A/N Have some Morlock. ;D This is actually my first time writing this pairing, come to think of it, and I hardly did it properly, seeing as, naturally, drugged!Sherlock is a bit OOC and generally delirious. Ah, well. I still enjoyed it, and I do actually like this piece a bit, even though it's a different sort of style than I normally go for. I can't identify exactly what it is about it, but... hm. I suppose the date means that this was set somewhere around 'A Scandal in Belgravia,' if anyone cares about how this could possibly tie into canon... Anyways, yes. Please do review!

Rated T for drugging, language, and snogging ;P

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.


Valentine's Day was typically a tedious holiday more than anything else for Jim Moriarty, seeing as it tended to concern a disgusting abundance of frills and hearts—not the type of hearts he liked (dripping, crimson, still pulsating as their scarlet-black contents leaked out), but rather pathetic paper confections of a manufactured pink shade. There was chocolate, too—always a ridiculous amount of chocolate, enough so that he ended up forbidding its presence in his and Sebastian's flat on February 14th alone simply out of annoyance.

Still, Valentine's Day had its advantages, and so did chocolate, when it happened to be in the possession of a certain consulting detective who normally considered such small pleasures to be below his level of importance. Jim knew what he wanted from the start, though, and he knew that the only person Sherlock would accept chocolate from in any situation was undoubtedly the exhaustingly dull John Watson, who he seemed to be so inexplicably fond of. Luckily for Jim, John happened to be extremely easy to work around, and so it was that the particular bits of truffle that he had purchased for Sherlock ended up mysteriously filled with a very specific drug, one which would make a very easy job of turning the usual sharp detective into a fuzzy-minded mess topped with sexual craving that was neither desirable nor ignorable.

Well, it wasn't as if the cleverest criminal on the planet had to play nice.

A few more arrangements had John on the other side of London with his girlfriend, Sebastian keeping an eye on him, and Mrs. Hudson spending the whole week out of town (it could never hurt to be safe). The whole of 221b was empty save Sherlock, a thing that the avid experimenter would normally take advantage of, if only he didn't have too many abnormal chemicals inside of him to become concerned with those in his test tubes.

I know it was you. –SH

But of course. Should I be flattered that you know my number? –JM

Hardly. Get over to the flat, if you're not here already. –SH

An invitation, really? Have we got a bit of an appetite that needs satiating? –JM

It's clear enough that you developed this drug on your own, so only you'd have any sort of thing that will undo its effects. I can't afford to be like this by the time John gets home. –SH

No, you really can't, can you? –JM

Just come here and fix it already. –SH

"Patience," Jim murmured aloud, face twitching into a full smile as he turned his head, looking up at the dark awning of the sandwich bar that he was standing under. He slipped the phone into his pocket and shook off the light frosting of delicate snowflakes that had settled on his shoulders during the short duration of the typed conversation. If Sherlock was truly going to go as far as to request his presence, well, it was hardly something that he'd turn down. Moving silently through the snow-thick air, he slipped unnoticed to the deep green door, proclaimed 221b by coldly shining brass numbers, and unlocked it with a stolen key, the sound thunderous in the otherwise silent night. Moments later, he was inside, and ascending the staircase, shamelessly leaving a trail of glistening wet footprints that even an amateur observer could identify as belonging to a particularly expensive brand of shoe.

"Awful wallpaper," he commented casually as he entered the main room of the flat, not bothering to keep his voice down. His head tilted slightly to the side, wide eyes drinking in the sight of his messy surroundings, the dark leather couch, twin chairs by the fireplace, absurd bull's skull decked out in headphones and mounted on the wall. "You in here, darling?"

A faint, muffled groan came from the direction of what was presumably the bedroom, and then the shark-like grin was back, unable to be held at bay for too long. He strode casually into the kitchen, fingers trailing and lingering on the wall, taking his time. There was all matter of time, after all. Less than an hour, but that was all that he needed. This time wasn't meant for much, after all. Nothing more than proving a small and yet tremendous point.

"I'll assume that you expect I'm going to help you out," he continued, gaze scanning the kitchen. The table was actually remarkably tidy, presumably John's doing, though a microscope and a rebelliously haphazard mess of clean slides sat in the corner, a silent protest to the order.

Chaos, Sherlock… even you hunger for it, even if you think you work for the law…

"Has it never crossed your mind that my intention is the opposite? You must be even more separated from yourself than I intended, if you'll let me inside your own home so casually… or maybe it's the other way around… maybe I've stripped away all those tedious layers of precaution and left your genuine desires exposed…"

"Just fix it," Sherlock half-begged, his voice barely audible from the other room. "You've got to have some sort of antidote…"

"I might." Jim's hands moved towards the cupboards, thrusting them open to reveal a rather admirable array of teacups, one particular set of which were of a light, flower-painted craft, rimmed with gleaming gold. He took one down without hesitation, then removed the corresponding saucer from a stack beside it. "How would you know either way?"

"I wouldn't…"

"Well, isn't that refreshing. You do admit these things much quicker when your mind has been reduced to… its more primitive settings." He flipped the sleek water boiler on, watching closely as tiny spritzes of air sprung up near the surface, darting about before finally collecting into full-sized bubbles, which swelled and began to pop rapidly.

"Just… if you have something, give it to me…"

"Now, you aren't trusting me, are you? That's a very dangerous mistake, dear… very dangerous." The boiling water poured into the cup, and he reached into the nearest drawer, pleased when it happened to contain an all manner of teabags. A few seconds later, it was steeping, and he dropped in a light dusting of sugar before bringing the cup to the saucer with a soft clinking.

Sherlock, presumably recognizing the sound, let out a faint whimper. "Those are John's cups… he'll kill you if you break them…"

"I'm sure he has a thousand reasons to kill me, and yet any actual attempt is sure to be a spectacular failure. Besides, there's no reason for concern. My grip is delicate… when I want it to be." With that, he took the last few steps between himself and the bedroom, shouldering the door open to reveal Sherlock half-propped on a couple of pillows, slumped down and illuminated by only the ghostly, snowy light radiating from his single window. The detective's half-lidded eyes opened slightly wider at the sight of Jim in his doorway, and he made a slight move as if to sit up fully, before giving up with a tiny sigh.

"Painful, isn't it?" Jim purred, perching on the edge of the bed and swirling the cup of tea that he held. "You're exhausted, and yet… shall we say… needy."

"Thoughtful euphemism." Sherlock's gaze flickered towards the tea. "Antidote?" he half-begged quietly. "Or is that supposed to be some sort of…"

"Courtesy? Politeness? You should know, it's only the proper thing for two men to have tea when they… meet…"

"Do you expect me to consider you a thoughtful person?"

"Mm, I suppose not." Jim inched closer, rumpling the bedspread that Sherlock lay sprawled on top of and not particularly caring. Now he was only a foot away, an arm's distance from the motionless detective. "Not thoughtful or trustworthy, at least not when I don't want to be. There's no basis on which to believe that I put any matter of antidote in this. In fact…" He raised the cup slightly. "I might even have drugged it as well."

"Fuck you if you did," Sherlock snapped with surprising venom, his fingers clenching at his sides.

"Don't mind if you do." A smirk twitched at Jim's lips. "It is Valentine's Day, after all… St. Valentine. Well, Valentinus… his is far from a pleasant story, I can't claim I'm sorry to say. Beaten with clubs and stones for trying to convert his Emperor… then beheaded… and yet we associate this holiday with romance, of all things. Interesting how love and blood always manage to interweave."

"Like with you…" was the slurred reply.

"Me, really? Should I be flattered?" he asked lowly, managing to raise his eyebrows and lower his lashes in a single movement. "I wasn't aware that you associated me with the former… though I can't deny it's a pleasant thing to learn…"

Sherlock opened his mouth slightly, as if about to launch a protest, then let it drift shut again, giving his head the tiniest of minute shakes and leading his curls to spring slightly in an altogether endearing way.

"Now, let's make up our minds. Are you going to take your chances or not?" He tipped the cup so that its contents lapped up dangerously near the edge, only just managing not to slop over.

"I'm not playing your damned game. It either is or it isn't, and I'm desperate now." Sherlock snatched it from his grasp, bringing it to his lips and downing a swift gulp.

Jim raised a steadying hand, placing his own fingers lightly over Sherlock's and holding the cup in place. "Desperate, and easy to admit it. It really is fun when you don't waste time trying to act cool, isn't it…? Gets things done much faster…"

"Things done… what… what things?" He spat his third mouthful out ungracefully and struggled a bit, managing to right himself somewhat, so that he at least assumed a straighter posture than he'd yet managed to demonstrate. "What did you put in that tea?"

Jim didn't let go of the cup, leaving it suspended in front of Sherlock's, a casual offering. "Nothing, of course. It's entirely plain… I should think that the color and flavor make that an easy deduction, unless your mind happens to be too muddled by my presence…"

"Your poison, yes. You, not so much…"

"Oh, but you can't deny it completely," he cooed, voice like a razor blade wrapped in silk, its Irish lilt giving it a taunting edge. "You do find me… fascinating… I know you do… oh, but we've run out of time, now, haven't we?" he lamented, keeping his voice low and even. His free fingers reached over slowly, wrapping around Sherlock's wrist and lifting it slowly. The detective's breath came a half-beat faster as Jim brought the limp hand closer, focusing on the spindly numbers of its cold metal watch.

"Only a minute till midnight. If I managed to time things right, you won't last for very long afterwards before slipping off… good to get some rest, I've heard that you haven't slept for… what is it… three days, now? Shame, shame. And you don't even have a case on…"

"Sleep… another effect, then… does that mean that these… urges will be gone…?"

"Naturally. They were never going to be lasting… you'll wake up perfectly fine. This was a test, nothing more… and for the time being, you seem to have failed…"

"I didn't fail anything," Sherlock protested blurrily, his usually neatly articulated words blending into one another. "S'your own problem if you didn't get what you wanted."

"Is it, thought?" Jim sighed softly. "Happy love day, darling. Have some tea…" He pressed the edge of the cup against Sherlock's lips, tipping it and watching the movement of the detective's pale throat as he involuntarily swallowed. "You don't have much time left, I'm afraid… seconds, at a guess, unless you prove to be… resilient…"

"Might last longer… if you entertain me," Sherlock got out slowly, his eyelids flickering as rapidly as butterflies' wings. "You are rather… unentertaining…" His fingers lightly clutched the handle of the teacup, and Jim let it go, so that it was suspended shakily in the air by the detective's fragile grip alone.

It was amusing to see the usually strong man struggle with just staying awake—amusing and rather captivating. Enough so, anyways, for Jim to end up hoping that he would last longer than was expected of him. It would be nice if they got a bit of extra time. After all, Sherlock was practically delirious at this point… enough so that it would be a stretch for him to even remember things from this point onwards in the future.

"Am I?" he murmured in as low and velvety a voice as possible. "I don't bore you, though… people like your Dr. Watson… they're boring. But you know that I'm not boring, and I know that you're not. I'm what keeps you going… you're nothing without me," he mused casually, his fingers running along the bedspread, smoothing out any wrinkles that they came across.

"The skull… where… where is it… where did you put it?" Sherlock demanded suddenly, leaning forward in a bit of a scuffle, so that the tea sloshed near the top of the cup.

Jim could barely contain the giggle that tickled at his throat. Definitely delirious. "The one on the mantelpiece? Where it always is, I'd expect… that's a bit of a problem, dear, not being able to remember where your own skull is kept…"

"Did you… substitute it… with your own skull…?" Sherlock's free hand sprung up towards Jim's face, tentatively brushing at his jaw. He held it there with a grin, delightedly watching the detective's silent struggle—chances were that, at this point, he didn't even know what he was fighting against anymore.

"I'd find that a bit of a challenge, I'm afraid."

Sherlock blinked slowly, looking more than a little confused, then sagged back against the pillows, his chest moving shallowly and his hands hanging loosely. The teacup dangled dangerously on his fingertips, a slow stream spilling out of it and onto the floor. Jim whisked his feet up and out of harm's way, tucking them underneath himself on the bed as a stain began to spread across the carpet. The detective's eyes drifted shut for a few moments, and Jim was ready to believe that he'd finally succumbed to the drug when they suddenly flashed open again.

"You," he choked out, his voice louder and rougher than before, but a good deal more lucid at the same time. "What are you doing here?"

"Is there a problem?"

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to list a thousand problems, then suddenly hesitated, looking a bit confused. "…John will be home," he finally mumbled.

The whole world of objections, and the only one you choose is the prospect of being discovered by your flatmate. Interesting, all too interesting. Jim bit back the syrupy flood of taunts that tempted his tongue, instead settling for a softly purred "I can delay that… easily…"

"Just don't hurt him…" Sherlock groaned, seeming to relax ever so slightly.

"Oh, but he's so… boring… you don't need him, not really…" Jim tilted his head slightly, biting the edge of his tongue as it ran along his lower lip. "I have one like him, you know… an ordinary one… thinks he's something special, but he's not, none of them are… when you get down to it, it's just you and me, Sherlock… all there ever was… no?" Sherlock was shaking his head rapidly. "I won't hurt him, then. Just hold him off. Unless we're done here… are we done…?"

A weak sound of what might have been protest came from Sherlock's lips, and a satisfied grin settled over Jim's features. "Good… just as I hoped…" He leaned in, pressing his forehead slowly to Sherlock's and finding that it was burning hot below the surface. "Looks like you're a little feverish," he breathed, the words dancing millimeters away from the other man's mouth. Sherlock quivered slightly, and even in the mistily faint lighting, it was no challenge to see his pupils dilate slightly, thinning the already hairline rim of pale green-blue iris that surrounded them. "Don't let your hand slip… you're going to break the teacup…"

"It's… not one of John's… is it…?" Seconds later, there was a crash and a slight tinkle as the antique cup shattered on the floor. Smirking, and with his way now unmarred, Jim pulled himself up closer to Sherlock, moving in so close that the detective had no choice but to flatten himself up against the lopsided stack of pillows, tilting back until his curls were pressing into the sharp edge of the headboard.

"You just don't know what to do," Jim mused softly, gripping Sherlock's shoulder with one hand and using the other to stroke the side of his face contemplatively, like a sculptor deciding where to make his next cut. "This is all new to you…"

Sherlock's arms twitched as if they wanted to move, but ended up staying splayed out slightly over the pillows, his knuckles white and his eyes wild as he strained against some unseen force.

"I wonder," Jim whispered, the words ghosting softly through the practically invisible space between them, "what your Johnny would think if he could see you now… how he'd act… what he'd say…"

"He can't."

"Well, you certainly don't waste your time with guilt… I like that about you," he teased. Sherlock's arm—moving slowly as if controlled by an external force—slipped slowly around his waist, and he leaned in yet closer, just managing to hold his body an inch or so above Sherlock's, so that their suit tops brushed together ever so slightly.

"You're interesting… John is never this interesting…" Sherlock's words were raw, twistedly innocent—in a way, he was asleep already, just letting his innermost thoughts and feelings speak through him.

"That's right… you're so much more agreeable when you're drugged, I should do this more often…" Jim slowly lowered himself down onto the bed next to Sherlock, pulling away from him and lying back. With a low whine, the detective immediately turned onto his side, gripping at the front of Jim's shirt and watching him with hazy eyes.

"You know the next step, don't you? You know what comes next…"

Sherlock barely hesitated before leaning in, but even once he did, he seemed a bit unsure as to exactly where to put his lips. Jim slipped a hand up, threading it through his thick black waves of hair, and drew him in closer, slipping his tongue in between Sherlock's lips and biting at the bottom one. The other man made a soft, almost yelping sort of noise, and Jim grinned against his mouth, threading their legs together.

"I…" Sherlock whimpered, sounding as though he was struggling through a nonexistent blockage in his throat.

"You what?" Jim purred back, moving his mouth over to Sherlock's ear and kissing the hair above it as he deftly stroked at his too-tight shirt buttons, teasingly tracing his thumb around the edge of one.

"…Can't remember…"

"That kind of thing does happen, doesn't it…"

"Not usually."

"This isn't usually, is it…"

Sherlock's response was nonverbal—he simply whined, the noise unusually high and keening. Jim chuckled lowly, but made himself pull back, tugging free of the confused detective's desperate grip and sitting up fully, his dark silhouette framed against the iced outline of the snow-lit window.

"What… where are you…" Sherlock stammered.

"Business to attend to, love. Places to be. And besides… your Johnny will be home soon… it wouldn't do for him to see this, now, would it?"

"Don't care," Sherlock protested, his voice slightly muffled as he reached out again, his hand straining. The criminal's only response was a slight laugh as he hopped onto the ground, striding across the room.

"Without me here… there'll be nothing to keep you conscious… he'll find you asleep, and in the morning, you'll only remember fragments, like a dream… this has been fun, though… I might have to do this again…"

Sherlock shook his head slightly as it sank back onto the pillows one final time, his eyelids drooping shut, lashes casting long shadows over his pale cheeks. His breath, which had been coming harshly enough to be heard across the room, slowly evened out, becoming deeper, slower. Jim's final whisper seemed to hang in the sparkling dark air for a miniature eternity even after he had slipped out of the room, a small, silken shadow.

"Goodnight, angel."