Sherlock walked slowly down the hall. He felt no need to rush. He was at ease inside the Mind Palace. Virtually everything was orderly and he knew where everything was. All waiting for him.

Almost all, anyway.

All contained, at least.

Sherlock knew it wouldn't be long. Moriarty could be anywhere, but when Sherlock entered the Mind Palace, he knew the only place he would want to be is near Sherlock.

Sherlock counted on this. Relied on it, even. More than he'd care to admit. Similar to the more recent surge in his drug use, even before the loss of his freedom. But none of that mattered. Not really. His life was worthless now. And so Sherlock could justify the slow bloom of opiates in his body. His nerve endings tingled as if he were being gently rubbed with a very soft cloth.

Polished to a fine sheen.

Need to look my best.

Outside the Palace. In the cell, Sherlock Holmes was recumbent on the narrow bunk that served as the only piece of furniture apart from the toilet facilities. One arm carelessly hanging over the edge, the pale flesh marked red by a strip of torn cloth tightly tied above his elbow. His veins still fat and prominent. A little bruised. His favourite spot would need to be eased off soon. But he had a system for that. A list of good veins to run through. Starting off with the easy-to-reach places that were easily covered by clothing. He rather hoped he would have a new distraction before he was forced to shoot between his toes and the back of his hand. He wished he had his own works with him. But the network could only realistically accomplish so much. They had managed to smuggle him a single needle, which he kept carefully hidden.

His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and quick. There was a folded piece of paper on the floor next to the bunk. For Mycroft, should the need arise. But this wasn't meant to be a permanent vacation. Just an excursion to visit … a friend.

Of sorts.

Back to the Palace. The bloom was spreading even more and tiny tendrils of chemical pleasure unfurled in his brain. It made the edges of the room go a little soft, but that would even out before long. He let his fingers drag along the wall as he moved down the hallway, craving the tactile sensation.

And then instinct sang out to him as he passed a particular door. A half smile curled his lip as he paused outside and then leaned against the door, pressing his left shoulder and cheek against the cool, frosted glass.

He sensed a shadow on the other side and then a there was a soft creak, and Sherlock felt a gentle opposing pressure.

And then the voice. Muffled by the glass, but close enough to be in Sherlock's ear. Achingly familiar. The timbre evoked a mixture of excitement and fear and dread and something else ... something Sherlock didn't have a word for yet.

"Miss me?"

"I set you free, didn't I?"

"You call this 'free'?" The voice sounded playfully disgusted. "I mean, sure, it's rather delicious to go roaming around in your dark corners, but I'd hardly call it freedom."

Sherlock's mouth quirked. A short silence followed.

Finally, the voice inquired, "So, are you coming inside or not?"

"I don't know."

"Boring. Even in your own bloody head you're boring. You might as well just chain me up again for all the excitement you're providing. Did you shoot too much this time? Fine line between the good high and just being another useless junkie on the nod, yeah?"

"What does it matter to you?"

"Matters? It matters —" Sherlock felt the door shudder as a body was flung against it from the other side. He turned to see a cheek and part of a mouth mashed up against the glass "— because I'm bored, Sherlock! You let me out to play —" a tongue extended from between lips, lapping at the glass and then wiggling lasciviously "— let's play."

Sherlock hesitated, then curled his hand around the doorknob and turned. The presence on the other side shifted to allow the door to open. Sherlock stepped inside. James Moriarty slowly raised his head, looking at Sherlock from under dark eyelashes, his mouth twisted in a predatory grin. "Well. There you are. At last."

Sherlock looked down at himself. He could have imagined a few moments ago that he was wearing his coat. The weight of the Belstaff was comforting and yet now he was just clad in a white Oxford. Tight across the chest, though not as much as usual. He kept forgetting to eat from the trays Mrs. Hudson brought and took away again, tsking her disappointment when they were untouched, but he tended to forget about that fairly quickly.

He looked at Moriarty. At Jim. Because he was Jim now. The man was shirtless and barefoot, wearing only a pair of dark blue jeans that hung low on his slender hips. Sherlock's index finger twitched, recalling how it had traced the shape of Jim's bellybutton and skimmed over the indentation. Brushing over the trail of hair that led into his trousers. When Jim had taken Sherlock's hand and thrust it into his pants, whispering hot into his ear. "There. Touch it. Yes … hold it. No …" he'd dug his fingers into Sherlock's forearm and held it there when Sherlock had tried to retract it "… take it in your hand, Sherlock. It's hard. For you. And I'm going to fuck you with it until you can't remember where you live. Are you ready?"

He'd whispered yes. That night years ago. He'd held Jim's hard cock in his hand and squeezed it and Jim had groaned and pushed his tongue into Sherlock's eager mouth.

He remembered.

Jim was holding a glass of wine. He took a sip and cocked his head, looking at the glass. "So, what do we have here? Oh …" he looked down at his bare torso "… I see. Well …" He smirked at Sherlock. "Undressing me already? But I know this. I remember." He glanced down at his jeans. "You changed the trousers, though. I don't wear jeans unless I'm undercover …"

Sherlock shrugged, pressing his lips together.

Jim paused, then his eyebrows raised and a trill of laughter bubbled up and out of him. "The IT guy? Are you serious, Sherlock?"

Sherlock scowled. "All right, all right. No need to … I just —"

"— noticed," Jim finished, swirling the wine, curling his toes into the carpet. "I turn up at a swimming pool … on a rooftop … in the finest-cut suits that money can buy and what sticks in Sherlock Holmes's vast memory the most of all? A pair of discounted dungarees from Marks and Sparks. Tsk. And here I thought you were the biggest toff of them all. The trousers were khaki-coloured, though."

"Dull."

"Jim from IT was supposed to be dull. Dull enough for M-Hoops to think she could use him to manipulate you into being jealous!" Jim laughed and sipped the wine. "But enough all that nonsense. You're thinking about the last time you saw me after we fucked. The last time you saw me before I tried to kill you."

"Again," Sherlock amended.

"Sherlock, if I'd wanted you dead that day at the pool, you'd be long in the ground. With John. Nothing was tried that day. Only considered and rejected."

"Maybe that would have been for the best," Sherlock murmured.

"Hmmm, you think?" Jim snarled, flinging the glass of wine away. Sherlock watched the trajectory of the glass and liquid and noted with satisfaction how it disappeared before hitting the floor. Physical detritus was not a problem in the Mind Palace. Unlike at Baker Street, where Mrs. Hudson complained about how it piled up so quickly but Sherlock had never really noticed. It all seemed to go away eventually if one was patient.

But then Jim was in his face, grabbing Sherlock's chin harshly and forcing the detective's gaze onto him. "Is this what I died for, Sherlock? I put my entire life into that show on the rooftop — literally! — and not only you NOT DIE – and I'm still incredibly pissed off about that — and not only did you spent two years ripping apart the network that took me years to create, but you commit murder in front of the bloody police and your government troll of a brother and get yourself banged up in prison. So tacky. You've let yourself slip without me."

"Without him," Sherlock muttered.

"Boring," Jim whispered, leaning in closer. "So fucking boring. John. Mary. The sprog. All of it. Who the hell cares? That's why you let me out, right? Nobody understands, Sherlock. Except me. It's just you and me now. The way it's supposed to be."

Sherlock wrenched his chin free, but Jim held on tighter, like a python, curling a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck. His naked chest pressed up against the thin fabric of Sherlock's shirt. Jim's musky scent took Sherlock back to another place. Another time. Locked in a bedroom with Jim. And another time in a hotel bedroom. One time against his will and the other as an all-too-willing acolyte. The two memories got mixed up with one another so frequently that Sherlock had given up and allowed them both to share a room. The shame of letting his body's needs win out over his mental directives. How Jim had conquered him so easily. Literally fucked him into submission. Mixed with his hunger when he came back for more. More, more, he'd begged. Reaching for Jim again and again until the two men were too physically spent to continue. But even then they hungered.

Put some clothes on before I decide to ravish you again …

Jim grabbed the front of Sherlock's shirt and Sherlock saw his taut biceps flex as he ripped it open. Buttons hit the floor (Sherlock liked the sound) before disappearing into the same void as the flung wineglass. Jim growled and buried his face into Sherlock's neck, biting, sucking, smelling, tasting, marking. Sherlock groaned and clutched at him, raking nails down his bare back and grabbing at the waistband of his trousers. Pulling at him, but also pushing him away. Go away and never leave me. Jim pulled away from Sherlock's neck and ground up against him, shoving Sherlock up hard against the wall and then Jim's mouth was on his and Sherlock parted his lips eagerly and it was long minutes of teeth and tongue and lips and groping and hair-pulling and the helpless grinding, grinding, grinding ... Sherlock was shaking with need.

"Is this it, then?" Jim murmured against Sherlock's quivering mouth. "Are you catching up on all those teenage makeout sessions you missed? All these memories of me fucking your brains out. They have to be for something. Right up here on the surface. I was your first, Sherlock. The first, the first, the very first and you can't forget that, can you? Doesn't matter how many times Johnny boy and you made love, or whatever it was you called it. You can't forget me. Is that what you want? Me inside you. Taking you the way you really need to be taken?"

Sherlock panted and shook his head, instead, exerting pressure on Jim's shoulders. Pushing him down …

Jim bit his lip, his great dark eyes sparkling with intrigue and locking on to Sherlock's gaze. "Oh … oh! Well, this is new." He went down easily, never breaking eye contact, settling onto his knees.

"Why didn't we do this before?" Sherlock asked breathlessly.

"Oh, please," said Jim incredulously, furrowing his brow. "Even with John under threat, I didn't trust you to not bite my cock off out of spite anyway."

Sherlock shrugged. "Fair play. I would have considered it. I thought sex was boring."

"Thought," intoned Jim, gazing up at Sherlock.

"And the other time?"

Jim shrugged and smirked. "Honey, you were just so darned eager to give me the main course, who wants to bother with amuse-bouche? But this time … this is your show. So why don't you give it to me." Jim opened his mouth and let his tongue loll out in a blatant, lascivious invitation.

Heart pounding, Sherlock stepped forward. His hands moved to his waist and he unbuttoned his trousers and lowered the zip. Tugged down the front of his pants and pulled out his erection.

Jim smiled and let his tongue drag over his upper lip. He rubbed his crotch and nodded at Sherlock. "C'mere," he said huskily. "It's what you've wanted for so long, right? Me on my knees … begging for your cock. I know you think about it waaaaay too often these days …"

"Shut up," Sherlock muttered, stepping closer, taking himself in hand.

"Make me, why doncha?" Jim looked up at him with a mock sad face, batting his eyelashes slowly. "I just don't know what on earth you could shove in my mouth to stop my noise …"

His words trailed off as Sherlock took one more step closer and cupped Jim's chin in the palm of his hand.

"Yummy," Jim whispered and he shuddered visibly when Sherlock traced the shape of Jim's lips with the leaking head. He licked his lips and tried to lick the shaft, but was taken aback when Sherlock tightened his grip and used his erection to smack Jim across the face.

He looked up at Sherlock, astonished, then grinned. "You naughty boy ... where did you learn how to do that? Have you been watching pornography?" Jim paused for a moment, concentrating. "Oh, yes, you certainly have. These are dire times, aren't they?"

"Be quiet," Sherlock growled.

Jim batted away Sherlock's hand and looked up, irritated. "Then just do it, for god's sake. You have me on your knees, practically drooling for your dick. But you should know better than to try to dominate me, sexy. I'm indomitable. And you love me that way. Don't try to rewrite the story now. Even in your Mind Palace there needs to be some vague semblance of reality." And then Jim obediently opened his mouth and angled his head up.

Sherlock had to concede he was correct and he shuddered when he drew closer again and Jim licked the tip of his penis, then wrapped his lips around the head and sucked hungrily before letting the shaft slide into his mouth and throat.

Sherlock sagged against the wall and looked down, amazed, aroused, and startled by the sight of his cock sliding between Jim's lips. And Jim's large liquid eyes gazing up at him. Sherlock reached down and traced his finger around the shape of Jim's jaw, then over his cheek, feeling it hollow slightly as he sucked. His fingers ran through Jim's short, dark hair and Sherlock found himself cradling the smaller man's skull. There was something perverse about this. As if he could hold Moriarty's mind – his impossible, incredible mind – in his hand even as he fucked his mouth. He heard a choking sound and realized his hips were thrusting, forcing himself deep into Jim's throat. Slightly alarmed, he pulled back. Jim chuckled roughly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Pity," he intoned. "I was just starting to enjoy myself."

"Why are you like this?" Sherlock asked, crossly. "I mean, honestly ... why?"

Jim licked his lips and shrugged. "Dunno. But shouldn't you know that? You're the one that made me. And don't you think you'd like to sit down now?"

"Well, yes, I ..." Sherlock shifted and realized a large, overstuffed chair had appeared and he sank down into it. Jim crawled over on his knees and moved in between Sherlock's legs.

"Thinking too much again," Jim whispered, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's flagging erection. "Thinking, thinking, thinking ... whatever shall I do with you, my Sherlock." He leaned in and kissed Sherlock then and the next few minutes he expertly fucked Sherlock's mouth with his tongue and stroked his cock until Sherlock was writhing, panting, pleading. And when Jim bit him on the ear and then dove down to suck him furiously again, Sherlock cried out in pleasured agony, clutching the arms of the chair.

Jim lifted his head, panting and whispered. "Watch now, Sherlock. Don't miss this. In porn they call his the money shot." And he positioned his head and opened his mouth and Sherlock came on Jim's face and into his mouth and it was grotesque and thrilling at the same time. He closed his eyes and sagged into the chair, unconsciously rubbing the back of Jim's neck. And when he opened his eyes again, Jim's face – clean of any spunk – was inches from his. He'd climbed into the chair and Sherlock shifting, slipping his arms around the smaller man's frame.

"You can't go yet," Sherlock murmured.

"I know. This is the genius of the Mind Palace. We're not far from one another. Ever. I like it."

"You would."

"I think you will too. If you'll just let me out to play a little more." Jim reached out and traced the shape of Sherlock's clavicle. Sherlock circled one of Jim's nipples with the pad of his finger. Each regarded the touch of the other, fascinated.

"I may not survive if I let you do that."

Jim sucked Sherlock's fingertip into his mouth and then replaced it on his nipple. "Dead is the new sexy. What has being alive done for you lately? Tell me this isn't the best time you've had since your last murder case."

Sherlock nuzzled into Jim's neck to breathe in his scent. His hand slid slowly into the waistband of Jim's jeans. "I could lie but I won't."

Jim shuddered, chuckling. "Oh-ho. Hungry again already, are we?"

"The usual rules don't apply here. Lucky us." Sherlock's voice was muffled against Jim's neck.

Jim's hips twitched as Sherlock fondled him, teasing his cock. Jim groaned softly and bit Sherlock's neck, playing with his nipples. "You could die this way, you know. Lost in your Mind Palace. Having sex with me for eternity. Because it's easier than thinking, isn't it?"

"It's probably better than morphine," Sherlock conceded, arching up with a soft gasp as Jim bit and sucked on a hard nipple. "I'm sure Mycroft would agree."

Jim tugged Sherlock's hand out of his jeans and unzipped then. "Take your pants off. You're still thinking enough to remember Ol' Fatty's name."

Sherlock complied and before he knew it, Jim had tugged him to straddle his lap and was pushing his cock deep inside. Sherlock gasped and arched, shivering as Jim dug his fingers into Sherlock's hips and licked across his chest. "Oh, yes, the rules are definitely different here. Nicely done. I slipped right in there. Now just tell me that I can have infinite hard-ons and we'll truly make this a night to remember."

Sherlock began to rock his hips and Jim hissed, driving up deep into him. "If you're good," Sherlock gasped.

"Oh, darlin' I'm so good. And I'm going to show you. I'm gonna be so good you'll never want to leave here. Ever."

"NO!" Sherlock emerged with a gasping cry, the violence of the action throwing him off his narrow bunk to the concrete floor, wrenching his shoulder and knocking the back of his head. He lay still for several moments, breathing hard, then scrabbled onto his hands and knees and lurched for the toilet, where his body seized up as he vomited. But since there was nothing in his stomach to expel, he just dry-heaved painfully before collapsing back onto the floor. The concrete was cool against his cheek and he closed his eyes, shivering even as perspiration rose on his skin, turning him clammy.

Don't nod out on the floor, whispered the voice. Idiot. Don't be so obvious. Do you want them to search your cell? You're in a lot of trouble for leaving me in the lurch like that, but I'll punish you later. Get up. Get up!

"Fuck off," Sherlock slurred. "G 'way."

Get up, the voice insisted. And then turned darker. NOW.

Groaning, Sherlock got to his hands and knees and crawled back to his bunk, awkwardly maneuvering himself onto it.

Atta boy.

Sherlock retaliated by passing out.