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'I have no idea what you're talking about,' says Liam over his shoulder with a smile, and then, like an answer to a different question, flashes a wink. 'Well, we'll be-'
'Hold on,' Sherlock blurts out. 'There's actually- somethin' else I wanna discuss with you-'
Louis Moriarty visibly stiffens. Liam tilts his head with what Sherlock is coming to think of as characteristic wide-eyed curiosity. 'Oh?'
'Can I have a word,' Sherlock says, 'in private.'
Liam smiles like it's his question that's been answered. 'I don't see why not,' he says, and gives his brother a little nod. Louis, as stonefaced as ever, hesitates the barest moment before walking off down the aisle. The rest of the assembled crowd is beginning to drift off as well. Heart racing, Sherlock puts a hand on Liam's shoulder to hurry him out of the dining car. It's been enough of a stroke of luck to wander into one good mystery to solve today, but if Sherlock can get his hands on a second one, he'll push that luck as far as it holds.
'You saw the passenger list,' Sherlock begins as they enter the second-class compartments.
'This one,' Liam replies, stopping and turning a handle which opens easily. Unlocked, unoccupied, curtains drawn. Sherlock leads them in; Liam slides the door shut behind himself. Immediately Sherlock steps closer, into his space, closer than they've been yet, searching Liam's gaze for a reaction. Liam doesn't flinch, just stares calmly back, and there's a click as he locks the door.
It's a rarity for Sherlock to misread a situation, but the small possibility does remain, especially with matters like this. And yet, so far, Liam has met him at every turn. The compartment is small, dimly lit, but there's electricity sparking under Sherlock's skin- the kind that drives him, the kind he lives for. He reaches up to grasp at Liam's shoulder again, meaning to push him back against the door, to see if Liam will allow it. To see what his mouth feels like.
Quick as thought, Liam deflects the attempt. In the same motion, he catches Sherlock's right lapel and left-side belt loop and shoves, and it's Sherlock whose back hits the other wall. But Liam hasn't pushed him away, he's followed, so close he's got one foot between Sherlock's just the way Sherlock had done a moment ago. Fair enough. The distance between them is negligible and then it's vanished. Liam's mouth is soft and when Sherlock parts his lips Liam's grip on his jacket tightens ever so slightly. The thrill at being right, at discovering that they've once again been thinking identically, almost outweighs the rush of adding 'reasonably experienced' to Liam's profile.
This time, perhaps distracted or just unwilling to let go himself, Liam allows Sherlock's hands to slide around the small of his waist and the back of his collar. Sherlock would be dragging him in if they weren't already pressed close enough for their shirt buttons to catch, and Liam hasn't let up the pressure he's applying either. He doesn't lack confidence, which tracks with his polite but self-assured manner. They chase each other's mouths wordlessly for a few minutes, the motion of the train gently rocking them bordering on indecent as heat spreads.
It's not long before Sherlock is panting a little every time they break apart. He'd be more embarrassed about how hard he is if he couldn't feel where Liam's cock is also pressing against him. Deliberately grinding them together draws the smallest gasp from Liam's mouth in answer, and Liam's hands wander underneath Sherlock's jacket, over the single layer of his shirt separating them, in a way that feels suggestive.
Sherlock tips his head back against the wall of the compartment and Liam takes one step back, his bright eyes trailing everywhere. 'Take your clothes off,' Liam says quietly.
Mostly Sherlock is glad that Liam is the one to speak first, because he's still trying to string together a sentence that isn't 'thank god' or 'please'. He slips the single clasped button of his jacket loose and tosses it on the bench. Liam has quickly shed his own jacket. It's one thing to have recognized each other for what they are, because surely Liam had sensed Sherlock's proclivities as quickly as Sherlock had suspected his, but preferences might be another thing. 'What d'you want?' he asks, tugging at his own belt buckle.
Liam's nearly impassive, although his mouth is pink from hungry kissing. He hasn't removed his waistcoat, although he undoes the buttons of his trousers slowly. He glances at the opposite bench. 'Get on your knees.'
The mild tone is that of a man who's used to being obeyed. Maybe Sherlock should have anticipated as much given his background. He'd held out a bit of hope that he might get to hold Liam against that wall after all, but what the hell. He's done it this way before too, and if it gets Liam pressed up against him again it hardly matters.
Sherlock sighs and kicks off his shoes to drop his trousers. He sets one knee up on the bench, facing the wall. Liam shifts closer behind him. 'Do you have anything...'
'I got it,' Sherlock says, licking his own fingers as wetly as possible. He's acutely aware of Liam's presence even without looking at him, all his senses dialed in on that warm proximity. He reaches down and works one finger, then another, inside himself.
'Go on, then,' says Liam. It feels a little ridiculous, but it always does. He does it quickly, doesn't wait for it to start feeling good, just acceptable. It might be Liam's burning gaze that's making his skin hot. He waits politely, but Sherlock doesn't want to linger here.
'Alright, c'mon,' he mutters.
Liam makes a soft little hum and similarly licks his own palm to slick his cock. Does it again, and draws a breath at the faintly wet sound. Sherlock braces one elbow on the back of the seat and one on the cushion. Liam gently but firmly moves Sherlock's hips to align them, and then the head of his cock rests lightly against where Sherlock wants him the most. Before Sherlock can snap at him to do something, anything, just as he opens his mouth, Liam pushes slowly in.
That's it, something settles in his mind- there's no going back. Sherlock is going to find out what Liam likes, what he sounds like, things he's been wondering in truth since the minute they met. The stretch is intense, not exactly enjoyable at this early stage, but Sherlock is always chasing intensity of one kind or another, life is meaningless without it. Perceptive, Liam draws back ever so slightly, then pushes a little further, working Sherlock open around him. Oh, he's good- it fits that Liam is as deliberate here as he appears to be everywhere else. In a few moments- long moments, where Sherlock breathes slowly and clenches his teeth and relaxes everything else- Liam is moving deeply enough in him that something pleasurable is starting to curl together with the shock of stimulation, and then he pauses.
'Is that alright?'
'Yeah,' Sherlock answers, shifting one knee a bit. The space is cramped, there's not much room for two grown men to be engaged in activities never intended for second-class train accommodations no matter how carefully they go about it.
Liam runs one hand up Sherlock's side. 'Good. You can take more, can't you?'
'Yeah.'
'Good,' says Liam, and rolls his hips so the last of his length slides home all at once. Sherlock moans just a little at that but doesn't get to savor it as Liam starts to fuck him in earnest, setting a moderate but steady pace. It's possible, Sherlock reflects as his cock throbs, that he might be in trouble. He'd wanted to fuck Liam to learn the kinds of things you could learn about people from sex because Liam was both intriguing and somehow linked to the grand mystery, and he'd also wanted to fuck Liam because Liam was stunningly attractive, but he should have known that Liam wouldn't be like anyone else he's fucked. Sherlock bites his bottom lip to stay quiet as each thrust sends sparks up his spine. It's evident from the careful start that Liam doesn't intend to hurt him, but Sherlock is just as sure that if he asked him to, Liam would.
What can he learn from this? Sherlock clutches at the back of the bench with one hand and reaches for his own cock with the other. Immediately, Liam pins that hand with his own back to the bench, and then also grasps his other wrist. 'Liam, don't be cruel,' Sherlock gets out, shaky even to his own ears.
'Hmm.' So low it's nearly a purr. 'You wouldn't have compared me to your Lord of Crime if you didn't think I had the capacity.' God, he's smug, obviously aware of what he's doing to Sherlock in taking the pace up another notch. And he's right. It's hard to track him as he shifts fluidly from innocent to dangerous, like light glancing off water. Sherlock pants, his toes curling.
Liam leans closely over him, shifting to a shallow, maddening grind inside Sherlock, hardly winded. 'I could make you beg,' he murmurs. Sherlock doesn't mean to moan at that but he does, clear and a little too loud. 'I could make you cry.' His voice is velvet and steel and too well-suited to this. Sherlock could kill him, but all he can do is shudder, not quite close enough to come but almost, almost. Liam licks a little damp line up Sherlock's cheek where his face is turned like a promise. He's enjoying this.
'You're a madman,' Sherlock bites out, rocking his own hips to try to get Liam to pick it up again. He barely has the leverage and his arms are shaking. Yes, Sherlock has gotten himself into an unforeseen level of compromising position. He wonders if Liam's like this with everyone he fucks, how many-
'You're the one who dragged me off like an animal,' Liam says. His shoes shift slightly on the narrow floor as he readjusts his footing. He releases Sherlock's hands and Sherlock slumps down to one elbow, putting his hips in a new angle that makes both of them gasp. 'How long were you thinking about this?'
'I should ask you the same thing,' Sherlock bites back. He doesn't have to make it so easy, damn it. He's aware, dimly, that if he's trying to glean information about Liam, Liam is certainly doing the same to him.
'Here I thought,' Liam says, and at least he's breathing harder now, 'that you were good at solving riddles.'
The moan that Sherlock lets out is mostly frustration. At least half. Probably. Coincidental that Liam, who is stronger than he looks, is currently fucking him into the bench seat hard enough the economical second-class cushioning isn't going to save his knees from bruising. Worth it. His body is suffused with shocking pleasure, spinning out of his own control.
'The great detective, was it,' Liam says, slowing the pace enough to continue being insufferable. His hands are warm, and no longer straying from where he's steadying Sherlock by the hips. Between the swaying of the train and the heat melting Sherlock's limbs it's not optional. Maybe he'll bruise there too, Sherlock thinks, and hears himself whine aloud. 'Quiet,' Liam murmurs, 'someone will hear you. Or is that what you want?'
No one's ever spoken that way to Sherlock during sex in his life. Not even the few he'd let bend him over like this. Sure, some wanted to hear how good they were, or wanted you to not want it, or whatever, but mostly they wanted to get what they came for and get out before anyone sobered up.
'Your colleagues,' Liam continues, faint amusement in his breathy voice as he rolls his hips. 'Your... roommate?'
Sherlock gasps. His face must be burning where it's pressed against his arm. He's so close. He tries to square this version of Liam- wicked, indecent- with the earlier one- mild, polite- to find some grain of truth. He can play this game. His impulse is to refute the implications layered in that last word, but he thinks better of it.
'And you?' Sherlock says. 'If your brother knew-'
Liam's left hand comes up over his mouth. With Sherlock trying to finish the sentence and the blind angle, as Liam cups his jaw one fingertip slides against his lip and then his tongue. Sherlock stops talking. His mind goes blank and he forgets to bite down but for half a second he could swear he tastes blood anyway. Then the moment passes; Liam releases his mouth and laughs. 'Louis? He'll be at the furthest possible point from this car. It was obvious to everyone what you wanted.'
It's only a taunt, Sherlock tells himself, it has to be. There isn't much more of this he can take, in any regard, and he bites down on a low moan. His back is a tight arc and his thighs ache from how badly he needs to come. He strokes his own cock, uncoordinated and quick, and thankfully observing this desperation seems to fray the last of Liam's eerily deep well of patience.
No more words are exchanged. The rush of pleasure at getting a hand on himself swamps the slight sting of where he's becoming oversensitive from the friction. Liam's breathing, just this side of harsh, and his quick relentless thrusts show the cracks in his perfect composure, and the satisfaction Sherlock gets from that also takes the sting out of the way Liam is right about some of it, about how much he'd wanted this, how much he still wants it right now.
It dawns on him hazily where he'd given himself away. There at the table where Liam's body language changed, when he'd dropped an arm over the back of the bench and matched Sherlock's cocky grin, provocation for provocation, catch me if you can, and Sherlock had thrilled so hard at that that he'd banged his knee on the table. Obvious. Damn it. And Liam had filed that away before they'd even found the corpse. That's how he'd known he could get the upper hand this way, that he could not only get away with this attitude but that it worked on Sherlock, who hadn't even considered such a thing about himself and isn't about to admit to it now. Sherlock had carelessly tried to probe the Lord of Crime matter and instead Liam had read him as easily as a signpost.
The train shudders and sways and Sherlock buries his face in the upholstery and comes, whatever sounds he makes thankfully muffled as his senses swim. His skin tingles in the rush and the tension drains from his body in overwhelming release.
Liam pulls out of him, something still slightly careful about it, and Sherlock can hear his breath catch as he takes himself in hand instead. He's too dazed to move or even watch but in another moment he can feel Liam, still leaning close, coming hot and wet over Sherlock's exposed skin.
Sherlock catches his breath. By the time he rouses himself to retrieve his pants Liam has, of course, already done up his own and straightened his clothing. When he catches Sherlock looking he smiles, small and genuine, and Sherlock can't help grinning back like they're children with a secret. Liam pulls his jacket on and fixes his hair and immediately becomes perfectly unruffled again. Sherlock doubts he'll be able to manage the same, but he hurries to make the attempt. The train rattles and slows for the next stop as Liam reaches for the door. 'I'll head back first,' Liam says. People are waiting for them.
'Next time...' Next time, Sherlock wants to do this right- nice dinner, maybe wine, maybe even a proper tie that Liam can tear off him later- something nice.
Liam looks at him for a moment, and then his smirk slides back into place. 'Mr. Holmes,' he says, 'your addictive tendencies are showing.' He steps through the door and closes it quietly behind him.