The Endless Game 2/3
Title: The Endless Game
Rating: R
Warning: SPOILERS for season 2, implied violence, non-explicit smut
Pairing: John/Sherlock and one-sided Moriarty/Sherlock
Summary: In this world, it is one endless game for everyone involved.
Dream
Sherlock never remembers his dreams. It’s not that he doesn’t dream. No. He does dream and he is a lucid dreamer. It’s just that he finds them as irrelevant as knowing who the prime minister is. It wouldn’t matter to his work if he remembered what he dreamt the night before so any lingering traces in the morning are firmly delegated to the deepest recess in his mind. There, they are as good as deleted.
That’s not to say he doesn’t take stock of his dreams either. He does.
Sometimes, in fits of boredom, he recalls interesting dreams, playing them out in his head in vivid colors and sounds as if he were watching a movie. When he was young, it had been his favorite movies like The Princess Bride where he was Inigo Montoya or Arsene Lupin, the gentleman thief. Other times, he dreamt he was Inspector Roderick Alleyn from Ngaio Marsh’s books.
But as he grew older, his dreams became more complex, or, at least, his dream self became more complex.
It was when he started to have certain kinds of dreams during his puberty that he began to catalogue them. For experimentation and documentation, he told himself then. He didn’t quite believe that dreams were the result of one’s subconscious but it helped to keep his mind spic and span.
Of course, when he became a full blown consulting detective, he had little time for dreams and so any that came his way was relegated to a forlorn corner of his mind.
But then somewhere along the way, things started to change and it was when his dreams took a more worldly turn that Sherlock started to pay attention.
At first it was just chaste kisses. But months later, that had graduated to more intimate touches. As if his subconscious wanted to torment him more, the dreams were stark clear the more intimate they were but he couldn’t remember at all who was in the dream with him afterwards. He woke up from those dreams, shuddering. Sometimes, his senses were on fire from whatever he had experienced in the dream. He had woken up to skin that burned with the merest touch or with lips that tingled as if someone had kissed him solidly.
It disconcerted him and yet it made him more curious that he allowed himself to sink into them, testing the waters.
Like tonight.
He knew he was going to dream a particular type of dream. The environment had a fuzzy quality about it as if he were looking through lens that softened just a little bit all the harsh corners and lines of the world. But even that didn’t stop John Watson’s face from standing out clearly against the muddied background.
John was leaning over, resting on his arms that were on either side of Sherlock. Before Sherlock could say anything, John lowered his hips, bringing his erection against Sherlock’s groin. Sherlock gasped and tried to wriggle away but that only provided enough friction to elicit a soft moan from John.
“John.” Sherlock said, letting his voice trail away. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Really?” was the husky reply. “Do you know what I think?”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. Where was this going? And why was he dreaming of John now?. He had never dreamt of anyone in particular in these kinds of dreams. They had all been shadowy figures whose features were revealed only one at a time, never in totality with which to form a recognizable face. That he could see John’s face so clearly startled him and, to be honest, scared him a little.
It was not that he was an innocent. No, he was far from that. It just made things slightly awkward. Sherlock couldn’t decide if he wanted to see this dream to the end or force himself to wake up. But that choice was taken away from him when John cupped his cheek with a hand.
“John, you don’t want to do this.” He said abruptly.
John leaned closer until his breath fanned over Sherlock’s face. “You don’t know that, Sherlock. You don’t know everything, least of all what I want to do right now.”
Sherlock gave him a sidelong look, “What do you want to do now?”
John leaned closer again so that their lips were barely touching each other. Looking at Sherlock from under his lashes, John said, “I want you to understand.”
“What, John?” Sherlock said, now aware that John was circling his hips slowly and that his own body was responding in kind.
“That I can be more than a friend.” John whispered, thumbing the corner of Sherlock’s lips.
I don’t have friends, Sherlock wanted to reply but the words died in his throat. Instead, all he could think about was the gentle way John was now kissing him. His lips tasted of honey and there were small crumbs around the corners. Oh, so the dream version of John had just finished his snack, the snack he usually ate when he was exasperated or frustrated with Sherlock. The tip of his tongue had a hint of coffee. Dream John must be very upset with Sherlock then if he drank coffee.
But all in all, this was something…nice. Well, Sherlock couldn’t think of the right word. It just felt right, all right. All so very all right. Was this what it felt like to kiss someone you liked? He supposed it was but he had nothing in his past to go on, no experience to rely on. Maybe he should start looking into this? But then again, what other purpose would the knowledge serve?
Suddenly, he’s thoughts were sidetracked when John tucked his face into the crook of his shoulder and whispered, “Sherlock, I love you.”
It was then that Sherlock woke up with a strangled cry.
He lay still, unblinking, for a few moments. His mind tried to analyze the dream, make some sense out of it but he kept on losing his train of thought. He twists and turns on the bed, rumpling the bed sheet and kicking the blanket to the floor. Still, his mind failed to make heads or tails the dream. With a huff of frustration, Sherlock got out of bed and devoted a full hour to a cold shower.
Late that morning, he wondered why he still hadn’t erased the dream traces of John’s lips on his own and why he’s even thinking about it at all.
Desire
At first he had wanted everything that the world could offer him, but soon that became insufficient, boring. So he played. He played with the world and how exciting that was! All those people scuttling about, looking for ways out and he offered them a way out.
Brilliant, isn’t it?
And then he saw Sherlock, his beauty, his brilliance, but above all his desire to stave away boredom. Oh a kindred soul, if there was any. And so he played his games, gave Sherlock games to play with. Oh, he rather enjoyed those. Might have enjoyed himself too much.
But that only made him want Sherlock and with each game he played, each time Sherlock trumped his own brilliance, he wanted Sherlock more.
Sherlock belonged to him, his brilliance was his. If he had to name two faults of his own, he’d say that he was pretty changeable. And he absolutely hated sharing with anyone.
But how to keep him? So many things kept Sherlock from him. Oh yes, there were his games that kept Sherlock looking for more but when the games were over, Sherlock turned to other things like that damaged doctor.
Now, that was unacceptable. He was not about to share Sherlock with anyone, least of all dear Johnny boy.
So plans were hatched and he planned a great game just to show the world exactly to whom Sherlock belonged.
He wanted Sherlock’s heart. He wanted to burn Sherlock’s heart out of him because he knew that it was the only way he could ever have him.
Rating: R
Warning: SPOILERS for season 2, implied violence, non-explicit smut
Pairing: John/Sherlock and one-sided Moriarty/Sherlock
Summary: In this world, it is one endless game for everyone involved.
Dream
Sherlock never remembers his dreams. It’s not that he doesn’t dream. No. He does dream and he is a lucid dreamer. It’s just that he finds them as irrelevant as knowing who the prime minister is. It wouldn’t matter to his work if he remembered what he dreamt the night before so any lingering traces in the morning are firmly delegated to the deepest recess in his mind. There, they are as good as deleted.
That’s not to say he doesn’t take stock of his dreams either. He does.
Sometimes, in fits of boredom, he recalls interesting dreams, playing them out in his head in vivid colors and sounds as if he were watching a movie. When he was young, it had been his favorite movies like The Princess Bride where he was Inigo Montoya or Arsene Lupin, the gentleman thief. Other times, he dreamt he was Inspector Roderick Alleyn from Ngaio Marsh’s books.
But as he grew older, his dreams became more complex, or, at least, his dream self became more complex.
It was when he started to have certain kinds of dreams during his puberty that he began to catalogue them. For experimentation and documentation, he told himself then. He didn’t quite believe that dreams were the result of one’s subconscious but it helped to keep his mind spic and span.
Of course, when he became a full blown consulting detective, he had little time for dreams and so any that came his way was relegated to a forlorn corner of his mind.
But then somewhere along the way, things started to change and it was when his dreams took a more worldly turn that Sherlock started to pay attention.
At first it was just chaste kisses. But months later, that had graduated to more intimate touches. As if his subconscious wanted to torment him more, the dreams were stark clear the more intimate they were but he couldn’t remember at all who was in the dream with him afterwards. He woke up from those dreams, shuddering. Sometimes, his senses were on fire from whatever he had experienced in the dream. He had woken up to skin that burned with the merest touch or with lips that tingled as if someone had kissed him solidly.
It disconcerted him and yet it made him more curious that he allowed himself to sink into them, testing the waters.
Like tonight.
He knew he was going to dream a particular type of dream. The environment had a fuzzy quality about it as if he were looking through lens that softened just a little bit all the harsh corners and lines of the world. But even that didn’t stop John Watson’s face from standing out clearly against the muddied background.
John was leaning over, resting on his arms that were on either side of Sherlock. Before Sherlock could say anything, John lowered his hips, bringing his erection against Sherlock’s groin. Sherlock gasped and tried to wriggle away but that only provided enough friction to elicit a soft moan from John.
“John.” Sherlock said, letting his voice trail away. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Really?” was the husky reply. “Do you know what I think?”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. Where was this going? And why was he dreaming of John now?. He had never dreamt of anyone in particular in these kinds of dreams. They had all been shadowy figures whose features were revealed only one at a time, never in totality with which to form a recognizable face. That he could see John’s face so clearly startled him and, to be honest, scared him a little.
It was not that he was an innocent. No, he was far from that. It just made things slightly awkward. Sherlock couldn’t decide if he wanted to see this dream to the end or force himself to wake up. But that choice was taken away from him when John cupped his cheek with a hand.
“John, you don’t want to do this.” He said abruptly.
John leaned closer until his breath fanned over Sherlock’s face. “You don’t know that, Sherlock. You don’t know everything, least of all what I want to do right now.”
Sherlock gave him a sidelong look, “What do you want to do now?”
John leaned closer again so that their lips were barely touching each other. Looking at Sherlock from under his lashes, John said, “I want you to understand.”
“What, John?” Sherlock said, now aware that John was circling his hips slowly and that his own body was responding in kind.
“That I can be more than a friend.” John whispered, thumbing the corner of Sherlock’s lips.
I don’t have friends, Sherlock wanted to reply but the words died in his throat. Instead, all he could think about was the gentle way John was now kissing him. His lips tasted of honey and there were small crumbs around the corners. Oh, so the dream version of John had just finished his snack, the snack he usually ate when he was exasperated or frustrated with Sherlock. The tip of his tongue had a hint of coffee. Dream John must be very upset with Sherlock then if he drank coffee.
But all in all, this was something…nice. Well, Sherlock couldn’t think of the right word. It just felt right, all right. All so very all right. Was this what it felt like to kiss someone you liked? He supposed it was but he had nothing in his past to go on, no experience to rely on. Maybe he should start looking into this? But then again, what other purpose would the knowledge serve?
Suddenly, he’s thoughts were sidetracked when John tucked his face into the crook of his shoulder and whispered, “Sherlock, I love you.”
It was then that Sherlock woke up with a strangled cry.
He lay still, unblinking, for a few moments. His mind tried to analyze the dream, make some sense out of it but he kept on losing his train of thought. He twists and turns on the bed, rumpling the bed sheet and kicking the blanket to the floor. Still, his mind failed to make heads or tails the dream. With a huff of frustration, Sherlock got out of bed and devoted a full hour to a cold shower.
Late that morning, he wondered why he still hadn’t erased the dream traces of John’s lips on his own and why he’s even thinking about it at all.
Desire
At first he had wanted everything that the world could offer him, but soon that became insufficient, boring. So he played. He played with the world and how exciting that was! All those people scuttling about, looking for ways out and he offered them a way out.
Brilliant, isn’t it?
And then he saw Sherlock, his beauty, his brilliance, but above all his desire to stave away boredom. Oh a kindred soul, if there was any. And so he played his games, gave Sherlock games to play with. Oh, he rather enjoyed those. Might have enjoyed himself too much.
But that only made him want Sherlock and with each game he played, each time Sherlock trumped his own brilliance, he wanted Sherlock more.
Sherlock belonged to him, his brilliance was his. If he had to name two faults of his own, he’d say that he was pretty changeable. And he absolutely hated sharing with anyone.
But how to keep him? So many things kept Sherlock from him. Oh yes, there were his games that kept Sherlock looking for more but when the games were over, Sherlock turned to other things like that damaged doctor.
Now, that was unacceptable. He was not about to share Sherlock with anyone, least of all dear Johnny boy.
So plans were hatched and he planned a great game just to show the world exactly to whom Sherlock belonged.
He wanted Sherlock’s heart. He wanted to burn Sherlock’s heart out of him because he knew that it was the only way he could ever have him.