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A Devil Sedated
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A/N: So my week sucked. I meant to get this written sooner, but I didn't have the time or energy and in the end up, I simply wrote something to cheer myself up. I hope you guys don't mind. It might be terrible in parts because some it was written while I was pretty sleep-deprived. Like, actually.
Disclaimer: none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language.
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All the world's a stage and all the men and women are merely players - William Shakespeare, As You Like It.
For a long time, it seemed like a tragedy even as he composed a drama.
He rehearsed his lines, shielded himself in a shiny glaze of make-up, pasted on a blinding smile and he waited for his laugh track.
He was acting a part, playing a play of plays. The show must go on - and by God, he did. Pity, then. That nobody else seemed to get the joke.
Then along came Sherlock.
Enthused, Jim designed cardboard, cut-out scenes, cherry-picked pots of scarlet paint, mouthed the words of an impromptu script, he reserved the best seat.
Paid extra and everything.
He indulged in the flawless execution of his pet detective's rousing performance, who danced, danced, danced like a puppet on strings. It was magnificent.
He bowed. They clapped.
Sherlock basked in the standing ovation, but it was never long before their roses were dying.
And it would start all over again.
Then suddenly, one day, the credits rolled, the curtains closed, yet Moriarty was adamant that if life was a comedy, he would have the last laugh.
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Now:
It isn't until he's woken up at five in the morning that Moriarty realises that Sherlock is coming down with something.
Shrill, distraught cries pulsating from the baby monitor yank him from a sound sleep and he staggers out of bed in nothing but his boxer briefs towards his son's room, comatose and with only one goal in mind: to get back to sleep.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared the young father for what awaits him.
"D-d-d-daddy! D-daddy!" Sherlock blubbers when he gets there, thrusting his arms upwards. He's so upset that he's hyperventilating and his reddened cheeks are stained with tears. Worried, Jim quickly sweeps him into a protective embrace and, all of a sudden, there are nails scratching at his exposed flesh and wetness on his chest as the kid practically flings himself at him in a frenzied need for comfort.
The smouldering heat which radiates from his pale, sweaty flesh scares the honest-to-God shit out of Moriarty.
Immediately, he heads towards the kitchen, bypassing Finger's dogbed, who was already perked up and sitting ram-rod straight, ears flicking as he listened in concern to the toddler's howling, so it's no surprise that he wastes no time leaping up and scrambling after him.
"It's okay, baby," Jim murmurs, bouncing him gently and bracing the back of his head. "Daddy's here. Daddy's gonna make it all better." He kisses his forehead as if in a promise.
Hauling open a drawer, he fumbles for the electronic thermometer which he awkwardly turns on with one thumb and tries to pop it into Sherlock's ear. But he isn't having any of it and begins screeching as he shirks away from Jim's hand.
"Settle down, sweet pea. It's nothing scary. Daddy just needs to take your temperature."
Yeah…no. He definitely doesn't want that. No way. Not on Sherlock's watch.
After another ten minutes of struggle, Moriarty finally inserts the instrument long enough for it to beep and display an accurate reading.
102 F.
Not ideal. But not what-do-I-do-what-do-I-do immobilizing terror either.
Jim manages to spoon-feed the squirming tot a dose of kid's medicine. It's strawberry flavoured and smells pleasant enough, but that doesn't stop Sherlock from screwing up his face and sobbing harder at the unfairness of it all.
Desperate to console the toddler and reduce his ear-deafening cries which must be murder on his headache, Moriarty begins pacing the distance between his bedroom and his study and nearly trips over Fingers on more than one occasion as he futilely tries to keep up with him.
He rocks and bounces and shushes and sings and murmurs the gentlest words of comfort, but it doesn't seem to have any effect in the least. An hour in and his voice is hoarse and his legs are so stiff and tired that he's all but dragging them.
Moriarty is at his wit's end.
He's tired, dammit. And fuck, if he knows what to do.
"Shh…Shh…C'mon, snuggle bug. No more tears." He's tempted to start crying himself.
Instead, he rummages around until he finds one of Sherlock's suckers and hovers it in front of the child's mouth. Instinctively, to Jim's everlasting relief, he latches on, wrapping his lips around the dummy and sucking furiously. Moriarty continues his soothing motions and coos loving gibberish and after a while, his cries die down and become more croaky and whiny until they fade away completely.
Still tense and fearful of triggering another such episode, Moriarty climbs back into bed, cautiously covering the pair in Sherlock's blankie - nothing too heavy. He wouldn't risk aggravating his already too-high temperature.
His Munchkin is still fully conscious and appears no closer to sleep than he was when he was screaming the house down, so Jim simply lies there, rubbing his back as he hiccups, and at last gives up hope of ever sleeping again for however long Sherlock is feeling under the weather.
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He's a zombie. An actual, legit zombie.
His every waking moment is spent tending to his son and it's a frickin' whirlwind. He gives him freeze pops to soothe his rough throat whenever he's feeling up to it, and if not, Moriarty gives him dry crackers or hard boiled sweets to suck on. His Daddy instincts gnaw at him, fretting that he hasn't had a full meal in days, but it's whatever his queasy tummy can handle and the man should consider himself fortunate for getting him to take anything at all.
He makes sure that he drinks plenty of fluids and refills his sippy cup with warmed orange juice hourly, and he's constantly fixing his blankie over the toddler that he kicks off amid fitful splashes of hot and cold while dozing.
It's unbelievably gruelling.
Moriarty is reduced to plugging in that God-awful Lilo&Stitch DVD that Sherlock is inexplicably obsessed with and has literally seen about fifty times for the sole purpose of getting a little respite.
He feels bad about it, but reminds himself it's necessary because he's only going to be more useless to Sherlock if he burns himself out. Fingers stays with him, though, while he watches the crappy film and chews on poor Wilbur's saturated ear, nuzzling into his side and licking his hand whenever it drifts anywhere near him.
When Moriarty returns, even Fingers seems worn out and Sherlock appears more miserable than ever.
"Feel 'ucky, Daddy," he whimpers, wriggling around uncomfortably and clutching at his stomach.
"I know you do, Munchkin," he coos sympathetically. "Didn't your teddy bear help?" He means the hot water bottle shaped like one.
He shakes his head, lips wobbling. "T-too hot, Daddy!"
Really? He was icy cold just a second ago. But then, that's how these things go.
Towing the youngster onto his lap, Moriarty pushes up his thin tee and starts to gently massage his tense tummy, slow and steady, tracing large, even circles. "That better, Munchkin?" He nods drowsily, reaching up to wipe his burning, stuffy nostril. With a sigh, Moriarty digs up a creased tissue and holds it to the boy's shiny, red nose. "Blow," he instructs.
"Dun' wanna, Daddy!"
"I said blow, Sherlock," Jim repeats wearily, scrubbing his forehead. His voice hardens. "Don't make me ask again."
He feels like such a colossal dick when Sherlock's face crumples up in pain as he does so.
He's doing everything he can and it's still not enough. He doesn't know if he'll ever be enough.
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On the fifth day, Sherlock is more or less back to normal and Jim can breathe easily for the first time in what feels like weeks. He finally seems to be over the worst of it and if that isn't a halle-fucking-luiah moment, then Moriarty doesn't know what is.
Moriarty, on the other hand…well, there's the slightest chance he may have caught something similar.
Which is perfectly logical, he supposes, having shared a bed with the aggressively spluttering tot and come into contact with his boogers far more often that he's even remotely comfortable with.
That morning, he rouses feeling somewhat…off, with his limbs curiously heavy and his mind processing information at a much slower rate than is customary. He's aware that he's a little worse for wear, but Moriarty doesn't dare examine himself too closely lest he accidentally confirm that there's something amiss.
He's got a shitload of work to do and he doesn't have time to brood over a silly little glitch in his immune system.
So he goes about his day-to-day activities and pays no heed to his worsening symptoms.
When tea-time rolls around, Sherlock is unsurprisingly bored and orders Moriarty to play hide-and-seek. He counts to twenty (nineteen, because he's a rebel), before hunting down the chortling toddler. It's an easy task, considering the boy's penchant for flocking to the laundry basket and burying himself under a pile of stinky clothes every time they play. And also because Fingers is a whiny little bitch who can't be left alone for two minutes and planted himself outside the basket and yipped in outrage until Sherlock hissed at him to be quiet.
"Oh, dearie me," he clucks upon entering the bathroom. "Whatever should I do? I can't find Sherlock anywhere!" Heaving a dramatic sigh, he stoops down and 'searches' the floor, before creaking open the medicine cabinet and exaggeratedly inspecting the length of the bathtub, stifling a laugh at the muffled giggles which break out when he lifts up the toilet lid to peer in there.
"Nope." Moriarty shakes his head and sighs again. "Nothing. My, oh, my. Wherever could he be?"
The youngster can barely contain himself, smothering sparkling sniggers.
"Hmm...I wonder..." He rubs his chin, finally brushing a glance over the boy's preferred hiding spot. "What... about...HERE!" Sniggering in amusement, Moriarty rifles through damp towels, limp socks and other dirty items, trawling through the laundry until his hands meet the pink-faced, squealing Munchkin, grasping him under the armpits and heaving him up onto his hip.
"Gotcha!" Moriarty grins, tweaking his nose.
"Gain, Daddy! Gain!"
"Uh-uh. No can do, Munchkin. We gotta get you cleaned up," he announces, carding fingers through his grubby, dust-speckled curls. "Look at how messy you are! Such a messy boy!" Even as he speaks, he balances Sherlock on his hip, turns the tap and inserts the plug. Water gushes, a cloud of hot steam shaping as he adds a drop of lavender in the hopes of making his little one wonderfully relaxed and sleepy before bedtime and dips in a finger to test the temperature.
It doesn't take long for the tub to fill so he shuts off the water and dumps in a selection of toys, mostly sea-related. Squeaky whales, turtles, a blue and yellow submarine. That sort of thing. Jim's feeling pretty drained by this stage and as he slowly undresses his son and lowers him into the lukewarm water, he can't help but yearn for a momentary time-out from all of this non-stop parenting. Just a little break. Just so he can rest for a little while.
He eyes the colourful toys - beaming and bright and tender with naivety - like they're some kind of life-saviour.
But, despite Moriarty's best intentions, Sherlock's only interested in playing with Daddy.
His head is throbbing, his muscles feel bruised and oppose his every movement, and the exhaustion that assaults the consulting criminal runs bone-deep. Nevertheless, Jim sits obligingly as Sherlock amuses himself by smearing a gloopy bubble beard over his face until there are more suds daubed around the father's chin than there are floating in the entire tub. The toddler giggles and babbles about this and that, and he forces himself to smile in response and grit his teeth through the nausea, fending off brusque chills and gagging unobtrusively.
It's getting really hard to think straight.
Giving a controlled shiver, Jim takes a deep breath and feels bile building in the back of his throat. Tremors invade his hands so he hides them behind his back and forces a calm exterior. The last thing he wants is to alarm his Munchkin.
"Hey, Sherlock?" The boy blinks up at him. "Daddy's gotta go fetch a towel, okay? A lovely and fluffy one, yeah? I'll be right back," Moriarty tells him, pressing a hand to his rolling stomach and praying to hell he doesn't fall apart in front of his son. "Daddy'll have you outta there in a jiffy, sweetheart. Just hang tight." Shit. Shit. Shit.
I'm sorry, baby. Please, please, please try not to drown in my absence.
That would be just his luck, wouldn't it? That would be all his fault.
Moriarty makes it as far as the bedroom before he crumples over, heaving, gasping. He thinks he passes out.
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When he comes round, the first thing Jim notices is that he's crazy.
Leaning over his doubled-up form is a narrow-eyed, serious-faced Sherlock. Only it's not his Sherlock.
It's Sherlock Holmes.
And he's deducing him.
With a groan, Moriarty props himself up on his elbows, waiting for this very alive, very real, very much adult figure to disappear, and when he doesn't, only then does Moriarty slowly rise to his feet and brush down his suit. And that's another thing. A Westwood suit? He wasn't wearing one before.
"Well?" Moriarty prompts, deliberately careless. "What are you waiting for? Get it over with. Rejoice in how I brought this upon myself. Go ahead. Show Daddy what a big boy you are. You can do it."
"Gloat?" Sherlock says haughtily, a rich laugh rumbling from his chest - and he missed this. He missed them. The fluid coat, thrown-on scarf, distrustful stance. It is beautiful. "I don't think so. While that is certainly my style, I'll admit I'm not feeling especially victorious."
"Oh?" Moriarty replies inquisitively, brow raising a fraction. He circles the taller man, just like old times, but it's different.
He has the sickening feeling that he might be the prey. He's not in control. This time he isn't three steps ahead. They're not on the same level, an even playing field. Nope, not today.
"No. Because in gaining an attentive parental figure, I don't suppose I ever did lose to begin with. Likewise, in acquiring a young son and forming an emotional attachment, neither did you. I don't believe so, anyway."
"Is that right?" His jaw extends, almost petulantly, and the defensive action is acutely familiar. "How do you figure?"
"Well, let's see." Oooh...That tone. That nonchalant tone he knows so well - Moriarty inhales it greedily. He's drunk on nostalgia. "You were astonishingly affectionate and always made me pancakes when I was having a bad morning and brushed my teeth for me when I was too tired and kissed my - often imaginary, I feel the need to draw attention to - ailments better. And not forgetting how you very nearly killed your best friend all because I suffered a minor fall whilst under his care. Shall I deem this excursion a triumph or is it more accurately acknowledged as a defeat? Now, that - that is difficult. That, dear Jim, is our catch-22. We've both had our fair share of ups and downs, wouldn't you agree? You did, after all, push back many of your beloved projects on my behalf - not once, but habitually. I must say, I am almost flattered."
"How did you-"
"Please." He rolls his eyes. "I have perfect memory recall. I may have been too dense to deduce then, but I most certainly am not now. Which brings me to my next query: Seven identical blankets? Really, Jim?"
"Oh, piss off. You try dealing with a cranky, wailing toddler in the early hours of the morning who can't get to sleep without some bloody blanket. I could have ten of those damn things and it still mightn't be enough."
"True," the detective concurs, looking at him sideways. "I do hope you enjoyed your brat screaming your ear off the past several days. You're ill because of him - you know that, don't you? All that responsibility, nursing him back to health and whatnot, and look where it got you. Cooking up elaborate fantasies in your mind wherein you're forced to confront the grown-up adversary of your son and crisis of conscience." He makes a face, shudders. "Good God. Even your mind hates you."
"..You're a real prick, you know that?"
He smirks, clasping his hands behind his back and leisurely walking the length of the room. "It's been mentioned on occasion."
"Not enough in my opinion," Moriarty mutters, steadying himself against the wall and rubbing his eye absentmindedly. Fuck. The naked light is stabbing his eyeballs.
"I can't help but notice you're looking a little on the pale side. Perhaps you should sit down," Sherlock recommends, head held high and looking particularly snobbish. "I suggest you seek medical attention. Immediately, if you can. I'm afraid a hospital visit is inevitable at this point. If I may be so blunt, you appear to be heading towards a vacation at the morgue."
"Why?" Moriarty sneers. "You worried?"
"About you? Hardly."
"Why, Sherly, I'm hurt."
"Obviously," he drones. "In my experience, hallucinations are generally a cause for concern and according to your core body temperature, it's only going to get much, much worse." He pauses, realisation dawning on him. "Oh.. you meant your feelings? Dull." Sherlock pulls another face. "Ugh, this is why I keep John around. He's constantly nagging about rubbish like that. Useful insight now and then, I know, but such a drag. I find navigating the appropriate do's and don'ts of social conduct incredibly tiresome. It's so much easier not to bother with propriety at all. Though I am curious: do your illusions usually cause you offence or is it just me?"
"Can't say I've had much experience with them, to be honest," Moriarty drawls, undisturbed. "This would be a first."
He purses his lips pensively. "Yet you picked me? How obvious of you. You're losing your touch. Whatever happened to that tiny thing?" he questions abruptly, spinning on his heel and producing a fierce scowl. "The crying one."
Moriarty blinks in confusion and shakes his head as if to clear it. "You mean the child you?"
"Yes. That."
"Hm. Good question. I don't...I don't know," Moriarty admits with a flicker of a frown. "He should be around here somewhere."
The other man nods and makes a hum of agreement in the back of his throat.
"Probably crying."
"I presume so."
"You don't sound concerned," Sherlock notes.
He gives a lazy, one-shouldered shrug. "Neither do you."
"Yes, but I'm not real, am I?" he retorts. "I'm a figment of your imagination. I don't feel."
Shockingly tight around his throat, Jim claws at the collar of his shirt and swallows with extreme difficulty.
"I don't feel very much either," the consulting criminal claims. He's panting now, quietly woozy.
"Now, we both know that's not true," Sherlock admonishes sharply. "Seven blankets, Moriarty. Seven. Bit extreme, don't you think?"
Moriarty bristles at his tone. "Now, hang on a second-"
"I think you'd better wake up now, Jim," he comments and his voice, so dead and deep and full, is positively hypnotising. "You're dehydrated. Delirious. Mere moments away from a seizure. I wouldn't be at all surprised if you kicked the bucket any minute now."
Lids toppling shut, unconsciousness wraps gaunt fingers around his foot and aspires to drag him under, but he battles to the surface, gasping and wheezing. He needs to remember. He can't let himself forget. Suddenly panicked, he exclaims, "I-I don't…my-my son! H-he's-"
"Terrified," Sherlock supplies, face blank. "Very much so. Haven't we been over this?"
"I…I need t-t-Jesus. He's only a baby! He-he won't-" His breaths grow more and more laboured. He's freezing now and oddly giddy. He squints, slurring, "I've got to…to…"
Jim stumbles, giving a dizzy hiccup and repressing a giggle.
"Chop, chop, Daddy dear." Sherlock smiles and it's inhuman. "Time is tick, tick, ticking."
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Sometimes Sherlock secretly thinks Daddy might be a bit mean.
He whispered it to Fingers once and even though he's not very clever and chases his own tail a little too much for his liking, Sherlock thinks he probably agreed.
See, Daddy says bad things sometimes and his face gets really cross and all scrunched up and he shouts too loud at the scary-looking men with the funny accents and Sherlock wishes he could hide in the cupboard but it makes Daddy upset when he can't find him and Sherlock doesn't want Daddy upset because even though he's mean sometimes, he loves him a ton.
But it confuses Sherlock sometimes because Daddy doesn't say sorry when he does bad things even though Sherlock had to say sorry for being really naughty and drawing smiley faces on the wall and also for that time he posted Daddy's car keys in the letter box (he just didn't want him to leave, that's all. He wasn't trying to be bad. Honest. How was he supposed to know Daddy wasn't gonna drive? He wouldn't even know where to look for the keys of an airplane!)
But Daddy doesn't have to say sorry. He doesn't say sorry ever.
Well… sometimes he does. He says sorry to Sherlock. He said sorry to Wilbur too after he accidentally stepped on his head and squished it a little.
Maybe Sherlock's not being fair.
Like he said, he loves his Daddy and Daddy's the best. He gives the best cuddles and makes the best pancakes and only ever gets a little annoyed when Sherlock jumps on him or pokes him or slabbers on his good, work shirt. He didn't even act mad when Sherlock used his proper work tie as a sling for Fingers - who got a thorn stuck in his paw playing outside in the garden - and got splodges of muck and bite marks all over it by accident even though his jaw did that strange twitchy thing it sometimes does, so Sherlock knows he was.
See, Daddy might be mean, but he's a good Daddy, so Sherlock doesn't understand at first why he doesn't come even though he shouts so loud his throat hurts and he coughs for a whole minute straight.
He doesn't understand at first why he's been in the bath for too long that the water's gone cold and his skin looks old and wrinkly, and maybe Daddy's mean, but he wouldn't play a prank like this. Not with him. Not at bath-time. That wouldn't be very funny.
See, Daddy never leaves Sherlock alone in the tub for very long - only for a second or two - and he was only supposed to be grabbing a towel and that feels like a million, billion years ago.
Daddy would be really disappointed in him if he got out by himself in case he slipped or something and Sherlock really should know better, but he's getting sort of worried now and it's the bad kind of silent.
Sherlock stretches his neck out and listens real hard and from a long, long way away, he thinks he hears something like mumbling. The same mumbling Daddy does in his sleep sometimes, but why would he be sleeping?
Heart pounding, Sherlock wipes his soggy hands on his own mostly dry arms and holds onto the side of the tub as tight as he can, and then he very, very carefully lifts one leg over 'til his toes touch the scratchy towel on the floor and then the next, only wobbling a little bit. Pretty soon, he's out but he's still shivering, so Sherlock quickly slips one of Daddy's dirty t-shirts over his head even though it falls to his knees because he can't see anything else.
Sherlock feels worse and worse the closer he gets to the weird, mumbling sounds and his tummy's so twisted, he thinks he might be sick all over again.
Then he spots Daddy, lying in a clumsy heap, and he almost spews his lovely lunch all over the place right then.
His Daddy's forehead is covered in sweat and his skin is so many colours, it makes Sherlock's head spin, because he's red and green and white all at the same time, and if it weren't for his lips moving, Sherlock might have thought he was dead.
"Daddy!" he yells, not meaning to yell so loud, or for his voice to shake, or for his cheeks to get so wet so quickly, but Daddy still isn't moving and he doesn't want him to be dead. "Daddy! Wake up! Wake up! Daddyyy!"
His throat's sore more than ever before and everything's gotten all weird and fuzzy, but he doesn't care. He tugs and he tugs and he tugs on Daddy's hand and when that doesn't work, he hits him hard and the slap echoes through the room and he doesn't even feel guilty.
Because Daddy still doesn't move. He doesn't do anything.
His hand is floppy and hot in Sherlock's and he-he doesn't know what to do! Sherlock just wants him to wake up. He wants him to wake up more than anything.
Even if he's mean.
So long as he wakes up, he can be the meanest and to Sherlock, it won't mean a thing.
"Peas be okay," Sherlock whispers. "Peas wake up, Daddy. Peas."
He pats Daddy's pockets and feels for the cold lump that always digs into him when he's lying on Daddy's chest and listening to his heartbeat, which he knows that from now on will be his favourite sound in the whole wide world.
Sherlock finally finds the phone and it's no trouble guessing Daddy's password (it's munchk7n. Of course, it's munchk7n. Obviously), and then he finds Uncle Seb's number and he presses the call button like he's seen his Daddy do a hundred times before.
Then it's okay. Everything's going to be okay.
Because he answers on the very first ring.
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Thanks for reading!
I wanted to try something a little different with Sherlock's childish narrative but I hope it didn't bug anyone or become overly repetitive. He kind of broke my heart and I felt terrible doing that to him. Also, yay for the return of Adult Sherlock! Well...kind of.
Beware: may not be entirely medically accurate. That's not my forte.