A/N: Much love to Revella, who has spurred me onward and made sure my more angsty moments are full of just the right balance of emotional instability.
Sherlock continued on slowly down the hall, Moriarty's harsh laughter following in his wake. What he had done back there was impulsive, difficult. And against his body's wishes, if he were to admit the truth. In a simpler situation, maybe he would have just given in. But none of it added up. At all. The feelings he experienced from the other man were so conflicting. It truly was as if he both loved and hated him at the same time. Though perhaps love was too strong a word. Perhaps captivated, drawn in, lost…were more apt labels for what he felt in the other's company. But why did he feel these things? An objective review of all their past encounters and confrontations did nothing to quell the confusing blur of emotions. Every interaction between them that he could bring to mind exposed no evidence of what could be inspiring these feelings of affection and loyalty. In every memory, Jim was there, taunting, teasing…often committing crimes of intensely focused hatred against the detective himself….so why the feelings of loyalty, possessiveness…attraction? He shook his head. It was as if the friction of these warring thoughts and feelings was opening a chasm within him; he just had yet to implode with the rest of himself.
Looking up from his feet, he started paying attention to where he was going, attempting to head back in the general direction of his room to sleep. And that was another curiosity. Why did he desire sleep? He couldn't remember the last time he had actually willingly given in to slumber. Yet, his mind kept pulling him towards the world of dreams as though it was on a mission of its own. And then there was that man whose face he couldn't remember when he woke up. So familiar in the dream, yet all but forgotten once awake. Perhaps he should make a trip to his mind palace tonight in place of sleep? Work on a way to gain freedom from his captivity? Though, he really did want to see that man again….and he just couldn't find the inclination to escape. He didn't fear for himself, but he did worry somewhat at the instability of his captor…thoughts for later then. So he decided that, tonight, he would not give in to sleep so quickly. He would stay up, as was his usual wont, and do…something. What, he had no idea. But he was a genius; someone had said so, repeatedly, in his past. So he should be able to find something simple enough to entertain himself with within the Moriarty home. Now, to decide whether that something would be constructive…or destructive. He smiled.
oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo
When Moriarty finally ceased his laughter at Sherlock's choice of song, he was breathless. The heady feeling of victory might have been swept from under him at the detective's abrupt departure, but the damage was done, for Sherlock anyway. Anyone could see. Sherlock would be his. The way the taller man reacted to him was like an addict around their particular drug of choice. They couldn't help themselves. And neither would Sherlock soon. They were too perfect a match. He grinned as he passed by the wet bar, pausing to pour a small bit of scotch into a short crystal glass. He reached over to a drawer on the right side, pulling a straw out. Not just any straw, though. Long, slender, and red, it looped back around on itself several times before coming to its end. He plunked it unceremoniously in his drink, and turned to face the door.
Two men stood outside of the double doors, one to either side, just a sliver of each was visible from inside the room. There was always at least one man on the study doors at all times, blocking access to the consulting criminal's main computer. Earlier in Sherlock's imprisonment, Jim had let it be known to his staff that the detective was not to be bothered as long as he didn't do anything too stupid or suspicious. Not that any of his several dozen probable members of the Homo erectus designation would ever be able to discern a deception performed by the young detective, but still… Principle. Jim set his drink down carefully as he thought, just for a moment, that there had been a sort of smirk on one's face. He sucked at his top front teeth once, and then strolled over and outside of the doors to stand before them. He kept his hands clasped behind his back as he looked at each in turn, kind of fidgeting back and forth as he spoke, picking at his jacket top. "Something amusing?" he smiled as if there was a joke he was about to be let in on. Neither replied, turning a bit ashen at having their boss's attention so centered on them. For the most part, James Moriarty ruled by dint of his intellectual prowess. However, everyone under his employ also was aware, very aware, that he had a dark streak of obsidian cut straight through his soul, and cruelty could come very easily to the surface. Very quickly.
"Why are there two of you?" he suddenly changed the query direction, affecting a light and airy tone. They remained motionless, each afraid to speak first as Jim paced before them talking almost as if to himself afterward. "There really needn't be two of you here, on one entrance," he reasoned with himself, nodding slowly. Then, Jim sighed dramatically, closing his eyes and tilting his head as though listening to an internal voice, his lips twitching up into an amiable grin. Then those brown eyes snapped up and over as he spun, pulling a gun from around underneath his jacket in one smooth motion. No time for reaction or thought from either silent witness. He fired once, silencer preventing most of the sound from escaping its casing, and the man fell back and to the side, finding that his brain had great difficulty functioning with the metal now residing inside of it.
Jim looked down at the corpse, whose blood was quickly running out of the new orifice the bullet had created. His gaze held no remorse or pity; or even recognition of what he did. It was almost as if he was already thinking of something else. Something pleasing, by the different kind of smile that crossed his features. He then flicked his eyes at the other man, who remained at his post, but had a fine tremor running along his frame. Sweat beaded on his brow, and a tiny muscle along his jaw twitched. Jim walked up and patted his cheek with a beatific expression. "Be a doll and get that taken care of, will you?" he said, gesturing nonchalantly with the barrel of the gun towards the body. The remaining man nodded anxiously, relieved at having been given something to do with his nervous energy, and set to calling for assistance. Jim smiled, feeling much better now, and rubbed the top of his head with the short gun's barrel. All thoughts of ruined hardwood floors puffed out of his consciousness. He retrieved his drink and headed for his room to change. Perhaps a nighttime stroll around would resettle his thoughts? Yes, that would be lovely.
oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo
After refilling his glass once more, Jim settled the black dressing gown around his shoulders, a pair of deep green sleep pants paired with an extra soft matching shirt underneath. He checked himself once in the full-length wardrobe mirror, stopping as he passed by it, always a one for keeping up appearances. And in an instant, his good humor evaporated as he took in his polished appearance; poised, even in pajamas. Yes, Mom wouldn't have had it any other way….. He snapped the gown down straighter on his shoulders. Her…clients…would have been disappointed, he thought darkly. His mind almost fell into that dark swell of repressed remembrances for a minute. Then he shook the past with all its groping hands from his thoughts and set out for a late ambling of his hallways, trying to convince himself that he wasn't simply taking a roundabout route to Sherlock's room the whole time. And failing.
He approached the detective's well-appointed, though clinically malignant, guest room with a mixture of anxiousness and, well, fun. He hadn't ever thought to find someone so like himself in the whole world, and especially not someone who he had been almost automatically set up against. It was invigorating to think of what they'd be able to do once he had completely turned Sherlock. It gave him a sense of a rush in the pit of his stomach just to contemplate it. Plans spun like strands of gold through the back of his mind, always moving…..always. And it was with these giddy thoughts that he entered….a fort? He looked around himself, bewildered, as he stood just inside the doorway. Beyond was…constructed chaos. Sheets were stretched out across great spans from one wall to the next, connecting to the bedrails, and then onward to the single chandelier. Some were supported by pens that had been stabbed into the wall, others by bits of string the other man had managed to find and procure for such industrious purposes as these. Here and there amongst the display of pristine whiteness, there were smudges of a red substance, sometimes looking a bit on the darker side, maybe brown. They were in no particular pattern that the consulting criminal could decipher, though, so he guessed it was happenstance, whatever it was.
And there, in the middle of said 'fort,' sat the wild haired detective on a pillow mound, wrapped tightly in one of the sheets that had survived the others' maiming. Jim sipped at his drink, keeping the tip of the straw in his mouth as he approached. His head tilted to the side as he studied what lay before him. A few more paces into the room brought him closer to the object of his scrutiny. [Sip] His stare took in the wild construction Sherlock had created, and then moved on to more of the red substance that lay gathering on the floor. Oh. Blood. [Sip]. His eyes settled on the detective's hunched back as he then noted the source. Those soft browns widened slightly, then returned to their observation. His lips pursed for a second, and then his voice broke the silence softly.
"So.….you really are a weird one; aren't you?" Sherlock looked up from where he drew lines of blood across his forearm, twisting his head to peer over his shoulder, a smear of the red fluid on his cheek.
"I was bored." He looked back down at his seeping wounds, "Why? What do you do when you're bored?" Jim shifted his feet, then placed one hand on the footpost of the bed, gesturing with his glass in the other as he replied thoughtfully.
"Mmmm, I kill people. Ruin their lives." [Sip] He shrugged. "Not always in that order." [Sip]
Moriarty leaned over the detective's shoulder, trying to read what was carved in blood across the pale skin on the underside of the other man's forearm. It seemed to be more of an actual word than just the random cuttings of a stagnant mind. There was a pattern to it. He stepped closer and leaned down further. And what he saw almost made him fall over, his drink spilling a bit as he righted himself. Sherlock looked up at Jim as some of the amber liquid splashed over him, his eyes questioning. He held up the arm, asking, "Tell me….does this mean anything to you?" Low lighting in the room made it appear a ghastly sight, and the inscription stood out in stark contrast to his alabaster integument: JOHN.
Moriarty looked hard into Sherlock's eyes, searching for a glimmer of deception, of knowing. But all he found within those silvery-blue depths was an honest inquiry. And he breathed an inward sigh of relief, confidence in his methods restored. He never knew what, or exactly when, he had been able to break Holmes' mind during his "lessons." It was as if a sudden amnesia had taken hold of the other man one day, waking and holding no knowledge of John Watson and his goody-goody influence; freed of his moral compass. His calming and structured presence. Sickening. Jim's people had informed him that it was likely to happen this way, so abruptly, but it was still difficult to believe that such a mind as Sherlock Holmes' could be taken in so little time. It begged the question of whether or not his own mind was just as susceptible, and he didn't like that. He didn't like any sign of vulnerability….. But those were thoughts for another time. For now, his captive was looking up into his eyes openly, hiding nothing.
"Biblical reference?" he suggested lightly. And the detective's gaze turned cynical and sarcastic, one eyebrow raised to imply 'You kidding?' Then he snorted and turned back to examining the name carved across the canvas of his white skin. Jim studied the detective's posture for a second, taking in once more the odd manner of garment that had been opted for when readying for bed. It appeared he had doffed the suit for a shirtless, toga look, probably with sleep pants on underneath the sheet that hid the rest of him from view. Its large, white fabric was wrapped securely around the detective, except where it hung somewhat loosely from his slender shoulders. The consulting criminal scanned how it clung to the man's contours, slowly deducing and evaluating in his own way, and finding something odd in his musings. He stepped even closer, now coming to stand fully beside the wild haired man on the floor before him.
"Are you wearing any pants?" he asked, bemused and half-kidding as he returned the straw to his mouth for another pull at his drink. Sherlock shrugged, the sheet sliding down one of his shoulders further.
"Nnnnnnnope," the detective answered, playing with the small blade he had used for his cutting.
The sound of Jim's drink being very suddenly emptied filled the room with a short slurp, attention became laser focused and pinpoint now. He glared at the traitorous empty crystal before setting it down on the bedside table. Rearranging his dressing gown, he stepped to the bed and sat down on it, watching as the detective repositioned the blade in his hand once more as if to cut himself further. Jim watched the rapt concentration pass over those beautifully formed features for a moment before intervening. He leaned forward and smoothly removed the knife from the other man's hands, setting it beside himself on the bed. He clasped his hands in front of himself on his lap, looking into the eyes that now stared questioningly back up at him. Then he reached into his back waistband to pull out the gun for the second time that night.
"Ever play Russian Roulette, Sherlock?" he asked as he ran a finger along the cold barrel, his eyes locked on its metallic length. He snorted a laugh at the thought in his head. "We played it differently in the ghettos of Ireland…..two bullets." He smiled, eyes dancing up to meet the detective's, "Care to play with me?"
The words hung in the air between them. Sherlock cocked his head to the side for a minute, expression thoughtful, considering….and reached for the gun.
oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo
John sat on Sherlock's chair, legs folded up under himself. His eyes accidentally landed on the violin, and they squeezed shut, the pain becoming a fire so cold it burned. God, it burned. They hadn't heard anything in days. Under normal circumstances, days gone by wouldn't be near much cause of concern. But this was bleeding Moriarty! Who had sworn to 'burn the heart out of' Sherlock. What was happening to his friend? Where was he? Was he safe? Was he hurting? Was he…alive? That last one crushed him, making him sink deeper into the chair. A takeaway box sat forgotten beside him, and he felt cold all over. Premonition? No. He wouldn't think like that.
His eyes held fears best left inside for now. His heart….held things, fragile things, that desperately needed nourishment that only the knowledge of Sherlock's condition could supply. A tear ran the length of his cheek as he thought of the last things he had said to the younger man. Hateful things. Painful, to both of them. And he felt it coming on again, but he didn't fight it. Slowly, a sob wracked him, and he coughed on it, turning his head down and into the fabric at the top corner of the back of the chair. The coldfire burn within himself shone brighter as it consumed him from the core. And the flood came. Again. As it had every day that Sherlock had been gone. Taken. Forever?
oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo
Jim had watched in fascination as Sherlock had placed the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Click. Nothing. His eyes had held Jim's the entire time, and they sent a shiver down his spine that threatened becoming a full body quake. And just like that, the detective had handed the gun back. And Jim smiled at the further evidence of the success of his lessons. He had taken the gun and repeated Sherlock's gesture exactly, pulling the trigger without hesitation, staring into those silvery depths. Click. No all-encompassing darkness. Ah well, another day, then, he thought as he set the gun down on the bedside table.
The detective shifted off of his mound of pillows and began to rearrange them, lying down as if to sleep. Jim watched curiously, wondering what he was up to. And when those curls hit the top pillow, the deep baritone floated up to Jim.
"I'll be gone for a while, but you're welcome to stay. Being as it's your place and all," he said with a flourish of his hand.
Initially, Jim was confused, watching the eyes close and the other man's breathing slow. Gone? Did he mean sleeping? Maybe it was….Oh! He nodded as he recalled the infamous "mind palace" that had been mentioned a few times while he had been doing audio reconnaissance on 221B. Interesting…. He had heard John complain, often, of Sherlock disappearing into his "bloody damned palace" several times; often while the doctor was in mid conversation with the younger man. And from all evidence, it seemed that disturbing him once he was immersed was a near impossible feat. He had even heard the detective get rolled onto the floor once without emerging from the trance-like state he entered. And his eyes once more scanned the relaxed features of Sherlock Holmes, a smirk-provoking idea of his own coming to fruition. Near impossible feat? …..hmmmmmm…..what possibilities.…. Perhaps an experiment of my own? He climbed down from the bed and settled himself on the floor at Sherlock's side.
oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo
Sherlock traveled his palace at speeds impossible in reality, scanning everywhere for something, anything, that could lead him to the answers he sought about the odd mixture of conflicting emotions surrounding Moriarty. He had a suspicion that the man from his dreams had something to do with it. Like his subconscious was trying to tell him something. But he couldn't focus on that train of thought. Every time he tried to bring the man to mind, his cognition became slippery and flighty, falling off of the subject at hand every time. Like he had some kind of auto-pilot amnesia. And it frustrated him like nothing had in a long while. He had always had perfect control over the structure, environment, and memories within his mental construction. What made this time so different? Gaaaaaahhhhh! He realized then that he was screaming aloud in his thoughts, frustrated beyond belief.
He spun around to try a new direction, and almost bumped straight into Mycroft. His gasp of surprise, and subsequent anger, was instantly burned to kindling at the look on his brother's face. Storm clouds couldn't convey the danger that Mycroft Holmes was exuding at that moment. And Sherlock sought to go around him, but the other man's hand shot out, catching him in the center of the chest and holding him fast. He felt his feet become wooden, as if they no longer obeyed him. His body was much the same, as if it was in rebellion against his brain's wishes for motion. He struggled against what was, essentially, himself…and he lost.
And once that realization set in, Mycroft smiled beneficently at him, but his hand remained firm on the detective's sternum. The storm clouds in his features were held at bay for now, and Mycroft inclined his head slightly to indicate the region behind him.
"You can't go there, Sherlock. Sorry. Rules are rules, even when they are self-imposed," the older man delivered the words in a matter-of-fact tone. And the younger Holmes fought to discern the meaning behind them.
"Self-imposed? I did this?" he asked incredulously.
"Mm, yes. Rather impressive, actually. Breaking a thing into its component of senses and scattering them. No single one of them will draw the memory out. All must be combined. It's remarkable, even for you, that you ever thought to do something so…..inhuman." He paused, a look of dark ponderance focused on the younger man. "Or is it?" He smiled then, letting his hand drop and turning to leave as Sherlock's mind raced at the implications here. This was his doing? Why? What could have possibly….
"Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice cut through his thoughts like a hot blade, and his head swung up to face his brother once more as the other man continued while walking away, "Do be careful, brother. I tried to deduce your heart once for you, remember? And you know the inconclusiveness of that study….." Sherlock tilted his head, remembering a day long gone, distant and cold; but he didn't get far down that path before Mycroft's lingering voice, barely audible anymore as he disappeared from view, drifted back at him, "Better get back now, Sherlock, and see about that thing I was just telling you to guard for…."
oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo
Jim had lain beside Sherlock for a good few minutes, just admiring the planes and angles artfully displayed in the flesh of his body. He reached a hand up and lightly touched each eyelid. No reaction. He ran his thumb across that cupid's bow. Still nothing. He could feel the thrill of this erotically naughty situation building inside himself. So he pushed up onto his side and then leaned down, planting his lips squarely where his thumb had just caressed. And though there was no response from the other man, still the violation of it gave him a tingling warmth that reached his toes. Was this what those pig clients felt as they had lain over him when he was little? A soft, yet firm, warm body, unresponsive but still present? It both disgusted and delighted him to be mimicking similar acts. He broke the one-sided kiss and studied those features once more. He had hated them once. Why? He smiled. Who cares?
He moved lower, to the chest, placing soft kisses across the clavicle. Then he spread the sheet further, allowing for greater access of the torso. But that wasn't his goal. No. He had seen the detective's torso many times before. Pale and lithe. Just the right combination of muscle and bone without seeming too thin. Delicious, yes. But it wasn't the objective. He moved the sheet further aside, working his way down the abdomen. At the lower portion, a light trailing of hairs led downward. And he followed, parting fabric as he went until he reached his destination.
He knelt between the recumbent detective's legs, having opened the sheet completely, exposing the entirety of Sherlock's body to the soft light of the chandelier. His hands each rested upon a long, firm, thigh. And he tightened his grip as a hot wave rolled over him, nearly burying his control. This was beyond intoxicating, beyond addiction, beyond…..anything the consulting criminal had ever experienced. He closed his eyes as he refocused himself, the hardness held against his lower abdomen by his pants doing nothing to help this effort. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes again, running his hands slowly up along the tops of the thighs, feeling the soft hairs under his fingertips.
Though mentally retreated into his mind palace, Sherlock's body was still here in the present. And it reacted in the manner of any stimulated male. Moriarty watched it happen with a kind of repressed desire, wanting to touch and taste, yet holding back on both. He desperately wanted to remain controlled and calm. Reaching out slowly, he slid one hand along the length of Sherlock, noting how it jumped just slightly, and he grinned. He bent closer, bringing his breath right up against the pulsing member, and he lightly stroked his finger up the side and back down, loving the way it responded.
Next thing he knew, he had taken the tip inside his mouth and was running his tongue around the head. Sherlock's breathing caught for a second at that, and he paused, waiting. When nothing further introduced itself, he continued, moving it an inch or so deeper, tasting more of the man he would never admit to being obsessed with out loud. He swallowed a bit as he tasted the precum that emerged, pleased with the success his experiment was having. His own arousal was aching by now, but he was still able to remain somewhat logical for the moment. Perhaps his hands did grip those creamy thighs just a bit harder than before, but that was just for leverage…right?
He smiled and once more moved a bit further down the length with his mouth, causing a little jolt from the entire body of the other man. He giggled softly and reached a hand up to grasp the base. But as he did, he felt the slackness of Sherlock's muscles change ever so slightly. He pulled back and replaced the sheets where they had been, laying back on his side beside the unruly curls. His hand shot out to smooth a few back as those crystalline eyes opened and turned to find his own.
"Welcome back. I was getting bored waiting for you," Jim said as he began to pull his hand back. But he found his wrist suddenly grasped in those long fingers. And Sherlock's eyes were on him. Oh, they were on him, over him, in him….. He shivered as those fingers ran softly down his forearm and up to his shoulder. Skin blazed with fiery sensation where the other man's touch had grazed. He watched intently, as the detective seemed to be doing some research of his own, making some decision... Though surely he must have realized his own aroused state by now…..
Sherlock's hand darted quickly behind his head, and the detective rolled sideways to bring their lips crashing together and his arms to Jim's waist. Surprise! It was both a fierce and determined gesture; meant as a test, a question, an opening…and Jim took it, kissing back as ferociously as was given to him for a minute before slowing it a bit and wondering at his luck. The wild haired man before him began to give a little, too, becoming less aggressive as Jim pulled away, tugging Sherlock's lower lip between his teeth as he did. The taller man's arms slid further around the criminal's waist and then tugged him closer unexpectedly, putting a small crack in Jim's carefully constructed control. The resulting expression on Jim's face was animalistic, yet cautionary…..dangerous.
Those deceitfully honest brown eyes bore into his own as they stared in mute examination of one another. Sherlock's eyes went to the other man's mouth, so tempting just to give in a bit more, go a little farther. It gave him a feeling of giddiness that bordered on nausea. Why was this so wrong? He still hadn't found a suitable explanation. And Moriarty seemed to sense the emerging acceptance in the detective, the intensity behind his gaze dimming somewhat, turning less controlling, less dominating…more seductive. And he smiled lazily, closing his eyes half-way and pulling Sherlock into a more gentle form of a kiss. And those long poet's fingers came up to rest behind Jim's head once more, entwining themselves in his soft hair. Those same confused feelings continued to well up even stronger from within the detective, though, as he fought to remain in control. The same questions returned over and over in circular thought patterns. What is this? Why is this forbidden? Yet there were no answers to be had except those passing between the lips of the world's only consulting criminal. And even those simple truths were trapped between their shared breaths; sealed, as it were, with a kiss.
He brought his arm up and out from behind Jim's head, and was about to reposition it elsewhere, when something caught his eye. JOHN. And his head felt as though ice water had been dumped over it, frozen shock racing along his nerves. All of his current emotions were quenched from him suddenly, and he went still in Jim's arms, who looked back at him questioningly. Sherlock rolled over and away, pulling the sheet more securely around himself as he did. He ran a hand through his hair, seeking desperately for why that had just happened; finding nothing…yet again. He sat up and then stood, almost stumbling as he sought out his bed. His eyes found Jim's once, and they were full of confusion and many many other emotions that he couldn't deal with right then, couldn't sort. The detective lay down on the bed, almost falling across it really, and turned over, saying only, "Goodnight, Jim."
The consulting criminal, still on the floor, stared in a shocked disbelief that was rapidly becoming anger. He stood, suddenly, hands clenching. The need for violence thrummed through his being. No one ever did this to James Moriarty! No one. Not anymore. When they tried, they…disappeared. He crossed to the nightstand and hefted the gun in his hand, turning its end over towards the detective's head. Sherlock….could disappear. He quickly checked to be sure the next pull on the trigger would end with a bang. And then he rested its barrel against the other man's temple. Sherlock gave no reaction to indicate awareness of current events, just lying there as if already dead. Jim's mind screamed at him to not take the rejection, to not allow such disobedience. His body was full of a different kind of fire now, as he stood glaring down at his peaceful nemesis. The need for blood was heady and powerful, a different, darker kind of addiction. But the screaming subsided a bit as the more philosophical part of his brain fought to the fore. His head tilted left, as if curious to see what his intemperate mind would do now. And new thoughts presented themselves as he did.
He had often wondered why he and Sherlock shared such an instantly intense, indivisible, and unbreakable mental attraction to each other. But as he continued to look down upon the man before him, he slowly felt an understanding take shape. And it both worried, angered, and excited him. For what were love and hate but opposite ends of the same emotion, the same spectrum? One so easily gravitated into the other, as evidenced by his actions this very night. So which was it? Love…..hate…..love…..hate…..love…..hate…..? It seemed to repeat with each beat of his heart, resonating within him. He shook his head clear, and let the gun fall back to his side. A problem with a solution for another night then…..and, perhaps…the solution to his final problem? The one he had sought for so long…. Another night.
With not much else to do, Jim stared at Sherlock's back for a long time. He glanced at his groin, grimacing at the still-hard proof of at least some level of attraction between them. Have to do something about that. Then his hand became more fully conscious of the cold metal it held, and his thoughts drifted to the other door man from earlier. He hadn't reacted as Jim would prefer his men to. He was just…too scared. Too slow. Not enough balls to even act like he wasn't terrified. And that was a potential breach as far as Jim was concerned when it came to lower classed minds than his. He glanced at the form on the bed. And Sherlock's. He sighed, thinking of the next day. Now, after the next few minutes, he'd have to find two replacements. He shrugged, Oh well, stepping around the insanity within the maze of the sheet fort. He clicked the light off as he went, leaving the detective in darkness once more…..just a different kind this time around.