Warning - Slash. Possibly graphic.
Sherlock's cloudy eyes fluttered open slowly, his head lifting momentarily before lolling back to the side, his neck seeming unable to hold his head up on his shoulders. His mind caught up extremely slowly, much to his annoyance, and soon the blurred nothingness before him began to take shape. The room he was in was quite empty, every wall consistently white with no marks of imperfection laid upon their smooth surface, apart from the door on the wall directly across from him. The roof, he noticed, matched completely, with just one small light bulb screwed in to the ceiling. The ground was a cold, tiled azure, immaculate, as everything in the room seemed to be. Across from him there was a single silver chair which looked entirely out of place on its own. Other than that, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Nothing except himself, the white room with its bright light and shocking blue floor, and a single vacant chair.
There was the faint, familiar smell of John on his shirt, but it was heavily masked by something else. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on.
Think. Think. He told himself, but his mind was still struggling to work as fast as it should be.
He had been drugged, obviously. And quite heavily, considering how long it was taking for him to regain proper use of his brain.
Focus. Think. He continued to tell himself with growing frustration.
The scent was definitely familiar, but not common.
The scent of somebody with a lot of money, and quite exquisite taste. Definitely Ralph Lauren. Polo Blue. But who? Think. Think.
And then it dawned on him. He wasn't sure if it was just because it was blatantly obvious, or if it was because his mind was regaining speed, but suddenly he knew exactly what the smell was.
"Moriarty" he choked out in what was barely a whisper, his dry throat suddenly silently screaming in agony.
Sherlock attempted to pull himself away from the wall, but he budged nowhere. He sucked in a sharp breath, biting inside his lip to stop him from crying out in pain as his restraints dug into his skin. The warm, wet feel of blood trickled down his hands from his wrists, sending icy chills down his spine. He shut his eyes tight, clenching his jaw as he made an attempt to free his hands, but the sharp plastic around his wrists continued to dig further into his flesh until it unrealistically felt as though his hands were going to be sliced off. Breathing heavily, he rested his head back against the wall.
"There's no use struggling, Sherlock" came an all too familiar sing-song Irish accent from behind the white door opposite Sherlock.
He composed himself, keeping a nonchalant look on his face, almost as though he were bored. He wasn't bored at all, however. His insides were alive with the idea of new danger, a new puzzle and a new adventure.
The door swung open, and Moriarty entered, pushing a TV stand in front of him as he went, a look of childlike glee on his face.
"Oh, you needn't look so bored, Sherlock. Come now. We all know this is what you live for, isn't it? Those moments where you could die, but you feel oh so alive. Those moments where there's so many things unanswered, and you get to work them all out. But I think you already know why we're here, don't you Sherlock? You would have already worked it out."
A hint of confusion darted momentarily across Sherlock's features. Any normal person wouldn't have even noticed, but nothing slipped past Moriarty's eyes.
"You don't know? My my, Sherlock. You certainly know how to disappoint." He generally sounded disappointed as he lightly propped himself against the stand, cocking his hip to the side slightly. "I'll give you a moment. I must admit, I went a little overboard with the doseage. Take your time. There's no rush"
Sherlock's insides bubbled with anger at being spoken to like a child, as though he was barely worth Moriarty's time. He forced his mind to concentrate, ignoring the exhaustion that was lingering in the back of his mind.
He's got you where you can't escape, but why? Why this time? No game, no chase, no fun. Just here and now. But why? It's elegant, as is everything with Moriarty. But it's plain. It's dull. It's straight to the point. But what is the point? And where was John? John…
Sherlock knew his concern must have shown on his face, because Moriarty was nodding, his acid smile growing. The gleaming madness in his eyes was off-putting, so he cast his eyes downwards, concentrating again.
John. John and I. We're viewed as one single entity. One great force that no one can destroy. Moriarty see's it that way. "I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart." But he hadn't. "I will burn the heart out of you." But I don't have a heart. John has the heart. That's what makes me so brilliant. Hearts get in the way. Caring distorts the facts. Emotions conceal evidence and change the image of reality. I can see the facts. I can see reality. I don't have a heart. That's why John and I work so well together. He's the heart.
An unfamiliar feeling consumed him. A feeling he couldn't describe as his cold, grey eyes slowly met Moriarty's dark, eager ones.
"Really, I can see why you wouldn't want to understand. You're so good, Sherlock. So good. And you could be better, and I think you know that all too well. That's why it took you so long, isn't it? You ignored the facts because they didn't suit you."
Moriarty's voice was cold and cruel, piercing Sherlock, 'causing his skin to crawl. The hard truth of his words washed over him like a wave, crashing him hard against the shore, forcing him to the conclusion he didn't want to reach.
John. John is my heart. He thought to himself, realising the terrifying truth.
The truth, of course, had always been in the back of Sherlock's mind, from the very minute Moriarty accused him of having a heart. And that's what it had felt like. An accusation. Something he should feel ashamed of. And so he pushed the new found data out of his mind, like every other piece of irrelevant information. Except this was relevant. This was very relevant.
"You can talk, my dear. I so long to hear the deep growl of your voice" Moriarty teased, raising his eyebrows as his playful tone returned.
"Where's John?" Sherlock demanded, hoping he didn't sound as desperate as he suddenly felt.
Caring, worry, love. All these feelings were new to him, and that made him feel exposed and vulnerable – a feeling he most despised. They had been there since the moment John had entered his life, but he had never bothered to acknowledge them or give them a name. Having Moriarty inside his head, one step ahead of him, bothered him most of all.
"Oh." Moriarty stood up straight again, his hands in his pockets as a look of mock surprise lit up his features. "It's a shame, really. We are perfect for each other, but you chose him."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, almost certain he caught the sound of real disappointment in his voice.
"Where is John?"
"He's fine. Well, I say fine…" He shrugged his shoulders, a catlike smile on his face as his head tilted to the side.
He pressed the button on the TV, and the picture flickered to life. There was John, tied to the bed, dressed in a complete black spandex outfit, almost like cat woman. Actually, exactly like cat woman. Sherlock corrected himself, noticing the small set of ears on the sleeping man's head. He shot a questioning look at Moriarty, who laughed to himself, throwing his head back slightly as he crossed one leg in front of the other.
"Like my little touch? I can see why you like him. Quite… sexy really."
Moriarty slowly closed the rather large gap between himself and Sherlock before crouching down to his level, taking his attention away from the rather small, barely breathing John on the television screen. He felt Moriarty's warm forehead touch his own and attempted to pull back, but there was no room to do so. The smell of Moriarty's expensive cologne filled his lungs, sending an odd shudder down his spine. He could look nowhere else but into the cold, excited, mad eyes before him. Sherlock felt Moriarty's hand come up slowly, and his breath caught in his throat when the cold metal of a gun pressed against the side of his neck. He swallowed hard, keeping his eyes steady. He wasn't scared - it was in these moments that he felt most alive - but he wanted John to be okay.
"I could kill you." Moriarty pointed out quietly, tilting his head to the side a little as he curved around towards Sherlock's ear in a snake-like manner. "But where's the fun in that?"
Sherlock felt the cold metal slowly slide up and down the left side of his neck, Moriarty's warm breath on his right. He swallowed again, his thoughts becoming lost in a haze of something he couldn't quite recognise. His body was tingling with a new sort of life – something that, once again, he didn't recall feeling.
"It would be more fun if I let you go." He whispered, his thick Irish accent consuming Sherlock's mind. "But I can't have you running off on me, can I?"
His lips were getting closer and closer to Sherlock's neck until he felt them touch lightly. The sensation sent a shiver through his whole body, Moriarty's scent seeming even stronger than before, and suddenly quite marvellous.
You smell so good. What do you taste like? Sherlock wondered, barely even aware of his own train of thought.
Moriarty's lips clamped down on his neck, sucking the skin as though it were a life source. An ungraceful gasp slipped past Sherlock's lips, his whole body hungry for something he couldn't describe. Hungry for something new. Something different. Something exciting.
"Why are you doing this?"
Sherlock hated his voice sounding so weak, but he couldn't help it. It wasn't out of fear, or pain, or any other feeling that a normal person would be feeling in that situation. Instead, he was filled with desire and, dare he admit it, attraction. There had always been that mild attraction to Moriarty, but only for his genius and nothing more. Now, he was filled with a desire to cut Moriarty open and see his mind and how it worked. He wanted to taste every part of him. He wanted to understand how someone could smell so beautiful, even past the cologne. He wanted to find out how one man could be so perfect for him, yet at the same time so wrong for him. He wanted to understand how one man could make him want him so much.
Even more than John. He shocked himself with his own thought, taking a deep breath in, but allowed himself to accept that he was, against his will, quite infatuated with his ordinary, ex-military roommate. But John never came this close. He reminded himself, satisfied enough with his weak but fully accurate conclusion.
"You taste better than I thought." Moriarty muttered against Sherlock's skin, his voice sounding about as insane as the thoughts running through Sherlock's mind.
He pulled at his restraints again, desperately wanting to touch the insane man who seemed so close, yet so far away. A new trickle of blood slipped down his hands as a low growl sounded in his chest, the pain in his wrists growing. He felt the cold gun move slowly along his jaw line, but he didn't flinch at all. He kept his eyes on Moriarty, the hunger in them burning like a fire. Within a flash, the gun was cast across the floor, and a knife was cutting the plastic from around his wrists. The minute he was free, his hands flew to Moriarty's face, the fresh blood dripping its way down his pale but utterly gorgeous face. The knife traced up the side of his body as he fought for dominance, pushing him to the ground.
Moriarty flipped him over in an instant, holding a lot more strength than he had given him credit for. The knife ran along the front of his white shirt, slicing the buttons clean off, cutting lightly into the skin as he went. Sherlock threw his head back as Moriarty's lips traced the small line of blood. The feel of his tongue on his stomach sent an excited ripple through his body, his cock growing harder with every movement Moriarty made on top of him. His bloodied hands entwined in the dark hair on top of the mad man's head, his body arching upwards almost completely against his will.
"John" he muttered without thinking, his eyes darting towards the TV screen where the seemingly still, lifeless cat woman lay.
"No." Moriarty growled possessively. "You're mine."
He ran his tongue up along Sherlock's collar bone, then up along his neck, stopping every so often to suck. Sherlock felt Moriarty's teeth sink in to his neck, and groaned, arching his neck towards Moriarty as he sucked heavily at the punctured skin. Before he could say anything else, bloody lips met his, and the familiar metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He moaned into the kiss, running his tongue along Moriarty's before sucking on his bottom lip, biting just enough to draw blood himself.
God, I never knew this could be so good. John needs your help. Why had I never done this before? John looks like he's stopped breathing. I wonder what the rest of him tastes like. John could be dead. Why had I never done this with John? John.
Authors note : This was mainly written for a friend, and purely for our enjoyment. If you like it, that's marvellous, and do let me know, because feedback is good. If you don't, however, I didn't really make it for everyone to enjoy, unlike my other fic (which I seem to have a writers block on :S)
This story will be done in parts, partly because my friend is itching to start reading it, despite the fact that it isn;'t finished, and partly because I am itching for her to start reading it, too.