Her hand touched the glass and it was like it wasn’t there, she could feel the heat of him, the vibration, the energy that made her skin itch, that made being still impossible. Eurus had spent hours so still, barely breathing, only thinking. She could turn everything else off, except her brain. So much had been turned off for so long. But he, he was turning everything back on, flicking every switch with the barest incline of his head, the barest movement of the air as he inhaled her.
Deep down, in the dark corners of her mind, she knew it was Sherlock he was interested in. That was ok, she was interested in him too. That’s why he was here, for her to wrap him in a bow and give him to her dear brother. But the way he looked at her, dark and demanding, shameless, she couldn’t help the flush to her deathly skin. Even the deepest blush washed out under the harsh florescent lighting but he knew. She could see it in the way his eyes glinted, struggling to read her like she could read absolutely anyone. Even him. Analysing her like the doctors and the shrinks and her clever brother. But when he did it, it didn’t feel cheap and tawdry, it didn’t feel like they were trying to pull her clothes off and peel her skin back. It felt like a caress, a gentle whisper over her mind, a purr of approval.
A minute had passed and they hadn’t spoken a word since he presented himself to her, her Christmas present and his; Redbeard. Four left. So many words hovered in the air but only a few mattered. Only a few made her ache for more time with him.
“I can give you Sherlock,” she whispered, a dark possessive edge to her voice that she hadn’t heard in years.
Moriarty blinked slowly, the dangerous, unpredictable spark in him lit like a fuse and she liked nothing more than to drag a match over the flint. She could sense it in him, just like it was in her. He would burn the house down around him just to play in the ashes. Such pretty ashes.
She curled her lip, daring him to doubt her. “I can give him to you, on a plate, with a little bell around his neck. Sort of like a kitten.”
This time biting her lip, eyes widening, she turned into the picture of innocence. “They won’t let me have a kitten. I can’t think why.”
“I don’t particularly care for kittens,” Moriarty said, finally speaking, words short and fast, as though he lamented losing them, losing the anticipation of speaking, the mystery of silence. “I like something that bites.”
“Oh, I do,” she said softly, leaving it up to him if she cared for kittens or if she bit. “Sherlock, though, he prefers puppy dogs.”
Two minutes and she still had three. She wasted another two on her tale, trying not to sound profoundly proud of herself as she relived it all, painting pictures in his head like only she could. She looked away triumphantly as he shivered, cold and damp and drowning in her story.
Four minutes, one minute left. She missed him. Wasn’t that strange? And yet, when he spoke, she was startled by his presence. She had missed him and he was still there.
“And what can I do for you, little miss prison bars?” He stroked the glass again but this time she didn’t touch back. She liked the hollow. Liked the longing. She liked wanting something. “I could break you out of here. We could tunnel all the way under the deep blue sea, bundle you up in a laundry basket while the other prisoners start a riot. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t take all that much to land a helicopter.”
He turned his head, jaw pressed against the glass again, like one of those lions you could hand feed, or so very much like that kitten he claimed not to care for. Begging for her attention, for her to be impressed. “Or I could walk you right out the front door and kill everyone who tries to stop me.”
Eurus knew the words were supposed to have an effect on her. Make her love him. Make her wet. But she simply shrugged. “I can leave any time I please. I can come back any time I please. And so can you.”
She turned her back, cutting herself off from him. His five minutes were up. She didn’t need anything more and she had given him what she’d wanted him to have. Sherlock.
Her tiny hands were shaking as she pulled at every man, woman and child, trying to wake them. Her mind rattled with the turbulence. The closer she got to the front of the plane, the louder it roared. Every so often it would drop, pitching her closer and closer to the truth. She was Icarus, falling to the ground. She couldn’t land this thing. She was helpless.
“Don’t worry.” His voice was soft and soothing, steady in the bangs and crashes, smiling as the world screamed ever closer. “If we crash, we’ll only die.”
Eurus woke; the thought of James Moriarty throwing her from her dream like it was no longer hers. Sweat beaded on her skin but she shivered, her hair standing on end, someone walking over her grave. She could feel him. She wanted him back. She knew that was why he hadn’t come. That’s why she wouldn’t go to him.
Eurus inclined her head, a rush of different air as the door slid open. She pressed her chin harder against the wood, picking out the sharpest notes of Danse Macabre to hack at with her bow, a warning, purposely violent before turning soft, almost apologetic with the melody.
It had taken her little over a year to turn this prison into her own house, the guards came when she called and the glass was but a facade, easily blinked away. She even had her own boat but the temptation to come ashore, to leave this place, was too great to give in to. Not yet. Not until it served their greater purpose. She needed to be here.
She stilled the bow, the strings still vibrating as footsteps approached the three foot line. She didn’t allow anyone closer than that. When the final footfall fell over that line, she turned, thumb stroking the horsehair but otherwise still and silent, taking in the guard. Bold, audacious, insolent, wilful... but entirely false. Her guard was no guard at all, just as she was no prisoner.
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” Jim said as he pulled the hat from his head, the name badge from his shirt, eyes following her hands as she set the instrument down. “Had I known, I needn’t have bothered.”
Eurus blinked slowly, divining his meaning. Should he not have pretended to be a guard or should he not have come at all? “We said five minutes.”
“We said... come back,” he reminded her, stepping over each word, lightly, as she paced, long forceful strides towards him. She stopped before he noticed the glass, the lack of glass. As luck would have it, so did he. “I thought I should.”
She looked at him properly, sensing the truth in his words, the plans in his head. He unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, as though he wished there was a tie he could loosen, a noose already around his neck. She didn’t mind. A rope would look so good sitting tight under that sharp jawline.
“Yes, you should,” she said thoughtfully, in response to one of her many threads of thought before taking a shaky breath in, imagining if he did. “Perhaps you should touch the glass.”
“Perhaps I should touch you,” he echoed back at her, giving the game away, a knowing smirk passing over his lips before he reached out, curling his hand around the back of her neck and pulling her through where the glass should have been.
“Clever boy,” she muttered lowly against his lips, animal instinct filling in what she’d never had. “I like clever boys.”
*The kiss was easy, brutal, pulling and pushing like two children with a toy, a battle of ownership. She stepped back, knowing he would follow, knowing his eyes followed her as she pulled off her grey uniform, revealing what was underneath. She’d seen men looking before. Seen women look too. But she’d never felt eyes burning into her before. She rather liked it.
“Take your clothes off,” she demanded, missing the suit, not caring for his costume. She would sooner have skin and sinew under her fingers.
He moved quickly, to his merit, not questioning why or what they were doing, not asking if she was sure or if she was ready but she hungered for his attention undivided and there was too much vanity in stripping himself. She batted his hands away, laying them on her skin instead, the heat of another person’s touch making her rough as she pulled open his boring, workman trousers. Underneath was more interesting. She pushed inside, nails scratching up his thigh, hand curling around the only part of him that would render him entirely at her command. Squeezing lightly, she rubbed her thumb over the loose skin. She had the balls of Sherlock’s true match in her hand. Sherlock could crush him so easily if only he tried it her way.
A hand at her neck stilled her, teeth biting at her earlobe, thumb brushing over her throat, weakening her position, changing her mind. She didn’t want to hurt him when he could make hurting feel so good.
“I read about you in the papers,” she said, voice tight and low where they still had each other by their most delicate parts. She longed to clear her throat so she reached out with her fingertips, hand moving like a spider as she curled it around his cock instead, much more friendly.
“Did you keep my photograph?” he asked, lessening his grip on her neck and playing over her collarbone instead. “For the long, cold, lonely nights?”
“There was a photograph?” Eurus grinned, enjoying the flicker-through of emotions before he realised that was what she wanted.
“Sometimes I think you’d be awfully fun to play with,” he mused as he regained his stride, guiding her back to her bed, the bow clattering lifelessly to the floor beside the violin.
“We can play,” she said, reversing their positions, knowing if she’d kept going, she would have had to sit, take the submissive position. She didn’t want that. If she was going to kneel, it would be over him. She would put that clever mouth to use.
Pushing him down onto the bed, she eyed him one last time. His trousers undone, halfway to his knees and his shirt half ripped open by her greedy hands. Yes, this was exactly how she wanted him. Her hands found a place on his chest, just over his heart, bracing herself as she swung her leg over him, straddling his waist, rolling her hips back over his cock just to give herself a taste of what it felt like.
She could see the look in his eyes, the gleeful twinkle of someone about to get what they want but she pressed her fingers to his lips, lifting her hips away from him.”Not just yet. Me first.”
“No wonder Sherlock doesn’t want to play.” There was a vague tut, a pout on his lips as she climbed over him, resettling herself over his face, rather liking that view. She carded her fingers through his hair, pulling it from its perfection, punishing him for thinking of him when she wasn’t.
Yanking his head to the side, getting him just right for her, she twisted the remark back on him. “By that standard, I imagine he doesn’t want to play with you either. Not anymore. Is that why?”
She didn’t let him answer, not with words at any rate. She held his head still, letting him hold her hips as a token, even enjoying the way his fingers bruised into her bones. She curved her spine, pushing down against his mouth, head tipping back as she felt his tongue spread open her cunt, with precision, making it an art she’d wished she’d spent more time learning.
She knew when his name fell from her lips, it was the wrong one. James. Too structured, too proper, the name his mother gave him. He corrected her with the tip of his tongue, pressing inside her, going further than she would have allowed him had he asked. There was something in the fact that he didn’t, that he just took, giving her everything he had.
She got it right this time, Jim, hips rocking desperately as he fucked her with that clever tongue, whispering words right into her, right inside. And her body talked back, unravelling all his plans, curling them around her own, turning them into something brilliant and bright, something that would outshine both her brothers in a way they could never imagine.
Pushing up on her knees, she lifted up ever so slightly, letting him regain his breath, making him focus on her clit, taking her pleasure the easy way. Stroking gently though his hair, she closed her eyes, letting it build, the heat of his mouth igniting every nerve ending until she felt the heat of those flames again. Her house on fire. Burning down to the ground.
Eurus pushed herself off him, her orgasm still shaking through her. Not her first but the first one she couldn’t control. She would almost resent him for it if it didn’t feel so good. She could resent a lot if feeling didn’t feel so devilishly good.
“Do you have him then?” Eurus asked, voice husky where she might have cried out. She reached out a hand, trailing her fingertips lightly over where his trousers were still open, hard cock beneath the parted fabric. “My brother?”
There was a sharp intake of breath as she curled her hand possessively around his cock, thumb spreading pre-come over the head, spelling out Sherlock’s name for him to help him focus.
“Nearly,” he bit out, around his lip, eyes nearly closed but she could still feel him watching her.
“Five minutes,” she allowed him with a subtle smirk, properly stroking the length of his cock, delighting in the intricacies of it, of his plan for Sherlock, of the way his mind worked. As his plan progressed, she let him have a little more, twisting her wrist every time she said his name. She had his jaw pressed into her shoulder, begging without a word by the time he’d come to his end. That was, his mortal end.
“Now,” she said softly, moving to tighten her grip, pulling him closer until all he became was the skin at the crook of his neck, a solid weight above her and a foreign hardness inside her that her body clung to. “Let me tell you my plan.”
It didn’t take her five minutes. She’d already got him close enough, a few words in the right direction more so than the psychical act between them. He would be the key to Sherlock’s greatest downfall, his memory forever haunting him, just like that of Redbeard, she would see to that. When he was done, it would be only the beginning.
She scratched down his back, marking him as he came inside her, the first and no doubt the last to mark her in such a way. She didn’t dress and she didn’t ask him to stay, even though he did. She even laid beside him, like two stone carvings on a grave, each hiding something dead somewhere inside. His was coming. Hers had passed already.
“Five minutes,” she warned, unable to take it any longer. Unable to be like this, with him, without asking him to do anything less than what he’d set himself to. “And don’t worry... if you crash, you’ll only die.”