Sunday the 22nd, noon.enigmaestroJanuary 20 2012, 00:19:18 UTC
Edward had informed Sherlock that their next session would be someplace intimate and quiet, an area of stark solitude. He decided on Sherlock's living quarters. Perfect for concentration, Eddie had argued. You're already deeply aware of the environment, you won't get distracted. He said this all with smiles and a rather coy tone in his voice -- nothing too sinister, but hints of smooth malice and winking mockery. They both knew it was little use to argue this particular point, Edward was a stubborn man.
He had brought a bottle of wine, mostly for himself. It was to aid the entertainment and he couldn't trust another man's taste in pinot noir.
Just upon reaching the block, Edward called through his communicator (not his personal number, never that). I'm just outside, he said. Are you ready?
He shut the communicator off, headed down to the door. He was dressed, at least, prim and posh as he usually was. That phase of the sulking was over. But the cigarette dangling from his lips was new - a retaken addiction that filled the whole flat. He opened the door as Edward approached, but didn't look directly at him.
Sherlock's avoidance of eye contact was noticeable immediately, and Eddie couldn't help but be amused. These little things always did entice him, these secret power plays; it was like Sherlock was hiding a message and simply beckoning for Edward to find it. And goodness, who could resist such a challenge?
"Redecorating the atmosphere?" The question was poised between sharp, smiling teeth. "Tobacco adds such a pleasant layer."
He followed in, behind Sherlock, careful to leer about in the most inappropriate of manners. He focused on the detail in the hallway, the room, looking at titles of books, any nicks on the furniture, the placement of any mirrors. The floor, for any well-worn carpet -- evidence of pacing. Little delectable hints.
"Be my guest." He motioned vaguely to the hook on the wall, where his own coat was hung, as well as John's coat - left in exactly the same place he had been since he had gone. The flat was, of course, nearly a disaster. With only Sherlock living there, everything was left exactly where it was placed, and that was haphazard at best. There was one mirror, only, beside the coats. Three bullet holes in the wall. A vast array of chemical equipment on the table (though he'd long gotten rid of any trace of cocaine).
His Porter wall was gone. All that was left was the single note - Porter - Imagination fixated into place with a hunting knife. Tiny little holes dotted the wall, as if hundreds of other pages should be there, but they were gone - only tiny tiny scraps remained, brushed up on the floor. The books were eclectic and varied wildly, a large number of them in doubles. There were four large gashes in the table, and... A strange, peachy smell, lingering lovely, when one walked by the mantle
( ... )
The hundreds of dotted holes along the wall captured his interest for a moment. His eyes glanced down, noting the wistful scraps. Frustration was a terrible thing, he thought. Boredom and frustration and the overwhelming need to solve them both. Edward made his way around the bookshelf and cut to the mantle, enjoying the wealth of hints. The three bullet holes remained a tribute, something surely John Watson would have fixed where he still here. This was a physical world only of convenience to Sherlock, and the only order was his order.
"Oh, I intend to," he said, strolling past the mantle. "I'm simply taking my -- " He stopped in his tracks, eyes wide and nostrils flared.
The smell of peaches. Sweet, summer peaches.
Edward swallowed. He snapped his head around, his heart pounding. Nothing, no visible trace of Desire, no haunting smile. But it had been here, oh, Eddie was certain of that.
He assumed a seat, on the couch. He wasn't smiling any longer.
"Glad to see I'm not your only company. Wouldn't want you getting lonely."
He didn't need to look at Edward to hear the crack, the twisting movement from the corner of his eye, the deep swallow. Didn't need body language to hear the abrupt shift in tone.
He smiled, because it took a good deal to make a man like Edward slip, and he had the final proof of what worked.
"I get visitors all the time, Edward." His eyes flickered towards the mantle piece, and there - there - flickered into life a projection. Desire, exactly how Sherlock saw It, sitting on the mantle cool and calm, cigarette between its fingers. It smiled.
Sherlock put out his own cigarette in the bowl he had been using as an ash tray. The image of Desire lingered but began to fade like smoke.
It didn't ring false. Visitors all the time, Eddie scoffed and crossed his legs. And yet it didn't ring false. His eyes narrowed at the image of Desire, that summoned mirage. Sherlock's little pocket vision. It was a rare moment, to see Sherlock display such pointed mockery. Edward cut a sneer into his own mouth.
"Well then, doesn't that just beg the question?" He moved his elbows over the backing of the sofa, stretching into a lounging position. "Why did Desire come to see you? It typically answers calls, if you really wanted something that badly."
"It wasn't anything I wanted that brought It here. And I didn't call for it." Though Desire and Despair were so firmly linked, it didn't make much difference. The image finally completely faded and disappeared.
Sherlock crossed the room and slid into his chair - the empty one turned to face both of them.
He didn't explain further. Let Edward riddle it out if he was that curious. But his fingers rubbed lazily against each other - thumb to each fingertip and then back again, feeling each in turn.
"You wouldn't have to consciously call for Desire," he said. His mouth formed a tight line, his usual smirk evaporated. A deep breath followed, and he wondered if he could restrain himself for slipping deeper into this. Desire had warned him, that he ought to leave its toys to itself.
But still.
Edward leaned forward, his eyes on Sherlock's fingers.
"Antsy. Is that your deduction?" He sounded almost amused, and his eyes finally settled on Edward, but there was little changed from their last meeting, and the only note that came up was Lack of Sleep, which he didn't even bother to try to encode.
He tensed, slightly, but tried to keep focused - his thumb and forefinger rubbing against each other slowly. His eyes, however, were bright with curiosity, and his gaze was steady.
"No," drawled Eddie, smug despite the crow's feet under his eyes. "I only said appear, mind. That's what one would call an observation."
As if on cue, Sherlock's own notes derived from observation moved before them. Lack of sleep. Between his work and the gripping series of taunts -- no, coincidence -- he had so little time to humor resting. And this hardly helped, Edward was highly unamused. He leaned his head back on the sofa, looking at the ceiling.
"Desire visits you, and something in your behavior changes. My, my, you really are a touch masochistic, aren't you?"
"Masochism? No. I'm not exactly being tortured, Edward." Not quite. Desire had promised him pleasure, and it lived up to it's promises. There was no pain. Though he couldn't discount frustration.
His fingers traced lazily over the arm chair, gaze fixated on his guest even as his entire body tensed like a predator before the lunge.
Yet, he thought but wouldn't vocally manifest it. That was how Desire functioned, gravitating between pleasure and pain, and Sherlock would learn it quickly enough -- or he wouldn't. Eddie's smirk slid across his lips. He leaned forward, his fingers tented, conquering some distance between them. Sherlock's body language interested him.
"It's constantly visiting us all," he replied coyly. It was an answer wrapped within no answer, noncommittal in every regard. "But I wonder, how long before you start squirming under whatever gift Desire has since given you?"
Sherlock only smiled, nearly benevolently, though it didn't reach his eyes.
Small, tiny circles traced by finger tips, never ceasing, in small rapid succession. Of course the chair did nothing. Could do nothing. It was human contact he needed.
"Come on, Edward." His baritone was smooth as silk. "Work it out. I know you can." His eyes glimmered, slightly. He wanted Edward to work it out. Wanted him to deduce it. He craved the answer to the challenge nearly as much as he craved the touch. "My behavior's changed. How?"
He stood up. It was quick, his reflexes snappish and immediate. He strode to Sherlock in two, three steps and grabbed the other man's hand without a word. His eyes narrowed, glimmering with a dark triumph.
"Your hands. Your fingers. They're insatiable," he said as he squeezed the flesh, without Sherlock's permission. "You move like an addict. I'm sure Desire thinks this is all very funny, making you crave something as humiliating as physical contact."
He didn't let go. There was a hungering look in his eyes, one that demanded confirmation.
He didn't move, and he only just barely flinched, the knot of muscles between his shoulder blades suddenly tightening. He didn't attempt to take his hand away, didn't try, letting Edward hold it and squeeze it, looking up at him from under dark brows. The smile still on his lips.
"Oh good." He said, genuinely pleased. Part of him liked Edward, like this. The same desperate desire to know, and prove that he knew.
"But touch isn't humiliating, Edward." His voice was even, as he turned his hand to face palm-up, still gripped between Edward's. "I'm not craving sentiment." Pure, physical touch, and he could wrap his mind around it easily. It wasn't the longing that others felt, he rationalized. It wasn't a need for intimacy. Just the pure, basic, touch. At least. That's what he told himself.
Even with the thread of darkness behind Nygma's words, Sherlock felt the same rush of appreciation for the contact - the same slight disappointment when it still didn't quite measure up. Only Desire's had felt complete.
He had brought a bottle of wine, mostly for himself. It was to aid the entertainment and he couldn't trust another man's taste in pinot noir.
Just upon reaching the block, Edward called through his communicator (not his personal number, never that). I'm just outside, he said. Are you ready?
Reply
He shut the communicator off, headed down to the door. He was dressed, at least, prim and posh as he usually was. That phase of the sulking was over. But the cigarette dangling from his lips was new - a retaken addiction that filled the whole flat. He opened the door as Edward approached, but didn't look directly at him.
"Edward." He gestured inside.
Reply
"Redecorating the atmosphere?" The question was poised between sharp, smiling teeth. "Tobacco adds such a pleasant layer."
He followed in, behind Sherlock, careful to leer about in the most inappropriate of manners. He focused on the detail in the hallway, the room, looking at titles of books, any nicks on the furniture, the placement of any mirrors. The floor, for any well-worn carpet -- evidence of pacing. Little delectable hints.
"Do you mind if I hang my jacket?"
Reply
His Porter wall was gone. All that was left was the single note - Porter - Imagination fixated into place with a hunting knife. Tiny little holes dotted the wall, as if hundreds of other pages should be there, but they were gone - only tiny tiny scraps remained, brushed up on the floor. The books were eclectic and varied wildly, a large number of them in doubles. There were four large gashes in the table, and... A strange, peachy smell, lingering lovely, when one walked by the mantle ( ... )
Reply
"Oh, I intend to," he said, strolling past the mantle. "I'm simply taking my -- " He stopped in his tracks, eyes wide and nostrils flared.
The smell of peaches. Sweet, summer peaches.
Edward swallowed. He snapped his head around, his heart pounding. Nothing, no visible trace of Desire, no haunting smile. But it had been here, oh, Eddie was certain of that.
He assumed a seat, on the couch. He wasn't smiling any longer.
"Glad to see I'm not your only company. Wouldn't want you getting lonely."
Reply
He didn't need to look at Edward to hear the crack, the twisting movement from the corner of his eye, the deep swallow. Didn't need body language to hear the abrupt shift in tone.
He smiled, because it took a good deal to make a man like Edward slip, and he had the final proof of what worked.
"I get visitors all the time, Edward." His eyes flickered towards the mantle piece, and there - there - flickered into life a projection. Desire, exactly how Sherlock saw It, sitting on the mantle cool and calm, cigarette between its fingers. It smiled.
Sherlock put out his own cigarette in the bowl he had been using as an ash tray. The image of Desire lingered but began to fade like smoke.
Reply
"Well then, doesn't that just beg the question?" He moved his elbows over the backing of the sofa, stretching into a lounging position. "Why did Desire come to see you? It typically answers calls, if you really wanted something that badly."
Eyes flickered over Sherlock.
"You won't want to talk about it."
Reply
Sherlock crossed the room and slid into his chair - the empty one turned to face both of them.
He didn't explain further. Let Edward riddle it out if he was that curious. But his fingers rubbed lazily against each other - thumb to each fingertip and then back again, feeling each in turn.
Reply
But still.
Edward leaned forward, his eyes on Sherlock's fingers.
"It's not like you to appear antsy."
Reply
He tensed, slightly, but tried to keep focused - his thumb and forefinger rubbing against each other slowly. His eyes, however, were bright with curiosity, and his gaze was steady.
Reply
As if on cue, Sherlock's own notes derived from observation moved before them. Lack of sleep. Between his work and the gripping series of taunts -- no, coincidence -- he had so little time to humor resting. And this hardly helped, Edward was highly unamused. He leaned his head back on the sofa, looking at the ceiling.
"Desire visits you, and something in your behavior changes. My, my, you really are a touch masochistic, aren't you?"
Reply
His fingers traced lazily over the arm chair, gaze fixated on his guest even as his entire body tensed like a predator before the lunge.
"Does it bother you? Its visit, here."
Reply
"It's constantly visiting us all," he replied coyly. It was an answer wrapped within no answer, noncommittal in every regard. "But I wonder, how long before you start squirming under whatever gift Desire has since given you?"
Reply
Small, tiny circles traced by finger tips, never ceasing, in small rapid succession. Of course the chair did nothing. Could do nothing. It was human contact he needed.
"Come on, Edward." His baritone was smooth as silk. "Work it out. I know you can." His eyes glimmered, slightly. He wanted Edward to work it out. Wanted him to deduce it. He craved the answer to the challenge nearly as much as he craved the touch. "My behavior's changed. How?"
Reply
"Your hands. Your fingers. They're insatiable," he said as he squeezed the flesh, without Sherlock's permission. "You move like an addict. I'm sure Desire thinks this is all very funny, making you crave something as humiliating as physical contact."
He didn't let go. There was a hungering look in his eyes, one that demanded confirmation.
Reply
"Oh good." He said, genuinely pleased. Part of him liked Edward, like this. The same desperate desire to know, and prove that he knew.
"But touch isn't humiliating, Edward." His voice was even, as he turned his hand to face palm-up, still gripped between Edward's. "I'm not craving sentiment." Pure, physical touch, and he could wrap his mind around it easily. It wasn't the longing that others felt, he rationalized. It wasn't a need for intimacy. Just the pure, basic, touch. At least. That's what he told himself.
Even with the thread of darkness behind Nygma's words, Sherlock felt the same rush of appreciation for the contact - the same slight disappointment when it still didn't quite measure up. Only Desire's had felt complete.
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