A/N: Ah, here we are again. This one gets very dark at the end. Pieces of blood play. Revella sacrificed her sanity to read this drivel, so be grateful and go read her fic "Forever Yours, Sherlock" in homage to her selfless gesture.

Sherlock lay sprawled in a languorous heap on the floor where Jim had extricated himself from just minutes ago. He tried to smile, but then it turned more into a thoughtful frown. The expression contained more intelligence behind it than his previously inebriated state would have led one to believe, the drug's influence finally on the wan for what should be the last time. He felt the cogs within his intellect begin to catch hold again, and his body slowly but surely returned to his full neuromuscular mechanical control. Not long now, he thought. It had been a great deal of time since he had used, and he couldn't for the life of him remember what had kept him from it these past couple of years. It was like he had simply chosen not to. Which he easily could, he told himself. But why? What was the point?

He shrugged; at least, that's what it was supposed to be, movements still being a bit awkward. He giggled a bit, still caught within the chemical changes of his brain. Hmmm, what to do? He had enjoyed the little game with Jim. Much more than he had thought he would, if he were to be honest. And truly, he hadn't before realized that he held that kind of coarseness and crudity within. It was…interesting. Something to be studied and examined. But later, when his mind was functioning properly again. The drug he'd injected had been new to the market, with an inane label like 'purple giraffe' or some such idiotic thing. Something Moriarty's much lower worker bees pushed on the streets in countries worldwide no doubt. So Sherlock wasn't sure exactly what he had taken. He had simply informed one of the ignorant cans of meat guarding him that he required injectables. And thanks to Jim's parting orders to them, they had supplied him with anything he asked for. His drug of choice, from years before, had always sharpened his mind and altered his perceptions just enough so that he could see things from what seemed like multiple perspectives at once. This one he had taken, however, seemed more based in emotions and instinctual reactions, intensifying sensations to almost painful degrees. He could feel like a raging inferno one minute, tranquil the next, and hornier than all the teenagers in America right after. There was no rhyme, reason, or pattern. It was as if his emotions had been set on a repeat shuffle.

He cocked his head as a late hallucination passed over his tympanic membranes. A child's laughter, echoing his own. He had had many hallucinations since shooting up tonight, both visual and auditory. This one gave him the shivers, though, and he hoped that was the last of them. One earlier had been the shadowy outline of a man, nothing more. It had not been threatening, no. It had just stood close, very close, as if it knew him. He had almost gotten a sense of protection out of it, which was silly given how smallish the form's outline was. How could someone so much more compact than he ever protect him?

And then his mind flashed back over his fight with the strange fellow that Jim had brought home with him, and he readjusted his opinion of smaller opponents. That one had certainly offered up an equal fight! At least, Sherlock thought he had; but it was hard to be sure with the drug having been so high in his system. And with his off-nature reactions to a perceived affront to Jim, there was no telling. Why in bloody hell did I attack him anyway? Defending Moriarty's honor? He snorted in ill humor. What did he care if his nemesis got thwacked around a bit? And that man, the one whose very bearing and form screamed soldier…the man had looked at him like Sherlock had killed a loved one right in front of him. It had been a horrified look, and the detective could see words birth and die behind those shocked blue orbs that had held his own for the briefest of moments. Defending my captor from illusory threats and deducing meaningless random men who pass through these halls and attacking them... He sighed and dismissed it as another ponderance for a clearer mind to sort out. So he waited.

It didn't last long, this particular chemical. A mere forty-five minutes. He had dosed himself one other time prior to Jim's return, a little over an hour before. The two men's entrance had occurred within five minutes after he had dosed himself again. Good thing it wore off quickly, though. This second dosing would probably be his last of this particular chemical combination. It just didn't accomplish what he desired in a narcotic.

Maybe twenty more minutes, he thought to himself, judging by his innate knowledge of his own metabolism and current vitals. He would wait it out, as he had done other times, long ago. The end result of the drug's last effects were of a more relaxational value, leaving him feeling well rested, indolent. The very first fifteen or so minutes were spent on whirlwind emotions, adrenaline surges, and short periods of almost sluggish responses in between the bursts. What market would this be selling on? It was just so…odd. But who was he to question? He pushed up and rolled to his back as he heard footsteps in the hallway outside. Another visitor? he asked to himself as he pushed up, his hands braced behind his back for support. Jim's soft voice broke the silence that flowed within the room as the detective's head turned to track the criminal's second arrival within this last hour. The man moved cautiously inwards as he spoke.

"I have a present for you." Sherlock stood, eyeing the hands Jim held behind his back. "A kind of peace offering, if you will." Not one for lengthy waits, the shorter man brought his hidden burden around, and Sherlock was surprised to see a violin, which Jim promptly flourished, heavy-handed, before the detective. The low lighting glinted off of the deep golden brown finish. Sherlock eyed the criminal's moves warily, noting that the other man obviously knew nothing of handling this instrument, and he took the proffered item gently, turning it in the light to examine the artistry. It was of good craftsmanship, and expensive, too, though not of the make he preferred. Used, but not much, as if its previous owner had gotten it on a whim and then abandoned it shortly thereafter. Not a true violinist, then, but a dabbler or someone who was merely curious or wanted to look cultured.

"Not a Strad," Sherlock commented softly as he ran his fingers slowly down its body, causing a shiver of something to stir in Jim's middle. A pause in those trailing digits, then the detective spoke again, "And it has blood on it."

"Is that a problem?" Jim returned with a blank face. Another recess of sound took wing in the space between before dying once more.

"…No." The detective brought it into position beneath his chin, plucked the strings a few times, and then held out his other hand imperiously, waiting, not even looking to see that the other man had taken the hint.

Jim smirked, then placed the bow into the reaching fingers. And the detective touched it down to the strings lightly, resting, as if waiting for the right breath to begin, or perhaps the right heartbeat. Then…he moved. Slowly at first, arm fluidly sliding along with the almost-silent melody and rhythm of his bow, his body remaining stationary for now. The melody peeled away gently from the delicate wood, soft as a rain shower on flower petals and so much sweeter. It built upon itself gradually, no longer quiet, but definitely never to be considered loud. The criminal tilted his head in appreciation. It turned the shiver inside of him into a warmth that he didn't understand….and yet confusingly desired further contact with.

The wild haired detective's eyes were closed, his mouth relaxed as he eased into the music. His torso turned a bit, this way and that, as if it aided his playing somehow. It gave the impression that the music was not originating from the touch of bow to string, but instead soared forth from Sherlock's well-hidden soul, his heart. He stepped off to the side, as if to begin a waltz…and Jim moved with him, his eyes following every gesture, rapt with a desire that had no name for him. And the detective began a sort of lilting tune that brought with it a lightness to his movements. He stepped again, and again, keeping on until he seemed to be dancing within his own realm of sunlight and mist, woven through the clear air like magic by the notes flowing forth. Jim moved with him, desiring entry, but almost afraid of breaking this moment he was witness to. Sherlock Holmes fascinated him, captivated him. Always had. And these moments…these were to be cherished, as they were private. His dark eyes glinted. And now, they were his.

The melody changed to sadness suddenly, and Sherlock's dance faded, seeing him come to a halt, but with shoulders and head still weaving in a pattern of motion that evidenced great loss and never-ending sorrow. Jim stepped before him, looking closely into the features of his supposed nemesis, wondering what it was like to love and be loved as this one before him was. Not that Sherlock realized it, but Jim had seen through John instantly. So strange, Jim mused. His own attraction to Sherlock bordered on the obsessive, the intriguing, the fanatical, the….he didn't know. Honestly, he didn't know. It was something he had been over with himself many times. And this was a part of it…his final problem.

The music poured forth for another few seconds as Jim watched, and studied, Sherlock. And then, just as suddenly as it began…it was over; and silence invaded the eternity of space left behind in the quiet. The bow drew back from the strings, and the taller man's eyes opened as if from a dream. He looked at Jim, standing there before him, with such obvious deadly focus, fixated on Sherlock's every action. And the taller man smiled at the criminal, almost shyly…..bringing the violin up…..and then back down to smash against the side of the table. Wooden bits fragmented outwards as the harsh creak and wrench of the dying instrument shrieked out its protest.

Used to sudden outbursts of violence, though mostly from himself, James didn't even flinch. He did, however, feel a twinge of anger return to him as the detective smirked and said,

"Not my type."

And then suddenly Sherlock found himself marched backwards and shoved down into an armchair a few feet from himself, the bow deftly removed from his hands…and brought to lie firmly against his throat as Jim crossed behind him, pulling it firm for a moment in clear warning. And the criminal leaned down over the back of the chair to press his face against the side of the detective's neck, inhaling deeply as he slid the bow oh, so, softly, across the delicate skin, as if playing his own deadly melody.

"That wasn't very nice, Sherlock," whispered the criminal against his hair, the hand not occupied with the bow was drawing a line up the other side of the taller man's neck. Goosebumps arose along the detective's arms as the other man flitted around to stand before him, keeping the pressure of the bow to the seated man's throat. Jim knelt with one leg on the chair beside Sherlock's thigh, bringing his face back within easy reach. And the criminal continued with a playful sentence, leaning down and placing his mouth near the delicate shell of an ear, "Why, are, you, so, naughty?" The last word was punctuated afterwards by a nip just under the detective's chin.

And as a gasp erupted from Sherlock, he knew it was too late to take it back. He could practically feel Jim smiling from his new position against his throat, just above the bow's press. The shorter man pulled back and placed it lengthwise down the detective's chest, with the end of it suspended over the detective's groin.

Sherlock reached for the bow but received a surprising thwack on the arm for his troubles. "Uh, uh, uuuuhh," Jim chided with a chuckle. He tapped the bow against Sherlock's clavicle with each following word, "You, have, been, un-grate-ful!" The criminal brought his other leg up onto the wide chair, now effectively straddling the detective. And he brought the bow back up and began running it down the side of the taller man's face and neck slowly.

"And the punishment?" Sherlock whispered hoarsely in query. His breathing had quickened, as he knew his pulse had also. And he was not naïve enough to think that Jim hadn't noticed as well. The man before him smiled darkly with his answer.

"Shall be most fitting," growled Moriarty, as he drew the bow lower, and Sherlock's head tilted back against the chair's cushion, eyes to the smallish chandelier above. The detective knew he would be lying to deny his arousal at this treatment. And in a few seconds more, Jim would have palpable evidence of it anyway; damn those thin shorts! And so he asked himself, as he had many times lately, Why not? Why do I hold back? Who do I hurt by partaking of…this? Sherlock abruptly decided he needed to see the person responsible for placing him in this state, and so he lifted his head from the cushion and brought his eyes down from the ceiling…just in time to see the syringe's needlepoint drive into his thigh, just below his shorts. Damn.

Sherlock didn't bother struggling, as the damage was already done. In a few more seconds, about twenty-two to be exact, he would begin to feel the thrum of whatever Jim had just given him pulse out through his heart. He only had to wonder why. He looked down at the grinning psychopath, who did a silly little push off of the chair and hopped up, tossing aside the syringe. Jim was looking at him in a very hungry and expectant manner, unsettling in many ways. But then, when was this man anything but unsettling?

A flash of something hot in his chest. Ah, there it is, Sherlock acknowledged. And he felt the lethargy begin to press on his mind. Not too strongly, though…so what then…oh. He tried to move his arms and found them barely responsive. Not for subduing the mind, then, just for rendering the body useless, he concluded. And so he lay there, awaiting the criminal's next move.

Jim looked to his watch, counting down the time. When three minutes had been reached, he would begin. Not long now…. He decided to pass the time in conversation then, for his own amusement if nothing else. One-sided conversation was better than just staring, after all.

"Not to worry, Sherlock. I'm not killing you….. Not yet. Still much to do, plans to unfurl…all that good old fashioned villain stuff." He reached out and patted the detective's cheek at these words. "No fairy tale endings for you, though." Then he paused, his hand resting on the taller man's chest as he said, half to himself, "But I begin to wonder. Is that even what you want anymore?" Jim shrugged, turning away and sinuously sliding his jacket off of him, remaining in his dress shirt and vest. He unbuttoned the sleeve cuffs to his shirt and checked his watch, a mock-joyful expression on his face.

"Time!" he exclaimed as he reached into his pocket, pulling forth the knife and flicking its blade outward. Its point was already aimed for Sherlock, like a compass to a loadstone. And Jim dipped his head to the side as he walked back over to the detective, smiling ingratiatingly as he spoke. "Come now, my dear man. Is there anything you want to tell me? Hmmm?" The knife switched hands, and Sherlock's eyes tried not to follow it. "Because you know, detective, that I've just realized something in this last little stretch of time."

Jim stabbed the knife into the arm of the chair and plopped himself down in between Sherlock and the chair's overstuffed arm. It was a tight squeeze for two grown men, but luckily, Sherlock was quite thin and Moriarty was of a small frame. The criminal pursed his lips and looked away before turning back towards the chemically restrained man beside him. Then Jim smiled as if sitting beside a long lost friend, wrapping an arm around the detective and giving a tight half-hug before speaking.

"You know what I realized? You've been here, on your own, under what I deem fairly lax supervision, for what? A couple of months?" The criminal laughed. "Time flies, doesn't it?" He removed his arm from around the other man and turned to face him. Sherlock watched from behind almost-blank eyes. No one else would have been able to penetrate the false veil he pretended to, but Moriarty just smiled slyly, knowing the awareness was still present there. "You haven't attempted escape. Not once. Nothing of even the remotest of suspicion. And until tonight, you haven't done anything of the least threat to me. And even that was under the influence of outside variables being introduced into your circulation."

The criminal stood and turned back to face his captive, leaning down to pluck the knife from the chair's arm. It left the spot with a soft thht. And Jim twirled the blade in his fingers, happily plotting out his next words as he watched Sherlock attempt to not follow the shining metal.

"You need me," Jim began again, lower in tenor and deadly serious, "Or you're nothing." He stopped the twirling, switching to a more conversational tone. "I've told you before. But as usual…did you lis-ten?" he lilted, ending the last syllables in a higher pitch. Then his face turned lethal, intent, and focused once more as he homed in on Sherlock. The notorious shifts in demeanor could have made even the most thorough of psychiatrists resign. He knelt on the floor before the taller man and ran one palm up over a pale thigh, watching as the skin raised tiny prickles in its wake. The criminal brought the knife over the space, hovering, but then shook his head and looked up. His eyes narrowed as he sought something only he seemed aware of. And then he was up and straddling the detective once more, two fingers of his unoccupied hand pressing an indention into the skin two inches below the midline of Sherlock's left clavicle. Jim's eyes glinted with hidden darkness as he whispered.

"You're mine…my detective." His grip adjusted along the blade, held now like a pen or paint brush. "And I shall mark you for the whole world to know this." The knife came up, its point resting lightly against the alabaster of Sherlock's chest and shining sinfully. Eyes that seemed to deny the very existence of life and love and all that was good looked down at the detective, stretching time into an eternity. A kind of raw energy seethed between them. An outside observer might have thought the scene frozen, and as such could note the two separate internal battles being waged. One man fought for control of his body, and..…so did the other. One paralyzed by chemicals…the other by the question of restraint. A tipping point was reached… And Sherlock gasped as the point went in.

Moriarty gasped in tandem Sherlock, though for very different reasons. And his eyes could not leave the line of blood he created as he used his free hand to hold the skin taut. The blade moved unapologetically through flesh, and the detective began to sweat as his throat created the most delicious noises unable to find shape as words. Up stroke, down, then up again, then down. There. Jim gazed down at the beautiful mark he had created, and his tongue flicked across his lips as he watched the blood pool and run downwards. Magical. And the look returned from the detective's starlight eyes may have been pained…but they were also searching. For what? Jim's heart thudded twice, hard, as he understood the next step.

The criminal pulled the winter sharp edge across his palm, feeling the warm wetness gather in his hand. Making a fist, he then smeared the fingers of the same hand around to thoroughly coat them in his life, his essence. And his eyes turned back to the man beneath him, the wicked grin back in place as he raised his hand, Sherlock's eyes tracking him the whole time. The fingers splayed wide as his hand pressed against the stark letter 'M' he had carved into his living masterpiece. And when he removed it, fingers spattering tiny droplets downward, the print remained there in all its gory detail. He took his thumb and swiped it gently across the detective's lower lip, leaving their mingled blood coating it. Jim stood back a foot or so, admiring his work. He realized he should leave soon, as he had just discovered a new facet of his personality. And that new interest could possibly kill its point of focus if proper caution was not exercised. His eyes traced the lines he had placed once more.

Finding that it suited his tastes quite nicely, he stepped down into a one knee position beside the armchair, folding up the knife and returning it to its pocket. He ran a finger along the flaccid arm lying in front of him, contemplative for a moment as he listened to the respiratory rate of the detective finally slowing back to normal. He glanced at the floor and then back up, speaking equally to Sherlock and himself.

"Blood, my detective. Telling, is it not?" He raised his sanguine darkened hand and slid a finger in his mouth, his eyes rolling back and softly closing before he let slip a submissive little moan. The finger returned to the air clean. "And I think ours mixes so well," he finished, the deep valleys in his voice giving away his apparent kink for blood play.

"You're…insane," rasped Sherlock, finally able to attempt speech once more, and little else. But rather than come out as a barb, the last word to fall from the taller man's lips was tainted by an ill-concealed curiosity. Much as a gazelle might, in its last few moments of clarity, admire the power and grace of the creature that had brought it down. Jim clapped his hands, smearing the mess between them in the process.

"Well, this has been fun!" Jim cried as he hopped up to leave, content to have the detective lay there through his recovery. He needed distance from this intriguing man for a bit…before his fascination let all of the life and light out of the detective in an effort to see more. He traipsed along to the door, passing through it without a backward glance. And one could almost feel the shadows within the room lessen with his absence. Sherlock glanced down at his chest, wondering what in all hell that was about. And seeing as how he wouldn't be coordinated enough to walk very far any time soon, he closed his eyes and drifted, nudged awake periodically by the sharp sting of Moriarty's 'claim.' He could read what the sigil 'M' there said, and what it meant, though it was only a single letter. It meant ownership. Possession. And Jim's voice whispered through his mind as he fell into dreams, Mine.