A/N: Warning: NC-17 to the max. M/M dub-con.

With apologies to Robert Service, who most definitely could not imagine his poem, "The Men That Don't Fit In" being used in this manner, but it's just too perfect for Jim and Sherlock (and in the public domain if anyone is wondering). And apologies for any mistakes in this chapter. I wanted to get this posted tonight since I won't have a chance to write for a few days. I'll go in and review and fix any typos as I find them. Thanks for reading and putting up with my cliffhangers. There is a bit more to come.

"Fuck me … Jim."

Oh, it was music to his ears. After he released Sherlock, Jim would go and fetch the recording. He would listen to that sentence over and over again. He'd make it his fucking ringtone. Sherlock begging for Jim's cock. Callooh-callay, it was Christmas.

Because he owned Sherlock in this moment. Less than an hour ago, Sherlock had attempted to choke the life out of Jim and now he was squirming as Jim tongued his arsehole and played with him, spreading his creamy white buttocks apart, and opening him up until Sherlock was ready for Jim's cock.

He groaned deeply as he pushed inside, fingers digging into Sherlock's hips, drinking in the other man's cry of surrender. God, he was so tight and hot — Jim bit his lip until he tasted blood in an effort not to come in five seconds. How embarrassing that would be. He'd waited so long for this and had been so very patient and he intended to enjoy his prize.

He kept still for a few moments, mostly to collect himself and also to take in the view. The ridges of Sherlock's spine visible under pale flesh, the muscles taut and worrying, like the muscles that were twitching anxiously around Jim's cock at the moment.

"Now we reach the denouement, Sherlock," he droned, drawing his hips back, then snapping them forward sharply so his thighs slapped Sherlock's backside, causing the other man to groan, his long fingers twisting in the bedspread. "It's been so fun to play, but now I have to break you." He began thrusting in a slow, lazy fashion. "Well, I have broken you already, in a sense. You surrendered to me. To your body. To sex. To insanity. You've been a very good boy, but I just have to break you a little more. Enjoy the ride, pet."

Sherlock snarled and rocked his hips back, squeezing around Jim's cock even though it would be painful for him to do so. Jim let out a breathless laugh mixed with a moan of pleasure. "Oh, Sherlock, I adore you so. You are so much more fun than the normal people." He tightened his grip on the other man's squirming hips and deepened his thrusts as the two fell into steady rhythm, as if they'd been lovers in another life. "You know why? Because it's no fun to win with them. It's too easy. And when they break, they get all pathetic about it. Whimpering and crying and begging for mercy. But that's not your style, sexy, no. I wouldn't want to see you that way, ever. It would break my heart."

"If you had one," Sherlock growled, the noise deepening into something far more primal as Jim changed the angle of his thrusts to hit him deep in the spot that made his eyes rolls back.

"Well, yeah, of course," Jim panted, looking down to watch his cock working in and out between Sherlock's pale, rounded arse cheeks. "A purely hypothetical construct, of course. The problem with winning is that the pleasure is so fleeting, don't you agree?"

Sherlock merely grunted in response.

"You know what I mean," Jim gasped, digging his fingers in hard as a wave of pleasure rolled over him. "You finish a case and it's all 'hurray I'm so clever' and then immediately you're bored and grasping for the next thing." He leaned over and licked at the beads of sweat rising up on Sherlock's arching back. "That's how I feel, too. And how I will feel when this is all over. But for once, Sherlock, the moment is really lasting."

"Do people normally talk this much during sex?" Sherlock groaned.

Jim chuckled and reached forward to grab a handful of Sherlock's hair, pulling his head back and causing the other man to gasp sharply. "Who said anything about normal?" He flung Sherlock's head down again and abruptly pulled out, grabbing the other man's hips and flipping him roughly onto his back.

Sherlock looked up at Jim, his chest heaving, eyes darkened with lust and loathing. It was a gorgeous sight to Jim and he slid his hands up under Sherlock's slender thighs and hooked his knees over his shoulders, leaning forward and sinking deeply inside Sherlock again, deeper than he'd been before. Sherlock moaned, his head tipped back on the mattress. Jim pinned Sherlock's wrists above his head and took him hard, angling deeply into Sherlock again and again, with no reprieve. Glittering black locked with crystal blue. Sherlock's cries grew more urgent and Jim wanted to consume them, leaning over more and capturing the other man's full lips in a deep kiss. Their tongues tasted and tangled and they groaned and snarled against each other's mouths, the kisses more akin to bites.

Extraordinary. He'd never experienced anything quite like this before. That was unexpected. Jim's dark, brooding good looks and borderline personality had drawn in lovers — the kind of self-destructive people who were drawn to such qualities — from a young age. He'd lost his virginity before he could drive a car and he'd had countless conquests since then. He was, after all, the man who knew how to get anything he wanted. Anyone.

But it was different with Sherlock. Maybe because it was the closest thing Jim had found to an equal match. Maybe because he didn't have to play a role — those were the most boring. When he was playing a character like Jim from IT, or the current role he was researching. Nice, sweet guys who made love in a nice, sweet way. Ugh. He'd honestly rather masturbate and was rather thankful when that sickly sweet Molly dumped "Jim" before he had to go through the motions.

And the ones who needed more convincing, well, they just didn't pose the kind of fun challenge that Sherlock did. More empty victories. But this was entirely different. This felt … right? It threw him momentarily off-balance and he cursed himself for it because there was Sherlock, staring up at him and he knew. Of course he knew.

"Hello, Jim," the detective whispered sweetly.

Jim merely let a reptilian smile spread across his face and he nodded his head slowly in acknowledgement before releasing Sherlock's hands and moving back up to a kneeling position, still keeping Sherlock's legs up over his shoulders.

"You're getting entirely too cocky," he droned. "No pun intended."

"Oh, please," Sherlock panted, his face contorting.

Jim grinned wider. "Yeah, okay, so maybe it was intended. Point being, seeing as you are such a quick study, I think it's time for the endgame. I'm going to keep fucking this sweet arse of yours while I watch you wank yourself off."

Sherlock's cock was still hard from being rubbed against the mattress when he'd been positioned on his stomach. He paused for a long moment, but a hard push against his prostate from Jim's cock was enough motivation for him to reach for his erection and begin stroking. It was awkward at first — he didn't touch himself often and had rarely brought himself to orgasm.

Jim slowed his pace a bit — he was teetering dangerously close to the edge and he didn't want to lose it before he got to see the big show. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Sherlock how very adorable and inept he was. So very charming, but that would likely take the wind out of the poor boy's sails and Jim wanted to come. Soon.

Sherlock's breathing came even faster and he found his rhythm, his long fingers stroking and twisting around the shaft of his cock, thumb teasing the head. Jim groaned, moving a little harder again, wanting to feel friction on his cock at the same time. He turned his head to the side and licked behind Sherlock's knee, causing the other man to moan softly in surprise. The head of his cock was wet and slick and he spread the moisture over the shaft.

"Come for me, Sherlock," Jim said softly, seductively. He rocked his hips and began hitting Sherlock's prostate in a steady rhythm, watching Sherlock's hand move faster and faster, his eyes rolling back, muscles tightening and … yes.

Sherlock let out a fierce, groaning cry as he climaxed, back arching as he shot hard over his fingers, stomach, belly, and chest, some even making it as far as his throat. He clenched down around Jim, who nearly roared in response and he began frantically pumping into Sherlock, thighs slapping hard against flesh and moments later his fingernails were digging hard enough into Sherlock's thighs to leave marks as he came, his head tipping back, his cries soundless in their intensity. Their movements slowed and then stopped and then there was completely silence except for the sound of laboured breathing, as neither man was capable of motion or speech.

Jim eventually leaned back on his knees, his head tipping back for a long moment, eyes fluttering shut as he basked in the flame of his climax. He couldn't remember the last time he had come so hard and was close to sharing that fact with Sherlock, but that would probably give the detective even more satisfaction and Jim didn't feel like sharing right then. No, he'd text that bit of information to Sherlock at a later date. The day he was to die, probably. That seemed appropriate.

He slowly pulled out and held Sherlock's knees apart for a few extra moments to enjoy the sight of his semen trickling out of the other man's stretched hole. Oh, that was very nice. Very nice, indeed. He released Sherlock's knees and the sleuth let them fall to the bed with a sigh.

"Oh, this is a nice look on you," murmured Jim, reaching over into the bedside table drawer once again. "Speechless and covered in spunk. Soooo dreamy."

Sherlock grunted in response and continued to breathe shakily, his eyes closing as he processed the sensations he was experiencing post-coitus. Then he heard a sound and smelled an achingly familiar scent. His eyes flew open when something brushed against his lips. Jim was leaning over him, smiling wickedly, eyes still glittering. He was holding the filter-end of a lit cigarette to Sherlock's lips. The detective's pale eyes flicked up at Jim and he debated for a brief moment before shrugging minutely and letting his lips close around the offering. He inhaled deeply, letting out a small groan of pleasure before nestling the cigarette between two fingers and extracting it, exhaling in a steady stream.

"You earned it, I reckon," Jim murmured. He lit one for himself, picked up an ashtray and a small folded towel on the table, and lay on his back next to Sherlock, dragging lazily on the cigarette, setting the ashtray on his bare stomach. "I won't tell Mycroft if you won't." He tossed the towel onto Sherlock's stomach.

Sherlock let out an amused snort in spite of himself, picking up the towel and wiping some of the mess off his torso.

They smoked in silence for a minute or two.

Sherlock blew a series of elegant smoke rings. "So … what happens now?" he asked.

Jim shrugged. "You put your clothes on and go home. Same car that brought you here. You'll need to wear your handcuffs and blindfold like a good boy. The doctor will be delivered separately. I prefer you two not start comparing notes until I'm farther away. This game is over." Jim stretched luxuriously, watching the two clouds of smoke intermingling. "You have to admit it, though."

"Admit what, exactly?"

"I know you, Sherlock," Jim drawled. "The only time you feel alive is when you're working on a case. But not this time. Because you're like me."

"As you're fond of repeating."

"We're the men who don't fit in." Jim took a drag and exhaled, before reciting: "'There's a race of men that don't fit in, a race that can't stay still; so they break the hearts of kith and kin, and they roam the world at will. They range the field and they rove the flood, and they climb the mountain's crest; theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood, and they don't know how to rest.'"

Sherlock chuckled softly, then looked over at Jim, countering: "'If they just went straight they might go far; they are strong and brave and true; but they're always tired of the things that are, and they want the strange and new.'"

Jim giggled with delight. Sherlock really was so much fun.

Sherlock took another drag and continued through a plume of smoke. "'They say: "Could I find my proper groove, what a deep mark I would make!" So they chop and change, and each fresh move … is only a fresh mistake.'"

Jim clutched his cigarette between his lips and rewarded Sherlock with a slow clap. "A-plus in recitation, Mr. Holmes. I bet Teacher just looooved you."

"Robert Service. Dylan Thomas. A little predictable, don't you think?"

"I live a life of constant innovation, Sherlock. Forgive me for occasionally taking comfort in the classics."

Sherlock shrugged, reaching over to tap into the ashtray, looking over at Jim, abruptly changing the subject. "No condom, I noticed. But I don't imagine I have anything to be concerned about … a man as fastidious as yourself."

"Excellent deduction, as usual," Jim murmured, dragging deep. "I am extremely fussy about who I put my dick into. If I can't get my hands on a nice, fresh fuck like you, I use condoms, and I was tested before I had you. Not that it really matters. I'm going to kill you before any VD might get you."

"How comforting," said Sherlock dryly.

"As a matter of reputation, however, I can reliably inform you that I'm the cleanest thing that's ever been inside that virgin arse of yours. Though I'm sure the doctor will insist you undergo the full battery of tests."

"Of course."

"And you'll do it to placate him."

"Of course."

"But you already know you have nothing to worry about in that area."

"Of course."

"Boooooooring."

Sherlock took a final, deep drag of his cigarette and regarded the glowing tip for a moment, then turned and instead of stubbing it in the ashtray, he ground it hard into Jim's arm.

Jim screamed and involuntarily flailed, sending the ashtray flying. "FUCK!" The smell of singed flesh entered the air as Jim clasped a hand over the wound, staring daggers at Sherlock.

"That wasn't boring, was it?" Sherlock said mildly, then his expression turned hard. "Think of it as something to remember me by."

Jim glanced over at the laptop. "That was very stupid, Sherlock." He still held his lit cigarette and was looking at the expanse of Sherlock's naked flesh.

"Oh, John?" said Sherlock. "For god's sake, the man took a bullet through the shoulder in Afghanistan. I'm sure he could handle a cigarette burn. In fact, he'd welcome it knowing you already got yours. And what, are you going to burn me now? Tit for tat? I thought you already planned to burn the heart out of me." He stared hard at Jim, challenging him.

Jim's angry expression softened into a smirk. He looked at his cigarette and took a final drag and stubbed it out on the wall. "Nawww, you're too pretty."

"So are you. I could have burned your face instead."

"Very considerate." Jim took his hand away to inspect the burn, licking the pad of his thumb to wipe away any residual ash. "Nice souvenir, actually. I'll enjoy that. Sure you don't want to initial it? I can have a knife brought in."

Sherlock sat up. "I think I've satisfied your perverse needs enough for one night?"

Jim sat up as well, shifting his body to loll against the luxurious pillows on the bed. He inspected his nails idly. "Perverse? I didn't rip your clothes, I used lube, I made you come your brains out, and I recited poetry to you. Twice. Honey, this is the closest anyone gets to a romantic date with the likes of me. Maybe I'll send you flowers tomorrow."

"I'd prefer a nice murder case."

"That could be arranged."

"Oh, I have little doubt," murmured Sherlock, wincing as he bent to pick up his pants and trousers off the floor.

"Mmm, yes. I did you very thoroughly. You'll be walking funny for a day or two. It'll pass. Sadly. But I will take pleasure in knowing you'll be able to feel me even when I'm not here."

"I always feel your presence even when you're not nearby."

Jim grinned widely. "I know. Isn't it marvellous? I am going to miss this, Sherlock. This thing we have. Sadly, though, your time is running out. Tick-tock."

Sherlock slipped his feet into his shoes and stood up, fastening his trousers before picking up his shirt and shrugging into it.

Jim snapped his fingers hard and said loudly, "You may take the doctor back to the car now. Try not to damage him this time. Though he has no reason to fight now."

Sherlock looked at Jim sharply. "Damage? What did they do to him?"

Jim shrugged, waving his hand dismissively. "Nothing serious. He's a feisty one, your pet. Had to be subdued a little during shipping. Like you said, he's tough. He can take it."

Sherlock growled a little in the back of his throat, shoving his arm so hard into his jacket that stitches popped.

"Really, Sherlock," Jim chastised. "You shouldn't be so obvious about your weak spot. It's so boringly exploitable."

"Despite how it may appear to your decidedly one-sided point of view, John is far more of a danger to you than a chink in my armour." Sherlock slipped on his coat and looped his scarf around his throat, effectively hiding the bruises Jim had left behind.

"Oh, I'm counting on it," Jim trilled.

"Oh, and Jim?" Sherlock asked mildly.

"Yes, Sherlock, darling."

Sherlock's gaze turned hard. "I admit to nothing. But you certainly admitted something to me."

Jim's jaw clenched for a moment. Though a moment was all Sherlock ever needed to see the truth.

"See you soon, then?" Sherlock said condescendingly.

"Oh, you can count on it," said Jim, his eyes cold and steady. "Sooner than you think." He paused and shrugged. "You know what? I'll admit to one more thing, Sherlock."

"Oh?" Sherlock put on his fake "I'm so fascinated!" face. "Do tell!"

"I don't usually ever fuck anyone twice. Too boring. But you … I think we could have a lot more fun. No kidnapping this time. You come to me of your own free will."

Sherlock let out a snort of laughter. "You honestly think I would do that?"

Jim shrugged, eyes widening. "Anything is possible for the men who don't fit in, Sherlock. And your time is running low. Think about it." He held up his pinkie finger and thumb to the side of his head like a telephone. "Call me!" he mouthed dramatically.

Sherlock said nothing and whirled about to rap sharply on the door. "I believe it's time for you to let me out," he said fiercely. The door opened and the guard made visual contact with Jim, who nodded in the affirmative, before ushering Sherlock out.

Jim sighed softly and reached for another cigarette. Indeed, the chances of Sherlock and he having another "date" were slim, but he knew once an idea nestled itself into Sherlock's marvellous brain, it took a lot to banish it. He would wait and see. For as long as he could. He didn't have the time to set up another ruse such as this one. Mentally, he circled a date on the calendar. He had plans to visit the Tower of London. After that, nothing would be the same ever again. That was comforting, at least. Jim couldn't stand it when things stayed the same.

He lit up and exhaled, murmuring to himself the final beats of the poem, "'He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone. He's a man who won't fit in.'"