Sherlock wound his way through the top level of the nearly-constructed, 10-story office block, pausing suddenly to listen. Was that the wind whistling through the windowless fresh bones of the building, or a careless movement from his quarry? He knew Moriarty would have perched at the very top or burrowed at the very bottom—nothing in between would do—but the basement did not afford a stunning view of the Thames. Sherlock rounded a corridor into a wide room, the breeze ruffling the tails of his overcoat. He stopped to observe a warm, inviting light pouring from an open door across the room, a stark contrast to the gloam of the city night Sherlock had navigated by thus far.

A sing-song Irish lilt wafted out from the door. "Sherl-eeeee… come towards the liiiiiight..."

Sherlock steeled himself and trod silently across the bare concrete floor. He tensed as he neared the door. Peering cautiously from just outside, Sherlock found a lavishly furnished corner office, complete with plush carpet, an obscenely large mahogany desk and vivid abstract paintings on the wall. There was a crystal decanter with brown liquid on the desk. Overstuffed leather arm chairs sat before it, with a matching sofa along the wall. The only thing lacking was glass in the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Sherlock's devilish counterpart posed with a grin in the center of the room in his immaculate Westwood. Next to him sat a figure covered in a white sheet, like a statue waiting to be unveiled.

"I'm so pleased you're here," Moriarty purred. "I thought maybe my little puzzle had stumped you. But not our Sherlock, oh no. He's the cleverest of clocks, isn't he." He patted the head of the figure next to him. It shifted away as best it could. "Well, perhaps not the cleverest. But a close second."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What do you want, Moriarty?"

"I love to hear you say my name, darling."

Sherlock knew that Moriarty would give up the launch codes if he paid the price. He hated that just asking for that price felt like asking for a favor. Sherlock simply stared expectantly.

"You never take me dancing anymore," Moriarty pouted.

Sherlock's cheek twitched slightly at this. "You're wasting my time. The National Guard is on their way and—"

"With their tanks and their bombs, and their bombs and their guns. How obvious. How dull," Moriarty huffed. He mimicked being hanged by tugging the tails of his silk tie above his head, tongue lolling from his mouth.

Abruptly he righted himself, a gleam in his chocolate iris. "Let's play a game. Winner take all."

Here it came. The two men stared at each other in stony anticipation. Finally Moriarty's impatience overcame him. He rolled his eyes to the heavens and heaved a sigh.

"Yes, right, fine, we'll skip the witty villain/hero banter and proceed directly to… the main event!" He winked and whipped the sheet off the figure next to him.

A gagged Molly Hooper knelt next to the Irishman's freshly-buffed wingtips. Her lazy ponytail had been frazzled by the bed sheet. Still covered by a lab coat, her normally frumpy garb evidenced a struggle, bunched and twisted around her slender frame. Sherlock deduced the top buttons of her patterned blouse had come undone in the fray, but had been left just so to evince a sympathetic reflex in him. The white cotton bra that peeked out below told him she had not expected anyone to see her underthings today. Her hands were bound behind her back, loosely tied to her ankles above bare feet by expert knots. With her white knickers jammed in her mouth, not even John Watson would have been in doubt of what lay underneath Molly's khaki cargo skirt. She bore no visible bruises or injuries, so her long-dried tear-stains were likely from the moments surrounding her abduction, no doubt undertaken by some trusted thug. Sherlock could not bring himself to meet Molly's eyes directly, despite the wealth of information that could be harvested there. If he had, he would have found them resolute in her faith, with no question as to where that faith was placed.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly and his breathing sped almost imperceptibly. But Moriarty noticed immediately and hooted with glee.

"She's pleased to see you, I'd wager! But not as pleased as she'll be shortly," Moriarty said with a smirk. "Are you beginning to parse together what kind of game I'm proposing?"

Moriarty pulled a switchblade from the pocket of his trousers and held Sherlock's gaze as he flicked it open with a "snick." He let an air of menace hang in the air before bending over to slice Molly free of her bondage. "You won't be needing those anymore."

With the blade he nudged Molly's ponytail off her shoulder and put his lips to her ear. "I'd say we were about to make your wettest, wildest dreams come true, but I'm sure they were quite ordinary compared to what's in store," he purred, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear. Gooseflesh marched across Molly's skin at the heat of his breath. He clicked the blade closed and put it back into his pocket.

For once, Moriarty was incorrect. Behind her mousy exterior, Molly had quite an extensive and imaginative fantasy life that Jim from IT had never bothered delving into. This scenario was right out of something from her spank bank, though she never would have wished for the actual terror that brought it to fruition. But despite the distressing manner of her arrival in this situation, Molly's knickers would have started to dampen if they hadn't already been soaked in her saliva.

Moriarty slowly pulled Molly's makeshift gag from her mouth and put it to his nose as he stood. He locked eyes with Sherlock and gave the knickers a decadent whiff, humming his approval.

"I'll relieve you of your suspense: whomever makes your little mousy Molly orgasm the most wins." He tossed the knickers aside.

Logically, Sherlock had known it was headed this direction, but was still unsettled to hear it said aloud. In the fleeting moments that sex crossed his crowded mind, the petite pathologist had a recurring role. So had his enigmatic equal. Sherlock's reaction to these pesky permutations ended in midnight dissections and bullet holes in Mrs. Hudson's wall.

The casual observer, if such a thing could exist in this situation, would have though Sherlock's continued silence part of a plan. But Moriarty knew he'd put his rival at a loss for words as that brilliant mind searched for any avenue out of this. Moriarty knew his was playing on deep-seated desires, but needed to insure that Sherlock would play.

"I don't even have to touch her," Moriarty stated, cocky but careful.

He turned to Molly and offered her a hand up. His crotch was directly in front of her face. Blushing, Molly's eyes darted briefly to the wolfish smirk he wore. She took his hand and rose, unsteady after so long on her knees. Moriarty pulled her towards the couch. He positioned her as if to sit, but held onto her shoulders with an almost tender grasp. He caught her gaze with his own.

"I dare you to look away, Molly Hooper." His words held a threat she did not care to decipher. He was flirting with her. When it was clear Molly was completely skewered by his penetrating, and frankly panty-dropping, gaze, his cruel eyes softened, as did his voice.

"I know you've had quite the challenging day, little mouse," he murmured. "But that's all over now. Your Sherlock is here and you've nothing to fear." The corner of his mouth quirked at his own unintentional rhyme.

The very visceral understanding that she should not believe a word that came out of this man's mouth began to evaporate with the calming tones of his dulcet voice. She couldn't seem to focus on anything but the deep pool of his intense eyes. In a world where no one ever noticed her, Molly was mesmerized by his attentiveness. It was probably an act, all part of this game he played for Sherlock's benefit. But at this moment Molly found she could not care.

Moriarty rocked Molly gently from side to side. She relaxed into the movement without realizing and swayed with him.

"There, isn't that nice?" he cooed. Molly nodded absently. He brought a finger towards her face, slowly guiding it towards her forehead. "I'll bet you could... just..."

He tapped Molly on her third eye and suddenly pushed her onto the couch.

"Sleep."

Molly fell like a rag doll onto the expensive leather, eyes serenely shut.

Sherlock sprinted over to the sofa.

"She's fine," Moriarty said confidently. He shucked off his jacket and chucked it behind him onto the carpet.

He turned to look at Sherlock, who now observed the lolling Molly from a few feet away. "Yes, she sure is fine," Moriarty finished with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Sherlock ignored the innuendo. "Hypnotic trance." It wasn't a question.

"Give the man a bikkie!"

Sherlock had pored over hypnotic techniques and applications for a time, in search of ways to divest clients and other persons of interests of salient information more efficiently. After a number of failed attempts to put his knowledge into practice, Sherlock realized one had to actually be good at—or care enough about—reading people for these techniques to succeed. Moriarty of course knew of this obsession, having hacked into Sherlock's browsing history.

"Now, would you like to go first, or shall I?" Moriarty smirked. He loosened his tie.

Sherlock scowled at him.

"Sloppy seconds for Sherly, then! Don't forget—this is a competition," Moriarty declared and plopped down on the couch next to Molly's slumped form.

"Mollllly..." he crooned. "Deeper down. So deep."

She exhaled a large breath and her body further slackened.

TO BE CONTINUED!

What will Sherly do?

This chapter has been updated and improved.