After he was finished with Sherlock, leaving on last sickly sweet kiss on his forehead, Moriarty left his prey alone and still blindfolded. Sherlock lay there, trembling, for an interminable length of time. His realization that the seeping sensation between his legs was a product of blood as well as semen did not improve his state of mind.
Eventually someone entered the room, a tall man with heavy tread. Moran. After placing something weighty on the nightstand he removed both the gag and blindfold and swept the sweaty strands of hair away from Sherlock's face. His tone was pleasant and casual. "Do forgive Jim for leaving you; he has business to attend to, and there are certain measures the two of us have to follow to make sure no one knows you're here."
After a pause while Sherlock tried to figure out whether an answer was expected of him, he whispered, "I see."
"I have some water for you in a moment. Even a bit of dinner from that Italian place you like. You should consider yourself lucky that Jim considers you too precious a toy to break."
"You're genuinely in love with him," Sherlock said, taking refuge in a scrap of his normal behavior, as much as he could manage given the circumstances.
Moran smiled and tousled Sherlock's hair, but did not reply. He had a first-aid kit from which he removed various items to clean Sherlock up. It was humiliating and frequently smarted, but there was a modicum of comfort in knowing that if John did manage to mount a rescue he would at least be in one piece.
Once Moran had completed the task to his satisfaction, he produced another hypodermic needle. "Must you?" Sherlock asked, and then was almost immediately disgusted at himself for how plaintive he sounded.
"You're a good fighter, Sherlock, and you won't have had time to accept things yet. Not that I couldn't overpower you - but you might get hurt in the process. It's all right. You'll still be conscious, just weak." Moran tapped the needle to eliminate bubbles and sank it into Sherlock's neck.
He unbound Sherlock's ankles and helped him sit up, though his wrists were still cuffed. "Have some water."
Sherlock had been discombobulated enough to fail to notice that it was two weighty objects on the nightstand, not one, and that the other was a full flask. "I must warn you that my drinking anything will create certain issues if I'm to remain confined to this bed."
"There's a loo and bath just off to the side. Once the drug takes effect I can let you do things yourself. With supervision, naturally, but I have been instructed to give you clothes after you wash, even if Jim can't join us for dinner." Moran shrugged. "He works late so often these days. At least you're not the dullest company I've had to supervise on occasion."
"Lovely."
After giving Sherlock a drink Moran unlocked the cuffs. "Should be in effect by now. Up you get."
He tried to stand and walk without assistance, but he was too shuddery and enervated to do so. He was forced to almost cling to Moran to make it the ten steps to the bathroom, and even worse to complete all his necessary body functions once he'd reached it.
He'd never been good at urinating while being watched, a fact that had turned the drug tests of his younger days into drawn-out affairs. Moran reassured him, "I don't fancy you. You're a bit too much like a gangly alien for my taste. And I prefer them willing, otherwise it just gets too complicated."
Moran lowered Sherlock onto the floor for the few moments it took him to turn on the bathwater. The white ceramic tiles were cool against Sherlock's bare skin. As he slumped there, trying not to think too hard, he noticed that the towels and rug were dark maroon - to not show blood - there was no mirror - no glass as improvised weapon, either for defense or suicide - and there was no curtain or door - no privacy, will always be bound, drugged, watched over, or some combination.
By the time Moran thought the water deep enough, Sherlock could no longer hold up his head properly and he was sliding into a heap. "You poor thing. Perhaps I gave too large a dose. Good thing I'm here to make sure you don't drown. Jim would dismember me personally if something like that happened." The sniper-and-personal-assistant picked Sherlock up like an ungainly bundle and placed him in the bathtub.
The water, he had to admit, felt lovely. And at least the soap was light enough for him to use even in this pathetic state. He would absolutely loathe having to ask for assistance. As it was he could only lightly lather himself, not scrub himself raw the way he wished.
"If Jim were here, he would be making a joke about not dropping the soap," Moran mused, leaning against the wall and gazing down upon his charge. "Then again, if Jim were here, I don't think he'd wait for an excuse."