"Hey, lover," a voice says, very close to Sherlock's face. He thinks it's a nightmare at first, has to be; all data supports the theory, but when he bolts upright, or rather, tries to, something stops him about halfway up and presses him back down brutally. Working this new thing into the equation, he finds himself wondering if Jim Moriarty is actually straddling his waist.
"No, don't bother getting up, I'm not staying long," the voice goes on. "I just came by to bring you a little gift… Do you know what this is, Sherlock?"
By now, his eyes have adjusted to the darkness, just a little. Enough for him to make out the face of his arch-nemesis seemingly suspended above him in the darkness and the gleaming of a needle being twirled between Jim's white fingers. He does believe he knows what that is and it makes the image all the more haunting. Sherlock, involuntarily, shivers. Jim gets the message and the cocaine disappears from his line of view and settles onto his chest. The palm pressing it into his skin is warm and dry. Sherlock's pulse picks up a little, hopeful, probably, at the presence of such a substance in his bed.
"There you go. I'm not going to inject it, at least not until you've asked; that would be terribly rude of me. Manners, that's what truly separates us from the animals… Nono. But I will be watching you, my dear. If you want me to pay you another little visit, just let me know. Oh, don't look so horrified; think of me as the tooth fairy. Except I'm actually useful… Solving people's problems. I can solve your problems too, Sherlock. All you need to do is tell me about them."
There is a silence during which Jim very pointedly does not move. His entire weight is still behind his hands on Sherlock's chest, pressing him deep down into the mattress. Sherlock's mind should be rushing through Jim's words and gestures and trying to deduce something, anything, anything at all, but he knows that Jim can play him any way he wants to so Sherlock's mind skips all of it, devastatingly skips John, even, and skids right onto feeling instead, as doing so seems safer.
On the other hand, Sherlock doubts that he's had a single safe feeling in his life.
"Dear Jim," Sherlock recites, almost reverently, "please will you fix it for me so that my pain goes away?"
Jim's smirk is cool but his eyes are burning as he lifts the injection needle again and uses his mouth to remove the protective cap with a soft click.
"Just so."
The blade is sharp and the song is dull. His mind is too lazy to try to deduce what that means. On the other hand, he was never the one who pretended to deal in deductions – Jim was always the one that just knew.
Even with Sherlock, he always knew. So predictable in his extreme desire for distraction; so very pedestrian in his escapist nature. Sherlock, who lives in his head full of wishful thinking to a point he doesn't even notice what the outside world is really all about. Just thinking about it makes Jim feel alone in the universe, and sick and tired of it, anyway. He had thought that seducing Sherlock might bring him more than five minutes of pleasure and fifteen of accomplishment, but of course it didn't. Not when the other insisted on being so blatantly obvious all the time. There is nothing as ambiguous as an average thing, and Sherlock is unique to the point of the ridiculous. All Jim has to do is leave a trail of breadcrumbs, and Sherlock will follow it like the blind hen he is. Really – easy. Much, much too easy.
Jim thinks about killing him, just then, but it does feel rather…. Outmoded. Everyone is a killer these days. Jim remembers back in the day, when he was the only one who went to such extremes. Really, it was he who started the trend. People never give him enough credit. Then, he supposes, that is rather the point. Briefly, he considers whether it would be better to get credit for his work, whether he'd feel more satisfied if validated by others. It doesn't take him long to decide no, no. No. He'll take being dead over being ordinary any day, not to mention over being bored. He adds another inch to the cut, just a shallow one, as his mind schemes on unbidden. Perhaps… Perhaps killing Sherlock wouldn't be a half-bad way to waste his time, after all. God knows he could make it exciting, and no one will ever have to know it was him, anyway.