Trust it's a Game (2/?)
“But Sherlock this is for you!” Moriarty grinned, trailing his fingers along the detective’s shoulder. “I know how much you like to play with John Watson.” He whispered as if he were spreading locker room gossip. Sherlock schooled his features in a scowl to hide any further expression. At the pool Sherlock had realized his tolerant flatmate had somehow become his dearest friend. Shortly after the pool Sherlock realized he was in love with the army doctor. And just as easy as everything had come with John so had that change in their relationship from friend to lover. And now Moriarty had seen all their cards. Twisting it all into collateral and John into a game piece.
“Assignment number one, Sherlock!” Moriarty giggled like an enthusiastic school teacher as he dropped his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and guided him to the door leading to John. The room was lit in harsh fluorescents, John was sleeping propped against the wall. “I need two broken bones. Any bones you wish aside from the obviously unacceptable ones.” Sherlock let out a mocking huff and in one swift movement Moriarty had Sherlock’s index finger bent backward. His teeth were gritted in a sneer, his expression murderous. “Don’t you ever laugh at me unless you want me to personally rip every limb from John Watson’s body.” The threat hung in the air. Sherlock didn’t react, his face a mask of indifference. Moriarty took a breath to calm himself, yanking Sherlock’s finger farther back and twisting it so the bones ground painfully. Then his smile was back. “Say for instance, you decided you were going to break John Watson’s finger. It’s a rather small bone yes?” He purred as he examined Sherlock’s finger thoughtfully. “If you were to choose such a bone I’d say you’d have to break the whole appendage. Every bone in the hand that is.” He gave the finger one more yank backward before dropping it. “In other words don’t go for a finger.”
He shoved Sherlock toward the door the detective grabbed the handle automatically. “Only two rules Sherlock,” From his peripheral Sherlock saw Moriarty lifted his index finger. “One: No talking. Can’t be giving away all the fun to Johnny boy now can we?” he lifted his second finger and wiggled the digits. “And two: after your assignment if you toddle, I’ll just have to assume you need my help and come assist you.” Moriarty watched him carefully. “Off you go then!”
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Sherlock let the door swing shut behind him. John jolted awake, immediately aware and at attention. His face swung in the direction of the detective, relief smoothing the lines on his forehead.
“Sherlock.” The name was a prayer, ghosted from split lips. “Are you alright?” He wanted reassurance. Sherlock couldn’t answer him, instead he took in John’s swollen face. Puffed and purple and terrible. One eye nearly shut, the other red and weary. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming. He could taste the blood pooling at the back of his throat and swallowed it down. Moriarty wanted two broken bones. He scanned over John’s abused body. John’s eyebrows creased as he studied Sherlock’s too pale face and thin lipped grimace, concern shot through his features. “Hey, are you alright? Sherlock?!” Sherlock forced himself to focus.
He kneeled in front of john. Took a moment to control his features to mask his rage, and John watched him apprehensively. Then he let his fingers hover over John’s face, cataloguing the abuse. Making a mental branding, burning it right into his grey matter to pull up when he had his hands around Moriarty’s throat. He let a finger drop on a purple cheek, John didn’t even flinch at the touch. He was watching him carefully, waiting for direction, totally open and trusting. Sherlock felt a stab of regret and then dismissed it just as quickly. He let his hand rest gently against the curve of John’s jaw. His mind swarmed for a possible escape and came up with nothing. There was no way out. Not right now. He just had to see through this. Keep Moriarty entertained until an opportunity arose. He nearly growled at the thought.
“Fuck Sherlock. Say something.” Sherlock pulled his eyes up to meet John’s, relying on their unspoken communication. He tilted his head slightly to the right and John blinked understanding. “You can’t.” He whispered, slouching further into the wall. “Ok.”
Sherlock noted John’s hands had already been untied for his convenience. He had a sudden image of Moriarty standing by the window watching every intimate moment. He dropped his hand from John’s face. Gritting his teeth in determination he shifted so his foot was flat on the ground with his knee up to act as a support. He couldn’t waste anymore time. He pulled John’s right arm toward him resting the forearm on his knee, absently examining the torn and oozing wrist and cataloguing it. He had an x-ray in his mind as he scanned John’s body. He had rejected the bones that could bring further damage in the breaking. Also the ones that would be difficult to mend and the ones harder to get to. Then the ones that would impede an escape and ones that could have complications in healing. He held John by the elbow now, the doctor looking at him curiously, not understanding but how could he? I’m sorry John but I have to break a few of your bones so Moriarty doesn’t break all of them didn’t translate in a gesture. Sherlock locked eyes with John, willing him to read his apology if nothing else and then directed his eyes back to his task. Without hesitating he slammed his palm down in one quick movement, first the radius snapping then the ulna, making a horrible wet noise that echoed in the room. John jerked away, his yell choked back in his surprise. Sherlock dove for him, pulling John back toward him. Sure hands grasping his arm, righting the bones and holding them in place. He could feel the bones grinding under his fingers, detached and floating.
“What-?!” John gasped, his good eye wide, glistening with pain and fighting unconsciousness. His shoulders trembled with shocks of agony and he swayed where he sat. Sherlock pushed himself to his feet in one swift movement. If you toddle, I’ll just assume you need my help and come assist you. He gave John one more look, taking in his shaking, the odd angle his arm now dangled at, his heaving chest and those still trusting eyes. He felt a pang of shame at the relief he felt in seeing them. Then he turned his back on the doctor and marched toward the door. “Sherlock . . .?” His gasped name barely reached his ears before it was cut off by the click of the lock.
“Assignment number one, Sherlock!” Moriarty giggled like an enthusiastic school teacher as he dropped his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and guided him to the door leading to John. The room was lit in harsh fluorescents, John was sleeping propped against the wall. “I need two broken bones. Any bones you wish aside from the obviously unacceptable ones.” Sherlock let out a mocking huff and in one swift movement Moriarty had Sherlock’s index finger bent backward. His teeth were gritted in a sneer, his expression murderous. “Don’t you ever laugh at me unless you want me to personally rip every limb from John Watson’s body.” The threat hung in the air. Sherlock didn’t react, his face a mask of indifference. Moriarty took a breath to calm himself, yanking Sherlock’s finger farther back and twisting it so the bones ground painfully. Then his smile was back. “Say for instance, you decided you were going to break John Watson’s finger. It’s a rather small bone yes?” He purred as he examined Sherlock’s finger thoughtfully. “If you were to choose such a bone I’d say you’d have to break the whole appendage. Every bone in the hand that is.” He gave the finger one more yank backward before dropping it. “In other words don’t go for a finger.”
He shoved Sherlock toward the door the detective grabbed the handle automatically. “Only two rules Sherlock,” From his peripheral Sherlock saw Moriarty lifted his index finger. “One: No talking. Can’t be giving away all the fun to Johnny boy now can we?” he lifted his second finger and wiggled the digits. “And two: after your assignment if you toddle, I’ll just have to assume you need my help and come assist you.” Moriarty watched him carefully. “Off you go then!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sherlock let the door swing shut behind him. John jolted awake, immediately aware and at attention. His face swung in the direction of the detective, relief smoothing the lines on his forehead.
“Sherlock.” The name was a prayer, ghosted from split lips. “Are you alright?” He wanted reassurance. Sherlock couldn’t answer him, instead he took in John’s swollen face. Puffed and purple and terrible. One eye nearly shut, the other red and weary. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming. He could taste the blood pooling at the back of his throat and swallowed it down. Moriarty wanted two broken bones. He scanned over John’s abused body. John’s eyebrows creased as he studied Sherlock’s too pale face and thin lipped grimace, concern shot through his features. “Hey, are you alright? Sherlock?!” Sherlock forced himself to focus.
He kneeled in front of john. Took a moment to control his features to mask his rage, and John watched him apprehensively. Then he let his fingers hover over John’s face, cataloguing the abuse. Making a mental branding, burning it right into his grey matter to pull up when he had his hands around Moriarty’s throat. He let a finger drop on a purple cheek, John didn’t even flinch at the touch. He was watching him carefully, waiting for direction, totally open and trusting. Sherlock felt a stab of regret and then dismissed it just as quickly. He let his hand rest gently against the curve of John’s jaw. His mind swarmed for a possible escape and came up with nothing. There was no way out. Not right now. He just had to see through this. Keep Moriarty entertained until an opportunity arose. He nearly growled at the thought.
“Fuck Sherlock. Say something.” Sherlock pulled his eyes up to meet John’s, relying on their unspoken communication. He tilted his head slightly to the right and John blinked understanding. “You can’t.” He whispered, slouching further into the wall. “Ok.”
Sherlock noted John’s hands had already been untied for his convenience. He had a sudden image of Moriarty standing by the window watching every intimate moment. He dropped his hand from John’s face. Gritting his teeth in determination he shifted so his foot was flat on the ground with his knee up to act as a support. He couldn’t waste anymore time. He pulled John’s right arm toward him resting the forearm on his knee, absently examining the torn and oozing wrist and cataloguing it. He had an x-ray in his mind as he scanned John’s body. He had rejected the bones that could bring further damage in the breaking. Also the ones that would be difficult to mend and the ones harder to get to. Then the ones that would impede an escape and ones that could have complications in healing. He held John by the elbow now, the doctor looking at him curiously, not understanding but how could he? I’m sorry John but I have to break a few of your bones so Moriarty doesn’t break all of them didn’t translate in a gesture. Sherlock locked eyes with John, willing him to read his apology if nothing else and then directed his eyes back to his task. Without hesitating he slammed his palm down in one quick movement, first the radius snapping then the ulna, making a horrible wet noise that echoed in the room. John jerked away, his yell choked back in his surprise. Sherlock dove for him, pulling John back toward him. Sure hands grasping his arm, righting the bones and holding them in place. He could feel the bones grinding under his fingers, detached and floating.
“What-?!” John gasped, his good eye wide, glistening with pain and fighting unconsciousness. His shoulders trembled with shocks of agony and he swayed where he sat. Sherlock pushed himself to his feet in one swift movement. If you toddle, I’ll just assume you need my help and come assist you. He gave John one more look, taking in his shaking, the odd angle his arm now dangled at, his heaving chest and those still trusting eyes. He felt a pang of shame at the relief he felt in seeing them. Then he turned his back on the doctor and marched toward the door. “Sherlock . . .?” His gasped name barely reached his ears before it was cut off by the click of the lock.