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.
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.
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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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