prompting part XXIII
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Prompts from this post can be filled on the Overflow Post
IMPORTANT! Spoilers for aired episodes are now being allowed on this area of the meme, without warning. If you do not want to encounter spoilers, please prompt at our Spoiler-Free Prompt Post.
( Read more... )
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He’d been on guard, of course he had, but as the days had worn on like a badly paced film John had stopped dreading the arrival of the post so much. There was still the nervous twitch in his gut when he saw handwritten envelopes, but those were inevitably for Sherlock from the myriad of his clients. Certainly most of that dull anxiety was now reserved more for the change in his flatmate riffling through anything with John’s name on it that he could get his hands on - now in not so much a belligerent, overt curiosity that somehow wound up being charming but in a sullen, secretive bout of jealous well meaning. Mrs Hudson appeared to be in on it too, though she smiled innocently and waved off any accusation John had managed to even glance in her direction.
The only letters he got that weren’t spam were from banks anyway and it wasn’t like Moriarty - though god forbid he ever got to recognise that psychopath well enough to really know - to play the same trick twice. Hopefully.
“Will you show it to Lestrade?” he’d asked on the afternoon after receiving the card as he’d caught Sherlock turning the thing over and over with deft fingers.
Sherlock had sneered. “What’ll Lestrade do?” he’d said. “Issue a restraining order?”
There wasn’t anything that they could do and that was the worst thing. What if it was something Moriarty would eventually carry out and the only thing they could do was sit tight and hope that he wouldn’t? Until something actually happened, something more than sick messages, they could do bugger all.
But no. There was no point in dwelling on it. If all that it was was a short letter that almost anyone could write if they put their mind to it, it shouldn’t bother him. He was an adult. He’d dealt with worse than childish harassment before.
He was going out with Mike and a couple of blokes from his university days who, he had the vague feeling, he should probably remember but didn’t quite. Sherlock of course had thrown a strop but whether he’d actually follow them in disguise was debatable. And until Moriarty did something that actually had something that they could do about he’d just have to live life normally, whatever normal consisted of here.
His bank statement was on the table, where it had been left - even though he’d opened and looked through everything, John thought with mild, fond irritation, Sherlock still couldn’t be bothered to actually put anything away. Long ago, a few months after they’d moved in, banking and everything else admin and boring had become John’s job and now Sherlock would have none of it if he was paid to.
John picked up the statement and glanced over it, then stopped as he was halfway to the stairs. The total was less than it ought to be, he was fairly sure. Sherlock never used his cards, though he knew the PINs to all of them. There didn’t seem to be anything on the statement that he didn’t remember spending, though - and then there was that anxiety again. The stupid anxiety that had been kicking up since he’d realised what that bloody message had actually read.
It would be easy enough for Moriarty to intercept the post, make an incorrect copy of his statement and then get that delivered that instead. But why? To make John look at his bank account online, to check the older and very latest transactions? And a freaky message would somehow pop up from the bank website?
John snorted and ran an hand none too gently through his hair. This was getting too much. He was going to be jumping at nothing soon, he was nearing getting past jumping at shadows. When cars slowed parallel to him walking on the street he oughtn’t feel hyperaware that he didn’t have his gun on him. He shouldn’t feel like accusing every single piece of mail he received of hiding a secret, perverted message. Personal pep talks for normality were all well and good until the actual doing and believing them were included.
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That night, at the pub with Mike, Simon and Bilau (he didn’t really remembered them but pretended he did, though the situation seemed to be likewise for Simon at least), he tried to alternatively spot anyone who might be Sherlock in disguise and anyone who might be working for Moriarty. Both attempts turned out to be futile; as he realised distantly that he was probably drinking more than he really ought to he found himself struggling around the logic that Sherlock in disguise would definitely find Moriarty’s people even if they were in disguise too, so he oughtn’t worry in any case.
When he arrived back home, grabbing a glass of water or two before bed, Sherlock shot him a filthy look from where he was perched on his chair, plucking away at his violin in a bizarre and appallingly fast pizzicato. John only grinned at him before he went upstairs to bed.
He fell asleep quickly and woke with half memories of his dream - Sherlock having a hysterically catty argument with one of his old lecturers - mixed with the shrill beeping of his phone alarm, sounding criminally loud in the quiet. John stumbled out of sleep and his bed, fumbling with his trousers on the back of his chair where he’d left the damn phone in their pockets, cursing as he flipped it open. Why the hell was a reminder set for bloody four in the morning?
Dearest John, the reminder said. Look at your phone notes xxx
John closed his eyes tight shut for a long moment, feeling suddenly very awake. He stood and switched on his bedroom light, calling downstairs Sherlock’s name even as he managed to find the appropriate application on his phone.
He didn’t bother to wait before opening the note - it was the only one, written while he’d been at the pub. Sherlock was pushing his way obstinately into the room and John ignored him.
Dearest John,
I want to starve you. I’ll lock you in a tiny room with no human contact whatsoever and feed you on only a little salty water; maybe if I’m feeling generous every few days I’ll add a pinch of sugar. You’ll be so strong but after a week you’ll be so hungry as well. After two or three weeks, John, you’ll be desperate enough that you’ll beg to the empty room because you’ll realise that I’ll have cameras in the walls to see and hear you by. Don’t worry - I’ll ignore both your demands and Sherlock’s, since he’ll be tearing down London to find you, but I’ll watch the footage of you every night to masturbate to.
Some time in the fourth week I’ll let myself into your room. You’ll hate me but you’ll be too weak to do anything but paw at my trousers. Please do, John; I’ll be so unbelievably turned on if you do. But I’ll try to restrain myself. I’ll give you a lit cigarette, only one, and for every time you use it to scar your face I’ll throw you a biscuit. I think the first time I do this you’ll refuse but I’ll come back every day with the same offer. You’ll do it eventually, I know, because you’re practical and you really appreciate life. I guess that’s just part of why I love you so much.
xxx
P.S. I’ll remember what time I had this alarm set so now you can know that I’m thinking of you right at this moment.
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Seriously, he's deliciously evil and spectacularly gross and I want him to send John letters forever. I'm an awful person.
Still, I DO feel sorry for John, how he's looking left and right, constantly aware that Moriarty could strike at any moment. Being that anxious and aware all the time must be unbearable.
Please do, John; I’ll be so unbelievably turned on if you do.
This sentence sounds a bit similar to something he said on the show before, you know? And I love that. I can hear the entire thing in his voice, but that line I particularly liked.
I guess that’s just part of why I love you so much.
SO. DAMN. CREEPY.
Moriarty's torture scenarios are brutal, but I like how psychological they are as well. Looking forward to how they 'progress'.
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Jim's pretty Irish voice. Mmmmm. I almost don't want the last episode...
Thank you again!
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