He's not sure where his body ends and the world begins. That's the first thing that he's aware of, as he's coming to. He's fighting this. He is. It doesn't look it - he's hardly moving - but in his mind, he's wading through the sludge and haze of this drugged down state. Perhaps he doesn't have a body, perhaps he's just a brain after all and these far away limbs are a trick.
A slap and he surfaces briefly, like a drowning man for air. He tries to stay up, blinking at the light around him, struggling with all of his will to keep his eyes open, but he's losing that fight. He's slipping back beneath the surface of the sedation, back into his mind. He's not alone, though, he knows that now. Someone's here... he should know who, it should be obvious, but it isn't. He knows, but it's on the fringe of his awareness.
All of this that Jim would see is the opening and closing of his mouth and the blinking as his chin sinks back down against his chest.
Oh dear, perhaps James overdid it with the morphine. Even if his captive isn't lucid enough to catch the look on his face, it's one of dwindling patience (even if watching Sherlock struggle to support the weight of his head provides mild amusement).
There's something wonderfully pliable about a drugged Sherlock though- quiet, obedient, at his mercy... sure, it may eventually turn stale, but for now? Well, Jim isn't fussing at the moment. He does need the man rather more alert than this, however.
"Tut, tut, tut. Up and at 'em, Sherly, I need your eyes open for this game," a slim, perfectly manicured hand darts out to none-too-gently clutch Sherlock's chin, forcing his head up. "I want to reintroduce you to an old friend of yours..." his lips curl in a childish pout, and his free hand slides up the side of the man's shockingly cold cheek, fingers tightening in the brown tufts of hair when they reach the top of his head.
He sees him now, but his eyes can't quite track him even though Jim's not moving. The image is jerky but he knows who's there. Something is very wrong, he never feels like this. But this isn't a dream because he knows dreams, but he also knows drugs and the heavy blanket of lethargy he's beneath feels like the latter
( ... )
There we are. Not nearly as intelligible as Jim would like, but he can make do for now. Improvise. He's all too aware of what efforts need to be put forth when fighting such a heavy sedation- the scenario's been played through before, with James himself being the one forced to claw through fogged thoughts that refused to clear, though it's a memory buried deep in a past that James isn't too keen on revisiting; a past long before Moriarty was Moriarty, and soft, Dublin accents weren't curtained behind lilts borrowed from people he's killed, characters he's created, and individuals who laughed.
No, that's something preferably left at the back of his metaphorical hard drive. Although, the sluggish, restrained movements Sherlock's making between sporadic jerky bursts as his mind momentarily resurfaces, do bring James back to a time when he used to catch butterflies. Pin them to boards with needles. Watch them squirm about and tear their own wings off in a panic. Ah, wonderful times. Childhood is so fickle.
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A slap and he surfaces briefly, like a drowning man for air. He tries to stay up, blinking at the light around him, struggling with all of his will to keep his eyes open, but he's losing that fight. He's slipping back beneath the surface of the sedation, back into his mind. He's not alone, though, he knows that now. Someone's here... he should know who, it should be obvious, but it isn't. He knows, but it's on the fringe of his awareness.
All of this that Jim would see is the opening and closing of his mouth and the blinking as his chin sinks back down against his chest.
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There's something wonderfully pliable about a drugged Sherlock though- quiet, obedient, at his mercy... sure, it may eventually turn stale, but for now? Well, Jim isn't fussing at the moment. He does need the man rather more alert than this, however.
"Tut, tut, tut. Up and at 'em, Sherly, I need your eyes open for this game," a slim, perfectly manicured hand darts out to none-too-gently clutch Sherlock's chin, forcing his head up. "I want to reintroduce you to an old friend of yours..." his lips curl in a childish pout, and his free hand slides up the side of the man's shockingly cold cheek, fingers tightening in the brown tufts of hair when they reach the top of his head.
A sharp tug is administered.
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No, that's something preferably left at the back of his metaphorical hard drive. Although, the sluggish, restrained movements Sherlock's making between sporadic jerky bursts as his mind momentarily resurfaces, do bring James back to a time when he used to catch butterflies. Pin them to boards with needles. Watch them squirm about and tear their own wings off in a panic. Ah, wonderful times. Childhood is so fickle.
"Well, I think his presence ( ... )
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