Warning: severing of a body part and language. Thank you all for the feedback and thanks to my nameless-for-now beta. --- And for some reason, that’s when it hits Lestrade - all the pieces fall into place and he realizes that he’s been spending too much time around Sherlock, because the first thing he thinks is, oh, elegant.
The next thing he thinks is, shit, and that’s much more fitting.
“What?” Moriarty demands, because a slow grin has spread across Lestrade’s face and that’s probably not a good reaction to someone holding a knife to your throat. “What is it you find so amusing?”
“You - the fact that you’re just as fucked up as Sherlock says,” Lestrade giggles to himself. “I mean, you have to admit that he’s got a flair for the dramatic and you’re never really sure if what he’s telling you is real, but this is really too good. He didn’t quite give you enough credit for your insanity. You’re in love with him.
“Well, not really, I mean, you haven’t really got the faintest idea what love means, do you? I suppose “obsessed” is the better word,” Lestrade rattles on, picking up speed and careening headfirst into dangerous territory. “But that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? This whole big show - it’s all for him. Trying to get his attention. Trying to prove that you’re worthy. You’re like - like a giant peacock, hoping to catch his eye.”
“You’re quite wrong, my dear,” Moriarty says softly, but the charming glint has left his eye.
“The pool wasn’t enough - the bombs and the game didn’t hold his attention after it was all over, so you wanted to know what you’d done wrong. You went back to the drawing board - you came up with this. But you made a crucial error, you see.”
“Please, enlighten me,” Moriarty says dryly. Lestrade’s smile fades from his face; he becomes instantly grim.
“You took John Watson.”
“No, it would seem that I have you.”
“No, the first time. You took John Watson - and then it stopped being a game. Sherlock stopped being amused by you the moment you struck too close to home, and you can’t comprehend that. You can’t understand why it would matter. So you decided to go for someone closer, because obviously that must have been where your mistake occurred - or so you think. I reckon Mycroft’s a bit out of reach, even for someone like you, so you chose me. Well, it’ll get his attention, all right. I’ll grant you that. But not quite in the way you want, I fear.”
Moriarty flashes a grin. “I’m amused that you think yourself so important that Sherlock will come after you, guns blazing.”
Lestrade gives a weary smile. “I’m under no such illusions. He won’t come for me, and nor should he. But you’ve struck him twice, now. He won’t tolerate it. When this is all over - whether I’m alive or not - I’d be very careful if I were you.”
“Greg, I believe that it is you who should be careful.”
“Why’s that, then? ‘Cause there’s a knife pressed into my neck? You seem to have a very poor memory, then, because I distinctly remember a night in April when I was surrounded by three of your men, all of them armed. And which one of us got out of that one alive, hm? Oh, right - me.”
Moriarty clearly doesn’t realize - or doesn’t care, but Lestrade highly doubts that - that this is Lestrade uneasy. The bravado, the refusal to follow even the simplest of instructions, the rambling sentences that are just too quick to be casual speech - all of them point to a very concerned DI.
Sherlock would have recognized it. There are very few things the detective notices when it comes to humanity in general, but when Lestrade is involved - Sherlock notices that.
“I was rather fond of those men,” Moriarty says quietly, and Lestrade snorts.
“You’re not fond of anything. You’re just put out because you have to go and find new ones.”
“You’re talkative tonight, Greg.” The pressure of the knife against his neck increases; when he swallows, the blade digs into his skin. “And, I admit, a bit disappointing after that promising start. You haven’t quite screamed enough for my satisfaction, my dear.”
Re: Fill, 5a/?
anonymous
August 10 2011, 04:14:04 UTC
A terrible, awful, unwise thought occurs to him.
He’s never been able to really say no to terrible, awful, unwise thoughts.
“No, I suppose not,” he whispers, and then his lips twist into a terrible, awful, unwise smile. “I used up all my screaming with Sherlock last night.”
The knife stills, which means that he’s given the man pause - good - but when Moriarty speaks next he sounds unimpressed. “Well, that may be the case, dear Greg, but you are mine now in a way that you can never be his - and I intend to be the one to make you scream.”
In one quick movement he has reached around and sliced through the ropes binding Lestrade’s wrists. The DI brings his hands around in front of him, massaging the lines left behind, hissing as his shoulders protest the sudden movement.
“Hold out your hands.”
“Why?”
Moriarty smacks him across the side of the face with the flat side of his blade. It slices into his skin, stinging like a paper cut, and comes dangerously close to his eye. Lestrade recoils.
“Hold out your hands,” he repeats. After a moment, Lestrade unfolds his hands and holds them out flat, suspended in the air. There isn’t, he notes, even the slightest of tremors in his fingers.
He’ll take what victory he can, today.
“Now,” Moriarty says, tapping the side of the knife lightly across the back of his fingers, “which one of them would you like to lose?”
“What?” Lestrade blurts before he can stop himself, automatically balling his hands into tight fists. He earns a nick to the shoulder for that, and blood soaks into his shirt.
“Choose, Lestrade, or you shall lose all of them.”
“You can’t just ask -”
“Yes, I can.” Moriarty leans down and whispers into his ear. “It’s incredible, really, the lengths that humans will go to survive. You will choose a finger, Greg. You will do that and so much more because, deep down, you just want to live. You may think you’re being noble, keeping me distracted so that I don’t touch your precious master - oh, yes, I noticed that - but, really, the only reason you're listening to me is so you keep your life. So - choose.”
No. He couldn’t. How could he? There must be another way -
“Do it!” Moriarty hisses, and Lestrade jerks back.
His mind flutters, grasping at straws, looking for another way out - could he tip over the chair? His hands are free - can he try to wrestle the knife from Moriarty? Is Moriarty alone? What if he manages to overpower him, only to be felled by hidden snipers? Then he would be dead and Moriarty would be free to go after Sherlock - if he hasn’t already, that is. Lestrade’s brain stutters to a stop, faced with too many possibilities and no clear-cut solution.
Think of Sherlock.
Sherlock, who prefers to have the flat cold at night so he can pile under an ungodly number of blankets.
Sherlock, stretched out on the sofa for a nap, one leg on the floor and an arm flung across his eyes, basking in the late afternoon sun that streams through the windows.
Sherlock, alive and well.
And so Lestrade begins to wonder - all right, what can he do without? Thumbs are necessary, and the first two fingers are used most often, especially on his right hand.
Pinky? Possibly, but it can come in handy for stabilizing a grip. Same goes for the ring finger, but that still seems like the better option - better option; how can he be thinking about better options? They’re all necessary, aren’t they? - and besides, he’ll never need it for what it’s named after, anyway.
Then he remembers why he is thinking such morbidly amusing things and feels ill.
“Which one, Greg?” Moriarty whispers, drawing the tip of the knife across his clavicle.
“Fourth,” he croaks, but it’s barely distinguishable - even to his own ears.
“What was that?”
“Fourth,” he repeats dully, tapping it with his thumb on his left hand and how can he even be saying this? Has he gone mad? “Fourth finger.”
“Fourth finger,” Moriarty breathes, grasping the finger and pulling it back. Lestrade tries to jerk away but he holds fast, tapping the knife against it thoughtfully. “Delightful. Good choice, my dear. Now, let’s see - at which knuckle? Or between the knuckles, perhaps. Yes, perhaps...”
Warning: severing of a body part ---- There’s nothing quick and easy about it, no sudden slice that takes off the digit and leaves him numb with shock before the pain has a chance to set in. Instead, Moriarty saws at the finger, gripping the tip of it firmly in his fist as Lestrade reflexively tries to yank away. The madman watches impassively as blood spurts from the finger with each sure sweep of the blade. Some of it splatters his wrist; most of it ends up on Lestrade’s clothing. The knife goes through tissue and muscle and it hurts, God, does it ever - thick tendrils of pain shoot up Lestrade’s arm and his stomach threatens to rebel at the sight of his finger slowly being separated from the rest of his body but he can’t bring himself to look away.
Lestrade has to bite down hard on his lip to keep silent and doesn’t realize that his teeth have cut straight through until he’s gagging on a sudden mouthful of blood. And then the knife hits the bone and Lestrade lets out a string of curses and as he’s trying to pull his hand away in one direction Moriarty jerks it in the other, snapping the delicate phalanx clean in two. The finger hangs on now by a thin mass of pulp and tissue, which comes off with three quick strokes of the knife. Moriarty steps back, holding it with a faint look of triumph on his face, and blood leaks from the end of the severed digit, dripping methodically onto the floor.
Realization hits along with a fresh batch of pain and shock and Lestrade leans away, as far from the chair as he can, retching as he rides out a wave of nausea. He brings nothing up, having neglected eating a proper meal for some time now. Moriarty sniffs in disdain at his display and turns away, strolling over to the table with the finger.
“I wonder,” he murmurs to himself, and it sounds so far away. “Yes, I think - I think Sherlock will quite like this one. Wonderful choice, Greg. I’m so pleased.”
“Leave him - alone,” Lestrade gasps out. There is a pressure on his hand, and when his vision clears enough he looks over to see Moriarty wrapping gauze around what remains of it. Good lord, he’s not sure he’s ever seen so much blood come out of his body in one sitting. He looks away again as the world lurches and the room fades in and out of focus, and a moment later a wave of darkness snuffs out the rest of his awareness.
Re: Fill, 5b/?wastingyourgumAugust 10 2011, 09:46:31 UTC
Ewww - icky! Poor Lestrade! Unless help shows up quickly that finger's gone for good! (Too much to hope Jim packs it in ice - and I would love to see Sherlock's reaction to his 'present')
Re: Fill, 5b/?morganstuartAugust 10 2011, 10:59:30 UTC
So well done! I love how Lestrade suddenly gets what Moriarty's doing and why, and how he baits Moriarty with the knowledge. I also love the insights into Lestrade, especially how his unease is apparent in his bravado and speech. Your Moriarty is consistently horrifying, and Lestrade's courageous in all the right ways. The way he thinks of Sherlock and then chooses which finger to lose... amazing. Just wrenching and powerful. Great job! Each installment just gets better!
Re: Fill, 5b/?pockyhorrorsAugust 11 2011, 03:55:05 UTC
When I saw the small print about losing the body part I was like "One-armed Lestrade OMG" but I'm glad (if that's even the right word) he only lost a finger. But still, blargh. (However that won't stop me from reading the next part XD)
---
And for some reason, that’s when it hits Lestrade - all the pieces fall into place and he realizes that he’s been spending too much time around Sherlock, because the first thing he thinks is, oh, elegant.
The next thing he thinks is, shit, and that’s much more fitting.
“What?” Moriarty demands, because a slow grin has spread across Lestrade’s face and that’s probably not a good reaction to someone holding a knife to your throat. “What is it you find so amusing?”
“You - the fact that you’re just as fucked up as Sherlock says,” Lestrade giggles to himself. “I mean, you have to admit that he’s got a flair for the dramatic and you’re never really sure if what he’s telling you is real, but this is really too good. He didn’t quite give you enough credit for your insanity. You’re in love with him.
“Well, not really, I mean, you haven’t really got the faintest idea what love means, do you? I suppose “obsessed” is the better word,” Lestrade rattles on, picking up speed and careening headfirst into dangerous territory. “But that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? This whole big show - it’s all for him. Trying to get his attention. Trying to prove that you’re worthy. You’re like - like a giant peacock, hoping to catch his eye.”
“You’re quite wrong, my dear,” Moriarty says softly, but the charming glint has left his eye.
“The pool wasn’t enough - the bombs and the game didn’t hold his attention after it was all over, so you wanted to know what you’d done wrong. You went back to the drawing board - you came up with this. But you made a crucial error, you see.”
“Please, enlighten me,” Moriarty says dryly. Lestrade’s smile fades from his face; he becomes instantly grim.
“You took John Watson.”
“No, it would seem that I have you.”
“No, the first time. You took John Watson - and then it stopped being a game. Sherlock stopped being amused by you the moment you struck too close to home, and you can’t comprehend that. You can’t understand why it would matter. So you decided to go for someone closer, because obviously that must have been where your mistake occurred - or so you think. I reckon Mycroft’s a bit out of reach, even for someone like you, so you chose me. Well, it’ll get his attention, all right. I’ll grant you that. But not quite in the way you want, I fear.”
Moriarty flashes a grin. “I’m amused that you think yourself so important that Sherlock will come after you, guns blazing.”
Lestrade gives a weary smile. “I’m under no such illusions. He won’t come for me, and nor should he. But you’ve struck him twice, now. He won’t tolerate it. When this is all over - whether I’m alive or not - I’d be very careful if I were you.”
“Greg, I believe that it is you who should be careful.”
“Why’s that, then? ‘Cause there’s a knife pressed into my neck? You seem to have a very poor memory, then, because I distinctly remember a night in April when I was surrounded by three of your men, all of them armed. And which one of us got out of that one alive, hm? Oh, right - me.”
Moriarty clearly doesn’t realize - or doesn’t care, but Lestrade highly doubts that - that this is Lestrade uneasy. The bravado, the refusal to follow even the simplest of instructions, the rambling sentences that are just too quick to be casual speech - all of them point to a very concerned DI.
Sherlock would have recognized it. There are very few things the detective notices when it comes to humanity in general, but when Lestrade is involved - Sherlock notices that.
“I was rather fond of those men,” Moriarty says quietly, and Lestrade snorts.
“You’re not fond of anything. You’re just put out because you have to go and find new ones.”
“You’re talkative tonight, Greg.” The pressure of the knife against his neck increases; when he swallows, the blade digs into his skin. “And, I admit, a bit disappointing after that promising start. You haven’t quite screamed enough for my satisfaction, my dear.”
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He’s never been able to really say no to terrible, awful, unwise thoughts.
“No, I suppose not,” he whispers, and then his lips twist into a terrible, awful, unwise smile. “I used up all my screaming with Sherlock last night.”
The knife stills, which means that he’s given the man pause - good - but when Moriarty speaks next he sounds unimpressed. “Well, that may be the case, dear Greg, but you are mine now in a way that you can never be his - and I intend to be the one to make you scream.”
In one quick movement he has reached around and sliced through the ropes binding Lestrade’s wrists. The DI brings his hands around in front of him, massaging the lines left behind, hissing as his shoulders protest the sudden movement.
“Hold out your hands.”
“Why?”
Moriarty smacks him across the side of the face with the flat side of his blade. It slices into his skin, stinging like a paper cut, and comes dangerously close to his eye. Lestrade recoils.
“Hold out your hands,” he repeats. After a moment, Lestrade unfolds his hands and holds them out flat, suspended in the air. There isn’t, he notes, even the slightest of tremors in his fingers.
He’ll take what victory he can, today.
“Now,” Moriarty says, tapping the side of the knife lightly across the back of his fingers, “which one of them would you like to lose?”
“What?” Lestrade blurts before he can stop himself, automatically balling his hands into tight fists. He earns a nick to the shoulder for that, and blood soaks into his shirt.
“Choose, Lestrade, or you shall lose all of them.”
“You can’t just ask -”
“Yes, I can.” Moriarty leans down and whispers into his ear. “It’s incredible, really, the lengths that humans will go to survive. You will choose a finger, Greg. You will do that and so much more because, deep down, you just want to live. You may think you’re being noble, keeping me distracted so that I don’t touch your precious master - oh, yes, I noticed that - but, really, the only reason you're listening to me is so you keep your life. So - choose.”
No. He couldn’t. How could he? There must be another way -
“Do it!” Moriarty hisses, and Lestrade jerks back.
His mind flutters, grasping at straws, looking for another way out - could he tip over the chair? His hands are free - can he try to wrestle the knife from Moriarty? Is Moriarty alone? What if he manages to overpower him, only to be felled by hidden snipers? Then he would be dead and Moriarty would be free to go after Sherlock - if he hasn’t already, that is. Lestrade’s brain stutters to a stop, faced with too many possibilities and no clear-cut solution.
Think of Sherlock.
Sherlock, who prefers to have the flat cold at night so he can pile under an ungodly number of blankets.
Sherlock, stretched out on the sofa for a nap, one leg on the floor and an arm flung across his eyes, basking in the late afternoon sun that streams through the windows.
Sherlock, alive and well.
And so Lestrade begins to wonder - all right, what can he do without? Thumbs are necessary, and the first two fingers are used most often, especially on his right hand.
Pinky? Possibly, but it can come in handy for stabilizing a grip. Same goes for the ring finger, but that still seems like the better option - better option; how can he be thinking about better options? They’re all necessary, aren’t they? - and besides, he’ll never need it for what it’s named after, anyway.
Then he remembers why he is thinking such morbidly amusing things and feels ill.
“Which one, Greg?” Moriarty whispers, drawing the tip of the knife across his clavicle.
“Fourth,” he croaks, but it’s barely distinguishable - even to his own ears.
“What was that?”
“Fourth,” he repeats dully, tapping it with his thumb on his left hand and how can he even be saying this? Has he gone mad? “Fourth finger.”
“Fourth finger,” Moriarty breathes, grasping the finger and pulling it back. Lestrade tries to jerk away but he holds fast, tapping the knife against it thoughtfully. “Delightful. Good choice, my dear. Now, let’s see - at which knuckle? Or between the knuckles, perhaps. Yes, perhaps...”
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----
There’s nothing quick and easy about it, no sudden slice that takes off the digit and leaves him numb with shock before the pain has a chance to set in. Instead, Moriarty saws at the finger, gripping the tip of it firmly in his fist as Lestrade reflexively tries to yank away. The madman watches impassively as blood spurts from the finger with each sure sweep of the blade. Some of it splatters his wrist; most of it ends up on Lestrade’s clothing. The knife goes through tissue and muscle and it hurts, God, does it ever - thick tendrils of pain shoot up Lestrade’s arm and his stomach threatens to rebel at the sight of his finger slowly being separated from the rest of his body but he can’t bring himself to look away.
Lestrade has to bite down hard on his lip to keep silent and doesn’t realize that his teeth have cut straight through until he’s gagging on a sudden mouthful of blood. And then the knife hits the bone and Lestrade lets out a string of curses and as he’s trying to pull his hand away in one direction Moriarty jerks it in the other, snapping the delicate phalanx clean in two. The finger hangs on now by a thin mass of pulp and tissue, which comes off with three quick strokes of the knife. Moriarty steps back, holding it with a faint look of triumph on his face, and blood leaks from the end of the severed digit, dripping methodically onto the floor.
Realization hits along with a fresh batch of pain and shock and Lestrade leans away, as far from the chair as he can, retching as he rides out a wave of nausea. He brings nothing up, having neglected eating a proper meal for some time now. Moriarty sniffs in disdain at his display and turns away, strolling over to the table with the finger.
“I wonder,” he murmurs to himself, and it sounds so far away. “Yes, I think - I think Sherlock will quite like this one. Wonderful choice, Greg. I’m so pleased.”
“Leave him - alone,” Lestrade gasps out. There is a pressure on his hand, and when his vision clears enough he looks over to see Moriarty wrapping gauze around what remains of it. Good lord, he’s not sure he’s ever seen so much blood come out of his body in one sitting. He looks away again as the world lurches and the room fades in and out of focus, and a moment later a wave of darkness snuffs out the rest of his awareness.
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I suspect Jim's not nearly done yet though...
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