This story was originally written for a kink meme prompt, but my partner ( u/3756521/Our-Worst-Nightmare) and I decided to extend it. There will be more chapters to follow as we further explore the relationship. Warnings for dub-con, bondage, masturbation and incest.
"Jim Moriarty?"
A deep, tempting baritone; it teetered on the edge of recognition, making a smile crook the edges of Jim's mouth. "Hmm?" he asked, turning slowly on his heel to face the man behind him.
It took quite an impressive creature to break into the consulting criminal's private home. It was more than a little impressive to know of its existence, and frankly unheard of to find, and break in, without Jim being aware. His hands twitched towards his Glock, resting in his interior left jacket pocket.
Recognition. Jim gave a little, only half-mocking gasp of surprise. "Sherlock Holmes," he breathed, almost reverently, eyes scanning the man's figure. Of all people to turn up in his humble home, at this time of the evening, he was greeted with sight of the most prolific serial killer in history.
Jim knew of Holmes, naturally. They worked in similar circles, but did not necessarily cross over; Jim was a consulting criminal, the puppet master. Sherlock had no job role; he was a serial killer, a hit man, a sadist. Jim alone knew he was connected to the various, more publicised crimes from across the past ten years or so; he left his calling cards, like any good criminal. The police – bumbling idiots – had failed to see the connections. Other worthless men had been convicted for the crimes of Sherlock Holmes. Nobody came close to the man.
Oh, Jim had wanted to meet Sherlock for years. He had hoped – quietly and fervently – that Sherlock would come to him. He had been entirely correct.
Here he was, lounging with mocking casualness in the doorway, watching Jim with a shadowed smile. He could be no older than mid-twenties, perhaps a couple of years younger than Jim himself. He was gorgeous, too. That much Jim knew; he had been tracking Sherlock's movements, even Sherlock himself, for years. He was so very much better in the flesh.
"To what do I owe the honour?" Jim asked smoothly. He didn't move his hand away from his Glock. There was always the rather established chance that this was an assassination; it would be a pity to remove Holmes, but his life would certainly continue.
Sherlock smirked at the flattery, pushing away from the doorframe; Sherlock cut a striking silhouette against the light from the open door, hair curling around his head, his neck. Huge lips, full and pouting, and the most extraordinary eyes, glinting in the half-light.
"I'm here with a request; that's what people do, isn't it?" he asked slowly, stroking a finger along the counter. Jim found himself shivering at the tone of his voice, licking his lips slightly, relaxing slightly around the man who was responsible for god alone knew precisely how many deaths. "Ask you for help."
"Normal people, yes," Jim agreed, taking a step closer to the man, head twisting, serpentine, trying to ascertain what this man could possibly require from him. "But not you. Surely, not you?" he asked, sounding disappointed, irritated even. He was ordinary. Even this man needed to call for help. Not an equal, not a true equal, but yet another boring, ordinary person.
Sherlock gave a hollow chuckle, huge eyes dilated. Drugs, perhaps. Would hardly be surprising; Jim himself was often tempted, often succumbed. Something to take the edges off the overly bright and sharp world, take it stratospheric or tone it out altogether.
"These are not normal circumstances," Sherlock admitted, looking up at Jim through long, black lashes. A master manipulator, how very delightful. "Believe me. I would rather not be here."
"But why? You're Sherlock Holmes," Jim swooned dramatically, reaching a hand out to Sherlock's face, touching the man's cheek before he pulled away in one fluid, elegant motion. Sherlock, by contrast, stayed statuesquely still. "You're brilliant, you are. Proper genius."
"Yes," Sherlock drawled, sounding almost bored by the situation. "Unfortunately something has come up. Even I am unable to handle this. I require some assistance."
Jim had to admit it; he was utterly intrigued. Sherlock's reputation, his influence, stretched almost as far as his own web. "Go on," he breathed, intense.
This time, Sherlock leaned closer to him; Jim raised an eyebrow, hand still carefully hovering over the Glock. Sherlock's lips moved against the shell of the man's ear; hot breath, deep tone, sending thrumming tremors to Jim's groin. Oh, the things he could with this man. To this man.
"Dear Jim. Could you fix it for me to have my big brother all for myself, to use him as I see fit?" he asked, in a playful, childish voice. Jim moaned, almost coming from the request alone.
After all: who didn't know Mycroft Holmes? The Iceman. The central hub of the British Government. A beautiful, terrifying creature, the flipside of Holmesian brilliance; ruthless and terrible, but unlike his little brother, working for good rather than evil. How fairytale. Jim had always been so very fond of fairytales.
The image of the murderous little brother, wanting to fuck his big brother blind. How perfectly, blissfully chaotic a concept. Oh, this was sublime. Pure chaos.
"Oh, ohh," he murmured, reaching up with a sudden motion, grasping onto Sherlock's collar, thumbing across the soft fabric. "Oh my darling, it would be a pleasure," he crooned, looking up into breathtakingly cold blue eyes.
"Of course, I realise normally people offer you something in return…" Sherlock began, only to have Jim press a finger to his cherubic lips. The blue darkened another shade, almost navy in the dim lighting, suspicious, disliking the contact but abiding it nonetheless.
"I am tempted to say I would do this one for free," Jim laughed, feeling Sherlock relax incrementally, the tug of his lips thinning in a smirk. They were so similar to one another. He had never been attempted to ally himself to somebody before this moment, but damn, Sherlock Holmes was something else.
"Oh, I couldn't let you do that," Sherlock assured him, tongue flicking across Jim's fingers, laving at the pads intensely briefly. He had never found somebody who was quite so able to tempt him sexually, to make that throbbing in his brain translate to his groin.
"I've been getting so very bored recently," Sherlock mused, almost to himself, letting out a sigh that made Jim shiver. Jim raised a quizzical eyebrow, playing stupid for a moment. "You seem to have an almost endless client list. If ever you needed a little… dare I say it… help?"
"I'll know who to call," Jim murmured, moving the finger from Sherlock's lips to brush aside one of Sherlock's dark curls. He closed his eyes, letting the caramel breath caress him, not making any secret of his attraction. A pity Sherlock was fixated on the elder Holmes. "I'll have him to you in a week."
"Three days," Sherlock said instantly, stiffening, moving a step away.
"Five."
"Deal. I'll text you the place," Sherlock said, turning to leave. Jim allowed himself a small smile; naturally, Sherlock had Jim's number. He needed to redistribute several contacts who had his direct number, it appeared.
"Oh Shirley, one more thing," Jim called as Sherlock reached the doorframe again, leaning against the counter, his erection bulging in his trousers. He kept his body angled towards Sherlock; might as well cultivate a potential sexual partner, if possible. Sherlock turned, eyebrow raised, eyes flicking briefly to Jim's groin with a shadow of amusement. "I wanna watch."
"I won't have you in the room," Sherlock said flatly.
"No fear babydoll, just send me the footage," Jim shrugged, continuing to flirt unapologetically. Sherlock didn't ask why, perhaps simply didn't care. In any case, he nodded, before vanishing through the doorway and into the London night.
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