Title: Addiction Isn't the Same as Love (Using Each Other till the End)
Pairing: Sheriarty (Sherlock/Moriarty)
Rating: T.
Warnings: This story is rather suggestive. It mentions adult themes/situations. It's mostly subtext though (just like the show itself XD). Also, there are mentions of drug addiction/abuse. Be warned, there is no fluff whatsoever in this, but it isn't very sad either. Just kind of dark. Not too bad though.
Disclaimer: The character and original stories are not mine. All I own are the situations I write them into.
Summary: There's something exhilarating, Sherlock thought as searing hot kisses were trailed down his throat, about putting yourself in the hands of the one person who can destroy you. Jim Moriarty and cocaine were similar on so many levels, it didn't surprise Sherlock one bit he'd gotten hooked on both.
A/N: My first Sheriarty fanfic! I'm so excited! This is geared towards the idea their relationship is based on using each other and lust, not love. The end ended up being based on addiction, because I go a little off topic when I write without a specific outline. It fit quite well, so I kept it. Anyways, feedback and constructive criticism always appreciated. I love hearing from you guys. So, without further ado:
Read, Review, and Enjoy!~
Addiction Isn't the Same as Love (Using Each Other till the End)
What they shared wasn't love, and they both knew that. No, they were drawn together by passion, curiosity, lust, and above it all, a mutual understanding and appreciation for genius. They'd meet now and then, take what they wanted, and part ways. Neither ever stayed the night, and that was always fine. A bond based on using the other person (and both knew very well they were merely being used) didn't require sentiment.
It had all started suddenly one day, when Jim had showed up at the flat after John left for work. An unexpected, heated kiss led to something of a much larger scale, and before either of them knew it, they'd gotten themselves into a complicated mess with no simple escape.
And what they had worked, somehow. Moriarty causing murders and Sherlock solving them, them meeting up under the protectiveness of the night. Never was it boring, and maybe that was the point. Maybe they'd gotten together for the sole purpose of alleviating some of the dullness that consumed them.
Take earlier that week, for example, when Jim had stopped by the flat as he often did when he knew they wouldn't be caught. The timing was planned out with the utmost precision, as that day John was scheduled to be home late. Either overtime or a date; Sherlock hadn't been paying attention.
There's something exhilarating, Sherlock though as searing hot kisses were trailed down his throat, about putting yourself in the hands of the one person who can destroy you.
It ended like it always did, with Jim back home at god-knows-where and Sherlock lounged out smoking three cigarettes from his secret stash, one after the other with every window in the flat open in attempt to clear the smell from the flat. He'd since gotten dressed and by the time the doctor got home (turns out it had been overtime: one person with stomach flu, two suffering from extreme allergies, and four from the common sold, in addition to the patients he'd seen during his normal shift) all evidence of the prior events was gone, all that remained a significantly marked up Consulting Detective sitting on the couch.
Of course, his clothes covered the majority of the bite marks and bruises. John was too tired by the time he walked through the door to notice the red marks along the higher point of his neck and his jaw line, especially with the dim lighting covering up the worst of the discoloration.
Before, it was not a strange thing for a certain ex-army doctor to see his flatmate wearing a lack of clothing, whether he be simply missing his shirt or in only his boxers. But somehow, he hadn't noticed when his flatmate began making sure he wouldn't be seen if he was missing an article of clothing, even if he was only in the slightest state of undress. His shirts hid the bites peppered along his collarbones while his trousers concealed his bruised thighs. The time he spent with Moriarty outside of cases was his business, and he preferred to keep it that way.
John may have been oblivious, but Mycroft most certainly was not, and Sherlock often found himself wondering if his older brother knew. He'd taken all forms of surveillance out of 221b, but it shouldn't have been terribly difficult to figure out. Seeing as he'd yet to be scolded about it by the Government Official, he doubted the man had made the connection yet, put 2 and 2 together to find the disapproved-of truth.
Sherlock could care less if he found out, but John on the other hand... that was something best avoided. Because no matter how much he would try, John would never understand. How agonizing it was when he was bored, how amazing it felt to finally find someone with his brain, someone like him. Even if that person happened to be a cold, ruthless killer. John would never be able to comprehend why it was worth all the risks, and Sherlock didn't expect him to.
Besides, sneaking around to meet up with your biggest enemy was nothing if not thrilling. In a way, the secretive nature of their relationship was necessary for it to continue. First, if people found out, it could never work, and would only lead to one, or both, of them getting killed or otherwise destroyed. Secondly, if everyone knew, the adrenaline of what they were doing would disappear. It wouldn't be as risky, as dangerous, and danger was one of the things that attracted them to each other in the first place.
When everything was said and done, both knew they wouldn't be the same. How long can you use someone (and be used by them in return) before it changed you? And how does a relationship like that end, if not messily? In a sick way, they were all too dependent of each other. To cure boredom, to provide relief from the repetitiveness of day to day life, to give an escape from the simple, average minds that surrounded them.
Eventually it became something akin to addiction. Of course, the withdrawal symptoms weren't as bad, but Sherlock recognized the pit in his stomach nonetheless. This man had managed to crawl under his skin, inject himself into Sherlock's veins like the 7% solution he so heavily depended on once.
Jim Moriarty and cocaine were similar on so many levels, it didn't surprise Sherlock one bit he'd gotten hooked on both. Both were dangerous, enough so to kill him, and both gave him an almost indescribable high. But with every high, a low was bound to follow, and those two were no exception to such rule. With every hit, he began to want them more, until it was no longer choice that drove his actions, but need. They stripped him of his control, and it terrified him, because he didn't mind. The thrill became something he couldn't imagine living without.
And that's the thing with an addiction. When you keep it fed, satisfied, it gives you the most fantastic feelings one can imagine. But the second you begin to try and rid yourself of what you find yourself needing so badly, everything falls apart, and you're left in a pile of sharp pieces that does nothing but slice into you.
It hurts, and so you run right back to whatever you tried to leave, you let yourself become even further consumed by it. And the longer you allow yourself to do this, the deeper you fall, until eventually you find yourself so low that getting rid of what caused it all would destroy you completely.
Sherlock wasn't at that point yet, but he had been once, years ago. It left him a broken man, and the weeks of miserable detox left him with no desire to repeat the experience. But another thing about having an addiction, is no matter how sure you are of your abilities to quit, it's never that easy. Him being drawn back in once he tried to break free was inevitable, really. He was spiraling out of control, dug himself a little deeper with every hidden meeting. But it felt so good he wasn't sure he ever wanted it to stop.
He didn't care if he was being used, because he wasn't looking for affection, for romance. He was looking for addiction, even if just subconsciously, was looking for pure lust, for instability, for a new challenge (and Jim Moriarty was the best challenge he could have asked for) to revel in. Sherlock was walking on thin ice, and it was bound to crack at some point, and he knew it. Still, he let it happen, because certainty, and calmness, and safety were boring. This, whatever it was, most certainly was not.
And so, they both knew their relationship was in no way love, but something much more destructive. That was okay. It was what they wanted.