(Untitled)
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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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 ( ... )
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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.
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"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..."
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