Sherlock was awake.

His mind was awake before his body. It didn't happen every day except for days like these. Yes, Sherlock knew, it was one of those days when his mind woke up before him and started thinking. Sherlock dreaded these days. He knew how these days ended. How these days always ended.

Fighting the initial reluctance of his body to open the eyes heavy after a deep sleep, he laid thinking. He was aware of his surroundings, the smells, the early morning air, faint noises and a weight on his chest, heaving rhythmically with his breathing. He knew he was lying on his back in the middle of a huge Victorian bed covered with plush bedding, black silk sheets, wrapped in a black duvet. He could smell fresh tea, various other fragrances which were mixed in the air of the room along with his own and another person's smell. He knew it was six in the morning because that is when he always got up. He was aware of the curtains of the window on the furthest corner of the room moving as the morning air came in. He could mentally see the dark red curtains moving and sunbeams peeking into the room. He was aware of the warm breath on his chest. He was aware what that weight was. Though the breath was deep and slow he knew that person was awake, mentally like him. Because he always knew when Sherlock was awake. He was aware of two limp hands on both his sides besides his. He knew he had to get up now. He already felt appalled.

He slowly opened his eyes to an almost dark room, faintly lit by sunlight coming through the window past the heavy curtain. He saw the well-known rich coloured walls, the white ceiling, the windows, the Victorian furniture and the man lying on top of him, half covered by the duvet, half bare, seemingly sound asleep.

Who would believe that this man kills Just for the pleasure of killing? Look at that face. So peaceful, innocent, timid even. Sherlock thought.

He didn't remember accurately when he didn't wake up like this. With this head heaving on his chest, the sound of another person breathing in the room except for him. Even when he was not there physically, Sherlock would wake up to him staring from the large plasma screen right across the bed, watching him intently. He was always there, even when he was not there. He never missed waking up with Sherlock. He never missed anything even remotely related to Sherlock. If he could help it then he wouldn't miss Sherlock breathing once. Sherlock couldn't be alone even if he wanted to. As it happened on these days Sherlock felt that deep disgust about the person still lying prone on top of him. He felt sick and wanted to tear that person away from his body as if it were something unclean and poisonous.

Why doesn't he just move?

Sherlock knew the answer to that question also. He probably knew too.

He did. Like he knew Sherlock's every breath, every look, every movement and every thought. He also knew that this was one of those days. The days Sherlock started thinking before waking up. He dreaded these days too, like he hated Sherlock thinking. Because whenever Sherlock thought, Sherlock hated him. He would be irked by anything he did today, anything at all, even nothing. Sherlock would be irked if he moved sensing his discomfort, he would be irked if he didn't. He would be irked to hear good morning, he would be irked to see him at the breakfast table; he would be irked if he moved a muscle or even breathe. So he did what he always did on days like this. Stayed prone, like he was still sleeping, like he didn't exist and he would remain so until Sherlock went out. He didn't like to see Sherlock irked and would never cause or aggravate it. But on days like these he involuntarily did both.

Sherlock moved the man as gently as his irritated body and mind would let him from his body. He placed his feet on the plush red carpet which tickled his feet lightly. He didn't revel in the sensation. He wanted cold steady contact to put himself in reality and not velvety dream right now. He went to the shower and turned on the cold water for a few moments. The gush of cold piercing water shook him to his bones and he was jolted back to his college days instead of reality.

Sherlock was a shy boy. Shy, quiet, intelligent and rich. He was left with a huge estate and nothing else. No family, no friends. He was lonely but bad at making friends. He was rich but unsocial. He hardly spoke and things that interested boys of his age never interested him. Above all he was intelligent, highly, thus envied. Life at school had taught him two things. One, he was different from others and two he had to protect himself from others. When the bullied, bruised, lonely, unhappy and friendless school life ended, he braced himself for another such life ahead. He could have lost interest in studying and gone back to the estate and stayed there for the rest of his life. A secured, secluded life. But he loved knowing, knowledge was his only addiction. He had already learned 7 different languages while in school. He loved art, history, music, science, anything and everything that he could know. And he loved advancement. He liked the superiority that it gave to a person. He loved reading. He longed for a person, a companion with whom he could share his interests with. He was used to being alone, that didn't mean he liked it. It was not easy, holding your head high, being a snob, assuming a very cold and nonchalant demeanour in the face of demeaning remarks, unacceptance, bullying, being unacknowledged and completely utterly lonely. He clung on to his studies with al he had. He was the best student, he had to be and the most envied. Half of the college hated him the others ignored him.

He was at his sanctuary one fine afternoon. It was a secluded place not much visited by the other students. There was a brook and some great big trees scattered around the place. It was peaceful, undisturbed. Sherlock went there to read, to write, to just sit and thing. He was throwing pebbles in the brook that day, standing near a bush engrossed in thought when a bunch of students of not very good repute arrived. There were some senior students along with Sherlock's contemporaries. They had some bottles in their hands. They are here to get drunk. Sherlock was clearly in their way, unwanted. So a senior hissed at him

"Go away from here you freak!"

"Yeah, there are other trees you can measure or deduce exactly how old they are! Go away!"

Their bullying methods were still so high school.

"You better get out of here or things would get nasty Sherlock!" threatened a contemporary. The crowd was getting visibly annoyed with him but Sherlock was too angry and too proud to leave.

"I don't see why I should go away, you are the ones interrupting me." he said coldly.

"Interrupting you?! Why , what exactly were you doing here? " said one.

"Planning to save the earth somehow?" said another.

"Sod this boys, just make him go away!" ordered a senior and picked up a stone, others followed suit.

As soon as he understood Sherlock put his arms up protectively before his face and ducked a little in reflex. But after a few seconds he felt nothing was coming at him. He removed his arms to see what was happening. The boys were staring at him dumbfounded, fear in their eyes. Within a few more seconds they dropped their weapons and bottles also and ran towards where they came from, terrified.

Terrified? Of me? have I grown an extra head or something?

"Hi." A small sweet voice came from behind him. He turned to look and found a very delicate looking boy about his age, dark haired, dark eyed staring timidly at him from a few feet distance. As Sherlock looked at him he dropped his gaze to the ground. He looked very shy. As shy and quiet as Sherlock.

"You are very brave." Said the boy in the same sweet tone.

Sherlock went a bit closer.

"Who are you?" he asked frowning, he didn't remember seeing this boy before.

"I'm Jim." Answered the boy. He added swallowing and glancing sideways at Sherlock as if afraid "Jim Moriarty."

Sherlock's breath hitched and he instinctively turned the shower hot. He leaned with his back to the wall and looked up to the flowing water.

Jim. He had heard that name before, but only in whispers, hushed voices. Nobody openly took his name. Many people hadn't seen him. But everybody seemed to know him. Fear him, for reasons Sherlock didn't know then. He was quite surprised to see him, a very timid and delicate looking boy of his age, how could anybody fear him? Yet he had seen a bunch of boys on the verge of attacking him run away at the very sight of him. Sherlock felt intrigued. Jim was well groomed, well dresses, though conservatively like Sherlock who also preferred full sleeve shirts more than casuals. His hair was slick, well brushed and he looked he belonged to a rich and influential family, well most of the students in that college did. There was something sinister about him though. Something lurking in those dark brown glistening eyes, something far more than intelligence and something else that was appalling. As Sherlock drew close he said again, this time looking excited

"I read your essays in the college magazine! They are amazing."

Sherlock was taken aback. He never expected this. He never had anyone appreciating leave alone praising him before except some of the professors. He had struck a chord, Sherlock felt drawn to him.

And that was the beginning of the end. Sherlock thought turning the shower off. Wearing his bathrobe, drying his hair with another towel Sherlock stepped into his closet. There were seven new shirts in his shirt segment neatly and strategically placed so that they catch his attention. Sherlock sighed exasperated. He didn't need them, he already had clothes that would last a lifetime. Yet, every time Jim wanted he replenished Sherlock's wardrobe with whatever his imagination told him was lacking in it or Sherlock needed. Sherlock never asked for anything. He never had to. He was already overflowing with everything. He only asked Jim to stop. It frustrated them both. Jim would promise to stop and then continue doing the same thing. Like all his other promises. Sherlock didn't remember being needful of something, wanting something badly. Needs, wants, cravings were gradually leaving him. Leaving too much space behind he didn't know how to fill or what to fill with. Something inside him was dying. Gradually. As he completed dressing and was putting on his suit jacket he felt something lacking. Jim, he wasn't helping him with his jacket today. Everyday Jim would walk into Sherlock's wardrobe and help him with it, putting it on and smoothing its collar down he would press a hand across Sherlock's chest and press his forehead to Sherlock's back and whisper "I love you." Repulsion bought Sherlock back to reality again. He could see Jim still lying prone on the bed just as he had left him, feigning sleep, his reflection on the wardrobe mirror. Sherlock saw his own reflection beside him, the red curtains, the red carpet, the dark walls. He felt repulsed again. Blood. Why did everything in this room represent blood and gloom and horror suddenly? Each and everything in this room, in this entire house was according to Sherlock's tastes and choices, so why did he feel repulsed by them now? Yes, everything he liked was in this room with everything he didn't like. It's the perks of living with Jim Moriarty. Pleasure and repulsion, freedom and confinement, abhorrence and love all remained side by side, making one walk on a fine line constantly and on days like this this balancing act became too much to handle for Sherlock. He redressed it in a way he didn't like or approve of himself. The thought of it disturbed him and he walked out in a hurry leaving his breakfast behind. The limo was waiting for him outside. The chauffeur greeted him. He nodded back getting hurriedly inside the car. He wanted to be out and away from this place as soon as possible. He wanted to avert the inevitable. Jim watched from behind the curtains of the bedroom window.

As he leaned back in his plush seat memories flooded back to his mind.

Much didn't pass between them that afternoon. Just a thankful glance from Sherlock and an admiring one from Jim. They stood there silently for a long time. It amazed Sherlock. It amazed him how Jim also didn't find the necessity of a conversation absolute. There was no awkwardness in that silence, mutual understanding instead. After some time they walked back to the college together. Without saying anything they had formed a friendship. And from that very day everything had changed. As soon as they set foot inside the gates everything inside the college came to a halt. People stared at them. Not mocking, not pointing fingers but in absolute fear. Sherlock felt a deep sense of foreboding as he walked along. Hushed voices, curious glances and a very uncomfortable silence, as if they had entered a funeral. He looked at Jim for a moment who seemed very nonchalant about the change, as if he was used to it. Though the look on his face was cautious, predatory. He looked at Sherlock with a warm friendly smile as he reached their hostel. But Sherlock had registered his slight change in demeanour , this boy could change whenever he wanted to and maybe he did, that's why even when apparently there was no reason to fear him people did abhor him. But this didn't alarm Sherlock, it intrigued him more as all other studies did. Jim Moriarty intrigued him even more than them.

Sherlock's reverie was ended when the limo stopped in front of his office. The chauffeur held his door open.