AN: Spoilers for The Brothers Karamazov in this chapter (though, I changed one very big plot point). I wasn't much of a fan of the novel as a whole, but I liked the characters and wanted to throw one or two in a Sherlock PWP. Hooray! I apologise in advance for the butchering of beloved, Russian literary characters.
There were bits and pieces of glass jutting out from the window, so Sherlock carefully felt around the edges until he found a safe spot to climb over. He slung one leg then the other over the sill, launched himself off, and landed on the ground with a loud thump, palms and left knee breaking his fall. There were glass shards scattered on his landing, sleeping underneath his gloved hands and designer trousers. Not a scratch on him, though.
When Sherlock lifted his head, Smerdyakov stepped out of the darkness, produced his gun and aimed it right between Sherlock's eyes.
Sherlock froze in place and held his breath as his eyes scanned the room and observed all the sights and smells rapidly. The place smelled like a stifling trio of cognac, burnt hair and vomit and the ground was littered with broken beer bottles and dusty newspapers. In the center of the mess sat a green, tattered sofa, an old, vintage wooden coffee table scattered with pumpkin seeds and a matching wooden chair piled with two books. The wall was completely bare, the yellow-green wall paper torn and drooping. Monstrous growths and mold added to the green décor and it was slightly cold, the radiators emitting a minute amount of heat. Overall, unsanitary and unlivable.
"What do you want?" said Smerdyakov in a rough, Russian accent.
Sherlock quirked his lips into a condescending smirk, stood up slowly, teasingly, and casually brushed the dirt off the sleeves of his coat.
Smerdyakov's snarled when he noted Sherlock's nonchalance. "What do you want?" he repeated with fervour.
Sherlock held his arms over his head in mock-surrender. "No need to be so tense. I just want to speak to you about your father's murder. I'm not here to terrorize you."
"You stinking liar," the man spat. "I know who you are. You are Sherlock Holmes. You work for the police," he said, voice sounding a bit smaller. Sherlock felt a surge of pride.
Smerdyakov cleared his throat and stretched his neck, peering over Sherlock's shoulder as if expecting someone else to appear behind him. "Are you here alone? You have weapons?"
"I'm alone and unarmed," said Sherlock, cool as a cucumber, ignoring the pure stupidity of the questions. "You need not point that at my face. I just want to have a chat. Kind of difficult to have a civilized conversation while staring down the barrel of your Marakov."
"Turn out your pockets," Smerdyakov demanded, wiggling his gun at Sherlock. Sherlock complied, revealing his barren coat and trouser pockets.
"How did you find me?" Smerdyakov asked, assured and less tense, shuffling closer to Sherlock, grip tight on the Marakov.
"Your brother Ivan informed me to your whereabouts."
Smerdyakov's face softened tenfold and his eyes twinkled with sadness. "Ivan? But—"
"Ah, brothers. Such meddlers," Sherlock interrupted sarcastically, with a sliver of fondness.
Ivan visibly gulped. "He wouldn't…he didn't."
"But he did. Though, he was a bit hysterical when I questioned him. Some nonsense about seeing the Devil. He kept blaming himself for his father's murder, but I knew he just felt guilty for the godless, unapologetic, cold logic he'd instilled in you." Sherlock walked slowly toward Smerdyakov, like a cat moving slyly toward its prey, eyes glowing with the thrill of the hunt. "You see, I actually know Ivan. Met him several years back working on a very cold case in Russia. He is a rather practical man, and I find it hard to doubt him."
When Smerdyakov stroked the trigger Sherlock halted automatically, centimeters from the gun.
After a pause, Sherlock was certain Smerdyakov was just bluffing, and continued, "Oh, and he also produced the stolen money you'd given him and told me you admitted to the murder of your father. Shame you ran away before the medical tests proved you didn't actually have an 'epileptic seizure'. Very good acting, I must say. That's quite a compliment coming from me."
Smerdyakov shook his head violently. "Ivan…why did Ivan…I don't understand."
"Of course you don't," Sherlock interrupted with a devilish smile. Smerdyakov's confidence seemed to be dissipating as the seconds ticked on by, despite him being the one with a loaded weapon. "You are too much of an imbecile to realize that Ivan detests you and always has. You though he was your equal? Well, he thought of you as nothing but a lowly servant."
Smerdyakov stomped his boot childishly in protest, clenched his teeth and cried, "You're wrong!"
Suddenly, a nearby door flung open and Smerdyakov jerked and pointed the gun at the shadowy figure that had materialized. While he was distracted, Sherlock wasted no time and ran head first into Smerdyakov's stomach. Smerdyakov's gun went off, a deafening sound, and the bullet lodged somewhere into the adjacent wall.
Sherlock pinned Smerdyakov onto the lone, creaky, wooden table with a loud thump. John came up from behind Sherlock, tugged the gun out of Smerdyakov's vice grip and slid it across the room.
Sherlock grunted as Smerdyakov kneed him in the groin repeatedly, and they both tumbled off the table and onto the floor. Sherlock was quick to overturn Smerdyakov and pin his arms and legs down.
"Gun, John. Now!" Sherlock commanded the words, struggling to keep a flailing Smerdyakov in place.
John jumped over the chair and heartily whipped Smerdyakov right across his forehead with the butt of his gun, rendering the man motionless.
Sherlock detached himself from Smerdyakov, collapsed onto the rather questionably sanitary sofa and brushed off the seeds that'd stuck onto his coat. He closed his eyes, and caught his breath for moment. When he opened his eyes, and was met with a very stunned John Watson.
He was just standing there, staring at Sherlock's languorous position, wide-eyed and chest heaving. Sherlock was the one who just wrestled a man nearly twice his weight to the ground. John had no reason to appear so fatigued. "Lestrade," Sherlock huffed out, sitting up straighter. "We'll need to phone Lestrade so he can arrest this idiot."
John squinted at his wristwatch then looked back and forth between an unconscious Smerdyakov and Sherlock, as if he were deciding something.
Sherlock regarded John curiously when the man made no effort to at least pretend to be listening. "John, I said—"
"Doubt we have much time until he comes to his senses. Let's do this as quickly as possible."
John hauled Sherlock up and off the sofa before Sherlock could even comprehend what was happening, stripped off his coat, and slammed Sherlock's back to the nearest wall with confident strength.
"What the hell? What are you—my coat!—this is ridic—" John's mouth caught Sherlock's, tongue slipping into his mouth with ease.
"So…fucking sexy…everything you…just did..." John muttered between kisses. John was tugging at Sherlock's trousers, undoing the belt buckle and zip as fast as humanely possible.
Sherlock stared a John in sheer disbelief. The man was always surprising him, and that was quite a feat. "Really, John? Really? Here?" He let out a shaky laugh, but made no further objections. It was fascinating to watch John all undone, dominating and absolutely feral.
"Why not? Need to fuck you hard, right now. Fuck you until you see stars," John hissed and pooled Sherlock's trousers around his ankles with great force.
Regardless, those few, blunt words out of John's gentlemanly little mouth did it for him and Sherlock could feel his erection tight in his pants. "Well, then, do it already." Why hadn't he thought of doing this before?
"Trying. For fuck's sake…too much clothes." John pulled Sherlock's pants down to his ankles, and Sherlock's erection sprung into the dank air.
Sherlock kicked off his nuisance clothing—shoes, pants, and trousers—wrapped his arms around John's neck and pulled him close. The feel of John's clothed body up against his erection felt glorious. "Oh," Sherlock breathed out, mouth lingering in a perfect 'o.'
John's eyes burned with a set agenda as he hungrily undid his own belt and zip, pushing everything down just so his cock had a breath of air.
Sherlock was about to turn around and let John have at it, but John pulled him up by his armpits and pushed him harder against the peeling wallpaper to brace him. Sherlock took this as his cue to wrap his long legs around John's waist like an octopus, allowing John's hard, leaking cock to teasingly press between Sherlock's buttocks.
"F-fuck." John's hand was shaking as he reached down to his trouser pocket to remove his wallet and a tiny packet of lube.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and John laughed hysterically, on the verge of madness. "I've been wanting to do this for awhile, you know." He squeezed the lube onto his hands, and his hands disappeared into the depths of his trousers in order to slick himself. Sherlock wasn't expecting him to be done so fast, and jumped as he felt two fingers quickly pushing inside him.
"Ah, fuck!" Sherlock cringed, tightening his muscles around John's fingers.
John grimaced. "Sorry. A bit excited."
"'A bit!" Sherlock repeated hotly, relaxing.
John twisted his fingers slowly around inside Sherlock, eyes fiery with determination. Sherlock could feel the heat radiating off John's engorged cock, which positioned right at his opening, and he shivered with pleasure (if not at the fairly chilly air).
John guided his cock with a frantic hand, pushed in, and Sherlock moaned (which sounded more like a deep, guttural purr) simultaneously with an equally deep groan only meters away.
Sherlock's eyes opened wide in horror. "Fuck. No!" Sherlock open mouth was promptly shut as he was thrashed into the wall once. John pulled out slowly then slammed back in, buried completely into Sherlock. Sherlock's body was set aflame and he rode the high of the pleasure, fluttering his eyelashes and raising his eyes to the stucco'd ceiling. "Yes, fuck yes, oh my god. Don't you stop."
Another groan from the resident criminal, but this time the coffee table wobbled. "John, he's moving. Faster, for god's sake!"
"Jesus fuck," John grunted, "Can I just…ah god…flog him again so he'll be out for a couple more minutes?" John licked his lips, pulled out and drove back in.
"Oh…ohh god," Sherlock said dumbly, the friction of his cock against John's jumper and the fullness of John inside him starting to be too much.
John picked up the pace, thrusting manically and Sherlock buried his face into John's shoulder so his skull didn't crack open from the harsh impact.
There was a loud bang. Smerdyakov had tripped over the coffee table and fell flat on his face. "We...need to take care of him."
"Don't you dare move. Forget him," Sherlock said hoarsely, then buried his face in John's shoulder and gave a muffled scream.
"How are you still so tight after everything I've done to you? Feels so fucking good…God." John's left hand ghosted Sherlock's crescent waist, then his aching cock and finally rested on his thigh. "Beautiful."
Sherlock's body burned brilliantly. His eyes rolled up, eyelids twitched and body shook. He was almost there, invigorated, climbing the mountain of his orgasm. He picked up his heavy head from the safety of John's shoulder and saw a weak, dazed Smerdyakov rolling around on the floor, clutching his leg with one hand and reaching out the other trembling one, desperately trying to get his discarded gun.
Sherlock suddenly forgot how to breathe.
"I will kill you! I will kill you both!" Smerdynakov choked out.
With a blood-curdling scream, Sherlock came violently all over John's jumper, untangled his long, mess of limbs and pushed John off of him so forcefully that he doubled over. He dived for the gun and pistol whipped Smerdyakov over the head.
Sherlock watched Smerdyakov's eyes fall closed, satisfied. His knees were wobbly, body nearly boneless and his heart was beating so hard and fast that it felt as if it was going to tear itself out of his chest. Realizing his nakedness, he scrambled for his trousers and pulled them up his legs. He turned and saw John, one hand braced on the wall, the other steadily jerking himself off, a cry, then liquid spurting in between his fingers and onto the floor.
"You…you unbelievably ridiculous bastard." John said breathlessly, pulling up his trousers and slumping against the wall.
Sherlock smiled brilliantly, strode over to John in three large steps, and kissed him, arms wrapping around his waist. "You know, he almost shot you in the arse," Sherlock said joyfully, grabbing said firm arse and squeezing playfully.
John huffed out a laughed. "Yeah and you got off on that."
"I did not," Sherlock said unconvincingly.
"Liar. That was the biggest, loudest orgasm I've ever seen and heard."
Sherlock sighed. He couldn't lie about that. John had been there, after all. "Okay, maybe just a bit."
"A bit?" John repeated Sherlock's earlier sentiment, eyes smiling with amusement. Sherlock couldn't help but smile back.
"Text Lestrade the address. I'll make sure our friend here stays incapacitated."