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.
He's blinking up into his face, aware of the rough handling of his jaw, but distantly. He's coming around enough to comprehend, enough to know the touch is Jim's hand, an anchor in the turbulent sea of his perception. He wants to ask what he means. Does he have John? John is not an old friend. Sherlock doesn't have old friends.
There's just a split second where it might seem as though Sherlock has tried to lean into the hand skimming his cheek, but between the tight hold and his drug-induced weakness, it's almost impossible to tell. His eyes flutter shut with a wince when he feels a tug at his hair. That's got his attention, piercing through the haze that's holding him down, and slowly he manages to blink his eyes open again and he manages a low, rough sound that might almost sound like a question, like yes?
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.
"Well, I think his presence will knock a bit of energy into you. He really dislikes being ignored for so long."
No matter if Sherlock can't see what's going on- he'll soon figure it out. Jim releases his grip on Sherlock's chin to slip his hand into the inner pocket of his no doubt repulsively expensive suit, and grope around, making quick work of withdrawing a sleek, metallic case from the jacket. If the man could get his eyes to work any time soon, he'd easily recognize it as the very same container John fusses over hiding during so called danger nights.
He'll press the cool metal to Sherlock's cheek.
"A spoon full of sugar helps the medicine go down..."
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. It'll clear his mind, sharpen it, bring him back to the moment that he's so desperately trying to get a hold of. Sherlock wants it for perhaps different reasons than Moriarty wants to give it to him. He doesn't know those reasons, but it'll give him an edge, drag him from the heaviness that's crushing him. Maybe there's more than that, more than an honest desire to shake this muddy feeling. There's a craving, a need, no matter how adamant he is about it just being something to help him think.
When the cold case presses against his cheek, his lips part, and he manages a word that's intelligible: "Please..."
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 a complaint to someone in a department that gives a toss. But with James' polarity regarding right and wrong, he stands to shatter any moral compass, so really, a bit of circulation being cut off in Sherlock's legs is likely the least of his worries.
The digits tangled in Sherlock's hair are briefly removed, and even that small miracle is performed with deliberate recklessness - Jim's fist comes away from his scalp with a few inky black strands of hair between his knuckles, yanked out.
"Hmm? Sorry, darling, I'm afraid I couldn't hear you. You'll have to speak up."
He leans in, infuriatingly close, fractionally dragging the case down; first cheek, down the swan-like neck, and now resting at the hardly-breathing consultant's collarbone.
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 the hand in his hair, a rough, painful point of contact, Sherlock is further roused from his stupor and slowly, he is more aware of the situation. Jim in his lap. His metal tin being dragged down his cheek and neck. Sherlock's eyes are barely open, but he can see Jim.
"I said… please," he tries again, his voice rough as if it had not been much used lately. Somewhere - where are his hands, behind him? - his fingers flex weakly. There's a will to escape, but it's still so far beneath the surface of these drugs that it's pointless to try and fight his bonds.
He's blinking up into his face, aware of the rough handling of his jaw, but distantly. He's coming around enough to comprehend, enough to know the touch is Jim's hand, an anchor in the turbulent sea of his perception. He wants to ask what he means. Does he have John? John is not an old friend. Sherlock doesn't have old friends.
There's just a split second where it might seem as though Sherlock has tried to lean into the hand skimming his cheek, but between the tight hold and his drug-induced weakness, it's almost impossible to tell. His eyes flutter shut with a wince when he feels a tug at his hair. That's got his attention, piercing through the haze that's holding him down, and slowly he manages to blink his eyes open again and he manages a low, rough sound that might almost sound like a question, like yes?
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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 will knock a bit of energy into you. He really dislikes being ignored for so long."
No matter if Sherlock can't see what's going on- he'll soon figure it out. Jim releases his grip on Sherlock's chin to slip his hand into the inner pocket of his no doubt repulsively expensive suit, and grope around, making quick work of withdrawing a sleek, metallic case from the jacket. If the man could get his eyes to work any time soon, he'd easily recognize it as the very same container John fusses over hiding during so called danger nights.
He'll press the cool metal to Sherlock's cheek.
"A spoon full of sugar helps the medicine go down..."
Reply
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. It'll clear his mind, sharpen it, bring him back to the moment that he's so desperately trying to get a hold of. Sherlock wants it for perhaps different reasons than Moriarty wants to give it to him. He doesn't know those reasons, but it'll give him an edge, drag him from the heaviness that's crushing him. Maybe there's more than that, more than an honest desire to shake this muddy feeling. There's a craving, a need, no matter how adamant he is about it just being something to help him think.
When the cold case presses against his cheek, his lips part, and he manages a word that's intelligible: "Please..."
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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 a complaint to someone in a department that gives a toss. But with James' polarity regarding right and wrong, he stands to shatter any moral compass, so really, a bit of circulation being cut off in Sherlock's legs is likely the least of his worries.
The digits tangled in Sherlock's hair are briefly removed, and even that small miracle is performed with deliberate recklessness - Jim's fist comes away from his scalp with a few inky black strands of hair between his knuckles, yanked out.
"Hmm? Sorry, darling, I'm afraid I couldn't hear you. You'll have to speak up."
He leans in, infuriatingly close, fractionally dragging the case down; first cheek, down the swan-like neck, and now resting at the hardly-breathing consultant's collarbone.
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 the hand in his hair, a rough, painful point of contact, Sherlock is further roused from his stupor and slowly, he is more aware of the situation. Jim in his lap. His metal tin being dragged down his cheek and neck. Sherlock's eyes are barely open, but he can see Jim.
"I said… please," he tries again, his voice rough as if it had not been much used lately. Somewhere - where are his hands, behind him? - his fingers flex weakly. There's a will to escape, but it's still so far beneath the surface of these drugs that it's pointless to try and fight his bonds.
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