It was a truly miserable early January night. Sherlock Holmes shivered as he stepped from the bus, arms clenched around his torso as if they would provide him any sort of protection against the driving sleet. He hadn't been thinking, of course, he'd simply left - although the long but rather shallow cut along his right cheekbone would argue that fact.
He allowed himself one small smirk at the memory of it. He allowed a larger smirk at the way the other passengers had shied away from him when they saw how profusely it was bleeding, too. He might have to remember that the next time he didn't feel like being crowded on public transport.
He glanced around quickly, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt back up in yet another feeble attempt to stay slightly drier than the Thames. His teeth were chattering, and he couldn't quite feel his fingertips. Not good.
Finally, he saw the street signs, and he hurried to the corner. He rounded it, looking at the building numbers until he came to the one he was looking for. He hopped up the steps and pressed the bell, shivering as he stood and waited.
A moment later, the door opened. "Sh-Sherlock?"
He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. "I..." He takes in his surroundings - small entryway, stairs to the right, cramped hallway to the left that lead to a door, possibly another flat - before turning to his host. "I didn't know where else to go right now, Jim."
"Christ, you're soaked." Jim Moriarty's Irish accent was a bit stronger than normal, and Sherlock could smell alcohol - wine. Red, judging by the slight staining at his lips. "Come on, let's get you-"
Sherlock leaned in, his body not listening to a thing his brain was screaming. He leaned in and kissed Jim.
It was awkward, not the least of the reasons being because Sherlock was still shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. His lips felt like ice as they touched Jim's; Jim, so warm, so caring, so kind. Jim, who tasted of fermented berries and a hint of chocolate. Jim, who was suddenly kissing him back.
Sherlock let a soft whimper escape his lips, and his trembling hands grabbed Jim's shoulders, pulled him closer. "Jim, oh god, Jim, I..."
Jim's hands were in his hair now, fingers running through his water-logged curls and tugging gently. "No, Sherlock, don't... don't apologize."
Jim pulled back just enough to look up into Sherlock's eyes, seemingly just as amazed at the turn of events as Sherlock was.
"Come on, you're goin' to catch your death standin' there."
Sherlock suddenly remember just how cold he really was, and nodded quickly. "Yes."
Jim lead him upstairs, glancing back every few seconds as though Sherlock might have disappeared when he wasn't looking.
They stepped into a cozy flat, with a small but much desirable fire going. Sherlock saw the bottle of red wine sitting on a small table near an armchair, an empty glass beside it. The residue of the wine was still coating the sides of the glass.
"Just through here." Sherlock turned back, nodding, and trudged after Jim.
The bathroom was rather small, but the shower was already starting to steam and it was like heaven the moment Sherlock began to peel himself out of the multitude of layers he had on. He frowned at them all, just why did he need so many clothes at once? Oh right, it was January. It had snowed last week. There was sleet tonight. Unfavorable conditions, his brother would have called them.
He closed his eyes.
"Sherlock?"
He opened his eyes and looked over to Jim. "Hmm?"
Jim looked at him, slightly nervous. "Are you..." He looked at Sherlock's cheek. "Oh, Mother Mary, what happened to you?"
Sherlock's eyes unfocused as his fingertips reached up, tracing the cut. "I ended it." He looked back at Jim. "Irene. She..." He took a deep breath, smiling. "She gave me something to remember her by."
Sherlock couldn't help it - he started laughing. Jim stood there, staring at him as though he'd lost his mind. The laughter turned absolutely manic until Sherlock collapsed to his hands and knees, legs refusing to hold him up and his hysterics turning into tears. "As if I didn't have enough scars from her!" He was shouting now, and he knew he shouldn't be, knew he should be calming down, getting into the shower. But now the torrent had started, and he couldn't stop it. "As if I don't carry everything - every fucking thing - she ever did to me!"
He can barely breathe as he looks up, arms going around his middle as he sits back on his feet. "Jim..."
He's on his feet, Jim's arms around him. Jim's speaking softly, soothingly, as he helps Sherlock out of his shoes, his socks and trousers and pants. Jim sits him on the closed toilet lid and says he'll be right back, stay there. Sherlock waits, hands and arms limp at his sides. The steam is warm as it curls and dissipates inches from his frigid skin, and he wonders if he can just stay there, exactly like this. He'll never move again if he doesn't have to.
A moment later, Jim steps back in, towels in hand. Sherlock looks up and takes at least five seconds too long before he registers that Jim, like himself, is entirely naked.
"What..." He stares at Jim's torso. "What are you..."
Jim shakes his head. "You can barely hold yourself. I'm only going to make sure you don't fall and crack your skull wide open."
Sherlock swallows and nods, and lets Jim help him up. He steps shakily into the shower, and it's as though he's jumped into a boiling pot. "Fuck!"
"Hey now." Jim steps in, hands steady on Sherlock's arms. "You think this is hot? This is nothing, Sherlock."
"If the... the water's too warm..." Sherlock trails off as he sees Jim shiver slightly when the water hits him. "You're... cold?"
"Yes, Sherlock brilliant deduction." Jim's voice is terse. "The water feels that hot to you because you've been out in ridiculous weather. Couldn't have been more than ten degrees, and sleeting!"
Sherlock licked his lips and watched as Jim reached over, twiddling the knobs gently.
"Now just... stand there, alright?"
Sherlock nods and says nothing. The water eventually stops feeling as though it's scorching him, and he begins to relax. "Thank-you."
Jim's hands are running along Sherlock's chest and back before he turns to fiddle with the knobs and increase the temperature. "For what?"
Sherlock watches him silently for a moment. He feels the heat increase on his skin, feels his face burn as he flushes. Jim turns back, looking at him inquisitively.
In response, Sherlock leans in and kisses him again.
This time, Sherlock presses forward, crowding into Jim, one arm around his waist and the other stroking slowly along his jaw, his neck. Sherlock's lips are forceful and demanding, and for a moment he thinks he really has done something wrong.
But then Jim's arm locks around his ribs, and his lips are moving desperately against Sherlock's and he's moaning softly into Sherlock's mouth.
"Jim..."
"Sherlock, Christ, I..."
"I don't... I've never done..."
"Shhh."
Sherlock stops talking and lets himself simply exist in the moment.
His whole body again feels like it's on fire. He can't really complain, though, not with Jim pressed against him, Jim touching him, Jim kissing him.
He lets the hand that isn't around Jim's waist trail down until his fingertips are tracing patterns on Jim's hip.
"Sherlock, oh, god..."
"Jim, I..." Sherlock is shaking again. He closes his eyes takes a deep breath, shifting his body back a bit and moving his hand until it brushes against Jim's cock.
He feels Jim shudder at the contact, and opens his eyes, looking down between them. It's odd for less than a second, and then he takes hold of it purposefully. He lets his eyes trail back up to see Jim staring at him, shock and wonder and a hint of longing leaping from his eyes.
Sherlock starts stroking him slowly, and Jim's head falls back.
"Jesus, Sherlock..."
Sherlock bites his lower lip and keeps going, adding a slight twist of his wrist whenever his palm is over the head. Jim gasps, his hands coming up to cling at Sherlock's shoulders. Jim's panting now, and Sherlock wonders how it would feel to bring him off, to feel him come all over his hand...
Sherlock groans when he feels Jim's hand on his own prick. Long strokes, slightly tighter as his hand touches the glans, and Sherlock is sobbing at the sensations, his brain seemingly offline as he pleads softly. "Jim, oh god, please, please, Jim, please, Christ, oh, Jim..."
The shower abruptly shuts off, and Jim's pulling him out, barely toweling him off before he's being pulled through a small hallway and into another room.
Jim's bedroom.
Jim pulls Sherlock to the bed, pulls him down and kisses him as their legs tangle up. "Sherlock, I... I want you..."
Sherlock isn't sure what he's supposed to say to this and so he says nothing, just continues kissing Jim and letting his hands explore every piece of Jim that he can reach. Sherlock hears something pop, but Jim's still there, still right there with him, so he pushes it from his brain.
Something cold and slick touches his prick, and he jumps back in shock. Jim's grinning. "Just some lube, Sherlock." He holds up his slicked hand.
Sherlock nods, and watches as Jim reaches for him again, moans as Jim's hand starts stroking him again. He doesn't even notice when Jim maneuvers him onto his back. He hears the pop again, and then he feels the same cold and slick sensation just below his balls.
"Ooooh, Jim... I..."
Anything he was about to say is lost then, as he feels Jim's fingers circling his arse. He bites his lower lip and considers his choices, which is very difficult with the staggering lack of blood flow to his brain at the moment. He could ask Jim to stop. He's not sure this is a good idea. He and Irene just split, he's consumed with emotions that he can't sort through at the moment. It's all so terribly distracting. Jim's been drinking, he might be less interested in this idea when sober, his thought process is compromised.
Then he feels himself relaxing, and one of Jim's fingers pushes into him.
At this point, thinking has been de-prioritized significantly.
Sherlock is panting and arching and gasping and seeing spots in front of his eyes. "Jim... oh god..."
Jim's finger pressed in a bit farther, slow and steady. "Tell me..." Jim was panting against Sherlock's hip, his other hand still stroking Sherlock's nearly painful erection. "...if it's too much."
Jim's finger moved back out again, then in, and Sherlock's mind blanked. He knew that a moment ago, he'd been having second thoughts. Now, there wasn't a power in the world that could make him remember, not while his skin felt too tight and too heavy all around him.
Pop. Cold. Slick. A second finger. Sherlock was crying out wantonly, his voice breaking as he said Jim's name over and over.
Pop. Cold. Slick. A third finger. Sherlock became utterly incapable of forming words. All he could do was pant out sounds, moans, groans, anything. Mouth hanging wide open, brain fuzzy and non-responsive. His entire being had narrowed down to the feelings of Jim's hand on his cock and Jim's fingers in his arse.
Jim curled his fingers slowly. Sherlock raised an arm, bit down hard on his own hand. It hurt and it felt so good. He wasn't sure which was stronger, which he should pay more attention to.
"God, Sherlock..."
Rip. Sherlock looked down the length of his own body to see Jim rolling a condom onto his own erection. Pop. Jim spread lube over the condom. Jim looked up at him. Sherlock looked back. Jim bit his lower lip.
"Um... Roll over for me?"
Sherlock took in a shaking breath but did as Jim asked. He was shaking so much again that when Jim's hands found his hips, he whimpered loudly.
"Shh, it's alright, Sherlock." Jim's hands moved his hips up, angled him better. He could feel the head of Jim's cock pressing against him as Jim leaned over, careful. "We can stop whenever you want to."
Sherlock swallowed and bit his lip and said nothing, just nodded his head.
Was he consenting? Was he saying yes, let's stop? He wasn't sure. He didn't know and he couldn't form the words to say something, anything.
Jim lined himself up again, and slowly pushed into him.
It hurt. For a moment, that was the only thing Sherlock knew. It hurt, it hurt so damn much, and he turned his face, biting into the pillow until he swore he could taste down. His brain came online long enough to laugh at what a cliché he'd become in that precise moment, and then Jim pulled back, started moving.
Sherlock bit down on the pillow and tried his best not to scream.