The only
Yay! First one shot. Pretty angsty, I guess, but also… not. Reviews are welcome! I always want to improve so… yep. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. It is all property of the BBC.
If Sherlock had ever been truly scared, of reality, it was the first time. He had been scared only once before, but that didn't really count. The object of his fear wasn't real then. This was. So very, very real. He had slipped in unnoticed at first. Right up behind Sherlock, and he hadn't realized until his breath was on his neck. His hand trembled on the violin bow. 'Don't stop.' Whispered Jim Moriarty. He had swallowed hard as one of Jims hands had sneaked up his back. It came to rest on his neck and he had calmly put down the violin to face his, well, enemy, he supposed. He only managed a strangled 'how?' Jim had laughed. 'You know exactly how, you clever man.' He had moved his hand then, to rest on Sherlock's throat, right under his chin. That was when it had started. When Jim Moriarty had gripped the man who could not feel and made him weak. Made him whimper. And suddenly, he had pulled him forwards and kissed him forcefully on the mouth.
Sherlock had woken up the next morning aching. He couldn't remember going to bed. As he got up to have a shower he heard a slight groan. He looked down at Moriarty's form and recoiled. His mouth had dried blood on it and his neck and chest were covered with blue, green and red marks. Sherlock rushed to the bathroom and looked at his reflection. There were bite marks on him too, but only a few bruises. 'Shit.' He said, looking for John's first aid kit. When he couldn't find it, he grabbed a hand towel and washed the blood off his neck. As he washed the bruises faded a little. He rinsed the towel and brought it into the bedroom. Jim was sat up in bed, delightedly examining his injuries. 'For someone who can take so much care, you can be rough, can't you?' he smirked. Sherlock threw the towel to him and went looking for a shirt that would cover him. Jim got out of the bed and walked up behind him. 'Don't act so surprised. You weren't even drugged.' Sherlock spun around. 'Really? That's all you have to say right now? John will be home soon.' 'I can fix that.' He purred. 'YOU ARE NOT KILLING MY FLATMATE.' 'Alright…' 'Or injuring him.' Jim pouted. 'You're no fun.'
As Jim walked into the bathroom, Sherlock looked at his back. Every time he took a step, the scars stood out, white against his skin. Of course, he could identify them all. Burns, scratched, belts, canes, bites. Sherlock couldn't help but wonder if this was the result of parents, siblings or during his adult life. He supposed the belt marks and cigarette burns would be parents, but, as evidenced the night before, the scratches and canes could be more recent. He grinned. That would certainly make sense.
The pair (Neither was fond of the term "Couple") sat in the lounge later that afternoon drinking tea in silence. They had spoken for a while (Sherlock had been right about the scars) but both found the silence far more enjoyable. Jim watched Sherlock. He hadn't noticed, he was too busy thinking. In truth, he was fascinated by him. He had been watching Sherlock play the violin for over an hour before they spoke. He had assumed that he would need to be gentle, though he never planned to. He had just looked so fragile, as he did now. His hands were so thin and pale, they looked like porcelain, but they were strong. Jim had the bruises to prove it. He wasn't wrong in assuming that he would bruise easily. There were purple marks all over him, mainly around his neck. His shirtless upper half seemed paler than usual compared to them.
'Well, this certainly was fun.' Said Jim at last. He stood up. 'I only have John stalled for a few more minutes, though, and you wouldn't want him to find out, would you.' Sherlock stood up and in two long strides was in front of Jim. He gripped his shoulders and forced their mouths together. Moriarty smiled and moved his hands down Sherlock's back. He ran his tongue along Sherlock's bottom lip and pulled away. With a wink he turned and left the apartment.
'Sorry I'm late coming home, Sarah slipped over. Dislocated her shoulder.' Sherlock frowned. He put down the violin and went to sit down for the first time since Jim had left. Something scratched his lower back and he reached around to pull a small card from the waistband of his trousers. It simply had a phone number and a few words. "Call me soon. Jim Moriarty X." 'Sherlock, what's that?' Sherlock grinned and slipped the card into his pocket. 'Nothing, John, nothing at all.'