FIC: "What Happens While Nothing Happens, Part 2/3"
Title: What Happens While Nothing Happens, Part 2
Author: Unsentimental Fool
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock/Jim
Rating: R
Word Count 1958
Summary The body’s desires, he thought as his own body stirred, were neither rational nor irrational; physiology was outside logic.
Notes/Warnings: MAJOR SPOILERS for ep 3. If you haven't watched it, don't read this.
" Part 1 here"
“Nice flat.”
Not in Sherlock’s opinion. It looked as if the owner had said “Make it clean, sharp, classic and impersonal.” In fact Sherlock was sure that the instructions to the interior decorators would have used at least three of those words. They were ones favoured, like the things they described, by the flat’s occupant.
It was always faintly satisfying, he thought, ignoring Jim from IT for the moment in favour of a close inspection of the place, to inflict this annoyingly untidy part of his life on a place so sterile. As well as practical; his brother would never be found at home in the middle of the day.
The immaculately clean kitchen still furnished evidence of far too many takeaways in the last fortnight. Mycroft was as busy as he had claimed, but was lying about the diet. The bedroom suggested, as always, a celibacy that Sherlock suspected was as much form over substance as his own. His brother knew he came here, though it had never been alluded to; Sherlock’s meticulous tidying up might fool Mycroft’s cleaner, his security agents but not the man himself, not for a moment. Unlike every other place he might visit, this flat’s owner successfully kept his secrets.
Most of them, at least. The slightest of discolouration on a low bedroom shelf suggested that something had stood there for a matter of weeks at the least, had been removed recently. It had been 43 days since Sherlock was last here; he racked his memory. A vase; white porcelain, nothing inside. Similar in taste and function to the three other ornaments in the room. Why would Mycroft move an ornament? This flat was set up precisely as he wished. He wouldn’t start shifting things around; he would certainly not simply remove one object.
Therefore the vase had been removed for a non-aesthetic reason. Either it had been broken in some way; he scanned the floor under the shelf. No trace of an object falling on it. No sign of extra cleaning, no disturbance to the neat pile. Or it had been removed to utilise it. A vase could contain anything small enough, solid or liquid. It would not be a container of choice for carrying most things around; it was not particularly stable, was too easily broken and it had no way of being closed. So either it had been used to contain something that was particularly suited to a vase, or it had been used in the absence of anything else. Since Mycroft had a multitude of neat Tupperware boxes arrayed in a kitchen cupboard, why use a vase from the bedroom? For an emergency, or out of choice?
Sherlock opened cupboards in the kitchen, checked the wardrobes, the drawers. No, the vase was no longer in the flat. Curious. But not necessarily important. He consigned the problem to working memory. Jim had sat down on the bed, was watching him as he prowled the rooms.
“I thought you might bring your friend.” A whiny voice; half natural, half affectation. Not an unusual aural tone among parts of the gay community. He’d not used it in the lab. The ability to change one’s voice deliberately and convincingly suggested practice- an actor, possibly. A man with at least two lives, but then Sherlock had already known that.
Friend? John. Sherlock briefly reviewed the potential connections. One; from Jim’s enthusiasm at their meeting, he had almost certainly read John’s blog. Connection two; John had been there when Jim introduced himself. Jim had evinced no interest in John at all. Connection three; alone with Sherlock, Jim had introduced John as a topic of conversation. Inconsistent, but again, not necessarily important. The man might be nervous- not the chatty nervous that he’d put on for his girlfriend though.
“You didn’t,” Sherlock pointed out, “give John your phone number.”
“I thought he might come with you anyway. He is ‘with’ you, I take it? The blog isn’t entirely clear on the matter.”
Privacy was one of those emotion-driven concepts that Sherlock had no time for. John however, despite his enthusiastic blogging to all and sundry, did. Sherlock considered the matter. Would John be more agitated by Sherlock leaving this man under the possible impression that they were having sex, or by his explicitly denying it?
A spike of annoyance. How should he know? None of the observations he’d made were directly relevant. Why was he even in the position of having to consider someone else’s illogicalities in order not to offend them? This association with John was bringing real inconveniences in exchange for nebulous advantages; he suspected that his subconscious was being permitted to have more than its usual input into the arrangements.
The phone could still ring at any moment. He did not have time for small talk, and certainly did not have the inclination. Ignoring the question, Sherlock removed his jacket, hung it over the back of Mycroft’s mahogany bedroom chair and began to unbutton his shirt.
“Let me, please.” Jim slid onto his feet with surprising elegance, pushed Sherlock gently towards the bed. Sherlock sat on the edge of it, watching Jim’s face as the man’s spidery fingers flickered warm down his chest and stomach. The body’s desires, he thought as his own body stirred, were neither rational nor irrational; physiology was outside logic.
Cuffs unbuttoned, cool hands spread up his chest, pushed material away from his arms. Half naked now, he returned the actions, feeling the shirt material ( A little pricey for an IT department but in line with everything else of the man), the smooth skin underneath (shaved yesterday, by someone else), feeling at the same time his own pulse quicken.
Jim was looking straight back at him. So the nervous man in the lab really had been an act. Nerves were easy to fake, and Sherlock had been more interested in his microscope at the time. Still, he should have caught that, along with the easy stuff, which of course he had.
Hands smoothed over his shoulders. “You,” Jim said, cheerfully, “are terribly tense. The sleuthing must be going badly.”
“Well, actually. Very well.” Of course it was going well. He was winning, apart from the block of flats thing, which hadn't been his fault, at all. But nails digging into his shoulder muscles undoubtedly felt good.
The IT guy gave a shove, strength unsuited to his effete image. “Roll over.” Sherlock hesitated for an instant, quick risk assessment, then complied. Weight over his clothed hips and fingers digging deep into his back; he spread his arms across the pillows, very much aware of temporary helplessness, payment for the competent massage.
The slight inconsistencies were all adding up to something a little odd. He took a deep breath as an overtight muscle twinged, then curiosity got the better of him.
“The lab woman. Why the pretence?”
No change in the breathing of the man above, no unusual muscle tension, apart from the slight push of the man’s still clothed erection as he straddled Sherlock’s hips. “How do you know I was pretending? I might be bi.”
Sherlock snorted. “There. A little harder. Better....No. Bisexual men with girlfriends dress straight. You couldn’t even be bothered to change your underwear for her.“
One hand stayed smoothing across his back, fingers of the other pushing under his waistband. Sherlock slid his own hand to his belt, trapped under his body, released it and the top button of his trousers.
“ I saw you in the hospital. I wanted to meet you. She mentioned you on her blog.”
Blogs again! For a nation so obsessed with privacy, there was a terrifying amount of personal information flying around randomly out there. When his phone was a little more accessible Sherlock would set up a filter on his name, see what people were saying about him.
A tug at his waistband; he shifted to allow clothes to be pulled down past his hips, then paused for a moment, assessing what he desired, how to get it. A superior knowledge of physiology together with close observation made him, he had decided after a little self-experimentation, an extremely effective lover. He’d not yet had the need to put much of this skill into play, since the only rational approach to casual sex was to obtain maximum pleasure with minimal trouble. With a regular partner there would be additional game theory considerations, obviously. More interesting, but far more inconvenient, especially since “regular” seemed to require emotional involvement. There was nothing tidy about combining companionship with sex; quite the reverse. His current arrangements were far superior.
So Jim had seen Sherlock on one of his many visits to Barts, had been attracted, had asked around, got a name, recognised it in Molly’s blog, seen a possible in and taken it. Sherlock was well aware that between 5 and 6 percent of men and 45 to 49 percent of women found him sexually attractive, depending on factors like clothes, location, weather. Before he talked to them, anyway.
Entirely plausible.
“You didn’t mind, did you? You didn’t seem to be using her right then.”
The tone was mock concern, the words were sarcastic. Why? Sherlock himself hadn’t cared for Molly’s feelings one way or another; she was the type to fall for unsuitable men, and she would no doubt continue to do so even after his help, but he’d been showing John that he could do relationships, when he chose. And John had accused him of cruelty.
This was all wrong, however well it hung together, and he suddenly realised why. Desperate Molly had been chatted up by Jim from IT. Except that he wasn't. The hands sliding over Sherlock's rear didn't have fingers flattened by regular keyboard use, or a palm slightly calloused from a mouse.
“What sort of IT?” he asked.
Jim shifted. “Mmmm?” His voice was muffled against the back of Sherlock's neck, his body hard on top of Sherlock's own. It felt seriously good. Sherlock abruptly decided that he no longer wanted to be underneath. Too many discrepancies. Far too many.
He rolled up onto his side, dislodging the not quite startled enough man, and wriggled out of the clothes tangled around his knees. Sitting up, he looked down at the dark face.
“What sort of IT did you lie to Molly about?”
A slight, rueful smile. “Do you know, she never asked.”
“So what do you do?”
A wider smile. “This and that.” Jim's hand reached out from where he lay flat on Mycroft's expensive mattress, cradled Sherlock's erection. “I'm quite good at that, but I'm very good at this.”
He certainly was. Sherlock focussed.
“That's not much of an answer.” Something varied, indoors and out. Abroad a lot. Far too unspecific. He seized the hand, momentarily regretting disturbing its satisfying motion, smoothed his fingers over the palm. If the man used a gun, it was too infrequently to leave a trace. There certainly wasn’t one in the room right now.
Jim's other hand delved into discarded clothing, came out with condom and lube.
“I'm sure you can work it out, Sherlock. Or are you too distracted?”
It took more than sex to distract Sherlock Holmes. Resisting a purposeless glance over to his jacket- why did the man not ring?- he took the proffered items. Jim was lying on his back, legs tangled in the fine cotton sheets, still grinning at Sherlock.
“Will it take you longer to fuck me or to figure me out? Shall we have a little wager on it?”
Sherlock smiled back, coldly. “Mind over matter? With my mind, there's no contest.”
“Come on then.” The man's hand ran slowly up his own body. “Reason for me.”
"Part 3 here"
Author: Unsentimental Fool
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock/Jim
Rating: R
Word Count 1958
Summary The body’s desires, he thought as his own body stirred, were neither rational nor irrational; physiology was outside logic.
Notes/Warnings: MAJOR SPOILERS for ep 3. If you haven't watched it, don't read this.
" Part 1 here"
“Nice flat.”
Not in Sherlock’s opinion. It looked as if the owner had said “Make it clean, sharp, classic and impersonal.” In fact Sherlock was sure that the instructions to the interior decorators would have used at least three of those words. They were ones favoured, like the things they described, by the flat’s occupant.
It was always faintly satisfying, he thought, ignoring Jim from IT for the moment in favour of a close inspection of the place, to inflict this annoyingly untidy part of his life on a place so sterile. As well as practical; his brother would never be found at home in the middle of the day.
The immaculately clean kitchen still furnished evidence of far too many takeaways in the last fortnight. Mycroft was as busy as he had claimed, but was lying about the diet. The bedroom suggested, as always, a celibacy that Sherlock suspected was as much form over substance as his own. His brother knew he came here, though it had never been alluded to; Sherlock’s meticulous tidying up might fool Mycroft’s cleaner, his security agents but not the man himself, not for a moment. Unlike every other place he might visit, this flat’s owner successfully kept his secrets.
Most of them, at least. The slightest of discolouration on a low bedroom shelf suggested that something had stood there for a matter of weeks at the least, had been removed recently. It had been 43 days since Sherlock was last here; he racked his memory. A vase; white porcelain, nothing inside. Similar in taste and function to the three other ornaments in the room. Why would Mycroft move an ornament? This flat was set up precisely as he wished. He wouldn’t start shifting things around; he would certainly not simply remove one object.
Therefore the vase had been removed for a non-aesthetic reason. Either it had been broken in some way; he scanned the floor under the shelf. No trace of an object falling on it. No sign of extra cleaning, no disturbance to the neat pile. Or it had been removed to utilise it. A vase could contain anything small enough, solid or liquid. It would not be a container of choice for carrying most things around; it was not particularly stable, was too easily broken and it had no way of being closed. So either it had been used to contain something that was particularly suited to a vase, or it had been used in the absence of anything else. Since Mycroft had a multitude of neat Tupperware boxes arrayed in a kitchen cupboard, why use a vase from the bedroom? For an emergency, or out of choice?
Sherlock opened cupboards in the kitchen, checked the wardrobes, the drawers. No, the vase was no longer in the flat. Curious. But not necessarily important. He consigned the problem to working memory. Jim had sat down on the bed, was watching him as he prowled the rooms.
“I thought you might bring your friend.” A whiny voice; half natural, half affectation. Not an unusual aural tone among parts of the gay community. He’d not used it in the lab. The ability to change one’s voice deliberately and convincingly suggested practice- an actor, possibly. A man with at least two lives, but then Sherlock had already known that.
Friend? John. Sherlock briefly reviewed the potential connections. One; from Jim’s enthusiasm at their meeting, he had almost certainly read John’s blog. Connection two; John had been there when Jim introduced himself. Jim had evinced no interest in John at all. Connection three; alone with Sherlock, Jim had introduced John as a topic of conversation. Inconsistent, but again, not necessarily important. The man might be nervous- not the chatty nervous that he’d put on for his girlfriend though.
“You didn’t,” Sherlock pointed out, “give John your phone number.”
“I thought he might come with you anyway. He is ‘with’ you, I take it? The blog isn’t entirely clear on the matter.”
Privacy was one of those emotion-driven concepts that Sherlock had no time for. John however, despite his enthusiastic blogging to all and sundry, did. Sherlock considered the matter. Would John be more agitated by Sherlock leaving this man under the possible impression that they were having sex, or by his explicitly denying it?
A spike of annoyance. How should he know? None of the observations he’d made were directly relevant. Why was he even in the position of having to consider someone else’s illogicalities in order not to offend them? This association with John was bringing real inconveniences in exchange for nebulous advantages; he suspected that his subconscious was being permitted to have more than its usual input into the arrangements.
The phone could still ring at any moment. He did not have time for small talk, and certainly did not have the inclination. Ignoring the question, Sherlock removed his jacket, hung it over the back of Mycroft’s mahogany bedroom chair and began to unbutton his shirt.
“Let me, please.” Jim slid onto his feet with surprising elegance, pushed Sherlock gently towards the bed. Sherlock sat on the edge of it, watching Jim’s face as the man’s spidery fingers flickered warm down his chest and stomach. The body’s desires, he thought as his own body stirred, were neither rational nor irrational; physiology was outside logic.
Cuffs unbuttoned, cool hands spread up his chest, pushed material away from his arms. Half naked now, he returned the actions, feeling the shirt material ( A little pricey for an IT department but in line with everything else of the man), the smooth skin underneath (shaved yesterday, by someone else), feeling at the same time his own pulse quicken.
Jim was looking straight back at him. So the nervous man in the lab really had been an act. Nerves were easy to fake, and Sherlock had been more interested in his microscope at the time. Still, he should have caught that, along with the easy stuff, which of course he had.
Hands smoothed over his shoulders. “You,” Jim said, cheerfully, “are terribly tense. The sleuthing must be going badly.”
“Well, actually. Very well.” Of course it was going well. He was winning, apart from the block of flats thing, which hadn't been his fault, at all. But nails digging into his shoulder muscles undoubtedly felt good.
The IT guy gave a shove, strength unsuited to his effete image. “Roll over.” Sherlock hesitated for an instant, quick risk assessment, then complied. Weight over his clothed hips and fingers digging deep into his back; he spread his arms across the pillows, very much aware of temporary helplessness, payment for the competent massage.
The slight inconsistencies were all adding up to something a little odd. He took a deep breath as an overtight muscle twinged, then curiosity got the better of him.
“The lab woman. Why the pretence?”
No change in the breathing of the man above, no unusual muscle tension, apart from the slight push of the man’s still clothed erection as he straddled Sherlock’s hips. “How do you know I was pretending? I might be bi.”
Sherlock snorted. “There. A little harder. Better....No. Bisexual men with girlfriends dress straight. You couldn’t even be bothered to change your underwear for her.“
One hand stayed smoothing across his back, fingers of the other pushing under his waistband. Sherlock slid his own hand to his belt, trapped under his body, released it and the top button of his trousers.
“ I saw you in the hospital. I wanted to meet you. She mentioned you on her blog.”
Blogs again! For a nation so obsessed with privacy, there was a terrifying amount of personal information flying around randomly out there. When his phone was a little more accessible Sherlock would set up a filter on his name, see what people were saying about him.
A tug at his waistband; he shifted to allow clothes to be pulled down past his hips, then paused for a moment, assessing what he desired, how to get it. A superior knowledge of physiology together with close observation made him, he had decided after a little self-experimentation, an extremely effective lover. He’d not yet had the need to put much of this skill into play, since the only rational approach to casual sex was to obtain maximum pleasure with minimal trouble. With a regular partner there would be additional game theory considerations, obviously. More interesting, but far more inconvenient, especially since “regular” seemed to require emotional involvement. There was nothing tidy about combining companionship with sex; quite the reverse. His current arrangements were far superior.
So Jim had seen Sherlock on one of his many visits to Barts, had been attracted, had asked around, got a name, recognised it in Molly’s blog, seen a possible in and taken it. Sherlock was well aware that between 5 and 6 percent of men and 45 to 49 percent of women found him sexually attractive, depending on factors like clothes, location, weather. Before he talked to them, anyway.
Entirely plausible.
“You didn’t mind, did you? You didn’t seem to be using her right then.”
The tone was mock concern, the words were sarcastic. Why? Sherlock himself hadn’t cared for Molly’s feelings one way or another; she was the type to fall for unsuitable men, and she would no doubt continue to do so even after his help, but he’d been showing John that he could do relationships, when he chose. And John had accused him of cruelty.
This was all wrong, however well it hung together, and he suddenly realised why. Desperate Molly had been chatted up by Jim from IT. Except that he wasn't. The hands sliding over Sherlock's rear didn't have fingers flattened by regular keyboard use, or a palm slightly calloused from a mouse.
“What sort of IT?” he asked.
Jim shifted. “Mmmm?” His voice was muffled against the back of Sherlock's neck, his body hard on top of Sherlock's own. It felt seriously good. Sherlock abruptly decided that he no longer wanted to be underneath. Too many discrepancies. Far too many.
He rolled up onto his side, dislodging the not quite startled enough man, and wriggled out of the clothes tangled around his knees. Sitting up, he looked down at the dark face.
“What sort of IT did you lie to Molly about?”
A slight, rueful smile. “Do you know, she never asked.”
“So what do you do?”
A wider smile. “This and that.” Jim's hand reached out from where he lay flat on Mycroft's expensive mattress, cradled Sherlock's erection. “I'm quite good at that, but I'm very good at this.”
He certainly was. Sherlock focussed.
“That's not much of an answer.” Something varied, indoors and out. Abroad a lot. Far too unspecific. He seized the hand, momentarily regretting disturbing its satisfying motion, smoothed his fingers over the palm. If the man used a gun, it was too infrequently to leave a trace. There certainly wasn’t one in the room right now.
Jim's other hand delved into discarded clothing, came out with condom and lube.
“I'm sure you can work it out, Sherlock. Or are you too distracted?”
It took more than sex to distract Sherlock Holmes. Resisting a purposeless glance over to his jacket- why did the man not ring?- he took the proffered items. Jim was lying on his back, legs tangled in the fine cotton sheets, still grinning at Sherlock.
“Will it take you longer to fuck me or to figure me out? Shall we have a little wager on it?”
Sherlock smiled back, coldly. “Mind over matter? With my mind, there's no contest.”
“Come on then.” The man's hand ran slowly up his own body. “Reason for me.”
"Part 3 here"