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The train the Vienna gives them a luxurious time alone. So much had happened since the last time they sat across with scenery rattling out the window. The princess had opted to share with Mycroft and Cordelia, her sour disposition lingering too long on James for comfort. It left the boys alone in their second-class cabin - uninterrupted. Time to finish the dance they'd been doing since arriving in Paris, since Oxford; since the first time James laid eyes on the scout who was too canny for his own good.
In Paris, James had killed a man and threatened another. James Moriarty was taking his time tasting power like fine whiskey rolled in his mouth. The secret; he was already planning to drink his fill. Not yet sure how, discovering first where other fun was to be had, what else gave the adrenaline head rush, rabbit-heart pounding into deep satisfaction. What other devices of death and power lay out there, his quick mind ticking over and over the how of the nerve gas. It was a puzzle he intended to solve, for what or who or why he didn’t know. Only that he needed to solve it.
This time he was the one distracted by the scenery rolling across the window, lost in his thoughts. He stirred a little as Sherlock pushed a flask into his hand and nodded. James drank. Sherlock finished.
They were on a precipice. A precipice which would decide the fate of the rest of their lives, let alone the world, and Moriarty was fascinated by the animalistic need he’d felt to see the weapon up close, watch as the gas ate the life out of the man they’d placed in the box. The fascination had fluttered unnoticed, everyone in their little band distracted by Sherlock getting shot - him included.
“What do you look for, when you decide to bed a woman?” Sherlock’s voice rang out like a gunshot in the quiet on the carriage, and James’s eyes snapped onto him. He hadn’t been imagining the tension that had been sitting between them since Paris - heavy and impatient. And so why the question?
James met his level gaze. “Oh, many things. Line of duty, of course. I’ll flirt with anything pretty, but only really bother goin’ any further if they’ve got some wits to match. Old romantic, I am - fall into bed with any girl who can insult me by being clever. Of course, there’s the thrill of a chase. All the sweeter when it feels like I’ve earned it.”
“What’s it like?”
James chuckled. “You’ll have to be more specific, Sherly. The flirting, the fucking, the being insulted…”
“The fucking. How does it feel to lay with a woman.”
He grinned at Sherlock’s bluntness, usually so restrained, and caught the instinctive retort about his recently revealed boarding school stint - no need to press a sore spot when there was already a bullet hole in his stomach. “Is this about the Princess? She’s got quite a fancy for you.”
Sherlock said nothing, save for the slightest inclination of his head.
James clapped his hands on his knees, torn between delight in how this would surely make Sherlock squirm and frustration that the tension between them was evading his friend's notice. “Shall I start with the basics, or is it the gender of the individual that’s the confusion?”
Sherlock blushed a deep crimson that James relished. It made a nice change from the pallor he’d taken on since his injury. “I’m not a virginal blushing bride, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Alright then.” James buried the prick of jealousy despite already piecing that knowledge together, along with the prick that came with the basis of this whole conversation. Princess - not a princess, but skilled and resourceful and convincing. Attractive enough to have Sherlock asking questions.
He could be cheeky about this. Could take a plunge into the dance of touching and lingering and looking they’d been playing since Paris, could get on his knees in front of Sherlock and give him a demonstration of how it tended to start. James hadn’t taken a man in his mouth before, but he’d been on the receiving end plenty of times. He was sure he could muddle through. Or - James could sit astride him, recounting in a whisper the way it felt when he fucked the last pretty girl in Oxford before all this began, how her body was soft and sweet and wet, trembling under his hands and twitching as he planted kisses down her spine. How her tits felt in his hands while he fucked her from behind, fucking her fast and hard, how sweaty and breathy the whole affair got. What it was like to feel her clutch and tremble while he spilled on her back, hand gripped in the soft flesh of her hip, no doubt leaving bruises he felt no guilt for. Let Sherlock feel him harden in his trousers as he did, playing the game the question invited. Winning the game.
He was aware he’d been silent a noticeable amount of time, looking vaguely into the middle distance while he considered his options. The sudden jostle of the train was a welcome distraction, throwing him to and fro and breaking the moment long enough to collect himself.
“I’d say, though I can’t be certain, it’s different to laying with a man. Girls are all different too - how it feels can depend on if you’re there for your pleasure, or hers. Or both.”
There was a desperate urge to kneel and see what expression would fix on his friend's face that settled into James. To hold both thighs in his hands, press his cheek against them. Chase the syrupy warmth he held nowhere but late night fantasies and tight pressed train cars, entertaining the notion he could hold Sherlock Holmes in the palm of his hand - be held in return. Every single instinct in him screamed to get onto his knees, and yet he fought to stay locked against the seat, giving nothing away. James Moriarty could never just give it away, not even to Sherlock Holmes.
“So what specifically do you want to know, Sherly?” His exasperation couldn't be helped - Sherlock's look, the tension, the question, their dance; it all felt as though one wrong step would be another bomb going off.
“Was my question not clear?” Came the response, tight as piano wire. James had asked for clarification so obviously it wasn’t fucking clear, but fine. James would answer the fucking question and play the game. Bomb waiting or not, off he went into the paddock.
“Well, if I’m fucking for my pleasure, say if you hadn’t interrupted in the club - “
“Which you could not afford -”
“- then I do it how I like. Focus less on the sounds she’s making, and more how it all feels for me. Fast, deep, what angle I’m fucking her from. Behind is best for me, with her kneeled over and skirts hitched. The depth is exquisite. Usually very wet, warmth everywhere. Ladies are soft, it's easy to grip her hips and pull her onto you as fast as you wish, and it’s not quiet either, skin hitting skin has this wonderful smack, alongside whatever sounds she makes-”
“Thank you James, that’s quite-”
James didn’t slow down. “And their chests? It’s like holding clouds in your hands that you can’t help grab, and god, they feel good. Delicate, but the prettiest noises come out when you tease her with them, get your mouth on them, and she'll tremble underneath you. And Sherlock,” he had been looking askance as he rattled off filth, but this locked their eyes. “When you taste her slit for her pleasure, her pinnacle, fingers deep inside her cunt while she moans, holding her down completely because you’ll always be stronger - there’s always a part of them that gives in to your mercy, wraps their legs around your waist, doesn’t fight as you push her from standing to bed.”
“James!” Sherlock’s face was wide like a frightened rabbit who’d accidentally run into the foxes' den.
Perhaps he should have just been cheeky. Perhaps he should have refused the trap presented as a question from the start, though he didn't think Sherlock intended it to be so. He should have insisted Sherlock take up his place in their dance, instead of disrupting it. Should have touched him sooner, put a deliberate hand on his knee, instead of staring out the window pondering the future. James Moriarty could run Shoulds and Perhaps for the rest of his life, if he allowed himself.
Now it was James’s turn for bluntness, aware his voice rang too loud and brittle in the confines of the cabin. “Well what did you want from me? I’m answering your posited question, it’s hardly my fault you weren’t happy with how the answer felt.”
“You were being gratuitous.”
James crossed his arms and leaned back, his gaze heavy and black on Sherlock. “Fine. Deal me in. How does it feel to fuck a man?”
This question surprised Sherlock - such a rare occurrence between them - and James relished it.
“I have rather less experience to draw on than you do, that much is clear.”
“But not none.”
“Not none, no.” The train tumbled on as Sherlock collected his thoughts. James still wanted to kneel, and resisted. “You want it just as gratuitous, I suppose?" Sherlock wasn't looking as James nodded. "It’s…messy. You need to slick things - with oil, usually. That itself is messy enough. It feels not painful, but full. I can’t compare how it feels to be with a woman's body against yours, but in my experience he’s firm. Not hard, but firm, and sweaty and hairy and heavy, with arms and hands that hold the mercy you described. I understand how that feels, to take it. Aware that the power you seem to hold, the choice you make to follow him is only an illusion.” Sherlock took a breath, eyes drifting in the manner of someone searching for a memory. “Taking him in your mouth - well it takes practice. To get him all the way in, otherwise your mouth won't do it. You need to relax. And gets so messy, your body makes more and more saliva until it’s everywhere, and mixes with his finish. Which tastes salty, and not nice. But it’s nicer to taste and swallow than feel it cool on your face, mixed with the saliva dripping down your chin, except when he does that he holds your face and looks at you like he wants to devour you. And you want to let him.”
Blood rushing from James's head, his heart pounding and his cock beginning to fill. The urge to kneel hadn't budged. He wanted to lower his head to Sherlock’s thigh, slide his hand higher to his crotch, which, dared James judge, looked awfully tight in his trousers. Hold him closer. His fixed posture was the only thing keeping him upright by now. The precipice waited between them, and James decided he was ready to fall. He was confident he would be followed.
“Sherlock,” James said, gently approaching his scared little rabbit, “did you find a single thing the slightest bit appealing in any of my gratuitous description?”
He shook his head softly, unable or unwilling to admit aloud. Then, cautiously. “Dare I ask same question in return?”
James, whose voice was already turning husky and strained, prayed his response wasn’t lost in the din of the train clattering along its route. He wasn’t sure he could repeat it if asked, his hands and voice shaking as he did so. “I did. Find it appealing.” James leaned forward to place a hand on each of Sherlock’s knees for leverage. James was holding his body stiffly against the motions of the train. He couldn’t fuck this up, he couldn’t fall into his friend and clash their faces together, couldn't drift to the side and miss, his scared little rabbit would run away, and with the danger awaiting them in Constantinople, James wasn’t sure if he’d catch him again. This was the only chance he had to complete the dance.
He leaned forward further, finally capturing Sherlock’s lips in a sweet, deliberate kiss. The response was immediate, Sherlock kissing him back, hands coming to rest on the sides of James’s face, holding him tight against his lips. Sherlock kissed differently to how James was used to - to how he expected. Meeting with equal pressure, unyielding but softening as James parted his lips with his tongue, licking inside Sherlock’s mouth with the same sweetness he kissed him with.
When they pulled apart, panting for breath, Sherlock said, “James. My injury, I can’t. I can’t show you what it’s like.”
“That’s okay. We’ll have time enough.” James settled in, straddling Sherlock's lap, “does this hurt?”
Sherlock shook his head and they kissed again, and again, and again, and James felt he was having the pleasure to learn Sherlock anew. James kissed down his neck and discovered the ways a man could sound when becoming overwhelmed with pleasure. It was far more similar to how he courted women than James would ever admit to Sherlock, particularly as he took an ear lobe in his mouth and couldn't help but thrust forward at the sound and clench Sherlock let out, clearly involuntary.
While Vienna, to Constantinople, to whatever awaited them there, grew ever nearer, James lost himself in Sherlock. He prayed to the god that had never answered that this wouldn’t be the last time he had Sherlock underneath him, flushed and pretty, skin as soft as a girls under his hands but the stubble rubbing his cheek as they kissed over and over a new and intoxicating sensation he would be chasing for all his days.
They stayed close to each other, bodies moulding in the forge, until the train slowed into Vienna. They would change trains for Budapest, then on via steamship down the Danube. James had never been so far from what he'd loosely call home. Yet home was beginning to feel more like the lingering hand he kept on Sherlock’s shoulder as they navigated the chaos of the station than his native Ireland. No one commented on their closeness. And Sherlock didn’t look the Princess’s way once.
But he did look to James. Looked at him with the dark eyes that had held James in their grip since the first meeting weeks ago, that now felt like they were all his. Only his.
James was looking forward to finding out how it felt laying with a man. However long it would take them.