Disclaimer/Warning: I do not own BBC Sherlock. Rating for language, violence, sexual themes. Should probably be M; thoughts?


His eyes are wide, just barely frosted over with his recent incapacities. "What do you mean?"

God in heaven, he doesn't get it. A laugh bubbles up from my throat but stop that at once, Jim, that is not professional in the slightest. I clear my throat and grin grin grin and he just stares back because he's so fucking stupid.

"I want you!" I bellow. "God, Sherlock, what is so hard to understand?"

He must know what I'm getting at. Surely.

He just stares back, shaking his head ever so slightly, in what? Disbelief? Ignorance?

Oh, dear Lord, give me strength.

"I want you, Sherlock." My arms reach out of their own accord and my voice is just barely audible. "Is that so hard to understand?

Have you never been wanted before?"

I can practically see Seb behind the two way mirror, lighting up. Maybe he's turning away at this point, or maybe he's sticking it out a little longer watching less-than-keenly. Jealous bastard.

"It's your lucky day."

The world spins.

From behind my sleeve I withdraw a needle like a magician and his fake cards. Sherlock jerks out of the way but his time in here has dampened his reflexes. The needle hits its mark against his corded neck and I slam the plunger home.

He sags, but he's conscious. Of course he's conscious. What fun would it be otherwise?

I shrug off my blazer and roll up my sleeves; this might get a little messy.

The switchblade on my belt was a gift. It's a very handsome blade, very sharp and well used. It feels familiar against my palm as I trace it's edge.

With a flick, Sebastian's beautifully tied constraints are a pile of rope against the concrete floor. Sherlock pitches forward, but I keep him in place. His blue-green-gray eyes trace that path of the blade, watching it with intent fear as it draws closer and closer.

I'm behind him now, he's still firmly in my grasp and I can finally touch him.

He smells like three-day-old rotten basement and sweat, his hair just lightly brushed with musk and cigarette smoke.

The tip of the blade traces circles on his chest. I press just barely hard enough of draw blood.

We have a deal.

"Scream for me, Sherlock."

I shove the chair forward and he falls into a crumpled heap onto the floor and my hands are all over him, feel the ridged surface of his chest, the area between his shoulder blades, the divots of his collarbone. My fingers wrap themselves around his neck, squeezing tightertightertighter but no I mustn't kill him, yet, so I release him and he lies there, panting slightly, eyes wide.

I tear off his remaining clothing and bend over him and smile smile smile.

I let my tongue travel over where my fingers brushed just moments ago, blood still dripping lightly, but he doesn't talk, he barely even grunts, so I let my blade go a few millimeters deeper but still nothing so here I am on my feet, kicking him once twice thrice and finally does he gasp and wheeze and it's not a scream, but it'll have to do.

I pick up the water bottle I carried in and loosen the cap, letting it's contents drip into his agape lips and he drinks it like it's gold, because it is.

The cap pops off and the stream shoots into his face, oh well, so much for that.

He's kind of like a fish out of water and I laugh at the mental image.

I leave him on the floor and traipse back to Seb, who's lighting up another cigarette.

"Impressive," he allows.

I sigh. "He got blood on my shoes."


A/N: I have decided to update at the urging of a lightly threatening review. Thank you for reading, feedback is much appreciated.