A/N: Y'all stay with me. It'll get dark….
"And the best part? After a while, you'll hate yourself. You will hate yourself, Sherlock…..because you'll want this, too."
Jim slid a hand up to the neck of the dark haired detective, humming softly as he did, observing the visible pulsation of life beneath his fingertips. His hand ran through the base of the soft curls and back down again along to the shoulder, with Sherlock attempting to turn away from the contact. Ever mercurial and shifting, Moriarty's temperament had flowed into its next incarnation. One could almost forget the deep and dark hatred that had just been vomited forth but moments ago. These sudden changes often kept his enemies off-balance. And friends, too, if any could ever be so named. He slipped one hand into Sherlock's, squeezing, as if in support of something frightening to come. The other gently retraced the upward stroke of blood through his prisoner's carotid…oh, so, gently. As if Sherlock were made of spun glass. It came to a stop as his humming changed tunes, transitioning into a nighttime lullaby, sweet and lilting in its peaceful chorus. And the consulting criminal began to apply a precise, direct pressure to the arteries on either side of Sherlock's trachea. The detective stared the other man down as he did so, determined not to give in to his intimidation games. Jim wouldn't kill him. Not yet anyway. So that meant the man choking him would merely be trying to make good on his promise of…whatever it was, exactly, that he thought he was going to accomplish here. He tried not to struggle, remaining rigid, even as the heavy weight of darkness began to settle around his shoulders. His vision dimmed, leaving only the vague impressionistic outline of his captor against a field of blackness as he slid into unconsciousness on wings of smoke and mirrors.
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The music was so soft as to almost be imagined. It swirled among the prisoner's awareness like water before a dying man. Teasing. Tantalizing. His thoughts were too cloudy as yet to put a name to the melody, but he thought he recognized it. Maybe. After blacking out, his mind was slowly returning to its former focus. Cognizance replaced the temporary escape of his dreams. His surroundings remained constant, so he hadn't been moved while out. Expensive, and spacious, the study was lined with books, ledgers, and all other manner of the written word. A large mahogany desk with a high backed leather chair behind it was positioned about ten feet away, whereon his nemesis perched. A window, most likely directly behind him by about another fifteen feet or so, let in the last of the day's sunlight, settling across the walls around him in warm tones. That light alone informed him that he had only been out for maybe a half hour. And the air hung stale, cool, and dry, despite the occasional breath of wind let in by the aperture of the window. No sounds drifted up through that open space either, he noticed. Everything seemed calm, very much too calm. And here he sat, the prisoner, wrists taped securely to the arms of his own leather-clad, mahogany chair. And another band rested about his waist, connecting him to its back. He sat there. Sherlock Holmes. Trapped.
He looked closely at the desk and its owner, who sat facing him nonchalantly across it. Something flickered across his mind, and his brow drew down. Fear? He considered it. Perhaps. Hadn't he been listening to his captor drone on about something before he was slowly choked into unconsciousness? A promise owed? Plans…for him… Something…about… His head snapped up, making eye contact with Jim, his awareness returning fully with the memory of what the man before him had assured. Not just a physical assault, but mental as well. And a cold shiver worked its way up his spine when he saw the way the consulting criminal had fixed his eyes upon him. There was something in the other man's hands, and he toyed with it in a most distracting manner. A syringe, partway full, came forth into his view for a second. Jim's fingers slid lovingly over the body of it, and another hypodermic rested beside his elbow. Now that he knew he had his party's attention, Jim moved, suddenly grasping the syringes in one hand as he flowed upward and stepped toward the detective, dragging another smaller chair with him.
Not a word was said between them as Jim sat down beside him and grabbed the sleeve cuff on Sherlock's left arm roughly, tearing the fabric up to the crook of his elbow. The criminal's gaze wandered down with great interest at the tiny, almost invisible, scars that dotted this area. Footprints of a past not long forgotten. He gripped the distal end of Sherlock's bicep, creating a tourniquet with his hand alone, and the veins responded within seconds. The two syringes were brought over with the other hand, laying one to rest across his lap as the other came down against the vulnerable skin overlaying the surfacing blood vessels. Jim bit his bottom lip as the first slid home, and he released his pressure hold above the insertion site as he began to slowly inject the one containing white fluid.
"Very low dose of propofol. Quick acting, but very short lasting. In larger doses it causes a hypnotic state and amnesia. This dose will simply make you more…pliant." He removed the syringe without injecting all of the white liquid. "Saved a bit for an actual injection so it'll be absorbed slower; last a while longer." Sherlock could feel his head becoming foggy already as the remainder of the syringe was then jabbed through his shirt and into his deltoid. He could barely feel the burn. That probably wasn't a good thing, he thought passingly as the other man pulled the second syringe forward, repeating the same tourniquet action. Blood from the previous injection site welled up and dripped to the floor as Jim selected another vein and slid the point through. "Insulin, calculated on your body weight and the last meal I saw you eat. It'll keep you weak, and your mind slow. I thought it appropriately poetic, considering your last case led me to think of it."
The syringes were quickly discarded once finished, Jim letting the injection sites clot off on their own, which created a small puddle of blood beneath the side of Sherlock's chair. The detective fought to keep his awareness about him, but he could feel the encroaching sluggishness of his mind. And he realized with horror that he was unable to focus and locate his mind palace, where he had planned to retreat during any planned physical assaults. He struggled feebly, trying to mouth off at his offender. Jim just smiled back, stroking Sherlock's hair away from his brow and leaning down to his ear, "How does it feel?" He leaned back to gauge the reaction to his question. The wild haired detective just stared, numb, back at him. A light perspiration had begun to gather on his brow. So Jim repeated himself.
"How does it feel? To be ordinary? To be boring?" Sherlock tried to twist his arms, but they were so heavy, so useless. Jim noticed and smirked, bringing out his knife once more. A slow shot of fear tore across the detective's body at the flash of cold metal. But Jim merely sliced through the tape securing Sherlock's wrists, leaving him tethered by his waist only. His arms fell from their perches and dangled limply. Even holding his head up was becoming an effort. And he watched as Jim replaced the knife in his pocket and crawled across from his own chair to straddle his lap. Sherlock opened his mouth once again but could get nothing useful to emerge, so it just hung there, partway open, his glassy eyes looking up into Moriarty's deep brown ones.
Jim ran his hands over Sherlock's arms and shoulders, humming appreciatively to himself before finally settling one hand on a shoulder and the other at the detective's cheek, dragging a nail down it. "Nothing to say? No witticisms?" He gripped Sherlock's chin in his hand. "How about this?" He squeezed harder. "You need this, Sherlock. You've known it for a long time. Without me, you're nothing." Then he tipped the detective's head up a bit more for inspection, as if checking the drug's effects. He was quiet for a moment before breathing into the silence, "You're nothing. But together…we could be…" He closed his eyes, finishing, "everything." He stroked his hand lovingly along the long, pale throat, hovering over the pulsing artery for but a second before moving on, teasing about his previous strangling.
"Aren't you curious? Don't you want to see the puzzles of the world that I have available at my fingertips?" He brought his head down to where his lips just brushed the other man's neck and shoulder. Sherlock's head tilted somewhat to the other side of its own accord, granting more access to the site without meaning to. Hot breath flowed over his skin, "Your potential," a light lick to the skin of neck, "is endless," and another, "with me by your side." A soft kiss to the same area followed, gently deceiving in its delivery. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed as he fought to push out Jim's words and ignore his actions, the combination of the hypnotic and insulin making the ordeal worse by threefold.
"No judgments for your actions here with me," Jim continued, working his way down the line of the shoulder and then back to the clavicle. "You could do," a slow lick, "whatever," a longer swirl of tongue over the bone, "you," a kiss, "like." He leaned back, looking into the face of his captive. "With no recrimination." He leaned into Sherlock's face, causing the eyes to open, their silvery depths clouded for now. But still Jim could read their echoing interest, even through the confounding effects of the drugs. He smiled, almost shyly, and leaned down to place a quick, chaste kiss to those beautiful lips, saying afterwards, "No punishments, because there are no rules."
The second kiss began as one-sided. Then, much to Jim's surprise, and secret delight, those lips moved against his. And that oft-sharpened tongue just barely grazed his own, sending a shiver of thrill down through his bones. He slid forward a bit more on the detective's lap, creating a hot friction between them, and raised his hands to the other man's shoulders. Sherlock's eyes had fallen shut again as his mind circled the dregs of his brilliance. But his traitorous body unconsciously sought the promise of completion in both the physical and mental act of lust. He tried to raise his arms to hold Jim in some way; or maybe to push him away? But they wouldn't react to his will. Why won't they move? The kiss deepened as Moriarty slid flush against the detective, tongue sweeping in and claiming his mouth. He almost lost track of his arms at the feel of the other warm body pressed along his. But then…
I…I can't…move…why?...I…what is…he…what am….I…no….no….No….No…NO! And he thrust his head to the side, breathing heavily as he came to the surface of the fog for but a few moments, horrified at the results of their prolonged contact. Long enough to see the coolness return to Jim's eyes as he tilted his head and spoke. "See now? How's it feel?" He reached out and stroked the detective's chest once more. "Good, wasn't it? No price to pay. Just take what you want. Do what you want." He stood, maintaining eye contact with Sherlock. "You think about it. And in our next session, we'll see how much more agreeable I can get you." He smiled, then leaned over as if about to be imparting a secret, "Just know that the drug combinations I'm administering won't cause you to act any different morally than you normally would; other than being slower mentally and lowering your inhibitions, that is. Your choices are still your own. Sooooo…" He pulled back and strode off, calling over his shoulder as he went, "…thanks for the kiss!"
