Fair warning: Explicit. Phone sex. Masturbation. Mentions of heavy BDSM. Knife play, breath play and other shenanigans. Jim and Sherlock get off talking about really perverse things. What else is new.
"I gave you my number, I thought you might call…"
Jim's words echoed through Sherlock's head every so often. He still had the number. He'd stuck it in his jacket pocket absently the day he'd met "Jim from IT" and he'd neglected to throw it out.
He didn't exactly put effort into memorizing it. But he'd glanced at it more than once. Which meant it got stored somewhere up in his brain. In some obscure, out of the way file.
He didn't bother to delete it.
Not with so many other things going on. Besides, it's useful to know as much about one's enemies as possible.
Or at least, those were the excuses Sherlock gave himself.
When he got the first text, he didn't think much of it.
Don't you ever wonder what it would be like? - JM
Needlessly obscure. Formulated to make Sherlock question what he meant. He ignored the text but did not delete it.
He solved crimes.
He ate Chinese food with John at two in the morning.
Life felt busy. Life felt good.
I'll never believe you're actually a virgin - JM
The second text seemed slightly disjointed. But combined with the first it began to form a sort of narrative. A rather obvious one.
Somebody like Jim Moriarty didn't make a first impression that was accidental in any way.
He'd chosen gay.
Desperate.
Infatuated.
He wanted to play games. Wanted to dance. Wanted to tear Sherlock apart into little tiny pieces.
But perhaps in more ways than the detective could have anticipated.
Don't you miss the adrenaline of it? The sheer rush of endorphins - JM
The texts came days and weeks apart. Sherlock never responded. But he stared at them sometimes.
When John went out with Sarah.
When there wasn't an interesting case on.
When the boredom roared loudly at the forefront of Sherlock's brain and grated on his nerves almost unbearably.
It went on for a month or two before Sherlock got the first phone call.
It came at approximately midnight. John already asleep. Sherlock lying in his bed, thinking about nothing in particular. Marinating in the muffled white noise his brain issued when he didn't keep it appropriately occupied.
The vibration of his phone echoed on the bedside table.
He glanced at the number.
Really, it was a split second decision. The kind of thing you should think twice about. But you don't.
"Hello?" He asked dryly, feeling more than a bit self-conscious.
"Ah," the sound of Jim's voice curled like a smirk, "so you have been getting my texts. Really, Sherlock. Didn't Mummy ever tell you not to put your mobile number on the Internet where any random hooligan could get a hold of it?"
"Does this conversation have a point?" Sherlock shifted on his bed. The mattress springs creaked slightly. He stiffened, wondering if Jim had heard the noise.
"Of course it has a point," the other man snorted. "You're supposed to be a genius. Figure it out."
"You want to have sex," Sherlock said dully. "Boring."
"Would it be, though?"
Sherlock paused. To wonder for a few moments. Because certainly, sex with ordinary people had lacked any sort of inspiration whatsoever. The same repetitive motion. Chasing after friction and orgasm. Not interesting. Exceedingly pedestrian.
But perhaps…
"In all likelihood, yes," Sherlock replied in the same sarcastic monotone.
"Don't play hard to get, you aren't good at it," Jim let out a small, satisfied sigh. "You're in bed. I bet you sleep naked."
"What does that matter?"
"I dunno. Do you habitually touch yourself while still wearing clothes?" The last word had a mocking upper inflection.
"I don't habitually touch myself."
"Too caught up in that big old brain of yours, I take it… well, go on. Have a bit of fun. Play with it."
"Why?"
"Because I said so, and if you weren't at least curious you wouldn't have answered the phone."
Sherlock ran his tongue across his lower lip almost unconsciously. He wasn't quite fully aroused. But something in the quality of Jim's voice. The low, easy playfulness. The casually issued order. It wasn't entirely boring.
His cock stirred half-heartedly.
Sherlock squirmed on the sheets. He did sleep naked. Not that it mattered. He trailed a hand down his abdomen, flirting with the idea for a bit longer before he actually wrapped a hand around his prick and gave it a slow stroke.
"I'd back you up against a wall," Jim said simply. "And then I'd slide down to my knees. Open my mouth and take a nice long lick. Because in the beginning, it's all about wanting new information. Chasing new sensations. I'd let your prick slide into my mouth, easy slow. I don't have a gag reflex. But I'd grab onto your hips to keep you from fucking my throat. Because I'd want to savor it."
It wasn't exactly the most unique dirty talk that Sherlock had ever played audience for. But it wasn't entirely dull. At least, his cock filled out a bit more. A spark of pleasure skittered through him as he gave himself another slow stroke.
"I'd let the drool start to run down my chin until I got you nice and sloppy. Just think of the obscene noises. Echoing through your empty flat. Your legs might start to quiver just a little bit. I'd swallow you down completely. I'd take your entire prick into my mouth, and you'd just about die because of it."
Sherlock focused his motions around the head of his cock, sliding and squeezing, luxuriating in the slow build. And the smoothness of Jim's words. The dips and peaks of his Irish lit. He did have a nice voice for saying incredibly filthy things.
"I wouldn't let you come," Jim's breath hitched. Sherlock could hear a rustling. Then the sound of a zip being pulled down. Then Jim seemed to settle back in. "At least, not right then. I'd stand back up, and wait for you to drag me to John's bedroom."
"John's?"
"Of course," Jim chuckled. "I'd let you throw me down on his mattress. Suck a bruise onto the side of my neck. Would you like leaving marks on me?"
Sherlock thought about it for a moment.
"Yes," he replied in a tone a lot huskier than he first intended.
"I bet your doctor keeps lubricant in his drawer. Just like he probably keeps condoms there. But we wouldn't need those. I'd want you to fuck me raw."
Sherlock stilled his fist and began to thrust up into it slowly. Jim stayed silent. Perhaps waiting.
"I wouldn't prepare you very well," Sherlock let the words drip out slow and even. "I'd want you to feel me stretching you. I'd want it to hurt. Just two fingers. That's all you'd get before I climbed on top of you. I'd have you on your back. Legs bent, resting on my shoulders. I'd pin your hands above your head and sink into you slowly, but all at once."
Jim let out a soft little sound. Almost a moan. Sherlock listened intently. He could hear faint, slick sound of flesh sliding against flesh. Jim was definitely touching himself.
This fact sent an odd lurch of heat through Sherlock's body.
He fucked his own fist with just a little bit more intention.
"Do you have any lubricant near you?" Sherlock asked off-handedly.
Jim waited about thirty seconds before replying, "yes."
"Finger yourself."
Silence. Then sounds of motion. More rustling. Shifting, then a low groan.
"Once you were inside me, I'd bite you," Jim grunted. "I'd bite you hard enough to draw blood. Right on the side of your neck. High, where everybody could see it. Despite those stupid scarves you always wear."
"I'd choke you," the words tumbled out of Sherlock's mouth before he could stop himself. "I'd wrap a hand around your neck and squeeze until you couldn't breathe. No matter how you thrashed and squirmed, I wouldn't let go until you almost fainted."
"Fuck," Jim groaned. "I'd leave claw marks all over your back. They'd last for days."
"If you started that up, I'd pull out and flip you over. I'd fuck you on your hands and knees like the little bitch that you are."
"Oh I'd love to see you try," Jim groaned. "I have two fingers inside myself."
"Add another."
Sherlock tightened his grip and stroked his cock a bit faster.
"Are you close?" Jim asked, in a strange, rather broken voice.
"Getting there. I want to listen to you come."
Jim began to pant. Let out a few short whines. Then a long groan. The sounds fed the already burning fire in Sherlock's core. The building tension crescendoed. Then it released.
Sherlock shuddered and gasped, half in shock, half in pleasure as he came all over his own stomach.
He couldn't even remember the last time he'd masturbated to completion. He usually got distracted halfway through or gave up.
"Well that was certainly interesting," Jim chuckled, voice back to normal. "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."
"Good night." He replied reflexively.
The line went dead before he could say anything else.
Days passed. No texts. Sherlock didn't want to call. He could be incredibly patient when the circumstances called for it.
But when the three-week mark went by without anything happening, he became more than a little frustrated.
He knew Jim was playing a game.
Perhaps some level of participation was required.
I'd hold a knife to your throat - SH
He sent the text, not quite knowing what to expect.
But later that night, as he sat up on the sofa, reading email, his phone buzzed again.
Not once for a text.
No.
Repeatedly.
Phone call.
He didn't have to look at the number to know. He answered on the seventh ring. Right before it would have gone to voicemail.
"What kind of knife?" Jim asked without any preamble.
"I have a very nice hunting blade with an ivory handle. I keep it razor sharp. I'd hold it against your neck, with enough pressure to sting. Enough pressure to scratch you. Make you bleed just a little bit."
"While you fucked me?"
"Yes. Sprawled out across my kitchen table. It's just about at my hip level. Perhaps I'd tie your wrists to the table legs to keep you from squirming around too much."
"Would you cut me?"
"I'd drag the knife down your side. Make an incision right below your ribcage. I'd make you lick your own blood off the blade after we finished."
Sherlock's cock began to harden in his trousers.
John had gone out. Hadn't said when he'd be back.
Sherlock set his laptop aside and unzipped his trousers.
"Mmm… I do like knives. Once you untied me, perhaps I'd wrestle the blade away from you and carve my initials into your thigh. Messy, so it would scar," Jim hummed.
"You couldn't overpower me physically," Sherlock groaned as he wrapped a hand around his prick. "And I'd have to punish you for even trying."
"What would you do?"
"I'd whip you with my belt. The buckle would leave all sorts of wonderful welts on your skin."
"Oh," Jim breathed. "Bit of a sadist, are we?"
"Where you're concerned."
"Hmm, the feeling is mutual. I'm having a grand old time planning your death. It's going to be my magnum opus, Sherlock."
Those words shouldn't have sent a sick sort of arousal twisting through Sherlock's bloodstream. But god, they did.
"Will it be clever?" He breathed as he began to slide his hand down his cock.
"You'll never see it coming."
"It would never work otherwise."
"It'll be like poetry. It will all be wonderfully simple and enormously complicated. We'll go down in history for it, I assure you."
"We?"
"Of course… after you whipped me with you belt, what then?"
"I think I'd tie you to a chair until I got hard again. Then perhaps I'd heat a spoon on the stove and burn you with it."
"Fuck," Jim groaned.
"Yes. I think I'd like to fuck you across the floor. So your back would hurt in the morning. So you couldn't take a step, or even breathe without remembering what I did to you."
Jim began to pant again.
"Stop," Sherlock barked.
"Dear me, Sherly…" Jim said in a breathless voice. "I never thought you be so dominant… though I can't say I didn't dare to hope."
"Shut up, slut. Pinch your left nipple until it hurts too much to stand."
From the silence and then eventual groan, Sherlock could reasonably assume Jim had followed the order.
"Good. Now start touching yourself again. Don't come until I say you can."
Sherlock began to fuck his fist again. It felt wonderfully filthy. Right there, in the middle of the living room. Writhing on the couch. Talking to somebody he certainly shouldn't be talking to…
"I'm close," Jim whined. "May I come, Sir?"
Sir.
Fuck.
Sherlock's orgasm crested suddenly. Wonderfully. The pleasure crashed over him like a tidal wave. He barely managed to grit out a, "yes."
Jim's moan echoed Sherlock's.
Neither man hung up right away.
They sat there in near silence.
For a moment, a bizarre longing welled in Sherlock's chest. Perhaps the rush of endorphins and dopamine had dulled his brain. Perhaps it was an instinctual impulse—the desire to clutch a warm body right after orgasm. To find comfort, and warmth in another person's flesh.
Of course he couldn't.
Because Moriarty actually wanted to kill him. He was a dangerous psychopath. It was one thing to fuck him over the phone. If it happened in real time, he doubted either of them would survive.
"You're over-thinking this, aren't you?" Jim asked lazily. He sounded almost drowsy.
"Probably."
"Stop it. Go to bed, like a normal person."
"I suppose I will."
The silence drew out again before Jim eventually rang off.
Two days later Sherlock got another text.
I'll be travelling. Different time zone. But perhaps I can call when it would be late there - JM
Sherlock just smiled.
