Characters: Sherlock/Moriarty (BBC Verse)
Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine!
Summary: One shot drabble, Moriarty gains the upper hand and ensures that his main piece will remember that there is no choice but to play the game.
Warnings: Abuse, blood play, angst.
Quick little piece.
One day I may learn how to actually write.
Until then, these abominations of literature shall suffice.
It was rather like removing the wings from a butterfly.
First, you had to stick the needle into the heart of the creature, pinning it in place.
Then you could either choose to look at the pretty thing… Or you could destroy it.
For Jim Moriarty, he had always had a fondness for destruction, for seeing beautiful things fall and crumble and Sherlock Holmes…Oh, Sherlock Holmes… He was the most beautiful creature he had ever had the pleasure of pinning down.
He looked exquisite right now. Limbs splayed across the floor, his coat spread out beneath him, his breathing shallow and ragged and the delicious crimson splash across his pale chest. The Hypodermic Needle sticking from his rolled up sleeve was the beautiful downfall for this spoiling butterfly.
Slowly, Jim's fingers reached for the needle, drawing it out of the detective's skin electing a quiet hiss from Sherlock's lips. "Shh, shhhh…" Jim chided quietly, stroking the backs of his fingers against the other mans' cheek gently.
It was glorious… This power over the detective below him, unable to even form a single word against Moriarty… Just lying there in this drugged state, his most favoured of toys. Fingers found their way along Sherlocks' prominent cheek bones, following the curve down toward the parted lips. His thumb ran across the bottom lip softly, revelling in Sherlock's mouth opening slightly automatically against the touch.
He had made a promise to the detective, and criminal he may be but Jim Moriarty kept to his promises. He would burn the very heart out of Sherlock, this was just the beginning. Yes…He had many plans in store for the detective, many plans leading up to his fall, the final resting place for his butterfly.
Down Sherlocks' neck the fingers travelled now, nails scratching at the Adams' apple protruding up under the skin as he went. They danced along his collar bone now, feeling every detail about his structure… dipping into the hollow between his shoulder and neck just to feel it, to take in everything that made up Sherlock Holmes.
Then, finally, he shifted down to the scarlet staining his skin and ruined shirt. It was still wet of course, the slices from Moriarty's knife only being made a few minutes before.
It was so deliciously warm still, so strangely unexpected from the cold man, perhaps his brothers ran cold then…Little Ice Man… No, he wouldn't think of the other Holmes, the less important one… Not when he had this specimen laid out before him.
He followed the cuts down Sherlock's chest, pulled and stretching at the ruined skin, causing weak cries of protest and pain to pass the detectives' lips. Jim ignored the cries, reaching up to cover the mouth with his hand, his eyes transfixed on the blood covering the pale torso.
"You suit this, Darling…" He murmured, his voice quiet and lilting as he spoke, fingers now reaching for the knife once more to drag it across the taut skin in from of him. "Being quiet…Being ruined…" The tip of the knife met with Sherlocks' chest again, etching markings into him as Jim's dark eyes followed the silver tip curiously, fascinated by the blood bubbling up and the skin parting… Flicking his gaze up to the drugged detectives' face, Moriarty couldn't help the slight smirk that crossed his lips.
Sherlock's head was lolled to the side, his eyes fluttering to stay open as he fought against the drug in his system, mouth moving weakly in protest to Jim's attentions.
It was like tearing the wings slowly from his butterfly…watching the expressions and small movements. Pinned in place and helpless to the ministrations… Ah it was perfect for Jim. A buzz almost. Sherlock had once called him a spider and oh… The smirk on his face split wider at the thought, bringing his bloodied fingers to his lips and licking the coppery blood from them… Oh how right Sherlock was to call him that.
And how entwined in his web Sherlock had found himself.
Beautiful, sociopathic, insane, genius INTERESTING Sherlock Holmes.
He would remember just how involved he'd gotten himself now… He had no choice in the matter…
There was a sudden clamour of noise far off in the distance, the smile fell from Jim's lips as his dark eyes flicked towards the source. 2 minutes… He calculated…
He leant forward again, leaning in close to Sherlocks' face and whispering into his ear. "Don't forget…Love…" Fingers dug themselves into the new cuts as he drew back, almost nose to nose with the detective. "You're part of this game…and you're mine." He crushed his lips against Sherlocks' own. It wasn't a sign of longing a sign of need as many of the plebian population might have assumed. No...this was about power and control...To get one over on the great detective...And how sweet it was to get one over on him in such a way, with the taste of his own blood on the Criminal's lips... Pulling away Jim sauntered out of the warehouse through the nearby door.
"I'll be seeing you again soon, Sherlock! Make Daddy proud whilst I'm gone, ok?" He called back, the smirk on his face appearing once more as he slipped into the waiting car, winking towards the stoic Sebastian in the driver's seat as they pulled away. 'One day Sherlock…I'll trim your wings and you will fall for me…'
...
Sherlock attempted to move again, tried to roll onto his side and get up, but the most he could achieve was a slight thrash of his arm and then he was still again. He could hear the voices getting closer, the desperate cries of his name sounding familiar somehow…
There was a face in his vision now, cropped blonde hair and dark eyes… A worried face almost frantic as it said something to him. 'John…' A weak smile fluttered to his lips as he finally succumbed to unconsciousness.
...
"Shit, Lestrade! He's in here!" John Watson had rushed towards the bleeding form on the floor, collapsing beside Sherlock and kicking into his Medical autopilot at the sight before him. Sherlocks' scarf was laying nearby, which he had grabbed and was pressing against the wounds to stem the bleeding. They were superficial from what he could see, but the blood…There was so much blood. "LESTRADE." He shouted again inbetween muttering comforting words to his friend. He heard the footsteps close in behind him, a gasp and Lestrade barking orders to get an Ambulance brought to the scene immediately.
The DI was next to him in an instant, running his hand through his hair in disbelief at the sight.
"Is he…?" He started, only to be cut off by John glaring up towards him.
"He's fine…He'll be better when the bloody ambulance gets here." John yelled, he couldn't help it, if the sight it's self wasn't bad enough; the scarf had managed to clear the blood enough for him to spot the carving on his chest.
'IOU. J MORIARTY.'
It had been enough to make his blood run cold.
"Sir?" Donovan's voice shouted through the warehouse at them, a wave of police at her heel, ready to begin their investigations. "Ambulance is here, sir, they're coming through now."
John almost had to be restrained as Lestrade pulled him away from Sherlock to allow the paramedics to collect him. His desire to protect his friend overwhelming in this moment. As the detective was wheeled from the room, John quickly stooped to grab the all too familiar coat from the floor.
He paused just for a fraction of a second when he saw it. The knife, sticking up from the floor through the bottom of the coat. Like how a collector would pin an insects wings down… John mused, a shiver passing through him as he fled the room after Sherlock.
Somewhere, Jim Moriarty was laughing to himself… Laughing at the virgin and his pet…Oh how he loved the game and oh how well his pieces played along…