Stepping out of the car Sherlock took a deep breath. Looking at the sky he knew it would rain today. The sky was just as gloomy as his mind. He walked towards the high white building covered with glass. He stood tall in front of it for a few moments, a sarcastic smile crept on his face. He kept the smile on as he walked in and walked towards the elevator door. Everything in this building even today resembles that day. Everybody talking in a hushed voice, no body directly looking but alert, everybody keeping a safe distance. Everybody afraid.

Stepping out of the elevator standing in front of his office door the familiar repulsion gripped him again. Why was he in this office? What did he actually do here? Oh he was a solicitor right? People came to him when they needed legal advice. Or did they? People only came here if allowed by Jim. People who really needed a lawyer, a person to fight for their rights, to save them from injustice, to redress a crime never came to him. They were filtered out by Jim before Sherlock could even know about them. Because most of the time the rights were violated by him, the injustice was caused by him and the crime was done by him only. Then again who would consult the live in partner of a criminal mastermind who walked free in the land posing as a business man and nobody could lay a finger on him? A solicitor who shared his bed with the king of unorganized crime in London. Not organized, never organized. Organization led to pattern, pattern to people, people to evidences and evidences to further more trouble. Jim didn't plan or organize anything. He had very few fixed people for his work. He was random, he picked people randomly, left no clue, no link. Most of the time he wouldn't leave anyone alive to tell the tale. He could and would kill, steal, manipulate, threaten do anything randomly yet in the end getting what he was reaching for. No matter how many people knew what he really was nobody could point a finger at him. Some for the lack of courage and others for the lack of adequate evidence. Jim would never get caught unless he wanted to, which would never happen. Thus the crime continued. Sherlock never ever had a case even remotely related to Jim. If he didn't know everything so painfully well he could say that Jim Moriarty was the cleanest man possible. But he did know. He did know the painful truths about his life. Thus the killings, the drugs, the extortions, blackmailing, trafficking, kidnappings all went on under his nose, he seemingly unaware but painfully aware and helpless. Jim tried very hard, oh yes he tried very hard to keep Sherlock in the dark, away from that side of his but there were days when he just couldn't and revealed his real self to him. Sherlock closed his eyes shut at some vivid memories of those days. It made his stomach turn. By the time he was standing next to his chamber's window, looking down at a busy street below. Why was he here? Why did he even bother to come here every day? He could just sit at home and be what he really is. What everybody thinks he really is, Moriarty's bed mate. Rage surged through Sherlock and he threw the cup away which crashed and scattered making a noise next to his desk. People outside his chamber became very still. They looked at each other for a few moments before resuming their work nonchalantly. They were used to these too. The house keeping came and cleared the mess silently. What about the mess Sherlock's life was now? Who was there to clear it? Oh it cannot be cleared as long as both of them were alive. One of them had to die and Sherlock chose to be the one. Many times. It didn't work. Of course it didn't. Jim would never let him die. He was always under Jim's surveillance. He couldn't move a muscle without Jim knowing about it. Yet, yet he was so free, nobody bothered him, no one came close enough to cause him any discomfort or comfort. He was respected and feared everywhere he went. His movements were free, unhindered. He had what he wanted. He was living in his own sanctuary, free but always under surveillance. Freedom and confinement side by side. He couldn't choose. He had to take them both. He was as free as a fish in a bowl, it was just that his bowl was bigger. He could be anywhere in the world and yet be in that bowl called Jim Moriarty.

"Sir." A small voice spoke from behind him. James, his agent.

"Yes." He said without looking.

"Your client is here."

"Send him in."

Another dull, futile day of his dull, futile life passed with nonsensical people all around him. From the people who worked for him to the people who hired his services. Did he study for this? This meaningless, challenge less life? He had tried not working for several days. He couldn't bear it. It was the only refuge from the darkness he was entitled to. However inadequate. Without this he would rot, just plain simple rot. He felt anger surge within him again. He was rotting anyway. He was rotting with the incurable disease called Moriarty. And now he was going back to him. Going back to that house, to that man who grew on him like a parasite and sucked out every opportunity every chance he had for a normal or better life, the predator who marked him for life. The creature who made him his. Sherlock didn't believe in fate, chance, destiny. But he couldn't describe this utter misfortune in any other way. It was fate that they met, it was fate that they became friends, it was fate that he became his, and it was fate that his life was what it was. Or, it was all because of his lack of judgement, control, unwise decisions. Sherlock could either blame himself or something that he didn't believe in. He chose to blame neither on these days. Because he was sure that all of this was Jim's fault. And Jim would pay. Sherlock tried to control his anger, no he won't do that again. This would pass. He was tormented by his own wishes, torn between his own choices and tortured by the thoughts of what was coming. Getting inside the limo Sherlock tried to control his nerves with immense effort. He could manage an extremely calm demeanour even when there was a storm inside. He successfully managed to do that throughout the day, and even now when he knew deep down inside that he was losing a battle against himself he looked serene outside.

As he entered the house a violent terror gripped him. His head throbbing, heart pounding, breathing erratic, he walked stealthily as if he was a thief in the house. He didn't go up to the room. He didn't change. He sat in the richly furnished living room for as long as he could. He had tea, had supper, watched news, read papers. As the time neared his fear grew beyond limits. It could not be postponed anymore. He had to go through it again. He cursed himself for losing control over himself again. He skipped dinner and did the inevitable. He entered into the dimly lit bedroom. Everything was just the same except for the bed sheets. They were blood red now and right there in the middle of the red bed lay a black flogger with round silver metallic tips.

Waiting for him.

Sherlock tugged his tie loose.