capeandcowllogs | (no subject)

WHO:

Sherlock Holmes and OPEN
WHERE: All around the city
WHEN: Anywhere between the 16th of January and the 24th.
WARNINGS: None! Will update if any come up.
SUMMARY: Sherlock is a bit touchy-feely, thanks to Desire, and just can't sit at home any more lest he go absolutely mad with boredom. Catch all for any shenanigans you would like with him. You can also catch him at his flat, if you need to consult him. Seriously, open to everyone, even if we haven't had CR before, because I want it.
FORMAT: Para to set up, then whatever you like~

He'd been obsessing.

Desire promised a distraction and now he has one, though whether it will drive him mad rather than release the boredom, who can say.

He certainly can't stay put anymore. Striding through the city as a tall brooding shadow, just possibly accidentally running into passerby, a constant flicker of tiny white notes running in succession by his head.

[ Feel free to set your tag anywhere! Make sure to put time/place in the subject header. If you want to discuss anything with me first, hit me up by pm or on plurk! :3 ]

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"Antsy. Is that your deduction?" He sounded almost amused, and his eyes finally settled on Edward, but there was little changed from their last meeting, and the only note that came up was Lack of Sleep, which he didn't even bother to try to encode.

He tensed, slightly, but tried to keep focused - his thumb and forefinger rubbing against each other slowly. His eyes, however, were bright with curiosity, and his gaze was steady.

"No," drawled Eddie, smug despite the crow's feet under his eyes. "I only said appear, mind. That's what one would call an observation."

As if on cue, Sherlock's own notes derived from observation moved before them. Lack of sleep. Between his work and the gripping series of taunts -- no, coincidence -- he had so little time to humor resting. And this hardly helped, Edward was highly unamused. He leaned his head back on the sofa, looking at the ceiling.

"Desire visits you, and something in your behavior changes. My, my, you really are a touch masochistic, aren't you?"

"Masochism? No. I'm not exactly being tortured, Edward." Not quite. Desire had promised him pleasure, and it lived up to it's promises. There was no pain. Though he couldn't discount frustration.

His fingers traced lazily over the arm chair, gaze fixated on his guest even as his entire body tensed like a predator before the lunge.

"Does it bother you? Its visit, here."

Yet, he thought but wouldn't vocally manifest it. That was how Desire functioned, gravitating between pleasure and pain, and Sherlock would learn it quickly enough -- or he wouldn't. Eddie's smirk slid across his lips. He leaned forward, his fingers tented, conquering some distance between them. Sherlock's body language interested him.

"It's constantly visiting us all," he replied coyly. It was an answer wrapped within no answer, noncommittal in every regard. "But I wonder, how long before you start squirming under whatever gift Desire has since given you?"

Sherlock only smiled, nearly benevolently, though it didn't reach his eyes.

Small, tiny circles traced by finger tips, never ceasing, in small rapid succession. Of course the chair did nothing. Could do nothing. It was human contact he needed.

"Come on, Edward." His baritone was smooth as silk. "Work it out. I know you can." His eyes glimmered, slightly. He wanted Edward to work it out. Wanted him to deduce it. He craved the answer to the challenge nearly as much as he craved the touch. "My behavior's changed. How?"

He stood up. It was quick, his reflexes snappish and immediate. He strode to Sherlock in two, three steps and grabbed the other man's hand without a word. His eyes narrowed, glimmering with a dark triumph.

"Your hands. Your fingers. They're insatiable," he said as he squeezed the flesh, without Sherlock's permission. "You move like an addict. I'm sure Desire thinks this is all very funny, making you crave something as humiliating as physical contact."

He didn't let go. There was a hungering look in his eyes, one that demanded confirmation.

He didn't move, and he only just barely flinched, the knot of muscles between his shoulder blades suddenly tightening. He didn't attempt to take his hand away, didn't try, letting Edward hold it and squeeze it, looking up at him from under dark brows. The smile still on his lips.

"Oh good." He said, genuinely pleased. Part of him liked Edward, like this. The same desperate desire to know, and prove that he knew.

"But touch isn't humiliating, Edward." His voice was even, as he turned his hand to face palm-up, still gripped between Edward's. "I'm not craving sentiment." Pure, physical touch, and he could wrap his mind around it easily. It wasn't the longing that others felt, he rationalized. It wasn't a need for intimacy. Just the pure, basic, touch. At least. That's what he told himself.

Even with the thread of darkness behind Nygma's words, Sherlock felt the same rush of appreciation for the contact - the same slight disappointment when it still didn't quite measure up. Only Desire's had felt complete.

"Touch isn't humiliating when one is in control," he said, coldly, his free hand swooping to Sherlock's neck. His gaze remained on Sherlock's face, his eyes moving quickly to catch the slightest twitch of reaction. His fingers danced up the detective's neck, settling to a drum against his jaw. He cupped the cheek, holding it gently for but a moment.

And then dug in his nails.

"You've forfeited your control. That wasn't a well-played move, Holmes." Edward's line of a mouth split into a grin. "But I'm sure some part of you realizes that. No doubt any denial claiming the contrary is tempting, but we both know, don't we? We know what it's like to screw with Desire."

"Enough." Sherlock stood, suddenly, batting Edward's hand away with his arm. The playful curiosity was entirely gone now, replaced with the hard marble exterior he so usually exuded, especially under pressure. He didn't move back from Edward, only inches from him, but though he was not a large man, exactly, he was a tall one, and he glowered down at him with shadowed eyes.

"Giving into a craving still requires a choice, Edward." His voice was hard. It wasn't his first addiction, and they were always, always worse when he was bored, but the mind and the work came first, the body second. Even past the desperate longing, he could still himself if he chose. Or so he hoped. Admitting any sort of mistake on his part was not something he was going to do. Not here.

He leaned in, slightly, an a familiar scent of peaches drifted past. From Edward. A single, solitary white little note appeared at the man's shoulder: Interesting.

"Unlike you, Edward, I'm not screwing with anyone."

The comment about screwing made his mouth twitch, with enjoyment. He glanced at the note over his own shoulder, as if conspiring with the bright text. As if he was tempted to kiss and tell.

"You're right, Sherlock. Submitting to a stronger will than yours still requires a choice. And oh, I do hope you did enjoy the last bit of choice you had possessed." He leaned closer, closer than what was necessary, lips nearing an ear. "This will be like nothing you've ever imagined before. And it's all entirely your fault."

Edward, too, was an addict. He couldn't stop his intellectual games, his brilliant pursuits. He couldn't step away from the thrill of adequate competition -- the men mentally capable enough to entertain him. Batman. Norman Osborn. He wouldn't stop his love of himself, his flirtation with domination. Of conquering his rivals, of proving his worth.

Which is why he had always resisted Desire. Why he still resisted it. And that was why it treasured him with love and hate and disdain and favoritism.

"You're the one being screwed."