Chapter Text
James Moriarty cruised genially around the steamship’s first-class saloon, chatting amiably with various slight acquaintances while casually keeping a close eye on the card sharp in the corner.
Sherlock’s sister Bea had fallen in with a wry talking, hard drinking set of wealthy older women who were fixtures at the card tables. And James had whiled away various pleasant hours giving off affable rogue vibes, sharing bottles and jibes with Bea and her pals, all while assessing the rest of the players. He'd marked out the other shark in the room quite early on, and since then kept a running tally of his winnings.
James had bided his time, but with Ireland looming just beyond the horizon he felt in need of a good fight and so took the opportunity to catch Bea’s eye and swap seats.
"I hope you lose your shirt," she swiped sweetly at him. (She was a bit annoyed with him after he’d flirted somewhat more determinedly than usual with a pal of hers who had a knowing eye and a blush that reminded him of Sherlock.) But she hung around at the bar, clearly interested in proceedings.
The shark introduced himself as Hughes, which the three ladies at the table (who'd been drinking since lunchtime) thought was rather quaint.
In short order the ladies were parted with their stakes, while James took the opportunity to purposefully play a little laxly, slightly overplaying his hand sometimes, pretending to have a tell at others, and giving Hughes a good look at his fat pocketbook when the ladies settled up and retired.
This was the moment of danger, when Hughes might decide to prudently retire and focus on easier prey, but James had clearly laid a sufficiently interesting trap because instead he cordially bought them a round and the two of them settled into playing in earnest.
James had set himself a target of winning three times his bar bill for the voyage so far, mostly because that's around what he thought the man had taken, but also because he liked a target so he could tell when he'd won.
The afternoon wound on, and James gradually lured Hughes into larger and larger stakes until he judged it time to pounce, and started winning in earnest, giving every impression of an inexperienced player delighted by his unexpected turn of luck.
Hughes congratulated him cordially and ordered him a bottle to celebrate, expecting with every hand that James’s luck would run out. But as the hands went on, Hughes’s credit guttered lower while James's rose inexorably, and by tea time the man was visibly sweating and had a hunted look in his eyes.
James drew an excellent hand and prepared to make a killing blow, and at that moment had a sudden sense of a familiar presence behind him. A moment later Sherlock strolled into his field of vision and seated himself at the table, requesting with cool courtesy to be dealt into the game.
His sudden appearance completely wrongfooted James for a moment – he had had no idea Sherlock played poker, or even would countenance gambling at all. But then again, it was the kind of thing he’d be excellent at so perhaps it wasn’t so much of a leap.
James also had a nagging sense that Sherlock was annoyed with him, although his implacable exterior gave no real sign James could have put his finger on.
And of course, there was just the general shock of his fundamental gorgeous Sherlockness – which hit James afresh at that moment and left him hiding the foolish grin of a lovesick idiot as Sherlock calmly collected his cards and cast a polite, collected smile at the two of them.
Sherlock introduced himself with a fake name, made a remark or two about the weather, and completely didn’t acknowledge that he knew James at all.
This was something of a relief. Sherlock had clearly deduced exactly what James was up to and knew as well as he did that Hughes would retire if he suspected there were two allies at the table.
They’d finish Hughes off in no time, James reflected with satisfaction, and even have time for a spot of sex before dinner.
It turned out, that that was not Sherlock’s plan.
Within a couple of hands, James was perplexed, and it only took a couple more before he was downright irritated. Sherlock was opposing him with the cool implacability of a brick wall, while purposefully tipping his hand to Hughes when the game allowed. In no time at all, James’s hard earned winnings were flowing in Sherlock’s direction, and through him straight back to that ninny Hughes.
“I see you know your probabilities, sir,” James ground out after a particularly irritating game in which Sherlock had led him to fold on a very promising hand, only to fold himself despite Hughes clearly having nothing worth speaking of.
“I thank you, sir,” Sherlock replied with an infuriatingly calm smile. “I see you are no laggard in that matter, either.”
Since they were both clearly excellent at probabilities, counting cards and strategy, the game was coming down to reading each other and keeping a cool head – and unfortunately in both of these aspects James was becoming rapidly aware he was decidedly off his game.
It would have been fine against Hughes – in fact James knew he’d been playing a little recklessly all afternoon. But against Sherlock that edge was deadly. He knew he should retire, but a stubborn recklessness was on him and he was damned if he was going to give Sherlock the satisfaction.
The afternoon wore on. Bea came over to needle James and bask in his downfall. Hughes wiped sweat from his brow and Sherlock touched nothing of the drink James ordered for him and just played on with absolute composure.
“I congratulate you sir,” Sherlock announced eventually with a grave smile to Hughes, as the man rose in relief, having recovered his earnings through Sherlock’s efforts.
Hughes retired hurriedly and Sherlock – finally! – set his cool blue gaze directly on James, as there was no longer any need to pretend they didn’t know one another.
“Care to retire, James?” Sherlock asked with startling gentleness.
“No chance,” James replied shortly. “I prefer it better this way, anyway.” He shifted his chair so he was opposite Sherlock and ordered another drink.
“I don’t suppose you’d bothered to deduce why he needed the money?” Sherlock asked, a hint of real emotion thrumming into his tone for the first time.
Oh, James thought, that’s why he’s annoyed with me.
“He’d taken a lot from Bea and her pals,” James countered defensively.
The realisation he’d disappointed Sherlock cut him rather deeply so he initiated the next game as a distraction.
They played on, James losing steadily and well aware he should have retired hours ago. Although exalting in his downfall, Bea clearly felt some pity for him, because as she and her pals headed off for dinner she came over a final time and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder.
“Well we’re off to admire that dapper waiter in the aft restaurant,” she announced, giving Sherlock a tremendous wink.
This sufficiently unsettled Sherlock that James actually thought for a minute he might have a chance.
“He’s not as dapper as all that,” Sherlock muttered to himself, casting a frown after Bea’s retreating back.
“You noticed him?” James asked curiously, forgetting the game completely for a moment. “I thought you never noticed anyone.”
Except me, he could have added, with egotistical glee. But he was too annoyed at present to engage in flirty teasing.
Sherlock’s eyes flicked briefly in his direction before averting, and a slight colour touched his cheeks.
“I notice when you notice him,” Sherlock clarified quietly.
Great. Sherlock’s obvious hurt careered James even further from any chance of winning.
“I can’t turn that off, Sherlock,” he replied defensively, before realising what an utter ass he sounded.
James threw down his hand on the table.
“Will you ignore me? I’ve no idea what’s gotten into me today.”
Which was an utter lie and they both knew it.
Sherlock set down his own hand, his brow clouded.
“James…” He hesitated. “Care to take a turn on deck?”
Ugh. That meant Sherlock thought they should talk. And there was nothing James felt less like doing.
“Can’t we stop by the bar first?” James suggested. “Or our cabin?” Drinking or sex both seemed eminently more attractive, but Sherlock looked doubtful so James picked up his hand again. “Or you could keep taking my money, if you like.”
The played a couple more hands.
“How much longer are you planning on losing to me?” Sherlock asked, surprisingly gently.
“Until we reach Liverpool?” James suggested glumly. “It’s only two days or so, I’m sure my pocketbook can handle it.”
Sherlock snorted with laughter and gestured to a waiter, ordering James a sandwich.
“I’m fine with going there, you know,” Sherlock offered softly. “There’s no need to go to Ireland. Now, or ever. Not really.”
Sighing inwardly, James realised they were going to talk regardless of his efforts. So he called over the waiter, added a sandwich for Sherlock to the order, and got him to send everything up on deck.
The wind was cool and the sea quite black as they strolled aft and leaned on the rail, watching the lacy wake as it disappeared into the darkness.
James managed to deflect Sherlock for about two minutes by critiquing his game strategy – which he recognised was just Sherlock taking pity on him given how badly he’d lost – but eventually Sherlock cleared his throat and James braced himself.
“James, do you think we should… talk?” Sherlock asked reluctantly.
“It’s gotten that bad, has it?” James replied with a mirthless chuckle.
“I was serious earlier. I'm more than happy to stay on the ship until Liverpool," Sherlock offered softly. "Bea's invited us to her place in the country. We could do a spot of fishing and shooting, hop up to Scotland if you like. I wouldn't mind seeing the Surgeons’ Museum in Edinburgh."
James sighed. That felt like the coward’s way out.
“I’ve promised you we’ll go, so we’ll go,” James returned grimly.
Sherlock sighed too, glanced briefly around, and clasped James’s hand.
“I expect you’re worried I’ll think less of you, once I’ve seen your past,” Sherlock deduced softly, which was one of Sherlock’s more impressive feats of understatement. “But how could I, James? Honestly. It’s all made you who you are, and…” he hesitated and gathered his courage “I love who you are.”
James really wished they were in the cabin right now so he could kiss him. And then possibly draw him onto his knee and forget all about everything for a while.
Possibly, Sherlock had chosen their conversation venue wisely.
A waiter approached with their sandwiches and Sherlock let go of his hand, leaving James feeling abruptly bereft.
“You could tell me what we’ll find there?” Sherlock suggested once the waiter had retired. “Then you’ll see you have nothing to fear from my reaction.” Sherlock’s sincere wish to think well of him was rapidly undoing James’s composure. He really wished he could share Sherlock’s faith.
James gripped the rail more tightly and attempted to give him something.
“My family,” he mumbled, “it’s not like yours. We’ve never looked out for each other, at all. And there’s no haven like Appleton. Not anymore.”
“Yes, I know,” Sherlock replied softly.
James cast a wry smile at him, then dropped into a deckchair and held out his hand.
“Here?” Sherlock looked round doubtfully. The darkened deck was now deserted, but still…
“We’re docking tomorrow. I don’t give a fuck anymore.”
James drew Sherlock onto his knee and slid a hand under his shirt, not for any titillating purpose but just for the comfort of feeling Sherlock’s warm skin under his palm.
“Alright then.” He gave a wry smile. “Tell me what you’ve deduced so far.”
Sherlock blushed bashfully, and some of James’s unfocussed anger evaporated.
“Your accent,” Sherlock offered, “I'm no expert, but I think you hail from somewhere in the region of County Cork.”
“Hmm?” James smiled at him, giving nothing away but enjoying the spectacle of Sherlock's mind working a problem.
“You show no signs of childhood malnutrition,” Sherlock continued, “but you grew up in the shadow of the Great Famine, and I understand harvests are still bad and evictions commonplace. So that suggests you hail from Cork City rather than an agricultural community. Your father was something in manufacturing I expect, but you didn't choose to follow him into it.” Sherlock hesitated.
“Yes?” James prompted, stroking a thumb over Sherlock's back. He was a little turned on by being the focus of Sherlock's brainwork, but he was also slightly trying to distract him since a vocal part of him didn’t want Sherlock to continue.
Sherlock cast him a searching look, and then clearly switched to say something different from what he had originally intended.
“You've purposefully softened your accent over time and adopted the manners of an English gentleman. I imagine it was expedient for your business relationships, but it also strikes me as an incongruous thing to do, considering the English haven't exactly covered ourselves in glory in our treatment of the Irish.”
James burst into a bark of harsh laughter.
“That's your considered opinion is it?” he asked, marvelling once again at Sherlock's power of understatement.
Sherlock flushed unhappily.
“I'm not saying I agree with absentee English landlords or evictions or any of it."
"Says the landed English gentleman with the manor house," James teased, more bite to his voice than he'd intended.
What was wrong with him today?
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably.
"Appleton is Mycroft's, not mine," he protested quietly, which made James feel even more of an ass.
Appleton had been Sherlock’s haven for years, while Mycroft barely went there at all, so it struck James as particularly unjust that the house had passed to Mycroft upon their father’s death.
Just then a party of laughing people in their early twenties spilled out onto the deck from one of the bars and Sherlock peeled off James’s knee and busied himself handing him a sandwich.
"We may need to be a bit more careful,” Sherlock observed softly. "I understand less of a blind eye is turned to our sort of thing in Ireland."
"Yet another reason to burn the place to the ground," James growled, only half joking. He munched his sandwich before adding: "If anyone sets a finger on you, I can't be held responsible for my actions."
Sherlock's mouth set into a firm unhappy line.
"You may need to rein in that overprotective instinct," he suggested quietly, displaying his first real irritation at James's behaviour that day (which considering how James had been acting, was something of a miracle). "We're entering a febrile political environment and I expect it's quite likely I'll experience some hostile anti-English sentiment."
That stopped James short. It had never actually occurred to him that he might be leading Sherlock into danger.
"I take it all back," James decided, "we're carrying on to Liverpool."
Sherlock fixed him with a long, assessing look.
"I believe," Sherlock said eventually, "it is my turn to remind you that you made a promise."
The young people were now laughing raucously while one of them was sick over the side.
"Shall we retire?" Sherlock asked with a wry tip of his head in their direction.
Despite this being what James had been angling for most of the evening, he felt sudden misgivings. He didn't trust himself when he was in a mood like this.
"On condition you eat this first," he procrastinated, thrusting Sherlock's sandwich at him.
Sherlock's brow wrinkled in irritation.
"I'm not a child, James."
That was a matter of opinion, James thought, but for once that day managed to hold his tongue.
"It feels a little like you're starting on a case," he said instead, "and I'm it."
Sherlock considered this.
"You may have a point," he conceded reluctantly. "Perhaps we should make a deal: I will do my best not to treat you like a case, and you will do your best not to be a patronising idiot."
James let out his first real laugh of the evening.
"Ever the optimist," he grinned, before quickly sobering. "I can't stand myself at the moment. So I don't know how you possibly can."
Sherlock smiled a surprisingly gentle smile.
“Oh I had expected you to punch someone by now,” he replied dryly, “so actually I’m pleasantly surprised.” James chuckled and Sherlock rose and offered him a hand.
"Come on."
"Would you mind awfully if we went back to your room instead?" James asked, as Sherlock drew him down the stairs. Sherlock glanced at him questioningly. "I'm just so sick of mine, and anyway I might behave better in your place.” Sherlock shrugged and unlocked the door, gesturing courteously for James to enter first.
They'd been mostly using James's cabin but had taken one for Sherlock for appearance's sake and to store the three cases of books he'd accumulated over the trip. Sherlock conscientiously returned each morning to muss up the bed and had spent many a relaxed hour reading in there while James gallivanted about the ship. James however hadn't spent any real time there before this evening.
On opening the door something familiar and welcome assailed James, perhaps the combined smell of Sherlock and his books. He snooped around curiously as Sherlock rang the bell for tea, and it came to him that the cabin had the same feel as Appleton in some intrinsic way. Perhaps it stemmed from the way Sherlock had neatly organised his things, or the dense tome half read on the table, or the general atmosphere of calm, collected intelligence. It all spoke to him of Sherlock relaxing in his childhood home.
James flopped on the bed and folded his hands behind his head, feeling profoundly comforted.
Sherlock cast him a soft look and pottered around until the tea arrived, neatly putting away their hats and stowing his jacket in the wardrobe.
"Another good reason to come here," James observed as Sherlock handed him a cup, "you don't have silly amounts of whisky everywhere."
Sherlock folded into a chair and regarded him gravely, sipping his tea.
“What can I do to help you, James?” Sherlock asked softly.
James rubbed his eyes.
“I honestly haven't the faintest idea.”
Sherlock hesitated a moment, and then offered:
“Would you like me to try a deduction?
“Alright.” James sat up straighter, interested. He might be a confused mess right now but he had faith in Sherlock's insight.
Sherlock considered him for a few moments, sipping his tea, and James felt a little thrill at being the absolute object of Sherlock's attention.
“It strikes me that you have three options that might help,” Sherlock began.
“Well that sounds promising,” James observed, grinning.
“You won't like two of them,” Sherlock returned wryly.
“Ugh.” James took a slurp of tea and set the cup aside. “Alright. Let's hear them.”
“First option: you tell me exactly what we'll find in Ireland, so you don't need to stew anymore about what my reaction might be. And we talk about it.”
James grimaced.
“Next option, please.”
“Second option.” Sherlock smiled shyly and James guessed fondly what was coming. “You let me look after you tonight.”
“Infinitely more attractive than option one!” James declared, grinning.
“I suspect though, it might not be what you feel you really need,” Sherlock observed reluctantly.
“Which brings us to option three?”
Sherlock hesitated and a storm of emotion roared into his tone. “You let off steam as you would have done in the past, by fighting and fucking your way through the night." Sherlock gripped his own cup more tightly and looked into it, not meeting James's eye. "I expect," he added softly, "you'd decide you need a partner who prefers harsher treatment than I do, and I'm sure you've already noticed suitable candidates on board to proposition."
Several wildly conflicting emotions warred in James. His first instinct was to try and assuage Sherlock's obvious hurt by denying he wanted anything of the sort. But on the back of that came a darker wave of self-knowledge.
"And exactly how angry would you be with me," he asked tentatively, "if I pursued option three?"
Sherlock flung a stone cold glare of pure fury at him.
"I would think you an utter selfish narcissist," Sherlock replied coldly. "And I would remind you, that though you are quite capable of bedding everyone on this ship without it impacting your attachment to me in the slightest, I would feel very differently about the matter."
James blew out a long breath.
"I wonder that you even mention it at all then," he observed after a moment.
Sherlock's anger dissipated a little into sadness.
"Unfortunately for me, I want the best for you," he sighed.
"I really don't think you should be so generous with me," James urged. Sherlock just shrugged a little helplessly.
“Which option do you think I should choose?” James asked after a long moment of silence.
“No.” Sherlock smiled gravely. “Ultimately I don't know you better than yourself James. You're the one having the crisis, so you choose.”
“That hardly seems fair. By that logic I'll get to ignore your wishes the whole time we're in Ireland.”
“Once we get back to England I promise to promptly have my own crisis,” Sherlock offered dryly. “We can spend two weeks making love my way. Assuming I haven’t chucked you out on your ear by then.”
James chuckled.
“That sounds rather lovely, actually,” he observed.
He considered a moment.
"Have you considered a potential fourth option?" he suggested slowly, and at Sherlock's closed expression he added hastily, "I'm not saying I want it, only asking if you've considered it."
"The fourth option, where you don't stray, but you're harder on me than usual..." Sherlock bit his lip. "I have to appeal to your superior knowledge of these things James and ask: Do you think I'd like it?"
James thought about everything he'd gleaned from Sherlock's very bashful hints about preferences.
"I honestly don't know," he said finally. "But if you wanted to try then you'd have to promise me with absolute sincerity that you'd tell me if you didn't."
Sherlock shifted uneasily as he thought about it.
"I sense option four is your preference," he observed finally.
"That's completely irrelevant," James insisted. “For Christ’s sake will you please attempt to have at least some protective instinct!”
Sherlock smiled wryly.
“Since I've chosen to be with you, I think it's a fair deduction that the answer to that question is ‘no’.”
James snorted out a laugh, but he wouldn’t be deflected.
"Please stop being so generous for a moment and actually be honest about what you want."
Sherlock shifted unhappily.
"I genuinely want you to be happy," he offered.
"Lovely," James shot back impatiently, "and are you actually interested in trying something a little rougher? Because if not then we're sticking with option two tonight, and you can take care of me to your absolute heart’s content."
Sherlock bit his lip while James waited on tenterhooks.
"I don't feel I know enough to answer that question," Sherlock replied finally.
James blew out a long breath and tried his best to calm his frustration.
"Alright, how about this," he proposed. "We'll try, but very slowly. And you must promise me on Appleton that you'll tell me if you're uncomfortable." Sherlock nodded apprehensively.
James regarded him a moment, then opened his arms.
"Would you come here? If you like."
Relieved, Sherlock folded into James’s lap and slipped his head into its familiar place in the nook of James’s neck.
James felt himself ease into the moment.
"You've promised on Appleton, remember?" he murmured, sliding a hand inside Sherlock's shirt.
"My memory is as good as it ever was," Sherlock replied, leaning into his touch.
James nuzzled over his neck, selecting a spot that looked delicious and untouched and then setting his teeth to it, running a thumb over Sherlock's nipple as he did so.
Sherlock's eyes were tightly shut already, gasping breaths puffing onto James's neck. And it suddenly occurred to James that his atrocious behaviour all day must have been hard on Sherlock, and maybe he would appreciate letting off some steam too.
Not for the first time, James reflected how much of a blind, self-centred idiot he could be sometimes.
"I've a theory," he murmured, grazing his teeth along Sherlock's collar bone, "that you like it when I mark you."
"There's something pleasing about it, I'll grant you," Sherlock said breathlessly.
"Pleasing," James mocked gently, "I think we can aim a little higher than that."
He twisted Sherlock's nipple, not enough to be punishing, but enough to make him yelp and curl his toes.
"Also," James murmured, licking over a bruise he'd made a couple of days earlier. "I think you like it when I pin you down, hmm?"
Sherlock flushed spectacularly.
"I... possibly," he mumbled. "I imagine it depends on the context."
James strongly suspected this meant "yes, but I don't want to admit it".
“You know,” he chided gently, “you’d make my life a lot easier if you’d be just a tiny bit more candid about your preferences.”
Sherlock flushed in embarrassment. He was now a most exquisite scarlet from head to toe and James thought he’d never seen anything quite so delicious.
“I… can see that,” Sherlock mumbled eventually. “Alright.” He took a breath. “I suppose I do quite like it. I don’t know why though. It seems a strange thing to like.”
“You think so?” James flashed a winning grin. “Who wouldn’t want to be ravished by me?”
“You really are an utter ass sometimes,” Sherlock muttered.
James laughed. And then, since this exchange had slightly dispelled any kind of atmosphere James had sought to build, he wound back to the beginning again and kissed his way down to Sherlock’s nipple, taking it between his teeth but not being as hard as he might have been. Had he been with a partner who he was confident relished sharper pleasures, they would have been screaming by now.
Sherlock clutched at him tightly, panting. And James cast an eye around the room, alighting on a sofa against the far wall. It was a solid walnut log of a thing, stuffed with cushions, and he thought it would do very nicely.
“How would you feel about being thrown over the arm of that thing?” he asked, and when Sherlock made an acquiescing grunt he drew him to his feet and with a firm palm bent him over it, setting his cheek somewhere among the cushions and his ass invitingly high. "Hmm," James grinned, pushing up his shirt and nuzzling into his back. "I can bite you so much better from here."
Sherlock gasped into the cushions, chest heaving, as James bit a new bruise on top of an older one. It had to be painful, James knew, but Sherlock didn’t oblige him with much of a yelp. Which meant he either had a better pain tolerance than James expected or was holding back.
“All alright?” James asked, “on Appleton, remember?”
Sherlock sighed into the cushions.
“Will you shut up James. I’ll tell you if it isn’t.” Slightly surprised, James blinked a few times. “I… Sorry,” Sherlock added. “I was just rather enjoying the moment.”
That sounded extremely promising to James.
“I’m the one who should apologise!” he declared, grinning broadly. “Alright then.” He reached round and started undoing Sherlock’s trousers. Usually he liked to take his time unpeeling Sherlock from all his layers of clothes, but today he was very hard already and keen to move things along.
Sherlock’s gorgeously pert ass came invitingly into view and James roved a speculative palm over it, before giving quite a hard pinch and enjoying Sherlock’s gasp.
“How would you feel about a good smack just here?” he asked, itching to hear Sherlock yelp and see a spread of colour from his palm blossom over that pale skin.
“Er…” Sherlock cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I can’t honestly see the appeal.”
“Oh.” James drew his palm back to Sherlock’s thigh.
“Sorry,” Sherlock added awkwardly.
“What? No! I’m glad you’re being honest with me.” James was rather disappointed but he held out hope that one day Sherlock might ease into trying more than he was comfortable with now.
The mood seemed to have been dispelled again so he wondered if it was time to get on with the main event. He knew he wasn’t going to get the brutal fuck he craved but the risk of inflicting something on Sherlock he didn’t want made his insides shrivel up.
“I’m going to fuck you rather hard. With just a spot of sharp attention. Alright?”
The flush up Sherlock’s neck darkened and James had the distinct impression he liked that idea.
Excellent. They were getting somewhere.
In short order Sherlock was bent over the arm of the sofa, clutching at the cushions and gasping inarticulately as James held him down and fucked him really quite hard – not as hard as he would have ideally liked, but enough.
James had long held a suspicion that one of the strongest areas of overlap between their preferences was inflicting and receiving pain. Since Sherlock had always used sex as a way to escape his own mind, and pain added a delicious efficacy to pleasure as a means to do that, it wasn’t too great a leap.
So James dispensed with any thought of restraint or throttling or any of the other things he would have ideally loved to indulge in, and just focussed on experimentally ratcheting up the pain with the pleasure, to see what Sherlock could take.
Since slaps were not on the cards he made good use of his teeth, the edge of his fingernails, and after a while the hard corner of his tin of oil, scoring down Sherlock’s back until he felt him writhe and choke down a curse.
Hah! James thought. I finally got him to swear.
He could have experimented all night, but Sherlock was getting close, his cock heavy and leaking precum, and James had been craving release since about lunchtime. So he gave up the experiment, chalking it up as a success, and took them both to orgasm.
After, James stretched languidly on Sherlock’s bed and drew an arm round him.
"Can I get you anything?" James asked, yawning.
"Actually," Sherlock checked the time, "I'm ravenous. I think I’ll get some room service."
“Well you did leave your sandwich to the gulls,” James pointed out, stretching luxuriantly as Sherlock rose and pulled on his dressing gown before ringing the bell.
“James…” Sherlock asked later, midway through demolishing a cheese board.
“Hmm?” James had been browsing through Sherlock’s books ostensibly to find something to read, but actually with increasing amusement at the completely esoteric collection of subjects.
There was a pause, and James looked up enquiringly to find Sherlock going a delicious shade of pink. His interest in the conversation abruptly sharpened.
“Yes, Sherlock my sweet?” he asked, grinning.
“If you call me that again, I shall punch you,” Sherlock returned with dignity. “And I was just wondering, do many people have similar preferences to me? Am I unusual in that respect?”
James sat on the bed and thought about Sherlock’s question.
“You’re making an implicit assumption that I’ve fucked everyone in the world so know their preferences,” he replied with a grin, “and while I appreciate the compliment…” Sherlock lost patience and threw a pillow at him.
“I thought this evening was supposed to make you less insufferable,” Sherlock complained dryly.
“Ach.” James grinned. “No chance of that I’m afraid.”