[FIC] Methodus Pugnandi (BBC Sherlock; inter-Reichenbach)
Title: Methodus Pugandi
Verse: BBC Sherlock
Pairings: Sherlock/Moriarty
Genre: Psych thriller, action, semi-PWP
Rating: R to NC-17
Word Count: ~1.2K
Summary: Jim and Sherlock are put in the same cell during the court case. Violence, dirty talk, dub-con, frottage, etc. ensues.
Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock is still not mine. Damnit.
[A/N]: After much editing and re-editing I still cannot read this without cringing; finally I decided to just throw this out there so I can stop thinking about it. So, you have been warned. Comments and reviews are very much appreciated.
The cell door clangs shut, an almost comical sound, overdramatic and loud - and yet piteous in its solitude. It’s a boxing ring, or a cage fight, or a gladiator show, and someone had just rung the bell.
Depsite the mid-morning sun, the air is humid and chilly enough to make the hairs on Sherlock’s arms stand up. Light shines through the bars of the high window, a bar of butter-gold suspended in an ten-times-twelve-feet-square cement. There’s nothing here but two metal-framed beds pushed against opposite walls, screwed tightly into the floor.
And the other beast in the cage looks up at Sherlock through his eyelashes, as the detective wheels around to defend - against what? He asks himself.
The answer comes in the form of Jim’s dark eyes, as stagnant as a toxic lake where things come to die, and as scorching as liquid nitrogen. They grow closer as Jim paces forward, almost leisurely, the soles of his five-hundred-sterling boots striking the ground.
Clack.
Clack.
Clack.
Sherlock refuses to back down or to look away. Jim grins in gratification, and Sherlock cocks his head slightly, like a curious schoolboy.
As with many things about James Moriarty, the blow comes without warning; Jim’s open hand flies through the air and leaves an angry imprint on his opponent’s cheek. Sherlock’s eyes flash as he turns back, fists poised, but Jim is quicker, and backhands him across the other cheek. For a split second Sherlock stumbles, and it’s almost like the smaller man has won - but it was only a feint, and he falls to the ground, graceful as a wildcat. His long legs swing around and actually sweeps Jim’s feet from under him. There is a heavy thump as Jim lands on his back, his head snapping against the concrete, and he laughs, long and low, as Sherlock climbs on top of him. He only stops for a few seconds when the fist connects with his face, sending blood trickling from his nose.
“Naughty boy,” Jim bucks hard, twice, and manages to flip them over. Straddling Sherlock’s midriff, he presses two thumbs against the windpipe, just so - and the man under him writhes from pain and dizziness.
Jim laughs again, this time ecstatic. Blood drips onto his lips and he licks them clean. Swallows. He leans down, close to Sherlock’s ear, and whispers to his lost soul. “Now, now, we can play this game as long as you like - but won’t that just be boring, my dear?”
Sherlock stills at the caress of the voice against his ear. He feels his heart speed up, trying to supply his body with enough oxygen, and tries to stamp down on the panic that threatens to bubble up his throat; Jim’s mouth twitches in either amusement, or approval, or both. Slowly, the hands relax.
Then Jim shifts, and the entire world collapses, leaving only the unmistakable feeling of male hardness trapped between their bodies. He can see the breath leave the other man’s body.
“Your pupils are dilated,” observes the detective, voice rough from the abuse.
Jim shrugs. “So are yours,” he breathes.
A beat.
Sherlock is aware that Jim’s hands are nowhere near his throat, now. Instead they are deftly unknotting the tie - a double Windsor, he notes dully, and takes the opportunity to grab the other man by the lapels and roll him on his back as roughly as he could.
“Very confident, are we?” Jim asks with an eyebrow raised, his patronizing expression seemingly belied by a subtle lick of his lower lip.
Sherlock answers with a bruising kiss, tasting the metallic tang of blood, the remnants of pre-court tea laced with whiskey and that dratted gum, sweet and distracting. Their tongues slide together and Jim makes a noise; it sounds almost helpless. As if to make up for this, Jim bites down, hard, on Sherlock’s lower lip as he withdraws, and sucks on the bloodied wound until the other man gasps. Before he knows it, they have exchanged positions again. He curses himself for the carelessness, and for the brief feeling of fear - the fear of an animal of prey - before his mind settles down into intrigue and excitement.
He tries to move and finds his hands have been bound in an almost impossible knot, the silk blend of the tie too tough to rip - it would take at least two minutes to slip out of them. Jim swoops down finally on his prize, claiming another kiss, casual and teasing, and Sherlock tries to bite but misses. Jim tuts, and leans back in to speak, his voice low and his breath hot against sensitized skin.
“Honey, don’t you think I know -”
Jim licks the skin where jaw and neck joins, the hint of teeth sending an involuntary shudder through Sherlock’s body -
“- How you would like this, me against you - “
He bites a trail down his neck and the cool air informs Sherlock of his open shirt -
“- Touching you-“
Fingernails scrape cruelly down his chest, leaving thin red welts, and making him cry out and break out in cold sweat from the stinging pain -
- Your skin against my skin -”
Pale hands wander to that dip between hip and waist to pull them flush -
“- Until there is nothing left, but us, stripped bare?-”
A delicious, raw friction sends jolts of pleasure from his groin to his brain, new and intense -
- Mr. Virgin,” Jim hisses, serpentine, in his ear, as Sherlock comes with a shout, his body snapping into a perfect arc; his mind is entirely unprepared for the feeling that wracks his every nerve.
It’s like being burned up, from the inside out.
Sherlock opens his eyes, albeit blearily, to find his hands sore but untied, and Jim unbuttoning his trousers.
“Darling, if you fall asleep on me, I’ll have your guts for garters. Actually,” he stops in his tracks with a look of genuine interest, “I might do that anyway. Not to you, not right now, but - oh, well.” Jim sighs as Sherlock reaches for him, takes him in his hand, and strokes, hard and unforgiving, until he knows it must hurt at least a little at this pace. The criminal’s hands fist into his shirt as he falls forward, mouth open in a moan that shakes Sherlock to his bone marrow and sets his teeth on edge.
Jim moves off him just when Sherlock’s mental faculties start whirring back to life. He climbs back on his feet, still slightly off-balance, and observes Jim re-clothing himself for a few moments, before moving to do the same himself, making sure to check that his belongings are still in order. The wardens should come by any minute now.
“…Hey, Sherlock,” Jim calls out, and Sherlock whirls around, hearing something in the intonation - a note of hilarity, perhaps? “Nearly forgot, I have something for you.”
Slowly, the criminal mastermind withdraws a stick of Wrigley’s chewing gum from his bespoke Prada trouser pocket.
He pops one piece into his mouth and offers the confectionery to Sherlock. Their eyes meet.
Something nags at Sherlock's gut; he rarely listens to instinct, but there is something jarring about this simple, even friendly, gesture.
“…No, thank-you,” Sherlock decides.
Jim merely smiles, sweet and poisonous. “Not a sweets person? I prefer chocolate liqueurs myself. Nothing you can get at Waitrose, mind.”
And he starts humming a tune - Humperdinck’s Hänsel und Gretel - rocking on the balls of his feet.
End
Verse: BBC Sherlock
Pairings: Sherlock/Moriarty
Genre: Psych thriller, action, semi-PWP
Rating: R to NC-17
Word Count: ~1.2K
Summary: Jim and Sherlock are put in the same cell during the court case. Violence, dirty talk, dub-con, frottage, etc. ensues.
Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock is still not mine. Damnit.
[A/N]: After much editing and re-editing I still cannot read this without cringing; finally I decided to just throw this out there so I can stop thinking about it. So, you have been warned. Comments and reviews are very much appreciated.
The cell door clangs shut, an almost comical sound, overdramatic and loud - and yet piteous in its solitude. It’s a boxing ring, or a cage fight, or a gladiator show, and someone had just rung the bell.
Depsite the mid-morning sun, the air is humid and chilly enough to make the hairs on Sherlock’s arms stand up. Light shines through the bars of the high window, a bar of butter-gold suspended in an ten-times-twelve-feet-square cement. There’s nothing here but two metal-framed beds pushed against opposite walls, screwed tightly into the floor.
And the other beast in the cage looks up at Sherlock through his eyelashes, as the detective wheels around to defend - against what? He asks himself.
The answer comes in the form of Jim’s dark eyes, as stagnant as a toxic lake where things come to die, and as scorching as liquid nitrogen. They grow closer as Jim paces forward, almost leisurely, the soles of his five-hundred-sterling boots striking the ground.
Clack.
Clack.
Clack.
Sherlock refuses to back down or to look away. Jim grins in gratification, and Sherlock cocks his head slightly, like a curious schoolboy.
As with many things about James Moriarty, the blow comes without warning; Jim’s open hand flies through the air and leaves an angry imprint on his opponent’s cheek. Sherlock’s eyes flash as he turns back, fists poised, but Jim is quicker, and backhands him across the other cheek. For a split second Sherlock stumbles, and it’s almost like the smaller man has won - but it was only a feint, and he falls to the ground, graceful as a wildcat. His long legs swing around and actually sweeps Jim’s feet from under him. There is a heavy thump as Jim lands on his back, his head snapping against the concrete, and he laughs, long and low, as Sherlock climbs on top of him. He only stops for a few seconds when the fist connects with his face, sending blood trickling from his nose.
“Naughty boy,” Jim bucks hard, twice, and manages to flip them over. Straddling Sherlock’s midriff, he presses two thumbs against the windpipe, just so - and the man under him writhes from pain and dizziness.
Jim laughs again, this time ecstatic. Blood drips onto his lips and he licks them clean. Swallows. He leans down, close to Sherlock’s ear, and whispers to his lost soul. “Now, now, we can play this game as long as you like - but won’t that just be boring, my dear?”
Sherlock stills at the caress of the voice against his ear. He feels his heart speed up, trying to supply his body with enough oxygen, and tries to stamp down on the panic that threatens to bubble up his throat; Jim’s mouth twitches in either amusement, or approval, or both. Slowly, the hands relax.
Then Jim shifts, and the entire world collapses, leaving only the unmistakable feeling of male hardness trapped between their bodies. He can see the breath leave the other man’s body.
“Your pupils are dilated,” observes the detective, voice rough from the abuse.
Jim shrugs. “So are yours,” he breathes.
A beat.
Sherlock is aware that Jim’s hands are nowhere near his throat, now. Instead they are deftly unknotting the tie - a double Windsor, he notes dully, and takes the opportunity to grab the other man by the lapels and roll him on his back as roughly as he could.
“Very confident, are we?” Jim asks with an eyebrow raised, his patronizing expression seemingly belied by a subtle lick of his lower lip.
Sherlock answers with a bruising kiss, tasting the metallic tang of blood, the remnants of pre-court tea laced with whiskey and that dratted gum, sweet and distracting. Their tongues slide together and Jim makes a noise; it sounds almost helpless. As if to make up for this, Jim bites down, hard, on Sherlock’s lower lip as he withdraws, and sucks on the bloodied wound until the other man gasps. Before he knows it, they have exchanged positions again. He curses himself for the carelessness, and for the brief feeling of fear - the fear of an animal of prey - before his mind settles down into intrigue and excitement.
He tries to move and finds his hands have been bound in an almost impossible knot, the silk blend of the tie too tough to rip - it would take at least two minutes to slip out of them. Jim swoops down finally on his prize, claiming another kiss, casual and teasing, and Sherlock tries to bite but misses. Jim tuts, and leans back in to speak, his voice low and his breath hot against sensitized skin.
“Honey, don’t you think I know -”
Jim licks the skin where jaw and neck joins, the hint of teeth sending an involuntary shudder through Sherlock’s body -
“- How you would like this, me against you - “
He bites a trail down his neck and the cool air informs Sherlock of his open shirt -
“- Touching you-“
Fingernails scrape cruelly down his chest, leaving thin red welts, and making him cry out and break out in cold sweat from the stinging pain -
- Your skin against my skin -”
Pale hands wander to that dip between hip and waist to pull them flush -
“- Until there is nothing left, but us, stripped bare?-”
A delicious, raw friction sends jolts of pleasure from his groin to his brain, new and intense -
- Mr. Virgin,” Jim hisses, serpentine, in his ear, as Sherlock comes with a shout, his body snapping into a perfect arc; his mind is entirely unprepared for the feeling that wracks his every nerve.
It’s like being burned up, from the inside out.
Sherlock opens his eyes, albeit blearily, to find his hands sore but untied, and Jim unbuttoning his trousers.
“Darling, if you fall asleep on me, I’ll have your guts for garters. Actually,” he stops in his tracks with a look of genuine interest, “I might do that anyway. Not to you, not right now, but - oh, well.” Jim sighs as Sherlock reaches for him, takes him in his hand, and strokes, hard and unforgiving, until he knows it must hurt at least a little at this pace. The criminal’s hands fist into his shirt as he falls forward, mouth open in a moan that shakes Sherlock to his bone marrow and sets his teeth on edge.
Jim moves off him just when Sherlock’s mental faculties start whirring back to life. He climbs back on his feet, still slightly off-balance, and observes Jim re-clothing himself for a few moments, before moving to do the same himself, making sure to check that his belongings are still in order. The wardens should come by any minute now.
“…Hey, Sherlock,” Jim calls out, and Sherlock whirls around, hearing something in the intonation - a note of hilarity, perhaps? “Nearly forgot, I have something for you.”
Slowly, the criminal mastermind withdraws a stick of Wrigley’s chewing gum from his bespoke Prada trouser pocket.
He pops one piece into his mouth and offers the confectionery to Sherlock. Their eyes meet.
Something nags at Sherlock's gut; he rarely listens to instinct, but there is something jarring about this simple, even friendly, gesture.
“…No, thank-you,” Sherlock decides.
Jim merely smiles, sweet and poisonous. “Not a sweets person? I prefer chocolate liqueurs myself. Nothing you can get at Waitrose, mind.”
And he starts humming a tune - Humperdinck’s Hänsel und Gretel - rocking on the balls of his feet.
End