Taming the Pet: A Family Matter
Title: A Family Matter
Series:Taming the Pet
Rating: Adult audiences due to subject matter
Warnings: General warnings for dubcon, drug use and manipulation though this chapter is not as directly related
Characters: John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Jim Moriarty, mention of Sherlock though he does not appear in this chapter.
Summary: CCTV captures a lot but what is done about that depends on the man and his actions. Not to mention the motivation behind said actions.
"This is what you do, Mycroft. I've seen you text him with the expiration date on the milk jug on the counter and you're telling me with no less than six surveillance camera feeds you can't tell me where the bastard has taken your brother?!"
They had been going round for round over this for the last forty minutes and with every rendition, John's voice had started going up every time he demanded to know the answer, his mind replaying everything he'd seen on the tapes. Mycroft hadn't withheld any of it, only insisting John swear that none of it ever make it beyond that room. John had, in the end, lied. He damn well knew it would make it beyond the room because when he finally caught up with Jim Moriarty he was going to take every second of that tape out of the man's hide before he finally turned him over to the officials.
If he ever turned him over. If there was more than a corpse to turn over.
"Even if I knew where Mr Moriarty has my brother, I'm not certain I would tell you, Doctor. It isn't the first time my brother has gone on what is commonly called a bender. If this is how he is funding his habit, playing on the low end of the line, then we will let him continue until it becomes a danger to the family and my position and Mother will see things are handled. Until then, it is best for you if you merely moved on. I've been trying to warn you of this since the beginning, Doctor. I apologize that it has come to this, and be assured that I will see to it that you have a flat arranged anywhere you choose."
Leaning forward, he picked up a sheet of paper with several address written on it. "If you see to any of these, I'll ensure that it will all be arranged. They are listed by how close they are to area hospitals and clinics. That, too, can be handled if you'd like."
On the surface it was a civil meeting, seeing to all of John's needs after what he had apparently endured at the hands of the black sheep of the Holmes family. Maybe another, someone that hadn't seen what did lie beneath that sociopathic surface, would have taken the bribe and run. It never once occurred to John to consider it, though he did take that single seat of paper.
And then methodically rip it into tiny little bits of confetti that he let rain down on Mycroft's desk.
"I'm well aware of your brother's previous issues with narcotics in the past. I'm aware that he is not the easiest man in the world to get along with. Neither is a reason to leave him at the mercy of a psychotic bastard who gets his jollies playing games with a person's mind just to see if he can break their spirit. What I saw on that tape was Sherlock servicing that horrid beast as a means of securing a narcotic that is obviously being held over his head. You'll leave him to that just because it could reflect poorly on you?"
For a long moment Mycroft merely stared at John before he pushed himself to his feet. Not a word as he picked up his phone and umbrella, tucking the latter under his arm. Gesturing with his other hand, trying to guide John towards the door.
"Doctor, I truly had hoped to spare you all of this. You would seem to be the first person, other than that horrid beast, as you've called him, who has fallen for my brother's lack of charm. I'm not entirely sure what that says about you, or him. That said, I have meetings to attend to. You are welcome to stay in his flat until he returns, if you wish, and there he may find you should he choose you over his addiction. Until then... I ask that you, as a citizen and not a member of any sort of legal force, refrain from seeking out either Jim Moriarty or Sherlock. Let me handle it."
John realized the futility of arguing with Mycroft Holmes, nor to point out that it was obvious that his way of handling things was to allow Sherlock to be used and abused so long as it stayed in a medium he could control. Storming out, he paused only long enough to do up the buttons of his coat before turning, not left towards the flat and Ms Hudson but rather to follow the trail that Sherlock had. Mycroft had refused to give John a copy of the tapes but he'd let him watch them, following the path the two had taken. Should he start in the alley, making his way back towards where they had first been picked up, he might find where Moriarty was holding Sherlock and see to it that someone saw to his friend's health, even if his family wouldn't.
Most in that neighborhood kept their heads down, unwilling to look at another. Maybe it was survival instincts, maybe it was fear. John had no care, except to examine each and every face for some hint of the man he knew. Even accounting for the cant of the lens, the darkness of the house, John had still noted the changes that had taken place.
Always gaunt, Holmes had looked downright emaciated in profile. Had he come to such depravity by desire, or a necessity to curb an every growing hunger, both in food denied and in the drug offered. A man allergic to shellfish, starving, might still well eat lobster if it was put before him. If John found it was choice and not necessity then, maybe then, he would walk away though he would deny any help offered by Mycroft. Never again would he turn to that man for help where Sherlock was concerned.
The alley held a slightly putrid stench, a combination of food waste and excrement though it wasn't so bad as to be sickening. Glancing up at the camera, John moved to stand exactly where Holmes and Moriarty had been. Yes, he knew that Mycroft's little minions would see him and report it back to their Napoleonic little ruler but John didn't care. Resisting the childish urge to offer two fingers to the camera, he turned and headed towards the next camera that had picked up their progress.
Head up still, focusing on every face, every figure to see if he recognized that lean, scarecrow form. A dozen or so steps and someone fell into step beside John. Someone a bit shorter, certainly not Sherlock, and as smug in a way only a sociopath could truly be. It was one thing that Watson saw in both Holmes and his now walking companion, Moriarty. Maybe that was what drew the two men together.
"You know I'll kill you, right?" Spoken in conversational tones, barely slowing his step as he turned his attention to Jim. "I don't mean that in a figurative sense either. I will see you dead."
Tucking his scarf a bit tighter to his throat, Moriarty gave what might have been a grim nod, if not for the smirk that haunted his lips. "I'm sure that's your desire, and perhaps some part of me doesn't even blame you but we've had this discussion now, haven't we. You need to learn to be a much more patient man, Doctor Watson. I told you before, eventually I will return your darling Sherlock to you, but you need to be patient. He isn't ready to come home. Not yet."
Watson was, deep down, a man of action. Usually one who tempered said action with logic and thought but this went beyond the usual. This went beyond thinking about the closed caption televisions, and Mycroft's forces and even the fact that he had no idea where Sherlock actually was. Blind rage knew little of those things, and only about a need to see blood, to feel flesh and bone bend and break under the desire to cause pain.
With a nearly inhuman roar, he grabbed Moriarty by the godawful striped scarf he wore, jerking him around and slamming his slender form into the brick wall of the nearest building. Both hands balls into the front of his jacket, pushing up back and up, raising him up those scant few inches to be nose to nose with Watson.
"I swear to everything holy you will pay for every day he is kept from me. I will pick you apart and..."
Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke, rage making his voice a rough growl that could only be heard by the two of them. For the first time Watson saw a new emotion show on Moriarity's features, something more than smug satisfaction. It was shock, though John vowed to himself it would soon be fear. He would have no chance that day to see it.
Hands grabbed him, jerking him away. They wore dark suits and jerked him around and away so that Watson couldn't see what became of Moriarty. He saw something else though. A familiar figure in an expensive tailored shoot leaning nonchalantly against the handle of his umbrella. Mycroft's expression was no different than it had been an hour earlier. He merely nodded, spinning on heel and walking to a waiting car.
"Take him in," one of the suits asked, his hand gripped bruisingly around John's bicep.
"No. Orders are we take him back to his place. Won't happen again, will it Doctor Watson?"
At that John jerked away from the hold, straightening his jacket as he shook his head. "No. Won't happen again."
He didn't hear the rest of the conversation, walking back to the loft with Mycroft's special forces on his heels. They saw him to the door but didn't go past the threshold. Watson ignored the look Ms Hudson gave him, climbing the stairs without really seeing them. Picking up a jug of milk from the end table and moving it to the dining room table, he filled the kettle and dropped down at the table.
The milk had expired the week before. There were no clean dishes in the house. Sleep had become an elusive creatures, bouts of which were stolen when his body finally gave out and he passed out. Mycroft obviously had someone watching Watson, and likely knew where Sherlock was as well. John hated the idea of waiting, of praying that all of this wasn't just another of Moriarty's game and doing nothing. This was a man who had treated him like a lackey, like an extension of a phone he couldn't do without and yet couldn't keep track of. This was the brilliant consulting detective whom so many were glad to be rid of, and yet whom they could never replace. None of that mattered to John though. Sherlock was more than that to him. He was the man that had gotten him past his injuries and made him become part of the world again. He was annoying and arrogant and completely without an concept of manners or personal space.
He was John Watson's best friend and he wasn't going to just wait and hope his best friend wasn't found in a crumpled heap in an alley. He would do whatever it took to get Sherlock back. No matter the cost. Yet in that moment he wasn't ready to fight, wasn't ready to formulate a plan. He was exhausted and starving and wanted nothing more than to have Sherlock come in, announce that he had quite forgotten to bring home the borax and milk, that the tea kettle was whistling, and none of that mattered because Lestrade had called and they had to leave immediately. None of that was going to happen though. Not that day.
Lowering his head to his folded arms, John had meant to do nothing more than close his eyes and think. To try and find a solution. Perhaps to sleep. Hot tears stung his eyes instead and though he made not a sound, he wept.
Series:Taming the Pet
Rating: Adult audiences due to subject matter
Warnings: General warnings for dubcon, drug use and manipulation though this chapter is not as directly related
Characters: John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Jim Moriarty, mention of Sherlock though he does not appear in this chapter.
Summary: CCTV captures a lot but what is done about that depends on the man and his actions. Not to mention the motivation behind said actions.
"This is what you do, Mycroft. I've seen you text him with the expiration date on the milk jug on the counter and you're telling me with no less than six surveillance camera feeds you can't tell me where the bastard has taken your brother?!"
They had been going round for round over this for the last forty minutes and with every rendition, John's voice had started going up every time he demanded to know the answer, his mind replaying everything he'd seen on the tapes. Mycroft hadn't withheld any of it, only insisting John swear that none of it ever make it beyond that room. John had, in the end, lied. He damn well knew it would make it beyond the room because when he finally caught up with Jim Moriarty he was going to take every second of that tape out of the man's hide before he finally turned him over to the officials.
If he ever turned him over. If there was more than a corpse to turn over.
"Even if I knew where Mr Moriarty has my brother, I'm not certain I would tell you, Doctor. It isn't the first time my brother has gone on what is commonly called a bender. If this is how he is funding his habit, playing on the low end of the line, then we will let him continue until it becomes a danger to the family and my position and Mother will see things are handled. Until then, it is best for you if you merely moved on. I've been trying to warn you of this since the beginning, Doctor. I apologize that it has come to this, and be assured that I will see to it that you have a flat arranged anywhere you choose."
Leaning forward, he picked up a sheet of paper with several address written on it. "If you see to any of these, I'll ensure that it will all be arranged. They are listed by how close they are to area hospitals and clinics. That, too, can be handled if you'd like."
On the surface it was a civil meeting, seeing to all of John's needs after what he had apparently endured at the hands of the black sheep of the Holmes family. Maybe another, someone that hadn't seen what did lie beneath that sociopathic surface, would have taken the bribe and run. It never once occurred to John to consider it, though he did take that single seat of paper.
And then methodically rip it into tiny little bits of confetti that he let rain down on Mycroft's desk.
"I'm well aware of your brother's previous issues with narcotics in the past. I'm aware that he is not the easiest man in the world to get along with. Neither is a reason to leave him at the mercy of a psychotic bastard who gets his jollies playing games with a person's mind just to see if he can break their spirit. What I saw on that tape was Sherlock servicing that horrid beast as a means of securing a narcotic that is obviously being held over his head. You'll leave him to that just because it could reflect poorly on you?"
For a long moment Mycroft merely stared at John before he pushed himself to his feet. Not a word as he picked up his phone and umbrella, tucking the latter under his arm. Gesturing with his other hand, trying to guide John towards the door.
"Doctor, I truly had hoped to spare you all of this. You would seem to be the first person, other than that horrid beast, as you've called him, who has fallen for my brother's lack of charm. I'm not entirely sure what that says about you, or him. That said, I have meetings to attend to. You are welcome to stay in his flat until he returns, if you wish, and there he may find you should he choose you over his addiction. Until then... I ask that you, as a citizen and not a member of any sort of legal force, refrain from seeking out either Jim Moriarty or Sherlock. Let me handle it."
John realized the futility of arguing with Mycroft Holmes, nor to point out that it was obvious that his way of handling things was to allow Sherlock to be used and abused so long as it stayed in a medium he could control. Storming out, he paused only long enough to do up the buttons of his coat before turning, not left towards the flat and Ms Hudson but rather to follow the trail that Sherlock had. Mycroft had refused to give John a copy of the tapes but he'd let him watch them, following the path the two had taken. Should he start in the alley, making his way back towards where they had first been picked up, he might find where Moriarty was holding Sherlock and see to it that someone saw to his friend's health, even if his family wouldn't.
Most in that neighborhood kept their heads down, unwilling to look at another. Maybe it was survival instincts, maybe it was fear. John had no care, except to examine each and every face for some hint of the man he knew. Even accounting for the cant of the lens, the darkness of the house, John had still noted the changes that had taken place.
Always gaunt, Holmes had looked downright emaciated in profile. Had he come to such depravity by desire, or a necessity to curb an every growing hunger, both in food denied and in the drug offered. A man allergic to shellfish, starving, might still well eat lobster if it was put before him. If John found it was choice and not necessity then, maybe then, he would walk away though he would deny any help offered by Mycroft. Never again would he turn to that man for help where Sherlock was concerned.
The alley held a slightly putrid stench, a combination of food waste and excrement though it wasn't so bad as to be sickening. Glancing up at the camera, John moved to stand exactly where Holmes and Moriarty had been. Yes, he knew that Mycroft's little minions would see him and report it back to their Napoleonic little ruler but John didn't care. Resisting the childish urge to offer two fingers to the camera, he turned and headed towards the next camera that had picked up their progress.
Head up still, focusing on every face, every figure to see if he recognized that lean, scarecrow form. A dozen or so steps and someone fell into step beside John. Someone a bit shorter, certainly not Sherlock, and as smug in a way only a sociopath could truly be. It was one thing that Watson saw in both Holmes and his now walking companion, Moriarty. Maybe that was what drew the two men together.
"You know I'll kill you, right?" Spoken in conversational tones, barely slowing his step as he turned his attention to Jim. "I don't mean that in a figurative sense either. I will see you dead."
Tucking his scarf a bit tighter to his throat, Moriarty gave what might have been a grim nod, if not for the smirk that haunted his lips. "I'm sure that's your desire, and perhaps some part of me doesn't even blame you but we've had this discussion now, haven't we. You need to learn to be a much more patient man, Doctor Watson. I told you before, eventually I will return your darling Sherlock to you, but you need to be patient. He isn't ready to come home. Not yet."
Watson was, deep down, a man of action. Usually one who tempered said action with logic and thought but this went beyond the usual. This went beyond thinking about the closed caption televisions, and Mycroft's forces and even the fact that he had no idea where Sherlock actually was. Blind rage knew little of those things, and only about a need to see blood, to feel flesh and bone bend and break under the desire to cause pain.
With a nearly inhuman roar, he grabbed Moriarty by the godawful striped scarf he wore, jerking him around and slamming his slender form into the brick wall of the nearest building. Both hands balls into the front of his jacket, pushing up back and up, raising him up those scant few inches to be nose to nose with Watson.
"I swear to everything holy you will pay for every day he is kept from me. I will pick you apart and..."
Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke, rage making his voice a rough growl that could only be heard by the two of them. For the first time Watson saw a new emotion show on Moriarity's features, something more than smug satisfaction. It was shock, though John vowed to himself it would soon be fear. He would have no chance that day to see it.
Hands grabbed him, jerking him away. They wore dark suits and jerked him around and away so that Watson couldn't see what became of Moriarty. He saw something else though. A familiar figure in an expensive tailored shoot leaning nonchalantly against the handle of his umbrella. Mycroft's expression was no different than it had been an hour earlier. He merely nodded, spinning on heel and walking to a waiting car.
"Take him in," one of the suits asked, his hand gripped bruisingly around John's bicep.
"No. Orders are we take him back to his place. Won't happen again, will it Doctor Watson?"
At that John jerked away from the hold, straightening his jacket as he shook his head. "No. Won't happen again."
He didn't hear the rest of the conversation, walking back to the loft with Mycroft's special forces on his heels. They saw him to the door but didn't go past the threshold. Watson ignored the look Ms Hudson gave him, climbing the stairs without really seeing them. Picking up a jug of milk from the end table and moving it to the dining room table, he filled the kettle and dropped down at the table.
The milk had expired the week before. There were no clean dishes in the house. Sleep had become an elusive creatures, bouts of which were stolen when his body finally gave out and he passed out. Mycroft obviously had someone watching Watson, and likely knew where Sherlock was as well. John hated the idea of waiting, of praying that all of this wasn't just another of Moriarty's game and doing nothing. This was a man who had treated him like a lackey, like an extension of a phone he couldn't do without and yet couldn't keep track of. This was the brilliant consulting detective whom so many were glad to be rid of, and yet whom they could never replace. None of that mattered to John though. Sherlock was more than that to him. He was the man that had gotten him past his injuries and made him become part of the world again. He was annoying and arrogant and completely without an concept of manners or personal space.
He was John Watson's best friend and he wasn't going to just wait and hope his best friend wasn't found in a crumpled heap in an alley. He would do whatever it took to get Sherlock back. No matter the cost. Yet in that moment he wasn't ready to fight, wasn't ready to formulate a plan. He was exhausted and starving and wanted nothing more than to have Sherlock come in, announce that he had quite forgotten to bring home the borax and milk, that the tea kettle was whistling, and none of that mattered because Lestrade had called and they had to leave immediately. None of that was going to happen though. Not that day.
Lowering his head to his folded arms, John had meant to do nothing more than close his eyes and think. To try and find a solution. Perhaps to sleep. Hot tears stung his eyes instead and though he made not a sound, he wept.