Trust it's a Game (1/?)
Sherlock woke slowly. A carefully developed habit, stretching his senses to make himself aware of whatever he was waking up to. At Baker Street this would only take a moment. He would feel the material of the sofa against his neck, smell John’s faded cologne, hear his exhale as he quietly read the paper in his claimed chair. Then after staying as still as death Sherlock would hop up from the sofa into a sitting position, startling John into dropping his tea. And effectively dragging a string of curses from the doctor. But he wasn’t in their apartment. His hands were bound behind him, he could feel the crude ropes digging into his flesh and bent his fingers to graze the knot. Expertly tied. The floor was cold against his skin, cement most likely combined with the overwhelming musty smell of earth he was in a basement of some kind. And by that expensive perfumed smell, he wasn’t alone.
“Come, come Sherlock. I know when you’re faking.” Moriarty’s shrill voice pierced the stillness. Sherlock opened unimpressed eyes at him. “There you are!” He was bent over him, arms clasped behind his back in a crude reflection of Sherlock’s confinement. Three men stood behind him, clothed in black, lined up like trained dogs. Muscles shown clearly through the thin fabric, making it clear their use. They stood in front of a thick window that took up the entire length of the wall. One way mirror, he suspected, it was pitch black in the adjacent room. And there was one person missing from this one.
“Where’s John?”
Moriarty rolled his eyes. “How boring.” He leaned back on the sole table in the room gesturing with a twist of his hand for his men to lift Sherlock into a chair. “When did you become so predictable?”
“What do you want?” Sherlock shifted in his seat.
“To play a game. John’s just waiting for it to start.”
“I’m done playing your games. You’ve grown dull, Jim. You’re repeating yourself.”
“Oh I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised this time.” Sherlock couldn’t read the look in Moriarty’s eyes. It was inhuman. “It’s really quite interesting.”
“I doubt it.” A little voice in the back of his head, that sounded strangely like John, was telling him to stop egging him on but he pushed it away. Moriarty was running his fingers absently over a file on the table. Sherlock couldn’t see from his vantage point what it contained. Moriarty smirked before shutting it with a flick of his fingers.
“Well maybe a bit more for me than for you. Call it an experiment of sorts. You might learn something along the way if you pay attention.”
Sherlock looked bored. An expression he had tailored to Moriarty. The consulting criminal smirked.
“I want a bruise.” Sherlock’s eyebrows pinched in honest confusion. Moriarty leaned in closer. “At least a foot long bruise on your lover boy, so you might have to whack him a few times.” He slammed his hand down hard on the back of Sherlock’s chair making a satisfying smack. “Make it deep enough to get the full spectrum of bruise fading. Think of it as an art project. Use your artistic licenses, beat your initials in him for all I care. I hear you do wonders with a riding crop.” Moriarty was grinning wickedly, his tongue darted out to lick the corner of his mouth and Sherlock felt himself gaping. He quickly locked his jaw back in place and scowled.
“Fuck off.”
“Oo so obscene! I love when you talk dirty!” The criminal mastermind trailed a finger along Sherlock’s jaw. The detective viciously yanked his face away.
“No.”
“No?” Moriarty’s look was murderous. “I ask so little of you, Sherlock.” An obsessively manicured hand reached up to grip the detective’s face, pristine nails digging into chiseled cheekbones. “You are going to regret that. Saying no to me.” Moriarty tightened his grip leaving moon shapes in Sherlock’s flesh. “You see John is going to get a bit more colorful either way and I assure you my friends here are of the overachieving variety.” He gestured with a thumb at the burly men standing near the large window. “They so like what they do.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened when he saw the men shift to position, inching closer. “Leave him out of this.”
Moriarty laughed, high pitched and ear splitting. “Your heart Sherlock! How can I burn it if I don’t put a match to it?” He gestured wildly as if a thought came to him. “A match! Excellent! But we’ll have to work our way up to that wont we boys?” He smiled at his men and then turned on his heels with little more than a swish of fabric. “Looks like Sherlock’s sitting this one out. Let’s go see how John is faring.” With a flick of a switch the room went dark and the adjacent one was lit. Sherlock was now staring at a blindfolded John, bound similarly and propped against the wall.
“Moriarty!“ But the door was already shutting, leaving the word to bounce hollowly through the room. The only sight, John Watson (blindfold removed), shoulders tight with a solder’s control, squinting up at his captors.
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“Where’s Sherlock?” John ground out.
“I’m sorry John.” Moriarty pouted. His hands in his pockets, his whole demeanor relaxed. “Sherlock said he didn’t want to play anymore.” He crouched until he was eye level with John, their noses almost touching. “So I guess that just leaves us. And my friends of course.” As if on cue the three large men abandoned their post around the room and approached John. Moriarty stepped back, grimacing as if imaging the mess. “Now, now boys. Remember the rules. Don’t break him! At least not yet.” His tone was the same used for overzealous children with a delicate new pet. “And you,” He touched one on the shoulder with a finger on his shoulder. “Let’s keep our trousers up shall we? We don’t want to get ahead of ourselves!”
The drones moved forward after that, forming a semicircle. John was pulled up roughly by his arm still trapped behind his back. He tried to get his feet under him but the knot at his ankles and the jarring grip of his handler(determined to hold him up off the ground, was preventing it) He bit back a groan as his shoulder twinged at the abuse. He had been trained for this. And Moriarty wasn’t going to break him on day one. The madman rocked back and forth on his heels looking bored. John spared a thought for Sherlock, hoping that the fact he had Moriarty’s attention meant that the detective was safe. He was ripped from his thoughts by a fist connecting to his abdomen, careful not to hit any ribs and subsequently ‘break’ him. Then they moved to his face, sending him reeling, his head whipping back. They were coming faster now, quick blows all over his body, meant to bruise, to mark. He felt blood filling his mouth from a cut lip and took some satisfaction in spitting it in a goon’s face, only to receive a reprimanding blow to the shoulder, making him gasp and his vision blur.
Moriarty’s voice echoed suddenly in the small space, a shrieking giggle of a sound that made John shutter. “Ooo do that thing that I love! You know where you use your hands . . .” John’s mind supplied him with horrible images of what that could possibly mean. He didn’t have to wait long to find out however as his shirt was yanked up and hard callused fingers were pushing under his ribcage. John clenched his eyes shut as Moriarty squealed in the background. “That’s it! Oh you know what I like!” The fingers pushed deeper until it felt like they must be pressing against his internal organs, shoving the oxygen straight out of his lungs and stretching his skin until it would rupture. The impossibly huge hands gripped his ribs in their palms as the fingers could go no further and John was sure he was about to pass out. Moriarty pushed himself off the wall looking bored again. He crossed his arms and approached John, looking him over carefully as if he was inspecting his lankys’ handy work: the fingers still under his ribs and the ones yanking his head back.
“Well boys, I think play times over for now. Johnny’s looking a bit tuckered out.” John was dropped, landing painfully on his bruised hip. “I’m going to have a chat with Sherlock, see if he’s changed his mind. I’ll be back in a bit Johnny boy!” The door slammed as the last goon exited and John curled around his abused stomach.
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Moriarty didn’t look the least bit surprised in seeing Sherlock standing, the ropes discarded on the floor, his hands in fists. “I wouldn’t if I were you Sherlock. But if I were you I wouldn’t put so much weight in one person. It’s so easy to shake John Watson in front of you and make you dance. Like a trained dog.” Moriarty tisked, hopping up on the table in one swift moment, crossing his leg over his knee.
Sherlock had watched the whole scene. Wanting desperately to run in and murder John’s abusers. But Moriarty was far too clever for that. There was a camera visible in the corner of the room. Along with another small window. There were close eyes being kept on the room and Sherlock couldn’t risk John. Not without a plan.
“What do you want?” Sherlock repeated the sentence from earlier, forcing the words between his teeth trying to keep the desperation from his voice. Eyes darting to John still visible in the brightness of the room laying on the floor then dragging them back to stare down the man responsible.
The consulting criminal was flipping through the file again. Sherlock had already looked, in his desperation to orient himself with the room, formulate a plan. It was John’s medical file. Carefully marked with all his weaknesses with particular attention to his psychological ones. “Trust issues it says.” His finger slides down the page. “And yet the first day tagging along with you he kills my cabbie to save your arse.” Moriarty lifts his eyes to Sherlock, hand flattening to lean into the file. “What sort of charm do you hold over that army doctor, Sherlock?” He eyed him thoughtfully, Sherlock didn’t answer. They glare at each other for what feels like minutes. Moriarty’s face is still with curiosity his eyes wide, it’s the first undeguised expression Sherlock has seen on his face. It’s terrifying. Then it’s gone and he is grinning again. “The rules are simple.” He meanders to Sherlock. Close enough that the detective could touch him if he dared. “You hurt him a little or I hurt him a lot.”
“Come, come Sherlock. I know when you’re faking.” Moriarty’s shrill voice pierced the stillness. Sherlock opened unimpressed eyes at him. “There you are!” He was bent over him, arms clasped behind his back in a crude reflection of Sherlock’s confinement. Three men stood behind him, clothed in black, lined up like trained dogs. Muscles shown clearly through the thin fabric, making it clear their use. They stood in front of a thick window that took up the entire length of the wall. One way mirror, he suspected, it was pitch black in the adjacent room. And there was one person missing from this one.
“Where’s John?”
Moriarty rolled his eyes. “How boring.” He leaned back on the sole table in the room gesturing with a twist of his hand for his men to lift Sherlock into a chair. “When did you become so predictable?”
“What do you want?” Sherlock shifted in his seat.
“To play a game. John’s just waiting for it to start.”
“I’m done playing your games. You’ve grown dull, Jim. You’re repeating yourself.”
“Oh I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised this time.” Sherlock couldn’t read the look in Moriarty’s eyes. It was inhuman. “It’s really quite interesting.”
“I doubt it.” A little voice in the back of his head, that sounded strangely like John, was telling him to stop egging him on but he pushed it away. Moriarty was running his fingers absently over a file on the table. Sherlock couldn’t see from his vantage point what it contained. Moriarty smirked before shutting it with a flick of his fingers.
“Well maybe a bit more for me than for you. Call it an experiment of sorts. You might learn something along the way if you pay attention.”
Sherlock looked bored. An expression he had tailored to Moriarty. The consulting criminal smirked.
“I want a bruise.” Sherlock’s eyebrows pinched in honest confusion. Moriarty leaned in closer. “At least a foot long bruise on your lover boy, so you might have to whack him a few times.” He slammed his hand down hard on the back of Sherlock’s chair making a satisfying smack. “Make it deep enough to get the full spectrum of bruise fading. Think of it as an art project. Use your artistic licenses, beat your initials in him for all I care. I hear you do wonders with a riding crop.” Moriarty was grinning wickedly, his tongue darted out to lick the corner of his mouth and Sherlock felt himself gaping. He quickly locked his jaw back in place and scowled.
“Fuck off.”
“Oo so obscene! I love when you talk dirty!” The criminal mastermind trailed a finger along Sherlock’s jaw. The detective viciously yanked his face away.
“No.”
“No?” Moriarty’s look was murderous. “I ask so little of you, Sherlock.” An obsessively manicured hand reached up to grip the detective’s face, pristine nails digging into chiseled cheekbones. “You are going to regret that. Saying no to me.” Moriarty tightened his grip leaving moon shapes in Sherlock’s flesh. “You see John is going to get a bit more colorful either way and I assure you my friends here are of the overachieving variety.” He gestured with a thumb at the burly men standing near the large window. “They so like what they do.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened when he saw the men shift to position, inching closer. “Leave him out of this.”
Moriarty laughed, high pitched and ear splitting. “Your heart Sherlock! How can I burn it if I don’t put a match to it?” He gestured wildly as if a thought came to him. “A match! Excellent! But we’ll have to work our way up to that wont we boys?” He smiled at his men and then turned on his heels with little more than a swish of fabric. “Looks like Sherlock’s sitting this one out. Let’s go see how John is faring.” With a flick of a switch the room went dark and the adjacent one was lit. Sherlock was now staring at a blindfolded John, bound similarly and propped against the wall.
“Moriarty!“ But the door was already shutting, leaving the word to bounce hollowly through the room. The only sight, John Watson (blindfold removed), shoulders tight with a solder’s control, squinting up at his captors.
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“Where’s Sherlock?” John ground out.
“I’m sorry John.” Moriarty pouted. His hands in his pockets, his whole demeanor relaxed. “Sherlock said he didn’t want to play anymore.” He crouched until he was eye level with John, their noses almost touching. “So I guess that just leaves us. And my friends of course.” As if on cue the three large men abandoned their post around the room and approached John. Moriarty stepped back, grimacing as if imaging the mess. “Now, now boys. Remember the rules. Don’t break him! At least not yet.” His tone was the same used for overzealous children with a delicate new pet. “And you,” He touched one on the shoulder with a finger on his shoulder. “Let’s keep our trousers up shall we? We don’t want to get ahead of ourselves!”
The drones moved forward after that, forming a semicircle. John was pulled up roughly by his arm still trapped behind his back. He tried to get his feet under him but the knot at his ankles and the jarring grip of his handler(determined to hold him up off the ground, was preventing it) He bit back a groan as his shoulder twinged at the abuse. He had been trained for this. And Moriarty wasn’t going to break him on day one. The madman rocked back and forth on his heels looking bored. John spared a thought for Sherlock, hoping that the fact he had Moriarty’s attention meant that the detective was safe. He was ripped from his thoughts by a fist connecting to his abdomen, careful not to hit any ribs and subsequently ‘break’ him. Then they moved to his face, sending him reeling, his head whipping back. They were coming faster now, quick blows all over his body, meant to bruise, to mark. He felt blood filling his mouth from a cut lip and took some satisfaction in spitting it in a goon’s face, only to receive a reprimanding blow to the shoulder, making him gasp and his vision blur.
Moriarty’s voice echoed suddenly in the small space, a shrieking giggle of a sound that made John shutter. “Ooo do that thing that I love! You know where you use your hands . . .” John’s mind supplied him with horrible images of what that could possibly mean. He didn’t have to wait long to find out however as his shirt was yanked up and hard callused fingers were pushing under his ribcage. John clenched his eyes shut as Moriarty squealed in the background. “That’s it! Oh you know what I like!” The fingers pushed deeper until it felt like they must be pressing against his internal organs, shoving the oxygen straight out of his lungs and stretching his skin until it would rupture. The impossibly huge hands gripped his ribs in their palms as the fingers could go no further and John was sure he was about to pass out. Moriarty pushed himself off the wall looking bored again. He crossed his arms and approached John, looking him over carefully as if he was inspecting his lankys’ handy work: the fingers still under his ribs and the ones yanking his head back.
“Well boys, I think play times over for now. Johnny’s looking a bit tuckered out.” John was dropped, landing painfully on his bruised hip. “I’m going to have a chat with Sherlock, see if he’s changed his mind. I’ll be back in a bit Johnny boy!” The door slammed as the last goon exited and John curled around his abused stomach.
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Moriarty didn’t look the least bit surprised in seeing Sherlock standing, the ropes discarded on the floor, his hands in fists. “I wouldn’t if I were you Sherlock. But if I were you I wouldn’t put so much weight in one person. It’s so easy to shake John Watson in front of you and make you dance. Like a trained dog.” Moriarty tisked, hopping up on the table in one swift moment, crossing his leg over his knee.
Sherlock had watched the whole scene. Wanting desperately to run in and murder John’s abusers. But Moriarty was far too clever for that. There was a camera visible in the corner of the room. Along with another small window. There were close eyes being kept on the room and Sherlock couldn’t risk John. Not without a plan.
“What do you want?” Sherlock repeated the sentence from earlier, forcing the words between his teeth trying to keep the desperation from his voice. Eyes darting to John still visible in the brightness of the room laying on the floor then dragging them back to stare down the man responsible.
The consulting criminal was flipping through the file again. Sherlock had already looked, in his desperation to orient himself with the room, formulate a plan. It was John’s medical file. Carefully marked with all his weaknesses with particular attention to his psychological ones. “Trust issues it says.” His finger slides down the page. “And yet the first day tagging along with you he kills my cabbie to save your arse.” Moriarty lifts his eyes to Sherlock, hand flattening to lean into the file. “What sort of charm do you hold over that army doctor, Sherlock?” He eyed him thoughtfully, Sherlock didn’t answer. They glare at each other for what feels like minutes. Moriarty’s face is still with curiosity his eyes wide, it’s the first undeguised expression Sherlock has seen on his face. It’s terrifying. Then it’s gone and he is grinning again. “The rules are simple.” He meanders to Sherlock. Close enough that the detective could touch him if he dared. “You hurt him a little or I hurt him a lot.”