"As I'm sure you've figured out by now..." Jim settled into the lone, sad looking chair in the other room and propped his feet up on the countertop. "...I know all about your demons. They're cute, really... I found it exceedingly amusing to go over your life's history. You know how funny blood can be."

Sherlock's jaw tightened minutely at the suggestion.

The accusation.

The unspoken yet eloquent jab at the soul he'd tried so hard to kill.

'You're pathetic. You suffer because you're weak. You deserve it and it's all terribly silly.'

But the consulting detective would not let that show. He would not give Jim Moriarty the satisfaction of having gotten to him, nor would he display those disgraceful signs of weakness.

No expression.

"Well." Jim crossed his arms leisurely over his chest. "Do you know why you're here?"

Obviously.

"So that you can attempt to manipulate me using what you think you know about my personal history, most likely in order to handicap me so that I'm less of a threat, probably through the use of violence or intimidation."

"Well, when you put it like that—yeah, pretty much."

There was relative silence for a moment, as the heavy rain continued to beat out a steady rhythm on the roof above their heads. Somewhere off in the dinginess a slow drip could be heard, getting louder in Sherlock's ears the more he tried to focus.

Drip...

Drip...

D...

R...

I...

P...

"You've noticed already, haven't you?" Moriarty's voice slid through the cool air like a hot knife through butter. "Like what I've done with the place? It's all just for you. Special."

True, for the last fifteen minutes Sherlock had been carefully keeping his eyes centred on Moriarty in order to avoid straying anywhere close to the innumerable items strewn about the flat, all carefully placed to just catch his eye here and there, and all painfully familiar.

That box-cutter blade, dulled from constant use.

That bent pin, that now rusted utility razor, and that scalpel, sharpened multiple times throughout its little metallic life.

A gallery of blood.

"I thought you might like a little stroll down memory lane. Well—" Moriarty's laugh was harsh and unfeeling. "I'd like it, at least. But who knows... maybe it won't be so bad for you. You like pain, don't you, Sherlock? You enjoy it."

The shadow of a frown darkened Sherlock's features, but he didn't let it linger. "Oh, come on. You're cleverer than that. Obviously I hate it."

"Well of course I know that. But you must be aware that to... all other people, that's not what it looks like. You look like a sicko, Sherlock." Moriarty shook his head pityingly, never once breaking eye contact. "You look like a freak to them. And then they find out that you do this, too... Well, you best pray your little pet doesn't decide to jump ship. They all do someday. You know that."

He did know that.

Instead Sherlock lifted his chin resolutely and stared the sharps head on. "If this is designed to scare me, it appears you've lost your touch."

"Oh, I don't have to scare you. You do that all by yourself. You're afraid of that need, aren't you? You're unsettled by the fact that you crave something so unacceptable. You're scared that you want to destroy yourself so much."

"Please. I've never been scared in my life."

"You're craving it right now, aren't you? A little tense, hmm?"

Sherlock only scowled at him with a look that clearly said 'oh please...'

Please stop it now.

Before this goes any farther.

Before I can't deny it to myself any longer.

Before I crack.

But on the outside, he said nothing. Didn't let a hint of anything show, didn't let on that frost was slowly creeping in around his heart and lungs, clutching at his breath with icy fingers that threatened to strangle him no matter what he did.

Soon.

The room was too familiar. The memories were so sharp they could draw blood—and most of them were stained crimson, just like the carpet had been, long since turned rusty brown.

"See? I can tell. I can see that look in your eyes, Sherlock." Moriarty sat up in the chair and leaned toward him, staring intently. "It's always there. Always..."

Just like a trembling hand finally swipes the blade across the skin, so quick there's almost no time to process it, and for one fragile second the cut remains still, surreal and empty before the blood wells up and spills forth, overflowing like the wound is weeping for its own pain—that was just how Sherlock snapped.

"You." He glared daggers at Moriarty and swallowed hard, finding it impossible to breathe. "You never felt pain, did you? Why did you never feel pain?"

"Oh... You always feel it, Sherlock. But you don't have to fear it. Pain, heartbreak, loss... death... It's all good. But you know this. This is old news to you, isn't it?"

"No! I'm a machine! I don't need feelings!"

"Machines don't bleed, Sherlock. I hate to tell you this," He smiled up at him. "But it looks like you're malfunctioning."