One Week Later…

Silver-blue eyes snapped open like a crack of lightning, pale features as blank as new canvas. Still, everything. So still. The eyes were the only evidence of awareness, for the body lay immobile, as if in homage to death. Sherlock's normally piercing gaze seemed empty initially, still filled with the void of sleep and dreams. But what had woken him? He strained his awakening senses, much more attuned to detail than ever before thanks to the many and varied tortures of both sensory deprivation and overstimulation he had born up under during the last….how long? He realized he had no idea. He could recall vague flashes of indistinct memories, though he was unsure whether they were real or fashioned by his destabilized mind. He blinked, trying to clear the fog from his vision and mind simultaneously. His room remained the same as every time he had slipped toward the surface of his suspended unreality. Plain, unadorned, white, sterile. And always dim, only allowing for partial illumination. He turned his head as he noted that the blue glow from the IV pump was absent. Yes, there it was beside him. Off. No tubing hung from the pole. No medicine. No drugs.

He realized with a start that his wrists were unbound and jerked his arms upward, feeling along them with his fingers as if to affirm this. He glanced quickly at all four corners of the room, his gaze finally settling on a camera in one of them that faced his bed directly. He stared into it momentarily, weighing his options. Then he gave a mental shrug. Why care anyway? Gingerly, he pushed himself up from the mattress and lightly placed his bare feet on the cool wood flooring. The loose cotton pants they had him in were his only item of apparel. He ran a hand through his hair, noting that someone had obviously been bathing him, as it wasn't matted or otherwise. And, not being one to care overly much about such things as modesty, he moved on.

His back ached, and his limbs felt ill used, but he felt in decent repair overall. His eyes stopped for a minute when they found the small cotton ball taped over where the IV had been in his hand. Why had that been necessary in the first place? He struggled with the memory, but it wouldn't come to him. And who was that man he had dreamt of? The one that seemed to appear every night, even when he screamed in anger at him, demanding his name? He felt he should know him, and well. But the connection simply escaped him for now. Mist flowing through his grasp. No matter. As it seemed he was expected to find his own way about, he would leave these questions for later, if at all.

He stood, wobbling a bit at first, and then steadying himself with a hand on the bedrail. He saw clothing laid out for him across the foot of the bed, and he smirked as he noted the brand. Moriarty was here apparently. He felt this should mean something to him. Scare him, maybe. At least be a source of worry. But in truth, it meant very little. In fact, everything seemed to be diminished. Bland. Uninteresting. He wondered at this. He could only remember feeling this sort of apathy years ago, before Lestrade had found him and given him a drive, a purpose, for his mind. What was it? Some sort of investigative…thing. His mind was so hazy. He even had trouble picturing the DI's face. When had he ever had issues with recalling things? He sighed, loudly, stealing a glance at the camera before stripping nude and dressing in the doll's clothing he felt had been laid out for him.

The suit was snug, flattering every inch of his long, lean, frame. Such a deep, dark blue that is was almost black. Matching slacks and polished shoes followed. He truly had been undressed by someone, then, judging by how well-tailored these clothes were. He stood in front of the mirror, feeling as though a stranger was staring back at him, and the door behind him opened. A very large man entered with a tray of light breakfast. He set it to the side of the bed as he passed the detective wordlessly. Then he turned smartly, facing Sherlock. "Boss says you're allowed the inside of the house. No more, though, until he approves. We'll be watching." He started to leave, then added, "And he said you can take your meal downstairs if you don't take it here, either eaten freely…..or otherwise. Doesn't want you wasting away on him." Short and to the point, the man then walked from the room, leaving the detective to stare after him. He spared a glance for the meal tray, and then he walked forth from his recent prison and into the morning lit hallway.

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"What news, then?" John asked as soon as he crossed the threshold of Greg's office. The DI looked up from his computer, noting the wild hair, the wan complexion, and the darkness under the other man's eyes. He may even have dropped a few pounds. Sherlock's disappearance had torn John Watson's equilibrium lose from its bearings. Not that he himself hadn't been affected. He thought of his half-eaten lunch still sitting in the break room and sighed inwardly. He leaned back, showing his frustration in his posture, hands on his thighs as he spoke.

"There was another Polaroid arrived just an hour ago when I texted you," he said. And he could see the doctor's color grow paler as he quickly added, "Nothing bad! Just….odd, is all." And the clarification seemed to help ease the shorter man's anxiety.

"Well, what is it, then? Where's it at?" John tried to keep the panic from his voice. He needed, desperately needed, evidence that Sherlock was alive, was unharmed. And his fingers twitched as the Polaroid came out of an envelope and was offered up to him. The envelope looked as if it had been 'sealed with a kiss' or some other such silliness. But John had no time for those kinds of observations. His attention was focused solely on the frozen scene captured on the film.

Sherlock sat at the end of a very long, formal dining table. There was fruit, toast, and other light fare displayed in front of him. Yet his utensils appeared to be untouched, much the same as his plate was empty before him. The truly odd thing about the picture, though, was the look Sherlock was giving the cameraman. It was so blank, devoid of any emotion. John considered himself a fair expert on the many moods of Sherlock Holmes, and he knew that if the detective had been scared, angry, or anything else, then he would have been able to tell. Just from one moment captured in time. It made his heart hurt to think of how emotionally close they were now, and yet how far away physically. But still, the younger man didn't look bad, considering. He may be thinner, but then, Sherlock always looked thin.

"So what do you make of it then? I mean, he looks decent enough," he asked Greg, who sat looking at him with his head now resting on his hands, elbows on his desk. The DI reached out a hand and touched the back of the Polaroid with a finger, eyes never leaving John's face. The doctor's brow wrinkled downward, and he flipped the picture over. An inscription was there at the bottom. "First Day of School," John read in a whisper. He looked up quizzically at Greg, who just shrugged as if to say that his guess was as good as any. He looked back to the picture of his best friend on the front of it. Oh, Sherlock…where are you?

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The detective walked aimlessly through the many corridors of the large mansion. Any hope of leaving the place was quickly shut down by two facts. There were ample men posted at any given exit. And the mansion itself was apparently located within the center of many acres of land, so there wouldn't be any chance to just skip out and disappear into a crowd. Not that escape particularly concerned Sherlock, but he would like to know his options. So after abandoning thoughts of this nature, Sherlock found himself simply mapping the many twists and turns of the myriad hallways. One of a lesser mind might easily become lost within the place, so vast was its domain.

In a bit, he found himself turning in to a pair of double doors upstairs on the third floor in the late afternoon. And he recognized it. Here was where he had first woken to his imprisonment, though he still couldn't recall quite why he was being held in the first place. He certainly felt no fear for life or limb, so why should his captor feel the need for such precautions? Perhaps it was merely a strange business arrangement they had ongoing? Also, the fact that James Moriarty was always clearly insane, no matter his intelligence level, spoke volumes for this entrapment. Or perhaps…. On second thought, he didn't care anyway, and so he merely continued his perusal of the study. More of a library really. Books lined every available space of the area, he noted as he had upon his first time in the room. And the room itself took a large enough portion of this section of the third floor, making it quite an attractive place to relax. The desk sat as it had before, computer on a lock screen as he passed it by. The window was open to allow a draft inside, and an endless lawn spread out below him.

He turned from the window, and walked to the other half of the room, noting the large television screen set into part of the bookshelves lining the wall. All about it, and in other parts of the room, were wireless speakers. The sound system of a king lay in this room, and Sherlock wondered what was routinely broadcast through it. Ah, he exclaimed mentally to himself as he spied the iPod by the screen. And he smiled, almost anyway, as he walked over to the electronic device and picked it up. He tapped at it, noting there was no passcode needed to operate, and then settled it down into the docking station that connected to the sound system and screen. The display flashed once, then the larger television screen took over. He hit the selection that was meant to play the last song listened to. What began to flood the room turned his almost smile into a full blown chuckle, and then a sudden laugh as the very first words erupted into the air. It was the song that Jim used as a ringtone, "Stayin' Alive." Sherlock turned away, figuring he'd allow it to sift through the other man's playlist at will while he used this opportunity to think about his current situation. However, only about 30 seconds had passed since the song started when Jim strolled through the double doors.

Sherlock made a quick evaluation of the lines of Jim's body, seeing that he was unarmed, relaxed, and apparently saw him as no threat. The criminal's eyes slid up and down Sherlock's apparel appreciatively, then his gaze flicked over to the iPod. The music had definitely caught the other man's attention, and he smiled, saying, "How appropriate. Our first song together." Sherlock stared in the most bored expression that he could conjure, seeking to annoy. To no avail, for the one-sided conversation continued, "Have you enjoyed your lessons? Hmmm?" He chuckled a bit, finishing with, "But then, I guess not. They're not the kind you're supposed to remember." The detective decided not to take the bait, and instead chose to ignore.

He merely raised an eyebrow and then resumed his original circuitous route as Jim's gaze turned somewhat more interested in his movements. Strange. Like predator and prey. Only with some sort of intense sexual undertones involved. Even Sherlock, a man of a self-proclaimed hypo-emotional state, could read the tension underlying that scrutiny. Like the other man was restraining himself from such lewd acts as could only be imagined. He wondered suddenly, What would that be like? And he immediately regretted it. There was something in his gut that was telling him to stay away from this man. Sure, it could be the whole keeping-him-prisoner thing, but since the detective didn't feel concerned at his entrapment, he didn't believe that was it. There was some history here that he was missing. But then, at the same time, he was also feeling quite drawn to the man. Why?

Perhaps the challenge of such a mental pairing was the appealing factor? He just couldn't be sure, couldn't sort it. It was as if he was both drawn and repulsed by this man. Why?! He knew Jim was a criminal of the highest order. He knew that they had, in the past, held an almost-rivalry between them. But he could also remember feeling an electric pull between their bodies whenever they stood in the same room, breathed the same air. Almost like…a constantly evolving rotational magnetism. Sometimes repelling, sometimes pulling. Sometimes hating, sometimes….what? His mind felt so out of sorts while straining to remember the circumstances around their past encounters. Each time, he felt the same thing. He could see them together, confronting; and he could feel the fear, hatred, and…and…and yet also a drive to protect. A caring, warm tone of sentiment. A loyalty unknown to him any time before. Was it Jim who inspired these feelings? He was the only one there, after all. It all felt so strange, so alien, so…..good. So what had stopped him from exploring these sensations before?

Sherlock realized too late that he had been staring. And Jim had a shy, almost bashful little smile play across his lips in return. The shorter man was selecting another song apparently, fingers skimming over the little iPod. And when he found it, he put it on the queue as the next to be played. The current one was starting to fade out, so Jim spoke again now that his voice could be heard more properly for a moment. "Care to dance with me, Sherlock?" And the detective's only reply was to frown harder, confused. Dance? "C'mon, then. You danced before." His voice deepened, "I watched you." Jim's eyes roamed down and back up, the stare blatant, with no subtlety. "It was…delicious." And then the old song ended, a few moments of quiet followed, and the next picked up. Sherlock's mind was knocked off track instantly with the choice of music. Apparently, James Moriarty was as intemperate in his music as he was in his personality.

Moriarty, who had seemed more given to enjoying classical music. Moriarty, who was an old-fashioned man in a young man's body. Moriarty, who until this time was thought to have had his contemporary musical interest peak with the 70's era. Sherlock's eyes found the words floating across the programming screen. "Turn Down for What" performed by DJ Snake & Lil Jon. What the bloody hell? The harsh beat of the hip-hop rhythm mixed with electronica filled the room with a pulsing life of its own. It burned through the air like a static charge, and the fine hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck raised a bit when Jim started dancing, giving him a light shiver. The shorter man began with a slow, artistic, pop-and-lock bit with a spin as if to introduce the concept to the detective, and then…..

Sherlock found Jim up against him suddenly, eyes burning with wildfire in their depths as he rocked against the detective's taller form. "C'mon, Sherlock," he leaned to whisper loudly in an ear, hand sliding around the other man's back and down to his hip, pulling them together and moving down and back up in a slow grind. "Dance for me," he growled. He switched hands and brought one up to the still motionless detective's face, dragging a thumb over the lips. His breath was hot over Sherlock's chest as he brought his face down to apply an open mouth to exposed clavicle. Both hands then dragged up along the long torso to end up behind the detective's neck, all while Jim continued to swivel their bodies against each other. He looked up into Sherlock's eyes quickly as he felt the other man sway just the smallest bit in response, and he smiled. In any other context, that expression would have melted the hair from a person's head with the fear it inspired. But again, Sherlock Holmes was not to be measured against such social norms.

As the second half of the music began, Sherlock found himself begin to respond somewhat to the other man's touch. He seemed to half-remember dancing like this before. Where? His eyes shut as he thought, but nothing would present itself. The feel of Moriarty's body against his own…was worrying…was exciting…was wrong? He was slowly adjusting to the beat as he thought it out, trying to delay any realization by Jim about the track his thoughts were on. And then, he realized that Jim had brought his mouth over his own, and his eyes opened in shock as they stood motionless through 10 seconds of the song. Then they fluttered back closed, and….. Sherlock's long, slender fingers shot out and grabbed around behind on Jim's ass and pulled him roughly against the detective as the third portion of the song belted out loudly, the base vibrating through their bloodstream. Sherlock felt a singular thrill at this forbidden thing they did. His mind warped in on itself, bending to accommodate this new data, this new…feeling. And they danced together, against each other, mouths parted and often making brief contact. Dirty, fluid, sinuous. There was no mystery here, only a desire, deep and dark building within him. He had no name for it, no experience with which to compare it. It was raw, like a fresh wound. It was hard, like diamond-based steel. It was [pulse hammering in his chest] it was [hands wandering over burning flesh] it was [minds colliding in an explosion of brilliance] it was [fountainous and wanton need bursting forth] it was [teeth and tongue and blood] it was [anger and hate and desire and angst and sadness and joy and despair and hate and love and hate and elation and hate and forbidden and hate and hate and hate and Hate and HATE] too much…

Jim found himself spun about suddenly with Sherlock behind him, one elegant hand placed delicately around to the divide between hip and thigh the pressure firm yet not; the other snaked up under Jim's own arm and landed in the center of the criminal's chest, pulling him flush against the taller man's form. Must stop. Now, was barely heard through the storming thoughts of the detective's mind. But still, it was heeded. Sherlock's head bent forward, almost to Jim's neck, breath blowing out over it, raising gooseflesh in its path. And James Moriarty, despite the massive state of his arousal, exulted in his seeming victory. He could take him now, if he wanted, just one more small nudge in that direction… But still the detective remained there, body rigid, as if he had forgotten what came next, hands splayed over Jim's front. Both breathing hard, they remained this way as the music faded; and with it, the detective's hands also slid away. A twinge of disappointed anger followed this, though Jim hid it for now as he watched the other man walk from behind him and over to the iPod.

Bemusedly, Jim wondered if the detective desired another session. And he was surprised to realize that he actually hoped for that occurrence. The power he felt he had over his nemesis was intoxicating. Here he held a mind like his own. Powerful, unfettered. And together, they could do…anything. The breaking had already taken root. Soon, Sherlock would know only this existence. Amazing what a few psychological principles could do when applied synchronously with torture of the senses. Especially when the subject was already somewhat morally compromised to begin with. Sherlock's fleeting smile caught his attention suddenly as the other man found what he had been looking for on the music search. And without so much as waiting for it to start up, the wild haired detective glanced with an amused expression over his shoulder at Moriarty as he strode from the room. Jim stood there frowning, momentarily stunned at the action. But when the song came on, his smile returned as he recognized it immediately: "I Hate Everything About You" by Three Days Grace. And his laughter followed Sherlock down the hallway.