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James is a common name. So common that it stays in his mind only for a brief moment before slipping away from his lips in a sigh, a breath of which soon even the memory disappears. James is the name of the salesperson that served you in a boring Wednesday afternoon, the name of a stranger you brushed shoulders with, the name of a friend of friends you still can't recognize.
James is the name of the man undressing in front of him – the sleeves of his t-shirt get stuck for a moment and James makes a characteristic annoyed sound that Sherlock is learning to recognize – and Sherlock couldn't find it more fitting.
Jim – that's how he likes to be called, with a nickname that manages to sound even more boring than the actual name – is one like many others. He's ordinary, a set of faults and virtues that are mixed in a man that cannot stand out from the crowd, the kind of person Sherlock wouldn't even look at. And yet...
"How is the case going?"
The warm breath crushes on the skin of his neck the exact moment Jim curls a strand of hair around his index finger. He smiles against Sherlock's throat and pulls the curl gently.
"It's going."
Jim is still smiling when he leaves a soft small kiss on his neck.
"You're stuck."
Sherlock huffs, getting a giggle in response.
"Do you really want to talk about it now? We are in bed."
They have a no talking rule while having sex, which translates to a no talking rule in general, since they hardly see each other outside the bedroom. Jim isn't the one Sherlock brings with him on crime scenes, Jim isn't the one he shares a flat with, Jim isn't the one who complains about the mess and the finished milk and it's okay, because that isn't a lifestyle made for him, because Jim likes the idea of him more than him.
Jim may have read every post on "The Science of Deduction", he even may be capable of reciting some lines from them, but that doesn't mean he actually can understand. Sure, John can't understand either, but they share an unhealthy love for danger, a not ordinary lifestyle and somehow they can make it work.
Jim's hand – the one that isn't playing with his hair – starts working on the buttons of his shirt.
"Why not?" Jim says, moving from the crook of Sherlock's neck just enough to look at him in the eyes, "You know I'm a huge fan."
It's in moments like these that Sherlock remembers why he keeps inviting him in his bed. Why he has chosen him as a temporary distraction.
Jim looks at Sherlock with parted lips and eyes lit with admiration. Jim looks at Sherlock like he's ready to get on his knees for him at any time – and he actually is, because he has dropped his knees on the cold floor of the lab before and several are the experiments interrupted with pathetic moans Sherlock has tried to stifle in the palm of his hand.
Jim relaxes under his touch. He offers himself as a sacrifice in the hand of a superb, capricious god and Sherlock can touch with his fingers a devotion so deep and real it almost makes him uncomfortable.
If only he weren't so busy – and frustrated, since recently the two go hand in hand – maybe he would have noticed that something, in the big picture, isn't right.
His mind doesn't have time for that though, it calls out Moriarty's name at any time of the day and the night in a litany that is somewhere between a prayer and a curse, and Jim's pretty mouth is another distraction he can't really say no to.
He pushes Jim on the mattress. His lips part as soon as Sherlock leans over him.
He kisses Jim and Jim doesn't have any taste.
Jim is a white canvas and Sherlock scratches his bottom lip with his teeth, allowing the blood to come to the surface and taint their kiss with metallic tones they probably appreciate more than it's appropriate – it's another possible alarm bell, another factor that Sherlock didn't pay enough attention to.
"You know..." Jim breaks the kiss. He breaths heavily. "I always considered myself your number one fan, but I'm starting to think I was wrong. Moriarty stole my title, isn't it?"
Just hearing the name out loud makes him stiffen.
"I don't want to talk about him."
"Oh! So it's a him–"
There are many ways to silence Jim and drag him in a kiss more teeth than tongue is maybe not the most clever and elegant, but it's without doubt the one that works best, because the kiss is followed by another and then another again and Moriarty's name soon is replaced by moans and groans.
If it's enough to change the flow of Jim's thoughts, the same can't be said of Sherlock's.
He will be rougher and more violent this time.
It won't be enough to erase Moriarty from his mind.
***
"Are you ever gonna acknowledge the elephant in the room? Just asking."
Completely abandoned on the bed, covered just with a strategic positioned sheet and hickeys, Jim almost seems a different person. He looks more comfortable, more sure of himself, as if the orgasm erased his doubts and insecurities, as if he stripped not only of his clothes but also of his shyness. Sure, it's hard to say if there actually was a change in Jim or if what changed was just Sherlock's perception – altered by the release of endorphins – but it doesn't really matter: it's still something Sherlock usually appreciates. Usually. Certainly not now.
Now he would like to say that there is no elephant in the bedroom. He would like to reply – with an annoyed and offended voice, sounding like the child that maybe deep down he is – that Jim is wrong, that he hallucinated it and that he should just shut up, because he's too stupid to understand or contradict him.
He doesn't do it, of course. Sherlock has no interest in digging his own grave, so he just ignores him.
Jim doesn't get – or deliberately ignores – his silence and keeps talking.
"I'm not a consulting detective, but I'm pretty sure that screaming your nemesis' name during your climax isn't exactly... normal."
A puff.
"First, I didn't scream."
Sherlock fights the desire to look the other way with a cigarette.
"Second, I'm just..." a small pause "stressed."
"Oh, I noticed it. Not that I complain if this" Jim licks his lower lip, points at the bruises and hickeys covering his pale skin "is what follows."
Sherlock blinks. Once. Twice. Thrice.
He expected anger, that specific loud and dangerous kind that belongs to heartbroken and betrayed people. The one with stuff thrown on the ground, with clenched jaw and desperate insults now shouted now whispered through gritted teeth. He expected a punch or a slap or both – and he even kinda wanted it, because he can't imagine Jim being violent and he can't suppress his curious scientist mind, because it's still a way to release tension and energy.
He didn't expect a wink and a smile.
"You aren't angry?"
"Sherlock, I'm not stupid. I know you are only using me and that as soon as you won't need me anymore you'll leave my life. Don't try to contradict me."
"I wasn't going to."
The smile on Jim's lips is like a sharp blade.
"However, you still owe me something. It's the least you can do."
Sherlock's mind wander off. He thinks about bringing Jim on cases, dark big eyes shining with admiration and lips curled in a smile that almost look too innocent to be real; he thinks about playing domestic boyfriends with him and snuggling on the couch, small kisses and soft words and it creates an itch under his skin that he can't scratch. He thinks about introducing Jim to John and he twists his mouth in a grimace because it just can't happen, because he would rather have a gun pointed to his head – now, that's fun – because...
"Tell me about Moriarty."
Sherlock blinks.
Moriarty is a secret, something he doesn't want to share not only because he feels like other people wouldn't understand – he can already hear John's disappointment, voice shocked and a little disgusted asking how he could ever like someone like him – but also because sharing him would mean sharing a part of himself Sherlock doesn't want to acknowledge outside his mind palace.
Jim is however a stranger, someone who warms his bed but is not important and... sharing with someone you don't know is often easier than doing it with friends. Their opinion doesn't matter. There is no judgement.
"Moriarty is... different. New. Interesting."
Sherlock takes a drag on his cigarettes.
"He's a breath of fresh air, except that he isn't."
He exhales, watches the grey cloud dance in front of him and curls the corner of his lips in a faint smile.
"He's actually more like smoke. He's not defined, he doesn't have a shape – hell, maybe he doesn't exist at all and is just a story. I can't catch him, just the smallest hint of wind and he slips from my fingers, dissolving into nothing. He's not good for me and he doesn't make me happy; the more time passes the more he'll destroy my lungs, the more I think of him and try to stop him the more he'll hurt me."
Maybe he's telling too much, but right now Sherlock doesn't seem to care.
"He's a bad habit I can't quit."
Jim stays silent for a good minute. Only after what it seems like a century he decides to spoke, in that way that Sherlock can't stand but he's slowly getting used to.
"So, you are in love."
***
First, there is surprise.
Parted lips, gun slightly shaking in his hands and a paralyzing feeling in his flesh, his muscles, his bones. It's probably one of the things he hates most, being surprised, not knowing everything, being wrong.
Then, everything clicks and the world starts making sense again. It was obvious. Jim's interest in him, the admiration in his eyes, the way he looked at him when he talked about Moriarty, as if he were listening to the most beautiful and interesting story in the world. His final remark about being in love. It was obvious and with this thought come shame, red and boiling and pulsing right under his skin and making his heartbeat loud, except that it isn't really shame, because he never felt it with Moriarty.
Moriarty smiles – and Sherlock can see Jim in it -, makes a sexual innuendo and suddenly, Sherlock understands what he's feeling.
"Both."