Please note: this chapter is also deliberately written in the present tense. Future chapters will revert back to usual
(10 years earlier cont.d)
"It's simple really," the Irishman's voice is flat, emotionless as he grabs one of Sherlock's wrists and pulls him to stand, "and really quite nothing. Four hours of your life for a lifetime of my silence. It's a small price to pay, wouldn't you say?"
Sherlock raises up with Jim's pull - he's much stronger than he seems, Sherlock notes - and follows his lead to the bed. He bites his tongue and chews on his bottom lip, desperately trying to hold in the thousand thoughts, questions and deductions that are running through his brain. He wants to give Jim nothing. He wants to fight; to run; to hide, but instead he follows silently. He retreats into himself.
"Over here." Jim pushes him down onto the large bed and he sits small, lost and alone. He raises his eyes up to look at Jim and watches him move about the room, opening a small bag and taking out a box. Sherlock frowns and forces himself quiet. His thoughts are deafening but they are better company than he has in that hotel room.
"Now, Sherlock." Jim raises an eyebrow and looks across at Sherlock's deadpan face, "Don't be going all shy on me now. We're hardly strangers, are we? We've known each other for years. Don't ever forget this, Sherlock Holmes. I. Know. You." as he finishes, he picks up the box and crosses to the bed, stopping in front of Sherlock as the box takes a place on the side table.
"In fact," he continues, removing a needle and other items from the box, "I might even claim to know you better than you know yourself."
Sherlock fails to suppress the need to shuffle away from the box and Jim. He sidles across the bed, putting distance between them. Jim, too preoccupied with his task, either doesn't notice or lets it slide... for now.
But Sherlock, Sherlock knows. He recognises the items that Jim handles, the preparation it involves and he knows what it leads to. Is it for Jim? Or is it for himself? Sherlock has experimented in the past at university but he isn't a junkie. He never quite found what he was looking for in those days. No drug gave him quite the peace that he yearned for; the escape from reality; the numbness and the silence.
Jim feels Sherlock's eyes on him and hears the unspoken thoughts.
"Relax, Sherlock." he says, as if it were the easiest thing in the world to do. "I know. I know you've tried this," he points to the side table, "before and it hasn't helped, but this is different. I promise you. Trust me."
Sherlock tries and fails to hold in a laugh at the request for trust. "Trust you?!" he almost shrieks, "Trust?"
Jim shrugs. "It matters not whether you actually trust me or not, Sherlock." He goes back to his preparations.
Sherlock is left to his own thoughts again for a while longer. Is this what Jim wanted? Just to get Sherlock high? Or will there be more? Will he want more from Sherlock 'after'? His mind slips momentarily back to his brother and he pulls himself together again with a shake of the head. He can do this. He needs to do this.
"Right." Jim's voice snaps Sherlock out of his reverie and back to the hotel room. "This drug," he continues, tapping the end of the syringe, "will..." he searches for a word, looking for it in the corner of the hotel room. Sherlock unthinkingly follows his eye line. "it will loosen you up, Sherlock." Jim finishes, laying down the needle and reaching for the younger man's arm. Moriarty sits next to Sherlock and rests the man's arm on his lap, unbuttoning the cuff and pushing back the sleeve.
Sherlock just sits there, detached. He's watching Jim do this. Why can't he move? His legs and arms feel leaden. He desperately wants to run; move; scream; something, but instead he sits frozen and staring. Speechless. He watches Jim slip a tie around his bicep and tighten it before wrapping his hand around Sherlock's and squeezing it into a fist.
"Clench." he hisses, and Sherlock does. He clenches and unclenches, mesmerised by the pale blue vein that pops out.
"Nice." Jim smiles, reaching for the needle, and Sherlock closes his eyes and turns his head away. This he doesn't need to see; does want to see. What he wants is to be free. To be a million miles away. to be alone. He barely feels the needle slip in and is only vaguely aware of the plunger being pressed before Jim pushes him down and back, onto the bed.
A few minutes pass - or is it more? Ten? Twenty? An hour? - and Sherlock is suddenly aware of a strange calm. He opens his eyes and realises that he is still lying on the bed, head resting on soft, cool pillows. He turns his head one way and sees the hotel room door, suddenly remembering where he is. He turns it the other way and sees him. Jerry. Jim. Jim Moriarty. He is sitting on the chair alongside the bed.
"Welcome back." the Irishman smiles, glancing at his watch. "Don't worry. It's only been five minutes." he says, as if knowing Sherlock's confusion. "We have plenty of time."
Sherlock frowns and hears only Jim Moriarty's words. Everything else is silent. The streets, the hotel, his thoughts: all silenced. He opens his mouth to speak, unsure yet if he actually can.
"It's so quiet." he mutters, words slurring slightly with his drowsiness. Jim smiles. He knows this. He understands the noise. The endless internal babel.
"It's gooood." Jim purrs, leaning in close to Sherlock and stroking his hand along the slightly confused man's cheek. Sherlock unwittingly presses into the touch, and Jim nods, smiling as he slips his hand down Sherlock's neck.
Sherlock's eyes close, he feels peaceful; calm, and a soft moan escapes him. Jim leans in further, his lips just a mere breath away from Sherlock's ear.
"And this'll be even better." he whispers.