Three to a Game.
Author: Amanda
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Johnlock, Jimlock
Warning: Angst, Post-Reichenbach
Notes: So this is my first attempt at anything Sherlock. Yay firsts!
They told me I would feel better if I wrote this down in a notebook. I prefer my laptop, so they let me write here, on this keyboard, and while it should be a lot easier to talk about you- to you, I should say, to you because this is meant to be to you rather than about. Something you’d hate, their psychology talk. Sometimes I really wish you could sit beside me and cut them off, deduce them senseless until they’d leave me alone, but I’m my own man. I have to stand on my own.
According to them, this is how I’m going to get over it. All these months, I don’t necessarily believe I’ll get over it just by writing some pseudo-letter you’re never going to read.
But sure, to please them I will do it.
You died. You are dead and you are no longer here on this Earth.
Is that what they want me to admit? Will it make them feel better…
“…if I finally admit to what they want me to believe? Oh, this is charming, Sherlock, you ought to see what your pet wrote about you on his blog.”
He took a casual pace back and forth, taunting the man with his legs crossed, arms uncharacteristically in his lap rather than open, displayed on the back of the couch he was seated on. The other man’s wrists still burned, Jim being the one in control with a bizarre fetish for handcuffs. His eyes didn’t bother watching him, and instead focused on the tiniest speck of the dirtied walls surrounding the room. The two men shared the tiniest hellhole with a single light, the laptop’s faint glow that simply lit up Jim’s entire face as he happily went ahead and read the post out loud. It was still in a draft, but that didn’t mean anything, not to Moriarty.
“He’s basically writing a love letter and you’re not even paying half the attention he wishes you should. Such a terrible boyfriend you are, Sherlock, naughty naughty.” When the other man didn’t interrupt and instead continued staring away from him, Jim felt his temper rise in his neck, but continued anyway. He was going to keep reading until he broke him. “I would imagine so, seeing as I still don’t believe you’re dead.” The other man swallowed visibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Jim smiled. Now they were getting somewhere. “You were too complex to die like this- Ooh, let us skip down here, because Johnny loves to repeat himself like he’s a poet. Mrs. Hudson and I are doing fine, if you wanted to know. She thinks I should leave the flat more often, see other people, have a drink in public or even smile.” Moriarty snorted. “He’s so dramatic.”
Sherlock, however, was the least bit amused by Moriarty’s advances. He was trying to make him beg, to have the higher status by delivering what John was still saying about him even after death. He didn’t have time to explain himself, not when Jim was breathing down his neck with the ultimatum. Keep them safe, keep them all safe. John. It had been the last thought that passed through his mind, but he wasn’t given enough of a chance. He always had a chance, but not this time. Not this time.
“I think my biggest regret may be the fact that I never got to say I love you.” Now that caused Sherlock to snap his neck, his eyes fixed on the a-ha! moment that graced Jim’s face. “So that is how I get your attention. Three simple words that don’t mean anything.”
“Stop.” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse, barely used in the past couple of weeks. He didn’t need to use it or Moriarty wouldn’t allow him, in which would be the only time the detective would listen. Mainly because he had nothing to say to the psychopath. This had been his twelfth attempt to get a rise out of him, and for him to undermine John’s words… well, as much as he hated to admit it to himself, but he was succeeding.
“Stop what-? Oh, you mean reading Johnny boy’s diary out loud?” He held up the laptop with a single hand before frowning and shrugging nonchalantly. “I don’t see why the phrase ‘I love you’-”
“Stop it.”
“-should really make you that upset-”
“I said stop!” He bellowed, finally standing himself up, eyes transfixed on the shorter man’s as he towered over him. As if he were out of breath, Sherlock’s chest rose and fell, nostril flaring, mouth set. Jim, at first, looked more than please to finally see a reaction, but everything quickly went downhill when Moriarty’s face blinked from amused to furious.
“You’ll never beat me, Sherlock, because we’re too in sync. You and I will burn together, whether you and your Johnny boy want to believe that you two have the upper hand. You are mine now, mine and mine alone, and this?” He held up the laptop before smashing it to the floor, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot. “He will keep mourning and you will be down here. With me.” Stepping on his tip-toes, Jim pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock’s tightly-closed lips and sauntered off and out of the room.
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Johnlock, Jimlock
Warning: Angst, Post-Reichenbach
Notes: So this is my first attempt at anything Sherlock. Yay firsts!
They told me I would feel better if I wrote this down in a notebook. I prefer my laptop, so they let me write here, on this keyboard, and while it should be a lot easier to talk about you- to you, I should say, to you because this is meant to be to you rather than about. Something you’d hate, their psychology talk. Sometimes I really wish you could sit beside me and cut them off, deduce them senseless until they’d leave me alone, but I’m my own man. I have to stand on my own.
According to them, this is how I’m going to get over it. All these months, I don’t necessarily believe I’ll get over it just by writing some pseudo-letter you’re never going to read.
But sure, to please them I will do it.
You died. You are dead and you are no longer here on this Earth.
Is that what they want me to admit? Will it make them feel better…
“…if I finally admit to what they want me to believe? Oh, this is charming, Sherlock, you ought to see what your pet wrote about you on his blog.”
He took a casual pace back and forth, taunting the man with his legs crossed, arms uncharacteristically in his lap rather than open, displayed on the back of the couch he was seated on. The other man’s wrists still burned, Jim being the one in control with a bizarre fetish for handcuffs. His eyes didn’t bother watching him, and instead focused on the tiniest speck of the dirtied walls surrounding the room. The two men shared the tiniest hellhole with a single light, the laptop’s faint glow that simply lit up Jim’s entire face as he happily went ahead and read the post out loud. It was still in a draft, but that didn’t mean anything, not to Moriarty.
“He’s basically writing a love letter and you’re not even paying half the attention he wishes you should. Such a terrible boyfriend you are, Sherlock, naughty naughty.” When the other man didn’t interrupt and instead continued staring away from him, Jim felt his temper rise in his neck, but continued anyway. He was going to keep reading until he broke him. “I would imagine so, seeing as I still don’t believe you’re dead.” The other man swallowed visibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Jim smiled. Now they were getting somewhere. “You were too complex to die like this- Ooh, let us skip down here, because Johnny loves to repeat himself like he’s a poet. Mrs. Hudson and I are doing fine, if you wanted to know. She thinks I should leave the flat more often, see other people, have a drink in public or even smile.” Moriarty snorted. “He’s so dramatic.”
Sherlock, however, was the least bit amused by Moriarty’s advances. He was trying to make him beg, to have the higher status by delivering what John was still saying about him even after death. He didn’t have time to explain himself, not when Jim was breathing down his neck with the ultimatum. Keep them safe, keep them all safe. John. It had been the last thought that passed through his mind, but he wasn’t given enough of a chance. He always had a chance, but not this time. Not this time.
“I think my biggest regret may be the fact that I never got to say I love you.” Now that caused Sherlock to snap his neck, his eyes fixed on the a-ha! moment that graced Jim’s face. “So that is how I get your attention. Three simple words that don’t mean anything.”
“Stop.” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse, barely used in the past couple of weeks. He didn’t need to use it or Moriarty wouldn’t allow him, in which would be the only time the detective would listen. Mainly because he had nothing to say to the psychopath. This had been his twelfth attempt to get a rise out of him, and for him to undermine John’s words… well, as much as he hated to admit it to himself, but he was succeeding.
“Stop what-? Oh, you mean reading Johnny boy’s diary out loud?” He held up the laptop with a single hand before frowning and shrugging nonchalantly. “I don’t see why the phrase ‘I love you’-”
“Stop it.”
“-should really make you that upset-”
“I said stop!” He bellowed, finally standing himself up, eyes transfixed on the shorter man’s as he towered over him. As if he were out of breath, Sherlock’s chest rose and fell, nostril flaring, mouth set. Jim, at first, looked more than please to finally see a reaction, but everything quickly went downhill when Moriarty’s face blinked from amused to furious.
“You’ll never beat me, Sherlock, because we’re too in sync. You and I will burn together, whether you and your Johnny boy want to believe that you two have the upper hand. You are mine now, mine and mine alone, and this?” He held up the laptop before smashing it to the floor, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot. “He will keep mourning and you will be down here. With me.” Stepping on his tip-toes, Jim pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock’s tightly-closed lips and sauntered off and out of the room.