o.O.o.O.o.O.o
He had been a patient man. He had tolerated his brother, had allowed him time to dabble in his fancies. But now was not the time to remain idle. Alistair Jefferson pried open one of the many crates, revealing jars of rusty orange powder that lay comfortably in beds of straw. The glass felt cool against his fingers as he examined the labels. To a common man they looked like simple chemical powders or some kind of exotic spice. Alistair glanced at the men hunched over the various tables where large containers of orange acid were being attended to, being turned into the powder in which he held.
"Sir."
Alistair carefully placed the precious powder back down into the crate. One of his men walked over, acid stained hands presenting deformed beads of gold that shone in the torch light. Alistair turned the gold over with his long fingers; fingers that were covered in thin, white scars that told many a tale of hard work. "Have everything ready to sail in three weeks time."
The small man gave a quick nod before hurrying through the stone corridors. Alistair's green eyes glinted, the gold rough against his palm. His plan was almost complete. The Bank of London would fall and their father would be avenged.
A shaky cough brought him back to the present, as he turned his gaze up, focusing on the tall, nervous man beside him.
"I do not - I do not think... we can have all of the bars ready -"
"Mr. Stockburk." The voice was cold; the type of cold that seeped deep into the very depth of your bones and chilled you from within.
Mr. Riley Stockburk broke off, nervous beads of sweat starting to appear while his narrow eyes fixated on the stone floor. The bank manager reached for a silken handkerchief, blotting away the beads of sweat above his brow. Alistair frowned, green eyes hard and unforgiving. He reached up, nails bitting into the taller man's shoulder..
"If you want to see your family again, Mr. Stockburk, you will follow the orders I gave you. If I say to have all of the bars ready, they will be ready. You have influence in the Bank, I trust you will be able to keep the timeline I have set forth. Yes? Good man."
Mr. Stockburk managed a frightened nod, wincing as the scarred man gave one last painful squeeze before disappearing down the maze-like corridors that lay hidden deep beneath the bustling city of London.
o.O.o.O.o.O.o
Sherlock Holmes slowly slid down the wall, his legs finally giving way. His breathing was laboured; his chest moved rapidly as if forgetting that breath sustained the life force. His stomach tightened with each inhale, displaying carved muscles. His nipples cried out against his shirt; the fine silk teasing them into hardened pebbles desperate for attention.
A powerful arm immediately snaked around his naked waist, clasping hard and holding his weight; the other man's fingers dug into his hips, pinning the detective against the other. The smell of sweat, spilled seed, and the hint of lavender that battled against the sea was overwhelming.
Out. I need out.
Mind hazy and with a low groan, Sherlock attempted to push the other man away; Paul Jefferson easily caught Sherlocks hand, bringing it down towards the hard heat between the his trousers. The detective felt his mouth suddenly go dry. He glanced through lowered lashes, meeting the other's gaze. Something akin to fear sprouted deep in the pit of Sherlock's belly; the fire in those green eyes held something dark. Something insatiable and sinister - but the thought vanished; his attention brought back to the present situation. Paul had begun guiding Sherlock's palm up and down against the tight fabric that held the taller man's erection prisoner.
Sherlock suddenly felt the absence of heat around his waist; Paul wove fingers into Sherlocks thick, curly hair forcing back the detectives head. Paul found Sherlock's exposed throat and bit down; tongue and teeth teasing salty skin.
Sherlock shivered, hearing the sound of fabric fall to the floor.
"We belong together, Sherlock Holmes."
The detective felt his fingers guided around the freed erection; a silent rhythm maneuvered into a rising chorus of desire.
o.O.o.O.o.O.o
Sherlock watched with unfocused eyes the world outside the window. The morning greeted him the familiar sights and smells of the mundane world as the people below went about quotidian activities. His stomach rumbled hungrily, alerting him to his need of nourishment. Wrinkling his nose, the detective silently dismissed the notion. With a disgruntled growl he suddenly rose, running his hands maniacally through his bed tousled hair. Cursing he glanced at himself in the mirror that hung magnificently over rich, floral wallpaper. His hair was wild, his almond eyes hidden with thick long lashes, and his lips were a little pale. Sherlock crinkled his lips in an 'o', then pouted, then gave a large false grin. His tried dancing his eyebrows to and fro before settling on a slight frown. His eyes darted to his neck; deep reddish-purple bruises had formed from last night's... Sherlock shook his head as if trying to clear all wandering thoughts.
"Argh!" Sherlock shouted, slumping to the carpet and finding himself staring up at the ceiling. He tried not to pay attention to the throbbing of his ears.
"You alright?"
Sherlock ignored the man's voice.
"Mrs. Hudson thought you might like this."
Sherlock cocked his head to the side, staring up at Paul who had entered the room with a full breakfast tray.
"I am not-" Sherlock broke off as his stomach angrily contradicted his statement. "hungry..."
"Eat." Paul placed the tray down on the brass table that had been cleared of all loose papers and quills. Sherlock rolled on his side refusing to get up off the floor. Paul chuckled and sat down on the chair. Sherlock stared silently as his flatmate began buttering freshly baked scones. Sherlock's mind was like a tormented bee; his thoughts scattering here and there not fully knowing where to land.
o.O.o.O.o.O.o
John Watson unconsciously tugged at his gloves. He weaved his way through the bustling streets, his mind preoccupied. Sherlock had seemed rather distracted at dinner. He had anticipated that Sherlock would have been - well - Sherlock. But something had seemed off; he had seemed rather distant and hadn't made much attempt at conversation; he hadn't even gone off on one of his tangents. A wave of intense emotion washed over John. He could recall every detail of Sherlock; the way he looked in his fitted black velvet suite that seemed to adhere to every corner of his body. Sherlock had lost weight; a slender figure that was still powerful and muscular. The doctor recalled the way the man's long fingers had held the fork at dinner and the way the detectives throat had danced every time he swallowed. The man had a sensual throat.
"Outta the way!"
A man shouted, breaking John's train of thought. The doctor cursed, narrowly missing a carriage. Focus John Watson. Focus. He hastened his steps, and soon found his way to his old residence of 221B Baker Street. Closing his eyes and taking a steadying breath, John knocked on the heavy wooden doors.
"Mrs. Hudson!" John grinned as the landlady greeted him at the door, her familiar kind face breaking out into a smile.
"Dr. Watson! Oh how lovely it is to see you again."
"Is he in? Holmes?"
"He is, dear. I just sent Lieutenant Jefferson up with some fresh breakfast. There should be enough for you, if you like."
Nodding his thanks, yet internally frowning his disapproval at the mentioned of Mr. Jefferson, he took the stairs, ignoring the large portraits hanging on the wallpapered walls; their eyes following him as he made his way up. The brass knob turned, the door announcing his arrival with a squeal. The room was bathed in sunlight; the heavy drapes were pulled back and secured with a thick golden cord while a variety of tropical plants decorated the room. Rainbows danced along the floral wallpaper - Sherlock had hung all sorts of crystals near the windows - and the sun sparkled off crystal glasses.
John was almost at a loss for words. The room was unusually clean; the lack of dust particles floating across the flat, the missing mountain of paper and quills, or the vast chemical experiments that the detective seems to have on the go. The doctors gaze moved towards the centre of the room. His heart jumped; Sherlock lay on his side, in the middle of the royal red carpet, his hair looking as if a storm had passed through (or a bird had made an unruly nest). He was dressed in an almost see-through white silk shirt, and a pair of linen pants that seemed made for a man twice his size. They were secured around his waist with a red sash.
John felt his jaw drop.
Sherlock Holmes looked like a pirate. Sherlock Holmes had pierced his ears. Sherlock Holmes had love marks across that exposed, seductive throat.