Stalemate (Sherlock fic)
Jim’s best ideas always occur to him during the early morning hours, when insomnia keeps him flirting with fantasies of cold gunmetal on his tongue. Fucking John Watson, squeezing his throat with nimble fingers, leaving fresh bites and bruises on his skin, should have kept him entertained longer than this. John is decidedly less boring than most people, after all, or at least that’s what Jim had been led to believe. Why else would Sherlock Holmes have put up with him for so long?
He’s tracing obscene pictures in the steam of the shower door when it comes to him. There are more enticing things than breaking John Watson and leaving him a whimpering mess on Sherlock’s doorstep. John Watson is a man of action, and not entirely predictable. If Jim walks into the room he’s keeping John locked up inside of, with no defenses, will he feel John’s hands around his neck? Will John dig those nimble fingers into his eye sockets, bash his face into the floor, or just take him down with some well-placed hits, only long enough to leave him unconscious and escape? (a risk; utterly boring).
Jim shivers at the thought that John may be a man to seek revenge, to test his own strength, to hold Jim down and drive into him relentlessly.
Or will John aim coolly and leave Jim’s brain matter splattered against the wall?
Jim gives himself a cursory toweling and slides into a t-shirt and track pants, cotton sticking to him and water pooling between his toes and dripping down his face. He slides one bullet into the magazine of the gun, one eye on the surveillance of John, who appears to be sleeping fitfully.
He pads down the hall, silently, unlocks the door, leaves it ajar, and enters soundlessly.
He places the gun on the floor next to John, and waits.
He’s tracing obscene pictures in the steam of the shower door when it comes to him. There are more enticing things than breaking John Watson and leaving him a whimpering mess on Sherlock’s doorstep. John Watson is a man of action, and not entirely predictable. If Jim walks into the room he’s keeping John locked up inside of, with no defenses, will he feel John’s hands around his neck? Will John dig those nimble fingers into his eye sockets, bash his face into the floor, or just take him down with some well-placed hits, only long enough to leave him unconscious and escape? (a risk; utterly boring).
Jim shivers at the thought that John may be a man to seek revenge, to test his own strength, to hold Jim down and drive into him relentlessly.
Or will John aim coolly and leave Jim’s brain matter splattered against the wall?
Jim gives himself a cursory toweling and slides into a t-shirt and track pants, cotton sticking to him and water pooling between his toes and dripping down his face. He slides one bullet into the magazine of the gun, one eye on the surveillance of John, who appears to be sleeping fitfully.
He pads down the hall, silently, unlocks the door, leaves it ajar, and enters soundlessly.
He places the gun on the floor next to John, and waits.