He's not sure where his body ends and the world begins. That's the first thing that he's aware of, as he's coming to. He's fighting this. He is. It doesn't look it - he's hardly moving - but in his mind, he's wading through the sludge and haze of this drugged down state. Perhaps he doesn't have a body, perhaps he's just a brain after all and these far away limbs are a trick.
A slap and he surfaces briefly, like a drowning man for air. He tries to stay up, blinking at the light around him, struggling with all of his will to keep his eyes open, but he's losing that fight. He's slipping back beneath the surface of the sedation, back into his mind. He's not alone, though, he knows that now. Someone's here... he should know who, it should be obvious, but it isn't. He knows, but it's on the fringe of his awareness.
All of this that Jim would see is the opening and closing of his mouth and the blinking as his chin sinks back down against his chest.
Oh dear, perhaps James overdid it with the morphine. Even if his captive isn't lucid enough to catch the look on his face, it's one of dwindling patience (even if watching Sherlock struggle to support the weight of his head provides mild amusement).
There's something wonderfully pliable about a drugged Sherlock though- quiet, obedient, at his mercy... sure, it may eventually turn stale, but for now? Well, Jim isn't fussing at the moment. He does need the man rather more alert than this, however.
"Tut, tut, tut. Up and at 'em, Sherly, I need your eyes open for this game," a slim, perfectly manicured hand darts out to none-too-gently clutch Sherlock's chin, forcing his head up. "I want to reintroduce you to an old friend of yours..." his lips curl in a childish pout, and his free hand slides up the side of the man's shockingly cold cheek, fingers tightening in the brown tufts of hair when they reach the top of his head.
He sees him now, but his eyes can't quite track him even though Jim's not moving. The image is jerky but he knows who's there. Something is very wrong, he never feels like this. But this isn't a dream because he knows dreams, but he also knows drugs and the heavy blanket of lethargy he's beneath feels like the latter
( ... )
There we are. Not nearly as intelligible as Jim would like, but he can make do for now. Improvise. He's all too aware of what efforts need to be put forth when fighting such a heavy sedation- the scenario's been played through before, with James himself being the one forced to claw through fogged thoughts that refused to clear, though it's a memory buried deep in a past that James isn't too keen on revisiting; a past long before Moriarty was Moriarty, and soft, Dublin accents weren't curtained behind lilts borrowed from people he's killed, characters he's created, and individuals who laughed.
No, that's something preferably left at the back of his metaphorical hard drive. Although, the sluggish, restrained movements Sherlock's making between sporadic jerky bursts as his mind momentarily resurfaces, do bring James back to a time when he used to catch butterflies. Pin them to boards with needles. Watch them squirm about and tear their own wings off in a panic. Ah, wonderful times. Childhood is so fickle.
He may not be that intelligible yet, but at least he's aware now. That much is obvious enough to see in his face, his eyes make the effort to track and follow Jim, try and take in his surroundings, but so much of his field of vision is slipping away.
He's not a stranger to feeling like this, but he's been lucky up until now to find himself brought safely home to sleep it off. Up till now, when he's taken down like this it's just been to stop him, not to abduct him. Still, he's not afraid. Not for himself, anyway. There's the lingering worry that Moriarty has John and there's nothing he can do, no way to fight him. It's this kind of helplessness that he can't stand. The kind that makes it clear he's got a weakness, he's let someone in and it's slowed him down. Sherlock can take practically anything that's thrown at him, outsmart it or weather the storm, but when the damages are collateral is when they begin to bring him down.
Maybe that's why seeing the case is a relief. That old friend. 'He doesn't have John...'It's what he needs
( ... )
The lack of resistance would be disappointing, if it weren't so absolutely delicious. It's something about the way the detective's pale lips slacken, something in the murmured baritone that drips thickly over James' eardrums like a soothingly sweet honey being slathered over his senses. It's the sound of surrender, and he recognizes it; revels in it, which is new, because it really is the sort of thing that would warrant an eye roll after having heard it fifty-too-many-times. Always in a desperate yelp, or in broken syllables, or sobs, and always after he's been made to get creative during an interrogation. It gets old.
This won't, though.
He drags his tongue across his lower lip, hints of lemon tickling his tastebuds from the chapstick applied earlier, and no, he decides, maybe he's not satisfied with this bit just yet. Hopefully Sherlock doesn't mind too much having a murderous psychopath mount his lap - James couldn't care less about personal space or propriety of any sort, for that matter - and if he does, he's welcome to file
( ... )
He hates depressants. He hates anything that slows him down, that blankets his mind and keeps him still while the world races on ahead of him. The promise of Sherlock's drugs isn't something to resist, it's something he wants. The only reason he's laid off of it, the reason why it's his old friend, is that John keeps hiding it from him or making him promise to stop. John just doesn't understand, this isn't an addiction, it's not out of control, it just heightens his senses and helps him to think. It's what a cup of coffee must be for the average mind. So why should he resist when it's the only thing aside from time that will bring him out of this? And he doesn't have that kind of time, not with Jim… not now.
Jim moving onto his lap isn't as startling or unwelcome as it should be. What it is is a reminder of where his body is. It's here and it ends just there, where the weight and warmth of another body rest on his thighs. Whether or not this is having the desired effect depends on what that effect was intended to be. Between this and
( ... )
A slap and he surfaces briefly, like a drowning man for air. He tries to stay up, blinking at the light around him, struggling with all of his will to keep his eyes open, but he's losing that fight. He's slipping back beneath the surface of the sedation, back into his mind. He's not alone, though, he knows that now. Someone's here... he should know who, it should be obvious, but it isn't. He knows, but it's on the fringe of his awareness.
All of this that Jim would see is the opening and closing of his mouth and the blinking as his chin sinks back down against his chest.
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There's something wonderfully pliable about a drugged Sherlock though- quiet, obedient, at his mercy... sure, it may eventually turn stale, but for now? Well, Jim isn't fussing at the moment. He does need the man rather more alert than this, however.
"Tut, tut, tut. Up and at 'em, Sherly, I need your eyes open for this game," a slim, perfectly manicured hand darts out to none-too-gently clutch Sherlock's chin, forcing his head up. "I want to reintroduce you to an old friend of yours..." his lips curl in a childish pout, and his free hand slides up the side of the man's shockingly cold cheek, fingers tightening in the brown tufts of hair when they reach the top of his head.
A sharp tug is administered.
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No, that's something preferably left at the back of his metaphorical hard drive. Although, the sluggish, restrained movements Sherlock's making between sporadic jerky bursts as his mind momentarily resurfaces, do bring James back to a time when he used to catch butterflies. Pin them to boards with needles. Watch them squirm about and tear their own wings off in a panic. Ah, wonderful times. Childhood is so fickle.
"Well, I think his presence ( ... )
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He's not a stranger to feeling like this, but he's been lucky up until now to find himself brought safely home to sleep it off. Up till now, when he's taken down like this it's just been to stop him, not to abduct him. Still, he's not afraid. Not for himself, anyway. There's the lingering worry that Moriarty has John and there's nothing he can do, no way to fight him. It's this kind of helplessness that he can't stand. The kind that makes it clear he's got a weakness, he's let someone in and it's slowed him down. Sherlock can take practically anything that's thrown at him, outsmart it or weather the storm, but when the damages are collateral is when they begin to bring him down.
Maybe that's why seeing the case is a relief. That old friend. 'He doesn't have John...'It's what he needs ( ... )
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This won't, though.
He drags his tongue across his lower lip, hints of lemon tickling his tastebuds from the chapstick applied earlier, and no, he decides, maybe he's not satisfied with this bit just yet. Hopefully Sherlock doesn't mind too much having a murderous psychopath mount his lap - James couldn't care less about personal space or propriety of any sort, for that matter - and if he does, he's welcome to file ( ... )
Reply
Jim moving onto his lap isn't as startling or unwelcome as it should be. What it is is a reminder of where his body is. It's here and it ends just there, where the weight and warmth of another body rest on his thighs. Whether or not this is having the desired effect depends on what that effect was intended to be. Between this and ( ... )
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