verucasalt123 | The Work

Title: The Work
Pairings/Characters: Sam Winchester/Sherlock Holmes, mentions of Dean, Bobby and Mycroft
Rating: Hard R, probably
W/C ~1300
Summary: Sam doesn’t get exactly what he expected when he travels to London for a case.
A/N:

wishlist_fic for

fangstress

Sherlock was absorbing the details of the latest crime scene – it was the fourth in a string of disappearances that baffled even him. Everything that should have been a clue made no sense, and all the connections he made led to implausible conclusions.

He was roused by a gruff, “Oi, Sherlock, FBI here, I’m sending him back!” from Lestrade. Of course, he was immediately annoyed. The victim was an American, so he figured they had every right to send their own people, but this was most certainly going to be a hassle. Working with the Met grated on his nerves enough, now he’d have to deal with some cocky American who was more than likely to impede any progress he made (not that he’d actually made any progress yet).

Looking up, he saw a hulking man headed down the hall toward him. Sherlock knew he wasn’t a cop before he got halfway to the room, just by the way he walked, but stood anyway. He figured he’d let the man make his introductions and see how much more he could deduce with a closer look.

xoxo

Sam took in the sight of the ‘consultant’ he’d been directed to by the police. London law enforcement didn’t seem to mind him showing up, and he already knew this was his kind of gig. He’d heard about the disappearances, tracked the signs of demonic presence, and had begun looking for hunters in the area when he found out that the latest case involved a tourist from Maryland. Seeing his opening, Sam started packing and swore eighty-seven times to Dean that he’d meet up with Bobby’s contact in London before he did anything involving any actual demons.

This was just recon, though, interviews. That, he could do on his own. Pulling out his badge, he said, “Mr. Holmes? The detective said to speak with you, I’m Agent Taylor, FBI.”
Offering his hand, the other man smiled, shook it, and replied, “Well, I see American law enforcement has lowered its standards quite significantly.”

Sam realized the smile was actually more of a smirk and could only respond with a weak “Excuse me?” This Holmes guy had an almost predatory stare trained on him.

“Just didn’t realize the FBI sent out long-haired agents with no partner, a secondhand suit, five year old shoes and obviously false identification these days.”

And what the fuck? He’d been in front of the guy for fifteen seconds. “I have a phone number you can call to verify-“

“I’m sure you do. Now tell me what you’re doing here or I’ll have the detective inspector over there toss you into a cell.”

Something told Sam that his best bet was to be at least a little honest. Clearly, he wasn’t getting anything past this consultant. “Fine, I’m not FBI, but hear me out, all right? I can help you with this, you and your people don’t have shit, and I know what it is. Maybe we can discuss it away from here?”

xoxo

Sherlock, after being lied to by this American, instinctively knew the man was now telling the truth; at least, what he thought was the truth. No harm in talking about it, and if he was wrong and the guy turned out to be a psycho, Sherlock was more than capable of defending himself. Once they’d been properly introduced, he agreed to meet Sam Winchester where he was staying at the Victor Hotel in two hours.

He was pleasantly surprised when Sam opened the door looking much more comfortable in jeans and a Henley, sock-footed and holding a beer. After being invited in and declining Sam’s offered drink, he sat in the only available chair while Sam settled on the edge of the bed. He was clearly a few years younger than Sherlock, but had a weary look, like he’d seen too much in his life, carried heavy loads both figuratively and literally. Studying Sam more closely as he relayed what he already knew about the disappearances, Sherlock was surprised to find himself physically attracted, aroused even, just at the sight of him. Sherlock wasn’t often turned on like this just from proximity, but there was something about Sam…a giant of a man with the smile of a boy and the eyes of a haunted soul.

Adding in details and correcting small pieces of information along the way, he realized Sam knew most of what the Yard already knew. “I was supposed to call this guy when I got here. Don’t guess you know him, his name is Holmes, too”, Sam said, holding out his mobile and showing Sherlock a text:
From: Bobby S
Call Mycroft Holmes, followed by a different number than the one Sherlock had for his brother.

“Of course, Christ, it would have to be him, right?”, Sherlock said mostly to himself as he shook his head. “Give me a minute.”

Picking up his mobile, he called his brother and without saying hello, just said, “I’ve got a Sam Winchester here investigating our disappearances. Says he was supposed to ring you about it.”

After just a moment of silence, Mycroft replied, “You won’t believe a word he says, but you’re welcome to ask anyway. He’ll take care of the case along with someone from another department here. Whatever he says, it’s true, and he knows what he’s doing.”

The call disconnected, and Sherlock turned back to Sam. “I’ll take that drink now, if you don’t mind. That was my brother.”

xoxo

Sam knew the tone Sherlock was using when he said ‘my brother’. “Oh, so you’ve got an overbearing older brother who always knows more than you? Me too”, he said, smiling as he handed Sherlock a drink. “He tell you what I’m doing here?” Sam knew from experience that civilians largely refused to accept the existence of the supernatural, and Sherlock was very clearly not the type to believe in demons and monsters. He found himself distracted, though, by how gorgeous the man was. Alarmingly thin but clearly strong, all graceful movements with that posh accent, and Sam still hadn’t figured out what the hell color those eyes were no matter how many times they’d stared directly at him.

“Just that you’d take care of the case, and that you know what you’re doing.”

“Well, he’s right. This isn’t something you want to be involved in.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, but let’s talk about it after.”

Sam shook his head, saying “No, I can’t take you along, I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t mean after you did your work. I meant after we have sex.”

“Sherlock, what are you – no one said anything about sex! We don’t even know each other!” Where the hell did this guy get the idea…

“So you’re telling me you’re not interested?” Sherlock replied with that infuriating smirk.
OK, so maybe it wasn’t all that infuriating.

“No. I mean, no, I’m not saying that, it’s just-”

“We’ll never see each other again, Sam. You want it, I want it, we’re in a hotel room, what’s the harm?”

Sam got the idea that Sherlock’s preference was having sex with people he’d never see again. It wasn’t Sam’s usual style, but hell, it had been a long damn time and this guy was too interesting to pass up.

It seemed like they’d fucked for hours, trading blow jobs and fucking roughly with just a few kisses passing between them. Sam had never had a one-night-stand quite that intense, and he succumbed to exhaustion with Sherlock’s cum drying on his belly and his arm flung across Sherlock’s chest.

He woke up alone, noticing a stack of paper on the table. He walked gingerly to the other side of the room, realizing he was going to be sore all day.

Sherlock had left all his notes on the disappearances, and a piece of hotel stationery simply saying ”Good luck. –SH. No phone number or other contact information.
Sam showered and dressed, dialed the number Bobby had given him, and got back to work.