Toilet was flooded with a vomit. Sherlock possibly couldn't even stand, because the floor showed, where he spat blood and where he continued to puke. John had absolutely no idea, what possibly Sherlock had done, that now he's lying in the living room and trying to catch his breath. Poor detective, John thought. Some of his curls were coloured by hemoglobin, his pupils were dilated under eyelids, becoming heavier and heavier.
''What happened, Sherlock? Can you hear me?'' whispered John, although that he planned to shout on this irresponsible personification of insanity.
''Moriarty,'' smirked his friend in response. Jim Moriarty happened. John pretended, that he misheard. There wasn't a good time for discuss, Sherlock was detached from reality. Oh, his face, John will always remember his disconnected look, his mask of broken machine. ''Consulting freaks were playing their 'games', how normal,'' muttered John, trying to put Sherlock in bed. Naturally detective's fancy clothes weren't so fancy anymore, covered by his humiliation, shame and bodily secretion. But the idea of undressing him was too discomforting.
''Sherlock, can you hear me? Stand up, you have to, understand?'' Unfortunately at the moment was the world's only consulting detective impressed by something above the fireplace. His ridiculous hat was lying on it, his ear hat, that nobody found lovely, but John. But there was a gun as well – more likely in his field of vision.
''Oh no,'' sighted John, ''No – no way. Forget on fighting and shooting, you are going to sleep.''
Sherlock couldn't think clearly. He heard, that John is talking to him and he felt warm breath on his neck, during someone dragged him on the other side of their flat. It didn't make any sense, but somewhere in the dark of his room he heard whispering. ''Wake up, Sherlock. Your turn,'' kept Jim repeating. Come and play. Your turn, loser.
When he woke up, at – about 5 am, he felt the weight of Moriarty's words, he felt the 'Your turn, loser.' way down in his stomach, in his head, he just felt it in every component. Well, his body was utterly bruised, but more important was all the invisible injuries. The pain of fear. What about John? Moriarty's boys tortured him and the only thing he was worried about was John Watson. Arrogant egoist found someone, who accepts him and all his defects, who makes him feel so much more human being. It makes a huge difference, when you suddenly don't have to act impersonal, cold-hearted. Opportunity to cry without consequences changes people, the question is: Does 'more human' means also 'better'?
''Where's John?'' he asked languorous. ''Moon and stars. John, my...'' he grasped breath, but didn't finish the sentence.
''Oh, look at you. My pale sweetheart, oh you,'' purred Moriarty above him. Sherlock felt something sticky, warm and familiar. Oblong cuts with springing blood, which stood out against his truly pallid skin.
''You didn't let me unwind even one day,'' rasped Sherlock. Jim smirked, whilst his victim was trying to focus on his heartbeat and breath, he was trying to calm down. But face to face with consulting criminal, amazingly dangerous, incredibly isolated man, he just couldn't.
''Yes, Sherl, darling. A gave you whole one day, isn't that kind from me?'' Oh, the possessive tone vibrated down in his spine, he threw back his head and felt Moriarty's cold fingers on his neck.
''Say it,'' hissed Jim. And this was the moment, when all stability broke and all Sherlock's self-esteem, which always was considerable, disappeared. Genius covered in his own blood, lying on floor of some criminal's hideaway, just swallowed and said: ''I need you, sir.''
Even Moriarty was surprised, that he hasn't heard just a hint of irony. So many times he just laughed, when Sherlock said this. It was part of their game, Jim and his pet were having fun. But not this time.
Sherlock winced, it was too real, too scary. What happened? From when exactly he was truthful during these dalliances? He extended hand to silhouette over him. This could be fun, this was something totally new, very exciting. ''Please, sir,'' he whined with earnest face.
Sinister laugh returned with echo.
Sun rays shivered on his eyelids. Every breath hurt, every unwitting movement painfully incised.
''Poor Sherlock,'' whispered John's soft voice near him. He smelled tea, but the harsh light was too painful for facing it, at least he felt it this way.
''Sherlock,'' intoned Moriarty admiringly, bending over him. Sherlock wasn't sure, if this is a dream, a nightmare, or if it's tangible as the morning glow. There was no time for thinking, so he did exactly what he was supposed to do. He begged, keeping saying to himself, that all his humiliation is just a game. And not just that. The point was, that Sherlock was the one, who devised the rules and who will say, when they gonna stop. But when he kneeled in front of Moriarty, groaning James' name and swallowing own blood, he had to be honest to himself.
''Go away,'' hissed Sherlock and John stopped short. He felt so sorry for Sherlock, because he looked so down, but on the other hand, it was just and only fault of his own desire for experiments. But why he have to experiment with his own health, physical and mental, that was a mystery to John. Sherlock forced himself to open eyes, so he discovered, that he isn't lying on the wet floor between his own bodily fluids, but in his own bed with his lovely, caring John. He met his eyes, full of tenderness and concern, but also rage. And Sherlock closed his eyes again.
Long, pale fingers ran through dark curls in a gesture of lust. It was a new segment of their relationship, until this moment they didn't touch each other, except touch with weapons. Despite Sherlock's expectations, their mutual esteem didn't fallen. Truthfully this wasn't their typical kind of game and Sherlock missed the old ones, the intellectual ones. But he was sure, that they will come again and harder than before. Just now he have to pretend, that he's Moriarty's toy. Just for a while.
Imperceptible touch on shoulder and light gust of air were mixed with clutching stomach and warm trickle of blood, which he felt run down the collarbone. ,,Please,'' he said questioningly, hoping someone will response. ,,What do you need, Sherlock?'' said soft voice sympathetically. Sherlock was disappointed, not because the voice belonged to John, but because it didn't belong to James. He wanted to hear James, just in that moment. Screw empathy. Sherlock wanted desire and control. He wanted be the controlled one, for the very first time in his life.
Moriarty pushed his fingers inside Sherlock's mouth, he enjoyed, how Sherly sucked passionately.
''Oh, what a good boy,'' commended him the criminal, playfully ruffling his hair. Then he pulled out his fingers, just to have a chance to say: ,,Again, darling? Beg gor it.'' Sherlock only blushed in response and Jim laughed maniacally.
Sherlock have never felt so open, humiliated and satisfied. It was so different in the sharp contrast of soft and kind feeling for John. This had to do more with rivality, excitement. But the biggest reason, why Sherlock loved these evenings with James was the danger, the incredible, almost ridiculous danger. It kept saying: Time to live, Sherlock with the slight flirtatious voice of Moriarty.
''Thank you, Jim,'' said Sherlock tenderly and kissed Moriarty's cheek. He smiled for himself, because these manners were the reason, why he was called 'pet' instead of something less degrading.
Jim Moriarty smirked: ''You're welcome, Sherlock, my dear.''
''Alright, but how?''
''Oh, come on, John. How he could say no to me?'' John frowned, not just because it was so arrogant, but also because he understood it in his own way. If Sherlock would say so, is there anything he wouldn't do for him? This unmanageable man spent last two nights with that psychopath. And even through Sherlock kept saying about him, how lovely he is, how polite and resourceful he is, John knew the truth. But it didn't really matter, like it truly never does. John naturally could leave hazardous genius alone with impersonation of his evil mirror reflection and he should.
,,So, would you fancy some tea now?'' asked him anew, hoping that Sherlock will react this time.
,,Yes, John,'' came the answer, a little dully, a little distracted, but fondly.