Drug addiction was the only way to describe it.
The only reason he finds himself tangled in black sheets, lips swollen, skin bitten. He writhes, twists his neck eyes flying open with a gasp.
Pupil are dilated
Heart beat increased
Intoxication levels rising
Addiction is his problem. And Sherlock Holmes has become addicted to the dangerous drug of them all.
Skin burning, nerves electric as teeth stamp down hard on the joint of his neck and the low cello moan cannot be contained. Long fingers slide up his flanks, nails biting in all the right places as crimson smudges over his porcelain skin. Friction scorches his wrists as he tugs against the black sash which binds his hands firmly to the headboard. Sherlock is stretched out, spread thin over black silk and trashing perfectly on the mattress.
The pill is there, melting on his tongue, surging through his veins, foaming behind his teeth.
The darkness in the other's eyes is ablaze, senses heightened, each touch like an iron brand.
'Just one time' A lie undoubtedly and after smoking the first joint Sherlock is back to inhale the smoke once more.
There's a hissing in his ear, like a snake coiled round his body, each sliding movement smooth and perfect and precise. The equation is simple; the right amount of speed plus the right amount of force times the right about of courting and the product is yours.
James Moriarty has certainly courted Sherlock and had been before they had even laid eyes on each other. He slipped the coloured pill into Sherlock's hand, closing long fingers around it, promised it would be good and the promise was fulfilled. Fulfilled time and time again without fail.
There is a silent scream as pleasure clogs under his skin and Sherlock wraps his legs around slender hips, pulling against the binds, encouraging the movement inside of him. There is no need for talking, but need for small desperate noises like an addict gone cold turkey.
Sounds like the tearing of a packet.
Sounds like the hiss of a pushed down syringe.
Sounds like the startled gasp as bright liquid dances with blood.
Fingers press on Sherlock's bottom lips, sucked between bleeding lips and digging down onto white teeth. The drug is in its element, reaching the peak which will electrify Sherlock's neon brain. But not now, not when the touch of Midas his turning his skin to gold, crusting the rungs of his ribs with ruby crystals of blood and treating his body like cursed treasure.
A cold palm wraps around him, forcing Sherlock to buck and arch from the sheets. Mouth open, fingers surrendered and slipping slickened claws down to grip the jut of his hip, the movement in sharp and hard acting as the punctuated end.
The last toxic drop trickles from the poison chalice. The drug explodes. Sherlock screw his eyes up, crying out, arching upwards, scrambling for purchase. Spent over the monsters hand, stomach slick and warm, Sherlock breathes in and out, oozing into the covers as Jim follows suit.
Binds are unbound, naked china forms tied safely in raven silk, blood stained, drug spent and warm in the subsiding heat wave. Sherlock lies there, watching as Jim crawls from the bed, donning his attire which had been scattered on the floor.
Leaving, casting one last look over the shoulder, smirking. Sherlock smirks back, sprawled out and inviting the master back to the bodily desire. He knows he'll return, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week, but soon. An addict can only last so long without intoxication.