A/N: Anyone still out there? LOL! That's ok. I do this as much for my own enjoyment as anything. But I do still like hearing from others so I know I'm at least not alone in the Jimlock world…
In a quiet, purposefully dimmed room about 2 hours away from the vulnerably evolving friendship between two mortal enemies, world affairs rose and fell neatly across a liquid crystal display. Its owner stared sightlessly through it, with nothing of what was being revealed affecting his blank façade. Assassinations, coups, political unrest, revolts, underground trafficking…none moved him. His thoughts were internalized and shifted through the sparse evidence of his brother's capture repeatedly, seeking always, finding never. Eyes reddened from the strain of prolonged time spent in darkness seemed to shine just a bit more than was natural. But perhaps it was the meager lighting, nothing deeper? Mycroft Holmes did not cry. He took control, he held it, and he always, always rejected feeling. Oft repeated to his little brother- caring is not an advantage- ran broken through his thoughts. Still true, he thought miserably. He reached over and checked his phone. No messages. A heavy sigh, and then, for the 25th time in just this month since Sherlock had been taken, he laid his head down in the cradle of his arms across the desk…and he slept, the monitor continuing its pointless updating of events that no longer mattered to him.
Across town, seated in a tatty arm chair positioned opposite from the one usually employed by its current occupant, an ex-army doctor stared into the dying flames of a neglected hearth. This had become a ritual for him, and he hated that. He would start back at the surgery tomorrow morning, unsure if he was ready, but certain he needed to do something. His sanity felt as shaky as the American economy. But he was doing no one any good at all with his current daily routine: Wake, eat, wait, sit in Sherlock's chair and check for anything new with Lestrade, stare across at his own chair, wait, eat again, drop in at NSY in case Lestrade was lying, wait, return home miserable, turn on the TV and don't watch it, wait, eat again, sit in Sherlock's chair again, wait, touch the detective's violin, sit on the other man's bed, wait, wonder what that stain on the floor was (again), wake up suddenly before falling forward onto the floor, wait, then finally climb the stairs to his room and pretend to sleep. His friend wouldn't like him like this; and that was the only thing pushing him into the clinic again. He felt he was admitting defeat and abandoning his best friend in doing so, and he closed his eyes at the thousandth recurrence of this fear. That's for tomorrow, nothing for today, he braved. Because for now, he sat in Sherlock's chair…and he waited.
The detective inspector leaned back into the chair at his desk. The normally organized and neat space a picture of epic catastrophe. His eyes alone knew the patterns and locations of the contents displayed so haphazardly. He had his own system of dealing with Sherlock's disappearance, and it involved much unclaimed overtime, self-deprivation of sleep, and the re-examination of everything concerning the detective's cases from the last two years back. If there was any thread that could lead back to Moriarty, no matter how miniscule, he meant to find it and follow it all the way through to the other man. Though Sherlock was obviously an adult and quite cognizant of his own choices, Lestrade still felt the depths of a fatherly pain stirring always within his chest. It was his fault for taking on Sherlock all those years ago when he had found the young man dirt-streaked and coked up wandering through a taped off crime scene. He smiled sadly at the memory. The taller man had been crazier than a turd taped to a door, but he had still managed to embarrass and discredit the entire police crew working that scene, including the DI himself. He exhaled as if it would restart his mind, reboot his hope, and flipped through the pages of the same report he had been holding for the last 30 minutes, this time determined to pay attention. But even when alert, the result was the same. Nothing.
Sherlock plonked along on the criminal's computer as the other man continued the strange behavior beside him. Peripherally, the detective was aware that Moriarty had obviously experienced some type of emotional/mental "thing" that had distressed him. And Sherlock had figured it was better to remain silent and let him work it through on his own. Interfering with someone as fucked up as Jim Moriarty was never going to win anyone any awards, unless it was the prize for quickest and stupidest way to shorten one's lifespan. He smiled as he closed the laptop. He hadn't really been doing much else than putting silly screen savers and icons on it just to bother the man curled on the floor with him.
He slid it away from himself and lay with his chin on the one arm he had free, stretched out belly down on the floor in a pinched dressing gown. The blanket he had placed to lay on kept the worst of the uncomfortable floor from his body, so he was relaxed enough to study his situation. The dangerous man beside him was breathing deeply, evenly, curled around Sherlock's palm. So very odd, he thought to himself. But then, that was why Jim was so fascinating to him. It was why they fit together so well. Moriarty was so…unpredictable. So brilliantly unstable. He was like a drug with no half-life, no end. A constant high, an endless fix.
The cutting from the other night had been…unexpected. No less so than the obvious delight Moriarty seemed to derive in mixing (and tasting!) their blood. He could still feel the sharp burn on his left breast, just under the collar bone. Absently, he touched it with his free hand, thinking again of how he felt to be permanently marked by James Moriarty. The letter 'M' would be engraved there on his flesh for years to come, judging by the depth, and possibly longer. And the need for Jim to do this puzzled Sherlock. Surely, there were easier…ah, but maybe not? Jim had obviously suffered much in his childhood. Perhaps this had led him to equate pain and sexual desire as the ultimate binding tools? He shook his head at his enemy's fallacy. The emotional warp and weft of this man beside him was baffling, even more so given that the detective himself was so completely inept at addressing things such as intimacy and -shudder- love.
One minute, he had been sure that Jim actually would rape him the other night, especially after the detective had almost done the same to him…or had at least made it seem that way. Because he was acting, Sherlock reminded himself. He was in control, even with the drug in his veins, and he had chosen to press Jim in such a manner. And in doing so, he had revealed a singular weak point in the criminal. Not apparent in normal interactions, no…but when pushed in an almost inconceivable manner. He had seen the cringe, the almost-defeat of someone who has been treated roughly in the past. He had already deduced as much concerning the man's history, but to see the degree to which it affected him, even still…it was actually a bit chilling to think of the things that might have been done to Jim that would actually make the madman himself shy away. Because what in all the world's imagining could possibly do that to James Bloody Moriarty?!
He put the thought out of his mind. For now, it didn't matter the cause. That was too distracting to dwell on. He needed real sleep, for once conceding that his transport was becoming slow and ungainly, especially due to the introduction of the drug in his system. He had rested in fits and jerks the night before. And prior to that…he couldn't remember. Disappointment in his mortal frailty made him sneer before he closed his eyes, his hand remaining clutched possessively by the other man. At least this way, I won't have to wonder where he is, what he's up to, he thought. But then, how am I supposed to attempt unconscious rejuvenation while essentially unclothed and prone on a very hard surface…? He sighed and let his mind drift. Hopefully he would stumble off into dreams eventually, despite the factors arrayed against it.
Sherlock awoke with a start, eyes squeezing closed tighter, and arms grasping reflexively to pull any available warmth closer to his chill skin, the gown having slid off his shoulders in his sleep. This caused a whuff of air to drift over his throat, which…didn't make much sense at all if his still-somewhat-lethargic mind was to be believed. He cracked a bleary eye open and immediately regretted it, closing it again. The windows of Jim's bedroom faced the rising sun. Who does that? he complained silently. He had apparently chosen to roll onto his back at some point in the night, and so was hit head on by the twinkling morning light. He raised his arms to cover his eyes…at least, he tried to. One was trapped.
He tested the arm in question, his right, tugging a large weight with it as he did. Ugh, what… his eyes opened and he glanced down…at the gently entwined form of a certain criminal mastermind. Jim's face was pressed against the edge of Sherlock's clavicle and throat, explaining the puff of air earlier. And the detective's right arm had been slipped beneath the other man and curled up the other side. He analyzed their positioning and concluded that there was no way to disengage and maintain the other man's slumber, unless Moriarty was a sodding deep sleeper, and so he settled for less tact.
"James!" The criminal hummed against Sherlock's neck, pulling closer. So the detective tried again.
"James! Up!" Deep sleeper then, he thought as the other man muttered something hushed into his skin, sending tingles through Sherlock's chest. And he was about to attempt a third try, when the man wrapped around him began to whisper.
"No. No, dearest. None of those for you. You can't just…." A sigh that sound often repeated. "There isn't enough room for one. Yes. Yes. I will. And lots of it. Yes. All kinds. Mhmm, from the special store with the funny man. I bet that…" Sherlock continued listening, riveted to the strange one-sided conversation. Dreams did different things to different people, but now, at this moment, Sherlock Holmes could think of nothing funnier than laying here listening to James Moriarty sound like a scolding parent. Probably telling off one of his drug mules, he figured, though the speech seemed a bit mild for that. A few other gems fell from the other man's lips, and Sherlock actually let slip an audible laugh at one point, swallowing it back as the man he held began to stir from the depths he had been wading in. Sherlock closed his eyes in an effort to feign his own sleeping pattern, respirations slowing down and slackness overtaking his muscles.
He knew the other man was awake now by the pattern of his inspiration and the slightly increased tempo of the heartbeat the detective could feel against his own skin. And it seemed the criminal was just as confused as he had been upon first waking. The shorter man initially froze, then relaxed and seemed to be thinking, considering. He lay like that for what Sherlock deemed as a very long time indeed. What is he about…? the detective had began to wonder as Jim finally moved. There was light pressure at the hollow of Sherlock's throat, and then the other man pulled back and got unsteadily to his feet, walking for the door.
Sherlock listened intently as the footsteps faded into another part of the master suite. He could hear the other man rummaging around in a drawer before the sounds of approach occurred and Jim reentered the room. The soft padding of socks on wood ceased about two feet from where the detective's legs were extended, and he strained to deduce what was going on without seeming too cognizant of his surroundings.
"Sherlock." A pause. "Sherlock, I know you're awake." Damn, he gave in and opened his eyes to the barrel of a gun pointing down at his chest. A fiery thread of fear shot through him. This wasn't exactly what he had expected to find... The criminal smiled down at him, obviously having read his mind. The gun raised a few inches, and the finger tightened on the trigger as they faced off: one in sleep-rumpled clothing, the other with a dressing gown barely hanging on. The finger moved, the trigger deployed, the gun fired…and a stream of water shot out and hit Sherlock dead in the face.
Jim smirked as the detective wiped cold water from his face, the exposed skin prickling with the sensation of the gun's ammunition running over it. And the retaliatory glare was to die for. But Jim merely flipped the gun in his hand, catching it and tossing it behind himself where it clattered against a wall. Hands on his hips, he addressed the now fully awake detective.
"Get cleaned up. We've got a long day ahead of us, Sherlock. Bank in the morning; and a party tonight. Must look our best!" Jim sang out as he retreated to the other room again. And Sherlock sat on the floor bewildered, once again, by the sheer strangeness of everything. It didn't last long, though, as the detective figured he had always been quite a bit odd on his own anyway. So he stood and made his way to the same adjoining room thinking he really should avoid his habit of sleeping in only pants whilst residing here. Even with the dressing gown, he felt a bit…exposed. Too many awkward things had the potential for occurring when clad thusly. Nothing for it right now, though.
He looked left and right, not finding the criminal in the large sitting area of the suite, and so he walked to the next door that seemed to lead on back into the set of rooms rather than away. And as he approached, he heard running water, which slowed him for but a moment before he bulled ahead again. Thinking himself all the more strange for being timid about the sound of water running but not particularly cautious about waking up wrapped in madman, he entered the large bathing area.
Quite decadent, this home's previous owner had been. And Sherlock was sure it suited Moriarty's fastidious nature just fine. The beautiful rose hued marble flooring spread beneath his feet to cover the entire room. And speaking of the room, it appeared as large, if not larger, than 221B. Making a face at the waste of space on a room dedicated to defection and exfoliation, he pointedly ignored the towel and cloth obviously set out for him and walked to the large counter with its sink, mirror, and toiletries. He stared at himself briefly in the mirror and ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the rasp of two days' worth of stubble. Wretched.
Looking around, he located a razor, new in the box, along with other small items that told him exactly how thoroughly Moriarty had studied him, knew his routine. He decided not to care, as it didn't really help anything anyway, and he opened the packaging on the razor while running hot water and splashing it around on his face; again, pointedly ignoring Jim in the shower, who had begun to alternately hum and sing a silly Irish tune about a drunken maid who had robbed a bank. He did, however, notice with something resembling amusement the Hello Kitty toothbrush on the side of the counter…in a matching cup, no less!
Sherlock applied the foamy cream and began to draw the blade along his skin with a practiced hand. He abhorred sloppiness, and so he set to making amends for the last day's shoddy appearance. So focused and absorbed was he on the task at hand that he never noticed the water turn off and the criminal approach him.
Sherlock had just pulled the blade away to run under the water when a hand swept around from behind and snatched it away from him. He placed both hands on the counter in front of him, determined not to engage in whatever silly notion had taken flight now in his captor's mind. Sherlock could never figure whether he was still quite angry or resentful at having been abducted. In fact, most of the time he felt nothing at all towards the events leading up to his current circumstances. It just was.
But sometimes…just sometimes, mind…he felt something else. A difference in his internal climate perhaps. An altering of his compass needle. And while this should have alarmed him greatly, he found it did not. Oh, it was still bothersome, no doubt of that. And he never stopped questioning Jim's motivations, never would. But he couldn't help but continue to wonder over how things had come to be this way, with him so comfortable in this murderer's company. The other part of him, though…it was intrigued by this puzzle, this riddle, this challenge. And if there was ever one thing that Sherlock Holmes loved, it was challenges.
He watched as the criminal reached up and turned his face with a gentle pressure under Sherlock's jaw. Then he tilted the detective's head up, first lightly running a finger down the side of the long column of exposed throat before bringing the blade up. It slid against his skin with a slight rasp as it began. It was an odd sensation, someone else shaving him. Not unpleasant, just different. The repetition was soothing, calming. A gentle drag down his throat, followed by an interrupted water stream, and the tap-tap of the blade against the counter before once more returning for another stroke. And the knowledge of who was doing it, holding a blade against his skin that could end his life in very short order, gave Sherlock a kind of reckless feeling low in his belly. Jim smiled in a secretive way, not meeting his eyes, as if he had plucked the thought from the air around the detective's head.
Jim was actually very good at this, Sherlock found himself considering. And all in all, the entire thing was relaxing in its own way. Steam from the shower, and from the heated water pouring from the faucet, created an ethereal dimension to their activity. Every move was muted, softened. Sounds were dulled, and the world moved at a slower pace. Somewhere deep and unknown to his conscious mind, a thread of control was unraveling.
When Jim finished, he ran a hand over his work, nodding, then set the razor down and stared searchingly into the cerulean eyes that studied him in return. He decided something, apparently, and turned the spigot off before turning away. A last glance at Sherlock before Jim headed for his wardrobe left the detective feeling unbalanced. But he shook it off quickly and decided, again, to ignore the qualms he had. For the foreseeable future, this was his life, his occupation. Adapting could only benefit him. And really, he found he didn't at all mind. So he turned for the shower, thinking over the events to come as the hot water danced over his skin.
Now, a bank, then a party. No, wait…what? Where in bloody hell does James Moriarty go for a party?