Jim looked on with a sort of malicious glee as Dr. Watson was led from the room. Any recent or potential future encounters with Jim's younger sibling were blown away under the sheer giddy force of his…his…was that…happiness? Yes! His mind spun. Pleasure, pure and simple, almost childlike in its fits of intensity, rushed through his veins. Was this what it was like to be high? Surely not, he rethought as he looked up into the drugged and lazy-lidded eyes of Sherlock Holmes, so close to his own right now that he could pick out each separate hue from the mix that comprised those curious irises. However, he could definitely see how this could become addicting, this…feeling…this…he wasn't sure. Better to wait, classify later. For now, he chose to just immerse himself in the afterglow of this small accomplishment, this initial coup. After all, he had just touched the detective in a most decidedly intimate and obvious manner (in front of John Watson no less!), and the taller man had made no move to escape, no motions or indications of discomfort… He was winning! Oh, he was winning, and it was as if his soul had caught fire and had burned through the man held tightly against him, mixing their ashes together into a gray snowstorm of carbon deposits.
True, the detective was obviously high, not in his right mind, and perhaps a bit suggestible…but still, the rest would follow. Drugs merely lowered the inhibitions so that one could do what one truly wished but normally held back on, right? He thought so, though Jim himself had never experimented with narcotics personally. The thought of losing himself in the cavernous vaults of his own mind had an opposite effect on him than it did on Sherlock. Where Sherlock found clarity and a strange sort of peace, Jim found himself trapped and a victim of his own contained nightmares. But this…this was something addicting and not at all mentally restricting. An intake of air, and his buoyant feelings were suddenly interrupted by a name, slowly enunciated as if only half considered before erupting into spoken words.
"James…Aeden…O'Dorchaidhe…Moriarty." The name rumbled forth from deep within Sherlock's chest, spoken in a voice plucked straight from the criminal's oft disturbed slumbers. Jim's shocked eyes found those of the detective, his body freezing up as goosebumps broke out along every inch of him. For the first time in over fifteen years, he had heard his full name spoken aloud. And his outer chills turned inwards, lodging that discomfort solidly within his gut. But the baritone speech continued, the vibrations that originated within the taller man's torso shooting straight through the flesh and bone of Jim's own chest, seeking his soul's familiar echo. "Hmmm, yes. James: supplanter. Aeden: born of fire. O'Dorchaidhe: descended of the dark one….." A long, considerate pause at that last comment, then, "Moriarty: the navigator." And the voice fell silent once more.
The detective hung liquid and flexible in Jim's arms, and the criminal fought his initial urge to shove him away, hurt him, burn him….. His heart pounded beneath his sternum. He had fought for so long to separate himself from his family, both dropping the middle names of his historic clan and opting to use Jim instead of James. He had sought a new home. Had found a new life. Had made himself anew. But they still crept into his life like a poison, a virus never shed. Where had the man learned this? His thoughts jumped back to John's insinuation of Sherlock's computer skills. Surely that was the answer? The detective had just been doing what he always did? Shut up, Jim screamed internally, James hasn't been here; he doesn't know.
His gaze swept Sherlock's frame, ascertaining that the man he held had not been in contact with the one other person in the world whom Jim knew could still ruin his plans. But still, it rankled the criminal that this level of concern was being raised at the mere mention of his own name. And in that briefest minute, he hated the detective for it, for causing this, whether the fault lay true or not. Jim tensed as he fought within himself. The control he prized so highly almost slipping at the thought that just mere inches away lay the lifesource of his greatest enemy. So easy to just reach out, snuff the inner fire from within the detective's eyes, end this farce of a game….
His hands inched upwards, sliding along the bare arms and torso of the detective so helpless within his grasp. He slid the pad of one thumb across the pulsating beat of the carotid in the side of Sherlock's neck, captured by the thought of how easily life could be ended, the beat stilled. He would be able to see the life flee those jeweled kaleidoscope eyes. His fingers had just begun to apply pressure when the vision of another set of eyes, in another time, flashed before him, frightened and pleading. And Jim's breath drew in sharply at the sight, his hands relinquishing their potentially deadly hold instantly, and he stepped away from the taller man quickly, causing the detective to stumble a bit.
Sherlock seemed not to notice initially, lost within the shifting minefield of the effects of his drug of choice. But as before, the influences of the drug on his mind and body were alternating, rotating, seasonal…and his eyes went from mortar dull to a blasting emerald intensity within seconds, his limbs straightening and his gaze seeking Moriarty as the other man watched him warily, ghosts of some other place and time receding still within the criminal's awareness. And so, Jim did not notice the shift until it reached its potential and Sherlock began to move.
The detective closed the distance between them swiftly, slipping one arm around and down Jim's waist as the other went high for control of his head and neck. And Jim's surprise was completed in the next few seconds as, with but a fleeting moment of thought, a mere narrowing of the eyes, Sherlock brought his mouth against the criminal's own, seeking entrance in a most urgent and decisive manner, pressing in without apology. Such was the shorter man's shock, however, that he was unable to collect even the most meager of nerve impulses together in order to respond to this…whatever it was. But that did not deter the detective, who merely moved his mouth down Moriarty's jawline and onto his neck, drawing something between a yelp and a sigh forth from his mouth. Jim's hands jumped to the shoulders of his oral invader, fingers digging hard into pale flesh.
But though his body seemed preoccupied, Jim's thoughts turned to the reasoning behind this assault. Much as he may wish it were otherwise, the criminal had to admit that Sherlock's inebriated body was probably acting of its own volition, while the man behind the encasing of flesh and bone was probably blissfully unaware of his actions at present. No true victory then. At least, not one to let go too far. And so his arms ceased their insistent pull on the detective, and his fingers loosened a bit, as he began to push away from the other man, meaning to do so before he forgot why exactly he was denying himself such release. It felt…odd; out of character for him to not simply take what he wanted.
The act of sexual congress had held very little mystery or sacredness to it. Not surprising, given his…upbringing. He had been more knowledgeable at eight years of age than those fifteen years his senior. Sex was a duty, bought and sold. His young flesh paid for with paltry fees…and sometimes not at all, if it was a friend of his father's. No, intercourse of any kind was viewed with either disdain or utility. And it undoubtedly held no pleasure in it. For certain, at present, he was a virile young male of 32, and particular bodily functions did occur at times. However, those would either be subjected to his utmost scorn until brought back under control, or…dealt with, quickly, and with a machinelike efficiency.
Acts of a sexual nature, even those of just general attraction such as flirting or courting, fell flat with the criminal. He saw them as tools to be used, nothing more. His touch and caressing of Sherlock in front of John had been more about a show of power than any real emotional attachment to the lustful acts themselves. Much as rapists dominate and steal power from their victims through forced sexual encounters, so too did Jim Moriarty believe of such acts. If he had sex with Sherlock, it would not be about things as unreliable and transient as feelings, sentiment…it would be about subjugation, domination, a final piece of his enemy he had brought low before himself. Nothing more. Ever. That lesson had been ground into his marrow years ago, and remained there as outward facing nails that ripped and tore at his soul. He blinked as those other eyes floated within his mind's visual field once more. There and gone.
His moment of internal self-evaluation as he had pushed the detective away seemed to be taken the wrong way by the taller man who suddenly set his feet and refused to back away any farther. Jim met the churning sea foam green eyes and took in the body language. Feet set, knees slowly bending, flexing. Torso turning slightly. Head lowered just a bit. Jim analyzed each miniscule detail… What? Oh. He's going to… "Ooommph!" came the rush of air from his mouth as Sherlock lunged for him, seizing hold of his biceps and swinging him down onto his back on the pool table.
And thusly did Moriarty find himself thoroughly pinned by one Sherlock Holmes. Drug. It's the drug, Jim thought out quickly, logically. Its ebb and flow in his system makes him as emotionally volatile as a three year old; causes bursts of activity and lethargy. He wriggled a second, testing the strength of the detective's grip. And arousal, Jim added to the list as he began to notice every single point of contact they shared, especially one…. But his examination found no weak points in the grip Sherlock held him in, and so he tried to go limp and placid in order to slide downwards a bit, as his backside was only halfway on the table at the moment. But no, the once semi-conscious man above him was now fully in the waking world and held him firm. Damn.
Abruptly, Sherlock dipped his head down to slowly lick along the line of the criminal's neck, finishing with a nip that was on the verge of hurting, and finally speaking after releasing the tender bit of skin.
"You push me away….. But isn't this what you've been wanting?" the detective punctuated his last words with a hard thrust of his hips, driving the shorter man's legs and pelvis painfully down into the table's surface. But he gave Jim no time to reply, sealing their mouths together fiercely and biting at the cut on the criminal's lower lip. Jim groaned in both pain…and something else. But he couldn't pull away with his lip between the teeth of the other man. How embarrassingly would that end? He tasted blood, faint and bitter, and belatedly realized that Sherlock was now sucking at the rebleeding crease, running his tongue over it repeatedly.
Jim's mind became a tilt-a-whirl of conflicting pleasure and want, disgust and panic. As if his mind and body were at war with what was the required reaction in this situation. He had never felt anything of this intensity warring within himself before, had no experience to draw from, and he found his body beginning and ending actions within the same neural impulse. Like his brain was short-circuited. He struggled mightily to regain some semblance of control, fingers flexing and clawing at the felt tabletop, his steel trap mind rusting beneath the physical assault of the senses.
But then Sherlock finally ceased his vampiric assault, and James heard the barely audible and huskily whispered word, "Mine," as the other man moved back down to his throat. Jim's world fell apart…and his body won out as he grabbed frantically at the detective's waist, attempting to pull him closer, to pull him through his own skin. Finding no easy success there due to their positioning, he freed his arms of the other man's grip, clutching at Sherlock's hair to yank the darkly curled head back up, halting the hot tongue's teasing progression along Jim's clavicle.
But before their lips entwined once more, the detective freed the hold Jim had in his hair and slammed the criminal's wrists down hard against the pool table over his head, sending a jolt of something that was no longer pleasure through Jim's body. And he felt the situation shift, subtly. Trapped. He was trapped. And Moriarty looked up into the darkening eyes of the man above him and felt a cold stab of fear snake through him. It settled within the fore of his mind, making his heart pound harder than any amount of lust or excitement could ever account for. He began to sweat, cold and horrid, as the taller man whispered harshly once more, deep and just on the edge of threatening.
"Yes…this is what you wanted all along, James. Not just my mind, but my body as well." The speech was slurred enough that it needed a moment for translation. But the fiercely uttered statement was underscored by yet another thrust, and Jim felt his body pressed ever more firmly down onto the cold surface underneath him. No need to translate, then; the meaning was quite clear. It was becoming difficult to pull in air with how weighed down Jim was, and with his arms above his head. With dismay, he felt his mind begin to seek escape in the fashion of his youth, through a cognitive exodus, conscious thoughts growing faint at the edges.
But Jim didn't want that kind of submissive escapism any longer, and so he fought it as he wrestled his attacker. No, he didn't want this reaction at all, nor the others that followed. Post traumatic stress was not unknown to him. But the knowing made it no easier to control the rising tide of panic that surged through him, and he flailed and twisted and writhed in response to it all, his adrenal glands kicking out at maximum. Those efforts gained him little but joint strain, and he attempted pulling his arms downwards but was blocked by the strength holding them captive. So he shifted his spine around, freeing one leg and then managing to knee Sherlock in the side, once, twice…there! The other man loosened his grip on Moriarty's wrists, and Jim was able to roll and shove the taller man from over himself in one sudden galvanization of motion. And as Sherlock tumbled gracelessly to the side and onto the floor, Jim pushed off of the pool table and made to get away from this situation and all it entailed psychologically, intent on returning with the blackest of murder in his breast. But then, he found he couldn't leave.
Perhaps part of the reason he could not seem to physically remove himself was a deep rooted, dark fantasy? Had the repeated abuses of his early years imprinted a sick and twisted enigmatic sexual desire within his identity? Much as some people desired to be overpowered and then roughly taken, perhaps so, too, did this potential escapee…? Or perhaps he thought he could now reason with the drugged man; outthink him? Or maybe, now that he was fully aware of the violent potential of the chemical's effects on Sherlock, he felt more secure and able to handle the situation? Or…..perhaps it was simply the fingers wrapped tightly about his ankle? Yes, that was most definitely it. Shit.
Jim felt himself falling and twisted sideways, landing outstretched away from the taller man, who suddenly released his leg. The criminal quickly flipped over to present his arms in defense, deducing the reason for being let go, as Sherlock crashed on top of him. The detective's weight brought with it a resurgence of internal horror as Jim realized that he could lose this fight, and easily. His limbs began to rebel against cooperating under the sheer press of denial that groaned within his skull. They began to feel leaden and stiff; and Sherlock got ever closer, crawling his way up the last inches of Jim's torso, the press of his long body sending electrical jolts of repulsion through the criminal's abdomen.
The shorter man closed his eyes for a second, trying to block out the sight of someone looming over him, just as others had in the past. He tried to regain a center for his thoughts as he deprived his fear of the visual source of sensory input; and the detective moved his face a little lower and bit down on Moriarty's suit clad shoulder. The shorter man grimaced. With any luck, the drug would cause certain dysfunctional side effects that would turn things in his favor before this went much further. Although, from what he could tell so far, that didn't seem to be the case. His stomach tossed like the North Sea, bringing wave upon wave of nausea and a burning pressure within. Not. This. Not. Again. Never. This feeling of helplessness, of complete loss of control, had been locked away with his childhood.He turned his head violently away from the detective, seeking any form of reprieve from the onslaught of memories that held him captive. But his body remained in its state of semi-paralysis, uncooperative and jerky.
Sherlock's tongue lathed across his clavicle and over to the acromion process, with the taller man ripping Jim's shirt in the course of seeking out additional flesh. The criminal's breathing was stuttered in such a fashion that someone could easily mistake it for the patterns of passion, though it was anything but. His limbs continued to be mostly unresponsive, making him an easy conquest for the persistent man on top of him. But his mind began to fill with clearer thoughts as his growing animosity finally gained ground over his repressed fears. He would kill Sherlock, Jim confirmed to himself. After this, when the detective was…finished…Jim would slaughter him with his bare hands. No more holding back. No more wait and see. No one would ever own Jim Moriarty in that way again and live to remember it. Blood. There will be blood. His body shivered more violently. Everywhere. His vision blazed with red highlights and tones as he contemplated the myriad ways he could kill a person with nothing but fingers and teeth. Somewhere in his periphery, there was possibly a hitch in the progression of Sherlock's mouth. He dimly registered it through the haze of fury, like so much barbed wire being pulled through his bowels, but then…
Suddenly, Jim's awareness was complete once more as he realized that something had changed. The other man's weight was still across him, and the hands remained about his wrists. But the mouth that seconds ago seemed to be searching for a way to pull his soul through his epidermis had gone slack. Hot breath puffed slowly, deeply, across his chest. And he recognized what was happening with relief, welcoming it breathlessly. His fear receded somewhat into the corners of his awareness as he looked down and saw the detective with eyes closed, jaw slackened, and drool pooling on Jim's own pallid skin. One side of the criminal's mouth twisted up into a sneer of disgust as he disentangled his wrists from the other man's grip and tested the veracity of the detective's sudden slumberous condition. A series of a few well timed shifts and movements brought no response, and also served to almost completely banish the worst of the PTSD. It receded quickly, like waves along the shore, leaving him more angered at himself than anything for letting his past override his own brilliance. It had made a situation that he may have otherwise handled or taken advantage of into a catastrophe. He snorted in disdain at his own weakness, determined to ignore it as best he could. And as a final test of Sherlock's unconscious state, Jim reached out tentatively… and boinged a curl, with no answering reaction. Just for spite, he boinged it again. So there.
Once the calm had returned to his mind, Jim also found himself not fearing but fascinated by the potential for violence in Sherlock, now self-evident from the man's own actions against him. Had Jim's own mind not been in the ridiculous throws of psychological imprisonment, then he might have recognized it sooner. Moriarty had always suspected that Sherlock's inner nature was much darker than he let on. Yes, the attack had been a product of the diseased state of a drugged mind, but even a stone cold drunkard would speak a grain of truth at times. So, too, did he now see Sherlock's latent and vicious passion, never allowed within the realm of conscious thinking. The idea spiraled up and pushed the criminal's thoughts on to the possibility of what could be unleashed, untethered. And looking down at the detective's features now, he thought that perhaps Doctor Watson's suspicions had been correct. Jim had interpreted the doctor's thoughts, clear as day, when John had confronted Sherlock earlier. He thinks we're the same; or something like it… And the thought did have a type of pleasantness about it. Sherlock Holmes. Like me. He smiled as he slowly extricated himself and softly left the room. Now that he thought on it, he didn't blame the wild haired man sprawled on the game room floor for his actions and assault. No. After all, hadn't Jim himself been encouraging just such behavior…but perhaps with the idea of less physicality being directed at his person? And so, the puzzle then, was how to bring more of this violent potential out in the open? Wonderful. Magnificent. Delicious. There wasn't a sound as he exited the room, swallowed up by the direction of his thoughts.
He passed by several doorways and made multiple turns, body on auto pilot. Left, left, right, left, quick right. Ah, here. He crossed through a somewhat plain and serviceable office and stopped at the desk. He bent to the lower drawers and pulled out a…gift. Stolen, yes, but a gift now. Leaving the drawer hanging open, he then left the room and proceeded towards an area that seemed a kitchen-turned-lab. His underlings did need space to brew their weapons of choice, be they narcotics or explosives. And he walked to one of the coolers, passing into it and selecting from its shelves as if he were simply at the Tesco. The thought made him chuckle to himself as a memory rose up of the last time he'd actually been in one of those public shopping arenas. Horrid places, especially the self-check machines, he shuddered. The last time he'd been in one had ended with him pulling his gun and firing into the screen of the monstrous talking thing. Pandemonium ensued directly after as he had grabbed his bags and walked out as though nothing untoward had occurred. It was decided shortly thereafter, unanimously, that he should no longer subject himself to the mundane business of shopping.
He stepped into the long hallway outside of the make-shift drug lab, checking his coat pocket for his knife. And…yes, there it was. He flicked its blade out, cold and shining; just in case "negotiations" and gift-giving didn't go as planned. He was still livid over letting his emotional and psychological hang-ups of the past dictate his body's reactions in the present, causing him to miss opportunities. But he hoped to catch the detective still somewhat under the drug's effects so as to capitalize on the magnetic pull they often found between themselves. He shifted his offering to the other hand as he folded the knife and placed it back in his pocket. One way or another, he would have Sherlock Holmes. Take him, mold him…by whatever means necessary. Jim had left his mark everywhere else in the world, but none of it had been any kind of a challenge. Yet here, in this mystery of a human man, he had discovered a challenge worthy of study. And his mark on this one…..would be everlasting.