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[notapsychopath]

Sherlock has to admit that he's learning a lot. He'd never thought that interior decorating could be used as a form of torture before, for instance- but a few days staring at floral wallpaper and cushions that very nearly match each other in colour and print and yet somehow clash has altered his perspective slightly. It's one of the things he

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[mollyhooper]

Oh, but he's beautiful.
She watches him over the CCTV for a few minutes, watching his mind whirr, imagining she can hear his thoughts. It's delicious.

What is she waiting for, he'd be trying not to think. Do it. And then he'd be trying focus on something else, something hateful, but there's nothing in that room with enough depth to bring any relief...

She reaches out and strokes the projection of his pale, sharp-boned cheek with her knuckles, the static of the screen bringing to mind the almost electric surge of excitement she feels whenever she worms her way under his skin, just enough to irritate but not enough to devour. Not yet. She's not going to kill him yet, even if she has had some very interesting ideas about a few other, much more exciting drugs Sherlock might want to use his last breaths experimenting with.

Soon enough the images aren't enough. Carrying her bag of tricks gingerly, in true, obnoxious and irritating Molly Hooper fashion, she slips into the room and carefully locks the door behind her, not saying anything just yet.

[notapsychopath]

Sherlock stares up at the ceiling and doesn't move or say a word, but he watches from the corner of his eyes and resists the urge to fidget against the bonds or lick his lips or betray any kind of nervous energy.

His muscles are aching from the strain of being tied to the chair he's sitting on, and he can feel his own want crying out in what feels like every cell of his body, constantly diverting his thoughts.

"Good evening, Molly," he drawls, careful to sound careless, as if he's just dropped by the morgue for a severed arm or two and she really is shy, nervous, insufferable Molly Hooper. He still doesn't look at her.

[mollyhooper]

She turns on her heel and smiles, leaning against the door for a while as she watches him.
"Sherlock," she replies warmly, a wide, bright smile spreading over her face as she fidgets with her bag. "I brought you something. You must be hungry by now..."

[notapsychopath]

"Not particularly," he says flatly, still staring up at the ceiling. It's a lie- he is hungry, though not as starving as he's been before. Of course, then, he had a case to focus on, and nothing else registered as important...

[mollyhooper]

"Oh, what a pity. Are you sure I can't convince you?"

She tilts her head thoughtfully before resting her hand on the back of a chair, dragging it over the floor towards Sherlock's and taking a seat. The bag gets placed on the low table beside them, and she pulls out a wrapped baguette from a little deli nearby. A clue to their location that's more of her gift to him than the contents.

"Bacon, isn't it? Your favourite. Oh, and a coffee. Black, one sugar."

[notapsychopath]

Sherlock's eyes snap to the baguette and linger on the wrapping, cross-referencing street names and all his memorised maps, every clue he's got as to where he is...

"I take two sugars," he tells her. The coffee's actually more tempting than the bacon sandwich; he can smell it from here, and he actually feels ill from caffeine withdrawals. Strange, the things that can get under your skin.

[mollyhooper]

She frowns as if he's caught her off guard, and then beams at him brightly as she rummages through the bag, various clinking noises giving subtle clues to the contents, until finally she produces the kind of packet of granulated cane sugar you might find at a chain restaurant, pops the plastic lid off the coffee, (Costa, not Starbucks. Still hot, so not too far away...) adding it in.

"Two. Hang on, I've got a straw in here, too. You can't exactly drink a coffee without your hands, now, can you?"

[notapsychopath]

One of Sherlock's eyebrows quirks upwards for a moment. "Oddly enough, there's a much simpler solution," he points out tartly, tugging at the ropes to make his point. Still, he's not going to turn down coffee, especially not now she's yanked the lid off and the smell is even stronger, rich and dark and literally mouth-watering...

[mollyhooper]

"Oh, don't be so boring," she replies, the word spoken with a surprisingly good approximation of Sherlock's voice, lacking the timbre only because she physically lacks the length in her vocal chords. A straw (from MacDonald's, judging by the paper wrapping and the coloured stripes) is slipped into the paper cup and she stands, stalking closer and leaning in to offer it to him. Of course, it would be much easier if she'd guide the straw to his lips, but she's not feeling that generous.

[notapsychopath]

Sherlock notes every detail, narrowing it down in his mind. Of course, the presence of a nearby Costa isn't overly illuminating, but data is always valuable...

He eyes the coffee, shoots Moriarty a brief, withering look- oh, you think you're so clever- and leans forwards as much as he can for the straw. Humiliating, yes, but he ignores that as best he can. He's done worse things. He catches it between his lips eventually; it's not too hot to drink and he wouldn't care if it was, too grateful for the caffeine. Poisoned? Maybe, though he can't taste anything, and there's really no need for her to disguise it when she has him tied up and vulnerable. Anyway, he knows she doesn't want him dead. He also knows that there are worse things, but doesn't dwell on that.

[mollyhooper]

Delighted, she strokes softly through his hair and murmurs encouragement the way a proud owner might offer praise to a performing animal, taking the cup away once Sherlock's had what she considers to be enough. Two swallows of caffeine- his body must be keening for it. Amongst other things.

"Now," she says, matter-of-fact and motherly. "Are you going to eat your sandwich, or am I going to have to fit you with one of those nasty little tubes? I'd hate to have to do that, but I've only borrowed you, you see, so I can't give you back in any worse condition than I found you."

[notapsychopath]

Sherlock stretches for the straw and then forces himself to relax and not to display too much need, even as he goes over a litany of insults for her in his mind. Ineffectual and immature, yes, but he feels a little better for it.

"Oh yes," he murmurs, "I can just feel your concern for my well-being radiating from you. I suspect you can look forward to canonisation." He swallows and tries to settle into a more comfortable position, but it's impossible. The thought of Molly hooking him up to tubes is disgusting, and he knows she would, so... "The former." Though he's sure she's going to feed it to him, which is only marginally more appealing than the other option.

[mollyhooper]

"Oh, I am concerned for your well-being," she purrs, dragging her chair right up to the left of Sherlock's and resting the sandwich and coffee on it as she slides onto his lap, arms wrapping around his neck. Her fingertips play gently at the base of his skull as she watches his eyes with a deep, dark hunger and burning curiosity. "I'm going to need you for a little bit of clean-up once I'm done. You are so very good at tying up loose ends for me. Goodness, I should probably pay you, Sherlock..."

[notapsychopath]

Sherlock tenses up and leans back as much as he can, automatically. She's far too close, and far too intimate, and he doesn't like it at all, especially not when her fingertips are ticking the back of his neck like that. He shakes his head uncomfortably, an instinctive reaction- he knows it will only encourage her, and tries to stop. "Clean-up." He says it flatly, but the question is implied.

[mollyhooper]

She smiles, picking up the wrapped sandwich and beginning to unravel the paper. Sherlock's skin must be crawling.
"Don't worry about it," she soothes, eyes glittering. "You're a natural. I'm sure you'll do exactly what I need without me even needing to ask. Now. Are you going to bite off a bit sensibly, or am I going to have to feed it to you piece by piece?"

[notapsychopath]

Sherlock gives her a long look full of suspicion, his mind flicking through possibilities. Clean-up?

"The former," he says again, not wasting too much time. As loathe as he is to admit it, it would probably be best not to provoke her too much. She's got enough lined up to do to him as it is, and she still won't move off him. God, it's sickening.