Bad Timing
Title: Bad Timing
Author: Ach Eloise
Word Count: 1862
Rating: This would be fluffy if it wasn't for all the heroine and mild death threats.
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/Moriarty
Warnings: Drug use.
Summary: Moriarty finds Sherlock after the fall, unfortunately Sherlock happens to have just shot himself up with heroine, so their usual battle of wits is ever so slightly one sided.
Authors Note: How do they always wind up kissing? T__T Oops.
Bad Timing
Moriarty pushed open the door of the old, dank building that our favourite and only consulting detective in the world was currently staying in. It was damp, water ran down the walls in places, leaving the wallpaper peeling and mouldy, the floors were hardwood and had survived surprisingly well despite the decaying building around them. The furtniture too was suffering, springs breaking and cushions with the stuffing falling out of them, thanks to the aid of small white mice.
Sherlock had found the one good sofa left in the whole of the abandoned building, situated in the heart of London it had once been a big, beautiful victorian building, but had since fallen into disrepair and had been on the market for some time, not that anyone was ever shown around it, better to look at photos of the house in it's hay day.
It had been weeks, months, almost a year since Sherlock had jumped off of Bartholemews, 'committed suicide', and disapeared. It had taken Moriarty a fair time to be sure that Sherlock was still, in fact, quite alive, information that even John Watson wasn't privy to. It had taken even longer to track him down, but finally, after a fair amount of searching from his informants, he'd found him.
It just so happened that ten minutes prior to Moriarty's dropping in, Sherlock had taken a dose of heroine through sheer boredom and to pass the time, there was very little to do while in hiding you see, no cases to solve, no people to read, nothing to do, and so he'd fallen into old habbits, this being one of his favourites. He'd always been an accomplished pick pocket so money hadn't been a problem, though that didn't mean he'd been staying in any hotels where he might be recognised anytime recently or soon.
And so, when Moriarty walked into the livingroom of the old, dilapidated house that Sherlock was hiding in, he found his favourite and only consulting detective in the world slumped in the only remaining good sofa in the house, his eyes dreamy as he stared up at the cieling, a cord wrapped tight around the top of his left arm, and an empty needle laying on the floor beneath his hand.
''Shall I pretend to be a figment of your imagination, Sherlock?' Moriarty cooed as he crossed the room slowly, his shoes clicking on the old, cracked hardwood floors, the broken mirror all along the wall to his right reflecting him in a hundred different shards, all menacing, all dangerous and outwardly respectable.
Sherlock, despite his predicament, was looking remarkably well kept, his hair was messy, but he was clean shaven, wearing a clean t-shirt and jeans, his boots laying on the floor, perhaps not as shiny as they had once been, a big thick jumper lay closeby with a scarf, gloves, a hat, a coat and a bag full of clothes and a bit of food- he'd had to change his wardrobe to match his circumstances, unfortunately, no more sharp looking shirts, this was all about staying warm, now. He was, however, a couple of stone lighter, he hadn't been eating enough.
'I imagine it would be easy to play with your mind, while you're in this state.' Moriarty had expected the lack of response, he knew the effects of heroine, and Sherlock was no exception 'You watched me kill myself,' he whispered 'You have no reason to believe I'm alive.' he walked over to Sherlock, watched him blink slowly, as his words slithered into his mind and sunk in, made slow by the drug racing around his system.
Moriarty sat down on the couch where there was room, beside Sherlock, he leaned over him, stared down at him and grinned, a devilish, entirely evil grin 'I have you, my fly.'
'Spiders.' Sherlock whispered, covering his eyes 'Always, everywhere.' he sounded tired, upset, due to the drug and, generally, because of the situation in which he had placed himself 'Make them go away.' he pleaded.
'I could.' Moriarty shrugged, considering 'But that would mean putting a bullet in that brilliant brain of yours, is that what you want?' he watched Sherlock closely, he wasn't sure how much of the conversation Sherlock actually understood, when people took heroine it was hard to converse with them, but Sherlock's mind wasn't like most others.
'I need it.' Sherlock said softly, letting his hands fall away from his face, his limbs felt heavy, gravity was trying too hard, it seemed, and the ghost above him wouldn't leave him alone 'Alone, alone, alone...' he mumbled, closing his eyes.
Moriarty rolled his eyes at him 'I'm already getting bored of this.' he said softly and took Sherlock's left hand in his, he pressed Sherlock's hand back into the couch and dug his thumb nail into his palm 'Pay attention, darling.' he growled.
Sherlock opened his eyes and stared up at Moriarty, frowning, he couldn't remember ever hearing anything about ghosts being able to cause pain. Wait, did he believe in ghosts? When had he ever believed in ghosts? His eyes widened slowly in horrible realisation, because it wasn't a ghost at all, it was Moriarty, alive and well, and here, now.
'There's the reaction I was hoping for.' Moriarty said, as blood pooled around his thumb nail 'How difficult is it to concentrate past the heroine, hm?' he asked, curious 'I've never felt the need to try it, is it worth it? Dulling your mind, to pass the time?' he leaned back, pulled a hankey from an inside pocket and wiped his bloody thumb clean as he stared down into Sherlock's dilated pupils.
Sherlock's mind was trying desperately to race, to figure out how Moriarty could possibly be alive. He'd watched him put the pistol into his mouth, pull the trigger, he'd seen the blood run accross the concrete of the roof, and Moriarty's lifeless body laying there, still, dead, so how? How was he here, still alive?
But the heroine had been administered too recently, it was still fogging his mind, making him tired, weak, he could barely move, he was defenceless, and worse, his mind was slow. He wondered vaguely if this was the speed that ordinary people thought at, and what was left of his mind reeled, he really hoped not.
'You can't work it out,' Moriarty said, his own eyes widening 'You're too far gone.' he sat up straight, facing the mirror accross the room from the sofa, and sighed 'Boring.' he stared accross into the infintisemal reflections, watching Sherlock watching him 'Do you know how hard it was to find you? To track you down? Stress, that I didn't need, and now I find you, and you're this. Do I wait for you to sober up? Do I kill you now?' he paused 'There's no point in killing you, you're not doing anything to bother me anymore... So do I leave you?' he was begining to agonise over this, he'd spent so long looking for Sherlock only to find him like this, he was a little dissapointed.
'Why come looking?' Sherlock asked, he could deduce but he wanted to hear it from Moriarty, and he was hoping it would stop the consulting criminal from killing him.
Moriarty looked down at Sherlock quizzically 'You're asking me a question?'
Sherlock blinked a yes at him.
'I was curious.'
'Curiosity killed the cat.'
'But satisfaction brought it back.'
Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes.
'So satisfy my curiosity.' Moriarty said softly.
'I'm here,' Sherlock said, his eyes still closed 'You found me, and you can deduce how I'm faring, now either kill me or leave me to sleep off the heroine. I'm tired...' he was ready for sleep to take him, whatever the consequences of his words would mean, when he felt a fingertip run over his bottom lip. He opened his eyes and stared up, into Moriarty's inky black eyes, soulless, calculating, and curious.
Sherlock didn't fight the kiss, he didn't try to pull away when it deepened, he put his hands on the top of Moriarty's arms as he was pressed back into the sofa, he felt a hand snake down his body, run over his navel and rub against his crotch, the arousal was almost instant, when was the last time he'd paid any attention to his more base desires? Apparently, it had been too long. He felt the pressure of teeth gently on his bottom lip, and then Moriarty drew back, searched his eyes for a moment, and stood, brushing himself down.
'I'll be keeping watch.' Moriarty said, straightening his tie 'I'll see you again soon.' he gave Sherlock a smirk and walked away, past the wall of mirrors and shattered fairytales and out of the room, his shoes clicking on the hardwood in the hallway. Sherlock heard the front door open and close, and he was gone.
He rolled over on the couch to face the back cushions and curled up, feeling slow and stupid and like he was missing out on some huge, cosmic joke that everyone else seemed to understand because it hadn't been played on them.
Sherlock close his eyes and emptied his mind, which after taking heroine really wasn't a difficult thing to do, and tried not to think about Moriarty, about how he had faked his death, and what the kiss might have meant, or mean in the future. The last part he was most uncertain of, it was easy to deduce methods of faking ones death, but not how to read people's minds and, even if he could, Moriarty's was one mind he would have never wanted to read. The man was criminally insane.
Even after the heroine wore off, this was one mystery that may just take him all night to solve.
-
Sherlock woke hours later, cold and shivering, and a lot more clear minded than he had been the previous day. He climbed off of the sofa and looked around, at the floor, at the sofa, he walked to the mirror and looked at himself, as the memories of the previous night flooded his consciousness. Moriarty had been here, hadn't he?
He held his right hand up to his face and stared at his flawless skin, his palm wasn't in any way injured, there was no blood, no little half moon cut, nothing. Then how...? What had happened? Had it all been a halucination?
He raked a hand through his tangled, messy hair, he walked back to the sofa, pulled on his boots, his jumper, coat, his scarf, gloves and hat, he grabbed up his bag and went for the door, he needed to keep moving. This was one of his favourite spots, but he'd been here for three days already, he'd come back in a few weeks time, but until then he'd find somewhere else to stay.
He didn't notice the blood on his left glove as he walked out, into the brisk morning air. He didn't feel the pain, he'd woken so numb from the cold. There was always something he got wrong, always something.
He'd regret this something a lot more later.
Author: Ach Eloise
Word Count: 1862
Rating: This would be fluffy if it wasn't for all the heroine and mild death threats.
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/Moriarty
Warnings: Drug use.
Summary: Moriarty finds Sherlock after the fall, unfortunately Sherlock happens to have just shot himself up with heroine, so their usual battle of wits is ever so slightly one sided.
Authors Note: How do they always wind up kissing? T__T Oops.
Bad Timing
Moriarty pushed open the door of the old, dank building that our favourite and only consulting detective in the world was currently staying in. It was damp, water ran down the walls in places, leaving the wallpaper peeling and mouldy, the floors were hardwood and had survived surprisingly well despite the decaying building around them. The furtniture too was suffering, springs breaking and cushions with the stuffing falling out of them, thanks to the aid of small white mice.
Sherlock had found the one good sofa left in the whole of the abandoned building, situated in the heart of London it had once been a big, beautiful victorian building, but had since fallen into disrepair and had been on the market for some time, not that anyone was ever shown around it, better to look at photos of the house in it's hay day.
It had been weeks, months, almost a year since Sherlock had jumped off of Bartholemews, 'committed suicide', and disapeared. It had taken Moriarty a fair time to be sure that Sherlock was still, in fact, quite alive, information that even John Watson wasn't privy to. It had taken even longer to track him down, but finally, after a fair amount of searching from his informants, he'd found him.
It just so happened that ten minutes prior to Moriarty's dropping in, Sherlock had taken a dose of heroine through sheer boredom and to pass the time, there was very little to do while in hiding you see, no cases to solve, no people to read, nothing to do, and so he'd fallen into old habbits, this being one of his favourites. He'd always been an accomplished pick pocket so money hadn't been a problem, though that didn't mean he'd been staying in any hotels where he might be recognised anytime recently or soon.
And so, when Moriarty walked into the livingroom of the old, dilapidated house that Sherlock was hiding in, he found his favourite and only consulting detective in the world slumped in the only remaining good sofa in the house, his eyes dreamy as he stared up at the cieling, a cord wrapped tight around the top of his left arm, and an empty needle laying on the floor beneath his hand.
''Shall I pretend to be a figment of your imagination, Sherlock?' Moriarty cooed as he crossed the room slowly, his shoes clicking on the old, cracked hardwood floors, the broken mirror all along the wall to his right reflecting him in a hundred different shards, all menacing, all dangerous and outwardly respectable.
Sherlock, despite his predicament, was looking remarkably well kept, his hair was messy, but he was clean shaven, wearing a clean t-shirt and jeans, his boots laying on the floor, perhaps not as shiny as they had once been, a big thick jumper lay closeby with a scarf, gloves, a hat, a coat and a bag full of clothes and a bit of food- he'd had to change his wardrobe to match his circumstances, unfortunately, no more sharp looking shirts, this was all about staying warm, now. He was, however, a couple of stone lighter, he hadn't been eating enough.
'I imagine it would be easy to play with your mind, while you're in this state.' Moriarty had expected the lack of response, he knew the effects of heroine, and Sherlock was no exception 'You watched me kill myself,' he whispered 'You have no reason to believe I'm alive.' he walked over to Sherlock, watched him blink slowly, as his words slithered into his mind and sunk in, made slow by the drug racing around his system.
Moriarty sat down on the couch where there was room, beside Sherlock, he leaned over him, stared down at him and grinned, a devilish, entirely evil grin 'I have you, my fly.'
'Spiders.' Sherlock whispered, covering his eyes 'Always, everywhere.' he sounded tired, upset, due to the drug and, generally, because of the situation in which he had placed himself 'Make them go away.' he pleaded.
'I could.' Moriarty shrugged, considering 'But that would mean putting a bullet in that brilliant brain of yours, is that what you want?' he watched Sherlock closely, he wasn't sure how much of the conversation Sherlock actually understood, when people took heroine it was hard to converse with them, but Sherlock's mind wasn't like most others.
'I need it.' Sherlock said softly, letting his hands fall away from his face, his limbs felt heavy, gravity was trying too hard, it seemed, and the ghost above him wouldn't leave him alone 'Alone, alone, alone...' he mumbled, closing his eyes.
Moriarty rolled his eyes at him 'I'm already getting bored of this.' he said softly and took Sherlock's left hand in his, he pressed Sherlock's hand back into the couch and dug his thumb nail into his palm 'Pay attention, darling.' he growled.
Sherlock opened his eyes and stared up at Moriarty, frowning, he couldn't remember ever hearing anything about ghosts being able to cause pain. Wait, did he believe in ghosts? When had he ever believed in ghosts? His eyes widened slowly in horrible realisation, because it wasn't a ghost at all, it was Moriarty, alive and well, and here, now.
'There's the reaction I was hoping for.' Moriarty said, as blood pooled around his thumb nail 'How difficult is it to concentrate past the heroine, hm?' he asked, curious 'I've never felt the need to try it, is it worth it? Dulling your mind, to pass the time?' he leaned back, pulled a hankey from an inside pocket and wiped his bloody thumb clean as he stared down into Sherlock's dilated pupils.
Sherlock's mind was trying desperately to race, to figure out how Moriarty could possibly be alive. He'd watched him put the pistol into his mouth, pull the trigger, he'd seen the blood run accross the concrete of the roof, and Moriarty's lifeless body laying there, still, dead, so how? How was he here, still alive?
But the heroine had been administered too recently, it was still fogging his mind, making him tired, weak, he could barely move, he was defenceless, and worse, his mind was slow. He wondered vaguely if this was the speed that ordinary people thought at, and what was left of his mind reeled, he really hoped not.
'You can't work it out,' Moriarty said, his own eyes widening 'You're too far gone.' he sat up straight, facing the mirror accross the room from the sofa, and sighed 'Boring.' he stared accross into the infintisemal reflections, watching Sherlock watching him 'Do you know how hard it was to find you? To track you down? Stress, that I didn't need, and now I find you, and you're this. Do I wait for you to sober up? Do I kill you now?' he paused 'There's no point in killing you, you're not doing anything to bother me anymore... So do I leave you?' he was begining to agonise over this, he'd spent so long looking for Sherlock only to find him like this, he was a little dissapointed.
'Why come looking?' Sherlock asked, he could deduce but he wanted to hear it from Moriarty, and he was hoping it would stop the consulting criminal from killing him.
Moriarty looked down at Sherlock quizzically 'You're asking me a question?'
Sherlock blinked a yes at him.
'I was curious.'
'Curiosity killed the cat.'
'But satisfaction brought it back.'
Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes.
'So satisfy my curiosity.' Moriarty said softly.
'I'm here,' Sherlock said, his eyes still closed 'You found me, and you can deduce how I'm faring, now either kill me or leave me to sleep off the heroine. I'm tired...' he was ready for sleep to take him, whatever the consequences of his words would mean, when he felt a fingertip run over his bottom lip. He opened his eyes and stared up, into Moriarty's inky black eyes, soulless, calculating, and curious.
Sherlock didn't fight the kiss, he didn't try to pull away when it deepened, he put his hands on the top of Moriarty's arms as he was pressed back into the sofa, he felt a hand snake down his body, run over his navel and rub against his crotch, the arousal was almost instant, when was the last time he'd paid any attention to his more base desires? Apparently, it had been too long. He felt the pressure of teeth gently on his bottom lip, and then Moriarty drew back, searched his eyes for a moment, and stood, brushing himself down.
'I'll be keeping watch.' Moriarty said, straightening his tie 'I'll see you again soon.' he gave Sherlock a smirk and walked away, past the wall of mirrors and shattered fairytales and out of the room, his shoes clicking on the hardwood in the hallway. Sherlock heard the front door open and close, and he was gone.
He rolled over on the couch to face the back cushions and curled up, feeling slow and stupid and like he was missing out on some huge, cosmic joke that everyone else seemed to understand because it hadn't been played on them.
Sherlock close his eyes and emptied his mind, which after taking heroine really wasn't a difficult thing to do, and tried not to think about Moriarty, about how he had faked his death, and what the kiss might have meant, or mean in the future. The last part he was most uncertain of, it was easy to deduce methods of faking ones death, but not how to read people's minds and, even if he could, Moriarty's was one mind he would have never wanted to read. The man was criminally insane.
Even after the heroine wore off, this was one mystery that may just take him all night to solve.
-
Sherlock woke hours later, cold and shivering, and a lot more clear minded than he had been the previous day. He climbed off of the sofa and looked around, at the floor, at the sofa, he walked to the mirror and looked at himself, as the memories of the previous night flooded his consciousness. Moriarty had been here, hadn't he?
He held his right hand up to his face and stared at his flawless skin, his palm wasn't in any way injured, there was no blood, no little half moon cut, nothing. Then how...? What had happened? Had it all been a halucination?
He raked a hand through his tangled, messy hair, he walked back to the sofa, pulled on his boots, his jumper, coat, his scarf, gloves and hat, he grabbed up his bag and went for the door, he needed to keep moving. This was one of his favourite spots, but he'd been here for three days already, he'd come back in a few weeks time, but until then he'd find somewhere else to stay.
He didn't notice the blood on his left glove as he walked out, into the brisk morning air. He didn't feel the pain, he'd woken so numb from the cold. There was always something he got wrong, always something.
He'd regret this something a lot more later.