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“What are you thinking now, Sherlock?”
Sherlock stares at the ceiling. The plaster is cracking, faint lines breaking a unified rectangle into uneven splotches, like the skin of a man dehydrated after days and dying. One of the pieces is peeling, even, and Sherlock wonders if it falls down, would it kill him? Probably not, the plaster isn’t heavy enough, and humans have a flight or flight reflex built into them. If the ceiling falls down on him, his amygdala would trigger the sympathetic nervous system, release cortisol and adrenaline. Sherlock is a boxer, so his body would react fast enough to roll out of the way when a heavy object falls. He would then start breathing heavily, and his heart would beat faster, as the hormones start to do their work, but it would already be over, and he would stare at the piece of the ceiling landing at his feet knowing that he is fine and alive.
And also that particular piece is in the corner of the room far away from him. A good ten feet away. So there’s that.
A cold presence shifts above him, jerking him back to the present. Glacial breeze caresses his inner thigh, sending shivers down his spine. He clasps his legs shut, unused to the touch. It’s wrong, it’s unsettling, it’s violating.
“You’re not dying on me any time soon, Sherlock. The ceiling won’t kill you.”
Sherlock sees nothing but the room. The small hotel room, the bed, and his own body, naked. He’s dead, he reminds himself. Moriarty is dead. Disappeared into the whirling, roaring falls of Reichenbach. Forever buried in that watery grave.
“So are you. And yet here we are, reunited once again.”
This isn’t Moriarty. Moriarty’s hands are dusted with chalk, not smooth as ice. Why would Moriarty even want to fuck him? Come to think of it, why would anyone? Sherlock is legally dead, and half the time he doesn’t feel alive enough to convince himself otherwise. Everything is cold and still and dead, like the stone that sits atop an empty coffin somewhere in London.
An ice cold hand palms his cock, and to his eternal shame he realizes it’s rock hard. Laughter rings in the room, triumphant and grating like nails on chalkboard against his ears. “You look remarkably alive and responsive for a dead man, you know.”
Sherlock squeezes his legs together tighter, but it does nothing to stop Moriarty. The hand starts stroking his cock, slow and tantalizing, drawing each motion out, and it takes all his energy not to give in. It feels good to be touched, and it feels horrible in its inhumane chill.
“You’re not here. You’re just a ghost. Or a figment of my imagination. I haven’t eaten for two days, I’ve been cooped up in this room for the last week, and I haven’t talked to anyone for more than two sentences for over a month. Prolonged isolation and lack of social contact is known to induce hallucination in men, among many other symptoms,” Sherlock croaks out, his mind sounding the alert that he’s insane. He must be insane, or else he wouldn’t be lying naked and shuddering as a ghost toys with him.
Sherlock squirms away, only to find the coldness clung to him. Tears prickle at the corner of his eyes as his back hits the wall. He’s well and truly boxed in, frost climbing up his legs, his arms, crawling over his chest, whispering promises of pleasure if only he would let it in.
He squeezes his eyes shut. A childish coping mechanism, but he indulges in it anyway. If he closes his eyes, he could pretend that Moriarty is here, in flesh and blood. That he isn’t a lunatic conjuring up the man’s presence and consorting with his ghost. Or that Sherlock is with someone better, someone more moral and kind, someone who doesn’t sit on a mountain of wealth derived from bloody murders and extortions. Someone who is gentle with him. Someone who lo—
“You’re just deluding yourself now.” Soft as the rumbling wind, a chuckle resonates in his ears. “Could a hallucination do this?”
A dozen, maybe a hundred impressions of hands pin him down, invisible chains of iron holding his wrists down above his head, roaming over his skin, stretching his legs open when he fights to press them together. Like a specimen on display in a lab. It’s dizzying, skin and metal shifting into each other and warping together.
“Why are you here?” Why am I here?
Moriarty’s voice laughs, a low mocking sound. Sherlock could feel his breath tickling his neck, cold as the winds of the Alps. “You summoned me here. Admit it, dear, you miss me.”
Sherlock gasped as something ice cold invaded him without a warning. His tongue burns with the need to speak. To get the last word in. “I’m glad I killed you. I’m glad you’re dead and gone, if only so you can’t leech off London anymore like the parasite you are. And when I’m through and your empire is in ruins, no one will be alive to mourn for you.”
He longs to curl into himself. The coldness stings like hell and he wants it out. But Moriarty holds him down in a vice-like grip. Every inch of muscle Sherlock tests and flexes is wrapped under heavy iron and monstrous hands, and all he could do is to try and fight off waves of chill and nausea that toss him around and threaten to drown him.
Moriarty picks up the pace, and Sherlock bites down on his lips, unwilling to let the man (could you call him a man if he’s dead and not present in the room in any corporeal way?) draw sounds of pleasure out of him. It could split him in half, he thinks, tear him apart from his behind, a fracture that grows upward with each pounding until it kills him as well. The final case of Sherlock Holmes, a locked room mystery starring yours truly as the body. Watch as the great detective is reduced to an unnamed body in a hotel that definitely doesn’t pass safety regulations! Ripped laterally in half with a thick layer of frost coating the cut.
“Oh, I’m not worried about that,” Moriarty croons, pinning down Sherlock’s hips when he tries to chase the friction. Sherlock swallows back a whimper; he wouldn’t give Moriarty the satisfaction, he won’t. “I’ll live on forever in that wonderful mind of yours, Sherlock. You’ve got a brain that ensnares and holds onto knowledge like a steel trap. I adore that about you, it’s a piece of artwork unlike any other.”
Sherlock nods desperately, cold metal resting against his temple. He is whip smart, he has a mind envied by all, he is valuable and useful. He has that going for him, at least. Behind closed eyes, he imagines Moriarty looking down at him with something akin to fondness. The ice was almost soothing, cooling down the ever churning engine that is his brain.
“And as long as you breathe, I’ll be alive and remembered. Living in that steely palace in your head.”
Cold lips attack Sherlock’s neck, sharp teeth biting down and leeching blood out of him. Against his will, a moan escapes his throat. Sherlock’s cheeks burn with shame, already imagining Moriarty’s sharp cackles at his predicament. Held down and fucked like a whore, by a ghost no less. And his body had the audacity to like it.
You do know this is all in your head, right? His brain tells him that. You want this, you asked for this, you desperate slut.
He can’t tell if the voice sounds more like Moriarty or himself. Somewhere down the line, their voices have merged into one in his head.
“Why would I remember you?” He rasps, every other word cut off as his breath hitches. Moriarty pounds into him more like a machine than man, and Sherlock hates the roughness, hates the way he’s held down violently. “You’re the worst kind of scum to ever taint our country. You feed off misery and suffering like a goddamn vampire.”
Moriarty snaps his hips just right, and Sherlock sucks in a breath, a lie tumbling out in a moment of weakness. “You’re dead, I’ll never have to worry about you anymore.”
Or maybe Sherlock is the machine between the two of them, dead and sent on an impossible task and now just a hole to satisfy a ghost. Behold, as the British empire presents its newest detective model, an all-in-one weapon to combat any crime one could commit! It doesn’t need to eat, or sleep, or rest. Wind it up just once and it will go on a wild goose chase all over Europe for your selected target. No recharge needed! And for a pound and ninety-nine, you can get a free upgrade to have your way with him! Nice and pliant like a doll, no extra maintenance required! Chains not included in the package.
“Because you need me, Sherlock. You’re the one dreaming this all up. Every piece of art needs its appreciator, and you’re no different. You long to be understood, and here I am, darling. I’m here to cherish you, as you wish so.” Moriarty draws out the words like a siren song, swirling each vowel like a mouthful of wine to be savored. Frigid lips press themselves against Sherlock’s. He flinches away, only for an iron-smooth hand to grip his chin and force a kiss on him. Iron rust and metallic blood mixed with fruity sweetness. He wants to throw up and purge it from his tongue.
“No, that’s– that’s not true, I don’t want you.” Sherlock whispers—no, pleads, trying to fight against the grip on his face. It’s all he can do to try and ignore Moriarty. Every attack sends Sherlock’s mind into a hazy mess, a paper boat tossed around by the monstrous currents of the sea. “Let me go, please.”
A hand finds its way into his hair and tugs painfully, tilting Sherlock’s head up. Ice crept past his lips into his mouth, and it’s as if Moriarty is sucking his very life out of him. Stealing every mouthful of air before Sherlock could breathe it in. “I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t wish for my company.” Then, almost mournful, “why wouldn’t you let me in? We’re meant for each other. I know you better than anyone else.”
Something strokes his face (iron or fingers, he doesn’t care anymore, they’re both dead and cold anyway) and Sherlock can’t help but lean into it. He misses Watson’s hugs, and Mrs Hudson’s hand on his face, and Mycroft’s reassuring squeeze on his shoulders. For a moment, Moriarty almost seems to relieve the ache in his chest—he sees me, he understands me, he loves me—before his touch pierces Sherlock’s chest, thorns of ice wrapping themselves around his flesh and drawing blood. His heart spluttering out its last pumps, before it inevitably turns to a block of ice and freezes him to death as well.
Moriarty wipes his tears away before they could fall. Droplets of ice land on the yellowed pillow. The man shushes him oh so gently it raises goosebumps on his skin. “It’s alright, Sherlock, I’m here to stay. Forever.”
A sob tears itself free from Sherlock’s throat, and he cums all over his hand—
He opens his eyes. Looks down. Sits up. No iron chains to hold him back, no ghost with too many hands digging into his skin. Just his own hand wrapped around his cock. Sprawled on a bed so cold it numbs his skin. Tiny water stains on the pillowcase.
He’s definitely, certifiably insane.
The window is open, inviting in the harsh winter air, but Sherlock is too exhausted to care. It’s like someone has wrung him dry, squeezed out every bit of warmth in him. Wiping his face, even though the tears fall down as he does so, he tugs his clothes back on. Buttoning his shirt is all the harder when his fingertips are frosted and unfeeling. Useless, he can’t even dress himself now.
Wind curls around him in a poor imitation of a hug, a thousand tiny needles of chill slicing his skin open. It’s just too much for him right now, and he shrinks away, but the hold only tightens around him as he lies down in bed. Not even the blanket can chase it away.
He coils into himself, shivering uncontrollably from the cold that has sunk into his bones.
And spots the hand-shaped bruises on his wrists.