A/N:
So sorry I forgot to post the 2nd chapter; it's been written for months I think. But I haven't continued this yet because I'm stuck. Does anyone have any suggestions for where to go from here? Un-beta'd once again - sorry.
Chapter 2: Unpredicted
"What do you mean-" Sherlock grinds through his teeth, "-this was all part of your plan?"
"Oh, come off it, Sherlock. You're starting to bore me again." Jim plops down onto his sofa, gesturing for Sherlock to take a seat wherever he likes. Surprisingly, he chooses the sofa as well. The edge of it, of course.
"What I mean is I have you exactly where I want you. And, before you ask, no, I don't intend to force myself on you. How mind-numbingly dull." Jim looks down at his manicured nails, demonstrating just how dull it really is.
Sherlock stands abruptly, teeth bared when he turns to face Jim. "The snipers were a lie. The threats…You just knew that I'd come to that conclusion since you've displayed such animosity towards the people around me in the past."
"Very good, Sherly. Now you're back on track. Let's see if you can go for the twenty thousand dollar prize."
"I am…free to leave as I please." Sherlock narrows his eyes, watching Jim slowly light up with a smile. "And you won't harm John."
"Wouldn't dream of ending our little game that way. Go on." Jim crosses his legs, looking up expectantly at Sherlock.
Sherlock's mouth thins; he drops his coat off his shoulders, throwing it away carelessly. "You expect me to give myself up to you willingly. You think that you won't need to point a gun to my head to get me to enjoy it."
Jim grins. "Oh, I know I won't need to ask. But that's not the best part. Tell me: what is it, Sherlock? What's the actual twist? What do you hate more than relinquishing control?"
There's a flurry of ideas that come to mind. None of which Sherlock can really approve of.
Jim was meant to be rough; make Sherlock hate him (and his mind that offers up the most seductive of surprises); be distracted by what Sherlock can provide, so he could secretly escape; become violent, so Sherlock would have no choice but to kill him.
But – but Jim is being passive. He's sitting down in front of Sherlock, unarmed and open about his real intentions. He's letting Sherlock have the upper hand, giving him all the freedom he needs, asking for nothing …That's impossible.
Sherlock's eyes widen, his hands curling into fists. This cannot be it. "The rules, every ounce of power you have, everything you said you'd do to me…"
"Yes, yes, yes. I'm yours for the taking, sweetheart. I know how much you love people throwing themselves at your feet."
Jim stands, hands folded behind his back. "But if you don't treat me like a good master should, well." He smirks, eyes wide with mischief. "Maybe John wouldn't mind taking your place. Think I should ring him up?"
Sherlock's fingers are around Jim's wrist before he even gets his mobile out of his pant pocket. "You said you wouldn't involve him."
"I did, didn't I? Sorry, Sherlock. Or do you prefer Master Holmes?" he leaves his wrist exactly where it is, eyes boring into Sherlock's while the tension slips from his shoulders.
"Don't. Call me. That," Sherlock snaps. Even to his own ears, the sharpness of his words could cut through thin air.
"What would you like me to call you, Master?" Jim says softly, eyes wide and too inexplicably innocent. Sherlock's blood is boiling.
"Stop it." Sherlock knows his face is twisting into a snarl; he's damn near as infuriated as he was when Jim pretended to be Rich Brooke. Ah, yes. That explains it all.
Jim found out then – when Sherlock couldn't keep his emotions from spilling out, and staining the floor like a volcano eruption – just what Sherlock hates more than anything.
True to his word, Jim bows his head, voice almost pleading when he says, "I'm so sorry. What would you like me to call you?"
Sherlock's fingers are tangled in the fabric of Jim's shirt before he can stop himself; he's shaking him, wanting to throttle Jim until the sadistic bastard returns from within this useless shell of a character. Sherlock is fuming, and this is all fuckin' according to Jim's plan. He knows it in his bones, and, yet, there's nothing he can do to stop his bubbling anger from overflowing.
There's blood on Sherlock's knuckles when the anger subsides enough for him to come back to himself.
"Jim; one, Sherlock; zero," Jim announces gleefully from the couch, wiping the remnants of blood from his split lip. He sighs happily, stretching out across the cushions. "Unless you want to keep hitting me, or put your pretty little fingers in more interesting places, you're free to go."
Jim waits until Sherlock is at the front entrance to add, "And I expect you back here tomorrow, whenever it's convenient of course; otherwise, John is going to be paid a friendly visit from yours truly."
Sherlock ignores the "Goodbye, Master" he hears through the door on his way down the steps.
TBC
