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Jim is too soft and delicate to be such an horrible man.
There aren’t any scars on his body, no marks other than the ones left by Sherlock’s hands and teeth decorate his pale skin, white of that purity that James Moriarty doesn’t have. His hands and his nails are too clean and neat to have on them the sticky blood of hundreds of innocents and his movements are too sinuous and soft to belong to a man with such a sharp and analytical mind.
Jim is a human contradiction: he’s a diamond with thousands of facets that reflect the light in a way that is always different, he is a unique combination of genes and molecules; he’s something rare, so beautiful and uncommon that Sherlock can’t take his eyes off him even for a moment. He wants to observe him like a sample on a microscope slide, discover every side of his persona and solve the impossible enigma that Moriarty is. He would dissection him, cut and isolate every layer of tissue to reach the heart of his existence, if only he could.
Sherlock’s hands run on Jim’s body, they wander with care and attention upon his skin, they pass over every mole and freckle to memorize their position, because everything in Jim is equally important and worthy of interest. Jim seems to know it, the same way he knows every thought Sherlock has, aware of that mental connection that Sherlock hasn’t truly accepted yet, too focus on their differences to see what makes them the same. Jim looks at him from below, big dark eyes hazed by desire, he stretches every muscle and shows off obscenely, the pale and naked body that makes a pretty contrast with the black silk sheets.
“Mr Holmes…” what comes out from his lips is a warm whisper, indecent and vulgar like the way Jim opens more widely his legs “Do you want to know how many people I have killed today? How many politics I have threatened? How many bombs I have placed and how many terrorist attacks I have planned?” he continues, giving himself a small pause to lick his lips. “Or maybe you prefer to discover it yourself, because you like getting in my way and solving my little puzzles almost as much as fucking me.” he says, putting on a grin that makes Sherlock want to hit and shag him at the same time. “Almost.” He adds at the end, in a small laugh.
Sherlock looks at him in the eyes and tries to keep his always-cold attitude, despite the total lack of clothing and his hard erection make the thing a little complicated.
“Has anyone ever told you that you talk way too much?”
The hands, still on Jim’s hips, now rise slowly: long and slender fingers caress the abdomen, delicate like a flutter of a butterfly they continue to move, they pass on the chest, the sternum and trace the clavicles before stopping at the base of the neck.
“Not really. You are the only one who can do it.”
Those simple words have on Sherlock the same effect of dirty talking. Knowing to be the only person in the universe capable to see James Moriarty, the biggest criminal mind of the world, in a situation like that it’s enough to send a rush of pleasure down his body.
Sherlock smiles, with that almost imperceptible smile that slightly raise the corner of his lips and that it’s not too different from the one that appears on his face every time he finds a clue about a case he’s working on. He moves his hands to have a better grip on Jim’s neck, the thumbs slide up and, after giving a gentle caress on his Adam’s apple, they begin to press against the carotid. The force used isn’t excessive and Jim just opens his lips a little, tilts his head and exposes his throat, moaning and asking for more.
Jim likes to be strangled. Sherlock has vaguely deduced it during their first real meeting at the pool – when John has tried to block the criminal, tugging his neck with the arm, Jim looked a bit too comfortable – but he has dismissed the thought, putting it in one of the unused drawers of his mind palace. He thought it was unimportant. He couldn’t be more wrong.
It’s not the first time they use controlled asphyxia in the bedroom. Sherlock is fully aware of the risks that practice has, he knows that – if done incorrectly – it can even lead to death and yet the pros seem more than the cons, because seeing Jim arching and moaning with strangled voice asking for more pressure is almost as exciting as seeing the marks of his fingers on Jim’s pale neck for days. Jim thinks the same. They have talked about it before trying, of course.
Sherlock looks at him straight in the eyes, unable to look away. There is something in those dark irises that inevitably attracts him: every time he loses himself in those black holes, so deep and absolute to swallow everything they meet, Sherlock feels like he’s on the brink of a precipice, a moth drawn to the flame that will be the cause of his death. Perhaps this is one of the reasons why he likes Jim so much.
“More” he simply says and Sherlock obeys. The right hand tightens his grip and the pressure is enough to obtain a strangled groan from Jim’s lips. Meanwhile, the other one moves, leaves the body to reach the bottle of lube already on the bed.
Only then he breaks any kind of contact. The grip disappears and Sherlock moves his gaze from Jim only to focus on the gel that he spreads on his own fingers. Jim groans in front of that lack of attention, but the sound that comes out his mouth goes completely ignored since Sherlock doesn’t reply in any way. After having warmed the lube, he chokes him again, while the middle finger of the other hand starts making its way in Jim’s entrance. Sherlock moves slowly, way too slowly for Jim, who arches and groans in a way that is theatrically exaggerated, as to ask for more. Jim isn’t tight: Sherlock uses that meticulous attention only to give him something that isn’t nearly enough and make Jim moan in frustration.
“Faster, I’m not a little virgin” he sighs and Sherlock smiles, gets closer and gives him a kiss that’s all teeth while he adds another finger.
He moves faster now and all the concern used before is disappeared. Even if Sherlock loves to provoke him – and he does, because there is something incredibly arousing in seeing Jim desperate and needy for more – his patience isn’t as big as he likes to believe.
“You know I could kill you, right?” he asks in a whispers, squeezing his neck harder. Jim looks at him and doesn’t know if moan or laugh, so he decides to go with a strange noise that is something between the two.
“You would never do it.”
Just for a fraction of second his faces becomes cold and serious in a way that makes Sherlock shut up.
Jim is right and he knows it: even if Sherlock has sworn to destroy and stop him, he doesn’t think he could ever end put the criminal’s life to an end. Not because he thinks that killing is wrong and unforgivable – he wouldn’t be in a relationship with Jim Moriarty if he thought it – but because he just can’t imagine a life without Moriarty, because he needs him, he needs a person equal and opposite at the same time, someone capable of challenge and understand him in equal measure.
A quiet and traditional life is not (and never will be) enough for Sherlock. He needs Jim.
The detective decides to not think about it. He doesn’t like following that current of thoughts, because it leads him to the realization that between them a conclusion is unavoidable. More their relationship goes on, more difficult it will be to put an end to it. He tightens his jaw and insert the third finger, to shut his mind up with the moan that comes off Jim’s throat. He needs to take him now.
“I have to leave you for another moment” he whispers, moving inside him for a little more, before moving away to stroke himself with the lube, with fast gestures that are more functional than devoted to bring pleasure. Jim looks at him and licks his lips, but he doesn’t say anything and keeps any eventual comments for himself. It doesn’t take much before Sherlock’s hand are on Jim’s hips.
He penetrates him with a single thrust. Jim is hot around him and, for the first time since the whole intercourse started, Sherlock closes his eyes. There are not endless and analytical sentences to describe what he’s feeling, no scientific terms or cold observations, only a mix of disconnected phrases that, put together, don’t have any meaning. There is only Jim with his warmth and the way he tightens himself around his erection, eager for a movement that has not started yet. Sherlock’s hands meanwhile flows again on his body, rising his chest. There is nothing delicate in the way his fingertips press and mark Jim’s skin.
The fingers press against his throat once again. The pressure applied on the carotid is more intense now, it blocks any passage of oxygen and Jim gasps, lips wide open and eyes closed, emitting strangled noises that sound a lot like “oh yes, more”, “Sherlock, please” and “finally”. Sherlock counts to five in his mind and then releases the grip. He gives Jim just a couple of seconds before starting to move inside him. The thrusts have a regular rhythm and hit a point that is just next to Jim’s prostate, who keeps moving his hips, eager for more.
Sherlock chokes him again, with the same intensity of before. This time the seconds are seven.
Jim gasps more but never once he asks the other to leave or stop, instead he keeps pulling Sherlock closer, touching and scratching everything that comes to hand – shoulders, arms, back; it doesn’t matter.
When he loosens the grip, Sherlock kisses him and slows the movement of the hips, allowing Jim to regulate his breath and get it back to normal.
"Sheeeeerlock" the other calls and he understands immediately what Jim wants to tell him.
The seconds are ten now and Sherlock knows that if only he linger for a little, the other will lose consciousness. There is… trust. Trust in the way Jim completely puts himself in Sherlock’s hand, sure that he won’t do anything to him, not there, not in that moment. It’s a strange feelings. They are enemies and they shouldn’t depend so much on each other, because it’s wrong – not because of some sort of morality, but for themselves. Sherlock however doesn’t think, because there is no time to get lost in such digressions when he’s moving faster inside Jim.
Before the ten seconds end, Sherlock whispers in Jim’s ear, telling him to come, just for him.
The climax reaches them almost at the same time. When Jim comes, the grip on his neck disappears and Sherlock drops by his side on the mattress. Jim’s eyes are still closed and his breath is irregular: he stays that way for a while and Sherlock’s gaze can now focus on the marks of his fingers on his white throat. They will get darker and Jim probably won’t cover them, he thinks, a small smile that raise his lips at the thought.
Jim turns to him and Sherlock finds himself lost in his dark irises again. The criminal smiles back and looks at him with an amused expression on his face. He doesn’t say anything, he just stretch to steal a kiss from his lips and moves a little to reach the light switch.
They always have sex with the lights on, and yet, after the orgasm overwhelms them both, they stay in total darkness. The windows are closed and so are the curtains, the dim light of the street lamps doesn’t reach them. Not even the pale light of an alarm clock illuminates the room.
It always end that way. Not a word, there is just an absolute darkness when the both get under the covers, without bothering to have a shower. Jim turns again and gives him his back and Sherlock already knows that he will pretend to sleep, the same way he knows that neither of them will be able to, too busy thinking at the same thing – will their relationship last? Is it really worthy to continue something destined to end in the worst possible way? – until the sleep will eventually overtake them.
Sherlock also knows that they will wake up in that darkness without time and space curled to each other, limbs entwined and skin touching.
It will happen again and again.