"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.
Two chairs, one couch. Sherlock gestured towards the couch. "Make yourself comfortable."
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.
"Touch isn't humiliating when one is in control," he said, coldly, his free hand swooping to Sherlock's neck. His gaze remained on Sherlock's face, his eyes moving quickly to catch the slightest twitch of reaction. His fingers danced up the detective's neck, settling to a drum against his jaw. He cupped the cheek, holding it gently for but a moment.
And then dug in his nails.
"You've forfeited your control. That wasn't a well-played move, Holmes." Edward's line of a mouth split into a grin. "But I'm sure some part of you realizes that. No doubt any denial claiming the contrary is tempting, but we both know, don't we? We know what it's like to screw with Desire."
"Enough." Sherlock stood, suddenly, batting Edward's hand away with his arm. The playful curiosity was entirely gone now, replaced with the hard marble exterior he so usually exuded, especially under pressure. He didn't move back from Edward, only inches from him, but though he was not a large man, exactly, he was a tall one, and he glowered down at him with shadowed eyes.
"Giving into a craving still requires a choice, Edward." His voice was hard. It wasn't his first addiction, and they were always, always worse when he was bored, but the mind and the work came first, the body second. Even past the desperate longing, he could still himself if he chose. Or so he hoped. Admitting any sort of mistake on his part was not something he was going to do. Not here.
He leaned in, slightly, an a familiar scent of peaches drifted past. From Edward. A single, solitary white little note appeared at the man's shoulder: Interesting.
"Unlike you, Edward, I'm not screwing with anyone."
The comment about screwing made his mouth twitch, with enjoyment. He glanced at the note over his own shoulder, as if conspiring with the bright text. As if he was tempted to kiss and tell.
"You're right, Sherlock. Submitting to a stronger will than yours still requires a choice. And oh, I do hope you did enjoy the last bit of choice you had possessed." He leaned closer, closer than what was necessary, lips nearing an ear. "This will be like nothing you've ever imagined before. And it's all entirely your fault."
Edward, too, was an addict. He couldn't stop his intellectual games, his brilliant pursuits. He couldn't step away from the thrill of adequate competition -- the men mentally capable enough to entertain him. Batman. Norman Osborn. He wouldn't stop his love of himself, his flirtation with domination. Of conquering his rivals, of proving his worth.
Which is why he had always resisted Desire. Why he still resisted it. And that was why it treasured him with love and hate and disdain and favoritism.
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.
Two chairs, one couch. Sherlock gestured towards the couch. "Make yourself comfortable."
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"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.
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"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."
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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.
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But still.
Edward leaned forward, his eyes on Sherlock's fingers.
"It's not like you to appear antsy."
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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.
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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."
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"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.
Reply
And then dug in his nails.
"You've forfeited your control. That wasn't a well-played move, Holmes." Edward's line of a mouth split into a grin. "But I'm sure some part of you realizes that. No doubt any denial claiming the contrary is tempting, but we both know, don't we? We know what it's like to screw with Desire."
Reply
"Giving into a craving still requires a choice, Edward." His voice was hard. It wasn't his first addiction, and they were always, always worse when he was bored, but the mind and the work came first, the body second. Even past the desperate longing, he could still himself if he chose. Or so he hoped. Admitting any sort of mistake on his part was not something he was going to do. Not here.
He leaned in, slightly, an a familiar scent of peaches drifted past. From Edward. A single, solitary white little note appeared at the man's shoulder: Interesting.
"Unlike you, Edward, I'm not screwing with anyone."
Reply
"You're right, Sherlock. Submitting to a stronger will than yours still requires a choice. And oh, I do hope you did enjoy the last bit of choice you had possessed." He leaned closer, closer than what was necessary, lips nearing an ear. "This will be like nothing you've ever imagined before. And it's all entirely your fault."
Edward, too, was an addict. He couldn't stop his intellectual games, his brilliant pursuits. He couldn't step away from the thrill of adequate competition -- the men mentally capable enough to entertain him. Batman. Norman Osborn. He wouldn't stop his love of himself, his flirtation with domination. Of conquering his rivals, of proving his worth.
Which is why he had always resisted Desire. Why he still resisted it. And that was why it treasured him with love and hate and disdain and favoritism.
"You're the one being screwed."
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