Chapter 21: We Meet Again
"Ah, Sebby darling, there you are!" For an instant, Jim reminds Sebastian of some twisted little terrier dog barking around the heels of his master when master gets home from a tough day at the office. Sebastian lets that thought stew a little bit before closing the door to the basement room that has become Moriarty's favorite hang out. Cave, his mind supplies. Once again he finds Jim perched on the edge of the massive billiard table. And once again, Patricia Watson nee Anderson is stretched out on the chaise lounge in some sort of green formal gown. Sebastian ignores the woman, who is obviously so high she's not coming down for about twelve hours, and then turns pointedly towards his boss, putting the woman at his back as she is no threat. He unbuttons his coat and pushes it open so that Jim can see the violet blood stains standing out in relief across his white shirt.
Jim's eyebrows threaten to shoot into his magazine-cover worthy hairline, but only for a second and then he is composed all over. He uncrosses his legs and very slowly runs his palm over his crotch, licking his lips with flair. "You did it, then." His voice is a sultry whisper that Sebastian knows he cannot ignore, the dark red eye shadow on his eyelids drawing even more attention to the madness within. Sebastian wants to kiss him and then bite his lips off.
"It is done." He answers, sniffing his nose at the thought of the unspeakable person he had to pay ten quid to make a single telephone call for him.
Jim leans over the pool table so that he is crouched on all fours like a dog. His small waist is set off by the silvery gray sharkskin leather trousers he is currently wearing, drawing Sebastian's attention from his silk blood-red shirt to his ass as he crawls over to the side of it in order to get closer to Sebastian. "Come." He gestures for Sebastian to bend down towards his face. Jim immediately licks a stripe up the Sandman's rough cheek then purrs into his ear. "We have her formula, would you like to have a little fun?"
Sebastian shows no evidence that he has any idea what Jim is talking about. He cocks his head to the side as if he is listening to the secrets of the world and considers what sex would be like if he went ahead and split Jim's tongue in two in reality, instead of it just being a metaphysical fantasy. Sebastian has nothing against the woman, per se, but she has most certainly seen too much, therefore she is no longer useful. He reaches out to run his finger tip through the black mascara rimming Jim's eyelashes and thinks about how pretty he is, knowing that to say it out loud would be foolish.
So he grins at Jim instead and wonders what it would be like if they took her between their cocks together. Jim grins like a child who has just won a free trip to a candy store and is about to seriously overindulge. "You wicked, wicked man, you." Jim is touching him, then, peeling off his coat, but looking over his shoulder at Patricia, who is now unconscious. "A little celebration just for the Sandman and his daddy." His beady eyes stare into the blackness of the Sandman's nonexistent soul. "You could do her then, my darling."
"Anything for you, Daddy." Jim clambers down off the pool table and approaches the lounge, black eyes gleaming, with Sebastian one step behind. He hears his second most favorite sound in the world in that instant: the sound of a thick leather belt being removed from belt loops and cracked in the air like a whip. Sebastian slings the belt forward, just barely grazing the back of Jim's trousers and Jim begins to laugh in a high-pitched squeal that reminds the Sandman of the day he sold his heart to the devil.
o0o
John is already attempting to unwind by relaxing in the cab, looking forward to a nice, hot shower and maybe a good meal; he thinks he has missed normal English cuisine and begins to study the restaurants they pass.
"I am sorry, John, but I need to go to the house." Sherlock says, lying his gloved hands in his lap.
"Don't apologize, Sherlock, it's unnecessary. An explanation would be nice, though." John tears himself and his empty belly away from the windows to offer Sherlock his full attention. He puts his back to the door and angles one leg across the backseat.
"I need to be sure this is…" he suddenly remembers the cabbie and changes his tack. "I need to reassure myself this is the work of that criminal we have been discussing, though I do not doubt it for one second; before we can make other plans." He waits for John to get it, his fingers drumming against his thigh.
John shakes his head to the affirmative. "Alright. Dinner later, then?"
Sherlock lets out a chuckle just as they stop in front of the police station. "Of course." He clambers out of the cab, unfolding his long limbs and thrusts a handful of bills through the driver's window. John steps up beside him and together they enter the double doors, their legs working in an identical rythm.
Sherlock stops at the front desk and rather curtly demands to see Detective Lestrade. He is told in no uncertain terms that the detective has officially left for the day. After he asks the third time, the sergeant is glaring daggers at him.
"Do you have any idea where he is going?" Sherlock asks with a smirk.
The young officer behind the desk gives him a blank look that says very clearly that if Sherlock continues to argue with her he is going to end up in a holding cell. John can see it as if she's holding up a red flag, he grabs Sherlock's arm and drags the man back out the doors, pausing long enough to thank the young woman.
"What is wrong with you?" John spits just as the doors thump closed.
"I don't know, John. It just seems imperative that I get answers right now." He stares at John, eyes wide, almost panting, fingers raking through his hair. John believes him.
"Get control of yourself, yeah? Let's go on up to the house and then we will worry about the detective later. OK?" John offers, eyeing Sherlock like he is some brand new thing he has never seen before. "It seems like we would be able to find one or the other of them..."
Sherlock nods absently and flips the collar up on his long coat.
"What's with that?" John asks and points to the collar.
"What?" Sherlock stares down the street as if secretly willing a cab to appear out of thin air.
John shakes his head to clear the whole thing from between his ears and wonders for the first time if he really knows anything about Sherlock Holmes. Another cab pulls to a stop beside them, brakes squealing lightly. They drop into the backseat and Sherlock leans forward to give the cabbie the address of his family home.
o0o
Greg knows now that he has completely lost his mind when he realizes he is kneeling on the floor in front of Mycroft with the other man's prick in his mouth making the most obscene noises he has ever heard—and that includes the times he has been in the opposite position. He has one hand each over Mycroft's knees, giving Mycroft room to buck his hips and giving Greg the leverage to avoid being gagged. It is hot and filthy and Greg loves it; this is the first time Mycroft has ever let him, has ever relinquished thefucking power. Usually when they are together, Greg always gets to finish but Mycroft always seems to hold himself back. During the flight home, Greg decided that Mycroft must have the most control of any living male on the planet or was entirely too used to blue balls.
Mycroft groans and taps Greg on the shoulder, warning him. Greg shrugs and tightens his grip on Mycroft's knees as he finally lets go, his back arching so hard he almost falls so that Greg leans in, letting the other man know that he is there to support him. Mycroft's knees are almost on his shoulders when Mycroft straightens and drags Greg upwards, his entire body trembling. Greg considers for a moment climbing to the top of the hotel and beating his chest with his fists in order to announce to the whole world that he made Mycroft Holmes come. It is primal, fierce and completely intoxicating.
Lavish kisses sear their mouths with the heat of a bowlful of chili peppers, none-so-gently pulling Greg from his testosterone-induced daydream. Mycroft grabs at Greg's blue uniform shirt and just barely misses yanking any of the buttons off of it as they slide from their holes with a most obscene ease. He huffs a dark chuckle under his breath and manages to strip Greg and walk him to the bed at the same time where he soon repays the favor in kind, Greg's legs locked at the ankles about his broad shoulders, his name shouted from Greg's lips.
Later, when they are curled up in a ball of skin and sweat and heartbeats that are beating in time, Mycroft spreads one hand across Greg's bare chest and whispers into his ear, his tongue flicking out with each word, "Now, I feel like I am king of the world." Greg laughs and Mycroft wears the smuggest, most amused expression that Greg finds he needs to simply kiss it off of his face.
Much later, hours even, just as Sherlock and John are stepping into a cab in front of the precinct; Mycroft considers that he has not yet called his brother to tell him about Jeremy. Greg snuffs a little in his sleep, Mycroft thinks about the International Date Line and allows sleep to reclaim him; one hand carding through the soft silver hairs just curling as the sweat dries on the nape of the detective's neck.
o0o
Jim has the telly turned up at maximum volume, obsessively eyeing every single newscast he can find when Sebastian returns from his little errand. His eyes are cesspools of anger, the remote control clutched in bloodless fingers. His attention snaps towards Sebastian when the big man closes the door. Sebastian's only thought is that he believed he had more time.
"Something interesting has occurred since you left, Sand-dead-man." The temperature in the room falls about fifty degrees with the frigid sibilance of Jim's enunciation. He pushes a button on the remote that turns the television up even higher. A high-pitched woman's voice reading the copy makes Sebastian want to tear his own throat out with the irritation of it—never mind his mistake that Jim has just discovered.
…a cold-blooded murder at the manor house of Holmes Enterprises Racing, Limited occurred last night. The bleach-blonde announcer has a sparkle in her eyes reminiscent of Moriarity himself when Sebastian finally faces the screen. He is too much of an animal to react to that revelation, but it is there nonetheless. The victim is identified as twenty-eight year old Jeremy Sills, who was filling in for the oldest living Holmes heir, Mycroft. Mycroft was abroad recently, visiting his family's holding in America, where his little brother, a man once voted most eligible Bachelor by The Racing Times is recuperating from a nasty steeplechase accident last year….
Jim snaps off the television and throws the remote; it lands with the efficiency of a javelin directly in the center of the cable box, knocking it to the floor with a smash.
"Now see what you have done, Sebastian. You've gone and made daddy sooo angry!" Jim stands in the center of the floor, his expression beyond thunderous, his hands in fists at his sides. "Nevermind the fact you fucking lied to me, Sebastian, but you have put a kink in the works of a plan I have personally been constructed for the last five fuckin' years!" Jim is screeching now, not even attempting to hide the lilt of the brogue he normally manages to mask so that the word years comes clearly to Sebastian's ears as yars. Moriarty's face is blood red, his ultra-whitened teeth gnashing as he advances on Sebastian.
Sebastian drops to his knees in front of Jim, awaiting his punishment. He knows that Jim will not actually kill him, at least not yet, he is needed entirely too much for the rest of the plan. Moriarty only has the power to hurt Sebastian, and only because he lets the little psychopath have it.
"I must punish you, Sebastian. You know it hurts me more than it hurts you." Jim draws a short, slender razor-sharp switch blade from his back pocket and holds it against Sebastian's face. "You will fix this."
Knowing his words to be a lie that is blacker than the tar that runs through Moriarty's veins in place of blood, Sebastian accepts his punishment and does not scream, merely fingers the little keepsake he has hidden in his jeans pocket. He manages to block out the majority of the pain by considering all of the ways he will eventually end Jim.