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Sherlock is stretched out on the couch, eyes half-closed in concentration. He's walking through the long halls of his mind palace, poking his head into rooms at random to make sure everything's in order. He tries to do this at least once a month; it's a basic but vital maintenance routine to ensure that his mind is free of clutter and running at maximum efficiency. He walks by countless shelves, reminding himself of things he'd almost forgotten and plucking up unnecessary information that he'll discard of later.
Today he comes across Mycroft's favorite color. It's printed on a paint sample card, the paper thick and square. It's a murky green-gray, the color of trees when it rains. He thinks of the last time he needed this information: he was seven, and it was the day before Mycroft's birthday. He'd been making him a card. Sherlock picks the information up and holds it in the palm of his hand, arching an eyebrow. With a swift flick of his wrist he deposits it into his pocket. He doesn't need that in his mind palace, not now.
Shortly afterwards he strolls into the sterile white room where he houses his knowledge of venoms. Shining vials line the walls of the room, lit from behind and casting pools of liquid light onto the floor. There's snake venom to his right, organized into neurotoxins and hemotoxins, and then the venom of spiders and wasps to his left. He checks the name tags beneath each bottle, glancing at the color and toxicity per milliliter of each. He notes any information that needs to be added and then, finished with the wasp section, swivels on his heels to face the mammalian venom -
"A ringtone just doesn't do the Bee Gees justice, now does it?"
Sherlock is ripped away from his mind palace, the venom room melting around him until he's back at Baker Street. He sits upright, dazed for a moment, until he locks eyes with Jim.
Jim is lounging at the table, laptop open and blasting the Bee Gees. He's wearing a neat white shirt and his McQueen tie; his jacket is slung over the back of the chair, one of the arms drooping down far enough to brush the floor. Jim had been meaning to go out - hence the tie - but had been sidetracked by both Sherlock and something on the laptop that had required his "urgent attention".
Jim types quickly without looking at the screen, his head nodding along to the beat of the song. His eyes bore into Sherlock's from above the laptop's monitor. The smile evident in the curve of his eyebrows broadcasts that he knows exactly what he's just done.
The music attacks Sherlock, assaulting his mind with auditory punches. Jim's turned the volume up so loud that Sherlock can feel it thrumming in his chest. He clenches a fist against the couch, knowing that with every second his mind palace is slipping further and further away. It'll take ages to get back where he was and continue his inspection.
"Turn that off, Jim," Sherlock says. "My mind palace can't coexist with that cacophony."
"I know that, darling," Jim says. He tilts his head a bit so Sherlock can see the full-blown grin twisting his features. It's one of Jim's theatric smiles, the kind that he saves for teasing and threatening.
Sherlock leans his head back against the arm of the couch when Jim turns his attention back to the laptop. He's motionless for a while, staring at the ceiling, before he dramatically heaves a sigh that's loud enough to compete with the Bee Gees.
Jim takes no notice of the sigh. His fingers skate across the keyboard with such speed that Sherlock knows he's either coding or hacking into something. Same thing, really, but with Jim it could mean the difference between a banking scandal and a high-profile information leak that would lead to the arrest of government officials, if not worse.
The music stops. There's a few blissful seconds of smooth silence before another equally loud song starts.
Sherlock grits his teeth petulantly.
"Jim, I can't focus with your noise," he says.
"My, Sherlock, if you're not already the titleholder for World's Most Hypocritical Man, I'll make sure to arrange that for you," Jim lilts. "You and that violin."
Sherlock's arm itches for a nicotine patch and the combination of Jim's typing and the music swirls in his head like the beginning of a thunderstorm.
He knows he has experiments to work on and old cases to go over. There's that hand in the fridge that he really needs to study before Mrs. Hudson happens upon it and throws it out. He has to stop by Bart's to collect the bruising data from the corpse Molly has saved for him. That's all in addition to the maintenance of his mind palace, of course. There's so much he needs to do, but the music is fogging his mind, weighing him down, pinning him to the couch like a specimen on a dissection table.
Sherlock explodes off of the couch in an unexpected burst of movement.
He surges forward, nearly tripping over the edge of his dressing gown, but manages to make it to the table without falling. He throws his arm out and slams the laptop shut, arching the upper half of his body over the table so he's face-to-face with Jim.
Jim stares at Sherlock, eyes light with silent laughter. He leans back in his chair, limbs relaxed and loose, and gives Sherlock a smirk that seems to be asking what now?
The music continues to trill from the laptop's speakers.
Sherlock lunges again, this time his arm darting forward in a serpentine movement to grab Jim's tie. He gives it a tug and the criminal's body follows. The motion tugs Jim upwards until he's standing pressed against the table, leaning forward, a mirror image of Sherlock.
They hover over the table, connected by a thin strip of silk, the air around them quivering.
"Very good," says Jim.
Sherlock scans Jim's face, cataloguing the glint of amusement in his dark eyes and the satisfied quirk of his lips. Beneath the steeliness of Jim's expression, however, is a quiet vulnerability and gentleness that Jim hardly ever allows to surface. It's a look that Sherlock knows is only meant for him.
Jim opens his mouth slightly, preparing to speak again. Before he can say more, Sherlock yanks at his tie again and pulls Jim toward him.
Their lips meet over the middle of the table and, for a moment, the Bee Gees don't matter. Sherlock captures Jim's bottom lip between his own and lifts his free hand to cup Jim's jaw. Jim closes his eyes and leans into the kiss, smiling against Sherlock's mouth. All tension melts from his body.
Sherlock is intrigued by instances like this. In these small moments of openness, Sherlock can observe the emotions that Jim usually hides beneath layers of control. He sees the long-term loneliness in the creases of Jim's eyes, the years of boredom and frustration etched between his eyebrows. He sees excitement in Jim's elevated heartbeat, obvious from the racing pulse in his neck. He notes, with a surprisingly pleasant ache in his chest, the affection that is beginning to map itself onto Jim's features.
Jim places a hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, his fingers alternating between digging into his skin and grasping at the collar of his dressing gown. Jim's touch scatters Sherlock's thoughts immediately, having the same effect on his mind as the music. Jim hums against Sherlock's skin and begins to press interchanging rough and tender kisses to his jawline. He nibbles at the soft patch of skin beneath Sherlock's ear and grabs the top of Sherlock's shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons.
Sherlock drops his grip on Jim's tie and begins to move around the table to join him on the other side. He stumbles blindly around the edge, his steps wavering and unsure as Jim continues to clutch at his shirt, throwing off his balance. When they're no longer separated by the table, their bodies press together with an ease that has ceased to be a surprise for them. Sherlock remembers the first time this happened: it was awkward and clumsy and accidental, something that neither of them had intended to happen, and yet it worked. They'd both been shocked by how easily it came to them, but now, looking back on it, Sherlock realizes that it had been inevitable.
As Jim hooks his arms around Sherlock's neck and smiles against his mouth, Sherlock thinks that he'd endure a hundred songs by the Bee Gees for this (although, that might be pushing it - definitely fifty). Sherlock deftly untucks Jim's shirt and slips his hands beneath it, desperate to feel the warmth of his skin. He dances his fingers up Jim's sides and across the slight softness of his stomach before traveling up to his ribs, where he caresses the symmetrical bones one by one. Jim presses himself closer to Sherlock and bites down on his lip, gentle and harsh at the same time. Sherlock responds eagerly and their teeth clash with a muted click. Jim slips his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and slides it across his teeth, eliciting a moan that rings in Jim's ears like a gunshot.
Jim pulls away suddenly, giving them both a chance to breathe. He locks eyes with Sherlock, smiling slyly, and then places his lips on the corner of Sherlock's mouth.
"A valiant effort, Sherlock," Jim whispers, "but no amount of bribery will make me turn that music off, especially if it yields this result."
Sherlock can't help but laugh and tighten his grip on Jim; they both know that it's not about the music anymore.