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Play the Game
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A/N: I wasn't sure if I should post this or not, because this is my first attempt at writing anything like this and I was quite nervous about showing it to the world. Still am, actually. It felt like such an ambitious project that I wrote the whole thing before posting because I was so scared of messing it up. Good news for any fans, though, since that means that the next chapters are just waiting for some final editing and could be posted whenever I feel like it. In the interest of your own pleasure, I recommend suspending any and all belief. I tried to make a highly unrealistic situation as realistic as I possibly could, but in some parts, it may be lacking.
Disclaimer: none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language.
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It came with the wind through the silence of the night, a long, deep mutter, then a rising howl, and then the sad moan in which it died away. Again and again it sounded, the whole air throbbing with it, strident, wild and menacing.
Arthur Conan Doyle, The Hound of the Baskervilles.
Part 1: Resisted.
His last memory is that of a bag.
Soft cloth yanked over his head, kicking, thrashing, spits of light and arms like steel pinning him, but he wasn't suffocating. No, no. These were not his final breaths. He'd roared; a black storm of threats and mockery retching from his lips. Yells of fury, of euphoric insanity. Little did he know it was the last he'd ever shout.
Then a fleeting prick in his bare neck and all of a sudden his limbs were drooping, lumbering, falling back… back… backwards into nothing.
...
He jerks awake gasping.
Through the haze and lasting disorientation, he recognises the room instantly. It is a bedroom. Sherlock's bedroom, to be precise, elegant and cluttered and predictably minimal. He's never seen it in person, but he remembers Irene Adler's description back when he'd pestered her for details, and of course - there is his coat, spilling over the floor.
He was supposed to die today. Sherlock, too.
He remembers…remembers…
Sherlock had texted him, hadn't he? The ping on his phone, the listless car ride… a pounding headache, he recalls they way he'd turned away from the window and massaged his temples …sliding on dark sunglasses, the sleek revolver slipped into his pocket, St Bart's hospi-
Ah.
Sherlock nabbed him at the hospital? Really? Well, that's a bit of a disappointment.
He has the sudden urge to laugh. Instead, something obstructs him. Almost like...like he can't. His chest is thick and full, and won't…won't balloon right, isn't expelling a laugh but a pant, and he feels different…strangely off… there's something very, very wrong about this, but he can't put his finger on what.
Then again. Looks like he won't be putting his fingers on anything anytime soon, because there, encasing his hands, are big, bulky mittens, Velcro straps secured around his wrists and hampering his movements. They aren't uncomfortable, per say, being so heavily padded. But they do stop him from flexing even his pinky finger.
Moriarty shifts a few degrees to the right and discovers that similar pads have been fastened around his kneecaps. Curious, he lifts his leg and is pleased to note that the pads do not confine him to the bed, though that merely begs the question: what exactly is their purpose? In fact, nothing seems to be preventing him for getting up and walking out of here, were he so inclined. But that's silly - unforgivably careless. Sherlock might be ordinary, but he'd thought him better than that.
Jim glances around but he can't figure out what part of this is a trick. The half-opened door? The lack of restraints? The ringing silence of the flat?
Everything about this raises suspicion. The hair on the back of his neck stands erect.
Weak from whatever drugs they've injected into his system, Moriarty props himself up onto his elbows and cautiously places a sock-covered foot on the floor.
He pushes himself up-
And immediately falls down again, rebounding back onto the mattress with a creeping frown.
So the drugs - they made it so that he couldn't walk or something? It's the most logical explanation, but it doesn't sit well with him. That hadn't felt like frailty….It felt like forgetting.
Clenching his jaw, Jim forces himself to swallow his pride and try again…and again, and again, failing. Every. Single. Time.
It's as though the muscles in his legs can't quite grasp how they're supposed to sustain his weight, like they're not designed to do so upright. It is as if he's not familiar with standing on his hind le- Jim's cuts himself off, brows knitting.
Hind legs.
What a peculiar description.
Shaking his head to clear the residual fogginess, only then does Jim become aware of a strange jingle, this metallic tinkling that occurs whenever he moves. He glances down and can't quite believe he'd missed this before. The writing is upside down, but he has no problem making out the word. There, bold and glossy and unmistakable, engraved on a light, bronze nametag, are the letters JIM.
There's only one way that could be.
He, Jim Moriarty, world's only consulting criminal, has a flipping collar clamped around his neck. Stunned beyond belief, it's at that instant, that Jim truly loses it.
He begins shrieking and ranting, cursing Sherlock Holmes to the darkest pits of hell, and it's midway through his third sentence that he realises they aren't sentences at all. That's when he really panics, tearing at his neck and his chest as if to fix the fact that his vocal cords have been hijacked and twisted into something awfully animalistic.
His hands are wet and sticky, stained a vibrant red, by the time Sherlock and John burst into the room. They halt, momentarily horrified, before spurring into action, Sherlock snatching his hands and pulling them away from his tattered skin, while John fetches a damp facecloth and begins to mop up the blood.
Breathing hard, Jim glares at his captors and barks again, frustration burning bright as he futilely struggles to escape their tight grip.
'It's okay, puppy,' John murmurs, using his smooth 'doctor' voice. Jim's eyes widen past the point of ridiculousness. 'We're not gonna hurt you-'
Puppy? Puppy?!
The consulting criminal's unnatural barks reach new heights, growing louder and louder and more desperate, as he successfully wrenches himself away. Then, as his nemesis advances towards him, Moriarty makes the strangest sound - shuddering, sharp and brutal, in the root of his throat.
Sherlock laughs, surprised. 'Did you just growl at me, puppy?'
There is that bloody word again! That's twice now he's being addressed as such within the past two minutes.
'I think it was more of a snarl,' John states, stepping back and appraising the incensed man, fenced in on Sherlock's bed. 'Pretty good too. Maybe needs to work on the ferocity of it, though.'
'Yes,' the detective hums. 'I found the low timbre severely lacking myself.' Infuriated by their flippancy, the thundering growls increase tenfold, lips drawn back and warped around glittering teeth.
'He's not very scary, is he, John?' Sherlock remarks in something like disappointment. 'Do you think he's scary?'
'Not really. Perhaps he'd give Mrs Hudson a fright?'
'I doubt it. She watches a surprising number of horror films for an old ba-' Sherlock rolls his eyes as John shoots him a look. 'Sorry. Mature woman.'
'Is she a dog person?'
'More of a cat lady, I'd venture. Though you know what she's like.'
'That's true,' John nods, mouth tucked inwards. 'She'll be fussing over him in no time, I'll bet, once he's settled in.'
'Well, it is Mrs Hudson-'
Jim, outraged at being ignored in the middle of his crisis, strikes Sherlock hard with one of his thickly-mitted hands. Which, unfortunately, isn't nearly hard enough. He wants to gouge out their eyeballs.
'Oh,' Sherlock blinks, delicately touching his jaw, 'Where are my manners? Jim - you're our new puppy,' he announces casually, 'Welcome home.'
...
'That collar you're wearing,' Sherlock explains later, hours later, after the mother of all tantrums, with Jim hysterically lashing out and clawing at the collar, punching objects because he's incapable of picking them up to hurl and letting loose a string of screaming expletives that ring out like vicious howls.
Moriarty lies in a heap on the floor, drained and disbelieving.
'By now, I imagine you've realised that that's not your typical leather collar? We obviously didn't buy that down at the local petshop. Got it as a gift, actually. Mycroft knew someone who knew someone who knew someone…I believe you're familiar with how that works. I almost pity your minions. They won't know what hit them. They'll never know what became of the whispers, of the old legend of Moriarty. You'll just…disappear. From the network, and their minds. Soon enough, your network will disappear, too.'
Jim mutely glares back at him.
'You're wondering about your snipers,' Sherlock guesses, hands clasped behind his back and he idly circles the room. 'How I managed to foil your plan. It was all rather easy, actually. They're in custody now, of course. Once I figured it out, with Mycroft and Scotland Yard's help, it wasn't too difficult to track them down.'
If looks could kill, Sherlock would be dead ten times over.
'You want to know what the collar does?' he interprets. 'That's a little trickier to explain. See, it was built upon the philosophy that anyone's basic, genetic makeup can be altered or…tweaked, if you will. The aim is to rewire your natural instincts. Correct them, in fact. You've been such a naughty puppy, haven't you? You were out of control. This was all John's idea. Well,' he pulls a face, 'Sort of. He said destruction was in your nature. He argued you couldn't help yourself. I agree.'
Sherlock strides over and crouches beside the rabid man, paying no attention to Jim's snarling.
He wants to look him in the eye. 'It occurred to me that this is what happens when puppies are neglected,' Sherlock says, quietly, so close they're almost touching. 'They turn feral, bloodthirsty, revert back to the ways of their ancestors. I only mean to rectify that. You said so yourself, during our last conversation. Pet's are so very loyal. You described John as such, you planted the idea. I thought to myself… maybe I should get a live-in one.'
His lip twitches.
'So I did.'
...
He twists and shakes and growls in frustration. All it does is chaff his skin, a ring of rutted red marring his flesh.
The collar stays.
...
It is unanimously decided that Jim is Sherlock's sole responsibility to care for, rather than the slightly distrustful John.
He is the one who dresses, bathes and 'toilet-trains' Jim (meaning that he goes in a litter tray plonked upon a bed of newspapers, as opposed to actually in the toilet); He's in charge of pretty much everything from scrubbing his teeth to brushing out the tangles in his hair, since the ex-criminal is now totally helpless when it comes to self-care.
'There,' he breathes at the end of another rather taxing bath-time, kneeling down on the tiles and drying off the other man. 'That wasn't so bad, was it?' He's drenched from head-to-toe and blowing moist wisps of hair out of his eyes, skin tinged with dark circles of exhaustion.
Jim spits in his face.
He is a man of power. Of wealth and status and ferocious hunger. But take that away - take away Jim's tasteful, tailored suits, and his prominent clients and his world-wide influence and his millions upon millions, and what is he?
Small. That's what.
Naked, shivering, and dripping onto the floor. He's just…small.
...
They give him water in a gleaming saucer.
He places a 'paw' on the rim of the bowl and tips it over, glaring at the figure towering above him. Water sparks his face and spills out onto the tiles, trickling outwards and filling the cracks. It absorbs into his kneepads and soaks through to his skin, but none of that is his concern.
He is not an animal. He is not a dog.
Jim will keel over and die before drinking from that filthy bowl. A filthy bowl on the floor.
...
His throat scorches. This was a far greater undertaking than he predicted.
...
Days in and he's in agony, but Jim is nothing if not stubborn. Not to mention, gloriously spiteful.
No matter how much Sherlock threatens and commands and cajoles, he continues to oppose dipping his tongue into the sloshing basin of sparking liquid. His thirst only strengthens as he grows weaker, and swallowing soon begins to feel like gulping down a huge ball of gluey toffee. Throat parched and gravelly, Jim's breaths come in rattling rasps. Yet he stands his ground.
His mouth feels dry and rough like sandpaper, his teeth are gritty and metallic, and there's this sharp, pounding ache coming from down deep in the earth of his gums. It doesn't help that his tongue has developed a sudden mind of its own and yearns to explore with such franticness and mania that it could be an individual organism in its own right.
Jim was already terrible for licking his lips back when he didn't possess the same impetuous whims of a mongrel and he can't resist chafing a shrivelled tongue along the jagged surface of his cracking lips and peeling it away again.
The swimming headache and protesting screech of his stiff joints and muscles could easily be dealt with by themselves, but combined with everything else, it is damn near intolerable. Then add to that his fraying thoughts and Jim is suddenly not so stubborn.
He needs something to quench the burning thirst. He…he's…
And - it - it's right there.
Surely one little lick wouldn't hurt? He'll be good. One little lick - what's the harm?
Skirting around the teeming bowl and feeling eyes boring into his back, Jim swallows the last of his spittle as it fizzes forward at the prospect of cold, wet, throbbing relief.
Careful, and in the most dignified manner he can master, Jim extends his neck and tentatively blows out into the dish of water, beads of condensation forming on his chin and silvery reflections bouncing back on his skin. It's taking all of his willpower not to shove in his face and hard pedal his jaw like he's bobbing for apples. But he knows Sherlock is right around the corner, closely monitoring him, and Jim really doesn't wish to grant him the feat of winning, but…he's out of options.
Only then, as Jim dunks the tip of his tongue into the refreshing coolness, his dilemma over their current power-struggle goes straight out the window.
He greedily laps up that saucer of water like a man dying, and once he's slurped up every last drop of deliciousness, Jim turns to his rival and impatiently bumps the bowl with his nose in a silent order.
Sherlock refills the dish without a word, and lingers while Jim eagerly guzzles it down in seconds. When his demands for more are met with a pokerfaced expression, Jim is horrified to feel the vibrations of a wretched keen disrupting his throat.
'Give it time to settle,' Sherlock orders. 'We don't want to upset your stomach. Ten minutes. You can wait that long.' Despite his less-than-sympathetic tone, he hunkers down and streaks his fingers through the pup's dampened hair, a minor casualty in the End of Drought festivities, while Jim startles as his chest heaves in the first of many endearingly innocent hiccups.
Stupid air.
Dissatisfied by the man's ruling because he wants water and he wants it now, idiot, Jim attempts to change his mind - in a non-violent manner wholly unlike begging - with a minute widening of his expressive eyes and a slight tilt of the head.
'Ten minutes,' Sherlock reiterates, refusing to succumb to the charming display.
Jim scowls and whacks the detective's shoe in retaliation.
A phantom smile dusting his lips, Sherlock shrugs off his indignation, 'You'll survive.' Because Jim would. Sherlock knew he would. A dog won't let himself perish because of dehydration when he knows that his master only has to twist a tap and 'lo and behold, he's got a gushing torrent to depend on. His survival instincts would ensure that he gave in to temptation. It was only a matter of time.
Sherlock isn't remotely surprised. Impressed that he held out so long, yes, but not likely to feel relieved by the sudden surrender he'd seen coming a mile off.
And as he hops around his bowl while anxiously waiting for a top up and finally embraces his new means of consumption with almost no trepidation, it never occurs to Jim that Sherlock forgot to gloat about winning.
...
Every day, Sherlock does this thing where he pitches a spongy ball, jumps up onto the sofa where he perches on his hunches with steepled fingers and a penetrating gaze, and waits for Jim to crack.
At first, the thumping bounce didn't bother him. Snubbing the dull ball was easy-peasy; ignoring Sherlock was another matter. But he managed.
There was a brief flicker of...this…this something whenever he laid eyes on it, but Jim didn't think it was much to worry about. It was only a harmless ball, after all.
Over time, that mild interest turned to keen awareness, which soon carved the way for burning desire. Jim found himself staring longingly at the ball while Sherlock was out (loafing on the fireplace and huddling next to the hideous skull), and on the detective's return, he would switch his hawk-like stare to him and wait for it, because he had to restrain himself from lunging at it now. His heart would quicken with anticipation while his stomach performed a series of somersaults, and, to Jim's dismay, a tide of drool would pour from his glands and swish in his mouth, seeping out at the corners like a rabid beast in a horror movie. His gums twinged at the sight.
Before he knows it, Jim can barely contain himself.
The ball is everything. Everything he ever dreamed of. And so, so, ridiculously enticing.
It is an unremarkable twitch that gives him away.
Sherlock misses nothing. His eyes track Jim's eyes as they track the ball, and a slow smile spreads across his lips. 'You want the ball, puppy? Huh? Do ya? Do ya?' He's enjoying this. 'Go get it. Go on. Get it.'
Jim stares at the ball as it rolls past.
...
Nightmares are born in the dark and for as long as he remembers that's where Jim has thrived.
Still, when he is cruelly awoken one night a few weeks into his 'reforming' with a gradually worsening pain in his gums like two segments of the earth's crust rubbing against each other and tearing apart the foundations of his jaw-line, somehow he senses this is different.
The recesses of his mouth cramp and blaze as though the nerves of his teeth are on fire, and the betrayal of his body, and, indeed, his mind, stings distantly. It feels like his body is trying to eat itself.
But, no. He just wants to eat everything else.
Jim is suddenly consumed with the need to rip into the bedding of his basket and drag the material upwards. He pounces on the mattress and then the blankets and then the medium-sized plush orca that he'd turned his nose up at when Sherlock presented him with it only the day before, and the relief is instantaneous, though it never lasts.
He even begins tugging on his own clothing, hearing threads strain and snap and witnessing the puncture marks with his own two eyes, but completely powerless to put an end to the mayhem.
He fails in his battle to keep silent - high-pitched whines clawing from his throat while his nostrils flare in clipped, vehement exhales as if he's struggling not to bawl his eyes out. Finally, exhausted, he slumps onto the remains of his bed, and once he gives in to the whimpers, he can't seem to stop.
Suddenly, the light flickers on and a barefoot Sherlock and a bleary-eyed John with a hastily-tied robe, sprint into the room looking alarmed. They stop dead at the sight of Jim curled up in the foetal position, drenched in sweat and surrounded by white clumps of padding and fluttering pieces of cotton. He moans around the thick mitten he's unconsciously stuffed in his mouth, already ridged with the indentations of cutting teeth.
The pair exchange troubled glances.
Whispering furiously between themselves, he picks out the detective's distinctive, ruthless hiss among the hushed racket. 'You do it.'
'No, you do it.' John shoves him forward.
When Sherlock hesitantly reaches out and tries pat his head, he clamps down on his hand so hard it leaves a crescent-shaped bite-mark.
...
By morning, the pain is impossibly searing. Bizarrely, incredibly...their puppy is teething.
And apparently it's all in Jim's head.
Least, that's what Sherlock hypothesizes, because according the wonders of the mysterious collar, Jim is about 2 and half months old. The peak time for losing baby teeth he doesn't actually own.
John had raced out and bought a heap of sturdy, durable chew toys because the handful they had were destroyed within minutes. One of which is a bright blue turtle (that is, ironically, a baby's teething toy) that they freeze and give him to gnaw on an hour later, hoping to numb the rigorous throbbing.
It works for a while, the coolness seeping into his gums and soothing the nonexistent inflammation, but the frozen toy only temporarily distracts Jim's brain from the problem, rather than cure it, and there are times when Jim can scarcely bear the scalding rawness.
If he could, he'd yank the teeth out himself. Why prolong his suffering? It would be the humane thing to do.
Sherlock seems to guess what he's thinking and does his best to keep Jim's mind off the pain, letting him take it out on him, instead. He offers a hand for the uncomfortable pup to suck and gnaw on, and though John objects, it's not as if Jim's dull incisors are capable of causing much damage. Or as much damage as he'd like, anyway.
It just means that the detective's hand is red and tender for a couple days, and once you get past the, quite frankly shocking, amount of slobber, then it's not so bad. (Even Jim can hardly believe that the bucket load of drool is his own handy work.)
It takes days of crankiness and despondency and near-tears, but finally Jim's gums stabilize into a continual need to keep chewing that's not nearly as concentrated.
And if there is one good thing to emerge from the gruelling experience, it is that, come bedtime, Jim is pretty much inseparable from his stuffed orca. It's not much of a consolation, though, until a few days later when Sherlock throws the ball and Jim doesn't hesitate to retrieve it.
...
'Not on the sofa,' Sherlock repeats the phrase so often his own voice must be getting sick of it. 'Down. Puppies don't belong on the furniture.' It's all Jim ever hears. Puppies can't this and puppies can't that. It's getting a little boring now.
They are constantly referring to him as 'puppy.' More so than his given name. Most likely to reinforce the mindset that Jim is one, which in his opinion is a load of crap.
Sherlock swats his nose using the hilt of a newspaper, with a rebuking, 'No! Bad puppy,' and he yelps, before realising that he's seriously starting to feel a little bad about trying to bite Sherlock's good shoes, and venomously scowling.
Jim will do whatever he wants, when he wants; he always has. The light tap of some folded paper is hardly torture, is it? He's withstood a hell of a lot worse than that. And it's not like he cares if he has Sherlock's approval or is in the dim-witted doctor's bad books. They're both as bad as it each other, gigantic doofuses the both of them. Hardly worth his time.
The most demeaning thing is the punishments aren't harsh. They barely qualify as punishments. Especially when compared to the big leagues he's used to. A spray of water, a flick on the nose - fit for a dog, maybe, not someone as cold and merciless as Moriarty. He certainly wouldn't grant them the same courtesy.
They can't transform him into a model citizen - or worse, their darling little fuzz ball - with positive reinforcement or a stern scolding. It's not going to work.
Slice him, beat him, chop off his fingers, but don't try to punish him with, like, the silent treatment. It's embarrassing they think that'll have any effect on him.
Throwing a bitter look Sherlock's way, Jim slinks off to the corner and makes a very pointed effort not to think about what he's done.
...
He finds Jim writhing on the floor, head twisting and turning, while his floppy paws bat at the air and flashes of teeth snap at…something.
Sherlock leans against the doorframe and observes the proceedings with an amused smirk. The scene is shockingly sweet, and mostly unexpected. He hadn't thought Jim was this far along. The detective suspects this is his covert way of playing, and he wonders if this has happened before, when he's been immersing himself in lab experiments and corpses over at St. Bart's or otherwise engaged with cases.
Knowing it won't be long before Jim participates in such behaviours without caring if he's around or not, Sherlock takes one last, long look and slips away before the pup has the chance to spot him.
...
Sherlock's away, gone on another case. He flew out of here in a streak of ramblings and agitation, coat billowing behind him as he practically plunged down the stairs. 'I'll be home in a few hours,' he'd said. 'Try not to break anything while I'm gone.' And that was that.
Jim pillows his head on his pa-hands after squashing under the detective's bed with his beloved purple shirt trampled beneath him. He prods the velvety fabric with his nose and burrows under it. It smells like warm pats on the shoulder and apologetic, Violin Day hair tousles.
He's not sulking. He's not.
He's counting dust mites - they're his friends now.
Sometime, a long time, later he hears an inquisitive voice call out, 'Jim?' accompanied by the swish of a scarf being torn off and the swift, hard beat of a coat being shed and flung over the back of the armchair, and if Jim had been in possession of a tail, it would have thumped against the bed frame faster than the pull of a trigger; he's that delighted. He perks up, heart skipping a beat. 'C'mere, boy. Come here. Come out come out wherever you are...' The singsong voice peters out and silence rings out in the stagnant flat.
For a moment, Jim debates wriggling out to greet him, before remembering he's still fairly miffed about being left all on his lonesome without so much as a toodle-oo, and more to the point, why the hell should he? Jim's whereabouts or - or… disappointment, didn't matter when the man was leaping up and whizzing out of here. So why now? Why should he have to be the considerate one? No, let him worry. Let him wonder.
Suspicion lacing his tone, Sherlock mutters, 'Where oh where is that damn puppy?'
Sharp footsteps thunk down the hallway and the door opens with a creak.
'Jim?' The draped sheets rustle and a disgruntled face suddenly appears in front of him, causing Jim to edge deeper into the shadows. 'What in God's name are you doing under there? Silly pup. You'll be coughing up dust and spiders for hours. I hope you know that.'
He huffs a breath through his nose and turns his head away. 'Humph.'
'Oh. I see.' His scowling voice reeks of lofty realisation. 'You're angry with me.'
A muscle in Jim's jaw tics.
Sherlock tsks. 'Are you planning to stay under there all day, then? You won't come out? Not at all? That's tremendously pointless of you.'
The pup answers in the form of a snappy yap.
How dare Sherlock imply that he's stupid. He's not some dull creature with a daft grudge. Oh, no, no, no. This is far bigger than that. He's outraged because of things and feelings, and it is this exact sort of dismissal that he doesn't take kindly to.
'Fine. Be that way. The only person you're punishing is yourself. It's really all the better for me; it's not like I want an exasperating, unruly nuisance like you following me around and hounding me all day when I've got hundreds of better things to do than keep you entertained.'
The sheets drop with a brusque swoosh and then there's nothing but silence. Yet not two minutes later, Sherlock drops down to his knees and the sheets are yanked upwards again.
'You're really not going to come out? Not even for, say…' Sherlock's voice sweetens considerably. 'An extra special treat?' Deliberate and cautious, a hand snakes out and deliciously teases a few lucky strands of hair and Jim trembles before he can stop himself.
Damn it, he is not folding that easily! He refuses to. The wonderfully yummy touch is gratifying, yes, but not quite repentant enough that it overrides his bad mood. Jim's affections cannot, and will not, be bought with a couple seconds of half-assed pampering. Nuh-uh. He has more pride than that.
Angered by his susceptibility even to barefaced manipulation, the pup stubbornly shakes off the detective's contact, looking very, very put out.
'Oh, don't act like you're not interested,' Sherlock disparages. 'You love your belly scratchies.'
Not today, he doesn't.
Jim grits his teeth and juts out his chin, wrinkled frown intensifying. He cannot be bribed by the promise of bloody belly scratchies. He won't.
Except-
Jim exhales roughly.
Heat pools in his belly and he has to curb the heave of excitement because dammit, if that doesn't sound like a gooey pile of belly scratchies heaven.
Frustrated and confused, he reflexively looks to Sherlock for guidance, but he seizes his chance and takes the glance for confirmation, and the next thing Jim knows the man's fingers have barely grazed his tummy before he's feverishly clambering out and hurdling onto the taller man's lap.
Maybe just one teeny rub.
Making an impatient sound halfway between a growl and a moan, he twists and squirms, giving a curt gasp as Sherlock's clever hands engulf his belly, scattering scrupulous, finely tuned scratches, before relaxing into ear-popping bliss.
The roaming fingers ignite surges of unadulterated pleasure as Sherlock wraps an arm around his body to steady him and exhaustively caresses the puppy's nerve-endings.
Jim's breaths turn rapid and thin and his tongue flops out as another hand pierces his hairline. He arches into the touch and stomps his foot, unable to think about anything other than Sherlock tinkering with his hypersensitive nervous system.
'Who's a good boy? You are. Oh, yes, you are.' Sherlock has never spoken to him in such babyish tones before, but bearing the load of a 140-pound, human drool-generator, an outbreak of affection seems inevitable.
With shuddering exhales, the former consulting criminal salivates over his ex-nemesis' sleeve and mewls in uncontrollable ecstasy. Never has he felt the utter abandonment of his humanity so acutely, and yet, Jim can't bring himself to feel alarmed.
Not when he's on the brink of paradise and it feels like he's one wild spasm away from the throes of an orgasm, despite not sporting even a semi hard-on.
Under ordinary circumstances, it would have been a miracle that he's not the tiniest bit dissatisfied, but this isn't ordinary; it's…it's an unstoppable, devastating frenzy.
After ten minutes or so, Sherlock's strokes become slower and less expansive, and Jim begins to wind down, dissolving against the other man's chest with heavy lids and long, sleepy blinks.
'Aww,' Sherlock murmurs, stroking his damp locks as Jim's chin tips downward. 'Is the little puppy all tuckered out?'
He doesn't respond. Nor is he expected to.
Jim simply nestles closer, closes his eyes, and drifts off to sleep.
...
With each new day, his resistance is hammered down further into the alcoves of his subconscious and Sherlock can see how Jim gradually relaxes into his role and fights his instincts less and less, responding to stimuli much more naturally. He adapts to his environment and his situation and more than that, Jim slowly adapts to his new sense of self and forgets about his old way of living.
It isn't about 'giving in,' or, 'being defeated.' It isn't about winning.
It is simply reacting. Wearing his canine nature like a second skin and playing because he feels like playing.
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Thanks for reading. Thoughts?