The pool's lighted, making it child's play to retrieve Moriarty's knife. When he breaks the surface of the water, Moriarty grabs his hand, hauling him out of the pool. Sherlock passes him the knife, and as soon as it's in his hand, Moriarty shoves him back to the ground. He skids on the tiles when he lands.
"Now," Moriarty says dangerously, and his shoes click on the tile as he advances on Sherlock. "Let's try this again."
Sherlock scrambles backwards (on his arse, and it's awkward and he's sore and wet and his hands are cold and there is water in his eyes) until his back hits the wall. He widens his eyes and parts his lips, breathes more quickly. Fear, time to show fear now. "Stop," he says, and watches the drip of water from the hilt of the knife; if he's careful, if he concentrates, it almost resembles blood. "Get away from me."
Moriarty drops between Sherlock's parted legs without warning, crouching slightly. His shadow falls over Sherlock's face when he cringes against the wall, bringing his arms up protectively. And -- "Keep an eye on the time," he warns again, and gets a brief nod in response.
"Hands behind your back. Keep them there," Moriarty orders, and Sherlock would say no -- he would, at any other time he'd force the issue, but they have a time limit. So he twists his hands behind his back and hooks his fingers together so they won't dislodge by accident.
Moriarty holds the blade to the light, angling it in a way that makes it shine. "I'm going to hurt you so much, Sherlock," he promises. "And you're going to be begging for it."
Moriarty brings the knife straight to the underside of Sherlock's jaw, tilting his head up with the flat of the blade. It's cool against his skin, even cold, and a twist of real fear, proper fear, settles in his chest, because that's a real knife -- a real knife, a sharp knife, and if Moriarty were to slit his throat right now, Sherlock wouldn't be able to stop him.
Fuck. Fuck.
Moriarty pushes his jaw further back with the knife, until all Sherlock can see is ceiling and the part of the wall right above his head. He has a moment's warning -- a puff of warm air against his throat, followed Moriarty's hand on Sherlock's thigh (for balance, because he's leaning in) -- and then there's warmth at the base of his throat, wet and stinging and good, good like the way Moriarty's fingers tighten painfully on his thigh, digging into the muscle.
He thinks he groans. He's not sure. Moriarty mouths his way up Sherlock's throat and Sherlock shivers. "Stop it," he says weakly, but he can't turn his head, can't move away -- not while he's pinned like this, held by knife and hand and the bulk of Moriarty's body looming over his own. "Please," he says, "please."
"Shh," Moriarty murmurs, and the cold metal against Sherlock's jaw disappears abruptly. "Don't move an inch, or it goes into your stomach. Close your eyes."
Sherlock closes his eyes, and the world drifts away -- not all the way, but enough, enough that the man in front of him (Moriarty, his thoughts whisper, danger and beauty and genius, all rolled into one convenient package) consumes his senses. The world narrows down to Moriarty's hand on his thigh and mouth against his throat, to the trickle of water in his hair, dripping down his back and along his body, faintly tickling. His world is the taste of chlorinated water on his lips, and the smell of cologne -- cologne but he has no idea what kind, not now, not like this -- but mostly, mostly it's the feeling of being cold, everywhere but where they touch.
The pool's lighted, making it child's play to retrieve Moriarty's knife. When he breaks the surface of the water, Moriarty grabs his hand, hauling him out of the pool. Sherlock passes him the knife, and as soon as it's in his hand, Moriarty shoves him back to the ground. He skids on the tiles when he lands.
"Now," Moriarty says dangerously, and his shoes click on the tile as he advances on Sherlock. "Let's try this again."
Sherlock scrambles backwards (on his arse, and it's awkward and he's sore and wet and his hands are cold and there is water in his eyes) until his back hits the wall. He widens his eyes and parts his lips, breathes more quickly. Fear, time to show fear now. "Stop," he says, and watches the drip of water from the hilt of the knife; if he's careful, if he concentrates, it almost resembles blood. "Get away from me."
Moriarty drops between Sherlock's parted legs without warning, crouching slightly. His shadow falls over Sherlock's face when he cringes against the wall, bringing his arms up protectively. And -- "Keep an eye on the time," he warns again, and gets a brief nod in response.
"Hands behind your back. Keep them there," Moriarty orders, and Sherlock would say no -- he would, at any other time he'd force the issue, but they have a time limit. So he twists his hands behind his back and hooks his fingers together so they won't dislodge by accident.
Moriarty holds the blade to the light, angling it in a way that makes it shine. "I'm going to hurt you so much, Sherlock," he promises. "And you're going to be begging for it."
Moriarty brings the knife straight to the underside of Sherlock's jaw, tilting his head up with the flat of the blade. It's cool against his skin, even cold, and a twist of real fear, proper fear, settles in his chest, because that's a real knife -- a real knife, a sharp knife, and if Moriarty were to slit his throat right now, Sherlock wouldn't be able to stop him.
Fuck. Fuck.
Moriarty pushes his jaw further back with the knife, until all Sherlock can see is ceiling and the part of the wall right above his head. He has a moment's warning -- a puff of warm air against his throat, followed Moriarty's hand on Sherlock's thigh (for balance, because he's leaning in) -- and then there's warmth at the base of his throat, wet and stinging and good, good like the way Moriarty's fingers tighten painfully on his thigh, digging into the muscle.
He thinks he groans. He's not sure. Moriarty mouths his way up Sherlock's throat and Sherlock shivers. "Stop it," he says weakly, but he can't turn his head, can't move away -- not while he's pinned like this, held by knife and hand and the bulk of Moriarty's body looming over his own. "Please," he says, "please."
"Shh," Moriarty murmurs, and the cold metal against Sherlock's jaw disappears abruptly. "Don't move an inch, or it goes into your stomach. Close your eyes."
Sherlock closes his eyes, and the world drifts away -- not all the way, but enough, enough that the man in front of him (Moriarty, his thoughts whisper, danger and beauty and genius, all rolled into one convenient package) consumes his senses. The world narrows down to Moriarty's hand on his thigh and mouth against his throat, to the trickle of water in his hair, dripping down his back and along his body, faintly tickling. His world is the taste of chlorinated water on his lips, and the smell of cologne -- cologne but he has no idea what kind, not now, not like this -- but mostly, mostly it's the feeling of being cold, everywhere but where they touch.
Reply
Leave a comment