FIFTEEN YEARS EARLIER - continuation.
Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, squinting in the dim lighting.
Where was he?
He frowned as he tried to think back to what he remembered last.
The library; people; a drug deal. Ah, Jim Moriarty.
He was at Jim's place. He rolled his stiff shoulders and experimentally flexed his fingers, trying to regain the feeling in his body.
"Welcome back, sweetie." Jim's Irish tones, smooth as silk, whispered in his ear. Sherlock turned his head towards the hushed sound.
"What happened?" Sherlock asked. He remembered talking and Jim approaching him but couldn't recall anything that had happened after that.
"Seems you don't keep your sweet self in very good shape, Sherlock." Jim started, sliding a hand under Sherlock's back and aiding him into a sitting position. "When did you last eat something? Anything?"
Sherlock closed his eyes and thought back. He hadn't eaten that day or possibly the one previously. Maybe longer.
"Not sure." he eventually settled on replying. "I don't tend to..." he paused, realising the ridiculousness of what he was about to say, "I don't eat much."
Jim nodded. "That does explain the extreme reaction to the alcohol then." he passed a glass of water over and Sherlock downed it thirstily.
Right, yes. Sherlock remembered the drink now. After they had drunk tea and talked, they had shared a drink. Even Sherlock knew that expensive alcohol and an empty stomach were a bad combination.
"Never mind, Sherly." Jim gave a jovial elbow in the ribs as he dropped in the nickname. "I have something that will pick you right back up again. You will love this!"
He sounded excited as he began buzzing around the room, moving and arranging things.
Jim checked that the door was locked, he closed the heavy red velvet curtains, and, grabbing a lighter, he set about lighting the exotic display of deep purple candles in the ornate candle holder.
As he dimmed the main room lights, the flames began to flicker and dance, casting a shadowy glow across the room.
It was mesmerising.
Jim nodded, noticing Sherlock's reaction. "Told you it was beautiful", he reminded, "and what comes next it just the icing on the cake."
He sat himself next to Sherlock on the sofa and slid a wooden box out from underneath.
"I used to suffer like you", he began, opening the lid and setting out objects which, while he had never used in person, Sherlock knew quite well what they were, "Mind racing; never stops. It's an affliction of genius, my Father says. But this", he pointed to the box and its contents, "this will make everything better. It will fix this... our problem."
Sherlock pondered a moment. Maybe this was what he was missing in his life. Something to help him escape. A relief from it all.
As Jim prepared the drug, Sherlock felt himself relax and, by the time Jim was tying the tourniquet, his breaths were coming short and fast in anticipation.
"Relax, sweetie." The soft Irish tones hummed as Jim slowly ran his fingers along Sherlock's arms, up his neck and cupped his cheek gently.
Sherlock lay back against the sofa, and Jim watched closely as a pale blue vein popped up willingly against fragile alabaster skin.
"Beautiful indeed", he whispered in Sherlock's ear as he slipped the prepared needle into his arm.
Sherlock gasped, his chest heaving up.
A truly magnificent sight, all stretched out and pale, pupils dark with desire and want.
Jim bit his bottom lip as the drug flowed through the young Holmes.
THREE DAYS LATER.
"Really, Sherly. I am not a charity."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the nickname the Irishman gave him. He had come to Jim hoping for more relief. The past few days had been difficult for Sherlock. While his studies didn't prove a particular challenge for him, he was finding it very hard to get the memory of that euphoric escape out of his head.
"I have cash." Sherlock responded, sitting himself down on the sofa in Jim's room. "How much?"
Jim chuckled.
"Oh Sherly", he began, "it's not about the money."
He sat himself down next to Sherlock, slowly sliding a hand onto the Holmes' thigh. Sherlock's breath caught at the unexpected move, not sure how to respond.
The Irishman leaned across to Sherlock, lifting his other hand to his cheek and turning it to face him.
As Sherlock's eyes met his, Jim watched as his pupils blew wide and dark.
"Have you ever..." Jim paused, watching the rapid rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, "Have you ever been with a man before, Sherlock?" he purred, seductively.
"Umm, no... I... " Sherlock's mouth suddenly went dry as he tried to respond. "I confess I have no intimate experience of any kind." he finally confessed.
He had never given much thought to carnal relations with anybody. His body was merely transport for his mind, and the thought of pleasuring it seemed... boring.
His mind was his priority. Sherlock needed to control his mind, and that meant that Sherlock needed, occasionally, to release himself from it.
If that meant sacrificing his body, so be it.
It was clear that Jim Moriarty had plans for Sherlock and, if those plans ultimately meant that Sherlock got the mind relief that he needed, then what was the problem?
And so it went on for several years.
Sherlock and Jim.
Friends; lovers; junkies.
Brought together by genius and a desperate need to escape.