The Transition Of Jim Moriarty To Richard Brook

Chapter 11: Drunken Intimacy

Richard paused outside his bedroom, hearing a soft, mewling, snuffling sound. He slowly walked in, not sure what to find. What he saw made his mind go completely blank and him stop right where he stood. The cardboard boxes stacked in the room lay open, and objects presumably from them were scattered over the floor and bed. They were mainly clothes, black slacks and silk shirts, some careful laid out on the mattress, others flung to the floor.  John sat in the middle of the mass of tangled fabric, perched on the bed, clutching a maroon scarf to his chest. Richard tentatively got closer, edging his way closer, stepping over boxes and clothing, so as not to slip.

“John?”               

At once John was aware of his presence and at once he began to compose himself. Or try to, at least.

“Richard! You’re back…I thought you weren’t coming back…” he said thickly, blinking back tears. Richard looked away as John wiped his face, knowing the man wouldn’t want him to see him weakened.

“Course I’m back! Are you- upset…over me?”

“I- no. not really, I just- you mustn’t go blaming yourself, Rich.” He liked John saying his name like that. Richard sat down next to him, awkwardly patting his arm.

“Are you ok? Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. Makes it hurt more.” And to Richard’s dismay, John sobbed harder, his face crumpled with abject misery etched around the red-rimmed eyes and pursed lips. “I just- miss him so much. And when you left today, I thought ‘Sherlock would be able to find him! Sherlock would know what to do!’ But he’s dead. I felt his pulse, saw him there, the blood and- everything…”

“Oh, John…” Richard wrapped his arms around John, pulling him closer. His heart beat a little bit faster when John held him too, and he was disgusted with himself.

“And when you left, I thought Sherlock’s gone and now Richard’s gone too. can’t do it, can’t look after these bloody, brilliant geniuses…”

Richard chuckled, despite himself. “Genius? I’m no genius.”

“You are, you are. You’re clever- cleverer than you think.” John was slurring. Richard wrinkled his nose at the sour smell of beer on John’s breath.

“John, have you been drinking?”

“Litt’e bit. Makes the pain go away...”

“You need to go to bed.”

“Yeah…ok…” John seemed to be deciding something, his slightly unfocused eyes fixated on Richard’s face. “Your bed.”

“I- what?” Richard felt an actor without lines- he had no idea how to react to this moping, inebriated John. But John clearly didn’t share his confusion because he was tugging at Richard’s top, trying to pull it over Richard’s head but blocked by Richard’s hands.

“C’mon. You an’ me.” John had given up on Richard’s clothing and was not unbuttoning his own shirt, albeit with fumbling fingers and extreme difficulty.

“No, no! Stop taking your clothes off!” This situation was getting very bizarre but Richard owed it to his friend to stop things before they embarrassed themselves. He tried to haul John up, thinking that maybe a glass of water would help sober him up, but John had different ideas.

Richard tried again to help John up, but the next second the breath was knocked out of him as John pounced on him, pushing him into the mattress and kissing him violently. Richard’s head swam as his mouth was assaulted; his tongue was overloaded with the strong taste of the beer heavy on John’s breath. John had been drinking more than Richard had realised. He could barely move, let alone kiss back, but this wasn’t really kissing, it was tasting and testing but it wasn’t romantic. He grappled for purchase, trying to use John to push himself up the bed, but John rolled his hips and Richard froze, feeling something hard prod his thigh. He wasn’t ready for this, how could this be happening so quickly? He would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it, but now that John was here, humping Richard’s leg and breathing huskily in his ear, he felt he couldn’t react.

“So good to me, you’re always so good…” John kept up a breathless mantra as he kissed anywhere he could reach, Richard’s neck, his ear, his cheek and nose. Richard knew this wouldn’t stop unless he stopped it, and with that thought in mind, he tried to wring as much pleasure out of this as he could, knowing that this wouldn’t last, that John might not even remember this tomorrow, drunk as he was.

He kissed back, sliding his hands under John’s shirt and up his sweaty, flexing back, gripping his shoulders and wantonly rubbing their bodies together. His fingers slid easily over John’s skin, and their bodies were moving as one, as natural as the ebb and flow of the tide. Richard arched his back as a particularly powerful thrust rubbed his clothed groin directly against John’s, and this action caused his top to ride up. Richard could feel Sherlock’s fancy shirts crumpling and rustling underneath their bodies, sticking to their skin. He reached behind him to seize the shirt, a posh, slippery one, and flicked it derisively away, where it fluttered to the floor with a whisper of silk. This seemed symbolic to him, like he was erasing the dead man’s hold over John. Sherlock had left John and all that was left were these ridiculous garments- and now they were scrunched up and creased, carelessly flattened under John and Richard’s passionate embrace. Richard smirked at the shirt, but then his eyes caught the beer can lying on the floor. He couldn’t tell how much alcohol John had imbibed, but it was too much, that was obvious. And really, what kind of man would Richard be if he took advantage of John? John’s judgement was distorted, and Richard was certain John would never forgive him if he used this impaired judgment to sate his own desires.

“I’m gonna get up now,” he whispered to John, and there really wasn’t much of an effort to free himself from John, by now John was pliant and agreeable, lolling on the bed, with his eyes closed. Richard glanced at the door but he didn’t fancy sleeping on the sofa and he didn’t want to sleep in John’s bed either, especially without permission. He supposed he could get John to sleep in his own room rather than lying sprawled out on Richard’s bed but he looked so content, quietly napping, that Richard didn’t have the heart to move him. He shrugged, suddenly feeling weary. It had been a taxing day. He hopped onto the bed, curling up next to John. They were lying on the blankets so for warmth, he slung one of John’s arms over his waist and snuggled up next to him. He felt warm. Safe.