Chapter Seven

Next time, Lestrade thought when he opened his eyes through his pounding headache, when a psychopathic moron says he's bored, don't follow him to make sure he doesn't do something stupid. Do the smart thing. Run for the hills screaming bloody murder.

He groaned and pulled himself upright, causing a bag of ice wrapped in a handkerchief to fall from his head into his lap. He stared at it dumbly for a moment. Then he realized the whole front of his suit was splotched with dark, drying blood.

There's really nothing so horrifying as waking up without any memory of the last few hours, or so, and realizing you're covered in blood. He jumped up with a startled yell and cast his gaze wildly around at his surroundings hoping, desperately hoping for something to tell him where he was.

He was in a dusty old room vaguely resembling the 221c flat at Baker Street. There was one creaky old bed in the room covered with a dull brown quilt and a nightstand by it caked in grime. On the floor, Lestrade could see the dust upset only by flurried footsteps of someone moving around, pacing perhaps?

Lestrade picked up the ice pack off the bed. The cubes were barely melted and only a few drops gathered at the bottom of the bag. Changed recently? He threw it back onto the bed, disinterested.

He moved toward the door, listening to the wooden boards creak protestingly under his weight.

The door opened out into a hall equally as dusty as inside the room and Lestrade hurried through it, an illogical part of his brain hoping the place wasn't haunted.

But, in a way, it was.

Lestrade found him in the sitting room. Moriarty was seated comfortably on a sofa that looked like it might've been red once apon a time, it was a faded pinkish-brown now, though. His eyes were fixed ahead of him and his mouth moved in silent murmurs. His lanky legs crossed at the knees and the foot suspended in the air twitched occassionally, tapping in time to music only the madman heard.

He was facing a window that was dyed brown and misty with dirt, framing the sunset outside, only the sharp profile of his face could be seen. The sunset looked brown and dirty like the glass he was staring through and it resembled a photograph taken in monochrome but Moriarty merely stared at it, not really seeing it. It was like he was caught up in some strain of profound thought.

Lestrade leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms, not wishing to disrupt the peaceful moment, waiting for Moriarty to notice his presence and make the first move.

It was about ten minutes later when Moriarty finally stirred from his position. He blinked slowly, blearily, sighing contentedly like he had just woke from a deep slumber. He turned his head to look at Lestrade. "'Whose blood is it?' you were wondering." Moriarty murmured, observing Lestrade's soiled suit.

Lestrade nodded silently. "Do you remember what happened?" Moriarty asked him. Lestrade shook his head, no. Moriarty turned his head to stare ahead again, the sunlight through the dirty window cast an amber dye across his cheekbones and spilled into his dark eyes.

Lestrade suddenly realized he didn't know what colour Moriarty's eyes were. "We were assaulted... by an enemy of mine." Moriarty told him. "One amongst many enemies you are bound to make when you're a criminal." And there was that fairy-searching look again. "I. Killed. Him." he said in a sing-song tone and smiled widely. "Don't worry, the police must've found him by now."

A cold feeling dropped into Lestrade's stomache and the skin brushing against the bloodied suit itched. He clenched his jaw and said nothing, not trusting himself to speak. Moriarty looked up at him from his seat, gaze dead and haunted. "You know, it is the natural law of the world, kill or be killed, let the best man win. The law of survival. Man-made laws cannot ever control that one animal instinct that is so precious to humankind." Moriarty said softly, slowly, his voice bleeding into Lestrade's ears like Devil's honey, swaying his anger and resolution to see the madman behind bars. "Gregory-... Greg," he said urgently, calling Lestrade by his given name for the first and last time in their lives. "don't ever forget that. It's very important. I might kill Sherlock one day, and maybe-... I don't know. Maybe Sherlock might kill me too. But don't hate me for it."

Lestrade gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. With a voice like that, Moriarty could well tell him that Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes were created by a top-secret, government-funded team of bio-scientists as military intelligence weapons and Lestrade would willingly believe. He'd have to be careful.

"That's all nice and well, Mister Moriarty." he responded at length with a forced impassiveness. "Is there a working shower in here?"

Moriarty motioned for him to turn the lights on, it was getting dark, after all. Lestrade shifted his weight to reach the lightswitch. He flicked it on and the dusty overhead light blinked on, casting a pasty white light onto Moriarty's head.

"We have electricity, probably have water, then too." Moriarty smiled at him.

Lestrade stared at him blankly. "Should I turn the light back off for you, then?" he joked, deadpanned.

"Please." Moriarty turned back to the window, now black with the darkening of the day.

Lestrade blinked. "Oookay." He flicked the switch back off, plunging the room into darkness.

"There was a towel in the dresser down the hall." Moriarty's voice floated out of the dark.

Lestrade turned and ambled down the hall and found the towel Moriarty mentioned, briefly wondering why there was a dresser at the end of the hall in the first place. He entered the bathroom and turned the light on, startling at the image of himself reflected in the cracked sink mirror.

He looked like a zombie with his blood-soaked suit and angry red gash on his forehead where he assumed Moriarty's enemy hit him hard enough to knock him out. He also noted the dark rings around his eyes and a smudge of dirt on his cheek.

He threw his towel onto the closed toilet seat and turned the shower on, waiting for a while for the water to wash rust out of its pipes. After a moment of contemplation, he decided that the water heating systems would be shot to pieces, taking the condition of the rest of the derelict flat into consideration.

He toed off his shoes and socks before placing his phone and wallet onto the toilet seat and stumbled into the tub under the flow of water, suit and all. He just stood under the freezing shower for a few minutes before half-heartedly scrubbing at the grime on his face and hands. It took him a while to get the dried blood off his hands entirely but he continued to scrub at them diligently until his skin was numb and raw. But they were clean.

With cold, shaky hands, he unbuttoned his jacket, letting it fall to the porcelain floor of the tub with a wet flop. He tried to do the same with his shirt but his numb fingers couldn't seem to be able to pinch the little buttons between them and he quickly gave up. He sighed and pressed his forehead to the cold tiles of the wall and squeezed his eyes shut.

He heard a rustle of cloth brushing against similar fabric and opened his eyes. Moriarty had abandoned his darkened sitting room and now stood in the doorway, not exactly leaning into it, but curling his hand around the door jamb, an unreadable expression on his face.

Lestrade stared at him tiredly for a moment before extending his hand, closing the shower curtain and hiding himself from sight. "If you don't mind, Mister Moriarty!" he exclaimed with a subdued exasperation. If he had a little more energy, he probably would've tried to throw something at him.

He returned his attention to the mission of getting his buttons off but, like a few seconds earlier, his hands simply would not cooperate. They would tremble and shake and fumble over each other but they would not undo the damned buttons.

The curtain was drawn aside with a sound of metal scraping rust and Moriarty stood there sighing at him reprimandingly. "Come here." he commanded, rolling his eyes. "Tired, or no. Ruined, or no, that is not how you treat a suit." he tutted.

Moriarty took Lestrade by the shoulders and turned him to face him, startling a little at how easily Lestrade complied. He took the buttons of Lestrade's shirt and deftly slipped them free. Lestrade scowled at how easy he made the simple action look.

He stiffened when Moriarty's warm fingertips brushed against his ice-cold bare skin as the criminal mastermind gingerly peeled the bloody shirt off his chest with a grimace. "Well, that's ruined." Moriarty sighed, holding the grimy, sodden shirt up delicately between the tips of his thumb and forefinger before dropping it.

"Ah, thanks for the help. I think I can manage now." Lestrade stammered, blushing, clutching the plastic-y fabric of the shower curtain to close it again.

Moriarty's hand shot out, grabbing Lestrade's hand as well as the shower curtain, holding them both in place. "No, I don't think you can." he said simply.

"Well, you're wrong if you think I'm letting you anywhere near my pants." Lestrade scoffed.

All it took was another brush of Moriarty's fingertips over his chest, absently rubbing a smudge of blood off his collarbone for Moriarty to see Lestrade's pupils dilate and felt the man shiver under his fingers. Seduction came easily to Moriarty, he just needed to adjust the tone of his voice and act kind to people and they were drawn to him like moths to a candle. And like honey, he trapped them to himself. Like Sebastian, almost like that stupid puppy dog girl. Molly Hooper may love Sherlock Holmes unconditionally but Gregory Lestrade certainly didn't. His loyalties could be changed.

"Your pants don't have to be anywhere near." Moriarty responded softly, leaning in so Lestrade could hear his whisper.

Lestrade tore his hand out of Moriarty's grasp and stumbled away from his touch, backing himself into the wall, feeling the trails Moriarty made on his skin like white-hot fire. It had been so long since he slept with his wife, Christmas and divorce felt like an eternity ago, and his work never let him meet any decent people. He almost couldn't remember what it felt like to wake up in bed, feeling the warmth of another body next to his.

His instincts, his carnal desires screamed at him, begging, needing the warmth of Moriarty's fingertips, tempting him to just reach out and touch, to taste, ...to feel, craving for human contact. Lestrade forced himself to look away and swallowed.

This was Jim Moriarty! His brain tried to tell him. Remember him? The psychopath who kidnaps people and straps them into semtex vests? Who cold-bloodedly shoots two scrappers because their fight was taking too bloody long? Who threw you to the wolves and nearly killed you? He killed a man only hours ago! He's the man who promised to destroy Sherlock and at the rate you're going, you're willingly going to help him. Good God, Jim Moriarty was right!

"Stop thinking, you'll hurt your brain." Moriarty chuckled warmly, reaching out and trailing his hand up Lestrade's arm slowly.

"My skull's just been cracked open by your enemy, wouldn't hurt to cause a little more damage, would it?" Lestrade responded weakly, resisting the urge to lean into Moriarty's warm touch. God! Why was the water so cold?

As if hearing his thoughts, Moriarty removed his arm from Lestrade's arm and twisted the tap, halting the flow of water. "You'll catch a cold if you stay here any longer." Moriarty noted distractedly, stroking Lestrade's cold cheek.

Lestrade suddenly shied away from the physical contact with an expression that told Moriarty he was torn between reciprocating the attention and punching him for it.

Before he could make up his mind, Moriarty leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss against his cool, shivering lips. When he pulled back, Lestrade's eyes were wide and shocked, his mouth falling open at his surprise first taste of corruption. Moriarty enveloped one of Lestrade's cold hands in his warm one and pressed it to his cheek. "See? Warm." he smiled innocently.

Lestrade seemed to react to that and he raised his other hand, cupping Moriarty's other cheek and pulled him into another kiss that was both tentative and unsure. But Lestrade had instigated it, that counted for much.

Moriarty snaked an arm around the back of Lestrade's bare torso and pulled him flush against his clothed one, shoulder to waist, satisfied when Lestrade wrapped an arm around his neck and deepened the kiss, growing more confident.

Lestrade moaned against's Moriarty's mouth when the man ran his hands up his back to clutch his shoulders, their tongues battled, tasting, intoxicating, speaking words that would never make its way out of the grimy four walls surrounding. Moriarty's tongue deftly flicked out and sparked fire on the nerves running along Lestrade's neck up to the lobe of his ear which Moriarty proceeded to scrape at with his teeth.

And, God, Lestrade couldn't help but think. He sure knows how to use his tongue.

"Mmm, bed?" Lestrade gasped when they surfaced for air.

"Pants first, Detective Inspector." Moriarty smirked at him, flicking his tongue out and licking at a patch of skin behind the DI's ear, sending a shiver through Lestrade's body. "They're wet and yucky! Plus, you won't let me near them, remember?" he reminded, inclining his head.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, muttering something along the lines of 'Spoiled git!' but he voiced no objection when Moriarty took hold of his belt buckle and Moriarty knew he had won.

DI Lestrade was his.


"Lestrade!" Sherlock bellowed, throwing the door of the DI's office open despite Donovan's angry shouts. "I can't belive I'm coming to you for help! I need a case! John's hidden my cigarettes! Can you believe the nerve-...!" Sherlock turned around inside the office, his coattails swishing when he realized he was alone in the office.

He poked his head out of the door. "Where's Lestrade?" he demanded of Donovan.

"I tried to tell you he wasn't in!" Donovan retorted accusingly, crossing her arms.

"Well, where is he?" Sherlock asked impatiently, near jumping around in his agitation. "This is an emergency!"

"He sent in a text saying he wouldn't be in for the day." Donovan shrugged his shoulders.

"Is he dead?" Sherlock asked, Donovan shook her head. "Dying?" Again, Donovan shook her head. "... Severely ill? Lestrade never leaves off work for anything less than a trip to the A&E!" Sherlock persisted.

"Maybe he went and got himself a life?" Donovan suggested exasperatedly.

Sherlock's eyebrow twitched. "Lestrade? Get a life? Absurd!" He sniffed contemptuously and gallivanted off.

Donovan watched him leave, rolling her eyes. "Freak."