into non-responsiveness. Thought. Somehow, when he left himself catch glimpses of John through his peripheral vision, he knew that wasn’t the case. Guilt bubbled up inside of him, washing his vision. This was all his fault.

Hours later, after John had fed himself take away (and unsuccessfully attempted to feed Sherlock as well), after John had showered and watched the news at length on a very low volume, after he had sat in front of his laptop, watching the cursor blink into a blank blog post, John slipped away to bed. Sherlock’s heart began to pound, expecting him to gather pyjama’s from Sherlock’s room and disappear upstairs. He didn’t. Sherlock heard the distant creak of the mattress, and fractionally relaxed.

If only he could forgive himself. John seemed to.

He allowed for 45 minutes. He assumed that John would be asleep by the time he crept in. And 45 minutes later, it seemed he was right. John was on his side, breathing evenly. The blanket was pulled only halfway up his chest, and dulled moonlight lit his bare skin. Sherlock’s chest contracted. 

He undressed, and climbed in, unable to breathe around the sensation. 

He’d prided himself so long on not needing contact or comfort from anyone else, his entire life. But less than half a foot away was the one person in the world Sherlock needed more than anything and all he could do was watch helplessly as he shattered everything they had together. 

Helpless, he pressed he forehead into the skin between John’s shoulder blades. Felt his warmth. He was always warm while sleeping. Sherlock was, too, creating a veritable sauna under their covers every night, which always resulted in all the sheets kicked off. It hadn’t in the last few months, as Sherlock constantly put off coming to bed. John looked so vulnerable and loving while he slept, on good nights.

Sherlock shifted, nuzzling into the warmth of John. Breathing him, deeply. He smelled clean, soapy. A bit like the curry he’d eaten earlier. He followed the underlying scent of John up his back, to the curve of his neck. Before long, Sherlock found himself pressed along John’s entire length, as if he was attempting to use his warmth and smell as a salve to sooth his entire aching soul.

John shivered. It was small, and strangled. Like he was desperately holding something in, trying not to break the spell. Sherlock could hear him breathing, in measured stops and starts. In, two three four. Out, two three four. He placed a kiss on John’s shoulder, and the bands around his chest eased open to hear the hitch of breath. 

Experimentally, he trailed slow, chaste, kisses along John’s bare shoulder, pausing in the crease of his neck. Here. This was the John smell. Warm and loving. It made Sherlock think of sunshine, warm blankets, and gunpowder. John twisted towards him, just slightly, lifting his chin. Questioning. Sherlock responded by pressing his face deeper against John’s neck. Gunpowder. He felt John’s pulse, pressed his lips against it. Blood. John’s breath quickened, but he bit his lip against questions. Don’t break the spell.

Sherlock would have done anything to package John back up into the relative safety of just being his flatmate and friend. But he couldn’t quite fit him back into that space, no matter how hard he tried. He needed him too badly, too selfishly, he needed him.

In a rustling of covers, Sherlock shifts his body and John’s. John peers up at him from his back, eyes bright in the dark. Sherlock hovers over him, hands bunched into the sheets on either side of John. He places warm, open, kisses on his cheeks, neck, collarbone. He trails them down John’s chest, and back up. He listens to John’s breathing fast and short in the dark. Feels his heart speed up under the thin skin of his throat. Pressed there, feeling John’s pulse jump desperately, he speaks for the first time since the morning.

“I love you, John.”

Heartbeats. 

“I need you, John.”

thedoctorisin221b:

Previously:  Sherlock
——-
Lestrade meets John in the lobby of the Yard and escorts him to the holding cells.  On the way there, they say very little to each other.
“Thanks for the call, Greg.”
“Of course,” he replies.  ”I’ll take you to him.”
“How long until Mycroft arrives?” John asks.
“I… haven’t called him yet.”
There’s a long period of silence as they walk down a brightly lit hall and through a door that unlocks with a loud buzzing noise.
“I thought it best to wait until you two had a chance to talk,” Lestrade adds once they are past the sign-in desk.
“Right, thanks.”
Lestrade gestures towards a row of mostly empty cells.  In the third one, John sees a tall figure slumped forward, elbows on knees, head resting in hands.
“Did you have to arrest him, though?” John asks quietly.
“He was at the crime scene when the patrol cops arrived.  There was nothing I could do.  I didn’t cuff him, he came willingly.”
John frowns.  ”You know he didn’t-“
“I know, John.  But I had to bring him in, think about how it looked.”  He sighs and rubs a hand over his chin.  ”I’ll give you a minute, then we should talk about his release.”
Lestrade turns and walks back to the desk.  He starts a conversation with the officer on duty and gives a slight nod towards the cell.  John knows the brief moment of privacy is a gesture of kindness.  He takes a deep breath and walks up to where his flatmate is being held.
“Sherlock, I’m here.”
John crouches down so that he’s level with where Sherlock is sitting on a cold metal bench.  John reaches through the bars and tries to touch his arm, shoulder, anything.  He needs to feel him, to know that he’s solid and alive and real.
Sherlock starts, lifts his head out of his hands.  He turns to John and blinks heavy lidded eyes.  Under the harsh fluorescent lighting, John sees how prominent the dark circles under his eyes have become.  He hasn’t been sleeping.  They look sunken, bruised.  Sherlock reaches over and takes John’s hand.
#
“Take my hand.”
“Now people will definitely talk.”
#
“All right?” John asks, squeezing Sherlock’s hand.
Sherlock opens his mouth to answer, but pauses.  He shakes his head, very slightly.  John tries to move closer, but the bars are very successful at being a deterrent.  Sherlock tries to slide over instead, but the side of the bench that connects to the wall is between them.
#
“Sherlock, wait!  We’re going to need to coordinate.”
“Go to your right.”
#
“Huh?”
“I said, let go for a moment,” Sherlock repeats.
John shakes the memory free, loosens his grip and lets Sherlock’s hand fall.  Sherlock gets off the bench and moves as close as possible, kneeling in front of where John is squatting.  He puts his face up to the bars and John can no longer stand it.  He reaches through, takes Sherlock’s face in his hands and kisses him through the bars.  Sherlock is tense at first, but dissolves into the kiss a moment later, and everything falls back into place.  His lips are soft and full, responsive and yearning.
It lasts for only a few seconds before Sherlock pulls away.  They lock gazes for a moment and something passes between them.  John is silently screaming for him to respond, to come back to him.
“John, I-  This doesn’t mean that-“
John swallows hard, his eyes threatening tears.  It was there, he felt it.  Goddamn it.  He leans away and stands back up.
“I should see to your release.  Greg’s waiting for me before he calls your brother.”  He nods, turns and walks away.
He felt it.  Please god.  It was there.
…
It was there.
…
Wasn’t it?
——

thedoctorisin221b:

Previously:  Sherlock

——-

Lestrade meets John in the lobby of the Yard and escorts him to the holding cells.  On the way there, they say very little to each other.

“Thanks for the call, Greg.”

“Of course,” he replies.  ”I’ll take you to him.”

“How long until Mycroft arrives?” John asks.

“I… haven’t called him yet.”

There’s a long period of silence as they walk down a brightly lit hall and through a door that unlocks with a loud buzzing noise.

“I thought it best to wait until you two had a chance to talk,” Lestrade adds once they are past the sign-in desk.

“Right, thanks.”

Lestrade gestures towards a row of mostly empty cells.  In the third one, John sees a tall figure slumped forward, elbows on knees, head resting in hands.

“Did you have to arrest him, though?” John asks quietly.

“He was at the crime scene when the patrol cops arrived.  There was nothing I could do.  I didn’t cuff him, he came willingly.”

John frowns.  ”You know he didn’t-“

“I know, John.  But I had to bring him in, think about how it looked.”  He sighs and rubs a hand over his chin.  ”I’ll give you a minute, then we should talk about his release.”

Lestrade turns and walks back to the desk.  He starts a conversation with the officer on duty and gives a slight nod towards the cell.  John knows the brief moment of privacy is a gesture of kindness.  He takes a deep breath and walks up to where his flatmate is being held.

“Sherlock, I’m here.”

John crouches down so that he’s level with where Sherlock is sitting on a cold metal bench.  John reaches through the bars and tries to touch his arm, shoulder, anything.  He needs to feel him, to know that he’s solid and alive and real.

Sherlock starts, lifts his head out of his hands.  He turns to John and blinks heavy lidded eyes.  Under the harsh fluorescent lighting, John sees how prominent the dark circles under his eyes have become.  He hasn’t been sleeping.  They look sunken, bruised.  Sherlock reaches over and takes John’s hand.

#

“Take my hand.”

“Now people will definitely talk.”

#

“All right?” John asks, squeezing Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock opens his mouth to answer, but pauses.  He shakes his head, very slightly.  John tries to move closer, but the bars are very successful at being a deterrent.  Sherlock tries to slide over instead, but the side of the bench that connects to the wall is between them.

#

“Sherlock, wait!  We’re going to need to coordinate.”

“Go to your right.”

#

“Huh?”

“I said, let go for a moment,” Sherlock repeats.

John shakes the memory free, loosens his grip and lets Sherlock’s hand fall.  Sherlock gets off the bench and moves as close as possible, kneeling in front of where John is squatting.  He puts his face up to the bars and John can no longer stand it.  He reaches through, takes Sherlock’s face in his hands and kisses him through the bars.  Sherlock is tense at first, but dissolves into the kiss a moment later, and everything falls back into place.  His lips are soft and full, responsive and yearning.

It lasts for only a few seconds before Sherlock pulls away.  They lock gazes for a moment and something passes between them.  John is silently screaming for him to respond, to come back to him.

“John, I-  This doesn’t mean that-“

John swallows hard, his eyes threatening tears.  It was there, he felt it.  Goddamn it.  He leans away and stands back up.

“I should see to your release.  Greg’s waiting for me before he calls your brother.”  He nods, turns and walks away.

He felt it.  Please god.  It was there.

It was there.

Wasn’t it?

——

tallandtailored:

Previous: John

Sherlock winds his way to the scene rapidly, thoughts of Moran whittling away at the back of his mind. Three months of silence. The damage was done, but he could be anywhere, waiting. Waiting. What if John had followed?

Minutes later Sherlock is slowing down in a long laneway, taking in the scene. Female. Late 20s. He circles, eyes catching on the spray of blood, the burns on her forehead, the stray bullet holes in the wall nearby. A struggle, personal. His eyes fall to her hands, marking tan lines and defensive marks. A 2 at best. Shouldn’t have bothered. Simple. His hand dives into his coat pocket to text John and then Lestrade, but comes out empty. He swears loudly and paces to the opening of the lane, listening for sirens.

Well, he could wait for Lestrade, at the very least. Tell him who to look for. Surely that would be alright? He hadn’t been invited, obviously, but. Sherlock considered his options carefully. At this point, someone had surely called the police, and surely seen him. Fleeing now would likely look worse than waiting. He sighed, resigned, and propped himself up against the brick wall. In a few minutes, sirens finally approached.

Two patrol officers Sherlock barely knew, but who recognized him, spilled out of the car. They frowned deeply, but radioed Lestrade when Sherlock asked. This was a homicide after all.

He watched impassively while they taped up the scene, and clumsily gathered clues. No point in telling them what to look for. He would only have to repeat himself to Lestrade.

Sherlock was getting restless when Lestrade finally showed up. 

“Lestrade, finally..”

“Sherlock! What the bloody hell are you doing here?” Lestrade demanded, looking thunderous.

“I was in the neighbourhood.” 

“Really. Look, you might be cleared now, but there isn’t a single person above me who trusts you farther than they can throw you. You do know that, don’t you?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, turning towards the crime scene. 

“You should check the apartment, boyfriend. Fiancee, more likely.”

“Sherlock.”

“He was angry. Not a very good shot, obviously.” Sherlock pointed at the holes in the wall, “He’ll be shaken up. Probably hasn’t gotten rid of the weapon, or anything he was wearing.”

“Sherlock, look at me.”

“They likely live nearby, it doesn’t look like she had been intending to go out.”

Lestrade steps between Sherlock and the scene, resolute.

“Sherlock, I have to take you in. You realize how bad this looks? You just showing up at a scene before anyone else? Knowing what will likely turn out to be all the right details?”

Sherlock let his gaze wander toward the ground, refusing to respond.

“Get in the car, Sherlock.”

Sherlock takes an involuntary step back, eyeing the surrounding area. Suddenly aware of the other present witnesses, the small gathering of civilians starting to wander from their flats. He presses his lips together and meets Lestrade’s gaze.

“I won’t, if you just get in.” Lestrade nods, bringing his hands up to show them empty. Sherlock lets Lestrade put him in the back of the cruiser, hands unbound.