Mycroft Holmes has always taken silent pride in his brain.
Where other humans' minds run in crudely drawn pictures and an indecipherable mess of numbers and letters, Mycroft's mind is a flawless machine. It runs seamlessly; everything obsessively stored and acutely remembered. It's beautiful in a cold, sterile kind of way.
But Jim makes Mycroft feel fractured. Renders him useless, renders him absolutely ordinary.
Every touch is Jim taking another part from his mind, as if he is nothing more than a puzzle for Jim to play with. One that he will never piece back together.
Mycroft thought he would relish in the moments they were apart and take some solace in the peace of his solitude. But in the silence the white noise is deafening and he longs for the pounding of blood in his ears, the rush of it in his veins like waves crashing against the shore of him, that he feels when Jim is on his skin.
Mycroft is dependent on Jim Moriarty. He is his drug.
So when Jim denies him his fix it tilts his entire world on its axis. He feels dizzy and sick, feverish in a moment, but he keeps himself as composed as he can and sneers Whatever like a petulant child. Bringing a cigarette to his lips he takes a deep drag of his slow death as he watches Jim walk away. Nicotine is a poor replacement for whatever high it is Jim supplies and it doesn't stop his fingers from trembling.
Shaking. That's the first sign he ignores.
He focuses on the wall during his first class, carefully following the lines of the ancient brick with his eyes. They're like a maze, the lines between the stone, and every corner he turns leads to a dead end. He feels trapped within the wall and when he feels panic rising in his chest he takes a moment to use that logic he prides himself on.
Oh, Charlotte Perkins would turn in her grave if she could hear your thoughts. You're not going to start following the pattern of the wall are you, muttering hysterically and claiming it 'smells of red', are you?
No. No, of course not.
Well then. Stop it now.
He does stop, but only because he is sure he can hear sniggering from behind him. It sounds like his laugh, sickeningly soft and mocking.
No one is laughing at you.
No. No, of course not.
Mycroft spends the rest of his day chanting I'm fine. I'm fine. like it is his mantra. But it is a lie.
One day sober and Mycroft's body is screaming at him for the next fix. He has to admit what is happening to him- lie to others, not to yourself.
The symptoms are all there. Insomnia, shaking, hallucinations, paranoia. Delirium Tremens.
A constant supply of his drug for weeks only for a sudden and abrupt halt. He's an addict in withdrawal.
God how he hates this feeling of dependence. So fucking weak.
Mycroft waits for Jim on the route he knows he has to take to get back to the dorms, tapping his foot impatiently.
Tap tap. Tap tap.
The monotonous sound echoing down the hallway begins to ring in his ears like the tick of a clock.
Tap tap. Tick tock.
He tries not to think about how their time is ticking away with every moment. How the pages of their twisted tale are running few- fewer than Mycroft or Jim really understand.
Tick tock. Tick-
Hello, Mycroft he hears that soft voice, his broken lullaby, the sound another mark for his track lines. An injection of the most potent opiate into his system. Mycroft's abatement must be palpable and he knows it's foolish to allow such emotions to surface but in the rush he does not care. He thinks he could just take Jim against the lockers of the hall when he runs his hands up trembling thighs with a purr of So…what game are we playing today?
Mycroft clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth as in thought- this is their foreplay, no gentle fingers and sweet kisses, just agonising taunts- and cocks his head like a predator, humming, "I think you've kept me waiting far too long. I don't think you deserve a bed. Let's find somewhere a little more uncomfortable." Then he murmurs with dark, hooded eyes, "Follow me."
The truth is that he doesn't think he can make it back to their dorms- his heart fluttering in his chest as it is, like a hummingbird's, and just promising to break free if he doesn't have Jim now- now. So he leads Jim through a network of halls, stopping every few moments to turn and catch unsuspecting lips and get another shot of that awful thing he craves to allow him to take a few more steps, deeper and deeper into the heart of his maze. And if Jim never finds his way out again, is trapped in the hollow of this school with his monster, then that suits Mycroft just fine.
They reach a deserted hall and Mycroft holds open the door of a bathroom for Jim, waving him in gracefully ever the jeering gentleman.
Jim scoffs.
Mycroft shoves him to the wall the second the door swings shut, pressing their bodies flush together. It would not matter if they were skin to skin, every inch touching, Mycroft doesn't think he'll ever be close enough.
It is one of those days, with hardly a word. Just teeth and skin. Mycroft's lips drop to Jim's neck, he knows that just a few inches further, bellow the collar, he'd find a smattering of pearl shaped marks. A necklace of fingertip bruises around Jim's neck marking his possession. But there is no time to take in his work, or renew the bruises.
Mycroft needs to take Jim.
It's inelegant and mechanical and vulgar but in the moment Mycroft does not care- they are not lover in the throes of passion, this is sex and it is addiction- he feels nothing but the rush as he bends Jim over the sink and pulls his trousers over his legs. Feels nothing but blood boiling as he positions himself at Jim's entrance and intrudes the younger man's body, sinking to the hilt with a gasp.
He counts the thrum of Jim's pulse that reverberates through him, timing his movements to each beat until he feels like he's fucking a metronome. Short, staccato thrusts like counting the seconds down to release, their bodies the hands of a clock. Ticking down.
Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.
It's all ragged breathing and muffled moans and fingers digging into hips.
Tick Tock. Tick tock.
Mycroft leans over Jim's body and brushes his lips along the nape of his neck.
Tick tock.
Jim is forcing himself back into Mycroft's body now and his strangled groan masks the sound of the door swinging open.
Tick-
"Mycroft Holmes!"
Their time is up. Their story over. Their bodies freeze into an ugly tableaux as they run out of words to finish their tale, run out of seconds to take them out of this one suffocating moment.
Fuck.
Mycroft sees the rest of the scene unfold- in horrid grey scale like he's watching a bad film- not as himself but as an unseen observer.
The boys scramble apart, covering themselves and having at least the decency to blush. There's an awful lot of yelling from the professor that caught them, and awful lot of Sir. Sir, please calm down. from the older man and nothing at all from the younger who stands emotionless, though a ghastly shade of white. Ten minutes later and this scene is getting repetitive, disgusting, shameful, and the head boy no less. I expected better of you Mycroft Holmes. As for you boy - he clearly can't remember the other's name- you too should be ashamed. Disgusted.
"The Headmaster has already left for the day, but I expect to see both of you outside off his door at seven sharp." The teacher snaps, finished with his rant, "And if I were you, I would think about packing my bags."
As soon as the door clicks shut, the full force of what has just happened hits Mycroft in the gut and he throws himself at the nearest sink, retching into it and gripping the sides with white knuckles.
Jim gives a small nod when Mycroft barks out to follow him, because he knows how these scenes play out by heart now.
He follows Mycroft down different hallways and in circles to a bathroom in a lesser-used part of the school where Jim was then pressed against a wall—a puppet swung by his strings—and swallowed by a kiss. Nothing is different. Nothing is new. This is just a re-write of past events.
But as a secret writer, Jim knows that every good story needs a plot twist that will jar the reader. It has to be unexpected. It has to be traumatic. It has to lead to a choice or what is the point in writing the story to begin with?
Mycroft whirls his puppet around, bending him, face down, over the sinks; lips and teeth and tongue teasing the back of Jim's neck, making him shiver and moan. Jim's pants are wrenched down to pool at his ankles and Mycroft's length is grinding behind him as a tease and a threat.
Jim could hear his moans echo back at him off of the ceramic sink, mocking him, but Jim doesn't care because he learned something today—Mycroft Holmes needed him, craved him, desired him more than Jim ever thought he could.
Jim is just a boy with Mycroft, more a child with him than he ever was at home, but something happens that forces him to grow even faster than the day he was kicked to the streets.
You see, as Mycroft drives into Jim, who tries desperately to choke back a cry, neither hear the door open behind them.
And now the reader would cringe because of the dramatic irony. 'Turn around!' The reader would want to scream, because they can see the character's fall before they can and it drives the reader mad. 'Turn around! Run. Stop. God no, don't!' But the reader is helpless and they know that the book is near its end. Here is the climax, the point of no return. The characters—the puppet and his Master—cannot hear the reader's cries, and even if they could, there is nowhere to run.
And when both boys hear the gasp of shock behind them, they both age into men in the time it takes the heart to beat.
When Jim wrote his stories, they were different than all of the fairy tales other children his age read.
Jim's stories never ended in a happily ever after.
Some teacher scolds the two of them and Jim mechanically pulled up his pants, staring into the man's eyes in a dead sort of way. He can see the man's lips moving, almost feel the vibration of the words in the air around him, but he cannot hear them. Some words drift through…Headmaster…Seven am…pack my bags…And they bring Jim's world crashing down around him.
This was it. He always knew he would die early, but he didn't think it would be like this. He'd be sent back out and all that waited for him out there were cold, empty, streets. Of course he could find a job, but no place that would pay enough for him to be able to afford a place to live. And it was winter no less.
He was damned no matter what happened tomorrow. They could make it short and quick—expel him and let the axe come down swiftly—or they could make it long and drawn out—deny his scholarship and laugh as he tried to beg for it back. Of course the Headmaster knew he couldn't afford the tuition here and it was too late to apply to any other school for a scholarship for the season. The Headmaster would condemn him to the streets and laugh as he begged.
Because Jim didn't matter. He was inconsequential. If he died, no one would know or care. No one would miss him; hell, his mam wouldn't even know either way.
No one cared. No one knew that Jim Moriarty existed, except for
Oh.
This was his last chance—his last hope. Oh, the irony of it all! It was so fucking poetic, wasn't it? The man who condemned him to this fate was also his only chance at salvation.
Jim turned to see his creator retching into the sink he had just bent over, knowing those same acoustics that mocked Jim's moans now mocked Mycroft's pain. Seeing him like this made Jim want to strike him across the face and scream.
What right do you have to cry and moan? Your dad just has to write you a fucking cheque and you're set. No one would ever fucking know! I'm the one who should be curled in a fucking corner because my life is OVER and all because of YOU!
But that won't do anything to help him. Mycroft didn't care about sympathy. He could take Jim's virtue without batting a lash, so how hard would it be for him to condemn him to death? Maybe a sleepless night? No, Jim had to be clever now. Mycroft was addicted to everything Jim could give him and that was to his advantage.
Jim laid a tentative hand on Mycroft's arm, his face horror-stricken. "M-Mycroft…" he started, making his voice broken and terrified. He had to beg. He had to beg and plead and hell, he'd get on his knees if he had to—anything to appeal to his creator's god complex.
The light hand turned to a trembling grip, his whole body shaking as he fell to his knees at Mycroft's feet. Jim pressed his forehead into Mycroft's thigh, reaching up with his other hand to grip at Mycroft's shirt. "Please," he begged. "Please…you have to help me. I'll do anything. I'll let you do anything to me to pay off the debt I'd owe you just please." Jim was sick with how pathetic he sounded. Emotion choked his voice, making it thick.
He looked up, his eyes glassy and desperate, wide with fear. Mycroft reached down and pulled Jim to his feet, eyeing him with so many emotions that Jim honestly couldn't tell if he was buying the act. Jim did notice, however, the grip that still remained on his arms—touch. Just Jim's touch was enough to confuse Mycroft and that was perfect.
Jim still shook, eyes as wide and imploring as a child afraid of the monster under his bed. Funnily enough, Jim was clinging to that monster right now as if his life depended on it.
Oh wait—it did.
Jim feigned weakness in his knees and leaned against Mycroft, using him for support, bracing himself by balling the man's shirt in his fists. He rested his forehead against Mycroft's chest and his shoulders shook. "Y-you're not going to let them expel you. You can afford to pay them off and sweep it under the rug. I-I have nothing. I'll be kicked out—probably banned from the premises. I can't afford to pay them…I have nowhere to go." Jim's voice broke on the last word, muffled in Mycroft's shirt and body, trembling, pressed flush against Mycroft's.
"I will do anything you ask to pay off my debt—you can do anything, just…please Mycroft…just add my name to the cheque." Jim ventured to look up at Mycroft, waiting for an answer.
Their story may be dwindling to an end, but Jim was going to milk out every last drop of ink from the well and every last inch of their pages. Jim wasn't ready for it all to end…and maybe he'd never be ready, but he couldn't give up—wouldn't.
Jim Moriarty would do anything to survive.