Fanfiction: Once Upon A Time In London (Sherlock)
Title: "Once Upon A Time In London”
Status: OneShot
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing(s)/Character(s): John Watson/Jim Moriarty; mentions of Sebastian Moran, minor OFC
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Rating: M
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, dark!John, post-series, established relationship, slash, mild smut
Warnings: language, violence
Summary: Whistle-blowers are a pesky little problem that Jim hates, at least until it's time to deal with them up close and bloody personal. Having Johnny-boy along for the ride makes such an excursion extra sweet, and what comes after is just as rewarding...
AN: For shadownashira. You know why ;)
Once Upon A Time In London
If there was one thing James Moriarty loathed, especially within his own organization, it was whistle-blowers. Those pesky little spies that the Yard planted at the bottom, who tried to worm - or whore - their way up into the higher echelons. Who kept their eyes and ears and technological gadgets open to sniff out any dirt they could find and smuggle it back to their superiors using obscure pathways that were never quite secure enough to avoid detection.
Disgusting little creatures, all smiles and sexy curves or hard-boiled bad guys, if they came in the male version. Sometimes appearing with a special computer geek flavour, and all it took to make those flinch was standing behind their office chairs and breathing down their necks.
Jim had talked about that particular problem with John. Two days ago and at great length.
He had to suffer through a long monologue, peppered with maniac laugher and smashed china. A boring, if educational, experience that John only survived by clinging to his mug of tea and making noises of agreement in all the right places.
The most recent problem went by the name Elaine Patel, currently tottering down the street about 160 yards ahead of Jim and John, who followed at a more moderate pace. Most of her curly hair was covered by a bobcap and white scarf; its ends flapped in the wind.
John had to admire her ability to stay upright on her high-heels, considering that Christmas was drawing near and the weather had gotten the memo. Snow was everywhere, lining the streets in heaps and fluttering from dark clouds. The tip of his own nose was bright red, the mucous membrane dry and swollen, and his cheeks burned. Jim beside him looked like a spectre, pale, dark and wind-blown.
"Soon," Jim said, rubbing his hands together with childlike glee. Gravel crunched underneath his scuffed shoes as he moved to a tune only he could hear. His pink tongue darted out to catch a snowflake. "This is far too easy."
"Remind me again why Sebastian couldn't handle this? Or any other of your goons, for that matter."
Jim laughed, unconcerned that they might attract attention. There was no need to be overly cautious: visibility was low, and they were far from any CCTV littered, respectable corner of the city. Dressed up as thugs themselves they fit right in, and the weight of their guns and knives was additional reassurance in the flicker of dying street lights.
Gone were the decorations in red and blue and gold, the smell of deep-fried dough and roasted almonds, and the torture that was Wham's “Last Christmas,” blaring through the open doors of every shop. They had traded those in for old newspapers, garbage and the stench of piss and rot.
"Now Johnny-boy, don't go lumping Sebastian together with those bottom feeders," Jim said with a tut-tut and fake reproach. His eyes glittered in the dark, pupils blown wide with anticipation. "I really wouldn't want to inconvenience him with such a triviality."
John thought of all the hoops Jim made his poor SIC jump through day and night, and snorted. This little excursion reeked of boredom instead of new-found compassion for Sebastian's plight.
An elbow bumped into his side, and not for the first time since they had left the apartment they shared. Unlike Sebastian John was willing to pick his battles with Jim. Starting now. “Right.”
John grabbed Jim's wrist to steer him around a puddle that was not completely frozen over, having reached the end of his patience with his antics. He kept his eyes firmly on Elaine's coat-clad back as a short tug-of-war ensued that he won by virtue of medical knowledge.
Jim hissed but stopped his annoying swagger. “No need for violence,” he muttered and adjusted his off-the-peg windbreaker with as much dignity as a pouting criminal mastermind could hope for. “Up close and personal is the name of the game. I want to have some fun.”
Elaine chose that moment to stop and pull out her mobile, probably to double-check the text that had been incentive enough to leave her flat in the dead of night. She must have been desperate to get into contact with her handler ahead of schedule after all the false information Jim had fed her. She turned the corner, following a back alley that would turn out to be a dead end; no pun intended.
"Make it quick," John muttered. He changed his grip on Jim's hand to give his icy fingers a squeeze; the stubborn git refused to wear gloves. "Go."
Jim slipped away with a blown kiss and the glint of metal as he rushed after Elaine and out of sight, eager like a bloodhound. John knew he would leave the crime scene a bloody mess that would seem to defy 24 hours of meticulous planning.
Inspector Lestrade would be furious and Sherlock's hands were tied, defamed as a fraud as he was. As for Her Majesty, Mycroft Holmes had long since understood the necessity and benefits of crime, as long as certain lines were not crossed.
John leaned against the wall, content to wait and watch the deserted street to make sure no one showed up to spoil Jim's fun. He heard the crunch of snow underneath Jim's shoes and the noise of a short scuffle; the desperate gurgling of a slit throat. However, instead of one body, two hit the ground and John abandoned his lookout post in a rush of panic.
The sight that greeted him was not quite what he had expected: Elaine lay in a spreading pool of steaming blood. Some of it had sprayed the wall behind her in a graceful arc like so much graffiti - and right beside her was Jim, flat on his arse. Considering the black ice and tracks that covered the ground, it didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened.
"Don't you dare say a word," Jim hissed where he lay, pushing the words past clenched teeth. Snowflakes melted on his flushed skin and dirty puddles soaked through his jeans; he looked miserable. His threat was about as dangerous as the bark of a kicked puppy.
Relief was a strong, hot rush down his spine, but John had never claimed to be above the occasional vindictive impulse, and so he didn't bother to hide his grin. “Was this 'up close and personal' enough for you?” he inquired politely. All he got in reply was a dark glower.
"This is soooo embarrassing," Jim grumbled and raised his right hand. It was sticky with blood, a fascinating shade of red. He brought it up to his lips, mouth opening to lick it off, but John radiated disapproval so strong he stopped and used a handkerchief instead. "Spoilsport."
"The great consulting criminal, James Moriarty, undone by black ice and the wrath of a dying woman," John teased as he stepped over the corpse to look down on Jim. "Did she pack a punch?"
“Bite me.”
“Silly bugger.”
“Bite me.”
“Later.”
John offered his hand, unsurprised when Jim slapped it away and sat up on his own. Still, Jim was smart enough to submit to a short examination, allowing John to tilt his head forward and brush damp hair aside to inspect the back of his skull. John's leather gloves came away with red smears, but the risk of a concussion was negligible in his professional opinion.
"Are you feeling dizzy? Nauseous?" John leaned closer to check Jim's pupils. "Did you lose consciousness?"
"No, no and no." Jim stood, brushing John off with a gentle shove and then clumps of grey that clung to his clothes. "I'm fine. A bump at worst."
"All right."
John watched as Jim stared down at Elaine, taking in her wide open eyes, lifeless like a doll's, skin seeming to fuse with the surrounding snow in the dark and hair fanned out, a dark halo in a puddle of red. Without a light source to spoil the image, her coat could have passed for a dress, draped around her long legs.
It reminded John of a certain fairy tale and he found the comparison fitting. After all, the original tales told by the Grimm Brothers were as gruesome as they were educational.
Jim caught his stare and chuckled. “Quite the striking picture, isn't it?” He cleared his throat. “'Oh that I had a daughter that is as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as dark as ebony,'” he quoted the queen's words with a high-pitched voice and pompous air that lasted until he sneezed. He scowled. “Let's go home, I'm freezing my arse off.”
"What about the flash drive?"
Jim shrugged and gave Elaine's bag a kick. “Who am I to spoil the Yard's fun? Let them crack the code and hope for some scraps.”
"If you're sure."
"Don't worry, Johnny-boy. You're safe with me."
John remembered sand all around, the burning of his wound and the sick-sweet smell of rot filling the room he lay in, the physical therapy and the hole his military career had left behind; the craving for danger. And of course his first meeting with Jim, standing on the tarmac with Colonel Moran at his side, waiting for John to limp down the gangway.
"I know."
They left the alley and Elaine Patel behind and made their way back to the heart of London. It would take over two hours, but freezing as Jim was he was also high on adrenaline and murder, trying to hum 'Moves like Jagger', and John was never opposed to a stroll.
He smiled as an icy hand wormed its way inside his jacket pocket, trying to siphon off his warmth; fingers interlacing. Jim stopped his dissonant tune and fell into step beside him.
XXX
Jim moaned as John leaned closer and kissed that spot between his shoulder blades that made him shiver and squirm like a damn schoolgirl; hot breath burning on trails left by blunt fingernails.
He twisted to reach around and get a hold of John's sweaty skin to pull him closer. Their kiss was a crash of lips and clicking of teeth, forceful enough to draw blood. - It always took some time, getting sweet caring John to the point of discarding his inhibitions. Feeling raw and sticky, the bed a mess, Jim deemed it worth the effort; always would.
Jim laughed, a breathless hiss of air that swallowed John's groan as his spent cock came to nestle in the crack of Jim's ass. The angle was skewed, muscles straining, and saliva ran down his chin, seeping into the pillow, but why care when a kiss tasted like Earl Grey and cookies and copper? Why care after slitting a throat, John listening, ready to jump into the fray?
“You forgot that I like to see the face of the guy who fucks me, Johnny-boy.”
He winced as John's hand forced him face-down into the pillow until he could hardly breathe and dark spots danced in front of his eyes. He screwed them shut and waited; exhilarated. And it happened, his body bouncing slightly with the mattress as John climbed over him and settled against the headboard, legs spread open; an invitation.
“Then you better make sure I'm ready for round two.”
It was a growl, husky, an order, and would have thrown anyone who knew John Watson to be a kind and patient man, more healer than soldier, doctor not killer. Jim pitied fools who couldn't understand the dual nature of their fellow humans. He loved to play with that knowledge, used it, though John was anything but a toy.
Jim hummed and didn't resist as John's hand guided him forward. Tongue teasing the slit, licking away salty liquid, he thought of Elaine Patel, poor dead Snow White, and counted this night and all to follow as his personal happy ending.
[“The batshit kind of love that makes no sense at all and at the same time all the sense in the world. That is us. You and me; a 'We'.” ~ Steve Maraboli]
The End
Status: OneShot
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing(s)/Character(s): John Watson/Jim Moriarty; mentions of Sebastian Moran, minor OFC
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Rating: M
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, dark!John, post-series, established relationship, slash, mild smut
Warnings: language, violence
Summary: Whistle-blowers are a pesky little problem that Jim hates, at least until it's time to deal with them up close and bloody personal. Having Johnny-boy along for the ride makes such an excursion extra sweet, and what comes after is just as rewarding...
AN: For shadownashira. You know why ;)
Once Upon A Time In London
If there was one thing James Moriarty loathed, especially within his own organization, it was whistle-blowers. Those pesky little spies that the Yard planted at the bottom, who tried to worm - or whore - their way up into the higher echelons. Who kept their eyes and ears and technological gadgets open to sniff out any dirt they could find and smuggle it back to their superiors using obscure pathways that were never quite secure enough to avoid detection.
Disgusting little creatures, all smiles and sexy curves or hard-boiled bad guys, if they came in the male version. Sometimes appearing with a special computer geek flavour, and all it took to make those flinch was standing behind their office chairs and breathing down their necks.
Jim had talked about that particular problem with John. Two days ago and at great length.
He had to suffer through a long monologue, peppered with maniac laugher and smashed china. A boring, if educational, experience that John only survived by clinging to his mug of tea and making noises of agreement in all the right places.
The most recent problem went by the name Elaine Patel, currently tottering down the street about 160 yards ahead of Jim and John, who followed at a more moderate pace. Most of her curly hair was covered by a bobcap and white scarf; its ends flapped in the wind.
John had to admire her ability to stay upright on her high-heels, considering that Christmas was drawing near and the weather had gotten the memo. Snow was everywhere, lining the streets in heaps and fluttering from dark clouds. The tip of his own nose was bright red, the mucous membrane dry and swollen, and his cheeks burned. Jim beside him looked like a spectre, pale, dark and wind-blown.
"Soon," Jim said, rubbing his hands together with childlike glee. Gravel crunched underneath his scuffed shoes as he moved to a tune only he could hear. His pink tongue darted out to catch a snowflake. "This is far too easy."
"Remind me again why Sebastian couldn't handle this? Or any other of your goons, for that matter."
Jim laughed, unconcerned that they might attract attention. There was no need to be overly cautious: visibility was low, and they were far from any CCTV littered, respectable corner of the city. Dressed up as thugs themselves they fit right in, and the weight of their guns and knives was additional reassurance in the flicker of dying street lights.
Gone were the decorations in red and blue and gold, the smell of deep-fried dough and roasted almonds, and the torture that was Wham's “Last Christmas,” blaring through the open doors of every shop. They had traded those in for old newspapers, garbage and the stench of piss and rot.
"Now Johnny-boy, don't go lumping Sebastian together with those bottom feeders," Jim said with a tut-tut and fake reproach. His eyes glittered in the dark, pupils blown wide with anticipation. "I really wouldn't want to inconvenience him with such a triviality."
John thought of all the hoops Jim made his poor SIC jump through day and night, and snorted. This little excursion reeked of boredom instead of new-found compassion for Sebastian's plight.
An elbow bumped into his side, and not for the first time since they had left the apartment they shared. Unlike Sebastian John was willing to pick his battles with Jim. Starting now. “Right.”
John grabbed Jim's wrist to steer him around a puddle that was not completely frozen over, having reached the end of his patience with his antics. He kept his eyes firmly on Elaine's coat-clad back as a short tug-of-war ensued that he won by virtue of medical knowledge.
Jim hissed but stopped his annoying swagger. “No need for violence,” he muttered and adjusted his off-the-peg windbreaker with as much dignity as a pouting criminal mastermind could hope for. “Up close and personal is the name of the game. I want to have some fun.”
Elaine chose that moment to stop and pull out her mobile, probably to double-check the text that had been incentive enough to leave her flat in the dead of night. She must have been desperate to get into contact with her handler ahead of schedule after all the false information Jim had fed her. She turned the corner, following a back alley that would turn out to be a dead end; no pun intended.
"Make it quick," John muttered. He changed his grip on Jim's hand to give his icy fingers a squeeze; the stubborn git refused to wear gloves. "Go."
Jim slipped away with a blown kiss and the glint of metal as he rushed after Elaine and out of sight, eager like a bloodhound. John knew he would leave the crime scene a bloody mess that would seem to defy 24 hours of meticulous planning.
Inspector Lestrade would be furious and Sherlock's hands were tied, defamed as a fraud as he was. As for Her Majesty, Mycroft Holmes had long since understood the necessity and benefits of crime, as long as certain lines were not crossed.
John leaned against the wall, content to wait and watch the deserted street to make sure no one showed up to spoil Jim's fun. He heard the crunch of snow underneath Jim's shoes and the noise of a short scuffle; the desperate gurgling of a slit throat. However, instead of one body, two hit the ground and John abandoned his lookout post in a rush of panic.
The sight that greeted him was not quite what he had expected: Elaine lay in a spreading pool of steaming blood. Some of it had sprayed the wall behind her in a graceful arc like so much graffiti - and right beside her was Jim, flat on his arse. Considering the black ice and tracks that covered the ground, it didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened.
"Don't you dare say a word," Jim hissed where he lay, pushing the words past clenched teeth. Snowflakes melted on his flushed skin and dirty puddles soaked through his jeans; he looked miserable. His threat was about as dangerous as the bark of a kicked puppy.
Relief was a strong, hot rush down his spine, but John had never claimed to be above the occasional vindictive impulse, and so he didn't bother to hide his grin. “Was this 'up close and personal' enough for you?” he inquired politely. All he got in reply was a dark glower.
"This is soooo embarrassing," Jim grumbled and raised his right hand. It was sticky with blood, a fascinating shade of red. He brought it up to his lips, mouth opening to lick it off, but John radiated disapproval so strong he stopped and used a handkerchief instead. "Spoilsport."
"The great consulting criminal, James Moriarty, undone by black ice and the wrath of a dying woman," John teased as he stepped over the corpse to look down on Jim. "Did she pack a punch?"
“Bite me.”
“Silly bugger.”
“Bite me.”
“Later.”
John offered his hand, unsurprised when Jim slapped it away and sat up on his own. Still, Jim was smart enough to submit to a short examination, allowing John to tilt his head forward and brush damp hair aside to inspect the back of his skull. John's leather gloves came away with red smears, but the risk of a concussion was negligible in his professional opinion.
"Are you feeling dizzy? Nauseous?" John leaned closer to check Jim's pupils. "Did you lose consciousness?"
"No, no and no." Jim stood, brushing John off with a gentle shove and then clumps of grey that clung to his clothes. "I'm fine. A bump at worst."
"All right."
John watched as Jim stared down at Elaine, taking in her wide open eyes, lifeless like a doll's, skin seeming to fuse with the surrounding snow in the dark and hair fanned out, a dark halo in a puddle of red. Without a light source to spoil the image, her coat could have passed for a dress, draped around her long legs.
It reminded John of a certain fairy tale and he found the comparison fitting. After all, the original tales told by the Grimm Brothers were as gruesome as they were educational.
Jim caught his stare and chuckled. “Quite the striking picture, isn't it?” He cleared his throat. “'Oh that I had a daughter that is as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as dark as ebony,'” he quoted the queen's words with a high-pitched voice and pompous air that lasted until he sneezed. He scowled. “Let's go home, I'm freezing my arse off.”
"What about the flash drive?"
Jim shrugged and gave Elaine's bag a kick. “Who am I to spoil the Yard's fun? Let them crack the code and hope for some scraps.”
"If you're sure."
"Don't worry, Johnny-boy. You're safe with me."
John remembered sand all around, the burning of his wound and the sick-sweet smell of rot filling the room he lay in, the physical therapy and the hole his military career had left behind; the craving for danger. And of course his first meeting with Jim, standing on the tarmac with Colonel Moran at his side, waiting for John to limp down the gangway.
"I know."
They left the alley and Elaine Patel behind and made their way back to the heart of London. It would take over two hours, but freezing as Jim was he was also high on adrenaline and murder, trying to hum 'Moves like Jagger', and John was never opposed to a stroll.
He smiled as an icy hand wormed its way inside his jacket pocket, trying to siphon off his warmth; fingers interlacing. Jim stopped his dissonant tune and fell into step beside him.
XXX
Jim moaned as John leaned closer and kissed that spot between his shoulder blades that made him shiver and squirm like a damn schoolgirl; hot breath burning on trails left by blunt fingernails.
He twisted to reach around and get a hold of John's sweaty skin to pull him closer. Their kiss was a crash of lips and clicking of teeth, forceful enough to draw blood. - It always took some time, getting sweet caring John to the point of discarding his inhibitions. Feeling raw and sticky, the bed a mess, Jim deemed it worth the effort; always would.
Jim laughed, a breathless hiss of air that swallowed John's groan as his spent cock came to nestle in the crack of Jim's ass. The angle was skewed, muscles straining, and saliva ran down his chin, seeping into the pillow, but why care when a kiss tasted like Earl Grey and cookies and copper? Why care after slitting a throat, John listening, ready to jump into the fray?
“You forgot that I like to see the face of the guy who fucks me, Johnny-boy.”
He winced as John's hand forced him face-down into the pillow until he could hardly breathe and dark spots danced in front of his eyes. He screwed them shut and waited; exhilarated. And it happened, his body bouncing slightly with the mattress as John climbed over him and settled against the headboard, legs spread open; an invitation.
“Then you better make sure I'm ready for round two.”
It was a growl, husky, an order, and would have thrown anyone who knew John Watson to be a kind and patient man, more healer than soldier, doctor not killer. Jim pitied fools who couldn't understand the dual nature of their fellow humans. He loved to play with that knowledge, used it, though John was anything but a toy.
Jim hummed and didn't resist as John's hand guided him forward. Tongue teasing the slit, licking away salty liquid, he thought of Elaine Patel, poor dead Snow White, and counted this night and all to follow as his personal happy ending.
[“The batshit kind of love that makes no sense at all and at the same time all the sense in the world. That is us. You and me; a 'We'.” ~ Steve Maraboli]
The End